The Slipper (22 page)

“Noël gave it to me in nineteen thirty-three,” he told her. “I'd been doing one of his plays on the West End—took the role over after he'd grown bored with it. He taught me everything I know about timing and delivery. ‘Young man,' he said, ‘do you want to spend the rest of your life swashbuckling about in a pair of tights, making the ladies swoon, or do you want to
act
?' He drove me quite mercilessly and was brutal in his criticism, but I learned. In all honesty I must add that he was extremely miffed when the play ran for another eight months and the critics claimed I was even better in the part than Noël had been. That case has been a sort of talisman to me for almost a quarter of a century. I want you to have it now.”

“I—I don't know what to say.”

“I hope it will remind you of our sessions together. I hope it will inspire you to keep on learning and keep on growing as an actress. I expect great things from you, my dear. If you fail me, I fully intend to track you down and take that case back.”

“I won't fail you,” she said quietly.

He gave her a robust hug and Carol brushed the tears from her eyes and handed him a small box wrapped in gold paper. The platinum cuff links, each set with a small, perfect gray pearl, had cost a small fortune, far more than she could afford, but she would gladly have paid twice as much. Sir Robert declared them the finest cuff links he had ever owned and said he would wear them with great pride. He hugged her again. Carol put on her coat and scarf, and they left the trailer, strolling slowly through the vast, chilly studio, calling final good-byes to those still milling about. Although Carol was relieved that the hell was finally over, she felt a certain sadness as well. All these friends she had made would no longer be a part of her life. Most of them she would never see again. It was rather like a family breaking up, all of them going their separate ways now that filming was completed.

Two limousines awaited them outside, for she and Sir Robert were staying at different hotels. There was to be no wrap party tonight. Sir Robert was flying back to London first thing in the morning, she knew, and their paths might never cross again. She wasn't going to cry again. She wasn't. Sir Robert smiled and said, “Cheerio, luv,” and they promised to write and she kissed him and smiled brightly, sadly as he climbed into his limousine and it drove off. Carol got into her own car and was silent throughout the long, tedious drive back to the Hotel Meurice. Paris was still gray and damp, spangled with bright, multicolored lights now in the early evening, and the traffic was horrendous, particularly as they neared the Arc de Triomphe. It was well after seven when Carol stepped into her suite. She would have to hurry. Gaby was going to pick her up at eight-thirty.

An hour later, wearing black high heels, hose and the stunning black Givenchy cocktail dress with elbow-length sleeves, scooped neckline and full, flaring skirt, she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her sleek golden cap. The severe short haircut made her dark-blue eyes seem larger, made her cheekbones seem higher, and it had started a vogue, particularly among fashion models here in Paris. Sighing, she put the hairbrush down and applied just a touch of pink lipstick to her lips, a hint of gray shadow to her lids. The elegant, sophisticated woman in the mirror bore little resemblance to the dewy-eyed, wholesome girl who had left Indiana eighteen months ago.

There was a knock on the sitting room door. Carol glanced up at the clock. Gaby was fifteen minutes early, which wasn't at all like her. Perhaps it was because of the occasion. They weren't going to one of the clubs with the gang tonight. Gaby was taking her to a very formal, very elegant diplomatic reception. It would be rather stuffy and pompous, Gaby claimed, but there would be a number of literary and artistic figures Carol really should meet, and the food would be divine. The food sounded particularly attractive at the moment. She hadn't had a bite since her morning croissant. She opened the door to greet her friend and was dumbfounded to see Eric Berne standing there in an exquisitely tailored gray suit and a pale blue silk tie, a large bouquet of pink roses in the crook of his arm. She stared at him, that hard knot forming inside again.

“May I come in?” he inquired.

Carol stepped back to let him enter and then closed the door.

“These are for you,” he said, handing her the roses.

Carol put the roses on the coffee table. “What do you want, Eric?”

