was so aggressive, so fast, that all he could do was struggle to find immediate answers. Being with her was like being in a tennis match, not having known you'd be expected to play.
'Sure,' he said, because closer to her was where he would have to be, no matter what happened next. He remembered Bryce warning him that he had fallen in love with this woman once, and mightn't Wayne do the same? No. He'd said no before because of Susan, but now he could say no because of Lucie; she wasn't restful enough to fall in love with. You might lust after her, to see if it was possible to pin down with your cock that quicksilver quality, but that wouldn't be love.
He said, 'Dinner next Monday?'
'I'm busy Monday. Why not call me
Tuesday?'
'Because I don't know your number.'
'Oh, you're about to know my number,' she said, laughing at him, 'and I do believe I'm about to know yours.'
Susan was waiting up when he got home.
'I met her,' he said, and went to the kitchen for another glass of wine, and found Susan expectant in the living room when he got back. He sat down and said, 'Susan, I don't think I ought to talk about this from now on.'
'Just tell me,' she said, 'did you like her?'
'She's interesting but repellent,' he said.
'Good.'
He said, 'I think, Susan, it's time for us to go to bed and have a sexual encounter.'
Amused, she said, 'So Lucie turned you on, did she?'
'She reminded me how much you turn me on,' he said, which was almost the truth.
And later, after Susan fell asleep, he lay thinking how that kind of woman could be a strong draw for a confident, high-powered personality like Bryce. She'd be a challenge to him, and he would never give up believing he was up to the challenge. But she would be relentless, there would never be any ceasefires with her, there was no way to bring that war to an end. Well, one.
Next day, in the mail, came four copies of a contract, between Bryce Proctorr and Tim Fleet, resident at this address. The wording was careful but straightforward. It described exactly the agreement Bryce had offered when they'd met. 'I notice,' he told himself, 'I get a quarter of any future earnings, subsidiary rights. Movie sales, see that? But that's okay. This is merely a passage through hell, that's all, like Jim Gregory's passage through Guatemala. If
The Domino Doublet,
or whatever Bryce changes it to, if it makes millions and millions of dollars, so what? Let him have three quarters, let him have it all. It wouldn't make a penny, if it didn't have Bryce's name on it in the first place. And after all, one way or another, it isn't about money anyway, is it?'
Along with the contract had come a note on Bryce's small stationery:
Dear Tim,
Please sign all copies, keep one, send the other three to me. Send them when you think the time is right, and I'll carry them with me when I leave for California for a couple of weeks.
I'm sure this collaboration will be a success for both of us.
Yours,
Bryce
'California for a couple of weeks,' he echoed. 'Of course, to be a continent away when it happens.'
In his office, Wayne had a four-drawer gray metal filing cabinet, man height, beside his desk. He took from its second drawer a fresh unused manila folder and inserted the four copies of the contract and the note into it. Then he took from his wallet the torn off piece of
Playbill
on which, last night, Lucie Proctorr had written her name and phone number and address uptown on Broadway. He copied all that on to a card on his Rolodex, and then the
Playbill
scrap also went into the folder.
He considered the folder for a while, trying to decide what heading to put on the tab, then at last left it blank. He slid it into the drawer between 'LEGAL' and 'MAGAZINES.' He'd know where to find it: 'LUCIE.'
7
For a week and a half, Bryce worked contentedly on
Two Faces in the Mirror.
It wasn't that he forgot his troubles, merely that they felt far away.
Structurally, the book was quite good,
'Sure,' he said, because closer to her was where he would have to be, no matter what happened next. He remembered Bryce warning him that he had fallen in love with this woman once, and mightn't Wayne do the same? No. He'd said no before because of Susan, but now he could say no because of Lucie; she wasn't restful enough to fall in love with. You might lust after her, to see if it was possible to pin down with your cock that quicksilver quality, but that wouldn't be love.
He said, 'Dinner next Monday?'
'I'm busy Monday. Why not call me
Tuesday?'
'Because I don't know your number.'
'Oh, you're about to know my number,' she said, laughing at him, 'and I do believe I'm about to know yours.'
Susan was waiting up when he got home.
'I met her,' he said, and went to the kitchen for another glass of wine, and found Susan expectant in the living room when he got back. He sat down and said, 'Susan, I don't think I ought to talk about this from now on.'
'Just tell me,' she said, 'did you like her?'
'She's interesting but repellent,' he said.
'Good.'
He said, 'I think, Susan, it's time for us to go to bed and have a sexual encounter.'
Amused, she said, 'So Lucie turned you on, did she?'
'She reminded me how much you turn me on,' he said, which was almost the truth.
And later, after Susan fell asleep, he lay thinking how that kind of woman could be a strong draw for a confident, high-powered personality like Bryce. She'd be a challenge to him, and he would never give up believing he was up to the challenge. But she would be relentless, there would never be any ceasefires with her, there was no way to bring that war to an end. Well, one.
Next day, in the mail, came four copies of a contract, between Bryce Proctorr and Tim Fleet, resident at this address. The wording was careful but straightforward. It described exactly the agreement Bryce had offered when they'd met. 'I notice,' he told himself, 'I get a quarter of any future earnings, subsidiary rights. Movie sales, see that? But that's okay. This is merely a passage through hell, that's all, like Jim Gregory's passage through Guatemala. If
The Domino Doublet,
or whatever Bryce changes it to, if it makes millions and millions of dollars, so what? Let him have three quarters, let him have it all. It wouldn't make a penny, if it didn't have Bryce's name on it in the first place. And after all, one way or another, it isn't about money anyway, is it?'
Along with the contract had come a note on Bryce's small stationery:
Dear Tim,
Please sign all copies, keep one, send the other three to me. Send them when you think the time is right, and I'll carry them with me when I leave for California for a couple of weeks.
I'm sure this collaboration will be a success for both of us.
Yours,
Bryce
'California for a couple of weeks,' he echoed. 'Of course, to be a continent away when it happens.'
In his office, Wayne had a four-drawer gray metal filing cabinet, man height, beside his desk. He took from its second drawer a fresh unused manila folder and inserted the four copies of the contract and the note into it. Then he took from his wallet the torn off piece of
Playbill
on which, last night, Lucie Proctorr had written her name and phone number and address uptown on Broadway. He copied all that on to a card on his Rolodex, and then the
Playbill
scrap also went into the folder.
He considered the folder for a while, trying to decide what heading to put on the tab, then at last left it blank. He slid it into the drawer between 'LEGAL' and 'MAGAZINES.' He'd know where to find it: 'LUCIE.'
7
For a week and a half, Bryce worked contentedly on
Two Faces in the Mirror.
It wasn't that he forgot his troubles, merely that they felt far away.
Structurally, the book was quite good,
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