The Love Machine (16 page)

“He’s not just a newscaster. He’s president of IBC News!”

He shrugged. “Big deal! I bet if I mentioned both your names at every table here, they’d all know you and say ‘Robin
who?’
When you walk into a restaurant, everyone knows you. But Robin Stone?”

Her smile was weak. “Robin doesn’t care about things like that. We don’t even go to the right restaurants! He has an Italian place he adores and the Lancer Bar. Sometimes I cook.”

“God, what a thrilling life you have.”

“I love it, Ivan! Look, I’ve been in this town
five
years. I’ve seen every place and nothing matters but being with the man you care about. I love him.”

“Why?”

She scratched Robin’s initials on the wet paper napkin. “I wish I knew.”

“Is he better than anyone else in the feathers? Like, does he have a new scene?”

She turned her head away and the tears slid down under the rims of her dark glasses.

“Cool it, Mandy,” he said. “Those cats across the room are staring.”

“I don’t care. I don’t know them.”

“But they know you! Christ, baby, you’re on two covers this month. You’re really hot. Enjoy it—make it pay!”

“Who cares?”

“You’d
better care. It’s a cinch that Robin Stone isn’t about to pay your rent or buy you any fur coats. Maybe making money doesn’t mean anything to you? Or maybe you have rich relatives or something like that going for you.”

“No, I have to work. My mother’s dead. I was raised by an aunt. I have to support her now.”

“Then you’d better get with it! Make this year pay off. Because next year there could be a new girl. If you make it to the very top—play it smart and establish a top salary—you’ll be a top model for maybe ten years.”

The tears slipped down her cheeks again. “But it’s not going to get me Robin.”

He stared at her. “What’s your scene, baby? Self-destruction? You enjoy sitting around and crying for him? Is that going to turn him on?”

“You don’t think I’ve already lost him?”

“I only wish you had. Because he’s bad news. A guy who walks through life without getting turned on destroys everything he touches.”

“No, I ruined it. I know I did, this morning on the phone. I smothered him.”

“Mandy, you’re sick. Look, nothing is ruined. Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe
you’re
just some kind of nut.”

“Why? Because I’m hurt? I have a
right
to be. Look what he did to me!”

“Okay, what did he do? He left on a job without calling to say goodbye. Big deal! How many times have I done the same thing? And you’ve understood, because we’re friends.”

“That’s different than love,” she argued.

“You mean love fucks up everything.”

She managed a weak laugh.

“Look, maybe Robin is a nice cat. I’m only reading him from you. But you should work your pretty little ass off to be a big smash. Make him proud of you—that’s the way to hold a guy!”

“Oh, Ivan, you make it sound so simple. In a few minutes you’ll have me waiting for his cable to arrive.”

“Could happen. But you’ll be a loser if you just sit around crying. Let word get to him that you’re having a ball.”

“Then he’d have a real excuse for dropping me.”

“The way it sounds, this cat doesn’t need an excuse for anything. He does what he wants to do. Try playing it cool. Go out with other guys while he’s away.”

“With whom?” she demanded.

“I’m not running an escort service, pussycat. You must know plenty of guys.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been seeing no one but Robin for a year.”

“You mean no one else has ever made a pass?”

She smiled slightly. “No one that I’ve paid any attention to, including that horrible Christie Lane. But that wasn’t a real pass. He just asked me out.”

“You could do worse.”

She looked at him to see if he meant it. When she realized he was serious, she made a wry face.

“What’s so bad about Christie Lane?”

“You saw the show. He hasn’t an ounce of sex appeal. He’s a slob.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly rush and ask him to pose for
Esquire
. He’s a nice average guy who happens to be a big star.”

“He’s not a star. I mean he’s star of
The Christie Lane Show
. But did you see the notice in the
Times
? He has to be canceled after thirteen weeks.”

“In thirteen weeks you could get a hell of a lot of publicity going out with him.”

“But I can’t stand him.”

