Going Home Part 13

"Don't say it, Gillian. But you're right. Just don't step on his toes and you'll be all right. He's a perfectionist, but you can't quibble with it; he drives himself even harder than he drives the rest of us. He's had some kind of a chip on his shoulder for years."

"Sounds like someone to stay away from."

"That, my dear, is up to you. And now I've got to run. I'm having people in tonight."

"Okay, Jean. See you tomorrow, and thanks for the help." I hung up slowly and wondered about Jean's last remark about Gordon. One thing was for sure, chip on his shoulder or no, he was a very attractive man.

I looked at my watch then and decided it was time to pack up and go home. I had promised Sam a pizza, and it would be nice to have a few hours together before she went to bed.

As I left my office I took a last look over my shoulder and smiled. It had been a lovely day. I felt useful again, and busy, and pleased with the job I had found.

I walked slowly down the corridor and turned right into the maze. One more right and a left, and I was at the elevator bank. And so was Gordon Harte, looking preoccupied, and carrying a large manila envelope in one hand and a huge portfolio in the other.

"Homework?" I asked him.

"Yes, in the left hand. No, in the right. I teach a life drawing cla.s.s on Monday nights. The portfolio has some of my old nude studies in it, to show the cla.s.s."

The elevator arrived then, and we moved into the Muzak-infested aura of people from other floors. Gordon saw someone he knew and was busy talking, so I thought I'd walk out quietly without saying anything more. But when I reached the revolving door he was just behind me and we hit Lexington Avenue one after the other, like gum b.a.l.l.s out of a nickel machine.

"Which way are you headed, Mrs. Forrester? I'm walking uptown to pick up my bike. Would you care to join me?" I wasn't sure, but I acquiesced, and we walked slowly through the crowds on Lexington.

"Do you ride the bike to work?"

"Sometimes. But it's not the kind I think you mean. It's a motorcycle. I picked it up in Spain last summer."

"Sounds terrifying in this traffic."

"Not really. There is very little that terrifies me. I just don't think about it much." . . . Or maybe you don't care? . . .

"Do you have children?" It was something to talk about as we walked along.

"A son. He's studying architecture at Yale. And you?"

"A daughter, she's five, and she's still at the stage where she enjoys taking houses apart more than putting them together." He laughed and I noticed as he did that he had a nice smile, and he looked more human when he forgot to look fierce. I had noticed too something odd in his eyes when I asked about his son.

We talked about New York on our way uptown, and I mentioned how strange it seemed to be back, how different it was from California. I liked it but I didn't feel at home anymore. It was like watching animals at a zoo.

"How long have you been back?"

"About a week."

"You'll get used to it again, and you'll probably never leave. You'll just go on talking about how weird it all is. That's what we all do."

"Maybe I'll go back to California one of these days." It made me feel better just to say it.

"I used to say that about Spain. But those things never happen. One never goes back."

"Why not?" I felt naive as I asked the question, but it just slipped out as I looked up at him.

"Because you leave when you have to, or when you're meant to. And part of you dies when you go. You leave it there, it stays there. And what's left of you moves on to someplace else." It sounded pretty heavy but I knew myself how true it was. Part of me had died when I had left San Francisco, and part of me had stayed with Chris.

"I hate to admit it, Mr. Harte, but your a.n.a.lysis sounds apt. What made you go to Spain in the first place?"

"It was a moment of madness, as they say. My marriage had just broken up, I was bored and frustrated with my job, and I was thirty-two years old. I figured that if I didn't get going right then and there I never would, and I think I was right. I've never regretted going there. I spent ten years in a tiny town near Malaga, and in retrospect they were the best years of my life. The people in our business call them 'wasted years' but I don't. I cherish them."

"Have you ever thought of going back?"

"Yes, but at thirty-two, not forty-nine. I'm too old for grandiose gestures like that now. That's behind me. This is it-''his right hand swept across the skyline-"for better or worse, until death do us part." It struck me that he was a little morbid.

"But that's absurd. You could go back anytime you want to." Somehow it bothered me that he should be so loath to run after his dream. It was as if he didn't even care anymore.

