The next morning, the soundstage, vast as it was, felt almost crowded to Julie. People were trickling in, slowly at first, then faster—Selznick employees who could manage to sneak away from their jobs, a loyal cadre of David Selznick’s friends—and by nine o’clock it looked like a gathering at a Hollywood party. With, of course, many reporters. Julie spied Louella Parsons standing under one of the huge studio lights, nodding graciously, flashing her hard smile. One after another, those who lived or died on what she wrote offered homage. It gave Julie the shivers—all those false, bright faces.
“Dear Louella, she should’ve been born into royalty,” said a familiar throaty voice. “Got herself positioned perfectly for attention, don’t you think?”
Julie spun around. “Carole,” she said delightedly. “You mean you aren’t going over to genuflect?”
“Not me, honey.” Carole tossed back her blond hair and beckoned Julie into the seat next to hers. “Glad you came. I usually get bored on the fifth take or so, but Clark wanted me here today.” She surveyed the scene around them thoughtfully. “Look at all these jumpy, scared people. If it’s a disaster, they’re finished, of course. Kind of our town’s version of the old-fashioned human sacrifices of the Incas or whoever they were.” She glanced down at a copy of the morning Examiner someone had left on a chair and paused. “Nothing makes what I just said sound more like pure horseshit than a picture like that,” she said, pointing.
Julie looked down. A large photo, above the fold, of a line of people with hungry, haunted faces—Czech Jews, the caption said, being pushed from their homes by the Nazis. One figure, a woman, holding a child in her arms, stared straight at the camera. Not imploring, not pleading.
“Look at her expression,” Carole said. “What do you see?”
Julie stared at the photo. “Nothing,” she said. “Her face is blank.”
“Yeah. That’s what giving up looks like.” Carole sighed and passed Julie her cup of coffee. “Take a sip while it’s hot, honey. This place is cold as a witch’s tit. How are your parents?”
“Resigned, pretty much,” Julie said, gratefully taking a swallow before handing it back. “My mother keeps talking about Rhett Butler.”
“Did you tell them about your idea for a script?”
“No, they wouldn’t understand that at all.”
Carole cradled the cup. “They will when it works,” she said. “No word from Marion yet?”
“No.” Even with Carole, she felt anxious talking about it.
“Remember, you’ve still got a backup job with me. Maybe even with a raise—though, hell, not to three hundred bucks a week.”
The noise around them was intensifying. It was more than a buzz; there was shouting.
“That’s what Clark was afraid of,” Carole said, lowering her voice. “L.B. is making his last stand.”
Louis B. Mayer, portly, his face an unhealthy purple, stood under the lights on a raised platform, shouting at Selznick. Like a wave retreating, actors, assistants, and gaffers all stepped back. Only Louella held her ground, her face as alert and sly as that of a ferret. Julie could imagine her burbling in tomorrow’s column: Dear, dear, a last-minute fracas, such a pity, heads toppling … Along that line.
Julie’s eyes searched for Andy. There he was, in the middle of it, not shouting, speaking calmly to Selznick, soothing Mayer, looking totally in command of himself—perhaps the only one on the set who did. Mayer began to calm down. Whatever bargaining was going on between the two men was not audible from where she and Carole sat.
Finally, Selznick walked over to Clark and Vivien, who both stood stiffly, in full costume, as if waiting for some kind of execution. He handed them each several sheets of paper. Clark let out a disapproving snort.
“I told Pa not to bother memorizing his lines last night,” Carole said. “Here we go, a new final scene. Save these seats. I’m going to get more coffee.”
For another twenty minutes, the crowd waiting for the finale of filming what people were calling the most trouble-plagued movie in history clustered in groups, talking among themselves, sneaking glances at Clark and Vivien rehearsing over in a corner.
Carole came back with two coffees and a cheery report. “Ran into Andy,” she said. “He said all has been forgiven, and they’re about ready to go.”
