"Like a light."
"Come on inside, then. Hazen wants us both."
What followed was complicated, and Laura had never dreamed that such
acts were commonplace. Hazen sprawled out on his bed with both girls,
switching from one to the other without reaching fulfillment in either,
until finally he clasped Tania tight to completion. By that time, Hesse
was awake and ready again. The rollicking party went on hectically
until nearly five in the morning, when both Hesse and Hazen, exhausted,
indicated they had had enough fun for the evening. Just before
tottering off to bed, Hazen found his trousers and pulled out a bill.
"Here," he said, extending it to Laura. "You're good girls. Have some
fun with this."
Laura took it and showed it to Tania as Hazen went into the bedroom. It
was a hundred.
Tania grinned. "Fifty apiece. Not bad at all, even with the specialty
stuff."
"Can we go home now?"
"Nothing stopping us. How do you feel?"
"A little shaky. I've never done things like that before."
"You'll get used to them," Tania chuckled. "These mid-westerners have
the damndest ideas, sometimes."
Laura went into the bathroom and tidied herself up, and dressed
while Tania was washing. Hazen and Hesse were sound asleep, snoring
blissfully. "They'll sleep like logs now," Tania said. "Well, I hope we
sold plenty of air-conditioners tonight."
"They seemed to like us," Laura said.
"You all ready?"
"Just about."
"Phone the desk and ask them to call a cab for us while I'm getting
dressed," Tania said. "After a night like this I can always use plenty
of sleep." She yawned. "Spinelli wants me to turn in a report on your
performance tonight, by the way, Laura. And I'm going to give him a
good one. You did damned well for a beginner, you know. Damned well."
_CHAPTER EIGHT_
Within a week, there no longer was any novelty for Laura in mingling
with rich men and accepting money from them for her favors. Within
two weeks, her new career had settled down as a routine. Each day,
about three o'clock, Spinelli or one of his assistants would phone
her and tell her the details of that evening's assignment. At the
earliest--when the evening began with a dinner date--she had to set out
about six; other engagements began as late as nine or ten. She would
taxi to her rendezvous, which almost always turned out to be in one of
the fine hotels in the Fifties, and for the rest of the evening she
would take part in whatever sociability was required of her. Generally
she was free to go home by three or four in the morning, though
sometimes she had to remain until dawn. When she got home, she would
sleep for eight hours, get up, breakfast lightly, and spend the hours
after noon shopping or reading or at a movie matinee. By three, she was
back in the apartment to await Spinelli's call.
It was difficult, at first, to adjust to a schedule that involved
staying up half the night and sleeping all morning, but gradually she
found herself accommodating to the change. It was harder to adapt
to the sudden quantity of fine food and liquor that her profession
required her to consume; she quickly learned to eat sparingly when
on dates, to drink as little as she possibly could without seeming
unsociable, and to cut down on her other meals of the day. She skipped
lunches altogether and reduced breakfast to a matter of juice, toast,
and coffee, and thus was able to cope with the output of New York's
finest restaurants each evening without undue ill effects.
The assignments were varied. One night she was picked to accompany an
aging steelman to the theater. She sat at his side through a musical,
clinging appreciatively to his arm during intermissions and attracting
a lot of attention by her daring neckline. After the theater they
visited a nightspot and went to his hotel. It turned out that he was
not interested in making love. He asked her to undress, watching
eagerly as each garment came off. When she was totally naked, he
inspected her body with weird curiosity, and then put her clothes back
on her. She undressed two or three more times, and he fondled her and
pinched her and ogled her body, and then gave her fifty dollars and
sent her home.
Another time, Laura's task was to attend a convention of automobile
dealers. She and two other girls, a brunette named Gloria and a blonde
called Charlene, were assigned to the task of setting themselves up
in the bedrooms of a big suite belonging to one of the automobile
manufacturers, and entertaining certain specific guests. By the end of
that evening, Laura figured that she had slept with close to a dozen
bigshot auto dealers--but her tips for the evening's work came to more
than $200, and when she left the hotel, at four-thirty in the morning,
she was able to blot the succession of grunting paunchy men from her
mind with ease.
