The Slipper (29 page)

Although she was not yet a full-fledged star—she had yet to receive top billing—Carol was vastly popular with French film audiences, and she was making a living, if not a fortune. More importantly, she was learning her craft, and she knew she was getting better with each film. All three of the films she had done earlier had played in America, in art houses only, but none had generated any particular interest. Her name was still mud over there. Over there she was still a joke, but they'd sit up and take notice one of these days. Foreign films were becoming more and more popular and were receiving more and more attention in America, and Carol vowed she'd soon have Hollywood begging for her services. The next film she made would do it for her or, if not, the one after that, but Carol Martin would come home in triumph, and she could hardly wait to see Eric Berne's face when she picked up her Oscar.

The unlikelihood of that happening brought a smile to her lips. Carol had learned to take herself less seriously, but if you were going to fantasize, you might as well go all the way. She might not win an Oscar, but she
would
prove herself to her countrymen. In the meantime, she was enjoying herself immensely. She loved Paris. She loved her work and her stimulating new friends and her charming eighth-floor apartment on the Avenue Ingres with its balcony overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. She missed Nora and Julie, with whom she kept in very close touch, and she missed hearing English spoken, but life had been good to her these past two years. She was completely on her own, and she was making it, gradually building up a respectable body of work, and if there were periods of loneliness, that was a small price to pay.

Gaby still insisted she would be much happier with a lover. Gaby was never without some bronzed youth with thin lips and cruel, seductive eyes, was always breaking up, suffering nobly, falling in love all over again with the next handsome scoundrel. That was fine for Gaby, she seemed to thrive on it, but it was hardly Carol's style. She had had a brief affair with one of her costars, a devastatingly attractive man considerably older than she, but she had refused to let him break her heart and ended the affair herself. There had been a couple of other short affairs, light and pleasant and harmless, but she had yet to meet the man she was ready to suffer over. She wasn't averse to a bonbon now and then, but the main course had no appeal. The sweet torments of love might delight Gaby and inspire yet another wry, trenchant novel, but Carol could live without it. She never intended to be hurt as Julie had been hurt when her husband walked out on her. The pain was half the pleasure, Gaby claimed, a uniquely French viewpoint incomprehensible to a girl from the American Midwest.

A stout matron in a hooded red raincoat approached, walking her black poodle. The poodle wore a red raincoat too, prancing along as though it owned the pavement. Carol smiled. The woman recognized her and nodded warmly. Although Carol was American, a race secretly despised, the French accepted her as one of their own. She didn't receive nearly the press she had received when she first arrived—no one seemed to receive any press today except Brigitte Bardot, who had exploded upon the scene like a Roman candle—but she was still a favorite with both press and public and was still featured regularly in
Paris Match
. It was nice to be liked, to be accepted, particularly after all of the abuse she'd received from her countrymen after the release of
Daughter of France
. That had hurt. It had cut to the bone, but she had survived it, and she would make them eat their words ere long.

The light drizzle turned into rain, and Carol quickened her step, grateful that Le Drugstore was just up ahead. It was one of her favorite places to shop in Paris. A chic version of the American institution, it had a pharmacy, a tobacco shop, a large book department, a stylish notions counter and a restaurant that served divine pastries. Dodging a puddle, she hurried inside, immediately at home. Le Drugstore wasn't at all crowded at this hour. It stayed open until two in the morning and did a thriving business late at night. Carol wanted to buy the new Françoise Mallet-Joris novel. Mallet-Joris was Gaby's contemporary and every bit as good, although she hadn't received the attention Gaby and Sagan had. Carol browsed for half an hour, picking up the new Simone de Beauvoir, Romain Gary's latest and the Mallet-Joris.

Leaving the book department with her parcel, she happened to spy a whimsical stuffed monkey, pink and gray, with large, soulful eyes. Unable to resist, she purchased it immediately for her godson, Danny, who was now four months old. She had sent Julie an exquisite French bassinet and a silver cup for the baby, but Danny would probably appreciate the monkey more in months to come. She had seen pictures of him, of course—Nora had turned into an inveterate camera nut after the baby's arrival—and he was a chubby, healthy-looking infant with Julie's eyes and an endearing double chin. The clerk said she would be delighted to ship the monkey for her. Carol signed a gift card, gave her Julie's address and tipped her generously. It was as she started out of the store that she saw the tall American boy with brick-red hair and a bewildered expression. He was standing at the counter in the pharmacy, desperately trying to make himself understood to the stony-faced, indifferent pharmacist.

