That annoyed me. “If you don’t mind I would rather not be classed with an anonymous “they”,” I said with acerbity.
She looked surprised. “You have a very good opinion of yourself, haven’t you?”
“Why not?” It was my turn to be impatient. “After all, who’ll believe in me if I don’t?”
Her face darkened. “I don’t like conceited men.”
“Haven’t you a good opinion of yourself?”
She shook her head emphatically. “Why should I?”
“I hope you’re not just another woman with an inferiority complex?”
“Do you know so many?”
“Quite a few. Is that what you suffer from?”
She stared into the empty fireplace, her expression suddenly moody. “I suppose so.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “Do you think that’s funny?”
“Why should I? I think it’s rather pathetic because there’s no reason for you to.”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Why not?”
I knew then that she was unsure of herself and interested to know what I thought of her.
“You ought to be able to answer that if you are truthful about yourself. Now my first impressions of you . . . no, never mind, I don’t think I’ll tell you.”
“Come on,” she said, “I want to know. What are your first impressions of me?”
I studied her as if I were making a careful assessment of her qualities. She stared back at me, frowning and ill at ease, but wanting to know. I had thought so much about her for the past two days that I was long past first impressions. “If you really want to know,” I began with assumed reluctance, “only I don’t suppose you’ll believe me.”
“Oh, come on,” she said impatiently, “don’t hedge.”
“All right. I’d say you are a woman of considerable character, independent to a degree, hot tempered and strong willed, extra-ordinarily attractive to men and, oddly enough, sensitive in your feelings.”
She studied me doubtfully. “I wonder how many women you have said that to?” she asked, but I could see she was secretly pleased.
“Not many . . . none at all if you take it as a whole. I haven’t met any one woman with all those qualities except yourself. But, of course, I really don’t know you yet, do I? I may be entirely wrong . . . they’re just first impressions.”
“Do you find me attractive?” She was in deadly earnest now.
“I would hardly be here if I didn’t. Of course you’re attractive.”
“But why? I’m not pretty.” She got up and looked in the mirror again. “I think I look awful.”
“Oh no, you don’t. You have character and personality. That’s much better than insipid prettiness. There’s something extraordinary about you. Magnetic is perhaps, the word.”
She folded her arms across her small, flat breasts. “I think you’re an awful liar,” she said, anger in her eyes. “You don’t really think I believe all this slop, do you? What exactly do you want? No one else comes here smarming over me like this.”
I laughed at her. “Don’t get angry. You know, I’m sorry for you. You certainly have a bad inferiority complex. Never mind, perhaps one day you’ll believe me.” I leaned forward to examine the books on the beside table. There were copies of Front Page Detective, a shabby copy of Hemingway’s To Have and to Heme Not, and Thorne Smith’s Night Life of the Gods. I thought they were an odd assortment.
“Do you read much?” I asked deliberately changing the subject.
“When I can find a good book,” she returned, bewildered.
“Have you ever read “Angels in Sables”?” I asked, naming my first book.
She moved restlessly to the dressing table. “Yes . . . I didn’t like it much.” She picked up a powder puff and dabbed at her chin.
“Didn’t you?” I was disappointed. “I wish you’d tell me why.”
She shrugged. “Oh, I just didn’t.”
She put down the powder puff, stared at herself in the mirror and then moved back to the fireplace. She was fidgety, impatient and a little bored.
“But you must have reasons. Did you find it dull?”
“I don’t remember. I read so quickly I never remember any-thing I read.”
“I see . . . anyway you didn’t like it.” I was irritated that she couldn’t remember my book. I would have liked to have talked to her about it and had her reactions, even if she did not like it I began to realize that normal conversation with her was going to be difficult. Until we knew each other — and I was determined that we should know each other — topics of conversation were severely limited. Up to now, we had nothing in common.
She stood looking at me doubtfully and then sat down on the bed again. “Well?” she said, abruptly. “What now?”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
She shrugged and made a little grimace. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Of course there is,” I said and leaning forward, I took her hand in mine. “Are you married or is this a phoney?” I was twisting the thin gold wedding ring on her finger.
“I’m married.”
I was a little surprised. “Is he nice?”
She looked away. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Very nice?”
She took her hand away. “Yes . . . very nice.”
“And where is he?”
Her head jerked round. “That’s not your business.”
I laughed at her. “All right, don’t get high hat. I must say when you get mad, you look quite impressive. How did you get those two lines above your nose?”
She was up instantly, looking at herself in the mirror. “They’re bad, aren’t they?” she said, trying to smooth the furrows away with her finger tips.
I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. I had been in the room exactly a quarter of an hour.
“Then you shouldn’t frown so much,” I said, getting to my feet. “Why don’t you relax?”
I moved towards her and as I did so the puzzled, rather worried look went out of her eyes, instead, there came a look of confidence and secret amusement. She undid the cord of her dressing gown and her slender fingers went to the silk loop that held the one button that kept the dressing gown closed.
“I must go now,” I said looking pointedly at the clock.
