Going Home Part 12

"In what sense? As a meal or for transportation?"

"As entertainment. In terms of the horse show. Does that appeal?"

"As a matter of fact, it does, but I'll have to see, Matt. I have a lot of organizing to do." And I had no intention whatsoever of letting myself into a press-inspired romance.

"All right, busy lady, I'll give you a call. Have a nice day."

"Thanks, and the same to you. And thank you for the roses."

Wow! Three days in New York, and I had roses on my table, had had two pictures in the social columns and dinner at Twenty-One and Raffles, and had gone to the opening of the opera. Not bad, Mrs. Forrester. Not bad at all.

17.

Thursday arrived, and with it my lunch with Angus. I was anxious about getting a job from him, but not really nervous. It was a glorious, sunny autumn day. I was feeling well and in good spirits.

I arrived at Chez Henri at three minutes after one. Angus was already waiting at the bar, looking more Bill Bla.s.s than ever, and perfectly groomed. His hair was a little thinner on top, but it had been exceedingly well-disguised by a loving barber. His smile fixed into place instantly as I stepped through the door.

"Gillian! You look marvelous! Just divine. You're looking so well, and brown. And wearing your hair differently, aren't you, dear?"

What seemed like 147 "Gillian dear"s later, I got up the nerve to ask him about the chance of finding a job in the hallowed halls of Decor, and got turned down, graciously, elegantly, charmingly, the smile broadening just a little more to let me know that he really "cared," and would "love to but". . . . He said all the right things about "just feel terrible about it . . . things so slow . . . but you wouldn't be happy at Decor anymore, would you, dear?" He was half right, but I wanted a job and had thought of him first. Actually, I might have liked working there again, but once you left Decor, you left forever. Like the convent, or the womb. Never to return.

It was a nice lunch anyway, and I still had the meeting with John Templeton to look forward to the next day. But unlike Thursday, Friday happened with pouring rain and an acute case of nerves which told me just how badly I wanted the job at Woman's Life.

I b.u.mped along on the bus, on the way to the magazine, wis.h.i.+ng that I had had another cup of coffee to give me that wide-awake, bouncy busy look people get when they're all stimulated by what they're doing. I knew I had the whole thing backward and wanted to cover it up. You have to be put together, in need of nothing, sailing along under full steam, and then jobs fall into your lap like ripe apples. Need a job, for financial or emotional reasons, and it shows. You get that desperate look, that pathetic hungry look, and the tree shakes absolutely nothing into your lap. Need scares people off. n.o.body loves the poor little hungry guy sitting in the corner of Riker's. You feel for him, but you don't want to get too close, or give him anything, because maybe proximity and/or recognition will give you his "disease." Maybe his sadness will be contagious, and n.o.body wants to take that chance.

At nine-ten I arrived at the black marble entrance of Woman's Life, with the bronze numerals at the side of the door: 353 Lexington. The slightly tacky chandeliers were being dusted, and as I headed for the second of four banks of elevators I began to get excited. There was Muzak in the elevators. And as we rose slowly I was beginning to hope, to really want to believe that in an hour I'd walk out of there "jobbed."

Nine-twelve. The third floor . . . the receptionist . . . "Mrs. Forrester, will you have a seat, please. Mr. Templeton's secretary will be right out." Seven copies of Life Magazine, two issues of Holiday, and all the current issues of Woman's Life lay on the low table next to the Naugahyde couch that tried to look like Mies van der Rohe but didn't quite make it. Seventh cigarette of the day, second wave of nausea, brief reminder of what was happening inside my body, brief realization that my palms were wet, and then a smiling girl of about my own age, and looking as though she might be from Cleveland, appeared to take me in to see "Mr." Templeton. I suddenly felt younger, dumber, less competent, and infinitely less useful than she. After all, she had a job, didn't she? . . . Come on, Gillian, pull yourself together . . . down three different corridors whose only apparent purpose was to impress visitors and make them totally lose their sense of direction, which I accommodatingly did as we reached the second corridor. Then, a beige on beige anteroom, with a large orange ashtray on Miss Cleveland's desk, and another almost-Mies-van-der-Rohe chair, and a door. The Door. John was standing in the doorway, smiling at me, looking wiry and nervous, full of energy, and welcoming. He whisked me in, shut the door, offered me coffee, lit up his pipe, smiled a lot, made a lot of small talk, praised all the virtues of San Francisco, and was "John Templeton: friend" to "Gillian Forrester: expatriate free-lancer returned." I could handle that, that was easy. I could be Gillian Forrester. I knew how to do that. And if he would play Friend, then everything would be okay. I relaxed, looking at the view, inquired about his kids, said the usual things about New York, and asked how Woman's Life was weathering the publis.h.i.+ng crisis. I didn't ask as an interviewee, but as someone who used to be in publis.h.i.+ng. I forgot about the job.

