A/N: Some of my favourite bits in this chapter. Where Part One was a whistle-stop tour of events pre-New Year's Eve, Part Two is slower: an extended snapshot of events before/after the trip to Paramount. I like to think of this as a somewhat pivotal moment in Joe's story…
PART TWO
March, 1950 – four months later…
There had still been no word from Paramount. That was the least of Joe's problems now.
When he had a moment to himself – which was rare – he would take stock of his situation and justify to himself that the outcome of the events which had occurred had been inevitable, that there was nothing he could have done to change things.
In truth, he felt a fool for not seeing it coming – or not acknowledging, at the very least, that he played his own part in Norma's delusions. His first mistake had been to show weakness when it came to her rapidly fluctuating emotions, but if he'd anticipated what would happen… Well, it was too late to dwell on that now. He should have listened to the down-to-earth cynic in his head, rather than allowing his heart to run away with him.
He had never meant to hurt her. He had never meant for her to hurt herself. Everything happened so quickly, on that fateful night, that he didn't have time to stop and think about Norma: he was too busy thinking about himself. How had he let things go so far? How had he not seen it coming?
He asked himself these questions every day, and could not answer them. He should have seen it coming, and had been in denial for weeks. The possibility was crazy: why would Norma have fallen for him, of all people? She couldn't have done; it was ridiculous. And yet, there it was: that humble admission on New Year's Eve which had sent him fleeing into the night and straight to Artie's apartment, only for him to return to her an hour later…
The scars had faded now, just about… but when she'd first healed enough for the bandages to come off, the angry red marks were a constant reminder of the wreckage Joe had wrought. The guilt kept eating away at him – he had not really believed her capable, despite Max's warnings – and God help him, that protective streak which had been the cause of the whole mess would not back down in the face of Norma's act of desperation.
Norma would see sense, eventually. She had to. They couldn't carry on indefinitely. Joe didn't want to break her heart – he was still fond of her, though things were admittedly more complicated than they had been – but he thought it might become an inevitability nonetheless, and he had a feeling neither of them would emerge from it unscathed.
For now, however, there was relative harmony.
Norma was curled up beside him on the sofa, cuddled up against his side as he attempted to read a book. Max stood guard by the drinks trolley, hands behind his back, trying to look inconspicuous even though he was obviously watching Joe's every move. Norma seemed perfectly content to watch him reading, which was a little off-putting, but he persevered nonetheless.
She seemed to sense when he'd reached the end of the chapter, because her hand closed around his wrist to attract his attention. He conceded defeat, closing the cover. When Norma was satisfied that she had his full interest, she announced:
"Tomorrow, I think we should pay Mr De Mille a little visit. I've waited long enough for him to call."
Max raised an eyebrow from the other side of the room: a silent indication to Joe that he should play along.
"Norma, wouldn't it be better to make an appointment?"
"Of course not. Cecil B has always made time for me before; why should this be any different?" She sat up a little straighter, jolting into action. "Max!"
"Yes, Madame?"
"Make sure the car is immaculate. We need to make a good impression."
"Yes, Madame." There was his familiar nod, an automatic movement after so many years. Joe often wondered if he realised he was doing it.
Norma diverted his attention back to her again, her hand upon his cheek as she drew his face level with hers.
"Oh, Joe, darling; I'm so happy. You'll come with me tomorrow, won't you?"
"Of course I will," he responded, knowing there was no alternative she would accept. "After all, that script of yours has my mark on it now, too. I'd hate to find out it's fallen into the wrong hands."
"In De Mille's hands, it'll be treated like gold dust; don't you worry about that."
She smiled reassuringly, her joy so obvious and infectious that Joe found himself smiling with her. Norma's hand snaked possessively behind his ear, tugging him down into a tender kiss, the lingering taste of sweet champagne and Turkish cigarettes on her lips. The same as New Year's Eve; the same as always. Then she insinuated herself into his arms, pillowing her head against his shoulder.
"Thank you, Joe. None of this would have been possible without you."
Before he could consciously stop it, his hand sought out hers, linking their fingers together. Over the past few months it had become a small, significant gesture that reassured Norma of his presence.
"I know, Norma. I know."
—N|J—
Later that night, after Norma had gone to sleep, Joe was wandering the house in a restless fashion. He had encountered Max only once, endured a small lecture on not straying too far in case Norma awoke in a terror, and come up with an appropriately reassuring response to get rid of him. Once Max was satisfied and had also retired to bed, Joe was left alone with his thoughts.
Eventually, growing bored of walking aimlessly from room to room, Joe returned to his own bedroom and pulled a chair up to the window from which, it was rumoured, Catalina could be seen on a clear day. He still wasn't sure how true that was, but now that the weather was starting to clear up the view was definitely impressive.
The sprawling Hollywood hills lay before him, punctuated by the occasional headlight of a passing car, the city lights twinkling in the distance. The view reminded him of when he first arrived in LA, hoping to make his fortune, and even now he felt a familiar stirring that he had thought long-buried. There was magic out there, if you knew where to find it.
In the silence, his thoughts returned, as they often did, to his current situation. Many a time, he had wondered if there was anything he could have done to prevent it. His memory inevitably took him back to New Year's Eve, the point where everything had changed. He did not like to dwell on it, but he found he could not stop the recollection once it had started – it played out in his mind like one of Norma's silent, flickering epics…
There is music, and champagne, and he's wearing tails. This is not how he imagined spending New Year's Eve.
Norma has yet to make her grand entrance, having told him to be ready for 9.00pm sharp. Max is dressed in a smart white jacket instead of his usual black, manning the drinks trolley. Joe wheedles him for information on their imminent guests, but he insists that "Madame herself" made all the arrangements for this evening.
