Alexandra Waring

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Alexandra Waring Page 37

by Laura Van Wormer


  “I do like her, you know,” Betty said over the wind a few minutes later, holding her hair back, looking at him. There was a roaring sound and Betty looked over at the pickup truck that had drawn up beside them in the middle lane. Then she looked up and gave the young man—who was leering down at her from the cab—a little wave. “How ya doing?” she called up to him.

  “All rrrriiight,” the guy declared, grinning and hitting his horn twice in approval.

  Gordon looked up at the guy in the pickup, saluted and stepped on it, pulling ahead.

  “Hey,” Betty protested, hitting him on the arm, “that could have been my future husband.”

  “Oh, come on,” Gordon said, “you can do better than that.”

  “Better than what? If he isn’t on drugs, likes women, doesn’t have a sexually transmitted disease and speaks English, he’s the best bet I’ve had in years.”

  Gordon laughed.

  “Yeah, you laugh. All you guys do. A hundred pretty women for every single, straight guy in this town—I guess I’d laugh too if I were you,” she said. Betty leaned closer. “If I want to get married I have to be rich and famous or I’ll never find anyone. And you wait and see, Mr. Tee-Hee-Ha-Ha, when I’m rich and famous, believe me, I will meet a guy like you and he will want to marry me.”

  He laughed again.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, trying not to laugh herself. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? Marry the homeless?”

  They could hear the truck honking hopefully behind them.

  Betty looked around at the truck and then sat back in her seat again. She turned to him. “So how is a girl supposed to meet a guy like you if she isn’t famous?”

  “Alexandra wasn’t famous when I met her,” Gordon said, glancing over. “She was nine. I met her in Kansas, over the holidays. Her brother was my roommate at school.”

  “But her father was really rich, right?” she said. “Didn’t you meet her because they were rich—and famous? Her father was a senator or something, right?”

  “A congressman. And no, he wasn’t rich. Her mother’s family had money though—but most of that went into the farm.”

  “So she really is from a farm,” Betty said.

  Gordon smiled. “She really is from a farm—can bale hay, drive a tractor, ride a horse and everything.” He changed lanes before continuing. “But she hasn’t had it quite as easy as you think, you know.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Betty said. “Okay. So let me guess. Her father married her mother for her money.”

  Huh. He had never thought of that. “No, no,” he said, feeling he should give his prospective father-in-law the benefit of the doubt. He glanced over at her. “Now this is between you and me, right?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, eyes back on the road, “Lexy’s grandfather, Granddad, had a drinking problem, and he sort of let the whole farm go to hell and then, when Lexy’s father married Mrs. Waring, she rebuilt the place and got it running again. She still runs it.”

  “So what happened to the grandfather?”

  “Oh, he stayed around. He was a great guy, don’t get me wrong. And he didn’t drink all the time. And he loved the farm, he had grown up on it—he just couldn’t run it. And he was absolutely crazy about Lexy—and she was about him, particularly since she was so much younger than the rest of the kids and didn’t really have anyone to play with there. And so, since the Warings lived in Washington most of the time, Granddad was more of a father to her in ways than her own was. At least, he was the one who spent the most time with her.”

  “Her parents left her with an alcoholic?” Betty said, incredulous.

  “Well,” Gordon said, “he wasn’t an alcoholic exactly. He just sort of —you know, at night sometimes, or maybe he might go on a quiet bender for a day or two. Maybe on holidays too. Nothing spectacular.”

  “I repeat,” Betty said, “her parents left her with an alcoholic?”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Waring was there—Mrs. Waring, senior—Gran. And Granddad didn’t even live in the house anyway, so it wasn’t as if he sat there drinking in front of Alexandra.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t live in the house?”

  “He lived in a nice little cabin by the barn. Near the house.”

  “What?” Betty cried.

  Gordon laughed. “I guess it does sound a little strange. It didn’t at the time, though. Granddad and his wife loved each other—they just couldn’t live together. Gran was very much the God-fearing disciplinarian type, so they were always arguing with each other, and she was always sniping at him about something. But in their own way they were inseparable, you know what I mean?”

