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‘No,’ Eleanor said quickly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Monroe. It doesn’t matter at all. I’ll find him later.’
She hung up. Took a deep breath, and another. It was nothing new. There was nothing new about it.
After that, she didn’t allow herself to wallow. Eleanor never allowed herself to wallow. She simply dressed and packed. She fetched one of her personalized cards from the drawer of her dressing table, and beneath their curly, gold-embossed initials, entwined, wrote her husband a note:
Darling,
I called the studio, but you were busy, busy! Mrs Monroe offered to go in search, but then she said you might have gone out of town on reconnaissance and really I couldn’t wait. Darling, you remember I showed you a letter once from a little detective I had found in Reno and you thought so little of him? Well, I never mentioned him again because I knew it made you so cross but I went ahead and employed him, because … well, of course you know why. Matz, he died. But now his son has written, and I think he has somethingimportant to tell us. He has asked me to Reno to meet with him and of course I must go. I will call you the first moment I have any news.
Your ever-loving wife,
Eleana
She placed it, carefully, at a jaunty angle on her sunny dressing table, paused, and looked at it again. She looked at it for a long time.
When had she last called him Matz? Seeing it written, and her own, Eleana, beneath it, took her by surprise; brought a stab of pain. She had no idea what had possessed her to use their old names. She snatched up the card and ripped it into pieces. She opened the drawer, took out a fresh card, and started again:
M,
I shall be gone for a few days. I think it’s about time we talked, don’t you?
E
She placed the card, carefully, at a less jaunty angle, on the same sunny dressing table, pinned beneath the heavy gold-framed photograph. She picked up her bag, leaving the rest of her post unopened, the script unread, the forgotten jewel, more precious than last year’s, half hidden beneath a cold, dry piece of toast. And then she left the house before she had a chance to think better of it.
6
‘It’s probably gonna sound funny,’ Blanche Williams was saying, a couple of miles down the road. ‘But I have respect for your wife. I have a lot of respect for her. I thought she looked just about as classy and dazzling as a girl can look in that emerald-green get-up last night.’
He had his head between her legs; his tongue inside her sweet, juicy knish … Half a second ago she’d been purring like a pussycat … Dammit. He put a soothing hand on her stomach, gave her ass a little pinch, and stayed right where he was, just as if she hadn’t spoken.
But once Blanche started on a topic, as by now he knew quite well, there was rarely any chance of her dropping it.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Miss Williams continued, ‘she’s mysterious. God knows, she’s a terrific actress … at least, that is, when she wants to be. And you know with all that, I got to ask myself –’ Blanche hoiked herself onto an elbow to look at him – ‘what in hell you’re doing spending your time with a Little Miss Nobody like me?’
He paused. Stopped. Lifted his head. ‘What’s that, sweetie?’ he muttered.
‘I was just saying …’
Max gave up. He stretched across her naked body for the cigarette pack, lit up two, one for each of them, and lay back on the pillow beside her. ‘… I heard what you were saying, baby.’
‘So?’
Max exhaled, disguising a small, dull sigh inside the smoke: ‘So … what?’
‘So … what are you kicking around with a dozy little broad like me for? When you have a class act like Eleanor Beecham waiting for you back home?’
It took a beat before Max replied. Blanche noticed it, even if he didn’t. ‘Baby,’ he said, ‘because I love “kicking around” with you.’ He laughed. ‘And you’re hardly “a dozy little broad”.’
‘But you never talk about her.’
‘Why would I talk about her?’
‘Because she’s your wife. Is why. And because I am your lover. And everybody knows you two adore each other. And because of the way you kissed her last night. And the way you two looked at each other. And because I am just jealous as hell. Is why.’
Max smiled into her pretty, honest eyes, and dropped a kiss on her pretty shoulder. ‘You have nothing to be jealous about, sweetheart. If you did, I wouldn’t be here.’ His hand returned to her slim stomach, and slowly continued on down. She paused – before reluctantly pushing his hand away. ‘You’re not being fair, Max.’
