Once Is Not Enough (51 page)

J
ANUARY AWOKE
when she heard the rain. Oh, God . . . not again. There was nothing worse than California in the rain. The light on the clock radio said seven-thirteen. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. It had been raining for three days. The monotonous clatter it made on the roof of the bungalow was now something she accepted as part of her day—the way she accepted the eternal clicking of Tom’s typewriter. She had been in California one month and it seemed like forever. Perhaps it was the sameness of each day. When the sun shone . . . it seemed eternal. And when it rained . . . the rain seemed eternal.

But with the rain, she became a captive of Bungalow Five. Tom was still asleep. She looked at him in the shadowy morning light. He still had a small bruise under his left eye. His recuperative powers had amazed her. His face had healed in less than two weeks. And his teeth were back in three days. He explained his dentist always kept an extra set of his caps on hand. Oddly enough it was the broken ribs that gave him the most pain . . . but he took it all philosophically. He had been in too many barroom fights to let a few cracked ribs get him down. “When your nose is broken and your jaw is wired, then you can complain.” He laughed. “And those were fights that I won.” Besides, as he put it, he needed the rest and it gave him a chance to be on hand when his agent finalized the picture sale of his book. When the deal was set, they’d go off to New York and celebrate.

He made the deal and they celebrated. And it was her fault they were still in Bungalow Five.

Tom had been exuberant the day he had signed the contract. He had spun her around the room. “Five hundred thousand against twenty-five percent of the net profit. Do you realize what that means! They want to bring the picture in for two million. So after it grosses five million, everything is gravy. If it’s a big one and goes through the roof, I could make a million.”

“It will if they do the book,” she said. “But I’ve seen so many hit books changed . . . and ruined.”

“Well, let’s hope they get a good writer and a hot director. But meanwhile, we’ll go to Matteo’s tonight and celebrate. Tomorrow I’ll visit my son. And the next day we take off for New York and I’ll sign the lease on the apartment.”

“Tom, why don’t you do the script?”

“I told you. I don’t do scenarios.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s not prestigious.”

“That’s a hang-up from your early days. Plenty of novelists are writing their own screenplays. Look at Neil Simon . . . he always does his own adaptations. Besides, if I had twenty-five percent of the profits, I’d want to be damn sure that my money was protected with a good script.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Know something? You’ve given me something to think about. I never had a share of the profits before.”

And then he was on the phone with his agent and for the next few days the phone calls went back and forth. And finally, at the end of the week, they sat in the Polo Lounge with Max Chase, his agent, and toasted the deal. Tom was to get fifty thousand for the treatment. And after that was approved, he’d get another hundred and fifty thousand to write the screenplay itself.

“That’ll buy the apartment in New York,” he said. “Here’s to you, Max . . . the deal is great. And here’s to January for making me do it.”

“What apartment in New York?” Max Chase asked.

“I’m buying one. My lawyer is still checking out a few points
in the deal they sent us. Mortgages and stuff. But it’s practically set. The way I figure it, we can get in by June, January can furnish it, and I’ll knock out the treatment. Then I guess I’ll have to come back here to talk about the actual screenplay.”

Max Chase smiled. “I’m way ahead of you. I managed to get a few more goodies put in the contract for you. I got Century to pick up the tab on the bungalow, plus supply you with a car while you’re working on both the treatment and the screenplay. So forget about New York for the time. Besides, it’s best for you to write it out here. You stay in touch with things that way. You’ll be able to see who they pick for a director, the actors . . . When you’re right here, you get a chance to argue about it—not read about it after the fact.”

Tom turned to January with a grin. “Think you can rough it out here in Bungalow Five for a few more months?”

She nodded. “I’ll tell Linda I’m quitting the magazine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “She can give you some assignments to do out here. Keep you busy.”

And Linda had been enthusiastic. “Sure. Get me a story on Doris Day . . . and George C. Scott . . . Dean Martin . . . and get one on Barbara Stanwyck, find out how she feels about TV, the new Hollywood as opposed to the old one . . . I hear Melina Mercouri is out there—try for her. And do something on the elegant Malibu colony where your man has a house. . . .”

