Another Kind of Love

by Paula Christian

  She waited for him to begin and wondered if she should expect one of his “Chairman of the Board” orations or if this was just a social confab. Should I let my nails grow really long and paint them a bright red? Walter does have a nice strong back . . .

  “Now, if the phone will stop ringing long enough for me to discuss a couple of things with you, then it shouldn’t take too long and we can both go home.” Walter rapped lightly on his desk with one of the ballpoint pens given to the staff by their printing house.

  The word “home” from Walter always jarred Laura. She never really thought of him having a home, or being any different from the way he was at the office or when out with her. She tried to visualize his “home personality” and finally gave it up. Why should he have a different personality at home?

  She followed his pen’s tapping for a few seconds, then stretched languidly in the chair to get his attention. With an inward smile of satisfaction, she watched his eyes pass from her face to her breasts, and on down to her legs.

  She crossed them casually—but artfully—for his benefit and began to keep time to imagined music with one foot swinging loosely. I’ve become a terrible flirt, she scolded herself. But the observation really delighted her.

  Walter was still staring at her legs.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked pointedly.

  He looked up, obviously a little taken aback. She returned his gaze steadily.

  Walter abruptly shifted his expression into neutral and cleared his throat, as if to signal her that this was not the time or the place for reminding him of their personal relationship.

  “I called you in,” he began in his most businesslike voice, “to tell you that I’ll be leaving for New York sooner than I expected, and that I’m going to leave you in charge.”

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  “Oh?” For some reason Laura felt cheated at his change in plans.

  “Yes. I’m leaving tonight instead of next week. I had a wire from Willy last night. He thinks he has the backer we need to foot the bill for a New York office.”

  “Walter, that’s wonderful!”

  “A very sane divorcee he met—Madeline Van Norden. Wealthy and looking for a good investment.”

  Laura sat quietly while her mind was racing with possibilities. “I must admit it sounds like this is it.”

  “It hasn’t come through yet. I rather imagine Willy wants me to talk to her in person before she gets away and some other guy relieves her of the money.”

  “Darling,” Laura laughed, “if she’s a divorcée, you won’t have any trouble competing for the investment—not after she gets a look at that gorgeous exterior of yours.”

  She knew she was being feline rather than jealous.

  “Cut the jokes, Laura.” He said it with a smile. However, his tone gave away how much he wanted to put over this transaction.

  Circling the desk, Walter placed his arms on Laura’s shoulders.

  “I want you to finish up anything you’ve got on your desk—for a very good reason.”

  “What reason?” Laura asked suspiciously.

  He cupped his hand under her chin and looked down into her eyes affectionately. “If this goes through—the financing—I want you to take over the Special Features Department of the New York office. Make the rounds with Willy for the right contacts, and help get it going. Sound interesting?”

  Laura was a bit stunned. “The New York office!”

  “That’s right. I’ll even throw in a retroactive raise if everything works out as I think it will.”

  She pulled away from his grasp gently and ground out her cigarette in the enormous ashtray by the framed photograph of Edna and the children. “I don’t know, Walter. Helping to organize something like that is a pretty big job to take on. I’m a writer, not a—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Walter interrupted. “You know you can do it. I can trust you, Laura, and I’ll need someone I can rely on to do a good job. Frankly, I think it would be the best thing that’s hap-30

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  pened to you since you came to work for me. There’s no future for you as a staff writer on a fan magazine—no real future, anyway. But in New York you’ll have a good chance to get a production background, work into real editing. Not the piddly stuff you’re doing here. Writers are a dime a ream, but a good writer with editorial production experience . . .”

  Laura stopped listening as she turned over the possibilities in her mind. It was a big jump. She’d been to New York on a vacation once, but that was hardly enough to make her feel she would know her way around. She would have to set up an apartment from scratch—no point in moving her things until she saw how the department shaped up.

  Am I crazy? she wondered. It was the perfect rescue mission for an aching libido—a real shot in the psyche for someone on the verge of stagnation. It was a gift from the gods. And she was certainly able to take care of herself. With Willy there, too, she wouldn’t have any real trouble setting up the department—she had enough experience to handle that.

  “Well? What do you say, Laura? Is it a deal?”

  She looked up quickly, her decision made. “Deal.”

  “That’s my girl.” He placed his arm around her shoulder and escorted her to the door.

  Laura felt a sudden surge of maternal sympathy for Walter. He is sweet, and I certainly can’t complain, she said silently. If only I could fall in love with him—but she knew she wouldn’t. She felt his warm hand on her and looked up at him with an unexpected choked feeling in her throat. “Well, have a good trip, Walter.”

  His face was serious. “Thanks. For many things that I never thanked you for before.”

  She wanted to kiss him but knew that if she did she would probably cry, and then everything would be ruined.

  “Walter,” she said quietly.

  His answer was a light laugh, a little too forced. “Never mind, Laura.” Walter opened the door and swatted her affectionately.

