"You keep asking me that. Nothing. Ben is wonderful;
everything is wonderful. I just wanted to have lots of time for
I us to be alone, to get started by ourselves, without anyone
I around. There were so many awful things that had happened
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at home—^Thad was a hideous mistake, and then Grandpa died and then that mess with—with his will ... I couldn't stand the thought of something else going wrong: I wanted everything with Ben to go right." There was a silence. "Can't you understand that?"
"Yes," Leni said. "But it would have been kinder if you'd said that months ago. You've been secretive for such a long time, keeping everyone away: I would have liked you to share it with me—with us."
"I know." There was another silence. Felix listened to the faint hiss of the thousands of miles between them. "Well, but that's past," Allison said tranquilly. 'There aren't any more secrets. We're coming home, and we'll live in Boston and see you all the time. I just wanted to make sure Ben had a job. He said he'd look for one when we got there, but why should he? We have a company and he belongs in it. And he's satisfied with being vice president for security; you mustn't think he's complaining about it. I'm the one who diought he should be in charge of something bigger. Finance, or something like that. More important. And paying a lot more."
Felix stirred in his chair. 'There's been no talk of salary. And I will not be forced into discussing it now."
"I wasn't forcing. I just thought I'd mention it because Ben won't. He'd never say anything, but I know it bothers him that I have so much more than he does."
*Then he'll learn to accept it or find a way to make more money on his own. He'U get no special treatment from me. Is that clearT'
"Yes, indeed," Allison said crisply. "It's all business in our family. No sentiment allowed. Actually, Ben will like that: he's not a very sentimental person. The two of you will probably get along fine."
"I'd like to talk about the wedding," Leni said before Felix could respond. "We'll have dinner here the night before, and lunch after the ceremony. Of course, it's only the family, but it's not often we're all together anymore . . . unless you'd like me to call some of your friends?"
"No, just the family," Allison said. "Ben really is adamant about keeping it small and absolutely no publicity; he's the most private person I've ever known. Did Rosa call you? I
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I wrote and asked her if she*d come out of letiieinent long enough to make our wedding dinner."
"Yes, she called, so pleased that you wanted her.*'
Felix listened to the talk about menus and the small ceremony in their living room and the shopping Allison wanted to do as soon as they arrived. Ordinarily he would have hung up at this point but today he listened, confused and a little disturbed at the new confidence and composure in Allison's voice. She had been unsure of herself for such a long time, drifting from one man to another, one hobby to another, even one country to another, that now she sounded almost like a stranger. This business of gaining a son was sentimental horseshit, he thought: he wasn't gaining anything; he was losing the daughter he thought he knew. A wave of anger at Ben Gardner swept through him; she'll even change her name to his, he thought.
"Good-bye, Daddy," Allison said. "I'll see you next week. And Daddy"—her voice changed, becoming younger and more tentative—^'*please be nice to Ben. To botii of us. I'm sorry I didn't want you to meet him, but it was all so special and I wanted it to stay that way, and Patricia was such a bitch—"
"Allison, she's your cousin," Leni said.
"Sony. But she was snide and kept hinting at awful things just when I felt happiest, and I didn't see why I should have to go around defending the man I love to people who don't know a damn thing about him, so I just kept everybody away. It seemed a lot simpler at the time. I know I hurt your feelings and I'm sorry, but it's over now and we're all starting again, and I hope you'll be . . . nice."
"I am always civil, Allison," Felix said evenly. He knew she had started to ask him to be loving, but had evidendy thought better of it. "We'll all be glad to see you next week."
"Next week," Allison echoed, her voice subdued, and Fielix hung up, satisfied that his daughter had come begging to him and he had cowed her by being in better control of his emotions than she was of hers. He was always in control, he thought, turning to the paperwork on his desk. He assimilated information and then acted on it without second thoughts or puerile shilly-shallying. The ability to make swift decisions
Judith Michael
was his strength, and he relied on it even when he felt beset, as he did occasionally with the troubles at the company and this damned business with Allison.
Her new marriage would do nothing for him. It would not bring prestige or an infusion of wealth into the family; it would not even make him father-in-law to a pedigree likej Thad Wolcott's, who, even though he turned out to be in debt, could trace his descendants to the Mayflower. His daughter was marrying a nobody, a nonentity they'd have to stumble over in the executive offices until she shed him the way she'd done with Wolcott, and then he could fire him. And if he could speed up that day, he'd damn well do it. In the meantime, to keep her and her mother happy, he'd go along with them as sociably as he did everything, even playing the proud father at the wedding. None of it would take much of his time. And none of it would last long.
I knew a Gardner once before, Felix thought. He was a nothing, too.
