The Celebrity (22 page)

Well, why not? Gregory Johns asked himself harshly. It
is
the test for the movies. It’s the test for the theater too. The curtain rises, the curtain falls—they’re in the present tense too, and stage right, stage left, are no less alien to me than fade and cut and dissolve. What am I getting so fancy about?

He felt better at once and went back to Abby. She was still reading and he said, “Let’s see the letters.”

“Heavens, I forgot.” She fished the three letters from her pocket, gave him Luther Digby’s, and said, “Hat’s written a big one at last.”

“Fifty!” Gregory said an instant later. “Good Lord.”

She paused over the flap of her letter and looked up. Gregory was laughing. “Digby says the fifty extra copies Thorn ordered are coming parcel post and should get here in time.”

“Fifty—what for?”

“Autographs. Thorn told me he was sending for a few extra copies for me to sign before we left. A few—quote, close quote.”

Abby didn’t find it funny. “And
we
pay for them?”

He nodded, and waved his letter in the air. “Digby has decided to give me ten free copies this time instead of the usual six. It shows you what a publisher can afford with fifty-two thousand dollars of book-club money.”

This time Abby smiled. “Are you going to sign all fifty?”

“Well, I could get Thorn to do them for me. Nobody out here knows my signature.” He struck a pose. “To Louella, with all admiration and love from Gregory,” he intoned. “To beautiful Jill in memory of—”

“Stop it!”

The telephone bell rang and Abby answered it. “A person-to-person call from New York City, New York,” the operator said primly. “Mr. James Hathaway for Mr. Thornton Johns. Is Mr. Thornton Johns there, please?”

Abby was helpful about where Mr. Thornton Johns could be reached, and drew Hat’s bulky letter from its envelope. In a moment she whispered, “Gregory.” He saw her face, tossed Digby’s letter aside, and reached for the page she had just finished.

“The most unbelievable thing has happened,” it began, “I’m really in love for the first time in my life. I’m not being silly and you needn’t worry, but boys like Tim Murton really are
too
adolescent and crummy and this is so glorious! Last week I met the older brother of a friend of Tim’s who’s just as adolescent as Tim, the friend I mean, and then in walked his older brother, and after about an hour, he dated me right under their noses. His name is Patrick King and he’s grown up and sophisticated with the most beautiful manners and you will be crazy about him when you meet him and he will be too. He went to Princeton and dances divinely and is as tall as Dad and he’s in the theater and it’s the first time in my whole life—”

It went on for six pages. Abby finished first and began at once on Mary Zatke’s. Silently, Gregory followed her example; her instinct had been correct. Mary
was
writing about Hat, and her first sentence was blessedly to the point.

“Hat said she was writing you,” Mary began, “but she may not say I’m chaperoning her to death. I’m being totally ‘un-understanding,’ and the door to your apartment stays open when they’re in there. Hat hates me, but you won’t—”

Mary had made some discreet inquiries and could supply certain details Hat had ignored. Hat had been fed earfuls of Hollywood reports by Thorn Junior and Fred, and she had just happened to be describing the plastic ice party to Tim and his friend, when Patrick King put in his appearance. The Bogarts and Joan Crawford and Danny Kaye and Jill Goodwyn were all tossed in airily as friends of the family, with no mention of the minor point that her own parents had never met them. Patrick King was twenty-seven, and, apart from summer stock, had been unable to get a part in any play for over a year. So fascinated had he been by Hat’s every word that she had lost her head and spilled all the arithmetic of Gregory’s picture deal, including a three-thousand-dollar weekly salary. Then Hat had remembered that she just happened to have some Winchell and Lyons and Ed Sullivan clippings in her purse.

Here, Mary had pasted a half-inch of type to the page.

Gregory Johns, whose “Good Worlds” is the current
Book-of-the-Month
is currently in Hollywood trying to persuade his close personal friend, Jill Goodwyn, to accept the lead in his film.

“One other thing I don’t like much,” Mary Zatke ended, “is that Hat seems to be cutting classes at Hunter pretty consistently. But that’s a different sort of worry. On your major one, I believe there’s no
immediate
nonsense to fear. I have now met this unemployed Adonis three times, and my hunch is that if you ever do decide to break it off until Hat gets a little perspective, you could just quietly arrange a screen test in Hollywood and watch his dust.”

