The Other Side of Midnight

by Sidney Sheldon

  "I wanted to ask you," he said quickly, "how I did this morning." He leaned forward earnestly. "Was I convincing?"

  "You may be convincing to them," Catherine said, nodding toward the girls, "but if you want my opinion, I think you're a phony."

  "Have I done something to offend you?"

  "Everything you do offends me," she said evenly. "I don't happen to like your type."

  "What is my type?"

  "You're a fake. You enjoy wearing that uniform and strutting around the girls, but have you thought about enlisting?"

  He stared at her incredulously. "And get shot at?" he asked. "That's for suckers." He leaned forward and grinned. "This is a lot more fun."

  Catherine's lips were quivering with anger. "Aren't you eligible for the draft?"

  "I suppose technically I'm eligible, but a friend of mine knows a guy in Washington and"--he lowered his voice--"I don't think they'll ever get me."

  "I think you're contemptible," Catherine exploded.

  "Why?"

  "If you don't know why, I could never explain it to you."

  "Why don't you try? At dinner tonight. Your place. Do you cook?"

  Catherine rose to her feet, her cheeks flushed with anger. "Don't bother coming back to the set," she said. "I'll tell Mr. O'Brien to send you your check for this morning's work."

  She turned to go, then remembered and asked, "What's your name?"

  "Douglas," he said. "Larry Douglas."

  Fraser telephoned Catherine from London the next night to find out how things had gone. She reported to him the day's happenings but made no mention of the incident with Larry Douglas. When Fraser returned to Washington, she would tell him about it, and they would laugh over it together.

  Early the next morning as Catherine was getting dressed to go to the studio, the doorbell rang. She opened the bungalow door and a delivery boy stood there holding a large bouquet of roses.

  "Catherine Alexander?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Sign here please."

  She signed the form that he handed her. "They're lovely," she said, taking the flowers.

  "That'll be fifteen dollars."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fifteen dollars. They're C.O.D."

  "I don't under--" her lips tightened. Catherine reached for the card attached to the flowers and pulled it out of the envelope. The card read: "I would have paid for these myself, but I'm not working. Love, Larry."

  She stared at the card unbelievingly.

  "Well, do you want 'em or not?" asked the delivery boy.

  "Not," she snapped. She thrust the flowers back in his arms.

  He looked at her, puzzled. "He said you'd laugh. That it was kind of a private joke."

  "I'm not laughing," Catherine said. She slammed the door furiously.

  All that day, the incident kept rankling her. She had met egotistical men but never anyone with the outrageous conceit of Mr. Larry Douglas. She was sure that he had had an endless succession of victories with empty-headed blondes and bosomy brunettes who couldn't wait to fling themselves into his bed. But for him to put her in that category made Catherine feel cheap and humiliated. The mere thought of him made her flesh crawl. She determined to put him out of her mind.

  At seven o'clock that evening Catherine started to leave the stage. An assistant came up to her, an envelope in his hand.

  "Did you charge this, Miss Alexander?" he asked.

  It was a charge slip from central casting and it read:

  One uniform (captain)

  Six service ribbons (assorted)

  Six medals (assorted)

  Actor's Name: Lawrence Douglas...(Personal Charge to Catherine Alexander--MGM).

  Catherine looked up, her face flushed.

  "No!" she said.

  He stared. "What shall I tell them?"

  "Tell them I'll pay for his medals if they're awarded posthumously."

  The picture finished shooting three days later. Catherine looked at the rough-cut the following day and approved it. The film would not win any awards, but it was simple and effective. Tom O'Brien had done a good job.

  On Saturday morning Catherine boarded a plane for Washington. She had never been so glad to leave a city. Monday morning she was back in her office trying to catch up on the work that had piled up during her absence.

  Just before lunch, her secretary, Annie, buzzed her. "A Mr. Larry Douglas is on the phone from Hollywood, California, collect. Do you want to take the call?"

  "No," she snapped. "Tell him that I--never mind, I'll tell him myself." She took a deep breath and pressed the phone button. "Mr. Douglas?"

  "Good morning." His voice had the consistency of hot fudge. "I had a hard time tracking you down. Don't you like roses?"

