"I don't know what to do now," Dunn said.
She pulled her hand away from his face.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know whether that meant you felt sorry for me, or whether it meant... that maybe I should try to kiss you."
"Billy, I feel like your big sister."
Or maybe your mother. What I would like to do is put my arms around you and comfort you, and tell you everything is going to be all right.
Carol, who do you think you're kidding?
"Yeah. Well. I figured that was probably it. Sorry."
"You're very sweet," she said.
She leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the forehead. His arms, awkwardly, went around her. He had his face in her neck.
"God, you're so beautiful!" he said.
What I should do now is push him away. This is getting out of control!
"Billy, now stop," Carol said, and pushed away from him. This caused him to raise his face so that it was level with hers. She felt his breath on her lips.
"Oh, Billy, this is insane," Carol said in the instant before her hand went to the back of his head and pulled it toward her.
[FIVE]
The Commissary
Metro-Magnum Studios
Los Angeles, California
1330 Hours 22 October 1942
Veronica Wood had come to the commissary to eat. She was famished. She'd gotten up at half past four, had one lousy four-minute egg, one piece of dry toast, a glass of skim milk, and not a goddamned thing else since.
Since then, there was the twenty-minute ride in the studio limousine, at least an hour and a goddamn half for makeup, and then twenty-two- count 'em, twenty-two-takes of one lousy scene.
Veronica was convinced that the first take was the one that would finally be used: The others were imposed on her because (a) Stefan Klodny the director wanted to polish his reputation as a perfectionist, or (b) the Hungarian pansy had overheard her saying that the worst kind of queer was a faggot Hungarian with a beard. Or both.
She ordered the Metro-Magnum Burger. This came on a Kaiser roll with sesame seeds, and with onions, lettuce, cheese, and some kind of sauce, and with french fried potatoes. The temptation was to wolf the whole goddamn thing down, and then top it off with cherry pie a la mode.
But she was an artist, and aware that artists are called upon to sacrifice. Her fans wanted Veronica Wood svelte, not chubby. When the Metro-Magnum Burger was served, she carefully salted and delicately let her mouth savor one french fry. She chewed it with relish, then pushed the rest of the french fries to the side of the plate. After that she removed the hamburger from the Kaiser roll and deposited the roll on top of the french fries. So far as she knew, onions and lettuce were not fattening, but that goddamned sauce was probably a hundred calories a taste. Consequently, she carefully scraped off as much of the sauce as she could. Then she ate the hamburger patty and the lettuce and the onions... slowly, slowly, savoring each bite. And if the onions made her breath bad, fuck it, she wasn't planning on kissing anybody anyway.
When she finished her lunch she was still hungry. She ordered a cup of black coffee. It would probably make her even hungrier, she thought. And, God, it was five hours until supper!
She was in a foul mood. Not in the mood for company, and especially not in the mood for the company of H. Morton Cooperman, of the Metro-Magnum Studios public relations staff.
"May I join you, darling?"
"What if I said no?"
"I was on Stage Eleven, looking for you," Mort said as he slid into a chair and picked up one of her french fries. "Do you mind?"
"I hope you choke on it," Veronica said.
"Stefan told me he'd been hard on you," Mort said. "He said the final result was magnificent."
"How would he know?"
"We all admire your professionalism, darling," Mort said. "Your willingness to strive for perfection."
"What do you want, Mort? I'm really in no mood for your bullshit."
"How do you feel about going on a war bond tour?"
"No way. I'm tired. I get a month off. Read my contract."
"Mr. Roth thought you'd be pleased we've been able to arrange this for you."
"Mr. Roth is as full of shit as you are."
"This is not an ordinary war bond tour, darling. This one is worthy of you. These are Marines, fresh from Guadalcanal. An absolutely magnificent Marine named Machine Gun McCoy, who's going to get the Medal of Honor. And a group of pilots, all of them aces. The publicity will be wonderful."
"Listen carefully, Mort: No!"
"All orchestrated by the master flack of them all, our own beloved Jake Dillon. You'll almost certainly get a Life cover."
"Jake is in Australia, or some goddamned place like that."
"Jake is in Los Angeles."
"Since when?"
"I don't know since when, darling, all I know is that he'll be here tomorrow at half past nine to set this thing up. I'd love to be able to tell him that you'll be going with it."
He didn't call me, the sonofabitch!
"Fuck you, Mort, and fuck Jake, too," Miss Wood said, then rose from the table and marched magnificently out of the commissary to a waiting studio Lincoln limousine.
The chauffeur pushed himself off the fender and opened the door for her, after which he ran around the front and slipped behind the wheel.
When he paused at the gatehouse, the chauffeur turned around.
"Would you like me to stop anywhere, Miss Wood?"
"Just take me home, please," Veronica replied. But then asked: "Do you think you could find Mr. Dillon's place in Malibu?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Would you like me to take you there?"
No, you jackass, I'm just asking for the hell of it; I'm writing a goddamn book.
"Would you, please?" she asked sweetly.
The nature of Miss Wood's relationship with Jake Dillon was such that she did not feel it necessary to knock at the front door and seek admission from one of Jake's Mexicans. When the limousine pulled up before the house, she was out of the car before the chauffeur could get out from behind the wheel.
"Wait!" she called over her shoulder, and went around the side of the house, down the path to the beach, and up the circular stairs to the sun deck.