What Is This Thing Called Love? Read online

  I wrote my review of Oklahoma! on my note pad and phoned it in. As perturbed as I was with her “early bird catches the worm” note, I gave the show—and especially Lolly—a rave review. As I walked to my car, I couldn’t get that damned note on the door out of my mind.

  The next morning I searched through my telephone book for twenty minutes.

  Adams, Lolly: Los Angeles Dressmakers: Beverly Hills

  Adams, Lolly: Beverly Hills Dressmakers: Century City

  Adams, Lolly: Westwood Dressmakers: West Hollywood

  Adams, Lolly: Hollywood Dressmakers: Hollywood

  THAT’S ENOUGH! Let her find me if she’s so damn smart. She’s the flirt, not me. I threw all my telephone books against the wall and knocked over my brand new Black & Decker toaster oven. If it’s ruined, she should pay for it.

  “Now let’s be smart,” I said to myself. “Stay calm. Don’t let that silly flirt turn you into an idiot. You can be just as clever as she is, so relax! No matter how cute and beguiling and frustratingly voluptuous she is, don’t let her drive you crazy! That’s what she wants, don’t you see?” All right! I’ll show that snooty flirt who’s cleverer.

  I decided to go to the theater again, get up before the curtain comes down, stand in the hallway in front of her dressing room door, and wait for her before she can even go in.

  That evening I got out of my seat before any of the curtain calls, walked swiftly up the aisle and through the stage door entrance, bounced up to the second floor and stood guard outside her dressing room. I couldn’t help smiling as I anticipated the look on her face when she saw me.

  I heard applause, and then the roar that must have been Lolly’s solo bow. It wouldn’t be long now. Actors and wardrobe personnel came rushing up the stairs and disappearing into the row of dressing rooms. A very tall bald man walked up to Lolly’s door and started to walk into her room.

  “Excuse me,” I said before he could enter. “I believe that’s Lolly Adams’s dressing room.”

  “Yes, we changed just before the show,” he said. “Her air-conditioning unit wasn’t working and I offered my smaller room because it was nice and cool.”

  “That was very kind of you,” I said with a twisted smile.

  “Where is your dressing room, if I may ask?”

  “It’s on the third floor, sir . . . number fourteen, end of the hall.”

  I thanked him, rushed up the stairs, and ran to room 14. When I got there, a little out of breath, I saw a note on the door.

  IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED TRY, TRY AGAIN

  That little bitch. She’s just playing with me. I went to bed that night and tried to sleep, but this snooty, voluptuous flirt was driving me crazy. I just couldn’t get her under her skin. No, I mean—I couldn’t not get her under my skin. No, that’s not good English. I mean . . . oh, shut up and go to sleep.

  Sitting pathetically by myself on Saturday evening, drinking my third glass of Pinot Grigio at a little bistro that I often frequented, I reasoned this way: Why go to the theater again? She’ll just leave another clever note for me to choke on. If she’s performing every night at the Shubert Theatre she must be free on Sunday nights, and surely she would want to go out somewhere, to some happy place where she could drink and dance and flirt with all the men.

  Where would she go this Sunday? There’s an open-air celebration after the last performance of Cirque de Soleil. But what if it rains?

  There’s also the grand opening of Nobu’s new restaurant in the building that used to be L’Orangerie . . . possibly, Nobu might have live music, but I doubt if he would have dancing.

  There’s going to be a twentieth wedding anniversary reception for Leonard and Susan Nimoy tomorrow night at the Hotel Bel-Air, and I was invited. And she loves those swans.

  I wore my tuxedo, just in case the other men wore tuxedos. It was still early when I arrived and not many guests were there.

  The small orchestra was playing Schumann quintets.

  Leonard was in a tuxedo, along with two or three men who were good friends with the anniversary couple, but the other men at the party were wearing suits. After I said my hellos to the Nimoys, I walked around the ballroom to see if I could find Ms. Hot Tamale, but she wasn’t there. Within fifteen or twenty minutes I gave up the search.