A capsule report on the business ensued, along with reports on which of the other "books" were threatening to fold, and which ones weren't threatening but were in real trouble, "as we all know."

Seemingly mid-sentence, during my second cup of coffee, John looked up, watched me for a minute, and said, "Gillian, why'd you come back?" Whammmmm. John Templeton was not such a close friend that I could speak truths from the depths of my heart. At least I didn't feel that I could. So? "I had to," "I wanted to," "I missed New York," "I wanted to come to Woman's Life to find a job,"- the only thing that might have rung true would have been the truth and that was so outlandish that I couldn't begin to offer any part of that as an explanation. What seemed like eight years, and was probably three seconds, pa.s.sed as I stared into my coffee and listened to my ears buzz and pound: then I looked up and said the most articulate thing I could come up with, "I wanted to leave San Francisco for a while, I thought I should come back here," which made a little sense, and sounded like nothing much, except that maybe I had been wanted in California on a morals charge or something. But he accepted that and only asked me if I thought I was back for good. Which I didn't know. And I said so. I said I was back for at least six months, maybe a year, maybe forever, it depended on what I found in New York, what happened to my life in the next year.

"Have you been looking for a job?" John asked.

"Yes . . . no. That is I called you because, well, because I like Woman's Life. I don't want to go back to advertising, and, as you said, publis.h.i.+ng is pretty well closed up. I thought it might be worth a try to give you a call."

"What about your old job at Decor? Did you talk to Angus Aldridge?"

"Yes. No go." He nodded, and I was pleased with myself for being honest. I had always suspected that there was rivalry between them, but whatever the case, at least I was playing it straight.

". . . Julie Weintraub. . . ." What, Julie Weintraub? How did she get into this? What in h.e.l.l is he talking about Julie Weintraub for?

"Julie Weintraub?" It seemed the only thing to say to get back into the conversation. Maybe he'd repeat what I'd missed.

"Sure, you remember her. You two worked on a couple of projects together. Christmas, and. . . ." Of course I remembered her, but I still didn't know why John had brought her name up.

"Well, as I said, she broke her pelvis last week, and she's going to be flat on her back for a while, at least eight weeks, maybe ten, maybe even twelve. Jean Edwards and two other girls are trying to take over the mainstream of her work, but we're having some problems. So I'm at the point now where I was thinking that I could get someone in on a short-term basis, maybe even part-time, three, four days a week, and see how that works out. And I was thinking you might want to give it some thought. I warn you, Gillian, slave wages and no by-line, but it wouldn't be a full work week either which would give you more time with your daughter. What do you think?" . . . What do I think? What do I think? I think somebody, somewhere, loves me, that's what I think! Hallelujah! Wait till I tell Chris! "Gillian, stop grinning at me and say something." John was smiling back. He knew the answer from the look on my face.

"I think, dear Mr. Templeton, that the tree shook an apple into my lap after all. I'll take it. I mean, I want it. I mean . . . it sounds great! Like an absolute dream!"

"Can you start Monday?" I nodded, still feeling tongue-tied. "Fine. And you can plan on having the job for at least eight weeks. I want you to talk to Julie about what she's been doing. And we're working on the March issue right now. I guess that's all you need to know for a start. We'll let you have it with both barrels on Monday."

I just grinned and grinned, and silently blessed Julie Weintraub's pelvis.

"That's fine, John. That sounds fine." And still that dumb grin on my face.

John stood up, we shook hands, I picked up my coat, and seemed to float out of his office, as they say. The secretary in the beige anteroom no longer had anything I didn't have, the elevators were playing my song, and the bronze "353" on the front of the building made it look like home. As of the following Monday, I had a job.

