by Judith Gould
'You're tense,' O.T. reproached softly into her ear. 'I'm not poison, you know. You don't have to pull so far away.'
Rebuked, she closed the distance between them somewhat, and it was then that it occurred to her just how much she had changed over the past year. She was no longer young and guileless, no longer the innocent in a sea of sophisticates. A year of Hollywood parties and exposure had taught her more than she would have liked. Youth and beauty were not only commodities for the screen, she had learned, but brought out the worst in men. Some flirted harmlessly, others made an effort to brush against her. There had even been times when she had been approached outright by men craving to sleep with her. True, O.T. had always been the perfect gentleman, but she had never given him any excuse to behave otherwise, and she wasn't about to start encouraging him now.
'You're pulling away again, Tamara,' he said.
'That's because you've wrapped yourself around me.'
'You're making it sound as though I'm making a pass at you.'
She raised her chin. 'Are you, O.T.?'
He clucked his tongue chidingly. 'You have a dirty mind.'
'And you're behaving like a dirty old man.'
'I like to believe that nothing in life is unattainable. Especially beautiful, exciting women.'
She looked into his eyes. 'What do you need me for? You've got the Karan twins.'
He laughed. 'Those empty-headed scatterbrains? It's you I really want.'
'I'm married, O.T.'
'A fact I'm painfully aware of, believe me.'
'Don't talk that way! You know this is my anniversary!'
'Ah, beneath that perfect exterior you've no heart, I can see that now. I've helped create the beauty by which all others are judged, but I forgot to see about giving her a heart.'
'You make me sound like a robot.'
'That's because you're cold and unfeeling.'
'I'm faithful and monogamous. There's a difference.'
He drew her close. 'But you must agree there's no harm in trying.' He smiled.
'On the contrary. I think it's very harmful.'
He made a face. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Let go. Live a little.'
'What you're proposing isn't living. It's cheating.'
'You'd only be cheating yourself by missing out on me.'
'I'll gladly take that chance.'
Despite her warnings, she could feel his arms tightening around her. Then she felt his hips pressing against hers, and for a moment she felt his solid warmth. One of his hands was at the base of her bare spine, tracing little circular motions with a finger. Despite herself, she could feel her nipples hardening, and then a warm wetness moistened her thighs. A curious confusion came into her eyes and her heart contracted. One part of her wanted to recoil while another craved his clever fingers. She looked into his eyes, and they seemed to glitter with a perverse triumph, as though he sensed that he'd pushed the right buttons.
It was precisely the look she'd seen when he'd unveiled her in front of the mirror in Italy. She was something he'd laboured to create. He thought of her as something which had sprung from his fertile mind, something which he had breathed life into. Soberly she realized that he considered her his own personal Galatea.
Now she was becoming increasingly agitated and more than a little annoyed by the unrelenting caressing of her back. The lusty hardness of his groin was barely contained by his trousers, and for a fleeting moment she felt a wave of panic. What if someone had noticed O.T.'s advances . . . more important, what if Louie happened to notice? How was she to explain that she had done nothing to lead him on?
Silently she cursed the dampness of her mound. Her body's instinctive reaction to a masculine touch was like a slap in the face. What was wrong with her?
His hands slid down to her buttocks, and she felt his palms cupping her silver-sheathed cheeks, and then a thumb pressed the cleft between them.
Damn! He wouldn't stop!
Now her irritation was turning to red-hot anger, and she could feel the adrenaline rising inside her. Obviously, ignoring him or trying to reject him discreetly was getting her nowhere. Far more drastic measures were called for.
Tightening her lips, and smiling sweetly and never missing a beat, she adroitly kneed him in the groin.
It was the last thing he'd expected. His eyes bulged and he could barely stifle a cry. His face went white as a sheet and for a moment he looked confused, as though he didn't know what had hit him. 'Je-sus!' he finally managed to gasp.
