Return to Peyton Place (27 page)

“He thought I shouldn't come out here,” said Allison.

“I can imagine,” said Brad. “Listen, darling, I don't know why you bother with people like David. You're a success now. You don't need these somber, social worker types.”

“But David is a great writer,” said Allison. “Not just good, not just successful, but
great.
And you know it.”

“I know it,” admitted Brad, “but I also know that if David relaxed a little and listened to me a little more, his books would do a lot better on the market.”

“David hasn't a commercially minded cell in his body,” said Allison.

“One of the privileges of the chosen few,” said Brad as they rode past the gates.

Allison sat up and smoothed her gloves nervously. As always, when facing a new situation, she was wishing fervently that she had stayed safely at home. The car pulled up in front of a white stone house that looked as if it might belong in a New York suburb. On the front lawn there was a black lettered sign in a wrought-iron frame that read
ARTHUR TISHMAN
.

“For Heaven's sake,” said Allison, “is this Mr. Tishman's office?”

“Yes,” said Brad. “Fancy, isn't it?”

“A man with a wife and three children could move in here and live very comfortably,” said Allison.

In what would have been the foyer of the bungalow, had it been used as a home, were a desk and two filing cabinets, but these had been so artfully arranged and camouflaged that they did not seem at all out of place amidst the brocaded sofas and oil paintings. Behind the desk sat one of the most beautiful women Allison had ever seen. She was small but with an exquisitely molded figure and her hair was like a gold cap. She wore a severe black dress and silver bracelets on both arms, and her shoes were tiny scraps of black leather.

“I'm so glad, Miss MacKenzie,” she said, rising to greet Allison. “My name is Gloria Muir and I'm Mr. Tishman's secretary.”

“How do you do?” said Allison.

Miss Muir had an English accent, thought Allison, that would have made Laurence Olivier proud of her.

“And how are you, Mr. Holmes?” asked Miss Muir. “It's nice to see you again.”

“It's wonderful to be in California again,” said Brad.

You liar, thought Allison.

“Mr. Tishman is expecting you,” said Miss Muir. “Please come with me.”

Mr. Tishman was tall and heavy and looked rather like a young Sidney Greenstreet. He wore dark trousers and one of the most brazen sport shirts Allison had ever seen.

“Brad!” he exclaimed, coming around the vast desk in front of him. “How nice to see you again. It's been much too long.”

The two men shook hands and before Brad could introduce Allison, Tishman turned to her.

“And this is the little lady who has caused all the commotion,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “Miss MacKenzie, I can't tell you what an honor this is.”

“How do you do, Mr. Tishman. It's very nice to be here,” said Allison, feeling a little as if she were at the Mad Hatter's tea party.

Mr. Tishman took her arm. “And this is Conrad Blanding, our director,” he said, “and Joel Parkingson, our script writer.”

Conrad Blanding wore dark-rimmed glasses and smiled with all his teeth, but Joel Parkingson did not smile at all. He bowed stiffly and sat down, his eyes fixed broodingly on the sheaf of yellow paper in his hand.

“Would you like a drink?” asked Arthur Tishman. “Coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” said Allison and sat down on a leather-upholstered chair.

The walls of Mr. Tishman's office were paneled in walnut and across one wall there was a colorful poster in a frame.

“It's one of Lautrec's best, don't you think, Miss MacKenzie?” asked Mr. Blanding.

Allison started. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

In a few minutes, Miss Muir came in carrying a silver tray on which rested a complete silver service.

“Shall I pour?” she asked.

“Yes, if you please, Miss Muir,” said Mr. Tishman.

A quiet little ceremony followed during which all the men stood silently while Miss Muir filled their cups from the silver pot.

“Now, then, Miss MacKenzie,” said Mr. Tishman, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “By the way, may I call you Allison?”

“Please do,” Allison replied.

“Good. Puts things on a friendly, warm basis. I'm Arthur, and,” he waved a vague hand in the direction of the writer and director, “they're Joel and Conrad. Well, Allison, we've all been very busy on your book and already have a script of sorts.”

