The Slipper (33 page)

“I will,” she promised.

Gaby, an inveterate gambler, was taking Jacques and a few glittery pals to a casino that evening. Norman and Carol were staying home. Carol stepped into Gaby's room at eight o'clock and closed the door. Wearing a pair of tight black satin toreador pants and a short, sleeveless tunic covered with shiny black-and-silver spangles, Gaby was scurrying about, searching for her shoes. She glanced up, surprised to see Carol.

“Have you changed your mind, darling? Decided to come along after all?”

Carol shook her head. The worried look in her eyes gave Gaby pause, and she promptly sat down on the edge of the bed, concerned.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not—not really. I just wanted to—something has happened, and I wanted to talk about it. If—this is probably an inconvenient time. We can talk about it later.”

“Nonsense. The casino doesn't really come alive until after ten. Jacques and the others can wait. What is it, darling?”

Carol told her about Norman's proposal and her own reservations about such a marriage. Gaby understood immediately and nodded gravely as Carol listed all the reasons why she feared it wouldn't work. Short, tawny-gold curls clinging to her head like a shaggy cap, enormous brown eyes solemn, Gaby sighed when Carol finally fell silent. Neither of them spoke for several moments.

“I love him, Gaby. I—Oh God, I don't want to hurt him.”

“Of course you don't.”

“He says I can go on making films, but—that wouldn't work, Gaby. You know it wouldn't.”

“Men, even the most generous, even the most loving, want us to devote all of our attention to them,” Gaby said quietly. “They pretend to be broad-minded and understanding but anything that takes us away from them is ultimately a source of contention. Despite what they may say to the contrary, they want us exclusively to themselves.”

Carol nodded. She knew it was true.

“On the other hand, he's a marvelous man, darling. You may never meet another like him. What wouldn't I give to have someone like your Norman in my life.”

“Would you give up your writing?” Carol asked.

Gaby didn't answer. She didn't need to. The answer was in her eyes. Give up her writing? She might as well give up breathing. Carol felt the same about her own work. Champagne was glorious, but one couldn't live on a steady diet of it. No one knew that better than Gaby. When she was working on a book or play, lovers, friends, fun and fast living were all put on hold, and she lived the life of a recluse until the work was done. Her men invariably resented it, and it invariably caused violent arguments and tumultuous partings. But … but Norman wasn't like Alain and Jacques and the other men in Gaby's life, Perhaps he would be supportive and stand behind her. Perhaps he wouldn't mind taking a backseat and sitting idly by while she pursued her film career. Perhaps … but it wasn't likely. Carol realized that.

“You must do what you think best, darling,” Gaby said gravely.

“I know. And what is best—what is best in the long run-might be extremely painful for both of us.”

Talking with Gaby had helped but it had solved nothing. Carol left the room and joined Norman on the terrace. It was a gorgeous night. Crickets were chirping. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and the fragrant smell of summer flowers scented the air. The others left a short while later, Jacques unusually handsome in his dinner jacket, Gaby eager to get to the tables, all of them chattering merrily as they piled into Gaby's sleek, frightfully expensive new sports car. Carol poured herself a glass of white wine from the decanter on the glass-topped table, settling back down into her white wicker chair with its dusty cushion. He asked if she would like to wander down to the wharf and have some crayfish. She shook her head and said she just wanted to enjoy the evening. Norman was content to do the same. In white pants and loose striped jersey, his hair rather tousled, he was beautiful in the moonlight, and her heart swelled with love. Why must it be this way? Why must she have to make a choice? Carol prayed she would have the strength to make the right one.

True to his word, Norman didn't press her in the days that followed. He was relaxed, amiable, charming and wildly passionate when they were alone together in their room at night. Perhaps it might work. Perhaps it just might. She needed more time to think, more time to consider. She really would like to go to Kansas for Cliff's wedding, even … even if she didn't stay. She could stop in New York on the way back to see Nora and Julie and the baby. Norman would understand if she asked him to wait a few more months. Surely he would. It might be a mistake to go to Kansas with him, though. He might interpret that as a tacit agreement to marry him later on. He was scheduled to fly back in just three days now. Carol knew she would have to reach a decision soon.

