A/N: We've had the calm, now here's the storm – another whistle-stop-tour of events leading into the finale…

PART THREE

April, 1950

Blind Windows was proving to be an interesting project. It had slowly but surely evolved from the original concept until it bore very little resemblance to the story Betty had liked so much, but there were a lot of good ideas coming through. Joe hated to admit it, but he was starting to enjoy himself; he had never considered writing with a partner before, believing that writing was a solitary and lonely effort, but Betty's enthusiasm was too infectious to ignore.

They smoked and drank coffee and threw ideas around, alternating places at the typewriter; Joe went over earlier drafts with a blue pencil, perpetually surprised when his suggestions were met with agreement rather than stubbornness. Salome had clearly affected him more profoundly than he wanted to admit. It was a relief to be able to write dialogue again.

Betty got up from the typewriter to refill the coffee-pot from a water cooler just outside the door, so Joe took her place at the desk. He kept one eye on the clock - it was eleven-thirty and he would need to make his way home soon. Betty was chattering about something as she put the water on to boil, but he wasn't really paying attention, reading through the progress they'd made so far. Another two scenes were done, with a third close to being wrapped up. He wanted to get to the end of that tonight, if possible.

"Who's Norma?"

Betty's question pierced his bubble of concentration; he looked up to find her staring at the engraving inside his cigarette case. He wasn't quite sure if he'd heard her right.

"Who's who?"

"Sorry," she explained. "I don't usually read private cigarette cases."

When she put it like that, of course it sounded ridiculous; he became aware that he was looking at her askance, as though she had indeed opened up some kind of personal diary. He had not expected Betty to just help herself to his cigarettes; maybe he shouldn't have left the case lying around; maybe he shouldn't even have brought it out here, into the real world. But she'd read it now, so he had to give her an explanation.

"Norma's a friend of mine," he suggested. "A middle-aged lady: very foolish, very generous." And if she could hear you now, Joe, you'd be out on your ear.

"I'll say. This is solid gold." She examined the inscription again. "Mad about the boy?"

He had to change the subject before she got suspicious. Rising from the chair, he took the cigarette case from her and snapped it shut, then returned to the desk and placed the offending article beside him, underneath his lighter.

"So, how's Artie these days?"

Betty knew when to leave well enough alone. "He's stuck in Tennessee. It rains all the time – they're weeks behind schedule. No-one knows when they'll be back."

"Good," he said absently. He had not fully heard her response, preoccupied with how he might begin to explain Norma to Betty, should the need arise. He span the lighter absently, waiting for it to settle, wondering if he should take its final direction as some kind of sign. It landed not-quite-parallel with the cigarette case, and he did not know what to make of the result.

"What's good about it?" Betty asked incredulously, the rising pitch of her voice snapping him out of his thoughts again. "I miss him something terrible."

He gesticulated to the page sticking out of the typewriter. "No, I mean this idea we have. It's really pretty good."

If Betty was remotely suspicious, she did not indicate it, as Joe changed the subject again and gave the script a final push for the evening. She fell back into step with him as they threw some ideas back and forth, the awkward conversation practically forgotten in the excitement of honing their plot. They didn't manage to finish the scene they'd been working on, but Betty had a good idea of where it was going, and as they parted ways she promised to look at it and have it ready for next time.

Unfortunately, he could not predict when that next time would be: he had still not managed to explain to Norma about his script-writing endeavours. The window of opportunity had been lost. There had been a period of two days following the trip to Paramount where she managed to sustain her positive mood, believing whole-heartedly that Salome was getting shot. Then the doubts set in: De Mille was only being kind; the script needed re-drafting; she was not ready for her great return just yet. In all of the reassurances that were needed, he had not found the time, or indeed the inclination, to break the news to her. Instead, he started sneaking out like a rebellious teenager, during the quiet period between Norma going to bed and inevitably waking up again, telling himself each and every time that the next day he would manage to approach her about it.

The success of his trips to Paramount to work with Betty, however, was an exhilarating feeling; the rush of excitement and relief every time he managed to sneak back into the house unnoticed was incomparable. He would be wracked with guilt the following morning, half-hoping for Norma to have noticed and to ask him where he was going. She never did, and a few days later he would do it again, buoyed by false courage and a need to finish the script at any cost.

He was well aware of what a hypocrite he was, after his accusation towards Max. Yes, he was lying to Norma now, too: another layer of subterfuge to protect her from the harsh realities around her.

—N|J—

Joe caught a taxi back to the house, instructing the driver to pull up on the street rather than entering the driveway, so the engine noise did not alert anyone's attention. As he made his way quietly towards the house, he kept his wits about him, vigilant to any movement within the house or the garden. The coast was clear as he approached the door, closing it behind him as silently as possible.

He turned around to face the stairs and make his way to his room, only to be practically bowled over by a hysterical Norma as she came running from the direction of the living room and pitched herself against him. He recovered, raising an arm to rub her back in comfort, as she clung to the front of his jacket and tried valiantly to regain control of her emotions.

"Where were you, Joe?" she eventually managed to say. "What were you doing outside?"

"I needed some fresh air," he explained. "I went for a stroll. I didn't think I was gone that long, but I must have lost track of time."

"I called out and you weren't there," she continued without acknowledging his words. "I couldn't find you. I had this terrible nightmare – there was nobody in the house, not you, not Max, I was completely on my own, everywhere was dark and there was a storm outside and I was so scared—"

Joe grasped her by the shoulders and eased her away from him, distracting her before she could work herself into a panic, and she lifted her face to look at him. Some of the fear left her expression as she regarded him, slowly coming to realise he was actually there with her.

