The slipper, p.45
The Slipper, page 45
“Any idea what your next film will be?” he asked.
“It’s to be a comedy, as yet untitled, and the script is delightful. I play Sandra Dee’s prim, extremely straitlaced older sister. I take her under my wing after our parents die and am horrified by her boy-crazy shenanigans. She keeps telling me I should loosen up and enjoy life and, under her guidance, I do just that during a vacation in Palm Springs. I get drunk, do a striptease in a bar, captivate John Gavin, the family lawyer, whom I’ve rebuffed repeatedly during the first reel. It’s witty and charmingly risqué, a soufflé that should be a lot of fun to film.”
“When do they start filming?”
“In March, I believe. I’ll have a few weeks off between films.”
“And after the second one, you’re free, right?”
Carol nodded. “I refused a long-term contract. I signed to do only two films for Universal. I’m pretty sure they’re going to offer me another contract and I may well sign, but—I didn’t want to be tied down, in case something more interesting comes along.”
“Very wise of you,” Dougherty said.
He started toying with his coffee cup again, and Carol could see that he had something on his mind. She finished her own coffee and watched his long, elegant fingers curling and uncurling around the thick white cup.
“You say you like to read, Miss Martin. Tell me, have you ever heard of a book called Remember Dennie Lane? It came out a number of years ago, got a few glowing reviews, promptly sank into oblivion. It’s about a young girl in Texas during the depression. Her family was very wealthy, lost everything in the crash, and after their father’s suicide Dennie and her older brother have to try and salvage the wreckage. Dennie’s an intelligent, compassionate, extremely sympathetic character who happens to have one fatal weakness.”
“Men,” Carol said. “She’s a nymphomaniac, driven by compulsive desires she can’t control. I read the novel when I was in high school. It was beautifully written and terribly sad.”
“You’ve actually read it?” Dougherty was amazed. “It couldn’t have sold more than a couple of thousand copies.”
“One of them was purchased by the Ellsworth Public Library. I believe I was in the eleventh grade when I checked it out. I found it very moving, and the ending was heartbreaking. I cried when she strolled across that deserted oil field and tossed her cigarette aside and the field caught fire and flames sprang up all around her. I’m sure there was a lot of symbolism I didn’t understand at the time, but—I remember Dennie Lane. The book is still vivid in my mind after all these years.”
“It would make a wonderful film,” he said.
“It certainly would,” Carol agreed.
“I own the film rights,” he confessed.
“Oh?”
“I bought them outright when the book came out. I’ve been trying to get a workable screenplay for quite some time. I finally turned it over to Mary Loos and Richard Sale and they’ve written a magnificent script. It captures the essence of the book yet works beautifully in cinematic terms. I’m hoping to start production in late summer.”
“How exciting,” she said.
“I’d like for you to read the script, Carol.”
“I—I’d love to read it.”
“I’ve been searching for the right actress to play Dennie for quite some time, too. A couple of years ago I happened to go to an art theater to see a movie called And the Sea Is Blue, primarily because I’m an admirer of Maurice Ronet’s work. When I saw your performance as his restless, love-starved wife I said to myself, ‘There’s my Dennie.’”
“I’m very flattered.”
“At that point I still didn’t have a working script, and then a new project came up and I was deeply involved with it, but—I hadn’t forgotten you. When I met you at Romanoff’s, I knew my initial reactions were right. You’ve got all the qualities the part requires.”
The waitress came over to see if they wanted anything else, and he shook his head. Carol said nothing more about the part. She would indeed love to play Dennie Lane, it could be the role of a lifetime. If Blake Dougherty still wanted her when she had finished her commitments at Universal, he would contact her agent. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt for her to read the script. Mary Loos and Richard Sale were two of the best in the business, and if Dougherty was pleased with it, it was bound to be superb.
He gripped her elbow lightly as he guided her through the door. He was so tall, so elegant in his gray suit and wine-colored tie. His thick silver hair was handsomely styled, kept that way, no doubt, by the best barber in L.A. Carol smiled up at him as they stepped outside.
“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Dougherty.”
“Can I give you a lift?” he inquired.
“My car’s in a lot just a few blocks away.”
