Season of Passion (18 page)

The car slowed to a halt in front of the covered entranceway to the hotel. Instantly, a doorman and three porters approached the car. Three? For a station wagon? Kate glanced around nervously. She had brought only one very small bag. She smiled uneasily at one of the porters, but he remained expressionless as she got out. He slid behind the wheel of the car as the other porter grabbed her bag. The third disappeared, and the doorman stood there looking impressive as a bright red Rolls Royce and a black Jaguar sedan pulled up behind her. A veritable fleet of porters appeared for them. And at the same time there was a constant hum of activity. Suitcases, golf clubs, armsful of mink whizzing by, anonymous cars arriving and departing, and a constant touching of hands with the doorman. As Kate fumbled in her handbag, she looked up quickly to see what the man nearest her was giving the porter, and she gasped as she thought she saw ten dollars changing hands. Ten dollars? Oh God, she prayed she hadn't said it aloud. Another glance to her left and she caught a glimpse of a five. It was insane. It had been ten years since she'd handled this sort of thing when she traveled with Tom. But five and ten bucks to the porter? Things couldn't have changed that much in seven years. But this was Hollywood. The outfits alone told her that.

The people disembarking from their cars were wearing blue jeans that seemed to be soldered to their souls, equally tight shirts left open to the waist, vast quantities of gold jewelry, and a fair amount of bright, flashy silk, which clung and dripped and draped over starlet bodies and middle-aged men. And here and there, a dark suit hurrying into the hotel, presumably to launch into metamorphosis and emerge again in jeans.

Reservation, ma'am?

Hm? She was startled from her staring by the porter. She realized that she looked out of place. She had worn a simple white cotton dress from the batch of possibilities Felicia had sent her from the store. It had a careful V at the neck, which she had thought too low, but down here didn't even count, delicate little white sandals, and her hair was looped into an easy knot on top of her head. She looked deeply tanned and relaxed, and as though she were going to have lunch next to the tennis courts in Palm Springs, not compete with the sex symbols of Hollywood. The thought made her smile. And then she remembered the porter again. Sorry. Oh yes. I have a reservation. He walked quickly inside and she followed him along the open but protected breezeway flanked by pillars on either side. Between the pillars frothed tiny jungles of exotica, strewn there in the thirties, when the women slithered into the hotel in ermines and diamonds instead of blue jeans and mink.

She found herself almost instantly crossing miles of green carpet, in sharp contrast to the washed-flamingo facade that had assaulted her outside. Here again people were bustling past, going to meet or discover or be discovered, discuss or disdain, destroy a career, their own or someone else's. One sensed that the business of Hollywood was being conducted near by. One could almost feel the pulse; the building throbbed with the power inside it.

Yes? The man at the desk looked up at her with a smile. There were seven men at the desk.

'I'm Mrs. Harper. I believe

But of course. He smiled again as he cut her off mid-sentence, and disappeared somewhere behind the desk. But of course? How did he know who she was? He reappeared only to wave vaguely at the porter and hand him a key. We hope to see you here often. You do? Kate felt like a kid in a dream. Who were they? Who was she? And where was the Mad Hatter in all this? Surely he belonged here. But she was already following the porter down a wide hallway bordered with shops. Jades, emeralds, diamonds, mariboutrimmed bed jackets, satin nightgowns, a little white mink bolero, Vuitton luggage, suede handbags, a lizard briefcase. She wanted to stop and stare at it all, but she felt obliged to look unimpressed, to be grownup. And beneath it all, there was a wild urge to tug at someone's arm and whisper, as they raced along the hall, Look ' over there! ' and there! ' As she thought of it, she noticed three familiar faces from the movies. Even she knew who they were. Her head snapped around as she watched them laughing together, and she almost bumped into someone else, a face from television. It was fantastic! She was smiling to herself as she walked along, wondering suddenly if this was what it had been like for Tom, living in a world of celebrities. No, it couldn't have been. This was fabulous! And unique.

