“Why not, if you say so? But who else will?”
“Then I don’t care. It’s no worse—and no less absurd—than the other rumour.”
Michaelson walked with her along the corridor to the elevator, and as the pointer swung to their floor number he said: “I know you’re serious, and I’m itching to get at the phone, but I’ll wait for one hour… exactly… in case you change your mind.”
Half an hour later she was with Paul. “Now for heaven’s sake don’t YOU back out…” she exclaimed, watching his face as she gave him the news, but to her relief he seemed delighted and especially because he would now, he said, have a chance to make a movie star out of her. “You remember I always promised I would, Carey? You have a good face—the right profile slightly better than the left. I’d like to cast you as an old lady— you’d be beautiful with just a few wrinkles here—and here—” He touched her with his finger-tips.
“Well, thanks, but I’m pretty sure you won’t have a chance. They’ll give you a certain picture to make and you’ll have to make it. There’ll also be a story, whether you like it or not, and there’ll be a producer to decide how much you spend, and a camera-man who’ll think he knows more about angles than you do, and a writer or writers to do the script… Micky told me all this, and I’m passing it on to you now, so that you know the worst.” (It occurred to her then that it hadn’t been at all a bad idea of Michaelson’s to wait for that full hour.) “But there’s also good news, Paul—and the best of all is that you’ll have your chance, and it’ll be a big one, because it’s bound to be an important picture if anybody’s willing to pay so much for me in it.”
“What will they pay for you, may I ask?”
“Micky thinks he can get a hundred thousand.”
“Ridiculous,” Paul muttered, under his breath, and then added, thoughtfully: “But of course that’s for you and me together.”
“I expect so,” she agreed tactfully.
The full hour passed, after which she returned to the house. Austen was out, and Norris, she learned, had gone to the Museum of Modern Art. She told Richards, with an exhilarating sense of freedom: “Any time, if there’s a call for me from a Mr. Michaelson, I’ll take it.”
There was no call that day, or the next, but the following morning she talked to the agent from her bedroom while Austen was dressing. “I haven’t clinched anything yet, but you’re hot, Carey, same as I told you. We were batting it out all day yesterday. Better drop by my office later and we’ll talk over what’s happened.”
She said she would, then hung up. She knew that Austen had heard enough to wonder who it was she had agreed to meet, but of course he was too polite to ask and she felt it would have been challenging to tell him.
By the time she reached Michaelson’s office there was a tentative deal to be discussed. It was with Majestic Pictures, not the biggest studio, and possibly not the best, if there were a best, but recommendable if only because it had shown the greatest interest and been the first to make a firm offer. On the whole, though, Michaelson seemed a little disappointed. “I could have sold you to any of the studios,” he said “except for Paul. Even the jam wouldn’t cover that pill, with some of them. And when I named my price to Majestic they didn’t even flinch till I said he had to be in the deal. Then they started to hum and ha. They had their own directors, didn’t need another—all that sort of thing… By the way, how much do you think he should get?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Micky, that’s your province.”
“Ten thousand?”
“For the whole job?”
He nodded.
“A hundred for me and ten for him… he’d be pretty mad, but I suppose he’d have to take it. I thought a director would get more, though.”
“Most of them do. But Majestic already have their own directors, that’s what they kept telling me. What would you say to Paul being brought in as a technical adviser—wouldn’t mean such hard work for him— probably not much at all—and he’d get the cash just the same?… I presume what you really want is to help him financially without getting into any tax situation.”
“And he wouldn’t direct the picture?”
“He wouldn’t have to.”
“But he MUST—I want him to—that’s the whole point. It isn’t just a question of money.”
“I see. I told them I thought that might be your attitude… Still, don’t worry. I can make a deal on those lines, but it won’t be such a good one.”
“Micky, don’t you see what I’m after? I want Paul to get established in the kind of work he can do—”
“Yes, yes, I know. All right. That’s how it shall be then. Seventy-five for you and ten for Paul as director—”
“I thought you said a hundred for me? Not that I care particularly— “
Michaelson scribbled figures on his pad as if they were too difficult to work out mentally. “I could hold out for a hundred, Carey, and I’m certain I could get it—if you’d settle for Paul on a technical adviser basis. Otherwise…”
She smiled. “I see. Seventy-five’s okay.”
He smiled back. “You think he’s worth the difference?”
She kept on smiling. “The difference less a whole lot of income-tax. Yes, I’ll sign. The main things are the details. I want you to protect him all you can—in case they want to put him off halfway through or something.”
He kept on smiling. “Seems like we’re both expecting trouble with that guy.”
“An old habit of mine, Micky. Do your best for him. I don’t know what you can ask in the way of authority or control—probably not much. But try to get the limit. I’ll be out there to smooth things. I haven’t met many picture people, but I guess they’re human.”
“Very. Human enough to be your admirers.” He beamed with gallantry, then became businesslike. “So you approve the deal I’ve outlined?”
“Yes.”
“And you think he’ll approve it too?”
“My God, he’d better.”
