Scruples (77 page)

“Maybe,” Vito said thoughtfully. “Actually, it’s not possible to make an absolute judgment about a film. You can take five brands of cake flour, test them, and decide which one of them really works better than all the others—but a film? All it basically proves is which picture in a field of five got the most votes—like a primary. And the only reason I’m able to be so lofty and detached and philosophical is because we won. If we’d lost, I’d say
Mirrors
was the best, without any question, and that they gave it to another picture for all kinds of complicated, wrong reasons.”

“But how do you feel? I mean, do you feel as if you’ve gotten an Olympic gold medal or something?” Billy asked curiously.

“I feel like Jack Nicholson when he won for
Cuckoo’s Nest
—he said that winning the Oscar is like making love for the first time—if you’ve done it once, you never have to worry about it again. You have to believe you
are
good just to have the nerve to be a producer, but when all those people tell you
they
think you’re good—well, I don’t care if you do know it inside yourself, it’s nice to get some feedback from the outside world. Better than nice, it’s beyond fucking words.”

Billy looked at Vito as he prowled around their bedroom in his pajamas and a bathrobe. He was like a blowtorch. Even she, accustomed to his pulverizing energy, his nervy assurance, had never seen him so phosphorescent. He looked ready, she found herself thinking, to start work on a dozen new projects. Suddenly, in the middle of her tumult of thanksgiving, she felt her heart give a strange, nasty little dip of apprehension.

“Does an Oscar really change your life—or is it just a big bang, like king for a day?” she asked casually.

Vito stopped to consider for a minute before he answered. Slowly he said, almost as if speaking to himself, “For anyone in the business it
has
to change your life—inside and out. Permanently. I know that in a week—hell, in three days—half the people who’ll be watching tomorrow night will have forgotten who won what. But, from now on, I’ll always have that Oscar under my belt. It’ll always be there, somewhere, in the minds of the people I do business with. It won’t affect the raw problems of my work; every picture will still contain as much crisis and agony, in its own particular way, as any other, but this is a company town, and for a little while—I’ll own it! That crap Arvey pulled on
Mirrors
—that sort of thing isn’t ever going to happen to me again. Right now, just for a while, I’m untouchable.”

“Deals! You’ll be able to make them the way you want?”

“Not with ten Oscars,” he laughed. “Still, they’ll be a lot easier than the last few. I really don’t know yet—I’ll have to find out. But I promise you, my darling, no more editing a picture in the library. That sort of thing won’t happen again.”

In disbelief, Billy felt herself beginning to dissolve into tears. She tried to hold them back, but it was impossible. A convulsion of loss was contracting her chest. It was several seconds before Vito noticed, and then he was holding her tightly, kissing her dark hair, rocking her in his arms until she was able to speak,

“I’m sorry—so sorry—what a terrible time to cry—but it’s so silly, it’s just that—oh, I
loved
having the editing here—I was so much a part of it, and now that’s gone—we’ll never have that closeness again—you won’t need me to work with you—you’ll have all the real script people you want—so dumb of me, darling. I don’t mean to spoil your fun.” Her face was desolate as she tried to smile.

Vito didn’t know what to say. She was absolutely right. The situation with
Mirrors
had been a once-in-a-lifetime happening, like a shipwreck. He hoped he’d never be forced to work in that kind of frenetic, insane haste again. It had worked out, miraculously, but it could far more easily have been a total disaster. And he didn’t see Billy having a future as a script clerk. It simply didn’t fit her at all, and he was sure she knew it.

“Is that the only reason you’re crying, my darling?” he asked tenderly, holding her tightly and licking up some of the tears on her face. “How can you say we’ll never have that closeness again—you’re my wife, my best, my dearest friend, the most important, beloved person in the world to me—no one can ever possibly be as close.”

Billy was lured by the immense sweetness she felt flowing toward her to dare to express the thoughts she had hidden for months.

“Vito, you’re always going to be a producer, isn’t that right?” He nodded gravely. “And that means that you’ll always be busy, and when you’ve finished one film you’ll be right on to another because that’s the way you’ve always worked, at least two balls in the air—three is better—at the same time or you’re not happy?” He nodded again, with a glint of amusement in his eyes at her solemn tone of voice. “You can’t have me always trailing after you like a lost child at a fairground, wailing for her father, now can you? All right, I’ve finally learned how to make friends on a set without half-drowning myself in a pool, but helping you with
Mirrors
didn’t make me a professional—I know that So what are we left with, realistically? The more successful you are, the less I have of you. Tomorrow night you enter a whole new level as far as your work goes. But, Vito,
what about me? What do I do now?”

He looked at her helplessly. He had no answer. It was not a question to which any man has an answer if he loves his work and puts his best energies into it.

“Billy, darling, you knew I was a producer when we got married.”

“But I didn’t have the faintest idea what being a producer really means. Who the hell could? It seems perfectly natural to you—that’s your rhythm, you’ve had years to get accustomed to it, Christ, by now you wouldn’t know how to lead a normal life. When did you last take a vacation? And don’t tell me Cannes, that’s not a vacation, that’s business.” Billy was working herself into anger as she saw the expression of concern on his face being replaced by the obstinate firmness of someone who is saying to himself, this is the way I am, what are you going to do about it?

“Have you ever thought what it’s like for me when you’re shooting a picture?” She pulled away from him and tightened the belt of her robe. “If I go with you or stay home it doesn’t matter. Either way I’m lonely. And the shooting is only half of it anyway—what about the nights you have script meetings or disappear into an editing session? Ten to one the president of General Motors or U.S. Steel works a shorter day than you do—and when you’re not working, you’re thinking about working.” She was breathless with rage.