‘Baby,’ he murmured, not giving up just yet; nuzzling her neck, returning his hand. ‘… And nor are you … what are you fretting for, hmm? You have nothing to fret about, baby … just enjoy yourself …’
She pushed him away again, with more conviction this time, and climbed out of the bed. They’d spent the whole morning enjoying themselves in her bed already. And much as she would have loved to spend the rest of the day there with him, she needed to check in with the office. She had an interview with a new girl over at Columbia at three o’clock – some soon-to-be-big, Little-Miss-Girl-from-Nowhere, with a freshly invented life story to plug – and the Columbia people were keen for Blanche to do the big write-up. Added to which, she was determined that she and Max didn’t part company without having had at least a semblance of a conversation. In bed, Blanche was more than happy to be treated like a dirty little sex machine. Actually it suited her just fine. But out of bed, there had to be something between them to make her feel like a decent human being again.
Blanche was ten years Max’s junior, easily young enough to produce a litter of children if she wanted them, except she was adamant she didn’t. Her independence, so hard fought and still so fresh, was something she could never envisage surrendering. Blanche was a woman of her time, and proud of it. She paid her own way, made her own path – lived alone in her snazzy little apartment (very ‘moderne’ she told her disapproving family, back home in Oregon), in a spanking new apartment block just above Sunset. She and Max had been lovers, on and off – with two short breaks during which Blanche attempted to wean herself from him – since she interviewed him for the magazine five years ago.
7
Nineteen twenty-four, it would have been. Or thereabouts. Almost a year after he joined Silverman. They met for lunch at Musso & Frank – without the marketing guys, because Max insisted on it. He was supposed to be telling her about his first picture since being lured away from Lionsfiel. The film was called The Girl Who Couldn’t Smile, and it went on to gross more for Silverman Pictures than any movie they had yet released. But Blanche had been instructed by her editor not to ‘go too heavy’ on the new movie angle, since readers were unlikely to be terribly interested, and instead to concentrate her questions on the Big Split.
Max’s move from Lionsfiel to Silverman had astonished the Movie Colony because he left behind not only his long-time producer and friend, Butch Menken; but – even more intriguing, at least to Blanche’s readers – his movie-star wife. Until then the three of them – producer, director and star – had made not a single film without each other. They were a winning formula – no one doubted that, and everyone had always assumed the trio was inseparable.
So Max had talked to Miss Blanche Williams about the Split that Rocked Hollywood (as her magazine later entitled the article). And with or without the marketing men to prompt him, he had stuck to the official version of events. Which, with a few vital omissions, wasn’t, after all, entirely divorced from the truth. And Blanche was a good listener – an accomplished interviewer. Over steaming, unwanted bowls of the famous Musso & Frank pasta, and a bottle of Château Margaux, provided by Max and poured by him, under the table, into Musso tea mugs, Max talked with disarming warmth and eloquence about his sadness not to be working with his beloved wife any longer. He and Eleanor had agreed that the moment had come for them both to spread their wings … It was time for Eleanor to experiment with different directors and, for Max, with different actors and actresses. He didn’t mention Butch Menken.
‘What about Butch?’
‘Butch Menken?’ Max waved a dismissive arm. ‘Butch is a good guy.’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘But creatively, we had taken it as far as we could. Butch is good guy. I have a lot of respect for him.’
‘So there was no fall-out?’
‘There was no fall-out. Whatsoever. Butch and I remain the greatest of pals.’
‘So the rumours …’
He cocked a smile, looked his little interrogator dead in the eye. ‘What rumours would they be?’
She blushed, which didn’t happen often. His gaze was disconcertingly direct. Made her want to wriggle in her chair. He was, she reflected as she recovered herself, without doubt the most attractive man she had ever had lunch with.
‘Well, the rumours that … Heck, Mr Beecham, I’m sure you know what people are saying! That you dumped him. Despite being the oldest and best of friends. Because he just wasn’t up to it … You had creatively outgrown him.’
‘Ahh. Those rumours.’ He smiled. She would never have known it, never have guessed. Under the table, he refilled her mug with red wine, and felt his heart begin to beat again. ‘Butch is a fine producer,’ he said, making a show of picking his words with great care. ‘It goes without saying. Butch is a good producer. But as filmmakers we were travelling different paths. That’s all. We wanted to make different kinds of movies. And consequently we were finding it difficult to agree …’
In any case, Max explained, redirecting the conversation, the offer to join Silverman Pictures was too exciting to turn down. Joel Silverman had promised him more autonomy, bigger budgets, freedom to choose his own scripts. ‘And I have to tell you, Joel Silverman has kept to his word! Ha! And it’s not so often you hear that said, is it? Not in this town!’
