We lay on our backs, side by side, as our breathing slows. He leans up, his head on his hand looking down at me and takes a corner of the sheet to wipe my hand and stomach.
“That was a lovely way to wake up.” I say softly. I run my fingers lightly along his cheek with its beautiful smooth skin and stubble of whiskers.
“I liked it, too, baby. It’s fun playing with your body while you are still half asleep.” He leans forward and kisses my mouth softly. “Maybe we can play some more.”
In the early morning quiet, I begin to hear a rhythmic squeaking sound. It is coming from the other bedroom. Austen and I look at each other and grin. John and Emma are now awake, too.
After a big breakfast—bacon, eggs, pancakes, sausages, plus strong coffee—we start our hike through the old growth redwood forest at Armstrong Woods Park. The massive trees are towering and awe-inspiring; a couple of them are over 300 feet tall and have been given names. Wow, that’s a 30 story building. The winding paths at the lower end of the park are soft and deep with redwood needles and leaf litter. Sunlight filters down in patches through the high tree branches to pockets of green ferns on the ground. The air is still and silent.
The sign for the narrow one-lane road that goes up to the top of the ridge where the park ends indicates that it is less than two miles to the top. We decide to take the steep switchback foot trail, instead of the road. We see no one else as we climb up the hard, beaten trail; it feels as if we are the last four people on earth. By the time we reach the top of the ridge, we have left the dark forest behind and I know we have hiked a lot more than two miles. From there the views are spectacular. As we nibble on candy bars that Emma brought along for us, we look down on the towering redwoods in the valley below. In the distance we can see the fog sitting offshore and creeping into the mouth of the river. It is mid-afternoon by the time we descend back to the park entrance where Austen left the car.
The sugar buzz from the candy bars has worn off. All four of us are absolutely ravenously hungry after that long hike. At the same restaurant as last night we order huge early dinners and eat every bite. It leaves me groggy and I can hardly wait to go to bed. Austen has other ideas and we make love, then drift off to sleep.
Sunday we decide to pass up Fort Ross and Korbel champagnes and go back on the river in inner tubes once again. It’s playtime on the river. We are like four kids who can’t get enough of a fun ride at a carnival.
“Thank you for this weekend,” I tell Austen as he parks in front of our little cottage back in the city. “That was more fun than I’ve ever had in my life.”
“I’m glad you liked it, baby.”
He pulls me toward him and kisses me deeply, passionately, then stops. “We’re on the verge of public indecency again.” He grins. I get out of the car and watch him drive away.
Chapter Eighteen
Monday morning I move into what used to be Cathy’s office—I am sure it was a storage closet at one point—and start sorting through a mountain of press releases and notices of events which have accumulated since she left. Some have already happened, so I discard them. I have to decide on some sort of system to manage all the ones I keep. I can’t figure out how Cathy organized it. If she had a system, it isn’t obvious to me.
My phone rings. It’s the third time in the last half hour someone has called to tell me about an event. Each of them expects me to chat with them a little bit, then take down the information. This is too much like what Ali does all day: write what people tell her on the phone, then rewrite and edit so it is suitable for publication. I can see how it would become boring after a while, especially when her calls are always about cars for sale and apartments for rent. This is a distraction I don’t need. It’s eating up my time for organizing and editing the huge pile of press releases and other notices.
The next two calls are from readers who want to know what happened to Weekly Events. I call our temp receptionist—Susie called in sick this morning—and ask her to screen the phone calls and try to handle the ones like these by herself.
“Please tell them nicely that Weekly Events will be back in the next issue. Don’t try to explain anything. Just be pleasant.” She agrees. I thank her. I hope Susie is really not feeling well and not on a job interview. If she leaves I’ll definitely feel like the rat who doesn’t know the ship is sinking.
The phone rings again.
“Hey Julia. It’s Mark. Congratulations. I just heard about your promotion.”
“Thanks, Mark.” Should I mention how upset I was about that photo he sold to Rags? Maybe not. Right now it seems like such a minor thing compared to what is happening at Voices and, besides, that photo episode is over and done with.
“I owe a lot of this to you. If it hadn’t been for you calling Dan, I hate to think where I would be working now. What are you doing these days?”
“Still freelancing. I’ve done a couple of pieces for San Francisco magazine and that one for Rolling Stone. I hope you keep me in mind when you guys are handing out assignments over there, Julia.”
“I will, but I think Eric has his own group of writers. Is your phone number still the same?”
He says it is and then he asks me out to lunch.
“Maybe later, after things have settled down here,” I tell him.
A half an hour later, someone calls in about an upcoming performance out in the Richmond District not far from where we live. It’s on a Monday night so maybe Ali and I can go see it. Then a woman calls about a musical event three weeks from now. She says would really appreciate it if we did a feature about it, as well as listing it in Weekly Events and tells me at length how significant this performance of ancient music on ancient instruments is.
