Tell the Girl

by Sandra Howard

  Next evening we were included in an invitation from Ella Fitzgerald, dinner at her home, just Sinatra, the Romanoffs and ourselves. Frank was coming alone; he’d been on his own at the star-studded party the night we arrived as well. Gloria said the Juliet Prowse phase of his life was over and he was travelling light – albeit dating Marilyn Monroe on and off, in a friendly way. She’d been in a low patch, having treatment, and he thought she needed looking after.

  Driving to Ella Fitzgerald’s house on a balmy evening in Beverly Hills, everything seemed beyond dreams. The streets were wide and quiet – no one ever out walking, not a soul – and lined with lushly tree-screened properties that reeked of wealth and seclusion. I felt in a place as remote from everyday life as the Galapagos Islands. World news, events beyond California, hardly rated a mention in the local press. I thought of home for a minute, of my parents nervously minding Frankie, the cracked lino in my kitchen, the modelling jobs I was missing. Alicia too, as always, and whether Joe had called her, long-distance. He’d gone to the post, but was in touch with his agent, other people, and she had a husband, after all. Wouldn’t letters be on the risky side?

  ‘Nearly there,’ Gloria said, snapping me out of my momentary gloom. She’d told us that when Ella bought the house recently, on North Whittier Drive, an exclusive corner of swanky Beverly Hills, local residents had muttered their disapproval. I’d felt shocked and saddened that even stardom couldn’t transcend the boundaries, that discrimination and prejudice was ingrained. Frank, Gloria added, hadn’t held back in his disgust of local opinion.

  I knew the strength of his feelings. Joe had just interviewed Jimmy Van Heusen, a favourite songwriter of Sinatra’s and great buddy. Jimmy had described Frank’s loathing of the segregationists, his wild fury at the slightest hint of racial intolerance. Respect for minority groups mattered to him, and he wasn’t afraid to challenge convention.

  We were at Ella’s front gates. The house, which was like a Spanish hacienda, was floodlit, with a central fountain in a circular drive and exotic palm trees in a richly planted border. Arthur purred the car away and we went inside. The hall with its hexagonal floor tiles, curving staircase and splendid chandelier, had a feeling of space and friendliness. There was an open-plan living room and I loved the bright dining room too, with its blue hydrangeas in a handsome plantier and sliding glass doors that were wide open onto a walled patio with massed groups of pot-plants.

  Ella was surprisingly shy and gentle, far from the image I’d formed from hearing her belt out ‘Mack the Knife’. Her hair was beautifully coiffed, curling upwards from her face and she was in a navy lace, sleeveless dress with long strings of pearls. She was big with smooth chunky arms, and her maid, who was dressed in black with a frilled white apron, was the same build; darker-skinned than Ella and with a similarly lovely shy smile.

  The maid served the first course, seafood on a platter, then took off her apron and joined us at the oval mahogany table. She did the same during the other courses too, slipping her apron on and off with unhurried calm. Ella clearly wasn’t having her maid eating alone in the kitchen. It was original and endearing, although the small interruptions and general atmosphere of polite shyness, to which I certainly contributed, left Frank and the Romanoffs to make the running. Prompted by Joe they talked of Hollywood characters and moviemaking.

  Henrietta, Joe’s society friend who’d introduced us to Frank and vouched for us, had arrived. We’d moved out of the Romanoffs’ guest room to make way for her and into a mini-apartment, more of a bedsit, on Sunset Strip. Funds were tight, but somehow we’d paid a month’s rental up front. The Strip was a bit of a disappointment. It bordered on the tacky, no longer oozing the gangster glamour of a Raymond Chandler thriller, nor was it quite as in favour with movie people as of old. We were halfway into the month, though, and off to San Francisco, Vegas and Palm Springs in a couple of weeks, whisked away on the magic carpet of El Dago’s inaugural flight – just as Frank had promised, with his typical spontaneity, within minutes of our meeting him at Henrietta’s flat. It still seemed unbelievable. I was learning fast, though, that he always followed through.

  The first week on our own in the apartment had been almost like old times, Joe busy, being by his standards sweetness and light; taken over and stimulated by his brave unexpected project. A book on Sinatra and his music was quite a challenge. I was helping where I could, making notes, jogging Joe’s memory. We’d had a bit of sex too, at last, which had been a comfort, feeding into my cautious hopes of finding our wavelength once again.

  But it hadn’t happened. Instead, we seemed now, after a second week, to have slipped into reverse. There were no more jokes and communication, no more lovemaking; any hope of building on a few precious days of closeness seemed dashed. Joe was in a bad place.

