by Hugh Hood
Eddie and this golf player would have been sworn enemies if they had had any contact. Eddie hated this man because he didn’t know publicity or production, and wouldn’t learn. He hoped to be on the scene when the tall Texan’s golfing skills deserted him, and his suavity and pouring arm, but unfortunately it seemed that a good golf swing could be preserved over an unreasonably long period. The golfer poured, and poured again, and Eddie decided to have the single discreet drink that calculation allowed. He moved towards the bar, ears at the ready to eavesdrop as he went. He sidled cautiously past Mr. Horler and Mr. Lenehan, hoping they wouldn’t notice him and give him some orders. They were standing with Max Mars, who bore no signs of physical combat except that he was breathing a little faster than is normal for an unexcitable man in late middle age.
His collar point, the left one, which was long and Californian, had gotten bent backwards and had climbed up over his lapel in a way that reminded you of the late S. Z. Sakall in some movie about Vienna; an endearingly rumpled quality was suggested. But there was really nothing endearingly rumpled about Max Mars tonight. Eddie knew by the director’s tone that he was gravely displeased about something. But all he heard as he passed was a single harsh phrase.
“ . . . swine, all of us.”
That would do, Eddie thought, that covered things. He saw that the partners were shaking their heads in unison like mechanical toys, in dissent from whatever developments of this strongly stated theme Max might adduce. All passing or past, thought Eddie, reaching the bar, where it took him some time to catch the attention of his golfing associate.
“A Scotch,” he said finally.
The golfer poured a stingy little drink, slopping in an ice cube with a hole in it which suggested the imperfectly constructed igloo of a bored Eskimo. He handed Eddie the glass, and Eddie took it and turned away. He was right at the back of the house and could see his hostess through a hall door, still receiving, but unable from fatigue or other distress to smile. He wondered how she felt, and decided that whatever her feelings were they would be intense and painful. He wanted to go and speak to her, to take her hand, thank her for asking him to come, perhaps comfort her. His glass was slippery and his palm perspired. He was not learning his business hanging around watching this comedy.
His drink was all water. It struck him as he swallowed it that he had had a bellyful of this miserable existence, and he thought of going back to Akron and going to work in his father’s menswear store, but he knew he wouldn’t do that; he finished his drink and prepared to leave. He crept through the hall door and was suddenly moved forward and to his right by a wave of late-comers whom he politely evaded. His side step brought him immediately in front of his hostess; they gazed silently at one another, without communication. Eddie had the feeling that he was looking at a still close-up; all the detail was there, the flaked lipstick on dry lips, the network of faint lines under the lower eyelid, some hair escaping above an ear. Below, coffee-coloured silk lay smoothly on white skin; her bosom rose and fell silently. He pushed past her and went downstairs and out the door.
Rose remembered the publicity man, but not his surname. He had certainly looked her over pretty closely, she thought, but she was used to being inspected like a side of beef hanging on a hook, and thought no more about it. The crowd in the hall thinned, the guests had all arrived, and it was time to go inside. She made a tentative move, but Peggi restrained her.
“Why don’t we get rid of these creeps and talk?”
“How long would it take?”
“From now? An hour, starting with this guy.” Peggi grabbed a mousy little fellow who came trotting down the hall with two drinks in his tiny paws. Despite his pace, he spilt not a drop. “You must have been a bartender in a previous existence,” she said, and then saw by the man’s change of expression that she had hit a long-concealed target. “Who are you, and who invited you?” she asked with controlled savagery, bullying him.
“I work for Mr. Solomon. I’m a statistical analyst.”
Peggi was placated. “And when were you a bartender?”
“At C.C.N.Y. during the Depression, and after I graduated. I’ve been poor,” said the man defiantly, “and I’m no freeloader. I was invited. I did all the extrapolations on the grosses. Aren’t you Peggi Starr?”
“Yes. This is Miss Leclair.”
