The Love Machine

by Jacqueline Susann

  Then she said, “That’s why I had to come to you, Jerry. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  He looked startled. “Me?”

  “If I go to Vegas with Chris, I’ll have to marry him. If I don’t go to Vegas, I’ll lose him.”

  Jerry nodded. “It’s a simple decision. A sure bet against a long shot.”

  “I want a chance at that long shot,” she said. “Robin will be in town all summer. He’s invited me to your place for July Fourth.”

  Jerry was silent. Then he said, “Go to Vegas, honey—marry Chris. Don’t waste any more time on Robin.”

  “Why? Has he told you something I don’t know?”

  “No, but look—did you ever hear of Ike Ryan?”

  “I know all about Ike Ryan. But he doesn’t see him—or do those things anymore.”

  Jerry smiled. “I have a friend who’s a psychiatrist. When Robin told me about the action he got with Ike, I happened to bring it up with him and he said that Robin probably hates women.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “This friend of yours doesn’t even know Robin. How can he come up with a statement like that!”

  “He’s met Robin—”

  “Are you trying to hint that Robin’s queer?” Now she was actually angry.

  “No. I’m saying that as people—as friends—he likes men. He digs women, but only for sex—he doesn’t really like them. He’s actually hostile to them.”

  “And you think that’s true?”

  “Yes. But I think Robin likes you—as much as he can like a woman. He’ll force your hand eventually; you’ll be the one to break this up.”

  “Jerry… .”Her eyes were soft. “Help me… .”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Keep me from going to Vegas with Christie. You can tell Christie I’ve signed a contract for the commercials on the summer replacement show and I have to stay here and do them live.”

  He looked at her. “Go to Vegas, Amanda. Christie Lane is offering you a future, a real life, kids—the works.”

  “Jerry,” she was pleading. “I want one last chance with Robin.”

  “I thought you had more class, Amanda. Where’s your gambling spirit? If I cared that much for someone, I’d toss the dice and go for broke. Give up Christie Lane. Shoot for Robin! So you lose a chance for a good marriage and security. If you were thirty-five, I’d say you couldn’t risk it. But you’re young, and you must have plenty of money saved.”

  “I don’t save any. I can’t.”

  Jerry shrugged. “Then stop buying all those ‘name’ clothes. God, Mary buys things in Greenwich for forty-five dollars.”

  “Mary doesn’t make a hundred dollars an hour. And don’t forget, I use my clothes on the show. Being well dressed is part of my business. And I’m scared of not having money, Jerry, scared of being without it.”

  “In my book, a girl with two men in love with her shouldn’t worry about being alone. And a girl who makes a hundred dollars an hour shouldn’t worry about not having money.”

  She clenched her hands. “Jerry, have you ever been poor? I mean dirt-poor. I was. I was white trash. It kills me when Chris talks about Miami, and how he played small clubs, and how he vowed to play the big time in the big hotels. I was born in Miami—in a charity ward. My mother was a Finnish chambermaid in one of those fancy hotels. I suppose she must have been pretty. I only remember her as being skinny and tired. But one of those rich men who stayed at that hotel must have thought she was pretty. I don’t even know who my father was. I just know he was some rich man who could afford to spend the winter in Miami and knock up some little chambermaid. After I was born we lived in what they called Niggertown, because the only woman who was decent to my mother was a colored girl who worked in the hotel. It was a shanty, a tar flat—you pass them when you drive to the airport. This woman—her name was Rose—she got my mother to the charity hospital when I was born. And then we lived with her. I called her Aunt Rose, she’s the finest woman I’ve ever known. Later on, when my mother worked at night, Aunt Rose would come home and make supper and see that I studied and hear my prayers. My mother died when I was six. Aunt Rose paid for the funeral and kept me with her just like I was her child. She made me finish high school—she worked for me, she clothed me—then she sent me to New York on a bus with fifty dollars she had saved.” Amanda stopped and the tears overflowed.

  “I’m sure you’ve repaid the fifty,” he said.

