Chapter 5
Margo Holland, sitting in the booth across from Larry Barker, wasn't quite sure how she'd come to the awareness of it, but she felt a distinct sense of loss.
Nothing overt had occurred to change anything in their relationship, but she was positive she no longer had Larry's love.
It wasn't something that had popped up just today or yesterday. It had begun gradually, two, maybe three weeks ago. Yes, he'd always been guarded, with a fence around him. Never openly loving or openly violent. But there had been the times, since their love affair had started six months ago,-when she'd been able to cut through his fence and find his love for her.
He was always on hand, wasn't he? Always there when she wanted him. He telephoned her, sent her flowers, silly Valentine cards. He was the one who'd personally seen to it that she received billing second only to McClure.
But something was going on. She couldn't feel his love any more. And she was the kind of girl who had to understand everything.
But Margo disliked scenes, and it was totally impossible for her to see herself pulling the trigger of accusation.
"You don't love me anymore!"
"Where'd you get an idea like that?"
"You don't. There's someone else in your life."
"Marg, can the dramatics."
"Admit it! Why don't you admit it?"
No. No, she was not the kiddie for curtain speeches. Sophisticated Margo Holland-that reputation was her stock in trade. If their love affair was to go the way of all beggary, then it would just have to happen. She would never be able to bring herself around to pointing fingers or going into hysterics or weeping like a love-sick cow.
"Ready to get back?" Larry asked, finishing his coffee and picking up the check. Their quick between-rehearsals dinner conversation had been idle, aimless. But that served as no clue. When Larry was tied up with the show, he was far from a stimulating conversationalist.
"Let's have one more coffee," Margo suggested. From the tail of her eye she could see Sophia and Keith McClure rising from their booth and leaving the grille. She refused to look their way completely. She wasn't up to playing big sister to Sophia, and she didn't like McClure.
"It's late, Marg," Larry quietly protested. "Bill and Mike said a little while ago they've hit on an idea to segue into the commercials without pain. I want to hear it."
"Is our date still on for that drink after rehearsals?" she asked uncertainly.
Larry frowned. "Of course it is. Who said it wasn't?"
"I just thought you might've changed your mind."
"Look, Marg, what's biting you? What's this suave little sniping at me?"
"Who's sniping?"
"These gentle little bombs you drop. 'Is our date still on?' for instance. Certainly, it's on. If you're sore about something, I wish you'd unload it and let me know."
Margo pushed his jacket sleeve back and read the time on his wristwatch.
"It is late. Come on, race you back."
On the way back upstairs to the studio, she tried to unfreeze her smile but couldn't. He'd given her a golden opportunity to tell him what was bothering her and she'd wriggled away from it. Caution, Holland, she advised herself; don't play a Bette Davis scene now. Or ever. Maybe you are hearing things and seeing blue elephants and getting bats in the belfry. Play it straight and close to the chest. Don't ever let him know you need him. You made a pact with yourself long ago. Remember the pact that went: I will never let people know I need them. Not my father, not my sister or mother or husband or lover. My life will be dedicated to the one and only Margo Holland and no one else.
Through the evening she did her best to pay as little attention to Larry as possible other than to follow his instructions pertaining to the show. As usual, she was taken by his tremendous talent for knowing exactly what he was doing, at all times. Never awkward, never fumbling.
He was on his way up to the top. And, because he was strong, she needed to go along with him.
As she tried out a few of the songs Doc had written expressly for her husky voice and smooth delivery, she was aware of Keith McClure, off in the corner, examining a new sketch for the first show. McClure, the monster who walks like a man. Like every starry-eyed ingenue just beginning to hit the big time, she'd gone vigorously ga-ga over him, that first time two years ago when they'd met and he'd taken her cool hand. She'd gone to his apartment. She'd even let him make his seedy love to her. Not because she'd been enthralled by him (his fascination ebbed quickly) by that time, but because-oh, because she'd been lonely and because it had been raining cats and dogs that night and she'd been in no hurry to get home.
Their "affair" had ceased after two home visits. He'd never been openly malicious to her, nor had she cut his throat. Now they were simply co-workers and they behaved themselves with each other as such in public. She'd never, for any length of time, been taken in by his gooey charm. She'd always been Margo, the chick who knew how to look out for herself and, thus, no harm done.
Now she thought about Sophia. She recalled McClure's watery eyes traveling over the kid this afternoon.
