Going Home Page 11

  I turned off the lights in the bedroom and wandered back into the living room of our suite, the champagne glass still in my hand, the vision of Samantha asleep in the bed still in my head . . . and a vision of Chris too. . . .

  The scene at the San Francisco airport seemed a thousand years behind us, and the days in California seemed like a distant dream. And as I looked at the dragon city which lay at my feet, I wondered if we’d ever go back. Or if I’d even want to. In one brief hour, New York had already bewitched me. I had conquered other worlds, but now I wanted to conquer my own. I wanted to enter the contest with New York, and emerge victorious, no matter what the price to pay.

  14

  Good morning, Mademoiselle. How did you sleep?” For once I had woken up before Sam.

  “Okay.” Sam looked at me sleepily; she was a little confused.

  “We’re in a hotel. Remember?”

  “I know. And I’m going to write a letter to Uncle Crits.” She had remembered that too.

  “Fine. But we have lots of things to do today. So, up you get. And we’ll go out in a little while.”

  I had a few calls to make first. I checked with the tenants at my apartment to be sure they’d be out on time, and called schools for Sam. We were just in time for the beginning of the school year, but by New York standards we were a year late with our application. Too bad. I knew that if I called enough schools one of them would take her, and I was right. It was just down the street from the hotel, and I made an appointment to see it with Sam that afternoon.

  I also got a babysitter to come and help with Sam. She was to live out for the two weeks we would be at the hotel and live in after that.

  And there was something else to set up too. A job. And I wasn’t at all sure it was going to be easy to find one. The economy had tightened up during the year I’d been gone and jobs were scarce. My experience was limited to advertising and magazine work, but according to reports I’d heard they were the two tightest fields to get into just then, and I’d been away for a while. My last job had been at a decorating magazine called Decor, but I had little hope of getting a spot there again. Free-lance styling as I had done in California was a possibility too, but I knew that in New York I could never survive on it. The cost of living was too high. So my only hope was Decor. At least it was a start, and maybe Angus Aldridge, the senior editor, would have an idea, or know of a job available on some other magazine. It couldn’t hurt to try.

  “Angus Aldridge, please. This is Mrs. Forrester. Gillian Forrester . . . No . . . F-O-R-R-E-S-T-E-R . . . that’s right . . . No. I’ll hold.”

  He was charming, elegant, and a damned good editor. All Bill Blass suits, and warm smile, and omniscient eyes, showing all those ladies in Wichita “how to.” He was thirty-nine years old, his vacations were spent skiing, preferably in Europe, he had been born in Philadelphia, spent his summers in Maine with his family, or in the Greek Islands on his own, and had gone to the school of journalism at Yale. Our Editor. Our God. Our Mr. Aldridge.

  Underneath the warm smile, he could be as cold and heartless as an editor should be, yet I liked him; there was very little pretense about him, he was Philadelphia and Yale, and East 64th Street, and he liked being those things. He believed in them. He didn’t give a holy damn about Wichita or Bertrand, or the other places like it that he was sending a magazine to once a month. But he put on a good show, and if you played by the rules he was good to work with.

  “Yes. I’m still holding.”

  “Gillian? What a surprise. How are you, dear?”

  “Fine, Angus. Great. It’s super to talk to you, it feels like years. How’s life? And the magazine, of course?”

  “Marvelous, dear. Are you back in the city for good? Or just coming back to the watering hole again to revive after San Francisco?”

  “I think I might be back for good. We’ll see.” But I had a sudden twinge for San Francisco again as I said the words.

  “Gillian, dear, I’m late for a meeting. Why don’t you stop by sometime. No. How about lunch tod . . . no, tom . . . Thursday? Lunch Thursday. We’ll talk then.”

  “Thursday’s fine. That would be wonderful. Nice to talk to you, Angus, see you then. And don’t work yourself into the ground before Thursday. I’m dying to hear all the news.” Which was a lie, but that’s the local dialect.

  “Fine, dear. Thursday. At one. Chez Henri? . . . Fine, see you then. Good to have you back.” Bullshit, but more of the same dialect.

