Stars Over Sunset Boulevard (8 page)

“They're used to it. All the best takes are stitched together in production. The audience never sees the extra ones. What do you think of Mr. Cukor?”

“He was amazing,” Violet replied. “At least I was
amazed. He took aside the actor who is playing Gerald O'Hara and told him to reach into the soul of his lines when Scarlett confesses to her pa that she wants to marry Ashley, and Pa has to tell her she would never be happy with a man like that. Pa tells Scarlett that she is so young, and Mr. Cukor said the unspoken truth here is that Pa has protected her all this time from the ache of loss. She doesn't know what it is to suffer. She doesn't know that most things do not last, and he tells her that she will learn this in time. Because everybody does.”

For a second Audrey could not find her voice. “He said that?” she finally murmured.

Violet nodded. “Miss Myrick heard him say this, too, and she told me that's why he's the highest-paid director there is.”

Again there was silence between them.

The phone in the living room jangled.

“I'll get it,” Violet offered. She left the room, and Audrey gathered the snippets of a past that had been full of promise and returned them to the box, her mind spinning with a messy weave of thoughts. Then Violet called to her.

She walked into the living room and Violet extended the phone. “It's for you. It's Bert.”

Audrey put the receiver to her ear. “Hello, Bert.”

“Say, I was thinking maybe we could grab a bite on Sunset and then look for the nightingale,” he said. “What do you say?”

“Tonight?” After all her revelations that evening, Audrey was looking forward to another martini and her pajamas.

“Unless you have other plans . . . ?”

The mild disappointment in his voice was endearing, but she could not see herself heading back out into the city now. She needed this evening to come up with a new
strategy. And to get Mr. Cukor's words out of her head. Maybe she would give her friend Vince a call. It had been a while since she'd talked with him, probably not since his engagement party in October. She'd heard he had gotten the new job in publicity at Paramount that she had told him about. He owed her one.

“Can we do it another time, Bert? I've had a long day. I'd be terrible company and would no doubt scare all the birds away.” She closed her eyes and tipped her head back a bit; swiveled her neck first one way and then another.

“Oh. Of course. We can go another night.”

“You're a peach, Bert. Good night.”

After he said good-bye, she set the receiver on its cradle and then turned around. Violet stood just a few feet behind her, staring at the phone.

“Do you know how to make pancakes?” Audrey asked, famished now. “I'd love some pancakes.”

Violet slowly raised her gaze from the little table where the phone rested. “Sure,” she replied.

February 1939

T
he women and men costumed in antebellum dresses and period suits crowded the soundstage, simulating a festive mood despite the fact that the dancing sequences for the Atlanta Bazaar scene had been shot more than a dozen times already. The actresses' gowns looked pretty enough to Violet, but only moments earlier she had overheard a wardrobe assistant tell Miss Myrick that Mr. Selznick wasn't happy with them. The dresses were, in his words, “ordinary and cheap-looking.” She had gone to tell Mr. Lambert that the gowns in question were actually historically correct. But Mr. Selznick wanted vibrant colors and stunning gowns to stand in stark contrast in the upcoming scenes of war and deprivation. A heated conversation was taking place in the far corner of the building about what was beautiful and what was accurate.

Violet hadn't sat through all of the takes that afternoon, but the long day was beginning to wear on all the hired
talent Central Casting had sent. A handful of female extras stood a few yards away from her, rubbing their toes and complaining that the gowns made them hot and that MGM served better refreshments. Violet seriously doubted Audrey would behave like that on any set. Miss Leigh and Mr. Gable, in another corner of the building during the break, were going over dance steps and lines of dialogue with the assistant producer, like the two professionals they were. After five days of filming, Violet had yet to meet either movie star in person, but Miss Leigh had smiled at her earlier that day and Mr. Gable had said, “Good morning,” to her the day before.

Violet peered at the nameless actresses fanning themselves with call sheets. Audrey was prettier than any of these women, could dance far better, and would make any one of these so-called ordinary dresses look enchanting merely by putting it on. Audrey should've been in this scene.

Audrey could've been in this scene. . . .

