Chapter 7
Susan Lundman was bored. She'd just returned from Las Vegas and in the quiet of her house now paced the floor nervously. Gambling bored her, films bored her, television no longer held her interest. She didn't read, she hadn't picked up a book since Forever Amber. So she spent most of her day at the salon, or shopping in Beverly Hills, or meeting other women friends for lunch. But even that was becoming a bore. Idly Susan drifted away from the dining room and out onto the terrace. Slowly she walked down the steps into the Japanese garden.
The fragrance of the flowers was strong in her nostrils and she stood, drink in hand, looking glumly up at the sky. She wasn't feeling too well this morning. She had a hangover and the shakes that wouldn't stop. She didn't know what was happening to her. There was a time when she could take four or five scotch highballs before dinner, then drink a few more after, follow that by cognac straight through the evening, and still manage to wake up in the morning clear as a glass of champagne-well, maybe occasionally she would have a dull ache in the head the following morning, but a glass of scotch over the rocks and black coffee always took the "blaliness" away. For the past three years, however, drinking had become an increasing problem. She craved it so. Four straight shots of scotch was what she required the second she got out of bed to bring her into a semblance of endurable coherence; she drank scotch in the morning, martinis through lunch, old-fashioneds before dinner and whatever else she craved after. Each night she'd fall into bed in a state of quasi-delirious, exhilarant apprehension, hoping-she had even prayed-that she would be able to get through the long night, taking a secret vow that tomorrow, hangover or no, she would not touch a drop. Yes, tomorrow she would be a new woman ... tomorrow she would go on the wagon ... and while she was at it, she'd give up smoking. Tomorrow always came, but she drank even more, and smoked twice as much.
What happened to her? When had it all started? When had drinking ceased to be social and had become personal? At what point had it stopped being pleasurable and had become a nightmare? That's what she was, an alcoholic. But she wasn't alone, she compensated. There were others like her who could understand the consuming, corrosive, nightmarish terror of the alcoholic compulsion. So? Why should she join that miserable crowd? Nobody held a knife to her stomach, threatening her to take a drink. Look what it had forced her to do. She found herself increasingly alone in bars. She was now drinking her dinner, her lunch; subsisting chiefly on ham sandwiches, drinking black coffee in copious quantities, and, of course, taking barbital. When would the long, tortuous cycle end? She asked the question with increasing despondence, and never got an answer. She'd been to a sanitarium, to three doctors, and to a psychiatrist. The last had told her that she obviously had been a troubled child (she could have told him that!), that she was too self-exacting, that it was a form of escape, even that she was allergic to alcohol. When she paid him the two hundred dollars, the end result of her consultation was a week's jag in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, a sex orgy with six guys, and a heavy fine for drunken driving and disorderly conduct.
Out of the three years of combined, collective bewilderment, loneliness, frustration, fear of growing old, had grown an all-increasing anger and resentment for all that tortured her, all that made her existence miserable; a resentment as strong as her despondency, which directed itself toward Rick, her late husband, and every and all lovers she took. Her hopeless kind of existence was painful, and finally her emotions and energy dissipated itself into innumerable moods of deep exhaustion. The point was to free herself from her emotional bracelet, to stretch, straighten, and clear out of the dark pit she was in. Jesus, there must be a way; there had to be some kind of answer, and, moodily, standing solitarily in the Japanese garden, drink in hand, she sought to find the way.
Susan Lundman's jaw set firmly as she sank into the depths of depression. Each time she looked at her face in a mirror she told herself that she was the most lasting beauty of them all-a regular Garbo. But inside she knew age had touched her with its ugly finger. Men no longer threw themselves at her. She really had no choice in sleeping partners anymore. She had to resort to a certain kind of man, the older type with the tire around his waist, the gray hair at his temple, married men sneaking a lay on the side. That, or she had to pay for it. She could get anything she wanted as long as she paid for it. Money talked, she knew that well. But paying men, forcing them to love her, took a lot out of her. It had frightened her when she saw the gray at her roots just before she had her hair bleached. Susan Lundman, beauty, fading away faster than any of the sad parade of bed partners she'd pursued and pitied. She turned and walked back into the house to look at herself in the mirror. Her face was a bit bloated and heavy from drink. She was overweight, and her skin was sallow without makeup, her eyes bloodshot and watery-and what was that? A wrinkle? "God, no," she muttered aloud. Why, just recently she'd studied her face and thought she looked well. She had. Who wouldn't with globs of makeup? A thin line of pain shot across the back of her head as her thoughts fixed on the fact that she was falling downhill, headfirst and heedless.
