Eve Page 6

  The moment Gold finished eating, he pushed his plate impatiently away and took a toothpick from his vest pocket. He thoughtfully probed his teeth while he looked round the crowded room.

  “Did you read Clive’s book, Angels in Sables?” Carol asked suddenly.

  Gold frowned. “I never read anything,” he said shortly; “you know that.”

  “Then I think you ought to. The plot’s not suitable for a picture, but the idea behind it is.”

  This was news to me and I looked sharply at her. She studiously ignored me.

  “What idea?” His yellow face showed interest.

  “Why men prefer wantons,” Carol replied.

  I was taken aback because I had no recollection of such a situation in Angels in Sables.

  “Do they?” Peter asked softly.

  “Of course they do,” Gold said, snapping his toothpick between his fingers. “She’s right. And I’ll tell you why. They prefer them because a good woman is so tedious.”

  Carol shook her head. “I don’t think so, do you, Clive?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought about it. Then Eve came to my mind. I thought of her and Carol. Eve was a wanton. While Carol was good in the sense that she was reliable, sincere, honest and lived by a code of sound ethics, I doubted if Eve even knew what ethics meant. This was as good a comparison as any. I had left Carol, lied to her even, to have a few minutes with Eve. Why had I done that? If I could answer that, I could answer Carol.

  “A wanton has some qualities which a good woman lacks,” I said slowly. “Those qualities — they’re not necessarily good ones — appeal to the primitive instinct in man. Men lag behind women in controlling their instincts and as long as women have better control, so will men go after wantons. All the same, a man doesn’t want a wanton for any length of time. She’s here today and gone tomorrow.”

  Carol said sharply,” Absolute rubbish, Clive, and you know it.”

  I looked blankly at her. There was an expression in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She was hurt, angry and ready for a fight.

  “I don’t disagree with Mr Thurston myself,” Gold said conplacently. He took a large cigar from his case and examined it thoughtfully. “Men’s instincts are important.”

  “They have nothing to do with it,” Carol snapped. “I’ll tell you why men prefer wantons.” She glanced over at Peter as if to exclude him from the conversation. “I’m talking now about the majority of men who, if they are let off the lead, rush off and behave like promiscuous puppies. I’ve no quarrel with the minority of men who have set themselves a standard of moral behaviour and refuse to depart from it.”

  “My dear Carol,” I protested, realizing that this could easily be a personal attack. “You ought to be in a pulpit.”

  “She’d look charming in a pulpit,” Gold said, handing his cigar to a waiter to pierce. “Let her go on.”

  “A man prefers a wanton because he is vain,” Carol said, speaking directly at me. “A wanton is usually decorative. She is sophisticated and glamorous. Men like to be seen with that kind of woman because their friends envy them . . . the poor saps. A wanton is usually without brains. She doesn’t need them, of course. All she needs is a pretty face, a nice pair of legs, smart clothes and willingness.”

  “You think men are more at their ease if women haven’t brains?” Gold asked.

  “You know they are, R.G.,” Carol said shortly. “Don’t think you can pull wool over my eyes. You’re as bad as any of them.”

  Gold’s yellow face softened into a smile. “Go on,” he said. “You haven’t finished, have you?”

  “It makes me tired to see the worthless women men drag around with them. That’s all most men think of . . . looks, dress and bodies. A girl who hasn’t looks is nowhere in Hollywood. It is disgusting.”

  “Never mind that. Keep to wantons,” Peter said, his eyes alight with interest.

  “All right . . . wantons. A man dislikes his woman to know more than he does. That’s where a wanton scores. She’s lazy by nature and she’s no time to be anything else but wanton. She has no other subject to talk about but herself, her clothes, her troubles and, of course, her looks. Man likes that. He has no competition. If he wants to, he can be patronizing. He’s a little tin god to himself, although, the wanton probably thinks he’s a bore. All she’s after is a good time and what she can get out of him.”

  “Very interesting,” Gold said, “But where is the picture idea? I don’t see it.”

  “A satire on men,” Carol said. “Angles in Sables” is a grand title. Never mind about Clive’s plot. Use the title, and let him write a hundred per cent satire about men. Think how the women would eat it . . . after all, women are our public.”

  Gold glanced across at me. “What do you say?”

  I was staring at Carol. She had given me an idea. She had done more than that. She had fired my imagination which had been dead since I wrote my last book. I knew now what I was going to do. It had come in a flash. I was going to write the story of Eve. I was going to capture her warped, odd personality and put it on the screen.

  “It’s good,” I said, excitedly. “Yes, I know I can do it!”

  Carol looked at me and suddenly bit her lip. Our eyes met and I knew she had sensed what I was going to do. I looked quickly away and went on to Gold, “As Carol says it’s a great title and a great subject . . .”

  Carol pushed back her chair. “Would you mind if I run away?” she said abruptly. “I’ve developed an awful head. It’s, been coming on all the evening . . .”

  Peter was at her side before I could even stand up.

  “You’ve been working too hard, Carol,” he said. “R.G. will excuse you . . . won’t you.”

  The tawny eyes had gone sleepy again. “Go to bed,” he said a little curtly. “Mr. Thurston and I will stay here. See her home, Peter.”

