The Slipper (16 page)

The play, by Terrence Ogilvy, had been a modest success in his native England and, on Broadway, had been the critical success of 1952, if hardly a box office smash. Fionella Reed, the noted British actress, had received the Tony for her portrayal of Charlotte Corday, the convent-bred French girl who, during the height of the Revolution, gained admission to the tyrant Marat's room under false pretenses, stabbed him to death in his bath and was subsequently guillotined. Twentieth Century-Fox had purchased the film rights amidst a veritable blitz of publicity. Ogilvy was flown over to write the screenplay and the studio bosses deemed it too stagey and gave it to Nunnally Johnson to “open up” and Johnson's script was unsatisfactory, too, and it was given to a writer who specialized in war films and, with the collaboration of a writer who had worked on an early version of
The Robe
, a “filmable” script was finally produced, the intimate stage drama transformed into a sweeping historical epic to be filmed in Technicolor and Cinemascope. Jean Simmons was announced for the part of Charlotte Corday, then Leslie Caron, then some young French actress named Brigitte Bardot who had made only a few minor films, none of which had been released in America. Like so many before it, the project languished, was repeatedly taken up and put aside, and then Eric Berne took it over and vowed it was going to be the ultimate film of his career, his
Gone With the Wind
.

Julie had read all about it in the columns. Though she would blush to admit it, she never missed Louella Parsons's column, Hedda's either, and sometimes she went to the college library and surreptitiously read
Variety
. All of America knew about Berne's Search For Corday. It had received a phenomenal amount of publicity, almost as much as the search for Scarlett two decades before. He didn't want Simmons for the part, didn't want Caron, didn't want a young French actress who couldn't speak a word of English. He wanted an American girl, someone fresh, someone new, a total unknown who would be identified forever after as Berne's Corday. Berne had been traveling all over the country for the past six months, searching for his Corday with great fanfare, accompanied by a fleet of reporters and photographers.
Life
had done a feature on the search. Movietone had done a news segment. Louella and Hedda gushed about it. Berne had gone on the Jack Paar show, talking about his ideal Charlotte, promising to present her on the show ere long. It was the Big News in the entertainment world until the announcement that Grace Kelly would marry Prince Rainier.

Cynics said in print that the whole thing was a gigantic publicity hoax, a gimmick to bolster an ill-conceived project that, if it ever
was
filmed, would undoubtedly be the biggest bomb since Hiroshima. The public wanted Marilyn in a tight fuchsia dress, wanted Brando in T-shirt and jeans, wanted Cooper riding the range with stoic expression, six-shooter at his side. A movie about an obscure French girl who stabs a guy to death in his bathtub? Ticket-buyers would stay away in droves. The same cynics were quick to point out that the temperamental and surly Berne was hardly the consummate film artist. Sure, he had directed that classic mystery film in the forties, but its success was due to its haunting, melodic theme song and the ethereal beauty of its leading lady. Most of his films were glossy garbage, many of them box office duds, and he had never repeated the success of
Megan
. Now he was going to make a huge Cinemascope epic about an eighteenth-century French chick who murders a tyrant and gets her head lopped off for the trouble, starring an unknown, a ribbon clerk from Chicago, a farm girl from Nebraska. Good luck, Eric. The search had been going on for far too long, he was milking it now, and the Kelly-Rainier wedding had easily eclipsed it. The public was beginning to lose interest, was beginning to be as cynical as his critics. When all was said and done Jean Simmons would probably play the part. They were going to invest all that money in an unknown?

Despite his critics, despite the growing lack of interest by both the public and the news media, German-born Berne continued to trudge across the country, and now he was right here at Claymore. Over seventy girls had applied to read for him, girls from all over Indiana, not just students, and Berne had set up a tight schedule in order to accommodate them in two days. Berne was a personal friend of Compton's, staying with Compton and his wife rather than stopping at a hotel, and the readings were being held at the little theater on campus where, two months ago, Dee Patrick had given a superb performance as Laura in
The Glass Menagerie
. Dee had read for Berne yesterday, and Julie was scheduled to read at three-thirty this afternoon, Carol at four. I can't go through with it, Julie told herself, adding a few spices to the tuna salad. It's absolute madness. I'll get up there and … and I won't even be able to open my mouth. Madness. Why would they even consider me for Corday when there are so many beautiful girls like Carol and so many genuinely talented girls like Dee to choose from?