Vito didn’t jump to respond. What could he promise her? That he would work an eight-hour day, do only one film every two years? Unless he was working on a picture he was only half-alive. His face, with its strong lines, took on a solid, immovable expression, which made him look more like a Donatello sculpture than ever. This was what he had been afraid of before he agreed to marry Billy, this itch to possess all of everything, to have him on her terms, the way she wanted it.

“Billy, I can’t reshape myself into your idea of a convenient husband. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be. Whatever I don’t give my work I give you. There is nobody else and never will be, but I can’t give you my work too.”

Billy was suddenly terrified by the note of finality in his voice. He had never sounded so far away from her. Vito remote was like Vito without energy, a frightening dart in her own heart. She heard the shrill, complaining echo of her own words and realized that she’d gone too far. She had forgotten how entirely his own man Vito was. She walked over to him and took his hand, magically re-assuming her familiar huntress quality. The furious little girl was gone, the strong predatory, invulnerable millionairess armor was buckled back in place in the blink of an eye.

“Darling, I’m being foolish. Of course you can’t change. It’s some sort of crazy reaction to your Oscar I guess—I’m probably just jealous. Please stop looking like that—I’m fine—pay no attention—please?”

He looked back at her unsmilingly, searching her face. She looked straight back at him, offering her lovely eyes to his inspection, chastened but not furtive. “Darling, I can’t wait till tomorrow! There’s so much to look forward to. More than anything I can’t wait till I see Curt Arvey’s face. He just won’t be able to stand it, will he?” She had changed the subject effectively.

“No,” answered Vito, brightening. “He won’t believe it when he hears it. And then he’ll probably demand a recount until he realizes it’s his picture. I think—I think I’ll have lunch with him tomorrow.”

“Vito—why on earth? With that scum?”

“The Orsini family motto, ‘Don’t Get Mad. Get Even.’ ”

“You just made that up.” She bit his ear playfully. “But I like it. I think I’ll adopt it. Can I use it, sweetheart?”

“Of course—you’re an Orsini.” He kissed her questioningly. She kissed him back in a way designed to block out all questions, particularly ones she didn’t want to answer.

The next morning Billy got to Scruples as soon as it opened. She knew that toward the end of that late March afternoon it was going to be a scene of confusion. A number of women had decided to leave their new dresses hanging up at Scruples so that they wouldn’t be crushed, planning to come there to dress before leaving for the Awards. There had been no way to prevent them from arranging to have their hairdressers there for a last-minute comb-out, and by midafternoon every dressing room would be filled with fussy ladies and coveys of coiffeurs. Billy only hoped that the fuses wouldn’t blow when they all plugged in their hot rollers at the same time as they inevitably would. She’d remind Spider to have an electrician standing by just in case.

Driving along Sunset she mused on the conversation of the night before. Of course, nothing had been settled—how could it have been—but she hoped she had convinced Vito that what she had said was a temporary spot of crazy-lady vapors on her part. She hoped, but she doubted. Vito was too damn smart not to know the truth when he heard it. He was off and running now; he had it made, but the only difference in her life was that she would have to find the right place in the house to put the Oscar, not too conspicuously displayed yet not pretentiously used, as a door-jamb. Who the fuck had said, “All human wisdom is summed up in two words—wait and hope.” She’d like to get her hands around the fucker’s neck.

She greeted Valentine with a hug whose warmth surprised both women.

“I bet you’ll be glad when today is over,” Billy said.

“Actually, tired as I am, I’m looking forward to it. Tonight I’ll get to see everybody finally wearing my clothes outside of these fitting rooms.”

“Well, not all of them,” Billy noted. “More than half of those clothes were bought to wear at private parties, after all.”

“No matter.”

“Where’s Spider?”

“Oh—who knows? I’m too busy to keep track of him,” Valentine said coldly.

“Is that any way for a partner to talk?” Billy teased.

“That partner business—it’s not legal you know,” Valentine said hastily. “Just an expression. It all started when I talked you into giving him a job. He’s not my partner, Billy.”

“Whatever you say, my pet, as long as he works for me.” They seemed to be talking in mysteries, Billy thought, only she didn’t know why. She dismissed the subject. She had her own problems.

“Look, I’ll just grab my dress and leave you to it.”

“Billy, try it on again.”

“Why? It was finished ages ago and it fit perfectly. I don’t know why I didn’t take it home then—I must have been too jittery about
Mirrors
to think straight.”

“I’d really like to see you in it once more. Just to be sure. Humor me?”

Valentine beckoned to an assistant and told her to bring Mrs. Orsini’s dress.

“Did you ever stop to tote up how much business we did just for the Awards and all the other parties given tonight?” Billy asked as they waited. “I tried to figure it out the other day and I stopped when I got to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And we’re only one store. If you look at it in a certain way, the Oscars are given for the retailers of Beverly Hills.”

“Which is as it should be,” Valentine replied smugly. “Ah, here it is.” The assistant had brought in a shimmering strapless length of finely pleated, hammered satin in a subtle, luscious shade of crimson. Billy took off her shoes to step into the skintight taffeta slip, which kept the satin sheath from clinging to her body at any point.

“What jewels are you wearing with it?” Valentine asked while she bent to zip up the slip.

“Not my emeralds, too much like Christmas. Not my rubies, one red is enough. And not the sapphires either, I’d look like the American flag. I think just dia—Valentine! The slip doesn’t fit!”

“Just hold still a minute. I must have done something peculiar to the zipper.” Valentine unzipped it all the way and tried again. Again the zipper stopped moving at Billy’s waist. Valentine’s hand started to sweat.

“Was it dry-cleaned by accident? This is impossible. That slip had nothing wrong with it before.” Billy was dismayed.

“Billy, what have you been eating?” Valentine asked accusingly.