She looked suddenly contrite. 'Oh, I am sorry, O.T. You've aroused so much passion in me that my body just went wild!' She clutched him like a vice with her lacquered talons. 'You've got to understand one thing, O.T.,' she said softly, her tone dead serious. 'I love my husband. Nothing in the world is going to separate me from him. Nothing and no one. Not you or anyone else.'
He looked at her with growing respect. 'Louis is a lucky man.'
'And I'm a lucky woman. I never forget that, not for a day.' She smiled. 'What's the matter. You've missed another step.'
'Damn you.' He gritted his teeth. 'I'm going to sing soprano for a week.'
She shook her head. 'You'll never sing soprano, O.T.,' she said definitely. 'Your balls are too big.'
And with that she turned her back on him and made her way back to the table.
He stared after her, ruefully shaking his head.
The house seemed especially quiet and seductive after the raucous noise of the party. Only the foyer lights were lit; the rest of the house was dark and asleep. She started to head straight up the curving staircase to the master suite, but Louis caught her hand and wordlessly led her into the living room instead. Then he let go of her and, to her surprise, went round switching on all the lamps.
She saw it immediately, on the wall over an end table so that the open top of the lampshade bathed it in a circle of light. It was an exquisite little Mattisse oil that suggested, rather than illustrated, a tabletop still life. Tears sparkled in her eyes and she couldn't speak. He took her hand and pressed his warm palm against hers. Clasping their fingers together they stood there, studying the painting for a long time.
Finally she turned to him, her eyes bright and shiny.
'Do you like it?' he asked softly.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. 'I love it,' she whispered huskily, her tongue tracing his lips. 'And I love you even more. Today was the second-most wonderful day of my life.'
'What was the first?'
She smiled. 'The day we got married.'
'Well, there are a lot more to come,' he promised.
And there were. Unknown to her, he had started a family tradition. They would celebrate the second anniversary in the Crystal Room, the Beverly Hills Hotel's principal ballroom, and afterwards Louis would present her with a large Toulouse-Lautrec painting of a Moulin Rouge scene. After their third anniversary, which was held in tents on O.T.'s lawn, Louis gave her a vibrant, startling Van Gogh landscape that seemed to pulsate with a strange inner light.
Each time she looked at it, she could feel her own mind bridging the gap to the artist's final madness and wished she could achieve the same kind of genius in her acting as Van Gogh had achieved in that painting.
But despite the more valuable paintings which joined their growing collection each year, it was the little Matisse, the first anniversay gift, that would always remain her personal favourite. Because it had been the first, it was the most treasured.
Chapter 15
Anna Karenina, Tamara, and Miles Gabriel were all nominated for the Academy Awards.
To celebrate her nomination, Louis gave Tamara a brand-new white Packard convertible with white-walled tyres and red cowl.
'I'm going to buy you a new white convertible every time you're nominated for an Academy Award,' he said expansively. 'And if you win it, then we'll upgrade you to a Rolls.'
But Anna Karenina went away empty-handed. Oscar Skolnik's best-laid plans had gone astray. A lot of gr
eat movies with a lot of great stars in them had been released during the past year. MGM's Grand Hotel won the Oscar for Best Picture, Helen Hays for The Sin of Madelon Claudet, her very first film role, and Fredric March and Wallace Beery made history by tying for Best Actor, the former for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the latter for The Champ. Walt Disney received a Special Award for Mickey Mouse.
Oscar Skolnik fumed. Miles smarted. Tamara, delighted at having been nominated at all, had never really believed she stood a chance to win, so she took losing with philosophical good humour. What mattered to her was that her peers thought highly enough of her to nominate her and that Anna Karenina was a resounding success, both artistically and at the box office. It did far better than Marie Antoinette, but admittedly less well than The Flappers, which still solidly held its position as the most successful box-office smash made to date. Nevertheless, she was one of the hottest celebrities in a town chock-full of celebrities, no mean feat by any standard.