Max straightens his back, his gaze flitting to the stairs; Norma emerges, resplendent in a diamante gown, and descends the stairs in a regal fashion. Joe sets down his glass and applauds, sweeping into a bow and extending a hand as she approaches.
She ignores his overblown attempt at chivalry and thrusts something into his hand with a brusque, "Happy New Year." After all the money she's spent on his new wardrobe, he already feels as though she's throwing her money away, and he tries to hand it back.
She won't let him. "Open it. Read what it says."
He'd like to say he's surprised by the engraving inside the solid gold cigarette case, but he reads the words with a slight sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Mad about the boy…"
He's suspected for a while that she might have developed something more than mutual respect for him, but he has not found the courage yet to approach the situation in order to defuse it. A part of him is flattered that she could feel that way about him at all – he's a writer, nothing more – just some guy who stumbled into her house by accident. And yet, over the past few weeks they have grown closer: he is the only one who can drag her back from the edge of anxiety, with nothing more than a touch of his hand to hers. Every time he has entertained the notion of leaving, he remembers that fact, and cannot quite bring himself to do it.
He snaps the cigarette case closed and slips it into his inside pocket, accepting it gracefully, then hands her a glass of champagne.
"Yes," she responds, "and you do look absolutely divine."
She takes the drink and examines him critically, making him all the more self-conscious. The get-up is a perfect fit – as it would be after the amount of measurements that were taken – but it's not really his style.
"Well, thank you."
Norma sips her drink and then takes his hand, dragging him towards the terrazzo as she explains where it came from. The mention of Rudy Valentino makes his head spin; he keeps forgetting, lately, who she is, who she used to be. Then, she places both of their drinks on Max's trolley, and encourages him to join her in a dance.
He resists, at first: he doesn't know how to tango, and would not want to sully Valentino's tiles with his amateur steps. Norma will hear nothing of the sort, sweeping him into an impromptu dancing lesson. Her technique is not exactly formal, but her enthusiasm is infectious, and with the insistent pressure from her hands – one on his shoulder and one clasped tightly in his – she manoeuvres him across the terrazzo until he slowly begins to get the hang of it.
They have a few stumbles, Joe tripping over his own feet as well as Norma's, but she perseveres. When she's certain he can continue without further guidance, she tries to draw in closer, but the feathery contraption in her hair is irritating him.
"Don't lean back like that!"
"Norma, it's that… thing. It tickles."
She extracts it without further argument and crosses the terrazzo to hand it to Max, who immediately spirits it away somewhere and resumes his stoic position at the drinks trolley – half-watching the scene with a critical eye, his face unreadable.
Norma turns back, meeting Joe's gaze with an expectant expression, and he finds himself crossing the terrazzo to meet her halfway – drawn to her despite himself. It might be his imagination playing tricks on him, but it feels as though the music is rising in time with their slow and measured steps towards each other.
As Norma settles in his arms again, this time allowing him to lead, she tells him her plans for next year: how perfect it will be for the two of them. He begins to suspect that nobody else is coming to the party, but he is too deep in concentration to bring it up. The implication of her words strikes him a little too late, but he tries to reason with her nonetheless – breaking away for a moment on the pretence of reaching for a drink.
The atmosphere in the room begins to change: Joe senses it like an oncoming train and feels just as powerless to stop it. Norma stares at him intently, watching his every move; the music crescendos in the background; he falters under her gaze and finds his logic abandoning him, his hand reaching out for hers in a silent invitation.
They take to the floor again. The champagne has gone straight to his head and he can no longer think clearly. As they spin in circles, the dizziness takes hold; Norma laughs happily and it sounds refreshing in the gloom of her mansion. He starts to forget where they are, who he's with; through the hazy cocktail of music and champagne, all he can see is that lovesick beauty from the old photograph. His mindscape conjures up a flickering picture: a guy and a girl and a foreign terrazzo; a familiar scene with an inevitable ending…
Norma laughs again, captivated, as he dips her dramatically and their noses almost touch. She assures him again how next year will be perfect – he can hardly deny her that. Their closeness suddenly dawns on him and he feels a twinge of panic. Norma looks disappointed as he stands again, but she recovers quickly and leads him back to the sofa.
He can no longer avoid raising the subject. "So, when are they supposed to get here?"
She laughs like it's the most ridiculous question in the world. "Who?"
"The other guests."
"There are no other guests," she explains. "Just you and me."
Her kiss is as sweet as it is surprising; he forgets himself for a moment, that movie in his head picking up where it left off. She pulls away again to gaze at him, and he recognises the look in her eyes as that tiny flicker she has tried so hard to suppress before. This time she does not suppress it, and the intensity of it grips his heart like a fist.
"I'm in love with you – surely you know that."
She doesn't wait for a response, leaning in a second time, deepening the kiss. The clichéd movie scene in Joe's head continues to play for a second or two, then suddenly judders to a halt as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He grips her shoulders lightly and gently pushes her back, hoping to convey how big a mistake it would be to embark on something he suspects neither of them are quite ready for. He cannot find the words to express himself adequately, his mind reeling as to how they reached this point and how, if at all, he could have prevented it.
"What is it?" she asks, becoming agitated. "What's the matter, Joe?"
What can he tell her? How can he save himself? "Norma…"
"What?"
"I… what I'm trying to say is—"
"What you're trying to say," she interrupts him, "is that you don't want me to love you. Is that it?"
She's right, of course – that would make things easier. But it's not what he was going to tell her.