Paul flew to Boston a week before the wedding, scheduling his flight to arrive close to the time Ben and Allison were to arrive from Europe. It was the first time he had been back since his own wedding, eight months earlier, and as his plane flew out over the ocean and turned to come in low over the islands and bays and curving necks of land crowded with houses that formed the Massachusetts coast, he reflected that almost nothing in his life was the same as it had been when he last flew over that landscape. Then, he and Emily were poised at the edge of the extravagant success they would soon achieve. Emily had appeared twice in Eye magazine, in small spreads, and had just heard from Barry Marken that the fashion editor of Elle wanted her in Paris for a feature on new young designers; and Paul's portraits of three of Manhattan's | most prominent hostesses had brought him calls from their friends and from two of their publicity agents: the swiftest road to fame. And in those early months after they had setded into Paul's Sutton Place apartment, they had been "discovered" and had soon become one of the hottest couples on the city's social scene, invited to diimer parties, charity balls, and discos, and sought after for all the fund-raising boards in town.
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It was a whirlwind of black-tie affairs by night and work by day that stopped only briefly when they went to Boston in May for their wedding, then picked up as soon as they ie> turned, because their marriage made them even more enchanting in a time when every social event became an occasion to learn who had divorced whom, or moved out or in with whom, or was sleeping with whom, or had wed whom.
Paul became one of the chroniclers of this scene, photographing its wealthy, powerful leaders with an eye for angle, lighting and pose that made every woman look as stunning as a dream and every man as sleekly powerful as he imagined himself to be. And Emily was a symbol they all wanted to claim as one of them, because she was the woman who had everything: wealth, background, youth, beauty and fame, and her presence was like a promise of hope to those who had not yet achieved so much.
But her fame really rested on Paul's photographs of her; they gave Jason d'Or and photographers at other magazines ideas on catching her beauty at its most tantalizing. In modeling, as in any field, tiiere are fads that are seized by the quick and promoted by the clever, and Emily's ingenuous sophistication became the rage of the year on both sides of the Atian-tic, her looks imparting a tantalizing blend of innocence and knowledge to whatever she modeled so that it looked as if it could be worn by everyone from hesitant virgins to jaded women of the wo
rld. By the time the Manhattan social season revived in October after its summer lull, Paul and Emily Jans-sen were the center of its spinning days and nights—the perfect couple: talented, beautiful, ideally matched. And if they quarreled, they never did it in public.
It was not until Thanksgiving that Paul took a night off to be alone and think. Emily was in London on an assignment for a consortium of British designers, and he hadn't felt like going to Boston for the holiday. Allison had called the day before, from Amsterdam, to tell him she and Ben would be married at Christmas, in Boston, and he had felt a sharp surge of longing, the same kind he had felt a year earlier, when he had seen Leni and her young man outside the Mayfair Regent. And he remembered what Emily had said: She should have what she wants, not what she can get. Nobody should have to settle for that,
Judith Michael
What have I settled for? he wondered. He sat in his library, where he had watched Emily's face by firelight, and thought back over the past frantic months of work and social life. His portraits of social leaders hung in Park Avenue apartments and homes throughout the world, and they illuminated conmiercial and charitable advertisements in magazines of a dozen countries. But no art or photography gallery carried them, and Paul knew why: they all looked the same and, though they were excellent, they were not art.
For months he had been telling himself that soon he would move beyond the obvious: change the lighting to heighten shadows, not disguise them; refuse to brush out the lines, creases, and pouches that made faces distinctive; and try to recapture his earlier vision and brief moments of passion. But the months had gone by, and he had done more of what people wanted, avoiding controversy, as he always did, accepting their praise in an increasingly moody silence that was hailed as re^shing modesty.
It doesn't make much sense, he brooded, sitting in his library and thinking about what he had settled for: fawning adulation, a wild social scene, and more commissions than a serious artist could accept. Owen wouldn't be impressed, he thought. In his memory he saw Owen, tall and a little stooped, his long mustache curling at the ends, his eyes dark as he scolded Paul for his restless wanderings. ""I'm finding myself," Paul had always declared, young and sure of himsetf, and Owen had shaken his head. "It'll take you a hell of a long time if you keep cluttering up your life so you never have time to do anything but make more clutter."
Gutter, Paul thought. All his ambitions to do great photography, drowned in the clutter of making flattering pictures of peof^e who had an insatiable hunger for recognition, whether in a silver frame in their drawing rooms or in national and international magazines. He sat in his library, thinking about clutter, and the next day he asked his secretary to cancel all his photo sessions, saying he was ill.
It wasn't any one thing, he told himself that unexpectedly free day, and the days that followed. He walked in Central Park, drove to the Cloisters and sat for hours staring at medieval t£^stries that showed the struggles of armies and king-
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doms and made his own agonizing seem very small, and he wandered through the angled streets of Greenwich Village and SoHo and TriBeCa, watching the faces around him and wondering when he would have the guts to believe he could make ait from real people.
"I don*t believe in myself, whatever that means,'* he said gloomily, after a week of gloomy wandering around New York. He said it to Larry Gould, a friend from college, as they sat at lunch in Los Angeles, where he had gone to meet Emily. Paul and Larry had been roommates and partners in class projects, making films together that were raw and tentative, but that eventually led Larry to a phenomenally successful career in television commercials. He had been a scholarship student from three generations of Indiana steelwoiicers; by the time he was thirty, Gould Films was the top commercial studio in the country. "You probably know what it means," he replied to Paul as he sprawled in his chair on the outdoor terrace at La Chaumi^re. "All those philosophy courses in college about who we are and where we're going. Or have you forgotten themr
"I think I've forgotten everything except how to make prominent people happy." Paul touched a deep red bougainvil-lea on the vine beside dieir table. "I never get used to these in December. Most of them are fakes. The prominent people, that is, not the bougainvillea. Some of them appear in advertisements for homeless children or heart research and care a hell of a lot for what they're doing, but then there are all the rest, who don't give a damn but like to see themselves in glossy color. It's their little ego trips: national exposure to ^ow what good people they are, when the truth is diey don't lifr a finger or give a damn about the people they say their hearts bleed for."
