The Slipper (49 page)

“So how does it feel to be an international superstar?” she asked.

“Scary,” Carol said. “Everyone pays much more attention to me now, but inside—” She paused, reflecting. “Inside I feel exactly the same. I wonder why everyone is making such a fuss.”

“You're a certified heroine, kid, turning the other cheek to Berne, standing up for your country. You made the cover of
Time
. You made the cover of
Newsweek
. You can do no wrong.”

“And it can all vanish in no time flat. How well I know. I was on top once before, remember? America's Favorite Cinderella. It's taken five years for me to live that down. What if I bomb again?”

“You're gonna be a smash, love. Universal's handing you the moon. They've got a big investment to protect.”

“I—I'm not too sure about this first film,” Carol confessed. “It's a remake of an old Fannie Hurst novel, pure soap, but they're updating it. Ross Hunter is producing. That means jewels, furs, haute couture, elaborate interior decoration, someone like John Gavin as costar.”

“And that means socko box office, love.
Imitation of life
had 'em standing in lines for hours, made buckets of money.
Back Street
with Susan Hayward didn't do so bad, either. Hunter knows exactly what he's doing. He's single-handedly trying to bring glamor back into movies, and the public's starved for glamor.”

“I'm banking on that,” Carol said. “I need a big box office success. I debated about signing with Universal. Fellini has a new project and he wanted me to do it, something about an unhappy married woman who lives in a Technicolor fantasy world. It sounded fascinating, but—I don't want to become Queen of the Art Houses. I want to work in America, so Giulietta Masina is going to play the part and I'm going to star in
Mannequin
.”

“You made the right choice,” Nora assured her.

“I hope so. I can't afford to flop a second time.”

Nora whipped around a florist's delivery truck and into the next lane and speeded up even more, keeping an eye out for the Highway Patrol.

“Julie wanted to be here to meet you, too,” she said, “but she's in the middle of another film.”

“How is she, Nora?”

“Not too well. They're working her to death, and she's under tremendous strain. Her life's not her own, she claims. The studio is giving her a huge buildup. If she's not working in front of the camera she's giving interviews or posing for stills or ‘being seen' at all the right places with carefully selected male starlets.”

“I remember that scene well,” Carol said.

“Julie hates it. The studio runs her life completely. They rented her house and hired her servants. They furnish her car and select her clothes and supervise her social life—all in her own best interests, of course. They don't want her to ‘worry' about anything. They also don't want the public to know she's been married and has a child, not good for her image, so Danny is a deep, dark secret.”

“You don't mean it?”

“She'll adjust to it all eventually, I suppose, but sometimes—sometimes I feel almost guilty for getting her into this. We spend as much time together as possible, which isn't much with her schedule. Hannah came to California with them, so Danny's well taken care of. Julie asked me to give you her love and tell you she's looking forward to seeing you.”

Nora took an off ramp and they were soon cruising through the swank environs of Beverly Hills, sumptuous mansions, dazzlingly neat lawns, glitzy shops and boutiques. Palm trees stood sentinel in majestic rows. Flowers bloomed in lush profusion. Nora drove more slowly, savoring the luxury of it all, and Carol took a cigarette from the silver cigarette case with art deco designs in gold. She lighted it with a matching silver-and-gold lighter.

“What a beautiful lighter,” Nora remarked. “Did Sir Robert give that to you, too?”

“Jean-Claude gave it to me. He swiped my cigarette case and took it to a jeweler and ordered him to design a lighter to match. He gave it to me at the airport in Paris, just before I left. He was supposed to be filming that afternoon, but he played hookey to see me off.”

“Miss him?”

Carol nodded. “He was a delightful interlude, nothing more, but I'll always be fond of him. Our parting was jolly and light-hearted but sad nevertheless. I'm afraid I cried. Jean-Claude's eyes were moist, too. We both have our careers to think of, and I doubt we'll even write, but—it was nice while it lasted.”

“I guess you've gotta be philosophical about these things.”

“You do if you want to survive,” Carol said quietly.