"It was just a dream, Norma. You're not alone. I was right outside, and Max… well, Max would sleep through a freight train driving past his window, but he hasn't gone anywhere."

"You… you just went for a walk?"

"Yes. There's a great view – maybe you should join me next time."

For a moment, he almost thought she was considering his offer, from her ponderous expression. Then a mask of sheer relief descended over her features and she covered her face with her hands, another wave of emotion washing over her. She was clearly trying to control it but not quite succeeding, as silent sobs wracked her body; she looked very small and vulnerable, and Joe could not fight his instinctive need to look after her.

He reached out, pulling her effortlessly into his arms; she leant against him unquestioningly, uncovering her face only so she could hold him closer, resting her head against his chest. He said nothing, waiting for Norma to calm at her own pace. As he looked down at her, the play of light and shadow caught her at just the right angle that for a moment, she was indistinguishable from the old photograph in his memory. His heart skipped a beat, quite unexpectedly, and Norma froze; it was obvious she'd felt it, too.

He tried to curb the panic as to how he might explain it. She could draw whatever inferences she wanted, but he could not even begin to describe his own confused visions; that would only hurt her more. Whatever Norma chose to believe, he would not correct her.

He lifted her chin until she raised her head to look at him, a thousand questions in her eyes, and before she could verbalise any of them he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. Norma pulled back after a second or two, her gaze searching his, then kissed him again with more fervour, pushing him backwards until he collided with the door.

She tried to get closer and failed, her frustration tangible, hands wandering in an attempt to make contact with his skin. He managed to break through her haze just long enough to say, "Not here…", then allowed her to lead him up the stairs.

—N|J—

"Happy New Year, darling…"

She pulls him down into her embrace with surprising strength considering her weakened state, and as her lips find his the only predominant emotion he can feel is relief; relief that she's relatively unharmed, that the damage is not permanent, that even though he was responsible for her act of desperation, it has not resulted in anything that will not heal, with time.

It soon becomes apparent that Norma wants more from this bittersweet reunion than a new year's kiss, and he is so exhausted from worry and the rush to get back to her that he would almost give in rather than argue… but she suddenly hisses in pain, drawing in a sharp breath, and they both pause. Joe carefully untangles her arms from around his neck, and his throat closes over at the sight of blood seeping through the bandages around her wrists.

When she sees the concerned and guilty expression on his face – he doesn't bother to try and hide it – she offers a smile, as if to say it's of no consequence. She tries to kiss him again but he's having none of it, the seriousness of his gaze halting her.

"Joe…?"

"Maybe this should wait," he suggests. "Until you've healed."

"It's nothing," she says. "Look, the bleeding's stopped already."

"Norma, please. I… I don't want to hurt you." He stops himself before he can add the word ' again', but he wonders nonetheless if she's thinking the same as him: that he's already hurt her more than he can fathom, and would do anything to make it right.

She concedes quietly with a nod.

"I'll get Max to change the dressings," she says.

"No. Let me. It's the least I…" He sighs, meeting her gaze, his heart aching from not knowing what to do for the best. "Please let me take care of you."

Something changes in her eyes, and her demeanour, as she acquiesces. The fire has gone out, and in its place is something deeper and more consuming. He remembers catching a glimpse of it earlier in the evening, and being too scared to acknowledge it; now it gives him hope that all is not lost, that he can regain her trust and perhaps save himself along the way.

"You'll have to ask Max where everything is…"

"Okay, I'll do that. You stay there."

He finds Max in the kitchen, staring mournfully into a drink. He has never known Max to partake of liquor before, and he is taken aback by the scene. The older man regards him with suspicion, but does not say anything. Joe mumbles out an explanation and although Max is clearly dubious, he nonetheless retrieves the items from a locked box beneath the sink, handing him bandages, ointment and painkillers, a soft cloth and a bowl of water. The exchange is decidedly awkward, Max speaking only to provide instructions, and Joe vacates the room as quickly as possible with the supplies in hand.

On his return to Norma, she is still sitting quietly, her hands draped lifelessly in her lap. She watches his every move as he approaches the sofa, lays down the items and pulls up a footstool to sit on. He reaches for one of her hands and works silently, diligently, unwrapping the layers of bandages so he can start again.

The cut to her left wrist is much deeper than he had expected; in the back of his mind he already knows the other will not be so bad, because she's right-handed and the first cut is always the deepest anyway, but the sight of it momentarily stuns him with a sick horror. If Max had been only a minute too late…

He shakes off the thought, returning his attention to the task at hand. He cleans the wound carefully; Norma bites her lip in obvious discomfort but does not flinch or pull away. Next he applies the soothing ointment; the antiseptic smell is unsettling but necessary. As he reapplies the bandages, he knows they need to be as tight as possible, fighting his instinct not to cause any further pain.

The process is repeated on her other wrist, quicker now he knows what he's doing. He admires his handiwork, if one can call it that – Max's work was neater, but he's doubtless had a lot of practice. That unpleasant thought is a jolt of reality for Joe, as Norma's words on his return to the house echo through his head: "I'll do it again… I'll do it again…"

He makes himself a silent promise that as long as he's around, she will never do it again.

Joe gathers the supplies again and moves them out of the way so that he can join her on the sofa. She gazes at him for a moment, a myriad different emotions swimming in her eyes. It is only when he finally takes her hands in his that she speaks.

"Thank you, Joe."

He nods vaguely. "Max… gave me some painkillers, if you need them."

"No, I'll be all right."

That sense of relief overcomes him again and he gathers her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She melts against him and he realises how exhausted she must be: it's nearing one o'clock and the evening has taken them both through every conceivable extreme of emotion.

