The Slipper (50 page)

“The point is you wrote the book you wanted to write,” she said quietly. “You refused to compromise. You refused to make concessions to public tastes. You were true to yourself, true to your art—and you're to be admired for it. It's a wonderful book, and I'm sure—”

“Don't patronize me, Nora.”

“Patronize you?”

He was on his feet now, arms folded across his chest, brows lowered, gray eyes smoldering.

“I spend fifteen months writing, polishing, sweating,
bleeding
over every word, honing every phrase, trying to write something worthwhile that will have
meaning
and what do I get? I get zilch. You knock off a piece of crap in two and a half months and make a million bucks.”

“A piece of crap?”

“You're not going to stand there and tell me it's
literature
?”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” she said coldly. “I wrote a book a lot of people happened to enjoy. I didn't try to educate them or reform them or elevate them or change their lives, I tried to entertain them, and, on the face of it, I'd say I did a pretty damned good job of it.”

“You think I'm a fool because I don't write crap? You think I should become a whore like you and—”

“Oh, I'm a whore? I'm glad that's out in the open.”

“I have integrity. I have self-respect. I have to live with myself, and I have to write the best I can, and if the public doesn't like it, if the publishers don't want to publish it, that's just too fucking—”

Nora turned and went into the bedroom and shut the door. She called the studio and told them to cancel the limousine and then she called Jim Burke and asked him how he'd like to take a couple of nifty glamor girls to the premiere tonight and told him to pick her up at her apartment around six-forty-five and then she packed her bag. The majority of her things were still at the apartment, and it didn't take her long. James was waiting for her when she stepped out of the bedroom with bag in hand.

“There are a few books and records that belong to me,” she said, “but I haven't time to gather them up now. You keep them.”

“Goddammit! You can't walk out on me now. I need you. I need you now more than ever. You know I didn't mean what I said. You know I was just upset. I'm
still
upset. I need you, Nora. I love you. You're not walking out on me.”

“Think not?”

“Nora—”

“Good-bye, James,” she said.

She was trembling as she climbed into the Thunderbird. She backed out of the sandy drive and turned the car around and didn't look back even though she heard him calling her name. The hefty, silver-haired doorman in his neat gray uniform greeted her effusively when she reached the elegant apartment building only a few blocks from the Beverly Hills Hotel. She was one of his favorites, and he insisted on carrying her bag up for her while an assistant took over at the door. Nora thanked him, tipped him, went inside and burst into tears, but there were no signs of tears when Jim arrived at six-forty-five, stunning in a two-thousand-dollar tuxedo that was quite a change from the brown leather jacket and jeans he had worn in New York. Nora was wearing a gown of tea-colored satin, by Balmain, and looked rather stunning herself, as Jim was quick to inform her.

“Gorgeous might be a more appropriate word,” he said.

“You know—there's something about you, Burke.”

“Yeah?”

“Under the right circumstances I could go for you in a big way.”

“Wanna fuck?”

“We've gotta pick Carol up in fifteen minutes.”

“Just my luck.”

“Thanks for doing this, Jim. I know it was awfully short notice, and you probably had another date arranged. It—it means a lot.”

“You okay? Anything you wanna discuss?”

“I'm peachy, and there's nothing
to
discuss.”

“Want me to beat him up for you?”

“Let's go. Carol's a big star now, and stars don't like to be kept waiting.”

Nora was pleased with the way she looked until she saw Carol. Carol was wearing a Dior with a high-necked, sleeveless, tight tunic top completely covered with glittery pale apricot sequins, the long skirt in alternate folds of soft, swirling beige and pale apricot chiffon. Lana Turner in her heyday had never exuded more glamor.

I'm gonna kill the bitch, Nora thought.

She explained that James had been unable to make it and Jim had agreed to fill in. Carol lifted one brow but was too tactful to ask any questions. She settled into the limo with her small beige satin evening bag and smiled at Jim, whom she hadn't seen since their days in Julian Compton's class. They chatted about Claymore, about the skits they had done together, about their careers in the intervening years, and Nora sat back, silent, promising herself she wasn't going to be miserable, vowing she would enjoy herself. The terrible hurt inside would go away eventually. She was a tough, shrewd cookie from New York, not some sappy, dewy-eyed yokel, and she wasn't going to start bawling again. She was one of the best-selling writers in the country and they'd made a movie of her book and this was her night, goddammit. This was what she had dreamed of all her adult life and she wasn't going to mope and be miserable. She wasn't.

