This was the moment. “I hate it.”
Betty looked startled. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I hate doing it. It’s so dumb. Dumb. Dumb.”
“Yeah, but it pays.”
Patty nodded. She took that point to heart. Ultimately, even if Betty thought her serious novel was good, money would still be an issue. The odds against her getting a first novel published were bad enough without also needing to earn a living from it. “There has to be a better way for us to make money than publishing self-help books and writing romance novels.”
“Yeah, what?”
Patty reached in her bag and brought out a manila envelope. “You should publish this and make it a bestseller. Then we’ll both be fine. Tony can quit writing screenplays and return to the theater. David can leave Newstime and have my babies.”
“What is it?” Betty said, taking the package. She seemed wary.
“It’s half a novel. Next year’s bestseller.” Patty amazed herself with this remark. Not even in jest did she ever predict success for herself.
“David wrote it?” Betty said, barely making it a question. She spoke in a suspicious tone, as though Patty were trying to fool her.
“No!” Patty was furious. “I wrote it. You think only—”
Betty, embarrassed, tried to head her off. “I thought you said—”
“—David can try to write seriously. I can only write about these airheads who—”
“Stop! I thought from what you said that this was David’s. Of course you can try to write a novel.”
“Try?” Patty had never yelled at Betty and she had little reason to. But keen resentment suddenly ballooned in her mind. She felt overwhelmed by everyone’s attitude toward her: the silly little blond who wasn’t even permitted the delusions everyone else has. Betty can think of herself as another Maxwell Perkins, but Patty can’t hope to be Fitzgerald. “I’m doing it!” she shouted at Betty, leaning over the table and shooting the words at her.
Betty held up her hands, surrendering. “Okay. That’s great.” She looked down at the package.
Patty, her anger spent, sat back and stared off, an exhausted shopper whose buying impulse is satisfied but now wonders if poverty will be the consequence. Had she bankrupted the friendship, or, more to the point, Betty’s willingness to be a sympathetic reader?
Betty looked up. “When did you do this?”
Patty couldn’t bring herself to return the glance. “Last two months,” she said, sulking.
“It’s the whole book?”
“No, just half. I don’t know! That’s why I wanted you to read it. I think it’s … well, I just don’t know where it’s going.” Patty had straightened and looked at Betty once again, apologizing with her tone and her wide-open pleading eyes.
“I’m really impressed,” Betty said with feeling. “And not because I didn’t think you could!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“I’m awful, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Betty said, exaggerating a frown of disapproval for a moment, before she relaxed into a smile. “I’ll read it tonight.”
“Call me when you’re done. I don’t care how late.”
Betty smiled, confidently back to her role of the calm, mature elder sister. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I might be on the phone with Tony late and have to fall asleep. So don’t wait up worrying.”
“You mean you’re going to sleep tonight instead of reading my manuscript? You care more about talking to your husband than my work?” Patty said, making it a great joke, but keeping enough of a glint in her eye to tell Betty that in fact it was the way things should be.
“No, I don’t,” Betty said, playing along. “But I have to keep up appearances or you’d gossip about me.”
And they laughed like girls again, playing at adulthood and giggling at the naughtiness of it. But something of Patty’s angry outburst—a faint echo of distant artillery—still rang in their ears and worried their happy tones.
CHAPTER 10
Fred’s life caught excitement. Fate tossed him a series of slow glamorous pitches right into a large infallible mitt. Tom Lear befriended him with a vengeance. He took Fred to see a rough cut of the movie that had been made of his screenplay, which meant that Fred got to sit with Tom. the famous director Jay Forsch, and Sam Billings, the producer, while they discussed what changes could be made in the editing. Tom solicited Fred’s opinion and he babbled away, inspired by Tom’s easy manner, feeling no pressure or self-consciousness. To his astonishment, Forsch and Billings listened and—agreed! Later that night, when he told Marion that the world-famous director and producer were going to cut two scenes at his suggestion, she nodded at Fred as if he were speaking in a foreign language and she had to fight in order to understand him.