"You should probably get to bed," he says. "It's been a long night."

"I'm not tired," she protests, though it is obviously untrue. "I'd like to stay here a little longer. Could you… just hold me for a while?"

"Whatever you want, Norma."

He leans back against the sofa, Norma almost weightless in his arms as she rests against him. She emits a contented sigh, and after a while her breathing becomes even as she drifts off to sleep.

He has no idea what the next year will hold for the pair of them, but he knows already that it will not be easy…

—N|J—

Norma slept, as she often did, coiled tightly against his side, wrapped around him like an extra blanket. It brought her some peace, and Joe certainly did not begrudge her that. The nightmares had only gotten worse since Paramount, her sleeping more erratic. He had stayed with her almost every time since then, the nights where she did not wake in a terror becoming rarer as the weeks dragged on.

The situation was becoming increasingly untenable. That intricate framework of untruths surrounding Norma was growing weaker by the day, like a house of cards one shaking hand away from toppling. Norma held firm to her belief that Salome would be produced, but the cracks were starting to show. She could be happily, enthusiastically rehearsing a scene, and the next second she would be crippled with self-doubt and lose focus. More than one evening had been spent with Norma curled up in his lap on the sofa, exhausted from crying, as Joe murmured reassuring platitudes and allowed her to draw strength from him, as she always had. These were the times Joe was almost grateful that the script would not see the light of day; he wasn't sure she could cope with the pressure.

Max took the opportunity to remind him, with regular monotony, of Norma's "moments of melancholy" and the manner in which she attempted to deal with them; Joe could only reassure him that he was more than aware of the danger. Protecting Norma from herself had become his main priority. Despite his dalliances with Betty Schaefer, he would only leave the house after reassuring himself that Norma was asleep and that she had retired to bed calm and relatively content. If not, he had no choice but to stay; he was terrified of the consequences otherwise.

Norma's actions during his brief absence on New Year's Eve had hung over Joe like a shadow ever since, seizing his heart in a vice-like grip of guilt whenever he was reminded of it – which was often. She was always finding an excuse to touch him – to hold his hand or tousle his hair – and the white scars were constantly in his periphery, bright against the paleness of her skin. She would catch him staring dead ahead, lost in contemplation over what had happened, and he couldn't explain what was wrong, because Norma herself had brushed it off as though it were nothing.

Of course, to her, it probably was nothing – just another failed attempt at her own life, a few more scars to add to her collection. She approached hardship and potential heartbreak in the same melodramatic way as everything else in her life – overblown and without any thought for the consequences. Or at least, no thought for how it might affect those around her, but of course that was entirely the point: she wouldn't be there to worry about it. Joe simply could not come to terms with the fact that Norma valued her own existence so little that she could merely snuff it out like a candle: nor with the fact that Max, despite his warnings, had not been vigilant enough to prevent her attempting it.

So far, Joe had managed to keep that promise to himself: Norma had not repeated her actions, content in the knowledge that whatever Joe felt for her, it was enough to keep him with her. As the days turned into weeks and then into months, he had found himself spiralling deeper and deeper into the world Norma had constructed around herself. And then Betty came along with Blind Windows, and he remembered what the outside world looked like, what fresh air tasted like; he felt a part of himself begin to break away from Norma and roam freely, and the rest of him yearned to follow.

He was determined to finish Blind Windows, with or without Norma's knowledge, but he knew it would not guarantee him any kind of freedom. If Sheldrake liked the screenplay and wanted to produce it, he would have to hand the entire thing over to Betty; he could not keep his name attached to it while Norma was still waiting for Salome to start production. In the meantime, however, he would continue to visit Betty's office at Paramount for their brief, illicit script-writing endeavours, and enjoy what little freedom it afforded him while it lasted.

—N|J—

The house on Sunset was besieged by an army of beauticians and therapists of varying skills, its previously empty rooms buzzing with energy and the overpowering scent of the lotions, potions and products which Norma was enduring in her bid to be ready for the big screen again. Her astrologer swept from room to room, lighting incense and consulting charts, occasionally interjecting with some nonsense about dates and star signs.

Joe wisely escaped into the garden during the day, and to his bedroom in the evenings, until the coast was clear. He had been surreptitiously working on the script whenever he could find a spare moment, looking at the finer details whilst Betty played her part in coming up with the ending. He was well aware this was a dangerous endeavour, and he was particularly careful to make sure he did not leave it lying around where Norma or Max could find it. The project was too far gone now to try and explain it to either of them.

At some point, however, he must not have been paying enough attention: he went to retrieve the script and found it inexplicably missing. He searched all the usual hiding places within his room, trying not to draw any unnecessary attention to himself in the process, and when that failed he searched every nook and cranny, just in case he'd accidentally put it somewhere different – in a hurry, perhaps. With a rising sense of panic, Joe's searching became more and more frantic despite his best efforts to remain calm, until he'd finally exhausted every possibility and merely stood in the middle of the room in a state of despair.

Maybe it was elsewhere in the house. He would have to wait until Norma was asleep and then –

A movement at the adjoining doors to Norma's room alerted his attention, his panic notching up as she appeared in the doorway, holding something very familiar in her hands.

"Is this what you're looking for, by any chance?"

Joe's heart sank as he realised Norma had found the screenplay, in all of its incriminating glory, and he suddenly regretted all of the missed opportunities he'd had to tell her about it. Anything he told her now would be inadequate after the weeks of secrecy, and she was bound to fear the worst rather than believe it was nothing more than an innocent script-writing endeavour.

He did not respond at first, merely reached for the script. Norma held it back, refusing to hand it over until she had more information.

