The Love Machine

by Jacqueline Susann

  She felt that strange light-headedness that often comes with shock. Robin was lighting the girl’s cigarette and giving her that very private grin. The other man was probably Ike Ryan.

  “Tell me what, doll?”

  Chris was staring at her. She knew she had to say something, but she was powerless to remove her eyes from Robin. She saw him lean over and kiss the girl on the tip of her nose. Then he laughed.

  “Oh, look who has my table,” Chris said. “I watched him one night—wanted to take a gander at my competition. I tell you, I couldn’t watch more than ten minutes. He was yelling about Cuba and all that kind of shit, and some jerk was agreeing with him. Big deal. Did you get a load of his ratings against mine?”

  “He’s in the top twenty-five, that’s excellent for a news show.” She wondered why she was defending him.

  “I’m gonna be number one, you watch. And everyone treats me like I’m number one—except you.”

  “I—I like you very much.”

  “Then put up or shut up.”

  “I want to go home.” She really felt ill. Robin was listening to the girl with his head bent close.

  “Oh, doll, let’s not fight. I love you, but we’ve got to make it together.”

  “Take me home… .”

  He looked at her oddly. “If I take you home, that’s it. I know when I’m licked.”

  She watched him sign the check. They would have to pass Robin’s table. Chris stopped at almost every table on the way out, greeting people loudly. She knew Robin had to notice her. When they passed his table, he stood up. He wasn’t the least embarrassed. In fact, he seemed actually glad to see her. He congratulated Chris on his show, and introduced everyone at the table. The two girls were both Francesca something—Italian starlets—and the man was Ike Ryan. She was surprised when Ike stood up. He was six feet tall, with black hair and blue eyes. He was tanned, strong-looking, good-looking; nothing like she had envisioned.

  “So this is the Amanda?” He turned to the two girls and spoke Italian. The girls nodded and smiled at her. Then Ike said, “I just told them what a big shot you are, Amanda.”

  “Tell ’em about me,” Christie said.

  Ike laughed. “I don’t have to. They know who you are. They’ve been glued to the television set since they got here.”

  It seemed an eternity, but they finally left. Amanda shot one last glance at Robin, hoping to find some message in his eyes, but he was talking and the girl was smiling. Obviously she understood some English.

  Christie was glum as he hailed a cab. Suddenly she took his arm. “I’ll go back to your place, Christie.”

  He was pathetically exuberant. “Oh, doll—but hey, what about the fancy dress? Want to stop off at your place and change?”

  “No, I’ll leave you after—after we do it.”

  “No, I’ll even go along with the cat. We’ll go to your place. I got no place to go tomorrow. Then I can stay there and you can get up whenever you want.”

  Her flesh began to crawl. “No, there’s a cameraman coming up tomorrow, early. It’s only ten-thirty now, so if I go to your place, and leave in a few hours, it will work out.”

  “But I want to be with you all night—hold you in my arms.”

  She fought back her feeling of nausea. She had deliberately chosen the Astor as the lesser of the evils. At least she could get up and leave when it was over.

  “It has to be this way,” she said quietly.

  “Doll, I’ll take it any way I can get it. Oh boy, are you gonna be happy! I’m the greatest—wait till you see.”

  She was positive that everyone in the Astor lobby knew her plans as she walked to the elevator. She felt that even the taxi driver had looked at her in contempt when she got out of the cab. But how many times she had sailed through Robin’s lobby, even greeted his doorman with a cheery good morning—it had all seemed so natural and wonderful… . No. She musn’t think of Robin, not now.

  She walked into the bathroom of Christie’s suite and took off all of her clothes. She stared at her flat breasts, then walked into the bedroom defiantly. He was lying on the bed in his shorts, looking at the racing form. His jaw dropped in disappointment. “No tits!” Her eyes were cold—challenging him. He laughed and held out his arms. “Well! I guess it proves that all the classy ladies are skinny. At least you haven’t got buck teeth. But come on over—you won’t be disappointed at the size of my joint. Look what good old Chris has just for you… .”