Briefly, she worried. Sophia certainly couldn't be blamed for owning that voluptuous body. But, on the other hand, she could be blamed if she got into a mess, because she used her voluptuous body as if it were a loaded pistol.
Should I bite my nails, worrying about McClure getting Sophia into his clutches? she asked herself. Nuts. Sophia isn't thirteen years old. She's a big girl now. I'll warn her about him. Past that, there isn't anything I can do, or should do.
What I must worry about is Larry. If I lose him nothing else means a thing. My name across the country, my picture in the papers and magazines, the movie offers, the expensive dinners at Sardi's and Toots Shor's-none of that is worth a plug nickel if I don't have Larry....
It was clear that he was bone-tired when the walk-throughs were over, at half-past nine. Margo slid her hand under his arm as they left the studio, and she decided she was not going to be the one to start any debates tonight.
"How do you think the show's shaping up?" she inquired casually as they made their way to a bar they often frequented together.
"Some of the punch is out of it," he said, hunching his massive shoulders and looking drawn. "That's not a good sign. Everybody's been relaxing through the summer; you'd think they'd come back raring to go. At least for the first rehearsal. But-I can't put my finger on it-they act tired, listless."
"Me, too?"
Larry didn't look at her, but he squeezed her hand. (A good sign, she thought. Intimate. Reassuring.) "You're a great performer, Marg. I've seen you give your best when you were floating drunk and when you were running a hundred and two temperature. No, I never worry about you."
"What about our new discoverySophia?"
He nodded. "She's got it, too. I just saw her for seconds at a time. But she's got that way about her, the star-material way. She's going to be fine."
"Then the least you could have done was to tell her so, Larry. Or at least say hello. She's a scared kid, lost in the big town. She was counting on you to be kind. You can't use your gruff-gorilla technique on everyone the same way."
They entered the bar and ordered double Scotches. "That's a lot of bunk. If she's got what it takes, nothing from me is going to change her one way or the other. I've watched directors coddle their performers. They get mushy performances."
"Okay, doctor. You know best."
"What's Sophia's background?" he asked.
Margo bit her lip. Even before she answered him she knew she would say the wrong thing. And say it the wrong way.
"Why do you want to know?"
She was right. The question came out hard and bitter, flirting gracelessly with hysteria. What's the' matter with me, she thought in fear. What am I doing, becoming paranoid? I can't sit easily or talk easily any more. I sound fierce.
Larry frowned. His hand, moving toward his glass, stopped. He turned to her.
His anger partly hidden, he said, "I was just interested."
She had to see it through. "Why were you interested? Is it because she's something special to look at?"
"Marg, we've got to come to some understanding, you and I. Are you playing tug of war? What the hell's come over you?"
"Not a thing."
"I can't say two words any more without you jumping down my throat. It can't be because of the rugged schedules; we're just beginning the season, not ending it."
"Okay. So I got out of line."
"Are you keyed-up, Marg? Nerves shot?"
"Maybe." She smiled coldly and stared at her glass. "Funny confession. I was always the Holland with the nerves of steel. But maybe you're right, maybe I am living too hard."
Now, once having admitted to weakness, she could feel the strength coming from him. "Then we're straight," he assured. "If you're not up to snuff, then I know it and we can work from there. Come on, finish your drink and I'll take you home. You're too important a property to be staying out all hours."
In the cab, Margo snuggled close to him.
His arm went around her shoulder and cradled her, but it was as if it were a mechanical procedure-as if the instinctive embrace, born of wanting her, was a hazy memory now, and this current performance was a token act of kindness.
"Will you kiss me, Larry?" she asked.
He did. It was hateful. She had demeaned herself by requesting (and so timorously) his affection.
When he raised his head again, after the mild kiss, she could not bear to look at him. He had been "friendly old Larry," the service station, and nothing more.
Still, she couldn't fully let him go by the time they, reached her apartment house. It had begun to rain, lightly but ominously, and she dreaded the idea of leaving him this way-formal and uncommunicative.
"Come up with me, Larry."
"Next time, Marg."
"No, now," she implored and she tried not to tremble. "I'll serve you some Scotch that isn't watered."
"I said the next time." He patted the battered briefcase beside him. "Between now and noon tomorrow I've got a month's work to look over. If I don't have the show's new format licked by the end of the week, we're all going to be walking into each other."