After having made only three movies, she was already one of the most recognizable stars in the industry. Her face appeared on the covers of so many magazines that she joked about it: 'I could paper my living-room walls with the covers, and still have some left over for the den.' IA's publicity department clipped so many articles about her, ranging from respectable reviews to the most outrageous fiction, that she could not possibly read them all. Five thousand fan letters a week were pouring in. She was at the very peak of nationwide popularity. Her platinum hair had become all the rage. If she changed her hairstyle, it was news, and hairdressers across the country were obliged to copy the style. Nothing about her was sacred. It was strange, she often reflected wryly, that she didn't feel any differently at the pinnacle of success than she had before. The major differences in her life were the way others responded to her, the financial security which she enjoyed, and the detestable inconveniences, which she grew to hate. Whether at home or at the studio, she was, like royalty or a cherished, particularly priceless gem, protected from the public by guards and gates. The begowned, bejewelled siren who could cause mass hysteria by simply being seen in public was, by necessity, turning into a virtual recluse.
Unless her presence was absolutely required somewhere, Tamara prefered to keep herself isolated from the public. She had to think twice before leaving the house. Autograph hounds, photographers, and fans haunted her every step. Even her home was not spared—the curious, with an eye peeled for a glimpse of her, drove continually back and forth in front of the house. Fans went so far as to ring the doorbell and offer to help around the house free of charge; they were willing to do anything, as long as they could be close to their favourite star. Tamara-watching had become a national pastime. She was a superstar before there was such a word to describe her.
Still, there were some ordinary pleasures she did not have to sacrifice, and none pleased her more than doing absolutely nothing. What few idle hours she could call her own each week, she guarded jealously, and tried to spend either in the garden or at the poolside. There she felt safe from groping hands, screaming mouths, and prying eyes. The landscaped grounds provided both privacy and security, thanks to a ten-foot-high wall and a twelve-foot-high hedge. She had grown to love the big rambling house and its generous, protective grounds. Here she felt safe. Secure. And at home.
The walls kept the world at bay.
She would have been content to live here forever and never leave.
Louis sprang the surprise on her on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in late May 1932. It was an artist's dream day. The sky was clear, uniform blue with only the slightest edge of haze. The temperature had climbed into the high eighties, and the garden was in full, riotous bloom. Butterflies flitted soundlessly among the delphiniums, dutiful bees buzzed from flower to flower to collect their precious nectar, and an occasional hummingbird hovered delicately, its wings moving so swiftly that they were an almost invisible blue.
Tamara lay contented on the rattan chaise under her favourite jacaranda tree. The rattan table beside her held a half-full glass of iced tea and a sweating glass pitcher. She lazed luxuriantly, her lips half-smiling. She was reading The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck, which had been published the previous year but which she was only getting around to reading now, and she was engrossed in it. It was the perfect afternoon for reading, and for once she could relax completely. For this day, at least, she hadn't a worry in the world. Bifocals halfway down her nose, Inge was seated in the shade of a tilted, fringed parasol nearer the pool, catching up on her mending.
Turning a page, Tamara heard the quickening click of leather heels on the flagstone path and knew that Louis had returned from the mysterious mission he had departed on more than two hours earlier.
'I'm back!' he announced unnecessarily as he ducked beneath the jacaranda branches. He bowed low in front of her and with a flourish produced a long-stemmed day lily from behind his back. He proffered it formally. 'Madam?' he said somberly.
She plucked the lily from between his fingers and held it to her nose, inhaling its fragrance, her eyes never leaving his. She wondered what her handsome husband had been up to. There was a gleam in his eyes, a barely subdued excitement which glowed on his face.
'Hi,' she grinned, waggling her fingers lazily at him. Her nose still in the lily, she cast him one of those seductive up-and-over looks for which she was so famous on-screen. 'What's up?'
'Come on, get dressed,' he urged breathlessly. 'We're going for a spin. I have a surprise to show you.'
