inspiration from her hometown Kansas newspaper. She had be-friended me, yes, she had been kind to me, yes, but I had been kind to her too. I had given my juices to her, served as her friend and companion. Now it was time to move on.
I looked around my office and sighed. I loved it all. I was born to it. Maybe I wasn’t writing a line, but I had found my station. I was making good money and the future was limitless. I had to get away from that woman.
All morning I sat brooding in gloom, for it was ever thus with me, probing the ashes, searching for blemishes, overwhelmed in despair. At noon she telephoned, and my heart leaped and I was glad.
“Still mad?” she asked.
“No. And you?”
“No,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I did it. I don’t know why. I never know why. It’s for you to forgive me.”
“I do, I do. You’re a sweet boy. You’re good for me. We mustn’t quarrel.”
“Never again. Let’s have some fun. Let’s celebrate.”
“I’d love that. Let’s do something crazy.”
“How about a good dinner first?”
“I’ll wear my new suit.”
“I’ve got a new suit too.”
“Wear it.”
“I love you,” I said. “You’re the dearest woman in the world. We’ll have a party.”
She wasn’t there when I returned to the hotel at six o’clock. There was a note for me on the desk. Back in a moment, it said. I walked back to my room, showered,and got into my new suit. I had never worn it before. A fine, hand-tailored $200 job. I studied myself in the mirror. The reflection was perfect: a high-priced writer. The shoulders were padded a little more than I wanted, but it was a pleasant garment. We belonged together. I walked down the hall to the lobby and she was there behind the desk, beaming as I kissed her. There was a scarf over her hair. She withdrew it and primped.
“Like it?” she asked. “It’s a pageboy.”
Her graying hair had been turned under at the ends in a sleek roll. It was stiff from the beauty parlor. I studied it but could not conjure up an opinion.
“Great,” I said. “Fine.”
I noticed a touch of rouge on her cheeks. It seemed superfluous.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“First we’re going to Rene and Jean’s.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Let’s have a cocktail.”
We walked into her apartment, and there were two martinis on the table. I lifted one and toasted her:
“To the kindest, sweetest girl in all the world.”
She smiled and sipped her drink. It made her cough and she laughed. While she dressed I sat down and had a couple more. She was in the bathroom for a long time. When she emerged, playfully stilted as if modelling, she showed off her Joan Crawford suit with wide shoulders and narrow skirt. She was taller, in high-heeled ankle-strap shoes. I felt a shudder of lust and kissed her. There was a thin film of scarlet lip rouge on her mouth. Perhaps it was too much. I didn’t know. It made me wonder.
We took my car and drove out Wilshire to Vermont and parked in Rene and Jean’s lot. We had been to the restaurant frequently and it was a pleasure to be greeted by old Jean and the waiters. We drank wine and ate too much. When it was time to leave she asked, “Where to now?”
I was ready for it. “Leave that to me.”
We drove back to Wilshire and turned toward the Ambassador Hotel. She was quiet and smiling and a littlefrowsy. Leaning back against the seat, the wide shoulders of her tailored suit had lost their elegance and seemed to overdress her. At the Ambassador I turned into the driveway, and parked the car and got out. She stepped from the car and looked about mystified. I took her arm.
“Let’s go,” I said, leading her toward the hotel.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the Coconut Grove and the music of Anson Weeks.”
She squealed and hugged my arm in delight. “It’s so nice to be with a famous writer!”
“Not famous, but
I looked around my office and sighed. I loved it all. I was born to it. Maybe I wasn’t writing a line, but I had found my station. I was making good money and the future was limitless. I had to get away from that woman.
All morning I sat brooding in gloom, for it was ever thus with me, probing the ashes, searching for blemishes, overwhelmed in despair. At noon she telephoned, and my heart leaped and I was glad.
“Still mad?” she asked.
“No. And you?”
“No,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I did it. I don’t know why. I never know why. It’s for you to forgive me.”
“I do, I do. You’re a sweet boy. You’re good for me. We mustn’t quarrel.”
“Never again. Let’s have some fun. Let’s celebrate.”
“I’d love that. Let’s do something crazy.”
“How about a good dinner first?”
“I’ll wear my new suit.”
“I’ve got a new suit too.”
“Wear it.”
“I love you,” I said. “You’re the dearest woman in the world. We’ll have a party.”
She wasn’t there when I returned to the hotel at six o’clock. There was a note for me on the desk. Back in a moment, it said. I walked back to my room, showered,and got into my new suit. I had never worn it before. A fine, hand-tailored $200 job. I studied myself in the mirror. The reflection was perfect: a high-priced writer. The shoulders were padded a little more than I wanted, but it was a pleasant garment. We belonged together. I walked down the hall to the lobby and she was there behind the desk, beaming as I kissed her. There was a scarf over her hair. She withdrew it and primped.
“Like it?” she asked. “It’s a pageboy.”
Her graying hair had been turned under at the ends in a sleek roll. It was stiff from the beauty parlor. I studied it but could not conjure up an opinion.
“Great,” I said. “Fine.”
I noticed a touch of rouge on her cheeks. It seemed superfluous.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“First we’re going to Rene and Jean’s.”
“Lovely,” she said. “Let’s have a cocktail.”
We walked into her apartment, and there were two martinis on the table. I lifted one and toasted her:
“To the kindest, sweetest girl in all the world.”
She smiled and sipped her drink. It made her cough and she laughed. While she dressed I sat down and had a couple more. She was in the bathroom for a long time. When she emerged, playfully stilted as if modelling, she showed off her Joan Crawford suit with wide shoulders and narrow skirt. She was taller, in high-heeled ankle-strap shoes. I felt a shudder of lust and kissed her. There was a thin film of scarlet lip rouge on her mouth. Perhaps it was too much. I didn’t know. It made me wonder.
We took my car and drove out Wilshire to Vermont and parked in Rene and Jean’s lot. We had been to the restaurant frequently and it was a pleasure to be greeted by old Jean and the waiters. We drank wine and ate too much. When it was time to leave she asked, “Where to now?”
I was ready for it. “Leave that to me.”
We drove back to Wilshire and turned toward the Ambassador Hotel. She was quiet and smiling and a littlefrowsy. Leaning back against the seat, the wide shoulders of her tailored suit had lost their elegance and seemed to overdress her. At the Ambassador I turned into the driveway, and parked the car and got out. She stepped from the car and looked about mystified. I took her arm.
“Let’s go,” I said, leading her toward the hotel.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the Coconut Grove and the music of Anson Weeks.”
She squealed and hugged my arm in delight. “It’s so nice to be with a famous writer!”
“Not famous, but
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