Chapter 28
Chapter 28
Lena was so distracted and jumpy that when Paul showed up at her office to take her to dinner, she was tempted to plead a headache. That morning’s conversation with him felt so very far away. She didn’t know how she could manage a conversation with anyone, but especially with him, when her secrets danced so busily in her head. Still, she smiled and kissed him, and when he noted that she didn’t seem herself, she said, “It’s been a madhouse today, truly, and lunch with Hedda didn’t help.”
“Maybe we should just order in sandwiches,” he suggested.
But that sounded somehow worse, because it meant they would be alone, and she didn’t want to be alone with him. Her tension held her tight and he knew her too well; she feared that he might see what she couldn’t afford for him to see.
“Honestly, I feel like going out,” she said as brightly as she could. “Maybe the Villa Nova?” The place was popular, and would be swarmed; it would be difficult to have a private conversation. She could see Paul’s puzzlement, but he shrugged.
“If that’s what you want. I’d prefer somewhere quieter. You’re not the only one who’s had a day.”
“More disagreements with Runyon?”
“Always disagreements with Runyon.” He frowned. “Today we were arguing about the friendship between Simone and Helen, and he said women didn’t have true friends, only competitors. But he’s a cynical bastard. He’s used to seeing the worst in people.”
“Well, he does work in the movies.”
Paul looked puzzled for a moment.
“And I suppose being a censor means you’re always arguing with everyone.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” Paul went thoughtful. “He asked about you and your women friends, actually, and you know, I couldn’t think of any.”
And there was Julia again. In her head, when Lena thought she’d excised her. Julia, and “Nature Boy,” and the grief Lena had thought long gone. “Why would Michael Runyon care whether or not I have women friends?”
“It was just a question for argument.”
“I have enough trouble in my life managing actresses.” Lena tried to smile. “They take up all my time.”
The Villa Nova was as crowded as Lena suspected, and the Italian music playing over the speakers was too loud and there was too much conversation beneath it, but she had the impression that the noise suited Paul equally well tonight. He was as distracted as she was, and it was clear he didn’t want to talk about Walter, which was a relief, since Walter seemed a long-ago problem compared to the problems she had now.
Afterward, as they went to their cars, Paul said, “All this with the movie, and this Maynard fellow and the police ... I’ll admit I’m ...”
“I’ve got sketches to do tonight.” Lena nearly jumped on his words, relieved. “I really should go home.”
It wasn’t until he kissed her good night and went to his own car that Lena realized how relieved he’d looked as well, but she was too wrapped up in her own worries to add that to the list. She didn’t want to go to her apartment, but she felt unsettled and bewildered, and the phone call earlier had brought back memories she didn’t know how to manage. La Grotta. Petra singing. Julia’s enigmatic smile. Then that song again in Julia’s room at the academy.
At least no blue Ford followed her home. She didn’t check the mail. If there was another note, she didn’t want to know. Her apartment was as hollow and lonely as ever, but it didn’t feel like her own now, it felt invaded, and she locked the door and put on Birth of the Cool , which she’d never listened to in Rome because it hadn’t been out then. She hoped it would help her forget the day.
But it didn’t. She wished she were somewhere else. She was jumpy and distracted and uncomfortable, and Miles Davis’s trumpet sounded alien and uneasy. She couldn’t bear it. She turned it off, trading it for an equally unbearable silence.
The phone rang, jangling disquietingly, almost as if it sensed how vulnerable she felt. She started, staring at it, shaken by an odd foreboding. She did not want to pick it up. This afternoon, “Nature Boy” ... no, she did not want to pick it up. She’d never been afraid of a phone call before, but now she was.
It kept ringing.
Lena swallowed hard. She told herself not to be stupid. It might be important. Someone from the studio. Maybe Paul, though she doubted it. Answer it.
But she could not lose her apprehension. Slowly, she went to the phone. If she took long enough, maybe they would hang up. Maybe she would never have to know who was on the other end.
Still ringing.
Lena lifted the handset, unaccountably panicked. Just as she put it to her ear, she heard the click. Whoever was on the other end had grown tired of waiting.
She let out her breath in relief and hung up, unsurprised to find she was shaking.
Lena went bleary eyed to work. She had to attend the Brandenburg gala that afternoon, and she wished she could send her regrets. But it was a charity event and Higgy had asked her to go to talk to Elizabeth Taylor, who he wanted to cast in Every Day’s a Holiday . Before considering the role, the actress had insisted on having a conversation with the woman who had ousted Flavio, since the last time they’d worked together, Lena had been Flavio’s assistant and Elizabeth had barely noticed her.
But Elizabeth Taylor didn’t show. Lena ate finger sandwiches and drank champagne and mingled with Olivia de Havilland and Mickey Rooney and Susan Hayward and waited for it to be late enough to leave without appearing rude. The gardens were gorgeous; a string quartet played classical music that accented the classical touches like the bronze statues dotted throughout, and Nancy Brandenburg floated about in yellow georgette obviously designed by Flavio, though he wasn’t there, and cajoled checks from every attendee for whatever charity the event was for—Lena was too consumed by other things to remember, but she donated and tried to make small talk. Cars continued to arrive, men and women still making their way down the flower-edged drive. Maybe Elizabeth Taylor would be a late arrival and it wouldn’t be such a waste of time.
“The whole thing must have been terrible for you,” William Holden said. “An old friend, you say?”
Lena nodded and tried to look sad. The questions about Walter had been coming all afternoon. “It was a shock to see him again. Even a greater shock to hear that he was dead.”
“I imagine so. But you were no longer friends, it sounds like.”
