The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  * * *

  What if you said you’d do Green Fire in order to get Country Girl?” Jay asked on the phone.

  The price. There was always a price. But she’d pay it. She’d been expecting worse.

  “Done,” she said, and in less than a week she was sitting with Rita in their kitchen on Sweetzer, having just spent a whirlwind few days shopping and sprucing up their apartment for the promised arrival of Oleg. She was already regretting it, though. She wanted to see him, almost more than anything—anything being focusing all her energy on The Country Girl. She’d figure it out, how to balance love with work, with art, she thought with a thumbed nose to her father, whom she’d not bothered to call to tell she was on her way back to Hollywood.

  “Apparently Bing Crosby didn’t want me to get the part,” Grace said to Rita. “He thinks I’m too young and inexperienced.”

  “You’re too pretty for the part as well. But what do you care? You’ll prove him wrong.”

  “The problem is, I’m worried he’s right. What if I am too inexperienced?”

  “Elizabeth Taylor was only twelve in National Velvet, and Judy Garland was only seventeen in Wizard of Oz.”

  “But they were child actors; it’s totally different.”

  “Why should it be different? It just goes to show that great performances can be given at any age or level of experience.”

  Grace rotated her glass of iced tea on the table, making a pleasant, rhythmic whirring sound accompanied by ice cubes chiming merrily inside.

  But it must have driven Rita nuts, because she clasped her hand on Grace’s to stop her, then added, “You don’t think Liz and Judy thought they were out of their league, too, when they stepped onto those sets?”

  Grace raised a knowing eyebrow at Rita.

  “All right, all right, probably not Elizabeth Taylor. But that’s only because she’s . . .”

  “Elizabeth Taylor.”

  Rita growled with impatience. “You know what I’m trying to say.”

  “I do, and I appreciate it,” sighed Grace. “It’s just that I pushed so hard for this role, and for the studio to let me do it. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

  “Forget about them,” said Rita emphatically. “The only person you have to please is yourself. Give a performance you can be proud of, and forget the rest of them.”

  If only it were that simple. But she didn’t want to argue. Her friend was trying hard to bolster her up. “You’re right,” Grace said. “What does Bing Crosby know anyway?”

  A lot, Grace assumed. Plus he had more riding on this movie than she did. The part he was playing was—as many of the less delicate industry news sources had blatantly put it—uncomfortably close to his own life: he would be playing Frank Elgin, a once successful stage actor and singer who’d let alcohol get the better of him. Then he got one last shot at a comeback in a play whose director, Bernie Dodd, might be the only person in New York who believed in him. Dodd, who would be played by William Holden, whom Grace was happy to see again after Toko-Ri, thought that Elgin’s problem was actually his seemingly overprotective wife, Georgie. By the end of the movie, Frank was forced to fess up to his own shortcomings, and Dodd reluctantly saw the light about Georgie.

  Bing, whose career had foundered in recent years with too many parties and women, didn’t want anything getting in the way of his own comeback—let alone “the Main Line princess,” Jay had reported the singer had deemed Grace, which just went to show how little he actually knew about Grace. Had she actually been a Main Line princess, maybe her parents would have been more apt to see and appreciate her.

  Grace hoped Rita was right, and Bing would come around quickly and see the beautiful irony that both of them would be playing against type—because even though Bing’s private life had much in common with Frank Elgin’s, his public persona was still that of the smooth, handsome crooner, the man whose songs had the Midas touch. What appealed to Grace most about Georgie—what made her believe she could play her well, in spite of her youth, which would be aged with makeup and appropriate costuming by her beloved Edith—was how misunderstood she was. For years, she unwaveringly loved and supported her husband, suffering mistreatment from him and men like Dodd, just like Cordelia in King Lear, Grace’s old favorite. So Georgie withdrew into herself, and emerged from her cocoon of sadness when she was at last seen for the steadfast woman she truly was.