Lear, Forsch, and Billings took him to Elaine’s afterward. All the important people in the restaurant—with the exception of Woody Allen—came over to their table to chat. Fred was introduced to each of them. Names that before then existed only on film credits, book jackets, magazine covers. Fred shook their actual hands and enjoyed considerable success. He frankly told the famous that he loved their work (didn’t have to lie once, he told Marion), and they not only didn’t despise his compliments, but seemed to enjoy them. The whole thing was unbelievable. It was as though he had merged into celluloid: after a lifetime of watching, he was up there playing the scene!
Lear took him along to a series of exclusive screenings for the movie-business crowd in New York. They usually ended up joining a variety of glamorous people for dinner afterward at Wally’s, or Cafe Central, or Orso’s, or Texarcana, a changing series of “hot” restaurants with subtle distinctions made over who merited what kind of table. In some, sitting in the back room was everything—in others, it was death. A few were presumably secret (like Raos, located on a Mafia-protected block in the midst of a devastated and scary section of Spanish Harlem), though in fact the chic crowd all seemed to know of those. Others, such as Elaine’s, were landmarks, sacred sites that demanded pilgrimage. Because of the people he accompanied, Fred experienced service he had never heard of—entrees cooked that didn’t exist on menus, complimentary drinks, waiters standing asleep on their feet at two in the morning waiting patiently for them to go home, even though they had finished eating hours before. He marveled at it. Like an astronaut viewing the surface of an alien world, he found every detail stunning.
Once he was known by these restaurants as part of the crowd, he found himself welcomed as though he were a celebrity. Sometimes he was even seated ahead of other famous people. The first time that happened he replayed the moment over and over in his mind, recalling it to memory blissfully, the way one might cherish an ecstatic night of love with an ideal mate, staring off in happy reverie for minutes on end. The way those famous faces watched him get in before them, their brows furrowing, attempting to place him. Who the hell is that fat little Jew? he imagined them thinking. I’d better smile at him, he must be important.
Only I’m not important, he would be forced to remind himself. But even that hardly depressed his elation. At least he was there. And he could talk to these people. They actually listened to him.
There was a price he had to pay for this happiness, however. Marion provided the bill. Since Tom’s invitations involved screenings, permitting him only one guest, she couldn’t come. She could have joined them for dinner after the movie, but she had refused on the basis of how late that would make the evening, too late for her to then get a good night’s sleep. Of course once she heard the stories of whom they were meeting, she changed. Asked to come along. By then Fred didn’t want her to. He didn’t know why, but her switch in attitude angered him. Maybe it was that having spent a few nights without her, he realized how much more relaxed he was. He seemed to be more intelligent when she wasn’t around. People liked him better. She wasn’t there to forever burst his balloon.
Keeping her away was h
ard.
“Where are you going tonight?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re going to the Paramount screening room—you know, the one where it’s all Eames chairs.”
“Yeah, you told me. Where are you going later?”
“I don’t know.” A lie. They were going to Elaine’s. “We’re meeting Sam Billings, Tom’s producer—”
“I know who he is. When will you know where?”
“I guess, uh … not until we get there. Billings is meeting us at the screening room.” A lie. Billings wasn’t going to the screening. Fred realized only now that if he failed to dissuade her from coming, he had just told a falsehood that might be easily exposed. “I’ll call you from the restaurant.”
“I’m supposed to sit at home starving until you call?”
“You want me to cancel? We’ll go out to dinner.”
She sneered. Looked away and sighed with irritation. Then turned back to him and said, “Yes! Call Tom and cancel.”
Fred had done a good job while making the offer to cancel—spoke as though the matter was insignificant. That he’d be happy either way. And even though Fred suspected she was merely testing him, that all he’d have to do was go to the phone with a similar easy manner and start dialing Tom’s number, he couldn’t. The slight chance that she wouldn’t tell him to hang up worried him so much it showed on his face.