  “Just get out of here and let me get some work done. Go on, beat it!”

  She reached up and pulled his face to her lips quickly. They heard 31

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  Helen drop some papers and laughed together when they realized that she was doubtlessly shocked to the core. But now the strain of the moment was gone.

  “Helen,” Walter called in his business voice, “will you come in for a moment? Bring your pad and the New York file.”

  “Yes. Yes, sir,” Helen answered, fumbling in the gray file cabinet behind her desk for a moment, then stiffly walked into Walter’s office.

  Laura went over to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup with tepid coffee. Dear world, she thought with mixed feelings of sad-ness and elation, today ends a chapter of my life.

  From this moment on things will be different.

  How do I know?

  I just know . . .

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  Chapter 5

  Laura lay in bed, leisurely smoking a cigarette. It was the one luxury she really enjoyed on weekends. Just to lie there with no feeling of having to rush and dress for work.

  Noises of the outside world—other tenants talking, somebody washing his car, a lawn mower with its clipping whine, children in the street, and the sound of splashing water from the pool in the courtyard of her apartment house—floated up into her shade-dimmed room like ragged echoes of a familiar chorus.

  She gazed thoughtfully at the drawn shades. Funny, she mused, the little unnoticed routines we set for ourselves. Simple things like leaving the shades up during the week so that the morning sun will help wake you and then putting them down for two days because it’s the weekend. Saturday and Sunday . . . lovely names. She laughed and wondered what would happen if the names of the days were switched around—would people go into a confused panic?

  “Saturday,” she said aloud. It sounded funny. Language is strange—meanings even stranger. One word can have so many i
nterpretations.

  Laura put out her cigarette and dimly wondered what she should do today. There was always the marketing and the laundry, but she wanted to do something special.

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  She took a long, cool shower and dried herself slowly, peering intently into the mirror at her reflection. No real signs of age yet, she reassured herself. Then she combed her hair in various ways to see if she could manage something to make her feel different or more daring.

  She wondered how soon she would have to go to New York if Walter’s plans worked out. She decided the new receptionist at the office would probably take her apartment if Laura would let her pay for the furniture on time. The girl had mentioned several times that she wanted to move into a nicer place but didn’t have any furniture.

  Maybe I should ask her about it Monday just to be on the safe side. Safe side. As if she’d ever played on any other side. She threw a scornful look at herself in the mirror. Laura Garraway, the greatest little safe-side player in the world. Bah!

  She walked into the bedroom, enjoying the breeze that had come in. Mechanically she put on an old pair of dungarees and a sleeveless blouse. Her mind grazed over the problem of what to do—

  something impetuous, something exciting for a change.

  Maybe I should borrow a motor scooter and ride it down Hollywood Boulevard naked—that would shake things up a bit.

  Slowly she finished her second cup of coffee. She wished she had someone to talk to. Someone to share her little daily tidbits with.

  She looked around her room, from the burnt-orange pillow on the charcoal-gray couch to the low modern bench with the black television set squatting delicately on it like a fat woman on a bar stool.

  It’s a nice apartment, she considered—studio-ish. But I’m lonely . . .

  so goddam lonely!

  She felt like a little girl again when she had been bad . . . sent away without punishment but secretly wishing somebody had spanked her. Laura recalled the hidden spot by the stream, where she would spend long, secret hours in the summer. Then, for some strange reason, she suddenly thought of the English teacher in the sixth grade—what was her name? She couldn’t remember now, even though she had idolized her, had even written poems, silly poems about her. All she could remember now was that the teacher was young and had red hair that she kept in a knot at the back of 34

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  her head . . . and how Laura had always wanted to see her hair all undone, just let it be in the magic of its wild, red freedom.

  Ginny’s hair was the same kind of dark red, Laura remembered with a start. So what? she asked herself. Strange that I should think of Ginny . . .

  She could almost feel her mother’s disapproval of her thoughts . . .

  feel her tense, puritanical glare. Sinful! Everything was sinful! Even love . . .

  Even now she could hear her mother’s high-pitched whine accusing Laura of some perverted act with her best friend in college, and still, after all these years, the color rose in Laura’s face. Her mother had been unable to understand that two girls can be really close friends without “something” going on . . . and it had been the following semester that Laura had met Karl, a medical student who worked weekends at the gas station to help pay his tuition. She remembered how Karl had looked at her that first day during registration . . . and her mother’s reaction when she had inadvertently mentioned his interest—yelling at her again that medical students had no morals, because they were used to looking at “naked women,” and that Karl was just after “what he could get.”

  It was too much to think about right now, Laura decided. Too much—and too unpleasant. “People-starved,” Laura said aloud,

  “that’s what I was. Just plain people-starved.”

  She turned the phrase over in her mind and savored it as something significant. . . .

  Suddenly hungry for the sound of human voices, Laura switched on the radio. She was paradoxically annoyed when the phone rang simultaneously. “Who can that be?” she muttered as if it was an intrusion.

