An American Love Story (11 page)

One night a client dragged him to the ballet. Since the ballet was not apt to produce any interesting contacts for him, Clay never went. But this was the Metropolitan Ballet, his client told
him, and Rudofsky was the best, and his ballet
Sinners
was amazing because of the presence of the dancer Laura Hays. Afterward they would go to dinner and meet her.

Onstage, Clay liked her grace, discipline, and form. She seemed like a tiny aristocratic racehorse; a Thoroughbred. She was so agile and limber he wondered what she would be like in bed. He studied her photograph in the program because she was wearing such strange makeup it was difficult to tell what she really looked like, and even though the photos were usually retouched he was interested by her look of coldness:
Don’t touch me, I’m too good for you.
He wondered if she had buck teeth. At the end, when she stepped out from behind the closed curtain to receive her ovation he saw she did not, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He had never heard such applause, such cries of Brava!, such acclaim. She was brought bouquets of red roses so big it seemed she wouldn’t be able to carry them. She bent her graceful neck to accept all this, she curtsied, and when she stood up again there was a look on her delicately chiseled face that said:
I deserve it.

What a position to be in, Clay thought. That little creature on the lip of the enormous stage, in this vast hall, receiving wild homage from multitudes of people—worship even. You didn’t see it in the theatre because the theatres weren’t as large as this, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. He was looking forward to meeting her.

He had expected a prima donna, but Laura Hays was not. She was sweet, a bit reserved, perhaps even timid, but aware of who she was. And everyone else was aware of who she was, too. He was attracted to her immediately, and set out to charm her. At the end of the evening he knew he was on his way. He also knew he had found what he had been looking for: his romantic mystery woman, his trophy, his future wife.

He was swept by infatuation, and when he began courting her with all the powers he had at his command the infatuation combined with the challenge and joy of winning to the point where he was unclear whether he was in love with Laura or the situation, but he didn’t care or even really try to separate them. It was like making the perfect package deal.

She obviously loved him. His work and energy fascinated her, his charisma soothed her. She would be the worshipful wife. His glittering conquest would sit beside him and make his life complete. No more bachelor apartment. A luxurious co-op with huge windows overlooking the park and rooms filled with shining antiques. A child, preferably a beautiful daughter who would be daddy’s girl. He had come a long way from Glenville.

And so, quite quickly as befitted a perfect romance, Clay Bowen and Laura Hays were married. He married his trophy. He had no idea how soon she would become an annoyance.

7

1969—NEW YORK

“Y
ou are going to win an Academy Award for this,” Ergil Feather said. He was holding Susan’s article in his hand. They were in his very expensive pastel-colored suite in his very expensive New York hotel, having lunch. An opened bottle of champagne was in a cooler beside the table, and there was lobster salad. Susan did not like to drink at lunch and she was a little high, but the man would have impressed her anyway. Six feet tall, very tan, with grayish hair and piercing blue eyes, every line on his face that came from sun, cigarettes, or squinting seemed a mark of character and sophistication. He was in his early forties, an older man, and only a dead person would have thought he wasn’t sexy.

“Do you really think so?” she said.

“I’m sure of it. I’m very excited. This is so timely, and says so much about what’s going on now. The writing is exquisite. Perceptive, sensitive, funny. Everyone will identify. Gabe Gideon is a wonderful character.”

“Person,” she said. “He was a person.”

“Of course.” He smiled at her and lit another cigarette. “Do you think you could come out to Hollywood in June or July?”

“Sure,” Susan said. “But I’d like to write the first draft here and bring it out with me.”

“Fine.” He refilled her glass of champagne. She noticed that it was Dom Pérignon. Not bad at all. Magno must have given him a very big budget. Or maybe Ergil Feather was just used to living well. Or maybe he wanted to impress her. Academy Award …!

“How long would you want me to stay?”

He looked her over. “Six weeks should be enough time to get a script. I’ll arrange for you to become a member of the Writers Guild. I’ll also arrange for the hotel and get you an office at the studio. I’ll handle all your expenses. Do you have any preference about the hotel or do you want to leave it to me?”

“I’ll leave it to you,” Susan said. She couldn’t believe all this was happening to her. She knew nothing about the relationship between producers and scriptwriters, but she was determined to bring to Hollywood a first draft he would love, so he would be proud of her and think she was worth all this professional attention.

“What kind of car do you want?”

She was going to say ‘Anything with an automatic transmission,’ but then she thought how completely insane all this was, as if she were starring in the movie, not writing it, and she said, half joking, “Oh, just a Cadillac convertible, preferably baby blue.”

“Done.” He wrote it down on a pad. “You’ll like the Chateau Marmont, I think. A lot of New York writers stay there.”

“Does the Garden of Allah still exist?” She had read about it—Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, some of the literary greats who had written movies there.

“Oh no, it’s long gone. But the Marmont’s much the same thing. I’ll get you a nice suite, maybe a bungalow if they have one. Summer’s an easy time, we should have no problem.”

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy, Susan thought.

“We’ll have to think about casting,” he said. “I’ll give you a list for your opinion. I want your input on everything.”

“Thank you.” She was so impressed with this man that she thought it would be no effort at all to have a crush on him.

“Is there anyone you want to bring with you?” he asked.

“Bring?”

“A husband … boyfriend?”

“No. I don’t have either one at the moment.”

“Well, that’s good. They like to hang around and make suggestions.”

“This is a world I don’t know,” Susan said. “Boyfriends making suggestions.” But of course she did; they all tried to be creative, especially if they had nothing else to do.

