The Lonely Lady

by Harold Robbins

Millstein heard the sound of her car in the driveway, then her footsteps stop outside the front door as she searched for her key. He looked up as the door opened.

  Her sun-tinted hair fell to her shoulders. She smiled and her face was flushed beneath her tan. “You’re home early,” she said.

  “I had the eight to four today.” He could feel the excitement in her. It was difficult for him to believe that she was the same pale frightened girl that he brought from New York. “I heard the good news.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I’m very happy for you.”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream come true.”

  “Believe it. You worked very hard for it. You deserve it.”

  “You made it possible, Al. Nothing would have happened if it weren’t for you.”

  “It would have happened. It just might have taken a little longer.”

  “No. I was heading for the sewer and you know it.”

  “You’ll never get me to believe that. If I had ever thought that, I wouldn’t have brought you with me. There’s something special about you. I saw that the first time we met.”

  “I’ll never understand how you could see anything through all the shit I had pulled over me.”

  “When do you plan to go?”

  “I don’t know. They said they would let me know next week when they want me to come in. I may stay at my mother’s.”

  He didn’t speak.

  “I spoke to the shrink about it. She thinks it might be good for me if I could handle it.”

  “And when the book is finished, what do you plan to do then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you come back out here?”

  “Probably. I like living in California. Besides, this is where it’s at for me. Screenplays, television, work.”

  His voice was suddenly husky. “You always have a home here with us, if you should want it.”

  She sank to her knees in front of him and put her hands over his. “You’ve done enough, Al. I can’t lay any more on you.”

  “You’re not laying anything on us. We love you.”

  “And I love you both. You’re like family to me. Even more than family. Maybe the only other person I knew that would have done what you did was my father. You have the same gentleness that he did. Mixed up as I was at the time, I knew that. Maybe that was why I wrote you.”

  He understood what she was telling him. And though there was a feeling of deep disappointment, there was also the great satisfaction of knowing that she cared enough to let him know how she felt. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “We’ll miss you,” he said.

  Her arm went around his neck and she held her cheek against his. “I won’t give you the chance. We’ll always be very close.”

  He was very still for a moment, then he drew back. He smiled. “Hey! Are you going to give me a chance to read that book they’re all making such a fuss about?”

  She laughed, “Of course. I thought you’d never ask.” A moment later she laid the boxed manuscript on his lap. “Promise you won’t read it until you go to bed. I couldn’t stand watching you read it.”

  “Okay,” he said. But he didn’t really know why she wanted him to wait until after he picked up the manuscript: Nice Girls Go to Hell, a novel by JeriLee Randall.

  Beneath that was a short paragraph.

  “This book is dedicated to Al Millstein—with gratitude and affection for being the Loveliest Man I Know.”

  His eyes blurred with tears and it was several minutes before he turned to page one.

  I was born with two strikes on me and no balls. I was a girl child. Destined to be delivered direct from my mother’s womb into the bondage of my sex. I didn’t like it even then. I proceeded to piss all over the doctor who was slapping my ass.

  Chapter 25

  Angela opened the bathroom door while she was in the shower. “Your agent’s on the phone,” she shouted. “He says he has to talk to you right away. It’s very important.”

  “I’ll be right out.” JeriLee stepped out of the shower and wrapped a large bath sheet around her.

  “What is it?” she said into the phone.

  “Can you get over to the studio right away? Tom Castel wants to see you.”

  “What about our appointment? I’m supposed to be at your office in an hour.”

  “I can wait. I think this is our big chance. I’ve got him holding on the other line to let him know when you’ll be there.”

  “An hour okay?”

  “Make it three quarters of an hour. It looks more sincere.”

  “Okay.” She laughed. An agent was an agent. He even negotiated the time with you.

  The doctor had been right. He had said she would feel better by today and she did. Outside of a mildly heavy feeling in her groin there was no pain at all.

  Back in the bathroom she finished drying herself, then pulled the shower cap from her head and shook out her hair. It would need only thirty seconds with the blow dryer. She would use very little makeup today, just a touch of mascara and some light lipstick. They all knew what she had gone through.

  Angela came into the bedroom while she was dressing. “What did he want?”

  “I’m due at Castel’s office in twenty minutes.”

  “Want me to drive you?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  “Are you sure? I’m clear today. I’ve nothing else to do?”

  “Okay.” She nodded.

  ***

  “How you feeling, baby?” Tom Castel asked, kissing her cheek.

  “Fine.”

  “Tough shit about what happened. George should never have put you in a spot like that.”

  “It was my own fault,” she said, moving toward the chair in front of his desk.

  “No, over there,” he said solicitously, taking her by the arm and leading her to the couch against the wall. “You’ll be more comfortable. Coffee?”

  She nodded and he pressed a button on the side of his chair. A moment later his secretary came in with two cups.

  “The old man said to come right over. That it was important.”