"Whose telephone number is this?"

Once again, he could not formulate a response; the evidence was before her anyway, Betty's name scrawled above the digits on the front of the manuscript. He pleaded silently for her to relinquish the screenplay, and thankfully at that point she relented and held it out to him. Joe took it sheepishly, trying to formulate an explanation, but before he could speak Norma changed tactics, commenting on the areas of self-improvement she had managed to achieve through the persistence of her various assistants. Joe responded placatingly, a little distracted and thrown by her evasive manoeuvres, and feeling distinctly as though something awful was waiting for him around the nearest corner.

Eventually, Norma announced she would be going to bed – she was under strict instructions lately to have an early night – and Joe suggested he would stay up and read for a while, hoping that would be the end of things. Maybe he could tell her about the script properly in the morning, when she'd had some time to sleep on it.

"You went out last night, didn't you?"

The question threw him again; he was struggling to keep up with her tonight, a position he hadn't been in since his first few days at the mansion all those months ago, when her fluctuating moods had first begun to manifest.

"I went for a walk," he proffered, hoping she would be convinced.

"You took the car," she said accusingly.

Joe grimaced guiltily: yes, he had started borrowing the car as his meetings with Betty grew more frequent. "All right – I drove to the beach."

Finally, Norma came to the point she had been trying to avoid. "Who's Betty Schaefer?"

Tomorrow, he told himself again, rising to the bait despite his best efforts to keep a cool head.

"Surely you don't want me to feel as if I'm a prisoner in this house?"

She approached him, wringing her hands together; the first sign of an oncoming attack of anxiety. In his growing irritation, he could not bring himself to feel any sympathy.

"You don't understand, Joe," she explained. "I'm under a terrible strain. It's been so hard I even bought myself a revolver. The only thing that stopped me killing myself was the thought of all those people, waiting to see me back on the screen – how could I disappoint them? All I ask is a little patience, a little understanding…"

It was something of a relief that Norma could admit she was feeling the pressure of the situation she found herself in; he had been worried for some time that she was firmly in denial in that regard, and that when the inevitable disappointment of Salome occurred it would be all the harder to deal with. The mention of the revolver made him pause, however: he had been somewhat content in the knowledge that Norma had not felt such drastic measures were in order to address her so-called melancholia. Now, instead, he felt infinitely frustrated that she had not spoken to him about it, and something softened in his heart, driving him to try and reassure her.

"Norma, there's nothing to worry about." He reached for her hand. "I haven't done anything."

The relief descended behind her eyes. She was convinced, for now. There was some truth to his words, at least: Betty was a nice girl, but she was Artie's girl, and that effectively precluded Joe from approaching her even if he wanted to. Despite everything, he still had some morals left.

"Of course you haven't. Goodnight, my darling."

She squeezed his hand in gratitude and went to kiss him, before remembering she was covered in one of the beautician's strange-smelling concoctions and hesitating; Joe kissed the back of her hand instead, and she disappeared through the doors again.

As soon as the lights in her room had flicked off, Joe found his feet taking him out to the garage of their own accord. He barely had time to think about his actions as he manoeuvred the great behemoth of a car out into the road, only that he felt suddenly claustrophobic and needed to get out – needed to see Betty and finish the script while he still had a chance. Yes, he could tell Norma all about it tomorrow, but that was certainly no guarantee of her cooperation. Not now; not after the months of keeping it from her.

Being on the road cleared his head a little, giving him some much-needed clarity. He knew, deep down, that he should have stayed. Norma was on a knife's edge, desperately convincing herself that she had to be ready for her big moment in front of the cameras that would never turn. Those telling moments of self-doubt were occurring more and more frequently; somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the truth, and was refusing to accept it. He should have stayed with her, at the very least, to support his reassurances that nothing untoward was happening… but the outside world was calling, the desire to finish that story he'd never intended to participate in. Norma's world was like a whirlpool, dragging him down, and now that he'd started swimming against the current he didn't want to stop.

He made the journey to Paramount on auto-pilot. He would finish the script tonight no matter what.

—N|J—

Joe was in a state of turmoil as he drove back to the mansion, the familiar journey passing in a blur as his mind raced to make sense of the events of the past few hours.

The first surprise was finishing the screenplay. Despite his promise to himself in that regard, he had not really expected it to happen. Betty had worked hard over the past couple of days and her ending was sound; with a little polish it became a stirring but satisfying finale. She was so excited by the prospect of finishing her first movie script that Joe was suddenly reminded of just how young she was: her exuberance and joy were tangible and he could not help but remember feeling the same way, all those years ago.

They had celebrated by taking a stroll through the backlot – painted screens made to resemble a New York street, the finishing touches still being added by artists who were working through the night. Whatever was being filmed had a dreary feel to it, which was not helped by the harsh overhead lights. Betty was a beacon of colour, a breath of fresh air in the subdued night-time environment of the backlot, in a navy blue skirt and a sweater the colour of the sky: the same colour as her eyes, which for some reason he had never really noticed before.

Betty was not frivolous; she dressed sensibly, but never in dull or dreary colours. She wore no jewellery except that ring from Artie: a simple band with a small diamond that occasionally caught the light with a dazzling prism effect; Artie must have saved for months to buy it. She treated herself very rarely to an expensive perfume, applied sparingly so it lasted as long as possible. She was shy and self-conscious and had not been born to grace the screen, though she was undoubtedly pretty and charming (but not pretty or charming enough, as it transpired), and moreover had no desire to do so. Betty Schaefer was just an ordinary girl with extraordinary dreams, and perhaps the most "un-Hollywood" person Joe had encountered in all of his years there despite her third-generation roots.

