Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Lena showed up at Paul’s door with a bag that held only bottles of gin and vermouth and a jar of olives. He answered looking frustrated and rumpled, his thick hair so disheveled from running his hand through it that even Brylcreem couldn’t keep it in place. The room behind him was choking with cigarette smoke.
He kissed her in greeting and said, “It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, but ...”
“I know. The Medusa is a jazz club, and Helen is a mob moll, and I don’t know yet what the rest of the women have to do with anything because you haven’t written it yet, but I expect Runyon’s ordered you to make them drug addicts or evil seductresses who can only be saved by a ‘good man.’” She went to the kitchenette and pulled the bottles from the bag. “I thought you could use some moral support. Martini?”
Paul sank into the chair at the desk and lit a cigarette. “Yes please.”
“Not to mention the fact that I now have only two weeks to recostume the entire film. So I thought I’d get the early word on who exactly the characters are supposed to be.”
“I don’t even know.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Look, I was thinking ... I could withdraw the script. Give back the money.”
“You could,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you know as well as I do that the only way to get any power in this town is to have a script produced.”
He gave her a look, and she knew he was thinking about all the ways he’d have to bend, and whether he could. Whether he wanted to.
Lena dropped olives into the martinis and handed one to him. “Paul, you have so much talent, but this ... it takes more than that. If you want this career, now is the time to decide. You don’t want to fight with a censor. Especially not this guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You won’t win. You’ll just get removed from the picture. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“No, I mean, why do you say especially not Runyon?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I just ... there’s something about him. He’s very charming but I—”
“Charming? Does he flirt with you?”
“No. No, that’s not what I meant. He’s so smooth. He has Higgy’s ear too. If you don’t make the changes, they’ll get another writer to make them and you won’t get credit. That’s how it works. You have to have successes under your belt before you can get away with being called difficult.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if success is worth having if it means this much compromise. It’s not the same movie, Lena.”
“No. But it’s a movie. With stars. From a studio. With your name on it.”
Paul sighed and drank the martini in a single gulp. “I hate this.”
“I know. You wrote a great script. Higgy knows that too. It will be your start. Your real start.”
He put the glass aside and retrieved his cigarette. He turned to the typewriter. She felt his surrender, which she hadn’t been sure of, despite the fact that he’d expected changes. But these changes were so extreme. He was right; it was not the same movie.
Lena wandered to the balcony, the open doors letting in the traffic noise of Sunset Boulevard, the scent of hot summer asphalt and exhaust filtering through the trees, the sound of rapid braking at the bend as a pedestrian no doubt tried to cross the street. Someone in another room was cooking with garlic. She liked this place far better than her own apartment, which too often felt lonely and empty.
She sipped her martini and listened to Paul typing until she felt soothed, and then she went back inside to order sandwiches from Schwab’s. The LA Examiner was by the telephone, open to the entertainment section, Louella Parsons’s column. Lena noted the photo of Elizabeth Taylor at some function, and then, right below it, the picture of Lena herself and Flavio at Ciro’s, her kiss on his cheek, her face artfully hidden.
She hadn’t known she was in the paper today. She wondered why Paul had said nothing of it, as he’d obviously seen it. He typed away, oblivious, and she picked up the paper to read the article. Her heart sank the moment she read the caption beneath the picture. ??A Snake in the Grass? Flavio welcomes rival Lena Taylor to birthday party at Ciro’s.?? Apparently Lena’s own imagined headline about kissing and making up was too good to be true. She read further, about the stars that had attended, and the black-and-white-checked birthday cake, and whether Flavio’s remarks in his speech had truly been meant to forgive his traitorous ex-assistant, or whether he was abiding by the old wisdom “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“Did you read this?” Lena demanded.
Paul paused in his typing. “Read what?”
“Louella Parsons.”
“Oh, yeah.” He reached for the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside him. “Sorry, I forgot to mention it. These changes ... I suppose Flavio has to marry you or something to prove you don’t hate one another.”
Lena read aloud: “‘More than one Hollywood insider is starting to ask: Can such a talent really spring from nowhere, as Lena Taylor seems to have done? Curious minds want to know!’”
“I’m sure all of Hollywood is wondering,” Paul said dryly. He blew out smoke and started typing again.
“Paul—”
“She’s just stirring up trouble, sweetheart. But look where it continues on the next page. She mentions us.”
“She does?”
“A picture and everything.”
Lena’s heart stilled. She remembered now. The flash she hadn’t expected—God, what had they captured? Warily, she turned the page and stared with horror at the picture, her face full on, smiling, dazed, Paul in profile. Impossible. After all these years, how could this happen?
“She was at least nice about that, don’t you think?” Paul asked, and Lena let her gaze drop to the caption. ??Lux Costume Head says Yes ! to screenwriter Paul Carbone. More good news for the very Lucky lady!??
Nice, yes, but also insinuating. Very Lucky . But Lena could not focus on that, could not keep from staring at the baldness of her face.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It had been years. No one was looking. No one cared. Nothing would happen.
