Weeks had passed. Julie lay sleepless in her bed at the boarding house, staring at the crumbling plaster on the ceiling. If Mayer didn’t want her script, how could she pay the rent for this place after next month? Her father was proving true to his word: no check had arrived. She had no need to worry; she needed to stand her ground. Andy would help, but that would make her feel like some kind of kept woman, and if that was hypocritical of her, too bad. She was still, inside, a Midwestern girl—even if she did curl up in his bed at least a few nights a week.
She turned on her side, trying to blink away the cobwebs in her head. With one hand, she pushed back the covers, already sweaty. The heat was building: another scorching day.
Maybe she was living inside a dream, and none of it was real. She looked across at the empty bed of her former roommate, wishing she were here. Rose had moved out a few days ago, gone back to Texas to plan her wedding. It would be next spring, she’d said. “And you must, must come be my maid of honor—will you do that?”
Julie pulled the covers back over her head, wishing she hadn’t been so clumsy with her reply. She shouldn’t have stammered and made up some temporizing reply; she should’ve just been honest.
But Rose knew. “You’ll come if you either get a job that thrills you or get married and you’re thrilled about that,” she offered in her kind, serene way. “I don’t have to know right away. But I’m thinking blue silk for your gown.”
Julie pushed the covers away again, this time kicking them with her feet. Get up, she told herself. Go walk on the sand in Santa Monica—to hell with the tar. At least eat something. Pretend you aren’t chained to the communal telephone out in the hall, waiting for the call that might change your life. Pretend you’re not wondering whether you and Andy could truly get married, pretend you’re both wishing that happens, and pretend you’re not scared everything might fall apart.
She tried to imagine Andy’s new routine. “Now we make the real movie,” he told her after the last scene was shot. “See you next month.”
It wasn’t a joke. He was buried daily now, working with Selznick in the cutting room, hunched over 225,000 feet of film printed out of the half-million shot, working to piece together the final product of what would eventually make its way to the movie theaters and be known as Gone with the Wind.
When he gave her those numbers, she could hardly believe them. No wonder he often looked wan and gray. And it wouldn’t be over for weeks—Andy said Selznick was demanding even more retakes, which would take them through August.
A woman’s head swathed in toilet paper and a net to keep her curls in place popped into the room. “Call for you,” she chirped. “Don’t take too long; I’m expecting a ring from my agent.”
Julie ran for the phone. It was Carole. Of course, today was Clark and Carole’s move to the ranch. How could that have slipped her mind?
“Okay, I know you’re disappointed that it’s just me, but you can’t sit and cook in the heat in that boarding house all day, every day. Whoa, watch out for that breakfront!” Carole yelled. “Not you, honey; the movers are here. This is the big day, remember? Come up and let’s say goodbye to Bel-Air!”
A sudden crash. “They dropped it. Good thing I didn’t like the damn thing much anyway,” Carole mumbled.
“I don’t know if I can come today—”
“And if you don’t come today and they don’t call, you’ll sit and stew tomorrow, too. Julie, if they want you, they will find you.”
“I’ll think about it—”
“No, you won’t. There’s a car waiting for you out front right now. Doughnuts and coffee when you get here. No Scotch this time—it’s too early.”
Julie’s spirits were lifting. “Orange juice?” she asked.
“Fresh-squeezed.”
“Okay.” She hung up the phone and walked back to her room, already feeling renewed. Yes. She didn’t have to sit here and brood that her entire life was made up of waiting for other people to decide its direction. If they wanted her, they would find her.
“Did you remember who else you were supposed to invite for moving day?” Julie said as she walked in the door.
Carole straightened up from a box filled with dishes, brushing a dusty hand across her face, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna, but limp tendrils were working their way through. “What do other people do with their grandmother’s dishes?” she asked, puzzled. “I never really went for the stuff that is so delicate-looking you’re afraid to eat off of it. Maybe I could leave it on somebody’s doorstep, and ring the bell.…”
“Carole, you invited Louella, remember?”
“Oh, sure.” Carole waved her hand airily. “Big dinner for her at the ranch tonight. We’re cooking a deer Clark shot yesterday a few miles from the house. God, I love saying that. On our land, waaaay out beyond the house.”
“You’re cooking venison?”
“No, a deer.”
“Carole—” Julie started to laugh.
“I know, I know—I just want to see her eyes pop when I ask her if she wants to see the antlers.” Carole’s eyes were dancing in that impossible way of hers as she threw back her head and laughed. “Let’s get that coffee.”
They made their way past the movers, a crew of burly men in sweaty tee shirts who, having hoisted boxes on their shoulders, were dodging and weaving past the yapping, darting dachshunds and the highly alarmed Pekingese running in circles. Julie was happy to see old Sammy lying contentedly by the fireplace; he licked her hand when she leaned down to pet him. The cat was curled comfortably on top of the box of dishes. Carole scooped her up as they walked by. “She’ll end up in the moving truck if I’m not careful.” She sighed. “She wouldn’t be very happy.”
“You’ve had some good dinner parties here,” Julie said with a smile, looking out into the dining room. “I’m particularly fond of the one for my parents.”
“Didn’t we play our parts well?”
“You sure did.”
“It was a great excuse to reconnect to my Midwestern roots,” said Carole as she set a chocolate doughnut in front of Julie; something in her voice didn’t sound quite as cheerfully flip as usual.
“Do you ever feel tugged back?”
“Once in a great while.” Carole poured some cream into her coffee and stirred it slowly. “I was pretty young when I left, but, hey, there’ve been plenty of goodbyes since then.”