Tips were running high--anywhere from $150 to $450 a week, on top
of her regular salary. Each day when she talked to Spinelli she
scrupulously reported the amount of cash she had been given the night
before. She sent some of it to him to cover the furniture expenses, and
spent the rest on clothing, furs, jewelry, fine objects of art for her
apartment. She banked fifty dollars every week no matter what expenses
she had, and when she could manage it she put a hundred away. Her years
of big money earning couldn't last forever, she knew, and if she saved
systematically there would be a cushion of quite a few thousand dollars
by the time she quit.
One day a few weeks after Laura had begun working for Spinelli, he
called up with a weekend assignment. "Fellow named Burrows," Spinelli
said. "He's an advertising man who owns a yacht, and he's giving a
little weekend shindig for his possible future employer. He wants two
girls to liven the proceedings up during the weekend. I'm sending
Charlene to take care of the guest--how about you for the host?"
"Sounds swell," Laura said. "When and where?"
"This weekend. The yacht's kept in Long Island Sound. I'll have you
and Char driven out to the place Saturday morning. Take Friday off so
you'll be well rested," Spinelli told her.
She was up bright and early on Saturday. It was almost a novelty not
to be getting up after noon. She packed a light frock and a couple of
bikinis and some evening wear, and at noon she was in front of her
house waiting for the limousine to arrive.
Charlene was already aboard. She was a tall, slim, solemn girl of about
twenty-four--not busty like Laura, but more elegant, more like a high
fashion model. The two girls smiled hellos and settled down for the
long drive out into the country.
At one-thirty they reached the North Shore home of the advertising man.
He came out to meet the limousine. Burrows was a rangy, good-looking
bachelor of thirty-two; his guest, Stan Fields, was closer to fifty,
with a worried, uncertain look. Both men were deeply tanned, and both
were dressed in polo shirts and Bermuda shorts.
After introductions, Burrows said, "Everything's all ready aboard ship.
Suppose we head out there now."
There was a launch out back, belonging to the marina, and they rode out
to Burrows' yacht. The boat was good-sized, a sleek, low white ship
with two masts. "I'll bet he won't be through paying for it for twenty
years," Charlene murmured in a low voice as they stepped out onto the
schooner's deck.
Burrows and his guest busied themselves, slipping the mooring and
heading out of the harbor under power while the girls stowed their
personal gear in the staterooms belowdecks, and changed into bikinis.
When they came up above again, the motor was killed and the two men
were energetically making sail.
"Help with those halyards!" Burrows yelled. "You girls didn't think you
were here just as decorations, did you?"
Laura and Charlene pitched in, and the canvas rose and bellied out in
the breeze.
"We're under way," Burrows said. "Laura, there are martinis in the
refrigerator down below. Want to break them out and do the honors while
I'm heading for the cove?"
Laura efficiently served drinks in the cockpit. The sleek ship raced
along, heading eastward through the Sound, until finally Burrows pulled
it into a secluded cove and dropped anchor. Here, they could frolic
undisturbed all weekend.
It was half past two, now, and the warm late-spring sun beat down. The
four yachters downed martinis for a while, accompanying them with hors
d'oeuvres from Burrows' well-stocked galley. It was after the third
round of drinks that the older advertising man said, "How about a swim,
Teddy-lad?"
"Fine with me," Burrows said. "Girls?"
The girls were already in their swimsuits--eye-popping bikinis that
consisted merely of a double-diamond-shaped piece covering loins
and buttocks but leaving all but the essential parts bare, and a
nipple-shielding strip under the arms. Burrows and Fields went
belowdecks and returned a few moments later in trunks.
They dove overboard and splashed in the cool, clear water for a while.
The coupling had definitely been established--Laura and Burrows,
Charlene and Fields--and there was a good deal of horseplay in the
water. Exhausted, Laura swam to the side of the boat and hung on.
Burrows came paddling up behind her and locked his legs around her
body, slipping his hands up and cupping her breasts. She turned around
halfway and kissed him, and at the same moment his hands found the
catch of her bikini halter and opened it. The bit of cloth fell away.