“Perhaps he could drop by and see me himself. We’ll roll out a bit of red carpet.”
“Let me talk to him again first. How long before we sign?”
“It’ll take a week or so to set the thing up.” Michaelson continued, on the way to the elevator: “As I thought, they all took it as proof you were going back to him. I told them you weren’t, but they offered me odds on it. So what would probably have been only in Variety—I mean, about the contract—may hit the gossip columns. If it does, remember it’s not my fault—I warned you of a leak from the other end. Hollywood’s one big leak—you’ll find that out.”
* * * * *
She knew then she must tell Austen without delay, for it would be unthinkable to let him hear or read of it.
She told him that night, after they had left Norris, and while he was mixing his customary nightcap. After considering all kinds of excuses and evasions, she finally decided on the plain truth. She said she had been offered a good contract to make a picture in Hollywood with Paul directing, and she had accepted. She explained the nature of the deal and spared none of the details of Paul’s unpopularity and the unlikelihood of his ever getting a job without herself as bait. “It’s his last chance,” she said, perhaps over- severely, as if he were a bad boy whom she had to discipline. “I’m giving it to him not because he deserves it but because I think he’s good in his own line—too good to be allowed to go on being unlucky for the rest of his life. As for myself, I’m not specially anxious to be in a picture, though I dare say it’ll be interesting, but however it turns out I certainly don’t plan a new career. It’s just this once. I want you to know that.”
He was silent for a long while after she had first thought she had finished. She kept remembering additional details and adding them, but still he was silent. Then he went to the decanter and poured himself another drink.
He said at length: “I don’t want you to do it at all.”
“I’m sorry, Austen. I was afraid it wouldn’t
please you, but I wish you could realize that I feel I have to.”
“I don’t see why you feel you have to do anything unless it’s what you want.”
“Then I suppose it’s true that I want to do it.”
“As I thought.” His voice was quietly strained. “So for this desire, or compulsion, or sense of obligation—whatever it is—you’re ready to break up all we have here together…”
“Oh no, no—why?—why should that happen? Surely it has nothing to do with—”
“Carey, it’s come to the point I hoped it never would—I’ve got to tell you what I really think of Paul. Discount some of it, but not much, because I hate him. He’s the only person I’ve ever hated. And it’s for one reason only—that he not only drove you half out of your mind when he was with you, but he hasn’t let you alone since. The mere thought of him —his very existence anywhere—can threaten your happiness and therefore mine. I’ve known that for a long time.”
“You’re really exaggerating, Austen. He never drove me half out of my mind.”
“You should have seen yourself when I met you. It’s what first made me notice you—because I’m not normally the sort of person who picks up strange actresses on shipboard.” He smiled a wintry smile. “But that broken look you had, the look of being utterly lost and spiritless—”
“I don’t remember it was as bad as that.”
“You don’t? Then that’s what living a sane life these last fifteen years has done—the life you’re now planning to give up. Perhaps you don’t remember the nervous wreck you were while you were rehearsing that play?”
“The one that flopped? Oh, heavens, yes, but you can’t blame that on Paul. He’d never have let me do it if he’d been around.”
“But he wasn’t around, was he, and that’s the point… that he’d deserted you and you were like a drowning person all that time. Fortunately—by some miracle—you began to learn to swim on your own.”
“With you to help me, Austen, I admit that.”
“I don’t want your admission as if it were only my due. I want you to stay here, with me, for your own sake and mine, and I don’t want you ever to see or communicate with Paul again. I can’t put it straighter than that.”
Because he was not a man to plead, the note in his voice embarrassed her, as if she were eavesdropping on something unseemly. She knew he was genuinely trying to master his emotion and not, as an actor might, to exhibit it with an appearance of struggle for concealment. She began tidying things on her dressing-table, to ease both of them through a bad moment; and suddenly, as in times of crisis before, the sense of dual personality came on her and she herself was acting, Carey Arundel playing the part of the second Mrs. Bond.
“But it’s all fixed up, Austen.”
“Then unfix it. Change your mind—break your word if necessary. And if you’ve signed anything, leave that to me.”
“I haven’t signed anything yet. But it’s all fixed up.”
“You’re afraid he’ll try to hold you to a promise? Leave that to me too.”
“It isn’t that at all. As a matter of fact HE had to be persuaded, not I. It’s just that I WANT him to do this job and he can’t get it unless I’m in the thing too. They wouldn’t take him without me. I explained it all just now.”
“So you really intend to go on with this?”
“Yes, I do. I’m sorry, Austen.”
He came over to her and touched her shoulder. She felt his hand cold. She saw how pale he was, the grey look of misery, and when she reached up to touch his hand it was icy. “It doesn’t mean any break between you and me,” she said with kindness. “At least I don’t know why it should.”
“Carey, how can you SAY that? How can you think of DOING this? How COULD you?” He seemed brought up against an impasse of incredibility. “Without even consulting me… I can’t understand it…”
“It’s my work, Austen, if you argue it out on those lines. I never promised I’d give it up for good. I don’t want to do it all the time— you know that—but I can’t think of it as something you have a right to veto.”