‘But why didn’t Mrs Beecham come with you?’ Blanche persisted. ‘She’s such a great actress. Didn’t you want her to come with you? Or was it her? Maybe she didn’t want to come?’
Max shrugged. ‘Of course I wanted her to come. Of course …
‘But you … Maybe you wanted to create some space between the two of you. Is that it?’ Blanche asked, aware that she needed some sort of explanation for the piece, and that he didn’t seem willing to offer one himself. ‘A separation between work and home,’ she said, already writing it down. ‘Yes. I think I can understand that.’
He didn’t know what it meant, and neither – when she thought about it – did Blanche. What ‘space’ between them? The space between them was already immeasurable.
‘That’s right,’ he said vaguely. ‘Creatively.’
She scribbled it down. ‘And tell me,’ she added, still scribbling. ‘Tell me how it happened. Did the two of you sit down and discuss it? Were there tears? Or was it … kind of civilized? Can you tell me a little bit about how it all went down? My readers are longing to know.’
He looked at Blanche, her honest, pretty face so eager to hear whatever he might say next – no matter what. The problem was, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember having the discussion – or even if there had been one. One day it was the three of them working together. And the next day – nothing. He had left them. Both. And he was on his own.
‘Lionsfiel has always been like a family to her,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s what you have to remember. She was never going to leave Lionsfiel. But –’ he added, looking again into those honest eyes, and feeling suddenly, inexplicably compelled to reciprocate, to say something to her that actually had some meaning – ‘I have to tell you,’ he said, surprising himself, not only by its truth but also by the fact of his sharing it with her, ‘I miss her. I miss having her with me on set. I miss spending my days with her. I miss our working together. There was something very, very wonderful about that …’ He paused, thinking about it: the old days. It wasn’t something he allowed himself to do often. And it hadn’t always been wonderful. Of course not. But there had been wonderful moments. Many of them. ‘I’m not sure I realized quite how wonderful,’ he added, ‘until it was gone … Hey. But that’s life, huh?’
‘It sure is,’ she said, scribbling away.
‘Sometimes,’ he added, unwilling to leave the memories just yet, his mind briefly awash with images from good times, the early days – the old nickelodeon on Hester Street, the journey West, the long, slow climb together, ‘when I contemplate a future, making movies without Eleanor … It’s like imagining a world …’ and he paused, searching for the truth – any truth at all – that he might be able to share with her, ‘… it’s like imagining a world without music. Without birdsong …’
‘That’s very, very pretty,’ sighed Blanche. ‘Gosh. I wish someone would say that about me one day.’
He laughed, tilted back in his seat, looked across at her appreciatively. ‘I’ll bet you have guys murmuring stuff like that in your ear just about every day of your life, Miss Williams,’ he said, and he meant it. She was sweet – sweet enough to blush, he noticed. For the second time, too. He watched as she recovered herself; watched as she busily pretended to scribble in her little reporter notebook …
‘But you have to understand, Blanche – may I call you Blanche?’ He leaned across the table toward her. ‘That in spite of everything – really, everything – I had to go to Silverman. Silverman Pictures are making the most exciting – the best – movies in Hollywood right now. I believe that. I truly do believe that. And I make movies, Blanche. I’m a filmmaker. I’m a director. It’s what I do. What I am. There’s nothing else …’
He stopped abruptly, aware that he was revealing too much. He smiled. ‘Any case,’ he continued, ‘I sincerely hope that when you finally get to see the finished cut, you will agree with me that this new picture has been worth the … the pain …’ He paused. Added, more to himself than to Blanche, ‘And of course it has. You know, Blanche, I think, if you don’t mind my saying it, I think it’s my best picture yet.’
And then, somehow, she had looked up from her notebook, gazed back at him with such smitten warmth, that … in the intensity of the moment, the excitement and passion of talking about his beloved project to such a pretty, sympathetic, innocent, intelligent woman, he’d asked Blanche what she was doing later.
And they had spent the rest of that hot August afternoon in Blanche’s bed.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been unfaithful to his wife. Not strictly speaking – not by any stretch. But (if you didn’t count the move to Silverman Pictures), it was the first time Max felt that he was betraying her. Because Blanche was not Eleanor. But she was quite a find. And Max could appreciate that. And he knew from the very beginning that he would be coming back for more.