Klieg lights turned, criss-crossing the sky with silver spears outside of Grauman's Chinese Theater with its gaudy pagodas and celebrated courtyard with footprints of the stars. Barricades had been set up to hold back the mob, and there was a red carpet leading up to the entrance. Shrill screams filled the air as limousines pulled up one by one, unloading their precious cargo, and it was hokey and old-fashioned and wildly exhilarating, a throwback to the golden days of Hollywood. The crowd went wild when Jim Burke stepped breezily out of their limousine and reached in to help Carol Martin out. Dozens of teenaged girls shrieked with mad abandon and shoved forward, almost overturning the barricades. Uniformed policemen had to link arms to hold them back. The din was deafening. Flashbulbs exploded with the fury of a lightning storm as the mob yelled “Jimmy!” and “Carol!” I might just as well be invisible, Nora thought as Jim helped her out of the limo. Who's that other broad? What's
she
doin' with 'em? Jim took her arm with his left, Carol's with his right and led them toward the entrance as the girls continued to shout and the policemen strained to hold them back. A local radio station was broadcasting tonight's festivities, a jolly emcee in a flashy blue satin tuxedo standing in front of a microphone and urging Jim and Carol to step over and say a few words to our listeners. Just like
Singin' in the Rain
, Nora thought. Jesus, this is really happening, and my book is responsible for it all.

“Jim, Jim Burke! Come on over! Tell our audience how it feels to be one of the lucky folks here tonight. Jim, I needn't remind our listeners, is the star of
Market Street West
, one of the top ten shows on NBC, and he's with the glamorous Carol Martin. Come on over, you two!”

Nora tried to withdraw, but Jim pulled her forward.

“Hello, Burt!” he cried. “It's
great
to be here.
The Slipper
is going to knock 'em dead, and this little lady is the reason why. Nora Levin, author of the best-selling novel it's based upon. If it weren't for her, none of us would be here tonight.”

“Uh—Nora Levin!” Burt enthused, looking pissed: This wasn't television, after all. Who th' hell cares about chopped liver when we're surrounded by caviar. “Nora! Tell us, how does it feel to see your book up there on the giant screen?”

“I haven't seen it yet,” Nora said.

“Wonderful! And Carol! Carol Martin! We're all so glad to see you back where you belong. Carol recently won Best Actress at Cannes, and we all know about
that
! Looking forward to seeing the film, Carol?”

“I certainly am, Burt,” Carol said. “Nora and I were roommates in college, and I'm very proud for her. Even back then I knew she was going to be a successful writer.
The Slipper
is a wonderful novel, and I know they've made a wonderful movie from it.”

I'm gonna bawl, goddammit. I can feel it. I'm the luckiest girl alive to have friends like these. Fuck James Hennesey. Who
needs
him?

“Julie Hammond, who is one of the stars of the movie, was also in college with us,” Carol continued, “as was Jim. Tonight is like an old college reunion for the four of us. I hear Julie gives a magnificent performance.”

“And here she comes!” Burt cried. “Julie Hammond, the brilliant young actress! With Terry Wood, celebrated Hollywood producer who discovered her in New York and brought her here for her first film!”

Wood and Julie had just alighted from their limousine and were walking up the red carpet. The crowd was cheering. Although they had yet to see her on the screen, they'd all read about the sensitive, superlative young actress, in fan magazines, in the Sunday supplements, in the columns, in countless newspaper articles. No actress in recent memory had received such a strong buildup from a major studio. Moon-faced, bespectacled, looking more rotund than ever in his satin-lapelled tuxedo, Terry Wood proudly escorted her up to the microphone. Julie was wearing a yellow-gold silk gown with full puffed sleeves and a modest, heart-shaped neckline, the Edith Head creation bespangled with thousands of gold sequins. Her hair was a light golden-brown now, almost blonde, and her face was exquisitely made-up. She was smiling, but her enormous violet-blue eyes looked spacey and she was a bit unsteady on her feet. Nora wondered just how many tranquilizers she had gulped down in order to get through the evening.

“Terry! Julie! Step right up! It looks like
The Slipper
's going to be another box office bonanza for you, Terry.”