Berne smiled, gentle and benign, looking at her with lids drooping heavily. Mr. Hyde had disappeared and Dr. Jekyll was back, all smooth, continental charm. The Eric of old had bewitched her, she had even fancied herself in love with him for a while, but she was completely immune to that charm now. Eric smoothed his tie down, dark eyes full of paternal affection.

“I have come to—how do you say? To kiss and make up, I believe it is. I know I have been very hard on you, my Carol, but it was for the good of the film and it has nothing to do with you and me. These things you will understand later on, after you have had more experience.”

“Indeed?”

“This is the crazy way our business works. The next film will be different. I have bought the rights to
The Summer Dream
. As you know, it is a simple story of love and deception on the French Riviera—a young girl meets a married diplomat twenty years her senior, falls in love with him and wrecks his marriage, and then, realizing she is a free spirit and can never be happy with a man as old as he, returns to America with a hearty young football player. It will be a gigantic success. The book is still on every best-seller list. I am producing it myself, independently.”

Carol said nothing. She was finding it very difficult to conceal the loathing she felt for this man.

“We fly back to California next Tuesday,” he continued. “We begin filming
The Summer Dream
in May, on location. You will be perfect for the role of Anne, and I'm hoping to sign David Niven for the diplomat, Vera Miles for the suicidal wife. Negotiations are already under way.”

He had just tried to destroy her career, and now he planned to make another film with her. Why? The reason was simple. It would be his own production and he could get his leading lady for five hundred dollars a week and save thousands and thousands of dollars. Carol had read the novel and knew she would indeed be perfect for Anne. It was a role she would have loved to play, but not with Eric Berne at the helm.

“Good luck with Niven and Miles, Eric,” she said. “I'm afraid you'll have to find another Anne. I'm not flying back to California. I'm staying in France a while and, incidentally, I'll never make another movie with you for as long as I live.”

Eric shook his head, still smiling. “You are upset,” he crooned soothingly. “This is natural. This I can understand. You will feel better after a few days of rest.”

“I meant exactly what I said, Eric.”

“Actresses. The temperament. The bane of my existence. Come, I will take you to the Ritz. We will have a sumptuous meal and the best champagne. We will be friends again.”

“I have another engagement,” she said coldly.

“Break it,” he ordered.

“I don't think you understand what I said, Eric. I'm not going to make
The Summer Dream
or any other movie with you. Ever. I realize your English is poor when it suits you, so read my lips. Under no circumstances will I ever work with you again. Did you get that?”

He saw that she was serious. His face darkened. “We have a contract,” he reminded her.

“You can take your contract and shove it up your ass.”

“I'll sue.”

“Do that. I'll bring in two dozen witnesses who'll swear you treated me in a cruel and inhuman manner. Think of the publicity. Hollywood will love it. I imagine hundreds of people will cheer to see you publicly exposed as the monster you are.”

“You ungrateful little bitch!”

“If I'm a bitch, Eric, you've made me one.”

“You will never work in Hollywood again,” he said ominously. “I'll see to that.”

“Then I'll make films here in France. I've already had offers. I'm sorry, Eric, truly I am. I wanted to make you proud of me. Now I just want you out of my suite and out of my life.”

“You're going to regret this, Carol.”

“Eric,” she said, “fuck off.”

He stared at her for a long moment with blazing eyes and scarlet cheeks and then he slammed out of the suite. Carol picked up the roses and opened the door and hurled them after him. It was a foolish, dramatic gesture quite unworthy of her, but it made her feel much better. When Gaby arrived five minutes later she was furiously smoking a cigarette, far more upset by the scene than she cared to admit.

“I passed Eric Berne downstairs in the lobby,” Gaby said. “He looked absolutely furious. Pink roses are scattered all over the hall outside. Did I miss a drama?”

Carol nodded and took another long drag on her cigarette and crushed it out in a crystal ashtray.

“I think I
have
become a bitch,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I told Eric to fuck off. I threw him out.”

“High time, too,” Gaby said.

“I used to be so nice. I never used language like that. I had no temperament at all. I was kind and thoughtful, and I—I was
nice
.”

“You're still nice, darling.”