  When the orchestra switched to old standards, people began walking to the dance floor and hugging each other as they danced. My feelings of loneliness are a little vulnerable when I’m alone and hear nostalgic music, so I decided to slip out quietly before I felt too sorry for myself.

  It was a beautiful night: stars, moonlight, and not much wind. I walked over the little bridge that spanned the lagoon and stopped to see if there was a swan in sight. I did see one in the shadows; his or her body shone brightly as it floated into the moonlight. I watched for a while and then heard “Tweet, tweet, tweet” behind me. I turned and saw Lolly. She was wearing a very discreet silk and lace white gown. She could almost have been one of those beautiful white swans.

  “You’re early,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d get here so soon.”

  “The early bird catches the worm, you know,” I said, “which is very smart if you happen to like eating worms.”

  She didn’t smirk at my stupid joke; she only stared at me with the sweetest suggestion of a smile. As I looked at the moonlight reflected in her eyes I felt oddly helpless.

  She just stood there, watching me, and waiting. For what? I suddenly threw all my thoughts into the lagoon and put my arms around her body. She moved into my embrace as if we were dancing and I kissed her tenderly, again and again, and then so passionately that tears began dripping down her cheeks.

  “I’ve chased you for such a long time, Tom . . . and now you’ve finally caught me,” she whispered.

  Are You Really in Love

  I asked Melanie to marry me when she came to my house for dinner. Her mother came with her. I didn’t know Melanie that well, but I knew I was really in love with her. She was so much fun to be with and so pretty. I knew I wanted to marry her. I asked my mother to give me a ring. She got one from a cereal box and I put it on Melanie’s finger and then I kissed her. Melanie just giggled. I was three and a half years old.

  We had a Christmas party the next week and Melanie was invited. When she walked into our house she wanted to hug me, but I didn’t even talk to her because I wanted to play with my new truck. Melanie asked if she could play with me, but I just shoved her away.

  My name is Joey Singer. I wonder how different I am now, thirty-five years later, from the way I was then. Do you think this is a ridiculous question, dear reader?

  On a hot July morning at five o’clock I got a call from the American director of a film I’d written. It was being shot in France.

  “Joey, I need you to come to Paris immediately if not sooner, and rewrite those two big scenes inside the château and I’m going nuts and I have to shoot them next week. Can you come right away? Please? I’ll be your best friend.”

  I got on a plane a few hours later.

  On my first day of work I met Ann Goursaud, who was French, spoke English perfectly, and was chief editor on the film. Ann and the director and I worked every day from 10:00 a.m. till 6:00 p.m.

  Ann really knew her onions about editing and she gave the director some wonderful suggestions about what was wrong and what she thought I should rewrite in those difficult scenes. She offered her suggestions strongly but humbly, always looking at the director as she said, “But of course, it’s your film,” and then she would wink at me. I liked Ann very much. I asked if she was married or attached. When she said no, I asked her to have dinner with me that first night.

  We took a taxi to a bistro she loved, Chez Allard, which served delicious country food that I’d never eaten or heard of before. The waiters were used to speaking English to American, English, and German tourists, but when they saw Ann they spoke in French. Ann translated for me. We shared warm sausages over cabbage and steamed potatoes f
or a starter, and then guinea hen for two. The wine they served was a little expensive but delicious. The elderly man who was serving us referred to the wine as “honest.”

  After dinner we stepped outside and found that the night was warm but not as sultry as earlier, so we took a long walk to the Eiffel Tower. When we got there I saw a young man,

  North African, I think, who was selling ice cream cones from his small cart on wheels. Ann and I each picked pistachio and sat on a bench directly under the great Eiffel Tower. We ate our ice cream cones and tried to guess the different languages we were hearing as people passed by.