This has to stop. I’m going to put a notice in the next issue that all events have to be submitted in writing. That’s the way it worked at TV Weekly and if it was good enough for the magazine with the largest circulation in America, it should be good enough for Voices. I will have to mention the ancient music concert to Eric, though. It sounds fascinating and I definitely want to go see it. I’m sure Austen would be interested.
I suddenly realize it is noon. I have to get out of here and have lunch. I need a break from all this craziness. The temporary receptionist tells me she received five more calls this morning from readers about the Weekly Events section being missing and she sorts through a big stack of yellow message slips and hands several to me. I glance through them. None look like calls I need to return immediately.
“It has really been busy this morning.” She sounds a bit overwhelmed.
Mid-afternoon Dale stops by to tell me that I absolutely must include all events happening at businesses that advertise with us. Absolutely all of them. A couple of his advertisers have called complaining about their events being omitted.
“They come first,” he informs me. “It’s your job to keep our advertisers happy so they will keep advertising with us…so we can keep getting paychecks.”
“I’ll do the best I can, Dale, but I only have three columns to work with for the next edition. That’s half of what Cathy used to have.”
“Ah shit,” he snarls. “Eric is such a bleeping asshole. I thought when he gave you the job he’d give back all the space. He wanted to get rid of Cathy, you know. Force her out as fast as he could. They both worked at the same place a couple of years ago and didn’t get along. Well, all that counts now is that our advertisers’ events are listed. So make sure that happens.”
He turns on his heel, walks out of my office, obviously ticked off. Oh god, office politics. I hate it. I hate being badgered and bullied.
My phone rings again. To my eyes it looks like a black snake poised to strike. What now? I answer it. Eric wants to see me in his office. He hands me two manuscripts from freelancers —one, a movie review, the other, an art essay—with instructions to edit them to fit the space allowed for them in the upcoming edition.
“You’re a college girl, you know about arts and literature—
that kind of thing—so this should be right up your alley.”
He picks up a pencil and goes back to editing a manuscript on his desk without another word. Apparently I am dismissed. I think about mentioning the ancient music concert then decide I’d better not.
As I leave Voices’ office at the end of the day the receptionist says she received 4 more calls this afternoon about the missing Weekly Events. And she hands me another bunch of messages. All from people I don’t know and nothing looks urgent. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
It’s nice to know I’m going to be responsible for a section that is so popular, I reflect, as I climb onto the bus, heading home. Even better is the fact that I will be editing a movie review and that art essay. That’s a step up from editing Weekly Events listings. Maybe working for Eric is going to be a good thing for me after all.
* * *
It feels like it has been months instead of days since I’ve been able to sit down and really talk with Ali. We’re eating take-out pepperoni and black olive pizza for dinner with a bottle of Sal’s wine. Tony gave her a couple of bottles to bring home. The Rolling Stones’ Beggars Banquet is playing on our record player. “Sympathy for the Devil” is my favorite song on that album. The music is haunting. The lyrics, so true, but disturbing. It is getting a lot of play on that new FM station.
Ali is still glowing and obviously happier than she has been for a while. She has a habit of making a decision and jumping right in and most of the time she lands on her feet, but not always. Tony seems to be her newest jump-right-in decision and, so far, it seems to be okay.
“We went out on his boat on Sunday afternoon and then he took me over to his brother’s restaurant. He is wonderful,” she sighs. “Sometimes you just know what’s right, Julia. Like you and Austen.”
Ha, I say to myself. You wouldn’t have said that two weeks ago. “So tell me more about him.”
“He comes from a big Italian family: cousins and aunts and uncles all over the place. You’ve met Luke and his uncle Sal. He has another brother, Nick. His father died about a year ago and the family decided that Tony should run the printing company. He told me he is updating their equipment and expanding the business.”
Then she asks: “How was the Russian River?”
“The Russian River was sort of muddy and slow—but so much fun. It was like being a kid again. The whole weekend was playtime for grownups.” I laugh and go on to tell her about inner tubing down the river and hiking in the redwoods.
She then tells me that the photography is going well. In addition to taking candid photos, she has convinced Charli and one other woman in her office to model for her. She likes the look of the clothes she has asked them to wear, but she still isn’t entirely happy with the photos she’s taken. I wonder how many “candid” street fashions are really staged by photographers. Ali can’t be the only one doing this.
As we go upstairs to bed I realize Austen hasn’t called tonight. He usually calls on Monday.
He doesn’t call me at the office on Tuesday either, so I guess I am not going to spend the night with him. Strange, he didn’t say anything about that on Sunday night.
By Wednesday I am scanning the newspapers. If he had been in a wreck or something, I’m sure it would be in the news. John would have called me if something terrible happened, wouldn’t he? Maybe I should call Austen, but I am getting an uneasy feeling about not hearing from him. What does it mean? I dial his phone number then hang up after one ring. My sense of insecurity grows. What if he is there, but with another woman?
