The Slipper (68 page)

“Bet this is the first time he's ever parked a lowly Thunder-bird,” Nora told Carol. “He's used to Rolls and Mercedes and the occasional Bentley. Do I look all right in this dress? You sure they're not gonna take one look and throw me out?”

“Stop playing the hick,” Carol scolded. “You've had lunch here dozens of times.”

“Yeah, and I've never gotten used to it. Do you think we might see some real live movie stars?”

Carol gave her a look of mock exasperation and they stepped into the elegant lobby. Nora was wearing a gold-and-tan striped sundress—it was like summer today—and Carol looked cool in pale beige. People stared discreetly as they entered the Polo Lounge. It's this knockout body of mine, Nora told herself, this gorgeous face. The fact that Carol's an international star has nothing to do with it. As the maître d' prepared to seat them at one of the much-coveted banquettes, Carol politely asked if it would be possible for them to be seated outside on the patio. No problem whatsoever. Hell, he would've tossed Darryl F. Zanuck out on his ass in order to make room for Carol. They were seated at a choice table under the Brazilian pepper trees, surrounded by tan, blond, beautiful people who all looked as if they had just stepped out of a bandbox. Carol waved to Sylvia Wallace, who was lunching nearby with Jorja Curtwright, the former actress married to screenwriter Sidney Sheldon and one of the great ladies of Beverly Hills, Carol informed Nora.

“I've met Jorja,” Nora said. “She's Hollywood's most gracious hostess, a renowned interior decorator as well.”

Mrs. Sheldon looked up, spied Nora and smiled warmly. Nora smiled back and lifted her water glass to her.

“Want some lunch?” Carol inquired.

“You treating?”

“Naturally.”

“Something light, then. I really came here to drink.”

Carol ordered a bottle of chilled Pinot Chardonnay, Royal squab and some beluga malossol caviar. Nora made another wisecrack. Both of them were sad, both of them trying valiantly not to show it. Sunlight filtering through the leaves of the pepper trees made dancing patterns of light and shadow over the table-top.

“Jesus,” Nora said. “I'm going to miss her.”

“So am I,” Carol told her, “but she seems to be in very good hands. I fell in love with Lund.”

“Me, too. I hate to admit it, but I was tempted to bang Julie over the head with some heavy object and run off with him myself. Not only is the man absolutely gorgeous, he's intelligent and level-headed and tremendously efficient as well. Julie phoned him and tried to act casual but after a few minutes she broke down and started crying and told him about Gus Hammond and the studio and all the pressures she's been under, and Lund told her to stay put. He took the first plane to L.A., arriving the next morning. Then he simply took charge.”

Their wine arrived, and as the waiter was uncorking it and pouring, Nora thought about the past five days. Julie had called the studio and calmly informed them that she was breaking her contract and leaving Hollywood for good and all hell had broken loose. The press went wild, Julie's “defection” making headlines all over the country. Parsons had penned a scathing column in which she pointed out that the studio had invested a huge fortune in building Julie up and now all those hundreds of thousands of dollars were a total loss because of Julie's “rank ingratitude.” That was the kindest thing she wrote, and she ended her column with a stern warning to Shirley Jones and Diane Baker and other up-and-coming young actresses, telling them they'd best be grateful for all Hollywood had done for them as there were hundreds of girls waiting out there to take their places if they didn't toe the line. Louella made no mention of those millions of dollars Julie's films had made and would continue to make for the studio. Fox was rushing the last two out just as soon as possible in order to capitalize on the notoriety.

“To Julie,” Carol said, lifting her glass.

“To Julie.”

They drank, and then Nora sighed.

“She'll never work in this town again, of course.”

“She doesn't want to,” Carol pointed out. “The theater has always been Julie's first love. If and when she feels the urge to act again, New York is just a short train ride from South Medford. If the right part came along, I feel sure Lund would be very supportive.”

“I know he would. She looked radiant at the airport, didn't she?”

“So did Danny. I've never seen him so happy.”

