I also took a cigarette, thumped my lighter and as she leaned forward to light up, I said, “Tell me why you were expecting me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to.” She let smoke drift down her nostrils and she glanced uneasily round the room. She was on the defensive and I felt instinctively that she was nervous and unsure of herself.
I studied her for a few seconds. As soon as she felt my eyes on her face, she turned to look directly at me. “Well?” she said sharply.
“It’s a pity you make-up like that. It doesn’t suit you.”
She stood up immediately and looked into the mirror over the fireplace. “Why,” she asked, staring hard at herself. “Don’t I look all right?”
“Of course, but you’d look better without all that muck on your face. You don’t need it.”
She continued to look at herself in the mirror. “I’d look an awful fright without it,” she said, half to herself, then she turned and frowned at me.
“Did anyone tell you you’re an interesting woman?” I asked, before she could speak. “You have character and that’s more than most women have.”
Her mouth tightened and she sat down. For a moment I had caught her off guard, but the wooden expression was now back again.
“You haven’t come here to tell me I’m interesting, have you?”
I smiled at her. “Why not? If no one has told you before, then it’s time someone did. I like to give women their due.”
She flicked ash into the fireplace. It was a nervous, irritable movement and I could see she did not know what to make of me. As long as I could keep her in that frame of mind I held the initiative.
“Aren’t you going to say sorry for this?” I asked, touching the bruise on my forehead.
She said what I expected her to say. “Why should I? You deserved it.”
“I suppose I did,” I said and laughed. “I’ll have to be careful next time. I like a woman with spirit. I’m sorry about the way I behaved, but I did want to see what your reactions would be.” I laughed again. “I didn’t expect to feel your reactions.”
She looked at me doubtfully, smiled and then said, “I do get wild sometimes . . . but you deserved it.”
“Do you always treat men like that?”
She hedged. “Like what?”
“Knocking them on the head if they annoy you,”
This time she giggled. “Sometimes.”
“No hard feelings?”
“No.”
I watched her. She slouched as she sat, her head forward and her slim shoulders rounded. Again she looked sharply at me when she felt my eyes on her.
“Don’t sit there looking at me,” she said irritably. “Why did you come here?”
“I like looking at you,” I returned, relaxing in the armchair and feeling completely at ease. “Can’t I talk to you? Would that strike you as odd?”
She frowned. I could see she was in two minds. She did not know whether I was wasting her time or whether I was here professionally. It was obvious that she was controlling her im-patience with difficulty.
“You have only come here to talk?” she said, looking at me and then immediately looking away. “Isn’t that a waste of time?”
“I don’t think so. You interest me and besides I like talking to attractive women.”
She looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated expression of exasperation. “Oh they all say that,” she said impatiently.
That annoyed me. “If you don’t mind I would rather not be classed with an anonymous “they”,” I said with acerbity.
She looked surprised. “You have a very good opinion of yourself, haven’t you?”
“Why not?” It was my turn to be impatient. “After all, who’ll believe in me if I don’t?”
Her face darkened. “I don’t like conceited men.”
“Haven’t you a good opinion of yourself?”
She shook her head emphatically. “Why should I?”
“I hope you’re not just another woman with an inferiority complex?”
“Do you know so many?”
“Quite a few. Is that what you suffer from?”
She stared into the empty fireplace, her expression suddenly moody. “I suppose so.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “Do you think that’s funny?”
“Why should I? I think it’s rather pathetic because there’s no reason for you to.”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Why not?”
I knew then that she was unsure of herself and interested to know what I thought of her.
“You ought to be able to answer that if you are truthful about yourself. Now my first impressions of you . . . no, never mind, I don’t think I’ll tell you.”
“Come on,” she said, “I want to know. What are your first impressions of me?”
I studied her as if I were making a careful assessment of her qualities. She stared back at me, frowning and ill at ease, but wanting to know. I had thought so much about her for the past two days that I was long past first impressions. “If you really want to know,” I began with assumed reluctance, “only I don’t suppose you’ll believe me.”