  She was also drawn to the setting. The Country Girl was about the theater, her first love. “There’s nothing quite so mysterious and silent as a dark theater, a night without a star,” Georgie Elgin said to Bernie Dodd on an empty stage. The line reached inside Grace and clutched something at her very core. She might not be playing this part in a stage play, but it was as close as film got to theater without being a cinematic interpretation of Shakespeare or Chekhov. And in the unexpectedly happy ending of the movie, it was the theater itself—the work and inspiration of it—that redeemed Frank Elgin, and by extension Georgie. Grace hoped that it would serve to bring her and Bing together, too.

  Rehearsals didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, though. Bing was fidgety and nervous. Grace tried to excuse it as method acting, telling herself he was getting deeply immersed in his character. But when he barely shook her hand when they were introduced, William Holden raised his eyebrows and shot Grace a look that said, Is that the best he can do?

  Grace tried to remain professional, to say her lines and take direction from George Seaton, who seemed downright mute after Alfred Hitchcock. But he had an unassuming quality and spoke to the actors of the power of the script more than anything else—which Grace thought wasn’t surprising, given the fact that Seaton was a writer himself, as well as a director; in fact, he’d adapted Clifford Odets’ script of The Country Girl for the screen.

  After the first week, once the read throughs had graduated to shooting, Bing brought his lunch over to where Grace sat eating and reading a New Yorker with her glasses on—which was something else she liked about this role. She got to wear glasses, so she could see perfectly well everywhere she went.

  His plate was a mirror image of hers: a hamburger with American cheese, tomato, and mustard, with a green salad on the side.

  As soon as Grace saw it, she smiled and said, “I see you like hamburgers as well.”

  “Oh, I love them,” said Bing, but with longing, putting a hand on his heart. “But they aren’t so good for me anymore. Still . . . when I saw them on the lunch line today, I had to have one.”

  Grace smirked conspiratorially and said, “I won’t tell, I promise.”

  Bing smiled, looked down at his plate, then back up at Grace. He was wearing what could be described only as puppy-dog eyes. The expression made him look ten years younger. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for being the cliché of a difficult old-man actor. I never should have doubted your talents.”

  Grace exhaled with relief. “I appreciate that very much, Bing. Of course, I never for a moment doubted your talents,” she said with a laugh so he’d know it was a compliment and not a reprimand.

  He reciprocated with a chuckle. “I hope to prove myself worthy of your belief in me.”

  “It would seem this movie is a risk for both of us,” she said.

  “For you because people might not see you as a cover girl anymore?” He was genuinely curious, she could tell, and he meant no harm in his question, but that term cover girl got under her skin, just as it had that day at the Academy when her classmate had used it to explain why she’d never be a real actress. She didn’t want to ruin this fresh start with Bing by explaining why his comment was patronizing, though.

  But she did want to be honest, so she replied, “No, that would be the best possible result. The risk is more that people won’t be able to see me as anything other than a cover girl.”

  “Ah,” he said, appearing to get lost for a moment in his own thoughts. Th
en, suddenly snapping out of them, he said sheepishly, “I wish I wasn’t so aware of the risks I’m taking in this picture.”

  “Then we’d better make sure this is the best movie it can be,” said Grace, “so you can sleep at night.”

  “I admit I’m sleeping better knowing you’re playing Georgie.”

  It was a warm moment, and Grace was very grateful for it. She enjoyed another week of productive rehearsals, during which she felt she was doing Georgie justice and not disappointing herself or Bing or anyone else. She was also having fun with Edith, who remarked wryly, “It’s not as much fun to dress you for this part, Grace. Where’s the challenge if I can’t make your string bean form into an hourglass? It’s depressing to make a beautiful woman look forlorn.”

  “Cheer up, Edith. Hitch has been writing me letters about a possible film in France. Something frothy, he wrote. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Hitch? Frothy? He must be in love!”

