Kennedy eased himself onto the opposite sofa. He placed his empty glass on a wooden side table with an audible knock.
‘What security do you have that I won’t kill you?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve paid the huntsman.’
Outside, dark fell in a torrent, a molasses-thick night. All the lights of Hollywood couldn’t penetrate the gloom.
The spleen weighs 190 grams. The surface is dark red and smooth.
‘Keep the wig on.’
‘Oh Nick.’
‘Just keep it on.’
‘Hey, you’re hurting.’
‘Ssh.’
‘Don’t ssh me!’
‘Sorry, losing concentration.’
Ellen put her legs over his shoulders. ‘Fuck her then. Fuck Marilyn.’
Nick slid his cock in and out of her cunt. There was something universal in her expression. She was his wife and yet she wasn’t his wife.
Ellen did the voice: ‘I think sexuality is only attractive when it’s natural and spontaneous.’
‘Is that from the script?’
‘There’s always a script.’ Ellen put a finger in her mouth and bit. She knew it looked seductive, but it was to keep her from laughing. There was something ridiculous in Nick’s ritual determination, something animalistic. She normally loved sex, but getting in Monroe’s head had proved anathema. Her character was all about insinuation, but never the act. It was Ellen who had convinced Cukor that simmering heat was better than fire. The script had Kennedy and Monroe making love, but Ellen suggested it should be the mental emasculation of the president which would lead to Monroe’s death. Not that it was a death, for she had indeed paid the huntsman.
Nick climaxed and fell on top of her. She tucked her legs around his back, then changed her mind and scissored off him at the onset of cramp. Rolling onto her front she reached out to the side table for a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
Nick lay on his back beside her. ‘Let’s share. You can take that wig off now.’
‘Maybe I’ll wear it a while. Freak the kids.’
‘No. Take it off.’
Ellen pouted. ‘What is it now?’
Nick dragged on the cigarette. ‘There should always be some distance between fantasy and reality. How’s the movie going?’
Ellen sighed. ‘The movie doesn’t go anywhere, that implies linear motion. We film it in pieces, you know this. Monroe’s dead, but then she’s already come back, and sometime after she’ll also be dead again.’
‘You never told me what happens after she’s killed.’
‘I was saving some surprises for the premiere.’
Nick handed her the cigarette, blew smoke to one side. ‘Just tell me, Ellen.’
She turned onto her back, pulled the sheet over her body. ‘The president believes Monroe’s dead but just like Snow White she’s escaped into the forest. She dyes her hair brunette, changes into a plain brown wool suit, spends some time in the Pacific. She could spend all her days there, if she wanted. But she misses the glamour. So she comes back, calls herself Ingrid Tic, gives herself an accent. Fools everyone.’
‘Except the president?’
‘Except the president.’
Nick leant on his side. ‘But what was her story? Where was she supposed to have gone?’
‘Purgatory or hell. There was a drug overdose. She’s supposed to be dead, remember.’
‘So who was dead?’
Ellen furrowed her brow. ‘The script doesn’t make that clear. But when we’re filming it’s actually Baker.’
‘Baker? Your make-up girl?’
‘She’s a ringer, don’t you think? They wanted someone who looked like me – like Monroe – but for it not to be me. There has to be a disconnect with the audience, a nudge that maybe Monroe wasn’t killed, until it’s clear that she’s back. So they used Baker. She was right there, after all.’
‘Baker …’ Nick mused. ‘I guess Baker would do it. Did she wear the wig?’
He yelped as Ellen’s elbow dug his ribs.
The brain weighs 1440 grams.
Ingrid Tic knew her way around a camera and a party. She held the viewfinder to her right eye, smiling as she mingled. Everyone wanted to be photographed, their eyes drawn to the lens. So much so that all anyone saw of Ingrid was her upper body and no one paid attention to her walk.
