Melting the Snow on Hester Street. Daisy Waugh

ignored her.

      She followed his naked shape through to the small sitting room, where their clothes were still strewn over the couch. (Scarlet velvet, it was. Very moderne. Her proudest possession.) ‘Max? It’s not the end of the world … C’mon! … You two worked well together before. You made some great pictures together. You, Eleanor, Butch: you were a tour de force. Pardon my French. Gosh – maybe he’ll bring Eleanor across with him. Wouldn’t that be something?’

      ‘He’s not going to do that.’

      ‘Well, but he might.’

      ‘No. He’s not.’

      ‘Especially now. She has her contract up for renewal. And with the casting on PostBoy, and it all looking so shaky and all … you know?’

      ‘I don’t, Blanche. No. I don’t know. Unlike you I don’t know everything about everyone else’s business. Because I have enough business of my own to keep me occupied.’

      ‘It is my business to know everyone’s business. And you benefit from that.’ She told him levelly, her feelings hurt.

      Max collected himself. ‘I’m sorry, baby. Of course it is. That was rude of me.’

      ‘In any case,’ she continued, brushing his apology aside, ‘you and Butch – you worked well together before. Didn’t you? You’ll work well together again!’

      He smiled grimly. ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

      ‘Max – I hate to say it, but you haven’t had a sensation since The Girl Who Couldn’t—’

      ‘Every film I make is a sensation.’

      ‘Well, I know that. But you know what I mean …’

      ‘If by “sensation” you mean “sensational ticket receipts”,’ he said, childishly, as if, in Hollywood, ‘sensation’ could ever mean anything else, ‘well, baby, you go right ahead and say it.’

      ‘OK, I will.’

      ‘Because it so happens I’ve had more goddamn box-office hits than just about any other director in this town.’

      Blanche, unselfconsciously naked, leaning against the doorframe, watching him dress, wondered, sometimes, what she saw in the man. She sighed. ‘That’s not actually true, Max. And you know it and I know it. And you know I know it. And actually I could give you a list of the ten – hell – the top twenty grossing directors in this town these past two years. You don’t even come close.’

      He didn’t reply.

      She relented, just a little. ‘OK – 1927, you came close. But we’re near to finishing 1929! That’s almost three years, Max. Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m only saying, maybe Butch doesn’t have to be such a bad thing for you. What’s the big deal?’

      Max didn’t answer. She watched him, shaking out his pants – scowling at them, at her – at everything … And still so damn handsome. She softened, but not only because of that. Because, in spite of everything – his temper, his director’s vanity – he cared so much about the movies he made. It was noble, foolish – doomed. And she sensed that, underneath the machismo and the bluster, he knew it. He was a talented filmmaker, yes. A talented and dedicated filmmaker, whose films would probably one day be forgotten. And she loved him for it.

      ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I was touched, you know. When you wore the white jacket last night. Didn’t think you’d do it.’

      He chuckled, in spite of everything. ‘The fuss you made about that goddamn jacket. You would have killed me if I hadn’t.’

      She’d given him the jacket as a birthday present, way back in May. And then, even before he’d pulled it out from its elaborate ribbon and wrapping, she was fighting with him, working herself into a state about how he’d never be able to wear it without questions being asked, perfectly arched movie-star eyebrows being raised. If he couldn’t even wear a jacket she gave to him, what small space could she ever hope to occupy in his busy, complicated life? All roads led the same way. She tried to stop herself from careering down each and every one of them. But it was hard for her to be in love with him all this time, and never to be making any progress.

      ‘I thought you looked very handsome in it,’ she said. ‘Eleanor did too, I expect? Huh? What did you tell her? Did you tell her you’d bought it for yourself?’

      ‘Honey, have you seen my wallet? I could swear I put it on the side here.’ He stopped. He knew he was being rude, again, and he knew she’d done nothing to deserve it. Except he couldn’t stand it when she talked about Eleanor. It made him wilt inside, for both of them: him and Blanche – and for Eleanor, too. It took every grain of good manners he possessed not to put a hand over each ear and walk right out of the room.

      Most of all, he wanted to get to his desk, get on the telephone to Butch Menken – and find out what in hell was going on.

      Instead, he came across to his lover, took her pretty face in his hands, and kissed her. He said, ‘You’re a girl in a million, Blanche Williams. You really are … But you understand, don’t you? I have to go now. I have to get back to the office. Maybe you’re wrong about Butch …’

      But she never was wrong. Not about this kind of thing. ‘Or maybe I can put a stop to it …’

      She hesitated because she was not unkind and, in fact, in spite of everything, she bore no bad feeling towards Eleanor. Quite the opposite. She was, if anything, in awe of her. ‘But you should probably know about PostBoy,’ she said solemnly. ‘Before you go charging in there making a scene.’

      ‘Tell me,’ he said wearily, dropping his hands, ‘about PostBoy.’

      ‘It’s your wife’s next picture. They sent the script to her yesterday. She will have got it this morning.’

      He laughed – impressed, in spite of himself. ‘How in hell do you know this stuff?’

      She shrugged. ‘I told you, Butch told me …’ Again, she hesitated.

      ‘Would you spit it out – please, baby? Put me out of my misery.’

      ‘Eleanor’s not the lead …’

      ‘Oh!’ he said, slowly, gave a soft groan. He wondered how Eleanor would take it. Realized, with a small shock, that he had no idea how she would take it. She might even be a little relieved. Either way, the news hardly came as a surprise. ‘Poor El,’ he said.

      ‘I mean to say, Max,’ she continued, ‘it’s not even the second lead. Nowhere near. The fact is, she’s a great actress, and we all know that. But her numbers have been dropping. People don’t turn out to see her. And they haven’t and you know this, Max. They haven’t, not like they used to – except for Mermaids, not since you left for Silverman. And that’s the fact. And you probably don’t want to hear it. But I’m sorry.’

      ‘Mermaids was a smash,’ he muttered. Yes, it had been a smash, but everyone knew that it was no thanks to Eleanor. Eleanor might have played the lead, but the notices hardly mentioned her. They were all raving about the new kid on the block, Joan Crawford.

      Blanche was right, of course. As usual. Eleanor was half the actress she used to be. Because she didn’t care enough, it seemed to Max. Not about anything, not any more. And if she didn’t care – if she couldn’t remember how far they had come, how hard they’d fought, how tightly they needed to cling on – then why should he fight for her? He felt a prickling, not of pity, but of anger, of rage at his wife, for abandoning him mid-game – mid-everything – when there was still so much to fight for. Perhaps this would wake her up. Perhaps it might shake her out of the torpor. He glanced at Blanche, who was watching him so closely, trying so hard to read something, the smallest clue, from his perfectly unreadable expression. He kissed her. Thanked her for telling him the news – and left the apartment.

      Too