Bambi and Clay had been living together for over a year now, and she was blossoming in her new career. Besides impressive business cards, she had an expense account, and she could call people and take them to lunch to talk about projects. Of course there were not that many people to call; they were a small company and there were only a limited number of things they could do at once, but this was the most exciting time she’d ever had in her life. She was important. The feeling she had when she phoned a stranger, introduced herself, and set up a meeting, was heady beyond belief.
Under Clay’s tutelage she had also been writing presentations. So far nothing had been accepted by the networks, but he explained to her that it took a long time. He taught her how to do a treatment. She was thrilled when he let her do the treatment for “White Collar, White Powder,” the Susan Josephs story, because there was a lot of meat there; it wasn’t just a newspaper item she had to figure out how to develop. It was about many different people, and when she was finished Clay decided it had the possibilities for a miniseries. Every day with him she learned more.
It still sometimes made Bambi feel she was dreaming, to have Clay Bowen for her mentor and lover. To see a man with so much power reduced to a solicitous suitor—who told her all the time that he loved her, who never took her for granted, who called her constantly when they were apart—made up for Matt and Bob; the lesser men who had treated her like something disposable. She could hardly wait for them to submit something to her so she could reject it. So far they hadn’t, but they probably knew better than to try.
By now certain business associates of Clay’s who were also his friends knew he and Bambi were a couple. Clay had people over to her house for drinks and she put out the cheese. His things were in evidence everywhere, and he kept saying “we.” They were all nice to her.
Eventually he would always tell his glamorous stories about the good old days, the same stories Bambi had already heard endless times. Everyone seemed to enjoy hearing them again, but sometimes, if she’d had a couple of glasses of wine, she would get bored and change the subject. She wanted to know about what was happening now. Clay never got angry at her.
Besides his few good friends, his secretary knew about their secret living arrangement too. That was all right; Penny had to be able to find Clay to keep him advised on business developments when he left the office early, and she knew she had to be extremely discreet. It was part of her job to protect them, and she was not paid to have an opinion. She was paid to type Bambi’s treatments.
Bambi was dying to go to Europe, and Clay had promised to take her there on his next business trip. They hadn’t gone to the MIP last spring, but they would this coming year. He had some projects he hadn’t been able to get done in America that he certainly could make deals for over there. The European countries that had cable now were in constant need of product. And, since the convention was in Cannes, they would go to Paris and London too. He would set up some meetings, they would go to the theatre and the great restaurants. In all the years she had been married to Simon they had never even discussed going to Europe. Now that she looked back on it, it was really ironic. Clay claimed to be obsessed with work, but it had been single-minded Simon who was the real workaholic.
Nina was twenty-six years old, and she knew she was supposed to be a woman, but most of the time she felt like a girl. She had an adult’s job, dealing with authors who were almost always older than she was, she had a live-in boyfriend, she had a close relationship with her father’s girlfriend—which shocked some of her friends—and to the world she seemed poised and efficient. But inside she kept feeling that she was falling through space, with no wings to fly and nothing below but terror. Her relationship with Stevie was not good and going nowhere, her parents’ divorce although long overdue nonetheless made her feel abandoned, and now she knew that her father was lying to Susan.
She had seen his closet with only three suits in it. How could Susan have paid no attention? Nina had seen and instantly understood. He didn’t really live in his apartment anymore; he was living somewhere else, a place none of them were supposed to know about.
She had looked around when she was alone. Most of his underwear was gone too. There were some abandoned damp crackers in his kitchen cabinet, and the fresh food in his refrigerator had been bought all at once. The apartment had no heart. She had sensed it right away, even though she had been there only once before. It was like a stage set, like a play where the actress comes out carrying a handbag that has nothing in it, flat and false in her hand.
She had been unable to bring herself to tell Susan because she knew how much it would hurt her.
Where was he living? Where? Was he really spending so much time with that Anwar he talked about? Something at the edge of Nina’s mind told her there was another woman. But how could that be? Her father had loved Susan so much.
Of course, how would she know anything about love?
Painstakingly, Laura had made lists of every object in the apartment, waiting for Clay to choose what he wanted. She didn’t even know what she wanted. Everything had a memory—now that she looked back on it, most of them bad—but the future didn’t seem any better. All she could be sure of was that she would never be able to afford to live in an apartment with such high ceilings again.
She had hated the apartments she had seen. “Don’t worry about it,” Tanya had said. “You can put your things in storage and live with us until you find yourself. You’re going to have a new life. Maybe you won’t want any furniture at all.”
Laura did not see herself as a minimalist or an eccentric. She saw herself as discarded and invisible. A woman like that should have clutter, to fill in the empty spaces and hide her lack of being. Nina had come over and begged for several pieces, even tagging them, afraid Laura and Clay were going to sell and give away her past. She seemed to regard her parents as dead, not just divorcing.
Clay alighted briefly in New York and came to see Laura to discuss the division of all their worldly goods. Although they had spoken on the phone often, they had not seen each other face-to-face for almost a year. Laura thought he looked older. He walked around the apartment looking at their things: the antiques, the paintings, the sculptures, the rugs. It might have been a warehouse for all the sentiment he showed. He marked off on her lists the things he had picked to be his, and with each one Laura felt a fresh stab of pain at his departure from her life, fresh anguish at her failure.
“Let’s have a drink,” she said. “Let’s be civilized.”
“All right.”
“We’ll dance among the ruins.”
“Don’t be pompous,” he said. “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself. I have troubles too.”
“Of course. Champagne?”
“It’s silly to open a bottle for me,” Clay said. “I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
“It lasts,” Laura said.
She went into the kitchen to get the champagne, and when she came back Clay was in the den making a telephone call. She walked in just before he hung up. “I love you,” he was saying to the person on the phone.
Not a Hollywood “I love ya, babe.” Clay had never been that. Real love. I love you. She felt a chill. Susan Josephs had won.
“Who was that?” Laura asked. “Your girlfriend?”
“No, my boyfriend,” he said.
Laura looked at him. He seemed perfectly serious. Her head was whirling. “You have a … boyfriend?”
He gave her an enigmatic smile. Then he nodded.
“You’re in love with a man?” Shock made her bold. “Who is he?”
“I won’t discuss it.” Clay said.
“Is it that very rich Arab you keep going to visit?”
“Maybe.” He picked up his glass and looked away.
Oh, poor Clay. He was gay. Now at last Laura understood why he had not touched her for so many years, why he had kept his life so secret and away from her. Susan Josephs had been just what he had said. She wondered if Clay had known he was gay before he married her. He must have. But he had wanted a family. Perhaps he had even wanted her. She had known so many gay dancers, but Clay had been different. He had slipped right under her guard.
“Cheers,” he said. They touched glasses lightly and sipped their champagne. She looked at him; her love, her lifetime obsession. He had certainly fooled her.
“Tell me something,” Laura said. “When you married me, did you love me?”
“Of course,” he said. “I had to.”
It was not her fault. She had not failed him as a wife: there was nothing she could have done. For the first time in years and years she felt strangely peaceful.
When he left soon afterward, for one brief moment he let her hug him gently good-bye.