The Girl in White Gloves

by Kerri Maher

  But the next day when she was walking through Central Park with Oleg, with Oliver trotting along beside them, he said with a sharp edge to his voice, “I heard you had a party last night.”

  “It didn’t start as a party, but I suppose it rather felt like one,” said Grace, her intestines beginning to roil from guilt over not inviting Oleg. Worse, she couldn’t even explain to him the real reason for the gathering—she’d needed a happy taste of life without him. “I thought you were busy with work last night,” she added quickly by way of excuse, as it was at least partly true.

  “I was,” he said, “but I might have been able to finish early.”

  Grace kissed him on the cheek, hoping to sweep it all away quickly. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be sure to check with you next time. You know there’s nothing I like better than to be with you.”

  “Did Don have a good time?” he persisted.

  Uh-oh, thought Grace, her insides now churning and gurgling at this familiar jealousy in Oleg. She hadn’t seen it in a while, but here it was again, unmistakably. “Oleg, there is nothing to be alarmed about where Don is concerned. He’s just an old friend.” She also wondered how Oleg had even found out about the party.

  “He’d bed you in a heartbeat.”

  “That’s irrelevant, though, because I’m not interested in him that way.”

  “Oh? Do you know what he said to me at the do at the Met, when I saw him? He leaned very close to me so no one else could hear and asked if you still liked to have the backs of your knees tickled.”

  “What?” The word escaped Grace’s lips as a gasp before she could think better of it.

  “He’s a jealous man, Grace. I don’t like that you continue to invite him to events, particularly small parties in your own home. It sends the wrong message.”

  Don is jealous? It takes one to know one, she wanted to shout. “Don is only a friend who’s been very kind and helpful to me for many years. I can’t just cut him out of my life,” said Grace, struggling to keep her voice even. “He’s more of a mentor now, like Sandy or Hitch. You don’t feel jealous of them, do you?”

  “I’m not crazy about the way Hitch leers at you when you’re not looking, but he’s too important for your career to jettison.”

  “Jettison?” This conversation was fast going off the rails.

  “And you never slept with Hitch or Sandy,” said Oleg brusquely, “at least not that I know of.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her face felt hot even in the chilly air, and her arms were shaking. Grace regretted letting Oleg know anything about her former lovers. But he’d been so supportive and accepting at the start. She never had any idea he’d use the information against her later. She’d certainly never make that mistake again.

  “It means that I don’t really know what you’ve done with all the men on your various sets. And now you’ve invited Howell Conant to photograph you while you’re in Jamaica? In a swimming suit? Come now, Grace. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You’re supposed to trust me, Oleg.” Oliver was pulling on the leash, trying to move them down the path, but Grace felt rooted to the spot.

  “How can I trust you when you want to pose like a pinup girl?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “How can you say that, Oleg? Of course Howell’s pictures won’t be like that! I want to do something different.”

  “You want to show the public you’re not an ice queen. Fine. But you don’t have to be a whore to do it.”

  Grace’s whole body went rigid. “What did you call me?” she whispered.

  She could see the instant regret on his face, and something else that resembled panic. “I’m sorry, Grace. That was the wrong choice of words.”

  Oliver chose that moment to throw himself on a patch of grass and whine. Oleg frowned down at the puppy, then reached a hand out to touch Grace’s arm, which she pulled out of his reach.

  She wanted to turn and walk away, but she couldn’t, and her heart was thudding so fast and loud, she could hardly think. Even though a part of her feared he was right—something in her had always chafed and rebelled at the rules of her childhood—she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about it, not the way he wanted her to.

  “Grace,” he pleaded quietly.

  She refused to meet his eyes again and kept hers fixed on Oliver. How could she love Oleg this much, despite what he’d just said? How could she still want to let herself be folded in his arms, as she had been the night he’d shown her his sketch of the Oscar dress?

  He must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “Academy Award nominations will be announced soon, and I have a feeling you’ll get one for The Country Girl. I recognize that’s who you really are, Grace. The most talented woman I know.”

  At last lifting her eyes to his, she said, “You can’t cover what you said with flattery.”

  “Give me an opportunity to make it up to you. Please.”

  Overcome with a need to get away, Grace bent over and scooped Oliver into her arms, holding him like a baby. He yawned, baring his tiny pointed teeth, his tongue curling out of his mouth. Cuddling him settled her a bit.

  “Let’s get him home,” Oleg said, reaching out and waggling the puppy’s ears with an affectionate pat on his soft head.

  “I’ll get him home,” Grace corrected him. Then, nearly choking on the sudden rush of wet emotion rising into her throat, she added, “I’ll call you when I get back from Jamaica.”

  Chapter 19

  1975

  The envelope didn’t look like it would contain anything of import, but as soon as Grace read the typewritten letter from an English journalist named Gwen Robyns, she had a prickly sense that she was holding an opportunity in her hands. Gwen had contacted Grace to let her know that she was writing a biography focusing on her film years, and she wondered if it might be possible to interview her. She explained her credentials and the publisher of the book, all of which recommended her highly to Grace even though she wasn’t familiar with the writer’s work.

