I pulled myself together with a start. “I’ve been thinking,” I said, getting up. I felt stiff and a little cold. “I had no idea the time had gone so quickly. Have you finished?”
She slipped her arm round my neck and kissed me. “Don’t be cross, darling,” she whispered, her lips touching my ear. “I’ve roughed out the second treatment for you. You can do it now and it’s really good. You’re not angry, are you?”
I stared down at her, sick with envy that she could do so easily what I had failed to do. “But, Carol, you can’t do my work as well as your own. This is absurd. I’ll be living on you next.”
“Don’t be angry,” she pleaded. “All I’ve done is to put your ideas and Sam’s ideas down on paper. Why a stenographer could do that. You must polish it tomorrow and take it to Sam. Then R.G. will okay it and you can really start work. Give me a kiss and take that frown off your face.”
I kissed her.
She gave me a quick hug. “Come on to bed,” she said. “I must be up early tomorrow.”
“I’m coming,” I said, feeling flat and depressed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DURING the next four days I became increasingly aware that I made a bad mistake in coming to live at Three Point. By doing this I had cut myself off from all social contact and now, without any form of amusement, I was rapidly becoming bored with this self-imposed isolation. Although I had hoped to write a novel in the quiet of these surroundings when the time came to begin I found that inspiration was lacking.
I had managed, with a considerable effort, to rewrite Carol’s second treatment of the play. As she had done most of the necessary work, my own particular job amounted merely to copying what she had written. Although I had no actual creative work to do, it still required an effort of will to sit at my typewriter. Several times while I worked, I was tempted to telephone for a stenographer to come out and finish it. But, in the end, I managed to complete the treatment and it was now in Sam Bernstien’s hands. I was waiting with mixed feelings to hear what Gold was going to say. It was my intention, if he accepted it, to insist that someone — anyone but me — should do the shooting script. I knew that I was incapable of doing it and besides, I dare not take the risk of writing the additional dialogue and script required. I had no hope of imitating John Coulson’s brilliant phrases and, if I did make the attempt, it would at once become obvious to a man of Gold’s shrewdness that I was not the author of the original play.
My financial position was beginning to worry me. My capital was dwindling, my royalties were becoming depressingly smaller each week and my debts were increasing. I gave Carol no hint of the true position since I knew that she would insist on paying her share. She was, of course, earning big money at the Studio and, although she used a certain amount of this for pocket money and for her wardrobe, the bulk was being carefully invested in real estate. Whatever else were
“I am.” Her voice sounded a little curt.
Tor how long?”
“I don’t know. I do wish you wouldn’t ask so many questions. I don’t know how long he’ll be staying.”
“You expect him today?”
“Hm-hm. I had a telegram last night.”
“Don’t forget I want to meet him.”
There was a moment’s pause. “I won’t.”
“Do we meet this time?”
“No — not this time.”
“When then?”
“Some time. I’ll see.”
“So you’re going to forget all your boy friends? What will they do without you?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. They’ll come back when I’m ready.”
Her indifference tortured me. “Well, have a good time. I’ll call in a few days.”
“All right. Good-bye,” and she hung up.
I slammed down the receiver and walked onto the terrace. Every time we met, every time I telephoned her, it became more obvious that I meant nothing to her. Yet I could not give her up. I knew I would never mean anything to her, but still I had to pursue her.
I couldn’t stay in the cabin all day with the thought that she was meeting her husband on my mind. It would drive me crazy.
I decided I would drive over to the Studio and see if Bernstein had any news for me.
After my bath, I dressed and got the Chrysler from the garage, then I drove leisurely down the mountain road through San Bernardino to Hollywood. I was in a black mood of depression, hating the thought of the long afternoon and evening that lay before me.
I reached the Studio by noon and as I drew up outside the main office buildings, Carol came hurrying down the steps.
“Why, hello, darling,” she said, jumping on the running board and kissing me. “I’ve been trying to get you.”
I looked at her sharply. “Anything wrong?”
“It’s such a bore, but we’re flying to Death Valley and I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Jerry insists that we get the right desert atmosphere and he, Frank and I are leaving immediately.”
“You mean you won’t be coming home tonight?” I asked blankly.
“I can’t, my sweet. Oh, and Russell won’t be there to look after you. What are we going to do?”
I tried to conceal my dismay, but I did not succeed too well. “I can look after myself. Don’t worry about me, besides I have a lot of work to do.”
“I hate your being all alone,” she said, worried. “Why don’t you stay in town or better still, come with us?”
I thought of Imgram and I shook my head. “I’ll go back to Three Point,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get along fine.”
“Oh, do come with us,” she pleaded. “It’ll be fun.”
“Now don’t fuss,” I said a little irritably. “I tell you I’ll be all right. Have a good trip. I’ll see you tomorrow night then?”
“I wish I hadn’t to go. It does worry me to think of you being all alone. You’re sure you won’t stay in town?”
“I’m not a child, Carol,” I said, a little curtly. “I can look after myself. I must run. I want to talk to Bernstien.” I had seen Highams and Imgram coming down the long avenue to the office buildings and I was anxious not to meet them. “Have a good time.” I kissed her. “Good-bye and bless you.” I hurried into the building, leaving her looking after me with a worried expression in her eyes.
I walked down the long corridor to Sam Bernstien’s office, feeling depressed. If only Eve had been free. I would have persuaded her to take the day off and we would have had fun together. I could have spent the night with her. But now, I was faced with a hopelessly blank twenty-four hours unless Bernstein had something for me.
“Go right ahead,” his secretary told me as soon as I gave her my name. “Mr. Bernstien has been trying to get you.”
I brightened. This sounded promising.
“Hello there,” I said as I entered the office.
Bernstien jumped to his feet. “I’ve been calling you. It’s all right. R.G. agrees. What do you know? A contract for one hundred thousand dollars. I congratulate you.”
I stared at him speechless.
“I thought that would surprise you,” he said grinning. “Didn’t I tell you I would get round Gold? I know him. I know all his little ways.” He opened a drawer and took out a contract form. “Everything has been agreed to. I have had my way in everything. See for yourself.”
With unsteady hands I picked up the contract and began to read. Then quite suddenly my heart gave a lurch and I went cold.
“But it says here I’m to do the shooting script,” I stammered.
“Of course,” Bernstien beamed. “Carol suggested the idea herself and when I mentioned it to R.G. he made that the condition of the contract. He said that the picture would be no use unless it had your brilliant dialogue. Those were his very words.”