Carla, page 13
“Danny,” she said thinly, “sit down. These’s something I have to tell you.”
He started to protest, then shrugged and sat down on the edge of the cot. Carla remained standing. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it herself, extinguishing the match with a nervous flick of her wrist and letting it fall to the floor. Then she walked back and forth in the little room while he waited patiently. Finally she couldn’t prolong the moment any further. She turned to him, trying to avoid his eyes, and spoke softly and quickly.
“Danny,” she said, “I am not going to marry you.”
She darted a glance at his face and then looked away, unable to gaze at the expression she saw there. It was composed of equal parts of disbelief and horror.
“If … if this is your idea of a joke—”
“It’s not a joke.”
He stood up and took a hesitant step in her direction. “I think you’d better explain,” he said. “I think you better let me know just what in hell you’re trying to pull.”
“Then sit down.”
“The hell I’ll sit down!”
“Well, I can’t talk with you breathing in my face, damn it.” He sat down, and she closed her eyes for a long moment. She wished that she could die, that she could just keep her eyes shut tight and quietly cease to exist.
She opened her eyes.
He was still sitting on the bed, waiting for her to speak. The vein in his left temple stood out in bold relief. His breath came very slowly.
For a second she wished that she hated him. If he were someone she hated, it would be pleasant to torture him, pleasant to twist the knife in between his ribs and watch him writhe in agony. But he was a man she loved, the man she loved, and she shared his agony.
Then, slowly and laboriously, she told him. She let him have both barrels from beginning to end and he heard her without interruption. She told him that that the expensive house did matter and the MG mattered and the clothes in her closet mattered. She told him that everything was fine as it was, that Ronald was agreeable and nobody would ever bother them, that she loved him but couldn’t he see that marriage didn’t make any sense?
She told him everything, but as she spoke she heard her words from his point of view and realized how hollow and ugly they must have been sounding to him. After she finished neither of them said a word for several minutes and the silence of the room was unbearable. At last he raised his eyes to hers and she saw that they were dead and dull, empty and vacuous.
“Get out,” he said.
“Danny—”
“Get out.”
Her temper flared. “Damn you, can’t you understand anything? Do you think I want a passel of brats in my hair all day long? Do you think all I want to do is switch one filthy slum for another?”
“Get out,’ he said when she had finished. “I made a big mistake, Carla. I fell in love with the most complete bitch that ever walked the earth.
“Get out before I throw you out.”
Chapter Sixteen
IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK and the night was black as ink. Neither moon nor stars shone in the sky. A taxi-cab hurried along a quiet street, and the only sounds were the gentle rattling of the cab and the insistent tick of the meter as the miles rolled by.
The woman in the back seat of the taxi was huddled against the door as if she feared someone would strike her. Her brow was feverish and her hands were shaking. Her stomach felt ready to turn over any minute.
“Lady, you said I should take you to the Tiffany?”
“Yes,” the woman said. The cabby nodded shortly and revoted his attention to his driving.
The woman was Carla Macon. She was all tied up in knots—wanting to talk but having no one to talk with, wanting to cry but unable to do even that, wanting to have her cake and eat it too and discovering that such a course of action was utterly impossible.
After she had staggered blindly out of Danny’s room and down the staircase and onto the street, she walked around for several minutes looking for her car. It took her a while to remember that her MG was back on Nottingham. Then a cruising cab passed, timing its entrance perfectly, and she hailed the cab and huddled into the back seat.
For a moment she hadn’t known what address to give the driver. The thought of returning home didn’t appeal in the least. She needed someone to talk to, and no matter how understanding Ronald was this was nothing to discuss with him. And then she thought of Charles, and realized that he was the only one she could turn to.
Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. The thought of giving up Danny forever was almost more than she could bear. She couldn’t erase the memory of his tone when he told her never to come back again. Well, she had deserved it. She deserved everything he said to her. She should have told him before instead of waiting so long. Then maybe there would have been a chance; maybe she could have convinced him that marriage was senseless and unnecessary and that their relationship could continue indefinitely.
But now she had lost him. He wouldn’t take her now, not after the scene in his room. Not in a million years. She felt that she had lost something very precious, possibly the most precious thing she had ever possessed.
Would it have been worth it to marry him? She told herself no automatically, but doubts began to nag and gnaw at her mind. Could love substitute complete for money? Could she get used to living again without a full closet and a maid to clean the house?
Well, there was no sense worrying about that now. Not now, not after tonight. It would be something to think about when there was nothing else to do, but that was the only value the question would ever hold.
The cab sped on into the night. She went over the same questions and supplied the same answers, answers that left her as confused as the questions did. She was so deeply immersed in her questions and answers that the cabby had to tell her twice that she had reached the Tiffany. She got out of the cab and paid him, walking past the same impenetrable doorman and into the hotel.