Marion snorted. “Forget it. Go ahead and enjoy yourself.” She spoke with hopeless disgust, the despairing resignation of a disappointed mother faced with a favorite son’s betrayal.
“You can join us later,” Fred said, relieved. “I’ll call—”
Marion got up, walking to the coat closet. It was time for her to leave for work. “Forget it. You don’t want me to.”
“Come on!” Fred whined. “That’s not true! I’ll call you from the rest—”
“Forget it,” she said, grabbing her coat, opening the front door, and going, letting the metal door swing shut behind her.
Its slam emptied the apartment. He listened to the refrigerator hum, sorrow vibrating into his crass manipulation. He didn’t feel guilt—or rather, shame at his own behavior and motives was too constant a companion for it to be noticed. He felt tragic, awesome despair at the hopelessness of things ever being carefree between him and Marion. They were like siblings, thrown together involuntarily by fate, personalities that clashed, but were somehow stuck to each other with a glue that never dried to fasten them, and also never evaporated to free them.
Tom Lear, Tom Lear, Tom Lear. The name played in his mind like a pretty song. Everything the guy did seemed so perfect. He even dressed well. He had it all over someone like Tony Winters. He had Tony’s connections (and he got them by merit, not by birth), he had Tony’s quick wit, but he also had the common touch. There was always something snobbish in Tony’s manner—he let you know he thought he was smarter than you. Not Tom. He had a frank, almost childlike innocence when he’d disagree over a book or movie with people. An earnest desire to hear the other point of view. Tony always seemed to want to win the fight, make the other person seem stupid. And Tom had a broader experience and interest in the world. He liked sports. He played poker. He pointed out women with great tits, just like a regular guy.
Tom had asked to read his novel. That was something Tony Winters would never do. Tony couldn’t care less about someone else’s work. Tom was really eager to see Fred’s stuff. He asked about it every time they got together. Two nights ago Fred had given him the first third of the book, a hundred and fifty pages. And because Tom was such a great person, Fred felt no anxiety over Tom’s possible reaction. He was confident that if Tom didn’t like the pages, he would say so, make helpful comments, and continue to be as friendly as ever. That more than anything else was what made Tom different from the rest of the New York cultural scene. He was a real friend.
Fred had to deliver the first one hundred pages of The Locker Room soon. Both Bart and Bob Holder had been asking for them. Therefore, having someone like Tom as a first reader was lucky. Fred happily spent the morning reading over his work. Just the substantial size of his manuscript pleased him. Soon he would have a published book, a small enough achievement in the world in which he now moved, but a climax for him of six years of struggle.
He felt a slight disappointment when Tom Lear called to confirm their date and made no mention of his pages. Probably hasn’t read them yet, Fred told himself, and made up excuses for Tom, not wanting to feel critical of him. He spoke to Marion at work in the late afternoon. He had given little thought to their argument so he surprised himself by saying, after hearing a sullen, clipped hello from her, “Hi. Listen, Tom called. We’ll be at Elaine’s at nine-thirty. Want to meet us there?”
Long pause. As though she were looking for a trick. There wasn’t one, however. Fred had realized there was no reason for her not to come. Her presence wouldn’t change anything for him. In fact, he now wanted her to come. To see how seriously everybody took him. Maybe she would become more respectful. “That’s kind of late …” she said. “What is this? You hocked me about coming and—” “I didn’t hock you. Jesus! Nine-thirty’s late—” “You can leave when you’re tired. I’ll put you in a cab.” “Okay,” she said, suddenly. “Great. I’ll see you there.” Fred thought maybe Tom had read the hundred and fifty pages and wanted to wait until he was with him in the flesh to talk about them, but when they met outside the Gulf & Western Building a few minutes before the screening, Tom said, “Fred. I haven’t had a chance to read your stuff. I’m sorry, things have been crazy—”
“That’s okay,” Fred said. “But do you think you could by the weekend? I’ve got—”
“Definitely. I’ll read ’em tonight.” I’ll read ’em tonight. That sentence interfered with the fortunes of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom throughout the screening. Instead of groaning at the cave with insects, Fred heard Tom’s casual voice, imbued with confidence. I’ll read ’em tonight. While around him people squirmed and moaned uncomfortably as a heart was removed with bare hands from someone’s chest, Fred envied Tom’s situation. He hoped one day another writer would sit next to famous author Fred Tatter before the lights came down and be thrilled to hear that Fred would “read ’em tonight.” He watched impassively as the beating heart was held high into a close-up. While the rest of the room turned to each other with disgust on their faces, he found the image peculiarly normal. Somehow a just expression of the state of his life. Beating and bleeding for everyone to see.