  Ann had to get up the next morning much earlier than I did. As she was about to enter the taxi I hailed for her, she gave me one of those polite little kisses on each cheek, in the French style, and then started to get into the taxi. I pulled her back, very gently, and gave her a long, tender kiss. She stared at me for several seconds without saying anything, and then gave the driver her address. We had dinner together every night after that for the rest of the week.

  The next night Ann showed me Montmartre, which was packed with tourists. A very colorfully dressed woman was playing romantic French songs on her accordion. Just what I needed.

  An artist made a silhouette of Ann using a small piece of black paper and a scissors. It was a good likeness. An elderly fortune-teller, wearing a beret and tennis shoes, looked at my left palm—for which I paid him one euro—and then said that I was an artist from the tip of my toes to the top of my head and that I would live to be ninety-two. I was very pleased with my fortune, of course, until a few minutes later when we passed the old man again. He was talking to an English teenager, whose parents were standing next to the boy listening to their son’s fortune. All I heard was “live to be ninety-two.”

  The week that Ann and I were together, day and night, was the happiest week of my life. I was falling in love. When it was time for me to leave Ann and France it was difficult to say good-bye. I said I’d call her regularly and promised that we would see each other soon.

  A few weeks after the film was finished, and after getting a recommendation from our director, Ann was offered her first job on a film that was going to be shot in Los Angeles. A low-budget film, but they wanted her. She almost choked with excitement as she told me the details on the telephone. When I met her at the Los Angeles airport, she jumped into my arms and wrapped her legs around my waist.

  We lived together in the small house I had rented near Paramount Pictures. Sweet days and nights followed, without any hidden rancor and no silent chip on her shoulder if I did something small and stupid. She was always cheerful and loving, and I think we laughed every day.

  The next months were almost wonderful, except that word was getting out about how remarkable an editor she was. Ann was becoming known and respected as a chief editor and was in demand.

  When the low-budget film she had been working on in Los Angeles was finished, she asked if I would mind if she took a six-week job on location in Tucson, Arizona, before the filming continued in Los Angeles. The director was supposed to be very talented, but this would be his first film and the studio wanted Ann to work with him while he was on location, to make sure he wouldn’t get into technical difficulties or waste a lot of money.

  “If you say no I won’t go—I’ll just stay with you,” she said with a smile, and I believe she meant it.

  “I’ll miss you to pieces,” I said, “but your work comes first . . . always . . . as long as it’s not more than six weeks. And if I get lonely I’ll cry for only a day or two and then I’ll pay you a surprise visit.” Ann sat on my lap and hugged me.

  We talked to each other on the telephone almost every evening at nine o’clock, except during night shooting. But three weeks after she got on the plane for Tucson with the cast and crew, I discovered that I was angry with her for leaving me alone. It was an ugly realization, and stupid. I yelled at myself in the mirror, calling myself vile names for being such a baby, then picked up the phone and made a reservation to fly to Tucson the next afternoon.

  I landed at Tucson International Airport at five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. It was still hot and humid, but the sun was starting to ease up as it made its way west.

  Ann was staying at the Arizona Inn, which she had told me was a beautiful hotel and resort, with a swimming pool and two clay tennis courts. I walked into the small, quietly elegant lobby and asked the gentleman at the reception desk to please ring Ann’s room.

  “Ms. Goursaud left town yesterday with the movie crew, sir. They’re in Johnsonville. She said she’d be back on Sunday evening or Monday.”

  “Did she leave a message for me? My name is Joey Singer.”

  The receptionist looked in box 207.

  “No, sir, I’m sorry. No message.”

  “But . . . well, is it all right if I stay in her room tonight? I came a long way to see her,” I said with a confident laugh.

  “Did she know you were coming?”

  “No, I was going to surprise her.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but if she didn’t tell any of us about your coming, I’m afraid we can’t do that. Perhaps you’d like another room?”

  “Yes,” I said, somewhat flustered.

  “Single or suite, sir?”

  “I don’t know . . . well, yes, a suite, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to be near the pool? “It doesn’t matter. Wait, all right—near the pool. That’ll be fine.”