On Thursday I decide that I have to call him. The phone rings and rings. No answer. Where is he? Why hasn’t he called?
I call again Friday. Again, the phone rings and rings. Again, no answer. Fear about what this could mean begins to flood into my consciousness: am I now just another discarded girl? Does he have someone new in his life? I push it back down. No, that can’t be true—can it?
By Saturday morning my anxiety and fears are screaming off the charts and it is all too apparent to Ali.
“Have you called John?”
“I don’t know his number.”
“Then be sensible, Julia,” she scolds. “Get in your car, drive over to his house and knock on the door.”
“I can’t. What if he’s there and treats me like Mirabelle. ‘Go away. Don’t come back.’ That’s what he said to her. And his voice was so cold. So cold. I couldn’t handle that kind of rejection. I just couldn’t. I’d rather—“
“Who’s Mirabelle?”
“A trophy hunting groupie who has been following him around—at least that’s how he described her. She has long black hair and wears pirate boots and even suggested a three-some with Austen and me.” I shudder as I remember that.
“Oh Julia, you need a regular boyfriend—not some idiot guitar player with silly groupies in pirate boots hanging around him.” Her voice sounds so concerned but also angry. “You deserve so much better than that self-centered jackass, that blue-eyed devil. Look, I can fix you up with Nick. Or Ned, the kayaking guy. No groupies. No three-somes. No disappearing acts with either of them. I know that Ned is interested in you, but he heard about Austen and you…”
I shake my head. Oh, no. The ‘Austen wall’ effect has expanded beyond my office. Then I remember what Dan said about everyone knowing who everyone else is fooling around with in San Francisco. Now, apparently, it has happened to me. For a second I wonder how long it is going to take for the word to spread that Austen has dumped me.
“Julia, you know they are only here for the summer. He’s a real S.O.B. to treat you this way, but he is going to be gone in another month or so anyway. You deserve better—you really do.”
Ali’s words barely touch me. All I know is that Austen is gone and it feels so painful.
Somehow I try to make it through the weekend. Still no phone call from him by Saturday evening. At night I lay awake and try not to think of him and his honey voice and that soft black hair and his hands on my body and everything we have done together. It is impossible. My mind repeats and repeats it all. Eventually I slip into sleep for a few hours.
On Sunday I try to concentrate on two additional manuscripts that Eric handed me late Friday afternoon. It appears that he is washing his hands of most of the cultural articles. He only works on the political, anti-war, Anti-Nixon ones. That leaves me and Tim, our long-haired, hippie-looking guy, the one remaining associate editor, to handle everything else. I know Tim is working this weekend, too, and I hope his work doesn’t include polishing his resume.
Monday: Tim is still at his desk—that’s a relief—but no phone call from Austen. By Monday evening, I realize that I have to accept that it is really over. No explanation. No reason why. Just over.
“Julia, come and have dinner,” Ali calls from the kitchen. She has prepared dinner by herself this evening; I’ve been sitting on the blue sofa staring into space since I arrived home from work.
“I’m not hungry. Thanks.”
“You have to eat, Julia.”
Ali comes into the living room.
“Do you want to talk?”
It’s the second time she has asked me that. I shake my head.
“Julia, please eat something. You look skinnier. You will make yourself sick if you don’t. He’s not worth getting sick.”
I know she’s right. In the last week my clothes have begun to feel baggy. I must have lost a few pounds. I know I have to eat something, so seated at the table in the kitchen, I take a few bites of the eggplant Parmesan and a few sips of the red wine. Ali talks about her day at work and photography. I try to pay attention, but my mind wanders and I catch myself staring into space again.
“Sorry, I’m not very good company now. I think I’ll go upstairs and read for a while.”
“Oh Julia…if you want to talk…”
I shake my head again and smile at her. She is a good friend, my best friend, but talking won’t change anything now.
Sitting on my mattr
ess-bed, I discover that I am too numb to even cry. I am emotionally shut down. It feels like there is a huge jagged hole in my life. I want to curl up in a dark little corner somewhere, put a blanket over my head and scream. I want to run down the middle of the street and shriek and howl to the sky. This must be what withdrawal from drugs feels like. I want him. I want to be with him. I want to hear his honey voice. I want to talk with him, laugh with him, hear him play his guitar for me. I have never missed anyone as much as this in my life. It is agony. Pure agony. And he has dropped me without a word.
* * *
A few minutes before noon on Tuesday, Susie calls and tells me I have a visitor in the reception area. Austen? My pulse beats faster as I quickly walk down the hall. It is Ned wearing a suit and a very friendly smile.
“Hi, Julia. I was in the area and thought maybe you’d like to go out to lunch.”
“I don’t have much time today, but maybe a quick lunch. I’ll get my jacket.” As I walk down the hall back to get my jacket I think: ‘in the area’? That’s not likely. The offices for his TV station are on the other side of the city. I suspect Ali had a role in Ned’s sudden appearance at Voices office.
Playing for Julia Page 12
