Whispers (3 page)

She had written the script without the security of a signed contract, strictly on speculation, and she had made up her mind to sell it only if she was signed to direct and was guaranteed final cut. Already, Warners had hinted at a record offer for the screenplay if she would reconsider her conditions of sale. She knew she was demanding a lot; however, because of her success as a screenwriter, her demands were not entirely unreasonable. Warners reluctantly would agree to let her direct the picture; she would bet anything on that. But the sticking point would be the final cut. That honor, the power to decide exactly what would appear on the screen, the ultimate authority over every shot and every frame and every nuance of the film, usually was bestowed upon directors who had proven themselves on a number of money-making movies; it was seldom granted to a fledgling director, especially not to a fledgling
female
director. Her insistence on total creative control might queer the deal.

Hoping to take her mind off the pending decision from Warner Brothers, Hilary spent Wednesday afternoon working in her studio, which overlooked the pool. Her desk was large, heavy, custom-made oak, with a dozen drawers and two dozen cubbyholes. Several pieces of Lallique crystal stood on the desk, refracting the soft glow from the two brass piano lamps. She struggled through the second draft of an article she was writing for
Film Comment
, but her thoughts constantly wandered to
The Hour of the Wolf
.

The telephone rang at four o'clock, and she jerked in surprise even though she'd been waiting all afternoon for that sound. It was Wally Topelis.

“It's your agent, kid. We have to talk.”

“Isn't that what we're doing now?”

“I mean face to face.”

“Oh,” she said glumly. “Then it's bad news.”

“Did I say it was?”

“If it was good,” Hilary said, “you'd just give it to me on the phone. Face to face means you want to let me down easy.”

“You're a classic pessimist, kid.”

“Face to face means you want to hold my hand and talk me out of suicide.”

“It's a damned good thing this melodramatic streak of yours never shows up in your writing.”

“If Warners said no, just tell me.”

“They haven't decided yet, my lamb.”

“I can take it.”

“Will you listen to me? The deal hasn't fallen through. I'm still scheming, and I want to discuss my next move with you. That's all. Nothing more sinister than that. Can you meet me in half an hour?”

“Where?”

“I'm at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“The Polo Lounge?”

“Naturally.”

 

As Hilary turned off Sunset Boulevard, she thought the Beverly Hills Hotel looked unreal, like a mirage shimmering in the heat. The rambling building that thrust out of stately palms and lush greenery, a fairytale vision. As always, the pink stucco did not look as garish as she remembered it. The walls seemed translucent, appeared almost to shine with a soft inner light. In its own way, the hotel was rather elegant—more than a bit decadent, but unquestionably elegant nonetheless. At the main entrance, uniformed valets were parking and delivering cars: two Rolls-Royces, three Mercedes, one Stuts, and a red Maserati.

A long way from the poor side of Chicago, she thought happily.

When she stepped into the Polo Lounge, she saw half a dozen movie actors and actresses, famous faces, as well as two powerful studio executives, but none of them was sitting at table number three. That was generally considered to be the most desirable spot in the room, for it faced the entrance and was the best place to see and be seen. Wally Topelis was at table three because he was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood and because he charmed the maître d' just as he charmed everyone who met him. He was a small lean man in his fifties, very well dressed. His white hair was thick and lustrous. He also had a neat white mustache. He looked quite distinguished, exactly the kind of man you expected to see at table number three. He was talking on a telephone that had been plugged in just for him. When he saw Hilary approaching, he hastily concluded his conversation, put the receiver down, and stood.

“Hilary, you're lovely—as usual.”

“And you're the center of attention—as usual.”

He grinned. His voice was soft, conspiratorial. “I imagine everyone's staring at us.”

“I imagine.”

“Surreptitiously.”

“Oh, of course,” she said.

“Because they wouldn't want us to know they're looking,” he said happily.

As they sat down, she said, “And we dare not look to see if they're looking.”

“Oh, heavens no!” His blue eyes were bright were merriment.

“We wouldn't want them to think we care.”

“God forbid.”

“That would be gauche.”

“Trés gauche.” He laughed.

Hilary sighed. “I've never understood why one table should be so much more important than another.”

“Well, I can sit and make fun of it, but I understand,” Wally said. “In spite of everything Marx and Lenin believed, the human animal thrives on the class system—so long as that system is based primarily on money and achievement, not on pedigree. We establish and nurture class systems everywhere, even in restaurants.”

“I think I've just stumbled into one of those famous Topelis tirades.”

A waiter arrived with a shiny silver ice bucket on a tripod. He put it down beside their table, smiled and left. Apparently, Wally had taken the liberty of ordering for both of them before she arrived. But he didn't take this opportunity to tell her what they were having.

“Not a tirade,” he said. “Just an observation. People
need
class systems.”

“I'll bite. Why?”

“For one thing, people must have aspirations, desires beyond the basic needs of food and shelter, obsessive wants that will drive them to accomplish things. If there's a best neighborhood, a man will hold down two jobs to raise money for a house there. If one car is better than another, a man—or a woman, for that matter; this certainly isn't a sexist issue—will work harder to be able to afford it. And if there's a best table in the Polo Lounge, everyone who comes here will want to be rich enough or famous enough—or even infamous enough—to be seated there. This almost manic desire for status generates wealth, contributes to the gross national product, and creates jobs. After all, if Henry Ford hadn't wanted to move up in life, he'd never have built the company that now employs tens of thousands. The class system is one of the engines that drive the wheels of commerce; it keeps our standard of living high. The class system gives people goals—and it provides the maître d' with a satisfying sense of power and importance that makes an otherwise intolerable job seem desirable.”

