A Touch of Stardust (37 page)

“Cut!” bellowed Selznick into his bullhorn.

The room remained briefly quiet, as if all had inhaled at the same time and still held their breath. Then murmurs, then spoken congratulations. Onlookers invited in as Selznick’s guests to watch the scene rushed forward and took turns pumping his hand. Jerry Bryant—whose job getting good publicity for this movie never had been easy—was almost jumping with glee as he headed right over to Louella.

“David isn’t taking any chances,” murmured Carole.

“It was a wonderful scene,” Julie said, meaning it fervently. The movie was coming together, pulling her in. Selznick was right. It was still all in pieces, but something grand was being stitched into a whole. Maybe it wouldn’t be as much as Selznick wanted it to be, but, oh, he was touching something.

Julie caught Andy’s eye. His answering grin was wonderful—relieved, and clearly happy. What a burden he had been bearing. But it
was
worth it, this making of movies; magic could come from all the mundane squabbles and delays and clashing agendas. It was happening now.

Carole was staring at Clark, still cradling her now very cold cup of coffee. Julie expected she would make some joke, probably about how cranky Clark looked as he pulled at his collar, sweating from the long scene under the lights.

“You know something?” Carole said, rolling her words out slowly. “For the first time—watching Clark act?—I almost forgot I was married to him.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” Julie said.

Carole looked at her, a bit puzzled. “You’re right, it is,” she said.

“Miss Crawford?”

Julie looked up, startled. A tiny, birdlike woman in a perfectly tailored suit with perfectly lacquered hair was standing in front of her, eyes steady in an expressionless face.

“I am Loretta James, Mr. Mayer’s secretary,” the woman said. “I believe you are in a tryout phase as a writer for MGM?”

Julie nodded, startled. She glanced past the woman and caught a quick glimpse of the fabled head of the studio as he prepared to leave the soundstage.

“Yes, I am,” she managed.

“Mr. Mayer would like to see you in his office at three o’clock. I assume you will be available?”

“Yes,” she said. What else could she say?

“Fine. Please be prompt; he has another appointment at four.” The woman turned and nodded briefly to Carole. “Nice to see you, Miss Lombard,” she said in a tone that expressed the opposite.

“Oh, you, too, Loretta honey,” Carole said, smiling.

With a crisp nod, Loretta James turned on her heel and walked away.

“Why would he want to see
me
?” Julie asked.

“Poor old Loretta, she’s been in the summoning business for too long,” Carole said absently.

“Summoning?”

“You know, command performances, casting-couch rumors, you’ve heard them. But that’s not what he wants from you, hon.” Carole broke into a grin. “He’s seen your script—this could be terrific.”

Julie felt herself shaking inside. “Does he have a sense of humor?”

“He’s not known for that,” Carole admitted.

“Then maybe he wants to throw it back in my face.”

Carole gazed at her steadily, seriously. “Okay, it could go either way, right? You’ll find out at three o’clock.”

Julie sat, hands folded, on the white leather couch in Louis B. Mayer’s reception room, trying not to glance too often at the large silver clock above the cool Miss James’s head. It was almost three-thirty. Did he know she was here? Was he busy with someone else? Had he forgotten? Miss James ignored her completely, giving no information. Julie settled back into the soft leather and stared down at the white shag carpet beneath her feet—the pile was so thick, it half covered the toes of her best black patent leather shoes—trying to appear a little more relaxed.

A door was opening; she heard voices—one a light, melodic woman’s voice. Julie looked up and saw a bright-eyed young girl emerging from Mayer’s office, the arm of the mogul around her shoulders as he talked in fatherly tones. It was Judy Garland. Ignoring Julie, Mayer walked Garland through the reception room to the outer door, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek and a hug as he said goodbye.

The door closed. He turned to go back to his office and stopped when he saw Julie. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Julie Crawford. You sent for me, Mr. Mayer.”

“Oh yes. Come on in.”

She followed his barrel-shaped figure through the inner door into the great man’s office, trying not to be awed.

The room was dazzlingly white. Everything, even the desk, was white—leather, polished wood, silk draperies. There was something about the color white in Hollywood, Julie thought. It threw light back in the face of the viewers, letting them see only what the occupant wanted seen. It protected the rest, just as sunglasses hid the naked, vulnerable eye.

Mayer had taken his chair behind the desk. He folded his hands across his stomach and stared at her. “So you want to be a writer?” he said unexpectedly.

“Yes, sir, I’m hoping to work for MGM.”

He picked up a familiar-looking manuscript. “I’ve read your prologue and epilogue,” he said, giving it a fluttery wave, then dropped it back on his desk. “You think you can get audiences to buy that pile-of-shit movie as a comedy?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Do you know how much that damn thing cost us?”

“Quite a lot.”

“You bet it did.”

It was all or nothing; she might as well try. “It could, if done right, make your niece come off as a great comedienne,” she ventured.