“Did-ja see him stick his tongue out at all the photographers while Lund was fending off the press? That kid's something else. I—uh—I guess this blows the Oscars for her, too.”

Carol nodded. “Rumor has it that
The Miracle Worker
is going to make a grand sweep now, Anne Bancroft for best actress, Patty Duke for best supporting actress. I—I feel certain Julie would have taken home at least one of those awards if this hadn't happened.”

“She didn't get an Oscar,” Nora said, “but she got her happy ending. I'd say that's a pretty good trade-off.”

“So would I,” Carol agreed.

“I'll tell you one thing, love—Julie's gonna be a helluva lot happier than you or I will ever be. She's lucky. She isn't cursed with driving ambition and a burning desire to scale the heights. She has exactly what she's always wanted.”

“I—I almost envy her,” Carol said wistfully.

Nora gave her a sharp look. “Don't bullshit me, Martin. You wouldn't give it all up for
any
man, and you bloody well know it.”

“I don't suppose I would,” Carol confessed.

“Neither would I. It was different with Julie. Julie got the slipper, all right, but it never really fit.”

Nora took another sip of the deliciously cool wine. The waiter brought the caviar along with minced onion, chopped-up boiled egg and a tray arranged with thin slivers of toast. Carol watched with a thoughtful look in her eyes as Nora heaped caviar onto one of the slivers.

“You know,” she said, “it's funny about the slipper. All three of us grew up believing in the myth. We all had the dream and we all got the slipper and I—I suppose we all expected to live happily ever after. They tell you about the slipper but—they don't tell you about the sacrifices you have to make. They don't tell you about the hardships and the heartaches. They don't tell you there
is
no happily ever after.”

“This is it,” Nora informed her.

“I suppose it is.”

“Pretty damn grim, isn't it? Caviar. Pinot Chardonnay. You an internationally famous film star, me a best-selling novelist. I may start bawling any minute now.”

Carol had to smile. “I may, too.”

“I
love
being a best-selling novelist,” Nora said.

“And I love being an internationally famous film star.”

“Eat your heart out, world. We've got it made. Who
needs
Mr. Right?”

“Who indeed?”

“I've got my work, and this new novel I'm doing is fabulous—it's gonna knock 'em dead. Ross has already turned down half a million bucks from Simon and Schuster, he believes we can get more with a complete manuscript in hand, and film rights are gonna go through the ceiling. Every morning when I wake up I can hardly wait to get to my typewriter.”

“I feel the same way about reporting for work.”

“So there you are,” Nora said.

They drank their wine and nibbled on caviar, and then the waiter brought their Royal squab. He refilled their wineglasses. Nora gave him a winning smile. The leaves of the pepper trees rustled faintly in the breeze, casting more dancing patterns of sunlight and shadow, and all around them was the low hum of cultivated voices and the tinkle of ice cubes.

“I read about Lolly Dougherty's death,” Nora remarked. “I imagine Blake was pretty torn up about it.”

“He was,” Carol said.

“You've seen him?”

“Night before last. We discussed a film project he wants me to do this fall. He'd sent me the script some time ago—it's wonderful.
Remember Dennie Lane
. I'm definitely going to do it.”

“Blake Dougherty is a very handsome man.”

“He is indeed.”

“I imagine he could use a lot of comforting just now.”

“Eat your squab, Nora.”

“Who
knows
what the future might bring? Maybe there's someone out there for me, too.”

“Maybe there is.”

“It isn't as though either of us is over the hill. I'm just twenty-five years old—barely out of the cradle—and there's still plenty of time. Mr. Right could be just around the corner. Just think, Carol, we might both end up having it
all
.”

“It's possible,” Carol agreed.

“In the meantime, I'm having the time of my life.”

“So am I.”

“Let's drink to the future,” Nora said.

“Let's.”

“And to Mr. Right—wherever he might be.”

“Why not?”

They exchanged a look. Both of them smiled.

“In fact, love, if you don't think it'll break you, you might just order another bottle.”

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1987 by Jennifer Wilde

Cover design by Julianna Lee

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9824-6

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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