  This wasn’t the first request of this nature that she’d received, but because so much of the press about their family was either lurid or only shallowly grounded in reality, Grace and Rainier had become wary of all requests for interviews. Still, not all writers were opportunists. Just recently, Grace had spoken with young Donald Spoto, an earnest American film historian who was fascinated by Hitchcock’s oeuvre, and she’d been deeply impressed by the depth and breadth of his knowledge, the intelligence of his questions about the director. She’d even offered to write the introduction to his book.

  Grace held the crisp A4 paper, folded three times to fit in its envelope, and felt a curious pull toward the woman who’d written it. There was something beseeching in her tone, even self-effacing. “I want to make sure I have my facts straight,” she’d written. “Only you know the truth. . . . I have no interest in writing an exposé. I despise the sorts of writers who camp outside your residences.”

  She didn’t reply right away. But the next day, Grace found a little time to return to her desk and compose an invitation for Gwen to send a draft of her manuscript to Grace. She wasn’t sure what she was getting into, and she felt nervous. At worst, she’d learned over the years, she could simply not respond further. But when the few hundred pages of the book arrived, photocopied typewritten pages neatly stacked in a manuscript box, Grace dove into them with gusto.

  Gwen had a friendly, conversational style, the sort many women would like to read. The book felt like sitting down to lunch with a good friend—and the author had clearly done her homework. Her description of Henry Avenue was so precise, Grace wondered if she’d flown all the way from London to see it. Gwen’s appraisal of her film performances made Grace laugh—this was no critic. But then she was glad that Gwen wasn’t a Hollywood insider, because when she came to the parts about Don and Ray Milland and Gene a
nd Oleg, Grace paused. Gwen herself might not have been an insider, but she’d obviously talked to a few. Grace wondered who’d betrayed her to the woman. Likely Don, she thought with regret; he’d become something of a crotchety blabbermouth in his older years, and Grace had the sense that he took the end of Grace’s acting career personally and badly. After a few letters arguing about why she refused to return to acting, Grace had had to take a step back from Don, letting their correspondence dwindle.

  Whom else had Gwen interviewed? It didn’t matter. There were just enough people who knew what had happened in those early years of the 1950s whose stories and threadbare loyalty could fill a book. As for Gwen, she was only trying to do her job. That much was clear to Grace.

  Grace was worried about Rainier, however. He would never forgive her if a book describing her premarital love affairs were to be published—especially if it got out that she’d read the draft and done nothing about it. This felt markedly different from the series of interviews her own mother had sprung on her, which appeared in every major newspaper in America during her engagement. Then, since he was still courting her, Rainier had said, “You cannot control what your mother says about you” and “Truly, Grace, they may be in bad taste, but she hardly says anything lascivious. These interviews are not tell-alls.”

  Now, Grace felt sure he would demand, “How does this make you look? How does it make me look?” All he’d be able to see was the past he’d banished from their principality along with her movies when they got married. And despite how the writer had described her project, Gwen’s book was a tell-all. It laid bare some uncomfortable truths about her romantic life that her mother had had the good sense to obfuscate.

  Grace was surprised to discover that she also wanted to change the book for herself. After all, she’d given up everything she’d once loved to be a princess. What a waste that would be if the most complicated parts of her past as Grace Kelly were to come back and eclipse all the good she’d done as Grace de Monaco or, worse, to give her daughters license to behave as she had! “You had affairs with married men?” Caroline would say, and Grace could just see the mixed expression of accusation, disappointment, and relief that would come over her elder daughter’s face. No, she couldn’t let that happen.

  As she went about her duties for the next few days, Grace thought about what to do about Gwen. She wished so much she could ask Uncle George what to do. Poor, misunderstood, and unfairly maligned Uncle George. And poor William Weagley, who hadn’t even been invited to George’s funeral the year before, who’d stolen in and stood at the back of the church, only to sneak out before the end like a thief giving back a stolen jewel. Grace made a mental note to write to him and invite him to stay at Roc Agel this summer.

  Nerves wound tight, she avoided the subject with Rainier and wished she’d never replied to Gwen’s letter, never gotten herself into this mess to begin with. On her third morning of dry toast and tea because she couldn’t stomach anything else, Grace decided the only thing she could try would be to appeal to Gwen woman to woman.

  She sent Gwen an invitation to Monaco, which the writer promptly accepted. In the week before her arrival, Grace met Maree for lunch in Paris, as her old friend happened to be on a holiday there with family, and found herself going on and on over the first two courses about how worried she was about her daughters, Gwen’s book, Rainier’s possible reactions, and a smattering of other problems with her work in the principality.

  Maree set down her fork and said, brightly and abruptly, “You need something for you, Gracie. Something to do that will help you remember who you really are. It’s like you’ve disappeared into everyone around you.”

