Melting the Snow on Hester Street. Daisy Waugh
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she said, already writing it down. ‘Yes. I think I can understand that.’
He didn’t know what it meant, and neither – when she thought about it – did Blanche. What ‘space’ between them? The space between them was already immeasurable.
‘That’s right,’ he said vaguely. ‘Creatively.’
She scribbled it down. ‘And tell me,’ she added, still scribbling. ‘Tell me how it happened. Did the two of you sit down and discuss it? Were there tears? Or was it … kind of civilized? Can you tell me a little bit about how it all went down? My readers are longing to know.’
He looked at Blanche, her honest, pretty face so eager to hear whatever he might say next – no matter what. The problem was, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember having the discussion – or even if there had been one. One day it was the three of them working together. And the next day – nothing. He had left them. Both. And he was on his own.
‘Lionsfiel has always been like a family to her,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s what you have to remember. She was never going to leave Lionsfiel. But –’ he added, looking again into those honest eyes, and feeling suddenly, inexplicably compelled to reciprocate, to say something to her that actually had some meaning – ‘I have to tell you,’ he said, surprising himself, not only by its truth but also by the fact of his sharing it with her, ‘I miss her. I miss having her with me on set. I miss spending my days with her. I miss our working together. There was something very, very wonderful about that …’ He paused, thinking about it: the old days. It wasn’t something he allowed himself to do often. And it hadn’t always been wonderful. Of course not. But there had been wonderful moments. Many of them. ‘I’m not sure I realized quite how wonderful,’ he added, ‘until it was gone … Hey. But that’s life, huh?’
‘It sure is,’ she said, scribbling away.
‘Sometimes,’ he added, unwilling to leave the memories just yet, his mind briefly awash with images from good times, the early days – the old nickelodeon on Hester Street, the journey West, the long, slow climb together, ‘when I contemplate a future, making movies without Eleanor … It’s like imagining a world …’ and he paused, searching for the truth – any truth at all – that he might be able to share with her, ‘… it’s like imagining a world without music. Without birdsong …’
‘That’s very, very pretty,’ sighed Blanche. ‘Gosh. I wish someone would say that about me one day.’
He laughed, tilted back in his seat, looked across at her appreciatively. ‘I’ll bet you have guys murmuring stuff like that in your ear just about every day of your life, Miss Williams,’ he said, and he meant it. She was sweet – sweet enough to blush, he noticed. For the second time, too. He watched as she recovered herself; watched as she busily pretended to scribble in her little reporter notebook …
‘But you have to understand, Blanche – may I call you Blanche?’ He leaned across the table toward her. ‘That in spite of everything – really, everything – I had to go to Silverman. Silverman Pictures are making the most exciting – the best – movies in Hollywood right now. I believe that. I truly do believe that. And I make movies, Blanche. I’m a filmmaker. I’m a director. It’s what I do. What I am. There’s nothing else …’
He stopped abruptly, aware that he was revealing too much. He smiled. ‘Any case,’ he continued, ‘I sincerely hope that when you finally get to see the finished cut, you will agree with me that this new picture has been worth the … the pain …’ He paused. Added, more to himself than to Blanche, ‘And of course it has. You know, Blanche, I think, if you don’t mind my saying it, I think it’s my best picture yet.’
And then, somehow, she had looked up from her notebook, gazed back at him with such smitten warmth, that … in the intensity of the moment, the excitement and passion of talking about his beloved project to such a pretty, sympathetic, innocent, intelligent woman, he’d asked Blanche what she was doing later.
And they had spent the rest of that hot August afternoon in Blanche’s bed.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been unfaithful to his wife. Not strictly speaking – not by any stretch. But (if you didn’t count the move to Silverman Pictures), it was the first time Max felt that he was betraying her. Because Blanche was not Eleanor. But she was quite a find. And Max could appreciate that. And he knew from the very beginning that he would be coming back for more.
That was the last time he talked to Blanche about his wife at any length, or in any detail. And it was difficult for Blanche. Always, very difficult. Because Eleanor was a big star. And, if not classically beautiful – her features were irregular; everything was too large, too vital, too wild – there was no question that she shone. Something shone from her on screen – and in life, too. She was a big star. And – yes – Blanche was right. In a city of cheats and shrews, Eleanor’s beauty, her small kindnesses, her beautiful manners, made her a class act. Nobody had a bad word to say about Eleanor.
Max was very fond of Blanche. Blanche knew that. In fact, he loved her. And she knew that, too. But whereas Max Beecham loved Blanche Williams, Blanche Williams was in love with Max.
So it was difficult for her.
8
‘I bumped into Butch Menken yesterday,’ Blanche said suddenly. Changing tack. She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking vaguely for her clothes.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Max replied.
‘Oh, he’s not so bad!’
‘Whatever you say, baby.’
‘And you know what he told me?’
‘Tell me. What did you he tell you?’
‘You don’t know already?’
‘I don’t know if I know. I don’t know what he told you.’
She considered him, the handsome man in her bed, the love of her life, lying there beside her, checking his wristwatch. Already thinking about his next appointment, his next battle, his next … whatever it was he had to do, which had nothing whatsoever to do with Blanche Williams. She was jealous – only a little jealous, she told herself. She was ferociously jealous – and not just of his wife, but of all the beautiful women who surrounded him. To be fair, he had never given her any reason to suppose that his attention wandered. But he cheated on his wife, and that was enough. If he cheated on his wife, why wouldn’t he cheat on Blanche?
She pushed the thought aside. It was pointless. Self-defeating.
‘So?’ Max glanced across at her, noticed her troubled expression. He placed a thumb between her brows and gently creased out the small frown. ‘Baby? You still here? … What did Butch tell you?’
‘Butch told me … only I thought you might already know. Because it so directly affects you. But I guess not.’
‘What?’
‘Well. That Butch is joining you at Silverman.’
Max dropped his thumb, looked at her sharply. ‘Nonsense.’
‘That’s what he told me, Max. He said – because of Eleanor’s role in PostBoy. Being partly the reason … But I’m not sure if I believe that. Except he probably feels pretty bad, with Eleanor being left behind again, after you already did it once … But I’m telling you he’s leaving Lionsfiel and he’s going over to Silverman.’
Max gazed at her. ‘Blanche,’ he said coldly, ‘you’re talking in riddles. What about Eleanor’s role? What has that to do with Butch coming to—?’
‘Butch Menken is joining Silverman as executive head of production,’ she said, patiently, despite his tone. ‘I’m sorry, Max. They should have told you. Joel Silverman should’ve told you. Should’ve … involved you in the decision.’ She leaned over and kissed him, as an