She was everything Norma was not. The realisation of that hit him with a blinding clarity, afterwards, but it was not enough to assuage his guilt. There was no real excuse for his actions; he could blame feeling trapped, or the heat of the moment, but in truth he had merely stopped thinking, glad of a silent reprieve if only for a short time. Now, there were four hearts in the balance, and the noise in his head had increased tenfold. He thought back again to what had happened, trying to make sense of it.

Joe had not really noticed Betty's preoccupied state, at first, because he was too distracted by his own thoughts. The script was finally finished, which meant that tomorrow he could sit Norma down and explain everything, content in the knowledge that even if she wasn't happy with it, the entire thing was over and done with and she would have nothing further to worry about. Once that decision was firmly entrenched in his mind, Joe came back to himself and focused on the matter at hand.

Water from the cooler was certainly an untraditional way of celebrating something, but he was sick of champagne anyway. It was only when he went to hand Betty a cup that he realised how far away she was; she started when he touched her arm as though he'd burned her.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure."

He immediately feared the worst: that somehow Betty had found out about his "unconventional" lifestyle and all of her preconceptions had been shattered. Still, he wasn't about to blurt it out for himself; better to let her come out with whatever she knew.

"Something's the matter, isn't it?"

"I… I had a telegram from Artie."

Joe relaxed a little. Anything she might have received from Artie could not be that terrible. Maybe she was just missing him.

"Is anything wrong?"

"He wants me to come out to Tennessee," she explained. "He says it would only cost two dollars for us to get married in Clinch."

He was halfway through encouraging her to do just that when he realised she had started crying. So far he had only known Betty to be confident and upbeat, and her change in demeanour surprised him.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. "You're getting married, isn't that what you wanted?"

She shook her head, seeming to become more upset. "Not any more."

"Don't you love Artie?"

"Of course I do! I'm just… I'm just not in love with him any more, that's all."

"Why? What happened?"

Betty turned her face to his; too late, he realised he already knew the answer.

"You did."

In the deafeningly silent pause which followed, the first question to pop into his mind was to ask why. Why – and how – had this happened to him twice? First Norma, now Betty. He had not intentionally led either of them on and yet both had fallen for him of their own accord. He should have been flattered, but he was too confused. His writing partnership with Betty was supposed to be just that; any ill feeling he might have had at the beginning, about treading on Artie's toes whilst he was away on location, was quashed by that ring on Betty's finger. An engagement was a contract, in Joe's eyes, an effective barrier to deflect any assumptions which might be made.

But this changed everything, and Joe's weakness towards Norma's moments of despair suddenly paled in comparison to what he felt now as Betty gazed at him with tearful, imploring eyes. He reached for her unthinkingly, any comforting intent dispelled within seconds as she practically fell into his arms. He couldn't remember even now which of them had instigated the kiss, nor which of them had backed away first.

Their guilty expressions mirrored each other. Betty held his gaze for a moment, looking troubled, then turned away and began making her way down the lot again. Joe followed behind, listening intently as she explained about playing on film sets as a child and losing herself in a land of make-believe. She was clearly looking to him for some guidance as to this strange new situation they found themselves in, hoping he could provide some perspective or make some sense of it – but in truth, he was just as confused by it as she was.

He tried to tell her how much better off she would be without him, that she shouldn't look to him for any hope for the future. No, she should stick with Artie: nice, sensible, unproblematic Artie Green, with his two-dollar wedding in Tennessee. Even as he said it, he knew there was no point. Something had altered, the new circumstances between them suddenly providing Joe with what seemed like an escape to a normal existence again. Betty was smart and sweet and he liked her; maybe he even loved her a little bit, although he'd always had trouble admitting that even when it was true. Even if he didn't, he could see perfectly clearly that eventually he would, that there might be some kind of chance at longevity.

Betty could at least acknowledge that she should hate him for what had happened. Her frustration was all too clear; she had a future planned out before Joe came along and seemingly erased it, no matter how unintentionally. And yet, that future seemed to be rapidly fading into insignificance, as they both came to terms with their unexpected feelings for each other in that moment: feelings which had blossomed out of nowhere, or so it seemed, but were nonetheless valid.

The New York backdrop seemed to transport them away from the Paramount lot, despite its sombre design that seemed more befitting a detective story, as Joe's final last-ditch attempt to advise against the course of action they were inevitably set upon was considered and ultimately rejected. If he could not even convince himself how bad an idea it was, there was absolutely no way he could convince Betty – and so, he did not even try…

—N|J—

A series of familiar landmarks indicated to Joe that he was nearly back at the mansion, and he tried to drag his thoughts back to the present moment and the inevitable task that would face him the next day.

Norma had to know about the script, that much was certain, but now things had changed; he could no longer in good conscience say that there was nothing for her to worry about when it came to his relationship with Betty Schaefer. If he tried to lie, Norma would doubtless see right through him. A lingering sense of duty meant that he wanted to stay and support her through Salome, if she would let him, but he had a sinking suspicion she might simply turn him out without a second thought instead, once she knew the truth.

As he pulled into the garage, he caught a glimpse of his watch, noting with some relief that it was not yet 1.00am – a full hour earlier than he would usually return. Hopefully Norma was still asleep and unaware of his absence. Now, he just needed to get into the house undetected.

Fortune was not smiling on Joe Gillis tonight: he was barely even three steps from the garage when Max suddenly emerged from the shadows and barred his path, wearing a decidedly unpleasant expression. He warned Joe to be careful when re-entering the house, in case Norma was watching – it was less a caution, more a fact. Joe felt his frustration bubbling up, responding with more sarcasm than he had intended, and Max was clearly not impressed. He felt like a petulant teenager who'd been caught sneaking out, and he regretted that they had never managed to find a common ground of even the most basic level of communication.