  I stood up. “I’m seeing her home,” I said, feeling angry and a little frightened. “Come on, Carol . . .”

  She shook her head. “Stay with Mr. Gold,” she said, without looking at me. “Peter, I want to go home.”

  As she turned away I put my hand on her arm. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice. “Is it something I said?”

  She looked steadily at me. The hurt, angry look was still in her eyes. “I just want to say good night to you now, Clive. Will you please understand?”

  She knows, I thought, she knows everything. There’s nothing I can keep from her. She sees through me as if I were made of glass.

  There was an awkward pause. Gold stared down at his fleshly hands, a frown on his heavy face. Peter picked up Carol’s ermine cape and stood, uneasily waiting.

  “Of course,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded so harsh, “if it’s like that.”

  She tried to smile. “It is rather like that. Good night, Clive.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  “I’ll see you at the club, R.G.” Peter waved and they went away together.

  I sat down at the table again.

  Gold regarded the white ash of his cigar thoughtfully.

  “Women are odd, aren’t they?” he said. “Of course, you mean something to each other?”

  I did not feel like discussing Carol with a comparative stranger. “We’ve known each other some time,” I said flatly.

  His thick lips pursed and his eyebrows came down. “That idea of hers is good. A satire about men. Angels in Sables. It’s box office.” He closed his eyes and brooded. “What’s your angle?”

  “A portrait of a wanton,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my mind divided between Carol and Eve. “The men who pass through her hands, the power she exerts and her ultimate conversion.”

  “Who would convert her?” Gold asked casually.

  “A man . . . someone who is stronger than she.”

  Gold shook his head. “That’s bad psychology. Carol would tell you that. If your character’s a genuine wanton, then only another woman could convert he
r.”

  “I don’t agree,” I said stubbornly. “A man could do it. If a wanton could be made to love, then I believe the barriers would come down and you could do anything with her.”

  He touched off his cigar ash onto a plate. “I don’t think you and I are thinking along the same lines,” he said. “Describe to me your idea of a wanton.”

  “I’ll describe the wanton I have in mind. She’s the only one I could be interested in because I know her. She is real and I can study her.”

  “Go on.” Smoke curled from his lips and partly obscured his face.

  “The woman I’m thinking of lives on men. She is pitilessly selfish and very experienced. She is anti-social, amoral and interested only in herself. Men mean nothing to her except for the money they give her.” I ground my cigarette butt into the ash tray. “That is my wanton.”

  “Interesting,” Gold said, “but too difficult. You don’t know what you’re talking about. A woman like that could never love. She would have lost the feeling for love.” He glanced up and looked at me fixedly. “You say you know such a woman?”

  “I’ve met her. I can’t say I really know her, but I’m going to.”

  “You are experimenting with her?”

  I was unwilling to tell him too much. He might talk to Carol.

  “Only from the point of view of writing about her,” I said carelessly. “I have to mix with all kinds of people in my game.”

  “I see.” His lips closed wetly over his cigar. “You weren’t thinking of persuading this woman to fall in love with you?”

  I eyed him. “I’ve something better to do with my time,” I said, a little sharply.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, fairly waving his hands. “You said this woman was the character you have chosen for your theme. You also said if she could be made to love then you could do anything with her? Isn’t that so?”

  I nodded.

  “Then how can you be sure that you are psychologically right, unless you actually experiment? I don’t think you are. I think such a woman as you have described is beyond the feeling of love. That is to me sound reasoning, while you are merely theorizing.”

  I sat back in my chair. I suddenly saw the trap he had laid for me. I had either to back out or else admit what I was planning to do.

  “Now wait,” Gold said, “Don’t say anything. Let me talk first. It is always better to know all the facts before you commit yourself.” He waved to a waiter. “We’ll have a little brandy. I find brandy is very good for this kind of conversation.”

  When the brandy had been ordered, he sunk his head into his shoulders and hunched over the table. “I’m interested,” he said. “I like “Angels in Sables”. I like the idea of a satire about men. I haven’t made a psychological picture for a very long time. They are good box office. Women like them. Carol was right when she said women are our public.” He fumbled inside his coat and took out a cigar-case. “Have a cigar, Mr. Thurston?”

  I took the long cigar although I really didn’t want it. Something, however, told me that Gold didn’t offer cigars to anyone but those he favoured.

  “That cigar cost me five dollars,” he said. “I have them specially made for me. You’ll enjoy it.”

  The brandy came and he sniffed at the balloon-shaped glass and sighed. “Excellent,” he murmured and held the glass cupped in both hands.

  I was in no hurry. I cut the end of the cigar carefully and lit it. It was smooth, mild and satisfying.

  “I am interested,” Gold went on, “in a story based on facts. I like the idea of your modelling your character on someone you know. She sounds right. You will obviously bring her to life because she is already alive. All you have to do is to capture her likeness and put it on paper. I should like you to take a further step. I would like you to put yourself in your hero’s place and, before you write, go through the experiences you have planned for your hero.”

  “Now look, Mr. Gold . . .” I began, but he raised his hand.

