CHAPTER THREE
ALONG WITH HER SENSE of achievement, Janet also found a new source of personal happiness. After being in New York a year she finally met her first real friend—except, of course, for Fayge and her family. Janet and Kit Barstow were quite different in temperament and backgrounds, and their attitudes were far from the same; nonetheless, they were completely taken with each other.
Kit had been a freelance model since she was eighteen, and now that she was twenty-four she was taking a long look at her life. How many more years did she have as one of the top fashion models? Four, maybe five? She’d had it all, made the front cover of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue. Sure, it was exciting … who—as Janet too had discovered—wouldn’t like seeing their image staring back at them from a magazine rack? Yes, she’d loved it but now her best days were numbered and she knew it. For reasons other than Janet’s, the raven-haired, olive-skinned, green-eyed, five-foot-eight Kit Barstow had lost her drive. Who needed it? It would be nice to have a sense of, well … of belonging, to have a place to use to get out from under the rain. And so, secretly, she began to toy with the idea of marrying Nathan Weiss….
Strange, thought the forty-seven-year-old Janet sitting in her deck chair … What would have happened if she hadn’t gone to Kit’s party that particular Saturday night. She’d had no intention whatsoever of going, but Kit was adamant, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so she finally, reluctantly went. What a difference one small word could make—a no or ayes might have changed the direction of her whole life. If she’d said no that evening, chances were she also would not be on this magnificent voyage today. Twenty-seven years had passed, and yet she recalled each and every detail of that event as if it were yesterday.
It was the night she met Bill McNeil for the first time …
When she walked into Kit’s exquisite apartment it seemed as if most of the population of Manhattan was there. She looked around uncomfortably at the unfamiliar faces and searched for Kit, but there was no sign of her. People stood huddled in close groups, talking about whatever it was that people huddled in small groups talked about. Ten minutes later, Janet was still standing alone and feeling so ill at ease that she was tempted to leave, but just then she caught a glimpse of Kit, who waved “hello” from across the room.
Janet accepted a glass of champagne from a server and started across the room to join her friend, but her progress through the dense and shifting crowd was slow.
Suddenly someone backed into her, jostling her arm, and she was dismayed when she realized that the champagne that had been in her hollow-stemmed glass a moment before was now dripping down the front of a Brooks Brothers suit. She began to apologize, but as she looked up into the man’s face she broke off mid-sentence, stunned by her overwhelming awareness that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. All she could do was to stand mute as he took out his handkerchief and began to wipe the front of his jacket. Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry … I … I really am …”
“Forget it,” he answered, mopping up the remains. Without looking at her, he went on, “I’m going to give this damned suit away. It’s a jinx. Three times I’ve worn it and three times I’ve had it cleaned. I don’t know what there is about it, people just don’t seem to like this suit.”
“I … I know what you mean. I have a white dress like that … I’m really so sorry—”
“It’s okay. Think nothing of it,” and the next thing she knew he was gone.
She was so embarrassed and surprised by the effect he’d had on her that, without stopping to say goodnight to Kit, she promptly left the party.
In the lobby she asked the doorman to call a taxi, then walked out of the building to wait. Her heart thumped. He was standing there, also apparently waiting for a taxi. They looked at each other. He nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he only vaguely remembered it was she who had rained on his evening—or rather his suit—and then looked away. When the taxi arrived and he was about to get in, he hesitated and looked at Janet with some annoyance. “You take this one.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, but thank you. Mine will be here any time now.”
“Oh, come on, we’ll share this one.”
In a semitrance, she found herself sitting in the back seat, he in the extreme left corner and she in the right.
It was the voice of the driver that brought her back to earth. “Where to?”
By now she was so unstrung she couldn’t remember.
The next voice came from the left corner of the back seat. “What’s your address?”
“The Hotel Barbizon on—”
“I know, lady,” the cabby said.
After what seemed an eon of silence the man next to her said, “My name is Bill McNeil.”
