“Nothing nervous about this happy crowd, I’d say,” murmured Doris, surveying the field where she and dozens of others stood waiting. Her speech had its usual cynical tone, delivered with a roll of the eyes and a wry, impatient twist of the mouth—not quite a smirk. It occurred to Julie that Doris sounded a little too much like the wisecracking, flip Rosalind Russell. Maybe it wasn’t just coincidence. Lots of girls here were walking around emulating some star they wished they could be. Why not tough, sexy Doris? Thinking about it made her less intimidating, if not more likable.
Still, she was right. A roll of jittery chatter was threading through the huddled crowd of people on the edge of the Back Forty.
Selznick had invited everybody who worked at the studio to watch the “festivities” of the first day of shooting, a word that had produced a fair number of snickers among those who knew how fraught with problems this venture was. You could see it in the director George Cukor’s rigid stance. He held himself immobile in the restless crowd, arms folded, a set expression on his face.
Julie scanned the crowd, trying to pick out the critics and journalists, several of whom looked enlivened by the prospect for disaster. It wasn’t hard to recognize the columnist Hedda Hopper. She had the alert, bright-eyed face of a parrot as she darted here and there; her lips were heavy with bright-red lipstick; her eyes—lined in black makeup that looked as permanent as cement—missing nothing, peering out from under a flamboyantly feathered hat.
“Look at her glare at Louella,” Doris said, amused. “Probably thinks she muscled herself in to get a better spot for watching the filming. She’ll have something to say about that in tomorrow’s column. Those two could kill each other.”
Julie’s gaze turned to Louella Parsons. By contrast, she looked like a proper matron heading for a proper afternoon tea. She was much shorter than Hedda, her plump body encased in something made of heavy, dark wool with glittering no-nonsense gold buttons the size of Ping-Pong balls. Her face was set on dignified affability, but her eyes looked like small rocks.
Julie knew this was the one to watch. Louella had hinted in her column today that the careers of several important people working on Gone with the Wind were about to be destroyed. It was a tantalizing, airy warning, meant to send shivers down the back of anyone who tried to withhold a scoop from her.
So that was in the buzz circulating through the crowd—who was at risk?
And, Lord, there was the script. Everyone knew that was a disaster. Andy had said it was literally a mountain of paper with colored tabs marking the contributions of dozens of writers. The rumor going through the crowd was that Selznick was bringing in Ben Hecht for yet another rewrite. And what about the noises from the Screen Writers Guild? Were they really going to announce a strike?
And on it went. The less prominent reporters strained to hear it all, looking like fluttering crows as they hovered close to the cameras, trying to eavesdrop on Selznick’s instructions to the crew.
Suddenly there was a furious shout.
“Look, there’s Gable,” Rose whispered. “What now?”
An angry-looking Clark Gable, jacket flapping, came striding toward Selznick, ignoring everyone in his path. “Those signs come down now,” he shouted.
“What signs?” Selznick said, obviously startled.
Gable pointed to a nearby knoll where a long line of portable toilets stood ready. The usual necessity for movies shot with hundreds of extras, they had been placed a distance from the cameras, winding down the knoll like dominoes in a row. They were painted a dull green, a color that discreetly blended into the landscape.
Except for the signs.
In large block letters, they declared their instructions on each toilet: WHITE ONLY, read the first one; NEGRO ONLY, read the second. And on down the line, the declarative instructions repeated in calm symmetry.
“Where’s the property manager?” Gable demanded. “David, I’m off this movie if those signs don’t come down.”
Selznick stared—and swore. He threw down the clipboard in his hands. A confused silence fell on the crowd.
“Who the hell put those up?” he yelled. His face was almost purple. “We’re not in the Deep South, we’re in Culver City, California!”
The reporters were scribbling fast, and the photographers were scrambling to take pictures of the toilets. In the jostling for position, Hedda lost her hat and sputtered in outrage. The “festivities” had taken an unexpected turn.
All Julie could think was, how could it be that no one had noticed?
Cukor jumped into action. “I don’t know who authorized that, but yank ’em down,” he ordered a maintenance crewman. “Right now, before one foot of film is shot.” He cast a quick look at Gable. “Thanks, Clark,” he said.
Julie now saw a small cluster of extras dressed as slaves standing to the side. As she learned later, one of them had gone up to Gable’s dressing room, knocked on the door, and asked him to intervene. This surely took courage.
“They’re no dumbbells,” Doris chortled, nodding at the group. “They know Selznick can’t fire them and replace them with Mexicans—not for this movie.”
