The Slipper (48 page)

“Great. I'd love to see Carol. Give her all my best, and give me a call about lunch. Number here's the same as the old one.”

Jim gave Nora a hug and insisted she take the rest of the cinnamon rolls, which he wrapped in a napkin. Nora hugged him back and then made her way down to the beach. The sun was shining brightly now, burnishing the dogs' gold fur as they frolicked on ahead, making tracks in the wet sand. James's house was a half mile on up the beach, perched on a small bluff with redwood steps leading down to the water. Sturm and Drang bounded up them, barking merrily, and Nora sighed. They were worse than a couple of kids.

The house, though small, was wonderfully built, with huge windows giving a view of the ocean from every room. James had built it himself with help from two of his marine buddies in the construction business. It was pure California rustic with redwood deck, hemp door handles, varnished hardwood floors that always seemed to be gritty with sand. There was one large central room with a rough-hewn stone fireplace and step-down kitchen area, two bedrooms and a bath adjoining. One of the bedrooms had been converted into James's workroom. The whole house was flooded with books, magazines and records, a complicated hi-fi system rigged up in the main room. Vivaldi was playing softly as Nora stepped inside. The dogs came in, too, Sturm leaping onto the battered couch covered in oatmeal-colored corduroy, Drang curling up in front of the fireplace.

“James?” Nora called.

“I'm shaving. Be out in a minute.”

Nora stepped down into the kitchen area. He hadn't had breakfast yet and she put on a pot of coffee, something she could safely do without burning down the house or imperiling life and limb. Gleaming pots and pans hung suspended from a ceiling rack and one drawer was filled with lethal-looking cutlery, but Nora wouldn't dream of touching them. James did all the cooking. Even making coffee was a risky venture for her. She'd scalded her hand a number of times until she got the hang of it. So I can't cook, she told herself. Big fucking deal. Not that many cooks can write a blockbuster best-seller.

James stepped into the room, wearing tennis shoes, faded jeans and a worn navy blue T-shirt. Nora felt that wonderful lift inside she always felt when she saw him again after a brief separation. He was tall, lean, rangy, not at all handsome with those hollows beneath his sharp cheekbones, those wide lips, that thin nose, but the sexual magnetism was almost palpable. His coal-black hair was neatly brushed, but the thick waves still looked unruly, one slipping over his brow. His moody smoke-gray eyes examined her closely, as though trying to ascertain some area of vulnerability.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I went for a long walk on the beach. I needed some time—I needed to be alone for a couple of hours.”

“I see. Because of last night.”

“Last night doesn't matter, James.”

“I was in a rotten mood. I shouldn't have said what I did. I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you. You know I love you.”

“I know.”

“You know I'm hard to live with.”

“I've no illusions on that score.”

“You ought to find yourself a tame, domesticated lover who would appreciate your good points instead of a sullen lout who puts you down because of his own insecurities.”

“Call me crazy, but I've always preferred Heathcliff to Edgar Linton. Besides, you're a terrific lay.”

He arched one eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Care to prove it?”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Things have come to a pretty pass when a girl can't even get laid,” she complained. “You gotta headache, or is it that time of month?”

James Hennesey smiled and padded over to wrap his arms around her, gazing down into her eyes from his superior height.

“I don't deserve you,” he said.

“Tell me something I don't know.”

James spotted the cinnamon rolls setting on the counter. He moved back, frowning.

“Where did those come from?”

“Jim Burke gave them to me. I ran into him this morning on the beach and he asked me up for a cup of coffee. He owns that new house, you know, the one that looks like a glass-and-chrome Taj Mahal.”

“Burke,” he sneered. “Duke Henry.”

“You needn't sound so disdainful.”

“A television actor. A mechanical pretty boy with a toothpaste smile.”

“He happens to be a very good actor,” Nora said defensively. “He also happens to be a very good friend.”

“Coffee all he asked you up for?”