By the time Gregory came to the end, Abby was reading Hat’s letter once more. He picked up only the last page of it; as before, two sentences seemed to leap out at him. He read them a second time, and once again felt a jump of alarm jar every nerve.

“Pat and Hat! Isn’t that just too neat, the way our names pair up?”

The door was flung open and Thorn came in exuberantly. At the telephone, Abby was saying, “—but what about tomorrow’s flights? Yes, I’ll wait.” She glanced up and absently said, “Hello, Thorn,” and returned to the telephone.

“By George,” Thorn said, beaming. “It looks as if Metro will go for
Horn of Plenty,
it really does. We even talked price this time—around fifty is all, but we better grab it, fast, because this whole town is scared limp by the slump and television and the Red cleanup—” He stopped uncertainly. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you interested?”

“Yes, sure, of course,” Gregory said. “But half an hour ago—

“I’m not quitting on
Partial Eclipse
either. Where’s Cindy? Good God, if Metro can lick a story about a crippled old woman—” He slapped his thigh. “I knew if I could just talk Jill into it—she has one commitment a year there. I read parts of it aloud to her—don’t mention that to Cindy—she’d misunderstand. ‘A change of pace, a dramatic role,’ I said. ‘Look what Livvie did with
Snake Pit,
’ I kept saying. Once Jill even switched the talk to insurance, an extra policy she said”—Thorn’s tone took on a hint of nobility—“but I switched her right back to
Horn of Plenty.
”

“Hello,” Abby said impatiently to the telephone, “hello? I think they’ve cut me off.”

Gregory crossed the room and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t make an actual reservation, Abby, until we get our call through to Hat or Mary.”

“We can always cancel.”

Thorn’s exuberance vanished. “What happened to Hat? Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t catch at first. I—”

Into the phone, Abby said eagerly, “Yes, I’m still here.” She jotted numbers and words down rapidly, said, “Picked up by when? Nine tonight? Yes, thanks again,” and hung up. She turned to Gregory. “I’m flying back tomorrow no matter what Hat and Mary say. I have to
be
there. I’d never forgive—”

“What’s wrong?” Thorn said. “Tell me, for God’s sake. Is Hat sick? Is she hurt?”

“No,” Gregory said. “She’s gone and fallen for a guy who looks pretty bad stuff—”

“Is
that
all?” Thorn said heartily. “She’ll be all right. She’s probably a bit haywire for the time, sure, the way my boys are.” He shook his head sadly. “Kids are gluttons for fame and publicity. They all want to be hot-shots.”

Gregory opened his mouth and then closed it. The telephone bell rang and Abby leaped for it. A moment later she said, “It’s Jim Hathaway, Thorn. Did he get you at Metro?”

“No.” He took the phone and shouted, “Hello, James, my boy. I was going to call
you
later on. What’s with you?”

Thorn’s face grew quiet as he listened, then pleased. “Why, the stuffed shirts,” he said once and listened again. Abby looked at her watch twice and Gregory said quietly, “Easy, darling. They said she’d be out an hour.”

“Hat may have come in.”

“We’ll try the minute Thorn’s off.”

Thorn was saying, “Now let me tell
you
something.” He began excitedly about
Horn of Plenty
and was again discussing what Jill could learn from Livvie and
Snake Pit
when the door opened; with skillful transition he was instantly talking price, the spread of payments, and the possible separation of rights.

Cindy had entered, followed by a pageboy bearing two large packages. “I
hoped
you’d be home, Abby,” she screamed happily, hardly glancing at Thorn and at Gregory. “Wait till you see the evening dresses I got. No alterations. Did you know Saks out here will let you charge to your New York account? The funniest thing happened about it. I started to give my name—”

Across the room Thorn said, “Cindy, for God’s sake, I’m on the phone.”

“—to give my name the way
our
Saks has it, ‘Mrs. G. T. Johns.’ The salesgirl said—right out loud and everybody heard her—she said coyly, ‘Mrs.
Thornton
Johns, isn’t it?’ Everybody stopped in their tracks and stared and whispered and I felt like a movie star!”

Thorn slammed up the receiver and said, “Damn it, Cindy, you’re the most self-centered—oh, skip it.” He turned excitedly to Gregory and Abby. “What do you think
that
was about? Jim’s contacts out here have been reporting back to him about things—you know, the lecturing and how we’re doing in general—and Jim began talking a bit too big about pulling off
The Good World
sale. What happened serves him right.”