Her breasts, round and full, rose into his hands. She turned to face
him fully now, and they bobbed in the water, his hands cupping her
breasts, her leg thrust between his thighs, both of them laughing and
panting in excitement. Laura heard giggles from the other side of
the ship, and knew that Charlene and Fields were engaging in similar
shenanigans over there.
Burrows was busily engaged now in opening the loop that held Laura's
breechcloth on. He had some trouble--the salt water made the cloth
stiff--but finally he whipped the flimsy fabric away, tossing it and
the halter up onto the deck. Laura was naked, now. The cool water was
delightful against her bare breasts and loins. She found the beltstring
of Burrows' trunks, pulled it, pulled them off. Now both of them were
totally naked in the water.
"I've never done it in the water before," Burrows laughed. "I didn't
ever think of the idea."
"There's always a first time," Laura said. She put her back to the
boat, reaching behind her to grasp the ladder with each hand as a
stabilizer. Burrows swam to her, and she locked her legs around him,
moving back and forth. From the far side of the boat came a derisive
yell: "Hey, cut that out! You're making waves!" Burrows laughed without
replying.
The water surrounding them cooled them, slowing stimulation and
prolonging the act. Laura clung to the lean, athletic body against
hers, releasing her grip on the ladder as he took hold of it, and body
to body they gasped out their delight. At the highest moment, Burrows
let go of the ladder. They slipped below the water, bodies still
joined, and she felt the tingling sensation of a mutual climax while
she held her breath, and then they were coming up for air and drifting
apart and smiling.
Afterward, they clambered up on deck. Nude, Laura stretched out on the
forward deck to bask in the sun, while Burrows lay at her side, gently
stroking the silky skin of her buttocks. A little while later, Charlene
and Fields came on board, both of them minus their bathing-suits,
and all four sunbathed until the afternoon grew old and the breezes
brisk. By five, everyone was in a gorgeously gay mood. Charlene served
more cocktails, and then, as it began to get still cooler, they went
belowdecks. Burrows made love to Laura again in his stateroom--he
seemed tremendously virile--and then the girls prepared dinner, serving
it wearing little aprons over their otherwise nude bodies.
After dinner, it was fishing time, to lay in a stock of food for
tomorrow's lunch. Then the four of them gathered in the big salon
near the galley for some music and necking. During a lull, Charlene
explained to Laura exactly what kind of specialty Fields went in for.
"They picked me specially for it because I don't mind doing it that
way. Some girls can't stand it at all."
"I don't think I'd like it very much," Laura said. "It doesn't give the
woman any satisfaction."
Charlene shrugged. "I told him I'd do it that way if we did it regular
way too. So I'm taken care of, and so is he. All in a day's work,
darling."
Night descended, starry and beautiful. Cold now in sweaters and slacks,
they danced above deck until late, then retired. When he and Laura
were in bed together, Burrows began telling her all of his troubles.
He earned $32,000 a year at his present job, but he was heavily in
debt, and hoped to transfer to the agency Fields helped to run--at a
salary of $40,000 or better. The job was all but cinched, and inviting
Fields out to the yacht for a weekend of coeducational fun and games
was intended as the hoped-for clincher. "The only trouble," Burrows
complained, "is that if I make $40,000 a year I'll spend $50,000. I
can't help myself. It's like a disease. This yacht costs me thousands a
year in upkeep alone. But I tell myself life wouldn't be worth living
if I didn't own a yacht." Burrows laughed and cupped Laura's breasts.
"Come here and give me a good time, honey. And wish me luck."
They made love three times that night, and in the morning, after
breakfast, they swam and made love in the water once again. The older
man, Fields, seemed to be beaming, so evidently Charlene had pleased
him more than a little.
Burrows produced a camera and insisted on taking color shots of the
girls, nude, as souvenirs of the weekend. He promised not to show
the pictures to anyone, and to send them prints. They consented, and
Burrows photographed them sunbathing on the deck, photographed Laura as
she climbed breasts-first up the ladder out of the water, photographed
Charlene with a life-preserver round her hips. Fields began to suggest
some more imaginative poses, but luckily the film ran out long before
any of his suggestions could be acted upon.
