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I don’t want it to grow cold on me.”
    I had an uneasy feeling that she was going to ask me what the book was about. If she’d done that, I would have been in a spot, but at that moment Peter came in and for once I was glad of the interruption.
    Peter was one of the few successful Englishmen in Hollywood. He still had all his clothes made in London and the Sackville Street cut was right for his English type of figure, broad in the shoulders and slimming down at the hips.
    His dark, thoughtful face lit up when he saw Carol. “Not dressed yet?” he said, taking her hand. “But looking very lovely. Sure you’re not too tired to come out tonight?”
    “Of course not,” Carol said smiling.
    He looked over at me. “How are you, my dear boy?” He shook hands. “Doesn’t she look wonderful?”
    I said she certainly did and noticed his eyes were question marks when he saw my bruise.
    “Give him a drink, Clive, while I dress,” Carol said. “I won’t be long.” She looked over at Peter. “He’s being stuffy . . . he won’t dine with us.”
    “Oh, but you must . . . this is an occasion, isn’t it, Carol?”
    Carol shook her head helplessly. “He’s dining with his publishers. I don’t believe it, but I suppose I’d better be tactful and pretend I do. Look at that bruise . . . he’s been fighting a wild woman.” She laughed, turning to me, “Tell him, Clive . . . he may think it’s a story.”
    Peter beat me to the door. He opened it. “Don’t hurry,” he said. “I’m feeling very leisurely tonight.”
    “But I’m hungry,” Carol protested. “Don’t let’s be too late,” and she ran from the room.
    Peter came over to the little bar in the far corner of the room where I was fixing myself another drink. “So you’ve been fighting, have you?” he said. “That’s quite a nasty bruise you have there.”
    “Never mind about that,” I said. “What will you drink?”
    “A little whisky, I suppose.” He leaned against the bar and selected a cigarette from a heavy gold case. “Carol’s told you the news?”
    I gave him bourbon and water. “No . . . what news?”
    Peter raised his eyebrows.” Funny kid . . . now I wonder why . . .” He lit his cigarette.
    I had a sudden sinking feeling. “What news?” I repeated, staring at him.
    “She has been given the script of the year. It was arranged this morning . . . Imgram’s novel.”
    I slopped whisky on the polished bar. Hearing him say that was wormwood to me. Of course, I knew I couldn’t have handled Ingram’s theme. It was too big for me, but it came as a blow to hear that a kid like Carol was to do it.
    “Why, that’s terrific,” I said, trying to look pleased. “I’ve been reading it in Collier’s. It’s a great story. You producing?”
    He nodded. “Yes, there are all sorts of angles. It’s just the kind of story I’ve been looking for. Of course, I wanted Carol to do the script, but I didn’t think Gold would agree. Then, while I was working out how best to persuade him, he actually called me in to say she’s to do it.”
    I came around from behind the bar and carried my drink to the settee. I was glad to sit down. “What will it mean?”
    Peter shrugged. “Well, a contract, of course . . . bigger money . . . screen credit . . . and another chance if she makes good.” He tasted his whisky. “And she will, of course. She is very talented.”
    I was beginning to think that everyone in this game had talent except myself.
    He came over and dropped into an armchair. He seemed to sense that the news had shaken me. “What are you working on now?”
    I was getting tired of this interest in my work. “A novel,” I said shortly. “Nothing of interest to you.”
    “That’s a pity. I’d like to film something of yours.” He stretched out his long legs. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you before. Ever thought of working for Gold? I could give you an introduction.”
    I wondered suspiciously if Carol had been getting at