  Betty shook her head. “No,” she said, “I don’t. I’m afraid my grandparents not only lived in the same house together but slept together in the tiniest bed you ever saw. My parents are the same way.”

  “Well, whatever,” Gordon said, pausing to wonder why he was trying to explain all this to Betty, why it bothered him that she had never seemed very high on Alexandra. “Anyway, Alexandra loved them very, very much. So when they died she had a very hard time getting over it.”

  “They died?” Betty said. She frowned, leaning closer. “What happened?”

  Gordon sighed, lofting one eyebrow. “Gran was driving—not him—and some drunk kid hit them. Can you believe it?” He sighed. “He shot right across the highway and hit them head on.”

  “Oh, no,” Betty said.

  “Yeah,” Gordon said, nodding.

  Betty thought about this for a second and then said, “How old was she?”

  “Alexandra?” Gordon said, glancing over.

  She nodded.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Oh, no,” Betty said again, looking away.

  After several minutes she turned back toward him. “I do like her, you know.”

  “You said that.”

  “Yeah, well, I do,” Betty said. She paused and then said, “Will you guys get married on the farm? Could I come if you did? I always wanted to see where Auntie Em lived-see—if Kansas is in black and white.”

  Gordon smiled, glancing over. “We’re thinking maybe New York, but either way—of course you’ll be invited.” Betty nodded, looking away again. Then she turned back again. “Will Christopher come?”

  Oh, great, just what he needed to get depressed—to think about Christopher. “Yeah, sure,” he said, although he doubted it, certainly after what had happened this week on his trip to Paris.

  It had started out well enough. His flight had been on time, a car was waiting there at the airport and they drove to the Place Vendôme, where he checked into the Ritz. While the driver rewrapped Christopher’s present for him in the trunk of the car (customs had really done a number on it), Gordon showered and changed, trying to dispel any anger (or at least hide it) that he felt toward Julie, since Christopher was the kind of kid who picked up vibes like that out of the air. And, after all, it was with Julie that Christopher lived, and it was that old man, Ruvais, that Christopher saw every day, and so if Christopher loved them, then.… So as they drove over, along the magnificent Avenue Foch, along the rolling lawns and lines of trees and fairy-tale urban mansions stretching west from the Arc de Triomphe, Gordon tried to view the past through Julie’s eyes, a tactic which had proved helpful in changing his attitude on previous visits.

  I am pretty and talented and have a beautiful son. I am married to a man I do not love. I do not like sex. I am bored. I want to go back to work but the husband I do not love does not want me to. I meet Émile Ruvais, the director, the national treasure of France. He is class and he is genius and he is in love with me. He is much older, affectionate and not as sexually demanding as my husband. Émile says he cannot live without me. He says three wives have made him wise about marriage. He says I will be his last wife, that he can guarantee custody of my son, that he does not want more children, that I will be free to work as much as I please. He will put this all in a pre
marital agreement. All I have to do is write Gordon a note, open this door, carry my son out to that car and get in, and I will be free of Hollywood, free of him I do not love, and free of this house I hate. A house in Paris, a chateau in Burgundy, a flat in London, an apartment in New York. Film work in Émile’s movies. Everything I want.

  “Papa! Papa!” Christopher had cried, coming down the steps of the house and nearly falling.

  Gordon swept him up into his arms, hugging him for dear life. “What’s this Papa stuff?” he growled, kissing his son’s head.

  “Daddy,” Christopher sighed, clinging.

  Gordon smiled, his throat hurting not a little. And then he held Christopher out, his feet dangling three feet off the ground. “Look at the size of this guy, will you?” he said. He was growing quickly, this son of his. And he was blond, this child of his and Julie’s, with Gordon’s brown eyes, but otherwise showing Julie all over—the mouth, the narrow face, the high cheekbones. And Christopher would not be very big, taking after Julie’s side too. But he was a great kid, his son, a smart, lively, loving little kid, even if Julie was trying to make a sissy out of him. God, what was this outfit? Dress gray shorts and jacket and cap? What was he supposed to be, Little Lord Fauntleroy?