  “Hello?” She turned down the radio.

  “Laura? This is Ginny.”

  She had a swift, strange feeling of being caught unaware, of being cornered. But it disappeared just as quickly and was replaced with sincere gladness that Ginny had called.

  “I called you yesterday at the office, but I didn’t get a chance to call back.”

  “That’s all right,” Laura said, and wondered where Ginny was now and why she had not been able to call.

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  “I wanted to talk to you when Saundra wasn’t around,” Ginny began falteringly. “I wanted you to know that this wasn’t my idea and that I would never have asked you . . . but she’ll check up on me somehow.”

  “Asked me what?” Laura inquired with interest.

  Ginny hesitated. “Remember that remark of Saundra’s about you interviewing me? And how you said—although I know you just said it to be nice—that you would talk to me about it one of these days over lunch?”

  “Vaguely,” Laura replied, not really remembering.

  “Well,” Ginny went on with a heavy sigh, “now you can tell me that you’re too busy, and that will get her off my back.”

  Laura could just picture Saundra telling Ginny to call and see to it that Laura didn’t forget. How like Saundra, she thought.

  “Actually,” Laura said aloud, “I’ve been sitting here wondering what to do with myself today. But even if I did interview you, I couldn’t promise you any results. Walter’s out of town right now, and it looks as though I soon will be, too.”

  There was a strange silence on the other end, and Laura wondered if Ginny was listening. She could hear muffled voices now and what sounded like a cash register. Obviously, Ginny was not calling from Saundra’s home.

  “Are you going on vacation?” Ginny asked finally. There was a curiously hurt tone in her voice, Laura noted and wondered why.

  She thought of commenting on it but decided against it. If she had misinterpreted it, Ginny might think she was prying.

  “No. Nothing’s definite yet, so I can’t tell you about it.”

  “Of course,” Ginny answered flatly. Again that faint tone of accusation.

  Inexplicably, Laura felt guilty, as if she had let Ginny down or had disappointed her in some way.

  “Look, Ginny,” she said without thinking twice, “are you busy this afternoon? I have a few routine chores to do about the place, but if you like, we could meet for cocktails and maybe have dinner together. Do you have a date for tonight?” Laura didn’t know why, but for some reason she was certain that Ginny did not have a date.

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  “I . . . I’m not sure,” Ginny said after a moment. “So much depends on what Saundra has planned.”

  “Oh?” Laura asked in surprise. “Surely you don’t study Saturday nights, too!”

  “Oh, no,” Ginny said quickly. “I mean, well, sometimes she takes me to certain movies or plays and points out techniques . . .” Ginny’s voice had that rehearsed quality again.

  Laura sensed she should not pursue this aspect of the conversation. “I understand,” she conceded carefully. “But you could ask her, couldn’t you?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Do you know where she can be reached now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call her, then,” Laura commanded briskly. “Make sure you can meet me. After all, it was her suggestion. I don’t think Saundra would turn down an interview for you. Play it up a bit; tell her I’ve agreed to push it for the fall schedule, or something.”

  Another silence, and Laura heard music and someone laughing in the background.

  “I’ll call you back in a few minutes and let you know.”

  “Of course, we don’t have to do it today,” Laura volunt
eered hastily, giving Ginny a chance to back out. “If you have something else to do, just say so. You’re probably sick of talking shop, anyway.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I’d really like to talk with you tonight. I . . . I don’t have anything else to do.”

  “All right, Ginny. I’ll wait for your call.”

  Laura hung up and lit a cigarette. She was relieved that Ginny had said she did want to see her, but she didn’t really know why.

  Probably a sense of competition with Saundra. Or some other sneaky trick of her subconscious.

  Laura had accepted the fact that she must have a subconscious like everybody else—but she wasn’t gracious about it. Slimy, conniving little bastard, she reflected bitterly. I hope I never have to meet you face to face.

  She waited by the phone patiently, staring out the window to the 37

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  street below. She was aware that the radio was still on, turned low, but she couldn’t make herself walk away from the phone to turn the volume up.

  The minutes dragged on, and Laura grew restless. She watched the mailman approach the apartment with disinterest. The only mail she received was circulars and bills. Her school friends were all married now, and their lives had gone in such separate directions that keeping up a correspondence seemed rather useless. She had never been good at writing newsy, detailed long letters and had admitted to herself long ago that she was really not interested in how her friends’ children were growing.

  Although her mother was still alive, Laura had long ago let communication with her drop—they’d never had much in common, anyway. It was different with her father. . . . Laura had adored her father. But he had left them when Laura was only nine. How she had pleaded to go with him. She knew he wanted her. How she had hated the idea of staying alone with her nagging, bitter mother. Of course, in the end, Laura’s mother had won out and Laura never heard from her father again until the state notified them of his death—she had been nineteen then.

  Her mother had complained often that her father had been an ir-responsible weakling. Often she said Laura was becoming just like him. . . .