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on olf yesterday, but she hadn't seen anything different in his manner when he'd come in this morning, except for his preoccupation.
Marti . . . Stella couldn't help sighing. Marti didn't know yet, although she'd made it a point to be honest with Marti, right from the time she'd begun dating George. She wanted Marti—maybe she always would —but marrying George was the best, most practical thing for her. He was rich, and she'd be rich—free at last. No more nine-to-five job. Money really made you free; whoever said money couldn't buy everything had to be kidding.
There was another line that she could call out on if she really needed to. . . . Stella reached for the phone and then pulled her hand back, frowning. No, she was crazy. Let Marti call her. She knew that Marti should be back from LA, from that mysterious trip she wouldn't say too much about. Something to do with a job in the movies—maybe it was supposed to make her jealous. And in a way she was; only—why couldn't Marti understand? They could still see each other, still share and enjoy the fire that always erupted between them. But not in public—Marti's preference for women was too well known, and Stella regretted that they'd ever been seen out together. But if she could make Marti see why she had to marry George, make her see that it didn't really have to change anything for them...
The large diamond on Stella's finger winked and glimmered under the lights as she reached for the telephone. Why shouldn't she call Marti? Just to explain, of course. She owed her that much.
Marti answered the phone on the first ring, but her voice stayed flat, almost indifferent, even when she knew it was Stella.
"Los Angeles? Oh, it was okay. I met lots of people, and a few old friends." Did Marti's voice take on a strange inflection when she said 'old friends'?
"Marti, didn't you miss me at all?"
"Sure I did, baby. But I was busy, very busy most of the time. In fact..." Marti paused, evidendy wondering if she should tell Stella something, and then went ahead. "In fact, Stel, I might get a small apartment in LA— stay there some of the time. I was offered this part that sounded really interesting, and"—there was that little pause again—"very challenging."
"Marti!" Recovering herself, Stella said quickly, "But that's wonderful. I'm very happy for you." So Marti was trying to play hard to get?
Her voice soft, Stella said, "I've got some news, too. I'm going to be married." She wished she could see Marti's face when she said that. How would she react?
"George, I suppose. I'm glad for you, Stel, if that's really what you want."
God, how could Marti sound so polite, so indifferent, when only a few weeks ago she had actually cried. ...
"I'm glad you're not upset, Marti. I knew you'd understand. But we can still see each other sometimes, can't we?"
How difficult it was to let go when you'd shared something good with somebody. Marti had really loved her. Had?
"No reason I should be upset, Stel. You've told me often enough that this life wasn't really for you. It's just as well."
"Just as well what?" Was that really her voice, sounding so sharp?
"Just as well for us both, baby. Don't worry, I'll be around here sometimes, and we can get together if you still want to."
"Marti, of course I'll want to. Don't you?"
"Sure." But Marti's voice didn't sound convincing.
After she'd hung up, Marti stayed by the phone, staring at it. Well, so much for Stella. Lovely, wanton, selfish Stella. No more love; no more heartbreak. Let someone else do the falling in love with her for a change.
I'm stronger than Eve, Marti thought. Stronger than Stel, too, because I know when it's time to let go, even if I feel like it's going to tear my guts out.
She knew by now how it felt to hurt, to agonize, and she wasn't going to let it happen again. Not in LA, Celluloid City; the atmosphere there just wasn't right for love, anyhow. Lust counted; that was what everyone was paying for down there, one way or another.
Marti thought about the movie she'd made, and smiled. You sure as hell didn't need to be an actress to star in one of those! And her partner in some of the scenes—she had been really delicious. So damned experienced for a kid that young; so damned good. There was lots more where that came from—why should she mourn for Stella?
Suddenly the phone started to ring again, and she picked it up, making a wry face when she recognized the voice.
"No, David, I don't know where she is. I haven't heard from Eve since I've been back—maybe she changed her mind and stayed on in New York. . . . Oh! Well, Stella had no damn business telling you when Eve was due to arrive, and you—you men can be such bastards sometimes!" Marti's voice was vicious, and David flinched from the venom in it.
Goddam lesbian bitch! he thought furiously, wondering why in hell he felt driven to call and keep calling, again and again. Eve hadn't been home last night—she was probably partying it up with Brant Newcomb and his friends.
"I'm sure she's enjoying herself—you needn't bother to tell her I called." Filled with rage and frustration, David slammed down the phone. He shouldn't have bothered. He'd only gone out to the airport out of a sense of obligation, and he'd been careful to take Wanda with him. Thank God she, at least, wasn't Eve's kind. She was still naive, still idealistic. And he was pretty sure she was a virgin. He hadn't been able to teach Eve anything; she'd done it all before she'd met him. He'd accused her of being a bisexual once, and she'd denied it, although later he'd dragged a reluctant admission from her that she had tried it once—yes, widi Marti, dammit! He hadn't told her that he'd already known because Stella had told him. Her confession, and the details he'd wrung out of her, had excited him so damned much at that point that he'd stopped his questioning and started to fuck her. But he'd hoarded her admission as a kind of weapon to use against her if he had to. He'd always felt, with Eve, that he needed to have a weapon, something to use in order to keep her from clinging too close—from smothering him with her love.
Love, hell! He should have treated her as he had treated Gloria. The Four F's—find 'em, fool 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em! Eve didn't deserve any more. Not that he had ever considered marrying her. When he married, it would be someone like Wanda. But he'd like to fuck Eve one more time at least, to prove to her, and to himself, that she was a cheap, too-easy lay—nothing more.
Eve—damn her! He wondered what, exactly, she was doing right now.
She was helping Brant moor his boat at the dock, her hair pulled back decorously now and held in place by a scarf. There was an unaccustomed soreness between her thighs that made her feel strangely shy and yet strangely proud, too. She couldn't believe that the woman on the boat had been her, letting go completely.