"Thank you for your concern, my dear, but I a.s.sure you I'm far too old to cherish delusions about living on bread crusts in Spain, or being an artist." He punctuated his words with a dry little laugh and I saw then that we were standing on the corner of Sixtieth. I was almost home. He shook my hand while I noticed that the spark of amus.e.m.e.nt hadn't died in his eyes. For some reason he had apparently enjoyed our conversation and I had to admit that, despite his penchant for sarcasm, away from the office he was almost an agreeable man.

I turned right toward Park Avenue as he walked away, and reached the Regency thinking of Sam. Gordon Harte had already vanished from my mind.

"Hi, sweetheart. What did you do today?"

"Nothing. I don't like Jane. And I want to go back to Uncle Crits. I don't like it here." Sam looked unhappy, tear-stained, and rumpled. Jane was the baby-sitter, and neither one looked too smitten with the other. Sam could be tough when she worked at it.

"Hey, wait a minute. This is home, you know. We'll go back to our apartment soon. And it's going to be nice, and Uncle Chris will come and visit us in a while, and you're going to make new friends in school, and . . ."

"I don't want to. And there was a big, bad dog in the park." G.o.d, she looked so cute, those big eyes looking up at me. "Where were you all day? I needed you." Whamm. The nightmare of the working mother all rolled up in that "Where were you all day?" and the clincher, "I needed you." . . . Wow! . . . But Sam sweetheart, I have to work . . . we can use the money and I . . . I have to, Sam, I just have to, that's all. . . .

"I needed you too. But I was working. I told you all about that. I thought we agreed. Hey, how about our pizza? Mushroom or sausage?"

"Ummmmm . . . mushroom and sausage?" She had brightened at the mention of the pizza.

"Now come on. Pick one." I was smiling at her, she was so nice to come home to.

"Okay. Mushroom." And then I saw her look up at me, and I could tell she had something on her mind. "Mommy . . ."

"What, love?"

"When is Uncle Crits coming?"

"I don't know. We'll see." And let's not get into that dammit . . . please. . . .

The pizza arrived half an hour later, and Sam and I lunged into it, seemingly free of our problems. I didn't know when or even if Chris was coming, and maybe I didn't even care. I didn't want to care. Sam and I had all we needed. We had each other, and a great big, drooling, cheese and mushroom pizza spread all over the Regency's best Louis XV. What more can you ask of life? On some days, not much. Not much more at all. I looked at Sam and wanted to laugh I felt so good, it had been a beautiful day, and she looked up at me and smiled back. She could feel the good vibes too.

"Mommy?"

"Uh huh?" My mouth was full of food.

"Can I ask you for something?"

"Sure. What? . . . but not another pizza." I felt like I was going to explode.

"No, not a pizza, Mom." She looked at me with disgust at my simplemindedness.

"Then what?"

"How about a baby sister sometime soon?"

19.

The second day at work was even better than the first. I felt as though I belonged. The staff meeting was no different than any other, but it gave me a chance to take a look at the other faces I'd be working with, and what was going on.

John Templeton conducted it like a board chairman in an early fifties movie, and Gordon Harte stood at the back of the room watching the show while I sat with Jean. I half expected Gordon to say something when we walked past him on our way out, but he didn't. He was involved with briefing one of the junior editors on some project John had discussed. He didn't even try to catch my eye.

The only thing directly pertaining to me during the two-hour session had been that Milt Howley, the black singer, had agreed to give Woman's Life an interview, and John Templeton had a.s.signed me to do the job. It sounded like the proverbial plum.

When I got back to my office, Matthew Hinton called, and I succ.u.mbed to the lure of the opening of the horse show the following night. Once again, I couldn't resist.

And before lunch, I called Hilary Price. I had tried her a few days before and had been told by her secretary that she was in Paris for the collections.

I had met Hilary Price during my early years of work. We worked on the same magazine briefly, and she had since risen to rather impressive heights on one of the more important fas.h.i.+on magazines. A far cry from Woman's Life, it was one of those super fas.h.i.+on books that paint women's faces green and then paste peac.o.c.k feathers on them.