Moments later she stood outside of Charles Butler’s room, hesitating before knocking. Would he be home? More important, would he have a girl with him? Knowing Charles, it was more than possible. He was the complete libertine, but at the same time he was a good and thoughtful man.
But if he had a girl in there, she would be about as welcome as a case of bubonic plague.
She gathered up her courage and knocked softly. A second later the door opened and Charles stood before her. He wore the same dressing-gown she had seen so often in the past, and he was visibly surprised to see her. Then he recovered and led her inside.
When she was seated across from Charles the words wouldn’t come. Charles seemed to sense her mood and waited silently for her to speak. Then, when she could talk at last, the words poured from her lips like water through a broken dike. She told him everything from the beginning to the end, told it in a frenzied rush with repetitions and stammering, told every bit of it until the whole bitter thing was said.
Then they were both silent once again.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Rotten.”
He nodded. “What are you going to do now?”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s nothing to do,” she said dully. “Can’t you see that? I’ve lost him and that’s all there is to it. I can’t get him back. I’m stuck. I’m up the creek in a lead canoe without a paddle.”
He smiled gently. “Can you swim?”
“No,” she said. “Not even that.”
He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and passed one to her. She accepted it gratefully and drew smoke into her lungs.
“Look,” he said, “what precisely do you want? That’s the first thing you have to decide.”
“I want him.”
“On what terms?”
“On the same terms we had. It was good, Charles. It was wonderful, honestly it was. We were as good as married without any strings and without financial problems. It was the perfect arrangement.”
“Can you get him to return to that sort of arrangement?”
“Never.”
“Can’t talk him into it?”
She shook her head. “He’s stubborn, Charles. He’s strong and stubborn and proud. There’s not a chance in the world that he’d take me back the same way.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Then that’s out. What’s your second choice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your second choice,” he repeated. “You can’t get him back on those terms, so you have to decide on some other solution.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you, Carla. You have to figure it out for yourself. Do you want him enough to marry him?”
No, she started to say, but she stopped before saying it. Instead she said, “I’m not sure.”
“Do you know what it would mean to marry him?”
“It would mean I’d be poor again.”
“It would mean other things, too. It would mean you’d be Carla Rand instead of Carla Macon. It would mean no more life of leisure. It would mean a good many things you wouldn’t like at all.”
“I know that,” she said. “Don’t you think I’ve figured it out a few hundred times?”
“I’m sure you have. And do you know what it would mean to lose him?”
“I—”
“It would mean hating yourself, Carla. It would mean wondering what might have been if you had married him, and that kind of wondering can go on forever.”
After a moment, she asked, “Then what should I do? I lose either way.”
He smiled sadly. “You have to make a choice, and you’re taking a fall either way, as you say. But it’s a choice that has to be made. I can’t tell you what to do.”
“Which do you think is better for me, Charles?”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters. You know me very well, and you have a pretty deep understanding of people. I think you might be able to straighten me out.”
He shook his head. “Not me, Carla. I don’t know just how deep my understanding of people may be, but you seem to give it more credit than I do. I probably appear to be a good deal deeper than I am. However, that’s neither here not there. Perhaps some people like to play God; I’m not one of them. You’ll have to straighten yourself out.
“Look at the thing this way: whichever course of action I might advise you to take would be the wrong one—simply by virtue of my advising it. The best advice is to take none. Do you see what I mean?”
“Of course. I guess I was looking for an easy way out.”
He smiled again and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He didn’t reply, and she was left alone with her own thoughts. Talking had helped, and talking with Charles had been particularly helpful. The few words he said managed to clear up a lot of things. She was still torn by conflicting desires, but now she recognized those desires and saw what two courses lay open to her. The choice was hers and had to be hers, but now she would be able to think clearly enough to make a choice.
“Charles,” she said suddenly, “didn’t you tell me how foolish marriage was? Doesn’t that show which choice you think I should make?”
“No,” he said, “not at all. I told you what marriage would be for me, not for you. The fact that you’ve already chosen Danny forever, that you want a permanent alliance in one form or another; tends to negate that way of thinking for you. The choice is completely open for you, Carla.”
They fell silent once again. Yes, she decided, he was right. She was the type of woman to be married, but at the same time she was the type of woman to be supported by a rich man. Those were the two points of conflicts, and anything else would only obscure the real issue.
“I have to stay here tonight,” she said after a few more minutes.
“Why?”
“I can’t go home. Oh, I suppose I could, but I don’t want to. Ronald’s a good man. You know what he’s like. But I just couldn’t see him tonight. I don’t think I could take it.”
“Would you like to take a hotel room? If you’re short I can float you a loan.”
