Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (128 page)

“How’s that?” he said triumphantly.

I pulled at the doors. There was no resistance. They parted obediently, without a fight.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Who says I’m not a genius?”

“You’re a genius. Thanks a lot, darling.”

“Nothing’s too good for you.”

And that was the end of it. I forgot about it entirely.

Or I almost did.

I only thought about it again later. Much later.

On Tuesday night a rather erotic dream, and the man in my fantasy was not Eric. And he certainly was not Peter. I had liked him instantly … but not in any sensual way. Rather, I equated him, if the truth be told, with young Tom — someone nice and decent and appealing. But not chemically attractive, at least not to me.

My dream centered around Anthony Cavendish. I woke abruptly and had an instant desire to be
unawake
… and still dreaming. I tried not to let other thoughts come to the surface, closed my eyes determinedly, and tried to fall back to sleep again.

I could not.

But as I lay there, reliving the events my unconscious had activated, I marveled. The Viscount … yes, I had thought him immensely compelling, charismatic. But someone who, I had informed myself, I could see through. That practiced charm, that polished bravado. Certainly I was urbane enough not to take such a man seriously!

Then I woke fully and told myself briskly that it didn’t mean a damned thing. I had had this kind of mishmash out with Freud a long time ago. Dreams meant something, yes, but not to the extent that that didactic Viennese psychologist once averred they did.

I assured myself, getting out of bed, that the dream about Viscount Anthony Cavendish had no significance other than the fact that I was normally sexed, had had a sex dream that was applicable to a young woman of my age, and had simply cast the face and form of Caroline’s house guest — at random — in that casual dream.

It was as simple as that. I was sure.

Oddly, though, that same day, just before eleven, Peter Lestrange called me up at the office. I was astounded to hear his voice, and further stunned at his knowing where to reach me.

I asked him outright. “How in the world did you know where I worked?”

“Caroline, of course.”

“You asked her?”

“Why not? Surely you’re permitted calls where you work?”

“Of course. It’s just — ”

“I thought I might catch you in time for lunch. The Brasserie? It’s near you. How about it, Jan?”

“Peter, I have a gruelling day,” I told him. “My summer’s very cut up, what with going out to the Island every week-end, and taking extra days. I have things to catch up on.”

“Don’t you eat lunch?”

“Generally a sandwich sent up.”

“Won’t you make an exception? I promise not to keep you all afternoon.”

“You wouldn’t have a chance of keeping me all afternoon. I’ve got work to do.”

“Then just for an hour,” he said reasonably.

I was weak. I said yes. I met him at the Brasserie. He was standing outside looking in the wrong direction, craning his neck. He turned and said, “Jan, you look wonderful. In fact, ultra chic.”

“Could I pass for a Beautiful People? Just neat and trim in my working clothes, as a matter of fact. Of course we take our cue from your lofty level of life. You educate us.”

“Jan,” he protested seriously. “You won’t keep going on like that, will you? Why do you want to treat me this way?”

I was taken aback. It sounded as though he had intentions toward me. Even though he knew about Eric, and could see what our relationship was, he seemed to be —

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. How did you know I liked this place?”

“Just a hunch. Shall we go in?”

We had the usual wait for a table, but inside of a quarter of an hour were seated. “What do you drink?” Peter asked, and I said a martini, please, with an onion.

“Make it two,” he told the girl.

I got out my cigarettes, he got out his, both of us put our lighters on the table and I smiled. His was a Dunhill; gold. Mine was a Cricket.

With the drinks our tongues loosened, and we talked very companionably. It was true that my lunch hours are not always glamorous. Once in a great while I go to Le Mistral or Michael’s Pub, with a friend, colleague or contributor to the magazine. But almost always, lunch means little more than a coffee break.

I always did like lunches more than dinners. All the office people sitting on banquettes, close together, the talk so concerted you could scarcely hear your companion’s words … career people, making hay while the sun shone, using the time from one until three to further schemes, men, with their ballpoints, drawing plans on the table cloths.

