and forth, smiling like a father talking to his children. I did my best to keep him away from Margaret. She was seated in the center of a group of minor actresses, who were standing around her, but in the end it wasn't possible. Warner walked over to her. Respectfully room was made for him to pass through, then the little circle closed again, tighter than before, and I was separated from Margaret.
"Well, Mrs. Chandler," said Warner, kissing Margaret's hand in a droll but sincere little show of gallantry. "And how did you like the picture?"
The beads of perspiration stood out on my forehead. There was silence, and into this silence Margaret said loud and clear, "I think it stinks!"
Oh God, I thought, oh my God, not that!
I closed my eyes. I could hear Dore Thompson laugh genially. (Was he laughing genially?) Then I heard Jack Warner's voice. "But Mrs. Chandler, we all think it's great!"
I Opened my eyes again. I could see my wife, her cheeks hectically red, her hands on her rounded stomach, sit up and slowly shake her head. "I think it's terrible."
"But our Dorothy. . . .''
"It's not Dorothy's fault," said Margaret. "It's that lousy script. If you'd had any sense, Mr. Warner, and had kept my husband's script, you'd have a picture that was worth a fortune." She looked at Dore. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson, but that's the way I feel." And to Jack Warner, "You're going to lose money on this one."
God bless her, she was right. The company lost a lot of money on The Death of a Lady but at that moment nobody knew this and nobody wanted to know it.
Margaret got up. Obviously alienated, they made room for her coolly. She carried her shapeless stomach ahead of her with dignity and came up to me, her madonna smile on her lips. "Roy, I want to go home."
8
But that wasn't the real catastrophe. The real catastrophe took place on the first of March. That was the day Warners sent out the letter informing their employees that their contracts were renewed for another year. It was an eerie, fearful day, this first of March. I was sitting in my office, working, when the messenger came and brought me the sealed yellow envelope. I finished typing my sentence, then I tore it open as I walked to the door. It was my intention to go down to the canteen and have lunch. It was one o'clock.
I didn't go to the canteen. I got as far as the corridor
wten I realized what was in the letter. Warners was not renewing my contract,
I walked slowly down into the 3^rd and passed Studio 3, carrying the letter in my hand. Warners was not renewing my contract, I sat down on a pale blue Louis XTV bed which stood outside the studio door in the spring sunshine and lighted a cigarette. Warners was not renewing my contract. I lifted my legs and lay down on the bed and began to think. Vd been fired. The baby was on its way. I'd saved a little money. It would see us through a few months. Also I had a couple of ideas I could sell. Just the same—^Warners was not renewing my contract. I was now a freelance writer. There were a lot of freelance writers who were better off than those under contract. But then there were a lot who were worse off. There were a lot who were a lot worse off. And the baby was coming. And Warners was not renewing ^^' ""^^tract. Why? Why not?
I rose and went over to the main building. I wanted to speak to Jack Warner. Or to one of his colleagues. I wanted to know why they weren't renewing my contract Wanted to know exactly, dammit all!
The entrance to the main building was one gigantic glass door. In a glass cubicle sat a platinum blonde beauty. Fd known her for seven years. Her name was Mabel Dermott and she was married to a traveling salesman. She had two children and you couldn't date her. The trick of the glass door was that it opened only when Mabel pressed a button. That's what she was there for. She was supposed to know everybody and to pass on everyone allowed to enter the main building and those who were not. She knew me. For
"Well, Mrs. Chandler," said Warner, kissing Margaret's hand in a droll but sincere little show of gallantry. "And how did you like the picture?"
The beads of perspiration stood out on my forehead. There was silence, and into this silence Margaret said loud and clear, "I think it stinks!"
Oh God, I thought, oh my God, not that!
I closed my eyes. I could hear Dore Thompson laugh genially. (Was he laughing genially?) Then I heard Jack Warner's voice. "But Mrs. Chandler, we all think it's great!"
I Opened my eyes again. I could see my wife, her cheeks hectically red, her hands on her rounded stomach, sit up and slowly shake her head. "I think it's terrible."
"But our Dorothy. . . .''
"It's not Dorothy's fault," said Margaret. "It's that lousy script. If you'd had any sense, Mr. Warner, and had kept my husband's script, you'd have a picture that was worth a fortune." She looked at Dore. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson, but that's the way I feel." And to Jack Warner, "You're going to lose money on this one."
God bless her, she was right. The company lost a lot of money on The Death of a Lady but at that moment nobody knew this and nobody wanted to know it.
Margaret got up. Obviously alienated, they made room for her coolly. She carried her shapeless stomach ahead of her with dignity and came up to me, her madonna smile on her lips. "Roy, I want to go home."
8
But that wasn't the real catastrophe. The real catastrophe took place on the first of March. That was the day Warners sent out the letter informing their employees that their contracts were renewed for another year. It was an eerie, fearful day, this first of March. I was sitting in my office, working, when the messenger came and brought me the sealed yellow envelope. I finished typing my sentence, then I tore it open as I walked to the door. It was my intention to go down to the canteen and have lunch. It was one o'clock.
I didn't go to the canteen. I got as far as the corridor
wten I realized what was in the letter. Warners was not renewing my contract,
I walked slowly down into the 3^rd and passed Studio 3, carrying the letter in my hand. Warners was not renewing my contract, I sat down on a pale blue Louis XTV bed which stood outside the studio door in the spring sunshine and lighted a cigarette. Warners was not renewing my contract. I lifted my legs and lay down on the bed and began to think. Vd been fired. The baby was on its way. I'd saved a little money. It would see us through a few months. Also I had a couple of ideas I could sell. Just the same—^Warners was not renewing my contract. I was now a freelance writer. There were a lot of freelance writers who were better off than those under contract. But then there were a lot who were worse off. There were a lot who were a lot worse off. And the baby was coming. And Warners was not renewing ^^' ""^^tract. Why? Why not?
I rose and went over to the main building. I wanted to speak to Jack Warner. Or to one of his colleagues. I wanted to know why they weren't renewing my contract Wanted to know exactly, dammit all!
The entrance to the main building was one gigantic glass door. In a glass cubicle sat a platinum blonde beauty. Fd known her for seven years. Her name was Mabel Dermott and she was married to a traveling salesman. She had two children and you couldn't date her. The trick of the glass door was that it opened only when Mabel pressed a button. That's what she was there for. She was supposed to know everybody and to pass on everyone allowed to enter the main building and those who were not. She knew me. For
Similar Books
