A Touch of Stardust (15 page)

“It has?”

“Victor is having a rotating platform built,” she said. “All Clark has to do is stand there with Scarlett in his arms and twirl away.”

“Victor?”

Carole shot a quick glance at Clark, who shrugged his shoulders. “Whoops, not announced yet,” she said. “Victor Fleming, of course.”

Just as Andy had predicted. They both looked a little chagrined at the slip.

“That was quick. When was it decided?” Julie asked.

“Oh, a long time ago. It’s just that nobody told George.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Clark broke in. “Vivien and Olivia are already sneaking over to his house for private coaching. Everybody catches their breath, I’m happy, and the movie gets made.”

“Andy said the same thing.”

“He’s seen a lot of scenarios play out,” Carole said. “An interesting man, even if he carries something of a burden on his back.”

“Something of a burden? What do you mean?”

“Oh, the usual Hollywood angst. You’ve had a peek at it.” Carole’s
tone turned brisk and bright as she went on to chatter about the stack of bills mixed in with the fan mail, and how glad she was that Julie would sort through it and make sure she didn’t send a signed photograph to the electric company and fifty-five dollars to a movie fan.

“I don’t know which would be more surprised—it might be fun to find out. Then again …” She laughed and beckoned Julie to follow her outside. “Let’s pot some chrysanthemums; isn’t that a ridiculous name for a flower?”

Julie smiled, but wondered. This was the first time she had sensed Carole dodging a topic. And it was about Andy.

Even though everyone seemed to know the director’s mantle was about to be draped around Victor Fleming, life at Selznick International Pictures stayed uncomfortably on hold until the end of February. Extras in Union and Confederate uniforms huddled together in the commissary, smoking furiously, scratching at unfamiliar beards, and laying bets on how long it would be before
Gone with the Wind
was back in production. They were at ease in their Civil War costumes—too much so, the costume manager grumbled. Ketchup and mustard stains from nonexistent Civil War food such as hot dogs were collecting on their jackets at an alarming rate. Sending everybody home wasn’t an option. Getting them all together to start up in a hurry would be like scrambling to rebuild and launch a battleship. That’s what Andy said. His tone was light, but—since he was Andy—his eyes were watchful.

“One, two, three, go,” Doris said on the first of March, grinning, looking at her watch. And, yes, a beat or two later, David O. Selznick came out of his office, beaming, his arm around a smiling Victor Fleming.
Gone with the Wind
was once more alive. It was all a bit too dramatic, but Julie was running errands at the studio for Carole that day and felt her pulse quicken as the lot exploded again
with energy and life. Writers—pinched faces, furrowed brows—hurried back and forth with edits and script possibilities. Publicists in broad-shouldered, pin-striped suits chatted animatedly with the universally dingy press corps, and faceless “assistants to everybody,” as Andy described them, scurried from set to set. Only the camera crews looked bored.

“Want a verbal snapshot of the battlefield?” Andy said at the end of the first week of Fleming’s tenure. “Wardrobe is stitching and altering, schedules are being waved about, Fleming is already threatening a nervous breakdown, meetings are droning on, and our most British of British actors, Leslie Howard”—he rolled his eyes—“is yawning his way through his lines again, letting everybody know how bored he is with playing Ashley Wilkes.” He laughed, a full-throated laugh. “Could be the Mad Hatter’s tea party, but it’s working. So far.”

Julie laughed, too, delighted to see Andy so buoyant. They were at their favorite booth at Chasen’s on a rainy night, exchanging their news of the day in the comfortable manner of married people, or so she liked to imagine before pushing the idea away. This was enough right now. She gazed around at the familiar surroundings. Snack plates of tiny sausages, deviled eggs, and spoonfuls of black caviar on tiny triangles of toast were before them on the table. The crisp smell of sizzling steaks being delivered to other tables floated in the air, mixing with the always present aroma of Camels and Lucky Strikes. The photos of celebrities on the walls offered a sense of belonging somehow to an exclusive club. And on a chilly night like this—with people stomping their feet and shaking wet umbrellas when they came in the restaurant—she felt she could pull the warm ambience of the dark wood walls and deep-brown leather upholstery around her like a cozy wrap.

Her eye caught the lazy circling of the model airplane hanging over the array of liquor bottles above the bar. A man with the concentrated
body of a prizefighter and the hands of a stevedore sat alone, under the plane, talking with the bartender. Once again, a vague sense of recognition—she didn’t want to ask.