  “I sent her fifty dollars a week in the beginning. But it would take me a lifetime to repay her for her love. A year and a half ago, Aunt Rose had a stroke. I rushed down to Florida—it was right before I met Robin—and I got her into a hospital. It wasn’t easy, they weren’t exactly thrilled about having a sick old colored woman. But I met a sympathetic doctor, and he helped me get her in a private room. Naturally she had no hospital insurance, nothing. She was there for six weeks—that cost four thousand dollars with nurses and therapy. You try explaining that to the Bureau of Internal Revenue. ‘Is she a relation, a dependent?’ they ask. ‘No: just someone I love.’ But they figure she has Social Security, like one hundred and fifteen a month or something, and she can go in a charity ward. But according to law she’s not my kin—I wasn’t adopted. And those heartless guys down there, they see someone like me come in and they think, ‘A model, one hundred an hour—she makes more in a day than I make in a week.’ “

  “Where is she now?” Jerry asked.

  “That’s just it. I couldn’t leave her alone, even when she was discharged from the hospital. I tried to get someone to care for her, but it didn’t work. So I brought her up here to a nursing home on Long Island. That cost a hundred a week. Okay, it was fine, and I visited her every week. Then about eight months ago she had a massive stroke. I had to move her to another nursing home where she gets round-the-clock care. And now I’m paying two hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

  “Do you still visit her every week?”

  She shook her head. “It hurts me too much, and she doesn’t even know I’m there. I go about once a month and on New Year’s Day. I always used to call her on New Year’s Eve when I first came to New York—and once I couldn’t get through because the circuits were tied up, and I was frantic. And she said, ‘Child, you call me on New Year’s Day from now on. I don’t want to ruin your night having you worry about getting to a phone.’ “

  Amanda sat up straight. “I grew up knowing the power of money, Jerry. Money enabled my unknown father to get out of town and go through life without even knowing me. Lack of money made my mother afraid to fight. And the only thing that is giving Aunt Rose some comfort now is money. So you see, Jerry, I can’t gamble. I have to go for the sure thing. But I’ve earned the right to have a chance at the one man in the world I love! I can’t settle for Christie without trying for Robin first.”

  He went over to the small bar he kept in the office and poured two shots of Scotch. He handed her one. “Amanda, I think Alwayso should do their commercials live this summer. I order you to stay here in town.” He clicked his glass against hers. “I’ll do my part, honey,” he said. “Here’s to the Fourth of July and a long, wonderful summer. We’ll have a ball.”

  She managed a faint smile. “I hope so—because in the fall I’ll have to make a decision.”

  The summer was over. She had been with Robin every night. Sometimes they went to the Hamptons for weekends. On Labor Day weekend they remained in New York. They went to Greenwich Village, walked down the narrow streets, sat for hours in a coffee bar on Cornelia Street.

  Now it was October—the new season had begun. The Christie Lane Show was back on the air. In Depth had started its second season. Christie was demanding that she set a date for the marriage and Robin was off again on his sporadic trips. It was as if the summer had never happened. In spite of her vow, she knew she would go on—putting off Christie, waiting and hoping for Robin. She lost the few pounds she had gained during the summer—yet whenever Robin returned
she felt fine. She couldn’t make a decision—she waited.

  Oddly enough, it was the sponsor who forced her to decide: On the fifteenth of January Alwayso was moving the show to California for the rest of the season.

  “We go out as man and wife!” Christie insisted. “We stop off in Chicago and get married!”

  “I won’t get married on the way to anywhere. If I go to California, we’ll get married out there,” she replied.

  The decision to move the show had been made the week before Christmas. And Robin was in London.

  On Christmas Eve she met Jerry at the Lancer Bar for a drink. Jerry wasn’t happy about California either. It meant spending a great deal of time out there… .

  They both stared morosely at the bar with its cheerful little Christmas tree, and the false snow and the holly that was strung across the mirror. Their eyes met. She raised her glass. “Merry Christmas, Jerry.”

  “You look drawn, Amanda.”

  “I feel drawn and quartered,” she said.

  He reached out and took her hand. “Look, honey, you can’t play a waiting game any longer. Put it to Robin on New Year’s Day.”

