The Slipper (38 page)

Terry Wood puffed on his cigar, the butt crackling brightly. He took it out of his mouth, flicking ashes onto the terrace floor.

“And then?” he asked.

“Billie goes to New York with Anne and Carol—I mean Susan—and after a lot of hardship and a lot of heartbreak, all three of them make it. All three of them get the glass slipper. That's where the title comes in, you see. Every girl dreams she's gonna be the next Cinderella, dreams she's gonna get the slipper and live happily ever after, but only a few of them do.”

Nora leaned back against the bannister, exhausted, amazed at her own gumption. Terry Wood smoked his cigar, silent. So he didn't buy it? So what the hell? It was a long shot anyway, but at least she'd gained something. As she was hastily improvising, rearranging facts, her mind click-click-clicking with ideas, Nora realized that it
was
a great premise, realized that this was exactly the brainstorm she had been waiting for. Susannah Hart was going to retire as of right now. No more mysterious mansions and brooding heroes and cries in the night. Nora Levin was going to write
The Slipper
whether Terry Wood liked the premise or not.

“And who's the author of this masterpiece?” he inquired.

“I am,” she said defiantly.

“You got something to show?”

“Not yet. I—I will have soon, though.”

“The town pump, hunh?” he mused. “Sure you don't wanna come to my suite at the Pierre?”

“I'm positive.”

She marched over to the French doors and opened them and the noise of the party blasted them in waves.

“Hey—”

“Up yours!”

“Hey! Wait a minute! What's your name?”

“My name's Nora Levin,” she called over her shoulder. “I work for Ross Sheridan.”

The party was going full blast. Jason was having a noisy set-to with the Pulitzer Prize-winning historian. Capote was gossiping merrily with a trio of overdressed society matrons. Sheridan was still bounding about making deals, making points. Nora resumed her duties and the evening wore on and toward midnight she saw Ross talking with Terry Wood. She'd probably lose her job. Who cared? She had some money in the bank, the Susannah Harts were bringing in a modest amount of royalties, and all she wanted to do now was start
The Slipper
while the ideas were still sizzling. The party finally broke up at one in the morning. The last guest tottered out. Jason was sprawled out in an armchair, dead drunk, snoring loudly. Ross was busily filling up doggie bags to take to his apartment, and he thoughtfully gave each of his girls five dollars for cab fare, not wanting them to take bus or subway at this hour. Tins of caviar and bottle of Chivas Regal stored safely in her large shoulder bag, bag slung over her arm, Nora left, idly wondering if Terry Wood had found himself a bimbo for the night.

She felt like shit the next morning. She had hardly slept at all, thinking about the encounter with Terry Wood, thinking about
The Slipper
, the ideas coming fast and thick as she pounded her pillow and tried to sleep. Julie was already gone when she got up, had already taken Danny upstairs to Hannah Lichtenstein's apartment. Nora bathed, dressed, had two cups of strong black coffee while staring listlessly at
The Today Show
, then left for the office. She sat at her desk and gazed glumly at the new stack of manuscripts, envying Sage, who had fled the salt mines and would start work at Dell Monday. It wasn't going to be the same without her. Nora pulled the top manuscript from the pile and made a face. I can't do it, she told herself. I can't possibly read another trenchant epic about lesbian love in Greenwich Village.

At ten-thirty the door to Ross's private office flew open with a bang and he loomed in the doorway, crackling with nervous energy.

“Levin!” he yelled. “Get your ass in here, pronto!”

This is it. He's gonna fire me. Well, at least I won't have to read
Sisters in Sin
. Ross glared at her and showed her into the office and closed the door, his expression grave. She gazed at the rich mahogany paneling, the maroon carpeting, the silver-framed photographs of celebrity authors, the expensive crystal decanters of liquor on the portable bar. The vast desk was littered with books, papers, contracts, three telephones, one of them red. Quite a layout. Sheridan sat down behind the desk and indicated she sit in a chair in front of it, and Nora obeyed dutifully without a single smart remark. Wasn't up to it this morning.

“I talked to Terry Wood last night,” Ross said grimly.

“You did, hunh?”

“I talked to him again this morning—two times. You're fired!”