“Oh, come on,” she said impatiently, “don’t hedge.”
“All right. I’d say you are a woman of considerable character, independent to a degree, hot tempered and strong willed, extra-ordinarily attractive to men and, oddly enough, sensitive in your feelings.”
She studied me doubtfully. “I wonder how many women you have said that to?” she asked, but I could see she was secretly pleased.
“Not many . . . none at all if you take it as a whole. I haven’t met any one woman with all those qualities except yourself. But, of course, I really don’t know you yet, do I? I may be entirely wrong . . . they’re just first impressions.”
“Do you find me attractive?” She was in deadly earnest now.
“I would hardly be here if I didn’t. Of course you’re attractive.”
“But why? I’m not pretty.” She got up and looked in the mirror again. “I think I look awful.”
“Oh no, you don’t. You have character and personality. That’s much better than insipid prettiness. There’s something extraordinary about you. Magnetic is perhaps, the word.”
She folded her arms across her small, flat breasts. “I think you’re an awful liar,” she said, anger in her eyes. “You don’t really think I believe all this slop, do you? What exactly do you want? No one else comes here smarming over me like this.”
I laughed at her. “Don’t get angry. You know, I’m sorry for you. You certainly have a bad inferiority complex. Never mind, perhaps one day you’ll believe me.” I leaned forward to examine the books on the beside table. There were copies of
Front Page Detective
, a shabby copy of Hemingway’s
To Have and to Heme Not,
and Thorne Smith’s
Night Life of the Gods.
I thought they were an odd assortment.
“Do you read much?” I asked deliberately changing the subject.
“When I can find a good book,” she returned, bewildered.
“Have you ever read “Angels in Sables”?” I asked, naming my first book.
She moved restlessly to the dressing table. “Yes . . . I didn’t like it much.” She picked up a powder puff and dabbed at her chin.
“Didn’t you?” I was disappointed. “I wish you’d tell me why.”
She shrugged. “Oh, I just didn’t.”
She put down the powder puff, stared at herself in the mirror and then moved back to the fireplace. She was fidgety, impatient and a little bored.
“But you must have reasons. Did you find it dull?”
“I don’t remember. I read so quickly I never remember any-thing I read.”
“I see . . . anyway you didn’t like it.” I was irritated that she couldn’t remember my book. I would have liked to have talked to her about it and had her reactions, even if she did not like it I began to realize that normal conversation with her was going to be difficult. Until we knew each other — and I was determined that we should know each other — topics of conversation were severely limited. Up to now, we had nothing in common.
She stood looking at me doubtfully and then sat down on the bed again. “Well?” she said, abruptly. “What now?”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
She shrugged and made a little grimace. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Of course there is,” I said and leaning forward, I took her hand in mine. “Are you married or is this a phoney?” I was twisting the thin gold wedding ring on her finger.
“I’m married.”
I was a little surprised. “Is he nice?”
She looked away. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Very nice?”
She took her hand away. “Yes . . . very nice.”
“And where is he?”
Her head jerked round. “That’s not your business.”
I laughed at her. “All right, don’t get high hat. I must say when you get mad, you look quite impressive. How did you get those two lines above your nose?”
She was up instantly, looking at herself in the mirror. “They’re bad, aren’t they?” she said, trying to smooth the furrows away with her finger tips.
I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. I had been in the room exactly a quarter of an hour.
“Then you shouldn’t frown so much,” I said, getting to my feet. “Why don’t you relax?”
I moved towards her and as I did so the puzzled, rather worried look went out of her eyes, instead, there came a look of confidence and secret amusement. She undid the cord of her dressing gown and her slender fingers went to the silk loop that held the one button that kept the dressing gown closed.
“I must go now,” I said looking pointedly at the clock.
Away went the look of confidence; her hands dropped to her sides. I was glad that I had decided not to meet her on her own ground. So long as I behaved differently from the other men who visited her, I was certain to hold her attention and keep her puzzled.
