The Slipper (64 page)

“So?”

“So let's have one more margarita and call it a night.”

“Having fun?”

“You betcha.”

“It's high time,” he told her.

The hotel was only four blocks away and Nora suggested they walk and they did, the limo creeping alongside at a snail's pace. Jim was singing “La Cucaracha” at the top of his voice and Nora told him to cool it so he sang “La Cucaracha” in a whisper. Nora dismissed the limo in front of the hotel and gave the driver a generous tip and told him he had been a peach and then she linked her arm in Jim's and they went into the lobby. Jim stumbled on the rug. He didn't mean to knock over the rubber tree plant. He set it upright immediately and patted the waxy green leaves and looked very sheepish. Hell of a place to put a rubber tree plant, he muttered, right in a fellow's path. Why'd they want to do that for? Nora gave an exasperated sigh and took a firmer grip on his arm and guided him toward the stairs leading to the lower level.

“Where're we going?” he asked.

“The coffee shop is open twenty-four hours. I'm going to get you several cups, maybe some scrambled eggs and toast as well.”

“Yuck!”

“Listen to me, Burke, and listen good. We're going down the stairs now. I want you to be very, very careful. I want you to hold onto my arm and hold onto the handrail, too. If you fall down, I'm going to leave you sprawling there and pretend I've never seen you in my life. Is that clear?”

“You don't have to be so bitchy about it. A person'd think I was drunk.”

“A person just might,” she agreed.

“You were the one drinking all those margaritas.”

“Yeah, and I happen to be able to hold my liquor. Here we go. One step at a time. Watch it. Take your time. There, you're doing just fine. You're doing great.”

“I'm not a baby!”

“That's a matter of opinion, love.”

The coffee shop was brightly lighted and surprisingly crowded. They weren't the only ones who needed to recoup from a night on the town. Nora got Jim safely ensconced in one of the bright orange vinyl booths and he stared glumly at the cactus plant on their table and the rainbow-hued menus. A waitress in colorful native attire breezed over and gave them a big smile and Nora ordered a pot of strong black coffee. The girl looked at Jim and shook her head as if to say, “These Americans!” and hurried away. Jim slouched down on the seat and squinted his eyes against the bright lights. A spray of black locks had tumbled across his brow. His bow tie was all crooked. His elegant white dinner jacket was badly creased. He had never looked more endearing. Nora reached across the table and smoothed the locks from his brow.

“You'll feel better after you've had some coffee,” she said.

“I love her, Nora.”

“I know you do, darling.”

“There's no hope for me. She told me so. She said I would always have a place in her heart, but she could never love me the way I want her to love me. She said she hoped I would always be her friend.”

“I'm so sorry, Jim.”

“I worry about her. She—those pills they've been giving her. We both know what they are. They keep her going, she said. Metro gave 'em to Garland to keep
her
going, and look what happened to Garland. She's off 'em now, says she doesn't need 'em when she's not working, but she's as thin as an alley cat and every bit as jumpy. She's cut down on the liquor since she got back home, confines herself to white wine, but—”

Jim cut himself off, looking absolutely miserable. The waitress returned with a pot of coffee and two cups and saucers. Jim stared down at his cup as she filled it with the thick black brew.

“I make it extra strong,” she said.

“Thank you,” Nora told her.

“There's something else,” Jim said as the waitress left. “She—she's become paranoid. I think it must be the pills. She claims someone is following her, keeping track of every move she makes. There was a man in Arizona, a guy in a pickup trunk. He was staying at the same motel and kept his eye on her, made notes on what she did, who she was with. She says the same guy followed her back to L.A., says she saw him at Farmer's Market last week. She's cracking up, Nora.”

“She just needs a long rest, darling. Julie's a lot stronger than anyone gives her credit for being.”

“There's no hope for me. No hope at all.”

Jim drank four cups of coffee and, at Nora's insistence, ate an herb omelet and two pieces of dry toast. It was after four in the morning when they left the coffee shop. Jim looked wretched, but he was able to make it back up to the lobby without any help. He was silent as they rode up to her floor on the elevator. Nora took her room key out of her evening bag when they reached her door. Jim sighed and took it from her and unlocked the door, and then he looked into her eyes.