Then sometimes you knew someone at a nearby table, and waved, and they waved back. You were doing your thing, and they theirs; you were all part of the going concern that was big business … Manhattan big business.

It was frantic, yes. But when you were part of it, it was wonderful.

And I didn’t do this often enough.

I felt grateful to Peter for getting me out of my closed-in little office, giving me drinks and a feeling of being with it. I stopped thinking of why he had asked me, and settled for being glad he had.

We talked freely, and laughed; we overstayed our hour and I didn’t care at all. It was almost three when we went outside again, and he said, “I’ll walk you back to your office.”

“Is it in your direction?”

“Oh, I’ll cab it back downtown.”

“Downtown where?”

“Wall Street,” he said casually.

“Wall Street … you mean you work all that way downtown?”

“Right. I’m in law, with my father.”

“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“I just took you to lunch,” he said, with a nice smile.

“Rather out of your way, isn’t it?”

He gave me a long, assessing look. Then he smiled that nice smile again. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t out of my way at all.”

I was a little flustered. He had certainly gone out of his way to take a comparative stranger to lunch. And as we went through the streets to my office, I fet rather sobered, almost as if I had been on a job interview … one of those briefing lunches.

When we reached my office building he took my hand, held it loosely for a moment or two, and then thanked me for giving him a good time. For a second I thought he was going to follow this up with a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then he said again, “It was great being with you. Thanks much, and I’ll see you next week-end, Jan. Don’t work too hard.”

He walked away, turned, said,
“Ciao,”
and strode off, disappearing around the corner, joining the crowd on Madison Avenue. I rode up on the elevator and five minutes later was swamped with work: there was no time to think of anything but blue penciling and title changing.

Nor was there much opportunity to reflect on anything but my editorial duties for the rest of the week. I didn’t give another thought to Peter Lestrange, or much else, in the days ahead.

But when Eric and I ran into him the next week-end, neither of us referred to our lunch together. It was a deception, of course, but one of those obligatory ones that are intended to spare someone’s feelings. Not that I thought Eric would be miffed at my having seen Peter in such a casual way … but why bring it up?

It was the beginning of a subtle change in myself. Only I didn’t realize it at the time.

The week-end was much like the other ones. We had our time to ourselves and our time with the others; with Caroline, with Tom, Peter, Emily, and Anthony Cavendish. True, the hours we spent alone were not very considerable: it seemed that there was always someone asking for our company, or we were having lunch with Caroline, or Tom on the beach.

But I didn’t object to it, and I didn’t think Eric did either. A couple shouldn’t live entirely in each other’s pockets, and after all, we were having fun, what with the swimming pool should we care to use it, being among fairly interesting people, and with a Viscount on the premises.

I thought it was all marvelous. I drudged through the work week, waiting for play time, when the fun would begin again. I was having a perfectly splendid time.

Then Eric delivered a bombshell.

He said he had to go to Germany.

“What for?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“It’s that business about Günter-Hesse Verlag.”

“What about it?”

“We’re picking it up after all.”

Günter-Hesse is a rather prestigious publishing house based in Berlin: there had been talk of Eric’s firm taking it on as a subsidiary. “But what’s it got to do with you?” I wanted to know.

“I’m to be in on the finalities. After all, there’ll be a rather close working relationship, and the fact that I’ve been chosen to represent the firm does seem to indicate that I’m deemed worthy of it, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, of course.” I was pleased. “My Lord, they must rate you pretty high.”

“Okay, then, congratulate me.”

“Oh, I do, I do!”

“All right, let’s drink to it.”

He poured out some more retsina, said, “Prosit,” and sat back looking smug.

“Prosit,” I agreed. “Darling, it looks as if the competition’s been left behind, wondering what hit them.”

“You are a crafty little piece, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Certainly, but I’m male, and men
have
to make it.”

“While I’m simply a
mujer
, and as such should be satisfied to take a back seat. Right?”

“Wrong. But you would rather we have a glittering future in publishing, wouldn’t you? This is for both of us.”