Late that afternoon Burrows sailed the yacht back to his marina, and
they returned to the mainland. Spinelli's limousine was waiting to take
the girls back to Manhattan. As everyone said goodbye, Burrows folded a
hundred-dollar bill into Laura's hand. "Thanks for making everything so
wonderful," he whispered. "This is for you and Charlene to keep."
They were back in the city by sundown, and Laura went straight to
her apartment. Tanned and tired, she stretched out on the couch and
relaxed. It had been a swell weekend, she thought.
She thought of Marilyn, then, for the first time in weeks. Her promise
to keep in touch had been foregone; things had simply been too hectic.
_Marilyn doesn't spend weekends on yachts in Long Island Sound_, Laura
thought. _And my tip for that weekend was more than Marilyn earns in
two whole days of grubby soliciting._ Laura felt sudden guilt. She
tried not to think about rights and wrongs, now, but suddenly it seemed
wrong that she should be living so luxurious a life.
For a moment she thought of phoning Marilyn. But she shook her head.
Marilyn probably did not want to hear from her now. It would be only
human for Marilyn to hate her, since envy turns easily to hate. Laura
decided simply to forget Marilyn. She and Marilyn did not inhabit the
same world any more, and any communication between the worlds was bound
to be distorted.
She forced herself to forget about Marilyn.
It was June, now. She had been in New York City for two months. Every
week, she wrote a postcard to her grandparents, telling them how she
was doing. It was practically the same postcard every week, because she
knew the old people would not care. _Am holding a nice job and meeting
interesting people. New York is a wonderful city. The weather is
getting a little warm now. Send my best wishes to everyone back home,
Your affectionate granddaughter, Laura._
That was all that was needed--a formal reminder every now and then that
she was still alive. She suspected the old folks never read the cards.
They had their Bibles and their farm to keep them busy, and never went
in much for family ties.
Laura took stock of her six weeks with Spinelli's syndicate, and the
stock-taking surprised her. She had earned $3000 in salary, $2250 in
tips, or almost nine hundred dollars a week. She had a well-furnished
apartment, a lot of jewelry and furs, and a thousand dollars in
the bank. With the furnishing expenses behind her and her wardrobe
complete, she would be able to start building up the bank account now.
She began to make elaborate plans. She would put ten thousand dollars
in the savings bank, to start with, and then she would start buying
stocks and bonds. As she grew richer, she would be earning more and
more from her investments, and perhaps it would be possible for her
to retire from the call-girl business altogether by the time she was
twenty-eight or so.
_Retire to what?_ she wondered.
Marriage? A theatrical career? Possibly, she thought. But she suspected
that she would grow to like her present soft life so well that she
would never abandon it voluntarily. Having money pour in faster than it
can be spent is an agreeable way to live. And, Laura told herself, she
had never been much on asceticism.
One gilded day flowed into the next. Laura consorted with bankers,
stockbrokers, salesmen, manufacturers. She was astonished by the
magnitude of the business of sex. _If people only knew_, she thought,
_how many big deals are clinched in bed_--
Dozens of influential executives had fondled her breasts. Scores of
big-budget purchasing agents had been treated to an expensive night
between her satiny thighs. Her lush bosom had been a decoration of more
than one high-powered smokefilled-room conference at big conventions.
The summer wore on. The money poured in.
There was only one snag in paradise, though. Laura began to discover it
as June came to an end and July began, and she settled down into the
snug routine of a syndicate hostess.
She was lonely.
She had no friends.
Lovers, yes. But all one-night stands, or a weekend at most, and then
they drifted off out of her life, and she out of theirs. Nor did she
want any further contact with any of her clients. She had no interest
in becoming friendly with a man who paid for sex.
But she had no personal friends. Marilyn was lost to her at the
other side of an economic gulf; the other girls of the syndicate
were friendly, but most of them were too busy or too tired for any
after-hours socializing, and, in any event, Spinelli frowned on much
intimacy between girls of his syndicate.