  “How badly do you want your picture made?”

  She couldn’t resist. “I don’t want it made badly. I want it made well.”

  “Don’t get flip with words, JeriLee. I know you’re a writer. You want the picture made or don’t you?”

  “I want the picture made.”

  “Okay then,” he said seriously. “I’ll tell you how to get it done. I got the studio to agree to give me a go on the picture if George does it. You get George to do it.”

  “Why me? You’re the producer. Isn’t that your job? And besides, isn’t he under contract to the studio?”

  “That’s right. But he’s got the right of approval over what pictures he will do, and I can’t seem to pin him down. He should listen to you. After all, he did knock you up and you took care of it without making a fuss. I figure he owes you one.”

  “What if he won’t do it?”

  “You blow fifty grand and five points.”

  “Who do you lose?”

  “Nothing. I got a contract. If I don’t do this picture, I do another. But I’d like to get this one made. I think there’s a buck in it for all of us. Besides I want to work with you. I think we could come up with a real winner between us. I loved the book.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t know me. I’m dynamite when I get going. Work day and night. I got a place out at the beach where nobody can get to us.”

  She nodded. She had heard about his place at the beach from friends. The only one that believed he went out there to work was his wife. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great. I arranged to meet George for lunch at the commissary. I told him you’d be joining us.” He smiled. “I know you can sell him, baby. Just give him another whiff of that gorgeous pussy.”

  “Christ, Tom,” she said disgustedly. “It’s goin
g to take more than that to get him.”

  “You don’t know your own power, baby. He says that you’ve got the super cunt of all time and that he can’t keep from getting a hard-on whenever he’s near you.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “Just this weekend. We had a C.R. session out at the shrink’s. It just—”

  “Happened to come up,” she finished, interrupting him. “I know. I heard all about it.”

  “I must say he made out a hell of a case for you. Are you really as good as he says you are?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m a real ball breaker.” She walked toward the door. “Where’s the john? I think I have to throw up.”

  “First door on your left,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, I forgot you still weren’t feeling well.”

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s one of the problems of being a woman. Some things just turn your stomach.”

  ***

  “It’s really a very simple deal,” she explained to her agent. “Castel gives me the job if I get George to do the picture. On top of that he already told me that we’d be working together out at his place on the beach and he made sure to tell me that he works day and night.

  “George says that he loves the whole idea. That he believes in me as a writer and admires Castel as a top producer, but for him the key is the director and he happens to know that Dean Clarke is available because Dean’s wife coldcocked the picture he was going to do at Warner’s.”

  “Dean Clarke would be a good director for the project. And I say so even if he’s not my own client.”

  “But you know Dean’s problem. If he doesn’t get his wife’s approval he won’t do it. And that’s another problem for me. She wants the same things from me that George and Castel want. I’ve been ducking her ever since we met at a N.O.W. meeting.”

  “Pictures have been made even with worse problems.”

  “I’ve heard of fucking one guy to get a job in this business. But did you ever hear of anyone who had to fuck everybody on the damn picture? Before it’s over they’ll have me matched up with everyone except the hairdresser and that will only be because he’s gay.”

  “Now don’t get excited. Let’s talk this out.”

  “Okay.”

  “If I could get Castel to go for seventy-five thousand and seven and a half points, would you do it?”

  “You’re not listening. I wasn’t talking about the money. I just don’t think I should have to fuck for the deal, that’s all.”

  “I agree with you. But since you’re fucking anyway, I don’t see what’s such a big tsimiss you’re making.”

  “I didn’t have to fuck anybody to get them to buy the book, why should I do it to get them to make the picture?”

  “They didn’t make the picture yet, did they?” the old man asked shrewdly. She started to speak but he held up his hand. “Listen to me, then you can talk. It’s almost three years since they bought your book. They did two scripts on it. They were no good and there was no picture. Don’t tell me that your book sold forty thousand in hard cover, a hundred thousand in book club and a million in paperback, or that you did fifty radio and TV shows and that Time magazine had you on its cover as Women’s Lib writer of the year. I know it, you know it and the studio knows it. What the studio also knows is that it all happened three years ago. Since then there have been other books. And, believe me, they would much rather make a fresh start on something new than throw more money into something they have already failed with twice. You talk about what you have to do to get this picture made? Let me tell you what I had to do. For the last year while you were giving away your fucks free, I was wining, dining and sucking up to ever executive at the studio that I thought could push your picture into production.

  “Well, I finally got it back on the active list. I got them to turn it over to Castel, one of their top producers, because I know he’s a hustler, that he would find a way to get them to make the movie. Well, he found it and now you’re complaining.

  “I’m an old man. I don’t have to work so hard. Soon I will turn the office over to my younger associates. You don’t want to make the picture? It’s okay by me. It’s your book, it’s your life, it’s your money. I’m a rich man. I don’t need it. All I get is a lousy ten percent anyway.” He shook his head sadly. “So go home. We’ll still be friends. You’ll write other stories, other books. I’ll make other deals. But it’s really too bad. It might have been a very important movie.” He held up his hand. “Now you can talk.”