  “Why then? How do I know I’ll see him?”

  “Hasn’t Chris been invited to Mrs. Austin’s New Year’s Day party?”

  She managed a smile. “Has he ever! That’s all he talks about. He acts as if it’s a command performance at Buckingham Palace.”

  “In a way, it is. Judith Austin rarely extends invitations to people at IBC. This year seems to be an exception. Danton Miller was kind of surprised that Robin was also invited. And I happen to know Robin is flying back New Year’s Eve. He kidded me about celebrating it twice due to the time change. Robin will be at Mrs. Austin’s. He won’t dare turn it down.”

  “And what do I do?” she asked. “Walk up to him and say, ‘It’s now or never, Robin’?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I can’t—I’m not going to that party.”

  “Why, hasn’t Chris asked you?”

  “Of course he has. But I always spend New Year’s Day with Aunt Rose. Of course I haven’t told that to Chris. He knows nothing about it. I just plan to have a headache that day.”

  “But you said she doesn’t recognize you, Amanda.”

  “I know, but I sit with her, and feed her—and New Year’s Day, well, that’s our day together.”

  “Will she know whether it’s January first or January second?” Jerry asked.

  “I’ll know, Jerry.”

  “Look: go to the party, Amanda. And put it on the line to Robin. Get a clear-cut yes or no out of him. If it’s no, then write him off. Two years is long enough to wait for anyone, even Robin. And you can visit your aunt the following day.”

  She seemed thoughtful. Then she nodded. “Okay, this is it!” She crossed her fingers. “Here’s to nineteen sixty-two—either I make it, or I’m through! God, I’m a poet. Let’s have a vodka martini, Jerry, the kind Robin drinks—and let’s wish that bastard a Merry Christmas wherever he is!”

  THIRTEEN

  THE INVITATION to the Austin New Year’s Day party read “Eggnog, Four to Seven.” Chris wanted to pick Amanda up at three thirty. She insisted on making it four thirty.

  “But, doll, we’re supposed to be there at four.”

  “Which means no one comes until five. And anyone who is really anyone arrives at six.”

  He grudgingly agreed. “Who knows from all this classy protocol? I guess I really need a wife like you.”

  By three o’clock she had tried on six different outfits. The black dress was flattering—she could wear it with a string of pearls and Robin’s gold watch. Funny about the watch—everyone seemed to admire it, maybe because it was so tiny. Nick Longworth said it was very expensive.

  Chris had given her a gold charm bracelet for Christmas. She hated it, but she knew she had to wear it. She stared at the disc that said Mandy and Chris—it was so heavy and it clanked on everything. It definitely wouldn’t go with the black dress.

  She took out the Chanel suit. It was one of Ohrbach’s line-for-line copies. Even the real Chanel cloth. But Judith Austin would be able to tell the difference. She probably had the original. Well, she wasn’t out to impress Mrs. Austin. And Jerry had been right. She had watched IBC’s News at Noon. They had a shot of Robin arriving at Idlewild at six that morning.

  She had it all planned. It would be easy to slip away from Christie at a cocktail party. She’d go directly to Robin and say, “I want to talk to you tonight. It’s urgent.” She’d arrange to meet him later, after she unloaded Chris. And tonight it would be settied—one way or another. Chris thought she was all set for the Coast, but Jerry had given her a contract that she did not have to sign until the end of the week. Oh God, it had to work! In the last few weeks she had reversed many of her ideas about Christie. He was not just a simple good-natured slob. In some ways, especially concerning money, he could be absolutely cold-blooded. The other night, his fishy eyes had gone to a steely gray when he said, “You’re playing it real cute, doll. Lou Goldberg tipped me off about you. Lou says you’ve been stalling our marriage date waiting for a shot like this.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You want to marry me in California—they got community property out there. If we divorce you’d get half of everything.”

  Since the thought had never occurred to her, the amazement on her face was real. “If I marry you, it’s for keeps,” she said.

  “You bet it’s for keeps.” He had grinned. “And what’s mine is yours—as soon as we have our kid.”