When I got back to the hotel, I thought of calling Chris. I hedged about it because I was afraid he'd quell my enthusiasm, be indifferent or nonchalant about it, and I wanted him to be excited too. It's like half the excitement of a new dress you're crazy about is waiting to hear what Prince Charming is going to say about it. You can hardly wait for him to gasp and tell you that you've never looked more beautiful. So, when he tells you it's a great dress but you ought to lose another ten pounds, or that it would be terrific on a girl with bigger bosoms, or it's too bad your legs are too short for that look . . . you die a little, and the glitter falls off your star. I felt that way about the job, I didn't want him to take the glitter off it, but I really wanted to tell him. So I waited. . . . But at four o'clock I couldn't stand it anymore, and I called, sat holding my breath for a minute while the phone rang and rang at Chris's end, disappointment beginning to back up in my throat as I realized he might not be at home.

". . . Yeah? . . ." Whew, he's in . . . and me feeling about fourteen years old at the other end.

"Chris? It's me. I've got a job. Stylist at Woman's Life. I start Monday for eight or ten weeks, taking over for one of the editors who's in the hospital. I just got the job. Isn't that super?" All of it pouring out in one breath. Why couldn't I make it sound more grownup, or professional, or something? My excitement and something like embarra.s.sment at talking to Chris made it sound so small and kind of foolish. Or maybe that was just me, feeling small, and sounding foolish.

"That's nice, Gill. It'll keep you busy for a while. Why didn't you look for something longer term? You'll just be out looking again in two months this way." He would think of that . . . i.e., "too bad the dress has that hemline, with your legs" . . . oh well, nice try.

"Look, Gill, I don't think you ought to call here anymore. Now don't get all excited and mad, it's no big deal. Just temporary. I've got a roommate. She's going to pay half the rent, and it really helps."

"A roommate? She? Since when? And who the h.e.l.l is she that all of a sudden I can't call you anymore?? What the h.e.l.l do you mean?" Oh G.o.d, why am I doing this, it's none of my business. Why am I dying and shaking all over? Third cigarette . . . who cares about John Templeton's old job anyway? It's over, everything is finished with me and Chris, the Queen is dead, Long Live the Queen. . . .

"Look, it's really not important, Gill, you don't even know her, and it's just for a while." You rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you big son of a b.i.t.c.h. . . .

"I do too know her. I can hear it in your voice. Who is it? It's no big deal, you said so yourself, so tell me, just out of curiosity. Who is she?" A slightly hysterical pitch getting into my voice.

"Marilyn Lee." Sonofab.i.t.c.h, I knew it. She was the one he had told me about at the beach one day. The only girl he had ever really cared about. But it was supposed to be over. And now it wasn't over at all. She was back. "Hey, Gill, come on, cool it. It's just for a while. She called yesterday and she's in town for a couple of weeks, so she's staying here, maybe for a month, no big thing."

"Stop telling me it's no big thing, will you please!" That hysterical note again. "And if it's no big thing, how come I can't call? Afraid you might upset her, Chris? Would it bother her to know that I'm calling? Is she just a little teeny, tiny bit jealous? Why should she be, baby? She's been getting you for years, she's not losing anything."

"Will you take it easy, it's not good for the baby if you get upset." The baby? The baby? Since when is he so interested in the baby?

"Look, forget it, Chris. It's your life. I just wanted to tell you about the job. Got to get off the phone now anyway. Take it easy. Oh, and Chris . . . I won't call anymore. Have a nice life." Stupid, stupid, soph.o.m.oric thing to say. Why can't you be glib and cool? He can hear you crying, you big a.s.s.

"Gillian . . . I love you, baby, you know that."

"Try telling that to Marilyn. Chris. . . ." And there I was, sobbing. Humiliating myself, begging him to love me. Why did I have to be that way? Why? I hated myself, but I couldn't stop.

"Gill, I'll call you next week."

"Don't bother. Just don't bother. Marilyn might not like it. For once in your life, Chris, just this once, do something all the way, not half-a.s.sed. If you want to be with her, be with her. If you want to be with me, come to New York. But don't s.h.i.+t up her life, or mine, or your own, by double-timing everyone you ever spend an hour with. Try being honest with yourself for a change."

"If you're going to behave like an a.s.s about this, I won't call you."

"Fine. Tell it all to Marilyn."

"You're supposed to understand me, Gill. You're the only one who ever knows how I feel. What do you want me to do? Be something I'm not? Well, I can't. This is how I am." Christ, now he's making me feel sorry for him. The little boy kicking dirt around with his toes, being misunderstood by the world. Poor sweet Chris, and big bad Marilyn, and mean old me. s.h.i.+t. "Let's talk about it another time. I love you, Gill."