The decision was made for her the following afternoon. She and Norman were having lunch on the terrace of a quaint old restaurant in St. Tropez proper, eating shrimp and artichoke salad under the striped umbrella awning as skimpily clad sunbathers passed on their way to and from the shops. Having stayed out until after five this morning, the others were still home in bed, Gaby considerably poorer after her losing streak at the tables. As the waiter brought them another carafe of white wine, a gleaming beige Rolls-Royce came tearing down the narrow old street, slamming to a halt in front of the restaurant. Carol was stunned to see a tall, slender man in his late fifties bound out of the car with the vitality of a youth. He was wearing narrow white slacks, a pale blue silk shirt and a dapper white silk ascot. His hair was longer than she remembered, and the lean, slightly effete face was handsomely tan.

“Sir Robert!” she cried, leaping to her feet.

The distinguished British actor cleared the distance between them in no time flat and caught her up in a vigorous hug, almost cracking her ribs. Tears of joy and delight sprang to her eyes. Sir Robert hugged her again and then held her at arms' length, examining her with a merry grin on his lips.

“Still as lovely as ever, lass, but—what's this? Has my Corday got tears in her eyes? Are you that upset to see old Marat again? Are you going to seize a knife and stab me in the chest like you did last time we met?”

“My God! What—what on earth are you
do
ing here?”

“I've come for you, my lovely. I searched for you all over Paris and finally discovered you had come to St. Tropez. I had a perfectly hideous drive down here and when I arrived at Chez Bernais a short while ago a totally nude young Adonis with blond hair informed me that Mademoiselle Bernais was still sleeping it off and that you were probably having lunch here with your friend.”

“Oh, I—forgive me—”

Norman had risen to his feet earlier. Carol had completely forgotten him in her joy at seeing Sir Robert Reynolds again. She introduced them and the two men shook hands. Norman asked Sir Robert to join them and asked the waiter to bring another glass. Carol was still stunned as they all sat down, Sir Robert beaming, his blue-green eyes full of boyish glee.

“Still have your talisman?” he inquired.

Carol picked up her white straw purse and took out the beautiful silver cigarette case with its gold art deco designs and mellow patina of age. “I keep it with me always,” she told him. “It's brought me a great deal of luck.”

“I should say so. I saw the Ronet film, luv. You were magnificent, and you were even more magnificent in
High Heels at Breakfast. Exactly
the type we need. We're in a wretched bind, Carol, and you've got to bail us out.”

“What—what are you talking about?”

“I'm starting a new film, luv, four weeks on location in Paris. The company arrived three days ago, location shooting to begin next Tuesday, the interiors to be filmed back home at Pinewood. It's about a roguish English aristocrat and his family stranded in Paris without a cent and desperately trying to stay afloat and find the fare home. Terrence Rattigan wrote the script—it's one of his finest pieces, frothy, droll and deliciously wicked. Margaret Rutherford plays my dotty old mother who shoplifts and fences the loot in order to pay our hotel bill. Lilli Palmer plays my bitchy, brittle, but delightful wife. Alas, the young actress signed up to play my daughter was rushed to the hospital with a burst appendix as soon as we arrived, and the producers were in a panic. Shooting begins next Tuesday, as I said, and it's imperative we find a replacement pronto. No problem at all, I told them. I'll fetch my Corday. She'll be perfect. They ran a print of
High Heels at Breakfast
and practically fell all over themselves hurrying to your agent's office to sign you up. I took it upon myself to fetch you back to Paris. Tried to reach you by phone first, couldn't get through.”

“Gaby's phone is out of order.”

“So I gather. You'll love the part. Muriel is pert, perky and very modern, fending off the advances of two husky soccer players while attempting to seduce a French nobleman whom she and her father hope to fleece. Louis Jourdan is playing the nobleman. You have some wonderfully funny scenes and one that's very risqué, if comedically so. Your agent's a bandit, by the way. They're going to pay you the moon. Say you'll do it, luv. There'll be several nervous breakdowns and a possible suicide if you don't.”