  “Not with me, I hope,” Grace laughed, but Edith gave her a warning look, and Grace threw one of Georgie Elgin’s dowdy sweaters at her. Then she picked up one of the sensible brown shoes she had to wear, and joked, “Maybe I’ll wear these next time I see Hitch. That would certainly cure him of any attraction he might be harboring.”

  Edith snorted. “Or he’ll ask you to dress in a habit and recite your dirtiest nun jokes.”

  At this, they both dissolved in laughter.

  Oleg came and visited at the end of the week, and Grace picked him up from the airport in a warm pink twilight, driving a sporty red convertible and wearing her favorite round sunglasses and an Hermès scarf he liked tied around her head. After settling his suitcase in the backseat and kissing her on the cheek, he put on his own sunglasses, laced his fingers behind his head, and said, “Maybe I could learn to like it here. It was blowing a gale in New York when I left.”

  “Oleg, darling, the weather is part of New York’s character,” she crooned. “Don’t malign it.” Though even she had to admit that soaking up the Southern California sunshine in the dead of winter was a treat she was getting used to.

  The next day she had off, so they spent it zipping around in her car, driving into the hills with a picnic of cold chicken and white wine, then spending a lazy afternoon in her redecorated apartment, mostly in the privacy of her bedroom, and later on the patio with Rita and Sidney, who’d come out a few days before. The other couple was getting on well, and they made such a merry foursome drinking spiked lemonade that Sidney had prepared, and trading stories about their New York acquaintances, that Grace and Oleg nearly missed their reservation at the Cocoanut Grove Club in the Ambassador Hotel.

  Over a dinner of oysters and then New York strip steaks—how could they resist, when they saw them on the menu?—they talked about Oleg’s upcoming designs and shows and eventually wound their way to her work.

  “What’s it like working with Bing Crosby?” Oleg asked, setting down his knife and fork, then tapping a cigarette out of his silver case.

  “It was a little bumpy at first,” said Grace, “but we’re old friends now.” She told him about Bing’s concerns, then how he’d come around.

  Oleg lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke away from Grace as he knew she didn’t love this habit of his.

  “That was fast,” Oleg said curtly.

  “What was?”

  “How fast he changed his mind.”

  Grace felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle a warning. Oleg seemed to be hinting at something, but she couldn’t figure out what. Normally, he was so supportive, she’d expected him to say, Well, of course! How could he have had any doubt?

  “He must have taken one look at you and known how lucky he was, that’s all,” he added, but without his usual complimentary tone.

  “I feel like you’re trying to tell me something. . . .”

  “Oh, come now, Grace. I’m sure Bing knows as well as I do your penchant for the older men you costar with.”

  The tingling at her neck began to feel like a full-blown rash on her whole body. She wasn’t sure how much Oleg knew about her romantic past, and she resented the judgmental way he was bringing it up. After all, his own record with women was hardly squeaky-clean. “Oleg, you can’t possibly believe what you read in the papers,” she said.

  He inhaled his cigarette again and flicked ash off of it into a silver dish on the table, without replying.

  “Darling,” she said in her most soothing voice, “everyone knows I’m in love with you.”

  “That doesn’t matter in this town of make-believe.”

  “I thought you said you could get used to it here,” Grace said, wondering if hives had actually erupted on her skin, she was so itchy for this conversation to be over. Again, he didn’t reply, but his silence was as aggressive as any slur or slap.

  “Oleg, people are going to write about me,” she went on, “and it’s all lies. Please, please, tell me you can ignore them. I only want to be with you,” she said, putting a hand suggestively on his leg and looking into his eyes and trying to convey the depth of her affection.

  It took him longer than she would have liked, but he finally put his hand on hers, squeezed it affectionately, exhaled apologetically, and said, “Forgive me, Grace. I haven’t felt this strongly about anyone . . . in a very long time.”

  Grace sighed with relief. “Nor have I.” She kissed him gently on the lips. Poor man, she thought. I must be careful with his fragile heart.

  He smiled in surprise. “What a lovely thought.” And he kissed her in return.

  I hope he’s as careful with mine.