“I’m not telling you to go to bed with him. Just let some of his publicity wash off on you.”

“But it wouldn’t be right to go out with him just for publicity.”

He took her chin in his hand. “You’re a nice girl. A nice,
stupid
girl with an unlined face. A nice, stupid girl who thinks that face will stay intact forever. Honey, I’m thirty-eight and I can still get all the eighteen-year-old chicks I want. And when I’m forty-eight or fifty-eight with gray in my beard, I’ll still get them. But when
you’re
thirty-eight, you’ll only get high-fashion jobs—full length, that is. If you’ve taken care of yourself! But no more face ads, or hands—the ugly brown age freckles will have started. And even a slob like Christie Lane won’t look at you. But right now, and maybe for the next ten years, you can have anything and anyone.”

“Except the only man I want.”

He sighed. “Look, I know you’re a sweet, regular girl or I wouldn’t be sitting here wasting all this time when I’ve got a lot of work piled up and three chicks I could score with at the drop of a dime. Face it—Robin doesn’t function like other people. He’s like a great big beautiful machine. Fight back, baby, it’s your only chance.”

She nodded absently and scribbled the initials R.S. on the table with the swizzle stick.

ELEVEN

J
ERRY MOSS ALSO WAS OUTRAGED
at Robin’s departure. He had checked with Robin at lunch and Robin had said, “Lancer’s at five.”

Jerry had waited until seven and only found out what had happened from Mary, who had accidentally heard Robin on the seven o’clock news.

He had a long session with Dr. Gold the following day. No, Dr. Gold did not think Robin was intentionally sadistic—he felt most of Robin’s actions were based on an unconscious effort to avoid close ties with anyone. He demanded nothing of his friends and in turn wanted no demands made on him.

Amanda’s talk with Ivan had helped her. When she arrived to do the second
Christie Lane Show
she had worked herself from deep depression into a state of self-righteous anger. The rehearsals had the same frantic excitement but the tension was gone. There was a sense of fun and goodwill, a certain confidence that permeates the atmosphere when there is the smell of a hit.

This time, when Christie Lane asked her to go out after the show, she accepted. They went to Danny’s Hideaway with his “gofors” and Agnes, a show girl from the Latin Quarter who obviously belonged to one of them. Amanda sat beside Christie, but aside from asking her, “What do you want to eat, doll?” no other conversation passed between them. Jack E. Leonard, Milton Berle and several other comedians came by to congratulate Christie. He was thrilled with the attention and tried to trade jokes with them.
Then, as he watched Milton Berle walk down the room to the front table, he said to Eddie Flynn, “I think we’re sitting in left field.”

The show girl said in a tinny voice, “No, Chris, honest. As long as you make this room, you’re in good shape. It’s known as the Cub Room. The squares with the brown-and-white shoes sit in the other rooms. This is the
in
room.”

“How would you know?” Christie snarled.

“I know,” she said calmly, loading butter on a breadstick. “I once came here with a square—oh, long before I met you, lover,” she said as she gave Eddie’s arm a reassuring pat. “And we were led right into another room. I dug right away where all the action went on when I saw all the celebrities being shown in here. But the square, he was from Minnesota, he had no idea. He collected matches to take home and was happy as a clam.”

“Yeah, but Berle has the front table. And look, the McGuire sisters are at the other.”

“Marty Allen is sitting along the side.” This was Kenny Ditto.

“Yeah—but up
front
on the side. Someday I’m gonna sit at the front table. And someday I’ll go to the ‘21’ Club.”

Amanda was surprised. “Haven’t you ever been there?”

“Once,” Christie said. “I had a date and all she wanted was dinner at the ‘21’ Club. I called and made a reservation. Then, wham—upstairs left field, in a corner. And like Agnes said, the girl I was with didn’t know the difference. She collected matches, too. But I
knew.”
He seemed thoughtful. “I got to get my name in the columns. That Ethel Evans isn’t any good—Eddie, tomorrow we start with our own press agent. Smell around, find out who’ll work for a C-note a week. All he has to do is get me three column mentions a week. Nothing else.”

