Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers

by kps

  Anne stood up abruptly, feeling stifled by the fire's heat and her own scattered, confused thoughts. First Craig, and now Webb. Could there be a connection? Was that why Craig had suddenly turned up in London-to "rescue" her from Webb?

  Again? Stupid ... what did it matter? She must cling to her own newfound independence. Think of herself first, for a change, her feelings. And damn Craig and damn Webb! She'd show them both exactly how much she'd changed in eighteen months.

  She crossed the room to pour herself a drink. Scotch and soda, no ice. Why wouldn't Violet stop talking?

  Oblivious to her roommate's silence, Violet was reading aloud from the newspaper. "

  'Carol Cochran, whose name has been linked to Carnahan's in the past .. .' Just fancy, she'll be here too! And Harris Phelps, with all those lovely millions . . . I wouldn't mind meeting him, either-he's not half bad-looking, from the pictures I've seen. Wonder why he's never been married? It says here he'll be giving a big bash at the Dorchester the night the movie opens. Do you think Dune might have met him?

  Or maybe your husband-oops, sorry, darling. Ex-husband!" Violet's voice turned wheedling. "You could just ask him, couldn't you? Come on, Anne, do stop looking like a sleep-walker! Don't you have any ideas at all? I suppose Webb's hardly your type, but he is mine-the earthy, dominant male animal, with just a touch of cruelty ..."

  Anne made herself turn around to face Violet, the glass in her hand already half-empty, and she heard herself saying in a cool, disembodied voice, "Do stop going on about it, Violet. Carol Cochran and I went to school together, for a year, and I've met Harris Phelps. If you'll remind me to call the Dorchester when they arrive in London, I'm sure we'll get invitations to Harris's party."

  Later she was to think, It's funny, how everything seemed to happen by itself.

  Scattered pieces falling conveniently into place, forming a strange and almost bizarre pattern which was to change everything-her whole secure, comfortable life-style. If she could have guessed, would she not have called Harris?

  He came to London ahead of the others. There was a short piece in the papers, HARRIS PHELPS BACHELOR MULTIMILLIONAIRE ARRIVES TO PUBLICIZE

  FIRST PRODUCTION VENTURE, and Violet wouldn't stop nagging until Anne had made her promised phone call.

  Trapped, Anne made the call under Violet's watchful expectant eyes; she hoped Harris wouldn't be available, but he was.

  "Anne? I can't believe it! How are you, love? And do you practice telepathy? I've seen all the marvelous pictures, of course, and I was just having my secretary hunt through the phone book, trying to find you."

  "Well ... I'm not listed. And in any case, with all the pubIicity Bad Blood's been getting, how could I resist calling? It's nice to hear your voice again, Harris. How's Carol?"

  Oh God, how stilted she sounded! Now that she had Harris on the line and was talking to him, Violet's idea seemed ridiculous. What could she tell him, without letting him think that it was really Webb she wanted to hear about? Just hearing Harris's voice took her back much further than she wanted to remember.

  Harris made it easy for her, with his usual easy flow of chatter, sounding genuinely glad to hear from her.

  "Carol's just great! You know she and Webb are both up for Academy Award nominations? And Carol's just signed a contract to do a movie based on the life of Lady Jane Digby-just her cup of tea, and she's all excited about it. She's looking forward to seeing you again, Anne, and so am I. Listen-what are you doing for dinner tonight? I know it's short notice, but if you're free I'd very much like to take you out and talk to you, so we can catch up with everything that's happened to us both since the last time we met." There was a slight, almost indiscernible pause, and then Harris said softly: "I've thought about you a lot, Anne. And I've felt guilty about letting you in for something ... well, that's all behind us now. I just want you to know I did try to get in touch afterwards, but they told me you'd left Deepwood, and wouldn't be available

  ..."

  Anne bit her lip with exasperation. Mrs. Preakness, no doubt! And her father, arranging everything. Shutting her off from "undesirable associations." It was past, and far behind her, but the thought still rankled. Harris had called her, and she hadn't been told. Suppose Webb had tried to call too? Oh-not possible! Stop thinking along those lines! She'd had time enough and experience enough to realize exactly what she had meant to Webb Carnahan. A puzzle, for a short time. A convenient, easy lay to pass away the time; maybe a means to make Carol jealous. Don't think about it, Anne! Learn from experience . ..

