by Daisy Waugh
‘I suppose Butch will bring you over to Silverman,’ he said lightly.
She didn’t reply.
‘You should let me take a look at the contract before you sign, El.’
‘Nobody’s said anything about a contract.’
‘Trust me, they’ll screw you if they can.’
‘Butch hasn’t said anything about a contract,’ she lied again.
But Max knew Butch. He smiled. ‘Yes, he has.’
Eleanor stood up. ‘Well. I certainly haven’t seen it,’ she said. ‘As far as I know, Max, we’re as washed up as each other.’
‘We’re not washed up,’ he said automatically. ‘Absolutely not,’ he reiterated, for his own benefit.
‘In any case,’ she stood up, ‘God knows why you said yes to this bloody awful trip, Max,’ she said, changing the conversation. ‘It’s the last thing I want to do. Why are you making me do this?’
‘I’m not,’ he said, ‘making you do it.’
‘It’s going to be hell. Everyone knowing our business. And don’t say they won’t because they will.’
‘Well, honey,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t know what else you’ve told Butch …’
‘I haven’t told him anything,’ she said.
‘But once a cat’s out of a bag …’
‘I haven’t told him anything,’ she said again.
‘Really? Well that’s all right, then.’ He flicked her a cold smile.
‘They’ll know about you being fired,’ she said, looking away. ‘And about me being dumped by Lionsfiel …’
‘Probably.’
‘They’ll know about your ridiculous fight with Butch. God knows what you were thinking …’
‘I would be disappointed if they didn’t.’
‘In any case, Joseph Kennedy gives me the creeps. And Gloria Swanson’s a terrible bore. Mr Hearst is so shy he’s impossible to talk to … Marion will be closeted with Charlie. And I dread to imagine who else will be there … Oh God, Max – what’s the point of it? What are we doing? We can’t even speak to each other without—’
‘Lying?’
She turned without another word. They waited in separate parts of the property that would soon no longer be theirs, until Joseph, who would soon no longer work for them, returned with the car they would have to sell. They climbed into it from separate sides, gazed out of opposite windows, never more conscious of each other, and didn’t speak until they reached the station. As Joseph stepped round to open Eleanor’s door, Max took her gloved hand, resting limp on her lap.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be OK.’
She pulled her hand away.
As they walked side by side the short distance to the train, Eleanor wished, if she wished anything at all, that she was back in her room at the Riverside Hotel, still free and foolish enough to dream about a different future. She pictured herself only a week earlier at this same station, setting off for Reno. What madness, she wondered, had persuaded her to believe the impossible for so long? And now she believed in nothing and there was no turning back. And it was far worse.
Mr Hearst provided first-class berths for each of his guests, as well as a private dining and drawing room on the train. San Simeon house parties began as soon as guests climbed aboard the train, and there, just in front of her, fifty yards ahead, Eleanor spotted Greta Garbo being helped up the steps.
‘Oh God, Max,’ she whispered, ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Yes, you can.’
It was worse. Behind Greta, booming orders to the porters, yelling frantic greetings at Garbo, Max and Eleanor spotted the gossip columnist Louella Parsons. Louella, whose poisonous words were syndicated in newspapers coast-to-coast, and who was loathed by everyone who ever met her, except her employer, Randolph Hearst. She too was climbing aboard.
‘It’s going to be fine!’ Max said weakly.
Twenty yards in front of them, the doors to Mr Hearst’s drawing-room carriage had been thrown open. On the platform outside it, a collection of some of the most celebrated names in America were jostling for attention, preparing to embark the train. Louella was shrieking hello to Buster Keaton; Elinor Glyn was shaking hands with Charles Lindbergh; Gloria Swanson was offering a chilly, perfumed cheek to Will Rogers; Joseph Kennedy was leering at Peggy Hopkins Joyce … Bustling porters came and went between them. Max and Eleanor stood back.
‘Matz? …’ she asked him, her beautiful, trained voice carrying, soft and clear, above the station hubbub. ‘Why are we doing this?’