“I—”

“I brought a script. It's in the car. Read it today. I'm whizzing over to Cannes to visit a couple of friends, and I'll be back tomorrow afternoon for your answer. You can't fail me, luv. You're driving back to Paris with me if I have to
kid
nap you!”

The script was every bit as wonderful as Sir Robert had promised. She spent the afternoon on Gaby's terrace, reading it. Muriel was flip, sexy and had tremendously funny lines. She was as much a rogue as her father, both of them irreverent and light-hearted and in cahoots. She couldn't turn it down. She simply couldn't. Sir Robert was depending on her, and it was a showcase part in an all-star production. Hazy blue shadows were beginning to spread over the uneven gray flagstones when she finally put the script aside. A plump white cat was snoozing beside one of the old stone pots full of red geraniums. The pitcher of lemonade she had brought out was warm, the ice long since melted. Bees droned in the purple bougainvillea spilling over the low stone wall. Norman stepped outside, gave her a smile and then stepped over to gaze at the darkening blue sea.

“It's almost six,” he said.

“Norman, I—my word, I had no idea it was so late.”

“I've been playing gin rummy with young Jacques. Is the script good?”

“It's marvelous,” she said, feeling awful.

“Maybe it will help compensate for the Louis Malle film you gave up in order to be with me. You'll do it, of course.”

“I—”

“I insist, my love. I've been very, very selfish, keeping you to myself all this time. I saw the look on your face when Sir Robert was telling you about the film—the exultant glow, the anticipation, the joy—and I realized just what I had been keeping you from. I realized I—I couldn't compete with your work, nor would it be fair to you if I tried.”

“Norman—”

“I'm thirty years older than you, Carol—neither of us has bothered to consider that. I've had my time in the sun, and I'm not selfish enough to keep you from yours. I would, my love. Without wanting to, without meaning to, I would hold you back.”

Carol stood up. Tears glistened in her eyes again, spilling down her cheeks in tiny trails. Norman stepped over to her and curled one arm around her waist, drawing her to him, brushing the tears away with his free hand.

“You mustn't cry,” he said. “This is best. We both know that.”

“I—I love you,” she whispered.

“I know, and I'll cherish that knowledge for the rest of my life.”

“Norman, I—I don't have to do the movie. I don't
want
to do it! We'll go back to Kansas together and—and I'll marry you, and—”

He placed his fingers over her mouth and shook his head, drawing her nearer, holding her close.

“The phone was repaired while we were out this afternoon. I called the nearest airport and made my reservations. I fly out tomorrow morning at ten, land in Paris and change planes there.”

“No!” she cried. “Norman—”

“This shall be our last evening together, my darling. Let's make it special and festive. We'll put on our finest attire and go to the best restaurant in St. Tropez and then walk home along the beach and then—I imagine we can find something else to do.”

“I—Oh God, I don't want it to end!”

Norman tightened his arms around her and after a while he led her inside and they had their evening, but Carol didn't feel festive, she felt as though her life were ending, and she knew she couldn't possibly endure this pain, couldn't possibly survive the loss of him. She borrowed Gaby's car the next morning and drove Norman along the coast to the airport, lovely vistas of sea and hillside greeting them at every turn, and he checked his bags and they waited in the lounge, Norman holding her hand, Carol silent, consumed with grief, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall anew. His flight was announced. There were very few passengers. She stepped outside with him. The plane was very small, a flight of metal steps rolled up to the open door. The other passengers moved toward it, shoulder bags and cameras swinging jauntily. Norman took both her hands and squeezed them and looked into her eyes. He smiled a tender smile and kissed her lightly on the lips for the final time.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“See you in the movies, my darling.”

He left then and boarded the plane, and in a few minutes it took off and soon became a tiny silver speck against the azure-blue sky and part of her soul seemed to be torn out of her, seemed to fly away with the plane. Carol stood there outside the glass doors for several minutes, surviving, and then she returned to the car and drove back along the spectacularly beautiful coastline to St. Tropez and Sir Robert and a future without champagne.