When the picture was over he felt constrained, back to discomfort as usual. It was a mistake giving Tom the pages, Fred said to himself. I can’t take it. He thought it would be different with Tom Lear, but as they took a cab to Elaine’s and entered, greeting the crowd, kissing cheeks, pumping hands, glancing about to see who was there, he knew it wasn’t. He needed Tom’s good opinion. Things wouldn’t be the same if Tom hated the manuscript. After all. Tom might have forged the friendship, assuming Fred was a good writer—discovering otherwise could change everything. Isn’t a big part of the reason I like Tom because I think he’s a terrific writer? Fred asked himself.
Fred copied Tom’s drink orders. By the time Marion arrived, he had had two Scotches and soda. Her appearance surprised him. It wasn’t simply that he had forgotten she was coming—he stared at her amazed, as though her very existence startled him. “Hi, Marion,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and sitting down. She remained standing (she looked flushed with excitement at being there. Fred noticed, but the observation meant nothing to him in his gloomy mood) behind a chair, and stared at Tom. Why is she doing that? Fred wondered.
“I’m Tom Lear,” Tom finally said.
“Thanks,” she said, laughing. “I’m Fred’s wife, Marion.”
“You haven’t met!” Fred said, genuinely surprised.
“How many drinks has he had?” Marion asked Tom, and laughed.
Tom smiled at her. “He is out of it tonight. What’s the mat
ter with him?”
“No, really,” Fred said, making it worse. “You haven’t met?”
“Of course we haven’t met, Freddy,” Marion said. She called him Freddy when she was most contemptuous of him. “You know that. I complained about it enough, for Chris-sake.”
“Has he been keeping you from me?” Tom Lear asked with mock outrage. “He knew it would be magic between us. That’s why.”
Marion laughed and winked at Tom. Fred knew she meant to be flirtatious, but that subtle art was beyond Marion— she made it seem dirty somehow. Can’t she tell he’s making fun of her? he asked himself.
He found himself spending much of the evening listening to Marion with disapproval. She talked a lot. Asked briefly about Indiana Jones and then launched into a pompous lecture saying that scary movies damaged kids. Tom pretended to take her seriously. Fred thought, indeed he probably did consider her point well-taken, but Fred also saw the bored look in his eyes. Marion’s not pretty enough to be dull. Fred could hear him think. Tom’s eyes drifted to the door, probably hoping someone interesting would come in. Fred could feel, like a sympathetic itch, the restlessness in Lear’s body, the desire to be free of them.
Marion was oblivious, tipsy from her two glasses of wine, asking (too loudly) who was who at the other table, and puzzled by Fred’s morose air. “What’s with you?” she asked Fred when another (one of many) lulls in the conversation had caused Tom to stare off toward the bar.
“Nothing,” Fred said, afraid she was about to say something intimate and embarrassing.
She smiled, her eyes unfocused. “The food here sucks,” she said. Loud.
Tom’s eyes went to her instantly. The sentence shot through Fred like a current, startling every nerve. “Shhh,” he said, his head whipping one way and the other to check whether Elaine or one of the waiters had overheard. Tom, however, was laughing.
Marion looked at him. “Right? She’s got a great racket going. Lousy food, horrible decor, the worst tables made into the chicest. The woman’s brilliant.”
Hot Properties Page 27
