The Slipper (47 page)

“I—I don't know how I'm going to get this into my suitcase,” she said; and they loved it. “There are so many people to thank. I want to thank each of the judges and I want to thank Guy and Jean-Claude and—and there's someone else in the audience I want to thank as well.”

She didn't know she was going to say it. The words seemed to come unbidden to her lips. He was sitting near the front of the auditorium, and his bald pate gleamed. Carol knew she should feel triumph and a sweet revenge, but she didn't feel that way at all.

“Years ago, when I was a—a very young girl from a little town in Kansas, Eric Berne gave me an opportunity every girl dreams about. I was raw and inexperienced and—and pretty poor material indeed, but Eric believed I had talent and he put me into a movie. It—the movie wasn't a success, it was a terrible bomb, in fact, but if Eric hadn't believed in me, if he hadn't given me that opportunity, I wouldn't be here today. Thank you, Eric,” she said quietly, and she held up the award. “Thank you for making this possible.”

The applause and cheers were deafening. There wasn't a person sitting out there who didn't know about the
Daughter of France
fiasco and Berne's treatment of her and the vicious statements he had made about her afterwards. Her generosity to the man who had so maligned her was something unheard of in this business, and it won them all over, even her detractors. Eric's face turned pinker than ever, and tears streamed unabashedly down his cheeks. A photographer from
Time
was kneeling in the aisle, immortalizing this remarkable spectacle for his magazine. Carol listened to the cheering and tears came to her eyes, too, but she managed to blink them back.

“There—there's one other thing I would like to say,” she continued when the cheering died down, and again the words seemed to come unbidden to her lips. “I—I am so glad you have given this award to an American. I love my country. I'm proud to be an American. I accept this award as a citizen of the greatest, most compassionate country on earth.”

Pandemonium broke out in the auditorium. The “Boos!” were vehement. They were drowned out by the cheers. A fistfight actually broke out between a hard-core Communist French scriptwriter and a grizzled sixty-year-old American director who had four Academy Awards to his credit. Everyone was standing. Guy was as white as a sheet. Jean-Claude had a headlock on a lout who had yelled something derogatory about his Carol. Hedda Hopper was leaping up and down, waving her wide-brimmed flamingo-pink hat in the air and cheering herself hoarse. The girl from that little town in Kansas had just set the entire Cannes Film Festival right on its ear. It was an evening none of them would ever forget.

14

The Pacific was a bleak slate-gray at this hour, achurn with foamy whitecaps. and waves washed vigorously over the sand, leaving lacy white trails. It was barely seven. The sky was overcast, as gray as the water, but the sun was up there behind the clouds, desperately trying to shine through. Sturm and Drang galloped ahead in the damp sand, barking at the waves, cavorting outrageously, and Nora sauntered along, weary after her brisk two-mile walk, heading back to the beach house now at a leisurely pace. She loved Malibu at this hour of the morning. The bronzed musclemen, the girls in bikinis, the teenagers in black rubber wet suits were nowhere to be seen, and the people who lived in the expensive houses that had begun to spring up were still sleeping off the revelry of the night before. James groused that they were spoiling the place. It was getting to be a goddamned suburb of Beverly Hills, he complained. Soon they'd be surrounded by film stars and studio executives and millionaire accountants. His own beach house, humble and rustic as it was, all redwood planks and glass windows, was already worth many times what he had paid for it a few years ago, and he was constantly being badgered to sell. Malibu, alas, was becoming chic and that spelled doom as far as James was concerned.

Thinking of his complaints, Nora smiled to herself. James was so thornily determined to scorn the seductive blandishments of Southern California. He lived on the beach but he didn't own a single bathing suit. He worked for the studios, and they paid him well, his script-writing assignments enabling him to live well and write his novels, but he despised the film industry and everyone connected with it. Staunchly independent, he refused to play the game, rarely attended the parties, was sullen and unsociable when he did. Consequently, he was being offered fewer and fewer assignments. That suited him fine. Let the whores have 'em, he said. He had real work to do. Nora shook her head. With all the guys in this town, I've gotta fall in love with the one who has integrity, or what he
thinks
is integrity. A glutton for punishment, that's me. I oughta have my head examined. Not that it'd do any good. My head's been in the clouds ever since our first evening together.