It continued on throughout dinner. Christie Lane and his “go-fors” plotting his career. The show girl ate everything in sight. Amanda learned that Kenny Ditto’s name was really Kenneth Kenneth—Christie had tacked the Ditto on, and Kenny was thinking of legalizing it. Kenny Ditto was a better name for a writer, it stood out on the crawl on the show.

Amanda sat with them feeling strangely isolated, yet relieved at being left to herself. When they drove up to her apartment building,
Christie remained in the cab and let Eddie take her to the door. He shouted out, “How about tomorrow night, doll? There’s an opening at the Copa.”

“Call me,” and she dashed into the building.

He called the following morning and she accepted the date. It was better than sitting home moping about Robin. That night Christie exuded confidence. The Copa was his “home ground.” They had a ringside table. She was crammed in among Christie, the “gofors,” and the new press agent—a skinny boy who worked for one of the major publicity firms. He explained that no decent press agent would take on an account for that money, but if Christie paid in cash he would “moonlight” and deliver the three column mentions a week.

After the Copa, Christie wanted to go to the Brasserie, but Amanda begged off, pleading an early call. The following morning, Ivan called to congratulate her on an item in Ronnie Wolfe’s column which stated she and Christie were the new big romance in town. “Now you’re making sense,” he said. She was frightened at first, but when three more days passed with no word from Robin, she decided to see Christie again. It was another nightclub opening, another table filled with the “gofors,” the press agent and a second-rate dance team who had latched on, hoping for a guest shot on Christie’s show.

The night of the third Christie Lane telecast was charged with excitement. The two-week Nielsens had come out—Christie Lane was in the top twenty! The sponsors appeared, Danton Miller was shaking everyone’s hand, everyone was congratulating everyone. Alwayso gave Dan an immediate renewal for the following season. Thirty-nine weeks firm. That night Danton Miller threw a little victory party at “21” after the show. Christie unloaded his “gofors” and took Amanda. Jerry Moss came with his wife. They had a table downstairs in the middle section and although none of the captains knew Christie Lane, everyone knew Danton Miller and some of them even knew Jerry Moss. At one point in the evening, Danton Miller tried to make the proper small talk with Amanda. He complimented her and said she was excellent on the commercials.

“I’m used to a camera,” she said modestly. “My real feat was
learning to hold the lipstick without letting my hand shake.”

“Have you ever acted? Pictures? The stage?”

“No, just modeled.”

He looked thoughtful. “But it seems to me I’ve heard of you—”

“Perhaps in magazines,” she said.

Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Robin Stone! Didn’t I see your name coupled with his?”

“I’ve gone out with him,” she said carefully.

“Where the hell is he? And when is he coming back?” Dan asked.

“He went to Brazil.” She was conscious that Jerry had stopped talking and had turned his attention to them.

Dan waved his hand. “That tape from Brazil came in over a week ago. Then he sent us one from France. He actually saw de Gaulle.” He shook his head in amazement. “But now I hear he’s in London.”

She sipped her Coke and kept her expression bland. “I imagine he’s getting wonderful tapes over there.”

Danton smiled. “The ratings are pretty good, and for a news show it’s solid. But your new boyfriend is our jumbo!” Dan looked at Christie and smiled.

Her new boyfriend! She suddenly felt she was going to be sick—physically sick. She was grateful that it was an early evening. Dan had a limousine and they dropped her off first. But Ivan was right. Two days later one of the afternoon papers carried a feature story on Christie Lane. The caption was
THE MAN WHO LIVES NEXT DOOR
. Amanda’s picture was featured in a three-column cut: “The man who lives next door doesn’t date the girl next door—he dates the top cover girl!” Christie was quoted as saying, “We’ve just been dating a few weeks, but man, I’m really hung on her.” She threw the papers down in disgust. And she slammed down the phone on Ivan when he said, “Now you’re getting smart, baby.”