The Polio Lounge
THE POLIO LOUNGE
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.
—ELLA GADDY, UPON REFLECTION
1987
The Polo Lounge was located inside the Beverly Hills Hotel and decorated in shades of pink and green with tropical wallpaper, and little lamps on horseshoed tables. There were unwritten rules when it came to where one was seated. The best tables, outside on the terrace, flanked with bougainvillea, honeysuckle, and night-blooming jasmine, were tucked away to allow privacy, but visible enough to leave an impression. Sheila Day’s table was on the southwest corner booth, allowing unobstructed views both coming and going.
She was nervous and excited for this lunch. It wasn’t just about the perception of “girl power,” she needed these women on her side. With Lesser gone and a younger generation coming up, where did that leave dinosaurs like Sheila Day? The world was not kind to women who reinvented, especially women in their fifties. But Sheila was far from throwing in the towel. That seat on the board meant millions, and it was only a few years away. She wasn’t going to let some long-legged shiksa get the best of her.
Enough noise had been made about the promotions that you could feel the energy in the room when the two former secretaries were escorted onto the outside terrace where Sheila Day awaited them.
What became instantly clear, to Ella at least, was the strategy behind this “simple lunch.” It wasn’t so much about a truce as it was about a public statement and a public display. Sheila Day wanted to put to rest any gossip that she had been bested, showing the industry that she not only supported these young female agents but would mentor them.
Beautifully wrapped gift baskets stuffed with sterling silver picture frames from Tiffany’s, Elsa Peretti jewelry, candles, and gift cards were presented to both women, trumpeting their arrival into the boys’ club.
“Two more have broken through,” Sheila said to Dawn Steel, who stopped by their table to offer congratulations. Steel, the head of Paramount, who was rumored to be headed to Columbia, was the first woman to run a major studio.
As Sheila introduced Ella and Beanie, Ella realized that the choice of restaurant, the day, and the time had all been carefully choreographed. That’s why Sheila had waited so long to tell them where they were going. She wanted the most bang for her buck. And she got it. The room, that day, was packed with heavyweight producers, actors, and studio executives all stopping by Sheila’s table to pay homage.
“A few months back people started calling this place the Polio Lounge,” Sheila confided, scanning the surroundings like they were her domain. “It was filled with alta cockers on their second martinis and third wives. But today,” she said expansively, taking credit for the crowd, “we kicked it up a notch.”
Ella guessed that Sheila, and perhaps a few other senior agents, had some ties to the eatery, and certainly knew in advance who had reservations and where they’d be seated. She’s using this lunch to her advantage, she thought as Sheila continued her outward display of love.
“My two female secret weapons,” she said to Julia Phillips, the first female producer to win an Academy Award for Best Picture. “Who would have thought I was a feminist?” she said, positioning herself between her two protégés.
More like an opportunist, Ella thought, watching her in action. But the thing about Sheila that was undeniable was her wit and her absolute charm.
Benevolent, gracious, and insanely funny, Sheila regaled both Ella and Beanie with stories of her past, who she fucked, who she didn’t, who she wished she would have. She told them about the time she had been on a plane that was being hijacked. The hijacker wanted an audience with Golda Meir. Sheila had offered up Alana Campbell King.
Even Ella laughed.
“She’s trying to sign us,” Beanie whispered as Sheila spoke to Warren Beatty, who had come by the table to say hello.
Ella knew that Beanie was right. Sheila was working overtime to correct her past mistakes, and very much wanted them to like her. And Ella, at last, began letting her guard down.
“I think we three should target someone together,” Beanie told them, just before she got up to go to the bathroom.
Sheila watched Beanie walk away. “She’s a good kid,” she said.
“The best,” Ella agreed.
Sheila gestured for the waiter. “Honeeeey, another pack of Marlboro Lights,” she told him, taking the last two cigarettes out of her case and offering one to Ella. “You smoke?”
“Sometimes.”
“Want one?”
“Nope.”
Sheila lit her cigarette, inhaling deeply as she considered the tall gawky bleached blonde with prehensile legs so long that she was able to cross them once then snake them around again for punctuation.
We get it, you got long legs, Sheila thought, shaking her head at this strange creature, who, for Sheila at least, defied all sense of style. But she had to admit there was something about the arrogant little hayseed that could be appealing. Part Will Rogers, part Ginger Rogers, Ella had a prizefighter’s chutzpah mixed with an overly ruffled Southern style that while Sheila found cheap and tacky, others, for whatever reason, found appealing. She truly hoped that this lunch would not only repair past damage but demonstrate to Ella the power a friendship with her could yield.
