Whispers Read Free Page A

steaming water, as if it were sluicing away more than dirt and sweat, as if it were washing off ugly memories as well. In that depressing Chicago apartment, in the minuscule bathroom, where all the faucets had dripped and where all the drains had backed up at least once a month, there never had been enough hot water.
    She ate a light lunch on the glassed-in patio that overlooked the roses. While she nibbled at cheese and slices of an apple, she read the trade papers of the entertainment industry— Hollywood Reporter and Daily Variety —which had come in the morning mail. Her name appeared in Hank Grant’s column in the Reporter , in a list of movie and television people whose birthday it was. For a woman just turned twenty-nine, she had come a long, long way indeed.
    Today, the chief executives at Warner Brothers were discussing The Hour of the Wolf , her latest screenplay. They would decide either to buy or reject by the close of the business day. She was tense, anxious for the telephone to ring, yet dreading it because it might bring disappointing news. This project was more important to her than anything else she’d ever done.
    She had written the script without the security of a signed contract, strictly on speculation, and she had made up her mind to sell it only if she was signed to direct and was guaranteed final cut. Already, Warners had hinted at a record offer for the screenplay if she would reconsider her conditions of sale. She knew she was demanding a lot; however, because of her success as a screenwriter, her demands were not entirely unreasonable. Warners reluctantly would agree to let her direct the picture; she would bet anything on that. But the sticking point would be the final cut. That honor, the power to decide exactly what would appear on the screen, the ultimate authority over every shot and every frame and every nuance of the film, usually was bestowed upon directors who had proven themselves on a number of money-making movies; it was seldom granted to a fledgling director, especially not to a fledgling female director. Her insistence on total creative control might queer the deal.
    Hoping to take her mind off the pending decision from Warner Brothers, Hilary spent Wednesday afternoon working in her studio, which overlooked the pool. Her desk was large, heavy, custom-made oak, with a dozen drawers and two dozen cubbyholes. Several pieces of Lallique crystal stood on the desk, refracting the soft glow from the two brass piano lamps. She struggled through the second draft of an article she was writing for Film Comment , but her thoughts constantly wandered to The Hour of the Wolf .
    The telephone rang at four o’clock, and she jerked in surprise even though she’d been waiting all afternoon for that sound. It was Wally Topelis.
    â€œIt’s your agent, kid. We have to talk.”
    â€œIsn’t that what we’re doing now?”
    â€œI mean face to face.”
    â€œOh,” she said glumly. “Then it’s bad news.”
    â€œDid I say it was?”
    â€œIf it was good,” Hilary said, “you’d just give it to me on the phone. Face to face means you want to let me down easy.”
    â€œYou’re a classic pessimist, kid.”
    â€œFace to face means you want to hold my hand and talk me out of suicide.”
    â€œIt’s a damned good thing this melodramatic streak of yours never shows up in your writing.”
    â€œIf Warners said no, just tell me.”
    â€œThey haven’t decided yet, my lamb.”
    â€œI can take it.”
    â€œWill you listen to me? The deal hasn’t fallen through. I’m still scheming, and I want to discuss my next move with you. That’s all. Nothing more sinister than that. Can you meet me in half an hour?”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œI’m at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
    â€œThe Polo Lounge?”
    â€œNaturally.”
    Â 
    As Hilary turned off Sunset Boulevard, she