“I know. I know. I didn’t hope I’d get to meet you, Miss Leclair.” He said an astonishing thing. “I’m sorry about the picture. I liked you best.”
“That’s all right.”
“I hope you make a lot of money.”
“I hope so too. Have a good time, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll try.” He turned to go but Peggi held him relentlessly.
“The party’s over. Why not drink your two drinks and go?”
“All right, Miss Starr. We were just going.”
“That’s the spirit.” She released him and he scuttled away. “I’m unhappy about statistical analysis,” she said. “I think they take things too much to heart.”
They were an isolated trio now, the guests seeming glad to leave them alone. Peggi said, “Aw, Rose.” She took the other woman’s hand. “Aw, Rose!”
Rose began to cry quietly and helplessly. She cried. She said, “Do you know Jean-Pierre Fauré?” She laughed and cried together, but then cried harder, looking for a place to go. The noise from the salon was loud, and hid her crying. There was a powder room just at the end of the hall and they took her there, leaving the hall empty. There was nothing to sit on but a small towel hamper and the toilet, so they stood and looked unhappily at each other.
“She should rest,” said Jean-Pierre. Behind him the door swung open. A male guest stuck his head in, said, “Excuse me,” and went away.
“I’m all right.” But she continued to cry. “The victim is always the last to know, right?”
“I thought it was me, slipping,” said Peggi, “when they didn’t ask me to come in for a screening. Now I know why.”
“I had seen it,” said Jean-Pierre. They stared at him angrily.
“Why didn’t you warn us?”
“I only met you at eight o’clock tonight,” he said defensively.
“It seems longer,” said Rose. “How much screen time did I get?”
“Important footage, about twenty minutes, more or less.”
“They cut her to bits,” Peggi said. “What a stinking trick. Take them to court, Rose, that’s what I’d do.”
“I didn’t watch you make the film,” said Jean-Pierre, “but I’d imagine that Rose originally had three to four times the footage, isn’t that so?”
“How can you tell?”
“From the editing. You can see at once where cuts have been made and new footage cut in, and as for that business with the titles . . . it’s effective, I see that. They want you to see her all at once, and you do.”
“Would you use her in a picture?”
“No, it’s not a type I like.”
“Who’s like her in France?”
“Perhaps some of the yé-yé girls. She’s beautiful physically, I grant you that.”
Peggi said, “Rose is more beautiful.” They were silent and the cubicle was full of disinterested affection. She went on, “Sit here, sweetie, and we’ll go and clear the bastards out.” She led Jean-Pierre away.
Rose looked at her streaked and dirty face in the mirror, feeling the dawning of an urge to throw up. She sat on the toilet and put her head down, and the nausea temporarily passed.
10
Back from London, Lambert Vogelsang came into the Lyricart offices on a Thursday. The switchboard girl smiled at him apologetically, which alarmed him. He walked far back into the ranks of smaller offices, along a dark, windowless corridor to his own room at the end of the floor, where he sat down suddenly and passed a palm over his forehead. He was very tired from the
flight. When Miss Mcintyre bustled in, he flinched.
“Miss Leclair has been trying to get you all morning.”
“Does she say what for?” They both laughed sadly.
“I suppose we can guess, the poor thing.” Miss Mcintyre had felt much sympathy for Rose during this mess; they were about the same age and had always gotten along together better than most chance acquaintances. Rose had been coming into the Lyricart offices ever since her first trip East, oh, years and years ago, to help promote one of her earliest pictures. At that time Miss Mcintyre had been just a girl in the pool, who now and then took dictation from Mr. Vogelsang among others. Rose had spoken to her with cheerful politeness one afternoon when she had come into the room to transcribe the details of a contract. Miss Mcintyre had been glad to be treated like a person instead of an appliance, and now she was sorry to see her friend all upset and deserted, and she wanted Lambert to do something.
“There isn’t much I can do for her, Jan,” he said. “I spoke to Horler yesterday and he says there’s absolutely no question of preparing alternate prints of Goody and I must admit it would cost him a flock of dough to do it.”