  She found herself agreeing to have dinner with Harris; giving him directions to her flat. Turning away from the phone, she met Violet's accusing, yet excitedly sparkling eyes.

  "If you don't take the cake, Anne! You've 'met' Harris Phelps-and he invites you out to dinner right away, he's actually coming here to pick you up? Oh my Cod-look at the mess! Do I get to meet him? Do you think .. ."

  "Turn your little-girl charm on him and I'm sure you'll get that invitation you've been angling for," Anne retorted. "And don't, please, try to make more out of a casual dinner invitation than meets the eye, Violet. Harris is-well, we've never been more than friends, honestly. I met him through Carol, and-and that's all there is to it!"

  Violet, lighting a cigarette, winked broadly. "Of course, darling! And when your ex calls up, you can trust little Vi to make all the proper, plausible excuses. I'll even persuade him that it mightn't be such a bad idea to take me out to dinner instead-local color and all, and I could take him to some really wicked little places in Soho that would blow his mind ... you did say he was kind of straight, didn't you?

  Unless you mind, of course!"

  Violet blew a smoke ring, grinning impishly. "I think I can guarantee to keep him out of your hair for as long as you want, as long as I get to meet you-know-who! And once that's arranged, you can leave the rest up to me ... that is, unless you're a teensy bit curious about him yourself. Are you?"

  "I'm not curious at all! And as for Craig ... oh damn!" That part of her speech at least was natural and quite unfeigned. She'd forgotten about Craig, who had developed the disconcerting habit of dropping in of an evening-surprisingly hitting it off with Violet when she was in. And sometimes he would take her out to lunch, never pushing again, never pressing, but just being there, so that she had almost got used to seeing him, having him around, even talking to him as if they'd never been married before and were strangers getting to know each other. Clever Craig. Persistent Craig!

  But why?

  Anne looked directly at Violet, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "Why don't you try your wiles on him? I think Craig probably needs to be seduced. And"-she could not resist flinging a last comment over her shoulder as she walked into her bedroom-

  "maybe you just might need someone to fall back on after wicked Webb is done with you!"

  Bitchy-very bitchy, Anne! And of course the worst thing to say ... Had all the warnings done her any good? Let Violet find out about Webb-let Webb find out about Violet, who was in many ways his female counterpart. Why should she mind? She was over it.

  Dressing for dinner, Anne spent more time than usual in front of her mirror. She had made the Edwardian look popular all over again, and tonight, with subdued, pastel makeup, her hair up, with soft tendrils escaping artfully to cling at the nape of her neck and her temples, she looked the part of her make-believe self. Wide-eyed and innocent-until the beholder's eye caught her nearly-transparent beige chiffon jumpsuit, tied demurely at the neck, but open to the waist from there, clinging about her slim hips. And had she dressed for Harris or herself? No answers-she'd find them later.

  Violet said, "Wow!" Very simply and with feeling, brown eyes widening, and then the doorbell rang, and Anne could not help sighing inwardly because she'd timed it just right, for a change, counting on Harris to be precisely on time.

  This Harris Phelps was different from the one she remembered. Not Harris Phelps, the producer, but Harris Phelps, multimillionaire
-charming and very sure of himself.

  He kissed Anne warmly on the cheek, hugging her briefly before he turned to be introduced to Violet, still keeping an arm about Anne's waist. How easily he seemed to manage things! Violet had her invitation to his party at the Dorchester five days from now, without her having to angle for it. And of course she could bring an escort-any lucky man she chose.

  Harris had driven himself, in a rented silver-gray Rolls-Royce. Behind the wheel, with the motor purring smoothly, he glanced sideways at Anne. "You've become more beautiful than ever, Anne. Although of course you know that. Europe has fulfilled the promise that was always there in you." Changing the subject abruptly, as if he sensed her sudden embarrassment, Harris added, "Are you in the mood for a surprise before dinner, or are you very hungry? There's something I'd like you to see."