That was the last time he talked to Blanche about his wife at any length, or in any detail. And it was difficult for Blanche. Always, very difficult. Because Eleanor was a big star. And, if not classically beautiful – her features were irregular; everything was too large, too vital, too wild – there was no question that she shone. Something shone from her on screen – and in life, too. She was a big star. And – yes – Blanche was right. In a city of cheats and shrews, Eleanor’s beauty, her small kindnesses, her beautiful manners, made her a class act. Nobody had a bad word to say about Eleanor.
Max was very fond of Blanche. Blanche knew that. In fact, he loved her. And she knew that, too. But whereas Max Beecham loved Blanche Williams, Blanche Williams was in love with Max.
So it was difficult for her.
8
‘I bumped into Butch Menken yesterday,’ Blanche said suddenly. Changing tack. She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking vaguely for her clothes.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Max replied.
‘Oh, he’s not so bad!’
‘Whatever you say, baby.’
‘And you know what he told me?’
‘Tell me. What did you he tell you?’
‘You don’t know already?’
‘I don’t know if I know. I don’t know what he told you.’
She considered him, the handsome man in her bed, the love of her life, lying there beside her, checking his wristwatch. Already thinking about his next appointment, his next battle, his next … whatever it was he had to do, which had nothing whatsoever to do with Blanche Williams. She was jealous – only a little jealous, she told herself. She was ferociously jealous – and not just of his wife, but of all the beautiful women who surrounded him. To be fair, he had never given her any reason to suppose that his attention wandered. But he cheated on his wife, and that was enough. If he cheated on his wife, why wouldn’t he cheat on Blanche?
She pushed the thought aside. It was pointless. Self-defeating.
‘So?’ Max glanced across at her, noticed her troubled expression. He placed a thumb between her brows and gently creased out the small frown. ‘Baby? You still here? … What did Butch tell you?’
‘Butch told me … only I thought you might already know. Because it so directly affects you. But I guess not.’
‘What?’
‘Well. That Butch is joining you at Silverman.’
Max dropped his thumb, looked at her sharply. ‘Nonsense.’
‘That’s what he told me, Max. He said – because of Eleanor’s role in PostBoy. Being partly the reason … But I’m not sure if I believe that. Except he probably feels pretty bad, with Eleanor being left behind again, after you already did it once … But I’m telling you he’s leaving Lionsfiel and he’s going over to Silverman.’
Max gazed at her. ‘Blanche,’ he said coldly, ‘you’re talking in riddles. What about Eleanor’s role? What has that to do with Butch coming to—?’
‘Butch Menken is joining Silverman as executive head of production,’ she said, patiently, despite his tone. ‘I’m sorry, Max. They should have told you. Joel Silverman should’ve told you. Should’ve … involved you in the decision.’ She leaned over and kissed him, as an apology – for the news itself, and for being the one to tell him. She offered him a perky, uncomfortable smile. ‘So I guess that means he’s going to be your boss.’
Without another word, Max climbed out of bed.
‘Hey! … Max?’
He ignored her.
She followed his naked shape through to the small sitting room, where their clothes were still strewn over the couch. (Scarlet velvet, it was. Very moderne. Her proudest possession.) ‘Max? It’s not the end of the world … C’mon! … You two worked well together before. You made some great pictures together. You, Eleanor, Butch: you were a tour de force. Pardon my French. Gosh – maybe he’ll bring Eleanor across with him. Wouldn’t that be something?’
‘He’s not going to do that.’
‘Well, but he might.’
‘No. He’s not.’
‘Especially now. She has her contract up for renewal. And with the casting on PostBoy, and it all looking so shaky and all … you know?’
‘I don’t, Blanche. No. I don’t know. Unlike you I don’t know everything about everyone else’s business. Because I have enough business of my own to keep me occupied.’
‘It is my business to know everyone’s business. And you benefit from that.’ She told him levelly, her feelings hurt.
Max collected himself. ‘I’m sorry, baby. Of course it is. That was rude of me.’
‘In any case,’ she continued, brushing his apology aside, ‘you and Butch – you worked well together before. Didn’t you? You’ll work well together again!’
He smiled grimly. ‘Somehow I doubt that.’