“We're all very proud of the film,” Wood said smoothly, “and we're all very proud of this little girl here—” He patted Julie's hand. “She's going to be a major star. We're talking Stanwyck. We're talking Shearer. She's got that special magic Hollywood hasn't seen in years.”

“How do you feel about all this, Julie?” Burt gushed.

“I'm very happy to be here tonight,” Julie said. Jesus, she sounds like a marionette, Nora thought. “
The Slipper
is a lovely film, and I'm very proud to be a part of it.”

“Great! I understand you're—Hey, listen to that crowd roar!” Burt interrupted himself. “Guess who I see coming toward us now? It's Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood, Hollywood's Happiest Couple!”

Inside the lobby, Julie and Carol embraced each other, and Nora could see that Julie was definitely out of it, so heavily tranquilized she scarcely knew where she was. Ushers in fancy uniforms led them to their reserved seats, and Nora sat down beside Carol, watching Julie smile brightly as she and Wood took their seats a few rows ahead of them. I'm going to have to speak to her again about those bloody pills, Nora thought. She's taking altogether too many, and not just the tranquilizers. I don't care if the studio doctor does prescribe them, they're turning her into a basket case. Vitamins, my ass. Jim was concerned, too, frowning as the lights were slowly lowered and the glamorous audience grew still.

Nora forgot everything else as drums rolled and the Twentieth Century Fox arc lights crossed the screen. The screen turned a misty blue, and as Johnny Mathis began to sing the hauntingly lovely theme song, a glass slipper floated through the mist, gleaming like crystal, three female hands trying to grasp it as the credits rolled. When she saw
BASED ON THE NOVEL BY NORA LEVIN
she felt the tears brim over her lashes, and she cried silently through most of the movie. That was her baby up there. Those were her characters. Nunnally Johnson had written a marvelous screenplay, true to the spirit of her novel, and Negulesco had done a brilliant job of directing. The cast was wonderful, and, as Anne, Julie was absolutely magical, completely dominating the film even though her part was no larger than the others. Sensing what she must be feeling, Carol reached for her hand in the darkness, squeezing it tightly, and there were tears in her eyes as well. Deafening applause and enthusiastic cheers filled the auditorium as the music swelled and Mathis began to sing again and the final credits began to roll.

“Thank God I didn't wear mascara tonight,” Nora said. “Do I look okay? Am I a complete mess?”

“You look radiant, darling,” Carol assured her.

“Jesus—it was—it was wonderful.”

“Pure schmaltz,” Jim said.

“Get stuffed, Burke,” Nora snapped.

By the time they arrived at Romanoff's, Nora had repaired her makeup and was perfectly composed and ready to party. Hollywood's favorite watering hole for over two decades, Romanoff's was as gaudy and outlandish as its proprietor, Prince Michael Romanoff. Born Harry Gerguson, son of a Brooklyn tailor, Romanoff claimed vague kinship with “the late Czar,” was called a prince among fellows and known as “Hollywood's only honest phony.” An engaging, beloved eccentric who claimed he air-expressed his pongee shirts to Sulka in Manhattan every week to be laundered, he was a solemn, dignified figure with close-cropped, graying hair and a bulbous nose, always impeccably tailored. He greeted them with regal aplomb, although he sniffed disdainfully at Jim. A self-proclaimed snob, he considered television actors below the salt and beneath his notice.

Romanoff also disdained the press, ordinarily barring them from his exclusive eatery, but as the studio had rented the place for the evening and invited quite a number of them, he tolerated their presence. Hedda Hopper was resplendent in a long-sleeved black silk frock with shoulder pads, cinched waist and full midcalf-length skirt, her wide-brimmed black silk hat festooned with pink velvet roses. Stephen Boyd, who had played the evil Messala in
Ben-Hur
, was at her side, even handsomer in tux than he had been in Roman tunic. Radie Harris of
The Hollywood Reporter
bounced about beaming at everyone and spreading good cheer. If one was to believe her columns, Radie had never met a major star who wasn't absolutely crazy about her and became a dear friend. Mike Connelly, from the same publication, was also on hand. Nora knew that one of the leading male columnists in town was rumored to have been a major source of information for the now-defunct
Confidential
, feeding them scandalous tidbits about the stars in exchange for their not publishing a story about his own peccadilloes.