“I’m sorry—so sorry—what a terrible time to cry—but it’s so silly, it’s just that—oh, I loved having the editing here—I was so much a part of it, and now that’s gone—we’ll never have that closeness again—you won’t need me to work with you—you’ll have all the real script people you want—so dumb of me, darling. I don’t mean to spoil your fun.” Her face was desolate as she tried to smile.
Vito didn’t know what to say. She was absolutely right. The situation with Mirrors had been a once-in-a-lifetime happening, like a shipwreck. He hoped he’d never be forced to work in that kind of frenetic, insane haste again. It had worked out, miraculously, but it could far more easily have been a total disaster. And he didn’t see Billy having a future as a script clerk. It simply didn’t fit her at all, and he was sure she knew it.
“Is that the only reason you’re crying, my darling?” he asked tenderly, holding her tightly and licking up some of the tears on her face. “How can you say we’ll never have that closeness again—you’re my wife, my best, my dearest friend, the most important, beloved person in the world to me—no one can ever possibly be as close.”
Billy was lured by the immense sweetness she felt flowing toward her to dare to express the thoughts she had hidden for months.
“Vito, you’re always going to be a producer, isn’t that right?” He nodded gravely. “And that means that you’ll always be busy, and when you’ve finished one film you’ll be right on to another because that’s the way you’ve always worked, at least two balls in the air—three is better—at the same time or you’re not happy?” He nodded again, with a glint of amusement in his eyes at her solemn tone of voice. “You can’t have me always trailing after you like a lost child at a fairground, wailing for her father, now can you? All right, I’ve finally learned how to make friends on a set without half-drowning myself in a pool, but helping you with Mirrors didn’t make me a professional—I know that So what are we left with, realistically? The more successful you are, the less I have of you. Tomorrow night you enter a whole new level as far as your work goes. But, Vito, what about me? What do I do now?”
He looked at her helplessly. He had no answer. It was not a question to which any man has an answer if he loves his work and puts his best energies into it.
“Billy, darling, you knew I was a producer when we got married.”
“But I didn’t have the faintest idea what being a producer really means. Who the hell could? It seems perfectly natural to you—that’s your rhythm, you’ve had years to get accustomed to it, Christ, by now you wouldn’t know how to lead a normal life. When did you last take a vacation? And don’t tell me Cannes, that’s not a vacation, that’s business.” Billy was working herself into anger as she saw the expression of concern on his face being replaced by the obstinate firmness of someone who is saying to himself, this is the way I am, what are you going to do about it?
“Have you ever thought what it’s like for me when you’re shooting a picture?” She pulled away from him and tightened the belt of her robe. “If I go with you or stay home it doesn’t matter. Either way I’m lonely. And the shooting is only half of it anyway—what about the nights you have script meetings or disappear into an editing session? Ten to one the president of General Motors or U.S. Steel works a shorter day than you do—and when you’re not working, you’re thinking about working.” She was breathless with rage.
Vito didn’t jump to respond. What could he promise her? That he would work an eight-hour day, do only one film every two years? Unless he was working on a picture he was only half-alive. His face, with its strong lines, took on a solid, immovable expression, which made him look more like a Donatello sculpture than ever. This was what he had been afraid of before he agreed to marry Billy, this itch to possess all of everything, to have him on her terms, the way she wanted it.
“Billy, I can’t reshape myself into your idea of a convenient husband. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be. Whatever I don’t give my work I give you. There is nobody else and never will be, but I can’t give you my work too.”
Billy was suddenly terrified by the note of finality in his voice. He had never sounded so far away from her. Vito remote was like Vito without energy, a frightening dart in her own heart. She heard the shrill, complaining echo of her own words and realized that she’d gone too far. She had forgotten how entirely his own man Vito was. She walked over to him and took his hand, magically re-assuming her familiar huntress quality. The furious little girl was gone, the strong predatory, invulnerable millionairess armor was buckled back in place in the blink of an eye.
