Chapter 50 1965–1966
I can now afford to make strings of long distance calls, so I telephone the Marmont and ask to be put through to my aunt.
“It’s Aria,” I tell her.
“At last,” she cries.
She sounds so happy. So alive. So exactly like her name—a brilliant ray of light. “You…you…” I don’t know what exactly to say besides something so sentimental she’ll probably hang up on me.
In the background there’s the splash and shriek of people poolside, no matter that it’s winter. And above that, what could be the sniff of someone trying not to cry.
Then her voice comes back on the line saying, “Enough of that. Tell me how I can help.”
So I do. When I’ve finished, I hear her say in a voice designed to carry, “Girls, you wouldn’t believe what Aria’s up to now. You’ll love it.”
Through the phone line, just like I could always sense the Marmont’s vibrations, I can feel the eager attention of the women, the furious hackles of the men.
But I remember Flitter. I will wield my power with honor, not as a weapon.
I end the call by asking my aunt for the number of her lawyer. Then I say to her, words a rush of disbelief, still tinged with the fear of thirteen-year-old Aria, “You beat him. You won against Bob.”
But Miss Devine says, “Not yet, Aria. Not yet.”
She hangs up before I can ask her what she means.
I want to convince myself it’s nothing. But when I asked Calliope, Will it be enough? she said, I don’t know.
That was before the book came out, before we knew that people would not only read it, but believe it. Well—my eyes fall on the critiques written by every male book reviewer in America—I guess not everyone believes it.
Which means my aunt and Calliope are right. It isn’t enough.
I dial Mr. Henry Larousse, my aunt’s lawyer. He remembers me from my younger years when Miss Devine Rey still had visitors.
“You’ve set Hollywood ablaze,” he says.
“I want to control that blaze,” I tell him. “Just a little.”
“Withdraw the book, you mean? That might prove rather difficult.”
I take a deep breath. “No. I want you to draw up the papers for a new business. Aria Jones, Talent Management Agency. I’m going to give all of those young girls—and the older ones too—an agent who’ll look after them, rather than one who’ll let a man take whatever he wants from them.
And—” I inhale another, deeper breath and remind myself that Calliope once told me I had gifts.
Even so, what I’m about to do is preposterous. Isn’t it?
No. Bob Ashenhurst is preposterous.
“I want you to draw up papers to establish a production company: Aria International Pictures. The first movie I’m making is Helen Burns.”
Because I want everyone to know that a woman, just a woman, can be a story. And she can be an entire remembered person too.
Mr. Larousse chortles. “Well done, Miss Jones. Well done.”
Over the next fortnight, I send telegrams to every star and starlet who’s ever stayed at the Marmont.
I tell them about my new agency and ask them to leave their details with Mr. Larousse if they’re interested in having me represent them.
I telegram Calliope and ask her to spread the word; Miss Devine is already having meetings for me at the Marmont poolside.
It’ll soon be out in the open, what I’m doing.
Maybe that’s why I wake up each night with the memory of the words I will never forgive you echoing in my head.
But perhaps I’m finally a whole, complete, and entire person because, despite the dreams, I don’t call Mr. Larousse and ask him to rescind all of my actions.
Once everything is in motion, I stop at a brasserie and order the prix fixe menu for dinner, still not used to the idea that I could order caviar if I wanted to. My table is out on the sidewalk with a view over the Seine, which turns all the lights into water stars.
After I have a glass of wine and a plate of steak frites in front of me, I put my hand into my purse and pull out the letter that I haven’t read yet.
I won’t be complete until I’ve faced the most painful piece of my past.
Dear Aria, the letter from Theo begins.
See? It’ll be fine. A Dear Aria letter is an ordinary, unremarkable letter. Nobody would ever cry over a Dear Aria letter.
A mouthful of wine. A handful of frites.
Onto the next line.
I’m sorry. I thought that if I told you I’d let Marley stay in the bungalow, you wouldn’t understand.
I mean, what woman in the world could possibly understand that the man she’s about to marry has his ex-lover hidden in a bungalow a few yards away?
But I should have given you the chance to understand.
Instead, I lied. And when you found out that I was just another man who told lies to make his own life easier and didn’t care who got hurt, you decided you didn’t want to see me again. I get it.
But I wanted to tell you that I read your book.
Adele read it too. She said to tell you it was outta sight.
I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, not anymore, but I’m so proud of you.
And I also know that I shouldn’t have asked you to marry me.
I should have seen that I’d had the chance to live—a fucked-up life maybe, but a life nonetheless.
You hadn’t had that chance. Asking you to marry me was like saying I wanted you to mother Adele while I went off and partied around the world.
It was trapping you into a different cage than the Marmont.
And I needed to figure out for myself that I don’t need to keep my freezer stashed with vodka just to prove that I can stay sober.
Anyway, my life isn’t so fucked-up now. Adele’s at school.
She said to tell you that she misses you.
And I’m finally playing songs that I like.
I love you. Always.
Theo
I cry. Of course I cry.
I cry until I know that I won’t die from this grief.
I’ll do something about it instead.
Thanks to Mr. Larousse, I’m now the proprietor of two businesses. More than thirty women have made appointments to speak to me when I’m back.
Which means—it’s time to return to Hollywood.
I pack my suitcase—two suitcases now that I’ve bought so many clothes.
In Italy, it was the Missoni siblings’ rainbow-striped knits.
In Paris, it’s been Pierre Cardin and Courrèges and their orange and green mini dresses, colors I wouldn’t be able to wear if I was blond, colors that work because I have brown hair and green eyes.
Once the suitcases are packed, I write one final telegram. To Flitter. I tell her to come to my office the first week I’m back.
When I’m done, I can’t put the pen down. Instead, I pick up a blank piece of paper.
Before I met Theo, I’d lived in two cities and kissed three men. I’ve now lived in three countries and twice as many cities, have kissed perhaps eight men. And I still love Theo.
But I know now that I don’t need him. I really am a whole, complete, and entire person with her own future ahead of her, even without him.
But I want him.
God, I want him.
Dear Theo, I write.