As she spoke, Selznick lifted his bullhorn and demanded quiet. An almost instant stillness fell over all the onlookers in the huge sound studio.
Selznick turned and faced the crowd. His voice was solemn and commanding. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to point out to all of you that you are about to see us shoot what will be in the near future a historic scene in a historic movie.” He paused, looking around. No one could say he didn’t know how to frame this speech. He had risked his own health and many thousands of dollars to make this movie, and he wanted the world to know it. “We are going to make movie history!” he shouted. “This will be one of the greatest films ever made!” He whipped around and pointed at Clark and Vivien. “Are you ready?” he demanded.
The pair nodded almost simultaneously. Both were dressed in somber black, Vivien with a single ivory brooch at her throat.
The lights on the set turned low. The cameras moved forward, focused on the set of Rhett and Scarlett’s home. As Julie watched, the two actors took their places.
The grand house broods, dark and filled with sorrow. Rhett is packing a valise in his office.
“What are you doing?” Scarlett says. She looks at him, frightened.
“I’m leaving you, my dear. I’ve tried. If you’d only met me halfway—all you need now is a divorce and your dreams of Ashley can come true.”
“Oh no!” she cries. “No, you’re wrong, terribly wrong! I don’t want a divorce. I love you!”
Clark’s voice resonates, imbuing Rhett with the strength of finality. “That’s your misfortune,” he says, heading for the door.
“Oh, Rhett! Rhett!” She follows him. “If you go, where shall I go, what shall I do?”
Rhett opens the door to a swirling fog outside, then turns back to her, speaking sadly but with full purpose.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
He walks away, disappearing into the fog.
“Cut!” bellowed Selznick into his bullhorn.
The room remained briefly quiet, as if all had inhaled at the same time and still held their breath. Then murmurs, then spoken congratulations. Onlookers invited in as Selznick’s guests to watch the scene rushed forward and took turns pumping his hand. Jerry Bryant—whose job getting good publicity for this movie never had been easy—was almost jumping with glee as he headed right over to Louella.
“David isn’t taking any chances,” murmured Carole.
“It was a wonderful scene,” Julie said, meaning it fervently. The movie was coming together, pulling her in. Selznick was right. It was still all in pieces, but something grand was being stitched into a whole. Maybe it wouldn’t be as much as Selznick wanted it to be, but, oh, he was touching something.
Julie caught Andy’s eye. His answering grin was wonderful—relieved, and clearly happy. What a burden he had been bearing. But it was worth it, this making of movies; magic could come from all the mundane squabbles and delays and clashing agendas. It was happening now.
Carole was staring at Clark, still cradling her now very cold cup of coffee. Julie expected she would make some joke, probably about how cranky Clark looked as he pulled at his collar, sweating from the long scene under the lights.
“You know something?” Carole said, rolling her words out slowly. “For the first time—watching Clark act?—I almost forgot I was married to him.”
“That’s quite a compliment,” Julie said.
Carole looked at her, a bit puzzled. “You’re right, it is,” she said.
“Miss Crawford?”
Julie looked up, startled. A tiny, birdlike woman in a perfectly tailored suit with perfectly lacquered hair was standing in front of her, eyes steady in an expressionless face.
“I am Loretta James, Mr. Mayer’s secretary,” the woman said. “I believe you are in a tryout phase as a writer for MGM?”
Julie nodded, startled. She glanced past the woman and caught a quick glimpse of the fabled head of the studio as he prepared to leave the soundstage.
“Yes, I am,” she managed.
“Mr. Mayer would like to see you in his office at three o’clock. I assume you will be available?”
“Yes,” she said. What else could she say?
“Fine. Please be prompt; he has another appointment at four.” The woman turned and nodded briefly to Carole. “Nice to see you, Miss Lombard,” she said in a tone that expressed the opposite.
“Oh, you, too, Loretta honey,” Carole said, smiling.