  “Qu’est-ce qui’il y a dans la boîte?” Christopher said, pointing to the birthday present that Gordon’s driver was taking out of the car.

  Didn’t Julie even have him speak in English anymore? “English, please, slugger,” Gordon said, setting him back down on the ground.

  “What’s in the box?” Christopher said, pulling him over to it.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur Strenn,” the butler said to Gordon, coming down the steps in his uniform.

  “Hi,” Gordon said, offering a small hint that he didn’t feel switching over to French. Christopher was tugging on his hand with one hand and clutching the ribbon around the box with the other. “Just a second, slugger,” he whispered.

  “Madame est sortie,” the butler said.

  “Where’d she go?” Gordon asked him.

  The butler smiled, bowing slightly. “Madame has gone out for the afternoon and wishes that you use her home in her absence.”

  “Can I open this now?” Christopher said, scrunching one eye up as he looked up at Gordon, as if this effort might somehow get a yes out of him.

  “Madame thought perhaps the garden,” the butler said. “Madame thought since it was such a lovely day.”

  “Yeah, madame,” Gordon muttered, stooping to pick up Christopher’s present.

  “The footman will—” the butler started to say.

  “Daddy’s going to carry it,” Christopher told him.

  “Okay, Christopher,” Gordon said, hefting the box, “lead the way to Madame’s garden.”

  And so Gordon and Christopher went out into the garden and opened his present and ‘spent all afternoon building things with his building blocks. Julie arrived home (looking wonderful, of course—but at least she was getting older, which he knew killed her a little every day, if she was still the Julie he knew), and she and Gordon even managed a laugh or two before he left. But then that night, after Christopher had gone to bed, Julie called Gordon at the hotel to discuss Christopher’s plans for the summer. The problem, she explained, was that she and Emile were going to Yugoslavia to shoot his new movie, and so, unless Gordon wanted to take Christopher full time in London for July, the Ruvaises would be taking him with them. Gordon asked how was he supposed to take care of Christopher when he had an entire production to baby-sit, and pointed out that it was damn strange that all of a sudden Ruvais had to shoot in Yugoslavia in July when he knew Gordon had been planning to spend every weekend with Christopher in Paris.

  “Of course I’d like Christopher with me in July,” Julie said, “but I’m offering you the chance to have him with you. Don’t you understand? You can have your son all month and then see him every weekend in Paris in August. I’ll send the nanny and—”

  “He’s not going to want to be away from you,” Gordon said quickly. “And I can’t take care of him while I’m working.”

  “I’ll send Mrs. Twickem, his nanny,” Julie said.

  “I can’t have him around when I’m working,” Gordon insisted.

  “Why not? I do,” Julie said. “I’m dying to take him to Yugoslavia with us.”

  “What do you mean working?” Gordon said. “You’re not even in the stupid movie.”

  “It’s not stupid, I am in it and besides, Gordon,” she said, her voice growing louder, “Émile is my husband and he likes for me to be with him when he works on location.”

  “You never went with me anywhere,” Gordon said.

  “You never went anywhere after you married me,” she snapped. “If you had, we’d probably still be married. So just grow up, Gordon, and at least pretend you’d like to spend some time with your son.”

  “What?” Gordon yelled, about to throw the phone out the window. “I do want to spend time with him—I want him with me.”

  “Well then, take him! You always say you want him and then you never do. For crying out loud, Gordon, with all your girlfriends in the last four years, you’d think you could have found one by now that even likes children.”

  “Alexandra loves children,” Gordon said.

  “Oh, Alexandra,” Julie groaned. “Is she back again?”

  “Yes, she is, for your information,” he said. “Permanently, if you must know.”

  Julie’s voice turned as cold as ice. “Oh, don’t you start in on me about Alexandra, Gordon Strenn. I heard about her almost every goddam day we were married. We all know how wonderful your Alexandra is. We all goddam well know how great she is in bed—don’t we? Don’t we, Gordon? You sure as hell threw it in my face often enough!”

