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Fred smiled worriedly. He had expected this question, but still hadn’t settled on a satisfactory answer.

Paula smiled back. “Terrible question. I hate it when I’m asked. I know that all characters, in a way, are autobiographical, but some are more than others, if you know what I mean. I feel a lot of you in this book. It’s very honest. I really admire that kind of courage.”

“Thank you. You gotta put a lot of yourself into something to make it real and meaningful, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She nodded. “How does your wife feel about it?” she said in a mild wondering tone.

“She loves the book.” Fred answered, telling the truth insofar as he knew it. He suspected Marion thought it was too sensational, but she had made no criticisms.

“I’m sure. It’s wonderful. But … I know that Brian sometimes is sensitive about my work. Does she feel at all exposed — the affairs the character has and so on.”

“Oh, none of that’s true!” Fred said quickly, horrified. “I didn’t mean it was autobiographical that way. I’ve never had any affairs.”

“Your fans will be so disappointed,” Paula answered, smiling. “Sure you’re not being modest?”

“No, no. Honest.”

“So how is it autobiographical? The affairs are a substantial portion of the narrative.”

“The feelings. You know, I … uh … uh …”

“Extrapolated?”

“Yeah, I extrapolated fantasies into reality.”

“Hmmmm.” She looked let-down. Almost cool to him now. Maybe she had been hot for him, he suddenly thought. The sex scenes were pretty steamy. Maybe she figured he was a good lay and this was all a prelude to … No, impossible. She looked up at him quickly, as though she had made a decision, and turned off the tape recorder. My God, she’s gonna end the interview, throw me out, Fred thought. “Off the record, Fred — I don’t want to screw up your marriage. But just for my own curiosity — it’s not all fantasies, is it? The whole book is about faithfulness, how difficult it is for a man to sustain. Why would somebody who’s managed to do it write about its being impossible? If it’s possible for you, doesn’t that make nonsense of the whole book?”

Fred felt caught. Obviously she had believed, from reading his book, that he was a serious and talented man. Such a reaction was so unexpected that he hadn’t considered that the effect of meeting him might be a letdown. Of course he couldn’t tell her that Holder’s infidelities had driven the narrative. It was Bob who insisted on the restless sexuality of the hero. Fred’s original intention had been to have only one instance of adultery; he hadn’t considered—

“I don’t want to put you in a funny position,” she went on. “I understand about privacy—”

“I’ll explain, I’ll explain. You see, writing the book made me very aware of this … uh … problem. And Marion and I split up for a while — separated for six months.”

Paula looked relieved. “I see. Over this point?”

“Yes,” Fred answered, knowing it was a complete lie, but gambling that Marion, if it ever got out, wouldn’t bother to contradict him. Anyway, Paula had turned the tape off.

“And you worked it out openly?” Paula prompted, now energetic again.

“Yeah, uh-huh. See, I don’t consider that being unfaithful.”

“Of course not.” She nodded admiringly at him. “You know, Fred, I’ll be sensitive about it, but I can’t keep that out of the interview without its being pretty bland.”

“What part of it?” he asked nervously.

“Just the fact of the separation. Not the fact that you saw other people then. But this open way of handling the monogamy crisis you went through — without it, I don’t have a piece the Times would run.”

There was now in the room a heavy, heavy silence. Paula looked at him gently, considerately. He couldn’t blame her. She was right. He thought of Holder, bouncing up and down the halls of Garlands, lobbying for more ads and bigger print runs.

“Okay,” Fred said. “Carefully, though.”

She turned on the recorder. “Don’t worry. Trust me— women will love you for your honesty.”

A little thrill went through him at that. He began to talk. …

Tony Winters, his black hair shining, his face pink from the air, emerged from the swivel doors into the warm and smoky gold-and-red Russian Tea Room, unbuttoning his camel’s-hair greatcoat and meeting the apparently casual but supervisory glances of the famous, near-famous, and companions of the famous seated at the semicircle booths opposite and beside the bar. He handed his coat through the cloakroom’s half-door to the woman. She handed him a plastic check. “Hi,” he said to the wave of Donald Binns, the now ancient and quite mad Broadway producer seated with his chorus-girl wife and faggy assistant.

“How’s your mother?” Binns croaked out.

The glances returned, this time as puzzling stares. “Rich and famous in Hollywood,” Tony answered.

“That’s good.” Binns groaned when he spoke, as though the flattering lies and blustering rages of a half-century had corroded his vocal cords. “You still writing?”

Tony nodded with an indulgent smile, giving the impression that he was humoring a senile uncle. In a way, he was.

“Send me something!” Binns almost shouted. The stares were now mixed with speculative whispers. “What’s the matter? Broadway’s not good enough for you?”

“I will,” Tony answered, and moved on. “Good to see you,” he said. The heads returned to their companions as he passed. He saw himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He looked great. Life is a performance, assholes, he thought to himself. No one knew Binns had rejected all three of Tony’s plays — probably even Binns himself had forgotten. All that mattered was Tony’s crisp walk, his clear bold eyes, the slight witty smile wavering on his lips. “I’m meeting Gloria Fowler for lunch,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Winters. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tony said, acknowledging the hostess, now that he had been recognized.

Gloria rated a booth on the left (number seven, Tony guessed, remembering from his childhood the station numbers; explained to him by the waiters with whom he would play while his mother got progressively drunker), and she was already there — her expensive haircut, her creamy silk blouse, and her simple (but unbelievably costly) rope of pearls leavened by the modest pair of blue jeans hidden beneath the pink tablecloth.

“You look lovely,” Tony said, kissing her on the cheek and then sliding in.

“Deal’s made,” she said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, when Garth wants somebody, it’s done. Want something to drink?” He ordered and then she went on, “He wants you to call him tonight — the afternoon out there — at his home. I’ll give you the number. He’s very hot about you staying with him in Malibu to do the rewrites.”

“Really?” Tony looked around the room with mastery, owning it. Mom must have felt like this when a hit was running, he thought to himself. “Well, I guess if I do it, the movie’ll get made.”

“It’ll keep his attention and make him feel he’s part of the writing of the script. Would Betty be a problem? Can she get time off?”

“She can’t leave now — or rather, she doesn’t want to. She’s got a …” It sounded so trivial and small-time, Tony hesitated. “She’s got a book coming out—”

“She’s written a book?”

“No, no. I mean a novel she’s edited. But she wouldn’t make a fuss about my going. I’ve been so moody, she’d probably feel relieved.”

“I’m sure she’d miss you terribly. Garth says it’ll only take a few weeks—”