She wanted desperately to believe it.
On the way to work the next morning, Lena turned off the road and stopped at an out-of-the-way pay phone. She smiled when she heard Harvey’s voice.
“Honey! Wait—why are you calling? Only on birthdays, remember? Or did I forget Charlie’s?”
“Or good news, you said. Birthdays or good news.”
“Or bad news.”
“Well this is good news, and I’ve been meaning to call for days. I’m engaged.”
“I saw it! Charlie and I are so happy! Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”
Lena sobered. “Well, you know, that’s the problem.”
Harvey let out a big sigh. “Charlie’s at work, but you know what he’d say. You have a birth certificate. You can get a marriage license with it. That’s all you need.”
She glanced around her empty office and lowered her voice. “If you read the Examiner you saw the rest. And the picture ...”
“Yes, I saw that too.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Nothing.” He was definitive. “Have you seen any evidence that anyone’s looking for you?”
“No.”
“Good. You don’t want to do anything to raise alarms. Business as usual.”
“I never meant to keep secrets from him.”
“Everyone keeps secrets. I’m sure he has some of his own,” Harvey said. “Don’t forget where you two met—and I don’t mean that jazz club story you tell people. Any gossip about you will turn on him just as quickly. What do you think your Hollywood Red-hunters would make of us? Or all those Sundays?”
It didn’t require an answer.
“Let me talk to Charlie when he gets home. We’ll figure out what to do together. We’ll be in touch, but let us call you, okay? The phones. Say nothing. Do nothing.” Then he hung up.
Her meeting with Runyon and the director, George Gardner—and Paul, who would be there too—was at one o’clock. After her call with Harvey, Lena spent the morning at the studio deciding on swatches for the sketches she’d made last night, doing a fitting for Anna Magnani, and trying to ignore her apprehension over Louella’s column and her fear that Paul, who was with the censor and the director now, might lose his composure and get fired before Lena arrived. He’d come to terms with their requests last night, but if Runyon pushed too hard, or made too many more ... she was relieved when it was finally time to make her way to soundstage six, where they were rebuilding the sets of The Doom of Medusa to reflect the changes.
The huge doors of six stood open to allow the set builders access; the lavish nightclub that they’d finished two weeks ago was now being torn apart and revamped as a dark and seedy jazz club.
Runyon was nowhere to be seen. Lena crossed the floor, dodging the scaffolding and tools, light stands and boxes of filters and gels and cords lying about. She headed to the set itself, which no longer looked anything like the original nightclub. It reminded her now of places in Italy, the close, hot clubs with their crooked, rocking tables and the dim sconces on the walls, the stage barely big enough to hold a quartet and the bar in the corner with the spotty illumination behind the bottles of booze. It took her back to Rome in a way that made Lena uncomfortable.
“Miss Taylor!”
She turned to see Michael Runyon and George Gardner sitting at a folding table off set, near a cart that held an urn of coffee and a tray of danishes from the commissary. She walked over to see a typewriter at one end, pencils and script pages scattered everywhere, and a pressed-tin Lux ashtray brimming with cigarette butts.
“Working hard?” she asked. “Where’s Paul?”
“He went to the commissary for sandwiches,” Gardner said. He was a tall man—six three at least—and stick thin. He walked with a habitual stoop, as if he’d been used to hiding his height as a kid. He was as dark as Paul, with that same thick hair, and a five-o’clock shadow that began at noon. A more competent director one could not find, but he wasn’t much of an artist. She’d always liked George Gardner, however; he made quick decisions, and he’d never made a pass at her, which could not be said of many of the directors she’d worked with.
Runyon looked up from the pages he was reading. “I had no idea you knew the writer so well, Miss Taylor. I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you. I assure you we’re both very professional, Mr. Runyon.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Sit down, Lena. Can I get you some coffee?” George rose at her nod.
She took a seat and took the portfolio with her sketches, swatches attached, from her bag. “These are just for Ruby’s character, Helen, and for the first couple of scenes. I’d like to get the seamstresses going. I haven’t seen the changes for the other characters yet, so—” She paused at the look that Runyon and George exchanged as the director came back to the table and set her coffee before her. “What is it?”
“Paul’s a brilliant writer, which I’m sure you know,” George said.
“I do.”
“But maybe he doesn’t grasp what we’re trying to do here,” Runyon filled in. “Since you have a ... connection, we were hoping you could help ... well, steer him, so to speak.”
“What is he objecting to?”
Michael Runyon sighed. “Let me ask you a question: a woman inherits her uncle’s failing café and turns it into a successful nightclub, despite overwhelming debt and the mob’s constant threat to take it over. To do this, she hires brilliant women who work as a team to make the club the most sought-after place to be in Hollywood. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you remember our conversation the other day? About sharing American ideals overseas?”
“Oh yes. Very well.”
“No one doubts the great capabilities of women, but this? Where in this film are the family values? Women raising strong, happy children? Where are the self-made men?”
