Once Is Not Enough (35 page)

“Then let’s go,” January said.

“You mean crash?”

“Why not?”

Linda shook her head. “Too important a party. With this kind of an ‘A’ list, they’ll have people at the door, checking off every name.”

“Let’s try it anyway,” January insisted. “We’ll dress our best, hire a limo, and go—”

“Hire a limo? January, what a smashing idea!”

“It’s the only way. With this weather there won’t be a cab in sight. Everyone will arrive as you predicted . . . wet and looking slightly beat. If we’re going to crash, we’re going to crash with style.”

Linda laughed nervously. “Do you really think a limo will give us enough style to bring it off?”

“Well, Ernest Hemingway once defined style as grace under pressure. And arriving in a limousine is certainly a step in the right direction.”

The party was held in a small ballroom. Judging from the noise of the crowd, the weather had been no deterrent. People spilled out into the hallway, forming their own small noisy cliques. A long sheet of paper with guests listed in alphabetical order lay deserted on a table outside the door. Linda’s theory about arriving late had been right. Once the V.I.P.’s were checked in, the people at the door would duck inside to mingle with the celebrities and grab free drinks.

They pushed their way into the main room. January recognized several authors, some press, several Broadway stars, a few Hollywood personalities, and the usual inveterate party-goers.

There was a bar at the end of the room. They spotted Tom Colt immediately. He was much better looking than the picture
on his jacket cover. He had a strong face, dark hair, pugilistic features. A man who looked as if he had lived through much of the violence and action he wrote about.

“He scares me,” January whispered. “You go up to him if you like. . . . I’ll just stand back here and watch.”

“He’s gorgeous,” Linda whispered.

“Sure he is. But so is a rattlesnake if it’s in a glass cage. I mean . . . Linda, you can’t mention
Gloss
magazine to a man like that.”

“Well, I’m going to . . . and you’re going with me. Come on.” She grabbed January’s arm and pulled her through the crowd toward the bar.

Tom Colt was encircled by an admiring group that seemed to be trying to close in on him. But he stood erect, with a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, pouring his own drinks. He took a long swallow as he stared at the plump little man who had written a best seller five years ago. He hadn’t written anything since, but he was making a career out of going on talk shows and attending celebrity parties. He had also turned into a lush. Suddenly he clamped his pudgy hand on Tom Colt’s arm. “I read everything you write,” he squeaked. He smacked his lips in ecstasy and rolled his eyes heavenward. “My God, but I adore your work. But be careful about getting caught up in the rat race of television.” He giggled. “Look what a whore it’s made out of me.”

Tom Colt pulled his arm away and looked at the damp-looking group around him. His dark eyes seemed angry as they quickly surveyed the crowd. Suddenly they rested on January and Linda. “Excuse me,” he said to the plump little writer, “but my two cousins from Iowa just walked in. And they’ve come all the way by bus.” He took the stunned girls by their arms and led them across the room. “Thank God for the pair of you . . . whoever you are. I was stuck with that bore for twenty minutes and no one came to rescue me because they thought I was being amused.”

Linda was staring at him in a glazed way. January found him completely overpowering. She managed to loosen his grip on her arm and said, “I’m glad if we were able to help you, and—”

Linda suddenly came to life. “And now you can help us.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve got a feeling that maybe I should have stayed at the bar.”

“I’m Linda Riggs, editor-in-chief of
Gloss
magazine, and this is my assistant editor, January Wayne. She’s written to you several times about an interview.”

He turned to January. “Holy Christ! Are you the J. Wayne with the letters and the Christmas card?”

She nodded and for some strange reason found herself blushing. He laughed, as if it was some private joke. “So you’re J. Wayne.” He laughed again. “And all the time I kept thinking the letters were from some skinny fag. Well, glad to meet you, J. Wayne. I’m glad you’re not a fag . . . but it’s
no
on the interview. My publisher has too many lined up as it is.” He turned and looked at her again. “But why the J. Wayne? Is that part of this Ms. business? At least I might have answered you if I had known you were a girl.”

“Well, January Wayne wouldn’t have given you any lead on my sex either.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It’s a crazy name, it’s—” He stopped. Then he pointed a finger at her accusingly. “You wouldn’t by any chance be the daughter of that sonofabitch Mike Wayne!”

