I stood staring at this disorder, angry beyond words, but before I could do anything — I was on the point of walking into the bathroom and expressing an opinion of such bad manners — the bedroom door opened and the man came in.
I turned on him. “What’s all this?” I asked, waving my hands at the scattered garments on the floor and the confusion on the bed. “Did you imagine this was a hotel?”
He fingered his tie uneasily. “Now, don’t be sore. We found the place empty and—”
“All right, all right.” I snapped, fighting down my annoyance. It was really no use making a fuss. They happened to be unlucky that I had returned. “You certainly know how to make yourself at home,” I went on. “But never mind. I’m wet and irritable. It’s a hell of a night, isn’t it? Excuse me, I’ll use the spare bathroom.” I pushed past him and walked down the passage to the guest room.
“I’ll fix you a drink,” he called after me.
I liked that too. To have a stranger offer me my own Scotch is something I go for in a big way. I slammed the bedroom door and got out of my wet clothes.
After a hot bath, I felt better. After a shave, I felt sufficiently human to wonder what the woman would be like. But my mind recoiled when I thought of the man. If she were anything like him, I was in for an indescribable evening.
I put on a grey whipcord, fixed my hair and glanced at myself in the mirror. I did not look my forty years. Most people thought I was in my early thirties. All right, I was flattered by this. I’m as human as they come. I looked at my square jaw, my high cheekbones and the cleft in my chin. I was satisfied with what I saw. I was tall, rather on the thin side, but my suit fitted me excellently. I could still qualify as a distinguished playwright and novelist, although that was a tag a newspaper had yet to put on me.
I paused as I reached the sitting room door. The man’s voice came faintly through the panels of the door, but I could not hear what he was saying. Squaring my shoulders and settling the casual, disinterested expression on my face that I reserved for press meetings, I turned the knob and went in.
CHAPTER THREE
I SAW the woman, slight and dark haired, squatting on her heels before the fire. She had on the short-sleeved dressing gown that had been on the chair in my bedroom. Although she must have known that I had entered the room, she did not look round. As she held her hands towards the fire I saw her wedding ring. I also noticed that her shoulders were a shade wider than her hips and that is the way I like a woman to be built.
I did not mind her ignoring my entrance. I did not mind the wedding ring. But I did mind the dressing gown.
No woman looks her best in a dressing gown. Even if she did not know who I was, she might at least have dressed. It did not occur to me that she might not give a damn how she looked. I was judging her by the standards of the other women I knew. They would prefer me to see them naked than in a dressing gown.
With my reputation, looks and money, it was inevitable that women should spoil me. At first I enjoyed their attentions although I knew that the majority of them treated me as they treated any other elgible bachelor in Hollywood. They wanted me for my money, my name, my parties and for everything except myself.
Most women, if they had the right appeal, interested me, Good-looking, well-dressed women were an essential part of my background. They stimulated me, they were my recreation and they bolstered up my ego. I liked to have them around as some people like having good pictures on their walls. But, lately, they bored me. I found that my relations with them had developed into a series of strategical moves, in which both sides were expert, to obtain, on their part, the maximum entertainment, presents and attention, and on my part, a few hours of disillusioned rapture.
Carol was the one exception. We had met in New York when I was waiting for Rain Check to be produced. She was, at that time, Robert Rowan’s personal secretary. She liked me and, oddly enough, I liked her. It was she who had encouraged me to go to Hollywood where she was now working as script writer for International Pictures.
I doubt if I am capable of loving any woman for long. In a way, I suppose, I should be pitied for this, as obviously there must be many advantages in which seems to me to be the stale routine of having one woman at your side for the rest of your days. If there are no advantages, then why do so many people marry? I feel then, that I have been cheated of something because I am not like the ordinary man in the street.
There was a time, before I came to Hollywood, when I did seriously consider marrying Carol. I enjoyed her company and considered her more intelligent than any other woman I knew.
But Carol was busy at the Studios and we seldom met during the day. I had a lot of women on my hands and my time was taken up not only during the day, but most nights as well. Carol kidded me about those women, but she didn’t seem to mind. It was only when I was a little drunk one night and told her that I loved her that she gave herself away. She may have been a little drunk too, but I do not think so. For a couple of weeks, I felt like a heel when I went around with another woman, but after that, I stopped worrying. I supposed I became used to the idea that Carol loved me, in the same way as I became used to most things if they lasted long enough.
While I was looking at the woman, the man, who had been fixing drinks at the sideboard came over and gave me a Scotch and soda. He looked a little drunk and now that we were in a good light, I saw he needed a shave.
“I’m Barrow,” he said, breathing whisky fumes in my face. “Harvey Barrow. I’m certainly embarrassed busting in like this, but there was nothing else I could do.” He stood close to me, his thick set body between me and the woman by the fire.
I was not interested in him. I would not have noticed if he had dropped dead at my feet. I moved a few paces back so I could see the woman. She stayed by the fire as if she did not know I was in the room and oddly enough I found her attitude of deliberate indifference pleasantly exciting.
Barrow tapped my arm. I took my eyes off the woman and concentrated on him. He kept apologizing for breaking into my cabin so I told him curtly that it was all right and that I would have done the same thing myself if I had been in his place. Then casually I introduced myself, keeping my voice low so that the woman should not hear me. If she wanted to make an impression on me I would keep my identity from her to the last moment and then enjoy the look of dismay that would be certain to come when she realized whom she had been ignoring.
I had to repeat my name twice before he got it and, even then, it did not mean anything to him. I actually helped him by adding “the author’, but I could see he had never heard of me. He was the kind of stupid ignoramus who has never heard of anyone. From that moment I was through with him.
“Glad to meet you,” he said solemnly, shaking my hand. “It’s pretty nice of you not to get sore. Some guys would have kicked me out.”
Nothing would have pleased me more, but I said untruthfully. “That’s all right,” and looked past him at the woman. “Tell me, is your wife frigid, a deaf-mute or just coy?”
He followed my glance and his coarse, red face tightened.
“This puts me in a bit of a jam, ol’ boy,” he said, his voice a mumble in my ear. “She ain’t my wife and she’s as mad as hell. She got wet and a dame like her doesn’t like getting wet.”
“I see.” I felt suddenly disgusted. “Well, never mind. I want to meet her,” and I walked over to the fire and stood close to the woman.
She turned her head, looked at my feet and then looked abruptly up at me.