Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life) Page 3

  Jocelyn had protested that she was too old for a nanny, so Megan was hired as a compromise.

  A compromise, Johanna thought dryly, in more ways than one.

  Large brown eyes swept over Johanna’s towel-clad body.

  Comparing us, Megan, dear? Johanna thought. I’m not ready for the glue factory yet, even if I am twelve years older.

  Instinctively, Johanna moved regally into the room. She had learned long ago how to deal with uncomfortable situations and keep the other person from knowing just what she felt.

  “Harry, um, Mr. Whitney’s left for the studio, Mrs. Whitney,” Megan told her, her eyes not meeting Johanna’s.

  “I see.”

  And what would I see if our eyes met, little girl, Johanna thought. Guilt, remorse? Or a smugness? Don’t you think I know?

  The dark-haired, sloe-eyed Megan had been to bed with Harry. Probably more than once. He could still be very, very charming when he wanted to be.

  It seemed, Johanna thought, that Harry was having an affair with everyone these days, everyone but her. Even though she had insisted on coming along with him on this trip to London despite his assertions that he was going to be busy with the film, nothing had changed between them. They were still occupying separate rooms, where once separate beds would have been unthinkable. She laid awake at night, missing him, missing the intimacy that had once been hers alone, feeling sorry for herself, feeling angry with him and cursing the fate that had fulfilled his fantasies beyond his wildest dreams and done this to them.

  “Where’s Jocelyn?” Johanna asked.

  “Right here, Mom.”

  Johanna turned around as the young girl came up behind her. At twelve, she was up to Johanna’s shoulder, her young body strong and hard, just beginning to reach out to the ripening that was to be. She had long, shimmery silver-blond hair just like her mother and looked, just as Johanna did, much taller than she really was. At the moment, her hair was pulled back from her face and neatly arranged in a French twist.

  “How do you like it?” Jocelyn twirled around, hand on hip, showing off her new look.

  Johanna’s mouth hardened as she shot Megan a disapproving glare. Megan raised her chin defiantly, but said nothing.

  “I don’t,” Johanna said.

  Jocelyn was wearing designer clothes meant for someone much older than she. The dress adhered to her young body almost provocatively. Her fresh face was carefully painted with blush and shadow and lipstick, creating an illusion of a child-woman.

  “Take it off.” Johanna’s voice was deadly still. “The dress, the make-up, take it all off.”

  Jocelyn’s wide smile turned into a petulant pout instantly. She took a step closer to the au pair girl. “But Megan said I looked sophisticated.”

  “Twelve-year-olds don’t need to look sophisticated. They need to look clean.”

  Jocelyn dug in. “I’m not a baby any more.”

  To lose her temper would gain her nothing. Johanna smiled, tempering her words. “No, but you’re not a grownup either, my love.” She took her chin in her hand. When Jocelyn attempted to retreat, she tightened her hold, though careful not to hurt her. “I’m afraid you’re in that valley betwixt and between right now. You’ll be old soon enough. Enjoy all this while you can.”

  “You don’t let me enjoy anything!” Jocelyn snapped back, pulling away. She played her ace card triumphantly. “Daddy said he liked it.”

  “Daddy likes strolling hostesses of the evening,” Johanna murmured under her breath, looking pointedly at Megan, “and has very little taste left anymore. There’s the bathroom sink, Jocelyn,” she pointed behind her. “Use it.”

  Jocelyn flounced out of the room and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

  “Mrs. Whitney,” Megan began, folding her hands before her, “I didn’t think—“

  Johanna whirled around. The smile was still on her face, but it had hardened. “No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Johanna said. “Next time, please do. Her name is Jocelyn, not Lolita.”

  Megan stared at her, confused. “What?”

  Johanna waved her hand at the younger woman. “Before your time, I imagine. An old movie. An even older book.”

