The Slipper (66 page)

“If Newman has any sense, he'll tell them to go take a flying fuck at the moon.”

Marty was appalled. He was dramatically appalled, his reaction exaggerated and overdrawn, like that of a hammy old silent screen actor. Julie pulled cigarettes and lighter out of the pocket of her skirt. A short while ago when they were fitting the dress she was to wear to the Academy Awards she had been a trembling wreck, on the verge of another panic attack, and now she was absolutely calm, as calm as she had been in months. She lighted a cigarette, unconcerned about Marty's reaction.

“You've got to do this one, Julie,” he said finally. His voice was very stern.

“I don't intend to.”

“You've got a contract. They'll put you on suspension.”

“Let them.”

“Julie, baby, you're upset, and you're not thinking clearly now. I know the pressure you've been under since the nominations were announced. Everyone wants a piece of you, right? Everyone wants to jump on the bandwagon. You've been deluged with reporters and photographers and I know it's been rough, particularly after Arizona, but—”

“I'm tired, Marty.”

“I know you are, doll. Believe me, I understand—”

“I need a long rest. I need to spend some time with my son. I need to breathe.”

“Of course you do, baby, of course you do.” His voice was kind now, kind and reassuring. He was humoring her as he might humor a not-too-bright child. “I know what you've been through, sweetheart, and just as soon as this film is in the can I intend to see you get a—”

“I'm not doing the film, Marty.”

“But—”

“You're my agent, right? You represent
me
. You take ten percent of every penny I earn. So represent me. Tell them I can't do the film because of my health. Tell them—I don't care what you tell them, Marty. You'll think of something.”

“They're not going to like this, Julie.”

“That's too bad.”

“They'll place you on suspension, and—baby, something like that, coming at a time like this, it could do you a great deal of harm. It could influence the judges. It could cost you an Academy Award.”

“I don't give a shit,” she said. “If you'll excuse me now, I'm going to have lunch with my son. I haven't seen him since early this morning.”

“They—”

Julie didn't wait around to hear the rest of the sentence. She left the study and went upstairs to the nursery where she found a glum Danny gazing out the window at the swimming pool in back and a bored Mrs. Anderson reading a paperback novel. Mrs. Anderson was stout and middle-aged with short dyed-blonde hair and flat brown eyes. Julie wasn't at all satisfied with her, but she had had to find someone quickly when Hannah left for New Jersey, and Mrs. Anderson was the best of the lot she'd interviewed. She had only been here a week and a half, and Danny already detested her. Mrs. Anderson would have to do until she had time to find someone better.

“Ready for lunch, darling?” she inquired.

Danny turned. He frowned. Mrs. Anderson put down her paperback and got heavily to her feet. She was wearing a white uniform. She had insisted on it herself. She felt it gave her more professional standing.

“He's been a naughty one this morning,” she said. “Marked all over the bathroom walls with his Crayolas, threw his Tinker Toys and his log cabin logs all over the floor.”

“We'll discuss it later, Mrs. Anderson. Come along, darling. I've asked them to set the table out on the patio by the pool. It's a lovely day. We're going to have shrimp and avocado salad and delicious homemade rolls.”

Danny scowled. He picked up Roscoe and hugged him to his chest and moved sullenly out the door. Roscoe was the giant black-and-white panda Lund Jensen had won for him at the shooting gallery in Maine. Danny had scarcely let Roscoe out of his sight since they returned from New Hampshire almost five months ago. Julie caught up with him and they went downstairs and out to the patio. The sun was shining brightly, and it was unusually warm, spring already in the air in mid-March. The white tiles around the pool gleamed, and the blue water sparkled with silvery reflections.

“Can we go swimming after lunch?” Danny asked.

“I'm afraid not, darling. Mommy is going to be busy.”

“I never get to swim. The pool's out here and it's heated and no one ever lets me go in. Why do I have to have an adult with me? Why can't I go in by myself?”

“You don't really know how to swim properly yet, darling, and the water's very deep.”