“All right, I won’t argue. I won’t spoil your moment of glory.”

So we sat, at the Plaka, on Manhattan’s upper East Side, toasting my Eric. There were pangs, of course. He would be away for about two to three weeks, probably, and his flight was on that Thursday. “I won’t see you for a time,” I mourned.

“Nor I you,” he reminded me.

“I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“The hell you will. Departure’s ten-thirty
P.M.
”

“Then this is practically good-bye.”

“Let’s stay in character.
Auf wiedersehen
. Much less final. Jan, I’ll be the lonely one.”

“Oh? My guess is you’ll be doing all the local Rathskellers with some
fräulein
. I can see her now. A young Marlene Dietrich, with a cute accent and gorgeous legs. A beautiful blonde specimen of the master race.”

“Bunk,” he said; we sat there listening to the strains of bouzouki music, holding hands and drinking retsina … oh, the delicious melancholy of lovers about to be parted.

And later on, lying in bed, I realized that I had become used to not being alone.

I had once settled, tiredly and resignedly, for being alone. Before I met Eric, after my broken engagement, I had lived quietly and without asking for anything, all alone and without any obligations, glad to be able to find a way again, with a good job and in a fairly comfortable manner.

I had found a good apartment in a brownstone building, one flight up, with high ceilings, an eat-in kitchen, a windowed bathroom, a fair-sized living room, and a pleasant terrace.

It was in the back, facing south, where I had the sun, and where, on the terrace, I lay on week-ends, with a drink and magazines, starting my tan as early as possible; there were a few neighbors who were compatible. It was a sober life, but a safe one, and dates were relatively few, because I had been scared off men. I had nothing against men except the fact that one of them had hurt me, had made a muddle of my life for a while, and so I was not rushing to make any new male acquaintances.

I was back in the womb, I guess.

Then I met Eric.

And now I was half of a twosome again.

I drove out to East Hampton with a certain unwillingness. I had Friday, Saturday, and half of Sunday to myself. Just like the old days. How would I cope?

It was a kind of regression, in a way.

I stopped off and bought some fruit and vegetables at a roadside stand, and it was violet dusk when I reached the estate. I parked, started unloading my packages and, straightening up with an armful of groceries, nearly jumped out of my skin. Someone was standing a few feet away, startling me badly.

I hadn’t heard any footsteps. I hadn’t heard any approach at all.

It was Toussaint, his great bulk seeming to darken the day still further. He must have come up silently, like a big, creeping cat, and now he stood there, without a word, just watching me.

I said, “Good evening, Toussaint. It’s good weather, isn’t it?”

There wasn’t even an inclination of his head. No word, no acknowledgment that I had spoken. For a moment or two he didn’t move at all. He stood, tall and massive, in that quiet, menacing way, and remained mute. Then at last he looked into my eyes, through the screen of his dark glasses, and as I stared at him, shaken at his uncommunicativeness, he turned abruptly and strode away, finally disappearing behind a cluster of trees.

What a loathsome man, I thought, angry and upset. What a truly horrible creature! How could Caroline
tolerate
him?

Then young Tom appeared, loping across the lawn from his house, and gave me such an eager greeting that it almost made up for Toussaint’s wretched behavior toward me.

He said, “Hi, Jan,” and I put my arms around him and gave him a quick kiss. I was very grateful to see him.

We got the things in and as Tom helped me put them away, he said, “You want to feed those dumb ducks again?”

“Sure, I’d love to,” I said, and we opened a loaf of Pepperidge Farm. Then we trudged up the road, in the deepening evening, and cast our bread upon the same waters. The quacks were loud and vociferous: we were greeted, this time, by birds who recognized us as dispensers of good will.

“How’ve you been?” I asked him after a bit.

“Great. You?”

“Fine. Working hard. Glad to be set for a week-end’s rest again.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

This time, when we had unloaded all our contributions, the ducks tried to follow after us when we left. They climbed out of the water and waddled along the road on their webbed feet, looking like drunks.