He smiled. It was nice that she had remembered his name.
“Do you have a busy day?” he asked.
She bit her lip and thought for a moment. “Nothing today, really. An appointment at three.” Before she could continue, the elevator came. They got on, managing to stay together despite the fact that the car was packed. David noticed a few people staring at Anna, having recognized her. Two middle-aged women began whispering.
The car opened again at the lobby floor, and they disembarked; Anna led him to a small coffee shop located at one end of the lounge. A waitress showed them to a table, and handed them menus. “This is on me,” Anna said. “Have anything you like.”
“Well—that’s very nice of you,” he said, feeling relief. He was very hungry, but didn’t want to take advantage. He decided on some bacon and eggs and coffee, which was reasonably priced, if nowhere near as cheap as in most restaurants.
Anna had the same. As she sipped her grapefruit juice, which the waitress had brought immediately, she asked: “Going job hunting today?”
“Why—how did you know that?”
“You mentioned it last night.” That’s right, he had forgotten. “I’ve been unemployed myself. I know how it is.”
He felt a trifle embarrassed. The meal, the room, the cab, even the drinks last night. She had paid because she knew how poor he must have been. He hoped he hadn’t sounded desperate about it, although he was certainly in a desperate position.
“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that now,” he said. “I see your commercials all the time.”
She laughed. “Yes. Last night you went over each commercial with me, analyzing each shot practically.”
“Really? I must have been a big bore.”
“Not at all. I was flattered that you took such an interest.”
“I recall you telling me how they managed to get a shot of you dangling from a helicopter. Didn’t you say it was a double in the long shots—”
“And back projection in the closeups, yes. You remembered.”
“Where will you be wearing your Exclusiva next? Flying over a bullring? Skiing down Mount Everest? Floating on the Hudson?”
She giggled and dug into her bag for a cigarette. She offered him one, but he declined. “Sometimes I wonder myself. I have to admit that those ads are pretty silly. But I have fun doing them. Except it’s much more tedious than one would imagine. A lot of waiting around. Endless hours in the chair being made up, having your hair styled. Not that I’m complaining. Exclusiva has revitalized my life. Took me out of the struggling model category, not that I was doing all that badly before. But now I have the freedom to do just about anything I want.” She sipped her coffee. “That’s what money does for you.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. He was aware that she was aware that she had been going on about money to a man who was out of work and who was more or less destitute. Her face reddened a bit. David spoke into the awkward silence quickly, hoping to save the situation. “Do you think you’ll retire young in life?”
“Who knows? I can’t model forever. I suppose it depends on my disposition in a few years. I can’t imagine doing nothing all day long. I’ll just have to wait and see.”
She paused, looked down at her fingernails, poking at a chip with another fingertip. “Besides, I’ve got a lot of readjusting to do. I think I mentioned my up-and-coming divorce last night, didn’t I?”
“Yes. But you sounded as if nothing was definite about that.”
“I must have been suddenly optimistic because of the liquor. No, I think it’s over, all right. But I don’t want to bore you with that.”
“You won’t bore me. I just don’t want to pry into your personal life. If you want to talk about it, though, go right ahead. Sometimes it helps.”
“There isn’t much to say. I’m just going to have to find a new place to live. And I won’t have to think about two people all the time like I used to. Only one. I guess I can manage. There are really simple solutions to everything, if one puts one’s mind to it.”
Their eggs came and they attacked the food hungrily, preferring nourishment to conversation for the nonce. They relaxed over a second cup of coffee afterwards. Anna finally said what David had been hoping to hear. “I’d like to see you again, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course, it is. I’d love to see you again.”
“Can I reach you by phone?”
He gave the number to her, and she took a pen out of her bag and wrote it down on a napkin. She handed him a small white business card with her name and a phone number, and the name of her agency, written on it. “I can be reached there. Or leave a message,” she said. Obviously, she didn’t want to give out her home phone, but this would do nicely.
They parted a few minutes later. On the front steps of the hotel, Anna suddenly grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth long and voluptuously. She broke the embrace after awhile and said, “Can I take you anywhere?”
“Anywhere!”
“I mean by taxi,” she laughed.
“No, thanks. I can walk home from here. It seems like a nice day.”
“All right, then.”
He watched her drive off in the cab, delirious from her kiss, from her lingering presence, but desolate from the knowledge that she was a woman who lived far, far above his means.
Anna sat back in the cab, and rubbed her arms, hugging herself, still thinking of the night she’d spent with that wonderful guy. Poor thing was as poor as a church mouse, but somehow she didn’t care. She’d had enough of the idle rich. Derek with his inherited dough, Mrs. Hunter with her dull dinner parties. Was she slumming? She didn’t care.
She had not given up her dreams of becoming part of “society,” of being with a better class of people then the jerks and yokels she’d grown up with. But she needed somebody different in her life now, someone she could relax with, not bother to impress. The poor dear was so obviously impressed already, simply by who she was, that she wouldn’t have to put on airs.
She realized that she had used him, that she would not have picked him up if she hadn’t fought with Derek, hadn’t needed the attentions of another man. David was attractive and virile, certainly, but what would she need with some poverty-row, unemployed bar fixture if her life were working the way she wanted it to? Yet, she did need him now; she was convinced of that. And he did know how to make love, of that there was no doubt.
