While I waited, I paced up and down, savagely angry by the way Eve had treated me and yet alarmed to realize to what an extent my mentality had been affected by her callous indifference towards me. The fact that I had actually contemplated murder down to the last details and had derived pleasure in doing so shocked and frightened me. Such a thought would never have entered my mind some three weeks ago, but in that unguarded moment in the call-box it had seemed to be the one solution of our struggle.
I must pull myself together, I thought, as I paced up and down. She’s no good to me. She never will be and I might just as well admit defeat and forget her. I can never hope to get on with any work if I allow her to influence my mind, to occupy my thoughts and to irritate my nerves in this way. This nonsense must stop.
Russell came with a tray which he put on the table.
“Get my typewriter, Russell,” I said turning. “I’ve some work to do.”
He beamed at me. “I do hope, sir, you had a good morning at the Studio.”
“It was all right,” I said, without enthusiasm. “Be a pal and let me get to work.”
He gave me a quick, disappointed glance and hurried into the library for my typewriter.
I sat down and began to read through Bernstien’s notes but I found concentration difficult. I could not erase from my mind the humiliation of standing outside Eve’s door like some street salesman. The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. When Russell put the typewriter at my elbow and had gone away, I could not bring myself to work. Instead I finished the sandwiches and began to drink steadily.
I’ll make her pay for this, I thought, pouring more whisky into my glass with an unsteady hand. Somehow I’ll find a way to get even with her. I drank the whisky at a gulp and immediately refilled my glass. I did this several times until I felt a slight numbness in my legs. I knew I was getting drunk. I pushed the decanter away and pulled the typewriter towards me. To hell with her, I said aloud. She can’t stop me. Nobody can.
I made an attempt to write the first scene along the lines suggested by Bernstein and after struggling with it for over an hour I tore the sheet from my typewriter and ripped it angrily to pieces.
I was in no mood for creative thought and, leaving the terrace, I wandered through the empty rooms of the cabin. Russell had taken himself off somewhere. He had probably hidden himself away for an afternoon nap in the woods. The cabin was unbearably lonely and I began to wonder if I had not been a fool to have settled in such an out of the way place.
It was perfect so long as I had Carol to keep me company, but now that she was going to spend most of her days at the Studio I was going to find it pretty dull.
My mind kept returning to Eve. I made a feeble effort to think of something else, but I did not succeed. I picked up a novel and tried to read, but after turning a half a dozen pages I realized that I had no idea what I had been reading and I threw the book across the room.
By now, the whisky I had drunk was hitting me and I felt heavy in the head and reckless. I suddenly got to my feet and went over to the telephone. I’ll tell her exactly what I think of her, I decided. If she thinks she can do that to me and get away with it she’s got a surprise coming to her.
I dialled her number.
“Who is that please?” Marty asked.
I hesitated, then quietly replaced the receiver. I wasn’t going to be snubbed by Eve through Marty. I lit a cigarette and wandered unsteadily onto the terrace again.
I could not go on like this, I thought. I must try to do some work. I again sat down at the table and began reading through Bernstien’s notes, but my mind kept wandering and I finally gave it up in despair.
Carol returned in time for dinner. She got out of her cream and blue roadster and came running across the lawn towards me.
I felt a great weight roll from my mind at the sight of her and I held her tightly against me for several seconds before letting her go.
“Well, my dear,” I said, smiling at her. “How did you get on?”
She heaved a sigh. “I’m tired, Clive. We’ve been at it without a stop. Do come in and get me a drink. I want to hear all your news.”
We walked to the cabin while I listened to her account of the story conference.
“R.G. is delighted so far,” she said. “It’s going to be a marvellous picture. Jerry has never been better and even R.G. has made one good suggestion.”
I fixed her a gin and lime and gave myself another whisky.
“I say, Clive,” she exclaimed suddenly. “You haven’t drunk all that whisky yourself, have you? The decanter was full this morning.”
I gave her a drink and laughed. “Of course not,” I said. “What do you think I am . . . a soak? I upset the damn thing and wasted half of it.”
She gave me a quick, searching look but I met her eyes and her face cleared. “So you’re not a soak,” she said, smiling at me. She looked tired and pale. “Well, tell me, did Sam like the treatment?”
I nodded. “Sure he liked it. Why not? You wrote it, didn’t you?”
“We wrote it, darling,” she said, again looking troubled. “You’re not sore about it, are you? I mean — I won’t interfere if you don’t—”
“Forget it,” I said shortly. “I know I’m not so hot when it comes to a picture treatment, but I don’t mind learning.” I sat down by her side and took her hand. “But I’m not going so well with the second rewrite. You know, Carol, I wish Bernstien would get someone else to do it. I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
“Give me a cigarette and tell me what Bernstien said.”
After I had lit her cigarette I explained Bernstien’s suggestions. She listened attentively, nodding her small dark head every now and then with approval.
“He’s terrific,” she said, when I had finished. “It is enormously improved. Oh, Clive, you simply must work at it. I know you can do it and it’ll mean so much to you.”
“It’s all very well for you to talk, Carol,” I returned bitterly, “but now I haven’t any feeling for the story. I’ve been messing with it all the afternoon and I’ve got nowhere.”
She looked at me for a moment, her eyes searching and puzzled. “Perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel more like it,” she said hopefully. “Sam will expect something soon. He’s late for production as it is.”
I got up irritably. “Oh, I don’t know. You can’t force these things.”
She came and put her arms round me. “Don’t worry, Clive. It’ll come, you see.”
“Oh, the hell with it.” I turned to the door. “I’ll put on a dressing gown and settle down for the evening. Have you a book?”
“I’ve some work to do,” she said quickly. “I want to draft out a few scenes.”
“You can’t go on working all day and night,” I returned, irritated that she could give her mind to creative thought. “Have a rest. It’ll do you good.”
She pushed me to the door. “Don’t tempt me. You sit on the terrace. It’s lovely out there and I’ll come as soon as I’m through.”
I sat on the darkening terrace for a long time brooding about Coulson. I knew I was doing a mean thing by turning his play into a picture, but I had gone too far to stop. I should never have stolen his play in the first place. But if I had not done that I should not be where I was, sitting on the terrace of an expensive cabin in one of the loveliest spots in California. I should never have met Carol. I drew a sharp breath — and I should never have met Eve.
“What are you doing out there in the dark?” Carol said as she stepped onto the terrace. “You’ve been sitting there hours, my dear. It’s after twelve o’clock.”