“Okay, folks,” shouted Selznick through a bullhorn. “We’ve got that stupidity corrected; now let’s get on with making a movie.”
Julie craned to see Andy. She caught a glimpse of him staring at the scene as the signs were ripped down, a slight smile on his face. He saw her and gave a quick thumbs-up. Then he was back in conversation with the lighting crew, checking his clipboard, calling for the sound people. It was fun to watch him. He moved so easily, genially, talking to someone, scribbling a reply to a message, joking with the messenger, listening intently—and making it all look so relaxed.
Gable stayed briefly in place, the fury on his face fading into a kind of vague puzzlement, as if he wondered where he was. He had made no secret that he would not hang around for filming Gone with the Wind’s inaugural scene. Then, frowning, he turned on his heel and strode back to his dressing room.
“Julie honey, David’s got one reluctant Rhett Butler, and he’ll stay away as much as he can,” Carole had said with a sigh earlier that morning.
Selznick’s shouted order accelerated everything. Cameramen were wheeling their cameras into place. Gaffers raced about checking electrical equipment; soundmen adjusted their instruments; secretaries were scribbling notes and running errands.
Julie went on tiptoe, peering at Tara. The first scene to be shot would be the opening one of the movie. Scarlett was to sit on the steps of her grand Southern home, flirting with two of her swains. She was to pout when they spoiled the mood by telling her that war was coming—and they were enlisting.
Vivien Leigh, escorted by George Cukor, was already draping herself carefully on the steps of Tara. He held her hand, gently moving her into position. She leaned her head back against a pillar, listening to his soothing words, giving small, birdlike nods of assent. A makeup person armed with a soft powdered brush, intent on reducing the shine from the lights on Vivien Leigh’s face, dabbed at the actress’s nose. A wardrobe assistant fussed over her flowered muslin gown, fluffing the rich folds of material and spreading them wide. “I can’t breathe in this corset,” Leigh complained loudly, but no one was paying attention.
Finally, all was ready.
“Quiet on set!” a production assistant bellowed. Looking quite solemn, he lifted a black-and-white clapperboard high. On it was scrawled in chalk:
SCENE ONE, TAKE ONE—GONE WITH THE WIND
He clapped the boards together, producing a sharp, commanding sound that brought immediate quiet. Gone with the Wind was about to be brought to life.
Up the gravel path, across the green lawn, the cameras travel to Tara. Scarlett sits framed beautifully on the graceful porch. Her voice is deliciously lilting and teasing as she begins flirting with the Tarleton twins, scolding them for their talk of war. Vivien Leigh—with her boredom and corset complaints—has disappeared. Scarlett O’Hara is sitting there now.
To Julie, all seemed perfect. To be drawn into this scene so quickly, in a way that was both the same as and yet different from when she burrowed into Margaret Mitchell’s magical book, was enthralling. The colors, the clothes, the mood—
“Cut!” Selznick barked.
Cukor glanced at Selznick in astonishment. His usual amiable smile vanished. A producer didn’t issue orders on the set: that was the job and prerogative of the director. “What’s wrong?” he said. “The scene was perfect.”
Selznick shoved his hands into his pockets and strode up to the waiting actors, frowning. “The dress isn’t right,” he said to Cukor, pulling one hand out of his pocket and flipping disdainfully at a sleeve of Scarlett’s gorgeous gown. “Call Wardrobe. I want her to wear pure white—not the same damn dress she wears to the barbecue. That’s not acceptable.”
The crowd of workers and onlookers froze.
Cukor responded levelly, but the strain showed. “David, that’s wholly unnecessary,” he said.
“I’m sorry, George. That’s how I want it.” It was Selznick’s flat-as-stone voice, the one no one dared question.
“You want to stop production for a dress?” Cukor said incredulously.
“Get Wardrobe on it,” Selznick said, then walked away before Cukor could respond. The director stood frozen.
“So much for the celebratory first day of shooting,” said Doris in a low voice. Even she couldn’t manage her usual sardonic tone.
“All the equipment, the people, everything,” Julie said in surprise. “Everybody packs up?”
“Everybody except Cukor. He’s going to need some time to get his pride back. Selznick’s making it pretty clear already what he’s after.”
“What’s that?”
Doris’s eyes conveyed more than just a tinge of superiority. “Julie, Cukor’s the director, not Selznick. He’s the one who usually makes calls like this one. Selznick is obviously ignoring him. Setting him up.”
“Setting him up for what?”
Doris shrugged and turned to leave. “You’ll see. Better hurry on back to Lombard’s dressing room with news of Gable’s defense of the working Negro. If she doesn’t send you off to some zoo to rent an old lion, maybe you’ll be able to pick up gossip for the rest of us. Something spicy.”