“Well no, not after he asked me for money. I’m sorry he’s dead, but I wonder if he might have been involved with the mob.” She was bored with the conversation, it had become wearying repeating what she’d said a dozen times today already and trying to look sad. The quartet was tuning up again after a break. So many people crowded the gardens that she thought she could probably get away without anyone noticing.
“He wouldn’t be the only one,” Bill Holden said. “I wonder if every studio in town is getting their financing from Mickey Cohen these days.”
She made a small sound of agreement, took another sip of champagne—
And saw Julia.
There, near the string quartet. It was her. Chestnut hair. A gorgeous dress of coral silk—a dress Lena knew because it was one of her designs copied from the film Sixpenny Lane . And yet ...
Lena blinked. It could not be Julia. Julia was dead.
But there she was, in a Lena Taylor dress, with Sam Rockdale, a young actor making a name for himself in Westerns.
Lena felt the blood leave her face. It could not be possible.
“Are you all right?” Holden turned his head to follow her gaze. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Do ... do you know that woman? That woman in coral?”
“What woman?”
“Just over there. With Sam Rockdale.”
Bill looked. “I’ve never seen her before. Do you know her?”
“No. No. I couldn’t.”
But then the woman who could not be Julia because Julia was dead looked toward Lena with a purposeful gaze, as if she had known all this time where Lena was. And at once the strange notes, the call with “Nature Boy” on the other end, made a terrible, terrible sense, and Lena’s head went so light she thought she might pass out.
Julia smiled at her.
Lena looked for a place to set her champagne down. The glass crashed to the ground, shattering on the parterre.
“Lena, are you all right?” Bill Holden asked.
“Fine,” she said. “I—I have to find the ladies’ room. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”
He frowned. “If you’re sure you’re all right.”
She murmured something, she wasn’t sure what, and moved away. Honestly it was all she could do not to run. She had no idea where the restrooms were and frankly did not need one. What she needed was to be away. Her thoughts spun too quickly for her to grab hold of them; she couldn’t ground herself. She was back in Rome, at the train station. The man was saying, “ She’s a part of it ,” and Julia was saying, “ Get up, Lena ,” and Run was in her head, and that was what she wanted to do. This couldn’t be happening. Julia was dead. Lena had seen her fall. She’d seen the blood.
Julia was dead, and every day since then she’d been dead and Lena had been in hiding because of it.
She tried to move away from the crowd except the crowd was everywhere, people everywhere, drinking, laughing. Waiters carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres, little rounds of toast with caviar and shrimp dipped in cocktail sauce, and all Lena could think to do was to get away, and the farther away she moved, the more she began to think that it wasn’t Julia she’d seen at all, but just some woman who looked like her. It couldn’t be Julia. It was just that the days had been so strange lately, with Walter coming back, and “Nature Boy” and the blue Ford and the ransacking of her apartment and everything —
“Hello, Lena.”
The voice behind her sounded so familiar, so fond. It stopped Lena in her tracks.
“You took your time calling.”
Lena closed her eyes and let out a small laugh. “You were just waiting there with the record?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was listening to it when you called. It was a coincidence. There’s something wrong with the phone, I couldn’t make you hear me.”
“There’s something wrong with the phone at the Beverly Hills Hotel ?”
“I think they’re bugged. My room anyway.”
Slowly, Lena turned. Yes, it was Julia. Julia, who looked just the same, but also somehow not. Julia with the cat-shaped eyes that didn’t look as bright as they’d once been and the chestnut hair now streaked with gray though Julia was far too young for gray streaks. Julia wore a fine gold chain that rested against a scar that crossed her collarbone. Her smooth skin was too pale, her finely sculpted face hollowed out, almost gaunt. She was still striking, but ... “Why would your room be bugged?”
Julia shrugged.
Lena studied her. It was impossible. All so impossible. She did not know what to make of any of it. “How did you get in here?”
“I have my ways. There are so many people here, she doesn’t know who half of them are.”
“The last time I saw you ... you’re alive.”
“Yes.” A laugh. “It was touch and go. But yes.”
“What happened? I don’t understand ...”
“Not here.” Julia glanced around. “Listen, we have to meet. I’ve been looking for you for some time.”
“Some time? It’s been years. Why are you sending me cryptic notes instead of just writing like a normal person? Or ... I don’t know ... sending a telegram?”
“It was the best way. You’ll have to trust me on that.” Another furtive glance. “Can you meet with me tomorrow?”
Those last hours in Rome. Running from those men. “You can’t escape.” The carabinieri escorting her to the airport and that long and lonely flight back to LA, where she arrived so changed it was as if she hadn’t just shed a skin but been recast.
“ It’s better if you don’t ask questions ,” they’d said. “For your own sake.”
Kovalova. That had been the name. A Russian name.
“ Pretend it never happened ,” Charlie had said. Lena’s apartment had been torn apart and put together again. She was being followed. She’d lied to the police. She’d lied to Paul. Runyon had accused them both of not being devoted to American ideals. Hedda Hopper. Un-American. How many times had Lena heard that word lately. Too many.
“I can’t meet you, Julia. Not now.”
“I’m in trouble.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it. Not this time.”
“It’s too late. You are a part of it. You’re still a part of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re in danger, Lena.”
“No.” Lena shook her head. “No, I won’t. I refuse.”
“You can’t refuse.” Julia looked sorry, but that didn’t help. “You have to meet with me. Tomorrow. Clifton’s South Seas at noon. Please.”
“Julia—”
Julia squeezed her arm, and the touch too felt familiar, even through Julia’s glove.
“What happened to you?” Lena asked.
“Your engagement ring is beautiful,” Julia said softly, and Lena heard the warning there. “He’s a handsome man. Don’t throw it all away, Lena.”
Lena’s heart pounded.
“Tomorrow,” Julia said. Then she slipped away.