“Not in the shallow end, and I have my life jacket.”

“Maybe we'll go swimming later on this afternoon after I get through with my interview.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I'll just bet.”

Danny parked Roscoe in a chair, took one himself and, propping his elbows on the edge of the table, rested his chin on his fists. He looked for all the world like a miniature of Doug, with his glossy brown hair, his slate-blue eyes and that sullen mouth. Julie felt a pang as she looked at him. Danny scowled again as the servant brought out the salad and the hot rolls and two tall glasses of iced tea.

“I wanted a hot dog and chili,” he said, “and a Coke.”

“You love shrimp and avocado salad. It's one of your favorites.”

“It's one of
your
favorites. I just eat it to be polite.”

“Be polite, then.”

“I wanna have lunch with Auntie Nora. She always lets me have anything I want. Last time she ordered a whole pizza just for me. With anchovies,” he added.

“Auntie Nora's too busy to have you over for lunch right now. She's just started her new book and she's working night and day.”

“No one has any time for me,” he complained. “I might just as well run away. I could join a circus or something.”

“What would you do in a circus?”

“Feed the elephants,” he said, buttering a roll. “I hate that woman upstairs.”

“You don't really hate her, darling.”

“I do so. I miss Hannah. Why'd she have to leave for?”

“I explained it before, Danny. Hannah's brother-in-law passed away. Hannah had to go stay with her sister in New Jersey. Her sister has three little ones and her husband did not leave her much money and she's had to go to work. Hannah is taking care of the little ones.”

“I didn't want her to go.”

“I didn't either, darling, but it was something she had to do. She waited until I got back from Arizona to leave. We'll see Hannah again. Maybe we'll go visit her one day.”

“You'll be too busy,” he said. “You're always too busy to do anything. I
hate
shrimp and avocado salad.”

He was surly throughout lunch and misbehaved abominably and Julie finally told him if he wasn't going to eat he could go to his room. Danny gave her a savage look, grabbed up Roscoe and trotted back into the house. My son is becoming an unruly little monster, Julie thought, and I have no one to blame but myself. He isn't really naughty. He's very, very loving, but he needs attention and I've given him precious little of that recently. Julie finished her iced tea as the sunlight sparkled on the water, worried about Danny, wondering what she was going to do with him.

He
was
becoming unmanageable, growing worse day by day, it seemed, and Julie realized that she really was to blame. She was indeed always too busy to do anything with him. He'd been left here with Hannah during all those weeks she was working in Arizona, and as soon as she got back the Academy Award nominations had been announced and she hadn't had a moment's peace. She and Danny had gone out together once, just once, to Farmer's Market, and then she had hurried him home after spotting the man from Arizona. Hannah had left for New Jersey, and that had been a trauma for him. Hannah represented security, stability, and now she was gone and he was left with nothing but a nursemaid whom he detested and a mother who barely had time to see him during the day. It isn't right, she thought. It isn't fair. Danny means more to me than anything in this world, and…

Staccato footsteps sounded loudly on the tiles. Julie turned to see Helga marching briskly toward her, a prissy expression on her thin face. I don't like that woman. Why do I put up with her? Why do I put up with any of this? Why should I?

“The makeup man and the hairdresser are here,” Helga announced. “They are in a bit of a hurry, so—”

“Send them away,” Julie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Send them away. I won't be needing them. And cancel the photo session. I'm not doing it. I'm not doing the interview, either. Why should I? Why should I speak to that awful, vicious woman who's said so many terrible things about me in her column? Why should I do anything I don't want to do?”

“Miss Hammond, I—I really must protest. The studio is paying me to see that you—”

“Fuck the studio,” Julie said.

Helga Lundquist was visibly shaken. Her face was white, her painted red lips and brown tortoiseshells standing out in sharp contrast. It took her a moment to gather herself, and when she spoke her voice was like ice.

“I'll have to report this,” she said.

“Do that, Miss Lundquist, and after you've finished making your calls I want you to leave. I don't want you in my house any longer.”