Nora didn't say anything. She should have cared. She didn't. He handed her a slip of paper. It was a check. For two thousand dollars? Two thousand? Talk about your severance pay! He must be out of his bloody mind.

“I've also talked with Simon and Schuster, they want to do the hardback, and I've had calls from Fawcett, Dell, Signet, Pocket Books and Avon, pleading to have first crack at paperback reprint. Word gets around fast in this business! It's not even noon!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about
The Slipper
! Terry Wood is crazy over the idea and he called a pal of his at Simon and Schuster first thing this morning and they're hot to trot, want to see something as soon as possible, and word leaked out to the paperback houses immediately. We're talking a huge package deal here, movie, hardback, paperback, one hundred percent of each, no sharing of subsidiary rights. Twentieth Century Fox is going to subsidize the hardback promotional campaign, they're willing to spend a fortune putting it on the best-seller list and keeping it there as long as possible.”

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“We're talking big bucks, too, sweetheart. We're talking half a million, maybe more—book clubs, foreign rights, God knows what else.
The Slipper
is already a best-seller, and not a goddamn word's been written. I
assume
not a word's been written.”

Nora shook her head. Her face was pale.

“I—I was just improvising, making it up as I went along, just—”

“The check you're holding is for your living expenses. You're gonna get your ass out of here and park it in front of your typewriter and you're gonna
sit
there until I have a synopsis and sample chapters to show. Wood's flying back in three weeks to have a look.”

“But—”

“No buts! Get outta here! Get to work! I told Wood I'd seen the first six chapters, told him they were brilliant. Told Simon and Schuster it was a cinch, told 'em it was gonna be the biggest thing since
Forever Amber
. You'd better not fail me, kid!”

“I—I'll have to clean out my desk, and—”

“I'll have someone do it for you, send everything over to your apartment later on. This is it, Nora baby. This is the big time. If you come through like I think you're gonna, it's gonna be roses the rest of the way!”

“Ross, I—”

“We're in, sweetheart. We're gonna make publishing history!”

Stunned, Nora stepped outside twenty minutes later. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians, as always, businessmen with briefcases, matrons with shopping bags, a bustling, colorful swarm of humanity. Taxis and vans roared down the street with much blasting of horns and slamming of brakes. A street vendor was loudly hawking the virtues of his hot pretzels beneath the red-and-white umbrella of his cart. Gripping her purse, Nora started trudging toward Broadway and the nearest subway station and then, as the full realization hit her, she stopped dead still right there in the middle of the sidewalk. People shoved past her with angry, impatient looks, but Nora beamed. She felt a burst of elation so glorious she could hardly contain it. My God! It's happened! It's really happened! After all those years and all those dreams and all that work! She stood there smiling, another New York crazy, and then she darted between two parked cars and started waving her arm wildly to flag down a taxi. No more filthy subways for this girl. It's finally happened! Little Nora Levin's got the slipper at last!

12

Poor Meg was certainly having her share of problems. Blake, the randy young lawyer, had successfully defended her sister Jane and Jane was cleared and Bill, her husband, who had raped Meg, had run off with a nightclub singer and Blake wanted to marry Meg and Meg finally agreed and they had a glorious honeymoon and it was only then that she discovered his mob connections. In the ensuing months, Blake had tried to sever his connections with the mob and go straight and Meg had been kidnapped by the mob and held captive in a basement and Blake had had to cooperate with the mob and get the information they demanded or else Meg would be murdered. Meg wasn't murdered, she was rescued by a handsome police detective, and Blake spilled all he knew about the mob and was gunned down and died in her arms and now Meg was deeply involved with Steve, the blond detective, who was investigating a series of mysterious killings in River City's Chinatown district.
This Life of Ours
was the number one soap on television, Julie its most popular actress, and the pace was horrendously taxing.

Blazing hot lights made the set an inferno. Microphones dangled overhead. The cameras were rolling. Robert Shippley, playing Steve, gave her a sober look and slipped his revolver into his shoulder holster. Julie, as Meg, looked upset and tried valiantly to hide it, tried to be brave. The phone rang and Steve answered it and told his partner that yeah, this was it, this was the big one, ten o'clock tonight, the old warehouse where they stored firecrackers. Still in her diaphanous blue nightgown, boldly revealing for television, Julie looked determined now, viewers fully aware of her plan to follow him to the warehouse, Steve still in the dark.

