"Nobody hears of producers," the driver said. "That's all right with me. Let other people take the credit. I don't like to call attention to myself." He brought out a monogrammed cigarette case and flicked it open. "Cigarette?"
"No, no, thank you." Julia twisted at the strap of her handbag.
"Who can you talk to, I mean really? All they're after is your money.... I'll tell you what I really want. I want a farm—no, don't laugh: it's the truth—a little piece of land. I want to settle down, you know. Most people don't understand how it is." He gazed sadly down Hollywood Boulevard. "To be famous, I mean."
Julia was scarcely listening. She bit her lip.
"My wife, now, she's an actress. In her next picture, she opens a beer can with her teeth. Not a bottle; anyone can open a bottle. She doesn't understand me. She's an actress." One of his delicate hands moved over the tiger skin toward Julia. "I'd like—sometimes to get away. Go away for a weekend. Some place where they'd never heard of A. P. Green, the big producer. You know. I wish—I honestly wish I weren't—some times."
The hand touched Julia's dress. She was too preoccupied to notice.
"... you have an interesting face. It's very, very expressive. I want to give you my card. I want you to come in for a test."
Julia moved away from him. All she could think about was Walt. Could he be in that car just behind? "... please ..." she said vaguely in protest.
He blinked his eyes; the hand retreated a few inches. "I've never talked to anyone like this before," he said. "But your face, your eyes.... When I saw you standing there—saw you were running from something—I knew you'd understand."