“Thanks, babe,” he said.

“I had a great time, Jim. I loved the margaritas, and I've always wanted to learn the Mexican Hat Dance.”

“I—uh—I'm sorry I got so maudlin downstairs. I didn't mean to spoil your evening, but Julie's been on my mind and I guess—I guess I just had to talk to someone.”

Nora nodded and reached up to smooth back the spray of locks that had tumbled across his brow again, and then she straightened his crooked bow tie. He shook his head, looking into her eyes again.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You're a pretty terrific girl,” he said.

“And you're a terrific guy.”

“It's a shame it couldn't have been the two of us, isn't it? We would've made a great team.”

“The best,” she agreed.

“I love you, babe.”

“I love you, too.”

Jim smiled and gave her a huge hug, and Nora went on into her room. Both of them were still hung at two the next afternoon as his limo took them to the airport. The stewardess in first class asked them if they would like a drink before takeoff and Jim groaned and Nora shook her head politely. The stewardess was excited about having Jim Burke on the flight and Nora hoped she wasn't going to be a pest. Jim gripped her hand as the motors revved up and they began to move down the runway. He really
was
frightened of takeoff! He damned near broke her fingers before they were finally airborne and the plane leveled off, and then he promptly fell asleep. Some company you are, she thought bitterly.

The stewardess had bright red lips and bright red nails and wore a clinging navy blue uniform that made her look like a Barbie doll. She fluffed her blonde hair and smiled and said she thought Mr. Burke looked a bit ill.

“Mr. Burke's a bit hung,” Nora said sweetly.

The stewardess took the hint and bustled away to see to the needs of other attractive men, grudgingly serving the women. Jim lolled over in his seat, resting his head on her shoulder. Her heart swelled with affection. He was a wonderful man and she was damned lucky to have him in her life, even if he wasn't Mr. Right. Friends lasted a hell of a lot longer than lovers. Poor Jim. He wouldn't win Julie, no—Nora understood why, even if he couldn't—but one day he would meet the right girl and she would make him very happy. Hell, she thought, one day I might even meet the right man. In the meantime, who
needs
him? I've got the best friends in the world, and I've got my writing. That's what it's all about. No man could ever give me the feeling I get from pounding the keys and watching the pages pile up. This new book's gonna be fantastic. It's gonna knock 'em right off their rockers.

Nora felt a wave of elation as she thought about the book taking shape in her mind. She could hardly wait to get home and get to work on it.

18

Julie stood very, very still and told herself she was not going to crack. She was not going to scream. She was going to be calm. She was going to be pleasant. The studio had arranged everything. They were being so cooperative now, so concerned, so helpful. She had been nominated for not one but two Academy Awards and she was their Golden Girl and so they had sent the dress over here, along with the fitters, to save her a trip to the studio. The studio was paying for the dress. The studio was providing the limousine that would take her to the theater. The studio was providing her escort, a very handsome young actor who needed to have his name linked with a hot property. Property. That's what I am, she thought. I'm their property. Jesus, sweet Jesus, don't let me crack. Her heart started palpitating and she could feel the trembling in her legs and she knew it was tension, she knew it was nerves. She wasn't going to collapse.

Julie took a deep breath and willed the panic away.

They fluttered around her, two slight, fussy young men, one blond and one brown-haired, the blond Rick, the other Ralph, and Brenda, a stout, mannish woman in a tailored black suit. They pulled and tugged and pinned, treating her like a wax dummy, discussing her as though she weren't there. I wish she were taller, this skirt needs more length to flow properly. The bodice isn't dramatic enough, we need more padding. A creation like this requires boobs, not a washboard. Pale oyster-gray satin overlaid with light violet chiffon aglitter with silver and violet-blue sequins. The full skirt is fine but the short puffed sleeves and heart-shaped neckline make her look like the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi. That's the look they want. Young. Fresh. Innocent. They gonna put a bow in her hair? Julie closed her eyes, her knees shaky. The dress was gorgeous, designed especially for her, and it had cost a fortune. She detested it. As they worked with their pins and their tape measures Julie looked at herself in the full-length, three-sided mirror the studio had sent over.

