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Although he had told her casually in the beginning that he was far from ready to settle down or make commitments yet, he had begun to think of her as "his"— even, after he saw the way she loved and understood Lisa, to wonder how she would be as a mother. That was why he had not reacted at all when he'd found out suddenly but unmistakably that she was interested in him.
When Gloria had had Howard Hansen ask him to that weekend house party (an invitation extended only to people Howard liked and trusted), he'd responded by telling Howard he'd already made plans to see his girl that weekend. Howard, as affable as ever, had insisted that he bring Eve along.
Goddam, David thought suddenly, slamming to a stop as a light changed just as he got up to it, why had he taken Eve? The practical side of his nature took over then, and he found himself rationalizing, telling himself it had happened for the best. He'd been getting too involved, in too deep. Now he'd take Eve back on his terms, and those terms didn't include marriage. He'd make her understand that After all, he'd watched another guy screwing her. Whether it had been her fault or not, how did she expect him to forget?
But there were other things he couldn't forget, either. He remembered that she'd told him once that her sexiness wasn't real, it was part of a facade she'd erected for herself; but God, in bed (or out of it, for that matter) she'd prove herself a liar over and over, in the most wonderful ways imaginable.
Yes, he thought. That was the way he wanted Eve. In bed. As a mistress, not as a wife. He wondered if he could make her understand that things would be different. Although while he'd been seeing Eve he hadn't wanted any other woman, he intended not to lose any chances this go around. No possessiveness, he'd tell her. Let's play it by ear and see what happens. She'd go along with it. Sixth sense, ESP—whatever it was—he knew she'd go along with anything he wanted.
He wanted Eve. When he picked her up in the parking lot behind the studio, he felt he couldn't wait any longer. Just having her sitting beside him in the car again, smelling her perfume and feeling her warmth, made him want to groan with desire. And he could tell she didn't want to wait, either. They knew each other so well—they wanted each other so badly, why wait for all the preliminaries that didn't mean a damn thing?
He started to drive aimlessly, feeling the pressure of her fingers—first over his, and then along his thigh. Her apartment was out of the question; Marti would be there, and quite possibly Stella. They were in no mood for other people tonight. His apartment was all the way across town, far too far away.
In the end, they drove to a motel on Lombard Street, the first they came across. He registered, and as soon as they were in the room, he took her, with her dress pushed up over her thighs. No preliminaries—the only words short, brutal, seeking, describing. What he felt, what he was doing with her, what she wanted.
At the moment of his coming he said, "Good God, you bitch! You witch-woman, Eve!"
And she, only: "I love you David, I love you!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEY WERE BACK TOGETHER, but nothing was quite the same as it had been, except their lust for each other.
Eve felt that their coming together again was such a tender, tentative thing, their new relationship so fragile, that she went around scared all the time—torn between the wonder and the bliss of having David back again and the horrible tearing pain that might be lurking in the background to destroy and engulf her all over again. She wouldn't lose him again! She had to try to pretend that it didn't matter, that things were still the same between them, exactly the same, when they were not.
David wanted her—but he wanted other women, too. ("Let's try, Eve, but no jealousy, no commitments this time, huh, baby?") He didn't call her every day, and there were nights when she called him and heard his telephone ring and ring and she knew he was with someone else. And then jealousy would tear at her and she would want to kill him, to hurt him just as much as he was hurting her.
She continued to see Peter, to date other men she really didn't give a damn about, just to prove to David that she, too, could play games, that men desired her. She told herself that she would be a whore and flaunt it in his face, and then she would despise herself for letting him do this to her. But David was her drug, and she was hopelessly addicted to him. All he had to do was call her, tell her he wanted to see her, wanted her, and she was happy again—unreasoningly, unquestioningly so.
She would lie in David's arms while he made love to her, and think desperately that she couldn't live without this. In bed, at least, they communicated without words. Like a ritualistic ballet, the movements of which only the two of them knew, they would shift from one position to another, from mountaintop to valley and back to mountain peak of passion again, their hands and mouths and bodies touching everywhere, their movements fluid and beautiful, making whatever it was they shared beautiful and right, too.
At such times, Eve thought that this, at least, would never end. She could sense that David craved her body as much as she craved his. And yet for her, at least, it was not just the way he made love, it was him, David himself. She loved him; there was nothing she could do about it except hope that he wouldn't hurt her too badly someday.
They made each other jealous, they quarreled, and then they made up in bed.
"David—oh, God, what's happening to us?" she asked him once, despairingly.
"I don't know. Maybe we're trying to find whatever it is we really want," he told her, and she had to be content with that.
the second tape:
Thank you, Peter. I guess I should try to afford you professionally—I must need help. Even Marti is disgusted with me—I sicken myself. You're the only one who hasn't condemned me for my lack of pride and practicality, Peter dear, but then, you have your own ax to grind, don't you?
I wonder if David knows about this—about us.
You never did tell me. Never mind, I don't think I want to knoiv. Any more than I want to know who David is with tonight. I think it's Gloria, I think he sees a lot of Gloria, but of course I'm afraid to ask. And then there's Stella—I'm almost sure he's screwed Stella. Something about the way she avoids my eyes, something about the triumphant, sly look she wears when she thinks I'm not watching her. I hate Stella!
Oh, not because I feel (shit, I know) that she's been to bed with David, but mostly because of what she's doing to Marti. Blowing hot and cold. Swearing George is just a convenient front and things haven't changed between them, when they have. Poor Marti! She and I are in the same boat. Both loving, both wondering, both afraid to open our eyes too wide in case we discover something we don't want to see.
You don't mind if I talk about David, do you, Peter? No, of course you don't. You're nice that way. At least I know where I stand with you. I don't feel as if I'm on trial, as if I'm constantly being tested.
Sometimes I wonder what David really wants of me. Not just me—of any woman. What does he expect? What does he need? I'd be anything he wanted me to be, if I only knew. It sounds so sloppy, doesn't it? Like something out of one of those old, corny movies from the thirties. Where did I read that cliches only become cliches because they are the oft-repeated truth?
Never mind. Whatever the cost to my ego, to my pride, I'm going to try to hang onto David for as long as possible. I have this feeling (all right, so maybe it's really wishful thinking) that, after all, I'll become necessary to him—a habit, if not an obsession. All I have to do is hang in there, try not to make too many jealous scenes, and wait until he makes up his mind. And in the meantime— Oh, God, sometimes I feel that he's making me into a whore, a tramp—the kind of woman he keeps saying he despises. He told me once, "I can only love a woman I can respect. The kind of woman I can he sure of, the kind who won't whore around the minute my back is turned." And when he said it, he looked at me with contempt. He was telling me he knew about the other men—about you, Peter pet. And the others. Did you know there were others? Before David, I used to be selective, I was careful even about the guys I just dated. Now, when
I go out, and go to bed with someone I don't really know and don't give a damn for, it's only because I feel I have to. I have to prove something to myself—what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. Peter, am I turning into a nympho?
You're beginning to sound quite overwrought, sweets. Perhaps this isn't too good for you at this point. The tape, I mean. And you're asking questions again.
