The Slipper (17 page)

“I work, too,” she reminded him. “It isn't always convenient to buy groceries before work, and the stores are closed when I get off. If—if you're not satisfied, I—I suggest you do the grocery shopping yourself. You have as much time as I do.”

Doug looked up at her, his dark eyes full of anger. Julie could hardly believe she had been so bold.

“What is this?” he asked slowly.

“I—I'm not a slave, Doug. I'm a wife.”

“Yeah? And what's that supposed to mean?”

“I—I do everything I can to make it easy for you, to make you comfortable and keep things running smoothly, but—but—”

“But?” he prodded.

“I have feelings, too,” she said.

“Yeah, sure, you have all kinds of feelings and you express them freely in that fucking drama class. You're so goddamned busy wasting your time with that crap you can't buy groceries, can't get the laundry done on time. You may be a sensitive soul in drama class, but don't try any of that shit with me. I'm liable to slap you silly.”

Julie didn't answer. She could feel the tears welling, but she refused to shed them. She loved him so much, and sometimes … sometimes he was so very unlovable. He had slapped her in the past, on more than one occasion, but he was always remorseful afterwards, always apologized. Doug was brilliant and he was under a great deal of pressure and he was moody by nature. She tried to understand, tried to make excuses for him, but sometimes it was difficult. Sometimes she felt … Julie closed her eyes, refusing to look too deeply, afraid of what she might see.

“You've changed, Julie,” he told her.

“I'm no longer fifteen years old,” she said.

“That goddamned drama class, it's changed you, given you ideas. Those two girls—that Carol and that little Jew—they're not a good influence.”

“I have a right to friends, Doug.”

“You've got a husband. That should be enough.”

I have a husband who rarely speaks to me in a civil voice, who rarely even acknowledges my existence. She longed to say these words aloud, but there wasn't any point in arguing with him, not when he was in one of these moods. When exams were over, when he was able to relax a little, things would be better and they would be close again. She believed that. She had to believe it. The alternative was altogether too frightening. Doug finished his sandwich and stood up, brushing the errant locks from his brow.

“Look,” he said, “about Anne Hendricks—nothing was going on.”

“No?”

“I was up on the roof, studying, and Anne came out and sat down beside me, started talking. What was I supposed to do, shove her off the roof? I'm fully aware of her reputation—think I don't know why her husband divorced her? You have nothing to worry about on that score.”

“I'm not worried, Doug.”

“I'm going back up now,” he said. “Some iced tea might be nice after all. You can bring me up a glass before you leave for work.”

“Take your suntan lotion. I don't want you to get burned.”

“Always thinking of me,” he said, his good humor restored. “What would I do without you, hon?”

“I really don't know, Doug.”

She didn't take the tea up to him. She took a bath and dressed carefully in her best brown skirt and a neat white cotton blouse, fastening a narrow red leather belt around her slender waist. She brushed her silvery-brown hair until it gleamed and, feeling bold, applied a light coat of pink lipstick to her lips. Julie studied herself critically in the mirror. If only her complexion weren't so bad. If only she were tall and blonde and stunning, like Carol, or bright and witty and vivacious, like Nora. She had no illusions about herself, none whatsoever. She knew she was drab, knew she was meek and unassertive as well, but … but there was so much beauty inside, longing for release. She wasn't ready to give up her dream, not just yet. It might be a complete waste of time, but she was going to read for Eric Berne, and she was going to give it everything she had.

Determined, Julie left the flat and started toward campus, thinking about Charlotte's last speech and how she would interpret it. Charlotte wouldn't be defiant, wouldn't declaim. She wouldn't be resigned, wouldn't cry. She would be calm, and she would speak in a quiet, level voice, addressing the assembled crowd as she might address a single friend. Her voice might tremble a bit toward the end of the speech and she might smile a faint, sad smile, but her nobility must be
felt
, not stressed by gesture or inflection. Julie crossed the street and strolled across the lawn toward the theater, completely immersed in thought.

“Thank God!” Carol exclaimed, hurrying over to join her.