  The clerk gave me a key, which was attached to a large wooden knob so that you wouldn’t take it by mistake. When I said that I didn’t need any help carrying my small overnight bag I was given directions to my room.

  I walked along a small stone path to suite 109. I noticed that the path was bordered on each side by impatiens and pansies, which I would have appreciated more if my brain hadn’t been racing a mile a minute. Why didn’t she let me know? Not fair to me. And it’s not like her. Oh, Jesus . . . not a location romance. How many times have I seen it?

  Only every time I’ve been on location, doing rewrites. It’s epidemic with movie crews. With the guys it’s one week away from home and they suddenly get the seven-year itch: “One or two nights with that cute script girl—nothing serious.” With the gals it’s “Maybe one night with that handsome son-uv-a-bitch assistant director who hollers at the crew but keeps flirting with me.” Oh, yes . . . I know all about location romances.

  Suite 109 was very nice, with a king-size bed and small framed watercolors of 1920s ladies and gentlemen playing tennis. The women wore long dresses and hats; the men were in white trousers, wearing long-sleeved rolled-up shirts, which must have been very uncomfortable.

  I decided to take a swim before dinner to try to clear my head of anger and frustration and all my stupid thoughts. I hadn’t brought a swimming suit, but, what the hell, my blue boxer shorts would fool anyone who might still be at the pool. Two bathrobes were hanging on wall knobs in the bathroom and large towels were spread over towel racks.

  The pool was only about thirty yards from my suite. I saw two people there: an elderly gentleman, who was just wiping himself off and getting into his sandals, and a woman who was lying on a lounge chair, reading. She had short, curly blond hair and was wearing those oversized sunglasses and a visor. She was also wearing a very revealing bikini, if that isn’t an oxymoron. I put my towel down on a lounge chair near hers. She looked up and lowered her sunglasses when she saw me.

  “Good book?” I asked.

  “The usual cheap junk,” she answered. “Sex and violence.”

  “Why do you read it?” I asked.

  “I like it. Doesn’t require any brain power.”

  As I took off my robe and got ready to enter the pool, I noticed that she was giving me the once-over. Maybe she perceived that I was wearing thin boxer underwear instead of a bathing suit. Well, at least somebody’s glad I’m here.

  “My name is Estelle,” the almost naked woman said before I got into the water. “Wha
t’s yours?” she asked.

  Careful . . . careful, I told myself. You never know.

  “Jimmy!” I hollered back as I jumped into the pool and swam six laps.

  While I was breast-stroking back and forth across the pool I wondered if the bikini would still be there when I came out. I guessed that she would. When I finished my laps and got out, there she was, standing up and gathering all of her paraphernalia into a colorful bag with leather handles.

  “Are you here alone, Jimmy?”

  “Just for tonight, actually,” I said as I toweled off. “My girlfriend should be here tomorrow.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Uh . . . Ann. She’s working on a film here. Well, near here, I think. But she’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe even tonight, for all I know. They’re on location right now.”

  “They’re in Johnsonville, aren’t they?” Estelle asked with a little smile.

  I was nonplussed. “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “I heard one of the fellows—I think he was the transportation captain—telling his drivers the route they were supposed to take. He said they’d be coming back in three days.”

  Oh, dear, I thought I said to myself, but Estelle heard me say it.

  “That’s terrible for you,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I’m all alone, too, for a little while, anyway. How ’bout dinner right here at the inn . . . an early night. Whaddya say?”

  “Well . . . okay. Sure. That’s very nice of you.”

  Estelle lingered over her packing. She seemed to be looking at my wet undershorts, which I quickly covered with a towel.

  “Is seven thirty all right for you, Jimmy?” she said as she walked away.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “See you in the dining room.”

  “Why don’t you call me Essie?” Estelle asked while we were both eating our shrimp cocktail, with white wine for me and a gin martini for her. “Everyone calls me that.”