“I—uh—jay mal ah le—tete? No, that's head. Jay mal ah la gorge and I—uh—jay need une medicine pour mah mal gorge. Comprendez-vous? Damn, I wish I'd paid more attention in French class!”

The boy was in his mid-twenties, quite attractive, wearing brown slacks, a beautifully tailored brown-and-rust checked sport coat and a deep-rust silk tie. Clearly affluent, he had that clean-cut, charmingly naive look of many American youths in a world-weary Paris. His dark-brown eyes were rather watery, she observed, and his handsome nose was undeniably red. Pulling a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, he let out a monumental sneeze and then gave the pharmacist a woeful look.

“Pour mal ah la gorge—gorge, that's throat, isn't it? Une medicine pour mal ah la gorge, si vous play?”

The pharmacist shook his head, deliberately obtuse. Although France would be in dire straits without the money American tourists poured into its coffers, many Parisians resented their presence and some, like this pharmacist, who Carol suspected spoke perfect English, were rude and difficult. Stepping over to the counter, she asked the boy if she could be of service.

“You speak English? Thank God. I've got this wretched sore throat, a bad cold, too, and I wanted to get something for it. My high school French is terrible, and I didn't take it at Yale. I never thought I'd find myself in France but Dad and I came over here on business and—ah—ah—” He whipped his handkerchief out again, just in time to catch another monumental sneeze.

In now flawless French Carol told the pharmacist to bring her some medicated throat lozenges and a bottle of aspirin. He complied speedily, and she told the boy the price and helped him sort out the franc notes. He was quite large, tall and muscular, and he somehow reminded her of a great, engaging puppy. She smiled at the look of relief in his eyes.

“Don't know how to thank you,” he said. He had a charming midwestern accent. “Dad speaks perfect French, but I didn't want him to come out in weather like this. If you hadn't come along, I don't know—”

He cut himself short, really looking at her for the first time. Carol saw recognition fill his eyes, then disbelief. He stared at her for a long moment, clearly in shock.

“It—it
is
you,” he exclaimed. “Carol Martin.
High Heels at Breakfast
. I saw that film back home—they were showing it at a little art theater. That scene where you get tipsy and start disrobing in front of the guests and Daniel Gélin jerks off the tablecloth to cover you up—funniest thing I ever saw, deliciously risqué. You were fabulous.”

“Why—thank you,” Carol said.

“I know you've made other movies, but that's the only one I've seen. You're my father's favorite actress! Geez, he's never going to believe this, never in a million years.”

The handsome youth squinted his eyes and scrunched his nose up and quickly retrieved his handkerchief, sneezing quite violently. He apologized profusely, then shook his head.

“Dad's going to think I made this up. He—” He hesitated, and she could see an idea dawning. “I don't suppose—no, of course you wouldn't—couldn't even ask you.”

“Couldn't ask me what?” she inquired.

“I'm meeting Dad at four at the bar in the Plaza Athénée, that's where we're staying. Dad didn't want to make this trip, said I could handle everything myself, but I insisted he come, too. My mom just recently died, you see, and I thought a change of scene—Geez, you're not interested in all this.”

“On the contrary. You were going to suggest something.”

The boy lowered his eyes, looking suddenly shy and about twelve years old. “I was going to ask if—if you'd like to join us for a drink at the hotel, but a famous actress like you—of course not. You don't know me from Adam, and I could be a dope-crazed sex maniac or something.”

“I'll take that risk,” Carol told him.

“You—you mean you'll
come
?”

“Only if you'll swear you're not a dope-crazed sex maniac.”

“I'm not!” he protested. “Really, I'm the nicest guy you'd ever hope to meet, besides my dad, that is. He's the greatest guy in the world. He's going to fall right out of his chair when he sees me walking in with you. I can hardly wait to see the look on his face. Are you sure you don't mind? I'm not trying to pick you up, I swear it.”