She decided to put him out of her mind until she decided to see him again. Damn it—he was getting to her, and that just didn’t make sense. He wasn’t what she wanted, was he? Yes, he was different from Derek, but did she have to go to extremes?
The cab pulled up to the building which housed the Longton Agency. She paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was getting hot today. Lionel Hanson, the man who photographed her for a magazine layout, had promised to send copies of the shots to the agency for her to look over; she might want blowups made of some of the more interesting photos. She took the elevator to the eleventh floor and entered the agency’s office. The receptionist smiled, said hello, and handed her a large brown envelope. It was Hanson’s photographs.
She left the office before anyone could waylay her and took a cab back to the townhouse. She wanted to get in a few more hours’ sleep before her session at three. She went straight to the bedroom, changed into a dressing gown, and tore open the package. She studied the pictures with a magnifying glass. Hanson had circled the ones to be used in the campaign; she would have chosen others, but who was she to argue? She had liked the male model she had worked with in this spread, a handsome, personable young fellow named Eric Marton. Eric was the man in the ads smitten with her because she was wearing new nine-hour Exclusiva eye shadow. Actually, Eric had a very good-looking male lover.
A shadow suddenly covered the bedspread where she lay. She looked up from the pictures and saw Derek glaring down at her. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him before. Something t
old her to stand up; she was in too vulnerable a position where she was. She was relieved to see that he had nothing in his hand that could have been used as a weapon.
“What do you want?” she said. “Why the nasty stare? Well, say something!”
He glared at her a few seconds more, then said, “Where were you last night? “
“Why is it any of your business?”
“I wanted to talk to you some more. And you ran out of her like a bat out of hell.” She saw the fire in his eyes and couldn’t help but think of that old cliché: You’re beautiful when you ‘re angry. And he was.
“Isn’t that just like you,” she argued. “You’re never around when I need you, never on time when I want you to be. But when you want to talk, I don’t dare leave the house. That’s a lot of crap and you know it!”
“We came to an important decision last night. When all the screaming was over, I thought we could sit down and talk things over calmly.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t want a divorce? “
“I didn’t say that. But it’s a big step, and should be discussed carefully. We should take the time to think things through.”
“We’ve had enough time. I’m sick of this relationship, Derek. I’m bored. I want to move on to something different, to something else. I don’t want to wait on tenterhooks wondering in which direction our marriage will go. I want to settle things as quickly and as firmly as possible.”
“You said you want ‘something else.’ Are you sure you don’t mean someone else? “
“What if I do? Surely you’re not going to give me grief on that point. After all the extramarital mischief you’ve been up to? Spare me the righteous anger of the bereaved husband. It’s a role that simply doesn’t suit you.”
“I saw you coming out of Peg 0’ Hearts with some guy last night.”
“What did you do, follow me? I suppose I should be flattered.”
“I wasn’t checking up on you, if that’s what you were thinking. I just wanted to find you, so we could talk. I thought you might like some company.”
“I had wonderful company, thank you.”
“I’m sure. Is that what this is all about? Why didn’t you come right out and admit it? You’ve found another man. Why blame me for this breakup when it has nothing to do with my ‘extramarital mischief?”
“Derek, you astonish me! Do you mean to tell me that your precious ego can’t accept the fact that your wife might be up to some fun herself, that your wife might be fiddling around with something decidedly undecrepit. You amaze me, husband. But you’re not getting away with it so easily.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not going to blame this divorce on me. I only met that gentleman last evening, for your information. Derek, I don’t need your money, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t be terrorized by you, afraid to have a possible affair because you’ll be able to produce ‘the other man.’ You can keep your money, your alimony, the house, the maid. All I want is my freedom. That’s all. I no longer want to be married to Derek Bishop. Period. End of sentence. This isn’t a marriage, so why should either of us hang onto it? I just want out. That’s all there is to it. This can be the easiest and fastest divorce on record.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it, bitch,” he snapped. “I suggest you hire your own lawyer; I already have one.” He walked out to the hall, slamming the door behind him.
“Derek,” she whispered. “You always have to create melodrama, don’t you?” She sat down on the bed, picked up the magnifying glass and looked over the photographs again, although her mind wasn’t really on them.
The moment David put his key in his lock, he knew that something was wrong. The lock wasn’t broken, luckily, but it seemed looser, easier to open than before, as if someone had jimmied it open, damaging it slightly in the process. Someone had been in the apartment.
He stood there, holding his breath, closing his eyes. There was so little inside to steal. Still, he was afraid to see the mess inside, to see what condition the burglars must have left the place in.
He pushed the door open, steeled himself, and took a good, long look.
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
He went through the drawers, checked the bathroom, but there was no indication that anyone had even been there, let alone lifted something. They didn’t even take the TV set, which was probably the only thing of value in the apartment. Why the hell did they have to pick on his place?
