A Touch of Stardust (9 page)

“What the hell is this?” he said, puzzled, when she handed him the package. “Kind of heavy.” Absently, he tossed a trowel he’d been carrying onto a sleekly immaculate beige sofa. Julie picked it up quickly as he took the package into the dining room.

Silence at first. Then a barrage of curses, which brought Carole hurrying to his side.

“Selznick is crazy,” he sputtered, showing Carole the contents of the package. “Ninety-two pages of instructions on how he wants me to play Rhett Butler. What kind of maniacal character
is
he?”

He paced, looking worn. “He doesn’t trust me to play this stupid part,” he said.

“He’s not the director—” began Carole.

“Cukor? He’s worse,” Gable snapped. He began clawing through his pockets, pulled out a wrinkled cigarette pack, and rescued the last one. He crushed the empty pack into a ball and threw it at an ashtray. He missed.

Carole handed him a lighter, the silver one he had given her as a birthday gift.

“He’ll lavish attention on Vivien—I can see that already,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Look, it’s obvious. The man’s a fag, and I don’t like fags, and I’m never going to like him. Selznick knows that.”

He said the word so flatly. Of course, plenty of people felt the same way, but Julie couldn’t help remembering this was the same man who spoke up for the Negro extras yesterday.

“You’re not going to pull out of the movie,” Carole said quietly. “You haven’t even done your first scene yet.”

“Presenting Scarlett with a fancy Paris hat,” he scoffed. “There are probably ten pages in this crap devoted to how David wants it
done.” Suddenly he seemed more weary than angry. “This isn’t my type of part, Ma,” he said.

“Okay, tell me the worst. Wait—let me guess. Leaning forward and finding your costume is cut too tight in the crotch?” she teased.

He smiled reluctantly. An almost sweet smile out of that handsome, clouded face. “Okay, Ma. But I’m still complaining.”

“Dinner on Saturday next week? Somewhere special.”

Andy was calling on the rooming-house phone. It was after midnight, and Julie had been summoned from bed in her pajamas by a somewhat cross and sleepy fellow resident. Yet, even at this late hour, his voice lifted her spirits.

“Why are you calling so late?” she asked. “Anything wrong?”

“Just rolled home after my evening with Scott,” he said. His voice was relaxed.

“I hear today’s shoot went well.”

“Yep, Edith Head can do anything. She whipped up a white gown in about three hours, and Selznick was placated. Even though he didn’t get as big an audience for the reshoot. What happened up in Bel-Air?”

“Gable was furious when he got Selznick’s package of instructions for playing the part. The whole thing was over ninety pages; I could hardly believe it.”

“That’s vintage Selznick. No matter, kid. He counts on Carole to calm his big star down, though he would never admit it. Anyway, Gable will be very happy pretty soon, I guarantee it.”

“Why?” she asked.

Andy chuckled. “Not telling you, not yet. Money buys everything, Miss Crawford. Loyalty, love—”

“You can’t buy love.”

“People do it all the time.”

“They think they do, but that’s not what they’re buying,” she said quickly.

The phone line hummed in the silence.

“So don’t you want to know where we are going Saturday night?” he said finally.

“I didn’t say I was free.” She smiled to herself. It was fun again; she liked this play of theirs.

“Are you free, Miss Crawford?”

“Yes,” she said, yawning. “Where are we going?”

“To the home of a very classy writer. Herman Mankiewicz.”

Julie collected a heavy satchel of fan mail from Publicity a few days later and stopped back at Carole’s dressing room, where, as usual, the actress was talking on the phone nonstop. Julie picked up a stack of already autographed pictures. They were of a smoky-eyed Carole offering the camera a lazy smile, a very popular pose with her public. Julie began stuffing them in envelopes and addressing them to the eager fans who had written the actress; she got dozens of letters a day. Easier to do it here and mail them quickly, Julie decided.

She was halfway through when the door was suddenly pushed open with such force the trailer shook.

“Ma, we got it.” Gable’s familiar baritone voice was actually trembling as he bounded in and slammed the door shut behind him. His eyes were wide open, like a child’s.

Carole dropped a silver tube of lipstick to the floor and rushed forward. “Oh my God, she took the money?” she said breathlessly, her arms wide.

He laughed, grabbing her shoulders. “It’s done,” he said, sounding stunned. “God, I can’t believe it; it’s actually done. Rhea took the extra fifty thousand.”

“Whoopee!” Carole shouted. “My God, Pa, you’re almost free! How soon?”

“Early March. She’s been in Vegas, waiting for the pot to sweeten.” His voice actually shook. He ran a hand through his thick hair, now all askew, not doing its essential job of hiding his ears.