Nora stopped for a red light on Sunset Boulevard and then drove even more slowly as they neared the hotel.

“How is Gaby, Carol?” she asked. “Has she fully recovered yet?”

“She'll walk with a slight limp for the rest of her life, but she's doing marvelously well. She's still in a nursing home for the morphine—she became addicted to it—a purely medical thing. She was in so much pain and they had to give her so much—she simply couldn't withdraw from it all at once. It's almost under control now. She'll be leaving in a couple of weeks, and she hasn't been idle. She's been writing a magnificent book. It's called
A Journal to Myself
, about her treatments at the nursing home and her reflections on her work, on life, on love, on the perils of early success.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“It's unlike anything she's ever done before, as good as anything Colette ever wrote, and it's going to put her right up there with the greats. The
enfant terrible
of French letters has grown up. I suppose it's something we all have to do eventually.”

Surrounded by palm trees, emerald-green lawns and beautifully tended flower beds, the Beverly Hills Hotel stood in all its gaudy pink splendor, site of many a juicy scandal, birthplace of many a recordbreaking deal. Carol was expected. A car jockey whisked Nora's car away. A doorman opened the door with a dramatic flourish. Inured as they were to celebrity, the staff was nevertheless extra attentive and obsequious as Carol entered. It was as though royalty had arrived. Warren Beatty and Joan Collins were just stepping out of the Polo Lounge. The hot young actor and the English beauty paused for a moment, watching. Beatty seemed to be watching with a bit too much interest. Collins tugged his arm and urged him on. The desk clerk looked a bit apprehensive as an unsteady Laurence Harvey staggered toward the men's room a young blond athlete had just entered.

The studio had made all the arrangements, and Carol and Nora were escorted out to the bungalow that had been reserved for her. Four of the bungalows, Nora knew, were still kept by Howard Hughes. One was for Hughes, one, a quarter of a mile away, was for wife Jean Peters, and one was for his eight Mormon bodyguards. The fourth bungalow was left empty and no one was allowed inside, not even maintenance men. Nearby was the bungalow where Yves Montand and Marilyn Monroe had conducted their noisy affair after Simone Signoret departed for Paris. Each bungalow was a. compact little mansion, and Carol's was choice, in the back, away from the street noises.

“Jesus,” Nora said, surveying the splendor. “The studio's certainly giving you first-class treatment.”

A bottle of Dom Perignon was chilling in a silver bucket. There were baskets of fruit and a tray of fancy hors d'oeuvres. The spacious, elegantly appointed sitting room seemed to be aflood with white and salmon-pink roses. It impressed the hell out of Nora. Carol accepted it all with her customary composure, idly picking up the room-service menu.

“Had lunch?” she inquired.

Nora shook her head.

“Hungry?”

“Famished.”

Carol placed a call, and a short while later a waiter arrived with lunch, baked potatoes smothered in sour cream and caviar a la Maxim's in Paris, Elizabeth Taylor's favorite meal, the waiter confided. He uncorked the champagne for them, filled two crystal flutes and made his departure, pocketing a generous tip.

“And to think we used to slop around the dorm, munching on Fritos,” Nora observed.

“Those were the days,” Carol said. “We've talked about everyone else,” she added. “Now I want to hear all about you and James Hennesey. I read the books you sent me. He's a brilliant writer.”

“That's the problem,” Nora told her. “He's so bloody brilliant the average reader feels intimidated. They pick up one of his novels, say, ‘Hmmm, this looks interesting,' and then take a copy of
The Carpetbaggers
over to the cash register.”

“He's very attractive,” Carol said.

Nora nodded. “And you've only seen pictures of him. He's the most magnetic man I've ever met, positively crackling with sex appeal. He's moody and often sullen and sometimes very tender and always thoughtful and quite jealous and—Jesus! I love him, Carol. I don't feel like I'm my own person anymore. My whole life seems to revolve around James and his moods. I'm either walking on eggshells, trying not to wound his fragile ego, or walking on clouds, full of amazement that a man like James could possibly be interested in me.”