  She submitted to his embrace in the darkness. She lay back while he panted and gyrated through her. She knew he was trying to please her. Oh God, if he went on for hours, nothing would happen. He could never rouse her—ever. She prayed for him to get it over. He suddenly leaped off her and fell to his side, groaning. After a few minutes he said, “Don’t worry, doll, I pulled out in time. I won’t knock you up.”

  She lay there quietly. He took her in his arms. His body was clammy with perspiration. “I didn’t make you come, did I?” he said.

  “Chris, I—” She stopped.

  “Don’t worry, let me catch my breath and I’ll go down on you.”

  “No, Chris. It was wonderful! I was just nervous, that’s all. Next time I’ll wear something, don’t worry.”

  “Listen, I’ve decided. We’re gonna get married. At the end of the season. I’ve got six weeks booked in Vegas this summer for big money. We’ll get married there. You’ll have a ball, it’ll be our honeymoon. So don’t wear anything: if you get pregnant, great—we’ll get married even sooner.”

  “No, I don’t want to have a baby until after we’re married. I wouldn’t want people to think that was the reason.”

  “Listen, doll, I’m forty-seven. I’m leveling with you. Everyone thinks I’m forty. Even Eddie and Kenny don’t know. But since you’re gonna be my wife, I want you to know the real scene. I been careful with money all my life. I always made my forty or fifty thousand for the last fifteen years. And no matter what I made, I put half of it away. By the time I’m sixty, I’ll have a million in annuities. Twenty years ago I met this guy in Chicago, he’s a big tax expert. I got his kid out of some trouble, nothing serious, a slight car accident. But I had connections and I squared the rap and the kid’s father, this Lou Goldberg, was so grateful that he became my father, mother, lawyer, tax man, everything. He said to me right then that I was a second-class talent, but if I listened to him, I’d wind up a first-class citizen. And he started taking half my money—I was maybe only earning a couple C-notes a week then—but Lou invested it. By now I got quite a portfolio—stuff like IBM that does nothing but double. Now that I’ve made it big, Lou still takes half. And if this keeps up—my new success, I mean—well, in a few years I’ll have not one but two million. And the way he’s investing it, I’ll have over six thousand a month tax-free, without even touching the principal. We can leave that to our kid. Now that I’ve got you, everything will be perfect. And I want us to start having a kid right away, so when I’m sixty, at least I’ll still be able to go to ball games with him and see him go to college like I never did. Don’t ever tell anyone, but I never got past sixth grade—I was hawking candy in burlesque when I was twelve. But our kid will have everything!”

  She lay very still. What had she done! This poor idiot… .

  She suddenly got out of bed and went into the bathroom and dressed. Chris was dressing when she came out.

  “Don’t bother,” she begged. “I can get a cab.” She was anxious to get away. She couldn’t bear his lovesick eyes.

  “Nah, it’s still early. I’ll take you home and then drop by the Stage Deli. Eddie and Kenny will probably be there. I’ll have a cup of coffee with them and kibitz. I’m so happy I can’t sleep—I want to tell it to the world.”

  She let him hold her hand on the ride home. He kissed her good night at the elevator. Then she went into her apartment—ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  Robin called the following day. He never mentioned the Italian girls. He was leaving that
afternoon for Los Angeles with Ike Ryan. He wanted to do an In Depth on Ike. He felt it would be more exciting if it were filmed on location. In Ike’s office, on the set. From there he was flying back to London on the polar route, and he had no idea when he’d return. She never mentioned the baroness or the Italian starlet, and he never mentioned Christie Lane.

  TWELVE

  ON MAY FIRST, Amanda awoke fifteen minutes before her “wake-up” call. Tomorrow Life magazine would be on every newsstand, but the Plaza Hotel always got Time and Life a day earlier. She dressed quickly. For the past six weeks she had vacillated between eagerness and apprehension. Everyone was waiting for the Life story. Christie felt it would make him an international celebrity. Nick Longworth was all set to raise her fee to a hundred an hour.