But the answer seemed so obvious to him. And he knew it was obvious to her, too. He knew she understood. Or else why would she still be standing there? He might have come back with any number of comforting replies, but for a moment the thought of adding yet one more lie to the mountain of lies between them seemed to be beyond him.
He said it coldly: ‘Because we’ve been poor before, Eleanor. We know what it’s like. We don’t have any choice.’
She didn’t argue with it. They turned towards the train, to face the mob.
68
A small fleet of limousines awaited the dawn arrival of Hearst’s house-party train, and by 10 a.m. that Monday morning, guests were all comfortably ensconced at the castle on top of the hill. Transported from the station, through the vast Hearst Estate and the Hearst private zoo, they had been shown their quarters, introduced to their maids, had their belongings unpacked for them, and were seated at one end of the long refectory table in the dining room, with Marion and her six-year-old niece, Patricia, side by side at the head, tucking into breakfast. Only Mr Hearst had yet to make an appearance. But no one expect him. He generally kept to himself, his desk, his newspapers, and his telephones, until the house party gathered in the great hall for evening cocktails.
Ten o’clock on the West Coast was already lunchtime in the East. Wall Street had been trading for several hours already, and indications were far from good. The much-vaunted Monday recovery had not materialized, brokers were selling at an ever-increasing rate and prices continued to drop. Where, on Black Thursday, the President of the Exchange had jauntily stepped in and thrown his own money into the bear pit to help stabilize things, there were no signs of big business riding to the rescue today. The market was on the edge of freefall. All this, the guests had discovered on arrival. As well as a stock ticker, there was a news ticker, tick-tacking away in Mr Hearst’s private study, and it was announced to the table that on this one occasion, in these peculiar circumstances, guests would be allowed access to the room, at specific intervals during the day. They were also invited to use the telephone, should they need to call their brokers at any point. Max had no need to call his broker. There was nothing left for him to sell – and for that, at least, he was quite grateful. If he’d been allowed to hold out, he would have been even poorer this morning.
‘B-but other than calling your brokers if you really, truly and absolutely have to, gentleman,’ Marion Davies declared, resplendent in raspberry pink at the head of the table, and with a newly acquired bracelet of pink diamonds to match, ‘the s-subject is absolutely banned.’
There was a groan of protest from the guests.
‘And you know,’ she said, holding up her glittering wrist, ‘if I hear a s-single word about the s-tupid stock market at this table, or on the t-tennis courts or anywhere, I shall insist on imposing some dreadful sort of forfeit. Don’t ask me what it is, because I haven’t thought of it yet. But it might easily involve the b-bell tower. And a couple of zebras.’
Nobody much felt like laughing (except young Patricia, who didn’t understand), but duty required that the guests join in. Joseph Kennedy laughed louder than anyone. He had been shorting the market on a scale that made Butch’s clever efforts seem paltry. While his fellow guests tumbled into bankruptcy, this man, or snake, the father of a future US president, was one of a small handful of Americans making an unimaginable fortune in the stock price collapse. Joseph Kennedy laughed merrily at Marion’s amusi
ng diktat, his hand, beneath the table, caressing Gloria Swanson’s thigh the while. He would spend just as much time as he felt inclined, gazing at the castle ticker machines. Marion knew it. She didn’t look at him as she was laying down the house-party rule. She tried to avoid looking at him at all.
‘So then!’ Marion continued, breezy as ever. ‘What shall we all do with ourselves this morning? Patricia – darling,’ she turned tenderly to her small niece. ‘We’re going to the ch-chimpanzee house directly. You and me. This morning. B-but first you have to give me a half-hour, baby …’ She smiled and stroked the little girl’s cheek. ‘And you, Charlie,’ she continued, ‘I know you fancy yourself the tennis champion …’
‘Hardly,’ he said mildly, eating kedgeree.
‘Well, I happen to know Mr Lindbergh is quite the whiz – not just up there in the air, but on the tennis court, too. Isn’t that so, Mr Lindbergh? And Mrs Lindbergh – I heard you had the most terrific, swinging forehand!’