“No,” she said. “He took me into his bedroom and slowly disrobed me and we fucked like minks for the next two hours. That's why I look so bruised and haggard.”

“We're doing it again,” he said.

“I notice that.”

“I'm an ungrateful shit.”

“At times, yes, you certainly are.”

“So why don't you leave me?”

“I happen to love you, you bastard.”

James went over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee and examined the rolls, finally selecting one. He lounged against the counter, sipping the coffee, looking at her with lowered brows, smoke-gray eyes moody, remote. Something had happened. There was something he hadn't told her. Nora wished she smoked. She could have used a cigarette just then.

“Ross called,” he said after a while. “The phone woke me up. He keeps forgetting it's three hours earlier out here.”

Nora held her breath. She had been dreading this call. She had read his new novel, and while it was beautifully written, extremely literate and filled with insightful observations about the human condition, it was difficult going for the average reader. Masterpieces were all very well for required reading in college classrooms, but those ladies responsible for purchasing eighty-five percent of all fiction wanted something a bit more entertaining.

“So what did he say? Has he sold the book?”

“The call was for you,” James said. “The paperback edition of
The Slipper
has just gone into its nineteenth printing. They expect it to sell another million with the release of the movie.”

Jesus. Just what his ego needed right now.

“You're going to make out like a bandit when royalties come in at the end of the month. He says he'll need a U-haul truck to deliver all the money you've got coming.”

“Ross always had a way with words.”

“Congratulations.”

“What did he say about your book, James?”

“It's still out. He expects a solid offer in a day or so. It won't make anything like
The Slipper
, of course, but perhaps a couple of readers will appreciate it.”

“It's a marvelous book.”

“Sure it is.”

“What you write is—it's very special. You write for the discriminating reader. If you wanted to write a big commercial novel, you could.”

“Sure, and if not I can always write another screenplay based on a trashy British thriller that may or may not get produced sometime within the next ten years. Look, hon,” he said, setting down his coffee cup, “I've got to drive to Long Beach. There're a couple of research books I need, and Acres of Books is the only place I'm likely to find them. I don't know when I'll be back.”

“I'm picking Carol up at the airport this afternoon. I don't know when
I
will be back, either.”

“Catch you later, then.”

If you're lucky, you son of a bitch, she said to herself as he walked out of the room. She heard him revving up the motor of his old Chevrolet a minute or so later. The dogs perked up, looking surprised, then looking dejected and upset. Nora angrily opened a can of dog food and broke a fingernail and said “Shit!” and scooped the dog food into two brown plastic bowls and then set the bowls on the hearth. The dogs ignored them. Sturm began to whine. Nora told him to shut up in no uncertain terms.

“I will
not
feel guilty for writing a huge best-seller and making a lot of money,” she added. “If he thinks I'm going to apologize for my success, he's got another think coming. In fact, he can go
fuck
himself!”

The dogs barked, in total agreement.

Nora bathed, put on her makeup, brushed her long pageboy until it shone with blue-black highlights and then put on a pair of gold sandals and a simple gold-and-brown striped cotton sundress with halter top, fitted waist and short full skirt that had set her back a hundred and fifty bucks at a shop in Beverly Hills. She checked the dogs' water bowl, told them she'd be back and left, clutching her yellow straw purse. She climbed behind the wheel of her metallic bronze Thunderbird and, five minutes later, was speeding along the freeway with several thousand other cars that seemed to be driven by suicidal kamikaze pilots.

She loved it. She drove every bit as fast as the others, switching lanes with the greatest of ease. To a girl born and bred in Brooklyn who had known nothing but subways and buses and the occasional taxi, it was a thrill driving your own car, being in control. It made her feel grown up and independent and carefree. Those first lessons had been a bitch and her driving instructor had almost had a nervous breakdown and she'd dented more than a few fenders before she got everything down pat, but now she was a demon on wheels and loving every minute of it. Pressing her foot down on the accelerator, she passed a van and cut in front of a green Cadillac. The driver honked viciously. Nora put her arm out the window and extended a stiff middle finger, feeling better than she had felt all day, her good humor restored, eager to see Carol again. What a joy it was going to be having her here in Los Angeles, the three Cinderellas from Claymore together again at long last.

