A Touch of Stardust (21 page)

Julie barely moved as she stood alone in the bathroom. What terrible news for Andy, just what he had dreaded. Why couldn’t he have called? Did he really think she wouldn’t understand or try to offer comfort? But then, beneath that, another voice: You’re the one who counseled turning away from those bigots at the ballpark. He can’t pretend not to see or hear what cuts into his soul.

Walk out of here, she told herself; you need time to think. Time, maybe, to grow up a little. She pushed open the door and stepped back into the lazy social world of Chasen’s, filled with the murmurs of lilting voices and the sound of tinkling glasses. A place of mellow self-satisfaction, truly.

Say nothing to the man at the bar who rubs too close to your heart, leave him alone for now, respect this apartness. Ignore the woman next to him, who is claiming emotional territory with a triumphal glance over her shoulder. Give a kiss to your friend, sitting wide-eyed in a booth and wondering what is happening.

Hail a cab, go home; claim the modest little Corona, and start thumping out words. Stare at them, cut them tighter and stronger, jump over careful semicolons, and dump the protective adjectives. Fall asleep over the damn machine.

Oh God, the alarm.

Wake up. Time for work?

No. Time to go to Carole’s.

Carole’s driver sat, patiently waiting, in a black roadster, the early-morning sun glistening off the polished top of the automobile. Julie glanced at her watch as she hurried out the door; stepping into the car, she finger-combed her hair. There had been time only to dress quickly and tell her puzzled friend she would explain everything later. She was supposed to meet Carole at the ranch to help her get the place ready for their move. She would keep her focus on that and not dwell on last night. She felt childish. It was too easy to fall into seeing everything only from her own point of view. If she was to think about anything right now, it should be what Andy must be feeling for his grandparents. That worry had opened a gap between them, and at some point she would try to breach it. Not today. No poor-me response. Over her long night of troubled dreams, head on the cold steel of the typewriter, she told herself she had outgrown that.

Carole stood by the gate to the Encino ranch at 4525 Petit Drive, clad in dungarees and high boots covered with mud. Her blond hair was caught up in a rubber band, high on the crown of her head, and her face was without makeup. She looked joyous. With one foot, she kicked open the gate and beckoned the driver to inch his way in over the newly graveled driveway.

“Hi there, honey,” she said as she jumped into the back seat with Julie. “Sam, find this girl some boots, okay? I think we’ve got some in the trunk.” She turned her attention back to Julie. “I’m giving you the full tour first, but then we’re painting fences. Redwood. Ever painted redwood? Very tricky, I’m told. It defies being painted green.”

Julie shook her head and started to answer, but Carole was laughing, pointing to the sweep of land unfolding on both sides of the car. “Alfalfa fields, citrus groves,” she said. “Twenty acres of everything. I can hardly believe it. Let’s get out; I want to show you something. We can do the house tour later.”

She jumped from the car before it came to a full stop. Julie didn’t hesitate: she hopped out right after Carole. So what if her shoes got muddy? Carole’s lightheartedness was intoxicating.

“We’re putting in what some people call a chicken house and what
I
call a hennery, right here,” Carole said, taking in a plot of land with a wave of her arm. “See? It’s only a short distance to the house, so I can collect eggs in the morning. Just trot out in my nightie, no fans peeking out of the bushes, and scoop them up. Ever collected warm eggs straight from hens?”

Julie laughed and shook her head.

“Makes me feel quite motherly, like I’ve plopped them out myself.” A touch of wistfulness crossed Carole’s face. “Wish I could. But we’re trying.” Her mood switched again. “The pigsty goes over there.” She wrinkled her nose. “I won’t be visiting them. And I have a wonderful tractor that’s coming—did Rose tell you I want it gift-wrapped?”

“Yes,” Julie said. “We could wrap it in ribbon—”

“Oh no, hon, I want it
boxed
,” Carole said cheerfully. She grabbed Julie’s hand and drew her through the field, pointing to the barn, then the stables. Together they stepped inside. Lining the walls was an array of equipment, all hanging neatly: shovels, rakes, brooms of all sizes. “Only thing missing is the horses,” Carole said. “Clark is buying them; I can’t wait. He doesn’t want to clean out their shit, but I don’t mind—just have to make sure I take off my pants before
going back in the house.” She laughed. “We’ll ride in the mornings together; God, life will be wonderful.” A second’s pause. Then: “Even when it’s not.” She cast a quick glance at Julie. “Things don’t stay perfect with any couple, you know.”

The implied invitation to speak trembled between them.

“There was a scene at the baseball game yesterday—” Julie began.

“I know.”

Julie felt a little rattled. “The news traveled that fast?”

“The movie business never sleeps,” Carole said with a tighter smile than usual. “And Europe has everybody here on edge, Jew and Gentile.”

“Did it hurt him?” Please say no, she thought.

Carole considered that. “He confronted a bigot, right? Let’s be honest, people would rather sweep these things under a rug. But Selznick has big plans for Andy, and most people know it. So, no, I don’t think it will hurt him.”