“Take care, Meg,” he said. “When I leave, I want you to lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone, you understand? Unless you hear my voice on the other side, don't open the door for
any
one.”

“I won't,” she promised. “Oh, Steve—be—be careful. If anything happened to me I don't know what you would—shit! Sorry, John. I wasn't concentrating. These goddamned lights.”

“No sweat, Julie baby. Relax. Take ten, everyone. We'll start at the top after the break.”

“Sorry, Bob,” Julie told Shippley. “I don't know what's wrong with me today. You were doing a wonderful job. I'm the one who fucked it up.”

The handsome young actor smiled and gave her a hug. The least temperamental of actresses, always prepared and always professional, Julie was the favorite of cast and crew. She rarely blew her lines, and incidents like today's were extremely rare where Julie was concerned. Leaving the set, stepping into the coolness of shadows, she lighted a cigarette and smoked rapidly, fighting back a sudden rush of tears. She was utterly exhausted and it was imperative they get the episode in the can today and now they'd have to tape the whole bloody scene over again. Tape wasn't nearly as flexible as film. You couldn't start and stop and splice together. Unless there was a “freeze point,” a close-up, say, where the frame was absolutely still and could be matched in editing, you had to start the scene all over again, which was one of the reasons minor flubs and mishaps often remained in the televised episodes. They were always on a tight schedule and it was too expensive and too time-consuming to tape a scene over unless it was absolutely necessary. Julie finished her cigarette and lighted another, glancing at the clock, praying they'd be finished by four.

“Okay, gang,” the director shouted. “Let's do it again. Take it easy, Julie. It's only a soap, for God's sake. Millie, better powder Bob's face a bit, I see perspiration. You okay, sweetheart?” he asked Julie.

“I'm fine, John. Please forgive me. Today's my son's birthday, he's two years old, and we're giving him a party this afternoon and I—I guess I was concerned about that.”

“This is the last scene, love. We'll have it in the can in no time.
Soap Opera Digest
wants to interview you again this afternoon—they'll be waiting in—”

“John, I—”

“No problem, sweetheart. I'll see 'em myself, give 'em some handouts and a new glossy, tell 'em what a great little trouper you are, tell 'em you've got to attend your kid's birthday party, ply 'em with liquor and get them to reschedule the interview for next week.”

“You're a marvel.”

“I'm the best goddamned director working on soaps, and you happen to be the best actress I've ever worked with. I gotta feeling you're not going to be with us much longer. Gotta feeling you're gonna be whisked away to star on Broadway or make feature films. It's inevitable, baby.”

Millie freshened up her makeup, too, and Julie and Shippley took their positions. The hot lights blasted them again. Julie took a deep breath, preparing herself, and then she became Meg. The cameras started rolling. The scene went relatively well. Shippley had trouble getting the revolver into his holster, but he covered nicely, and there was a faint mike shadow on his final close-up, but the director decided to let it remain. Fifteen minutes later, Julie was in her dressing room, makeup removed, face creamed, having another cigarette as she summoned the strength to dress.

It seemed she was always tired these days. Work here at the studio was extremely grueling, the pace never letting up, and there were her classes with Sonia and the occasional reading as well. A number of soap actors moonlighted off Broadway and on, carrying a double load, and Sonia was determined that Julie get that big break and leave television. Julie had been up for a role in the Albee play, had been called back three times, had finally lost out to another actress, and she had won a supporting role in the revival of Coward's
Hay Fever
which unfortunately folded after three weeks of dismal box office. Sonia continued sending her out, certain that big break was just around the corner, and in the meantime Julie had to keep up on her lines and try to provide some kind of home life for Danny, who was old enough now to resent his mother's constant absence and who clung to her when she was at home, a sweet, loving child who was gradually becoming whiny and unruly. This wasn't
fair
to him. It wasn't fair to either one of them. He needed a home. He needed stability, and he needed a father, too, not just a rowdy pal like Jim who spoiled him outrageously and then failed to appear for several days running.