The phone rang insistently. “You better take it,” he said. “Say I haven’t come in yet.” It was Rose all right. He watched with anxiety as Miss Mcintyre picked up the receiver.
“Hello again, Miss Leclair. I’m sorry, no, he hasn’t appeared. What?” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Vogelsang, “She says the operator told her she saw you.” He nodded, cornered at last, and she spoke into the phone. “I’ll just look along the hall, if you’ll hold on a minute. Perhaps he stopped to speak to somebody.” She put the phone down again and said quietly, “I don’t like the way she sounds, Lambert. I think you’d better talk to her.”
“How?”
“She sounds pretty disturbed. She says she’s been alone for days.”
“She can’t have been drinking, or anything like that.”
“Well, she never has, that I know of.”
He sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
Miss Mcintyre said, “Miss Leclair, he’s just coming along the hall, if you’ll hold on. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She handed him the receiver and he held it for two counts and spoke, hoping that what he heard as a ghastly false heartiness would come across warm and kind.
“Rose dear, how are you? I just came in this minute. We had a bumpy flight and I didn’t sleep much.” He had always forestalled the complaints of others with his own, and hoped that if he acted miserable enough Rose might feel sorry for him instead of for herself. “I’m too old for these quick trips,” he moaned.
Miss Mcintyre was certain that the familiar strategy wouldn’t work this time, and was pleased to hear Rose’s voice, sharp and insistent through the instrument, cutting off Vogelsang’s lament. He listened silently for thirty to forty seconds, his face at first calm, then worried, then seriously alarmed.
“Don’t talk like that, you’ll make fifty more features before you’re through,” he said, but the tirade went on. He was convinced now, Miss Mcintyre saw, that there was real trouble to come.
She wished she could help Rose, remembering the sight of her on the night of that disgraceful party. The only people who had stood up for Rose were Lambert and Peggi and that nice French director. The whole business was a shame, and the worst of it was that Lyricart had clients on both sides of the fence. They would all have to be very careful about declaring where their sympathies lay, especially Lambert. She followed his words carefully as he spoke with great circumspection to the angry and disappointed star.
“ . . . know how you would feel. I’ve thought about nothing else all this month. I’m racking my brains for ways to help.” A pause. “Yes, yes, I spoke to him. But Rose, can’t you see what you’re asking? To do that would be to make a whole new picture. They may have destroyed your original footage by now, probably have. Be honest with yourself . . .” He listened to her reply. “Legal action?” he said into the phone with a voice full of horror. He raised his eyebrows at Miss Mcintyre. “You’d have to change lawyers. No,” he corrected himself, “I forgot you’d done it when you got your decree. I don’t know anything about the new firm. I can never remember the names of law partnerships.” He laughed as she recited them. “I’ve never heard of them, maybe they’re too exalted.” He allowed her to explain who they were, waiting for an opening. “Would they fight this out for you? They’d have to throw a lot of weight downtown. Oh, they do throw a lot of weight downtown? How much? Oh. Oh, him. Well, that might do you some good in Washington, but I don’t see how Washington comes into this litigation. Look, let me talk to you before you see them. Yes, today, now. The usual; when did we ever eat anywhere else? I couldn’t digest my food off Fifty-eighth Street. In one hour precisely. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, bye-bye.” He was shivering slightly when he hung up, and Miss Mcintyre felt sorry for him because they were all in a difficult business together which exacted heavy withdrawals against dwindling balances of nervous credit.
“This is impossible. What’ll I say to her?”
“What’s wrong?”
“She has the idea that the agency sold her down the river to protect themselves with Seth.”
“She’s right.”
“Sure she’s right, but I can’t admit it to her. Lyricart couldn’t exist without sometimes putting one client’s interests ahead of another. Naturally I’d sooner Rose got the best deal every time, but we have more important clients, and they come first.”