So Chris was living with someone else. The excitement of the morning was dispelled and forgotten. The hour I had spent in John Templeton's office felt as though it had been a month before. Who cared about G.o.ddam Woman's Life?

18.

But Monday was a day of bliss. I was busy. I had a job. And I lost myself in it all day long.

I shot out of the hotel at twenty minutes to nine and headed downtown with the crowds. It was a heady feeling. I took the bus to work, and by the time those bronze numerals announcing "353" loomed into view I felt as though I owned them. I exchanged a smile and good morning with the maintenance men who were once again polis.h.i.+ng the bronze and dusting the chandelier, and I felt as though I belonged. At that precise moment I belonged to New York and had been born under the sign of those bronze numerals. The Muzak was blaring fuzzily in the elevator, and the coffee wagon was ringing its bell and doing a sizable business on the third floor when I stepped off. Welcome home.

I looked for John Templeton's office and, after a few wrong turns, found it, with his secretary still sitting in the same place, wearing beige-on-beige to match the anteroom.

"Mr. Templeton is in a meeting, Mrs. Forrester. He said you were to go in and see Jean, Mrs. Edwards, and then he'll see you and the whole decorating group at eleven." Another exchange of smiles and . . . "Oh, Mrs. Forrester, Mrs. Edwards will show you the office you'll be using. And please see Mr. Porcelli about your social security number. Payroll is on four." Magic words. It was real.

Further down the maze lay Jean Edwards' office, tucked in between two larger ones. Hers was tiny, disorderly, littered with fabric samples, needlepoint kits, bright posters, dirty coffee cups, and sc.r.a.ps of paper with eight or nine messages scrawled on them in different directions. Her office was bright and friendly and full of potted plants. An arrow with "Up" painted on it in red letters pointed down, and a huge poster that said "Smile" showed a photograph of a little girl in tears, looking at her ice cream cone lying on the pavement at her feet.

I waited for Jean while people came and went, looked in, rushed by, and had the air of very busy people. I felt like a guest.

I remained alone, nervous, and itching to get to work. Where was Jean? Where was everybody in fact? It seemed like everyone had something to do except me; it was like a giant game, and I wanted to play too. Faces continued to appear in the doorway and then go away again, and the minutes ticked by as I glanced through the three most recent issues of the magazine.

"Waiting for Jean?" I looked up when I heard the voice, and a tall man in his mid-forties met my gaze. He had black hair, bright blue eyes, and was sporting a well-trimmed beard.

"Yes. I am."

"Friend or foe?" The eyes twinkled as he asked.

"I'm not sure, but I think I work here."

"Oh, the new secretary. Right." His face lost interest, and he sped away down the hall before I could respond, with irritation mounting in my throat. Secretary indeed!

I continued to wait, and just after ten o'clock Jean raced in with an arm full of folders, fabric samples, and contact sheets. Her smile brought the morning back into perspective, and the long wait in her office seemed like only a moment.

"Hi. I hear I have a new secretary waiting in my office." Her dark eyes flashed in amus.e.m.e.nt as she looked up at me, and then I had to laugh. "Don't let him get to you, that's just his style. He's a little brusque. When I told him you were the new wife of the French Amba.s.sador, and you had agreed to come here to discuss our photographing your house, he almost died."

"Good. Who is he. Anyone important?" I suspected he was. There had been an air of officialdom about him when he walked into the room.

"More or less. He's Gordon Harte. Senior Art Director and a.s.sistant Managing Editor."

"That sounds like 'more' rather than 'less.' Hard to deal with?"

"Sometimes. But mostly just standoffish. And we all get b.i.t.c.hy when we're getting ready to close an issue. You'll see."

"I remember that much."

"Good. Look, I haven't got time to brief you now. We have a decorating department meeting in Templeton's office in five minutes, and I've got to get this c.r.a.p off my desk. There's a list on Julie's desk of the stuff you'll be doing for the next week at least. You've got to find me a very unusual dining room for a shooting, and we're doing children's bedrooms, and . . . what the h.e.l.l was that other thing? . . . Christ! . . . Oh! Right! You're supposed to talk to the food editor about something tomorrow morning, and John has an interview for you to do next week. It'll get a little saner in a week or two, before that though you'll mostly be shoveling your driveway, so to speak. Okay? Ready? Off to our meeting. I have to stop and look at the slides from last Friday's shooting on the way. Lamps. We'll talk later, and Julie's office, yours, is two doors left of mine." The entire time she had been speaking to me she had been sorting through papers on her desk, shoving things into files, stacking photographs, and making notes, but the stream of conversation never lagged for a second. She was one of those wiry, dynamic women in her late thirties who lives for her career. She was tough, competent, and nice, which was a rare combination. And I guessed correctly as I watched her that she was also divorced.