"Just five minutes."
Firmly he said, "No, Marg."
Abruptly she forced herself to proffer her well-known wry smile. Nodding, she remarked, "As you say. Margo dances alone tonight." She paused, facing him, as though a minute's time would make him change his mind and agree to go up with her. When it didn't happen, when the magic failed to work, she nodded again and hurried to the building's lobby.
Once in the elevator she was the cool, self-assured television star. Chic, attractive, independent. Lionel, the elevator operator was watching. He was her audience. And .audiences judged you by what they saw.
"Evening, Miss Holland."
"Hello, Lionel."
"In early tonight."
"That's right," she replied evenly, her eyes straight ahead, her hands at her sides.
"Say, that young sister of yours, she's a very nice young lady."
"You've met her?" monotoned Margo, without much interest.
"Uh-huh. I rode her down just fifteen, twenty minutes ago."
"She left? On a night like this?"
"That she did. All dolled up, too."
"Was she alone?"
"Uh-huh," said Lionel. "Very pretty young lady she is, too, if I do say so."
"Yes. Yes, she is."
The door pulled back and he bade her good night.
Blossom, the maid, would be asleep by now. The huge apartment would be terrifyingly dark.
Margo unlocked the apartment door, entered and switched on the light. She found the note on the foyer table.
"Marg, sorry couldn't wait but am on the way to Mr. McClure's party. There will be contacts there. Wish your idiot sister luck. Love, Sophia."
Wish her luck. That was the prize laugh of the season. With McClure she would need luck, but not the kind she thought. She'd need luck if she didn't have her track shoes with her.
Well, that's a nice, callous thing to say about your own sister, Margo recognized. Carrying the note, she continued on to the bedroom. Blossom had made up the wide bed and laid out the pajamas and negligee Margo almost never wore. Ignoring the pajamas, she undressed and slipped into the filmy negligee. She lit a cigarette and realized suddenly that she needed a drink.
Walking with rapid steps to the living room bar, she felt old and haggard. Larry was right; there was no reason to feel so used-up at the beginning of a season of heavy work. But she did. She felt as if only a long lazy vacation at Martha's Vineyard or a trip through Europe could ease the torturing demons within her.
Is it overwork that makes me feel so defeated, she asked herself? Worry? What's there to worry about? I'm one of the most popular singer-comediennes in the business. I never caused grief to anyone. Okay, I'm short-tempered now and then and I give out with the temperament unnecessarily once in a while, but they all know I don't mean anything by it. Even Larry knows I mean well.
Was I wrong to welcome Sophia in the first place? When she showed up this morning I really meant it when I told her she was welcome. I did tell her that, didn't I? Well, I meant to. She's been groping for a long while. She needs understanding. And there I was, all "Goody Gumdrop," ready to give it to her.
"Kindly old Margo," friend to the loveless. Where the hell do I get off, opening my home and heart to her, even if she is my sister? And a beautiful sister at that? If anybody needs understanding, it's Margo. I'm losing all the good things I once had, or nearly had. Like with Larry, the one person I need so desperately. I'm not daffy; I can see the way I behave. Acting out a part-that's me. Always on stage. I'm scared batty of sharing a full love, so I make like a nagging old crone (in my sophisticated way-oh, yes always keep it sophisticated, Holland) whenever I'm with him.
She poured a light Scotch. Then, examining her glass, she changed her mind and stiffened the drink. Aimlessly, she went to the phonograph and found a moody enough piano solo to fit the moment.
"What's happening to me?" she raged silently to the endless walls. Does the answer lie with the lousy life back home? Can any answer be that simple? The whole city thinks of me as carefree, gay, on the beam, positive.
When are they going to find out that the madcap pictures of me the Broadway columnists print are a pack of filthy lies? When are they going to find out that I need love so badly my head is ready to explode?
She finished her drink. But it wasn't enough. Pouring a fresh one, she knew that it never was enough.
Frightened now by her deadly loneliness, she hastened to the telephone. It wasn't quite eleven o'clock, and she was horrified by the thought of the long, probably sleepless night ahead of her.
Her fingers flipped through the red leather-bound address book and stopped at Brad Lester's name.
"Hello, darling," she exclaimed when she heard his voice. Animation came into her own voice and manner. She slouched contentedly onto the arm of a chair and settled back. "Your name just dropped out of a 1924 issue of The Furrow Ploughing Gazette, so I'm calling to say how-do."