“His grandparents—”

“I know that, too. You’ve been talking to Doris, right?”

Julie hadn’t planned to say more, but changed her mind. “He’s drawn away from me because I tried to stop him from reacting yesterday. He was out with her last night. And she told me there’d been another woman in his life, that she was like me.”

“Doris is a protective sort.” Carole let out a sigh. “Ah well. You’re going to hear sooner or later, so I’ll tell you now. There was a woman, yes. Not like you at all, by the way. And an accident.” She peered into one of the stalls, surveying the clutter of saddle racks and horse feeders with studied interest.

“What happened?”

“Are you sure you want to hear more?”

“Of course I do.”

“You know what that thing is over there?” Carole pointed to what looked like a cart. “It’s a manure spreader. Amazing, the things a horse needs.”

“Carole—”

“Okay.… It happened two years ago. Andy was dating a gal named Nicky who was blonde and pretty, and up for a role in an MGM movie. There were rumors she was diddling Mayer to get the part, but, hey, maybe true, maybe not. Anyhow, they were out drinking one night, got loaded, climbed into her car, and headed up Sunset Boulevard, going well over the speed limit, I’m told.”

“Oh God.”

“The car jumped a curb, just missed some guy walking his dog, and hit a tree.” Carole said. “Andy wasn’t hurt, but his girlfriend’s face was badly banged up. She lost the part in the movie. Andy pleaded guilty to drunk driving, paid a fine, and spent a week in jail. She publicly blamed him, wouldn’t talk to him. End of romance.”

Julie looked down at her shoes, noting the caking mud, letting herself wonder if the suede would clean. Why was Carole sounding so casual? “That’s terrible,” she said, her voice shaky. “He could have killed her.”

“Sure, if he’d been the one driving.”

Julie cast Carole a look of astonishment. “He wasn’t?”

“He said he was, but even the police had their doubts. She was a crazy driver, and most people think he took the blame to save her reputation. Not incidentally, he was supposed to be in love with her, from what I heard. He wanted to be a stand-up guy.”

“She would let him do that?”

Carole’s hand flew to the left side of her face. “Yes,” she said softly. “She was a cheat. And a crybaby.”

Julie’s gaze followed Carole’s hand to her left cheek. Even now, if you looked carefully, you could see a faint scar traveling the length of Carole’s face, the legacy of an automobile crash when she was eighteen that left her with a devastating injury; it almost ended her career. One of the most impressive things about Carole was that she had elected to have reconstructive surgery without anesthesia, to keep her facial muscles from relaxing and thus risk a permanent scar.

Thinking of that gave Julie the shivers. “Did Nicky’s face heal?”

“Yes. But she wasn’t all that good of an actress, and it gave Mayer
an excuse to dump her. She complained all over town that Andy had ruined her career. After milking the episode for all it was worth, she took a job as a stewardess.” Carole shook her head. “Andy never defended himself.”

Julie felt a rush of sadness—not for herself, but for Andy. “You know far more about his life than I do.”

Carole shook her head. “Not really. I knew him first simply as the fellow with the quickest access to Selznick. I hear he’s the guy you go to, to unscramble a production problem around here—though he underplays it.” She gazed again at the equipment on the far wall, looking puzzled. “Why the hell do we need a manure spreader in here? Don’t horses manage to spread it around on their own?”

Julie smiled. They left the barn and plodded on together, in rare silence. Ahead, behind the thick bushes and trees, Julie glimpsed the house. Wide and gabled, of white-painted brick, it exuded warmth and hospitality. The awnings were a faded, mossy green, and the generously scaled porch all but demanded that a visitor plop into one of its canvas chairs and lift her face to a blue sky and be happy. A sky that would always be blue—wasn’t that the promise? Andy would say the promise was false. But this wasn’t a movie set. Carole scoffed at movie sets. This was the place where she and Clark could unzip their glamour skins, crawl out, and be safe. If she could just curl up on that welcoming porch, maybe she could figure out how to find a haven, too.

“Talk to him,” Carole said gently. “And figure out what you want.”

“How? How did you get so sure?”

“Honey, I meant what I said when we met. Here’s what I want: I want the ranch, I want Clark. Vivien complains that he has bad breath when she kisses him, but who the hell cares? Not me. I want a baby. I want family photographs everywhere. I want pictures falling off cluttered tabletops, some in fancy silver frames, some in plain ones, shots of babies growing up. Clark and I growing old … throw in some great horses and an antimacassar or two …” She paused to catch her breath.

Julie started to say something, but stopped at the sound of voices coming from the direction of the main house.

“Reporters,” Carole said, squinting against the sun. “Fuck, probably another crisis on the set; they want Clark to respond. Vivien again, I’ll bet. She cries every time they tape her breasts to give her a little cleavage. Wouldn’t have had to worry about that with
me
. Bit of a wimp, I’d say.”

They trudged forward in unison, and only at the moment when they came in range of the porch did Carole’s step falter. Louella, plump Louella, the woman with eyes carved from stone, stood like a queen in the midst of her aides and cameramen, her placid body oozing righteousness.