Spawn of Hell

by William Schoell

  So he sat there and wondered how he could start up a conversation with her.

  It had not been a good evening for Anna Braddon Bishop.

  She knew it was going to be a disaster when Derek called at six o’clock and said that he’d be late getting home. They were due at the party at seven sharp and there’d be no way they could get there on time if they didn’t leave within forty minutes. She knew how long it would take Derek to get home—at least twenty minutes from the midtown office of the Longton Agency—and then another half hour for him to shower, shave and change into formal clothes. Ten minutes late wouldn’t matter for most occasions, but Miriam Hunter meant it when she said, “Be on time.” To walk in ten minutes after everyone else would be embarrassing, to say the least. Miriam allowed time for one drink before dinner, along with the de rigueur hors d’oeuvres, but few people managed to finish their cocktails before they were ushered into the dining room. Mrs. Hunter did not approve much of drinking, social or otherwise. And Anna loved a drink before dinner, especially this kind of dinner, sitting right next to two film stars, three producers and a director, along with other society types. She’d need something to calm her nerves, and she didn’t want to take another Valium. But if they were late—too late to be offered a drink—she’d have to. Damn Derek.

  She knew that he’d been in a meeting with the head of the Longton Modeling Agency since two p.m., discussing new projects, tossing around the idea of Derek doing the Sexton Men’s Jeans campaign, which would take him to Europe at just the time he needed to be in New York to record his first album. Derek hadn’t much of a voice, but record producer Lydia Allstedder had taken quite a fancy to him. Anna was no fool. She knew exactly what Derek’s audition for the old battle-axe had entailed. She wondered idly while she dressed if the meeting with Sam Longton had actually run overtime, or if Derek had been calling from Mrs. Allstedder’s—or some other woman’s—apartment. Did it really matter?

  And then to make matters worse, Tallulah, her Irish setter, came running in, anxious to frolic with her mistress.

  “I’m in a hurry, Tallulah,” Anna said, “and I don’t have time to play with you this evening.” She looked through her jewelry case for her earrings. Damn—she’d seen them only a minute ago. “Why don’t you go downstairs and see if Clara had made your dinner yet?”

  But Tallulah could not be gotten rid of so easily. The setter grabbed hold of one of Anna’s brand new shoes and began to chomp on it delightedly.

  “No, Tallulah!” Anna screamed. “Give me my shoe!” She managed to pull the shoe out of the dog’s mouth before too much damage had been done, but it wasn’t exactly in great condition, either.

  Looking for new amusement, the setter jumped up on Anna’s lap and started lovingly licking her freshly made-up face.

  “No, no! Get away! Tallulah! Get away from me!”

  The dog fell to all fours dejectedly. “I’ve had enough,” Anna scolded. “I have to do my face all over again, pick out a new pair of shoes, and brush the red hair off my dress. Now get out of here!”

  Bored and annoyed, Tallulah turned on her heels and went downstairs to terrorize the maid.

  Surveying the damage in the mirror, Anna could only think that things would get worse.

  They did.

  Anna and Derek arrived at the Hunter dinner party at exactly 7:15. Not only did they not get a cocktail, but they were told to wait in the living room until dinner was over and dessert was served. Derek helped himself to a drink, ignoring the dirty look from the butler, while Anna fumed. She held her tongue, though; she didn’t want that ugly, dour-eyed manservant to overhear their quarrel. And it would be quite a quarrel. Finally, the man left to attend to some other business.

  “Aren’t you humiliated?” Anna hissed.

  “No.” He smiled, sipping his martini. “I had a bite to eat just before the meeting broke up. Sam had sandwiches sent up from the deli.”

  “Wonderful. Well, I’m starving.”

  “You’ll get dessert.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind. Mrs. Hunter has her own chef. I wanted some of his French cuisine. He’s famous for it.”

  “Pour some wine over your chocolate cake and you’ll have French food, all right?”

  “Derek, sometimes you make me want to scream.”

  “I can’t put up with all this ‘society’ jazz. The only reason we ever get invited to these silly functions is because half the people want your body and the other half want mine. They don’t invite us for our brains, darling.”

  “Maybe in your case they know better than to expect something ‘upstairs.’ Couldn’t you have tried a little harder to get home on time? You knew I was counting on you.”

  “I feel real sorry for you, Anna.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re trying too hard to be accepted. You won’t face the fact that these people aren’t interested in you, in Anna Braddon, the person. They’re interested in the voluptuous model in the TV ads, the personality, the celebrity—to put it bluntly—the tits, baby, the tits.”

  “Do you have to be so crude?”

  “ ‘Do you have to be so crude,’ “ he mimicked. “You don’t even talk like the lady I married. You’re letting the current American obsession with your looks go straight to your head.”

  “Oh! And what about you?—God’s gift to women. Are you supposed to be a shrinking violet? You’ve used your looks to get into every bedroom in town, not to mention a record contract.”

  “That’s because I’m smart enough to know what people want of me. Nobody cares if either of us know how to use the finger bowl, or if we know the difference between the salad fork and the one you use for the main course. We’re here tonight strictly as window dressing, and frankly, I’m getting bored with it. At least I know where to go when I feel like being useful.”