“Janet Stevens … I want to apologize for spoiling your evening—”
“You didn’t spoil my evening, just my suit. The truth is, I wasn’t going tonight but Kit can be damned insistent.”
“That’s strange,” she said more to herself than to him.
“What?”
“I didn’t want to go either. Tonight, I mean. And you’re right. Kit doesn’t take no for an answer.”
That was the beginning and end of their conversation. As the cab stopped at the curb in front of the Barbizon Hotel, Bill asked the driver to wait, helped Janet out, escorted her to the door, said goodnight and was back in the cab before she could even say thank you for the ride.
Somehow she made it to her room and found herself leaning against the now closed door and staring into the dark. The heat of the room was not nearly as intense as the burning she felt. It was as though she had been hit by a kind of stroke. Quickly she opened the window and tried to catch her breath. No man had ever affected her the way Bill McNeil had. She probably would have fainted if he had kissed her goodnight or even if he had shaken hands. What in the world had happened to her tonight? And what was wrong with her … acting this way? She’d had her share of dating since she’d arrived in New York, but no one had really excited her. In fact, quite the opposite. Sooner or later, and usually sooner, they all got around to the same old line. You’re gorgeous … simply gorgeous. Love to see it without the draperies. Which was usually followed with … my place or yours? The propositions were so constant and so predictable, and the men so utterly lacking in desire to know anything about her beyond what met the eye, that she had felt almost inhuman. She began to find them repugnant, and she was exhausted by her efforts to fend them off tactfully. Finally she had given up the lovely apartment she had eventually taken and furnished to her taste and had moved to the Barbizon, a hotel for women only. She wasn’t a prude and even in Kansas girls knew about sex. But the opportunities that had been offered her could have made her the most underpaid, overworked bed partner in Manhattan, and so far she had never made love with a man. She’d saved the experience for someone very special, and somehow she had the feeling that that someone might be Bill McNeil. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t come on strong like all the others. For that matter, she reminded herself, he hadn’t even noticed her, much less made a pass or asked her out. But somehow she knew that he would. He had to. The more she thought of him, the more her feelings went into turmoil. At the moment, at least, nothing for them except a very cold shower.
After a sleepless night she looked at the bedside clock. It was only six in the morning, and another empty Sunday lay ahead of her. Well, one thing was sure. She couldn’t lie here any longer fantasizing about what it would be like going to bed with Bill McNeil. She had run the gamut on that one since two this morning. Quickly she got out of bed, went to the bathroom and took another shower. With the towel wrapped around her hair, she went back to the bedroom and dressed in a pair of plaid wool slacks, a cashmere turtleneck sweater and boots. Replacing the towel with a knit cap, she then buttoned her navy blue jacket, flung a muffler around her neck and grabbed up coin purse and keys as she left the room.
It was an extraordinarily mild and invigorating day for F
ebruary, not a cloud in the sky nor a threat of rain on the horizon.
Finding a coffee shop a few blocks away, she ordered tea and toast. No butter, thank you … had to keep those pelvic bones showing. Munching on the dry toast, she tried reading the Sunday paper but found that she could read no further than, “It has been rumored that before Joseph Stalin’s death last year, he …” when her mind wandered back to Bill McNeil. She visualized him as he lay in bed, his thick chestnut-brown hair in disarray, the deep brown eyes shut in repose, and his long, nude body sprawled under the sheets. In her fantasy she saw him getting out of bed, stretching away the last vestiges of sleep as he yawned … Now he was doing a dozen push-ups … now dashing quickly into the shower, letting the spray pelt against his lean and muscular body. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he lathered his face, took up his Schick razor and shaved. No, wait a minute, that’s what my father uses. Bill probably uses an electric. Refreshed and still nude, he went to the kitchen, measured the coffee grains into the Silex. Waited until the water turned a rich dark brown, poured a cup and brought it back to the living room, where he opened the front door, stuck out his hand and retrieved The New York Times. He scanned the pages as he sipped at his coffee, then threw the paper aside to read later and decided to dress and face the day. Leaving the bed unmade, the coffee cup unwashed, papers strewn on the floor, he dressed in a gray sweat suit and left the apartment. Where would he go? To Central Park? More than possible … Why not? Sunday mornings were the only time to get out into the fresh air after a long week in a stuffy office. The more she dwelled on it the more logical the fantasy became.