  She remembered sneaking into the theater her best friend’s father owned to see it. Forbidden fruit at the time. Her mother had had a fit and called to upbraid Mr. Wyatt for his careless lack of supervision. She had been embarrassed for days. “Might seem tame by today’s standards,” she mused. “But it goes without saying that I want Jocelyn to stay twelve until she reaches thirteen.” By which time, you’ll be gone, Johanna promised herself. “And so on. One step at a time, understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Megan’s smile, as well as the polite tone she used, was forced.

  Ma’am. God, that word made her feel old. Old and ugly and unloved. It seemed as if there was very little these days that didn’t.

  Johanna went to her room to get dressed.

  When she emerged again, Jocelyn’s door was still closed. She hesitated before it, debating whether to give the young girl her space or talk to her. No, there was too much space giving and not enough communication these days, Johanna thought. Space was just another term for emptiness. Nothing was solved with emptiness. She tapped on the door lightly.

  “Jocelyn?” There was no answer. She knocked again. “Jocelyn, can I come in?”

  “If I said no would you stay out?” her daughter asked defiantly.

  “Probably not.”

  “Then come in.”

  She opened the door and found her daughter sitting on her bed. Her face was scrubbed, the french twist gone, replaced by loose hair that hung down to her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt that bore the face of Jon Bon Jovi. She was Jocelyn again.

  Johanna glanced over at the heap in the corner. The new dress with its accompanying patterned stockings and high heels were all tangled into a ball and lying on the plush rug like a toy that had garnered disfavor.

  Johanna tested the waters. “Jocelyn, I didn’t mean to sound cruel.” Easily, she sat down on the edge of the bed. She watched Jocelyn pull back a fraction of an inch in an act of defiance.

  “Then why did you?”

  Johanna folded her hands in her lap. She had always been honest with Jocelyn. She cared too much to be anything else. “Because being a parent sometimes means you have to be.”

  Jocelyn sat up, tucking her legs under her. “Daddy never is.”

  “No,” Johanna echoed, “Daddy never is. But Daddy doesn’t always know what’s best for you, honey.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s so busy with other things and he doesn’t want you to be mad at him, so he says yes a lot.”

  Jocelyn tilted her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. “And you want me to be mad at you?”

  “No, baby, I don’t.” Johanna moved to put her arm around Jocelyn. Jocelyn stiffened. The argument wasn’t over yet and Johanna knew that Jocelyn wasn’t through trying to win.

  “Let me hold you, Jocey. I need to hold you.”

  Tentatively, the girl moved forward, wanting the contact as well, even though she feared the battle lost.

  Johanna laid her cheek against the top of her daughter’s head as she put her arm around her.

  “Sometimes, you’ve got to accept ‘no,’ got to accept waiting for things. If you have everything right away, then there’s nothing to reach out for, nothing to look forward to.” She stroked her daughter’s head. “It’ll all happen for you someday, Jocelyn, I promise. But don’t rush it. Make memories, honey, make lots and lots of memories at each stage of your life.” She raised her head and looked into the eyes that mirrored Harry’s so well. “It helps during the bad times.”

  “Well, okay.” Jocelyn’s voice was low and grudging, but the stiffness in her young body had disappeared as she leaned into her mother.

  “And you can keep the dress.”

  Jocelyn sat up. “I can?” The eyes grew bright again.

&n
bsp; “You can.” Johanna grinned. “You’ll grow into it.”

  “But it fits me now.”

  Johanna laughed fondly and ran her hand along Jocelyn’s cheek. “You’ll grow into it, trust me.” She rose and crossed to the window. Far below, people were milling about, living lives, being happy. She envied them. Turning, she leaned her hands behind her on the window sill. “I feel like an ice cream soda.”

  “Strawberry?” Jocelyn asked hopefully.

  It was their favorite. “What else is there?”