  "Mr. Douglas--" Catherine began. Her voice quavered with fury. She took a deep breath and said, "Mr. Douglas, I love roses. I don't like you. I don't like anything about you. Is that clear?"

  "You don't know anything about me."

  "I know more than I want to know. I think you're cowardly and despicable, and I don't want you ever to call me again." Trembling, she slammed down the receiver, her eyes filled with tears of anger. How dare he! She would be so glad when Bill returned.

  Three days later Catherine received a ten by twelve photograph of Lawrence Douglas in the mail. It was inscribed, "To the boss, with love from Larry."

  Annie stared at it in awe, and said, "My God! Is he real?"

  "Fake," retorted Catherine. "The only real thing is the paper it's printed on." She savagely tore the picture to shreds.

  Annie watched, dismayed. "What a waste. I've never seen one like that in the flesh."

  "In Hollywood," Catherine said grimly, "they have sets that are all front--no foundation. You've just seen one."

  During the next two weeks, Larry Douglas phoned at least a dozen times. Catherine instructed Annie to tell him not to call again and not to bother telling her about his calls. One morning while Annie was taking dictation, she looked up and said apologetically, "I know you told me not to bother you with Mr. Douglas' calls, but he called again, and he sounded so desperate and well...kind of lost."

  "He is lost," Catherine said coldly, "and if you're smart, you won't try to find him."

  "He sure sounds charming."

  "He invented treacle."

  "He asked a lot of questions about you." She saw Catherine's look. "But, of course," she added hastily, "I didn't tell him anything."

  "That was very bright of you, Annie."

  Catherine began to dictate again, but her mind was not on it. She supposed the world was full of Larry Douglases. It made her appreciate William Fraser all the more.

  Bill Fraser returned the following Sunday morning, and Catherine went to the airport to meet him. She watched as he finished with Customs and came toward the exit where she was standing. His face lit up when he saw her.

  "Cathy," he said. "What a surprise. I didn't expect you to meet me."

  "I couldn't wait," she smiled and gave him a warm hug that made him look at her quizzically.

  "You've missed me," he said.

  "More than you know."

  "How was Hollywood?" he asked. "Did it go well?"

  She hesitated. "Fine. They're very pleased with the picture."

  "So I hear."

  "Bill, next time you go away," she said, "take me with you."

  He looked at her, pleased and touched.

  "It's a deal," Fraser said. "I missed you. I've been doing a lot of thinking about you."

  "Have you?"

  "Do you love me?"

  "Very much, Mr. Fraser."

  "I love you, too," he said. "Why don't we go out tonight and celebrate?"

  She smiled. "Wonderful."

  "We'll have dinner at the Jefferson Club."

  She dropped Fraser at his house.

  "I have a few thousand calls to make," he said. "Could you meet me at the club? Eight o'clock."

  "Fine," she said.
<
br />   Catherine went back to her apartment and did some washing and ironing. Each time she passed the telephone, she half-expected it to ring, but it remained silent. She thought of Larry Douglas trying to pump Annie for information about her and found that she was gritting her teeth. Maybe she would speak to Fraser about turning Douglas' name in to his draft board. No, I won't bother, she thought. They'd probably turn him down. He'd be tried and found wanton. She washed her hair, took a long luxurious bath and was drying herself when the phone rang. She went over to it and picked it up. "Yes?" she said coldly.

  It was Fraser. "Hi," he said. "Anything wrong?"

  "Of course not, Bill," she said quickly. "I--I was just in the bath."

  "I'm sorry." His voice took on a teasing tone. "I mean I'm sorry I'm not there with you."

  "So am I," she replied.

  "I called to tell you I miss you. Don't be late."

  Catherine smiled. "I won't."

  She hung up, slowly, thinking about Bill. For the first time she felt that he was ready to propose. He was going to ask her to become Mrs. William Fraser. She said the name aloud. "Mrs. William Fraser." It had a nice dignified sound to it. My God, she thought. I'm becoming blase. Six months ago, I would have been jumping out of my skin, and now all I can say is it has a nice dignified sound to it. Had she really changed that much? It was not a comforting thought. She looked at the clock and hurriedly began to dress.