She was a redhead. She had regained the position she had previously held. She’d been reading. The Last Temptation of Christ. Chekhov plays. The Ballad of the Sad Café. The Brothers Karamazov. She had four hundred and thirty books in her library. And for her current role, The Actor Prepares by Konstantin Stanislavsky and To the Actor by a different Chekhov. On her night table was Captain Newman, M.D. by Leo Calvin Rosten. She was making good progress.
Kennedy was there. It had been just over a year. She couldn’t resist.
‘Mr President!’
Snap.
One of the bodyguards came over, checked her pass. Grunted.
‘Oh I know,’ she said, ‘you cannot be too careful.’
She later realised she had caught his eye.
Everything, including the film in the camera, was loaded. Ingrid followed her way to the bathroom. A girl on her hands and knees was heaving bile into a toilet bowl. Ingrid urinated quickly in the adjacent stall, rinsed her hands, and checked the mirror. There was no question as to who was staring back. It proved that people only saw what they wanted to see. Was hair colour really that important? Of course, they believed she was dead. Maybe that was the difference. You couldn’t expect a person to see someone who was no longer there.
Another girl entered, humming a tune from Ladies of the Chorus. That musical must be a decade old. The girl lipsticked her mouth, sang ev’ry body needs a da-da-daddy.
Ingrid thought: sometimes they don’t don’t don’t.
She watched the girl make-up. The girl glanced at the camera slung around Ingrid’s shoulder, then at the girl in the cubicle. Smiled. ‘Say,’ she said. ‘You look familiar. Are you the actress, Ellen Arden?’
Ingrid shook her head. She felt strangely dislocated.
She stumbled out of the bathroom and straight into the arms of Cukor.
Cut! he yelled. What were you doing in there?
She looked back.
‘I was trying,’ she said. ‘I was trying to be sick.’
The kidneys together weigh 350 grams.
‘You’ve lost more than 25 pounds, I’ve never seen you so thin.’
She poured herself coffee. They could hear mourning doves from the terrace. She glanced down, saw the maid opening the car for the children. ‘It’s the role, Nick. I’m doing it for the role.’
‘I went down to the lot yesterday. Spoke to Cukor. He says you’re not putting the hours in.’
She raised her eyebrows, her anger: ‘Why would you talk to Cukor?’
He sighed. ‘I’ve seen the rushes. I’ve seen you. You’re not well. You look like a photographer playing an actress as a photographer.’
‘Being smart doesn’t suit you.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Truth is, I’m caught between Ellen and Monroe.’
‘I’m Ingrid, Nick. Ingrid.’
‘Are you kidding me? You can’t pull this off. Something’s got to give.’
She looked out from the terrace. In the distance, the Santa Monica mountains. She took another sip of coffee, then turned a semi-circle taking in their apartment’s wooden backdrop, the props, the cameras, Cukor, the facsimile.
She held up her hand.
‘Can we do this again? One more take? And the script. The script is Goddamn awful.’
… Monroe wasn’t killed. So they used Baker …
Cukor spoke to Schulman: ‘Is this a work of fiction or isn’t it?’
Schulman shuffled his notes, a pencil behind his ear. ‘I’m struggling to remember.’
‘Just write it like it is. We’re never going to finish this picture. We’re ten days behind schedule as it is.’
Cukor looked out through his office window. Baker was leaning against the side of Arden’s trailer, cigarette nonchalant. Arden had yet to arrive. Some mornings she was heavylidded. Who said nights were for sleep? When she did arrive, Baker spent so long preparing her for the set she might have been embalming a corpse. Cukor stroked his chin. Baker had played a good corpse. But there was more to an understudy than a physical resemblance. Not that Baker was an understudy. He wondered if she could be.
‘Let me take a look at that script.’
Schulman handed it over. Watched as Cukor flicked.
It made no sense. Arden was Monroe was Ingrid. Schulman had scored through and rewritten the names so many times that in some places only a hole remained. Baker was written in the margins.
Cukor rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you think to Baker?’
‘Baker? She’s plain, stutters sometimes, is overall drab. What are you thinking about Baker?’
‘Could we transform her into Monroe?’