"It's just that I am greatly worried about Madame," Max explained, placatingly, as though he were trying to get Joe back on side. There had been a number of times when he had attempted that, embroiling Joe in whatever deception was happening, in order to protect Norma from the painful truth; and yet he still did not trust him.

"We're not helping her any," Joe countered moodily, "feeding her lies and more lies. What happens when she finds out they're not going to make her picture?"

"She never will," Max responded in an adamant tone. "That is my job. I made her a star, and I will never let her be destroyed."

Joe was unsure if he'd heard him right. "What do you mean, you made her a star?"

Max hesitated only a moment before he responded, almost as though he had never intended for the words to be spoken. Then it all came out. Joe had never expected such brutal honesty from Max, nor such a display of emotion as he stumbled over that one big confession: "Please understand – she was my wife…"

Suddenly, everything in Norma's world made sense: Max was both the instigator and the protector of her delusions, both her gaoler and her cellmate. Joe wanted to know more, to understand why a great director like Max von Meyerling had given up fame and fortune to live out his years as Norma Desmond's manservant – but there was no time to ask. It was a story which would take hours, and he was already running out of time. In the same moment, he realised he partway knew the answer – hadn't he himself become just as ensnared by Norma, to a lesser degree? Max was stuck even deeper, clinging desperately to a lost love, but did Norma even remember that? Did she have any idea who Max had been?

"Are you saying you were married to her?" Even as he asked this question, Joe realised how ridiculous it must have sounded, but he was only clamouring for a firm answer.

Max nodded solemnly. "I was the first husband."

Joe felt a pang of sympathy for him, but this latest piece of the puzzle of Norma's existence made him uncomfortable. It definitely explained the overbearing, invisible presence in his bedroom; there was every likelihood Max himself had used it once, all those years ago. They had probably even bought the house together.

There were a thousand questions bombarding his mind. How had it happened? Was it a long courtship or a whirlwind romance? How old would Norma have been? Seventeen? Eighteen? Probably not old enough to know any better than to accept a proposal from the man who made her famous. How long had it lasted? Years? Months? His head was reeling as he tried to process what Max was telling him, all of the evening's earlier events fading into insignificance.

Max continued, explaining about "the game" he had put in place to protect Norma and, indeed, himself – to share that one final dream with her. He was clearly fighting off a wave of emotion as he spoke, acknowledging that it would never have come true. And yet he remained determined that even this inevitable disappointment would not dampen Norma's spirits.

"I will not allow her to surrender."

Joe did not know what to say to that. His whole perception of Max had been turned upside down, and for several seconds all he could do was stare at him, trying to make sense of everything he'd just heard. Eventually, Max regained his composure, as he was so adept at doing, and when he spoke again it was with his usual stoic delivery.

"You should get inside, Mr Gillis. Madame will be worried if she finds you gone."

With that, he melted back into the shadows, leaving Joe alone on the driveway. Casting a glance towards the house again, he noted that there were lights still on within its interior, confirming his suspicion and Max's warning that Norma was probably waiting for him. He made his way quietly towards the door, opening it carefully.

As he stepped over the threshold he became aware of a voice in the otherwise silent space of the mansion: Norma's voice, speaking distantly into a telephone, the sound emanating from upstairs. He froze in place as he realised who she was talking to – "Hello, Miss Schaefer, you must forgive me for calling so late…" – and it was only the mention of his own name which jolted him into action again.

He closed the door as quietly as possible, climbing the stairs and heading towards Norma's room. She was unaware of his presence as he hesitated by the adjoining doors in his own room, listening intently to the one-sided conversation on the other side. She must have copied down the number, he realised belatedly – how naïve of him to assume that she would not bother. He should have told her the truth when she'd asked, before she had any reason to be suspicious.

He was barely aware of entering the room and snatching the receiver from Norma, before he was speaking into it himself, providing Betty – if it really was Betty, of course, and not just Norma addressing an empty telephone line to provoke a reaction – with the address and hanging up with more force than was really necessary. All he could think was how foolish he had been not to expect that Norma might do something silly… but at least it was better than turning that revolver on herself.

In fact, he realised, that was the entire reason he was so angry. He had given up everything – his career, his home, his entire life, as little as these things amounted to – to be with Norma, because the thought that she might have hurt herself for his sake was too painful to contemplate. But now she wanted to hurt Betty, and that was something very different. He would not allow another innocent bystander to be caught in Norma's trap. She could even hurt him, if necessary – but not Betty, that sweet girl who had no idea she'd done anything to deserve it.

In a daze, Joe headed back downstairs and took up residence on the couch, awaiting Betty's arrival and steeling himself for whatever might happen next. Norma followed him as far as the landing, pleading with him – "Shout at me. Strike me. But say you don't hate me, Joe, please…" – but he barely even registered her words. He could not bring himself to answer, in any case. 'Hate' was too strong a word for what he was feeling. He mostly felt nothing except a slowly growing resentment for the house and everything in it, including himself.

Norma quietened eventually, waiting, watching from the safety of the landing, as though he was a wild animal preparing to pounce. He did not have the energy for that – he barely had the energy to do anything now except sit in silence – and instead his thoughts began to wander as he tried to remember how he'd ended up in this Godawful mess. The images flashed before him in a confused jumble, as though someone had collected cuttings from the floor of an editing room and pasted them back together in the wrong order…

...

