The Insiders (3 page)

And then one day he didn't call! I couldn't get to sleep; I was frantic! I found myself pacing around the apartment like a caged animal, getting on Marti's nerves, and then it hit me, and how it hit me —I loved David. I mean, I'd fallen in love. And he hadn't called. So I made mistake number one—the first in a long line of them. I called him. In the middle of the night yet.

"David," I said, "I love you." And he laughed. "Eve, you're an idiot." That's what
he
said. Then he said he was sorry he hadn't called—there had been an emergency and he'd had to stay late at the office, working on some brief. And afterward, he'd just fallen asleep. I felt stupid. But good, too. Now he knew. Don't ask me why I wanted to
tell
him. Maybe I wanted to hear him say the words back. But he never did. Smart David.

Peter, did you analyze David, too? How did you become friends? What did David tell you about me? Ah, come on, Peter, I know you're not asleep —I can tell by the twitch of your shoulder. You want to fuck again, I can tell that, too. Peter? Did he tell you about the quarrel?

Time's up, Eve. You can save the quarrel for the next tape. Roll over now, like a good girl, and tell me you want to get fucked. Come on, there's a few minutes left on that tape, enough for lots of sexy words and noises.

You're a bastard, too, Peter... no, stop it, I don't want... damn you anyhow! Tell me, Eve.

Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me, fuck me!

end of tape.

When Eve got back
to the apartment, very late, Marti was still awake, listening to Rod Stewart records. As usual, she had been drinking; a half-filled glass sat on the coffee table within reach.

Eve was worried for her. So far, Marti's drinking had not started to show in her face or her figure, but if she kept it up, it inevitably would.

Marti and Stella must have quarreled again. Eve wondered with a trace of bitterness whether Stella was still confiding in David. Two-faced Stella who stood between two camps and wavered.

"Eve, baby, Want a drink?"

"Uh-huh. I'm beat. That Peter, sometimes he gets in a mood and he seems insatiable. Even my legs ache."

"You must've turned him on, baby."

Eve laughed shortly, easing off her shoes.

"Not me, really—it was the tape I made for him. Peter taped everything—words, sounds. Would you believe that he's even fixed his bed so it creaks every time someone moves?"

"I believe. Peter sounds like a riot. Sure is a shame I'm not a switch-hitter like Stella, or I'd get him to give me some of his bedroom therapy."

"Marti—"

Marti picked up the glass and waved it vaguely in Eve's direction.

"Go on to bed, baby, and don't worry about me. In a mood like this, no one can help me. We had a big fight, Stel and I, but we'll make up. Don't we always?"

Marti didn't sound convinced, but it wasn't any of Eve's business.

"Well, I guess neither of us will be getting any telephone calls tomorrow, so we can both sleep later. 'Night Marti."

After Eve had gone into her bedroom, Marti fixed herself another drink. She thought about what Eve had said, about the tape recorder. Maybe she should get herself one and talk into it on nights like this. It might be better therapy than alcohol, at that. The drink was much stronger than the last one she'd had, and she grimaced at the taste. Mustn't turn into an alcoholic; it ran in the family. When she lived at home, very long ago, someone was always warning her about her drinking. And then she'd quit. But Stella—Stella was enough to drive anyone to drink.

Oh, God, what a bitch Stella was. But how beautiful, how very clever with her hands and her tongue and her soft, ladylike voice that could make even the dirtiest words sound like a love poem.

Marti supposed it was funny, in a sick sort of way, that she and Eve should both be in the same boat. Eve had lost David, and she had lost Stella. Wasn't it odd how all their lives were mixed up together in some way? Here were Marti and Eve sharing an apartment; Stella and David sharing office space. At least, she hoped that was all they shared, but with Stel, who could tell? "Mr. Zimmer," she called David in the office. When she brought him to the party, it had been "David." And how could anybody really blame David or any man for looking twice at Stella, for wanting her? Stella was lovely;

if she hadn't been so petite, she could have been a model, too. So innocent, Stella could look, and when she cried, so pathetic, so sad!

Tonight, Stella had cried.

Marti had known, from the time Stella walked in, that something was going to happen. Stella was tense, edgy. When Marti kissed her, she had ended the kiss quickly, drawing away.

"Okay, baby, give. Something's bugging you, and you might as well tell me now as later."

Marti had been pouring drinks, her face turned away from Stella's. Why let Stella see how much she was affected? Stella was already too sure of her power over Marti.

"Mart," Stella said nervously, chewing on her lower lip. She paused, and Marti could almost feel her gathering up her courage. The words tumbled out in a rush. "George asked me out. George Cox—you remember I told you about him? And—I said I would. Marti, I've
got
to try it, don't you see? I—I want to."

Marti had heard her own voice bridge the distance between them, sounding calm, so damn calm!