“Working for Lombard is better than the mimeograph room,” Rose said loyally.
“Oh, please. Work? For Lombard?”
The two women watched Doris walk away, her long legs drawing glances from the men she passed.
“Not a wrinkle in those silk stockings, and the seams are perfectly straight. I think we’re entitled to hate her,” Rose murmured.
Julie laughed, feeling better. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about becoming friends with her,” she said.
Andy joined Julie briefly in the commissary at lunchtime. Gloomy, he chomped away on a turkey-and-cheese sandwich, barely speaking, to the point where she pushed back her coffee and started thinking about going back to answering Carole’s mail. She was getting good at copying the actress’s signature—and if there were any mangy lions needed in the future, she would recommend Doris for the job.
“I’m meeting a friend for dinner tomorrow,” he said abruptly. “A novelist.”
“Anyone I would recognize?”
“Maybe. Scott Fitzgerald. He’s working on the script.”
“I thought Ben Hecht—”
“Yep, him, too. Everybody. Even though Sidney Howard did a great preliminary job.”
“I’ve read The Great Gatsby,” she said.
His face relaxed for a moment into a faint smile. “I should’ve known you’d be a woman who actually reads. Pretty rare out here.”
“I can spell, too. Better than Fitzgerald.”
He laughed this time. “God, a college girl. I must be out of my mind.”
“Do you think he can help with the script?”
“He’s got some good ideas. Thinks we should use as much of Margaret Mitchell’s dialogue as possible, but cut a lot of the redundant material. Selznick is resisting, naturally.” Andy sighed. “I don’t know what Scott’s doing out here,” he said. “He’s got real talent, if he’d control his drinking. He should be writing novels, far from Hollywood. No reason for him to sell out.”
The next day’s shoot went well, even though Julie heard that Scarlett’s hastily constructed white dress had to be held in place with clothespins at first and Miss Edith Head’s seamstresses would sew it up in back between takes. Julie had hoped to watch, but at Carole’s request, she worked that day from Carole’s Bel-Air home on Cloud Road. Here she would have a respectable-sized office to handle publicity and secretarial work when Carole didn’t need her on the Selznick lot. There was plenty to do, but Julie feared life would be far less exciting.
That was before a studio messenger showed up at the door at lunchtime with a package for Gable from David Selznick.
Julie accepted the package and held it out to Gable as he came in through the back door, his trousers muddied from working in the garden he and Carole were trying to nourish.
“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.
“You have beautiful copper-colored hair,” Rose had said admiringly. “And that blouse is perfect with it.”
Andy opened the car door with an elaborate bow, clearly in a good mood, as he surveyed the neighborhood. He looked strikingly handsome tonight, Julie thought. His suit was one she had not seen, a fine wool, polished and crisp. Just looking at him made her heart beat faster.
“If you’re looking for glamour, Oscar Hammerstein lives next door,” Andy said, nodding at an elaborately large home partially hidden by high hedges. “If you’re looking for intellect, you find it here.”
“Maybe a mix? Being dazzled is fun,” she teased as they walked up to the front door.
“You dazzle me.” He bent swiftly and kissed her on the forehead, obviously in high spirits. “I’ve got a girl who reads, and I’m giving her more than movie glitz.”
Before they even knocked, a maid in a starched white cap and apron opened the door and ushered them inside. To Julie’s left was a spacious living room, dominated by an ebony grand piano. The sofas and chairs—precisely placed—were plump and inviting, covered in a calm floral print, with ruffles at the bottom. They weren’t Hollywood, they were Fort Wayne, which was a relaxing thought.
To her right, through glass doors, the house opened onto a patio. Beyond that was a languid pool, the water a vivid blue, fed by a lazy waterfall. All the doors were open, and a soft evening breeze flowed through the house.
Guests were gathering—some in conversation by the fireplace, others flowing onto the patio, strong masculine hands as well as polished, tapered fingers lifting from time to time a glass of wine from the silver trays passed by the butler.
“Look at the pool,” Andy murmured. “What do you see?”
She peered. “It’s shaped like a frog,” she said, surprised.
Andy chuckled. “Good, you noticed. That’s one of Herman’s jokes. He can’t take this town seriously. Would you like to hear the one he’s threatened to pull on his wife? Say yes.”
She laughed. “Yes.”
“Sara’s crazy about Clark Gable, thinks he is the handsomest man in the world. Herman’s threatened to invite Gable to dinner and then have him play a joke on her by taking out his false teeth at the table.”
“Oh, Andy, Clark wouldn’t do that,” she said.