Hilary shook her head. “Nevertheless, being seated at the best table doesn't mean I'm automatically a better person than the guy who gets second-best. It's no accomplishment in itself.”

“It's a
symbol
of accomplishment, of position,” Wally said.

“I still can't see the sense of it.”

“It's just an elaborate game.”

“Which you certainly know how to play.”

He was delighted. “Don't I though?”

“I'll never learn the rules.”

“You should, my lamb. It's more than a bit silly, but it helps business. No one likes to work with a loser. But everyone playing the game wants to deal with the kind of person who can get the best table at the Polo Lounge.”

Wally Topelis was the only man she knew who could call a woman “my lamb” and sound neither patronizing nor smarmy. Although he was a small man, about the right size to be a professional jockey, he somehow made her think of Cary Grant in movies like
To Catch a Thief
. He had Grant's style: excellent manners observed without flourish; balletic grace in every movement, even in casual gestures; quiet charm; a subtle look of amusement, as if he found life to be a gentle joke.

Their captain arrived, and Wally called him Eugene and inquired about his children. Eugene seemed to regard Wally with affection, and Hilary realized that getting the best table in the Polo Lounge might also have something to do with treating the staff as friends rather than servants.

Eugene was carrying champagne, and after a couple of minutes of small talk, he held the bottle for Wally's inspection.

Hilary glimpsed the label. “Dom Perignon?”

“You deserve the best, my lamb.”

Eugene removed the foil from the neck of the bottle and began to untwist the wire that caged the cork.

Hilary frowned at Wally. “You must
really
have bad news for me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. . . .” Hilary looked at him thoughtfully. “It's supposed to soothe my hurt feelings, cauterize my wounds.”

The cork popped. Eugene did his job well; very little of the precious liquid foamed out of the bottle.

“You're such a pessimist,” Wally said.

“A realist,” she said.

“Most people would have said, ‘Ah, champagne. What are we celebrating? ' But not Hilary Thomas.”

Eugene poured a sample of Dom Perignon. Wally tasted it and nodded approval.

“
Are
we celebrating?” Hilary asked. The possibility really had not occurred to her, and she suddenly felt weak as she considered it.

“In fact, we are,” Wally said.

Eugene slowly filled both glasses and slowly screwed the bottle into the shaved ice in the silver bucket. Clearly, he wanted to stick around long enough to hear what they were celebrating.

It was also obvious that Wally wanted the captain to hear the news and spread it. Grinning like Cary Grant, he leaned toward Hilary and said, “We've got the deal with Warner Brothers.”

She stared, blinked, opened her mouth to speak, didn't know what to say. Finally: “We don't.”

“We do.”

“We can't.”

“We can.”

“Nothing's that easy.”

“I tell you, we've got it.”

“They won't let me direct.”

“Oh, yes.”

“They won't give me final cut.”

“Yes, they will.”

“My God.”

She was stunned. Felt numb.

Eugene offered his congratulations and slipped away.

Wally laughed, shook his head. “You know, you could have played that a lot better for Eugene's benefit. Pretty soon, people are going to see us celebrating, and they'll ask Eugene what it's about, and he'll tell them. Let the world think you always knew you'd get exactly what you wanted. Never show doubt or fear when you're swimming with sharks.”

“You're not kidding about this? We've actually got what we wanted?”

Raising his glass, Wally said, “A toast. To my sweetest client, with the hope she'll eventually learn there
are
some clouds with silver linings and that a lot of apples
don't
have worms in them.”

They clinked glasses.

She said, “The studio must have added a lot of tough conditions to the deal. A bottom of the barrel budget. Salary at scale. No participation in the gross rentals. Stuff like that.”

“Stop looking for rusty nails in your soup,” he said exasperatedly.

“I'm not eating soup.”

“Don't get cute.”

“I'm drinking champagne.”

“You know what I mean.”

She stared at the bubbles bursting in her glass of Dom Perignon.

She felt as if hundreds of bubbles were rising within her, too, chains of tiny, bright bubbles of joy; but a part of her acted like a cork to contain the effervescent emotion, to keep it securely under pressure, bottled up, safely contained. She was afraid of being too happy. She didn't want to tempt fate.

“I just don't get it,” Wally said. “You look as if the deal fell through. You did hear me all right, didn't you?”

She smiled. “I'm sorry. It's just that . . . when I was a little girl, I learned to expect the worst every day. That way, I was never disappointed. It's the best outlook you can have when you live with a couple of bitter, violent alcoholics.”

His eyes were kind.

“Your parents are gone,” he said, quietly, tenderly. “Dead. Both of them. They can't touch you, Hilary. They can't hurt you ever again.”

“I've spent most of the past twelve years trying to convince myself of that.”

“Ever consider analysis?”

“I went through two years of it.”

“Didn't help?”

“Not much.”

“Maybe a different doctor—”

“Wouldn't matter,” Hilary said. “There's a flaw in Freudian theory. Psychiatrists believe that as soon as you fully remember and understand the childhood traumas that made you into a neurotic adult, you can change. They think finding the key is the hard part, and that once you have it you can open the door in a minute. But it's not that easy.”

“You have to want to change,” he said.

“It's not that easy, either.”

He turned his champagne glass around and around in his small well-manicured hands. “Well, if you need someone to talk to now and then, I'm always available.”

“I've already burdened you with too much of it over the years.”

“Nonsense. You've told me very little. Just the bare bones.”

“Boring stuff,” she said.

“Far from it, I assure you. The story of a family coming apart at the seams, alcoholism, madness, murder, and suicide, an innocent child caught in the middle. . . . As a screenwriter, you should know that's the kind of material that never bores.”