"Well, darling, if you want to, there's nothing I can say, is there?" She came back with their drinks and handed one to Stella. "I don't exactly own you, baby."

Stella reached out and touched her lightly on the arm, and she had to force herself to remain calm, casual.

"Marti?" Stella's voice pleaded with her. "Baby, it's just a
date,
that's all. And he's so old. All he wants is companionship—he said so. And to be seen with a girl, someone young, you know? It's just an ego thing."

"And what is it for you? Do you have to be the one to feed his damned male ego?"

Stella pouted, bending her head to study the liquid in her glass.

"There's nothing wrong with being nice to someone, is there? And he's a friend of Mr. Bernstein's—he can help me get ahead, don't you see that? He won't make any demands of me; we'll still have each other, see each other. Oh, Marti, darling, please understand! I'm so damned weak; I'm not strong like you are. I have to put on an act like I'm—I don't want people to know. My never going out on dates—people are bound to think it's not normal, not natural. I feel as if they've started to wonder already, to talk about me. And I can't stand that thought, Marti."

Marti ground her teeth, her hands clenching, but she managed to make her voice come out even.

"Stella, I
do
understand. You've made up your mind already; you've been thinking about this, and you think you're doing what you have to do. But think about this, baby—I
love
you. Marti loves Stella—does George? Or does he just want a pretty face to take out to dinner? I want more than that, Stel. God, sometimes I wish I were a man, so I could take you out in public and show you proudly to the world as mine. But I'm a goddam coward, too. I'm not going to fight for you. Know what, baby? You go ahead, go out with George. Me, I think I'll get good and drunk!"

Stella began to cry, leaning her head against Marti's shoulder.

"Marti, don't! Please don't make me unhappy, because I do love you, you know I do! I'm just afraid, that's all. What's there for us, Marti? In the end, I mean? I don't want to end up old and living with another old maid. Old maids—old dykes, they'd call us. And laugh, and snigger at us. And—I've seen it, Marti! We'd get to looking so
ugly;
all square-bodied and thick, like men. Oh, I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself first!"

"Stop it, baby, stop it! You're young and you're beautiful and you'll never get old—all it takes is money and face-lifts. So cut out the tears. Go out with George; take him for whatever you can get; go out and fool the god-dam world, then. But baby, come back to me afterward —never stop coming back to me!"

Marti's hands touched Stella, stroked her trembling body, caressed it until the trembling had become a need that made her gasp and squirm.

"Oh, God—yes, baby—yes, yes! Do it to me—let me, too—Marti—Marti, darling—darling!"

They fell together onto the thick shag rug, tugging at their clothes, touching, kissing greedily. Marti kept thinking that at least she'd leave nothing of the life, the passion, the loving that brimmed up in Stella for old man George with his distinguished gray head and manicured hands.

Marti made Stella climax, screaming and whimpering with desire and lust—that soft, babyish mouth was open —little tongue licking greedily out at Marti's nipples. Of course Stella loved her back! Stella would use George, but it was Marti that Stella loved. Stella was hers, hers!

Marti gave herself up at last to pure feeling, ceasing to think and to calculate. Midnight-black hair and blond were all mixed up; their bodies met and tangled and entwined in the age-old Sapphic patterns.

Marti had never been so forceful, so demanding, so generous, and so tender. Under her avid, seeking mouth she felt with joy how Stella seemed to quiver and burn and then melt. Stella's beautiful body lay opened to her hands and lips—possessed completely by her. And as for her own needs—had Stella ever loved her so well? Stella was usually shy and inhibited about the things she would or would not do. But tonight, as if she had to prove something, Stella seemed to go wild. Her hands and tongue were merciless, taking Marti to peak after peak of joy.

After it was all over, they lay panting against each other like animals. Stella's sldn still quivered and shrank with sensation—she lay on her bade with eyes closed and her pink lips parted, still moaning softly. Marti, lying on her stomach with an arm and a leg thrown possessively over her love, was, at that moment, content.

Now
let her go out with George—let her try finding out if that was what she wanted, whether George could give her pleasure.

It was only after Stella had left, still half-dazed with the passion that had exploded between them, that Marti let the depression catch up with her again. The last thing Stella had said as they kissed good-bye at the door had been, "Marti, I love you. Please understand!"

So Stella would go out with George after all. How could George resist her? Marti was well aware of Stella's loveliness—and Stella's selfishness. Always, Stel would come first—to Stel. If it hadn't been George, then eventually there would have been someone else. Marti knew that, had always known it. But how could you stop yourself from loving, from needing one particular person?

The last record had ended, and the silence hurt her ears. Why couldn't Eve have stayed up? They might have gotten smashed together, consoled each other. Poor Eve, as unhappy over her stupid, undeserving David as she was over Stella.