Schulman shook his head. ‘You could never transform her into Monroe. You couldn’t even transform her into Ellen.’
‘Ellen. That’s what I meant.’
Cukor watched as Ellen’s pink Lincoln Capri swept onto the lot. She saw him at the window and waved before disappearing into her trailer. Cukor looked at Schulman. ‘You see that?’
‘See what?’
‘Ellen just arrived as Monroe.’
‘So what’s she doing now? Transforming back into Baker?’
‘Not Baker, Schulman. Ellen.’
Cukor threw the script to the floor. He left the office and walked across the lot. There was no time for sentimentality. He swung open the door of the trailer. Ellen was surrounded by the cast and crew. Baker held a sheet cake depicting a naked Ellen. Happy Birthday (Suit). Ellen looked Cukor in the eye and smiled. She was undeniably perfect.
In that glance Cukor might have thought he w as t he president.
‘8 mg of chloral hydrate, 4.5 mg of Nembutal.’
There was a hard pain in her stomach. She looked at her hand holding the Bakelite phone which would soon go out of production. She could barely contain herself.
I’m fired? But I’ve destroyed the negatives.
‘The appendix is absent. The gallbladder has been removed.’
Nick!
He looked over the top of his newspaper. The table was set with breakfast things. Fresh coffee. She could smell fresh coffee. Butter was melting into toast.
I paid the huntsman.
‘I’m a role,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you read the script?’
But she had been reading. Chekhov, Conrad, Joyce. There were four hundred and thirty books in her library.
‘The temporal muscles are intact.’
She squeezed her eyes shut. She would count her true friends and everything would be all right. She would count to ten.
One.
‘The urinary bladder contains approximately 150 cc of clear straw-coloured fluid.’
Two.
‘The stomach is almost completely empty.’
Three.
‘No residue of the pills is noted.’
She swung her head around. She’d lost count. Those damn pills. They were supposed to be her salvation.
‘No evidence of trauma.’
No evidence of trauma! Who said that? Who’s there?
Thomas Noguchi, Deputy Medical Examiner, looked up from Monroe’s body.
‘Did you just hear something?’
The man who wasn’t Kennedy shook his head.
HANIF KUREISHI
SHE SAID HE SAID
Sushila was walking in the park when she saw Mateo and his male assistant sitting on a bench. As she approached them, she noticed Mateo was dishevelled in his black suit; in fact, he was very drunk, which was unusual for him at that time of day, late afternoon. She greeted him, kissing him on both cheeks, and he asked if she would sleep with him. Why hadn’t they slept together? he went on. They could do it right now, at his place, if she had time. He had always found her sexy but had been too nervous to mention it.
They had known each other for at least eighteen years but he had never spoken to her in this way. She was surprised and tried to seem amused. She had always liked him. Clever, witty, Mateo worked with her husband, Len. His wife, Marcie, was a confidante. They had all gone to the coast together.
The next morning, she saw Mateo again, in the supermarket. Not with his assistant, and not drunk, he came right over and repeated his remarks in almost in the same words, adding that Sushila had been with Len for a long time and surely she was bored with him. Women liked variety, he said, and he was offering some. They should get together, even if it was only once; nothing more need be said.
Sushila kept her temper. She told Mateo that she would never sleep with him. Not in a thousand and one lifetimes. Not ever. If this was his idea of seduction she wouldn’t be surprised if he were still a virgin.
Right away she called Len and reported what Mateo had said on both occasions. Len was pale and agitated when he got home. He asked Sushila if she was OK, then texted Mateo to say he wanted to meet. Mateo responded. He was headed out of town. But he hoped that Len had some new artwork to show him. Could he bring it by next week? Len had been drawing so well recently; his work had reached a new level.
Mateo was surprised when Len arrived empty-handed. Where were the new drawings? Four days had passed, and Len was now calm. He had discussed the matter with Sushila and could levelly report to Mateo what he had heard about his behaviour, first when drunk in the park, and then when sober, in the supermarket.
