A Touch of Stardust (39 page)

The girl had looked at him in complete shock. No MGM employee would ever talk to her like that unless Uncle Louie (not
that she ever called him that to his face) had given tacit permission. Her eyes darting from Denton to Julie and back, she held in her lethal indignation at such mistreatment until she could decide which one was the weaker. She chose Julie.

“You’ve never written a screenplay before,” she lashed out. “You’re not my boss, and if I don’t like how you write and cut this, I’ll take it right to the top. And you know I will.”

She just might. And, depending on Mayer’s mood, this could be tricky.

Andy’s voice cut sharply into Julie’s thoughts. “You think it’s impossible? I thought so, too, until we showed it to L.B. this morning.”

Julie wrenched her focus back to Andy’s news. “How did he react to the length?”

“Completely out of character. He didn’t rant and rave—although we had to stop at least five times for him to get up and go to the bathroom.” Andy grinned. He looked reasonably relaxed today, standing there in his khakis, hands in his pockets. More like the old Andy. “First time Mayer signaled the projectionist to stop the film, I thought David would have a heart attack. But he likes the movie. We may have to cut another half hour or so, that’s all. We’ll work tonight.”

“Who will sit through a movie that long?” she said, laughing.

“We’ll find out at the sneak previews. I gotta tell you, I’m proud of this baby. So how is it, working with Denton?”

He was speaking faster, and Julie felt a little embarrassed. He must have seen her glance at her watch.

“He’s fine; it’s that spoiled woman—”

“Right, Martha what’s-her-name. Not Mayer, right? A couple of marriages, as I recall.”

“You know her?” There it was again, a pang of nervous uncertainty. She thought fleetingly of Doris.

“I’ve seen her around. No, my love, I haven’t slept with her. Or even shared a drink with her. But I kind of like making you a little jealous.”

“Andy, I miss you.”

“We’re both busy, that’s all.” Andy tilted his head up to the sun gratefully. “God, it’s nice to be outside,” he said. “I’d like to take you to the beach, but can’t do it yet. So here’s the alternative: Selznick’s throwing a wrap party tomorrow; want to come? Everybody’s dragging and just dying to get this thing finished, but he wants something festive. Okay?”

“Okay.” She didn’t care who saw her, and what did it matter? She reached up and kissed him on the lips, then turned to leave.

“Busy lady,” he said with a slow smile. “See you tomorrow. Noon.”

“Where is it?”

“Where do you think?” He spread his arms. “Right here, outside. On the back lot. Lots of tired people holding each other up, eating hot dogs, and enjoying the sun.”

She laughed. “What a glamorous business this is,” she called after him as he walked away. “Maybe Clark should be in charge of the barbecue.”

The day was beautiful, that first day of September, the kind of perfect day that made life something to savor, when hot dogs really were delicious, ice cream was served, and egos were forgotten. Or at least allowed to rest, Julie thought as she watched the many human components of the massive opus called
Gone with the Wind
gather under a very blue sky.

“Christ, I’m glad it’s over,” muttered one of the engineers as he lifted a can of beer, looking first to make sure Selznick wasn’t within earshot. The actors were drifting over from the parking lot to the party. Stripped of their roles, they looked as plain as unbuttered biscuits. But—like the engineer—most of them were relieved to be fading back to who they were before inhabiting the characters of
Gone with the Wind
.

Julie gazed at them all as they clustered around the table of food.
Butterfly McQueen had never been happy with her role, and was still a bit snappy and tense. Hattie McDaniel was joking with Clark, her pal, who puffed on his pipe, so clearly relieved to be finally free of Rhett Butler. Leslie Howard, in slacks and an open shirt, a bit shy and uneasy, looked much older in civilian clothes—too old for Ashley, as he had protested all along. Vivien and Olivia chattered on about a sailing vacation that would involve neither corsets nor retakes nor taking orders from anyone, including David O. Selznick.

“They don’t see how good this movie is yet,” Andy murmured to Julie. He nodded in the direction of Selznick. “Look at the guy. He is proud.”

It was true. The obsessive producer on a daily ration of Benzedrine and thyroid extract to keep him going had somehow vanished today. His other self—the smiling, sunny, brilliant man who could work magic for a movie—stood by the beer keg, grinning at all of them like a benevolent king.

Clark strolled over, clapped Andy on the back, asked Julie how her parents were, then laughed and pointed at his wife standing on the bed of a truck. “By God, she got Selznick to agree to another parade of balloons,” he said. He waved and cheered. Carole waved back and continued orchestrating the release of dozens of brilliant yellow and red balloons, starting them on their upward voyage just as an aide came hurrying over from the main office, waving a piece of paper, looking grim.