No – what he wanted was to try and explain that they already have a good thing going and that they shouldn't ruin it; that he is fond of her but had never entertained the notion of it becoming any more than that; that there are more deserving people out there than a down-on-his-luck screenwriter. None of these things will come out of his suddenly dry mouth, and his silence only infuriates her more.
"Say it!"
In her growing frustration – with him and with herself – Norma lashes out, slapping him hard across the cheek. It shocks him more than it hurts, and he rises from the sofa and takes a step back, away from her. Norma follows, her expression anguished, and cradles his face in her hands. Her eyes reflect a thousand apologies, mere moments before they brim with tears; she releases him and heads for the staircase to flee the scene.
She breaks down before she even reaches the third step, collapsing at the foot of the marble stairs. A jumble of apologies and pleas for forgiveness pour out of her, barely comprehensible.
Joe cannot bear to see her crying, even now – even in his anger and confusion, the sight of her makes his heart ache to offer comfort. In a few short strides, he crosses the room to approach her, sitting beside her on the second step of her grandiose staircase. His presence only fuels the fire of her self-destruction; she rounds on him with a venomous glare.
"Well, why are you still here? Go on, get out of here. Go. Just go!"
With this demand, her sobbing begins anew and she turns away from him. When he makes no move to leave, his indecision paralysing him, she makes the choice for him: regaining enough composure to march determinedly towards the front door and hold it open. He watches her every move, meeting the challenge in her gaze with a sincerity in his own; her façade crumbles, just a little, as he rises from the step and approaches both Norma and the door at a calm and steady pace.
First, he closes the door, shutting out the sound of rainfall with a satisfying click. Then he reaches silently for her hand, and walks her back to the sofa in the living room. She sits, her eyes never leaving his as he joins her. In her surprise, the tears have stopped, the hysteria finally burned out.
Joe fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and as he uses it, once again, to dry her tear-streaked face, he knows she recognises the significance of it. The desperate hope in her eyes is what finally undoes him. The mistake has already been made; he can't talk his way out of it, so all he can do is try and repair the damage. He works silently, diligently, until the handkerchief is smudged with mascara; as he folds it neatly and returns it to his pocket, the strains of Auld Lang Syne drift across the room from the hired band.
It's midnight.
Norma, momentarily distracted by the chiming of the clock, does not anticipate his next move, as he leans across to brush a kiss against her mouth. She freezes, surprised, and then melts bonelessly against him; her relief and happiness are tangible, and although she tries to follow as he pulls back, somehow she senses that he has something to say.
"Happy New Year, Norma…"
She searches his face for any suggestion of insincerity, and finds none.
"Happy New Year, darling…"
He basks in the glow of love that radiates from her, and when she pulls him to her again, possessively and with deceptive strength, he does not resist…
"Joe! Where are you? Joe!"
Norma's voice pierced the silence, ringing clearly through the darkened atmosphere of the house and breaking through the haze of Joe's remembrance.
It took him a second or two to realise that his mind had returned a false memory of that night. Things had taken a very different turn to that, yet for some reason his reminiscence had skipped the part where he ran out on Norma, and indeed her own actions in response. It wasn't as though he'd never considered how things might have gone, in a different place or time, but never before had the events changed so drastically in his memory. Thinking about it now, as the residual images faded, it felt almost real.
Norma shouted for him again. A glance at his alarm clock indicated it was just gone two o'clock – right on schedule.
Shaking himself back to reality, Joe trod carefully towards the adjoining doors between his room and Norma's, opening them quietly. More often than not, she would be calling out in her sleep, and he would only need to stay for a few minutes until the nightmare passed. Tonight, it seemed, that was not the case. In the dim, dusky pink of the lamplight, Norma was sat up in bed with a wide-eyed, terrified stare, which dissipated only a little when he emerged through the doorway.
"Joe? Is that you?"
"Yes, I'm here." He moved further into the room so she could see him properly, then settled on the edge of the bed. He disentangled one of her hands from where it was gripping the covers and held it in his, watching as another layer of calm descended around Norma's demeanour. "What was it this time?"
She looked thoughtful for a moment, but the images which had plagued her seemed to have vanished, and she shook her head.
"I can't remember now."
"Well, whatever it was… it was just a dream, Norma. You're perfectly safe."
"Yes. Thank you, Joe."
He gave her hand a comforting squeeze and made to leave, but she would not relinquish her grip on his fingers. He stopped in his tracks and turned, giving her a questioning look.
"Please don't go. I'm still frightened."
"Norma, I'm only in the next room—"
"Please, Joe. Stay with me. Just until I fall asleep."
He sighed, but acquiesced with a nod. Her expression brightened in gratitude, as he pulled aside the layers of sheets and comforters and slid in beside her; he knew the chair was not an option tonight. Norma switched off the lamp, bathing the room in moonlight, then snuggled up to him, pillowing her head against his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. He rested his arm loosely around her shoulders and tried to get comfortable.
Before too long, Norma drifted off again. She always slept better when Joe was with her, and he wondered how long it would be before this became an inevitably permanent arrangement.
Joe's thoughts immediately returned to their previous pattern, as his mistaken recollection came back to haunt him: dancing with Norma, losing himself in a strange illusion, repairing the damage he had never intended to cause before it could escalate. It made no sense at all. He couldn't alter what had happened… and yet a part of him yearned to go back, re-edit the scene and change the ending.
He risked a glimpse at Norma, sleeping peacefully and still wrapped possessively around him. A beam of white-blue moonlight arced across the bed, illuminating her features. She looked so much younger than her years, unburdened by the panic and uncertainty which filled the majority of her days. That familiar affection flared up in his chest, the overwhelming need to protect her from those demons which seemed to follow her around.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, fully expecting to disturb her. She didn't stir, other than a barely perceptible tightening of her grip around his torso.