Allison glanced at Joel Parkingson, but the writer did not look up. He just sat and looked sadder than ever.

“I'd like to see the script,” said Allison.

“Certainly,” said Arthur Tishman. “We want you to take a copy along with you when you leave. Read it tonight and tomorrow we'll get together again and discuss things. But please don't think that what we have now is what I call a good, working script. It isn't. Joel here has just been putting down ideas. We've got a long way to go yet, but I do think, and Conrad agrees, that Joel has given us a good base to start working on. Our final script will follow the same lines as the one we have now, but I'm sure that, as a writer yourself, you understand the long, slow process of finishing and polishing.”

At first, Arthur Tishman gave the impression of a man who is accustomed to command, and Allison was a little frightened of him. But she soon realized that her presence, meeting her, had made him nervous. As a result, he did not converse but made speeches; it was as if he had it all written down, and then read the lines badly, like an amateur actor.

Allison was familiar with the Tishman legend. He had come up the hard way; everything he had he had made himself. She felt a feeling of kinship with him.

“Now, that's enough business for today,” said Arthur Tishman. “We have a busy week plotted for you, my dear. Later today, you have a meeting with Harold Jenks, our publicity man. The papers have been on his neck ever since they heard you were coming. Then, tomorrow morning, we've made a date for you with one of our best photographers, and tomorrow afternoon we want you to go on a tour of the studio. Sort of to get the feeling of the way we work here. Then tomorrow night, there is to be a dinner party for you at my home. Everyone connected with the picture will be there, and a lot of other important people, too. We're all looking forward to it.”

“But I had planned—” began Allison.

Brad stood up. “Wonderful, Arthur,” he said. “As usual, you've done everything that has to be done very efficiently.”

“It's the way we have to work,” Arthur said. “Efficiency prevents ulcers. That's my own secret success formula, which I reveal to everyone.”

Allison was back in the car sitting next to Brad before it occurred to her that neither Conrad Blanding nor Joel Parkingson had spoken one word to her, once the producer had begun to speak about the script.

“There,” said Brad, as the car pulled away. “Painless, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” agreed Allison, “but we didn't accomplish much.”

“Wait,” said Brad. “You'll have plenty to do when things get rolling.”

The car stopped in front of a stone building that looked like a post office in a medium-sized city. Brad helped Allison out and led the way to Harold Jenks's office.

Harold Jenks was short and potbellied with dark curly hair and a beaked nose that would have gladdened the heart of a Nazi cartoonist. “Howarya?” he asked, not rising from behind his desk as Brad introduced Allison.

“Fine, thank you,” said Allison.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Jenks, indicating a chair. “Just get in?”

“No,” said Allison. “We arrived last night.”

“Met Tishman?”

“Yes. Earlier this afternoon. Before we came here.”

“You're cute,” said Jenks. “Clean-cut and all that. Should be able to do something with that.” He looked Allison over thoroughly, then he pressed a key on the box that sat on his desk. “Send Joe Borden in here,” he said. A man came into the room, but Jenks did not introduce him to Allison. He merely waved in her direction. “Allison MacKenzie,” he said, as if she were merchandise on a store counter. “Writes books. We've got to get something ready for the papers. Take her out and show her around a little. Get a line on her and give me something before she leaves.”

Allison felt now, not only like merchandise on a counter, but merchandise that had been rejected by a prospective customer.

“Better get a few pictures,” said Jenks, glancing at his watch. “Can't have the papers doing it on their own. Go over to Photography with her now.”

“But Mr. Tishman said that I'm supposed to do that tomorrow morning,” said Allison. “I can't be photographed today. My hair's a mess and I'm all wrinkled and my gloves are soiled.”

Jenks laughed. “We've got people who get paid to worry about details like that,” he said. “Go on. Go with Borden. He'll take care of everything.”

“But I don't like to have my picture taken,” said Allison. “It's bad enough in the morning, but—”

Jenks put his hands, palms down, on his desk with a gesture of infinite patience.