“What is he saying?” Julie asked, straining to hear. “What is he waving?”

“It looks like wire copy,” Andy said as they all moved closer.

“Germany invaded Poland—that’s important, right?” the aide announced, looking from one to another, as if waiting for someone to tell him how to respond. “This just came over the wire.” He pointed to the large type: “Bombs Rain on Warsaw.” “Roosevelt says not to worry, we’re staying neutral,” he added quickly.

And for a brief moment, they all stared, first at each other, then to the sky, as the balloons floated peacefully, silently upward, catching the wind, disappearing, leaving no trail, no visible last acts.

“So now England will declare war on Germany?” someone asked.

“Of course,” Leslie Howard said. He turned to the questioner, a look of contained, almost resigned astonishment on his face. And in that look, Julie saw the reality that she and most people in her vast, protected country were still trying to avoid.

Howard turned to Selznick, frowning, his narrow, melancholy face settling into a resignation that looked permanent. “David, I’m done here; I hope you understand. I will leave for England in the morning.”

Clark, standing next to them both, looked down at the grass and said, “You’re a good man, Howard. It’s been a privilege working with you.”

Selznick nodded and said nothing—just heaved a sigh and put an arm around the slender British actor’s shoulders. Then the entire crowd walked slowly into the main building, to hear an excited newscaster announce that Britain, France, Australia, and New Zealand were declaring war on Germany. The Royal Air Force was poised to attack the German navy. And soon Roosevelt would address the nation—reassuring all Americans that their country would remain neutral.

“Until they attack us,” Andy muttered, his face somber.

Julie leaned against him, closing her eyes. The needle had been lifted from the phonograph, stopping the music. But the record kept spinning, and they all were like dancers still tripping across the stage, performing. What else could they do?

“Dancers? Yeah, we’re all performers—irrelevant. Maybe mindless,” Andy said when she shared this thought that evening. His happy mood was gone. He slumped deep into the sofa, his face flushed with the day’s sun. Or with the liquor. He finished a glass of bourbon, his second of the night?—Julie didn’t want to keep count.

“That’s not true,” she said sharply. “You’ve got previews coming
up—all the early signs show people really
want
something magical to ease their worries, and it’s going to be
Gone with the Wind
that does it—please, stop being so negative.”

“I don’t give a damn if it succeeds,” Andy said, staring out at the city below, exhaling, then jamming his cigarette into the ashtray. “There are more important—”

Julie threw a towel at him. “Right, there are more important things going on in the world, but this movie is important, too. And so is the one I’m working on. And being part of it is no mortal sin against—against the needs of the world!” She had to fight his pessimism; she didn’t want to see his pleasure in making the movie drain away. Yes, she was worried about war, too, but she was also worried about whether her rewrite of
Madhouse Nightmare
would be successful. Did that make her some kind of vapid “performer”? Filming for the prologue started tomorrow, and she wanted to allow herself to care whether or not Mayer would be pleased. At the same time, she was angry that she cared so much. Because there
were
more important things going on in the world … and … that damn record she kept thinking about continued spinning, spinning in her head.

Andy started to laugh. “Julie,” he said, carefully lifting an edge of the towel over his face. “Next time you throw something at me, will you make sure it’s not greasy?” He looked so comical, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, that she felt better.

“Life keeps on, you know.”

“You’re right. It does as long as you’re in it. I’ve been figuring this would happen all the way along. Getting wrapped up in the movie lulled me. So I’m mad at myself. It makes me wonder why I’m here in the first place.”

“You’re here because you are good at your job and you love it. Isn’t that enough?”

He was silent for a moment. “Maybe I’ve gotten too good at maneuvering in this world,” he replied.

Sometimes words just dug deeper holes. Oh, scribble that one down for a script you might write someday, she told herself as she lifted the towel off his head and pressed her lips against his.

“I’ll try not to be so gloomy,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she whispered back.

Julie tried to relax as she sat on the sidelines the next morning, watching Denton and the hastily reassembled actors of
Madhouse Nightmare
start filming. Rehearsals were quick, and nobody seemed tense—after all, there were no overly hopeful expectations.

Except hers.

Whatever was going to happen was out of her control now, but she hadn’t quite expected her reaction on hearing actors read the words she had written. As she listened, enthralled, she felt oddly like a puppeteer, knowing precisely what would come out of each stranger’s mouth before he or she spoke.

Andy had given her a hint of how this small taste of power would feel. “You’ll fall a little in love with yourself at first,” he said. “But you’ll get over it.”

She smiled to herself now. He was right. Nobody need know, however: she could be professional, and she’d get over it pretty fast. Whatever happened, she was doing just what she wanted to do and enjoying it.