  She took a cab to the Plaza and dashed into the lobby. The bright red cover caught her eye as she approached the newsstand. She dropped the money on the counter and walked quickly to a large easy chair in the lobby near the Palm Court.

  It was a ten-page spread with a big headline: THE CHRISTIE LANE PHENOMENON. She was featured with Christie in four pictures and there was one of her alone, posing for Ivan in a chiffon dress in Central Park. And it was no wind machine swirling that dress—she would never forget how cold it had been that day. As she read, she was pleased that the reporter had been unusually perceptive. There was a graphic description of the way she had stood facing the March wind without flinching. It took a peculiar kind of strength to be a model, he noted. It was all very complimentary to her. And although it painted Christie as a man of the people, it slyly revealed his bad grammar, his flamboyancy, his total absorption with his new fame. (So far—so good, she thought.) She read on:

  To go along with his new prominence, Christie Lane has taken himself a girl fit to be the consort of the new top minstrel man of television. A beautiful cover girl—Amanda. She is not just the girl he loves. She is a symbol. Proof that the world of second-rate nightclubs is a thing of the past. Because Amanda is definitely first-rate. And after seeing them together, they are not the incongruous pair one might think. Christie Lane worships the elegance of this beautiful girl. And perhaps the lovely Amanda finds reality with Christie Lane. When a girl stands outdoors in thirty-degree temperatures, wearing a chiffon dress and a Palm Beach smile, she probably welcomes the honesty of a man like Christie Lane. Perhaps she is anxious to toss away the June-in-January world of a fashion model to find a real world with this very real man.

  She shut the magazine. That last line! How would Robin take it? She walked out into the bright sunlight. Although she dated Christie and occasionally went to bed with him, she felt she barely knew him. They were never alone, except for the torturous few hours together at the Astor. Christie spent at least two nights a week with his writers; there were benefits, interviews—all time-consuming, all part of being a star. Yet he was planning to marry her in Vegas! She had let him talk—the summer had seemed so far away. But now it was May!

  She had to break with Christie Lane! She had only continued seeing him because of her loneliness and longing for Robin. She could never really care about anyone else. But at least she was making Christie happy… .

  The story in Life caused a great deal of excitement. She actually felt famous, especially on the nights after the show, when she came out of the stage door and all the autograph kids called her by name. But she didn’t hear a word from Robin, until the Sunday before Decoration Day. She had just hung up on Christie. He was playing Decoration Day at Grossinger’s for a fabulous fee. He had wanted her to go along with him—but she refused.

  “Ah, come on,” he pleaded. “We’ll have a ball. Even Aggie is taking off from the Latin Quarter—”

  “I can’t afford to lose the money. Besides, I’m not Aggie—I’m not a camp follower.”

  “What’s with the camp-follower crap? We’re getting married this summer.”

  “If and when we’re married, I’ll go to places where you play. Right now I’m staying in New York and keeping my modeling appointments. I’m not going anywhere as part of the Christie Lane caravan.”

  “Ah, shit, you and your highfalutin ideas. I hadda go fall in love with a lady!” He hung up, disgruntled but not angry.

  After she had hung up, she thought about it. Why hadn’t she just said, “I’m never going to marry you”? Because she was frightened! She was frightened of what would happen if Robin ever disappeared for good. She would go to pieces. She had tried breaking with Christie once, told him she was never going to see him again. The break lasted only five days. … At least with Christie she was able to keep her sanity. There was always a nightclub opening or a benefit, and being with Christie was better than being alone.

  The phone rang. She picked it up lethargically, thinking it was Christie calling back to make one last plea. The crisp voice caught her off balance: “Hello, Celebrity.”

  “Robin! Oh, Robin! Where are you?”

  “I just came in. I’ve been away, covering the Eichmann trial. I just read all about you on the plane—caught up with all the back issues of Life—and, by God, there you were!”

  “What did you think of it?” She forced herself to sound casual.

  “Just great,” he said with enthusiasm. “It makes you sound almost as exciting as you really are.”