There wasn't a bigger name in the business than Carol Martin at this particular moment in history. Forget Monroe and her tardiness and her tormented love affairs. Forget Taylor and her tricky health and that multi-billion-dollar Egyptian disaster they were trying to salvage in Rome. Carol's acceptance speech at Cannes and the furor it had caused had made headlines throughout the world, and suddenly she was a saint, suddenly she was an all-American heroine, suddenly she was the hottest thing going.
Le Bois
had not only broken all existing box office records for an art film, it was a dead cert for best foreign film come next March and the Academy Awards. Carol had been deluged with offers from her native land, every studio in town wanted her, and she had finally accepted a two-film contract with Universal at an astronomical salary, with script approval, cast approval, director approval and sundry clauses and guarantees unheard of in the old days.

She was coming home in triumph. All those years of self-imposed exile in France, all that bad press, all those jokes about her acting ability, all that humiliation, and they were rolling out the red carpet now. Sometimes the good guys did come out on top. Nora was positively elated.
The Slipper
was having its world premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater tomorrow night and Carol would be able to go with them. Who could ask for anything more? There're a couple of things I could ask for, Nora thought, taking the exit, heading for the airport parking lot. But I'm not going to think about James. I'm not going to let him spoil my day. I hope that moody son of a bitch gets lost in Acres of Books and never finds his way out.

Nora had difficulty finding a parking place—didn't you always?—and it was almost time for the plane to land as she raced toward the terminal. There it was, pulling up right now, a huge silver bird inching along behind the rank of observation windows, and, shit, wouldn't you know it, there were the reporters and the photographers and the studio representative. Screw 'em. Pushing her way to the front of the assembled crowd, Nora watched anxiously as the passengers began to come in, clutching their hand luggage, looking a little dazed after the long flight from New York. Nora stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck, looking for Carol.

And there she was, as cool and regal as Princess Grace any day of the week and every bit as lovely. The short-clipped Joan of Arc haircut was gone. Her hair was longer, pulled back sleekly from her face and fastened in a neat bun, and it was lighter now, a pale white-gold, extremely flattering. She was wearing a pale pink-orange Chanel suit and a white silk blouse with a large bow at the neck and carrying a white handbag many women would kill for. Carol smiled at a fellow passenger, said good-bye to him and looked up and saw Nora and Nora let out a whoop and raced toward her and suddenly they were holding each other and both sobbing with joy and the photographers were snapping pictures and the reporters were yelling questions and the studio representative was urging them to follow him to the VIP lounge.

It took them a good hour and twenty minutes to get away. A limousine was waiting to take Carol to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Carol dismissed it, dismissed the studio representative, thanked him for the roses, said she would be in touch and followed Nora out to the parking lot. She had posed for hundreds of photographs, it seemed, answered hundreds of questions, handling it all with a serene poise that was positively awesome. Her luggage was being sent ahead to the hotel by the studio rep. They were alone at last. The remote movie queen vanished, and they both began to chatter at once, as close as ever. Carol removed her shoes as soon as they were in the car.

“You've no idea what a strain that all is,” she complained. “I've had to learn to deal with it these past months. Polite reserve is the only way to survive the barrage of questions, the popping flashbulbs. I wanted to yell at them to leave us alone. Oh, Nora, it's so good to see you!”

“It's kinda nice seeing you, too.”

“You're actually going to drive this car yourself?”

“Just you watch.”

“You haven't changed a bit.”

“Thanks a lot. I'll put a bag over my head.”

Carol smiled. Nora whisked onto the freeway with breezy abandon, causing a cacophony of blaring horns.