His car limps into an unfamiliar driveway and he pulls into a garage that isn't empty. "You there! Why are you so late?"

The script is finished and on its way to De Mille. Norma is panicking and he touches her hand.

Artie lends him a twenty, but Sheldrake has nothing for him. His car is towed away. Norma's car is bigger, and now it's freshly polished and on its way to Paramount.

They disembark at Stage 18. Betty is typing away in her sunlit office, a splash of colour in a monochromatic world. He clings to Norma in anguish, unable to reciprocate her feelings. She's so beautiful today and he could never deserve her.

Artie and Betty leave Schwab's arm in arm and he feels a little jealous of their easy affection. Betty is crying because she's not in love with Artie any more.

Max is waiting, always watching. The first husband. "Madame has been married four times." (No, not four – it was only three. Damn it, Gillis, you are not the fourth.)

Betty is dancing with Artie on New Year's Eve in her pretty green party dress, and it twirls as she spins towards him. He catches her and they whirl across the terrazzo, and when they stop it's Norma he's staring at, a black-and-white vision from an old photograph. "Happy New Year, darling" as she pulls him close with bandaged arms around his neck.

He's breathless from her kiss and her childishly wandering fingertips, and in the morning sunlight his heart almost betrays him. "I'm in love with you. Surely you know that?"

Betty falls towards him and they embrace like it's the end of the world. He dries Norma's tears with his handkerchief. "We should call it a day..." That photograph flutters to the attic floor and seems to beckon to him.

"The address is 10086, Sunset Boulevard…" The doorbell rings.

...

Joe came to with a start and a sharp intake of breath, the residual images stuttering out of existence and leaving him even more confused and addled than before.

He could feel Norma watching him, her gaze penetrating in the silence, which was punctuated only by the ticking of the hallway clock and his own footsteps as he approached the front door, his feet taking him of their own volition before he had even made the conscious decision to answer it.

Betty was on the other side, looking very small and scared, clearly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place and its shadowy, eerie appearance. Joe ushered her through the door and she stepped slowly over the threshold, taking in her surroundings with obvious trepidation, as though something might jump out of the shadows and attack her. Joe remained half-aware of Norma, motionless on the landing above; if she made any movement towards Betty, he would not hesitate to place himself in the crossfire.

In that instant, in a moment of almost blinding clarity, Joe knew exactly what he needed to do. He had tried to warn Betty away from himself only a few hours ago without success, because she was blinded by the image of him that she'd built up in her head. He needed to shatter that illusion like the fragile glass it was, to make Betty fully aware of what she had unwittingly gotten herself into. If she wanted to stay after that, well, that was entirely up to her – at least Joe could rest a little easier knowing she was fully informed.

Betty stared at him imploringly, needing answers. Norma's telephone call had clearly shaken her up, but she had come all the way here nonetheless, hoping Joe could shed some light on the situation. There was no way of breaking it to her gently: he began to reel off a list of the mansion's enviable attributes – some of which even he had not made use of – aware that his tone came across as harsh and boastful, despite the irony he was trying to inject into his words. Betty merely cast her eyes around in a daze, his diatribe barely registering.

"Who's it belong to?" she asked eventually, realising at least that Joe himself was not the owner of such extravagance.

"Just look around," he suggested, gesturing expansively towards the collection of memorabilia.

Betty stared blankly for a moment, then recognition dawned. "That's Norma Desmond."

Joe wondered if Norma would be impressed that this young girl recognised her – or even pleased that she was not forgotten after all.

"Right on the money. They're all Norma Desmond."

Betty shook her head, trying to understand; she had clearly not made the connection to that name engraved in his cigarette case. "But… why did she call me?"

The poor, sweet girl – she really had no idea how the world worked. Joe almost felt sorry for her, but this was no time to cushion the blow. She needed to understand. So he explained, as best he could – none of the gory details, of course – watching with a heavy heart and a grim satisfaction as the light slowly dawned in her eyes. The way she was looking at him had already changed, from concern to sympathy, but that wasn't right either.

"Just get your things. Let's get out of here."

She was determined to rescue him, but he was too far gone. Betty was not, however, and he realised with a pang of guilt that he would need to hurt her to save her.

"All my things? Are you crazy? All the suits and the cufflinks and the pocket watches? Why would I want to leave this luxury behind? What's left for me out there? Just a mouldy old apartment and a battered typewriter that barely paid my rent."

There were tears in her eyes but she tried to maintain some semblance of dignity. "There's me, Joe. If you feel anything for me…"

Oh, but he did – that was why he had to send her away before she became a part of this disaster. He would make her hate him, if necessary – if that was what it took to make her leave this place and forget about him.

"Be realistic, Betty. There's nothing I can give you out there that you can't get from Artie. You should marry him like you planned. He's a great guy – safe and secure. You'll be good together." He had unconsciously walked her back towards the door. "Maybe when you're settled, you can pay me a visit and take a dip in my pool." He flicked a switch on the wall and the pool lit up, glowing ominously from the shadowy garden, its surface rippling slightly in the night-time breeze.

Betty was silent now, staring dead ahead. When she finally spoke again, her voice breaking, Joe knew it was over.

"I can't look at you any more, Joe."

And yet, she half-turned her head, as though she was about to face him and dig a little deeper for some semblance of the man who only two hours ago had claimed to be in love with her. Then she changed her mind, heading determinedly down the driveway and into her car. The beam from her headlights momentarily blinded him as she manoeuvred into the road and drove away.

He waited until she was clear of the block before closing the door again with a decisive thud. His plan had worked a little too well; he would definitely not be seeing Betty Schaefer again, and in all likelihood Artie too.