Who is she? She is much too thin and her face is drawn, devoid of makeup, the eyes as big as saucers, it seems. Frightened eyes. The golden-brown hair is too golden, it isn't my hair. Who is she? She is a stranger. She isn't me. Not me. I'm trapped inside her. I've got to get out. Someone has to help me. Help, she cried silently, please help me, and the fitters continued to work and chat and the telephone shrieked and she heard the crisp, efficient voice of the secretary the studio had hired to handle the calls and keep her on schedule. Yes, four o'clock, Miss Parsons, we're looking forward to seeing you.

The secretary stepped to the door. She was a spy. The studio had sent her here to spy. I'm not being paranoid. I need someone to watch after me. I need someone to help me cope with all the appointments and demands, the studio says. Helga will stay with you until after the awards ceremonies. Helga will take care of everything. You need her, Julie baby. We're watching out for you. We've got your best interests at heart. No need for you to be bothered with all those calls, all those bothersome details. Helga will keep the show running. This isn't a show, Julie thought. This is my life. Why didn't I tell them that?

“Are you almost finished?” Helga asked the fitters.

“Just a few more minutes,” Brenda said.

“Miss Hammond's agent will be here to see her at eleven o'clock and after that she has to eat lunch. At two o'clock there's a photo session by the pool and at four Miss Louella Parsons will be here to do an interview.”

“We've got our work to do, too, sweetie,” Ralph told her.

“She's wearing this dress to the Oscars,” Rick added. “It's being televised. Millions of people are going to see this dress.”

“Speed it up!” Helga ordered.

Helga was tall and thin and wore brown tortoiseshell glasses and had her drab blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on the back of her neck. In her navy blue suit and white blouse she looked like a testy Nina Foch. The phone rang again. She turned on her heel and marched briskly out of the room.

“Hate to meet her in a dark alley,” Ralph said.

“I don't know,” Rick replied. “Might be interesting.”

“Finish that hemline,” Brenda told them. “We've got to get back to the studio and work on the Barbara Rush gown and finish up the costumes for Sheree North.”

“All right, sweetie,” Rick told Julie a few minutes later. “You can get off the stand now. You can take off the dress.”

“Mind the sequins,” Ralph warned.

“Here, love,” Brenda said, leading her toward the screen. “Let me help you.'

“We supposed to take the mirror back with us?” Rick inquired.

“I'm certainly not hauling it out to the van,” Ralph informed him. “I'm paid to work on costumes, not do menial labor. They want it back they can get some rednecks out here to
bring
it back.”

Behind the screen, Brenda helped her out of the dress and folded it carefully and placed it in a long flat box. Julie put on her white blouse and her brown wraparound skirt. She ran her fingers through her too-golden hair, and then she lighted a cigarette. The fitters left, gossiping merrily about another actress who was mysteriously gaining weight and would undoubtedly be visiting an abortionist as soon as the Powers That Be discovered she was knocked up again. Julie drew on her cigarette, the butt crackling. Helga marched back into the room.

“The studio's sending over a makeup man and a hairdresser at one,” she said. “I'm afraid you won't be able to linger over lunch.”

“Why?”

“I just explained, Miss Hammond.”

“Why are they sending over—”

“The photo session. Parsons. They certainly can't photograph you looking like that. And we want to make a good impression on Parsons.”

“Of course,” Julie said. “We must kowtow to Louella.”

“One of the press agents from the studio will be here to help you through the interview.”

“Of course,” Julie said.

“Is something wrong, Miss Hammond?”

“What could possibly be wrong?” Julie asked.

There was an edge to her voice. Helga didn't like that. Helga would undoubtedly report her to the studio. Helga can go fuck herself. Why don't I tell her that? Why do I let them do this to me? Why? I'm a human being, not a robot to be wound up with a key and set into motion.