“Darling, I’m being foolish. Of course you can’t change. It’s some sort of crazy reaction to your Oscar I guess—I’m probably just jealous. Please stop looking like that—I’m fine—pay no attention—please?”
He looked back at her unsmilingly, searching her face. She looked straight back at him, offering her lovely eyes to his inspection, chastened but not furtive. “Darling, I can’t wait till tomorrow! There’s so much to look forward to. More than anything I can’t wait till I see Curt Arvey’s face. He just won’t be able to stand it, will he?” She had changed the subject effectively.
“No,” answered Vito, brightening. “He won’t believe it when he hears it. And then he’ll probably demand a recount until he realizes it’s his picture. I think—I think I’ll have lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Vito—why on earth? With that scum?”
“The Orsini family motto, ‘Don’t Get Mad. Get Even.’ ”
“You just made that up.” She bit his ear playfully. “But I like it. I think I’ll adopt it. Can I use it, sweetheart?”
“Of course—you’re an Orsini.” He kissed her questioningly. She kissed him back in a way designed to block out all questions, particularly ones she didn’t want to answer.
The next morning Billy got to Scruples as soon as it opened. She knew that toward the end of that late March afternoon it was going to be a scene of confusion. A number of women had decided to leave their new dresses hanging up at Scruples so that they wouldn’t be crushed, planning to come there to dress before leaving for the Awards. There had been no way to prevent them from arranging to have their hairdressers there for a last-minute comb-out, and by midafternoon every dressing room would be filled with fussy ladies and coveys of coiffeurs. Billy only hoped that the fuses wouldn’t blow when they all plugged in their hot rollers at the same time as they inevitably would. She’d remind Spider to have an electrician standing by just in case.
Driving along Sunset she mused on the conversation of the night before. Of course, nothing had been settled—how could it have been—but she hoped she had convinced Vito that what she had said was a temporary spot of crazy-lady vapors on her part. She hoped, but she doubted. Vito was too damn smart not to know the truth when he heard it. He was off and running now; he had it made, but the only difference in her life was that she would have to find the right place in the house to put the Oscar, not too conspicuously displayed yet not pretentiously used, as a door-jamb. Who the fuck had said, “All human wisdom is summed up in two words—wait and hope.” She’d like to get her hands around the fucker’s neck.
She greeted Valentine with a hug whose warmth surprised both women.
“I bet you’ll be glad when today is over,” Billy said.
“Actually, tired as I am, I’m looking forward to it. Tonight I’ll get to see everybody finally wearing my clothes outside of these fitting rooms.”
“Well, not all of them,” Billy noted. “More than half of those clothes were bought to wear at private parties, after all.”
“No matter.”
“Where’s Spider?”
“Oh—who knows? I’m too busy to keep track of him,” Valentine said coldly.
“Is that any way for a partner to talk?” Billy teased.
“That partner business—it’s not legal you know,” Valentine said hastily. “Just an expression. It all started when I
talked you into giving him a job. He’s not my partner, Billy.”
“Whatever you say, my pet, as long as he works for me.” They seemed to be talking in mysteries, Billy thought, only she didn’t know why. She dismissed the subject. She had her own problems.
“Look, I’ll just grab my dress and leave you to it.”
“Billy, try it on again.”
“Why? It was finished ages ago and it fit perfectly. I don’t know why I didn’t take it home then—I must have been too jittery about Mirrors to think straight.”
“I’d really like to see you in it once more. Just to be sure. Humor me?”
Valentine beckoned to an assistant and told her to bring Mrs. Orsini’s dress.
“Did you ever stop to tote up how much business we did just for the Awards and all the other parties given tonight?” Billy asked as they waited. “I tried to figure it out the other day and I stopped when I got to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And we’re only one store. If you look at it in a certain way, the Oscars are given for the retailers of Beverly Hills.”
“Which is as it should be,” Valentine replied smugly. “Ah, here it is.” The assistant had brought in a shimmering strapless length of finely pleated, hammered satin in a subtle, luscious shade of crimson. Billy took off her shoes to step into the skintight taffeta slip, which kept the satin sheath from clinging to her body at any point.
