Chapter 19
Chapter 19
She found Paul by the Chateau Marmont pool, where she knew he would be, where he was every afternoon at this time. She spotted him as she emerged from the winding path through the junglelike foliage. He lounged on one of the chaises, papers on his thighs, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was, as usual, making notes on the pages and paying no attention to anyone around him, not young Natalie Wood in a leopard-skin bikini sitting on the edge of the small oval pool, nor Anthony Hopkins talking earnestly with two other men on the brick herringbone pool deck, nor the two girls splashing in the water. She knew from experience that the only time he would look up was when the single poolside phone rang, and then, like everyone else’s, his head would jerk, and he’d wait for the bartender to call his name, and when he didn’t, Paul would return to his work, pausing only to tap his cigarette into the ashtray beside him.
Paul was so absorbed it took him a moment to notice she’d walked up to him, and when he did, the smile that crossed his face made her remember seeing him that first time in Larry Lipton’s Venice Beach living room, every space filled with louche poets and drifters and, as Larry called them, “seekers,” Charlie Parker on the turntable, and the room gray with cigarette smoke.
Now, he reached for her wrist and wrapped his hand around it. His short-sleeved shirt was open to reveal the dark hair on his chest, and she wished to bury herself in his arms and forget the day.
He gave her a look. “Not that I’m sorry to see you, but why are you here so early?”
“I met the man from the production office assigned to the movie today.”
He waited.
She didn’t know if he knew about the title change. She told herself he’d be fine with it. He was a writer, he had to be used to such things by now. But she hated to be the bearer of bad news. “They’re calling it The Doom of Medusa .”
He laughed shortly. “Of course they are.”
“You didn’t know.”
“The writer’s always the last to be told.”
“He didn’t say anything about any other changes. I’m meeting him about the costumes first thing tomorrow.”
“ The Doom of Medusa ,” he said beneath his breath. “I don’t like the sound of it.”
She said quickly, “You know Higgy will bring you in to make the changes if there are any. He won’t call another screenwriter if they can save money by having you do them first. And that way, you can—” She saw a movement in the branches just beyond them. Lena paused. It was best not to have such conversations there. It was too public. In a low voice she said, “We should talk about this inside.”
Paul followed her gaze, then gathered up the papers on his lap. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Paul’s room wasn’t one of the penthouses, but like all the rooms at the Chateau, it had an iconoclastic charm. His balcony overlooked the busy and noisy Sunset Boulevard side, and the apartment had seen better days. It was dark and moody, too many things patched, mended, and remended. The Turkish carpets were stained and in places threadbare, the woodwork chipped and scuffed. None of the furniture matched—the previous owner had bought most of it at estate sales, and Paul’s rooms were a perfect example of shabby old Hollywood decadence, a pink velvet love seat with carved mahogany arms and legs and trim, a knockoff Tiffany lamp with a curving, swanlike neck and a vaguely Moorish design in its mosaic of red, yellow, and green glass.
The bookcase, chairs, and table were equally mismatched. The artwork was ... eclectic. A painting of a cocked-headed, dark-haired woman that looked like a copy of a Modigliani graced the main room, along with a smaller one of a rooster. In the bedroom, a pine dresser with a huge round mirror reflected a bed with a white vinyl padded headboard and a beige bedcover with a pattern of green swirls. On the wall hung a copy of a blobby-looking Klimt. Maybe. Or maybe it was just a blob of color with flecks of gold.
Paul had managed to make the place his own. His dark blue Royal typewriter sat on the table, next to a ream of paper, a typewriter eraser, and an overflowing ashtray; typed pages, some scrawled with notes and scratched-out lines and big x ’s, littered the floor. His phonograph held pride of place on top of a small bookcase, and piled on the shelves was a collection of jazz records that rivaled her own.
Once they were through the door, he dropped his papers on the television and pulled her close for a kiss. Sun-touched Brylcreem, sun-warmed skin, the taste of Marlboros. She fell into him, running her hand down his chest to the waist of his shorts. He grabbed her hand and pulled slightly away with a laugh.
“Tell me about this guy—what’s his name? The censor?”
“Michael Runyon.”
“Runyon?” Paul frowned. “Michael Runyon?”
“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”
Paul hesitated, then he shook his head. “I used to know someone by that name, but he didn’t work in the movies.”
“He’s a suit. But ... I don’t know, he looks like maybe he was a boxer in another life or something. Blond. Blue eyed?”
Paul frowned. “Couldn’t be the same guy.”
“He may not look like a censor, but he’s just like the rest of them. He wants to see costumes at eight tomorrow morning. He was fine, but ...”
“There’s always a but.”
“I’ve never met a censor who wasn’t impossible.” She took one of the cigarettes from the pack on the TV and waited while Paul reached for his lighter. “If he changes this script, I’ll—”
“The title change may mean nothing.” He lit her cigarette and lit one for himself. “It’s all about marketing.”
“You don’t believe that and neither do I. Flavio said you should do what everyone else does and just rewrite it for someone else. I had lunch with him today.” She wandered to the balcony doors and opened them. The noisy rush of Sunset Boulevard swept inside, along with a warm breeze. “He said to tell you congratulations.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Nobody believes me when I say that.”
“Well, you ruined him.”
She spun from the balcony. “How can you, of all people—” She stopped when she saw the tease in his eyes.
“How have you survived in Hollywood this long?” he asked with a smile.
“I don’t know.” She took a long drag on the cigarette and turned back to the balcony, and heard his slow and steady gait as he came up behind her. His arms encircled her then, drawing her back against his chest.
He gently took the cigarette from her mouth and settled it in the ashtray on the table beside them, and Lena turned in his arms.
“I like this view better,” she said.