  She wasn't hungry, and the surprise turned out to be a private showing of Bad Blood.

  So different, and even more powerful as a movie. The stage was too real. The screen was a different, escapist dimension with its closeups and fast-moving action -

  speeding, crashing automobiles; writhing, bleeding bodies caught in death-throes; carefully planned, beautifully shot exteriors. And above all the sex, played up in the movie where it had been implicit in the play. Everything seemed larger on the screen.

  More color, more violence, more action. From distant, perspective shots, as Harris called them, to enormous closeups of faces and eyes and mouths. All this with a pounding, dramatic jazz score by Isaac Jones in the background.

  Anne felt her senses assaulted and then taken over against her will. The movie was better than the play, which had been a hit. She watched "her" scene with her teeth caught in her lower lip, remembering it all too well; and they'd changed it for the movie into something much more purely visual, the suspense building up without words as the camera switched from one angle to another-curtains moving in the night breeze, closeups of Toni's face, and then more misty, shadowed shots of her almost-naked, sweat-sheened body twitching with a nervous reaction she tried to quell in a beautiful, sensitively underplayed masturbation scene. And then, starkly, suddenly, the cut from her writhing body to his; jerking in shock and agony as the bullets ripped into him.

  They had cut all the dialogue out of this last scene and the camera, cutting from one face, one body, to another, said everything, And the guilt, the recognition and accusation, the belated regrets, were all there in the faces as each character found a different kind of climax.

  The music screamed and then softened to a sob at the end, dying into a silence where only the camera moved, swooping backward into a misty long shot that faded very slowly as the credits began to flash onto the screen. Anne's caught breath, held for too many seconds, sighed, breaking the stillness.

  "What do you think, Anne? What's your opinion, your gut feeling, if you'll forgive the vulgarity? You're in a unique position to judge, you know. You were a part of the play when it was still being formed, and now you've seen the end product. How do you feel about it?"

  "It-it's good!" Anne knew that her words sounded almost mechanical, and she added, quickly and sincerely, "Harris, it was great, and I think you know it already. I'm still trying to come back to reality right now, because I was so-caught up. I knew how it was going to end, and yet I found myself wishing it wouldn't ... my stomach's still churning! Is that a good enough answer? I hate unhappy endings, and I wanted to cry!"

  "I hope everyone thinks the same way you do, Anne." Harris squeezed her cold hand. She felt that he was pleased by her completely spontaneous reaction. "I have the feeling that Bad Blood is going to do even better than The Godfather. And I plan to produce more movies." He turned to look at her, his face unexpectedly serious. "I think you of all people would understand, Anne. I want to become a name in my own right, not just the heir to my old man's millions. I think I've found my milieu at last, and I know where I'm going from here. I'm going to make going to the movies a popular American pastime again. And the hell with budgets! I can throw in a few millions of my own and be sure of more from friends who trust in my judgment. Do you know what that could mean? We'd revolutionize the dying movie industry, inject it with new blood, new ideas! Bring back the romance and the blood and thunder, the sweeping historical epics that are becoming the most popular literary genre just now. Most movie producers are too afraid of costs and failure to take a chance, but I'll give you your happy endings yet, Anne. And throw in action and sex and color too. Remember Gone with the Wind? I want to go back to making movies like that. I want to sign up some of the biggest stars in the business, and make new ones. And I intend to break new ground too. Do you realize just how the visual medium affects thousands, millions of people? Look at soap operas-the popular TV series where the characters become more real and important to the viewers than the actors who play them. My GodI We've all been reading how TV commercials can influence millions. Movies have so much more potential! Dammit, Anne-" Suddenly, breaking what seemed like a spell, Harris gave a short, apologetic laugh; his fingers first squeezing hers and then stroking lightly. "You're a good listener, you know. I suppose I got carried away on my favorite topic. But I've always felt I could share things with you-thoughts, ideas

  ..."

  "Harris .. ." At first, she had been thinking about Webb-Webb making love to Carol on the screen; Webb making love to her; but suddenly Harris had trapped her, catching at her mind with the hooks of his enthusiastic, impassioned words, forcing her to listen. And Harris at least had never lied to her, never pretended. He was tactful, too.

