Free A Touch of Stardust by Kate Alcott Page B

face, then dabbed calmly at the stains on his shirt. He looked up at Julie and walked over to her.
    “Who was that?” she asked, stunned.
    “You might say a former colleague,” he said. “We’re not on good terms.”
    “I could tell,” she managed. She tried to keep her voice calm, not quite sure what to say next. Irene Selznick had quietly drifted away to the other side of the room.
    “I’m sorry you saw that—it’s the postscript to an old story,” he said.
    “Please, tell me.”
    He sighed. “Julie, it’s all old news.”
    Was she supposed to stand there and pretend nothing had happened? She glanced around the room and was suddenly struck by a realization. “No one seems surprised,” she said. “Please, explain.”
    His face seemed to close up. “I’ll tell you later. I assure you, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
    “Don’t bother my pretty little head, is that it?” She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t look dismayed or scared or confused, all of which she was. Andy. What made her think she actually knew this man, knew his character, in not much more than a month? She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling. Tears were forming in her eyes.
    The stiff expression on his face softened slightly. “Okay, I’ve shocked you enough. I’ll take you home.”
    She looked around. They were being serenely ignored. No tension, just life as usual. She knew this might likely end up as an anonymous tidbit in Louella’s column tomorrow—anything about anyone connected with
Gone with the Wind
was fair game now—including something tongue-in-cheek about the clueless girlfriend who stood there barely holding back her tears. How was she supposed to act?
    “Dinner is served,” Sara Mankiewicz announced at that moment, with what appeared to be a quick, sympathetic smile in Julie’s direction.
    That did it. Julie straightened, lifted her head high. Through the dining-room doors, she could see a table glistening with silver and crystal. A maid was lighting tall cream-colored tapers. “Not at all, Mr. Weinstein,” she said calmly. “We’ve been invited to dinner, and we will stay.” She turned and preceded Andy into the dining room.
    She peered at the place cards, each name in elaborate script.Would they have remembered hers? There it was. She was seated between Ben Hecht and a magazine editor from London whose name—she peeked at his place card—appeared unpronounceable. Elegant bone-white china, succulent prime rib; jokes, laughter. Conversation. Ben Hecht, blowing smoke rings to the chandelier between courses. Easy engagement. The magazine editor (“Call me Bernie, forget the last name”) chatty and pleasant. Sparring over the possibility of war.
    “Roosevelt is trying to get us into it,” Mankiewicz declared, slicing vigorously into his meat. “It’s Europe’s war, not ours.”
    “Mank, the Germans are out to own the world,” argued the magazine editor. “For God’s sake, they won’t show any of your movies in Germany unless your name is taken off of them.”
    “They don’t like me, I don’t like them,” Mankiewicz retorted.
    “Hitler isn’t going to invade the U.S.,” Hecht broke in. “No reason American boys should go over there and get killed by the thousands.”
    A producer from RKO growled, “We’ll have to get in it sometime,” he said, waving his fork.
    The conversation stayed juicy and lively, bouncing from topic to topic. Julie felt energized just listening. From across the table, Frances Marion smiled and lifted her glass, that small, universal gesture that held various meanings. And then dessert, a berry tart with ice cream; coffee; after-dinner liqueurs served in tiny crystal glasses. The mood was mellowing. From her seat at the table, Julie could see the lights shimmering blue in that jaunty frog-shaped pool. David O. Selznick, usually intense and focused, lounged back in his chair, chortling over one of Herman’s jokes.
    And when dinner was over, goodbyes said,