Ordinarily, he would attempt to extricate himself from the bed and return to his own, but Norma had given him very little room to manoeuvre and he could not find any way of doing so without fully waking her up. As he listened to her even breathing in the darkness, he felt himself start to succumb to unconsciousness, and conceded defeat. Nevertheless, he could not avoid the thought which crossed his mind mere seconds before sleep dragged him under.
Christ; there was no way this could end well.
—N|J—
Joe overslept the next morning. He had a vague, half-conscious recollection of his alarm clock ringing until the action wound itself down, but it had sounded somewhat distant and he was too tired to shut it off. He had no idea what time it was; there was morning daylight streaming into the room, bright and piercing.
It was that which had woken him up, along with the sensation of a hand combing gently through his hair. He resurfaced slowly, somewhat reluctantly, and found himself face-to-face with Norma, propped on one elbow and gazing at him with unconcealed affection. She smiled at him beatifically, almost glowing from a halo of sunlight behind her.
It took him a couple of seconds to remember where he was, and why, though his question over the time of day was conveniently answered by the distant chiming coming from the hallway, informing him it was ten o'clock. There was probably breakfast waiting downstairs; Norma was usually very strict about the most important meal of the day and he was surprised she hadn't woken him sooner.
"Good morning," he said, for a want of anything more appropriate.
"Yes, it is," she responded, somewhat cryptically. Despite the evidence in front of her, there was an edge of hopeful curiosity to her tone when she asked: "You… you stayed the whole night?"
"Well, I… I didn't want to disturb you," he explained, his mind's eye conjuring up the image of her sleeping peacefully in the moonlight. "You were…" He stopped himself before he could finish that thought, a little afraid of what might come out.
Norma would not let him get away with it so easily. "I was what, Joe?"
"I don't know, Norma. It doesn't matter."
She took pity on him in his recently-woken state, and did not push him any further to explain. Nonetheless, he was worried he'd let his guard down too much already, caught unawares by the situation. Norma was exceptionally good at reading him, which he supposed was an inevitable side effect of so many years making silent pictures and communicating without words. For his own part, he was more than aware that, more often than not, he wore his heart on his sleeve – particularly when it came to dealing with her occasional bouts of melancholy.
Norma suddenly shifted, cuddling closer. "I slept wonderfully."
"Good."
Norma's hand trailed lazily across his stomach, presumably to squeeze him in gratitude, but she did not quite manage it – Joe jerked away from her touch with a sudden yelp and she retreated, stunned, the first hint of a challenge flickering in her eyes as she sat up.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Sorry."
She'd already worked it out, however; the fire in her gaze simmered down and was replaced by a mischievous twinkle. "Are… are you ticklish?"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm n—"
His denial fell on deaf ears: Norma suddenly launched a full-scale attack to his ribcage, as he tried not to succumb to laughter, and failed. He attempted to retaliate in kind, only to be thwarted by the discovery that, infuriatingly, she did not share the same affliction. Trying to fend her off only provided her with more access.
Norma's joyful laughter at this latest piece of knowledge was a rare and unfamiliar sound, so different from the hysterical panic and desolate sobbing Joe had become so used to. He was becoming exhausted from her relentless onslaught of tickling, finding it difficult to catch a breath, but nonetheless Joe felt something loosen in his chest at the sound of it. Norma's happiness made her glow with a youthful exuberance he had rarely seen before.
He tried to protest again but found it impossible to get a word in edgeways; every time he tried, she changed direction and provoked another fit of laughter. Eventually, the only solution he could come up with was to gently overpower her and pin her to the mattress, gripping both of her wrists in one hand whilst he supported his own weight with the other. Thankfully it seemed to work; when he let go of her again, she was not tempted to repeat the performance. Her laughter slowly dwindled whilst Joe recovered, her eyes darkening as the childish playfulness suddenly distilled into something more serious.
Norma raised a hand to caress his cheek, sighing contentedly.
"I love you, Joe."
He wanted to reassure her, to respond with the words she so desperately wanted to hear, but he was not in the habit of saying something so important if he did not mean it – and surely it was worse to lie to her. He could no longer deny that he felt something for Norma, but he could not call it love. What had started as curiosity had turned to friendship; sympathy had turned to protectiveness; fondness to affection. There were moments when she caught him so intensely in her thrall that he forgot how to breathe, but no – it was not love.
A little voice in his head replied: Not yet. He silenced it firmly.
He couldn't give her what she wanted, but she would accept whatever he was willing to provide.
Joe turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm, and then to the thin, white scar on her wrist. Tears glittered in her eyes as she pulled him close, her kiss deep and consuming, stealing his breath a second time.
As they parted, Joe suddenly remembered Norma's announcement the previous evening. She tried to tug him down again but he gently resisted.
"Norma…"
"Yes?"
"Don't tell me you've forgotten what day it is." She looked puzzled, so he clarified: "You have a date with Cecil B. De Mille…"
The realisation dawned on her face; she wriggled out from underneath him and started scurrying about the room in a bout of frenetic activity. She chastised him for not reminding her sooner, lamenting the lack of time she had to prepare. Then she shooed him back towards his own room, ordering him to make himself presentable, and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.
Joe allowed himself a smile at Norma's enthusiasm, but it faltered when he considered how the imminent meeting with De Mille might go. There was every possibility the carefully-constructed façade he and Max were maintaining might be demolished by a misplaced word from Norma's old colleague, and there was no telling how she might react.