  Chez Henri. Just like old times, when there was something to “discuss” . . . good afternoon, Mr. Aldridge . . . over here, Mr. Aldridge . . . a dry martini, Mr. Aldridge? . . . the expense account, Mr. Aldridge! . . . balls, Mr. Aldridge.

  But I wanted a job, and I had always liked Angus for what he was. But why was I sounding so New York all of a sudden? Where was Chris? San Francisco? The new me? Or even the old me . . . where in hell was I? I had become so engrossed in just being back in New York that I felt almost schizophrenic, as though I’d become another person when I stepped off the plane.

  I had made up my mind to ask Angus for a job on Thursday, and it was perhaps more easily done over lunch after all. Or maybe harder. We’d see. In any case, it couldn’t hurt to ask. All he could do was say no. And it would be a start.

  What next? Whom to call? Should I wait till I saw Angus, or call a bunch of people all at once? Well, maybe just one more. John Templeton. Editor of the less elegant, less witty, more earthy Woman’s Life. The magazine was tougher, straighter, and more diversified. It told you what to feed your child after he had his tonsils out, how to apply Contac paper to bathroom walls, what diet to go on when you were losing your man, and how to sew “at-home” skirts out of remnants of curtain fabric. John Templeton, like his magazine, was a no-fooling-around species, fish or cut bait, produce or you’re out, slightly scary individual. But he and I had liked each other, the few times we’d met, and he might remember me. I had done free-lance work for him a few times before I’d gone to Decor. So I called.

  Once again, the whir of a switchboard, the clicks, staccato, and almost swallowed “Wmm’s . . . Lfff.”

  `“Mr. Templeton, please.”

  And then, “Mr. Templeton’s office” cooed by a mildly intimidating, highly poised youngish voice. The executive secretary. Who believed, knew in fact, that she was perhaps not better or smarter than Mr. Templeton, but surely almost as powerful, in her own way. Secretaries invariably intimidate me; they want you to “tell it to them,” because of course they too can handle your problem just as capably—except if you had wanted to talk to them, and not the boss, you’d have asked for them in the first place.

  “Mr. Templeton, please. This is Gillian Forrester.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Forrester. Mr. Templeton is in a meeting. . . . No, I’m afraid he’ll be tied up this afternoon, and tomorrow he’s going to Chicago for the day. Is there something I can help you with?” There it was. I knew it!

  “No, I’m afraid I wanted to speak to Mr. Templeton directly. . . . That is . . . I just got in from California, and I used to free-lance for Woman’s Life and . . .” Oh shit, why do secretaries do that to me?

  “Perhaps you’d like to speak to our personnel office?” Ice in the voice, and comfortable condescension that says, “I have a job. Don’t you?”

  “No, I really wanted an appointment with Mr. Templeton.” Now watch her tell me she can’t commit him just now because his schedule is very heavy this week, and next week they’re closing the book (i.e., finishing the issue, before it goes to print), and the week after that he’ll be in Detroit all week . . . just watch!

  “Very well. How is Friday at nine-fifteen? I’m afraid that’s all he has open . . . Miss Forrester? . . . Miss Forrester?”

  “Sorry, I uh . . . nine-fifteen? I . . . uh . . . ahh . . . yes, yes, nine-fifteen is fine, I mean . . . this Friday? . . . No . . . no . . . that’s fine . . . the number where I can be reached? Oh, yes, of course. The Hotel Regency, Room 2709 . . . I mean 6 .
. . no. Sorry. Room 2709. . . . That’s it. . . . That’ll be fine. See you on Friday.” Well, I’ll be damned.

  So I was off to a start. And if nothing worked out with either Decor or Woman’s Life, I could look elsewhere. At least I had a momentum going.

  “Sam? How about a trip to the zoo?”

  Sam and I walked out to Park Avenue and then west toward Central Park. She had two pony rides while I stared at the skyline, and it was a hell of a sight. Fifth Avenue stretched as far as I could see in either direction, and I could imagine people living in grand style in penthouses to my left, and business tycoons making million-dollar decisions in offices to my right. The General Motors building had sprung up, dwarfing all on its periphery. Everything seemed new to me again, and enormous.