She got up quickly, leaving much of the toast and tea untouched, paid the check and proceeded toward the park.
Once inside the park she was deluged with a dozen overlapping thoughts—all negative. How in God’s name would she find him, if this was where he would be going? It was a good-sized park with plenty of trails and was it possible that she could accidentally bump into him? Stupid … STUPID … This is just a fantasy, she reminded herself, and you can’t manipulate reality. But there was an urge that compelled her on. Perhaps some unknown source had led her here, and him as well. There was such a thing as fate, or destiny. Don’t be ridiculous, Janet. Things happen spontaneously. This isn’t a movie, where you can change the script and make happy endings.
Abruptly a new thought occurred to her … maybe he could be at the skating rink. She walked quickly past the zoo and all but ran to the platform above the rink, where she had a perfect view of the skaters below. She scanned the panorama, carefully observing each face. The skaters pirouetted and twirled in pairs to the sound of a Chopin waltz coming over the loudspeaker. It was a romantic scene that made her sigh all the more deeply as she realized Bill wasn’t there. Slowly, she turned and walked away, the lovely music fading behind her.
By eleven that morning she’d given up, feeling like a female Walter Mitty. Slumping down on a park bench, she lectured herself, Well, you didn’t really think it would happen … In fact, you knew it wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Judy Garland, but you’re absolutely wrong. Wishing will not make it so. She sat looking out to the greenery beyond for a moment longer, then decided to go back to the hotel. Mission impossible not accomplished.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out of the window. God, how lonely Sundays were. Particularly this Sunday. Imagine, somewhere in this city was a man who had aroused feelings in her she’d never even been aware she had, brought out a kind of compulsive, irrational behavior … If this wasn’t love she couldn’t find a different or a better word for it. If her parents could see the state she was in and the reasons for it … Their words sounded in her ears … “Your father and I are not for your leaving college and going off to New York by yourself, but as much as we’re against it, we do give our consent … Janet, you’re very mature for nineteen and we know we can depend on you to do the right thing … you’re a very level-headed young woman, we’re very proud of you, and we know you won’t do anything to embarrass us or yourself …
Well, mother darling, you wouldn’t be so sure at this moment about that, not when I’m burning up and crazy in love with a man who doesn’t even know I exist. If I could, right now at this very minute, I would encourage him to seduce me. So there, mother, that’s your adorable little Janet, Girl Scout leader, pompom girl of the year, Miss Kansas Corn and runner-up for the Kansas Miss America. And, damn it, he didn’t even look at me. And you know something else, dear mother? The most shocking thing of all is I would never have guessed such passion was even a part of cool, calm and collected Janet Stevens. Cool? Some bad joke …
She got up, paced the floor. It was only eleven-thirty now and she couldn’t call Kit. Especially not on Sunday morning, after Nathan Weiss had spent the night. He always stayed over on Saturday nights. “Nat always screws best on Saturday night and Sunday morning,” Kit had said. What the day had to do with how well one made love remained a mystery to Janet. But then, it seemed she had a lot to learn in that department.
For lack of anything better to do she lay down and glanced through Harper’s Bazaar, which did little to distract her. She tossed the magazine across the room. Damn him. He hadn’t even noticed her. Damn, damn, damn. She went to the dresser and pulled out her album of stills. Back in bed once again, she braced herself against the backboard and carefully scrutinized the photographs. They were good. Hadn’t they been her passport to the best modeling school in New York? But he hadn’t noticed. Oh, nuts to it. So he hadn’t noticed her …
By noon she was climbing the walls and impulsively picked up the phone and called Kit.
A sleepy Kit answered in her morning basso profundo voice. “Hello and what the hell do you want?”