She started to walk away but he yanked her back by the arm. “Listen, he fucked up one of my best books.”

“Don’t you dare use that language when you’re talking about my father! He got an Academy Award with that picture.”

“January . . .” Linda’s voice was a whispered plea.

“Let her rave on.” Tom Colt laughed. “I have a six-month-old son. One day when someone pans his old man’s book, he’ll hit out for me.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Truce?”

January looked at him and held out her hand. Then he locked his arms through theirs. “Okay, now that we’re all friends, let’s the three of us cut out. Where can we go for a few quiet blasts?”

“There’s Elaine’s,” Linda said. “A lot of writers go there and—”

“Yeah, I heard about it. But not tonight. The little capon at the bar told me he’s winding up at Elaine’s. Let’s go to Toots’!”

“Where?” Linda asked.

“Toots Shor’s—the only place to go for some serious drinking.” Still holding them by the arms he started for the door. A harassed young woman with long stringy hair rushed to him. “Mr. Colt, where are you going?”

“Out.”

“But you can’t leave. Ronnie Wolfe hasn’t gotten here yet, and—”

He patted her on the head. “Relax, press lady. You’ve done a fine job. The booze is flowing. I’ve been here for two hours and talked to everyone you put with me. My deal was that I’d attend a press party. No one said how long I’d have to stay. Oh, by the way . . . do you know my cousins from Iowa?”

“I know Rita Lewis,” Linda said, not able to hide her delight. “We’ve never actually been introduced. But no doubt she’s seen some of my messages this week.”

“I told my secretary to send you the invitation,” Rita said, rising to the occasion. “I see you got it.”

“No, we crashed,” January said happily.

“But you can make it up,” Linda added. “All we want is an in-depth interview with Mr. Colt. We’d give you the cover for that.”

“No way,” Rita Lewis said. “Mr. Colt is lined up with interviews all next week. All the major magazines, plus the A.P., U.P.I.—”

“But our story would be different,” Linda pleaded.

“Yes,” January added. “We’d sit in on some of his other interviews, like the talk shows; we’d cover the Green Room backstage; we’d even go to some of the other cities.”

“Forget it,” Rita said. “I don’t want him to be in
Gloss.”
She looked at Linda and added, “And don’t start harassing him with phone calls.”

Tom Colt, who had been watching the cross-talk like a tennis match, cut in. “Wait a minute! What are you, some kind of a Nazi general? Telling people it’s off limits to phone me?”

“Of course not, Mr. Colt. I didn’t mean it that way. But I know how persistent Linda can be. And I’m sure she’s trained January well. It’s just that our schedule is set . . . and
Gloss
is out. I don’t care what you do in your personal life with
either of them . . . but you can’t give them any interview. I’ve made commitments that might be endangered if you did their story.”

His eyes grew cruel as he looked at the publicist. “Look, baby. Let’s get things set from the very beginning. You can make appointments for me . . . and like a nice little trained dog, I’ll go through all the paces. I made a deal. And I always keep my word. But don’t ever tell me what I
can’t
do.” He put his arm around January protectively. “I’ve known this little girl since she was a baby. Her father’s my buddy chum pal. He made a hell of a picture out of one of my books. And you’re going to stand there and tell me I can’t do an interview for her magazine!”

Rita Lewis looked at Linda pleadingly. “Well . . . make it a small one, Linda . . . please. Otherwise I’ll lose
McCall’s
and
Esquire
. No in-depth thing, no following him around—”

“They can follow me into the can if they want,” he stormed. “But right now, we’re going out to booze a little.” Then he took each girl by the arm and propelled them through the room.

January opened her eyes slowly. She was asleep in the club chair. Why hadn’t she opened the bed? Why was she sleeping with her clothes on? She stood up, but the floor began to slant crazily. She fell back on the chair. It was seven o’clock in the morning! She had only been asleep two hours.