  “Hey, Sam, how about a special lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry yet.”

  “Come on, don’t be a drag, love. Do you want to see some more of the zoo?” But she only shook her head, and I stooped to kiss her. She was still desperately hanging onto the world we had just left, the world I was trying so hard not to think about. Chris. “Let’s go, Sam.”

  “Where are we going?” She was beginning to look intrigued.

  “Just across the street. You’ll see. Right over there.” I pointed. “That’s the Plaza.” We stopped to look at the horses and the hansom cabs and then mounted the steps into the fairyland magic of the Plaza Hotel. Once inside, it was like another city in itself, and it had the same independent elegance as an ocean-going liner, totally self-sufficient and reeking of luxury. The carpets felt like mattresses beneath our feet, palm trees hovered above us in great profusion, and crowds of determined looking people came and went, some staying at the hotel, others just stopping in for lunch. It had a worldliness about it which pleased me. It was New York.

  “Who’s she?” Sam had stopped beneath an enormous portrait of a chubby little girl, posing next to a pug dog, wearing drooping knee socks, and a navy pleated skirt. Her expression was one of outrageous devilry, and just by looking at her you could tell that her parents were divorced and that she had a nurse. Miss Park Avenue herself. The painting was somewhat caricatured and I knew who she was meant to be.

  “That’s Eloise, sweetheart. She’s a little girl in a story, and she supposedly lived here, with her nanny and her dog and her turtle.”

  “Where was her Mommy?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she was on a trip.”

  “Was she real?” Sam’s eyes were growing larger. She liked the looks of the girl in the painting that loomed above her.

  “No, she was make-believe.” And as I mentioned it, a small sign on the table beneath the painting caught my eye. “See Eloise’s room. Just ask the elevator man.” “Hey, want to see something?”

  “What?”

  “A surprise. Come on.” We found the elevators easily, I asked the elevator man to deliver us to our destination in veiled terms, and we rose slowly toward the floor in question. The elevator was full of overdressed women and overstuffed men, and behind me I heard Spanish, French, and what sounded like Swedish.

  “Here we are, young lady. The second door to your right.” I thanked him and he winked. And I gently opened the door. Eloise’s room was a little girl’s dream, and I smiled when I heard Sam gasp.

  “This is Eloise’s room, Sam.”

  “Wow! . . . Oh boy!” It was a veritable showcase of pink chintz and gingham, full of every toy imaginable, and cluttered with the kind of mess and disorder that most children dream of leaving in their rooms but can’t get away with. A tall spare woman with an English accent was playing “Nanny,” and she showed Sam the key points of the shrine with utter seriousness. The visit was an enormous success.

  “Can we go back and visit again sometime?” Sam had torn herself away with difficulty.

  “Sure. We’ll come back. Now, how about some lunch?” She nodded, still dazed from the ecstasy of the visit, and she floated alongside me into the Palm Court, where piano and violins combined their sounds beneath the trees as a myriad of ladies indulged themselves at small tables covered with pink linen tablecloths. It still had the Victorian elegance it had had when I was a child and had been occasionally treated to tea there by my grandmother.

  Sam had a hamburger and an enormous strawberry soda, while I dabbled with six dollars worth of spinach salad, and then we started home, satisfied with our morning.

  We stopped at the school for Sam on the way and, being pleased with what I saw, I enrolled her starting the next morning. And as we arrived back at our hotel, I was amazed at what we had accomplished. There is so much happening in New York at any given moment, that one seems to do a week’s worth of anything in half a day. I had made two appointments to inquire about jobs, had enrolled Sam at school, had had lunch at the Plaza, and had seen to Sam’s entertainment as well. Not bad at all.

  And now I had a few hours off. The babysitter had arrived and I turned Sam over to her. I wanted to call Peg Richards. I had been itching to all morning and could hardly wait.

  Peg Richards and I grew up and went to school together; she is the closest thing I have to a sister. We are totally different, yet we understand each other. Perfectly. And we care about each other. Always. Like some sisters, and some friends.

