Once Is Not Enough by Jacqueline Susann Page B

building, and called a press conference. Michael Wayne was back on Broadway!
    For the next few months he was an explosion of frenetic energy. There were discussions with set designers, directors, actors, interviews at Sardi’s, appearances on the talk shows, quick dinners at Danny’s Hide-a-Way to unwind with the comedians, dropping by and sitting up half the night with Long John Nebel on his radio show. His return generated the excitement of a superstar. He was well liked by the press . . . his enthusiasm and “rough cut” charm were infectious to everyone around him. When rehearsals began he sent daily reports to January. He sent her the script; the newspaper stories; wrote to her about rehearsals; and kept her informed on every development of “their” propect. The only thing he neglected totell her about was the ingenue who had moved in with him after the first week of rehearsal.
    The play opened in October in Philadelphia and got mixed notices. Revisions were made and the ingenue lost two of her best scenes and stopped talking to him. It went on to Boston, where it received excellent notices. Three weeks later it opened in New York to a rousing ovation and murderous reviews. The consensus was “Old hat” . . . “Cumbersome” . . . “Badly cast.” The playwright went on talk shows and said Mike had changed his original conception, taken away all the mystical quality. The ingenue went on talk shows and said the playwright was a genius and Mike had ruined his work (she had already moved out of the Plaza and in with the playwright).
    He refused to close it. The cast took cuts and went on minimum salary. He poured another two hundred thousand dollars into signs on buses and subways, full-page ads in The New York Times , radio and television spots, full-page ads in the trades, in weekly Variety . He reprinted the Boston notice in full-page ads in out-of-town newspapers. He papered the house and gave it the razzle-dazzle he had always given his hits. He flew to Switzerland and told January it was a smash—it would run forever and he would have at least three companies on tour.
    Two months later, after a long session with his accountant, he was forced to close. The market was down, but he sold more stock and arrived in Switzerland for her twentieth birthday, walking like a winner, and carrying the usual amount of overweight in gifts.
    And when January walked into the reception room without crutches and without a trace of a limp, he felt like the winner of all time. Her steps were slow and measured, but she was walking. He clamped his jaw and swallowed hard. She was so damned beautiful with those great brown eyes and her hair hanging to her shoulders.
    And then she was in his arms, both of them talking and laughing at once. Later, over dinner at the inn, she said, “Why did you tell me the show was such a hit?”
    “It was . . . with me. Just had too much class for the public.”
    “But you put your own money into it . . .”
    “So?”
    “Well, you’ve had three flop pictures . . .”
    “Who says?”
    “Variety says.”
    “Where in hell did you get Variety?”
    “You left it here last time. Dr. Peterson gave it to me, thinking you might want it back. I devoured it. But why did you tell me it was a hit?”
    “It was . . . in Boston. Look, forget the play. Let’s talk about important things. The Doc says you’ll be ready to leave in six months.”
    “Daddy—” She leaned across the table and looked into his eyes. “Remember when I entered my teens, you said that was a special night. Well, tonight I’ve left my teens. I’m twenty. I’m a big girl now. I know the clinic costs over three thousand a month. Erik, the little boy who taught me to play guitar, had to leave because it was too expensive . . . so I’ve been thinking. . .”
    “The only thing you’ve got to think about is getting well.”
    “What about money?”
    “Hell, I made money from the flop pictures. I was on a percentage of the