“Oh—oh, Carol. I didn't see you.”

“I'm so glad I saw
you
. I couldn't possibly walk into the theater alone. I'm a nervous wreck.”

“I guess all of us are nervous.”

“At least you have a chance. You're a superlative actress. I don't know why I even signed up to read. Compton didn't give me any encouragement, I can assure you.”

“You'll be wonderful, Carol.”

“I'll be wretched. I've gone over the speech again and again, trying out various interpretations. Eric Berne is going to die laughing when I march out there and start ranting.”

“Nonsense.”

“They—they say he's very testy, say he's got a terrible temper, yelling at actors, bullying them dreadfully. He'll probably come after me brandishing a butcher knife. Do—do I look all right?”

“You look lovely, Carol.”

That was an understatement, Julie thought. Carol was wearing a pink linen shift, simple and exquisite, with matching pink high heels. Her dark-gold hair was neatly brushed, falling in a gleaming cascade. She looked absolutely breathtaking, tall and elegant, exuding a cool poise she was apparently far from feeling. Julie glanced down at her own scuffed brown shoes and felt shabby in comparison, but she felt no resentment. Carol was her friend, was as insecure as Julie herself in many ways and really had no idea just how beautiful she was. Carol took her hand now, squeezing it tightly as they approached the theater.

“Berne has his assistant and his secretary with him,” Carol said, “and a whole fleet of reporters—there's someone from
Life
, someone from
Coronet
, half a dozen photographers. I talked to Dee last night and, Julie, they have a
movie
camera, like the ones they use for newsreels.”

Julie could feel her nerves grow taut, felt that fluttering sensation in her stomach. Her throat felt tight. Her mouth felt dry. Had Carol not been holding her hand so tightly, she would have turned and fled. That strong resolve she had felt earlier had completely evaporated now, and she experienced something very like stark terror. She didn't show it, of course. On the surface she was as calm as could be.

“There are all sorts of rumors afloat,” Carol continued. “Dee heard one of the girls who read yesterday say
she
had heard Berne's assistant talking to some official from New York. The girl had stepped out into the lobby to get a drink of water and the two men were standing nearby, she couldn't help hearing them. Anyway, Berne's assistant was telling this other man that word had come down from the studio that Berne was to find his Corday im
med
had definitely taken its toll.iately or they intended to abandon the whole project. That's why he brought so many reporters and photographers to Claymore with him, Dee said.”

They were in front of the theater now. Carol squeezed her hand so tightly that Julie winced. They stood there for a moment, both petrified, and then Carol sighed and let go of Julie's hand.

“I—I guess we might as well go in,” she said.

“We might as well,” Julie replied.

“I'm terrified.”

“So am I,” Julie admitted.

“I know just how the early Christians felt when they went out to face the lions. Shall—shall we go in?”

Carol looked pale. Julie managed a reassuring smile, and they went on into the lobby. A group of bored-looking reporters were milling around restlessly, all of them a bit unkempt, most of them smoking furiously, several with cameras slung around their necks. They weren't local newspeople, Julie sensed that immediately. All had the hard, cynical appearance of big-city veterans, like extras from
The Front Page
. None of them paid the slightest attention as she and Carol came in. A tall, thin woman in a brown suit approached them, looking every bit as bored as the reporters. Her sleek black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her thin lips were painted red. Her manner was crisp and officious, dark eyes glittering as she stared at them. Julie recognized her from a newspaper photograph. She was Lelia Standish, Eric Berne's private secretary and, according to all reports, a strong power behind the throne.

“You've come to read for Mr. Berne?” she snapped.

Julie nodded. Carol turned a shade paler.

“Names?” the woman demanded.

“I'm Julie Hammond. This is Carol Martin.”

The woman gave them a sharp, suspicious look and then marched briskly over to a desk and picked up a clipboard and consulted it.

“Julie Hammond,” she said, “three-thirty. Carol Martin, four. You know the procedure? You'll wait in the designated room until Ron comes to fetch you and then you will go onstage and read for Mr. Berne and answer any questions he might have and then you will
leave the theater
at once. We can't have all you girls cluttering up the place, distracting Mr. Berne. Have you got that?”