“Your first husband—”
“Yes, that dear, impossible Bill Powell. He’s the only intelligent actor I’ve ever met.” She smiled. “With the exception of my husband, obviously.” Carole’s mood altered as she stared down at her coffee. “I was also in love with a wonderful man, a singer who was killed. A gun accident.”
“Russ Columbo,” Julie said.
“Yes. Hell, I forget sometimes that just about every nook and cranny of my life has been poked out into the sunlight at one time or another.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that, hon. We both know actors’ lives are an open book. But I loved him in a way that, for me, was different.” Carole seemed to pause and think for a second; then she reached inside the neckline of her blouse and pulled out a tiny gold locket on a chain. “A friend gave me this after his death, and I still wear it.” She flicked it open. It held a picture of a handsome young man with dark hair and warm eyes. Russ Columbo. “So why am I showing you this?” she said quietly.
Julie already knew. “To teach me that goodbyes can come around the corner when you least expect them,” she ventured. Her voice trembled. She didn’t have to say Andy’s name.
“I’m not predicting it; I’m saying life holds surprises. And sometimes you hold on—and let go—in different ways.”
They sat in silence, neither of them needing any words for the moment. Then Carole stood up, pushing back the bandanna, which had slipped down to her eyebrows. “Let’s go feed the ducks. If they start shitting on that wonderful bear rug at the ranch, I’ll serve them for dinner.”
Her laugh was as light and buoyant as ever.
The call came in the form of a telegram from Mayer’s office, which was waiting for Julie when she returned that night to the boarding house. She ripped it open as she hurried to her room, keeping her head down, not wanting to convey anything to any observers until she could digest its contents. Close the door, sit down on the bed. Read.
You are hereby offered a twelve-week contract at four hundred dollars a week to rewrite the script of Madhouse Nightmare, which will be assigned to MGM director Clyde Denton. Your initial rewrite of the original script has promise, although the epilogue needs to more strongly emphasize the screwball role of the heroine. Denton will contact you with production schedule. Advise within twenty-four hours if this offer is acceptable or it will be officially rescinded. Contract will follow.
Louis B. Mayer
She couldn’t help it—she let out a happy shout and ran into the hall, straight for the phone. She could save more money now; twelve weeks would give her a wonderful cushion. Andy, she had to tell Andy first. Could she reach him in the cutting room? Her finger shook as she dialed. Never had the rotary dial taken so long to click past each numeral. The phone rang several times before a male voice finally answered. One of the engineers—would he give the phone to Andy?
Girls were staring at her curiously. “I got a job,” she blurted. “Writing a real movie.”
Waiting there, holding the phone, floating in the air, she saw the mix of responses in the eyes of the girls around her, all the way from true pleasure to frustration to jealousy; each one, she realized, was waiting for something. Someone kissed her on the cheek; someone turned away. She would think about all this, but not now, not yet.
“Andy?” She couldn’t contain the excitement in her voice.
“Hey, you’re excited. You’re hired for Madhouse Nightmare, right?”
“Yes, yes!”
He laughed. “I thought you would be. Congratulations, kid, you deserve it.”
“It’s for twelve weeks—”
“That’s great. Mayer is giving you a real step up on the ladder, not that stupid tryout class run by Goldman. Do a good job on this and you’ll be put on another movie.” His voice was warm, but somehow distracted.
“When can I see you?”
“I’ll be here all night again,” he said. He gave a weary chuckle. “Don’t get me started; I’m not going to whine.”
She heard somebody shout his name.
There was a brief silence. Then, “Yes, I’ll make time.” His voice was suddenly tender. “We’ll celebrate at Chasen’s, okay?”
“No. At your place.” Surely he could feel her desire.
“I’ll have to go back to the studio after. Is that all right?”
He did feel it; she heard it returned in his voice. “I don’t care,” she whispered.
“Okay, honey. See you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”
Next she called her parents. She knew they wanted to be happy for her—she could hear it in their voices—but she also heard the doubt, which she tried to push away.
“A farce? You’re writing a Hollywood farce?” her father asked in a baffled voice.
“What’s wrong with that, Dad?”
“But you do serious work. Isn’t this temporary?”
There was no use arguing with him, which would only sound defensive, especially since girls within earshot were casting politely exasperated looks at her for monopolizing the phone. Anyway, she had one more call to make.
So it wasn’t until she reached Carole at the ranch that she found her mood turning wistful.
“Serious work.” That’s what her father had said. Yes, she had been writing something he might have been proud of. She thought of her original script, the one she had labored over so lovingly and had dreamed of selling. She had been creating a story she believed in.
“My script—it was naïve, wasn’t it?” she asked Carole.
“Oh, honey, it was idealistic; don’t berate yourself. And it was damn good, too. You had to do that first.”
“This is my first step on the ladder, right?”
“Of course it is. You’re going to do great.”
Julie realized something. “I’m changing,” she said quietly.
“We all do,” Carole said. Just as quietly.
The next night, they stood together facing the window, Andy’s hands cupping her breasts, gazing out over the city; the lights below were scattered like a tapestry of jewels to a black horizon.
“I’m always calm here,” she said. “I see now why people want to live in the Hollywood Hills; it all looks … glittering, but containable.”
“It’s an illusion,” he said, kissing her ear. “It’s really gobbling us up.”
“Oh, stop.” Playfully, she pushed him away, ruffling his hair.
He pulled her back and kissed her—a long, questing kiss that needed no words. She knew he would not go back to the studio. He would rest in her arms, and she would kiss away the strain in his face, and they both would sleep deeply and together, twisting and twining, inhaling each other’s breath, and holding fast.
And later she would remember how peaceful she felt that night, how sure of herself, how safe, and how poised on the cusp of all that was new. She would remember all that for a very long time.