“You can be a bit literal,” Andy chided gently. “No worry—most actors don’t get invited to dinner in this house anyhow. Herman doesn’t think they’re smart enough—with exceptions.” He nodded in the direction of a tall, handsome woman who had just arrived and was slipping out of a camel-hair coat with easy, sinuous grace. “There’s someone you might want to see,” he said, smiling.
Julie glanced curiously. The woman at the door was chatting now with Sara Mankiewicz, her face animated, her attention focused. Her eyes were not swiftly surveying the room, the standard gambit for party newcomers. A tingle traveled down Julie’s spine. It was Frances Marion. How could she be fifty? Her skin glowed as if scrubbed for a Noxzema ad.
“Go claim your destiny, Miss Crawford,” Andy urged with a wink. “Or at least take a peek at a living, breathing version of what you want to be.”
Julie wondered later at how easy it had been. Did she walk over to talk to her heroine? No, she floated. Something like that. At first she stood there awkwardly, not sure what to say to get the screenwriter’s attention. She felt like a schoolgirl again, but she was no longer part of an eager crowd, thrusting forward her autograph book for a precious signature.
She cleared her throat. If she didn’t say something quickly, she would look like a fool. “Miss Marion, I met you briefly at Smith College last year. I would love to know what you think the future is here for women writers,” she said.
The screenwriter turned in her direction and smiled. “The realistic one or the ideal one?” she said.
“I’m hoping there’s a way of combining the two,” Julie replied.
“If there is, maybe you’ll be able to find it,” Marion said, looking at her now more closely. “Not easy. Are you writing now?”
“Not yet. But as soon as I find a typewriter, I will be.”
“You sound determined. When you have something to show, come see me.” Marion’s words were warm and she smiled again before turning away to chat with the easily recognizable actress Helen Hayes.
Julie instinctively felt the invitation was real.
So she was flushed with pleasure as she turned to look around the room, now rapidly filling with guests. Andy was in his element here. Introductions were casual, but there was the editor of the New Yorker magazine, in deep conversation with Mankiewicz, who jumped up and exuberantly shook hands with Andy. Standing by the fireplace was a restless man with a gaunt, worried face who she soon learned was Scott Fitzgerald. And she caught the name of Bennett Cerf, who had started Random House, the book-publishing firm. Other introductions blurred—there were two other writers from the East Coast—but when Julie saw David Selznick, she figured he was the reason this evening seemed especially important to Andy.
Selznick actually looked genial tonight, laughing at someone’s joke as he tipped a glass of Scotch to his lips. Julie, cradling a drink in her hands, tried to imagine how victorious he must feel about the Gable deal right now. She began talking to the woman with him, who turned out to be his regally elegant wife, Irene—a lady with a cool smile and reserved eyes who warmed up perceptibly when she learned Julie was a graduate of Smith College.
“I would have liked to go to college,” she said matter-of-factly. “But Father felt it was bad for girls, that it would expose me to outside influences.”
“Where did you live?” Julie asked innocently.
“Here, of course.” The woman’s eyes had widened slightly. “Ah, I see, you are new to Hollywood. My father is Louis B. Mayer. He always said other girls had to go to college: they didn’t have my advantages.”
Julie almost giggled; if only her parents could hear that. She glanced over at Andy and saw him and Scott Fitzgerald in sober conversation with Selznick. She strained to hear.
“So what do you think of Mitchell’s writing?” Selznick was asking.
Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders almost wearily. His left hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his rather shabby jacket; his right hand cradled a glass of bourbon. “It’s okay. Not very original,” he said. “Workmanlike.”
“So you’re polishing it up, right?” Selznick said.
“I’m using her own words mostly,” Fitzgerald said. He did not seem intimidated by Selznick’s brusque tone. He was only one of many writers Selznick was bringing in to work on the script, and he knew it.
“Andy, you’ll stay on top of this?” Selznick said.
“Of course,” Andy replied. He saw Julie and grinned, then winked. She smiled back and turned away; she would tell him what Irene Selznick had said later. She knew now from studio gossip that Selznick valued Andy highly—that his ability to keep track of all the elements and egos of this massive project had made him invaluable. She felt wonderfully proud.
What she didn’t notice right away was a tall, dark-haired woman with long, graceful fingers curled tightly around a crystal glass, who was staring at Andy. Only when she strode forward in Andy’s direction, her expression stony, did Julie register that she was quite beautiful.
Julie remembered later that Andy looked up, saw the woman approaching, and appeared first startled, then resigned.