He smiled so broadly he almost laughed. “You are turning out to be an extraordinary woman,” he said. “We should have fun together.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said.

“So am I.” He nodded. “The Academy Award. I can’t wait.” He took a pad of lined legal paper from the desk and tore off the top several sheets. “I laid out the scenes for you,” he said. “It will make things less difficult for you since you’ve never written a script before.”

She took the pages. They weren’t a treatment; they were actually a list of scenes, all numbered in order. He’d broken it down; how nice of him. She looked at it and was touched that he would do it for her. “This must have been a lot of work,” Susan said.

“It’s what I do,” said Ergil Feather. “I’m a producer. I want to be helpful.”

“Thank you.” She folded the list and put it into her handbag.

He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting at two.” He stood up and held out his hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow before I leave for California.”

“Thank you for the lovely lunch,” she said, shaking hands.

He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her to the door. “There will be many more,” he said.

She was so excited that she walked all the way home, thinking about the script. But the image of receiving an Academy Award kept intruding, even though she didn’t believe it for a minute. Yet he had seemed so sure. Whom should she thank? I want to thank
Seltzer, for putting the make on Dana, so I had to come along and meet Gabe? I want to thank Dana? I want to thank my Smith-Corona electric typewriter and my el cheapo bargain typing paper for making this script possible? I want to thank my good friend and collaborator Ergil Feather? Let’s not get carried away here: Ergil Feather is not my collaborator, he’s the producer. He gave me my chance, but I’ll be the one to write the script. I owe it to myself and to my career.

She wondered if when she made her acceptance speech she should wear a black strapless dress.

When she got home she read Ergil’s notes, and then she called Dana and told her all about the lunch. “The man has eyes for you,” Dana said.

“Do you think so?”

“You bet your sweet bippy.”

“He’s probably married,” Susan said.

“Since when has that ever stopped any of them? But it happens he’s not.”

“Not married?”

“Not at the moment. Not gay either. A bit of a ladies’ man, but who isn’t?”

“You are a very good little detective,” Susan said. “I think I have a crush on him.”

“Flattery and the promise of fame are powerful aphrodisiacs,” Dana said.

“But he’s gorgeous!”

“He could be a toad—it works anyway.”

“Come out to L.A. with me,” Susan said. Suddenly the prospect of six weeks in a strange city frightened her, even though she would be working. “I don’t know anybody, I’ll have a whole bungalow, and you can go to auditions.”

“God, do I need them,” Dana said.

“So come.”

“I’ll make Seltzer set things up. He’s always promising me. If I could get a part in a movie … even a one-shot on TV … I was trying to get something in summer stock, but this sounds better.”

“We’re bound to meet people,” Susan said.

“I know lots of people on the Coast. Half my acting class has defected. It will be just like here; boring, boring; people sitting around the bars crying that they have no luck.”

“The thing I like about you,” Susan said, “is that you’re always so positive,” which of course meant that neither of them could wait to go.

It took Susan only four weeks of concentrated work to write the first draft of her script. Her agent and Dana had given her other people’s movie scripts to learn the correct form from, and she had a book with all the proper technical terms. But she saw the movie before her eyes in a way that was so real that most of the time she simply wrote what she saw. This story had happened to her in actual life, it had happened on the pages of her article, and now it was happening up there on an imaginary screen, and throughout the entire time she was working she had the eerie feeling of automatic writing. Her fingers flew over the keys of her typewriter; the only thing holding her back was decisions about what kind of shot to say it was, or to say it at all. Perhaps the director would think she was being presumptuous, but she saw that other scriptwriters did it, and even if her shots got thrown out at least putting them in made everything seem so much more vivid.

When she finished the script her agent said he couldn’t believe she’d never written a screenplay before because it was so professional. Of course he knew she’d never written a screenplay—she would have tried to make him sell it if she had—but she was very pleased and flattered. Dana, the only other person to whom she showed it, said she’d seen final draft scripts that were not as good.

“I don’t know why I have to stay out there for six weeks,” Susan said.

“Don’t knock it,” Dana said, “They’re paying your expenses.”

Ergil Feather phoned and sent letters, and then a plane ticket. They were on their way.

Ergil’s assistant, a young man Susan’s age named Stephen, who was pink, blond, and twitchy, like an overlarge rabbit, met them at the airport and took them to their hotel. The weather was unbelieveably
hot. This is
Hollywood
, Susan told herself, and remembered the movie magazines she had read when she was in high school. Here were the movie stars’ mansions, the palm trees, the magic land she had dreamed of when she was a little kid. Those stars she had worshiped would be in the restaurants, perhaps sitting at the next table. But now she was an adult, and all she kept thinking was that this was a chance to expand her career, and that she was scared, and inspired, and very happy.

“I tried to get you a bungalow near the pool,” Stephen said. “But a rock group had been staying in the one I wanted and they broke all the mirrors. The whole wall was a mirror and they had parties and smashed it. They also made holes in the furniture. Everything has to be replaced, so I got you a very nice bungalow in the back.”

“They sound like the kind of people I interview,” Susan said.

“You must have an interesting life.”

“Sometimes.”

The hotel was set back just off the Sunset Strip, which was a sort of mini highway featuring a lot of billboards advertising movies, records, celebrities, cars, liquor, trips to Las Vegas, and other fantasies. Below the billboards were restaurants, head shops, and flower children sitting on the sidewalk. This might have been where Faulkner would have stayed, but it looked like a pretty seedy neighborhood. Susan couldn’t have cared less. Their bungalow had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, a kitchen with a dining bar, and there was a baby blue Cadillac convertible in the driveway. Stephen gave her the keys.