Td like to talk to you about yourself when you have the time,”I said, smiling at her. “I might be good for your inferiority complex.” As I passed the chest of drawers, I slid two ten dollar bills between the glass animals. One, a reproduction of Disney’s Bambi, fell over on its side.
I saw her look quickly at the money and then she looked away. The sullen expression disappeared.
“Do you think I’ll ever see you in anything but that dressing gown?” I asked at the door.
“You might,” she said, blankly. “I do wear other things.”
“One of these days you must give me a treat. And don’t forget, the next time I call, leave off the make-up. It doesn’t suit you. Good-bye now,” and I opened the door.
She joined me. “Thank you for the — the present,” she said, smiling. It was extraordinary how different she looked when she smiled.
“That’s all right. By the way, my name’s Clive. May I phone you soon?”
“Clive? But I know two Clives already.”
During the past quarter of an hour I had completely forgotten that she was anyone’s woman and that remark jarred me badly. “Well, I’m sorry. After all, it is my name. What do you suggest?”
She sensed my irritation and looked a little sullen. “I like to know who’s coming,” she said.
“Of course,” I said sarcastically. “How about Clarence, or Lancelot or Archibald?”
She giggled and looked at me searchingly. “It’s all right I’ll recognize your voice. Good-bye, Clive.”
“Fine. I’ll come and see you again soon.”
“Marty . . .” she called.
The big, angular woman came from an adjoining room. She stood waiting, her hands clasped, a faint smirk in her eyes.
“I’ll call you before long,” I said and followed the woman down the passage.
“Good evening, sir,” she said politely at the door.
I nodded and walked up the path to the white wooden gate. When I reached my car, I paused and looked back at the house. There were no lights to be seen. In the dusk of the evening, it looked just like any other of the little houses that dotted the side streets of Hollywood.
I started the engine and drove to a bar off Vine Street, within sight of the
Brown Derby.
I felt suddenly deflated and I needed a drink.
The Negro bartender grinned cheerfully at me, his teeth glistening like the keys of a piano in the hard electric light.
“ ‘Evening’, sir,” he said, spreading his big hands on the bar. “What’ll it be tonight?”
I ordered a straight Scotch and carried it to a table away from the bar. There were only a few men in the place, none of them I knew. I was glad of that because I wanted to think. I relaxed in the easy chair, drank a little of the whisky and lit a cigarette.
I decided, after brooding for a while, that it had been an interesting, if expensive, quarter of an hour. The first opening move in the game had been mine. Eve had been puzzled and I felt pretty sure, interested. I should have liked to have heard what she had said to Marty about me after I had left. She was smart enough to guess that I was playing some kind of a game, but I had given her no clue as to what it was.
I had made her curious. I had talked about her and not about myself; that must have been a change for her. The type of man she would mix with was certain to talk continuously about himself. Her inferiority complex was interesting. Possibly it was due to a fear of the future. She wanted to be reassured about herself. If she relied on her trade for money that would explain her anxiety about her looks. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t old, of course, but even if she were thirty-three, and I guessed she would be older than that, in her game that was the age when a woman did get anxious.
I finished my whisky and lit a cigarette. In doing so I broke the chain of my thoughts and began, almost against my will, to examine my own conscience.
Obviously something had happened to me. A few days ago, the idea of my associating with a prostitute would have been unthinkable. I have always despised men who go with such women. Everything they stood for was repugnant to me. And yet, I had spent a quarter of an hour with one of these women, treating her as I treated my other women friends. I had actually left my car outside her house, which must be notorious in the neighbourhood, for anyone to identify and I had paid for the privilege of having a completely futile conversation.
It was my misfortune to associate with brilliant and talented people. I knew I was dross compared with them. But Eve had never known success. She had no talents and she was a social outcast. She was the only woman I knew whom I could genuinely patronize. In spite of her power over men, her strength of will and her cold indifference, she was for sale. As long as I had money I was her master. I realized now that it was essential for me to have such a companion, who was morally and socially my inferior, if I were not to lose all confidence in myself.