“What jewels are you wearing with it?” Valentine asked while she bent to zip up the slip.
“Not my emeralds, too much like Christmas. Not my rubies, one red is enough. And not the sapphires either, I’d look like the American flag. I think just dia—Valentine! The slip doesn’t fit!”
“Just hold still a minute. I must have done something peculiar to the zipper.” Valentine unzipped it all the way and tried again. Again the zipper stopped moving at Billy’s waist. Valentine’s hand started to sweat.
“Was it dry-cleaned by accident? This is impossible. That slip had nothing wrong with it before.” Billy was dismayed.
“Billy, what have you been eating?” Valentine asked accusingly.
“Eating? Nothing, thank you very much. I’ve been too nervous to eat. Just the thought of it makes me sick. No, there’s something wrong with the slip. If anything, I’ve lost weight.”
Valentine whipped out her tape measure.
“For heaven’s sake, Val, you know my measurements by heart. Put that away. This is getting ridiculous.”
Paying no attention to Billy, Valentine measured her waist and then, after a second of reflection, her bust. She muttered something to herself in French.
“What are you saying, damn it? Stop that crooning and articulate. I hate it when you speak French as if I couldn’t understand it!”
“All I said, Madame, is that the waistline is the first thing to go.”
“To go? Go where, for God’s sake. Are you trying to tell me I’m losing my figure?”
“Not exactly. An inch and a half in the waist, an inch across the bust. That’s how much you’ve changed. Most people would still consider that an acceptable figure, but you can’t wear this dress without this slip.”
“Damn,” Billy said, aggrieved. “I’ve only missed exercise class for five months. I’ve been working like a dog for this body since I was eighteen and when I neglect it for a few months, look what it does—it’s not fair!”
“You can’t fool Mother Nature,” smiled Valentine.
“Stop smirking. This is serious. Oh, what the hell, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll wear something else tonight, and start exercising at Ron’s every day, get Richie to really push me hard, and in a month I’ll be back to normal.”
“In a month you’ll begin to show.”
“Show?”
“Show.” Valentine made a gesture with her hands, puffing out an imaginary belly.
“Nuts! Valentine, you have gone completely nuts! Do you think Dolly is infectious? Christ almighty, give you one maternity dress to design and you develop a raving case of babies on the brain.”
Valentine said nothing, quirked her eyebrows knowingly, obviously holding her ground.
“You’re a designer, not a gynecologist; you don’t know what on earth you’re talking about,” Billy was shouting.
“At Balmain we always knew first, before the doctor, even before the woman. The waistline is the first to go, it’s well known,” Valentine said, softly fervent. Her small, amused face was thrilled with certainty.
Billy was throwing on her street clothes, screaming all the while. “You fucking French! Always so fucking sure of yourselves. Know-it-alls. It couldn’t be that the slip doesn’t fit, it has to be that I’m pregnant. How far can you carry that sort of crap? One of the damn models wore the dress out dancing and had it dry-cleaned. Check and you’ll find out! I’ll never leave another dress here, that’s for sure.” She turned to leave.
“Billy—”
“Please, Valentine, no excuses. I can’t even get a decent dress to wear out of my own store. Damn, damn, damn.” She slammed out the door.
Valentine stood gazing at the crimson pools of satin and taffeta on the floor and the tape measure in her hand. She knew she should be angry. Where was her famous temper? But a tear rolled off the tip of her little pointed nose. A tear for Billy.
Curt Arvey had been pleased with Vito’s phone call. The bastard wants to make up, he thought grimly, as he accepted Vito’s invitation to lunch. “Bury the hatchet.” What a marvelously original way to put it. Obviously, Orsini had seen he had gone as far as he could go and was trying to mend his fences before it was too late. It was so overt, but still it satisfied Arvey’s sense of importance to be wooed and courted by someone with whom he’d been in bitter conflict only a few weeks ago. Sure, Mirrors was making him a fortune, but Orsini was crazy if he thought that made every cheap trick he’d pulled smell like roses. The man was a tricky son of a bitch. But why not let Vito pay for his lunch? They’d have to greet each other at the Oscars tonight anyway.