With a crisp nod, Loretta James turned on her heel and walked away.
“Why would he want to see me?” Julie asked.
“Poor old Loretta, she’s been in the summoning business for too long,” Carole said absently.
“You know, command performances, casting-couch rumors, you’ve heard them. But that’s not what he wants from you, hon.” Carole broke into a grin. “He’s seen your script—this could be terrific.”
Julie felt herself shaking inside. “Does he have a sense of humor?”
“He’s not known for that,” Carole admitted.
“Then maybe he wants to throw it back in my face.”
Carole gazed at her steadily, seriously. “Okay, it could go either way, right? You’ll find out at three o’clock.”
Julie sat, hands folded, on the white leather couch in Louis B. Mayer’s reception room, trying not to glance too often at the large silver clock above the cool Miss James’s head. It was almost three-thirty. Did he know she was here? Was he busy with someone else? Had he forgotten? Miss James ignored her completely, giving no information. Julie settled back into the soft leather and stared down at the white shag carpet beneath her feet—the pile was so thick, it half covered the toes of her best black patent leather shoes—trying to appear a little more relaxed.
A door was opening; she heard voices—one a light, melodic woman’s voice. Julie looked up and saw a bright-eyed young girl emerging from Mayer’s office, the arm of the mogul around her shoulders as he talked in fatherly tones. It was Judy Garland. Ignoring Julie, Mayer walked Garland through the reception room to the outer door, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek and a hug as he said goodbye.
The door closed. He turned to go back to his office and stopped when he saw Julie. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Julie Crawford. You sent for me, Mr. Mayer.”
“Oh yes. Come on in.”
She followed his barrel-shaped figure through the inner door into the great man’s office, trying not to be awed.
The room was dazzlingly white. Everything, even the desk, was white—leather, polished wood, silk draperies. There was something about the color white in Hollywood, Julie thought. It threw light back in the face of the viewers, letting them see only what the occupant wanted seen. It protected the rest, just as sunglasses hid the naked, vulnerable eye.
Mayer had taken his chair behind the desk. He folded his hands across his stomach and stared at her. “So you want to be a writer?” he said unexpectedly.
“Yes, sir, I’m hoping to work for MGM.”
He picked up a familiar-looking manuscript. “I’ve read your prologue and epilogue,” he said, giving it a fluttery wave, then dropped it back on his desk. “You think you can get audiences to buy that pile-of-shit movie as a comedy?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Do you know how much that damn thing cost us?”
“Quite a lot.”
“You bet it did.”
It was all or nothing; she might as well try. “It could, if done right, make your niece come off as a great comedienne,” she ventured.
“So you knew my niece played in this, God forbid her lack of judgment. Is that why you chose it?”
“No, sir—I chose it to work on because it was the worst movie I could find. Which made it the easiest to spoof.”
He resumed staring at her, evaluating. “You’re not too dumb.”
She wasn’t going to say thank you. She bit her lip and told herself again: Don’t say thank you.
“I’ll think about it,” Mayer said, standing up. A broad smile spread across his face as he gestured at the array of photographs in elaborate frames on the windowsill behind his desk. “See my family? Good-looking group, don’t you think? Not everybody got the brains.” He pointed to the image of a smiling blonde, whom Julie recognized immediately from Madhouse Nightmare. “My niece, there. You know, you can get too anxious for success in Hollywood. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it.”
She said nothing, but tried to offer a neutral smile.
“We’ll get back to you in a few days or so,” he said.
She hesitated for a moment. He sat down and reached for the telephone—also a gleaming white. No escorting her out: this meeting was over.
“Thank you, Mr. Mayer,” she said, and turned to head out the door.
“So what did you think about that ending Selznick shot today?” Mayer asked, stopping her.
There was no use worrying about finding a safe answer.
“I thought it was perfect.”
“Well, you better be goddamn right.”
She paused again, but this time his dismissal was complete.