Lena looked over at George, who studiously poured sugar into his coffee and avoided her gaze. She looked back at Runyon. “Which one of those things did Paul object to adding?”
Runyon looked confused. “Do you know any women who want to run businesses instead of being wives and mothers?”
“Well, um—yes, actually.”
“Are they happy? Fulfilled?”
“I have a career myself, Mr. Runyon—”
“And you’re engaged to be married,” he pointed out. “A fine thing. A wonderful thing. It’s the American way. Happy families. Women helping their husbands raise strong citizens to create a strong economy. Women on their own, relying on each other, well ... that’s not the right message. It’s vaguely ... one could almost say it’s morally decadent, don’t you think?”
Michael Runyon smiled throughout his entire speech, a perfectly charming, sincere smile that sent such creeping irritation and unease through Lena that she didn’t trust herself to answer. She turned to George and pushed her sketches across the table to him. “Are you still planning to shoot the opening of the jazz club first?”
He looked surprised to be addressed, but then he nodded. “Next week, if everything is ready.”
“Here are the sketches for Helen and Roger and Simone.” Lena spread the pages before him. “As you can see, I’ve changed the fabrics. Now Helen’s in deep blue. The dark gray suit is from Richard Widmark’s own wardrobe, but it will work for his character of Roger here and it saves us having to make one, and Simone’s gown—”
“Roger needs a white tuxedo,” Runyon said.
Lena looked over at him. “What?”
“White. To show he’s our hero.”
“But ... a tuxedo’s a bit much for the Medusa, and white especially. The gowns are not that formal.”
“That’s fine,” Michael Runyon said. “A white tux gives Roger gravitas and power. It shows that the women are his helpmates, not his superiors.”
Lena struggled to speak evenly. “Even with the changes, isn’t this supposed to be a night of triumph for Helen? This is her idea.”
The smile, that perpetual smile, died abruptly. “Do you share your fiancé’s propensities, Miss Taylor?”
“I—I’m not sure what that means.”
Runyon tapped his pencil on the table. “I need to know everyone on this production is working together. How can I trust the costumer if I know she and the writer are a couple, and the writer is fighting my every suggestion? Hmmm? You see my dilemma, Miss Taylor?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I see. A white tux it is. And I’ll speak to Paul.”
“Thank you.” Michael Runyon laid the pencil down and turned to George. “What would we men do without women, Gardner? They truly are the great civilizers.”
Lena got the approval on the sketches for the first scene to be shot and left before Paul returned, unable to bear the thought of watching Runyon go after him. When she got to the costume department, she handed the sketch pad to Connie and said, “Let’s get started on these.”
Then she went into her office and collapsed into the chair. She breathed deep and shut her eyes and tried to think of how best to explain to Paul what had just happened with Runyon.
The knock on her door made her start and sit upright. Shirley came in, all bustling efficiency. “Should I have Paul pick you up at five for the Hearst gala?”
Lena stared at her blankly.
“The Cocoanut Grove?” Shirley reminded her. “Tonight? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. The Louella Parsons thing?”
Lena had forgotten. It was Louella Parsons’s thirtieth anniversary as a columnist for the Examiner , and Hearst was throwing a party. “Oh God. Call Louella and send my regrets. Tell her I’m ... I’m ill.”
“You can’t not go. It’s Louella Parsons! You don’t dare sit this one out. You’ll be in her column.”
“I’ve already been in her column. That’s half the reason I’m not going. Anyway, everyone will be there. She won’t notice I’m not.”
“It’s because you’ve been in her column that she’ll notice. It will just give her more to say if you don’t show up. And your dress—that beautiful dress ...”
The look on Shirley’s face was one of both horror and disbelief, and Lena sighed, knowing that her secretary was right. Louella would notice, and she would assume that Lena wasn’t there because of the column, and it would signal that Louella was right to be suspicious of Lena’s past. The woman noticed everything. Shirley was right, too, that it would give Louella a reason to say something else nasty. It was the last thing Lena needed.
“Okay. Fine. Five then. You know best.”
Shirley nodded, looking relieved as she left Lena’s office.
Lena rubbed her temples and turned her attention to the mail on her desk. There was an invitation to a benefit for stage and screen animals and one to Sheila Flavio’s luncheon to raise money for the retired movie actors’ home next week, and a handwritten envelope. Lena Taylor, Costumer to the Stars —
Lena frowned. It had no return address. The postmark was from the post office down the street. She wondered how this one had escaped Shirley, who rarely let such junk mail get by her. Lena slit open the envelope. Inside she found a single piece of paper. Written upon it, in pencil, was only a phone number: CR-18131 r116 .
She stared at it, puzzled, and turned it over. Nothing indicated where it had come from, or from whom.
“Lena?” Shirley’s voice came over the intercom. “Estelle needs you down in the sewing room right away.”
Lena tucked the note back into the envelope and shoved it into her desk drawer, already forgetting it in the rush to get to the day’s next emergency.