“I have money,” she answered quickly. “But I don’t want that if I can help it. I couldn’t take being alone tonight, not after all this. Unless you’re expecting company or—”
“Nothing like that. I just thought you might prefer privacy.” He stood up. “You know you’re always welcome here.”
She stood up too and looked long and hard into his eyes. She realized all at once how strong he was—not strong with the rugged virile strength that Danny possessed, but strong in a different sort of a way entirely. He was a man she could always depend on, a man who would always be there when she needed him. He was a man who had complete possession of himself.
And he was a good man.
“Charles?”
“What is it, dear?”
“I was wondering. Would it bother you if I slept here?”
“Of course not.”
“I mean—Would it make you … nervous?”
His brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
“Don’t you know.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see. No, I’ll be all right, Carla.”
She took a step toward him and her breasts were just inches from his chest. “If you want,” she said, “I’ll sleep with you. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He sighed and took her in his arms, holding her firmly to him and breathing very slowly. Then, suddenly, he pushed her away.
“Not like this,” he said. “Not when you don’t want to, Carla. Perhaps there will be a time for us, a time for the two of us to be together, but now isn’t the time.
“I wouldn’t want to wake up and hear you whispering another man’s name into the pillow.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“You might,” he cut in. “It’s happened before. But the important thing is that this is not what you want, Carla. Is it?”
“No,” she said softly. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“Definitely not. And I’m not quite rotten enough to make a girl give herself to me in exchange for room and board. You take the bedroom, dear, and I’ll make do on the couch.”
“Don’t be silly,” she protested. “I can take the couch.”
He chuckled. “You wouldn’t say that if you ever slept on the couch. Go on—go to bed.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the bedroom and she went in, closing the door after her.
The bed felt good—soft and warm. She didn’t think sleep would be possible for her but found to her surprise that she was almost wholly exhausted. The emotional upheaval followed by the therapeutic conversation with Charles had drawn all the tension out of her and left her as limp as a dishrag. Her head sank into the pillow and her brain whirled around in little circles.
Decisions, decisions, decisions. She couldn’t think now, not with the bed so soft and her head so light and fuzzy inside. Tomorrow there would be time, time to spare. Tomorrow there would be time for whatever thinking had to be done.
But the bed was so comfortable, so deliciously comfortable. She had been in this bed before but now it was different. Now all she wanted to do was to go to sleep for a long, long time.
Her eyes closed and stayed shut. Her mind swam.
And she slept.
Chapter Seventeen
WHEN CARLA STOOD AT the curb in front of the Hotel Tiffany waiting for the doorman to hail her a taxi, the sun was shining down and the air was warm. The weather suited her mood. She felt good and glad to be alive. Her mind was made up, her body rested from a good sound sleep, her skin clean and fresh from the shower.
A taxi pulled up to the curb and Carla slipped a coin into the waiting palm of the doorman. Then she hopped into the cab and gave the driver her address. She rolled down the window and let the wind toss her hair a little. It felt good.
Decisions were a nuisance. She never liked them and supposed she never would. Although she appeared on the outside to be a strong woman, she knew that this was not really the case. A strong woman wouldn’t have the problems she had, and if she did she would manage to solve them quickly and expediently.
She took a deep breath of the fresh air and held it in her lungs. Decisions, decisions, decisions. They were so damned hard to make, and she went to sleep the night before with no notion in her head as to what course of action was best for her.
But when she awakened there was no decision to be made. She knew instantly what she would do.
When she told Charles he hadn’t said anything. He kept his face impassive and simply showed her to the door. But she sensed that he agreed that her choice was the wise one, the only one that would permit her to be happy.
For a second her mind clouded over with doubt. Was it definitely the proper choice? It had to be, she told herself. It simply had to be.
She leaned back, relaxed and lit a cigarette. By the time the cigarette was a stub to be thrown out the window, the cab had reached its destination. She alighted from it, paid and tipped the driver, and walked slowly to the front door of her home.
Her hand reached instinctively for the doorbell. No, she decided, leaving the bell unrung. No, she didn’t need to disturb Lizzie. She fumbled in her purse for her key and fitted it in the lock. The key turned and the door opened and she stepped inside.
It was good to be home. She opened her mouth to call Lizzie but again decided to leave the girl to her work. She hesitated in the vestibule, undecided as to what to do first. There seemed to be a million things to do and she didn’t know where to start.
Slowly she walked from the vestibule to the living-room. Her purse hung loosely at her side. She entered the living-room and started across it when her eyes suddenly darted to the large arm-chair.
Danny Rand was seated there, his eyes burning angrily into hers.
Carla opened her mouth but no words came out. She was totally stunned. What was Danny doing here? His presence in itself was alarming, and the look of hate in his eyes was overpowering.