“So you knew my niece played in this, God forbid her lack of judgment. Is that why you chose it?”

“No, sir—I chose it to work on because it was the worst movie I could find. Which made it the easiest to spoof.”

He resumed staring at her, evaluating. “You’re not too dumb.”

She wasn’t going to say thank you. She bit her lip and told herself again: Don’t say thank you.

“I’ll think about it,” Mayer said, standing up. A broad smile spread across his face as he gestured at the array of photographs in elaborate frames on the windowsill behind his desk. “See my family? Good-looking group, don’t you think? Not everybody got the brains.” He pointed to the image of a smiling blonde, whom Julie recognized immediately from
Madhouse Nightmare
. “My niece, there. You know, you can get too anxious for success in Hollywood. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it.”

She said nothing, but tried to offer a neutral smile.

“We’ll get back to you in a few days or so,” he said.

She hesitated for a moment. He sat down and reached for the telephone—also a gleaming white. No escorting her out: this meeting was over.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayer,” she said, and turned to head out the door.

“So what did you think about that ending Selznick shot today?” Mayer asked, stopping her.

There was no use worrying about finding a safe answer.

“I thought it was perfect.”

“Well, you better be goddamn right.”

She paused again, but this time his dismissal was complete.

Weeks had passed. Julie lay sleepless in her bed at the boarding house, staring at the crumbling plaster on the ceiling. If Mayer didn’t want her script, how could she pay the rent for this place after next month? Her father was proving true to his word: no check had arrived. She had no need to worry; she needed to stand her ground. Andy would help, but that would make her feel like some kind of kept woman, and if that was hypocritical of her, too bad. She was still, inside, a Midwestern girl—even if she did curl up in his bed at least a few nights a week.

She turned on her side, trying to blink away the cobwebs in her head. With one hand, she pushed back the covers, already sweaty. The heat was building: another scorching day.

Maybe she was living inside a dream, and none of it was real. She looked across at the empty bed of her former roommate, wishing she were here. Rose had moved out a few days ago, gone back to Texas to plan her wedding. It would be next spring, she’d said. “And you must, must come be my maid of honor—will you do that?”

Julie pulled the covers back over her head, wishing she hadn’t been so clumsy with her reply. She shouldn’t have stammered and made up some temporizing reply; she should’ve just been honest.

But Rose knew. “You’ll come if you either get a job that thrills you or get married and you’re thrilled about that,” she offered in her
kind, serene way. “I don’t have to know right away. But I’m thinking blue silk for your gown.”

Julie pushed the covers away again, this time kicking them with her feet. Get up, she told herself. Go walk on the sand in Santa Monica—to hell with the tar. At least eat something. Pretend you aren’t chained to the communal telephone out in the hall, waiting for the call that might change your life. Pretend you’re not wondering whether you and Andy could truly get married, pretend you’re both wishing that happens, and pretend you’re not scared everything might fall apart.

She tried to imagine Andy’s new routine. “Now we make the real movie,” he told her after the last scene was shot. “See you next month.”

It wasn’t a joke. He was buried daily now, working with Selznick in the cutting room, hunched over 225,000 feet of film printed out of the half-million shot, working to piece together the final product of what would eventually make its way to the movie theaters and be known as
Gone with the Wind
.

When he gave her those numbers, she could hardly believe them. No wonder he often looked wan and gray. And it wouldn’t be over for weeks—Andy said Selznick was demanding even more retakes, which would take them through August.

A woman’s head swathed in toilet paper and a net to keep her curls in place popped into the room. “Call for you,” she chirped. “Don’t take too long; I’m expecting a ring from my agent.”

Julie ran for the phone. It was Carole. Of course, today was Clark and Carole’s move to the ranch. How could that have slipped her mind?

“Okay, I know you’re disappointed that it’s just me, but you can’t sit and cook in the heat in that boarding house all day, every day. Whoa, watch out for that breakfront!” Carole yelled. “Not you, honey; the movers are here. This is the big day, remember? Come up and let’s say goodbye to Bel-Air!”

A sudden crash. “They dropped it. Good thing I didn’t like the damn thing much anyway,” Carole mumbled.

“I don’t know if I can come today—”

“And if you don’t come today and they don’t call, you’ll sit and stew tomorrow, too. Julie, if they want you, they will find you.”

“I’ll think about it—”

“No, you won’t. There’s a car waiting for you out front right now. Doughnuts and coffee when you get here. No Scotch this time—it’s too early.”

Julie’s spirits were lifting. “Orange juice?” she asked.

“Fresh-squeezed.”

“Okay.” She hung up the phone and walked back to her room, already feeling renewed. Yes. She didn’t have to sit here and brood that her entire life was made up of waiting for other people to decide its direction. If they wanted her, they would find her.

“Did you remember who else you were supposed to invite for moving day?” Julie said as she walked in the door.