“James Cagney,” Andy said, following her gaze. “Not as tough as he looks. Hates the Nazis, which makes him a great guy.”

She smiled. Andy cared about bigger things than who was playing what in the latest movie. In one way, he was her touchstone in this town; in another, he could be the first to disappear. Put
that
thought away, she told herself. She was her own touchstone; that’s the only way it could be. Because, if it wasn’t, then she had made this leap in her life for all the wrong reasons. Anyway, everything was going smoothly: Andy was back on the job, Carole had found the perfect ranch, Clark’s divorce decree would be final in a couple of days, and she was working on her screenplay every chance she got.

“So what’s happening at the House of Two Gables?” Andy asked.

She told him about exuberant shopping trips with Carole, delighted that she could make him laugh at stories of Carole’s one adamant rule for her decorating scheme: every piece of furniture for the new ranch had to be custom-made and giant-sized.

“Even the drinking glasses are the size of Mason jars,” she said. She ran her finger around the rim of her own glass. She had ordered something called a sloe gin fizz, and was feeling a bit light-headed already.

“I gather you’re glad that drink of yours isn’t in a Mason jar.”

“You don’t miss anything,” she said with a smile.

“When do I get to see the script you’re writing?”

His habit of switching gears always caught her unawares. “I don’t have it finished yet,” she said. “It’s still rough.”

He looked at her inquiringly. “I might be able to help,” he said gently. “I’m not going to tear apart anything you write.”

“I know.” Why
was
she hesitant about showing it to him?

“Is it funny? Sad? Scary?”

“It’s about two famous people in love who figure out how to live blended lives that don’t turn phony.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “A version of Carole and Clark?”

“Yes, a little. I haven’t tried a full screenplay before, and I have to get the dialogue right.” Talking about it felt a little like prancing naked onto Wilshire Boulevard. Even with Andy.

“Dialogue won’t save a story like theirs. People can say anything they want, but it’s what they do, not what they say. They may get away with it for a while.…” He stopped.

“Are you talking about a screenplay or real life?”

“I’m saying it’s only part of the story.”

“Without it, there’s no story.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you’ve worked in Hollywood too long.” Why was she angry?

“Remember, it hasn’t all played out yet,” he said.

Whether he meant Clark and Carole,
Gone with the Wind
, or the two of them, she wasn’t sure. But she had a sudden fear that Andy would not believe a story with a happy ending. It made her feel oddly lonely.

“I’ll have another drink,” she said, slipping what remained of the sloe gin fizz down her throat.

“Julie, sweet Julie—”

“Don’t call me that, I don’t like it.”

He sat back with a puzzled frown. “I should call you ‘nasty’?” he said calmly.

“I didn’t mean to snap, I’m just—”

“I know. You’re a writer and you’re feeling fragile and you’re not ready to talk about your work and I should shut up. Right?”

The lonely feeling was lifting. “Right,” she said.

With an easy, graceful gesture, Andy signaled for a waiter. “Let’s you and I skip the chili and chow down on some hobo steak tonight,” he said. “The wonderful thing about it? They burn it at your table.”

She laughed, easy again.

Whisperings. Julie stepped into Carole’s trailer and heard whisperings from behind the partition dividing the private section from the
front room. She tried not to listen, but nothing quite alerts a person’s hearing more than the sound of whispers.

“I won’t do it.”

“Pa”—Carole’s voice took on the cajoling tone of a purring kitten—“it will work, you don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid, damn it. I know what my image is with the public, and I’m not jeopardizing it.”

“Look, you’re a very masculine guy, and everybody knows it. I—”

“It took me a long time to get there, Ma.”

Julie rattled papers, cleared her throat; they were too absorbed in their argument to care.

“So you had a father who didn’t mind you dropping out of school at sixteen, and who was a lot happier when you worked as a logger than when you read Shakespeare and played in the town band, right? Pa, let that stuff go.”

“I can’t. People will laugh.”

“Shit, honey.” The curtain separating the two spaces was suddenly swept back. “Hi, Julie,” Carole said. “What do you think? You know what we’re arguing about.”

Her sudden inclusion in the conversation made Julie stammer as she mustered her thoughts. Of course she knew. It was the latest gossip wafting out from the
Gone with the Wind
set. Clark Gable would not cry on camera, and Fleming was insisting he would ruin a key scene if he didn’t.

Impasse. Ordering, yelling, pleading—nothing so far had made Gable budge.

What did she think? Had she ever seen her father cry? No, not even when her grandmother died. Manly men didn’t cry.