“You bastard,” the woman said. She took her drink and threw it into his face. Bourbon dripped from Andy’s hair as ice cubes clattered against a glass coffee table on their way to the floor. The woman put down the glass and stalked toward the front door, followed by a small, nervously apologetic-looking man with a very flushed face.
The room went silent for a brief moment before the murmur of conversation resumed. Andy took a napkin offered by a maid and wiped his face, then dabbed calmly at the stains on his shirt. He looked up at Julie and walked over to her.
“Who was that?” she asked, stunned.
“You might say a former colleague,” he said. “We’re not on good terms.”
“I could tell,” she managed. She tried to keep her voice calm, not quite sure what to say next. Irene Selznick had quietly drifted away to the other side of the room.
“I’m sorry you saw that—it’s the postscript to an old story,” he said.
“Please, tell me.”
He sighed. “Julie, it’s all old news.”
Was she supposed to stand there and pretend nothing had happened? She glanced around the room and was suddenly struck by a realization. “No one seems surprised,” she said. “Please, explain.”
His face seemed to close up. “I’ll tell you later. I assure you, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Don’t bother my pretty little head, is that it?” She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t look dismayed or scared or confused, all of which she was. Andy. What made her think she actually knew this man, knew his character, in not much more than a month? She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling. Tears were forming in her eyes.
The stiff expression on his face softened slightly. “Okay, I’ve shocked you enough. I’ll take you home.”
She looked around. They were being serenely ignored. No tension, just life as usual. She knew this might likely end up as an anonymous tidbit in Louella’s column tomorrow—anything about anyone connected with Gone with the Wind was fair game now—including something tongue-in-cheek about the clueless girlfriend who stood there barely holding back her tears. How was she supposed to act?
“Dinner is served,” Sara Mankiewicz announced at that moment, with what appeared to be a quick, sympathetic smile in Julie’s direction.
That did it. Julie straightened, lifted her head high. Through the dining-room doors, she could see a table glistening with silver and crystal. A maid was lighting tall cream-colored tapers. “Not at all, Mr. Weinstein,” she said calmly. “We’ve been invited to dinner, and we will stay.” She turned and preceded Andy into the dining room.
She peered at the place cards, each name in elaborate script. Would they have remembered hers? There it was. She was seated between Ben Hecht and a magazine editor from London whose name—she peeked at his place card—appeared unpronounceable. Elegant bone-white china, succulent prime rib; jokes, laughter. Conversation. Ben Hecht, blowing smoke rings to the chandelier between courses. Easy engagement. The magazine editor (“Call me Bernie, forget the last name”) chatty and pleasant. Sparring over the possibility of war.
“Roosevelt is trying to get us into it,” Mankiewicz declared, slicing vigorously into his meat. “It’s Europe’s war, not ours.”
“Mank, the Germans are out to own the world,” argued the magazine editor. “For God’s sake, they won’t show any of your movies in Germany unless your name is taken off of them.”
“They don’t like me, I don’t like them,” Mankiewicz retorted.
“Hitler isn’t going to invade the U.S.,” Hecht broke in. “No reason American boys should go over there and get killed by the thousands.”
A producer from RKO growled, “We’ll have to get in it sometime,” he said, waving his fork.
The conversation stayed juicy and lively, bouncing from topic to topic. Julie felt energized just listening. From across the table, Frances Marion smiled and lifted her glass, that small, universal gesture that held various meanings. And then dessert, a berry tart with ice cream; coffee; after-dinner liqueurs served in tiny crystal glasses. The mood was mellowing. From her seat at the table, Julie could see the lights shimmering blue in that jaunty frog-shaped pool. David O. Selznick, usually intense and focused, lounged back in his chair, chortling over one of Herman’s jokes.
And when dinner was over, goodbyes said, coats donned, and she and Andy stepped from the house and out into a Hollywood night complete with a crisp midnight-blue sky and sparkling stars, Julie realized—to her pleasure and astonishment—she had had a good time. Even if Andy seemed weighted down with gloom.
They drove to the boarding house in total silence.
“Goodbye.” She opened the door, feeling proud of herself. She had carried it off. “It was an interesting evening, though I feel I’ve been cast as an extra in a detective story.”
“I’m sorry.” The words obviously came hard to him.
“That’s not enough.”
“I was involved with a friend of hers, and it didn’t work out.” He really seemed to be struggling. “I want to leave it at that, if you’ll let me. It was—bad. Maybe sometime. Not now.”
“But I need to know more now.”
“Sorry.”
She could think of nothing further to say. “Goodbye,” she said again.
“Goodbye, kid.” His jaw set, he turned his eyes to the road. He already had the car in gear.