  Peg Richards is rough and tough, uses incredible language, is a no-nonsense sort of girl, stocky and direct, with freckles and immense lively brown eyes. Always the first one to raise hell in school, yet to get things organized too, to tell off the girl who’d done her dirt, and to look out for the girl nobody liked or paid attention to. She’d grown up with a dutchboy haircut, oxfords, and a total lack of interest in clothes and makeup and all the things that most of us were intrigued with. She liked boys less and later than some of us. She was just Peg. Peg. Tomboy. The head of the field hockey team who changed completely while I spent two years in Europe, pretending to study art. When I came back, Peg was at Briarclifif, taking life very seriously. Her language was a little worse, but I thought I could see the glimmer of mascara on her lashes. Three years later, she was a buyer of children’s wear at a poshy department store, her language was incredible, and she was definitely wearing mascara, and false eyelashes. She was living with a journalist, playing a lot of tennis, and spending a lot of time knocking the Establishment. She was then twenty-three. And five years later, when I had just come back from California, she was still single, not living with anyone for the moment, and still had the same job.

  Peg had done everything for me, mothered me in school, kept me company after I had Samantha and was feeling helpless at home, she’d been around to hold my hand through the divorce, and had seen me through every sort of scrape over the years. Peg is my staunchest friend, strongest ally, and most vehement critic. There is no shame, there are no deceptions with someone you know that well, and who knows you.

  The switchboard answered at the department store where she worked, I asked for her office, and she was on the line in half a minute.

  “Peg? It’s me.” Just as I had reverted to ultra-New Yorker when speaking to Angus, I felt like a schoolgirl again when talking to Peg.

  “Holy shit! Gillian! What the hell are you doing in town? How long are you here for?”

  “A while. I got in last night.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Would you believe at the Regency?” She chuckled and I laughed back.

  “Well, la-dee-da to you. What happened? Did you get rich out West? I thought the Gold Rush was all over.” Leave it to Peg.

  “It is. In more ways than one.” She had made me think of Chris and I sobered quickly.

  “Oh? Are you okay, Gill?”

  “Yeah. Sure, I’m fine. What about you?”

  “I’m still alive. When do I get to see you, and my friend Sam? Is she with you?”

  “Of course she is. And you can see us whenever you want. I feel like a stranger in this goddam town, and I don’t know where to start first. But I’m having a ball.”

&nb
sp; “At the Regency, who wouldn’t? But just a sec, let me get this straight. Are you moving back, or are you here on a visit?”

  “Mentally, the latter, but practically. . . we’re back.”

  “Your romance busted up?”

  “I don’t know, Peg. I think so, but I don’t really know. It’s a long story, and I had to come back.”

  “You’re confusing the hell out of me. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if the love story had ended. That business you told me about the girl in his bed at the beach house didn’t sound good.” I had forgotten that I had written that to her in my misery.

  “We got over that.”

  “Something else happened? Christ! That would have been enough for me. Good old Gill, you never learn, do you? Anyway, you can tell me whatever you want to tell me when I see you. How about tonight?”

  “Tonight? Sure . . . why not?”

  “Such enthusiasm. To hell with you. I’ll come to the hotel for a drink after work. I want to see your monster daughter. I’m so glad you’re back, Gill!”

  “Thanks, Peg. See you later.”

  “Yeah, and by the way, be dressed when I get there. I’m taking you to dinner at Twenty-One.

  “You’re what?”

  “You heard me. We’re celebrating your return.”

  “Why don’t we celebrate with room service?”

  “Nuts to you.” And with that she hung up and I grinned to myself. It was nice to be back. The whole time span with Chris was beginning to seem as though it had never happened. I was in New York where I had begun, hopefully I’d soon be jobbed, and that night I was having dinner at Twenty-One. It was as though New York was putting on its best face and everything was beginning to go my way.

  15

  Peg had reserved a table downstairs near the bar at the illustrious Twenty-One Club, and we were ushered to our seats by the maitre d’ who seemed to know Peg quite well.