  “Yeah, and it sure didn’t help, did it?” Gordon said.

  There was a long silence.

  And then Julie hissed, “You listen to me, Gordon Strenn. I am sick and tired of your complaining and your tantrums about Christopher and about Émile and about me and about our life as a family when you don’t make the slightest effort to help raise our son.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “It is true,” Julie screamed. “And as long as you’re screwing Alexandra, you’re never going to participate in his life because she won’t have anything to do with him.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true! You don’t love Christopher and you never loved me—”

  “Julie, stop it!”

  She was sobbing now. “You don’t love anyone—you don’t even know what it is! All you know how to do is fuck-you never knew how to love anyone-you never did—your goddam mother saw to that, didn’t she!”

  “I’ve got a token for the tunnel,” Betty said.

  “What?” Gordon said, startled.

  Betty was holding out a large metal coin. A token. “For the tunnel. Here.”

  “Oh,” he said, taking it from her, “thanks.” He downshifted into third, changing lanes as they approached the toll for the Midtown Tunnel.

  “Something 1 said?” Betty asked him.

  I’m sorry, what?” he said, glancing over at her.

  “Ground control calling Gordon,” she said, holding a fist to her mouth like a microphone, “come in, please.” She leaned closer. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, downshifting to second.

  “Hey, Betty,” he said a few moments later, as they waited in line for the toll, “how are you about kids?”

  “Adore them,” she said.

  “You do?” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “An aspiring rich and famous actress like you?”

  Betty looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping and then she leaned forward. “Don’t tell anybody,” she whispered as Gordon inched the car ahead, “but children are right up there over being rich and famous.”

  “Really?” he said, looking at her.

  She nodded, smiling.

  “I didn’
t know that,” Gordon said, turning back to the road.

  Huh. Maybe there was a way to bring Christopher to London after all.

  27

  The Unveiling

  Part IV: Langley

  Until Jessica came into the studio, Langley couldn’t believe that she was responsible for putting Belinda in such a euphoric mood. He hadn’t seen Belinda this happy in a long, long time. From the time they had taken their seats in the studio audience, Belinda hadn’t stopped talking about how marvelous Jessica was, how Jessica absolutely had to come out for dinner this summer, and all about how Jessica’s makeup and hair were done, and how Belinda had picked out Jessica’s jewelry for the show. But then, when Jessica came into the studio, Langley realized that this Jessica—the good sport who had been nice to his wife (god, he had died a thousand. deaths when Belinda insisted on meeting her)—was a Jessica he was not familiar with. And then he thought what an idiot he was, because of course this was the Jessica Wright that people loved, the Jessica Wright that had made Jessica such a success.

  When Jessica made her entrance the audience—unprompted started to clap and then were up on their feet, clapping and cheering. (Langley and Belinda too; the moment was like that. The moment Jessica appeared there was an inexplicable surge of energy in the studio, as if she were their victorious candidate coming in to make her acceptance speech.)

  “Hi, everybody, hi!” she called, waving at everybody, hopping onto the set. (Even her guests were standing, clapping.) “Thank you, thank you,” Jessica said, smiling, radiant. Then she went quickly down the line of guests, shaking their hands—while everyone continued to clap —and then she turned around, still smiling, shaking her head, clearly elated. “Oh, gosh—come on, you guys, we’ve got a show to do—thank you, thank you. Oh, no—look,” she said, looking across the studio.

  Everybody in the DBS newsroom and conference room was waving.

  “Hi, you guys,” Jessica called, waving back. “Remember, everybody,” she said, turning back to the audience and pointing to the newsroom, “Alexandra Eyes and the Dancing DBS Newsettes over there are on just before us at nine—Channel 8 here in New York, WST.” (People were taking their seats now.) “This show today,” Jessica continued, “as I think you know, will be taped and broadcast tonight at ten. But we do tape it as if it is a live show—meaning that these cameras roll for one hour, no more, no less.”

 

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