  Johanna put out her hand to her daughter. Jocelyn bounced off the bed, the argument and the dress temporarily forgotten. For the moment she was twelve once more, and the lines of communication had opened. Johanna knew they would shut down again, and again, but as long as there was a wedge, she’d make use of it.

  For now, she would enjoy the afternoon and several hundred forbidden calories with the only person who meant anything to her.

  Chapter Four

  Harry didn’t come back to the hotel that evening.

  Johanna waited up for him until past midnight, wanting to talk, wanting to bridge the widening chasm that was separating them, making them strangers. She was more than eager to do whatever it took to get them back together. Fair means or foul, she didn’t care. She was determined to use anything at her disposal. All she cared about was that they become a family again. She was willing to overlook how badly he had treated her, how awful he had made her life, if only he’d make an effort to gain some self-control, to become the man he once was.

  She wanted the pain that haunted her to be a thing of the past.

  As the minutes slipped into hours, Johanna began to pace restlessly about the suite. She hated waiting. She had rehearsed what she was going to say to Harry over and over again. But now, her initial confidence was fading with the passing time. She’d tried to discuss their problems with him before and had gotten nowhere. What made her think she’d succeed this time?

  It was late and she had given up hope. Jocelyn had fallen asleep on the couch and had to be roused in order to be put to bed. Megan retired shortly after that, at eleven. The young woman hadn’t bothered trying to hide her hurt over Harry’s absence.

  Poor little fool, she probably thinks Harry’s world rises and sets around her, Johanna thought. Harry would have told her that, told her endless lies that she would cling to. Johanna felt oddly sympathetic for the woman who had betrayed her trust. She was young and naive and not the first who had gotten herself entangled, however briefly, with the larger than life Harold T. Whitney. And not the last, Johanna thought ruefully.

  Yet she could forgive him that, forgive him a great deal more if only he would make amends, come back, just be the Harry she knew and loved.

  Moving slowly, she crossed to the window and drew the drapes, shutting out the dark night with its oppressive shadows. But Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with the way he was, Johanna thought sadly. It was everyone else who was changing, who was different.

  How in God’s name did she begin to untangle that and make it right?

  The colorful silk kimono opened and closed about her long, slender legs as she roamed the suite, unable to find a place for herself. Harold had rented half the floor when he and his entourage descended upon London and on the famed suburban Pinewood Studios where he would direct his newest movie. Somehow it seemed appropriately titled New Faces, Old Lies. That was the story of their lives lately. It was hard to keep track of the truth these days.

  When she had stood packing in her blue and gray bedroom in Beverly Hills, she’d told herself this trip was going to be different. She was getting good at lying to herself, she thought sadly. Pinewood was best known for its James Bond pictures; and Harold, what was he best known for these days? His debauchery? His penchant for blaming others? His past history of blockbuster movies that refused to repeat itself?

  “Stop it.”

  Johanna massaged her temples. She had another headache. She was driving herself crazy analyzing and reanalyzing her situation. There was nothing to go over. It was all very simple, she told herself. She wanted to talk to Harry, to offer a truce, to do whatever needed doing to hold the family together and make it work again. That was why she had trailed along to London when she would have been happier staying in the States. Foolishly, she had hoped, prayed that something akin to an epiphany would happen to Harold. Something that would bring him back to his senses, make him see that he was destroying the best part of his life. Not his film career but his wife and his daughter. Lives were so much more precious than things, than careers. She wished he could understand that. She’d leave the mansions, the jewels and the furs without so much as a backward glance. At one time she had reveled in them, but then they became a symbol of how far she had come-how far away from Harry she was.

  Harry was now notorious for his womanizing. Some of them lasted longer than others, but most of the women were just bodies to be sought in the night. His mistress more than any other was Success and the whimsical muse had turned her back on Harry, hurling him into the black depths of despair and wedding him to drugs in his search for a catalyst to bring back the glory of his past.

  But she still loved him, or the Harry she felt existed trapped beneath the stranger he had become.

  Where was he?