Away went the look of confidence; her hands dropped to her sides. I was glad that I had decided not to meet her on her own ground. So long as I behaved differently from the other men who visited her, I was certain to hold her attention and keep her puzzled.
Td like to talk to you about yourself when you have the time,”I said, smiling at her. “I might be good for your inferiority complex.” As I passed the chest of drawers, I slid two ten dollar bills between the glass animals. One, a reproduction of Disney’s Bambi, fell over on its side.
I saw her look quickly at the money and then she looked away. The sullen expression disappeared.
“Do you think I’ll ever see you in anything but that dressing gown?” I asked at the door.
“You might,” she said, blankly. “I do wear other things.”
“One of these days you must give me a treat. And don’t forget, the next time I call, leave off the make-up. It doesn’t suit you. Good-bye now,” and I opened the door.
She joined me. “Thank you for the — the present,” she said, smiling. It was extraordinary how different she looked when she smiled.
“That’s all right. By the way, my name’s Clive. May I phone you soon?”
“Clive? But I know two Clives already.”
During the past quarter of an hour I had completely forgotten that she was anyone’s woman and that remark jarred me badly. “Well, I’m sorry. After all, it is my name. What do you suggest?”
She sensed my irritation and looked a little sullen. “I like to know who’s coming,” she said.
“Of course,” I said sarcastically. “How about Clarence, or Lancelot or Archibald?”
She giggled and looked at
me searchingly. “It’s all right I’ll recognize your voice. Good-bye, Clive.”
“Fine. I’ll come and see you again soon.”
“Marty . . .” she called.
The big, angular woman came from an adjoining room. She stood waiting, her hands clasped, a faint smirk in her eyes.
“I’ll call you before long,” I said and followed the woman down the passage.
“Good evening, sir,” she said politely at the door.
I nodded and walked up the path to the white wooden gate. When I reached my car, I paused and looked back at the house. There were no lights to be seen. In the dusk of the evening, it looked just like any other of the little houses that dotted the side streets of Hollywood.
I started the engine and drove to a bar off Vine Street, within sight of the Brown Derby. I felt suddenly deflated and I needed a drink.
The Negro bartender grinned cheerfully at me, his teeth glistening like the keys of a piano in the hard electric light.
“ ‘Evening’, sir,” he said, spreading his big hands on the bar. “What’ll it be tonight?”
I ordered a straight Scotch and carried it to a table away from the bar. There were only a few men in the place, none of them I knew. I was glad of that because I wanted to think. I relaxed in the easy chair, drank a little of the whisky and lit a cigarette.
I decided, after brooding for a while, that it had been an interesting, if expensive, quarter of an hour. The first opening move in the game had been mine. Eve had been puzzled and I felt pretty sure, interested. I should have liked to have heard what she had said to Marty about me after I had left. She was smart enough to guess that I was playing some kind of a game, but I had given her no clue as to what it was.
I had made her curious. I had talked about her and not about myself; that must have been a change for her. The type of man she would mix with was certain to talk continuously about himself. Her inferiority complex was interesting. Possibly it was due to a fear of the future. She wanted to be reassured about herself. If she relied on her trade for money that would explain her anxiety about her looks. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t old, of course, but even if she were thirty-three, and I guessed she would be older than that, in her game that was the age when a woman did get anxious.
I finished my whisky and lit a cigarette. In doing so I broke the chain of my thoughts and began, almost against my will, to examine my own conscience.
Obviously something had happened to me. A few days ago, the idea of my associating with a prostitute would have been unthinkable. I have always despised men who go with such women. Everything they stood for was repugnant to me. And yet, I had spent a quarter of an hour with one of these women, treating her as I treated my other women friends. I had actually left my car outside her house, which must be notorious in the neighbourhood, for anyone to identify and I had paid for the privilege of having a completely futile conversation.
It was my misfortune to associate with brilliant and talented people. I knew I was dross compared with them. But Eve had never known success. She had no talents and she was a social outcast. She was the only woman I knew whom I could genuinely patronize. In spite of her power over men, her strength of will and her cold indifference, she was for sale. As long as I had money I was her master. I realized now that it was essential for me to have such a companion, who was morally and socially my inferior, if I were not to lose all confidence in myself.
The more I thought about this, the clearer it became that I would have to leave Three Point I was going to see a lot of Eve. Living so far from her would not simplify our meetings. Three Point would have to go.
I stubbed out my cigarette and walked over to the public telephone. I called my apartment.
Russell’s voice floated over the line. “Mr. Thurston’s residence.”
“I’ll be over some time tonight,” I told him. “There’s one thing I want you to do. You’ll find one of my books, “Flowers for Madam” somewhere around. I want it sent immediately to Miss Eve Marlow by special messenger. No card and nothing to show who sent it’ I dictated the address. “Will you do that?”
He said he would and I thought I detected a faint note of disapproval in his voice. He was fond of Carol and always disapproved of any other woman I knew. I hung up before he could express an opinion which he was quite capable of doing. Then I left the bar and walked over to the Brown Derby.
