else was totally the truth. And Lucky’s warm eyes followed every gesture of his excited commitment and got warmer. When he put his hand over hers on the table to emphasize some point and then left it, she did not remove hers. Two days before he could not have talked to any girl like that, not without coughing and turning red.
Later on he wondered about this sudden spurting spout of honesty and freshness from himself. It was as though it had been backed up there behind whatever dam, waiting for some key that would open the sluice gates and then it all just poured out. So he was not incapable of freshness and reality after all. He decided that it must be that it had to be seriously a new girl, not a one-night quickie, and it must be at a time when one is not attached or in love with somebody else. Otherwise it was a pose, a game on both sides, and wasn’t really fresh which made it stale and profitless. He had had that, too. But then . . . What the hell? He still didn’t understand. He wasn’t planning on marrying this girl Lucky.
It was Lucky who made him realize the time by reminding him of his cocktail date. Outside Clarke’s there was only one cab around, and she made him take it. She could get home all right, she said. Pulling away from her standing there with those beautiful wide shoulders, Grant almost couldn’t stand it. If it had been anybody but his producer’s secretary, who was a sweet kid, he would have stood her up and gone back. As it was, all he could do was stick his head out and waving his arm shout over and over, “I’ll call tomorrow! I’ll call tomorrow!”, and look back at this girl standing there who was in love with him, or soon would be. It was on her face. What a body, and also what sweetness, she had.
The marvel of the afternoon stayed with him all the rest of that day and the night, enhancing everything. In some peculiar odd way, almost before it even began to get itself started, he had divined that this was going to be the Clark Gable—Carol Lombard love affair he had always dreamed about. For the next two or three weeks he would be in town, before going back to Indianapolis and then on to Jamaica, he was going to show her such a time as few girls got to live even in this town. And after that, well she would be here and every time he came back to town he would look her up and take right up where they had left off. Maybe he could come to town oftener than he had in the past few years?
Grant was so happy that even the thought of his ‘mistress’ could not make him feel hollow for more than a moment.
And the peculiar thing about the evening was that the producer’s secretary, after having stood him off several times before, tonight after her cocktails date dinner and show, sensing his preoccupation and disinterest, offered herself to him practically on a platter.
It seemed nothing could go wrong for him, now. Then back at the hotel in the morning, scrubbing religiously from himself any sign of last night before even calling Lucky, the phone rang and without thinking he picked it up and answered it while still toweling himself. The result was that, while panic attacked him with sickness in the stomach and goosebumps on his bare flesh and the sweat began to run from under his arms down his bare flanks, he had to listen to a sharp, angry, virago, ten-minute lecture from Carol Abernathy in Miami on the subject of New York broads.
Grant was tempted several times to just hang up on her, but he could not quite bring himself to make so seemingly final a gesture. Naturally, oozing guilt in his panic, he became angry back at her. But underneath all of this old stuff, way down deep, was a new steadfastness in him. Totally selfishly, whether it hurt anybody or not and no matter what it destroyed, he was going to have his fun.
“I know exactly what’s going on, you bastard,” Carol’s voice said clearly, sounding because of the excellent connection as if she were in the next room. Grant
Later on he wondered about this sudden spurting spout of honesty and freshness from himself. It was as though it had been backed up there behind whatever dam, waiting for some key that would open the sluice gates and then it all just poured out. So he was not incapable of freshness and reality after all. He decided that it must be that it had to be seriously a new girl, not a one-night quickie, and it must be at a time when one is not attached or in love with somebody else. Otherwise it was a pose, a game on both sides, and wasn’t really fresh which made it stale and profitless. He had had that, too. But then . . . What the hell? He still didn’t understand. He wasn’t planning on marrying this girl Lucky.
It was Lucky who made him realize the time by reminding him of his cocktail date. Outside Clarke’s there was only one cab around, and she made him take it. She could get home all right, she said. Pulling away from her standing there with those beautiful wide shoulders, Grant almost couldn’t stand it. If it had been anybody but his producer’s secretary, who was a sweet kid, he would have stood her up and gone back. As it was, all he could do was stick his head out and waving his arm shout over and over, “I’ll call tomorrow! I’ll call tomorrow!”, and look back at this girl standing there who was in love with him, or soon would be. It was on her face. What a body, and also what sweetness, she had.
The marvel of the afternoon stayed with him all the rest of that day and the night, enhancing everything. In some peculiar odd way, almost before it even began to get itself started, he had divined that this was going to be the Clark Gable—Carol Lombard love affair he had always dreamed about. For the next two or three weeks he would be in town, before going back to Indianapolis and then on to Jamaica, he was going to show her such a time as few girls got to live even in this town. And after that, well she would be here and every time he came back to town he would look her up and take right up where they had left off. Maybe he could come to town oftener than he had in the past few years?
Grant was so happy that even the thought of his ‘mistress’ could not make him feel hollow for more than a moment.
And the peculiar thing about the evening was that the producer’s secretary, after having stood him off several times before, tonight after her cocktails date dinner and show, sensing his preoccupation and disinterest, offered herself to him practically on a platter.
It seemed nothing could go wrong for him, now. Then back at the hotel in the morning, scrubbing religiously from himself any sign of last night before even calling Lucky, the phone rang and without thinking he picked it up and answered it while still toweling himself. The result was that, while panic attacked him with sickness in the stomach and goosebumps on his bare flesh and the sweat began to run from under his arms down his bare flanks, he had to listen to a sharp, angry, virago, ten-minute lecture from Carol Abernathy in Miami on the subject of New York broads.
Grant was tempted several times to just hang up on her, but he could not quite bring himself to make so seemingly final a gesture. Naturally, oozing guilt in his panic, he became angry back at her. But underneath all of this old stuff, way down deep, was a new steadfastness in him. Totally selfishly, whether it hurt anybody or not and no matter what it destroyed, he was going to have his fun.
“I know exactly what’s going on, you bastard,” Carol’s voice said clearly, sounding because of the excellent connection as if she were in the next room. Grant
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