Julie nodded again. Lelia Standish strongly resembled Gale Sondergaard and acted as though she were playing a scene from
The Spider Woman
. She glowered at them for a moment or so more, and then she signaled to a young man who was leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched, arms folded across his chest. He wore a sleeveless brown-and-white striped jersey and snug tan denims and a wide leather belt. He sauntered over to them, affable, relaxed, as though he found this all a rather amusing lark. Julie had seen his picture in the
Life
article. He was Ron Majors, Berne's assistant and right-hand man. As he came nearer, she saw that he wasn't nearly as young as he had seemed at first. His tan, attractive face was a bit weathered, tiny lines etched about his mouth and eyes. The eyes were a clear blue, his light-brown hair sun-streaked and tousled. He must be at least thirty-five and, though still lean and muscular, looked rather like a Beach Boy going to seed.

“Two more aspiring stars?” he asked.

“Two more,” Standish said wearily.

“Relax, girls,” Majors told them, “it'll all be over with before you know what hit you.”

Carol smiled nervously, still in a state of shock, but Julie felt a curious calm come over her. These were real Hollywood people. They had actually worked with Eric Berne on film locations all over the world. Lelia Standish helped him with budgeting, had a strong voice in casting, was his irreplaceable aide according to the papers, and the same was true of Ron Majors. Julie remembered seeing in Louella's column that Majors had been a stunt double for Tab Hunter before he went to work for Berne. They were awesome figures, both of them, and this was a dream, a nightmare. It wasn't really happening at all. It was a dream, and she would wake up any minute now and be in her own bed and the panic would evaporate and she wouldn't have to go out onto an empty stage and read for the great Hollywood director. She wasn't calm. Julie realized that. She was totally numb instead.

Carol seemed to be in even worse shape—cool self-confident Carol who never showed the least sign of nerves in class. She took Julie's hand again, and Julie managed another reassuring smile as Ron Majors led them out of the lobby and down a long, dark hallway to the backstage area. She could hear voices onstage as he led them past stacks of painted flats and into a large, windowless room that had been cleared and converted into a waiting room for the occasion. A chubby brunette in a lime-green frock sat on one of the metal folding chairs, nervously tugging at the handkerchief in her lap. She had lovely brown eyes and a plump pink mouth and seemed on the verge of tears, looking up in terror as they entered the room. A coffee table was littered with magazines and overflowing ashtrays and a collection of half-empty coffee cups.

“This is Myrtle,” Ron told them. “Myrtle came all the way from Marysville on a bus to be with us today.”

“Is—is it time yet?” Myrtle asked nervously.

“Just a few more minutes, sweetheart.”

He smiled his affable smile and left, and Myrtle tried valiantly to control her trembling. Poor darling, Julie thought, forgetting her own fear. She tried her best to draw the girl out, chatting pleasantly, asking her questions, but it was wasted effort. Ron returned fifteen minutes later and took Myrtle away, and Carol said she would kill for a cigarette even though she didn't smoke. After a few more minutes Ron came back again and asked if either of them would like some coffee. They both declined. He lingered, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest again the better to display his bronzed biceps. His clear blue eyes studied them amiably.

“There's nothing to be worried about,” he assured them. “Eric's a sweetheart. Don't believe any of that nonsense you read in the papers. He's one of the kindest men you'll ever meet, gentle as a lamb. He's been wonderful to the girls, coaxing them patiently, drawing them out. You see his last movie?”

Carol nodded, distracted.

“Remember that scene where Linda Darnell was out in the garden waiting for her lover to return from the war? Eric couldn't get anything out of her, Darnell had a hangover, just stood there like a block of wood through a good twenty takes. Did Eric scream? Did Eric bully her? No. Know what he did? He had a violinist brought in. The guy starts playing this sad, sad love song, and the next thing you know Darnell's looking all wistful and forlorn and she's fighting back the tears. Man's a genius.”