She hardly ever saw Spinelli, either. He summoned her to his apartment
every few weeks to stay the night with him, but that was all. He
treated the girls of his syndicate as his personal harem, but there was
always a fifty-dollar bonus in their pay envelope the week they had
slept with Spinelli. He slept with the girls, he told Laura, to make
sure they were staying in condition, and to keep tabs on the sort of
services they were offering the clients. Laura enjoyed the evenings
spent with him. But they were few and far between.
She took to wandering around the city on her days off, drifting idly
from store-window to store-window, looking for something but not
knowing what it was. The idea of remaining home, alone, was repugnant
to her. The very act of being near people in the streets--even
strangers--gave her pleasure.
That was how she met Dan Bittner.
It was a Thursday afternoon, late in July. There had been a heat-wave
for the past two weeks, but it had abated somewhat, now, and Laura was
out strolling on a day off. She was walking up 57th Street, looking in
the windows, remembering that night so long ago--only three months, but
it seemed like centuries--when she had stared into these same windows
and had resolved someday to have money to buy beautiful things.
She had the money now--all she needed, and more, to buy anything she
wanted. But it all seemed hollow, all the empty gaiety of the fine
restaurants and the gaudy musical shows. Lonely, bored, jaded, she
wandered up 57th, across Madison toward Fifth. While waiting for the
light to change, she happened to overhear a bitter quarrel just behind
her.
"I don't care if you _do_ have tickets!" a girl was snapping
petulantly. "You can take the tickets and throw them away, for all I
care! I'm not going, Dan."
"Listen, Ruth," a man's voice said mildly, "I paid six bucks apiece for
those tickets, and it's lousy of you to back out now. I don't want to
go alone, after all. Even if we've broken up, you could--"
"You could have found someone else!" the girl retorted. "You think
you're going to shame me into going to that damn show with you, but I'm
not! Find another date somewhere! Or just throw the tickets away, if
you don't want to go. Goodbye!"
"Ruth!"
Laura paused, looking back. She saw a tall, very good-looking young
man of perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight, staring in anguish at a
well-dressed, angry-faced girl who was flouncing petulantly away.
"_Ruth!_" he yelled again. He gestured in frustration, as if trying to
pull her back on invisible strings, but she was almost half a block
away, and moving faster as she picked up steam.
Laura had no idea what made her speak up at that moment. But she was
surprised to hear her voice say, "Don't go after her, Dan. She isn't
worth getting excited over."
_CHAPTER NINE_
An hour later, as they sat in a 58th Street restaurant together sipping
cocktails, Laura quietly retraced in her mind the pattern of events
that had brought them together. There had been the moment of mutual
surprise, first, there on the busy street corner as they stared at
each other, she surprised that she had spoken, he that he had been
spoken to. Then the nervous laughter from both of them, breaking the
awkwardness between two strangers on a Manhattan street, and his sudden
grin and his admission, "No, you're right--she _isn't_ worth getting
excited over."
They might have parted at that moment and remained strangers forever,
but they let the conversation continue, and within seconds they were
no longer strangers, but Dan to her and Laura to him, and in a wild
exhilarated way he was inviting her to have dinner with him and go to
the show in Ruth's place, and she was telling him that she was free
that evening and would be delighted to accept, and that was how it
began.
And over drinks he told her about the quarrel and why it had been.
"Ruth's my fiancée," he explained. "Anyway, she _was_--up till about
three weeks ago, when we decided to call the whole thing off. We both
knew all along that we weren't right for one another but we just didn't
have the guts, or something, to admit we'd made a mistake."
"Until three weeks ago."
"Until three weeks ago, yes. Then we had a big hassle and decided to
nix it. Only we had these theater tickets for tonight, and we agreed
we'd have one last date after a cooling-off period and see if we
couldn't put things back together again." He let his shoulders slump.