"So what?" Larry watched the waiter serve their crabmeat salads. His sun-bleached hair was almost white, his long face was tanned and melancholy, reminding Paul of a basset hound wearing a blond wig. He looked lazily at Paul. "What do you care how people are separated from Uieir money? The dollars buy the same homes for orphans or heart research or whatever, whether somebody in an ad is faking compassion or not. What's to get excited about?"
Judith Michael
Paul shrugged. **I don't like frauds and liars. If it*s a decent cause, there ought to be decent ways to get money for it."
Larry sighed. "And presidents should always tell the truth, stockbrokers should be honest, and spouses should love each other. Manhattan addled your brain? Or you just want to revert to childhood and Uve happily ever after in your playpen?"
Paul gave a grunt of laughter. "Right. I'm an ass." He picked up his fork and toyed with his salad, pushing aside the crab legs framing it. "Fm sick of the whole scene, that's the problem. I'm not even sure how I got mixed up in it. A year ago I had visions of being a hell of a photographer, seeing the hidden faces we all keep from the world, the scenes behind every scene ... as if my photographs could be like a telescope, giving people a new view of the world, clearer, more intimate than the one they're used to ... I don't know if this makes sense to you or not."
"You know damn well it does. What do you think I do for a Uving?"
"Make conmiercials, my friend. That's hardly photography."
"Filmmaking doesn't use a camera?"
"It has sound and action; it doesn't have to rely on a single frozen moment in time. It doesn't even have the same goals."
"Oh, he knows it all, he does. You ever direct a film, my friend, outside of those half dozen we did in college?"
"No."
*Then you're making a lot of noise for somebody who doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about."
Paul smiled. "Could be. Maybe I'll tag along on your next job and learn something."
"Why don't you? In fact," Larry said casually, "I think you ought to come to work for me."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "Do I look that desperate?"
"More than you should. Out here in the West we believe in happiness. I think you can find happiness in making films. Now listen." He leaned forward, the flippancy gone from his voice. "That speech you gave about hidden faces, and scenes behind the scenes—shit, Paul, that's what we all dreamed of in college. Right? You with your photos and me with films. But then I got the idea that life would be more fun if I got
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rich. And I was right. You know all about that; you were already there when you were in your cradle. But somewhere along the way to getting rich, I lost sight of all the wonderful films Vd wanted to make so I could give people a telescope to see the world in a new and intimate way. Are you following me?"
There was a pause. "You want to start another company."
"You got it." Slowly, giving Paul time to think, Larry buttered a chunk of French bread. "I think you need something new, and I know you're what I need: somebody with plenty of time and plenty of money, somebody who doesn't have to earn a living and can work like hell on a project because he loves it, not because he's praying it will maJce money—because usually it won't."
"Could I have a vague idea of what we're talking about?" Paul asked.
Lar
ry chuckled. "Documentaries. I want to form a company to make brilliant documentaries about hidden faces and scenes behind scenes, and I want you to run it."
"You're dreaming, friend. I don't know the first thing about films, as you yourself pointed out. You can't start another company and put an amateur in charge. Unless— " A thought struck him. "Unless you're looking for an investor to fund it."
Larry nodded. *That, too. But I'd take you without money, because I think you're damn good. We'd make the first film together. That's a benefit of success: I can take a leave from my company. You wouldn't be an amateur for long; I've watched you in action, and I know how fast you learn." He sat back. "Remember how we talked in college? We had the same ideas, the same dreams. Only you had too much money; you weren't ever forced to see if those dreams could really woric. Now here you are, bored and weary and feeling old, looking for something new. Something different. If you don't mind hard work and taking orders—and I don't fart around, you know; when I give orders my assistants jump—then I don't mind dragging you around for a while. Look, damn it, you have vision, my friend, and the world is pretty fucking short of vision these days. I want you with me, money or no. If you want a job, you've got it." He paused a fraction of an instant. **Of course, the money would help.'
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Paul burst into laughter. "How much?"
"A couple hundred thousand ought to do for a start. But it wouldn't be an investment, Paul; it would be more like a grant; you wouldn't get it back. These films don't make money. They might make you famous, but that doesn't pay the rent."
Paul toyed with one of the crab legs on his plate. Unexpectedly, he recalled another plate, in another restaurant, with red shells lying beside white meat. You're the only woman I know who can crack open a lobster without turning her plate into a disaster area. Wonderful fingers; you'd make a good magician. Or a pickpocket.
"—subject matter," Larry was saying. "It would be a joint decision once we— '*
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