Return to Peyton Place by Grace Metalious

drink a whole bottle of wine. Then, maybe I'll talk to you. Can Steve join us?”
    â€œNo,” said David. “She's entertaining one of her buyer friends from out of town.”
    â€œYou go to hell,” yelled Steve, and threw a magazine at David.
    Allison came out of the bathroom, wrapped in Steve's terrycloth robe, a towel around her head.
    â€œCan't you come with us?” she asked Steve.
    â€œNo, sweetie. I've got a date. And not with a buyer, either,” said Steve. “This one tells me he's going to make me the biggest star in television. Naturally, I don't believe a word of it, but he has a charge account at El Morocco, so who am I to say no?”
    Allison finished picking at the last shred of chicken on her plate and then leaned back against the leather seat. The candle on the table flickered smokily; the muted voices of the other diners swirled around her. Nothing can touch me now, she thought. Her joy in her success was so intense that she felt isolated and unreachable.
    â€œI didn't realize I was so hungry,” she said, smiling at David.
    David poured wine into her glass. “It's wonderful, isn't it?” he said. “There's no other feeling like it, except for holding your first printed book in your hand. But signing a contract is something you never get used to.” He smiled and picked up his glass. “I've done it four times, and it still makes me feel special.”
    â€œIt made me feel neat,” said Allison, trying to find the perfect word, the word that would describe it most exactly. “It was as if all the loose ends of my life were nicely tied up in a bundle and then I didn't even have to worry about the bundle.”
    â€œWhat about changes?”
    â€œNothing that really amounts to anything. Brad says he thinks Jackman will publish in the spring.”
    â€œRewriting is the lousiest job of all,” said David. “It makes you feel as if you're being forced to travel back through a place you never wanted to visit to begin with, where everything is shabby and frayed at the edges and the ground is littered with torn newspapers.”
    â€œNot I,” said Allison, laughing. “It makes you feel like that because you're a genius. I'm not. I'm a hack and very pleased with myself.”
    â€œStop belittling yourself,” said David. “You're no hack, and if you were, you'd never have to say it yourself. The critics would say it.”
    Allison put down her glass and stared at the candle's wavering orange flame. The high elation had begun to leave her, but she had known it could not last. As her happiness dissipated itself—it was as if it were seeping out of her pores, she thought—doubts began to enter.
    â€œSometimes I get scared, David.”
    â€œWe all do.”
    â€œWhat if nobody buys my book? What if nobody likes it if they do buy it?”
    â€œThen there is nothing to do but try again.” He poured more wine. “Come on. Drink up and stop worrying. This is supposed to be a celebration. Do you want to go to a movie or something?”
    â€œNo,” said Allison. “Let's just sit here and talk.”
    â€œI'm an obliging soul. What do you want to talk about?”
    â€œI don't care,” said Allison. “Anything. Everything.”
    â€œAre you over Bradley Holmes?” asked David.
    Allison picked up a cigarette. “I guess there was never really anything to get over,” she said. “I didn't love him to begin with.” But she could tell by the way her heart raced that she wasn't over him yet. The memory of herself and Brad still had the power to move her.
    â€œIs that what he told you?”
    â€œNo. He said that I did love him, a little, and that he loved me a little, too.”
    â€œCrap,” said David. “That guy may be good at contracts but he's the biggest crap artist in New York.”
    â€œBecause he said what he did about love?”
    â€œLove, my