  “Mrs. Allstedder’s, I suppose. There’s nothing more useful than screwing your way into a second career.”

  “A most lucrative one, I might add. You know, your holier-than-thou attitude is beginning to bug me. You weren’t exactly little Miss Goody Two Shoes during your long climb up the ladder of success.”

  “I know that. I’m not saying either of us should be ashamed of using our looks to get ahead. Anyone would if they were able to. I’m not blaming you for that. I’ve had plenty of male Mrs. Allstedders in my life. It’s just that—I want something more. I don’t know.”

  Derek looked at her and said very softly, almost sweetly, “I’m sorry, honey. I love you, but I don’t want to live like this, worrying about impressing people who are no better than I am. I grew up in the Bronx. I wanted money and success all my life, just like you did. But I don’t want a wife like Billie Burke in Dinner At Eight.”

  “I never saw that picture.”

  “Pity. We don’t even like the same movies.”

  And then the butler came out and told them that dessert was being served. They were ushered into the next room, a huge dining room with a long table covered with a gold and white cloth. The supper dishes had been taken away, and all eyes of the ten or so guests looked up and over to the door as the handsome duo walked in. Anna felt her face turn hot and red and sweaty with embarrassment. Derek was, as usual, the epitome of cool, so self-assured in his staggering sex appeal and its effect that he was totally unconcerned with the stares.

  Mrs. Hunter got up to greet them. She was fortyish, plump, with a wavy black hairdo streaked with sections of white. “So sorry you missed dinner,” she cooed, pressing her cheek against Anna’s, and then Derek’s.

  “If you’re sorry, why didn’t you let us in here?” Derek said smoothly, not blinking an eye.

  Anna cut into the awkward silence which followed as gracefully as possible. “I know it’s terrible when your guests don’t show up on time,” she said, her smile too big, her laugh too strained, “and interrupt everything. All we’re in the mood for anyway is some nice cake and coffee; right, dear?” She patted Derek’s chee
k with more force than necessary.

  Mrs. Hunter showed them to their chairs and introductions were made all around. They sat across from each other, at the head of the table, right next to the hostess. The film stars were no-shows and had been replaced by an obscure senator and his wife. A heavy-set film producer with bulldog jowls sat on Anna’s right, his wife on Derek’s left. She looked like a female version of her husband. Within ten minutes the producer’s hand was on Anna’s knee; his wife’s hand was practically in Derek’s lap. There was no subtle way of removing it.

  The cake was served, along with several delicious pastry selections, hot coffee, spicy tea and liquor. Derek spilled half a glass of creme de menthe on his shirt (he flicked it off with his fingertips, hoping no one would notice), when the producer’s wife’s fingertips crept over spiderlike to the lump inside his trousers.

  After coffee they all went back into the living room, where Derek tried to disengage himself from the woman. Anna was having no better luck trying to get rid of Mr. Bulldog. The man blabbered on about a picture deal of some sort, although she doubted if he had any intention of putting her in movies.

  Anna looked over at her husband. She could read the look on his face easily: “So this is ‘society,’ “ it said.

  The fight on the way home in the cab was even worse than the minor spat they’d had in Mrs. Hunter’s living room. It was somewhere between Park and Fifth Avenues that Anna finally realized that their marriage was over, and there was no chance left to save it. They had decided almost a week earlier (as the gossip columns had accurately reported) to have a trial separation beginning the next month, for Anna had hoped that some time away from each other would help strengthen their relationship in the long run. But she knew that she had been fooling herself.

  She believed in open marriage, she knew that she and Derek might have to engage in extramarital episodes in order to get ahead, she recognized that she was more concerned with upward progression among the upper classes than Derek was. For all his beauty and sophistication, Derek was still “just plain folks” and always would be. She thought she could accept his quiet mockery of her hopes and dreams of traveling in better circles now than she had traveled in her youth.

  But she couldn’t. Open marriage was fine for other people, but Derek’s indiscreet playing around was getting to her ego, and the fact that she was desired by thousands of men she’d never even met or seen didn’t help to take away any of the hurt and loneliness. Derek seemed to take his infidelities much more seriously than she ever could; he went into it with a relish far surpassing any feelings she could generate for some rich TV executive who promised her a juicy contract for one night in the hay. He seemed to need these episodes. Did he need constant reaffirmation of his attractiveness; was he a repressed, unliberated bisexual with a Don Juan complex, bedding women when he really wanted men? Did it matter? No. In any case, Anna simply couldn’t take it any longer.

  There was a lot of shouting and screaming and crying, and the cabbie had an earful. It was nothing they hadn’t said a million times before, and they decided to go for the Big D. Divorce. Anna rushed into the house leaving him to pay the driver. She stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door so hard the whole house shook. She flopped onto the bed and had a good cry. Derek was wise enough to stay out, out of the room, out of her way. Half an hour later, in casual clothes and her hair pulled back, she had stormed out the door and into the night.

