James Chase: Eve

This was the one subject I wanted to avoid with Carol. “Oh, a novel,” I said carelessly. “I’m just laying out the blueprint. I start working seriously next week. Don’t look so worried,” and I tried to smile at her assuringly.

Carol was an extraordinarily difficult person to lie to. “I’m glad about the novel,” she said, shadows in her eyes, “but I wish it were a play. There’s not much in a novel, is there, Clive?”

I raised my eyebrows, “I don’t know . . . film rights . . . serial rights . . . maybe Collier’s will take it. They paid Imgram fifty thousand dollars for his serial rights.”

“Imgram wrote an awfully good book.”

“And I’m going to write an awfully good book too,” I said. Even to me, it sounded a little lame. “I’ll write another play in a little while, but I’ve got this idea for a book and I don’t want it to grow cold on me.”

I had an uneasy feeling that she was going to ask me what the book was about. If she’d done that, I would have been in a spot, but at that moment Peter came in and for once I was glad of the interruption.

Peter was one of the few successful Englishmen in Hollywood. He still had all his clothes made in London and the Sackville Street cut was right for his English type of figure, broad in the shoulders and slimming down at the hips.

His dark, thoughtful face lit up when he saw Carol. “Not dressed yet?” he said, taking her hand. “But looking very lovely. Sure you’re not too tired to come out tonight?”

“Of course not,” Carol said smiling.

He looked over at me. “How are you, my dear boy?” He shook hands. “Doesn’t she look wonderful?”

I said she certainly did and noticed his eyes were question marks when he saw my bruise.

“Give him a drink, Clive, while I dress,” Carol said. “I won’t be long.” She looked over at Peter. “He’s being stuffy . . . he won’t dine with us.”

“Oh, but you must . . . this is an occasion, isn’t it, Carol?”

Carol shook her head helplessly. “He’s dining with his publishers. I don’t believe it, but I suppose I’d better be tactful and pretend I do. Look at that bruise . . . he’s been fighting a wild woman.” She laughed, turning to me, “Tell him, Clive . . . he may think it’s a story.”

Peter beat me to the door. He opened it. “Don’t hurry,” he said. “I’m feeling very leisurely tonight.”

“But I’m hungry,” Carol protested. “Don’t let’s be too late,” and she ran from the room.

Peter came over to the little bar in the far corner of the room where I was fixing myself another drink. “So you’ve been fighting, have you?” he said. “That’s quite a nasty bruise you have there.”

“Never mind about that,” I said. “What will you drink?”

“A little whisky, I suppose.” He leaned against the bar and selected a cigarette from a heavy gold case. “Carol’s told you the news?”

I gave him bourbon and water. “No . . . what news?”

Peter raised his eyebrows.” Funny kid . . . now I wonder why . . .” He lit his cigarette.

I had a sudden sinking feeling. “What news?” I repeated, staring at him.

“She has been given the script of the year. It was arranged this morning . . . Imgram’s novel.”

I slopped whisky on the polished bar. Hearing him say that was wormwood to me. Of course, I knew I couldn’t have handled Ingram’s theme. It was too big for me, but it came as a blow to hear that a kid like Carol was to do it.

“Why, that’s terrific,” I said, trying to look pleased. “I’ve been reading it in Collier’s. It’s a great story. You producing?”

He nodded. “Yes, there are all sorts of angles. It’s just the kind of story I’ve been looking for. Of course, I wanted Carol to do the script, but I didn’t think Gold would agree. Then, while I was working out how best to persuade him, he actually called me in to say she’s to do it.”

I came around from behind the bar and carried my drink to the settee. I was glad to sit down. “What will it mean?”

Peter shrugged. “Well, a contract, of course . . . bigger money . . . screen credit . . . and another chance if she makes good.” He tasted his whisky. “And she will, of course. She is very talented.”

I was beginning to think that everyone in this game had talent except myself.

He came over and dropped into an armchair. He seemed to sense that the news had shaken me. “What are you working on now?”

I was getting tired of this interest in my work. “A novel,” I said shortly. “Nothing of interest to you.”

“That’s a pity. I’d like to film something of yours.” He stretched out his long legs. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you before. Ever thought of working for Gold? I could give you an introduction.”

I wondered suspiciously if Carol had been getting at him.

“What’s the use, Peter? You know me. I can’t work for anyone. From what Carol tells me working at your Studio is refined hell.”

“It’s also big money,” Peter said, taking the drink I handed to him. “Think it over and don’t leave it too long. The public has a short memory and Hollywood an even shorter one.” He didn’t look at me, but I had a feeling that there was more to it than just casual conversation. It was almost a warning.

I lit a cigarette and brooded. There is one thing you don’t tell other writers or producers in Hollywood. You don’t tell them that you are out of ideas. They find that out quick enough for themselves.

I knew that if I went back to Three Point the same thing would happen as had happened these past two days. I’d think about Eve. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since I found myself lying on the floor in the deserted cabin with the sun coming through the curtains. I had tried to wash her out of my mind, but I couldn’t do it. She was there in my bedroom, she was sitting with me on the porch, she was staring at me from the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter.

It finally got so bad that I had to talk to someone about her. That was why I had come into Hollywood to see Carol. But when I began to talk, I found I couldn’t tell her the things that were really on my mind. I couldn’t tell Peter either. I couldn’t tell them how I was feeling about Eve. They would have thought I was crazy.

Maybe I was crazy. I had the pick of some twenty smart, attractive women. I had Carol who loved me and who meant a lot to me. But that didn’t seem enough for me. I had to become infatuated with a prostitute.

Perhaps, infatuated wasn’t the right word. I had sat on the porch, the previous night, with a bottle of Scotch at my elbow and I had tried to reason it out. Eve had hurt my pride. Her cold indifference had been a challenge to me. I felt she was living in a stone fortress and I had to storm that fortress and break down its walls.

I was pretty drunk by the time I’d come to these conclusions, but I’d made up my mind I was going to conquer her. All the women I’d played around with in the past had been too easy. I wanted a proposition that I could really get my teeth into. Eve would give me a run. She’d be difficult and the idea excited me. It would be a contest with no holds barred. She wasn’t an innocent little thing who could be twisted around my finger without any effort. She had unconsciously thrown down the challenge and I was going to take it up. I had no doubts what the final results would be. Nor did I think of what would happen once I’d taken her by storm. That could take care of itself when the time came.

I snapped out of my thoughts as Carol came in. She had changed into an ice-blue evening dress over which she wore a short ermine coat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m terribly glad and proud of you, Carol.”