“Look,” he said, “sitting in the same chair you're sitting in now I've had all the big names in the business. Monroe, Turner, Hay worth. All of 'em. I know what I'm doing. Just don't give me a hard time and I'll do a good job for you.”

And he will too, Allison thought, finally impressed with his professionalism. He was the kind of man, met all too rarely, who knew his job, every part of it, better than anyone else. Like Tishman, Jenks was quite clearly not a man who held his job because he was somebody's brother-in-law. In Hollywood, the day of the brother-inlaw ended with the birth of television. They're probably all working at the TV studios now, Allison thought.

Allison was combed, made up and photographed. Then she was recombed and rephotographed. The photographer looked at her as if she were something under a microscope and mumbled things to himself, and by the time it was over Allison was almost in tears.

“I wish I'd never come!” she cried as the car drove back toward the hotel. “David was right.”

“There, there,” Brad consoled. “You're just tired, Allison. You'll feel better after a drink and a good dinner.”

At nine-thirty that evening, Allison finished the last of her dessert and looked gratefully at Brad.

“You were right,” she said. “I have been acting like a child. Just pet me and feed me and I'm all smiles again. Disgusting, isn't it?”

Brad laughed. “You're wonderful,” he said. “With just the right amount of temperament to make you exciting.”

“The only thing that excites me now is the thought of a good, hot bath and a nice, soft bed,” said Allison.

“Are you going to read the script?” asked Brad.

“While I'm soaking in the tub,” replied Allison.

“I'll call you at nine-thirty in the morning,” said Brad as they left the dining room. “We'll have breakfast together.”

Ten minutes later, Allison drew a tub of very hot water, perfumed it lavishly with bath oil and prepared to soak, relax and read. An hour later, when she had finished the script, she was far from relaxed. Joel Parkingson had left out of his script what Allison considered some of the best parts of her novel; instead, there were pages and pages of inane dialogue and hollow characterization.

I mustn't care, thought Allison, tears streaming down her face. I
won't
care. They bought it and now it's theirs to do with as they see fit. I'm not entitled to care.

But she did care, and with the caring went the only defense that she had been able to build against a word suddenly too much aware of her. She had constructed her wall of indifference carefully, in the very beginning, for she had known that she would need something to hide behind.

“In a little while,” Lewis had warned her, “say when
Samuel's Castle
gets close to the hundred thousand mark, it is going to become fashionable to pan the hell out of it.”

“But I don't understand,” Allison replied. “The first reviews were good. Not raves, exactly, but good.”

“That was in the beginning,” said Lewis. “But there are a lot of phony people in the world. They are the ones who ‘discover' people, places and things and can't bear to keep their mouths shut about how clever they've been. But the minute that the great unwashed public begins to share their enthusiasm, whatever has been discovered is no longer palatable to the discoverers. Then they backtrack.” Lewis imitated the voice of one of them. They always sounded like victims of some terrible fatigue. “Capri used to be
the
place to go, my dear. But lately it's simply too full of the most undesirable types.”

Allison laughed. “And is that what they will say about
Samuel's Castle?
” she asked. “That it used to be a good book but now it's become so dreadfully common?”

Lewis' face wrinkled in disgust. “I've listened to them at a thousand cocktail parties,” he said. “And believe me you can't fight them. They are the opinion makers and they have got themselves into positions of power.”

“I'm not their sort,” Allison had said. “They won't waste their valuable time on me.”

“They may,” Lewis said. “And if they do, it can hurt.”

“Don't worry about it, Lewis,” said Allison.

But it began to happen as he had said it would. The first indication that Allison had of it was when a reviewer who had written a favorable review of her book wrote an article in the same magazine when the movie rights were sold.

“Century Films have bought the rights to the sexy silly,
Samuel's Castle.
All we can say is that Hollywood must be more hard up for material than usual.”

Allison was stunned. She began to overhear conversations at parties and in theater lobbies.