Violet frowned as the obvious suddenly assailed her. Why hadn't she thought of this before? She could have suggested that Audrey be fitted for a costume and made a part of the Atlanta Bazaar scene. She had Miss Myrick's ear all day long, and George Cukor listened intently to everything Miss Myrick said.

It was too late now for the Atlanta Bazaar scene, but the barbecue at Twelve Oaks was coming up in a few weeks and even more extras would be needed for that. She could easily put in a word with Miss Myrick, who could then put in a word with George Cukor.

Audrey had seemed distracted since she'd begun working longer days at the instruction of Mr. Selznick, who wanted a stenographer on duty at all hours. She had arrived home after ten the past two workdays and then
spent a long while on the phone both nights with someone named Vince, after Violet had gone to bed. They couldn't have been business calls at that hour, although Violet couldn't be sure. Audrey spoke softly, so as not to keep Violet awake, and her deep voice made every indecipherable word sound provocative and yet anxious.

A chance to be in the most-anticipated film in years would be just the thing to lighten Audrey's mood. It might even lead to the rediscovery Audrey had so long been yearning for.

Violet wanted to ask Miss Myrick about it right then and she turned to see if the advisor was on her way back to her, when Bert was suddenly at her side. Violet had seen him on the set on and off that afternoon but with dozens of extras all in costume, he had been too busy to speak to her. She had hoped she might see him. Violet wanted him to know that if he ever wanted to go looking for that nightingale again, she'd be happy to go with him.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked.

Violet glanced in the direction that Miss Myrick had gone. The woman was now nowhere in sight. She turned back to him and smiled. “It looks like I do.”

“I was wondering if you might do something for me.” His tone was eager.

Her heart tripped over a beat. “Of course.”

“Valentine's Day will be coming up soon and I'd like to surprise Audrey with something. I was hoping you would help me.”

A second flicked by before Violet answered that she would be happy to help Bert in any way she could.

“I know it's two weeks away yet, but it's so busy right now. I don't always know when I will see you.” Bert reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief-wrapped lump. He opened the folds and pulled out a little porcelain
bird, painted in soft browns with the faintest rosy pink at its bosom and sapphire blue eyes. It was perched on a porcelain branch decorated with autumn-toned leaves and its beak was open, as though it would sing to whoever held it.

“It's a nightingale,” Bert said, smiling.

“I see you finally found it, then.” Violet took the little bird in her hands and touched the cool, smooth surface of its wings.

Bert's grin widened. He liked her little joke. “I was thinking maybe you could leave it at her bedside table while she's sleeping, so that when she wakes up on Valentine's Day she'll see it.”

Violet considered Bert's request for a moment. “Audrey is working nights now. Sometimes she comes home after I'm already in bed.”

“Yes, but she's still sleeping when you get up, right? You could sneak in there in the morning, put the bird on the nightstand, and then she'll wake up after you're gone and see it.” He withdrew from his shirt pocket a small, cream-colored envelope. Audrey's name was written across the front. “Could you set it atop this?”

Violet slowly took the envelope from Bert and pondered what she could say. Audrey would think the bird was sweet and the gesture kind, but whatever Bert had written on a note for Valentine's Day she would surely find troublesome. Audrey wasn't in love with Bert. She liked him—who didn't like Bert?—but she was not in love with him. Audrey was after only one thing at the moment: stardom. Bert didn't figure into that. Bert would never figure into that. And he had no idea Audrey spoke in sultry tones to a man named Vince at late hours.

Nothing good could come from giving Audrey a Valentine's Day note from Bert.

“Don't you think it will be more fun if she just wakes up and sees the sweet little bird and has to wonder how it got there?” She offered the envelope back to Bert but he didn't take it.

“I don't want her to wonder. I want her to know it was me who gave it to her.”

“Yes, but sometimes wondering is more . . . fun,” Violet said, careful not to say wondering was more romantic. “It might be . . . better for you if you
don't
leave a note, Bert.”

He stared at her for a moment and then his gaze dropped to the envelope in her hand. The reason for Violet's reluctance seemed to dawn on him. “She's not seeing someone, is she?” he finally said.

Violet hesitated only a second. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I'm not sure. She doesn't tell me everything. I've just . . . I've heard her talking to a man on the phone. Late at night.”