Julie had read the original play and had been moved to tears, particularly by Charlotte's final speech to her fellow Frenchmen before she steps up onto the scaffold to be guillotined. She
felt
the part, felt the young woman's strength, compassion and nobility, her love for her country and her willingness to sacrifice her own life in order to save that country more grief. When she was reading the play, Julie had become Corday, and she knew—yes, deep down inside, she
knew
—she could play it. Compton thought so, too. He had asked her to send in her application to read for Berne, had sent her to a photographer he knew to have a flattering picture taken. The photographer was a genius. He had carefully applied makeup to her face first, covering the blemishes, and then he had spent almost an hour arranging lights. The results were incredible. Julie could hardly believe that soulful, sensitive, attractive girl in the photograph was actually her. And he hadn't charged her a penny, said he was doing it as a favor to Compton. That remarkable photograph had been sent off along with her application and this afternoon she was supposed to show up at the theater and read for Eric Berne.

She hadn't told Doug anything about it, of course. There was no need to antagonize him. There were only three days of classes left now and final exams were upon them. Doug had taken two, had three left, and he was literally studying night and day. There was no need for him to know about it. Bobbie, who worked at the Silver Bell on Sundays, had agreed to work for her today—Julie would work for Bobbie next Sunday—so she had the entire day off. It wasn't like trying out for the spring play, she told herself. That had been impossible. There had been a strong chance she would actually get the part of Laura, and she couldn't have taken off work for rehearsals. She hadn't a prayer to win the role of Corday, but … but if by some amazing fluke she did, there would be a great deal of money and she could put Doug through the next two years of law school with ease, and they could move to a nicer place. She'd come back here after the movie was completed, of course, and Doug would be so very proud of her and … Dream on, Julie, she thought wryly. You've been spending too much time with Nora, listening to all that nonsensical talk about getting the slipper. Things like that happen only in the movies. They don't happen to girls like me.

Doug liked his sandwich bread lightly toasted. She put two slices into the toaster and pushed the lever down. Doug was upstairs on the rooftop now, wearing bathing suit and T-shirt, stretched out on a rubber pad, reading his text. May had been unusually warm, and now, in its last week, it was summertime and the flat was almost unbearable, like an oven. Julie didn't mind it so much, she had learned to ignore the heat, but Doug couldn't stand it. He complained constantly, was touchy and irritable, lashed out at her sometimes without the least cause. He was studying so very hard, of course, and he
was
sensitive to the heat. Perhaps, if her tips were generous enough, she would be able to buy a small window unit air conditioner before it got much hotter. Maybe Mr. Graffa would allow her to work longer hours this summer. There was no reason why she couldn't as Mr. Compton wouldn't be conducting classes during the summer. Julie wished he were. She hated to think of going for three long months without that glorious stimulation, that joy.

Little by little, under Compton's careful guidance, she had lost much of her shyness in class, had begun to participate far more than she had earlier. Only last week she had done a scene with Jim Burke, he playing a hoodlum, she playing a gum-chewing streetwalker, and when it was over the whole class had burst into wildly enthusiastic applause and Carol had hugged her tightly and Jim had scratched the side of his head and peered into the distance and mumbled, “Hey, Chick, you're somethin' else, ya know, outta sight.” It was still painful, she was still petrified with fear at first, but it was so stimulating, so exciting that she didn't mind nearly as much as she had. Far from resenting her, the other students seemed actually to be rooting for her, seemed to be proud of her progress. She had promised Compton that she would try out for the next play—they were doing
Summer and Smoke
in the fall—and if she got a part she would simply make some kind of arrangements with Mr. Graffa or whoever she happened to be working for then. Doug wouldn't like her doing it, he'd raise holy hell, in fact, but she'd worry about that when and if the time came. Acting was … it was the only thing she had that was
hers
. Everything else she did for him.

