An American Love Story Read Online Free PDF

minuscule front porch, a living room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom and bath. Scripts, books, magazines, and newspapers were piled up everywhere. He had installed his own private phone, with push buttons. The door to the room next door had been opened and a crib had been set up in there, next to the bed.
    “Do you think this will be all right?” Clay asked. “Is it too crowded for you?”
    “Not unless we entertain …”
    He laughed. “When do we ever entertain?” She realized that so far they never had. “The bar is one inch away,” he said. “I have cocktail meetings in the Polo Lounge, or in restaurants in town.”
    “Then it’s fine.” For now, she thought, but didn’t say it.
    “Why don’t you unpack and rest? I have to go back to the office, and tonight I made a dinner date for us with Henri Goujon—he’s an independent producer who wants to make a deal with me. I’ll be back about five to shower and change and then I have a drink with someone and I’ll pick you up at seven-fifteen. Dress medium.”
    She never did get to rest, but she was too excited anyway. There was scarcely any place for her to put her clothes. Clay’s closets contained a great many new suits, all lightweight, even the winter ones; dozens of ties she had never seen; and lots of pairs of shiny new loafers. He didn’t seem like someone who thought he would be fired in six months, or ever.
    He seemed so settled in, and yet, with all the clutter, so temporary. It was obvious that a family couldn’t live like this, but they couldn’t go on living the way they had been either. She would first get used to this other life of his, and to California, and she would bide her time. There would be a way.…
    They met Henri Goujon at a small dark Italian restaurant that Clay said was one of his secrets. It might have been small and dark, but it was certainly expensive. Goujon was older than Clay, tall, thin, and distinguished-looking, with silver hair. She sat there picking at her food, pretending to eat, listening as the two men talked about people she didn’t know and had never heard of. Goujon never looked at her. He didn’t even try to be polite. Every sentence began with: “Well, you know, Clay,” or even just “Clay …” He didn’t make the slightest effort to include her, and as a matter of fact neither did Clay. She was just a decoration.
    After two and a half hours she became bored, and then exhausted. It was three hours later in New York, so it was almost one in the morning, and she had gotten up at six and had a long plane trip. She held her breath and tried not to yawn as Goujon ordered more wine. She hadn’t the faintest idea if what they were saying was classified gossip or just shoptalk, but neither of them ever bothered to explain it to her and she was finally too numb to try to figure it out.
    When she and Clay got into the car he turned on her. “You were bored and rude,” he said.
    Her heart leaped with fright. “I wasn’t!”
    “You were yawning. How does that look for my wife to be so bored?”
    “But he ignored me. He was the one who was rude. He didn’t have to say ‘Clay this’ and ‘Clay that.’ He could have pretended I was there too.”
    “I’m not going to take you along anymore if you insult my business associates.”
    “I’m sorry. I apologize, sweetheart, really. I don’t know what you want of me.”
    “You don’t have to fit in if you don’t want to,” Clay said. “I don’t want to force you to change.”
    “Oh, please let’s not fight on our first night,” Laura said, her eyes filling with tears.
    “I guess you’re tired,” he said, his voice finally sounding familiar again, not like that angry stranger he had been a moment ago. He had never spoken to her like that before. “I wanted us to be together on your first night here, but now you see what my life is like.”
    “I’ll learn,” Laura said. “I just want to help you. I want to make you happy.”
    “You do