  “Let me go on. Hear what I have to say first. You may find that your ideas won’t work out the way you think they will. But, that won’t matter, the result will be psychologically right. You are a man of the world. I imagine that you have had considerable success with women in the past. This woman you have chosen as the subject for a story would be a worthy opponent, wouldn’t she? Why don’t you make her fall in love with you? It would be a very interesting experiment.”

  I didn’t say anything. He was suggesting the very thing I had planned to do. All the same it made me uneasy because I had Carol at the back of my mind.

  “I would buy such a story, Mr. Thurston,” Gold went on quietly. “Whichever way it turned out it would be interesting. The experiment would be between you and me and, of course, the woman in question. No one else need know about it.”

  We looked at each other and I knew he realized that I was uneasy about Carol.

  “I’ll admit the idea had crossed my mind,” I said. “But dealing so intimately with a woman of that reputation is a little tricky.”

  A flicker of a smile appeared in Gold’s eyes. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he saw through me. “Then you’ll do it?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes, as a business proposition, I’ll do it,” I said. “But I don’t want to waste my time unless I receive some kind of compensation.”

  “Tell me the story in a few words.”

  I thought for a moment. “This will be the story of a successful wanton who preys on men. I will handle all the background stuff of her relations with men so that Hays won’t kill it. The only thing we need really stress is that she takes money and presents from men who are infatuated with her. Then an entirely different type of man comes into her life, and this is where the drama really begins. At first, like the other men, he falls for her, but as he gets to know her, he realizes what a cheat she is and decides to play her at her own game. He does and he beats her in the end. Then tired of the game, he leaves her and goes off to hunt elsewhere. I see it as a Scarlet O’Hara and Reith Butler set-up.”

  “And you really think it will work out that way?” Gold asked, pointedly disbelieving.

  “Certainly. It’s a question of the stronger will.”

  Gold shook his head. “Providing your woman is as bad as the one you have described, I am sure it will not work out that way.”

  “Well, let us experiment and see. As you say, whatever the result, it should make an interesting script.”

  Gold brooded. “Yes, I think it will. All right, do it. I will pay you two thousand dollars for the treatment. If it is what I want then I will pay a further fifty thousand for a complete shooting script. You can have all the help you want from the Studios, but, of course, you can please yourself about that.”

  I suppressed my excitement with difficulty. “May I have that offer in writing?”

  “Certainly. I will tell my people to get in touch with you.”

  “Will you wait three months? If I don’t succeed in three months, it won’t be worth wasting any more time.”

  He nodded. “Three months then. It will be an interesting experiment in real life. You should have quite an exciting time before you.” He signalled a waiter. “And now I must go to the club. Won’t you join me, Mr. Thurston?”

  I shook my head. “I’d rather not, thank you. You’ve given me quite a lot to think about and I have plans to make.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I DID not see Carol for the next two weeks. I telephoned each morning and evening, but I was told that she was either at the Studio or at Mr. Gold’s house. I did not know whether she was avoiding me or whether she was really busy with her script. If it had not been for the way she had walked out on me, I should not have given it another thought. She often disappeared for a week or so when she was working hard, but, now I was worried. I remember the look in her eyes when she had said, “It is rather like that.” For the first time in two years, I knew I had hurt and angered her.

  I coul
d, of course, have gone to the Studio, but first, I wanted to talk to her on the telephone where she could not watch me while I talked. As I have already said, she was very difficult to lie to. If I were to convince her that there was nothing between Eve and myself, I would have to handle the situation with care. So I continued to the Studio.

  I had settled in my apartment much to Russell’s annoyance. He had hopefully believed that I would stay at Three Point for at least another month. I thought a lot about Eve. On the third night after our meeting I drove over to Laurel Canyon Drive and passed her house. There were no lights showing and I did not stop; but it gave me an odd feeling of satisfaction just to have seen the house again.

  On the fourth day, immediately after lunch, I called her.

  The maid Marty answered. When I asked for Eve, she wanted to know who was calling.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Mr. Clive.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Miss Marlow’s engaged right now. Can I take a message?”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll call later.”

  “She won’t be long,” she said. “I’ll tell her you called.”

  I thanked her and hung up. I sat holding the telephone for several minutes, then I put it on the table with a little grimace. Why was I feeling bad? I asked myself. I knew what she was, didn’t I? I did not ring her again that day and I did no work. I thought about Gold and I tried to work out a blue print for the script we had discussed. But I was not successful. Until I knew Eve better, I would not hope to make much progress.

  I must have been a trial to Russell as he was used to my going out and leaving him the apartment to himself. I spent the rest of the day wandering between the large lounge, my bedroom and my small library. I had a date with Clare Jacoby, the singer, in the evening, and although I did not feel like listening to her incessant chatter, I could not very well put her off. I returned to the apartment just after midnight, a little drunk and irritable.

  Russell was waiting up for me and after he had brought me a whiskey I sent him to bed. Then I telephoned Eve. I sat listening to the steady burr-burr of the bell, but there was no answer. I slammed down the receiver and went into my bedroom to undress. In pyjamas and dressing gown, I returned to the lounge and called her again. It was now twenty to one.