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Authors: Harry Whittington
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part was that whatever it was he’d lost, he’d never had anyway.
He stood there four or five minutes without moving until he finally admitted consciously that he was waiting for that phone to ring, waiting for her to call back. But she did not call back. The phone sat there, black and lifeless, silent and useless.
He turned then and walked out of the room. He went out on the terrace. There was a wind gusting out of the canyon. Leaves swirled on the grass and skittered across the flagstones about his feet.
chapter seven
T HE PHONE rang. Clay cursed himself when he had sprinted halfway into the library, and brought himself to a screeching halt. The phone stopped ringing anyhow, and after a moment McEsters came in walking so stiffly, so precisely, he looked like a comedy butler, and said Mr. Shatner was calling.
Clay wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. What the hell, she wasn’t going to call back. Why should she call back? Besides, he had hung up on her, hadn’t he? It was the smart thing, and it was what he knew he had to do.
Shatner wanted him to double date. He had a table for four at Ben Blue’s in Santa Monica. Should be passionate fun. Ben Blue was a lot of laughs but the girls he’d lined up were nothing to laugh about.
“No,” Clay said. “I’m sorry.”
“You going to spend the rest of your life walled up in that house? You think maybe you’re Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
?”
“No. Her figure. Much better than mine.”
“Look, Clay. These girls. Just imported from New York. Domestic, but good. All new. First run.”
“Not this time, Marc.”
“Stuff like this doesn’t keep.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Hell, it’s ruining my health just studding for your rejects.”
Clay replaced the receiver. He was instantly sorry. Marc was right, of course. A man could not bury himself. Given a couple of drinks he would love the girls, enjoy the jokes, be anxious to dance. He glanced toward the phone. And this was ridiculous. He had never seen the Stark doll. She was not going to call back. He had ended that one with a sharp cut. It was better. It was sensible.
Why did he despise himself for being so damn sensible?
When you wait for something you wish would happen, and it does not happen, time crawls. One such hour is longer than some other weeks. Clay prowled the house, took a shower, drank three whiskeys on-the-rocks and decided they were cutting the liquor. He felt nothing.
Finally he flopped down on the couch, lay staring at the ceiling. He decided he would call Shatner back; it wasn’t too late. He sighed, trying to remember the name of a girl who flashed in his mind, something in the association with Joanne’s throaty voice on that telephone. This girl had been a leading woman who had played opposite him at Paramount in an early 1930 movie. She made only a couple of pictures. She was the property of one of the producers. There had been electric charges between her and Clay Stuart from the first time she walked on the set. There was a tension about her that threw him off his feet. She was lovely as an angel with a hellish excitement in her eyes. The look in those eyes promised him hell and happiness, misery and torment. When they kissed for the camera, her mouth parted and her tongue was hot and her body was burning up. He had known then. It was between them. She felt everything that he felt for her — and in spades. Nights he went home to Ruth and concert music and friends in for bridge and once he had to stride out in the garden and vomit. His stomach was tied in knots that badly. During the day when he was near her, the smell of her tantalized him, made him ache across the bridge of his nose, made him remember that little girl in the outhouse and the way he needed to bury his face in her hair. He could remember the scent of that leading lady’s hair all these years later. He could not remember her name.
Not being able to remember her name angered him
He stood there four or five minutes without moving until he finally admitted consciously that he was waiting for that phone to ring, waiting for her to call back. But she did not call back. The phone sat there, black and lifeless, silent and useless.
He turned then and walked out of the room. He went out on the terrace. There was a wind gusting out of the canyon. Leaves swirled on the grass and skittered across the flagstones about his feet.
chapter seven
T HE PHONE rang. Clay cursed himself when he had sprinted halfway into the library, and brought himself to a screeching halt. The phone stopped ringing anyhow, and after a moment McEsters came in walking so stiffly, so precisely, he looked like a comedy butler, and said Mr. Shatner was calling.
Clay wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. What the hell, she wasn’t going to call back. Why should she call back? Besides, he had hung up on her, hadn’t he? It was the smart thing, and it was what he knew he had to do.
Shatner wanted him to double date. He had a table for four at Ben Blue’s in Santa Monica. Should be passionate fun. Ben Blue was a lot of laughs but the girls he’d lined up were nothing to laugh about.
“No,” Clay said. “I’m sorry.”
“You going to spend the rest of your life walled up in that house? You think maybe you’re Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
?”
“No. Her figure. Much better than mine.”
“Look, Clay. These girls. Just imported from New York. Domestic, but good. All new. First run.”
“Not this time, Marc.”
“Stuff like this doesn’t keep.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Hell, it’s ruining my health just studding for your rejects.”
Clay replaced the receiver. He was instantly sorry. Marc was right, of course. A man could not bury himself. Given a couple of drinks he would love the girls, enjoy the jokes, be anxious to dance. He glanced toward the phone. And this was ridiculous. He had never seen the Stark doll. She was not going to call back. He had ended that one with a sharp cut. It was better. It was sensible.
Why did he despise himself for being so damn sensible?
When you wait for something you wish would happen, and it does not happen, time crawls. One such hour is longer than some other weeks. Clay prowled the house, took a shower, drank three whiskeys on-the-rocks and decided they were cutting the liquor. He felt nothing.
Finally he flopped down on the couch, lay staring at the ceiling. He decided he would call Shatner back; it wasn’t too late. He sighed, trying to remember the name of a girl who flashed in his mind, something in the association with Joanne’s throaty voice on that telephone. This girl had been a leading woman who had played opposite him at Paramount in an early 1930 movie. She made only a couple of pictures. She was the property of one of the producers. There had been electric charges between her and Clay Stuart from the first time she walked on the set. There was a tension about her that threw him off his feet. She was lovely as an angel with a hellish excitement in her eyes. The look in those eyes promised him hell and happiness, misery and torment. When they kissed for the camera, her mouth parted and her tongue was hot and her body was burning up. He had known then. It was between them. She felt everything that he felt for her — and in spades. Nights he went home to Ruth and concert music and friends in for bridge and once he had to stride out in the garden and vomit. His stomach was tied in knots that badly. During the day when he was near her, the smell of her tantalized him, made him ache across the bridge of his nose, made him remember that little girl in the outhouse and the way he needed to bury his face in her hair. He could remember the scent of that leading lady’s hair all these years later. He could not remember her name.
Not being able to remember her name angered him
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