Authors: Joseph Amiel
"Oh, the
Times
picture."
"What kind of guy insists people call him with three names?"
Greg heard a peal of laughter. "You're jealous."
"Just curious," Greg replied, annoyed at the trace of indignation he heard beneath his words.
"You are
jealous
!" she noted. "The man with all the incredible confidence is jealous."
Diane was delighted by the turnabout. She had stared at the phone all night, willing herself to wait Greg out, then castigating herself for crumbling, had dialed him. Now she realized that although he might not be willing to admit it, probably not even to himself, Greg liked her.
"So as not to lose my alluring aura of mystery," she joked, "I'll just say he's one of my better lovers." Her laughter sounded full and rich. "I'll make it up to you. I'm giving a small party for my dad this weekend. It's his birthday. Will you come?" Diane realized that she was holding her breath. When Greg did not accept right away, she became cross. "If being with me is that much of a burden to you—"
"It sounds like a private family get-together."
"My father asked me to invite you."
"I'd love to."
When Greg reached Chris on the telephone, he told her he would have to cancel the upcoming weekend with her and her family in Wyoming. He had to remain in New York for Barnett Roderick's birthday party.
Chris was disappointed. "That isn't a command, I gather. Just send him a scarf or some golf doo-hickey or other and tell him you have a prior engagement. This is important, too."
"I can't. You have no idea how extraordinary it is to be invited. No one from the company is ever invited to his private social affairs."
"Greg, we've been together for over a year and my mother and father haven't once set eyes on you. This isn't fair to me."
"I just can't. I'll make it up to you.
The week after."
"Mother will be at her sister's in Phoenix, and my father will join her there the week after that."
Greg was silent. This time Chris was the one who yielded. "I guess I'm not being fair, either. It is pretty amazing that Roderick's taking such an interest in you." Her voice brightened.
"How about if I fly to New York to see
you
for the weekend?
We'd have all Saturday and Sunday. I've never been to New York. Maybe he'll let you bring an escort to the party."
"I'm sorry, honey," he said contritely. "The party's very small. The invitation was strictly for one."
"I understand.
Some other time."
"I'll miss you. I'll be out to see you the weekend after. I promise."
"I'll miss you, too."
Fewer than thirty people were at the party, and only Greg was employed by FBS. Most of the guests were Barnett's long-time friends, many of them prominent. Feeling out of place, Greg spent the evening on the fringe of groups, observing Barnett circulate among them, unconsciously exuding power among the powerful.
At one point Barnett noticed Greg watching him, and smiling, he walked over.
"I've had good reports on the headway you're making in daytime sales," he said.
"Thanks. Thanks very much.
Happy birthday."
Greg was overwhelmed at Barnett Roderick's interest in him.
"How are you getting along with Bill Jorgenson?"
"Just fine," Greg said. The head of Sales was several layers above Greg; they had exchanged nods twice.
"You could learn a lot from Bill. We'll talk later," Barnett assured him, and then added, before turning back to other guests, "There are a couple of things I'd like your opinion on."
Greg could barely believe the conversation. Here I am in Barnett Roderick's incredible apartment . . . on his birthday . . . with people I dreamed of meeting in only my most outlandish fantasies . . . and he says he wants my opinion. Greg had only sipped at his drink, but he felt intoxicated. Even so, a small voice of doubt in back of his brain called a warning to him.
"Having a good time?" Diane asked. She had had to leave him alone most of the evening in order to act as hostess.
"Great.
Terrific party."
He glanced at Barnett, who stood just a few feet past her. "Let me ask you something, Diane. Why on earth would your father care the slightest bit about my opinion on anything?"
"Because he knows that
I
care about you."
She stared up at Greg. In the gray depths of her eyes, he saw infatuation. At that moment he could have been truthful: He could have told her he was in love with another woman or that he did not feel the same way about her. He could have, but he did not. Instead, he smiled gently and did what he thought would be the smartest thing, which was to say nothing. He sensed that Barnett, behind her, was watching.
Greg had hoped to observe the
upfronts
when they began, even if he did not take an active role, a way of edging into prime-time sales, where the action was. Happening upon Bill Jorgenson when they were both awaiting the elevator, Greg decided to play his new card, "I was speaking to the Chairman the other night. He asked whether I was going to get the chance to participate in the
upfronts
. He said I could learn a lot from you."
Barnett had indeed made both those statements to Greg, but by putting them together, Greg gave the impression that Barnett had specifically intended Greg to observe the
upfronts
beside Jorgenson.
A large, heavyset man with a salesman's jovial manner, the senior vice president had not forgotten that Greg had originally been sent to the department on Barnett Roderick's recommendation. He had subtly accorded Greg favored treatment and had once been able to inform Barnett that Greg was well-liked and showing a lot of initiative with scatter sales.
"The
upfronts
would be great training," Jorgenson told him. "I'd like you to be involved."
In the weeks that followed, Greg and Diane saw each other frequently. If she sensed that another woman awaited him in Los Angeles, she did not bring up the subject. She tried to ignore his failure to phone as often as she did and his keeping his feelings so closely to himself, but it meant she had no idea how he felt about her. When her work slackened, she thought about him and wondered when he would be free again to see her. She forced herself not to quiz him or suggest too often that he do things her way—although he was quick to correct the few small annoyances she did raise, such as the new tuxedo he wore the next time they attended a black-tie event. He understood as she did that care about every detail crafted the desired image.