  Lou Goldberg had come to New York over Christmas. He was a nice man in his early sixties. She had tried to be pleasant, but she wasn’t a very good actress and Lou’s sharp eyes had taken in everything—the way she “allowed” Chris to hold her hand, her lack of spontaneous affection.

  Today she should be with Aunt Rose—New Year’s Day was a big visiting day at the nursing home. Maybe they wouldn’t feed Aunt Rose her dinner, thinking she would be there to do it. Well, she’d call from the party just to make sure.

  About twenty people had arrived when they entered the Austin town house. Its dark quiet luxury was impressive. The butler took their coats and directed them to the large living room. Amanda recognized a senator, several socialites, several movie stars, and a top comedy star from CBS (she had read that IBC was after him). She also saw Danton Miller, and in the corner, chatting earnestly with Mrs. Austin, was Ike Ryan. Amanda recognized him immediately. In the past few months Ike Ryan had exploded on the Hollywood scene. His flamboyant style made good copy. His first major picture was in the final stages of editing. The publicity began when he signed one of Hollywood’s top glamour girls to star in it. She had immediately left her husband and embarked on a wild romance with Ike Ryan. The moment the picture was finished, he had dumped her, and taken up with a new little starlet whom he promised to feature in his next film. The rejected star tried sleeping pills but was saved when she phoned her estranged husband. A few weeks later the young starlet also tried sleeping pills and was saved by Ike whom she called at the zero hour. Ike had made the front pages—swearing he had come to Hollywood to be a producer, not a lover. He had tried all that once before, he stated. He had married the girl he went to school with in Newark. They had been divorced five years ago. Now he was immersed only in his work. Sure he fell in love—every day. But not for keeps.

  He was good-looking in a rugged way. His mother had been Jewish, his father a second-rate Irish prizefighter. Ike talked about this in his interviews, claiming he had the best from both sides. Amanda guessed him to be forty. He was tanned, with some gray beginning to show at the temples in his black hair. His nose was short and puggish, giving a boyish quality to his square-jawed face. Judith Austin seemed captivated with him.

  This surprised Amanda. Judith Austin was everything that Amanda wanted to be. She was slim and elegant, her ash-blond hair twisted into a French knot, and she wore a vel
vet “at home” gown. Amanda had seen it in Vogue and knew it cost twelve hundred dollars. She noticed that Mrs. Austin wore very little jewelry—small pearl earrings, nothing else. Then her eye was caught by the enormous pear-shaped diamond that hung loosely on her finger. It had to be at least thirty carats.

  She and Christie stood alone, oddly isolated in the crowded room. Danton Miller saw them and came over and graciously made some small talk. Chris clung eagerly to Danton and the two men launched into a discussion of ratings.

  Amanda looked around the room. It was a wonderful house. Aunt Rose would be thrilled if she could see her here now! She suddenly thought of the nursing home. She excused herself and asked the butler for a telephone. He led her to the library and closed the door. She looked around her, awed by the dignity of the beautiful room. She went to the desk and ran her fingers over it gently. It looked French. She saw all the buttons on the phone and the blank cardboard where the number should be. Unlisted—naturally. She stared at the picture of Judith in the silver frame, then leaned closer. It was signed “Consuelo,” in that funny backhand style all society women had. Of course, this was her twin sister—the princess! She dialed the nursing home. It was busy. She sat down and opened the silver box on the table and lit a cigarette. She studied the other silver frame that showed the two little princesses taken when they were about ten and twelve. Maybe they were debutantes by now, beautiful debutantes in Europe without a care in the world. She tried the nursing home again. It was still busy.

  The door opened. It was Ike Ryan. He grinned. “I saw you slip out. As soon as I could break away I came looking for you. I’m Ike Ryan. We met at Danny’s Hideaway last year.”

  She hoped her blank stare told him she had no recollection of the incident. Then in a detached voice she said, “I came in here to make a phone call, but the number I’m trying to get is busy.”

  He waved his hand. “That’s what I’m after too. Mind if I use it?” Before she could answer, he reached over and took the phone and began to dial. He stopped midway and turned to her. “Hey, are you free after this party?”