Helga whirled around and marched back into the house. Julie lighted a cigarette. The studio would be furious. When Marty told them she refused to do the film and they saw she meant it, the studio would undoubtedly place her on suspension till she came round. She discovered that she didn't care one way or the other. I'm not going to have a panic attack and I'm not going to take a tranquilizer and I'm not going to have a drink. I'm going to be strong. I'm going to take charge. She smoked her cigarette and watched the sunlight reflecting on the pool. I won't let them force me to make the picture, she vowed. I need some time off. I need some time with Danny. I need some time to pull myself together. Julie sat there in the sunlight for a long time, finishing her cigarette, smoking another, and she was surprised when Helga came back outside. She was carrying her purse and a small briefcase.

“I sent the makeup man and the hairdresser away,” Helga said crisply. “I canceled the photo session, and I canceled the interview. Miss Parsons was not at all happy.”

“She'll get over it,” Julie said.

“I'm going back to the studio now, Miss Hammond. They're not going to be at all happy, either, when I tell them what has happened. I refuse to be held responsible. I've done my best, and—”

“Good-bye, Miss Lundquist,” Julie said.

Helga gave her a look and left. Julie heard a motor revving a few minutes later. She felt a sense of freedom she hadn't felt in a long time, and she sighed. No photo session. No interview. No one pushing at her, pulling at her, probing. The telephone would ring, of course, but she didn't intend to answer it. Julie stood up, brushing a wisp of hair from her temple. The rest of the day was hers. She and Danny would go swimming, and later on she would take him out for a hot dog with chili and then, perhaps, to see the revival of
Dumbo
currently playing in BelAir. She went inside and had just started up the stairs when the front doorbell rang.

“Damn,” she said.

She didn't wait for one of the servants. She answered the door herself and she was not really surprised to see Gus Hammond standing there. He held a large manila envelope. She knew what was inside it. She knew why he was here. Everything fell into place, and she understood now. He looked older than he had looked when he came to see her in New York. He looked smaller, more wizened, a little old man with dried skin and lined face and stale blue eyes that glared at her with hatred and disgust and determination. The tailored brown suit, the tooled leather cowboy boots, the string tie and silver-and-turquoise tie holder that had seemed incongruous in New York seemed conservative here in Beverly Hills.

“You're not surprised to see me?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said.

I'm not going to let this upset me. I'm not. I'm going to handle this calmly.

“Please come in, Mr. Hammond.”

He stepped into the foyer, and Julie shut the door and led him into the spacious living room. Hammond glanced around with extreme distaste and then those icy blue eyes settled on her, taking in every detail. Julie was acutely aware of her uncombed hair, her old white blouse and rumpled brown skirt. She looked like hell and she knew it and that put her on the defensive. She needed a drink badly. She wasn't going to have one. She did light another cigarette. Her hand trembled slightly as she did so.

Hammond held out the manila envelope.

“I think you'd better look at these,” he said.

Julie took the envelope and opened it and pulled out a sheaf of eight by ten photographs. They were black-and-white and not very good, their poor quality emphasized by the enlargement, but they were effective nevertheless. Julie coming out of the liquor store in Arizona with hair in her eyes, wearing an old cotton dress, carrying a brown paper bag with bottles clearly visible. Julie and Neville Brand standing outside her room in what could be construed as a passionate embrace. An obviously drunk Julie climbing into one of the jeeps. Julie and one of the stuntmen. Julie and Jim out by the pool, his arms around her, her head resting on his shoulder. The man must have used a telescopic lens for that one, Julie thought. She wondered where he had been when he took it. In a neighboring yard? She glanced idly through the rest of the photographs, then stuffed them back into the envelope.

“Your man has a lot to learn about photography,” she said. “I should have known he was yours. It—it never entered my mind. I thought he was some demented fan.”

Hammond took the photographs from her and put them on the coffee table. Julie finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the crystal ashtray, and she felt shaky inside, despite all her good intentions.