"So she met somebody else during the three weeks. Hell, I _wanted_
her to. And she did. But when I phoned her about the theater date,
she said she'd come anyway. And then she kept changing her mind, and
I kept phoning her. It wasn't so much that I was afraid of wasting
the tickets, as that I wanted to see her one last time, sort of get
everything wrapped up neatly. So she met me in the city, but right away
she started to back out--she said hello and goodbye practically in the
same breath. I kept arguing with her, telling her at least we could
have the one last date, but she didn't want to--"
"And that's where I came in," Laura said.
"Right."
"How long had you gone with her?"
He smiled sadly. "Two years and some," he said. "But it was all a
mistake, all wasted time. Dope that I am, I would have gone running
after her, too, if you hadn't spoken up then."
"I'm not in the habit of butting into other people's quarrels," Laura
said quietly. "I don't know why I talked up just then."
"I'm glad you did."
"Are you really?"
"Really. Because otherwise I'd have gone after Ruth and we'd still be
quarrelling. And I'd never have met _you_."
He reached out across the table and squeezed her hand warmly. She
smiled at him. It made her feel good all over to think that there was
one man in New York City who was actually spending some time with her
simply because he wanted to, not because he had bought her for the
night and had to get his money's worth out of every minute.
Using the skill she had acquired in her new profession, she drew him
out as they sipped their cocktails. His name was Dan Bittner; he was
twenty-eight, a bachelor, a design engineer for a big industrial firm.
Although he was seven years older than Laura, she regarded him inwardly
as practically a child. He gave off an appearance of innocence. She
suspected he might even be a virgin, improbable as it was to consider
it.
He had never been married. Apparently there had been an unsuccessful
romance before the Ruth affair, and between the two affairs he had
simply used up the past four years without finding the warmth and
security he was looking for. He seemed terribly lonely.
_Two lonely people meeting on a street corner in Manhattan_, Laura
thought. _And he's so shy, so gentle. I wonder what he'd do or think if
he found out how I earn my living._
Eventually, as she knew it would have to, the conversation came around
to her. When he asked her what she did, she replied glibly, "Oh, I'm a
minor editor on a fashion magazine."
"Oh? Which one?"
Just as glibly, she said, "You wouldn't know it. It's a trade-journal
kind of thing that doesn't have newsstand circulation. It pays well,
anyhow."
"What kind of work do you do?"
Laura had soaked up plenty of new information from her clients in
the magazine field. She said without hesitation, "I'm a kind of
high-salaried flunky. I do pasteups and write captions and check copy,
and stuff like that. All very very dreary."
"Do you ever pose for the magazine?"
"Oh, no, never."
He smiled. "You should. You're prettier than any of the slabjawed
models that get into all those magazine advertisements."
Laura tried to look confused. "By my boss' standards I'm hideous. My
face is too full, my figure is too big, I've got too much behind--"
"Your boss is out of her mind."
"My boss knows her audience," Laura said. By this time she had
conjured up a complete picture of the magazine where she allegedly
worked, complete with the chic offices on upper Madison Avenue and the
grimfaced bachelor-lady editor in the severely tailored mannish suits.
"You don't sell lady's fashions using girlie-magazine models. You use
walking skeletons. Don't ask me why."
"Suppose I ask you what you want for dinner, instead. We're going to
miss the first act if we don't start stepping things up."
It was a show that Laura had seen twice before--she had no control over
what kind of plays her clients picked to attend--but she hid that fact
from Bittner, and tried to act as though it was the first time she had
heard the songs or laughed at the gags. When they left the theater at
eleven, they were walking hand-in-hand.
"I'd suggest a nightcap," he said, "only I don't know how late I'm
allowed to keep you out."
"Don't worry. I sleep till all hours of the morning," Laura said. She
realized at once she had made a mistake, even before he reacted.
"Doesn't your boss mind that?" he asked.
She forced a brittle laugh. "Oh, I mean I can sleep till eight or so.
The office is just a couple of blocks from my apartment. And I only
need a few hours' sleep to keep me going."
They stopped in for drinks, and, about midnight, Bittner took her home.