“I'd be delighted to have a drink with you and your father. We'll have to walk, I fear—we'll never find a taxi with this rain. The Plaza-Athénée isn't far.”

“Here, let me take your package.”

“Did you come out without an umbrella?”

He gave her a sheepish nod. Carol insisted he buy one, and a few minutes later they were walking in the rain, umbrella overhead. The rain fell noisily, splattering all around, and they didn't attempt to talk. Carol felt very young and strangely carefree. The boy was charming and very American and clearly not on the make. Taxis hissed past, splattering water, and other pedestrians scurried along under their umbrellas. Rain pelted down on top of their own, but it was quite large and protected them adequately. The boy stumbled, almost losing his balance. Carol seized his arm. They both began to laugh. The doorman was appalled when, a few minutes later, they dashed into the sumptuous lobby of the Plaza-Athénée like two riotous schoolchildren. The boy folded up the umbrella and Carol removed her raincoat and they checked both, along with her package of books. She smoothed her hair down and smiled as her new friend sneezed again. His nose was even redder than before, his eyes still watering, and after he had his drink she was going to insist he take his medicine and go right to bed. It dawned on her that she didn't even know his name yet.

“It's five after four,” he said, his voice beginning to grow hoarse. “My dad will already be waiting. I can't tell you what this means to me, Miss Martin. I never for a minute believed you'd—”

“Let's not keep Dad waiting any longer,” she said.

The bar of the Plaza-Athénée was filled with sleek, soignée women in expensive designer clothes and distinguished, handsomely attired men, the atmosphere exclusive and redolent of wealth. Carol felt underdressed in her simple skirt and jersey, but her poise and cool elegance made them seem chic. Heads turned as they made their way toward a table near the back. The man seated there rose slowly to his feet, and his face turned pale. Carol saw him and felt the shock sweep over her, but she lost none of her composure. The boy introduced her to his father and Carol smiled politely, as though he were a stranger, and he managed to control his own shock and carry it off with quiet aplomb. His son suspected nothing.

“Can you
believe
this, Dad?”

“It's—quite a surprise.”

“I told her she was your favorite actress and asked if she'd join us for a drink but I never thought she'd come, never in a million years. First I had to convince her I wasn't a dope-crazed sex maniac.”

“I imagine that took some doing,” his father said.

Norman Philips helped her into her chair and asked her what she would have to drink and signaled the waiter and ordered a glass of white wine for her and a scotch for his son and another bourbon for himself. The boy's name was Cliff and she remembered now seeing a photograph of him that night in the mansion outside of Wichita. He was like a younger, heartier version of his father, muscular and vigorous instead of lean and trim, exuberant instead of suave. He told his father about their meeting at Le Drugstore and how knocked out he had been when she agreed to join them for a drink, and their drinks came and young Cliff continued to chatter merrily, pausing now and then to sneeze, his voice growing hoarser by the minute.

“I think you've about had it, son,” his father said. “I think you'd better go upstairs and go to bed. Ask them to send up a couple of hot-water bottles.”

“And be sure to take your medicine,” Carol added. “Those throat lozenges have codeine in them. They'll help immediately.”

“I can't believe this,” Cliff protested. “I'm sitting at a table with a famous movie star, and my father sends me up to bed. I
am
beginning to feel a bit woozy and feverish. I—ah—ah—” He sneezed yet again and gave Carol an apologetic look.

“Thank you again for coming,” he said. “I—uh—I guess it'd be gauche to ask for your autograph?”

“It would be gauche indeed,” his father informed him. “Go on, get out of here. Miss Martin and I will finish our drinks.”

Cliff grinned, stood up, told Carol good-bye and left the table, pausing on his way to the door for another mighty sneeze. Carol and Norman Philips looked at each other, silent, both a little ill at ease now that they were alone. She toyed with her wineglass, finding it hard to believe she was really sitting at a table with him. How many times had she thought of him over these past years? He had changed very little. His dark auburn hair was still sleek, a few silver strands above the temples now, and his deep brown eyes seemed a bit sadder, but he was still wonderfully handsome, still made her feel warm and secure and content.