“I see. I—” He hesitated a moment, looking into her eyes. “I wonder if you might like to come to brunch tomorrow. My wife is ill and I no longer give parties, but for several years friends have come to the house for brunch every Sunday. It’s a casual thing and I’ve kept it up even though Lolly is—even though she is no longer able to serve as hostess. Christopher Isherwood and Don Bacardy will be there, Dick and Mary, three or four others. I’d like it very much if you could join us.”
“I’d love to,” Carol told him, “but unfortunately I have a date.”
The disappointment was clearly visible in his eyes.
“Of course,” he said. “I should have realized that a young woman as attractive as you would naturally be booked up for weeks in advance.”
Carol had to smile at that. Not a single male had asked her for a date since she arrived in Hollywood. She had gone to a couple of parties with Jim Burke and Nora, but that didn’t count. Contrary to popular belief, men didn’t hotly pursue single young actresses. They were either intimidated by the fame or, like Dougherty, assumed she would already be booked up. Many a lovely and world-famous star spent Saturday night alone, sitting beside a phone that never rang. It was not something that caused Carol much concern.
“My date is with my four-year-old godson,” she confessed. “My friend Julie Hammond is in Arizona, filming a western, and because of the rugged conditions she couldn’t take Danny with her. I promised her I’d stop by and see him now and then and help keep him amused. Tomorrow I’m taking him to Disneyland.”
“I see.”
Was she imagining it, or did he look relieved?
“Perhaps you’ll come some other Sunday,” Dougherty said. “It’s been very pleasant talking with you, Miss Martin. If you’ll permit me, I’ll send you a copy of the script and maybe we can discuss it later on.”
“That would be lovely.”
Carol gave him her new address, and Blake Dougherty handed her her package of books. He took her hand for a moment, gripping it firmly. You’ve a very lovely man, Carol thought, and you’re a very lonely man, too. She smiled and thanked him again, and Dougherty released her hand. He seemed reluctant to let her go. They stood there in front of the ice cream parlor for another moment and he finally smiled a sad smile and said good-bye. Carol walked on down the boulevard toward the side street where her car was parked.
She thought about the encounter as she drove home. Blake Dougherty was an important and powerful man in Hollywood, and he was undeniably attractive and appealing, but Blake Dougherty was married and he was over thirty years her senior. She would love to work with him, but she didn’t intend to see him again unless it was in a professional capacity. She had worked too hard, too long to get where she was to risk it all by getting involved with an older married man, however platonic their relationship might be. Blake Dougherty wanted sympathetic companionship at this point, but Hollywood gossip would interpret it otherwise, and she couldn’t afford that. Carol had sacrificed Norman for her career, and she wasn’t about to jeopardize it now for a charming stranger who needed someone to help him through a difficult time.
Carol left her car in the underground parking garage and took the elevator up to the lobby. Although the studio had volunteered to help her find a house, she had rented the penthouse apartment here in the building where Nora lived. It was completely, luxuriously furnished, and when her things had arrived from storage she was able to add homey, personal touches. Carol picked up her mail and rode on up to the penthouse. She wished Nora was here now, a long, lively chat would be a great boost, but Nora had left four days ago for a month in Mexico City, where she would be gathering information for an article for Cosmopolitan magazine.
Putting books and mail on the coffee table, Carol removed her soft apricot coat and hung it in a closet, surprised to see that it was after five already. The sun would be going down soon, the myriad lights of L.A. springing up like multicolored jewels flashing in the night, and Carol would spend another Saturday night all alone. With Nora in Mexico City, with Julie filming a “psychological” western under strenuous physical conditions in Arizona, with Jim busily squiring half the shapely starlets in town, there wasn’t even anyone to pal around with. You’re on top of the world, she reminded herself. You’ve finally made it, starring in a multi-million-dollar production for one of the major studios. Carol changed into a loose, comfortable lounging gown and went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tomato juice. Returning to the living room, she phoned Hannah and asked to speak to Danny.
“Ready for Disneyland tomorrow, sweetheart?” she inquired.
“Oh, I am, Auntie Carol. Can we ride all the rides? Can we go see the haunted house?”