“What are you thinking of for her?”
“A TV series, a situation comedy; she’ll go great in it, and she may make some real money for a change.”
“Would she do TV? She never did before, and Seth doesn’t.”
“She’ll have to. She got the house in the settlement. She has to earn a hundred thousand before taxes to run that place.”
“As much as that?”
“There’s a full-time staff of four, with tax contributions, Social Security payments, accident insurance, and all kinds of other charges, their food for instance and uniforms. The taxes are unbelievable, and the fire, theft, and casualty run very high. Painting and repairs and general upkeep run to thousands a year. She has to pay into a private police organization the people on the block subscribe to. Shall I go on?”
“She could sell it, I suppose.”
“She would sooner die.”
“I’ll call Mr. Charles, and say you’ll be in.”
“Would you do that, dear? I’d appreciate that.” He moved around the small office whistling tonelessly, putting this and that piece of paper into a briefcase. He scratched his head, just at the hairline. Dandruff fell on his desk blotter.
“Fatigue does that,” he muttered absently, “nervous fatigue. Call them, will you, and I’ll go along.”
Going up Madison in a cab, he took out Rose’s agreement with Lyricart, not strictly speaking a contract, but a written presentation of an agreement, a piece of paper with ambiguous legal status. He could not have said, on the spur of the moment, to what degree Rose was bound by it, if at all. It was part of his job at Lyricart to intimate at all times the dire consequences of any breach of this agreement, without actually making any definite threats. He might recount gothic tales of how so-and-so’s billing had shrunk at another agency, or how somebody else had foolishly priced himself out of the market while trying to avoid paying agency commission. He might suggest that while Lyricart was no longer actively involved in production, all producers were its natural allies, and would go along with its policies and discipline. This was not factually correct, and had never been so, but it was his job to elicit fear of the consequences of disregarding his instructions, to keep the client as much as possible in the dark.
“Corner Fifty-seventh all right?” asked his driver.
“Yeah, I’ll walk from here.” He paid the man and got out,
walked a block north and turned east. He was a little early, and wanted Rose to be seated and composed when he came in. He could trust her not to make a scene in the restaurant, for she was a friend of the owner’s family; she wouldn’t make a scene in any restaurant. She wasn’t a temperamental girl; he had handled other women with much less status at the box office, television actresses and the like, who were infinitely more troublesome than Rose Leclair. As he sauntered along, he saw her coming from the east; she’d probably walked over from the house, almost the only one of his clients who ever walked anywhere.
She was in good shape—he remembered that she had a lovely little body. He had seen her on the late late show a couple of weeks ago in a movie about the twenties, in which she wore a period dress in gold lamé with beads, a very clinging effect. She still had most of that, he thought, watching her enter the restaurant. He walked the short remaining distance half-reluctantly, and then steeled himself to go inside. He went to his customary table, where Rose sat chatting with one of the waiters; she laughed at something he said as Lambert came up.
“Philippe comes from the Marais,” she said pleasantly, “where Jean-Pierre was born.”
“He must have been a poor boy like me,” said the waiter.
“Where is that?” asked Vogelsang.
“East along the rue Saint-Honoré near l’église Saint-Merri, that’s our church. It has a famous organ.”
“I’ll ask Jean-Pierre if he remembers it,” she said. Philippe took their drink order and went off, coming back almost immediately. He put their drinks in front of them, and Rose hesitated a decent interval before diving in. She had never been a problem in that way, but there was something wrong with her which might have been considered the effect of drink if she’d had any track record. She seemed stunned. They ordered food, and again she showed extreme restraint.
“You’ve given up eating?”
“If I eat a boiled egg it slows me down for three hours. A piece of toast divides, and one half speeds directly to each hip. Do you know what I have to do tomorrow? I spend all day—all day, mind you—first with Madame Sylvie, then in a reducing salon, then the last part of the afternoon working out in the Goulmoujian gym. There’s a day shot to hell.”