A long moment passed before Bert took the envelope from Violet and slipped it back into his shirt pocket.

“I still want her to have the nightingale.” A mix of emotions laced his words together.

“Of course. It's a sweet little bird, Bert. It really is. Any girl would be thrilled to have it.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly unconvinced.

“I know she'll love it.”

“And you'll tell her it's from me?”

“Of course.”

He handed her the handkerchief that had been around the bird. “Don't worry. It's clean.”

Violet laughed lightly, took the handkerchief, and wrapped the bird inside it. She placed it inside the handbag at her feet.

“Miss Myrick is coming back this way.” Bert's voice lacked the lift it had moments ago.

Violet pressed her hand on Bert's forearm. “Everything will be all right,” she said spontaneously, though she knew those words could sound so empty when it felt like you were losing something you thought was yours. So very empty.

She watched him walk away. The swirling platform that Rhett and Scarlett danced upon was wheeled back into place so that their waltz would seem charming and effortless. And then Violet's gaze fell to the little bird resting just inside her handbag.

Her next move would require some careful thinking. She didn't want anyone to get hurt.

Violet knew all too well what it was like to have your deepest affections returned to you unwanted. It was the most devastating feeling in the world. Franklin hadn't even waited until her stitches turned to scar tissue before telling her he thought they should start seeing other people. He'd told her it had nothing to do with the surgery and her inability to give him sons, but his father's shipping company had been family owned for a century. Violet knew it had mattered to him. Of course it mattered.

To offer your love to someone and then have it declined was the worst blow the human heart could suffer. Audrey didn't love Bert, just like Franklin hadn't loved her.

She needed to act in Bert's best interest. He was a good and kind man who didn't deserve to have his heart trampled on. If she could help him fall out of love with Audrey before it went too far, then it wouldn't hurt him so much. That was the merciful thing to do. It was what she wished someone had done for her. Her parents had initially hoped a change of scenery in Shreveport would lift Violet out of the
sadness that had enveloped her following her surgery. But the Louisiana landscape hadn't been the tonic she'd needed. Not even Hollywood had been the salve her soul cried out for. She was finding that time was the only agent that mended a broken heart. Best not to have it broken in the first place.

•   •   •

Violet waited until the day before Valentine's Day.

By then Audrey was working the sundown-to-sunup shift, typing up pages of constantly evolving script, over which Mr. Selznick labored while everyone else slept. In the shared hour between the time Violet arrived home from the studio and Audrey left for it, Violet took the handkerchief out of her purse. She and Audrey were sitting at the kitchen table. Audrey was smoking a cigarette and looking at a magazine. After a very difficult day on set, Violet had just made herself a supper of scrambled eggs.

Mr. Selznick and George Cukor had been at odds. Mr. Cukor was making script and blocking changes without Mr. Selznick's approval, and he had his own ideas about feel and tempo. Mr. Cukor wanted Melanie's childbirth scene to be tense and frightening, for example, and Mr. Selznick insisted the mood be subtle and quietly oppressive. Mr. Cukor was also unhappy with the new pages of script that showed up every morning and the fact that the actors had no time to memorize the latest lines. There were rumors floating about that Mr. Cukor might resign. Miss Myrick had told Violet she couldn't think of anything more upsetting than to see George Cukor go.

“What's that?” Audrey said, pointing to the little fabric-wrapped lump.

“Bert thought you might like it,” Violet said casually, and took a bite of her eggs.

Intrigued, Audrey set her cigarette down in an ashtray and pulled away the folds of the handkerchief.

“It's a nightingale.” Violet looked at Audrey, not at the piece of porcelain in her friend's hand.

Audrey's smile widened in precisely the way Violet had hoped it might.

“Oh, dear Bert and his nightingales!” Audrey set the little bird down by the fruit bowl in the center of the table and smiled at it.

“It's pretty, isn't it?” Violet did not take her eyes off Audrey.

“Very sweet,” Audrey replied thoughtfully. “So very sweet.” And then she slowly picked up her cigarette and returned her attention to her magazine.

Violet took another bite of her dinner as she reached across the table.

Her fingers closed around Bert's handkerchief and she drew it into her lap.