Fancies and Goodnights - Collier John - Страница 22

«I can do you a western,» said I, sarcastically. «Will you run to a real horse?»

«I've run to a real trap already, my dear Rythym.»

«Maybe you have. Very well, I'll get something on paper.»

Next day I called Belinda early. «Well, lovey, our script's got panned. I'm writing you a little old period piece in a small-town setting. You wear one of those big bonnets that hide the face.»

«Charlie, you don't say so! I want to come in in a carpet, with three big pearls.»

«The pearls are out, ducky. There's an economy ramp on. Listen, even your shells are gone. It's you and a horse.»

«Don't write a word, Charlie. Wait till I've seen Nick.»

After lunch, the telephone summoned me to Mr. Mahound. Belinda was there, flushed and radiant

«Real shells, Charlie!»

«And bells, Charles. Belinda and I are going to be married. Isn't that so, sweetie?»

«Yes, and I'm going to have real shells.»

«Real battle-ships, too,» said I. «How about that for an idea? Let me put 'em in the script. Coming up the Hudson, blazing away! My present to the bride.»

«Do you hear what he says, Nick? Oh, Charlie, you can write! Real battle-ships!»

«I'm afraid Charles is joking, my dear. He likes jokes about blazing away. But you and I — let's talk about our wedding.»

«All right, Nicky. We'll fly to New York. Well go to the Little Church Around the Corner.»

«Did you say the little judge around the corner?»

«No, honey, the Little Church.»

«Not for us, honey. Us for a quiet wedding, in front of a judge.»

«What? Who do you think I am? Your chattel? Your slave? Am I a film star, or not?»

«But a good little wife, too, honey. Remember you're a simple girl. Doggies . . . cookies . . . Her fans want her to be an ideal little wife, don't they, Charles?»

«Yes, Nicky. But I'm not signed up for the wife part yet awhile. I'm not acting any part before I'm signed up for it. My mother said a girl shouldn't ever act like a wife till she is one. She's old-fashioned. Why are one's people so old-fashioned?»

«I'm old-fashioned, too, dear,» said Nick. «I can't go to the Little Church Around the Corner. I should sink through the floor. Look, darling, make it just a plain judge, and maybe I can stretch a little on budget. Maybe I'll get you a battle-ship or two.»

«Well, don't forget you've promised.»

«What a relief! What happiness!» cried he. «Real happiness! Let's start at once.»

«Linda,» I whispered, while he was telephoning for a plane. «Don't forget your prestige. Make it a good long honeymoon. Two months at least, honey, or the world'll think there's something wrong with your glamor.»

«You're right, Charlie. I will.»

So they went to Yuma. After some weeks I got a telegram. «Home on Friday. Love. Nick and Linda.» Soon afterwards came another. «Confidential. Can you possibly outline alternative script? Western, South Sea, or other simple natural background. Repeat confidential. Nick.»

After some thought I drafted a rather humorous farm story, of the sort that made Mabel Normand in the good old days. I thought it would hardly appeal to Belinda, but I was under contract. Orders were orders.

I was at the airport to meet them. Linda alighted first, and was at once seized on by the press. I heard the words husband, doggies, cookies.

«Charles,» whispered Mahound. «A word in your ear. Have you got that outline? That rough script?»

«Yes. I've got it. What's the matter? Are you stalling on the real battle-ships?»

«Charles, she wants the real New York.»

«Well! Well! Well! Never mind. I've got a farm story. She can have real striped stockings.»

«She thinks big, Charles. She may feel it rather a letdown after the real New York.»

«Don't worry. You go off to the hotel. Everything's fixed up for you. I'll look in after supper.»

Late that evening I went round to see them. Something told me that all was not harmony in the romantic menage. Mahound was frowning over a heap of bills.

«You've bought a lot of rather impressive orchids, Charles,» said he, in a worried tone.

«Nothing's too good for you and Linda,» said I, smiling. «You're my best friends in pictures.»

«Yes, but it all goes down on the expense account»

«There you go again, dear!» cried Linda. «He's got all mean, Charlie. He says he can't afford to buy me New York. For the bombardment scene. Where I save it. I can't act in front of a lot of paste-board, Charlie. You tell him.»

«There's something in that, Nick,» said I. «Still, listen, Linda, I've got a new script for you. The part's sort of lovable. Farm. Birds singing. Real birds. Hens, too. You come in scattering the corn. With comedy stockings on. Real stockings. Real comedy.»

«Nick, is this just a bad joke, to welcome me home?»

«Now, listen, honey,» said Nick. «Give the writer a chance. He's put his life's blood into this story. Go on, Charlie.»

«That's true, Linda. There's smiles and tears in this script»

«Smiles?»

«Where you get a sock in the puss with a custard pie. A real …»

«Say. What have you got lined up for me next? A burlesque act? I'm out. I'm through.»

«Joan of Arc started on a farm, honey.»

«Joan of Arc never got no custard pie.»

«She got worse than that, milking the cows, sweetie,» said Nick. «I was there. I fixed it.»

«What do you mean, you were there?» cried Belinda. «Are you starting in lying to me already? I'll fly to Reno. No, I won't, though. Don't forget what you put in my contract, out in Yuma. I've got to O.K. every script.»

«Well, sweetie, Charles'll write you one you'll really like. Maybe where you're a young girl, mad to get on the stage. Then you can do your Juliet speech at a party. Where there's a big producer.»

«No, he won't»

«Yes, he will.»

«No, he won't. That's flat.»

«Yes, he will,» said Mahound. «A lovely script. A part that'll make you drive the whole world crazy. The real world. Won't you, Charles?»

«Well, as a matter of fact,» said I, «I won't»

«What?»

«Look at the clock. Didn't you hear it strike twelve?»

«What of it?»

«Well, Nick,» said I, «it's two months. Today — but now it's yesterday — my first option came up for renewal. I'm afraid you've let it slip by. I'm free!»

«Hell! I could sink through the floor!»

«Nicky, you got to sign a writer who'll put me in New York. And parts for my doggies.»

«Your doggies are dead,» I told her. «They ate your cookies.»

«Ow! Charlie! My doggies!»

«I could sink through the floor!» muttered Nick. «To slip up on an option!»

«Yeah,» said I. «You've slipped. Sink away!»

«I will, too,» cried he, stamping his foot.

And with that he seized Belinda, and, WHOOSH, they were gone through the floor.

I chose one of the smaller orchids for a button hole, and went off to a night-club. Next day I returned to Malibu.