If the inevitable happened, Joe would have to be there to pick up the pieces. He had no other choice.
—N|J—
Half an hour or so later, Joe had made himself as presentable as he was going to be, though he doubted Norma would agree. On finally emerging downstairs, he found breakfast laid out in the living room as anticipated: some toast which had gone long-cold, an array of fruit, a pitcher of orange juice and a pot of coffee which was, by that point, only just lukewarm. Max was nowhere to be found, which he was glad about, as he certainly was not looking forward to explaining away the laughter which must have been clearly emanating from Norma's room.
Max, it transpired, was making some final preparations to the Isotta-Fraschini, buffing the exterior to a high shine and brushing the final remnants of dust from the upholstery. Joe heard the distant sound of the motor juddering to life, as Max manoeuvred the vehicle out of the garage and onto the driveway, left the engine idling for a moment and then turned it off again. He returned to the house, carrying a stiff brush and a chamois leather duster, just as Joe was helping himself to some of the toast, and regarded him with a slightly sceptical expression.
"I can make a fresh batch, if you would prefer, Sir," he said.
Joe poured himself a cup of coffee and took an experimental sip, wincing slightly. "No, that's okay. Thanks. This'll be fine."
"Will Madame be joining us?"
"I should hope so; this is her big day."
With that, he settled on the sofa with the morning's newspaper, as Max wandered in the direction of the kitchen to get rid of the car-cleaning implements. There was nothing particularly noteworthy in the news: just a perfectly ordinary day. For Norma, however, this was not an ordinary day; this was her first big public appearance in who-knew-how-many years. Joe actually felt nervous on her behalf. The flurry of morning preparations must have distracted her, at least for a while, from the enormity of what was about to happen, but he wondered now if her reluctance to emerge was down to sudden stage fright.
He opted to give her another thirty minutes before going to find her.
Max had been hovering somewhat aimlessly in the living room, occasionally glancing towards the staircase or even at Joe himself, but he did not speak. Joe gave up on the newspaper and got up to pour himself an orange juice, at which point Max took the opportunity to ask the question he had clearly been sitting on for the past half-hour.
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr Gillis, what—"
He did not get to finish the question – Joe was relieved, as he had a pretty good idea Max had been about to ask about the giggling – because at that point his attention was diverted to the staircase, where Norma had finally emerged. Joe followed the line of Max's gaze, watching as she descended in her usual, regal fashion – and found he could not look away.
She was impeccably dressed, as usual: a subtle black two-piece embellished with white fur, her hair done up in an elaborate arrangement secured by pearl-accented pins, the whole thing set off by a glittering set of jewellery which comprised more diamonds than he'd ever seen in his life, and a make-up job that must have taken most of the past hour by itself. The glass of orange juice sat forgotten in his hand, the sight of Norma stunning him stupid. She'd certainly pulled all the stops out to impress De Mille.
The effort felt worthy of applause, but the glass in his hand effectively put a stop to that. Instead, all he could do was stare, open-mouthed, as Norma made her slow descent, regarding Joe's stupor with a certain curiosity.
"Joe – whatever's the matter?"
He snapped his mouth shut self-consciously, downed the contents of the glass in one swig to cure his suddenly parched throat, and finally put it down on the drinks trolley.
"Nothing, I just…" He hesitated, weighing up his options, before going with his first instinct. "You look beautiful, Norma. You'll knock 'em dead today."
Her cheeks darkened at the unexpected compliment.
"Thank you, darling."
She approached, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then wiping away the smudge of lipstick left in its wake. In her heels, she was almost his height. It occurred to him that she was once again playing the role of Norma Desmond, the great movie star, collected and confident; the Norma he knew was a small, fragile, but occasionally fiery being. It was fascinating to behold, the way she could switch so easily between the two.
Norma's focus was elsewhere now.
"Max, is the car ready?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Well, come on. Let's not waste any more time."
If she was nervous, it was well-hidden beneath her fashionable armour and outwardly self-assured demeanour. As she went through a few final preparations in her head – what to say to De Mille, how best to sell the script and, indeed, herself – Joe raised a hand to his cheek, wondering why the spot where she'd kissed him still tingled. He had no idea where the compliment had come from, although it was certainly true: she looked stunning and probably knew it. Her appearance this morning was a reminder to Joe of just how breathtaking she could be. He'd seen the vulnerable, self-conscious side of her so often that he'd forgotten there was anything else.
Max went out to start the car, as Norma hovered expectantly near the door, waiting for Joe. He indicated for her to go ahead, closed the door behind them, and offered her an arm, escorting her all the way to the driveway. He assisted her into the car before climbing into the back seat beside her.
As soon as the car pulled out onto the road, Joe sensed Norma's cool and collected front begin to falter. That was to be expected: the outside world was probably a scary place after all this time. He reached out instinctively for one of her gloved hands, squeezing reassuringly, and the effect was immediate: the mask settled back in place.
—N|J—
Their arrival at the Paramount gates had proved to be an interesting experience. If not for "Jonesy" pulling strings for Norma, they might not have gotten inside at all, and all of her hard work would have been wasted. Of course, that was still a distinct possibility even after they'd gained access to the lot. Joe hoped fervently that De Mille would have the heart and the conviction to let Norma down gently, and that she might accept the truth from her former director where Joe himself had failed.
Max pulled up outside Stage 18 – a featureless concrete box just like all the others, though its interior housed all of the trappings of cinematic illusion. Joe got out first, opening the passenger door for Norma and offering her a hand out. She appeared pleased by his attempt at chivalry and accepted it without question.