“I’m game if you are. I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty. We’ll spend all day. What have you been doing with yourself today?”
“Nothing much,” he said glumly. “I watched television for a while, but Hannah made me turn it off, said it was gonna ruin my eyes. I wanted to put on my suit and go swimming, but she won’t let me go near the pool unless I’ve got an adult with me who can swim. She can’t,” he added.
“Poor baby. Maybe we’ll go swimming when we get back from Disneyland tomorrow. I bought you a surprise today!”
“What is it?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I miss Mommy,” he said in a plaintive voice.
“Of course you do, darling. I miss her, too. She’ll be back in just a few weeks, and in the meantime you and I will do lots of fun things.”
“I wanted to see the cowboys and horses,” he whined. “I wouldn’t mind living in a crummy motel in a tacky little town and driving twenty miles in a jeep to location every day. Mommy hates it. She cries every time I talk to her. She didn’t want to go to Arizona. Those meanies made her, and she only got to fly home for three days for Christmas.”
“I know, darling, but—you go to bed early tonight,” she said, changing the subject. “I’ll buy you a pair of Mickey Mouse ears tomorrow, and you can wear them all day.”
“Okay,” he said, still glum. “Bye, Auntie Carol.”
“Good-bye, darling.”
Carol sipped her tomato juice, thinking about Julie. She had defied the studio by having Danny join her in New Hampshire and telling the press of her early marriage, thus destroying the studio’s carefully constructed “image” of her as a virginal young girl. As punishment, they had put her into the western three weeks after she returned in the role originally scheduled for Diane Baker. Carol had read the script and knew it was a grueling role indeed. Julie was playing the wife of stern, sanctimonious lawman Jeffrey Hunter, who is also the preacher in a small Arizona community. When he hangs their partner, outlaws Neville Brand and Ray Danton burn his ranch and abduct Julie. After being brutalized and abused by both men, she manages to escape, only to be rejected by her husband, who considers her sullied. In the climax of the film, Julie is trapped in a mountain cabin with her severely wounded husband. When the outlaws advance, seeking final revenge, she takes her husband’s rifle and kills Danton and, when he breaks into the cabin, stabs Brand with a knife. A poor man’s High Noon, with overtones of Duel in the Sun, it was violent trash that would undoubtedly fare well at the box office, but Carol knew the harsh, demanding role must be totally demoralizing to someone with Julie’s sensitive nature.
Something had happened to her in New Hampshire. Carol didn’t know what it was—Julie hadn’t discussed it with her or with Nora either—but she had returned with a stoic resignation her friends found alarming. She was drinking more, taking more pills and, according to reports, her conduct on the set had become erratic and unprofessional. She had had a bitter fight with Ralph Carpenter, the director, did not get along with her costar and had failed to show up for work several times, claiming “nervous exhaustion.” The press had learned of it, of course, and several stories had appeared, the most damaging by Miss Louella Parsons, who informed her readers that success had gone to Julie’s head, that she was entirely too fond of her liquor and that her temperamental outbursts were causing serious and expensive delays in the filming of Fury in Leather. Louella was taking her revenge on Julie for giving the story of her marriage to Hedda, but the piece had appeared nationwide in syndication and had done considerable harm to Julie’s reputation.
It was all the studio’s fault, Carol knew. They should have given Julie time off after Jerico’s Castle, but as soon as interiors were completed, they had shipped her off to Arizona to do this new film. Julie had not had a decent rest period since arriving in Hollywood, had been put into one demanding role right after another, and very few young actresses today could stand that kind of pressure. The studio had spent a fortune launching Julie as the new Maggie Sullavan, and they didn’t seem to know or care that they were destroying the very qualities they should most protect. Several of the older Hollywood greats were publicly lambasting the old studio system that had held them in bondage, Bette Davis and Olivia De Havilland among the most vocal, Kathryn Grayson and Esther Williams bad-mouthing MGM now that they were working independently. While to some this might seem like gross ingratitude to the studios that had made them famous, Carol realized that they had valid reasons to complain about their years of servitude.