Her drink was finished. Should she have another, maybe? Standing up, Marti felt herself sway. A sudden wave of nausea hit her, and she felt beads of sweat pop out on her brow as she clutched onto the arm of the chair. No more drinks—she hated to get sick, hated the agony of vomiting. Carefully, she began to walk toward her bedroom.

On the way, she leaned against Eve's door for a moment. Eve, wake up—I need someone. Hold my hand; talk to me; tell me she'll be back. But there was only silence. Well, she could cry herself to sleep!

In the women's washroom
at Hansen, Howell & Bernstein, Stella Gervin studied her reflection in the mirror. Thank goodness last night didn't show, except as a very faint shadow under her eyes, hardly noticeable under her makeup. Stella's lips curved in a smile. Smiling, she gazed back at her mirrored self with a kind of complacence. No wrinkles. And her hair looked pretty this morning; she was glad she was letting it grow again.

Stella's new blue dress brought out the color of her eyes; its demure ruffled collar made her neck look slender, and the skirt was midlength enough to show that she had extremely pretty legs. She wondered suddenly if David would notice. She had had the feeling that just recently he had been noticing her a lot and trying to hide it. Well, men who knew she was Marti's special friend were usually intrigued. Every man wanted to be the one who could make a lesbian come.

Under her pale skin, Stella flushed. More of Marti's philosophy—she herself hated the word. I am not a lesbian. Bisexual, maybe. It sounded properly clinical, better than lesbian, les. Never. I can always get it from somewhere; it doesn't have to be a woman. A man with soft hands who understands women and likes to go down on them could have the same effect. Against her will, she thought of Marti as she had been last night.

Beautiful, slender Marti with her hard-muscled dancer's body, giving her pleasure—and such pleasure! Could a man ever do the same for her?

One of the other secretaries came in, and Stella turned away hurriedly, the flush still on her face. She picked up her purse and started to hurry out, smiling at the other girl. Thank goodness it hadn't been Gloria. Gloria always managed to make her feel plain and insecure. Privately, Stella knew it was because Gloria had her eye on David Zimmer, who was Stella's boss. To Gloria, any female who worked around David had to be competition, especially since Eve was out of the picture now. So Gloria invariably made it a point to remind Stella of her position, which was
outside
David's office, and safely behind her desk.

Back at her desk, Stella put her purse away and sat down, crossing her legs. David wasn't in yet Mr. Zimmer. She always called him that in the office; it made for better business relations, and it kept Gloria off her back. It was Gloria, in fact, who had made a point of bringing George Cox into her office, on the pretext that he wanted to see David. Gloria knew very well that David was out that afternoon! Stella guessed that Gloria had also known very well that George would prefer to meet David's secretary. Well, she had no complaints about Gloria on that score, at least. George had seen her, George had liked her looks, and it hadn't been long before his phone call had come, asking her if she'd care to have dinner with a lonely old man. Stella had known that George Cox had been married at least three times and wasn't exactly lonely for female companionship, but the fact that he had asked her out was flattering—and he was such a rich man!

Behind her desk was a window that looked out over the city. Stella loved her view of all the white buildings that seemed to glimmer in the sun when the fog went away, and the faint cresoent of blue in the distance that was San Francisco Bay. She had hated Los Angeles, but the first time she had seen San Francisco she had felt as if she belonged here. Perhaps, she mused, it was because here, for the first time, she had been really free, and able to choose her own friends, make her own life. Thanks to contacts she had made through Mim, she had been lucky enough to land the legal secretary job at H. H.&B.

Mim, whom she hadn't thought of in months, started a whole new train of memory. Mim led to Kevin, and the thought of Kevin, hateful even now, reminded her of herself as she had been just a few years ago—a naive, uncomplaining child-woman, Southern small-town style. Brought up to believe in church and marriage and a life just like her parents had led, raising lots of kids. Well, she'd been lucky that there had been no children. Some kind of trouble with her ovaries, the doctor had said. No children for her ever unless she wanted to stand some kind of operation that might even be risky for her. A good thing Kevin had wanted to wait.

Kevin Maynard. She didn't like to remember now that she had once been Mrs. Kevin Maynard. Married to her high-school sweetheart, the only boy she had ever dated, because he had been the only one her parents approved of.

He had been a quiet, ruggedly handsome man, and she had believed herself deeply in love with him. She had taken secretarial training while Kevin did his hitch in the Army, just so that she would be able to help him when he started back to college afterward.

They had been married soon after Kevin got his discharge from the Army, and Stella settled down to the routine of a working wife while Kevin studied hard— he was ambitious and she had admired and encouraged his ambition. And she had even found keeping house kind of fun, at first.

Being a conservatively brought-up Southern girl,