They were passing a pool now, surrounded by tables and white-jacketed waiters. Women in bikinis strolled by wearing perfectly browned skins and hairdos that had not been affected by the water. Kate watched them in fascination as they too disappeared, and she suddenly found herself standing in front of a small, manicured-looking cottage. For the tiniest moment, it reminded her of Mead, and she had a wild urge to giggle, but she didn't, she couldn't, not with the porter standing there, waiting for what? A fifty-dollar bill? Surely if that other porter could make ten dollars just by opening a car door, this one would expect fifty or a hundred for walking her down all these halls, and past all these exotic sights. He opened the door to the bungalow, as he referred to it, and she handed him a five-dollar bill as she stepped inside, feeling ridiculous for having given him so much money. The door closed softly behind her, and she looked around. It was indeed very pretty. Flowery prints, chaise lounges that seemed to invite one to recline on them in one of the satin nightgowns she had seen in the shops. With a long cigarette holder undoubtedly. There was an entirely mirrored dressing room and a vanity table worthy of two hours of makeup. A pink marble bathroom and a separately lit tub set into an alcove. She was grinning to herself again. And then the phone rang, startling her. She found it on a bedstand next to the huge double bed. She noticed then that there was another phone, in a little sitting room beyond. And there was yet another entrance to the cottage. Two entrances? Why? To make a fast getaway? She laughed as she picked up the phone.

Hello?

Welcome to Hollywood, Kate. How's it going? It was Stu, sounding as even and unruffled as ever, with the smile built in to his voice.

I just got here. This place is amazing.

Isn't it though? He laughed too. He was relieved that she hadn't panicked and already left. When they had booked her into the Beverly Hills Hotel he had worried a little. For a neophyte, this was a stiff dose. How's your bungalow?

I feel as though I should dress up as Jean Harlow. At least This time his laugh was less restrained. Katharine Hepburn maybe. But Harlow? He chuckled again.

You'd sure surprise the hell out of the people on the Case Show.' They're expecting something else.

They are? What? She sounded nervous again.

You. Just as you are.

That's good, Stu. Cause that's all I got. God, I'd love to have a swim before lunch, but I take it no body swims here.

Sure they do. What makes you say that?

Their hair. She said it like a mischievous kid, as she remembered what the women at the pool had looked like. But Stu was already laughing again.

Sweetheart, I wish I'd been there when you arrived.

So do I. Do you realize what people tip around here? They were both laughing now. Why do they do it?

To be remembered.

Are they? She was fascinated.

Not for that reason. If they are remembered, it's because they're already somebody. If they're not, no one'll remember them anyway, no matter how much they tip. Do you realize, by the way, that your preferences and foibles will all be marked down on a little file card at the desk, and the next time you arrive you'll have everything your little heart needs and desires, without your even asking for it?

What the hell do you mean? She suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though people were watching her through the walls.

I mean, like if you'd brought that ridiculous hound of yours with you and he only ate pink grasshoppers and lemonade, next time you showed up, they'd have a full plate of pink grasshoppers and lemonade for him. Or special towels for you, or martinis very dry, or satin sheets, or nine pillows on the bed, or only French gin and English scotch, or ' name it, love, and you got it.

Good God. Do people really get away with that here?

They don't get away with it. They expect it It's all part of being a star.

Which I'm not. She said it with relief, and he smiled again.

Which you are.

Does that mean I have to order pink grasshoppers and lemonade?

Whatever you like, Princess. The palace is yours. But a stiletto of pain pierced her heart. Princess. Tom had always called her that. There was something in her eyes that Stu couldn't see when she spoke again.

It feels more like Queen for a Day'.

Just enjoy it. By the way, we're meeting Nick Waterman in the Polo Lounge at twelve-thirty. That's at your hotel.

Who's Nick Waterman?

The producer of the Case Show Himself, my dear. No assistants, no feeling around. He's coming to meet you and brief you about the show.

Will it be scary? She sounded like a kid dreading a trip to the dentist, and he smiled. He wished she'd sit back and enjoy it. But in time she would.

No, it won't be scary. And there's a party tonight after the show. They want you to go to it.

Do I have to?

Why don't you just see how you feel after the show?

Okay. What am I supposed to wear to the Polo Lounge, by the way? Everyone around here seems to be wearing denim and mink.

In the morning?

Well, they're wearing denim, but they're carrying mink.

Is that what you wore? He sounded amused

I wore a cotton dress.