Norma regarded the unimposing door to the soundstage with trepidation.
"Won't you come along, Joe?"
He shook his head. "No. It's your script. It's your show. Good luck."
She nodded determinedly and opened her arms. He acquiesced, stepping forward into her embrace.
"Thank you, my darling."
She held tight for a few seconds, taking strength from the contact, then pulled out of his arms again. She reached for his face with both hands, examining him for a moment before leaning in for a kiss. As she pulled away, he saw the depth of gratitude reflected in her eyes, and almost felt unworthy.
The soundstage door opened and De Mille emerged, flanked by various backstage workers. He greeted Norma fondly as she approached, ushering her inside, and they both disappeared behind the door. Joe was admittedly curious to see what went into making a great De Mille epic, but this was Norma's moment and he did not want to intrude.
In the daylight, Joe took in his surroundings. The lot was familiar, of course, but it felt like years since his unproductive meeting with Sheldrake. Time had almost ceased to exist within the walls of 10086, Sunset Boulevard, and he had to think for a moment to recall just how long he'd been there. Was it four months? Five? Certainly long enough that he'd already forgotten the unpleasant smell of his old apartment.
Casting his eyes around, his gaze alighted on a sign: Readers Department. It jogged a memory from somewhere and it took him a second or two to place it. Then it came back to him: Betty Schaefer, that eager young wannabe screenwriter he'd given the story to. Well, he had some time to kill: might as well pay her a little visit and see how it was going.
The office was located up a set of stairs, a few metres from where Max had parked the car. Max was preoccupied waiting for Norma, watching the soundstage like a hawk; Joe made an excuse about going for a stroll and headed for the stairs.
Betty was typing away at something, deep in concentration. Her office was light and airy, the harsh sunlight blocked by a Venetian blind at the window which was half-drawn, casting horizontal shadows across the entire room. She was dressed in a smart salmon-pink sweater and a tan skirt, with what remained of her lunch beside her on the desk in the form of a shiny green apple. Joe had to pause a moment to take in the scene; everything in his life was black-and-white these days, from Norma's home movies to almost everything she wore. There was colour in the mansion's décor, but it was muted, faded after so many years.
Joe knocked on the door. Betty frowned at the sudden interruption, but recognition dawned on her face as he stuck his head through the gap.
"Well, if it isn't Mr Gillis! Come in, pull up a chair."
"Oh, I can't stay long. Just thought I'd see how that story was going." He remained by the door, hands in his pockets.
"To tell you the truth, I've been having a little trouble with it. Sheldrake wants me to produce a script, but he didn't give me any kind of a deadline and I've been so busy…" She trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Mr Gillis. You're the first person I've spoken to in about three hours. It gets kind of lonely up here. Sometimes I even talk to myself."
"Is that a fact?"
He smirked at her and she seemed to realise what she'd said, adopting a mortified expression which only amused him even more.
"Oh, dear. Please ignore everything I just said."
"Okay, I will. Now, what seems to be the trouble?"
Adopting a more determined pose, Betty reached into her desk drawer and pulled out what she'd written so far, tapping at the pages with the tip of a pencil.
"I've got the outline here, and a couple of scenes which I'm pretty happy with. To be honest, I didn't want to write too much of it." She jabbed the pencil in his general direction with a frown. "You promised to call me, Mr G—"
"There's no need for formalities, Miss Schaefer," he interjected. "Just 'Joe' is fine."
"You promised to call me, Joe. We were supposed to work on this together."
He shrugged nonchalantly. "I had a crisis. Something came up."
"Excuses, excuses."
In fact, he'd forgotten all about Betty Schaefer and the script they were supposed to be collaborating on, a decision he'd made in the heat of the moment on New Year's Eve when escaping Norma was the only thing on his mind. Events since then had taken over every aspect of his life. He certainly had not expected to run into Betty again. Her enthusiasm was contagious, however, and he felt guilty for not contacting her, so he approached the desk and reached for the manuscript.
"Let's take a look…"
What she'd written was good, he noticed; the outline was solid and the two scenes were well-crafted. She just needed a little push to boost her confidence.
"Betty, this is really good."
"It is?" She seemed genuinely surprised.
"I don't think you need me after all." He handed the script back to her.
"Oh, but..."
"I really have to go." He turned to leave, making it halfway to the door before she called after him.
"Wait! Please, just one more thing…" She paused, waiting until Joe gave a nod. "I'm not convinced about the ending. It needs something else, but I just don't know what."
Joe skimmed the relevant part of the outline again and gave it some thought. Something popped into his head, and before he knew what was happening, he was throwing ideas around and Betty was scribbling them down, nodding enthusiastically.
He told himself it was just a little healthy encouragement, but in truth he found it exhilarating. Working on Salome had been an exhausting endeavour – it had been so long ago since the editing was finished that he'd practically forgotten, or else had been so distracted by latter events that it seemed unimportant – and it was refreshing to come up with something of his own again. Something new and exciting. And Betty was on his wavelength, eagerly noting everything down and occasionally interjecting with an opinion or another idea.
He became aware of raised voices downstairs, one of them sounding distinctly like Max. He remembered Norma, down in the soundstage with De Mille. Presumably she hadn't re-emerged yet, but it would not do for him to be absent when she eventually did. Joe made his excuses and tried to leave, but Betty remained insistent they should work on the script together. She was more persuasive than he had given her credit for, and he found himself agreeing to meet up again – the threat of a half-eaten apple aimed at his head was enough to convince him. He would work out how to approach Norma about it later.
On his return downstairs he caught the tail-end of whatever altercation had taken place. Max was staring gruffly in the direction of two burly-looking men carrying props, who were beating a hasty retreat.