But it wasn’t that easy. She had tried to contact the press agents of the stars and learned that most of them were on vacation. After a few calls, she stopped trying. A strange kind of lethargy had come over her. When the stimulant from the shot had worn off she had gone through two tortuous days of headaches and nausea. But Tom had been with her and forced her to sit it out. She was all right now, but she felt oddly disoriented. As if an arm or leg had been amputated. She knew that in some way it had to do with Mike. She knew her complete disinterest in
Gloss
also related to him. She realized her job had been just a means of attracting his attention . . . seeking his approval. And now she could never win his approval. She would never forget the way he had looked at her when he walked out. And now she had nothing to live for
except Tom . . . Mike had walked out on her. It was Tom who cared.

In the beginning she sat at the pool and read all the current novels. Tom was still number one. He was caught up in his writing now, and she forced herself to stay away from the bungalow until late afternoon and tried to ignore the gnawing realization that nothing was happening with them at night. Of course he had been too battered the first two weeks, and he said ribs took a long time to heal. But she felt it was his writing that was coming between them. When she came in, he would often motion her to go into the other room. He didn’t want to break his rhythm by even saying hello. Occasionally he would tell her the television set was on too loud. At night they’d have room service and he’d read her the stuff he had written during the day.

Now as she lay listening to the rain, she wondered why she felt so despondent. This was the way it should be. In a way she was working with him, just by being there and listening. But something was missing. She reached out and touched his shoulder. He mumbled in his sleep and turned away. She felt the tears come to her eyes. Even in his sleep he was rejecting her. What was this ego trip she was on . . . about helping him? It was all in her mind. She wasn’t helping him! She wasn’t even necessary in his life! She slipped out of bed and dressed quietly.

She sat at the counter of the coffee shop and had a corn muffin and coffee. Every seat was taken. And everyone in Los Angeles seemed alert and alive at eight in the morning. Some were reading the trades. She heard snatches of conversation-distribution costs . . . foreign distribution . . . the Eady plan . . . no tennis during lunch hour because of the damn rain. She paid her check and went upstairs to the lobby and ordered Tom’s car. The rain was still slicing down. Cars were arriving in one lane and leaving in the other. There were cracks about the glorious California sunshine; the inevitable reply: “This is just heavy dew.” She saw Dr. Preston Alpert get into a car with a recording star who had arrived from London to do a Special. Good Lord! Was he on the shots too? Finally her car arrived
and she drove down Sunset and out to Santa Monica. Then she sat and watched the rain pelt down on the desolate beach.

Perhaps Tom sensed her mood, because when she returned he stopped writing and insisted they have a drink together. He had stopped drinking while he was writing, but now he poured himself a double, insisted she have one also, and took her to The Bistro for dinner.

His entrance caused a rush of conversation. It seemed he knew everyone in the restaurant. Before the meal was over several actors and directors were sitting at their table talking shop—exchanging stories, making suggestions on who should play certain roles. She sat there feeling more shut out than ever.

He was in great spirits when they got back to the bungalow. And when they were in bed he made the attempt . . . but nothing happened. He finally made love to her and after she was satisfied and he thought she was asleep he got out of bed and went into the living room. She waited a few minutes and then peeked inside. He was rereading the pages he had done that day. She went back to bed. Hadn’t he originally said he’d work four hours a day and spend the rest of the time with her? In the beginning he had often come to the pool for a brief swim. But it was always the typewriter he rushed back to. Where had she gone wrong? What had happened to the excitement in their relationship?

On Monday it rained again. She tried to watch the soap operas. On Tuesday it was still raining and she tried to read. On Wednesday she tried to write an article called “The Heavy Dew”; but it didn’t work. On Thursday, when the sun finally broke through, she threw her arms over Tom’s shoulders as he sat at the typewriter. “Come on to the pool with me . . . let’s take a walk . . . let’s do something.”

“Why don’t you take tennis lessons?” He was staring at the sheet in the typewriter.

“Tom, I play tennis real well. I don’t need lessons.”

“Fine. Then I’ll ask Max Chase to find you some players.”

“Tom, I stayed in California to be with you . . . not to play tennis.”

