The Best of Everything (47 page)

"Are you here with someone?" Chet asked.

"I . . . no . . . yes."

"No, yes?" He was grinning at her.

"No. I was invited."

"Well, I'm alone too," he said happily. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Not right now, thank you. I have to see someone."

"Dexter?"

She looked at him, open and startled. "Why?"

"Well, you two used to be good friends." What was that, a grin or a leer?

"W^e still are," April said, "and I want to say hello to him since he's the host. I'll see you later."

He held up a hand. "I'll see you if you don't see me. Good luck."

She moved toward the window, keeping her eyes on Dexter. Then she was right in front of him, so close that she could smell his aftershave cologne. It was a faint scent but it hit her so emotionally that it almost staggered her. "Dexter," she said.

He looked down at her. There was absolutely no expression on his face to give away his feelings at that moment, not shock, not surprise, not annoyance, not even inadvertent pleasure. "Hello there," he said. He paused for a moment and then turned to the girl he was with and introduced them. "Ruth Potter, April Morrison."

"How do you do." The two girls looked at each other for an instant, sizing each other up. Ruth Potter was small, with a round face and a bright green dress. She seemed satisfied after a moment that April was simply another cocktail-party room circulator and not competition, and so she smiled and said, "I'll see you later. Dexter, Bunny will kill me if I don't make obeisance," and moved on to another group.

"Who is she?" April asked.

"An old friend." Dexter was already starting to move away. "I have to get another drink."

"Are you surprised to see me?"

"What do you think?"

"I . . . haven't seen you for a long time."

"How are you?" he asked finally, like someone remembering his manners.

"Oh, Dexter," April whispered. "Oh, Dexter . . . I've been so sick. You don't know." Her eyes filled with tears and she had to fight to keep her voice from breaking. She didn't want to make a scene right here, that wasn't what she had come for.

"What's wrong?" he asked. For the first time he sounded shghtly concerned.

"It's so terrible," she whispered.

"Well, what is it?" He was even more concerned now.

"I haven't been able to sleep or eat or anything. I lost ten pounds."

"Whyr

She could hardly answer. She knew what he expected, he wanted her to say she had some disease, he seemed to be waiting for catastrophe. Nothing less than catastrophe would satisfy him now because he had been aroused and he was upset. She realized it too late, but there was no going back.

"What is it?" Dexter repeated.

"I miss you so dreadfully."

"Oh." His expression of curiosity and concern turned to annoyance. "Is tJmt all?"

She touched his wrist, trying to take his hand. "You're the only man I ever loved," she whispered. "You were my first love. I love you so much. Please give me another chance."

"For what?" he asked. He shook his hand away from her touch with a swift reflex action, as a cat shakes off the hand of an annoying human being who is trying to pat him.

"We could start again, we could see each other. I'll never mention marriage to you. Please just see me. I want to talk to you. . . ."

"What's there to talk about? I'm not going to talk about you and me."

"We used to talk about so many things."

"And they're all said."

"Dexter . . . don't you love me at all?"

"Are you going to nag me about that now?"

"Please tell me."

Dexter looked around furtively. "Are you going to make a scene in front of my friends?"

"Can't we go somewhere and talk? Just for a minute. The den . . ."

He looked at her with obvious impatience. "All right."

He walked ahead of her, smiling at guests who greeted him along the way, and April followed him blindly, pushing people out of her path. They went into the guest bedroom and Dexter shut the door. "Now what do you want to say?"

She could not talk, she was crying. She wanted him so desperately to take her into his arms, even stroke her hair, do something to show that he cared for her if only as another person who was crying her heart out and wishing she could die. But he did none of these things,

he simply stood there holding his empty highball glass and watching her.

"What's the matter?" he asked finally.

"I call you and you don't answer the phone," April sobbed. "I just want to hear your voice, I wouldn't even care if you didn't ask me out. I can't bear not to be with you. You've gotten to mean so much in my life, I can't bear it without you. Everything reminds me of you."

