Chapter 5
Five
The Composition Book
Things my mother said she loved about me:
“The way you always tell the truth in the end.”
So back to Nicolette Pink. You probably think you know where I’m going with her, Boss. What actually happened was more complicated.
That night in the editing studio was a Friday, and we weren’t shooting anything the next day, so Nicolette and I went back to the hotel and she asked me to join her at the bar downstairs.
I stopped in my room to change and found an overnight mail envelope under my door. It was from Gianna. I didn’t open it.
When I got downstairs, Nicolette had changed, too, into a gray corset top and a short black skirt. We sat near the back and she called over a waiter. She insisted I drink with her.
“Nobody likes a watcher,” she said, grinning.
We stayed there for a couple of hours, drinking and talking the whole time.
She told me about growing up in a trailer in rural Oklahoma; I told her about living in Africa.
She told me about her parents splitting up when she was twelve; I told her about Adeline hiding my mother’s photograph in a closet.
There was a piano player in the corner and a crowd that shrank as the night went on.
Several times, we were interrupted by people who wanted Nicolette’s autograph, which she always obliged, apologizing to me afterward.
I was surprised at how polite she was to me.
I guess I thought movie stars only wanted to talk about themselves.
But she was considerate, and laughed heartily whenever I made a joke.
We traded sips as we continued our conversation, and I found myself studying how her mouth met the glass, the deep red of her painted lips pressing on the clear rounded edge. I warned myself to knock it off, to stop thinking about how attractive I found her.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Sure.”
“That day in the bank. What made you run to save Jaimie?”
I hooked my hands together.
“I’m not sure. It happened so fast.”
“Were you afraid you might get shot?”
“I guess. I mean, I hoped I wouldn’t get shot.”
She chuckled.
“What?” I said.
“You’re being modest. Most people don’t ‘hope’ they won’t get shot, then run in front of a gunman to save somebody.”
She placed her fingers on top of mine.
“I admire that,” she said.
I froze.
“Honestly?” she added. “It’s . . . kind of a turn--on.”
“Oh yeah?” I mumbled, because those were the only words that came to mind.
“Oh yeah,” she said playfully, tapping her fingers lightly on mine.
Then she pulled away, lifted her glass, and gulped the rest of her drink.
I caught myself glancing at the hollow of her neck.
Her slim fingers. Trying to change the subject, I asked if she’d ever been married. I knew she hadn’t. I asked anyhow.
“No,” she said, looking away. “I mostly meet actors, and it’s not a good idea to put two acting careers under one roof. I know couples like that. It doesn’t work. They say they aren’t competing, but . . .”
She waved a hand at the waiter and pointed to her glass.
“. . . they are. It ruins things, you know?”
She dropped her cheek into her palm and gazed across at me. “Writers are different. I wish I could write. I envy you, working alone, nobody directing you. It’s great, right?”
“Um, yeah, sure,” I stammered.
As the piano player was finishing “Night and Day” he hit a bad chord, and I mumbled, “Ooh, that wasn’t good,” probably because her looking at me made me nervous.
Then Nicolette said “What wasn’t good?” and I said “That chord” and she said “The piano player?” and I said “Yeah” and she said “Why? Do you play?” and I said “I used to.”
A minute later, the pianist rose and left for the night. The place was emptying out.
“Go play something, Alfie,” Nicolette said.
“Oh, no.”
“Please? I’d love to hear you. Come on.”
I hesitated, then rose, thinking OK, maybe it’s best to leave the temptation of this conversation.
But Nicolette followed me to the piano, carrying her drink, and to my surprise, she slid in next to me.
Her hip pressed against mine and our shoulders touched.
I diverted my eyes from her breasts, which were all but spilling out of her top when she leaned forward.
“Um . . .” I said.
“Um?”
“What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled as if sleepy. “Something happy.”
Something happy. For some reason, all I could think of was that old Jimmy Durante song “Make Someone Happy” from Sleepless in Seattle, I guess because it had the word happy in it. I started playing.
“Oooh, I love this one,” Nicolette said. “Can you sing it, Alfie?”