Janet was almost embarrassed enough to hang up, but instead said softly, “Kit, it’s me, Janet. I’m sorry I woke you—”
“Me too. But now that you have, what’s on your mind?”
“Kit … could we possibly have dinner tonight?”
An annoyed silence, then, “That’s what you called for? At this time of the morning?”
“Well… no, not really. The truth is I … have to talk to you.”
Nat was awake now and beginning to claim her attention.
“Listen, Janet, I’ll call you back about four.” The phone went silent.
Oh, God. What was she going to do until four? She hadn’t felt so panicked and alone since she had first come to New York. And all because of a man who didn’t even know she existed.
Quickly she dressed again and left the room. Instead of waiting for the elevator she ran down five flights of stairs. Once outside the hotel she stood wondering. Maybe she’d go to a movie. Or … maybe the Metropolitan Museum. No, not today. The nudes of the old masters, with their inward-looking satisfied gazes, would be no solace for her now.
She walked aimlessly down Fifth Avenue, stopping from time to time in front of a store window, but all she saw reflected in the glass was the face of a woman who was all but invisible to Bill McNeil. Damn him, he hadn’t noticed her and it hurt. Somehow he had gotten down deep inside her, unlocking all the hidden doors she’d so carefully guarded, and opening others that she hadn’t known existed.
Finally she took the bus uptown to 59th Street, got off and walked toward the hotel … home.
It was three-thirty when she let herself in, weary from her sleepless night and the emotional turmoil of the day. She undressed, sat on the edge of the bed watching the clock. The minutes seemed like hours, as though they were standing still. Would Kit remember to call, or would her sexual idyll push the outside world from her mind? Was sex so all-consuming that reason was forgotten? With each passing moment her desperation built to such a pitch that she was more and more tempted to call Kit back. It was a quarter past four. Unable to control herself any longer, she was about to pick up the phone when it rang. For a moment she froze, her hands shaking as she took the receiver off the hook. “Kit?”
“How’d you guess? Now tell me
what you called for this morning.”
Haltingly, she said, “I thought we could go to dinner … just the two of us … Look, Kit, I have to talk to you.”
There was a long pause.
“Kit, are you there?”
“Barely … I’m really beat.”
“I know, I can imagine after giving such a large party last night—”
“After the party ended the party began. One thing about Nat, his stamina improves with time. One volley after another. If he could package it he could make a fortune. So you don’t misunderstand, I happen to love it …”
“I guess it must be wonderful to be in love—”
“You’d better believe it, kiddo. I love the way he makes me feel, before, during and after. Now about tonight … look, I really am sort of beat.”
Tears came into Janet’s eyes. Much as she loved Kit, she felt a resentment she couldn’t deny. There really weren’t any friends, not when you needed them. God, she missed her mother and father, maybe she should go home … People here were just too tough for her, too glib, too self-centered, didn’t really give a damn when it came right down to it. Or maybe she was too much a part of Kansas, where neighbors were always willing to help, no matter what, or when. She’d thought that everyone was like the people she’d grown up with … That was partly why she’d been so drawn to Fayge. But now she realized how unprepared she had been for New York after all, for its big bad impersonal world. Or maybe it was just the profession she’d chosen, maybe not everybody here was like the people she’d come in contact with in the fashion industry. She still remembered the shock she’d felt when someone said, “Here, get your ass into this one,” as if she were just a hunk of meat ready to be hung in a butcher shop. And the four-letter words that everybody used. Everything was a four-letter word. She had heard it often enough since coming to New York. It was just a part of the lexicon. The f—camera … what the f— … and so on. Effie would have washed their mouths out with soap. But come to think of it, she was a prude. She remembered being on the edge of tears after a photographer had thrown a white chiffon dress at her and yelled, “Get your ass into this, double-time.” That was the day she’d spoken to Kit for the first time … “Don’t take it to heart, sweetie,” Kit had said. “It’s nothing personal. That’s called communication. It goes with the territory. In one ear and out the other. F— ’em.”
Come Pour the Wine Page 5