Charles and Anne Lindbergh looked at their plates. Marion, fine hostess that she was, didn’t offer them a chance to reveal their shyness. ‘Don’t you go denying it!’ she continued cheerfully. ‘I know it perfectly well. So. And if you g-give me a hundred bucks I’ll even tell ya who told me! Which only leaves a partner for you, Charlie – Peggy? Fancy a run about with your old b-beau? I’ll bet you can hit a ball!’
‘Gosh, I shouldn’t think so!’ cried Peggy Hopkins Joyce, laughing very loudly. Nobody knew quite why. ‘How about Greta?’
Greta didn’t speak. She sipped on some black coffee and looked airily above her hostess’s head.
‘She wants to be alone,’ said Buster. ‘She told me so on the train.’
‘Nonsense,’ announced Marion. ‘Else why’s she even bothered to come all the way up here for the party? Greta – darling – say something, won’t you? It’s no good b-bringing your black mood up here. I tell you, we shan’t allow it to last!’
But Greta still didn’t speak.
Marion sighed. Glanced at Eleanor. ‘Mrs Eleanor Beecham?’ she said softly. ‘A thousand bucks for your thoughts!’
Eleanor jumped.
‘Ha! Honey, you were a m-million miles away!’
‘Was I?’ Eleanor sounded apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry! You need someone to make up the tennis? Well I can certainly—’
‘No, darling,’ interrupted Marion. ‘I told you – I told your husband … I have something I want to show you.’
‘Oh?’ Eleanor glanced at Max.
‘You, Max and I are going for a little walk, Eleanor. WR’s put in a too-delightful little ha-ha below the Neptune pool – And I b-betcha don’t know what a ha-ha is—’
‘Isn’t it a—’
‘Oh gosh,’ Marion waved her words aside. ‘Never mind. I’ll just betcha do know. Anyway I know you’ll want to see it, too. I’ve been longing to show you all yesterday. Miss Glyn,’ without pausing, Marion turned to the other Elinor: the ageing novelist, Elinor Glyn, ‘how about some tennis? Will you partner with Charlie? He’s awfully good, you know.’
‘Certainly not!’ Miss Glyn’s patrician English cut through the large dining room, making everyone in the room sit up a little straighter. ‘I’m far too old. I intend to spend the morning looking at the giraffe – if there’s anyone willing to accompany me?’ She looked meaningfully at her fellow scribe, Will Rogers. Too late, Louella Parsons piped up. ‘Oh, I should love to see the giraffe, Elinor darling.’
Elinor sighed.
‘Natalie?’ Charlie Chaplin turned to Buster’s wife. ‘Want to play some tennis?’
‘Not really, no,’ she said, scowling at her husband, as if the question were his fault. ‘But if I must I suppose I must.’
‘Excellent!’ said Charlie, rubbing his hands together. ‘We have a match!’
‘Well then. I think I shall take a swim,’ muttered Buster.
So the guests were found activities to keep them occupied until luncheon. There was a tour of the zoo for some; a small pool party for others. Will Rogers wanted to try his hand playing the bells in the bell tower; Max, Eleanor and Marion would examine the ha-ha; Joseph Kennedy and Gloria Swanson would retire to their adjoining quarters, and Greta would wander the grounds, alone.
‘Well, that’s all settled then,’ said Marion, satisfied. ‘Everyone has something planned. And this afternoon, we must make a little movie – don’t you think? Charlie and I have it all written out. And we c-can show it to WR in the theatre tomorrow evening. He simply l-loves all that … And later on, we may have another guest joining us.’ She glanced nervously at Charlie, the only one present who was aware of her immediate plans. But he was careful not to look at her. ‘Least, I think we may. It really depends …’
As they were rising from the table, Charlie leaned across to Max. ‘Marion has a surprise,’ he said.
‘A nice one, I hope. You know what it is?’
There was a pause. Max wondered what it was Charlie seemed to be on the point of saying. He looked, just for a moment, unguarded, thoughtful – sad. He shook his head. ‘No idea.’