Carol lighted another cigarette and told Gaby what had happened. Gaby listened with visible sympathy, shaking her head at the director's villainy. Tawny gold curls attractively tumbled, roguish brown eyes aglow, she wore a brown satin Dior with tiny bronze bugle beads adorning the bodice, a matching cape lined with bronze silk draped across her shoulders. Usually attired in casual student garb and not tall enough for haute couture, she looked rather like a little girl playing dress-up.

“So that's it,” Carol said miserably. “I've just burned all my bridges behind me.”

“And opened new avenues,” Gaby added. “Half the filmmakers in France are dying to work with you. You've enchanted the whole country. Claude Bouchet for one will be delighted to know you're available.”

“Bouchet?”

“He's a brilliant young director—only thirty-three years old and terribly attractive. He makes stylish, moody suspense films à la Hitchcock, full of symbolism and subtle eroticism. The critics revere him already, and he's only made four films. You met him, remember? The one who said he would cheerfully murder to have you in his next film. Bouchet is going to be one of the greats ere long, I assure you.”

“Do you think he really wants to work with me?”

“Bouchet never says anything he doesn't mean, darling. Tomorrow we'll tell him you're now at liberty. Tonight we must go to this reception. You'll meet a lot of important people.”

“I really don't feel like going now, Gaby.”

“Nonsense. Fetch your wrap.”

Carol obeyed reluctantly. They took the elevator down to the elegant lobby. Half a dozen attractive men were milling about, and all of them turned to gaze as the two celebrated young women passed.

“You know,” Gaby said, “now that you plan to remain in France for a while, you really must take a lover.”

“I'm not interested, Gaby.”

“You're not interested because you haven't met the right man yet,” Gaby informed her. “I've been introducing you to sexy youths with beautiful bodies and dangerous eyes. Not your type at all, I've decided. All of the men you've been attracted to have been quite a bit older. You're not looking for a virile youth who will demolish you with passionate embraces. You're looking for a father figure who will take care of you.”

“You think so?”

“I understand these things. Maybe tonight at the reception you will meet a handsome older man who will sweep you off your feet.”

“Jesus, I hope not.”

“It would do you a world of good,” Gaby said wisely.

8

Brian Gregory was absolutely perfect and it scared the shit out of her. He was twenty-six years old and tall and blond, with clear blue eyes and a wry grin and a lean, muscular body he carried with athletic grace and he was brilliant, too, smart as a whip. He was a graduate student, had done military service in Korea after leaving a fancy military school, had gone to Princeton afterwards and had come to Claymore for his advanced degree in engineering. If that wasn't enough, his family was loaded, lived in New Rochelle, and as soon as
he
got his degree, two weeks from now, he was stepping into a cushy job with a prestigious firm in New York. He was witty, good-natured, sexy as all get-out, the living incarnation of every girl's dream in this year of 1958. Mr. Right was alive and well, and he wanted to
marry
her, for Christ's sake, little Nora Levin, the kid voted The Girl Most Likely To by half the jocks on campus only a couple of years ago. Who was gonna believe it?

Nora had met Brian on campus last year and he had found her cute as a button and loved her smart mouth and soon they were going steady and there were no other boys. Bye-bye, track team. She had all the experience she needed and he was a
man
, not a boy, mature and level-headed and purposeful and terribly serious about the future and his career in engineering. Fun, too. Playful. White teeth and blue-blue eyes and blond-blond hair and cleancut, virile good looks, that sexy wry grin, that soft, husky voice. Jesus! Half the girls at Claymore panting for him, chasing after him, and he chooses
her
! He was absolutely fantastic in the sack, too, but he hadn't made a move on her until after they were going steady and, get this, he actually respected her afterwards. Brian Gregory was in love with her, gave her roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates on Valentine's Day, took her to the senior prom, Brian a dream in his white jacket and black bow tie and maroon cummerbund, she feeling silly as hell in her peach organdy-over-taffeta gown and white magnolia corsage. It was enough to cause a girl to lose all her perspective.