  “I know who I am, Maree,” she said, trying to laugh off the truth so that she didn’t cry instead. In those exhausted bones of hers, the ones that wanted to lay themselves somewhere plush and comforting, she knew exactly who she was. Who she’d been.

  “Maybe remember is the wrong word,” Maree said, thinking out loud, “because people change. I know you’re not a Hollywood star anymore. But could you be more than Princess of Monaco?”

  Grace burst out laughing. “More than a princess?”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean.” Her friend looked at her sternly this time, eyebrows raised and lips pressed into a thin line.

  “I do,” said Grace. Because she did, exactly. She still pined for her acting career, and in two decades there had been no real substitute: not patronizing the arts, not giving her time to worthy causes. Not even motherhood, which she could never admit aloud, because who on earth could possibly understand that even though she loved her children—indeed, her love for them was the most powerful force in her life—the work of mothering had never given her what acting had?

  Maree was right, though. Grace had all but disappeared into her roles as mother, princess, wife. She didn’t think she’d survive another twenty years if she didn’t find—and soon—a new part to play, beyond that of a forty-five-year-old woman from Philadelphia who was married with three children, whose husband just happened to be a prince.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” she said, and it was as much a promise to herself as to her childhood friend, one of the few people she trusted because she’d known Grace Kelly before everything.

  * * *

  Over tea and cakes on a cloudy day when Rainier was away on business, Grace sat down with Gwen Robyns. She was about ten years older than Grace, aging attractively into her mid-fifties, with gray hair lacing its way through thick brown locks and warm dark eyes beneath heavy, thoughtful brows.

  “Thank you so much for meeting with me,” Gwen said right away, holding out her hand to shake Grace’s.

  “No, thank you for thinking to ask me about your biography,” Grace replied. “It’s very good.” This is an important role. Don’t blow it.

  Gwen looked surprised. “That means a great deal to me.”

  Grace gestured for Gwen to sit. They were in the more casual living space, where the children had played with cars and dolls when they were small. Grace wore slim wool trousers and a simple sweater with her glasses, far less formal than Gwen, who was wearing a knee-length navy shift dress—a perfect choice for someone who had no idea what to wear. Grace was relieved to see that Gwen was just the tiniest bit off-balance, not knowing what to expect. This should help Grace with her plan.

  While she poured tea and offered Gwen a plate of scones and sandwiches, Grace explained all the things she had admired—genuinely—about the writer’s book, and Gwen blushed with grateful embarrassment and thanked Grace and said how delicious the currant scones were, the best she’d had outside Fortnum & Mason in London.

  Then Grace got to the point. “But there is one thing that troubles me about the book.” She paused and saw all the tension that had melted out of Gwen refreeze into her shoulders. “You see, I’m worried about my daughters. I would lose all authority with them if they were to discover . . . certain things about my past. Gene Lyons and Ray Milland, for instance. What happened between us, really, is private, and I wouldn’t share it with any biographer—indeed, I haven’t even confessed the essentials to my closest friends, as ladies didn’t do that in our day, did they? But I digress. The point is, how can I ask my daughters to stay away from certain kinds of men if they see that I made a habit of being with them myself? I’d like to save them from the kinds of heartaches I endured.”

  “Is that ever really possible? Saving our children from mistakes?” Gwen asked this question with authentic curiosity.

  “Maybe not,” admitted Grace. “But I can certainly save them from embarrassment. And save Rainier and Ray Milland, while I’m at it. Mr. Milland and his wife reside in France, you know, not far from here, and we see them socially on occasion. It would put us in a most uncomfortable situation if Mr. Milland’s and my earlier . . . misguided liaison were to come out. I’m sure you understand, Gwen. You have the luxury of a private life,
which I’m sure you value all the more for being a writer of imagination who is able to so accurately portray the lives of those of us unlucky enough to have so little privacy.” Stop talking, Grace told herself. She had more to say, but sensed that she’d said enough, for now. She needed to let what she’d already spoken soak in.

  Gwen sipped her tea pensively, holding the saucer aloft just below the cup. Grace had used the Silver Jubilee porcelain just for this occasion. Though Gwen was not now looking at the silver 25s painted onto the delicate cups, with Grace’s husband’s profile suggested in the pattern, Grace felt sure the other woman had noticed what she was drinking from. At that moment, Gwen was staring inscrutably at one of the roses in the pattern of the couch on which Grace sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, her fingers folded on one another, resting on her bent right knee.

  “I can understand that,” said the writer, clinking her cup back into its saucer.

  “I’m so glad,” Grace said with a smile.

  “It must be . . . so difficult,” said Gwen, obviously casting about for the right words. “I’ve watched journalism devolve recently. Lose all decorum.”

  “Not all journalists,” Grace said judiciously, seeing her opening and rushing in, “only the wretched paparazzi and other opportunists.”

  Gwen nodded, and Grace felt increasingly that they were on the same side, wayward girls in the school lunchroom swapping halves of sandwiches and stories about teachers.

  “The only problem is, I’m not sure how I’ll fill the pages I’d have to cut,” said Gwen.