  The Jefferson Club was on "F" Street, a discreet brick building set back from the street and surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. It was one of the most exclusive clubs in a city full of exclusive clubs. The easiest way to become a member was to have a father who belonged. If one lacked that foresight, then it was necessary to be recommended by three members. Membership proposals were brought up once a year and one black ball was sufficient to keep a person out of the Jefferson Club for the rest of his life, since it was a firm rule that no candidate could ever be proposed twice.

  William Fraser's father had been a founding member of the club, and Fraser and Catherine had dinner there at least once a week. The chef had been with the French branch of the Rothschilds for twenty years, the cuisine was superb, and the wine cellar ranked as the third best in America. The club had been decorated by one of the world's leading decorators and careful attention had been paid to the colors and the lighting, so the women were bathed in candlelight glow that enhanced their beauty. On any given night, diners would brush elbows with the Vice-President, members of the Cabinet or Supreme Court, senators and the powerful industrialists who controlled worldwide empires.

  Fraser was in the foyer waiting for Catherine when she arrived.

  "Am I late?" she asked.

  "It wouldn't matter if you were," Fraser said, looking at her with open admiration. "Do you know you're fantastically beautiful?"

  "Of course," she replied. "Everybody knows I'm the fantastically beautiful Catherine Alexander."

  "I mean it, Cathy." His tone was so serious that she was embarrassed.

  "Thank you, Bill," she said awkwardly. "And stop staring at me like that."

  "I can't help it," he said. He took her arm.

  Louis, the maitre d', led them to a corner booth. "There you are, Miss Alexander, Mr. Fraser, enjoy your dinner."

  Catherine liked being known by name by the maitre d' of the Jefferson Club. She knew that it was childish and naive of her, but it gave her a feeling of being somebody, of belonging. Now she sat back, relaxed and contented, surveying the room.

  "Will you have a drink?" Fraser asked.

  "No, thank you," Catherine said.

  He shook his head. "I've got to teach you some bad habits."

  "You already have," Catherine murmured.

  He grinned at her and ordered a scotch and soda.

  She studied him, thinking what a dear, sweet man he was. She was sure that she could make him very happy. And she would be happy married to him. Very happy, she told herself fiercely. Ask anybody. Ask Time magazine. She hated herself for the way her mind was working. What in God's name was wrong with her? "Bill," she began--and froze.

  Larry Douglas was walking toward them, a smile of recognition on his lips as he saw Catherine. He was wearing his Army Air Corps uniform from Central Casting. She watched unbelievingly as he came over to their table, grinning happily. "Hello there," he said. But he was not speaking to Catherine. He was speaking to Bill, who was getting up and shaking his hand.

  "It's great to see you, Larry."

  "It's good to see you, Bill."

  Catherine stared at the two of them, her mind paralyzed, refusing to function.

  Fraser was saying, "Cathy, this is Captain Lawrence Douglas. Larry, this is Miss Alexander--Catherine."

  Larry Douglas was looking down at her, his dark eyes mocking her. "I can't tell you what a pleasure this is, Miss Alexander," he said solemnly.

  Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but she suddenly realized there was nothing that she could say. Fraser was watching her, waiting for her to speak. All she could manage was a nod. She did not trust her voice.

  "Will you join us, Larry?" Fraser asked.

  Larry looked at Catherine and said modestly, "If you're sure I'm not intruding--"

  "Certainly not. Sit down."

  Larry took a seat next to Catherine.

  "What would you like to drink?" Fraser asked.

  "Scotch and soda," Larry replied.

  "I'll have the same," Catherine said recklessly. "Make it a double."

  Fraser looked at her in surprise. "I can't believe it."

  "You said you wanted to teach me some bad habits," Catherine said. "I think I'd like to start now."

  When Fraser had ordered the drinks, he turned to Larry and said, "I've been hearing about some of your exploits from General Terry--both in the air and on the ground."

  Catherine was staring at Larry, her mind spinning, trying to adjust. "Those medals..." she said.

  He was looking at her innocently.