A seven-year contract meant that one was completely at the studio’s beck and call, a chattel, a commodity to be utilized as the studio saw fit. While it had definite advantages, it had even more drawbacks. A vital young talent like Piper Laurie could be held back, publicized as the starlet who ate flowers and put into a series of outlandish costume swashbucklers, totally wasted until she broke away from her studio and electrified Hollywood with her brilliant performance in Until They Sail and, most recently, in The Hustler. The old studio system was breaking down now, Julie’s one of the last of the seven-year contracts. Carol privately wondered if she would be able to last it out without cracking up completely.
Sighing, she finished her tomato juice and picked up her mail, delighted to see a thick letter from Gaby. At least someone was doing well. Gaby had completely recovered from her morphine addiction and was leading a much quieter life, working as she had never worked before. A Journal to Myself had already been published in France to much acclaim and was a strong contender for the Prix Goncourt. Opening the letter, Carol discovered two thin pages and a smaller, sealed envelope. Gaby breezily informed her that the new novel was coming along wonderfully, that she had purchased an elegant town house in Paris and had met a marvelous man, a magazine publisher forty years old who absolutely adored her and was keeping her in line. He made the gorgeous youths of her past seem trivial indeed, Gaby confessed and added that a wedding just might be forthcoming in the near future. In closing, she wrote that she had discovered the enclosed photographs this past week when she had been cleaning out her desk and thought Carol might like to have them.
Carol put down the letter and slit open the thick envelope. The photographs spilled onto the coffee table in scattered disarray, a few of them color, the majority black-and-white. Oh God, she thought. Oh God, no. I don’t need this now. I don’t need to be reminded of those golden days. I’ve tried so hard, so long to forget, and now … Damn you, Gaby. You didn’t do it deliberately, you thought you were being kind, but … Carol picked up one of the pictures and gazed at it. There she was, sitting at the table on the terrace in St. Tropez with Cecil Saint-Laurent, he looking like a chic pixie in his white linen suit, she so thin and tan, her hair clipped so short, cork trees visible in the background. Norman had been playing cards with Jacques that afternoon while she and Cecil chatted about novels, and, yes, here was a snapshot of the two of them, Jacques blond, bronzed, wearing only a minuscule swimsuit, gazing down at his cards in consternation, Norman in striped jersey and white chinos, looking so very relaxed, with the wind ruffling his rich auburn hair, eyes half shrouded as he placed a card on the table.
Here a picture of Gaby, looking bright and insouciant and very French in sandals, shorts and halter top, watering the plants on the terrace. Jacques must have snapped this picture. Here Gaby and Jacques together, he still in the brief swimsuit, his arm around her shoulders, Gaby still holding the pitcher and looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Norman had snapped that one. Carol clearly remembered him crossing the terrace with camera in hand, remembered Gaby’s merry laughter and Jacques’s cries of protest when she poured the pitcher of water over his bare shoulders. The memories came flooding back as she picked up yet another photograph, she and Norman walking along the beach, Norman in his white chinos and a loose, light-blue cotton shirt with the tail hanging out, she in a billowy dress of thin white handkerchief linen, both of them barefooted, waves washing the sand at their feet. The sun had been like a golden ball that day, its rays bathing them with warmth, and he had smelled of salt and sand and sweat and they had made love as soon as they returned to their room at the villa.
His body, the silken smoothness of his skin as she rubbed her palms over the musculature of his back, his weight, the warmth of him, his hands tenderly stroking her cheek, her hair, her breasts, his mouth covering hers and the blissful abandon as late afternoon turned to evening and the crickets chirped in the night as they lay entwined. Carol put down the snapshot and picked up another, Norman alone, incredibly handsome in black tie and white dinner jacket, hair dark and glossy and neatly brushed, a faint smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he gazed into the camera. They had gone to the casino and he had admired her red chiffon gown and Gaby had lost a small fortune at the tables and Jacques had gotten into a heated argument with one of the croupiers. They had watched dawn breaking over the water, the sky gray and then pink and gold and the water suddenly ashimmer with millions of spangles, Norman’s left arm curled around her shoulder, her red chiffon skirt billowing in the breeze as they strolled to one of the open-air restaurants and had strong coffee and croissants and watched the fishermen taking their boats out.