  Her throat was tight—but she kept her voice light. “You almost sound like you missed me.”

  “I did.”

  She barely listened. She was planning their evening, it was five o’clock—too late to wash her hair, but she could put on a fall. She hoped they would stay in. Thank God it was Sunday—Jerry was in the country and couldn’t tag along. She had steaks in the freezer, but she was out of vodka.

  “Are you still as beautiful as ever?” he was asking.

  “Come see for yourself.”

  “Fine. Meet me at the Lancer Bar tomorrow at seven.”

  She was so disappointed she couldn’t speak.

  He took her silence for indecision. His voice was light. “Or has Christie Lane cut me out of the picture?”

  “No—but he’s asked me to marry him.”

  “He might be a good bet at that. His show will go on forever.”

  “Would you care, Robin, if I married Christie Lane?”

  “Sure I’d care. I’d hate like hell to lose you. But I can’t compete against marriage.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, baby, there’s only one reason for marriage, and that’s to have kids. I don’t want any kids.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re one hell of a responsibility.”

  “In what way?”

  “Look, Amanda—I have to be loose, be able to pick up and go. You can do that with a girl, even a wife. But you can’t do it to a kid. What kind of a father would I make?”

  She was trembling. Marriage had always been a subject he had refused to discuss. But now they were actually discussing it.

  “Oh, Robin, I think you’d make a marvelous father.”

  “A father should be with his kid.”

  “Did your father leave you?”

  “No, he had nine-to-five hours. And Kitty was a good mother: we had nurses and cooks, but she was always there. And that’s the way it should be.”

  “Then I don’t understand—what makes you feel you would run out?”

  “My work, baby,” he said tightly. “And although it’s never happened to me, I know that if I was a kid and my father wasn’t there it would kill me—I know it. Don’t ask me why, I just feel it.”

  “Robin, we don’t have to have children now… .”

  “Then why get married?” he asked.

  “To be together.”

  “We’re together, except when I need to be alone. Like tonight—I’ve got a desk piled with mail. I feel like tossing it all in the basket. I may do just that.” There was a pause. “I just did. The bills will arrive again, and I don’t think they’ll turn off the electricity if I’m one month late.”

 
“All right, the mail is gone. Now we can be together tonight,” she said.

  “Amanda, that’s why I’m against marriage. I want to be alone tonight.” His voice suddenly became gentle. “Do you understand now, Amanda? I’m not geared for marriage. I like things the way they are.”

  “And the little setups Ike Ryan arranges!”

  “Ike Ryan—now where did you drag that name from? I haven’t seen or thought of him in ages.”

  “And what about the baroness? Or is that a name you haven’t thought of in months?” She knew she was destroying herself, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Amanda darling, another awful thing about marriage is explanations. I don’t owe you any, nor do you owe me any. Now, how about tomorrow? Are you free?”

  “I’ll make myself free.” Her voice was sullen.

  “Good girl.”

  “Are you here for some time? Or are you flying off somewhere?”

  “Baby, I’m so tired of traveling, I never want to leave again. I’m going to stay put until fall.”

  “That’s good.” Her gloom evaporated. “We go off the air in two weeks.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, Jerry Moss invited me up to Greenwich for the July Fourth weekend. They have a great house and a pool. Would you like to come?”

  “I’d love it, Robin.”

  “Great! See you tomorrow night.”

  She sat very quietly for a long time. She lay awake half the night. The following morning, she called Jerry Moss at nine o’clock.

  “Jerry, I’ve got to see you. It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll probably see you at the Lancer Bar. I’m meeting Robin there at five.”

  “I’m not getting there until seven. But I’ve got to see you alone. It’s very important!”

  “Lunch?”

  “No, I have a twelve o’clock session. Can I come to your office? Say, ten o’clock?”

  “It’s a date. I’ll even have coffee waiting for you.”

  She sat across the desk from Jerry and sipped the coffee. She told him about Chris, implying that there had been no intimacy between them. In a way it wasn’t a lie—there was no intimacy. She merely lay back, gritted her teeth and submitted to him.