In the silence and solitude of the mansion, he suddenly felt the entire universe come crashing down around him. The surge of adrenaline which had buoyed him through the altercation with Betty had worn off, leaving him empty and drained. A wave of emotion rolled over him and he had no option but to let it take hold, tears of frustration and anger pouring out of him. He had sent Betty away for her own good, an act of selflessness disguised as cruelty, and he had nothing left to give.

The onslaught did not last long; within a few seconds he managed to regain control of himself, no longer caring if Norma had witnessed the display. She had undoubtedly watched the entire scene play out below her and drawn her own conclusions from his actions. But Norma meant nothing to him now – it was time to go. He needed to get out and return to his previous, humdrum existence, his life before Norma, before Salome, before Hollywood. There was a copy-desk with his name on it back in sleepy, unglamorous Ohio.

With a new-found determination, he made his way upstairs to pack.

He passed Norma on the way, as she emerged from her hiding place and rose to her full, diminutive height, exuding a confidence he knew was an act.

"Thank you, Joe," she said, following him. "Thank you… thank you…"

She reached for his hand, but in his haste to get away, her fingers closed instead around his wrist. He halted only long enough to peel them away again, then continued on his way. She went after him and he ignored her.

Norma hovered in the doorway, watching his every move as he retrieved his old suitcase and began packing items into it. The new suits she'd bought him would doubtless last him a couple more years, but he chose not to take them, instead rooting around the wardrobe for his old items. The cufflinks he was wearing caught his eye and he removed them with a frustrated scowl, at which point Norma finally entered the room to intervene.

"What are you doing, Joe?"

He did not answer, merely held out the cufflinks and dropped them into her open palm. A tiny flicker of remorse struck his heart at the sight of those now-familiar scars, but he managed to suppress it; he would not be swayed in his decision.

The realisation had dawned on Norma's face. "You're not… leaving me?"

"Yes, I am, Norma."

"No, you can't. Max!"

He was fairly sure Max would be glad to see the back of him, and could not quite see what calling for him would achieve. Of course, there was always the possibility that Max's loyalty to Norma would override his animosity towards Joe, and he hoped fervently that there would not be any kind of physical altercation. It had been far too long since the days of schoolyard fisticuffs, and in any case he was pretty sure Max would have the upper hand.

Hopefully, it would not come to that; he tried to keep a calm head. Norma's breathing had started to speed up, the first indication of an attack of anxiety… and he could not quite bring himself to care any more, realising with a flash of clarity that Norma's moments of vulnerability had been his one weakness from the beginning. Her tendency towards panic had always occurred at the most convenient of times – he was not entirely convinced it was a conscious reaction on her part, but perhaps a behaviour which had become second nature. He felt like an idiot for falling for it.

Max appeared at the doorway, looking as though he had arrived at a run, and Joe felt the strangest urge to set the record straight, now that he had a witness: to give a final, parting gift to Norma of the truth she'd been denied.

"Before I go, there's something I should tell you," he said, noticing the barely perceptible shake of Max's head and choosing to disregard it. "That script of yours… De Mille was just being kind. We all were. It's not getting shot. Honestly, Norma… it's hopeless. God knows, I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't have it."

The mask of denial slipped into place. "That's a lie. The audience is still out there. They still want me. Look at all the fanmail."

"It's Max who writes them," he told her, and the accused looked suddenly queasy. "There is no audience. They moved on when you weren't paying attention. The world has changed."

Norma deflated as the reality of his words dawned on her. "Why are you being so cruel, Joe…?"

"It's not cruelty, Norma – it's just the truth. What's cruel is lying to you all these years. But I guess I've been just as guilty of that, so I figured it was time to be honest."

She had no response to that, and she could not bring herself to look at Max, either, who was now looking decidedly unwell despite his obvious fury at Joe. There was time for one final truth before he walked away.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with being fifty – not unless you try to act twenty."

Norma took a step away from him then, taken aback by his brutal honesty, and he took that as his cue to leave. He gathered up his suitcase and his battered old typewriter, and headed determinedly towards the stairs.

Her voice sounded behind him, determined and proud: "I am the greatest star of them all…"

"Goodbye, Norma," he responded, half to himself as he reached the stairs; he was not particularly bothered if she'd heard him.

He was halfway down when she started to chase after him, her lighter footsteps followed by Max's slower, heavier ones. Joe kept going, refusing to look back.

"No-one ever leaves a star…"

He was vaguely aware of Norma muttering these words, but he paid no attention, pulling open the front door and stepping out into the approaching dawn.

There was a bang and suddenly his right shoulder exploded in searing pain, the typewriter falling from his hand and clattering to the ground. He remembered the revolver, the force of the gunshot turning him around in a half-circle. He caught a glimpse of something glinting in Norma's hand as she stood in the doorway, seconds before another bang and a rush of pain in his left side. She'd only grazed him this time, but he turned around again and broke into a run, abandoning the suitcase because it was only slowing him down.

A third shot sounded and he ducked instinctively, but the pain in his shoulder and side made him stagger and lose his balance. He tripped over a loose patio slab and could not find his footing, the glow of the illuminated pool rushing into his field of vision as he tried to stop himself from falling and failed. Before he hit the water, his head impacted sharply against something solid and cool, his vision blurring as he landed with a splash and immediately sank. He tried to resurface but the darkness was encroaching, closing in over his head like quicksand.

And then, finally, there was blessed silence.

To be continued...

A/N: Obviously, this is where Joe's story usually ends… but if, like me, you're a romantic fool and a sucker for a happy ending, you can continue into Part Four. Purists can stop here, if they like. The choice is yours. =)