"I don't give a hoot," she mumbled. "What the hell. I'm not that bad!" No, it's just that she'd hung one on in Vegas, that's all. She was suffering the aftermaths of a big weekend, it was that simple.
The sound of a car parking in her driveway pulled her from her thoughts. She walked to the window and looked out. "The Rolls," she muttered. "Rick." Quickly she walked to the makeup table and applied some lipstick, combed her hair, and, slipping into a peignoir, went downstairs. She waited for the sound of Rick's key in the door, but heard the chimes ring instead. "Must have lost his key," she muttered as she walked to the door.
She swung the door open, the smile fading from her face when she found herself staring at a stranger. "Oh, I thought you were Rick!" She stared at the tall blond man. "Rick's my son," she explained. Her glance went to the Rolls-Royce. "He has a car exactly like yours."
"It's his car."
Her brow creased. "Has anything happened to Rick?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I borrowed it. My name is Paul Harris."
"Oh. Yes. Paul. Rick is staying with you."
"Yes. You spoke with me on the phone a few times."
She stood there, hesitating. "Yes," she smiled. Standing aside, finally she beckoned him in. "This is a surprise. Rick isn't with you?"
"No. I came alone on business."
"I see."
"My car-" he laughed, "-jalopy is more like it-hates freeways," he told her.
She laughed back. "What kind of business are you here on?"
"I'm an artist."
"Artist?" she questioned, closing the door behind her. "I paint. I thought I told you."
"If you had, then I've forgotten." She glanced at him fleetingly, her dark eyes glittering. "Funny, you don't look like an artist."
"Oh," Paul grinned. "Do they have a special look?"
"Ones I know do. Bunch of fags." She saw him flinch. "Sit down," she gestured to a chair. "I'm having scotch. What's yours?" She saw him look at her in surprise. "Too early for you, huh? Well I can get you tomato juice or-"
"Scotch will be find. On the rocks."
She made him a drink then stood studying him as he drank. "I didn't realize you'd be so handsome," she complimented him, pulling her peignoir closer around her and touching her hair. She noticed his blush. "So you came by to ogle Rick's old lady."
"To introduce myself formally," he corrected.
She put a cigarette to her lips and immediately he was on his feet lighting it for her. The cigarette glowed, casting a shine over her face as her eyes swept over him.
"To return the compliment, I had no idea Rick's mother was as youthful and as beautiful."
"You just scored with me," she smiled. "Tell me, how is Rick?"
"Fine."
"Still writing?" she asked, wondering what Rick must have told him. "Yes."
"I find that hard to believe." She hesitated, then said, "He never mentioned you. I find that strange. Oh, but then you told me how you met." She saw him swallow with difficulty. "Tell me, do you have a big house in Laguna?"
He laughed. "No, very tiny."
She caught the word tiny and wondered why he didn't say small. Tiny was one of the precious words her homo artist friends used. She gave him another look. There was something poetic about this boy. Yet he wasn't a boy, he was far older than Rick. Strange that Rick would have someone this old for a friend ... a roommate. An artist who lives in Laguna. Hmmm, and such a handsome one. She saw him light a cigarette, caught the relaxed wrist, saw him cross his knee, and began to notice little signs.
"So you paint. Tell me, how old are you?"
"Twe-thirty," he mumbled.
From his uncomfortable look he seemingly did not enjoy being questioned.
"Really. You don't look it. I'm surprised by your age. I mean, Rick's friends have always been in their teens." She watched as he mashed his cigarette in the silver ashtray. He was far from comfortable. "Rick must like Laguna."
"I think he does."
"I don't believe that stuff about the writing. I think he must have something going for him there," she laughed. Suddenly she saw the guarded look on his face. She knew instantly what that look meant. It surprised her, she had to admit. She never suspected Rick would become involved with a man. It was obvious to her. It was also strange how she felt; suspecting Rick and this handsome man gave her a vicarious thrill. Paul Harris was too damn handsome not to be queer. "Well? Does he have someone?" She cocked her head, enjoying the hint of fear in his face.
"I-I wouldn't know. He-he spends lots of time on the beach. I guess he meets girls there."
"Yes, I'm sure."
Paul Harris was queer; instinct told her that. She could always tell. Hell, she should know about men by now. She also knew the reason he'd dropped by. Paul knew that sooner or later he'd have to meet Rick's mother if the affair were to continue. Obviously Paul had decided to do it this way, alone, without Rick; that way she would be less suspicious. It was almost impossible to believe Rick would seek this kind of arrangement. It didn't bother her, but it surprised her. A smile came to her lips when she raised her face. She told herself she'd play with Paul Harris-make him sweat.