  "Yes?"

  She swallowed. "Er--where did you get them?"

  "I won them in a carnival," he said gravely.

  "Some carnival," Fraser laughed. "Larry's been flying with the RAF. He was the leader of the American Squadron over there. They talked him into heading up a fighter base in Washington to get some of our boys ready for combat."

  Catherine turned to stare at Larry. He was smiling at her benevolently, his eyes dancing. Like the rerun of an old movie, Catherine remembered every word of their first meeting. She had ordered him to take off his captain's bars and his medals, and he had cheerfully obliged. She had been smug, overbearing--and she had called him a coward! She wanted to crawl under the table.

  "I wish you had let me know you were coming into town," Fraser was saying. "I would have trotted out a fatted calf for you. We should have had a big party to celebrate your return."

  "I like this better," Larry said. He looked over at Catherine, and she turned away, unable to meet his eyes. "As a matter of fact," Larry continued innocently, "I looked for you when I was in Hollywood, Bill. I heard you were producing an Air Corps training film."

  He stopped to light a cigarette and carefully blew out the match. "I went over to the set, but you weren't there."

  "I had to fly to London," Fraser replied. "Catherine was there. I'm surprised you didn't run into each other."

  Catherine looked up at Larry, and he was watching her, his eyes amused. Now was the time to mention what had happened. She would tell Fraser, and they would all laugh it off as an amusing anecdote. But somehow the words stuck in her throat.

  Larry gave her a moment, then said, "It was a pretty crowded set. I guess we missed each other."

  She hated him for helping her out, for making them fellow conspirators against Fraser.

  When the drinks arrived, Catherine downed hers quickly and asked for another. This was going to be the most terrible evening of her life. She could not wait to get out of there, to get away from Larry Douglas.

  F
raser asked him about his war experiences, and Larry made them sound easy and amusing. He obviously didn't take anything seriously. He was a lightweight. And yet in all fairness, Catherine reluctantly admitted to herself that a lightweight did not volunteer for the RAF and become a hero fighting against the Luftwaffe. Irrationally, she hated him even more because he was a hero. Her attitude didn't make sense to her, and she brooded about it over her third double scotch. What difference did it make whether he was a hero or a bum? And then she realized that as long as he was a bum, he fitted neatly into a pigeonhole that she could deal with. Through the haze of the liquor she sat back and listened to the two men talk. There was an eager enthusiasm about Larry when he spoke, a vitality that was so palpable it reached across and touched her. He seemed to her now like the most alive man she had ever met. Catherine had a feeling that he held nothing back from life, that he gave himself to everything wholeheartedly and that he mocked those who were afraid to give. Who were afraid, period. Like herself.

  She hardly touched her food, she had no idea what she was eating. She met Larry's eyes, and it was as though he were already her lover, as if they had already been together, belonged together, and she knew it was insane. He was like a cyclone, a force of nature, and any woman who got sucked up in the vortex was going to be destroyed.

  Larry was smiling at her. "I'm afraid we've been excluding Miss Alexander from the conversation," he said politely. "I'm sure she's more interesting than the both of us put together.

  "You're wrong," Catherine said thickly. "I live a very dull life. I work with Bill." The moment she said it she heard how it sounded and turned red. "I didn't mean it like that," she said. "I meant--"

  "I know what you meant," Larry said. And she hated him. He turned to Bill. "Where did you find her?"

  "I got lucky," Fraser said warmly. "Very lucky. You're still not married?"

  Larry shrugged. "Who'd have me?"

  You bastard, Catherine thought. She looked around the room. Half a dozen women were staring at Larry, some covertly, some openly. He was like a sexual magnet. "How were the English girls?" Catherine said recklessly.

  "They were fine," he said, politely. "Of course, I didn't have much time for that sort of thing. I was busy flying."

  Like hell you didn't, Catherine thought. I'll bet there wasn't a virgin left standing within a hundred miles of you. Aloud, she said, "I feel sorry for those poor girls. Look at all they missed." Her tone was more biting than she had intended.

  Fraser was looking at her, puzzled by her rudeness. "Cathy," he said.