Abby rose and went to the phone; Thorn raised his voice to compensate for hers.

“So, his partners began to dig out the facts about Jim signing us up on a contingent basis and charging five thousand dollars instead of three thousand this first year. Their corporate ethics were outraged; they’re returning the extra two thousand to us, and Jim is furious at being slapped down.”

“We’re rich!” Cindy shouted. “Let’s have a drink on it. Abby, get off that phone—we’re calling the bar.”

Suddenly Thorn’s face changed. He looked at Abby’s back apologetically. “God, Gregory, I plumb forgot. I was all steamed up over Metro and then Jim—”

“What about Metro?” Cindy yelled. “More good news? Abby, hurry up.”

Thorn pounded on the table and glared at his wife. “Damn it, forget the bar, can’t you? They’ve had bad news about Hat. Abby’s trying to get her on the phone.”

Cindy’s face changed too. “What bad news?” She went over to Abby, but Abby was talking to the operator, and Cindy wheeled on Gregory. “What happened to Hat?”

As Gregory explained again, she made sounds of sympathy, offering to help in any way she could, sounding worried and reassuring and worried again. As Abby hung up, Cindy rushed over and said, “It’s
awful,
I know just how you feel. Can I do anything? Anything at all? Oh, Abby, I would take the first plane too.”

Then Cindy stopped short, consternation in her eyes. “You can’t! Your wonderful trip—you can’t give
that
up.”

“We’re going to, though,” Gregory said. His voice was tired.

“But the new car—can you cancel it?”

“It’s already here. We’ve been in it.”

“Then how would you get it back if you don’t drive?”

“Forget the car,” Gregory said. “We’ll ship it by freight. I’m certainly not going to drive East by myself.”

“All that way alone?” Cindy was horrified. “I should hope not.”

“Shipping a car by rail costs a fortune,” Thorn said with authority.

Cindy’s eyes lighted up, but before she could speak, Gregory said hastily, “I’ll fly back myself the second I’m free.”

“Of course you will,” Cindy said soothingly. “I asked if we could do anything. Well, we can!” She looked about with triumph. “We’ll drive the car
for
you, won’t we, Thorn?”

“I’m sure you will,” Abby said.

Although due and resounding credit was publicly meted out to Thornton Johns during his last three days in Hollywood for the sudden sale
of Horn of Plenty
to Paramount, it was not this that finally solidified the name he had begun to make for himself.

Nor could it have been his second and third lectures, smash hits though they were with their respective audiences, nor yet his increasing appearances with Cindy at swimming pools, lunch tables, and formal parties where Jill Goodwyn was shiningly present.

Even his one lamentable brush with scandal was only a factor in the final result, though for a day or two it assumed, to the unreflective, a larger importance. This unfortunate event might not have happened at all had Thorn not been momentarily hurt in spirit and assailed by self-doubt. The person responsible for this pain was none other than England’s Daphne Herrick, arrived that very day from London and barely given time to array herself for a huge party in her honor.

“Oh, Mr. Johns,” her beautiful British voice said, and with a shock of foreboding, Thorn realized that a stranger to Hollywood could still make the old error. He tried to head her off, but she rushed on. “Wherever I went, my one night in New York, they were talking about your b-r-r-r-rilliant book.”

“Good Lord, I—”

But at that precise instant Daphne Herrick was wheeled around by strong hands upon her shoulders and Thorn’s disclaimer was locked in his throat. The strong hands belonged to an English actor, who kissed Daphne on the lips and bore her off and away to a corner where they could talk.

Thorn watched Daphne Herrick go and knew that in a moment he would have to go after her. But until I do, he thought, she’ll keep on thinking I wrote it.

Whereupon a curious and lonely upheaval took place in the breast of Thornton Johns. To Daphne Herrick he was, for that one moment, an author, not an author’s brother, not an author’s agent or manager or press agent or representative, but an author, the author of the book New York was already talking about.

He stood there motionless, in his heart a sudden unbearable question. What could it be like to
be
the man who had written it? To be Gregory, who wasn’t mingling with all these famous people, who wasn’t at ease in these lavish surroundings, who never stood on platforms and heard the magic sound of applause, Gregory who was fool enough to stay home reading or go out driving with nobody but Abby, but who knew all the time that he had written
The Good World!