Then he recalled George Bartley’s final words. The same words that had convinced him not to spend the night in the apartment. He added up one and one and got two. Someone had come to the apartment to look for George. They had gone in, looked around, seen that he wasn’t there. What would they have done to David if he had been at home? He didn’t know. He was just doubly glad that he had gone out that night. It might have saved his life.
He took a shower and changed into a light suit and tie. He was going to make the rounds today, although he wasn’t very hopeful. He needed quick cash, so a temporary job that paid on Friday would be his best bet. He’d go to several office temp agencies and hope that one of them could give him immediate work.
It was a depressing day. He had to take those idiotic tests to see how well he could type or file or add up figures. He saw few men his own age. Mostly college kids and older women. He felt very much like a loser. Even if they got him a job he wouldn’t make much more in a week than Anna Braddon spent in one day. And this week he’d get only two days pay. Pitiful!
It wasn’t until he got to his fourth agency, around four p.m., that he let himself even think of her. Had the night in bed with her satisfied his curiosity, his lust? Was she now out of his system for good? He didn’t think so. But he also knew that he could only function with her on that one level, the plane where all class boundaries dissolved, the great equalizer known as flesh. He didn’t have the money to take her out where she was accustomed to going. He was not a diehard chauvinist; clearly he didn’t mind a woman picking up the check, especially if she had more money than he did. But how could he date anyone, even Little Orphan Annie, when he couldn’t afford to pay his own way? He didn’t mind being treated now and then, but there had to be a limit. He had to at least be able to return the favor sometime.
He had her number, but he knew he’d never call her. What would they talk about? In the glow of a good night’s sleep and fresh sex, their conversation at breakfast had seemed stimulating, but it had only been vapid small talk. Anyway, he knew he did not want to be the shoulder she would cry on over her disintegrating marriage. But even while he thought all this, even while he recognized that Anna Braddon was not, when all was said and done, his type, he knew that he would be thinking of her often.
“Hammond? David Hammond?” The counselor’s voice calling from the other side of the room woke him up from his daydream. It was time for his interview. A tall blond fellow with a bushy mustache stood at the end of the hall, holding a card and looking around.
David stood up. “Over here. Sorry.” He followed the man down the hall and into his office. It was a mere cubbyhole. He sat in the seat in front of the man’s desk, while the counselor sat down behind it. The man studied the form David had filled out earlier.
“I see you have some clerical experience,” he said. “But your typing isn’t too good. Let me see what I have here.”
David sat back and tried to relax, while the man— who was at least five years younger than he was—went through an index-card holder, flipping each card in search of some elusive position. “Ah ha,” he said, pulling one of them out with his fingers. “This might be for you. Let me make sure this isn’t filled yet.” He picked up the phone and dialed another extension in the same office. “Is the Belmont Cards job taken?” he asked. David heard a female voice respond. Moments later, the counselor hung up the phone and smiled.
“At least five days, 9:30 to 5:30. Minimum wage, I’m afraid. Starts tomorrow.
How does that sound?”
“Better than nothing.”
“I’ll write down the information for you. You report to Miss Chilton tomorrow morning. It’s a nice place. Many of our employees have told me how much they enjoy working there.”
“Uh, what exactly will I be doing? “
“Filing order forms, other clerical work. General stuff.”
“I see.”
The counselor handed him the slip, shook his hand, and ushered him out the door.
Belmont Cards. Shit. Just what he needed, another greeting-card firm. By hook or by crook he’d get somebody to look at his sketches if he had to steamroll his way into the art department.
Thirty-three, he thought as he walked towards the subway. Thirty-three years old and I’m a temporary file clerk. And last night I made love to a woman who must make $500,000 a year.
As the train came roaring into the station he contemplated jumping in front of its path, ending it all quickly: the humiliation, the frustration, the bitter sense of defeat.
But he didn’t jump. With his luck, he figured, he would probably only maim himself for life.
Miss Chilton turned out to be a stern, no-nonsense old bitch who practically snarled at David when he walked into her office at quarter of ten.
“You’re late,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry, the train—”
“Never mind.” She got up and instructed him to follow her down the hall. She was about fifty-five, with puffy cheeks and small eyes and gray hair pulled back in a bun. She wore a blue pants suit that looked absolutely ridiculous on her.
As they waited for the elevator, she looked David up and down with obvious distaste and said: “Tomorrow wear a tie.”
A tie? For this shit job? Minimum wage? David held his tongue but wanted to spit on her.
“You’ll be working in the order department,” she said, once they’d boarded the elevator. “With Peggy Cummins. She’ll be your supervisor.”
If he thought Miss Chilton was bad, Miss Cummins was even worse. After Chilton left to make somebody else’s life miserable, Peggy took him down a dingy hallway, into an ugly green filing room with harsh fluorescent lighting. A long wooden table was situated right smack in the middle of the room. Peggy was in her late twenties, and seemed incapable of getting out of bed in the morning, let alone running a department. Her face was bland and baggy, and she wore a perpetually pained look that made her resemble an abandoned basset hound. She was too old for acne, but her skin hadn’t been told that, for reddish patches inflamed the areas around her nose and chin. Somehow one could feel sympathetic towards her, although her complete lack of a personality made it hard to even think of her as a living person.
Spawn of Hell Page 7