"What good would talking on the phone do?" Dexter asked. "You'd only get around to asking me to see you and I'm not going to do that."

"Whyr

"I wish I'd brought a drink," he said, "I can't stand here carrying on this stupid conversation without a drink. This is a party. What are you trying to do?"

"Dexter," April said, "will you tell me one thing? Tell me truthfully and I won't botlier you any more."

"What is it?"

It was the moment, the terrible moment that should never have happened and could never have been avoided. "Did you ever really love me?"

Dexter looked at her for a moment and then shrugged. "I never really thought about it," he said.

What else could she say? It was all over. He had forgotten or he was frightened or perhaps he was telling the truth. It did not matter. He did not love her now and he was busy forgetting everything he had said to her because it had happened so long ago. Everything was over.

"Thank you," April said softly. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and blew her nose. "I just wanted you to tell me."

"I'm going back to the party now," Dexter said. "Fix yourself up and come on back and meet some of my friends. Have a few drinks. You might as well have a good time as long as you're here." He walked to the door and opened it.

"Dexter!"

"What?"

"I just want to tell you something. I'll always love you, as long as I live."

"No you won't," Dexter said calmly. He walked out and shut the bedroom door behind him.

When April emerged from the guest bedroom half an hour later she looked like a changed person. She had washed her face and put on fresh make-up and combed her hair. But it was the expression that made her look most different. She had seen it in the bathroom mirror and it had surprised her. The smile was fixed, the nostrils pulled a little from the effort, the eyes were bright and round, like those of a doll. She looked enough like a stranger so that she could evaluate her looks almost objectively. She's a pretty girl, April thought of her face in the mirror. She's hard looking, though, she looks a little reckless. She looks like a girl who does nothing but go to parties and drink and flirt and laugh and laugh and laugh.

She walked out of the bedroom with her head held high and went straight to the bar, where she had two straight Scotches. It was funny, the taste of liquor had always seemed unpleasant to her but tonight it tasted good. She hadn't had dinner, so she ate a cherry and an olive from two bowls on the bar. That took care of dinner. She wasn't looking anywhere because she didn't want to see Dexter, she just drank and smiled.

She felt a warm hand on her arm. "I knew I'd see you," Chet said. "May I join you?"

"Of course."

"What are you drinking?"

"Scotch."

"Smart girl. That punch is a waste of time."

"Lots of things are," April said brightly. "So we just look for something better."

"You are right," Chet said. "You are right." He put his hand on her waist.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

"Right here." He lighted it for her. She had perhaps smoked four cigarettes in her life but she drew on it deeply without inhaling and felt better.

"Thank you," she said.

"Refill?"

"Love it."

They clicked their newly filled glasses together and April tossed her head, her hair swirling about her face, and smiled at him. He

put his arm around her waist. "You're such a fun girl," Chet said. Tm sorry we never got to know each other better."

"Why, is it too late?"

"Is it?"

"Wlien it's too late to have a good time," April said brightly, "you might just as well give up and die."

"I'll drink to that." He did. So did she.

There was Dexter with Ruth Potter again, walking past the bar. April saw them as two Baxters and two Ruth Potters. Her face felt hot. Dexter was avoiding looking at her but she knew he was aware of her. Let him think she didn't care. Her smile was so fixed it felt like a grimace.

"It's hot in here, isn't it?" Chet said.

"Terribly."

"I can't even hear myself talk."

"I can't either."

"Let's go downtown to one of the better bistros and usher in Christmas Day with a glass of hot grog," Chet said. "Do you have to visit relatives tomorrow?"

"I have no relatives in New York."

"Good. I don't have to visit my family until four o'clock. Well have plenty of time to nurse our hang-overs."

"It'll be my first Christmas Day in New York and my first hangover," April said. She laughed.

"And your first date with me."