We took a liking to each other when we first met. It's not a deliciously noisy, rude, obvious friends.h.i.+p like the one with Peg, but, though more polite, relaxed in its own way. I always feel I have to rise somewhat to Hilary's level though, which in a way is good for me. But the effort is never overwhelming. I can still let my hair down and kick off my shoes. In a way she's kind of mind expanding. . . . Hilary. Always calm, always unruffled, discreet, elegant, witty. Obviously strong, but basically kind. Very chic, very "New York," an intelligent woman whose mind appeals to me immensely. She looks amazingly flamboyant because she has a lot of style and a look that cla.s.sifies easily as "sophisticated." But in spite of the looks, she's actually quiet. About thirty-five, or thereabouts, her age is permanently veiled by an aura of mystery. . . . She never tells . . . or gives herself away. Divorced also, she has lived in Milan, Paris, and Tokyo. Her first husband was an aging Italian Count, whom she refers to once in a while as "Cecco," short for Francesco, I gather. He had been on the verge of death when she married him, or so she had thought, but he managed to revive long enough to marry a seventeen-year-old girl three weeks after their divorce.

The phone rang in Hilary's office and on the second ring she picked it up herself.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hilary? It's Gillian."

"Welcome back, my dear. Felicia gave me your message. And what brings the little bird of peace back to the Mecca?" She was laughing in her funny way.

"Who knows? G.o.d, it's good to hear your voice. How was Paris?"

"Exquisite. And rainy. The collections were abhorrent. Rome was much better. I ran into my ex-husband Cecco. He has a new mistress. Delightful girl, she looks rather like a palomino colt."

"How was he?"

"Alive, which is in itself remarkable. I cringe to think of how old he must be. . . . It must be costing him a fortune to keep having the dates changed on his pa.s.sport. . . . The paper was wearing thin years ago . . . and we both giggled, she was so bad sometimes. I had never met Cecco, but I had these terrible visions of him. "And you, Gillian . . . how are you, dear? You didn't answer my last letter. I was a little worried."

She sounded throaty and sarcastic and the same as ever. There was a warmth beneath the sarcasm, and a tone which suggested that she cared about the person she was speaking to. It was a knack she had, which might have been cultivated, but I thought it was sincere. Hilary sounded great, and asked for a brief resume of "all the news, please"-"in other words, Gillian, the bare essentials: when did you get back? how long are you here for? and what are you doing?" I answered the first two briefly, and then told her about the job at Woman's Life, about John Templeton and the miracle of an eight-week job that was made to measure, about Julie Weintraub's broken pelvis, and even about my dining room search. I thought she might have an idea.

Hilary's laugh came back at me again, and an order to "slow down, there, what's all this about Julie Weintraub and a dining room? If I understand you correctly, you are looking for a broken pelvis, and just bought Julie Weintraub's dining room, or you bought Julie's pelvis, and broke your dining room . . . and do I have a what? A pelvis or a dining room? I have both, but you are welcome to neither, my dear, and it is quite clear that New York is too much for you."

By then I was laughing harder than Hilary, and trying to unsnarl the whole thing which I knew she understood perfectly well anyway.

"Actually, Gillian, I've never met Julie Weintraub, but I'm delighted you have the job; it sounds like just your cup of tea. By the way, I have a very old friend who works on the magazine, fellow by the name of Gordon Harte. Have you met him yet? Though I suppose one could hardly expect you would have in two days."

"Actually, we did meet. He seems nice enough. Kind of a sarcastic b.a.s.t.a.r.d though. I didn't know he was a friend of yours; you've never said anything about him."

"Oh, not that kind of friend. I knew his wife years ago, when she was a model and I had just arrived in New York. They were getting divorced, and he was on his way to Spain to make like the Ernest Hemingway of the art world, or some such. Then I b.u.mped into him myself in Spain years later, and afterward we began meeting at official functions for the magazine types. He's one of the few redeeming features of those events. He's a very capable man. And a nice one; the sarcasm is . . . well, something he uses to keep the world at bay. . . . There's a wall around him a mile high. . . . In any case, Gillian dear, how's your Christopher, the Big Romance?" Like Peg, I had written to her from California.