“So the extra cash Selznick got Mayer to dig up was finally enough.” Carole shook her head. “I never could fathom how a woman would keep hanging on when a man didn’t want her anymore. Well, this is a fair trade—you get the divorce, and David gets a less grumpy Rhett Butler.”

“Hell, I’d even play a fairy if I had to,” he said huskily. He took Carole into his arms, his hand grazing the small of her back before gliding downward.

Julie rattled a few papers to remind them of her presence, but they were oblivious. “Miss Lombard, I’ll come back later,” she said hurriedly, gathering up the stack of photos and fan letters, figuring she could finish them over at the publicity office. They seemed to have almost forgotten she was there.

“Shut the door tight when you leave, honey,” Carole said with a giggle. She and Gable were already intertwined on the sofa. The actress thrust one long leg upward and began peeling off a stocking.

“I’m really happy for you both,” Julie said, a bit flustered. She stepped out into the sunshine, pulling the door closed behind her, feeling she had somehow intruded on their obviously heartfelt delight. A fleeting thought startled her: had she doubted before? Maybe that wasn’t the right question. Could true feelings in Hollywood be explainable in Fort Wayne terms? She hurried up the path, past the commissary, the carpentry shop, the foundry, the studio florist; over there, to her left, was the upholstery shop where fabric was aged chemically to make the
Gone with the Wind
furniture as weathered as possible; behind that, the barber shop where stars like Clark Gable were cut and manicured every day into replicas of authenticity for the film. Wasn’t this real? What was she mulling all this over for anyway? Maybe there was some barrier—something ordinary people put up between themselves and celebrities that didn’t
allow
the celebrities to be real.

It was such a bright, sunny day; the light was hurting her eyes. There was a harsh quality to L.A. sun on a winter afternoon. People said you ceased to notice it after a while, but it still bothered her.
Maybe it was time to get a pair of sunglasses. She could imagine what her friends would say at home: the middle of winter and you need sunglasses? Only a few weeks ago, she was laughing at the idea herself—too stagey, she had proclaimed to Rose. But it didn’t seem that way anymore.

Carole, in high spirits, was bubbling over with things to do in the wake of Clark’s news.

“First we’ve got to get this divorce
done
,” she said the next day. “
Then
—we’re buying a ranch.” She was pacing back and forth across the Bel-Air living room, barely able to contain herself. “I’m looking for just the right place. I think Encino; Clark will like that, and it will be perfect. Julie, oh, there’s so much to
do
. Horses. Horses—do you know anything about horses, dear? You know, riding, equipment.…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Clark loves horses, and I’m going to be the best damn rider you’ve ever seen, in about a month. I’m buying matching saddles, found some good riding pants—no fancy jodhpurs, no fancy
anything
. Rocking chairs. I want two, one for him and one for me, and we’ll put them on the front porch and watch the world go by!” She laughed and did a quick pirouette, almost stepping on a cat that was darting through.

“What front porch?” Julie asked.

“The one that will come with the house that comes with the ranch that we’re going to buy,” Carole said calmly.

“When is the divorce final?” Julie asked, smiling.

“Don’t have the date yet. You’ll be among the very first to know. Now, will you find out for me where we buy those horses? Brown ones.”

“How many?”

“Forty or fifty, I suppose.”

“Will do,” Julie said.

Andy let out a deep, amused chortle when she told him about Carole’s plans Saturday night as they drove to the Mankiewicz home. “She’s a crazy one, the best kind of crazy,” he said. “I won’t be surprised if she does it all.”

The sun was setting as they pulled up in front of 1105 Tower Road, their destination in Beverly Hills. The fading light briefly kissed the terra-cotta roof tiles on the Spanish-style home, turning them a glowing red. It was not a dramatic house—no splendid arches or rolling driveway. The one touch of glamour that Julie noted was the oval entrance of dark stone, flanked by elaborately carved torches.

Julie fingered the shimmering blue silk of her borrowed blouse, hoping she was dressed properly. This was her first Hollywood party, and nothing in the closet of an Indiana girl who’d gone to Smith College seemed quite up to such an event. So she wore Rose’s blouse, a serviceable serge skirt that had sat through many lectures on European history, and the good pearl earrings her parents had given her for graduation.

“Eye shadow,” Rose had said, squinting at her critically, wielding a makeup brush. “For you, blue, not green. And brighter lipstick.”

“I don’t want to look like Doris.”

“Don’t worry. Like this. Now look at yourself.”

Julie stared at her reflection for a long moment. Maybe she was pretty, a little. Her eyes, with the help of the blue shadow, looked larger than usual, and she actually had a rather nicely shaped nose. Whether it was enough to keep her from fading into invisibility at a Hollywood party was the question.