  Chapter 17

  Grace flew straight from Los Angeles to Bogotá, Colombia, for Green Fire. She wished that she could be as excited about traveling in South America as she had been about going to Africa for Mogambo, but this picture had none of the promise and the cast had none of the chemistry of that earlier picture. Oleg had offered to come with her, and she’d said no—a delicate conversation if ever she’d had one. But he seemed preoccupied with his work in New York and comfortable enough in her affections that he did not argue or—worse—try to make her feel guilty about going. Colombia was hot and buggy, the set incredibly dusty. She had to soap up twice in her evening shower before the water would run clear into the drain.

  Every day, she told herself it was her penance for getting to do The Country Girl. Sometimes she’d think wryly, Dore Schary should be glad I was raised Catholic and think in such terms. And mercifully, she only had to suffer through ten days before she could return to Hollywood to complete the filming.

  “One silver lining in all this,” Grace told Rita as they sat with their feet up, on their unspeakably lovely mosquito-free patio, “is that I was actually thrilled to come back to California. I couldn’t wait for the plane to land and to come here and see you and go to the Bar Marmont.”

  “Cheers to that,” Rita said, clinking her glass of iced tea—a Long Island in honor of Grace’s homecoming—to her friend’s.

  What made finishing Green Fire even more exciting was the promise of heading to France at the end of May to begin filming Hitchcock’s next movie, To Catch a Thief, with Cary Grant of all people.

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me from you in the south of France, my darling,” said Oleg when she told him where she was headed next. Grace laughed and didn’t even try to stop him. In fact, she’d been planning to invite him; the thought of Oleg, Hitch, Cary, and spring on the Riviera made her feel combustible with joy.

  At the Dial M premiere she attended before she left, Ray Milland was a complete gentleman, and their affair seemed so far in the past that he and Grace were able to greet each other with Continental kisses and mildly suggestive poses for the press cameras without so much as a spark flying between them. I must really be in love with Oleg, thought Grace.

  The attention paid to her on the red
carpet had a different feel from previous premieres. As the flashes popped, journalists thrust microphones into her face and fired questions at her: “Can we expect a ring from Mr. Cassini?” “Excited to be working with Cary Grant next?” “Are you planning to sell your New York place yet?” She tried to be gracious but vague: “I’m too busy to think about moving.” “Mr. Cassini is a lovely man, but we have only just begun!” “I feel incredibly lucky that Mr. Hitchcock has paired me with the finest leading men,” she said, lightly touching Ray Milland’s nearby arm. By the time she sat in the theater to watch the movie, she was exhausted.

  But any tiredness she felt quickly dispersed as the opening credits rolled to the tune of the drum- and harp-heavy orchestration by Dimitri Tiomkin, with her name and Ray’s and everyone else’s in wobbly gold capital letters before the circular dial of a black, white, and suggestively red telephone. For the first time, she didn’t cringe and instinctively look away when her own image first appeared on the screen. Edith hadn’t done the costumes for M, but Moss Mabry’s ensembles looked absolutely perfect on the screen, playing beautifully against the rather staid London apartment decor—Grace’s red lace dress in particular was an impeccable counterpoint to the interior scene, speaking volumes about the passions bubbling under the coiffed surfaces of the characters. She chanced a look at Hitch down the aisle of seats during the scene when her character rises from bed to answer the phone without her robe, and was delighted to see him look briefly back at her and wink.

  By the end, Grace felt breathless. If M was this good, she could only imagine how Rear Window would turn out.

  And then, practically in the blink of an eye, she was in France, sitting with Oleg; Hitch; Cary Grant and his wife, Betsy Drake; John Williams; and Brigitte Auber, at a restaurant in the medieval hilltop town of Saint-Paul-de-Vence. A kingly spread of pâté, olives, oysters, baguettes, rosé, and champagne was on the table before them—and it was only the first course! Hitch had told everyone to plan to spend the afternoon celebrating their good fortune.