Silence at my end, and brief paralysis of the mouth, or was it my heart? "Hilary, I don't know for the time being. Can't talk about it."

"Good enough. The less said the better for now. But if you need me, you know where to find me. Why don't you come up for drinks on Thursday night, after work, and we'll have a good long chat about anything you do want to talk about, and I'll see who I can get for dinner. Maybe Gordon, and four or five others. It's awfully short notice though. Anyone special you'd like me to ask?"

"No, I'll leave it to you. It sounds marvelous. But will you think about a dining room for me too, please, genius lady? Hilary, you really are super. And thanks. What time on Thursday?"

"Six?"

"Fine. I'll be there."

Now that would be an invitation worth accepting. Hilary gave the best G.o.ddam dinner parties in New York. And she was also a marvelous scavenger. She called me back that afternoon to say that she had remembered "just the dining room!" It belonged to a couple who were both actors, and in the course of taking a cla.s.s on scenery design the wife had attacked their dining room with brush and paint. She called it an environment; Hilary's description was more specific: ". . . looks like the whole G.o.ddam jungle looking over your shoulder while you eat." But she convinced me it was worth a try. So I called and made an appointment to see the place on my way home.

It was a wow. It looked like a movie set for a jungle scene: trees and fruit and flowers were painted everywhere, clouds hung overhead, the floor was a lake, and animals peered out from behind the painted shrubbery. The furniture was like the kind you'd use on safari, with the exception of a handsome gla.s.s table and an immense network of candles. It was really something else.

After that, I called it a day. At least there was one mission accomplished for the magazine. I headed for the Regency with the intention of having a nice, cold gla.s.s of white wine and a nap before Sam came home from the park.

As I unlocked the door to our suite the phone was ringing, and for once I didn't even think about it being Chris. Which was just as well, because it wasn't. It was Gordon Harte.

"h.e.l.lo. I understand from Hilary that we're to be dinner partners tomorrow night. Can I give you a lift?" His voice sounded mellower than it did at the office, and more like it had during our walk the day before.

"That would be nice, but I'm going over early for a drink. I haven't seen Hilary since I left New York."

"Then I won't intrude. How are you finding the job?"

"Great fun, and a wee bit hectic. I'm out of practice."

"I'm sure you're doing fine. I was going to ask you to lunch today, but you vanished. We'll make up for it another time."

"I'd like to do that."

"Then consider it done. Have a good evening, Gillian. See you tomorrow."

"Good-bye." Strange call, strange man, it was as though there was an enormous gulf between him and the rest of the world. He seemed cold even when his words were friendly, and it was a little bit confusing. But at least there seemed to be more to him than to Matthew Hinton. Gordon Harte had spirit and texture and soul. And you could tell that somehow, somewhere, at some time in his life, he had suffered. But over what? Or whom? I fell asleep on my bed as I mulled it over.

I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing again and reached out groggily, not quite aware of what I was doing, and far from awake. This time it was Chris. And all I could think of were warm thoughts, and kind things, and how much I loved him. I smiled sleepily, blew kisses, listened to the sound of his voice. And then rolled over and looked at the clock to see what time it was . . . four-fifteen . . . that's one-fifteen in San Francisco . . . and then, for some reason, I remembered Marilyn, and before I could stop it I had let loose with a b.i.t.c.hy sounding "And where's Marilyn? Doesn't she come home for lunch?" . . . Ouch. I blew it. I could feel Chris bounce back as though I had slapped him. After that, we talked about my job, the weather, Chris's projects, his films, and we pointedly stayed off the subject of Marilyn, or anything else of any importance. It was a lousy conversation. We played our little games, and Marilyn was as much with us as though she had been listening on the extension. We were ill at ease, I was angry and hurt, and Christopher felt awkward. He should have. He should have felt much worse than that. But he didn't know how.

20.