“I’ve never tried to, when it was the work itself you wanted. But HE’S your reason now. You’ve been frank enough to say so. And he’ll ruin you. He’ll wear you out again—and you’re older, you won’t be able to stand it. He CONSUMES—you used that word once yourself. And he has no loyalty, nor integrity, nor even common fairness. As you say, you don’t remember those things now. There are things you probably don’t even know of… all the time he was refusing you a divorce, for instance, he was living with a German girl—a film actress…”
“Oh, was he? A beautiful girl, I met her. Doesn’t surprise me—I suspected it all along. But how did YOU know?”
He answered grimly: “I had him watched.”
It was his mistake to have said that. It threw her into a different mood.
“Really, Austen? As simple as that? You just had him watched?”
“I thought we might need the information legally, but it turned out we didn’t and I was glad. I never intended to tell you anything about it, unless I had to, and for all these years—”
“You’ve kept the secret! That was rather wonderful, after having him watched. Do you often have people watched?”
“CAREY!”
“Have you ever had ME watched?” She was relieved to be able to laugh. “But of course you have—Richards watches me, and Foster, and Flossie —you don’t suppose I haven’t noticed, do you? It’s your way— you think it’s safer than trusting people. So do please have me watched in Hollywood—you have contacts there, I’m sure. It won’t cause me any trouble, because I won’t be having an affair with anybody, not even my ex-husband. I’m really telling you the truth—there’s not love of that kind between me and Paul.”
“Perhaps I’m just as jealous of any other kind, whatever it is.”
“The kind that hired watchers couldn’t give you evidence about?”
“Oh, Carey, why are you so bitter? Have I ever done you any wrong?”
She knew it was because he hadn’t that she was bitter, if at all. “Let’s not talk any more tonight, Austen. I hate arguments and I know you do too.”
“There’s nothing more to say, now that we’ve both spoken our minds. You’ve told me you intend to do what you want. So shall I—as soon as I know what it is. I don’t—yet. I’m too shocked—not by the thing itself but by your reason for doing it—the proof it gives of how little I mean to you, and not only I, but your home here… and Norris. What’s going to happen to that boy after you’ve gone? He worships you— you’ve been part of his cure since he came back—he depends on you… but I suppose all that counts for nothing also.”
His mention of Norris brought her to the limit of endurance. “Norris will be all right,” she answered unevenly. “I’m not as necessary for him as you think.”
“But you ARE—you always have been—you’re the only one who can talk sense to him! He has a preposterous idea of taking up medicine and going out to some island as a resident doctor—did you know that? —the whole thing is fantastic—it would take years to qualify and by that time, anyhow… but it shows the state of his mind—it shows how much he needs your advice and influence, since he won’t accept mine. And this is the moment you choose to leave him!”
He walked out of the room without waiting for a reply, even if she could have made one. It was the first time she had seen him beyond control.
* * * * *
The next morning at breakfast both of them, for Norris’s sake, tried to behave as if nothing was amiss. She thought she herself was acting well enough, but Austen, though he clearly did his best, could not match her, and there was a noticeable tension in his manner that made Norris, after his father had gone to the office, remark to Carey: “What’s on his mind? A new billion dollar loan or something?”
She felt sorry for Austen and therefore hurt by Norris’s flippancy; she said: “He has personal worries, Norris.”
/> “Meaning me?”
She suddenly decided to tell him the truth then, instead of later, partly because she was no longer sure she could keep up a pretence, partly also from an urge to discover his reaction. So she told him, explaining the thing pretty much as she had done to Austen. When she had finished he was silent for a moment, then said: “So THAT’S what was bothering him.”
“Yes. That and your own idea.”
“MY idea?” He started in alarm. “What do you mean?”
“The tropical medicine. He doesn’t like either of our ideas.”
“My God, Carey, you didn’t tell him THAT? What on earth made you— “
“Of course I didn’t, but he KNEW—he mentioned it to me and I was a bit surprised to think that YOU’D told him—”
“As if I should—”
“Then… how on earth could he know?”
He replied after a pause, with the schoolboy sarcasm that she knew disguised his emotions so often: “I suppose there are several ways. First, he might have heard us during the bridge game. But I rather doubt that— we talked too quietly. Second, Richards might have been eavesdropping after he brought in the drinks. But I rather doubt that too—I had my eye on him. Thirdly, either of them might have seen the letter I wrote to Columbia. Yes, on the whole, I think that’s the likeliest. I left the letter on the hall table to be picked up with the other mail. Somehow I didn’t think… LETTERS.”
“Oh, Norris, I’m sorry.”
“Hardly YOUR fault.”
“I think perhaps it is, in a way.”
“That father sets up a spy system? I don’t get it. You never promised him you’d drop your profession altogether. At least that’s what you once told me.”
“No, but that’s not my real reason. I told you my real reason just now.”
He said, after a silence: “Well, I never met the guy, so I can’t say whether I think he’s worth it.”