Diane had never felt either so alternately contented with a man and on edge as she did with Greg. She had always ended up dominating and dissatisfied by previous one-sided relationships. Greg was too strong to be dictated to or overshadowed, which made her feel safe and allowed her affection to
emerge.
Her attachment deepened after he met her at the hospital. The children's ward was the cause Diane felt strongest about and volunteered there Saturday mornings. Many of the children were there for corrective surgery of orthopedic defects.
Many to be cured of a disease.
But some could never be healed. Despite all the physicians’ best efforts, some were there to die. She played with them all, helped the children, took them for X-rays or physical therapy, and encouraged them.
Diane had first worked at the hospital when she was in high school, as a community-service requirement. The first day she had spent more time crying than helping. Each time she left, she was sure she would be unable to return. But at the allotted time, she would appear again, her body suffering with their pain. The children were waiting for her. And their need for her—for as long as they might live—superseded her despair.
Diane had not told Greg what to expect when he arrived at the hospital to pick her up for an early supper that night, but waited to observe his reaction. He pushed open the doors to the ward, and his insides went weak.
Children in bandages, in wheelchairs, feebly in bed.
The greatest sorrow in his life, his sister's fatal illness, was here replicated the length of the room.
Greg played with the children and ended up reading to a sad-eyed little girl until she fell asleep. He and Diane missed supper and made it to the screening only minutes before the film began.
Occasionally, Diane sensed a detachment in Greg that, contrarily, served to magnify his allure. He was cordial, humorous,
even
affectionate in a companionable way, but displayed nothing like the desire that, every day, she was feeling more deeply for him. She feared that if she did not entice him with invitations to interesting events, he might not wish to see her. Often the invitation came from Barnett and could not be refused.
Occasionally, a colleague at work would mention to Greg having heard that he had been seen out with the boss's daughter. Greg would minimize the matter, claiming he was just one of a number of escorts she called upon for her many social obligations. The answer seemed appropriate, and the rumors died down.
Greg skipped several weekends in Los Angeles and lied to Chris about the reasons. Although he remained absolutely correct in his behavior toward Diane, he was troubled by their relationship and the questions it provoked in him, and guilty about his duplicity toward both women.
One night, toward the end of a week in which he was scheduled to fly to Los Angeles, after he and Diane had dined at an East Side restaurant and were walking up Third Avenue under a warm sky, Greg could no longer let the question that most disturbed him go unanswered. He did not want to fool himself.
“Diane, was it your father’s idea or yours that I come to New York?”
“He thinks a lot of you, Greg.”
When no answer was forthcoming, he halted and faced her. “Whose idea was it?”
Her eyes dropped; he was so insistent. “I think I suggested it. But he was all for it.”
The pavement suddenly opened beneath Greg’s feet. “Why?”
“I told you. He was impressed by you.”
“Was that all?”
“And he saw how happy I was that night you took me out in Los Angeles.”
Greg had believed Barnett Roderick promoted him after detecting singular talents; that the relationship with Diane was simply a pleasant, chance friendship on which he was skillfully capitalizing; and from which he could always gracefully back away if it grew too enmeshing. At that moment he suddenly understood that if he
were
to part from Diane, his career would be crippled, probably destroyed for good.
“You
still
make me happy,” she ventured to tell him. “I love you, Greg.”
He took a moment to reply. “I’m honored.”
Her eyes recoiled as if he had raised a hand to strike her. “That isn’t what I had hoped to hear.”
Greg understood that he could not waver. He quickly took her in his arms and kissed her. Before, their kisses had been chaste, short good-byes. Now, even as he felt the full extent of her need for him, he was assailed by a confusion of emotions: ambition foremost and then, tumbling one upon the other, feelings of being fortunate and trapped and guilty and fearful and aroused. He did not know how to separate or reconcile them. Nor did he want to. Thinking too long might jeopardize him. He pulled Diane against him more tightly, kissing her more deeply, his mouth opening hers, his tongue greeting hers.
“Let's go up to my apartment,” he
said,
arousal reinforcing ambition. “You’ve never seen it.”
“I’d like to.”
Her voice expressed pleasure and relief. She had become increasingly worried by Greg’s propriety toward her, as if he feared her father’s wrath or worse, as if he were not attracted to her, as if he could not love her.
He drew her into the crook of an elbow and guided her down the street. He nuzzled her hair for a moment, as he was sure she would like him to, refusing to let himself think about Chris. But he did not flinch from the truth about what he was doing. Making love to Diane Roderick, he recognized, was an act of the purest and most necessary self-interest.
And when he did make love to her, he made sure that he was very good.
All the way out to Los Angeles, random thoughts about his suddenly dangerous situation occurred to Greg, but his mind seemed clogged, and he could not think clearly enough to pursue the thoughts to conclusions. Making love to Diane had not been so much a choice as a quick, strategic escape from peril, which had served only to entangle him more. Keeping from Chris any knowledge of Diane, he saw now, had been an act of similar expediency, an attempt to evade making an unalterable decision.
The closer the airplane approached Los Angeles, the guiltier he felt toward Chris and the more he missed her. As it circled the airport and Greg put away his laptop, containing documents he had barely skimmed, he finally acknowledged that sometime during this weekend he must choose one woman and renounce the other.