“He must be very special.”

“He is. He's no knight in shining armor, and he's not Mr. Right, either, not unless you happen to be a dyed-in-the-wool masochist. He's thorny and infuriating and complex and—I must be out of my fucking mind.”

“You've got it bad.”

“And that's not good. I know. I've never been in love before, and I'm not at all sure I like it. Oh, I was fond of Brian, but I wasn't in love with him—not like this. He represented all that I wasn't, all I could never be, and that was the chief attraction. With James it—it seems he's a part of my very soul. We've had some terrific rows. I've moved back to my apartment here in Beverly Hills half a dozen times, but he always comes after me, always persuades me to come back to Malibu with him.”

“When am I going to meet him?”

“Tomorrow night. He's taking us both to the premiere. I—I hope I haven't painted too black a picture. James is a wonderful man, and he can be very charming, he usually is, but he's so concerned about the new book and I'm making so much money and—oh, shit! Let's have some more champagne.”

“I'll order another bottle,” Carol said.

Nora was in a very good mood as she sped back to the beach house the next day. It had been very late when she returned yesterday. After all that champagne, it had seemed unwise to get behind the wheel of a car, so she and Carol relaxed and talked and then it was time for dinner and Carol insisted she stay and time seemed to evaporate and it was after nine when she got back to Malibu and James was frantic. He'd been phoning her apartment for hours, phoning all her friends, had been on the verge of phoning the police when she finally came in. He seized her, glared at her furiously, then crushed her to him and held her tightly and told her he'd almost gone out of his mind. He hadn't bothered to find out where Carol would be staying, had, in fact, forgotten that she was picking Carol up at the airport. Nora was extremely flattered by his concern. He might be a moody son of a bitch, but he cared. He genuinely cared. It was a cool evening. He lighted a fire in the fireplace and piled rugs in front of it. What followed was sheer enchantment.

In jersey and jeans, he had walked along the beach with her this morning, his arm curled tightly around her shoulders, and he had cooked a big breakfast and told her about the idea for a new book that had come to him as he was driving back from Long Beach. He was jotting down notes as Nora left to drive into town to fetch his old tuxedo which she had exhumed from moth balls and carried to the cleaners the week before. It hung in the backseat now, enshrouded in a black plastic bag. Turning off the freeway, she headed for the beach, excited about the premiere. The studio was sending a limousine, and they were to pick Carol up at seven. It was going to be a glorious evening.

She knew something was wrong the minute she stepped inside, tuxedo bag in hand. Notes abandoned, James was sitting at the window and gazing moodily out at the water, still wearing the faded jeans and gray-and-black striped fisherman's jersey, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He didn't look up as she came in. Both dogs were very quiet, as though sensing his mood and afraid to agitate him. Sturm thumped his tail. Drang whined softly. Nora could hear the waves washing the sand on the beach down below and the distant shriek of a sea gull.

“I'm back,” she said brightly. “The cleaners did a marvelous job on the tux. It might be a shade old-fashioned with those wide black satin lapels but I'm gonna be so gorgeous no one'll pay any attention to you.”

He looked up. He didn't reply. Nora went into the bedroom, hung the tuxedo up in the closet and returned to the main room, ready for battle. She was not going to let anything spoil this evening. She'd been looking forward to it for weeks. In a sense she'd been looking forward to it all her life.

“Ross called,” she said.

“Ross called,” he told her.

“So?”

“He sold the book.”

“Terrific.”

“Putnam's bought it. They paid the generous advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. That's three thousand five hundred. According to Ross, I was damned lucky to get that. Seems every other publisher in New York turned the book down flat as a poor risk.”

“Putnam's is a fine house. They'll—”

“Goddammit, Nora, didn't you hear what I said? I got peanuts for a book I put my heart and soul into. They'll print it up, slip it into the stores in the dead of night and it'll die, just like the last one, just like the one before that. Three thousand five hundred! You'd think I was a first novelist. You'd think I didn't have a reputation, think I hadn't sold two books to Hollywood and won awards and—goddammit, what's the point!”