The Slipper (59 page)

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.

Carol put the photographs aside and the memories continued to sweep over her: their first meeting there on the road in front of the cornfields, their first evening together, Norman so tender, so concerned when he discovered she was a virgin. Paris and Cliff and Le Drugstore and seeing Norman in the bar of the Plaza-Athéneé. Together in Paris, the wonderment of it, the happiness they shared, the champagne feeling that filled her with blissful inebriation. St. Tropez, lunch on the terrace of the quaint old restaurant in town proper and Sir Robert arriving in his gleaming beige Rolls-Royce and her decision to make
Knaves Like Us
and that heart-wrenching drive along the coast to the airport. Their final moments together, the look in his eyes, his hands squeezing hers. His last words to her.

Night had fallen and the apartment was dark, shafts of moonlight streaming in through the balcony windows. Carol did not turn on the lamp. She sat on the sofa, holding a cushion to her bosom, and the grief was as real and as strong as it had been that day. “See you in the movies, my darling,” he had said, and then he boarded the plane and she had not heard from him since, not a single word. She had kept in touch with Cliff. She sent cards to him and Stephanie every Christmas and on their wedding anniversary and she had sent a lovely baby gift when she received an announcement of the birth of their son. She heard from Cliff on occasion, brief, chatty letters that rarely mentioned his father. He was opening a new mall. Stephanie was pregnant again. Carol had given him her new address and telephone number and also a number he could use to reach her at the studio. He hadn't called, of course. There was no reason for him to call. It was foolish to keep on exchanging cards and notes, but he was her one link with Norman, and if Cliff had her number perhaps Norman would ask for it one day and … Foolish thought, foolish fantasy.

Carol strolled out onto the balcony and stood there gazing at the multicolored lights that shimmered in the night. They were misty, all blurred together, but that was because of her tears. Here I am, she thought, on top of the world, yes, and all alone, and I love him still. I will always love him. I've made it. Against all odds, I've made it. I've achieved my goals, and I am here where I've always wanted to be and Norman is in Wichita and I haven't heard from him once in all this time. How is he? Is he happy? Does he remember, too? Her lounging gown was thin silk and the night air was cool and she folded her arms around her waist, ignoring the cold. Why did I decide to make that movie? Why didn't I fly back with him? We could be together this very moment. I have it all now, Hedda said in her article, but I had to give up so much. So much. Is it worth it? Carol rubbed her arms, shivering as a cool breeze swept across the balcony, causing the curtains behind her to billow. Why can't I forget? Why must I miss him so after so long?

Carol went inside, and she slept very little that night. She spent the next day with Danny at Disneyland, and that was a blessing. He was delightful and they had fun and it helped a great deal. They rode the rides and saw the haunted house and the wild west show and ate corny dogs and tacos and saw the grand parade and Snow White gave Danny a kiss on the brow. Carol was exhausted Sunday night, but she felt much better. She put the photographs away in a bottom drawer and vowed she wouldn't look at them again. At five-thirty the next morning she was driving to Universal on still-dark streets and assuring herself she had made the right choice.

During the fifties, Universal had been the undisputed home of the B movie. With their stable of attractive and talented young contract players, the studio churned out splashy, hokey Technicolor entertainments that delighted a nondiscriminating public and caused cash registers to ring. Rock Hudson was
Taza, Son of Cochise
and Tony Curtis played
The Prince Who Was a Thief
with a pronounced Bronx accent. Julie Adams fought off the advances of
The Creature from the Black Lagoon
and young Lori Nelson captured his fancy in the sequel. There was a plethora of sex and sand dramas with Yvonne DeCarlo and countless westerns with a wooden Audie Murphy back in the saddle again and again. However, with their spectacular successes with
Pillow Talk
and
Imitation of Life
two years ago, the emphasis had now shifted to bouncy, mildly risqué comedies and elaborately mounted women's pictures like
Mannequin
.

Carol drove through the gates and parked in her allotted space. The sun was just beginning to come up, the enormous gray sound stages still nested in shadow as she trudged wearily over to makeup. A buxom and very bleached Mamie Van Doren was gossiping happily with her makeup man as he did her cheekbones. She gave Carol a friendly wave and crossed a pair of extremely shapely legs. Carol climbed up into her chair. A sleepy Suzanne Pleshette was in the next one, having her face done for
Forty Pounds of Trouble
. An exuberant and freckled Doris Day breezed in, radiating high spirits and carrying a huge bag of doughnuts which she cheerfully distributed.

“How can you be so perky at this hour of the morning?” Carol demanded, accepting a doughnut.

“I don't know. I just wake up that way.”

“I'd wake up that way, too, if I were going to spend the day making love to Cary Grant,” Mamie quipped.

Doris grinned. She and Grant were currently filming
That Touch of Mink
, another bright comedy which should help insure her position as the number one box office attraction in movies.

“I hear you're going to work with Faye Holden today,” she said, bouncing up into her chair. “Are you nervous?”

“I'm petrified,” Carol confessed.

“I met Faye at a party once,” Mamie informed them. “She scared me silly.”

“Faye's all right,” Suzanne said sleepily. “Just treat her like royalty and watch your back.”

Carol was full of nervous apprehension as, at eight-thirty, she stood by her trailer, watching the technicians finish lighting the set. She was wearing a simple, exquisite white satin gown with long, narrow sleeves and padded shoulders. It had a modestly low sweetheart neckline, fitted waist and long, narrow skirt. An opulent cascade of white fox furs went with the outfit, but she hadn't donned them yet. The lighting director yelled final instructions to the crew and asked Faye Holden's stand-in to move a little to the right so they could get a proper fix. Carol's stand-in had already been lighted. The drawing room set was sumptuous, all pale yellow and off-white and muted gold, a huge white dish of bronze and golden orchids on the low white coffee table. No expense was spared in a Ross Hunter production. The public wanted luxurious sets and glamorous people in elegant clothes, he knew, and that's exactly what he gave them—with resounding success.

Carol lighted another cigarette. Everything was ready. Faye Holden had yet to appear. David Miller strolled over and gave Carol a reassuring smile. Faye would be here in a couple of minutes, he told her. She was far too professional to be really tardy, but she always had to make the grand movie star entrance. He was right. Two and a half minutes later Miss Faye Holden did indeed appear, and her entrance was unquestionably grand. Accompanied by her secretary, her own hairdresser, her own makeup woman and a winsome young man whose duties were unclear, she moved with majestic hauteur, smiling that famous glazed-eye smile and nodding graciously to one and all.