She stood up and struggled to get out of her clothes. Several times she had to grab the chair for support. She managed to pull out the bed, then rushed to the bathroom and threw up. She came back and fell across the bed. The events of the entire evening floated back to her. The abrupt change of heart Tom Colt had about her father . . . the three of them leaving the St. Regis while the bewildered Rita Lewis stood by, glaring helplessly. His amazement at their having their
own
limousine. He liked that . . . said it was the first time he had ever heard of gate-crashers coming in a limo. Then there had been his entrance in Toots Shor’s . . . Toots back-slapping him . . . sitting with them at the front table. Only no one mentioned food. It was Jack Daniels all the way. When he had stated
that no one could really be his friend unless he drank Jack Daniels, she and Linda had hesitated for a split second, and then instantly announced they adored bourbon.

She had found the first drink heavy going, but the second went down much easier. And the third brought a strange lightness to her head along with a marvelous sense of good will. And when Tom Colt leaned over and kissed each of them on the cheek and called them his Chocolate and Vanilla girls (January still had her Palm Beach tan and Linda had streaked her hair blonde this month), January felt they were a hilarious threesome. People drifted over to the table. There was much back-slapping—“Sit down, you crum bum” (this was Toots); sports writers who knew her father joined them; Tom kept refilling everyone’s glass. At midnight, Tom insisted on stopping off at “21” for a nightcap. They closed “21” and went to P.J. Clarke’s. At four in the morning they had all stumbled out of P.J.’s—she could remember that. She remembered weaving into the lobby with Linda, both of them giggling . . . But everything that was said or done from P.J.’s on was a haze.

She stumbled into the bathroom and took some aspirin. Then she made it back to the bed. When she closed her eyes the room begin to spin. She opened her eyes and tried to fix her attention on a stationary object. Mr. Bailey’s Tiffany lamp. She must have finally fallen asleep, because suddenly she was in the middle of a dream. She was aware that she was dreaming. She was enough awake to know it was a dream, but enough asleep to allow the dream to propel itself. A man was bending over her. He was about to take her. Any moment he would enter her, yet she experienced no panic. She wanted him, even though his face was a blur . . . She looked closer . . . it was Mike. But then as his lips touched hers she realized it was Tom Colt. Only his eyes weren’t black like Tom’s . . . they were blue. But not blue like Mike’s . . . they were aquamarine! She reached out for him . . . and then she woke up. She lay back against the pillows trying to determine whose face it was—Mike’s or Tom’s—but all she could remember was the color of those amazing eyes.

She forced herself back to sleep, searching for those eyes. But it was a soft dreamless sleep, dissolved suddenly by the telephone. It was Linda. “January, are you up?”

There was a throbbing in the back of her head but her stomach had settled some. “What time is it?” she asked slowly, afraid of any sudden movement.

“Eleven o’clock and I have a godawful hangover.”

“Is that what it is?” January asked. “I thought I was dying.”

“Take some milk.”

“Oh my God . . .” January suddenly felt a wave of nausea.

“Look, eat a piece of bread and take some milk. Right now! It will absorb any liquor left. Do that and call me back. We have to make our plans.”

“What plans?”

“To go on with Thomas Colt.”

“Oh, God . . . must we?”

“Last night you told me you adored him.”

“That was probably after I met his friend, Jack Daniels.”

“We’re not going to do that tonight,” Linda said.

“Do what?”

“Drink when we go with him. We take a firm stand. We’ll sip Scotch. He can drink all he wants to. But if we want to write this story we have to stay sober. We don’t tell him that. We just don’t try to match him drink for drink.”

“Is that what we did?”

“We damn well tried.”

“Linda . . . I’m going to be sick.”

“Eat the bread. I’ll throw on some slacks and come to your apartment and we can plan our strategy.”

She managed to get down half a glass of milk, and she watched Linda make the coffee. Linda finally settled in the club chair and smiled happily. “Now sit up . . . come to life . . . you’ve got to make the call to Tom Colt.”

“Why me?”

“Because even though I intend to sleep with this man tonight, I have a distinct feeling that this morning he will not remember my name. But your name will strike a bell. It has to after that big love he suddenly developed for Daddy.”

“I still feel he’s not exactly wild about Mike. He was just furious at Rita Lewis for giving him orders.”

Linda lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. “January, this instant stuff is awful. You’ve got to learn to make real coffee.”

January shrugged. “It suits me.”

Linda shook her head. “But it won’t suit your man.”