“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I began, but she raised her hand.
“Don’t Clive,” she said and turning, she ran back into the building.
I drove slowly to my appartment. The hands of the clock on the dashboard pointed to three-thirty when I drove into the garage. I had an uneasy feeling at the back of my mind. Although I told myself it wasn’t anything to do with Carol, I knew I was playing a dangerous game. I wanted Carol. If she hadn’t been such a worker, if she could have given me of her time, I guess I wouldn’t have wanted any other woman. But with so much time on my hands I had to do something. Maybe, I thought, I’d better wash Eve out of my mind. Thinking like that was just kidding. I knew, even if I really wanted to — and I didn’t — I should not be able to get free from her as easily as that.
I walked into my apartment, tossed my hat into the nearest chair and went to the library. I found a letter from International Pictures on my desk. I read it through carefully. There was no catch in it. Perhaps, the only suspicious thing about it was Gold’s request to keep the arrangement confidential. But then, he might easily be asking it for my sake as well as his own. He had laid down in black and white that he would pay me fifty thousand dollars for a shooting script to be entitled Angels in Sables, provided the story was based on our discussions and that the script met with his approval.
I wrote a hurried note to Merle Bensinger and enclosed the letter. Then I turned my attention to the article for the Digest.
“Women of Hollywood’ seemed, on the face of it, an easy subject. But, I was not used to writing articles and I approached my task with considerable uneasiness and doubt.
I lit a cigarette and considered the problem. Concentration was difficult. I kept thinking of Carol. It frightened me to know she could read my mind so completely. I did not want to lose her and I knew, if I was not careful, that was what would eventually happen. Then Eve shouldered Carol out of my thoughts. I considered the coming week-end. Where should I take her? How would she behave? What would she wear? Why was she so cagey about appearing in public? If there was anyone to be cagey it should surely be me.
I picked up the newspaper and checked through the enter-tainments. I decided to take her to a theatre and after some hesitation I picked on My Sister Eileen as appropriate. The deck clock showed five fifteen and I hurriedly dropped the newspaper and threaded paper into my typewriter. I typed “Women of Hollywood by Clive Thurston’ at the top of the page and then sat back to stare at the typewriter keys. I had no idea how to begin the article. I wanted to say something sophisticated and witty, but my mind was completely barren.
I wondered uneasily if Eve would dress flashily and whether she would look what she was. It’d be an embarrassing situation if I ran into Carol when she was with me. I knew I was taking a risk. I had never seen Eve dressed and had no idea of her taste. I decided that I should have to select some small secluded restaurant where I was not known and where no one that I knew was likely to see me.
I lit another cigarette and tried once more to concentrate on the article. By six o’clock, the page in the typewriter was still blank, and I was in a slight panic.
Pulling the typewriter impatiently towards me, I began to hammer out words, hoping that they would make sense. I wrote like this until seven o’clock, then I gathered up the sheets of paper and pinned them together. I made no attempt to read them through.
Russell came in to tell me that my bath was ready. He eyed the sheets of paper in my hand approvingly.
“Gone all right, sir?” he asked in his most encouraging manner.
“Yes,” I said, moving to the door. “I’ll check it through when I come back and you can take it down to Miss Bensinger first thing tomorrow.”
I did not arrive back from the Wilburs until one fifteen. It had been a good party and my head was a little heavy from the excellent champagne I had been drinking most of the evening. I forgot about the article lying on my desk to be checked and I went straight to bed.
Russell woke me at nine o’clock the following morning. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said apologetically, “but shall I take die article to Miss Bensinger now?”
I sat up with a grunt of dismay. My head felt heavy and my mouth like the bottom of a bird-cage. “Hell!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to look it over. Get it, will you, Russell? I’ll do it now.”
I had finished my first cup of coffee by the time he returned. He handed me the typewritten sheets. “I’ll just clean your shoes, sir, then I’ll be back.”
I waved him away and began to read what I had written. In less than three minutes, I was out of bed and running downstairs to my study. I knew I could never send this stuff to Merle. It was hopeless. It was so awful that I could scarcely believe that I had written it.
I began hammering away at the typewriter, but my head ached and I could not string two sentences together. After a half an hour, I had worked myself into a furious rage. For the fourth time, I snatched the paper out of the typewriter and threw it angrily to the floor.
Russell put his head round the door. “It’s after ten, sir,” he reminded me apologetically.
I turned on him furiously. “Get out!” I shouted. “Get out and for God’s sake stop worrying me!”
He backed out of the room, his eyes wide with surprise.
I turned savagely back to my typewriter. At eleven o’clock my head was nearly bursting and my temper was seething. Round me were crumpled balls of paper. I knew it was no good. I could not begin to write the article. Panic, rage and disappointment made me want to pick up the typewriter and smash it to the floor.
Then the telephone rang.
I snatched it up. “What is it?” I snapped.
“I’m waiting for the Digest article . . .” Merle began plaintively.
“You’ll go on waiting,” I said, the whole of my concentrated rage and bitterness bursting from me. “Who do you think I am? Do you think I haven’t anything better to do than to bother with a goddam mawkish article for the Digest? To hell with them! Tell ‘em to write it themselves if they need it so much!” And I slammed down the receiver.
CHAPTER NINE
I DID not see Carol that evening. I did not feel like it. I did not feel like doing anything after the way I had bawled out Merle. Once I had cooled down, I realized just how crazy I had been. Merle was the best agent in Hollywood. Writers and stars fought for her to handle their business. She was only interested in five-figured incomes and everyone knew it. So if she was your agent, your credit stood high everywhere. By bawling her out as I had done, it was likely that she would drop me. Right now, I could not afford to be without Merle. If there was any work to be had, it would come through her. In actual fact, she was my meal ticket. As soon as I had realized what a fool I had been and seen what a mess I had landed myself in, I telephoned her. Her secretary said she was out and she did not know when she would be back. She sounded as if she did not care. This did not look good to me so I wrote Merle a note, apologizing for what I had done and pleading a hangover. I said I hoped she would understand. I did everything in that letter except kiss her feet and I sent it to her office by special messenger.
After lunch, I still felt like hell. The idea of passing up three thousand dollars was wormwood to me. But what worried me more was that I could not sit down and write a simple article at a moment’s notice. That was something to worry about. It told me, as nothing else could tell me, that I had not the equipment to make the grade as a first-class writer. The thought stuck in my throat like a fish hook.