Sturm and Drang, the golden retrievers, began to bark with gleeful excitement, bounding toward the man who approached and jogging along beside him. He wore tennis shoes, a worn, sleeveless gray sweatshirt and short cut-off jeans. He was tanned, muscular, gorgeous, thick black hair in tumbling disarray. The dogs barked, leaping all around as the man reached Nora and stopped, his chest heaving. His sweatshirt was damp with perspiration. His hair was damp, too. He wiped his brow, gasping. Sturm and Drang continued to caper about, licking his sturdy legs.

“Down boys,” Nora said.

“That include me?” the man asked.

“Particularly you.”

“You don't wanna fuck?”

“It's a bit early in the morning, love.”

“How 'bout a cuppa coffee, then?”

“I'd love one.”

He wiped his brow again and then gave her the breezy smile that captivated millions of viewers each week.
TV Guide
had dubbed him the Sexiest Male on Television only last week, his picture on the cover with a grin on his lips and a gun in hand, an adoring Bingo clinging to his arm. Duke Henry, the hero of
Market Street West
, was the most popular private eye since Peter Gunn. The series was a smashing success, and Warner's was already renegotiating his contract with a hefty raise in salary. Jim Burke had become a gigantic star. He couldn't appear in public without being mobbed by hordes of squealing fans who waved autograph books and tried to tear his clothes off. Fortunately, none of them were around this morning. Seizing her hand, Jim led Nora past the grassy sand dunes toward the sumptuous beach house with a terrace overlooking the water. Nora was wearing a vivid yellow blouse and white cotton slacks with the cuffs turned up. Her feet were bare. She let out a yowl as she stepped on a piece of broken shell. Jim grinned.

“You'll live,” he said.

“Up yours! It's Hollywood scum like you who're ruining the area. Jesus! This place musta set you back a bundle.”

“It did,” he confessed, “but my agent assures me it's a terrific investment. A guy as popular as I am needs a retreat, a place to get away from his worshipful public.”

Jim sat her down at the glass-topped table on the terrace and went inside to fetch the coffee. Nora rubbed her foot. The dogs began to nose around the plants and flowers that grew in glazed white pots. Sunlight finally began to seep through the clouds, streaming down in bright silvery-yellow rays, gilding the water with a million dancing reflections. The brisk salt air was wonderfully invigorating. How could anyone stay inside on a morning like this? Jim came back out a few minutes later, wearing a short beige terrycloth robe, carrying a tray with coffeepot, cups, freshly baked cinnamon rolls and two glasses of orange juice. Nora gave him a suspicious look.

“
You
didn't bake those cinnamon rolls?”

“I've got a Japanese houseboy,” he confessed sheepishly.

“Figures,” she said.

“He takes marvelous care of me. Cooks like a dream.”

“So when'dja get back? I thought you were still in South Carolina, filming the Erskine Caldwell thing.”

“
Roughshod
. Based on one of his early stories. Got back three days ago. Film's in the can. I've got two weeks' free time, then we leave for San Francisco to shoot exteriors for the series.”

“How'd the movie go?”

“I think it's gonna be great. I play a moonshiner outracing the feds and trying to save his still and making life miserable for the girl who loves him. Natalie had other commitments. Diane McBain took over the role.”

“Diane McBain? All that lipstick, all that shiny blonde hair?”

“The girl's a great actress. The studio's kept her busy playing glamorous hussies in Troy Donahue films, and she's never really had a chance to show her stuff till now. She plays a fugitive from Tobacco Road in a cheap cotton print dress, no makeup, hair a mess, gives a performance that'll surprise the hell out of you. Hope Warner's has the sense to utilize her talent—knowing the studio, they'll probably put her in another glossy Technicolor soap as the bitchy debutante who snubs Connie Stevens.”

Nora took a sip of coffee. “So you like making movies,” she said.