  She bit her lip as she looked at the clock. It was past one. Her hand hovered over the phone before she made up her mind. Finally, in frustration, she called Paul. Her guilt at waking him didn’t wipe out her need to know where Harry was this time.

  You’re becoming a masochist.

  She heard the phone being scraped off the receiver on the other end and dropped before she heard a groggy voice mumble, “Hello?”

  “Paul, it’s Johanna.” She swallowed. This was humiliating, even with a friend as good as Paul. “Do you know where Harry is?”

  Paul picked up the clock on his night stand and struggled to focus in on the dark red numbers. He had dropped into bed an hour ago, exhausted. Sleep had taken hold of him in a vise-like grip immediately and had blotted out everything else. It took a minute to pull himself into the present.

  “He was at the studio when I left.”

  “Working?”

  There was a pause. “Yeah.”

  Even though she expected it, her heart sank anyway. “Paul, you never could lie well.”

  He laughed awkwardly as he cursed Harold silently. If he had married Johanna first, life would have been a great deal different for her. “You’d think I’d have learned after all these years.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Paul sat up in bed, awake now. He ran a hand over his disheveled hair. “I honestly don’t know.”

  She sat down on the sofa, feeling oddly numb.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you.” Her voice trailed off.

  He heard the pain in her voice and fervently wished there was something he could do. “Johanna, why do you stay?”

  She shrugged helplessly, even though he wasn’t there to see. “Because I love him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He couldn’t understand. Harry treated her abominably. He would have left a long time ago if he had been in her place. “Why?”

  “Why’s the sky blue?”

  “This isn’t philosophy, Johanna. This is your life.” He shifted, pulling the sheet around his waist. “You deserve better.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “I do. And he used to be better. A lot better.”

  “I remember.”

  “Maybe what I’m waiting for, staying for, is because,” her voice became thick as she fought back tears, “I keep hoping he’ll be like that again. That this is just some sort of madness he’s going through. It’s as if he had a personality transplant.”

  “Cocaine does that to you.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Paul. I know drugs do that, but he doesn’t have to do drugs.” She ran a hand over her mouth and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “S
orry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m not myself lately.”

  “You have cause.”

  She smiled. Good old Paul, always in her corner. “Maybe when this picture is over—“

  He couldn’t let her nurture an illusion. It was best if she just faced the truth. “It’s not going to be over.”

  “What?”

  “Johanna, the movie’s a mess. He can’t seem to get it together anymore.”

  “Then help him,” she begged. “You’ve always managed to help him before.”

  It was too late for that. “I can’t play Svengali to his Trilby any longer, Johanna. I’m worn out. Burnt out. He fired me today.”

  “He’s always firing you, Paul. It doesn’t mean anything, you know that.”

  “Maybe.” He paused, wondering how he could phrase this. Now that he had done it, he was free. But letting Johanna know was the hardest part. He knew it would be. Paul had planned to stop by her suite in the morning to tell her. Now that she had called, there was no putting it off. “Johanna, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “What?” Her hand tightened on the phone. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving for the U.S. For my own sanity. It’s all settled. I’m booked on flight number 59. Come with me,” he coaxed suddenly, seriously.

  “Why Paul,” amusement came from somewhere, but she had no idea where, “is this an indecent proposal?”

  “I only wish.” He laughed as he reached for the pack of cigarettes by his bed. “But I’m a monogamous kind of guy.” He shook out a cigarette. It fell on his bedspread as he leaned over for a match. He lit it and inhaled deeply. The smoke felt hot going into his lungs. It didn’t help.

  “And kind.”

  “That too, on occasion.”

  “On every occasion with me. I’ll miss you.” Without Paul, there was no one to turn to, besides Arlene and Arlene was little more than an acquaintance. Suddenly, the room felt colder, lonelier than it had a moment before. Johanna felt like the last person left alive on a raft adrift in the ocean.