Sounds refreshing. Lunch might be a little dressier than that. But it's up to you. Be comfortable, be yourself. Waterman is a very nice, easygoing guy.

You know him?

We've played tennis together a few times. Very pleasant. Just relax and trust me. He could hear her starting to get nervous.

All right I guess I'll go order my pink grasshoppers and lemonade and relax by the pool.

You do that. A moment later they hung up. He was relieved that she sounded relatively calm. The Case Show was important, a lot more so than Kate realized. She was about to be catapulted into the eye of the American public, and she was either going to be loved or hated or they'd decide they didn't give a damn. But if they decided that she was someone they cared about, someone who made them laugh and cry and know she was human, then every book she wrote would sell. She had talent, but it took more than that They had to love her. And Stu Weinberg knew that if she let herself go, they would. The big If. He had taken a big chance leveling with Waterman. Maybe he was crazy to trust the guy. But he had a gut feeling about him, and he hoped he wasn't wrong. He rarely was. They had played tennis the evening before, and had had a long round of drinks after the game. He had told Waterman that Kate had been something of a recluse, a beautiful one, but a recluse nonetheless. And he suspected that she had been that way since the death of her husband. It was important that no one hurt her now, or frighten her back into her cave. Stu didn't want Jasper Case playing with her on the show, or setting her up side by side with some Hollywood bitch. This had to be done gently or not at all. Her career depended on it. And Waterman said he'd take care of it himself. He had even agreed to come to lunch himself, instead of sending the woman who usually went. And there had been a quick shuffling in the seating for the show. The cancelation of the big female star this morning would be a break for Kate too. Stu was just praying that all would go well. And he was counting on Waterman. It was going to be an interesting lunch, watching Kate slowly step out into the world.

She waited in the bungalow until twelve twenty-five, tapping her foot nervously on the thick beige carpet in the little sitting room. Should she be on time? Or was she supposed to be late? Should she leave her room now? Or in five minutes, at exactly twelve-thirty? And what if what she was wearing was totally wrong? She had tried on three of the outfits she'd brought, and she still wasn't sure. She was wearing a white linen pantsuit Felicia had insisted was very L.A., white sandals, and no jewelry other than her wedding band and the watch Licia had given her For courage, For valor. She pressed her hand to it for a moment as she sat there and closed her eyes. She could still smell the flowers that had arrived for her. A huge arrangement of spring flowers, with big bright red and yellow tulips, and all the flowers she loved. The arrangement was from the Case Show. And the hotel had delivered a bottle of Bordeaux, Chateau Margaux '59, and an exquisite bowl of fresh fruit. With our compliments. She liked the idea of wine rather than champagne, it seemed simpler. The thought made her smile. There was nothing simple about Margaux '59. Well, this is it. She said it aloud as she got to her feet with a sigh and took a look around the room. She was terrified. But it was time to go. It was exactly twelve-thirty. But what if he was a jerk? What if he hated her and didn't want her on the show? Or what if he did, and they were awful to her on the air? Oh shit. She said it aloud again and then grinned as she left the room.

The walk back to the main building of the hotel seemed endless, and she caught a glimpse of the pool and the tennis courts again, and wished she were there. The suit felt cool on her back as the breeze played with her hair softly framing her face, and she wondered again if she should have worn a dress, or maybe something more glamorous-looking. Felicia had sent her a navy-blue chiffon halter dress too, but she'd never dare wear it on the show. She felt so naked in it. She just couldn't. Maybe tonight, if she went to the party. The party ' she felt as though she were running along a railroad track, with an express train rushing up behind her.

Madam? She was already there, staring into a black pit. The Polo Lounge was a well of darkness she couldn't see into. A glimpse of pink tablecloths, a tiny bar, a series of red banquettes. After the bright sunlight she could only guess at who was there and what she saw. She could hear them though, it sounded like hundreds of people, eating and talking and laughing and asking for phones. Just outside the room there was a bank of unoccupied pay phones. Obviously they were never used. No one would dream of going outside, when you could ask for a phone at the table and impress passers-by' . Four hundred thousand? You're crazy' . The phones at the table were more fun. Madam? He said it again, looking her over. She looked pretty but not glamorous. He was used to dazzling women, like the actresses and subtly noticeable call girls she thought she glimpsed threaded into the group at the bar.