“So do I,” he said quietly, the tease gone from his dark eyes now, replaced with an expression that curled and dipped into her, heavy and deep, erasing the day, the remedy she’d been hoping for, and before he got her to the bedroom, she’d already put the last hours behind her.
Ciro’s was packed. After thirty-some years in Hollywood, Flavio had many friends, and none of them were likely to turn down an invitation for free drinks in celebration of his birthday. The nightclub was loud with talk and laughter, cigarette smoke hung about the pale green draperies like a fog and obscured the rose ceiling. The band on the small stage wasn’t famous—Flavio wasn’t going to pay for that—but they performed as if they were, with a vibrant, effusive, and Benny Goodman–like style that only added to the ebullient atmosphere.
The bronze urn lights flanking the bandstand and baroque stylings of Ciro’s were as familiar to Lena as the costume department, and she felt right at home. Everything was perfect. She was sitting next to the man she loved on the red silk wall sofa, her gin martini was cold and delicious, and the mood was festive and no one had yet caused a scene. Louella Parsons was there, talking earnestly to Gregory Peck. Earlier, Lena had complimented Louella’s gown and the columnist had turned to Paul. “And who is this handsome man?”
“Paul Carbone.” Paul offered his hand.
Louella took it, but it wasn’t a shake so much as a lingering caress she gave in return. Her gaze swept over him. “Oh yes, the screenwriter.”
Lena suppressed a prick of irritation. Louella had mentioned the two of them a dozen times in her column. She knew perfectly well who Paul was. “He’s got a movie in production at Lux,” Lena interjected.
“Lux?” Louella raised a perfectly drawn brow. “ Your studio? How interesting. Do tell.”
But before either of them could say a word, Donald O’Connor stepped in with “Louella, you’re looking well,” and Louella smiled at Paul and said, “We’ll talk later, Mr. Carbone.”
“She liked you,” Lena whispered as they stepped away.
Paul only rolled his eyes, but he knew as well as she did that it was a good thing when a woman who had the power to make or break your movie looked favorably on you, even if being handsome was the only reason.
She saw James Dean and Lana Turner—Lana had always loved Flavio and wore one of his gowns that night. Cesar Romero by the bandstand talking to Sheila Flavio. George Nader and Tony Curtis and Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, and she thought that was Shelley Winters but it was hard to see through the crowd.
Lena swallowed the rest of her martini and signaled the waiter for another. Paul was talking to a screenwriter on his other side. The band launched into “Happy Birthday,” and attention turned to the cake a waiter wheeled out from the kitchen, many layered, frosted in Flavio’s signature white and black, with sparklers shooting from the top, and everyone sang and clapped. Flavio bowed and laughed.
People got to their feet, several calling “Bravo!” when Flavio cut the cake to reveal a checkboard of vanilla and chocolate. Someone shouted, “Speech!”
“All right, all right.” Flavio adjusted the bow tie of his tuxedo and grinned widely. “Here’s my speech: Thank you all for coming, and thank you for making my time here so memorable. Here’s to many more memorable years.” He raised his champagne to cheers of Hear, hear! “To my wife, Sheila, without whom I would not be here—my love, I salute you! And last but not least, here’s to the person to whom I owe a great debt—my lovely, dear friend, Lena Taylor. Lena, please—” He gestured for her to come up beside him.
Paul pushed her gently, and Lena forgot her consternation in the sheer sweetness of Flavio’s generosity and wove through the illustrious crowd toward her friend. When she got there, he put his arm around her and whispered, “Don’t cry, there are photographers.” He lifted his glass again; she turned her head and kissed Flavio’s cheek, which not only made a good picture for the columns, but also allowed her hair to fall forward and hide her face.
She left a red stain of lipstick on his skin, which he made a big show about after she stepped away, head down. She was skilled at avoiding a full face shot. She could only imagine the headlines. “Costume Foes Kiss and Make Up.”
It took her some time to get back to the red silk sofa. Everyone stopped her to say how happy they were that she and Flavio were friends again. They’d just known all those rumors had been lies!
She reached Paul just as she saw Louella jostling toward them. Lena grabbed Paul’s hand. “I need some fresh air. Let’s go outside for a minute?”
“I was just going to suggest that,” he said.
Together they zigzagged through the crowd and out the front door to the gallery lined with pillars and lights and sculpted trees at the entrance to Ciro’s. Lena fumbled in her purse for a cigarette; Paul offered one of his own and lit it for her. The smoke felt good in her lungs, calming. Now she felt almost giddy.
“Thank God. I could not face Louella just now. She would have found some way to say something unsavory about all that with Flavio.”
Paul smiled, but it was strained.
“You did perfectly with her earlier,” she reassured him. “Don’t worry, she thinks you’re ‘handsome,’ so I think she’ll be easy on you.”
“I’m not worried about Louella Parsons. I had another reason for wanting to get you away from the crowd.” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, offering it to her.
It took a moment before she understood. A moment before she comprehended that the sparkle in the middle of his palm was no trick of the lights, but a ring. A diamond. Then, she didn’t know what to do, or what to say. She could only stare at it, startled.
Paul said simply, “Marry me?”
She reached out gingerly to touch the ring, and he took her hand and pulled off her elbow-length glove, and then he slid the diamond onto her finger, where it threw all the lights of Ciro’s into relief.
She dropped the cigarette to smolder on the cement. He hadn’t let go of her hand, and she stared at him in shocked joy and in the moment before he kissed her there in the entryway of Ciro’s, she let down her guard—only a moment, but it was enough. Enough for the photographer who had followed them, enough for the picture that would run in Louella’s column the next day, Lena’s face in all its blooming happiness on full display.
But just at that moment, all she saw was a flash of blinding light, and she forgot about it the next second, with Paul’s kiss.