“You think maybe we can start over? Straighten things out?” Sheila asked, packing the cigarettes the waiter had brought over.
“Maybe,” Ella said, considering.
“I’d like that,” Sheila told her, going on to explain again that having friends in high places can take care of a multitude of situations.
“I appreciate that you killed the Pauley interview,” Ella said, extending an olive branch.
“That was easy,” Sheila said, “but there’s other things I can offer,” she told her, removing an envelope from her purse and sliding it across the table. “Like protection.”
Ella looked at Sheila confused, and then, opening the envelope, pulled out a small wallet-size class photo of an eight-year-old black boy, smiling big, missing his two front teeth.
“His name is Milo. Apparently, he’s very willful,” she said, and then whispered, “Like his mommy.”
Ella looked at her, absolutely stupefied. It was a sucker punch to the gut that immediately took the air out of the room. Ella’s eyes filled.
“No one has to know,” Sheila continued, misreading the stunned silence as fear or shame or both. “Secrets are only as good as their keepers,” she told her. “We all need someone to protect us. I’d like you to consider me a friend.”
Ella couldn’t breathe. She felt trapped in the corner booth, all the eyes from all the vantage points on her, and began to perspire.
“It’s all right, Ella,” Sheila said, reaching for her hand, trying to calm her down.
But Ella withdrew it. Fast.
Fuck. Sheila hadn’t counted on this reaction. Was Ella upset because she’d seen her son for the first time in eight years, or was she upset that Sheila knew? After all, Sheila had gone to a great deal of trouble to uncover this secret Ella had been hiding, and she figured that if she aligned herself with the thing that Ella most wanted to protect, the two of them could protect it together. It was insurance, that was all. Why didn’t Ella see that?
But again, Sheila had failed to take into consideration the character of the person with whom she was negotiating. Much like she’d done with Garry Sampson when offering him money to reconsider leaving, she had made a blunder from which she would never recover. She had misjudged Ella Gaddy and her motives for keeping things quiet. Ella didn’t want insurance or protection. She wanted respect for her privacy and didn’t want it slid across the little pink table at the southwest corner of the Polo Lounge.
Ella Gaddy took the picture, putting it in her bag, downed the remainder of wine in her goblet, looked at Sheila and said “I quit” as she slid across the booth, getting ready to leave.
“Please,” Sheila said in a panic, blocking her exit. This had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. “I didn’t mean it,” she told her.
Ella called bullshit. To her, that photograph was a warning, a chit, a leveraging tool Sheila could and would use whenever she wanted to have power over her. But Ella wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Big fucking deal, Sheila knew that she’d had a kid. She wasn’t ashamed of her child. Not by a long shot. She was ashamed of herself and what she’d allowed people to talk her into.
“I’m going to Alliance,” she said calmly, “and I’m going to take Scott Westman with me. Then,” she said, with a stare so icy it cut through the bullshit like a cold, double-edged knife through hot butter, “I’m going to go after every single client you have. And even if I can’t sign them, I’ll make certain they leave you.”
Sheila, devastated, was trying to catch her breath. She looked around the room. Everyone she knew was there. She didn’t want to make a scene, but this had gone way off course. “I honestly thought that if I showed you how easily secrets can be uncovered, you’d recognize that having someone like me in your corner would only do you good. I was doing it to show you that I would be your friend.”
Ella rolled her eyes.
“Please,” Sheila begged, no longer caring who was looking, “I’ll do anything.” She desperately tried to keep her composure, but tears formed, nonetheless.
Ella saw Beanie in the distance, stopping at a table to talk to someone.
“Please,” Sheila said again, pleading with every ounce of her being. “It was stupid of me. I fucked up. Don’t leave. We need you,” and then added quietly, her voice cracking, “I need you.”
Ella looked at Sheila, steely-eyed. “Okay,” she said, “here’s the deal. We will never work together. You will never speak to my clients, and you will never mention that photograph to anyone, anytime. Understood?”
“Completely,” Sheila said.
Two weeks later Ella and Beanie met and signed Kevin Costner. Sheila Day, neither informed nor invited, found out about their newest superstar in an interoffice memo addressed to staff worldwide. The two former secretaries now represented two of the biggest stars in Hollywood without Sheila Day’s help, input, or association.
Beanie understood that in spite of their lunch, the rift between Sheila and Ella had somehow grown disproportionate in size. But since neither Ella nor Sheila spoke of it, she, too, kept silent, playing by rules she had neither set nor understood.
Caught in a web she couldn’t see, Beanie was nonetheless cautious of the two spiders on different ends of the same floor.