'Louie!' she protested, marking her place in The Good Earth with the lily stalk and putting the book down in the grass. 'It's so peaceful here. Just listen for a moment.' She paused. 'What do you hear? Birds? Crickets? Leaves rustling in the breeze?' She opened her eyes and they were filled with a peculiar, pleading brightness. 'Can't the surprise wait?' She reached out for his hand.
He stepped back obstinately and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, his lips setting into a thin, strained line of annoyance.
She sighed and rolled her head sideways, away from him. Now she had upset him, but she felt that if anyone should have been upset, it was she. He knew how much this peace and quiet meant to her. She had just finished shooting Razzmatazz the previous Friday, and it was her customary week off between pictures—on this occasion a single week extended to a lavish, unheard-of three entire glorious weeks, twenty-one magnificent days in all, a well-deserved vacation she and Louis had had to fight tooth and nail to receive. Now, after she had looked foward to rejuvenating herself at home without ever having to be seen in public for any reason, Louis wanted her to leave her oasis. It wasn't fair.
'Louis, I'm enjoying myself,' she explained quietly. 'So is Inge. Why don't you grab a swimsuit and join us? You know, this is the first time I've managed to sit down and read a book in over a year. At least one that doesn't have something to do with making movies.'
'This is important to me,' he said softly. 'It's something I've done for . . . us.'
'Honey, I'm sorry,' she said contritely. 'You must think me a monstrous bitch, and with good reason. Of course I'll be glad to come.' She reached out, tugged one of his hands out of his pocket, and held it. 'I should be grateful for every opportunity we're together. Where are we going, anyway?'
He shook his head. 'Can't tell you that.'
'Because it's a surprise.' She laughed.
'Because it's a surprise,' he agreed.
And it was: twelve and a half acres of prime undeveloped hilltop overlooking Los Angeles and miles of coastline below to the west, and the rugged Santa Ana Mountains rising to the east.
'But . . . there's nothing here!' Tamara said in puzzlement as they got out of the car to wade through the dry, bur-infested, knee-high brush.
'That's the beauty of it,' Louis said excitedly. 'Don't you see? It's virgin land. Ours to do with as we damn please. Here's where we'll build our home.' His eyes glowed with excitement. 'Just think—it'll be our home, not a house that used to belong to someone else. It'll be everythi
ng that we want it to be. Isn't it beautiful?'
She gazed around, doing a complete turn, and nodded. They were standing on the flat two-acre crest of the hill, and the rest of the property rolled gently downhill before it dropped off sharply beyond the property line. There was a dry, rock-strewn creekbed which attested to heavy runoff during the rainy season, and Tamara was startled when a frightened hare burst out of the dry weeds and hopped away. Overhead, a large bird circled silently. The view was incredible, uninterrupted for 360 degrees all around. Looking in three directions, you actually felt you were in the middle of a wilderness—there wasn't a house as far as the eye could see— but the view of Los Angeles sprawling below in the fourth direction told you that you hadn't left civilization completely. It was the best of both worlds, and natural and unspoiled. Except for its treelessness, she loved the property on sight.
'Let me guess,' she said slyly, kicking at a pebble in the creek bed. 'You've already bought it?' Her head was tucked down and she peered sideways at him, her hands in her trouser pockets. A warm breeze lifted the platinum curls sticking out from under her sharply angled beret.
'Uh-huh. Got the deed right here.' He flashed her a white grin and patted his breast pocket. 'Signed, sealed, and delivered. Took three weeks of negotiation and I got the price down some, but it didn't come cheap because the owners didn't really need to sell. But it's worth every penny. Look at the location.' He pointed down to the flat expanse of Los Angeles sprawling below. 'With the city spreading further and further out all the time, there's no telling how valuable this property's going to be in the future. Another few years and we probably wouldn't be able to touch it for twenty times as much as we paid for it. Property values are going to skyrocket, you wait and see. The Depression can't go on forever.'