‘Max darling, won’t you hurry up?’ Marion was already shepherding Eleanor up from the table. ‘Hurry, Max. Follow me or I think I may die of impatience.’
‘Die?’ laughed Max, following her into the hall.
‘Well, but you know what I mean …’ She sounded horribly nervous. ‘Now come with me.’
69
Everywhere, sculpted from the steep hillside, there were curling paths and little steps, fountains and statues, gazebos and mazes, ha-has and follies. Trees had been uprooted and transported from every corner of America and some from as far away as Europe, and everywhere, in the salty air, the distant sound of waves crashed softly onto the bay below. The garden at San Simeon was magical. Beautiful. Spectacular. Two hundred acres of paradise. So the three of them set out through the castle grounds towards the new ha-ha, Marion holding on to her large brimmed sun hat, briskly leading the way. In her other hand, she carried with her a small wallet.
‘What do you suppose it’s about?’ Max muttered to his wife. Eleanor shrugged.
‘Something’s got into her.’
Eleanor said: ‘As long as we don’t have to look at a giraffe with Louella Parsons, Marion can walk us to San Francisco and back, for all I care.’
Just then, abruptly – and without a ha-ha anywhere in sight, Marion stopped, spun round to face them. She took off her sunglasses, looked from one to the other and then peered about her, as if checking there was no one approaching.
‘I sh-should apologize,’ she said, gazing at them intently. ‘I know I should apologize. I have taken the most t-terrific liberty. Charlie says it’s out of … B-but never mind what Charlie says,’ she corrected herself. ‘He doesn’t know anything. About anything …’ Beside her was a small enclave, a plateau cut into the hill. It was framed by thick rose bushes and, in the middle, two curving, marble benches formed a semicircle, looking out to sea. She sat herself at the furthest bench and indicated that they should sit on the other.
‘I have something to show you,’ she said. ‘It’s why I bought you down here.’
‘All right then,’ Max said, slowly, seating himself beside his wife. ‘Well. Why don’t you show it to us then?’
Marion hesitated. She said: ‘I want to show it to you, Max. It’s something somebody sent to me … But I think I may have lost my nerve.’
‘Well? What is it?’ Marion’s uncharacteristic discomfort had roused Eleanor’s curiosity at last.
‘It’s something somebody sent me,’ Marion said again. ‘Eleanor, I w-wanted to show it to you last week. I thought I would. But then – it’s such a tremendous … thing …’
‘What can it be?’ Max teased her. ‘This “tremendous thing”? Here we are, Marion. You might just as well show it to us now.’ He indicated the little wallet. ‘Is that it?’
She glanced at the file in her hand as if she had almost forgotten it. ‘W-well. Yes. I guess it is. It’s p
art of it. There’s another part …’ Max put out a hand to take it from her.
‘Except I think,’ Marion said, pulling the wallet closer to her chest, ‘I just want you to know that I am g-giving this to you with only the very best intentions. Eleanor – I have always liked you. And M-Max … The kid sent it to me, and I couldn’t not pass it on to you. Now could I? Well, don’t even answer that b-because of course I couldn’t. I don’t care what anyone says. And I’ve not shown it to anyone – you understand that? Well, I sh-showed it to Charlie.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Eleanor laughed. ‘I’m not sure I can stand this suspense any longer.’
Marion clutched the wallet tighter still. ‘Of course, I showed it to WR. But you know – you couldn’t have a more sympathetic supporter than WR. There’s nobody in this world kinder the WR. Apart from anything, you know – he was all for the Triangle workers—’
Before Marion could prevent it, Eleanor had left her seat and snatched the wallet from her hand.
‘People say such t-terrible things about him. About WR,’ Marion babbled, only to fill the space. ‘But you can trust him. Of all the men in the world, that man has a heart of gold …’
Eleanor pulled open the file and Marion, watching her, fell silent at last.
‘What is it?’ Max said.
Eleanor muttered something under her breath. Marion couldn’t make it out. ‘Vey tsu mayn yorn …’
‘El?’ he asked her again. ‘What is it?’