After a moment's deliberation, Max explained that the phone-calls Norma had been receiving were nothing to do with Salome – rather, someone had espied the Isotta-Fraschini when Max had delivered the script to Paramount, and wanted to hire it for a picture. It was apparent that he had dealt with the situation, but nonetheless Joe felt a surge of frustrated anger and almost wanted to give the men a piece of his mind.
Despite Max's distrust of Joe, at that point they both came to the same silent conclusion: Norma should be protected from this information at all costs.
The door to Stage 18 creaked open, and De Mille escorted Norma out into the sunlight again. Joe could not quite make out their conversation, but Norma appeared outwardly happy as she embraced De Mille warmly and they shared a familiar laugh. De Mille watched from the doorway as Norma returned to the car and Joe assisted her back inside.
As soon as he settled in beside her, she reached for his arm excitedly.
"Well, how did it go?" He was almost afraid to ask.
"The picture's as good as made," she enthused. "Of course, he needs to finish his current project first, but he says mine will be next."
"That's… that's great news, Norma. I'm happy for you."
Norma cuddled up against him, resting her head against his shoulder, as Max slowly manoeuvred the car out of the lot. Joe craned his neck to look back towards Stage 18, where De Mille was still watching from the doorway with a troubled expression, only disappearing back inside once the car had cleared the area.
The damned coward.
—N|J—
Joe had spent much of the return journey silently fuming to himself over De Mille's inability to be truthful with Norma, and – if he was brutally honest – over his own cowardice in that regard. Things should never have gotten this far: Norma should not still have been under the misguided illusion that her picture would get made. Maybe Joe should have been firmer with her when he'd had the chance, before there was her fragile heart to consider.
In his frustration, he almost forgot about his brief encounter with Betty Schaefer and his promise to work on the script with her. He made a mental note to try and approach Norma about his potential collaboration at some later point. After all, Betty was engaged to Artie: surely Norma would not feel threatened if he explained that.
She was happily recounting her experience inside Stage 18. Joe was only half-listening at first, but he managed to drag his attention back as she explained about someone called "Hog-Eye", a gentleman up in the lighting rig who had recognised her and pointed a spotlight in her direction. He imagined she must have made a striking vision, illuminated in all of her monochromatic splendour with all of her people crowding around. He was glad that she'd made at least a little impact, after all the effort she'd put in, even if that impact was not on De Mille.
Finally, Max pulled the car into the driveway. Joe had never thought he would be pleased to return to that gloomy old mansion, but for better or worse, it had been his home for the past few months, and he could not deny a sense of relief as the car came to a halt. He'd spent the past few hours worrying about Norma, other than the ten minutes in Betty's office, and it was exhausting. He needed a stiff drink, and to lose himself in a book for a few hours.
Assisting Norma from the car had become a feature of the day, and he saw no reason not to continue the theme now they were home. She allowed herself a laugh this time, still in high spirits from her meeting at Paramount. They ambled towards the house, Norma's arm resting in the crook of his elbow, as Max trundled the car back to the garage.
Once they were safely inside, Norma seemed to deflate: she stumbled on the threshold, gripping tighter to Joe's arm, and he reached out to steady her as she pressed a hand to her forehead.
"Whoa, there. You okay?"
She gave a nod. "Yes. Just a little tired. All this excitement has worn me out."
"Come on, you should probably sit down." He started to lead her towards the sofa, but she resisted.
"No, I… I think I'll take a nap. Just a couple of hours and then I'll be right as rain."
He walked her towards the stairs instead; she recovered some composure along the way, loosening her grip on his arm.
"I'll be fine now. Thank you."
"Do you want me or Max to wake you?"
"No, I'll be all right." She shook her head, then regarded him for a second or two with a thoughtful expression. "Joe, you… you do realise how important today was to me, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"I'm so grateful for everything. For Salome; for you being there with me… for you, Joe. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'd do it a thousand times over."
He had no idea what to say in response to that, floored by the depth of her feelings for him. How could he ever live up to her expectations? It seemed an impossible task, and one which he felt woefully unprepared for. He found himself remembering the events of that morning: Norma, carefree and happy in the morning sunlight, brimming with unfathomable love, silently beseeching him to feel the same; himself, unable to grant her that one wish unless – until? – it was actually true. His traitorous heart defied him at every turn, just as it did now when her eyes betrayed her vulnerability as clear as day.
Caving beneath her scrutiny, he could do nothing except pull her into his arms, wrapping her in a tight hug which she all-too-readily reciprocated. Joe squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden onslaught of emotion, swallowing the lump in his throat. Norma did not deserve this; he'd tried to tell her that from the start. She needed more than a stray puppy who'd wandered in off the street and discovered that meals were better than scraps: more than an impoverished screenwriter with no backbone and even fewer convictions, except for the one which prevented him from lying to her even when it was exactly what she wanted to hear.
With a great effort, Joe managed to regain control of himself. Norma's arms loosened of their own accord and she began to pull away. He did not quite trust his face not to betray him, so he prolonged the moment by pressing a kiss to her forehead. Thankfully, it was enough to calm the tempest in his head, at least for the moment.
"It's been a crazy day," he said. "Go and rest."
She nodded obediently and headed towards the stairs. Halfway up, she was suddenly caught in a beam of light as it cascaded through the elaborate stained-glass window set into the wall, illuminating her in a kaleidoscope of colour. Joe's breath hitched again.
"Norma?" She paused in her ascent, half-turning to look down at him with a questioning expression. "I… I meant what I said before we left. You really do look beautiful."