CHAPTER SIX
I FOUND Carol and Peter at a table away from the band. With them was a big, loosely built man in an immaculate tuxedo. He had a shock of iron-grey hair and his face was long and yellow with a thick loose underlip and a broad flattish nose. His grandfather could easily have been a lion.
Peter caught sight of me as I edged my way past the crowded tables. He rose to greet me. “Hello there,” he said, looking surprised and pleased. “So you made it after all. Look who’s here, Carol. Have you had dinner?”
I took Carol’s hand and smiled at her. “No,” I said. “May I join you?”
“Why, of course,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Peter touched my arm. “I don’t think you’ve met Rex Gold,” he said. He turned to the lion man who was still drinking his soup with fixed attention. “This is Clive Thurston, the author.”
So this was Rex Gold. Like everyone else in Hollywood, I had heard a lot about him and knew him to be the most powerful man in pictures.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Gold,” I said.
Reluctantly, he gave over drinking his soup and half rose, offering a limp, boneless hand. “Sit down, Mr. Thurston,” he said. His deep-set tawny eyes stared through me. “You’ll find the lobster soup excellent. Waiter!” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Lobster soup for Mr. Thurston.”
I winked at Carol as the waiter slid a chair under me. “You see, I can’t keep away from you,” I murmured to her.
“Didn’t your publishers want to see you after all?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “I phoned them instead.” Under the table I found and squeezed her hand. “It turned out to be nothing important so I’m seeing them tomorrow. I wanted to be in on the celebration.”
While we were talking, Gold continued to spoon soup into his mouth, his eyes fixed in a glazed stare. It was obvious that he did not combine eating and talking.
“I wondered if you were going to see your wild woman,” Carol whispered mischievously, “and that was the reason why you were passing me up.”
“I wouldn’t pass you up for anyone,” I returned, trying to make my smile genuine. Carol had an uncanny knack of guessing the truth as far as I was concerned.
“What are you two whispering about?” Peter asked.
“Secrets,” Carol replied swiftly. “Don’t be inquisitive, Peter.”
Gold finished his soup and dropped his spoon with a rattle. Then he scowled round for a waiter. “Where’s Mr. Thurston’s soup and what’s coming next?” he called as a waiter came scurrying up. As soon as he was satisfied that neither he nor I were forgotten, he turned to Carol, “Are you coming to the club tonight?” he asked.
“For a little while,” Carol said. “But I don’t want to be too late. I’ve so much to do tomorrow.”
The waiter brought me the soup.
“You should always let tomorrow take care of itself,” Gold said, his eyes intent on my soup. I had a vague feeling that he would willingly take it from me and drink it if I gave him any encouragement. The feeling embarrassed me. “You must learn to play as well as work,” he went on. “You can’t divorce the two satisfactorily.”
Carol shook her head. “I need my seven hours’ sleep, especially now.”
“That reminds me,” Gold pursed his heavy lips. “Imgram will be at my office tomorrow morning. I’d like you to meet him.” He was speaking now to Peter.
“Of course,” Peter said. “Will he have much to do with the scenario?”
“No. If he is difficult to handle, just let me know.” Gold looked suddenly at me. “Have y
ou written for the screen, Mr. Thurston?”
“No . . . not yet,” I returned. “I’ve a number of ideas I’m going to work out when I have the time . . .”
“Ideas? What ideas?” His face hung over the table as he hunched forward. “Anything I could use?”
I searched my mind frantically for a discarded plot that might be of use to him, but I could not think of anything. “There must be,” I said, deciding to bluff. “I’ll let you see some of them if you’re interested.”
I felt his eyes boring into me like drills. “See what? I don’t understand.”
“Treatments,” I said, feeling suddenly hot and irritated. “As soon as I’ve time to dope out some treatments I’ll let you see them.”
He stared blankly over at Carol. She was crumbling bread casually and did not look up. “Treatments?” he repeated. “I’m not interested in treatments. I want a story. You’re an author, aren’t you? All I want you to do is tell me a story . . . tell me one now. You say you’ve ideas. All right, tell me one.”
I wished I had not sat down at that table. I felt Peter eyeing me curiously. Carol still crumbled bread, but there was a faint flush on her face. Gold continued to stare at me while he stroked his loose jowls with his fleshy hand.
“I can’t talk here,” I said. “If you’re really interested, perhaps I could come and see you.”
Just then several waiters closed in on us and began to serve the next course. Gold immediately lost interest in me and began to badger the waiters. Everything had to be just right even to the exact temperature of the plate on which his meal was served. For several minutes there was a feverish stir of activity round the table. Finally, he was satisfied and began to eat wolfishly as if he hadn’t had a meal for several days.
Peter caught my blank look and grinned faintly. There seemed no point in attempting to make conversation while Gold was eating. Neither Carol nor Peter made any effort and I decided to follow their example. We all ate in silence. I wondered if, when he had finished his dinner, Gold would come back to his request for a story. Somehow I didn’t think he would. In a way I was angry with myself for letting the opportunity slip, but as I had nothing to tell him, I decided to be thankful for the interruption.
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