“No,” she said quickly. “It’s nice of you, but—”
“Hold on. I haven’t told you where we’re going. You ever been to Legs, the disco near Broadway? It’s the one place in Manhattan where you should be tonight. Wait till you see the décor.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s cobwebs, Sarah. The whole place is festooned with them. The legs are spiders’ legs. How about that?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.” As she said it, she thought of her April May outfit.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t insult me with that old line. Sarah, if you have a date already, just say so.”
Before slamming down the phone she spat out four words: “Be here by midnight.”
She had let herself be goaded into going, but he was right: sleep was out of the question for hours and hours. This ought to take her mind off Ed. She took a quick shower and put on the new outfit. It looked stunning. Perfect for the disco. She was risking getting it mussed before her TV appearance, but hell, clothes looked better for being worn a couple of times. She picked a perfume that was almost pure musk and used it liberally. Don was in for a jolt.
He buzzed at eleven-fifty and she came out to him, closing the door behind her.
He said, “Jesus!”
She walked past him and out to the cab without a word.
There was a notice outside Legs saying they were full, and it was reinforced by two uniformed security men.
“You wanna try someplace else?” asked the cab driver.
“No. This’ll do.” Don paid the fare and led Sarah up the steps. As one of the guards raised a hand, he said, “You know who this is? Miss Sarah Jordan, who was on TV tonight. The spider program. If there’s a problem...”
There was no problem. The door was opened for them.
The heat and the heavy beat of the music hit them. It was big inside, but very crowded, and dark, except for strobe lights on the small dance area. He was right: it really was draped with huge webs and leggy spiders. They found two seats in a corner other people had overlooked or avoided under a furry eight-legged thing on a single line that stirred gently with the movement of dancers.
“What will you drink?”
“Champagne.” She couldn’t see his face too well, which was a pity. “Don’t let them unload one of those ‘sparkling wines’ on you.”
He went to order it and she watched the dancing. People were looking at her; the black sequins were flashing as the lights moved over her. Someone in a tuxedo and ruffled shirt approached. “It is Ms. Sarah Jordan? So nice to see you here. I’m Gil Borelli, the proprietor. You’ll allow me to order you a drink, compliments of the management?”
“Thanks, but I have one coming.”
“What was it? I’ll have another brought over. Ms. Jordan, may I say what a sensational outfit you have on. You don’t mind if our photographer gets a couple of pix?”
“That’s okay.”
“Marvelous. And the drink?”
“That was champagne.”
A bottle of Dom Perignon arrived on a tray before Don returned, and the waiter poured her a glass. They took some pictures and then Don appeared. He stood back until she told him to come and be photographed. When the pictures were taken, they had a glass of the domestic champagne Don had bought, and then Sarah got up to dance. Don followed.
He was in a pale-gray lightweight suit and a dark-blue shirt with a white tie. He looked good and moved with the ease of a trained dancer. Sarah’s dancing was restrained. She stayed in the same place, moving just enough to show that she was wearing nothing under the silk. It was pleasantly sensuous, reminding her of the courtship ritual of hunting spiders, the lycosid female, practically still, with the elegant male circling her, advancing and retreating, patiently parading. She was glad she had come.
They danced until nearly three A M. and exchanged no more than a few short sentences, partly because the volume was so high, partly from a kind of understanding that the eloquence was all in the dancing — his, confident and expressive; hers, no less confident but reserved.
When they left, the proprietor thanked them for coming and got one of his staff to hail a cab.
As they drove through Central Park, Don rested his hand on Sarah’s. She didn’t move hers.
Outside her apartment building she said, “Coffee?” and he nodded and smiled. She led the way upstairs and unlocked the door. She said, “It’s instant, I’m afraid. I don’t have the real thing.”
“That’s okay by me.”
“Kettle’s through there Would you mind? I should get out of this. It’s my Today show ensemble.”
She waited for him to go through the door of the kitchenette, then quickly took off the suit and got into a white bathrobe. On rapid inspection, there were no spots on the silk to bother about. She hung the suit in her closet. She slipped off her bikini pants and threw them in a drawer. Then she dabbed more perfume on her body.
She faced the prospect of sex coolly. She was not totally indifferent, as she had been with other men, but neither was she dizzy with desire. Any stirrings she felt were not especially for Don’s body. They were inwardly derived, fueled by gorgeous clothes, dancing, and pampering. It amounted to a heightened sense of self. She was going to take him, just like the champagne, because it was gratification.
She called his name.
“Won’t be a minute,” he called back. “Kettle hasn’t boiled.”
“Switch it off and come here.”
He was frowning slightly as he appeared in the doorway, but he said nothing.
“To me,” said Sarah matter-of-factly.
He stopped a yard from her. “Yes?”
“I figure the coffee can wait, don’t you?” She loosened the bathrobe and let it fall to the floor.
His eyes widened and dipped a fraction, but he made no move.
She took a half step forward. “I refuse to believe that Don Rigden is shy.”
“You’re extremely beautiful. Just looking at you...” He paused.
She raised her face to be kissed and their lips met, but he kept his hands off her body. It was a firm kiss, but it was saying something she refused to listen to. She turned from him and crossed the room. She threw the comforter on the floor and got on the bed. She cupped her left breast and looked at it. The sequins had left a faint mark on the skin. “I don’t go in for the slow buildup. Just take off your things and give me what you came for.”
“Like the coffee.” He bent and picked the bathrobe off the floor.
“What does that mean?”
“Instant.”
“Oh.” She laughed to show that she took it as a joke. “That’s the way I like it.”
“I don’t buy that.” He approached the bed and dropped the robe beside her. “Put it back on, please.”
She didn’t move a muscle.
“Leave it, then.” He shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed.
The humiliation erupted. “So now we know! The passionate Don Rigden has a problem. He can’t get it up! Christ, wait till I tell all those sex-starved coeds hoping for a screw. Hey, it’s the con of the century: half a university with hot pants over a guy with a limp cock if he has one at all! What a gas!” She grabbed the robe and covered her legs. “Why the hell did you come up here if you can’t fuck?”
His eyes blazed. He grasped her right hand and pressed it over his crotch. “Just so you know...” He got up from the bed. “Now, shut up and listen. I’m not willing to treat you as an easy lay. When you and I go to bed, I want us to make love, not screw. I want you, Sarah, more than you know. I want you forever, not one night when you’re hyped up on success and champagne.” He moved to the door. “You asked why I came up. It was to tell you what I just did — only I didn’t figure it would be like this.”
She looked straight ahead. “Yes, I can think of better scenarios.”