She looked mildly surprised, almost as though she'd forgotten about all the effort she'd gone to that morning, before melting into a grateful smile. She climbed the rest of the steps with her head held slightly higher, eventually disappearing behind the closed door of her room, and Joe suddenly, miraculously felt a degree of sanity begin to return.
He had not noticed Max behind him in the doorway, watching the exchange with a sombre expression. When he turned towards the living room, he practically jumped out of his skin at the sight of the formidable butler.
"Christ, Max, you nearly gave me a heart attack. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."
"Forgive me, Mr Gillis. I did not want to impose." He watched as Joe headed for the drinks trolley and poured himself a drink. There was little point in offering to mix something for him, as Joe downed the contents of the glass in one gulp, grimaced, and then poured another. "Is anything amiss, Sir?"
"Amiss? I don't think so. Why do you ask?" He took a smaller swig this time and swirled the glass thoughtfully, more than aware of why Max might think there was something wrong. He wasn't sure how much of the exchange on the stairs Max had seen; more than enough, it seemed, to have troubled him.
"Is Madame quite well?"
"Yes, she's fine. Just a little tired, but that's to be expected."
There was clearly something Max wanted to say, but deep-rooted propriety was preventing him from voicing it. Joe was in no mood to fish it out of him. For several seconds they merely regarded each other with differing levels of suspicion, Joe idly sipping his drink until he'd emptied the glass.
Eventually, the simmering cauldron of Max's frustration bubbled over, and his expression darkened threateningly. Joe replaced the glass on the trolley, taking a step back, before changing his mind and standing his ground, his hands jammed into his pockets with characteristic bluster.
Max considered his words carefully. "Mr Gillis, I would warn you: do not lead her on unless you have any intention of playing this part indefinitely."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Her heart is fragile and easily broken. If you have any doubts whatsoever, I must advise you to tread carefully. There are ways and means, if you wish to regain your freedom – I would not hold it against you. But please – do not play this game if you believe there is any chance of winning."
Joe was taken aback by Max's uncharacteristic display. Yes, he had always displayed a level of territorial protectiveness over Norma, but this was something new entirely. Joe's first instinct was to argue, to deny the thinly-veiled accusation which had been thrown at him, but with a sinking sensation, he realised Max was right. Joe was well aware of Norma's fragility, and had been for some time, but after her meeting with De Mille he'd made the decision to support her through whatever might happen next. If he could just get her through that, she might come out stronger on the other side – strong enough to function without him.
"Max, believe me – I'm more than aware of Norma's weaknesses. No matter what you may think of me, I'm not so cold-hearted as to ignore them."
Max had run out of steam, for now; his next words were spoken with a more resigned tone. "You cannot lie to her forever."
"Who says I've been lying at all?"
One of Max's eyebrows raised sceptically. "Sir?"
"I haven't lied to Norma. Not once in all the months I've been here. It isn't me who writes her pages of fanmail. Just like it wasn't me who convinced her that script would get shot."
The older man looked chastised and guilty at Joe's implication; yes, he and Cecil B. De Mille were just as culpable in feeding Norma's delusions, and all three of them were equally caught in her web. At least Joe had the benefit of foresight and enough of his wits to try and mould the situation into something manageable. Maybe he'd even save Norma from herself along the way.
"I have no intention of hurting her again," he continued. "I learned that lesson on New Year's Eve. You probably won't believe me when I tell you this, but… I do care for Norma, in my own way."
"I do believe you, Mr Gillis. You have proven that much."
"To you, or to her?"
"Ido not doubt that you care for her," he confirmed, "but Madame will need more than that, eventually." Max paused a moment, imbuing his next words with a gravitas that seemed designed purely to exacerbate the guilt Joe already carried around. "She loves you. It is a precious gift, one not to be taken lightly."
Joe gave up any pretence of treading carefully, allowing his frustration to take hold.
"I know that, Max – and I wish I deserved it. I really do." He gestured towards the stairs for a moment before returning his hand to his pocket. "She's worth so much more than some nobody who stumbled into her driveway. If I could go back and change it, I would... but I can't. So I'll play the part as long as necessary."
Max fell into silence again. A tumult of thoughts seemed to cross his features as he considered what Joe had said, but none of them were verbalised. Eventually, however, he seemed to concede that Joe was being truthful. He straightened his back, snapping back into the mode they were both accustomed to, almost as though the conversation had never taken place.
"Will you be wanting dinner now, Sir? Or shall I wait until Madame comes down?"
Joe floundered, reeling from Max's sudden change of demeanour. It was difficult enough keeping track of Norma, without Max adding to things.
"I'll wait," he decided eventually.
"Very good, Mr Gillis."
With a half-bow, Max turned to leave. Joe watched his retreating back until he disappeared through a doorway, momentarily stunned into immobility by what had just transpired. With Max gone, Joe's bravado at his own ability to rectify the situation wore off, leaving him with the sinking realisation that he was already in over his head and had been for some time.
His plan to support Norma through the inevitable disappointment of Salome was a sound one, in theory, but it would be a near-impossible task. Since New Year's Eve he'd been extra careful about where he stored his razor, checking daily to make sure the drawer remained locked and the key hidden in the bottom of his old suitcase. There was every likelihood he would need to barricade Norma – and quite possibly himself – in a safe place where she couldn't cause any damage. And after that… who knew?
There had been a light at the end of the tunnel, for all of five minutes. Now he felt the familiar pull of the quicksand as it closed over his head.
To be continued…
A/N: If anyone is reading/enjoying this story, please do let me know. Even if you've stumbled upon it months or years down the line, it's always nice to hear from people.