So I sang. It’s an easy, cute song. When I got to the part about “fame, if you win it, comes and goes in a minute,” she slipped her arm through mine. Then she sang along on the final lines. She knew it word for word.
“Love is the answer,
Someone to love is the answer,
Once you’ve found her
Build your world around her,
Make someone happy,
Make just one someone happy
And you will be happy, too.”
When I finished, Nicolette stared at me.
“Alfie Logan, you are full of surprises.”
Her arm was still hooked in mine, and she lowered her head onto my shoulder. I instantly flashed on the image of Gianna in our first apartment, and how, sitting at the piano, she asked if I had ever done this with anyone else. It flooded me with guilt.
“We should go, huh?” I croaked.
“All right,” she whispered.
Nicolette rose, rubbing against me, her skirt rising as we made contact before falling gently back onto her thigh. I’m embarrassed to say how excited I was by this woman. Two minutes later we were at the elevator and Nicolette was swaying, humming that song to herself.
“Make . . . someone happy . . . Make one person happy . . .”
When we got in, we pressed our respective floors—-hers was the penthouse, I was on eighteen—-and she reached out and intercepted my hand and placed it firmly on her hip. She pressed against me, kissed me hard, and grabbed my belt and began to undo it.
“Lemme see, lemme see,” she murmured.
I was dizzy from the drinks, dizzy from the idea, and so aroused that for a moment my muscles tightened and I couldn’t move, I just let her do what she was doing.
But there are planks that we walk and planks we jump off, and finally, at the sound of my zipper, I stepped back off that plank and said, “I can’t, Nicolette, I’m married. You know?”
She pressed her eyes closed and spun away as if dancing.
“Right” she said, and then, “Right . . . right, right,” kind of singsongy--drunk, and then the elevator pinged and the doors opened and I could all but touch the freedom in the air of the eighteenth floor.
I backed out fast and blurted, “Thanks--a--lot--see--you-OK.” As the doors closed, she was straightening her skirt and not even looking at me.
I staggered to my room as if walking through a wind tunnel. I let myself in. I saw the envelope from Gianna on the bed. I opened it. It was a Valentine’s Day card, with a photo of the two of us inside. I hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s Day. I put it down and called our apartment.
Gianna’s voice was groggy with sleep.
“Alfie?” she mumbled. “What time is it?”
“Time to come home,” I said.
Nassau
Gianna Rule, dressed in a bra and shorts after a shower, spread her various camera lenses across the hotel bed.
She’d already been out yesterday on a day--long shoot and was planning a few more hours this afternoon.
The sea life in the Bahamas was incredible, and she’d photographed some creatures she had never seen before.
Rock iguanas, for one. They were an endangered species and the reason she was here, a magazine story on proposed oil drilling that threatened the island’s marine life.
The hope was that the beauty of her photographs would inspire opposition.
“Time, time, time,” she mumbled, searching for her phone. She lifted a dirty T--shirt and a paperback book, then finally found it under a pillow.
“Ahh, no,” she moaned. It was nearly two o’clock. The car was supposed to meet her in five minutes. She called her assistant but got no answer. She pulled on her sandals.
Suddenly, her room phone rang, and the shrill noise startled her.
She stared at it, thinking about the news she’d gotten yesterday, that her ex--husband was here on the island.
Her assistant had seen him wandering around the lobby.
At first, she wondered if he was stalking her again. He’d never liked the way things ended.
But maybe it was just a coincidence. There was a big new casino here, drawing lots of tourists, and her ex had become enamored with gambling over the years. Either way, if this was him calling, she wanted no part of it. She let the phone ring until it stopped.
She hurried to the mirror, slapped on some moisturizer and a little makeup, then tousled her hair.
She was proud, maybe a bit surprised, that at her age, she didn’t have much gray.
It helped her look young, which, much as she hated to admit it, also helped her in the photography business.
She yanked on a long--sleeved cotton hoodie to protect her from the sun, then grabbed three lenses and shoved them in her camera bag.
She did her typical spin around the room, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.
As she pulled the door shut behind her, the room phone started ringing again.
The Composition Book
It’s obvious by now, Boss, that I’ve hidden many things from you. I am sorry. Secrecy is a loan against your better judgment. You pay the interest in regret.