  So here she was in Peg O’ Hearts again—where she and Derek had shared a drink only the night before, had laughed, and reminisced and enjoyed each other’s company—trying to think things over by herself, away from the house, his house. She had to face it. She was just another date as far as he was concerned.

  And just when she’d decided that she’d had her fill of handsome models and playboys and jetsetters, she looked up from her martini and saw this sort of disheveled-looking character, a half-inebriated sad sack, attractive in a waning sort of way, sitting farther down the bar, almost the complete opposite of her husband in style and demeanor. She remembered that she had seen him the night before. What was he—a wacko? A sex-starved Jack the Ripper? A groupie? Another “television producer”?

  Or better yet, a perfectly nice guy who found her attractive and wanted some fun. A real lamb. A pussycat. Somebody who could take her mind off Derek. Somebody who was nothing like Derek. Or were “all men the same?” No.

  She ordered another martini. And then another.

  What was there about that fellow? He was kinda cute and lovable, one of those people you could tell was nice just by looking at them.

  So she finally motioned the bartender over and told him to buy the gentleman a drink, on her. She watched as the barman placed the martini in front of the man, saw the astonished look on his face as he was told who’d bought it for him.

  Anna, she thought, you’re drunk.

  And as he started to open his mouth, started to say thank you and hello, Anna was part relieved, part glad—and part afraid that she had just made the worst mistake of her not very long or satisfying life.

  Chapter Four

  They woke several hours later in the Belaire Hotel, fourteenth floor, room 1408.

  David was wide awake while Anna was still yawning and stretching her arms. He took a look around the room —it was nearly a suite, actually—and couldn’t believe it. Then he took a look down at Anna and couldn’t believe it even more. He, David Hammond, in one of the city’s ritziest hotels, in bed with one of the world’s ritziest women. He vaguely remembered what had transpired during the night—before they’d come to the hotel, that is —the rest he would never forget.

  She had stunned him by making the first move in the bar, by buying him a drink. He’d said “thank you” and she took off with it, inviting him to sit next to her, engaging him in small talk that seemed stimulating and witty coming from her lovely lips. They had one or two more drinks—he was lucky he hadn’t passed out—and then she asked him if he’d like to spend the night with her. It was that simple.

  She took charge right away, which was lucky, considering that David could not have spared the money for the cab and then the hotel room. He remembered sitting on one of the sofas in the stadium-sized lounge, while Anna went over to the desk clerk and began expressing “dismay” over losing her luggage. Chances are in this day and age that even the finest hotels wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, but perhaps she was thinking of her image. A twenty-dollar bill in the clerk’s palm helped to get them a good room at that hour without luggage or reservation, and they had made their way up to 1408 posthaste. David was quite flattered—imagine her spending so much money just so she could have a one-night stand with the likes of him. Not that it would make much of a dent in her income. Still . . . it was nice.

  He went into the bathroom and washed up a bit, sloshing around toothpaste in his mouth with his finger. Like the hospital, the hotel supplied small little tubes and bottles of assorted toiletries. He was splashing water on his face when he saw her in the mirror, standing by the door, absolutely naked and beautiful. She smiled when she saw that he had seen her.

  “Good morning,” she said, one hand on her hip. “When you’re through, we’ll go down for breakfast.”

  A momentary panic seized David in its grip. Breakfast in this joint would cost a pretty penny, and he didn’t have much on him, and couldn’t spare any of it to begin with. How much longer could he mooch off her? If only she had added “on me.” Maybe he should just tell her that he had an early appointment and had to split. He dried his face with a towel and went back into the bedroom. No. He wanted to spend more time with her, to get to know her better. He would order coffee (probably $2.50 per cup in this place) and hope that breakfast was dutch.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” she said, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door. She kept her word. She came out only minutes later and went to the chair where they had piled their clothes. She slipped into her jumpsuit while David checked how he looked i
n his wrinkled outfit in the large mirror over the dresser. It would have to do.

  He noticed that she was wearing none of her Exclusiva cosmetics and she looked just as lovely without them. He saw a small patch of freckles under her eyes, barely visible on the pale skin. Her eyes were a magnificent shade of blue. Her body—now covered—had been breathtaking. He had felt positively ugly next to her. Stone-cold sober he would never have been able to make love to her. He would have felt like the beast molesting beauty, Quasimodo ravaging Esmeralda. He knew he wasn’t unattractive, but he also knew that she had made love regularly to a husband who was built like a Greek god. Yet, she had seemed to enjoy his ministrations during the evening; he knew he had enjoyed hers.

  “Ready?” she said. He nodded and they stepped out into the corridor. David realized that neither of them was saying very much, but somehow it seemed perfectly natural and comfortable, at least to him, as if they were old friends who didn’t find it necessary to converse every single second. He liked that.

  Waiting for the elevator, she turned to him, and brushed a piece of hair back up off his forehead. “Do you have a busy day ahead?” she asked.

  “Not really. I have a few things to do.”

  She consulted her wristwatch. “Well, it’s 10:30. I hope you didn’t miss anything.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I had. I’ve been having a wonderful time.”

  “Me, too.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth. “David.”