“This one was originally written for Paul Newman. He's gonna be sorry he passed it by. I'm a mean son of a bitch who outfoxes the feds, roughs up the ladies and nobly lets himself get shot in the end so his kid brother can flee. I die in Diane's arms. I've smacked her around all through the film, but she can't resist my manly charms.”

“Sounds like a winner,” Nora said wryly.

“It's a good flick. Not the sort of thing I'd wanna play too often, but it's not Duke Henry. I'm gettin' kinda tired of that guy.”

“And you want to play Hamlet.”

“Eventually,” he said.

His voice was serious. Nora gave him a look. They both burst into laughter. Sturm tried to jump into Jim's lap. Jim pushed him away. Nora broke a cinnamon roll in two and gave half to each dog. Drang curled up at her feet, tail thumping the tiles.

“So you're still with Hennesey?” Jim said.

Nora nodded, stroking Drang's golden fur. “I've got my apartment in Beverly Hills, but—I've been spending most of my time out here.”

“I never thought a chick like you'd flip so hard over a guy. Figured you were too cool, too smart.”

“So did I.”

Jim shook his head. “I can't understand why you'd go for a guy like Hennesey when you could've had me.”

“I could've had you?”

“At any given time.”

“Jesus,” she said, “I'll never be able to forgive myself.”

Jim grinned again and poured himself another cup of coffee. The cinnamon rolls were delicious, with raisins and gooey white icing. Nora took a second. After that long walk she could afford it. Sea gulls squawked in the distance. The waves washing the sand made a swishing, soothing sound. James would be up and about by now. He'd be wondering where she was. She really shouldn't linger too much longer.

“He finish that book he was writing?” Jim asked.

“Three months ago. Ross has been trying to place it with just the right publisher. I'm keeping my fingers crossed he gets a good advance. It's very important. James has invested so much in this book, and—”

“And the last two bombed, right? Look, if he ever needs a job, we could use another good writer on
Market Street West
. I've read a couple of Hennesey's scripts. He's got a great sense of structure, writes terrific dialogue. Just say the word and I'll see he gets put on the series.”

Writing screenplays was demeaning enough. James would probably turn pale at the thought of writing for television, but it was very sweet of Jim to make the offer. Nora was touched.

“You're a nice guy,” she said quietly.

“Hey, what're friends for? What's the point of being rich and successful if you can't lend a hand to people you care about?”

“And you were such an asshole in college,” she said.

“Actually, I was a sweetheart back then too. You just never took time to find out. I—uh—I've been kinda outta touch in the backwoods of South Carolina, no
Hollywood Reporter
, no Hedda, no Louella. Has Julie finished filming
Impulse
yet?”

“They're behind schedule, have three or four more weeks of filming, I understand. She hates the part. It's emotionally taxing, playing a woman just recovering from a nervous breakdown who discovers her husband is sleeping with her big sister and plotting to send her back to the funny farm.”

“I read the novel. The role's bound to be demanding, and Julie gives her all, throws herself completely into any part she plays. It's hard to just cut it off when the cameras stop rolling. You tend to take the part home with you when you're as into it as Julie always is.”

“Word is it's got a built-in Academy Award. If she doesn't get an Oscar for best supporting actress for
The Slipper
, she's certain to get best actress for
Impulse
. The studio's building her up as the greatest actress to hit Hollywood since Luise Rainer.”

“She is,” Jim said.

“The bastards put her into
Impulse
three days after she finished
The Slipper
, no break whatsoever, and they've got a third one lined up just as soon as she finishes this one. They're bloody well gonna get their investment back on her.”

Jim stared out at the water. He was still in love with her. He had gone out with dozens of shapely Hollywood starlets and a couple of famous actresses many years his senior and had a reputation rivaling that of young Warren Beatty, but Nora knew he'd gladly abandon the glitzy nightlife in a minute for the chance to stay home with Julie and Danny.

“If you talk to her, tell her I said hi,” he said. “It's kinda hard to keep in touch with both of us being so busy. I sent Danny a stuffed alligator from South Carolina. Guess he got it.”

“I'm sure he did.” Nora rose to her feet. “I've got to run,” she said. “Carol's arriving at one. I'm meeting her at the airport. If you're gonna be free, we'll all get together for lunch sometime next week.”