She went to the den to get her coat, and Chet waited for her at the front door. She tried not to think of anything as they shut the door to the apartment behind them, only of when she would get another drink and how much nicer it would make her feel. Chet sat very close to her in the taxi and she pretended he wasn't there. But she felt the warmth of him and it was comforting to feel the warmth of another human being even though he hardly existed for her. There was a buzzing in her ears.

"Merry Christmas," Chet said. He put his arms around her and began kissing her, with her head against the back of the taxi seat. Her eyes were closed and the cab was going round and round and she hardly knew what she was doing. She had the feeling he was slobbering on her chin, but what did it really matter? His hand on

her chest bone just above the cut-out neckline of her dress felt very cold.

Chapter 21

On New Year's Eve at nine o'clock Mary Agnes Russo DeMarco was dressing to go out to a party. "Zip me up, honey," she said, turning her back to her husband Bill.

He did, with effort. "You're getting fat," he said affectionately. They both beamed at each other. She was pregnant, the baby was expected in the summer, and she just wanted to eat and eat all the time. This would probably be the last time she could squeeze herself into this party dress, but she didn't mind. She already had a wardrobe of maternity clothes and she could hardly wait to put them on.

"Honestly," Mary Agnes said, "I never thought Dotty and Bo were going to get around to giving this party. I tliought we were going to be stuck without anything to do tonight."

"We could have given a party," Bill said.

"I guess so. But after all the money we spent on the wedding and our honeymoon it wouldn't have been much of a party. We have to save now, you know."

"I know," he said. And they beamed at each other again.

"I can't imagine New Year's Eve widiout a party," Mary Agnes said, "can you?"

"Uh-uh. How many people are they having?"

"I think about twelve."

"Are they having champagne?"

"I hope so," Mary Agnes said worriedly. "I just can't imagine New Year's Eve without champagne. Can you?"

"No."

"Maybe we should bring them a bottle," Mary Agnes said. "Do you think so?"

"Yes . . . just in case,"

"Can we afford it?"

"Sure," Bill said. "J^st one bottle. After all, it wouldn't be New Year's Eve without a bottle of champagne."

At eleven o'clock on New Year's Eve Gregg Adams and David Wilder Savage were sneaking out of a party that was going on full force. They shut the front door of their host's apartment softly so no one would hear them and ran down the hall to the stairs, hand in hand. "Shh," David said.

They reached the ground floor, panting. "Why are people always so insulted when you try to leave their parties?" Gregg asked happily.

"Because they're so bored when there are only a few people left; then they have to talk to each other."

"Oh . . ." She laughed and they ran to a taxi, which took them to David's apartment. He lighted a fire in the fireplace and put a chilled bottle of champagne and two crystal champagne glasses on the table in front of it. He put a stack of records on the phonograph and sat beside Gregg on the couch.

"Now," he said, "we can welcome in the New Year in peace."

Gregg was holding his hand with one hand and with the other she was fingering a tiny gold heart she wore on a fragile chain around her neck. David had given it to her for Christmas and she had never taken it oflF her neck since that day, not even to take a bath. She would never take it ofiF, she was thinking, until she was married to him or to someone else. She had wanted an engagement ring desperately, but of course he was not the kind of man who would present her with an engagement ring, and so he had done the next best thing: given her a sentimental present that could be taken either as significant or as nothing. A heart meant love. But a tiny golden heart could also be only a piece of jewelry, and perhaps only time would tell her which it was supposed to be.

"What a perfect New Year's Eve," Gregg said, sighing. "I hope fifty-four will be just as happy. Or better."

"Better than perfect?"

"You never know," Gregg said, "until it happens."

At eleven-forty-five on New Year's Eve Barbara Lemont and her mother were in their living room listening to the radio. They had listened to crowds of people waiting for the New Year halfway

around the country, in Crystal Palace ballrooms and Blue Twilight lounges and Hilton hotels, and now they were listening to the horn-blowing and revelry in Times Square. In just fourteen minutes the gold hall tvill go up the Times Tower, the voice of the announcer said, and when it reaches the top it will be nineteen fifty-four!