“You are with me.”

“Yes, but you aren’t with me.”

“I’m a writer.” He kept staring at the paper in the typewriter.

“For God’s sake, it’s only a movie treatment. It isn’t
War and Peace.”

“Writing is my work. You should understand that.”

“Producing was my father’s work, but he certainly took time out for someone he cared about.”

“January, for God’s sake, go out and amuse yourself. Buy some clothes at the shop in the hotel. Charge it to the bungalow.”

“I don’t want clothes. Tom, it’s only eleven in the morning. I’m lonely . . . I feel lost . . . tell me what to do.”

“I don’t give a damn what you do just as long as you get off my back.”

“I’m going back to New York,” she said quietly.

He turned and his face grew hard. “Why? To crawl back to him?”

“No . . . to save what we have. I’ll go back to my job. At least I’ll be able to walk in New York . . . see people on the street . . . talk to a blind man with pencils and a big dog . . . go to the park and get mugged—anything. But at least I’ll be off your back!”

He grabbed her in his arms. “I didn’t mean it. Please, baby. I need you. I want you here. Look, you’ve never lived with a writer before. Our relationship is great. I’ve never been happier. I’ve never written better. If you walk out on me I’d feel I had failed you. Don’t do this to me now . . . not when the end is so close. Look, this will all be over soon. And we’ve learned something from it. We’ve learned we can’t live in Los Angeles when I write my next book. And that’s what living together is all about—you find out what works and what doesn’t. But one thing we do know that works is us. Right?”

“I don’t know, Tom. I really don’t. I feel . . . lost.”

He turned away. “I see. It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

“Tom, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t think about him . . . subconsciously that is. I mean . . . well . . . I loved him . . . I still love him. I’ve loved him all my life. I wish that night had never happened. But I made the decision. I stayed with you . . . and I lost him.”

“What makes you think you’ve lost him?”

“Tom, if I left for New York tomorrow . . . would I lose you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Because I’d know why you left.”

“And don’t you think Mike knows why I’ve stayed?”

He nodded slowly. “I guess I’ve been selfish. Look, let me just get this draft done. Then I’ll hand it in and we’ll get into a car and go to San Francisco for ten days. I have a lot of friends there. You’ll like them. We’ll have a ball. And I promise from this moment on, I’ll only write four hours a day.”

“Then I’ll wait and we can go swimming at two. It’s only eleven now.”

“I don’t feel like swimming. But you go. Maybe I’ll come down later.”

He didn’t come down. And he spent the following day at the typewriter working straight through until eight o’clock.

On Saturday it rained again. He left in the morning to go to Malibu to see his son. He promised to be back by five. They’d go somewhere for dinner. Maybe even a movie. He called at nine. She could hear music and the sound of people laughing and talking. His voice was blurred and she knew he had been drinking. “Look, baby, it’s coming down real hard out here. I think I’d better stay for the night. Order some room service. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He clicked the phone.

She sat very still for a few seconds. He was having a marvelous time at his wife’s house. And he was in no rush to get back to her. Why should he be? All she had done was complain. Where had all the excitement gone? Where was her vitality, her high spirits? She was the girl who had once made him function like a man. Now he never even tried anymore. Just satisfied her when he felt she needed it. A mercy dive. Yes, that’s what Linda would call it. And now he was staying overnight at Malibu. He’d come back tomorrow. But if she kept this up, there’d be a time when he wouldn’t come back. Suddenly everything seemed so desolate . . . so hopeless. She couldn’t lose Tom . . . she couldn’t! He was all she had. She had to make it all shining and wonderful, as it had been before.

She sat very quietly for a few minutes. Then she picked up the phone and called Dr. Preston Alpert.

Twenty-three

D
AVID STOOD
at the bar at “21,” waiting for his father. The old man was ten minutes late. This was unusual. He glanced at the empty table being held for him at the banquette against the wall. The restaurant was filling up. Peter was checking his list as some V.I.P.’s arrived without reservations. Walter had just put up a table in the archway that divided the first and second sections. Mario was giving white carnations to three attractive women. David finished his drink and decided it would be better to wait at his table. Too many people at the door were eyeing it.