  She started laughing hysterically.

  “You think what I said was funny?”

  “No. It’s just that suddenly everything has become so unreal.”

  “Then let me bring you back to reality.” His voice cut like a cold knife. “In this business there is only one truth. It always has been and it always will be—make the movie. Just that. Nothing more, nothing less. Make the movie.

  “I don’t give a damn what you do, who you fuck. I don’t care if you want to remake the world. You can do anything you want but first you will have to deal with the truth. Make the movie. It’s the only thing you can do that will validate you. If you don’t do it, you’re just another cunt who couldn’t cut it in this town.”

  “And you don’t care who I have to fuck to get it done.”

  “I don’t give a damn if you have to climb up on the cross and fuck Jesus Christ. You get that movie made.”

  “I don’t really care that much anymore,” she said in a tired voice.

  “I don’t believe that. If you hadn’t cared you wouldn’t have come out here three years ago. You would have stayed back East and written another novel.”

  “That’s what I should have done. I know that now.”

  “It’s not too late. The planes still fly both ways.”

  He saw the tears come to her eyes but before he could say anything to her she rose from her chair and walked out of the office. He picked up the telephone and a moment later had Tom Castel on the line.

  “I just finished talking to her, Tom,” he said in a confidential tone. “Believe me, there’s no way you can get her to go for less than a hundred grand. I’ll get her to buy the seven and a half points but you’ll have to come up with the cash. Right now she’s fed up with this town. I have all I can do to keep her from getting on the next plane back East. All she really wants to do is write her next novel.”

  ***

  JeriLee took a Kleenex from the container on the dashboard and dabbed at her eyes. “We can go home now,” she said.

  Silently Angela put the car into gear and they rolled out of the parking lot. JeriLee lit a cigarette and looked out of the car window. “Shit,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just discovered something about myself and I don’t like it,” she said. “People don’t only get fucked by systems, they also get fucked by their dreams.”

  “You lost me.”

  “We’re all whores,” JeriLee said. “Only the currencies are different. By the time we get home the old man will be on the phone telling me he got me a hundred grand to do the picture. And I’ll say okay.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “It’s not the money. That’s where the old man is smart. He knows it. And uses it. He knows that I want that picture made more than I want life itself. I didn’t fool him for a minute.”

  “I don’t see anything so bad about it.”

  Suddenly JeriLee laughed. “That’s what’s so beautiful about you. You’re the last of the innocents.”

  “It’s been a rough day,” Angela said. “Let’s get stoned when we get home.”

  JeriLee leaned across the seat and kissed Angela’s cheek. “That’s the first sensible idea I’ve heard all day.”

  Epilogue—Tinsel Town

  On stage the singer was drawing out the last anguished note of the song. In the small crowded control room high in the back of the large auditorium there was a hum of quie
t frenzy. This was not just an ordinary television program. This was the live telecast of motion pictures’ finest hour, the Academy Awards.

  The applause came up as the singer finished. He bowed graciously to the audience, his fixed smile masking his anger. The orchestra had mangled his arrangement and drowned out his best notes.

  A voice echoed through the speakers in the control room. “Two minutes. Commercials and station break.”

  “What song was that?” the director asked.

  “Second,” someone answered. “No, third.”

  “It stinks,” he said. “What’s on next?”

  “Best screenplay award. We’re picking up the nominees now.”

  The director looked up at the screens. The five center screens each showed a different person, four men and a woman. The men in their elaborate dinner jackets appeared nervous. The woman seemed almost oblivious to everything going on around her. Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted, and her head nodded gently as if she were listening to some inner music. “The girl is stoned,” he said.

  “But she’s beautiful,” a voice answered.

  The countdown from the commercial began. The moment it was over a light flashed over the screen that was picking up the master of ceremonies returning to the podium. The director punched in a close-up of the emcee, then cut to a medium shot of two stars, a young man and woman, approaching the podium to the applause of the audience. The applause faded away as they began to read the list of nominees.

  As their names were being called out, the men were trying without success to appear nonchalant, the woman still seemed to be in another world.

  With the usual pomp, the envelope was called for and ceremoniously opened. “The award for the best screenplay goes to—” The young actor paused for the dramatic moment. He looked at his companion.

  She picked up the announcement, her voice suddenly shrill with excitement. “Ms. JeriLee Randall for Nice Girls Go to Hell!”

  The director punched in on the woman. At first she didn’t seem to have heard. Her eyes opened and her lips parted in a smile. She began to rise from her seat. Another camera picked her up as she made her way down the aisle to the stage. It wasn’t until she had climbed the few steps and turned to face the audience that they had a clear full shot of her.