A Touch of Stardust (42 page)

Julie bit her lip. She could see how hard this was for Andy to say.

“What would you do?” Clark asked.

“In your shoes? I’d want to kick the whole damn mess out the door, but I hope I wouldn’t. Yeah, it’s a compromise. Who does it help if you don’t go? Not Hattie or Butterfly. Who does it hurt? Figure that out for yourself.”

The two men stared at each other. Clark looked away first.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Scotch or bourbon?” Carole said to Andy calmly. Then, to Clark: “Pa, will you dump some water on that fire? Tonight’s a night for tamping things down.”

Only Julie noted the quiver of tired relief in Andy’s lips. “Scotch,” he said. Then glanced at Julie. “Pour it short,” he said quietly.

Julie hurried from the small office assigned to her in the Writers’ Building, carrying her latest screenplay rewrite assignment, a romance set in Paris that Mayer had decreed a little too sprightly for the times. Calm it down—that’s what he wanted—but there must be no mention of war or Hitler or anything dark.

“The usual Hollywood response,” Andy said with a roll of the eyes when she told him her instructions.

Coming toward her was a man with long, matchstick-thin legs and a familiar face. Who was he? She remembered—this was one of the screenwriters in Abe Goldman’s entourage. She had seen him around. He pretended to be British, and was usually wearing a carefully arranged silk cravat and a testy frown. He gave her a brisk nod, slowing enough to scan the folder in her hands swiftly. She resisted the instinct to clutch it tight, reminding herself that the cover was blank. No name on the screenplay.

He swept on, leaving in his wake an aura of feigned superiority. There was no way he could know for sure that, yes, it was one of his.

“Never put the names of your screenplays on the cover,” Frances Marion had counseled. “Men turn hostile if a woman gets one of their scripts for rewrite. You’ll make enemies just being here; no need to court them.”

“Nice day, Harvey,” Julie called out to the man’s retreating back. She actually found herself enjoying the sparring of this new game.

“Yes, it is,” said a voice. She turned again. Doris was standing in front of her, hair sleekly coiffed, her bright-red lips parted in a wide smile. She wore one of the largest pair of sunglasses Julie had yet seen, so big they tipped forward, exposing part of her eyes. What was she doing on the MGM lot?

“Hello,” she managed. “I’m surprised—”

“You’re wondering why I’m here,” Doris said. “Well, I’m on a tryout for scriptwriting, same as you were. I guess that’s what everybody wants to do these days.”

“I didn’t know you wrote scripts.”

Doris shrugged, affecting a jaunty tone. “I’m bored, now that all the whooping and hollering over
Gone with the Wind
is over at Selznick International. Worked for you, right? Maybe lightning will strike twice—you never know.” She reached up and took off her glasses.

Julie was taken aback. There was uncertainty in Doris’s eyes, not the usual superior scorn. She wondered what to read into that, but did it matter? She no longer felt threatened. She had—she reminded herself—come a long way since their confrontation in Chasen’s marble-and-glass ladies’ room.

“I never really was a rival of yours, you know,” Doris said, almost as if she had read Julie’s thoughts. “Though I certainly wanted to be.” She smiled almost wistfully.

“Maybe I was too quick at feeling threatened,” Julie offered.

“You grew up. You don’t seem like a kid anymore.”

“I guess that’s a positive thing.” Julie smiled.

“So now you’re in line for the big time. Any tips? Or should we still be thinking of ourselves in competition?” Doris’s tone had sharpened slightly.

So here it was, an invitation to dip a spoon again into the tasty pleasure of modest power. “Yes, actually,” Julie said, pointing to the script—emblazoned in large type with the title—in Doris’s hands. “Always carry your scripts in unmarked folders. You don’t want the original writers to see them.”

Doris looked momentarily startled. Then, “Okay,” she said.

“Good luck.” Julie couldn’t think of anything else to say. Too many troughs and blind corners. And, she thought as she hurried away, if she was completely honest with herself, she remained intimidated by those long legs.

The tempo leading to the premiere was quickening. A million visitors were expected to flood into Atlanta for a grand, dizzying three-day celebration of the opening of
Gone with the Wind
.

Nothing was being overlooked, Mayer was making sure of that. There was to be a grand ball, so MGM sent the original costumes from the charity-bazaar scene to Atlanta for the stars to wear again, along with the original stage set, shipped in segments, to be re-created in Atlanta at a cost of ten thousand dollars. There would be street bands and concerts and parties and glittering guests from everywhere.

Clark remained resistant to the last, as did Victor Fleming, who now had no love for Selznick. They agreed they would not go to Atlanta. But on the day when Clark flatly refused to fly with Selznick and the rest of the cast on a TWA chartered plane, Carole stepped in.