They met at Ma Maison, another sharp bit of business on Vito’s part, Arvey considered. At the table next to them Sue Mengers was drinking a banana daiquiri. After lunch everyone in town would know they’d eaten together and suppose that they were friends again. Well, let that cock-sucker hang on to the studio’s coattails for another few hours, for all the good it would do him. After tonight Vito Orsini would be just another producer whose picture didn’t make it Back to square one. Could anybody remember who had produced the four pictures that didn’t win last year’s Osar? Or even the one that had? But a studio went on forever and so did a smart studio head.
Arvey enjoyed the conversation over lunch. He had a fresh audience for the topics closest to his heart; the record of disasters at other studios, the names of leaders in the industry who would find themselves looking for a job any day now; the number of pictures that were behind schedule at other studios and their nonexistent chance of recouping their cost; the inside gossip of what Wall Street firms were unhappy with the earnings of which studios and what they were going to do about it.
Vito nodded with interest, encouraging this gloating recital.
“But you, Curt? You’re in good shape I take it?”
“You’d better believe it, Vito. Experience talks in this business, and if I say so myself, I guess, right more than I guess wrong. Well show another twenty-five-cent profit per share this year—the stockholders should be satisfied for once, those leeches.”
“I wander how much of the profit comes from Mirrors?”
“Some of it, no question—credit where credit is due. If I hadn’t given you the go-ahead, without even a script, the dividend would be a few pennies less. A nice little moneymaker.”
“I heard you had luck selling those television stations that the company owned and that the rest of the profit, the bulk of it, comes from Mirrors.”
“Where do you get your financial information from, a gypsy tearoom?” Arvey became faintly mottled.
“O
r maybe you expected to make it from that big picture of yours—David Copperfield?” Vito inquired politely.
“Pickwick!” Arvey put down his fork with a bang.
“Pickwick!—David Copperfield, it’s the same picture, just retitled it, who’ll know? It won’t show up in the earnings till next year anyway—and it might show up as a loss. I hear they haven’t even started to edit the thing. Yeah, better retitle it.” Vito smiled encouragingly.
“Pickwick! happens to be opening at the Music Hall for the Easter Show,” Arvey said scathingly.
“The Music Hall? Didn’t Lost Horizon open there? Good place for that kind of kiddie picture. Nice thinking, Curt, if anything can help it, the Music Hall should.”
“Vito—” Arvey began, choking with indignation, but Vito interrupted him briskly, reassuringly.
“Listen, you’ve got nothing to worry about. With that rise in earnings, the stockholders’ll come in their pants. I’m sure, almost positive, that they’ll renew your contract, Curt, you’re in a great position this year. And if Mirrors wins tonight—”
Arvey broke in viciously. “Give a producer a decent break and he thinks he knows it all. Better enjoy it while it lasts, Vito; Mirrors is going to be yesterday’s news—and today is half over.”
Vito answered as if he hadn’t heard Arvey’s last words. “Yeah, if Mirrors wins, I think I’ll do a big picture next. A creative man needs variety—and I’ve always wanted to see Redford and Nicholson together—there’s a property they’re both dying to do—question of getting together on price—but I think I can buy it.”
“Come off it, Vito. I can tell a snow job when I hear one. Redford and Nicholson. If you win! You know as well as I do that there isn’t a chance. I want you to win as much as you do—after all, we’re in this together—but against those four blockbusters, no way! Mirrors is a small picture; remember, I told you that right from the very beginning. Small pictures almost never win. Rocky was a once-in-a-lifetime fluke. It certainly can’t happen twice in a row. Don’t build up false hopes, you’ll just feel worse tonight,” Arvey said, regaining his patronizing tone.
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