Julie took the toast out of the toaster and made his sandwich and put it on a blue plate and sliced it into two neat triangular halves. She took down the potato chips and poured them into a bowl and put the bowl onto the table along with the sandwich. Doug liked things neat when he ate, and she tried to make each meal, however humble, a small ceremony. One day they'd have lovely china and real silverware and she'd be able to serve something besides bologna and tuna fish sandwiches and canned soup. Folding a paper napkin, placing it beside the plate, Julie left the flat and entered the main building and started up the flights of stairs leading to the rooftop. She hoped Doug had remembered to take his suntan lotion. She'd hate for him to get sunburned. Opening the door, she stepped out onto the rooftop, momentarily blinded by rays of brilliant sunlight.

“—might be fun,” a low feminine voice said.

“Yeah, it might at that.”

Julie heard laughter then, tinkling, feminine laughter, then Doug's husky chuckle. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she peered across the roof, and there was Doug in his old red swim trunks and a white T-shirt, sitting up, arms curled around his knees, grinning at a girl in short white shorts and a yellow halter top. She had long, lovely auburn hair and deep-blue eyes and a beautiful body. Julie recognized her immediately. She was Anne Hendricks, a twenty-two-year-old student who was divorced but still living in the third-floor apartment she had shared with her husband. Anne said something to Doug and he chuckled again and then looked up and saw Julie and frowned. Julie moved closer, her step hesitant.

“You want something?” he asked gruffly.

“I—”

Her throat was tight. Why should she be embarrassed? Why should she be ill at ease? She tried to speak, but the words remained frozen in her throat as Doug glared up at her, his eyes sullen behind the horn-rims. Anne Hendricks smiled an enigmatic smile, amused, and, in one lithe, graceful movement, rose to her feet, her sleek auburn hair swaying. “See you later,” she told Doug, and then she moved past Julie with that enigmatic smile still playing on her lips. Her body glistened with a light film of perspiration, and Julie could smell her perfume. Anne Hendricks was a glorious female animal, glowing with health and sensual allure so potent it was almost tangible. How long had she been up here with Doug? What had they been talking about? The door closed as Anne left the roof, and Julie still couldn't find her voice. Doug scowled and picked up the law book he had abandoned beside the rubber mat.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I—I just came up to tell you lunch is ready,” Julie said.

She turned then and left the rooftop and went back down the long flights of stairs and back to the flat, and she stood in the kitchen, staring at the refrigerator without seeing it. She had a strange, hollow feeling inside, in the pit of her stomach, and her throat felt tight. Was this jealousy? Julie had never experienced anything like it before, but there had never been a reason before. Doug spent a great deal of time alone while she was working, yes, and many, many nights he stayed late at the law library, studying, but she had never … never given it a thought. He was a handsome man and on the few occasions when they were out together she noticed girls looking at him, but Doug wasn't … he wasn't interested in that. He wasn't interested in anything but making the best grades, being the top man in his class. Of late he hadn't even made love to her that often, and when he did it was almost like an afterthought. Immersed in his studies, he ignored her much of the time, moody and irritable, lashing out at her when she did something wrong or something failed to suit him.

She heard him entering the flat. He came into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping on the worn linoleum. He pulled out his chair, sat down, gave an exasperated sigh. Julie turned around, trying to put the mutinous thoughts out of her mind. His T-shirt was damp with sweat, and his hair was damp, too, a spray of errant locks tumbling across his brow.

“Where's my milk?” he asked sullenly.

“I—Doug, I'm sorry, I forgot to buy any yesterday.”

“Goddammit! Can't you remember anything?”

“I could make some iced tea,” she said.

“I don't want tea. You know I like a glass of milk with my sandwich. Is that too goddamned much to ask? I bust my buns studying night and day, trying to make the grade, and you can't even remember to buy groceries!”