  "Forget the speech, Anne. Let's go have dinner, shall we? You must be starved. And we can talk more later, if you'll let me."

  Having dinner with Harris Phelps was quite an experience, Anne found out, with attentive waiters jumping to attention when he so much as lifted an eyebrow.

  Fascinated in spite of herself, she found her earlier image of Harris-the fussy, talkative, touching man she remembered-changing, to be replaced by a charming, dynamic stranger who was quite fun to be with. Most of all, he wasn't pushing.

  Neither her nor himself. It made it easy for her to relax, to let the good French wine go to her head just a little, while she enjoyed the feeling of being subtly pampered and drawn out by a sophisticated and intelligent man. Antoine had been like that; making her feel very feminine and desirable. It had been her fault that ... But why am I thinking this way? Anne thought confusedly. My God, Harris hasn't even made a pass yet. Do I want him to? Anyway, he's being nice, and I like that. Why didn't I really notice before how nice Harris is?

  She didn't mind when he leaned across the table to imprison her hand, stroking her fingers lightly. Harris liked to touch. Once, when she had drunk far too many martinis-no, dammit! Webb Carnahan was out of her life and out of her mind. If she met him again, she would be aloof and unmoved. She'd let him see that he'd been just an experiment. That was it-end of early chapter. Now she was poised, sophisticated, and much more sure of herself than she had ever been.

  Harris, as if he'd been able to touch her mind as well, seemed to reiterate her thoughts. "I like the changes I've noticed in you, Anne. And I admire the way you've managed to stay you in spite of them. You photograph sensationally, you know, and there's something about you that makes people notice you, not just the beautiful clothes you happen to be modeling. It's a rare quality you have, Anne. Star quality.

  Would you like me to make you a star?"

  He sensed the sudden stiffening in her, the way her eyes widened and seemed to come back into focus, meeting his. Harris laughed, not releasing her hand.

  "Does that sound like a very corny line? I hope you know me better than to think that.

  But I mean it, Anne. It's a part of what I've been talking to you about all evening. Will you think about it? I want to put you in my next movie-it'll be a period piece, a big historical that will start a whole new trend. Unlimited budget-color, splendor, everything-And you'll have one of the best directors in the world to
help you-Yves Pleydel.

  Did you see La Nuit de la Rose?" He wasn't giving her a chance to speak, to try to refute what he was saying. But then, he couldn't be serious! What will Violet say?

  Anne thought, still staring at Harris and realizing uneasily that he was serious.

  "Anne, you must promise me you'll think about this. Listen, I'm not given to making snap decisions, but in this case ... you're perfect for the role I have in mind! More than perfect. It might have been written for you. And you're not exactly an unknown; your face is known and recognized on both continents already. You won't be the first top model to turn movie actress, you know-I don't need to name them all! But you'll be better, and bigger than any of them, I promise you that. And believe me, I understand the feeling, the urge that I know is in you too, to achieve, to be, on your own. It'll set you finally and irrevocably free, love. And you'll be at the top-I can guarantee you that."

  "I-Harris, I can hardly think straight anymore! Either you're crazy or I am. I mean-how do you know I can even act? Doing that scene in Bad Blood was bad enough-you know how I got the shakes! But really having to act, knowing it's a kind of test, that if I fail-"

  "But you can't fail, Anne. Trust me. I've developed a kind of sixth sense about things like this, and I know it. I'm not trying to bribe you, Anne. I'm offering you a chance I think you ought to take. No-" Harris frowned impatiently, his fingers closing tightly over hers. "It's not a chance, I'm sure in my own mind. Damn, when I read the book, I kept thinking of you. And now that I've met you again, talked to you, I'm more certain than ever. And I'm not often wrong. Anne"-leaning forward now, his eyes boring into her " this is going to be the most talked-about movie since Gone with the Wind. A record-maker. And it's very important to me. Because, do you see, it's my chance too, to be known and recognized in my own right. Bad Blood was only a beginning, the groundbreaker, so to speak, but this one-do you see now how serious I am? If I didn't think you had the potential, that old-fashioned star quality, I wouldn't have broached the subject. Don't turn me down, Anne!"