“Enough of this childishness,” she yelled at her husband. Julie was amazed at the volume Carole could summon when she wanted to. “I’ve got a new dress for the premiere, I want to go, and I even took your father and stepmother out and bought them new duds. Get off your ass, honey. This is our party!”

Andy laughed when Julie related the scene. “I love her,” he said.

“I was standing in the bedroom, trying on a couple of her gowns for the premiere, when she reined in Clark,” Julie said. “But he wins on one front—they’re going to charter a separate plane, from American Airlines.”

“This is kind of a useless carnival—” Andy started to say.

Julie reached out and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Please, Andy, let’s just enjoy,” she whispered. “Allow yourself to play.”

His eyes were steady as he looked at her, but, for a moment, beyond sad. Where was he going? she thought, alarmed.

Then everything was all right again.

He gently lifted her hand away and kissed it. “Will I be able to unhook that dress easily after the party?” he murmured.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Just to make it easier? I won’t wear anything under it.”

“Perfect.” He pulled her tight and they kissed, lazily and long.

The two planes—each with a stenciled logo on the side reading
GWTW
—touched down at the Atlanta airfield one after the other, so smoothly it looked as if two planes had been the idea all along.

Julie peered from the window as they taxied after landing. A line of black limousines threaded from plane to terminal, with a uniformed chauffeur standing at attention next to each one. At the very front of the line were two splendid Packard convertibles for the major stars.

“For one long weekend, we’re all royalty, rhinestone variety,” Andy said. “Did you see what
The New York Times
called us this morning? ‘The golden boys and girls of Hollywood.’ ”

“Will you allow yourself to have fun?” she asked.

“Yes, kid. For you.”

“Don’t be so self-sacrificing.” She felt a flash of annoyance. But that evaporated as they settled into the limousines and started on the seven-mile motorcade to the Biltmore Hotel.

“Jesus, look at the crowds,” Clark said with a touch of awe. Only later did they learn that over three hundred thousand people—many of them in vintage clothes from the Civil War era—had lined the path of their journey. Street musicians marched with the caravan, playing “Dixie.” Aged veterans—standing straight and proud in their Confederate uniforms—lined the parade route, some holding ancient rifles. The atmosphere was almost hysterically jubilant. At one point, an elegant-looking woman tore off a long white leather glove and threw it to Clark, who ducked, discomfited.

“Pa, I’ll bet you a fiver someone throws a pair of pantaloons next!” Carole yelled over the cheers.

“You’re on!” Clark yelled back. His dark mood had lifted.

It was as Andy had predicted: any actor receiving this much adulation would have a hard time staying angry, something Selznick knew very well.

They were almost to the Georgian Terrace Hotel, where the premiere gala would be held, when, suddenly, caught like a flapping kite in the breeze, a pair of old-fashioned knickers came flying through the air, landing on Clark’s head.

“Pay up, Pa!” yelled Carole. “Close enough to pantaloons!”

No expense would be spared, by the city or by MGM, for the weekend. At the lavish ball on Thursday night—as Clark and the others prepared to bring their roles to life for the benefit of Atlanta—Carole, swathed in black velvet and silver fox, held court in a box seat, laughing and joking, scribbling out autographs for the cluster of people gathered around her. And no matter who was pleading, it was clear, from some disappointed looks, that she was sticking to her determination to sign only as “Carole Gable.” This was Clark’s party, not hers.

Then the high point of the evening—Clark, Vivien, and Olivia swept into the room in full costume, magically transformed back to their fictional characters. The effect was almost surreal. The crowd clapped and cheered.

“I’m not sure if we’re all in a movie or not.” Julie giggled as Andy took her for a graceful swing around the room. She liked the feel of her body in her new dress, which was quite simple, a column of apricot silk caught at the throat with a small diamond pin once owned by her grandmother. Not expensive. Her paycheck was getting fatter, but not yet ready for designer gowns. The wardrobe mistress had offered to lend her one of the dresses worn by the extras, but Julie was glad she had decided not to try living up to a costume.

“When do you wear the sexy one you borrowed from Carole?”
Andy asked as they took a deft second turn around the glittering ballroom.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s beautiful, honey. I’m talking
sexy
.”

“Tomorrow, so don’t go away.”

Andy laughed, holding her closer. He had to be enjoying himself; how could he not? This was all glamorous and fun. She threw her head back, letting her hair swing loose, wanting the dance never to stop. Surely, just tonight, he felt the same way. And tomorrow? She laughed to herself. Well, of course, tomorrow was another day. Thank you, Scarlett.