He seemed surprised that a mere sub-editor should be living in such a
handsome building in such a costly neighborhood, but he said nothing
about it. They rode upstairs in the elevator. Laura wondered whether or
not to invite him in. She wanted him desperately, but he did not seem
to be the sort of fellow who would want to go to bed with a girl on
a first date. Besides, if she kept him outside he might get the idea
that her apartment was only one or two rooms, which would be within the
budget of someone with her kind of job.
They paused hesitantly outside the door. He was smiling down at her
from his height, not knowing what to say, and after a clumsy pause he
managed to get out, "Well, it's been a wonderful evening, Laura."
"I'm glad, Dan. Maybe the day didn't start out so well for you, but at
least it ended well."
"Will I be seeing you again?"
"I hope so," she said, meaning it more than anything she had said to
anyone for a long time.
"Is your number in the book?"
She shook her head. "It's unlisted. Here, I'll write it down for you.
The best time to call me is--oh, around three or four in the afternoon."
"At _home_?"
Another slip, she thought. Retrieving the fumble, she said, "Yes, I'm
only at the office two-thirds of the day. I leave at three and finish
my work at home."
"Nice work if you can get it. Can I have the office phone too?"
Laura tensed. "Sorry, no. The boss is death on personal calls during
working hours."
"Okay. I'll phone you here." He hesitated again. "Goodnight, Laura."
"Goodnight, Dan."
He made no motion toward leaving. He teetered for a second, and then
she moved toward him and he took her in his arms and put his lips to
hers, and she kissed him hard, with tongue and breasts and thighs, and
she felt his body jerk back in surprise at the passionate hunger of her
kiss. But she did not release him, and he joined in her fervor. Only
after a long moment did they separate. He looked dazed and shaken and
bewildered.
"Goodnight," he whispered, and darted toward the elevator.
Smiling, Laura let herself into her apartment. She laughed out loud
in sheer happiness. It had been a splendid evening, she thought. No
sex, no groping under her skirt, no hands kneading her lust-stiffened
nipples. Just pleasant companionship, two lonely people making each
other less lonely.
She thought of Spinelli then, and it made her uneasy. Spinelli would
be furious if he knew. His girls weren't supposed to carry on little
flirtations of their own. They were supposed to reserve all of their
affection for the paying customers. Spinelli would hit the ceiling
if he found out that on her day off Laura had indulged in a little
innocent hand-holding with an unhappy young man.
_But I'll keep on seeing him_, she told herself determinedly. _He's the
only decent man I've met since I came to New York, and I want to see
more of him. Spinelli can't stop me. He doesn't own me. As long as I
keep his customers happy, why can't I have a little happiness myself?_
She began to construct a little daydream. Dan Bittner was obviously on
the verge of falling in love with her, she thought. Perhaps he would
ask her to marry him. And she would accept, and would tell Spinelli the
end of her employment had come. She would go to live with Dan in his
little apartment, somewhere, and they would have children, and he would
never know or need to know of her past. She would simply stuff the
experiences and sins of the past several months into a compartment of
her mind that she would never open.
It seemed pretty enough--the little apartment, the babies, the
domesticity. He needed someone to love him, and she needed love too.
They were meant for each other, or so it looked.
_But it's not fair_, she thought. _He's a good kid. And what am I? I
used to be a cheap whore, and now I'm an expensive one, but I'm still
a whore. And someday maybe we'll go dancing and one of my old clients
will recognize me, and while I'm in the powder room he'll go over to
Dan and ask him if I'm still as good a lay as I used to be. Or maybe
Spinelli will be angry because I'm leaving him, and to get even he'll
send Dan a copy of his photograph album a week after the wedding. If
Dan ever found out the truth about me, his whole world would collapse.
And if I married him I'd live in constant fear that the truth would
somehow be exposed._
All the same, when he called her a few days later, she greeted him
warmly. It was four in the afternoon, and she was just beginning to
dress for a dinner date she had that evening with a bachelor wheat
magnate from Iowa, in town for a week and anxious to whoop things up
with one of the bustier of Phil Spinelli's girls. She was going to wear
the deep-cut dress, and the half-bra that seemed not to be there at all
when she wore it.
"When are we going to see each other again?" Dan asked. "I'm free every
night from now on."