Mateo apologised without reservation and asked Len to forgive him. But Len said that he didn’t think he was ready to. Forgiving, or even forgetting, wasn’t the point. He didn’t understand why Mateo – whom Len thought he knew – had behaved in this way. Mateo said that he had no idea either but that it would be best if they put it behind them. Len asked Mateo why he had repeated the offer to Sushila when he was sober and smart enough to know better, and Mateo said that he hadn’t wanted Sushila to think that he wasn’t serious, that she wasn’t really desired.
Len thanked Mateo for his consideration. After their meeting he walked around the park for a long time, unable to put the conversation out of his mind. Silence breeds poison, he thought, and what had happened pressed on him more and more, until an idea occurred. He would discuss it with Mateo’s wife, Marcie. She and Mateo were still married but no longer together, living next door to each other as friends. Marcie had been seriously ill recently, but Len was keen to know what she made of it all, whether she found her husband’s seduction attempts ugly, crazy, or something else. Maybe he was having a breakdown? Or was he just an imbecile and Len had failed to notice?
So Len went to see Marcie, who was convalescing in bed. Knowing she had grown tired of Mateo’s antics with other women when they were together, he felt it wasn’t wrong to tell her what Mateo had said to Sushila. Marcie knew Mateo; she might be objective.
Having relayed the story, he added that, during their conversations about it Sushila had revealed new facts to him, that he had been unaware of, which no one had told him. It turned out that in the past two years, Mateo had approached other female friends in a similarly crude way. Susan, for instance, had mentioned her experience with Mateo to Sushila, and Zora also. Maybe there were others. Had Marcie also heard about his behaviour?
Len wanted to emphasise that, as Marcie knew, Sushila was kind, protective and certainly no hysteric. It wouldn’t be like her to make too much of the exchanges in the park and the supermarket. But she had been humiliated and demeaned by the encounters. What did she, Marcie, think of it all?
Although she listened, Marcie barely said anything; she didn’t even move her head in an affirmative or negative direction. Her self-control was remarkable. Usually, when faced with a gap or silence in conversation, people babble. Not Marcie. When at last Len suggested that Mateo seek therapy and the source of his discontent – this
was, these days, the generally accepted panacea for wrongdoing – Marcie said that Mateo had been in therapy for twenty years. Evidently these things took time, Len said. ‘They can do,’ Marcie murmured.
When Len went home and told Sushila that he had gone to Marcie’s place, she was angry with him. He wasn’t her representative. Why hadn’t he discussed the plan with her first? She was the one it had happened to. It wasn’t even his story. What did he think he was doing?
Len said that there had been nothing light or flirty about Mateo’s approach, as far as he understood it. Mateo had insulted him as a human being too; he was entitled to take offence and seek an explanation, if not revenge. It wasn’t often, he said, that you experienced deliberately inflicted cruelty. And from a friend! His view of Mateo – one of his oldest friends and someone whose advice he had always trusted – had changed for good. The insult was now general. It didn’t belong to anyone and it could happen again. Women were at risk. Len would hate himself if he didn’t speak out.
Sushila told Len that he was becoming fixated. It had been a lapse. Women had to put up with this kind of thing all the time. Not that she wasn’t touched or impressed by Len’s concern. But she didn’t think Mateo would do it again; he was mortified by what he had said; his regret was genuine and his behaviour had obviously been self-destructive. Len said that self-destructive things were what people most enjoyed doing. Sushila agreed, adding that Mateo resembled a gambler who repeatedly risked his own security. She herself liked rock climbing, which at times put her life in danger. But Marcie would have a word with Mateo. Marcie was the only one who could get through to him. In the future Mateo would hesitate, if only for Marcie’s sake.
Len doubted that. And he didn’t understand how Marcie could just sit there, putting up with the embarrassment. But Sushila said, please, he knew Marcie was ill. It might be a good idea for him to apologise to her for intruding like that. Was he prepared to do that?
Best British Short Stories 2020 Page 10