The meeting in John Templeton's office was brief and to the point. Mimeoed sheets were handed out listing future features in the magazine, and I listened intently, feeling as though I had somehow missed the first two weeks of school and already needed to catch up.

By noon, I was following Jean back down the hall. She zipped into her office, and I proceeded two doors down to mine.

I gingerly opened the door, wondering what I would find, and then stood and looked around for a moment, liking what I saw. Two walls were blue, one was orange, and the fourth was brick, there was thick brown carpeting on the floor, and the walls were covered with photographs, posters, and funny little plaques. "Too much of a good thing is wonderful" was attributed to Mae West, two others said "Mierda" and "Courage," and behind the desk was one that said "Not Today, Johnny Boy." There were two plants on the desk, and in the corner an immense array of multicolored paper flowers. It was a small room, but it looked like a pleasant place to work and I plopped myself down in the chair that said Madame Director and momentarily felt like the winner on "Queen for a Day." I felt every bit the part, and the first day at school feeling began to wear off.

"I hear I owe you an apology. And how is the Amba.s.sador, by the way?" It was Gordon Harte, standing in the doorway, with a solemn expression, watching me try my office on for size.

"I trust he's well, Mr. Harte. And how are you?"

"Busy, thank you. Why aren't you?" I wondered for an instant if he were serious, and groped for an icy retort, but then I saw his face relax.

"I feel like I've taken a job in a factory all of a sudden."

"Don't kid yourself, you have. And don't ever let Eloise catch you sitting around with empty hands. Even a spoon will do. You can tell her it's a prop for a photograph you're checking out."

"That bad, huh? I hear the Art Director's pretty bad too." I raised an eyebrow and tried not to smile as I gave him back a little of his own. But I knew he was right about Eloise. Eloise Franck, Managing Editor, and resident terror. I still remembered her from the days I had free-lanced at Woman's Life. She was an ex-newspaperwoman who was at least sixty, and looked forty, and had a heart of ground gla.s.s and cement. But she was a pro. From head to foot, a pro, hated by her underlings, feared by her colleagues, and valued only by John Templeton, who knew her worth. She knew how to run a magazine, never lost control, and had an infallible sense for what was right for Woman's Life.

"By the way, Mrs. Forrester, there's a general staff meeting at nine sharp tomorrow morning. You're expected to be there." I had almost forgotten Gordon's presence while I remembered the terrors of Eloise Franck.

"Fine. I'll be there, Mr. Harte."

"You'd better be. Now get to work." And then he vanished, still something of an enigma. It was hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking, or if he joked at all. There was an edge of sarcasm to everything he said. Those eyes would look at you, and take hold . . . turn you around . . . squeeze you for a moment, and then drop you when you least expected it. As though life were a game. His height and slimness exaggerated the leanness of his face, which somehow reminded me of an El Greco portrait . . . what was it? I wondered to myself that day. Perhaps that despite the glint of humor in the eyes there was something else there, a quality of hurt, something that made him seem just out of reach.

"Oh well, Mr. Harte, you do your thing and I'll do mine, and hopefully we won't get on each other's nerves." I mumbled to myself as I began to ferret through the stack of notes on my desk. It looked as though I had a lot to do. And a lot to catch up on.

I was so totally engrossed in sorting out what lay ahead that I didn't pick my head up until almost five, having forgotten everything but my work, including Gordon Harte.

I poured myself a cup of coffee from the machine across the hall and returned to my desk as the phone began to ring.

"How's it going?" It was Jean Edwards.

"Okay. But I feel swamped. I've just spent the entire day going through the stuff on Julie's desk. But I think I'm catching up."

"In one day? Not bad. Have you been notified of the staff meeting tomorrow?"

"Yes, thanks. Gordon Harte came by to tell me."

"That's quite an honor. As a rule, he speaks only to John Templeton and G.o.d. And I'm not even sure he speaks to G.o.d."

"That doesn't surprise me. He looks like he could be a real. . . ."