"Tell me, are there just the two of you in this tiny house?"
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"I mean," she continued, "You don't have a wife, you're not married?"
She watched him put down his glass and immediately light another cigarette. "No, I'm not married."
"Ever been?"
"No."
"Strange."
"Why?"
"You're too good-looking to have escaped. I should think women would throw themselves at your feet." He laughed off her remark.
"No, really," she insisted. She looked at him mischievously. "Well now, we've established the fact that you are not married. Do you have a steady?"
"I date now and then," he said guardedly.
She knew he was lying. "No steady. That means you don't belong to anyone," she said teasingly.
"I suppose you can say that," he said dryly. He shifted his weight, looked at the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and said, "This chair. Isn't it Louis the Fifteenth?"
He was purposely changing the subject. She suppressed a laugh. It was so obvious. "Yes," she answered. "How clever of you. Then you collect antiques?"
"Hardly. I'm a lover of antiques. I could never afford to-"
"But the chair you're sitting in only costs fifteen hundred dollars." When she said it, she knew it was bitchy of her.
"I figured it was in that neighborhood. Exactly why I could never buy it."
"Then painting is not making you rich?"
"God, no," he laughed.
Her eyes settled on his mouth, and a warmness stole through her. He had an absolutely marvelous smile, she thought.
"Tell me, are you a good painter?"
"I think so."
"One day you must let me see your work."
"I'd like for you to, Mrs. Lundman."
"Then I will." Her eyes searched his. "Under one condition-that you please, call me Susan, not Mrs. Lundman-and that we get to know each other better."
"Agreed."
A wave of sudden sexual emotion sluiced over her. "And we can start right now."
His face was impassive as she walked up to him. She smiled. He smiled nervously back at her. She leaned down, permitting him a good look at her bobbing breasts as she ground out her cigarette. "Has Rick spoken much about his mother?"
"Some." He gulped uncomfortably, unable to see beyond her half-exposed braless breasts.
"I'll bet he has. What did he tell you?" Her eyes flicked up at him. "That I'm aggressive-to use a nice, full-bodied sounding word."
"Uh-uh, no, he never said that."
"He hates me, you know. Oh, yes. Why, I will never know. He must have told you."
"No, he just spoke of his home-and-"
She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. "You don't have to explain," she said gently. "I understand everything." She ran her teasing fingertips down his cheek, his neck, and up again through his thick blond hair. "About your being gay-" She felt him stiffen. "-relax. It doesn't bother me. I've had some damn good times in bed with gay boys. Lots of them are AC/DC. You?"
"Mrs. Lundman, I-"
"Susan. Remember? You haven't forgotten we're getting to know each other."
He pushed her hands away and got to his feet. "I think I better go," he said.
"Go? Why, you've just arrived."
"Nevertheless, I still think I better go. I don't think we-you-that we-"
"Oh, shut up! Look, Paul, I'm not stupid. I know why you came here. To get to meet the old lady. Right? To set it up so that I wouldn't think there was anything out of the ordinary between you and Rick."
"Hey, look. This is a bad scene we're playing," Paul said, turning to face her.
"Why? We're being honest with each other. My, my, my, what have you got against the truth." Her face broke into a mirthless smile. "Didn't think I'd be so smart, did you? Well, I am. Smart enough to know you can get into trouble. Rick is still underage-ever stop to think about that?"
"I never said that Rick and I were-"
"You don't have to say it."
"You have no proof."
"He's living with you, that's proof enough. Mothers can make an awful lot of noise, you know, especially rich, Beverly Hills mothers."
He turned to face her, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. "What's this all about?"
"Nothing. I just don't like being lied to. Look, I don't mind at all what you are, or, for that matter, what Rick is or isn't. Hell, my son is better off living with you than some tramp who would be trying to hook him for his money. And there won't be any babies-they've already tried that on him. I had to pay but good. No, I don't mind." She felt an angry burning sensation in her chest. "But," she whispered, "I do mind rejection! I mind that very much."
"You're asking me to-" his voice caught.
"I'm not asking-I'm telling you," she smiled. "Servants are out, we're alone, no time like the present." She opened her peignoir, revealing her huge, creamy breasts, and looked him square in the eye.
He made an effort to look away, but she saw him return his look, his eyes feasting on her massive globes. Instantly she knew he swung with women; nobody could look at her tits like that and not be attracted to her. She walked up to him and stared him down.
"You sure don't waste time, do you?" he said quietly.
"No, baby," she answered, her eyes slanting, her lips parting, her arms going around him. "Not one fucking second!"