"Marg?" Brad acknowledged. "My gosh, 1924 sounds about right. I haven't heard from you in-"
"Oh, phooey to nostalgia. How about dropping whatever bleached blonde is on your lap at the moment and coming on over?"
"Margo, you're plain loco. If memory serves this old bean, the last time we were together you threw a vase at me and told me to pretend I'm a hoop and roll away. Why the sudden affection?"
"Are you coming or not?"
"What for? Or is that a vicious question?"
Margo took another swallow of the Scotch, girding herself. Anything was possible tonight. Anything could be said or done, and with no recriminations.
"Because I want you to kiss me."
"Oh."
"Unless the suggestion repels your finer sensitivities," she added with a touch of sarcasm.
"I haven't had finer sensitivities since I stole a parked car at the age of three."
"Then hustle on over," she insisted. Not waiting for an answer, too tense now to go through any more banter-swapping with him, she dropped the heavy receiver on its cradle. Drinking again, she rose and tried to pull herself together.
You're starting on the roller coaster again, pal, she admonished herself, aware that there was nothing else she could do.
Brad Lester was certainly the last man on earth she wanted. He was a successful songwriter and probably a good guy, as good guys went. But, except for his periodic usefulness, he meant nothing to her. He wasn't a particularly good lover, and he could be a crushing bore as a conversationalist.
But, for one night, he would be safe. She would demand nothing meaningful of him and, more importantly, he would demand nothing of her. And safety was what she needed above anything else.
She strolled to the back room, the one she'd designated as Sophia's bedroom. The kid's clothes were hanging neatly in the closet, the Willetsville clothes and the ones she'd picked up today at Mme. Borget's. The bill from Borget's would be steep, but that didn't matter. If Sophia could get out of the woods and find herself, then it would be one accomplishment for which Margo could feel partly and properly boastful.
That's a laugh, too, she thought, as she recalled the hastily scrawled note. The kid was on her way to Madman McClure's arena. Fine sister I am, letting her go into the jaws of death without sending a posse out to protect her.
Oh, come off it, she ordered herself. I'm probably just over dramatizing again. Just because I can't take care of myself is no reason to suspect that the kid's going to have trouble in the ring, too.
"Take care of yourself, Sophia," she said quietly but aloud, "You've got only one life. Don't let it mess you up the way it messed me up...."
In the taxi, Sophia looked again at her wristwatch. Five after eleven. She wanted to tell the driver to hurry it up, but she saw there was now way he could possibly disentangle the cab from the traffic jam. She should have left Margo's apartment earlier; she was in the dead center of an after-theatre jam.
This evening, in the apartment, she had considered from all sides going to Keith McClure's party. It was, in a way, to be a debut for her. She had status now. She was convinced that she would no longer have to struggle with controlling her emotions, once the status arrived, once an identity was indelibly hers.
Now she felt certain of herself. There would be lots of people there tonight and she would be charming. She was Sophia Holland now, not a scared, skulking misfit. Oh, why wouldn't those other cars move away?
Once she had definitely decided to go, she'd gone all out to dress for it. Impishly she'd chosen the linen that fit so snugly, leaving little to any man's vivid imagination. Then, as though to offset this picture, she'd combed her yellow hair severely, tying it in back with a virginal ribbon.
If anyone at the party tonight would be in a position to further her career she'd help them to help her by exuding the charm she knew she had.
The traffic jam unsnarled and soon the taxi drove up to the address Mr. McClure had given her.
She asked for him in the spacious lobby.
The desk clerk eyed her. "Whom shall I say is calling?" he asked, reminding her of the evil ancient at the hotel in Willetsville.
"Miss Sophia Holland," she stated with increasing pride.
In a moment he returned to her and nodded. "Suite seven."
Her excitement grew through the elevator's ascent and remained as she stepped into the carpeted vestibule. She pressed the buzzer, expecting to hear voices and tinkling glasses and music. She heard nothing.
Keith McClure opened the door, his smile wide and inviting. He had changed from his business suit to slacks and sport shirt.
"You made it!"
Sophia moved past him, into an apartment twice as large and ornate as Margo's. "Yes, I hope I'm not late."
"Better late than-how does that truism go, anyway?"
"Where are the guests?" she inquired.
He closed the door and continued to grin.
"Right here," he said. "You and I."