  Was it the sex, my coy, naïve ineptitude? I found it hard to let go. I didn’t know what to do and the sense that anything we did was very basic and perfunctory, unlike what Joe and Alicia got up to, made me all the more uptight. I’d only had a single exploratory relationship before Joe, a shy tender lover whom he’d swatted away with ease. Joe had swept me up and proposed in weeks; he was all glamour and panache. An impresario fan of his had even insisted on giving us a full-scale society wedding at his home in Holland Park, the guests spilling out onto a huge balcony overlooking leafy communal gardens.

  I longed for Joe to cover me with tingly kisses, arouse and gently educate me, but he didn’t think that way. He’d told me of one or two early involvements with older actresses, laughing about how predictable that had been, experienced women, though, obviously who’d known it all. I didn’t. I’d married at eighteen with no real clue, no more than one embarrassing sex lecture at school, but I’d absorbed enough from books and films to know I had a lot to learn. The theory was all very well, what I needed was the practical. I needed an expert, a man to give me orgasms at the least, teach me variations, how to enjoy finding ways and wiles of turning him on. Joe had never even tried.

  And always Alicia loomed, inhibiting me still more with the fear of comparisons, relentless visions of that tangle of naked limbs in the pool changing-house, visions of Joe’s head where it never was with me . . .

  ‘Tell me what I should do, what excites you,’ I’d whispered one time.

  ‘Well, not that thing with your nails. Can’t you . . . Oh, forget it. What’s the point? Keep thinking of England,’ he’d muttered sarcastically, flinging himself off me and hunching his back.

  He’d been drunk, tensed-up himself, but how long could I go on making excuses?

  Yet Joe had been different on our first week in the apartment, fun, affectionate, amusing, charming. Why had he travelled backwards? He’d been awash with excitement and wonder, talking about the recording session, how the Sinatra magnetism had affected the entire orchestra. He’d explained in detail, painted pictures: Frank’s total involvement with a song, how he’d shudder, his face contorted into a snarl, his whole frame rocked, quivering, as he sang a key note or lingered on words like ‘November’ or ‘summer breeze’. Watching that sinewy body wrapped round the microphone had been an overwhelming experience, Joe said; it had left him as physically drained and exhausted as he imagined Frank must have been.

  ‘He was mesmeric, wifey. It was an experience I’ll never forget, the power of him, the assault on all my senses, standing there, somehow so forlorn and alone, gripping that mike with his chunky gold signet ring glinting in the spotlight.’

  Bill Miller, Sinatra’s pianist, was called Suntan Charlie because his face was sombre and parchment pale. Joe recounted how he’d cracked up, along with them all, when Frank had said to the lady harpist, ‘Make like you’re killin’ time, baby. Like you’re likin’ it and want it to last longer.’

  Yet even in the telling, even in those cheering, involving moments, I’d sensed Joe killing time himself. He was a restless spirit, not cut out for normal family life. He couldn’t handle it. I knew that at heart. Not for him a few hou
rs of togetherness, snug in a cosy marital chrysalis; he couldn’t wait to break out and flex new wings. Joe needed lights, action, adulation – and booze.

  We were seeing Henrietta that night, at Romanoff’s where a flow of fascinating people invariably gravitated to Gloria and Mike’s table.

  ‘You don’t say!’ they’d exclaim open-mouthed, as Joe regaled them with his quick wit and Englishisms. ‘No kidding?’

  Joe had no business being bored and frustrated, I thought bitterly, no business being so vile to me. Plenty was happening – dinners, parties; Frank was giving a little supper party for Marilyn Monroe the following week and had told Joe we must come. It would be very casual, he’d said, just a few good mates. I was wild with excitement.

  It was eleven in the morning. Joe hadn’t been up long, but the atmosphere was heavy already. He had his glass of vodka and tonic. He’d given up hiding the bottle.

  I debated going out, leaving him to it, but where – to sit in a deli with a book?

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked, doggedly persevering. ‘I’ll nip out soon and get something for lunch. Then why don’t we go to see a flick? Quite sexy on a rainy day.’

  Joe had his back to me; he was hunched over a rickety, spindly table, his makeshift desk, and stayed facing away. ‘Sexy? That’s a laugh. You go if you like. I’m busy elsewhere.’ He rose abruptly and felt under the blotter, pocketing an envelope hidden there, then strode out of the door, slamming it hard behind him.

  I stood watching from the window, not bothering to stem the tears. I saw him pause by a mailbox on the sidewalk a moment, stare at the envelope, protecting it from the rain with his hand before he slipped it into the box and hailed a cab.

  I was married, I told myself yet again. I had to make it work somehow.

  That evening, Joe came back from wherever he’d been, more jokey and even-tempered. I felt picked-up too; the telephone had rung minutes after he’d left, a call from my London agent. If I found myself in New York, Sally, the booker, said, I must go to see the Ford Modeling Agency. Eileen Ford had been on the phone that morning, wanting to get me over, a reciprocal swap with one of her girls. ‘Why not stop off on the way home,’ Sally suggested, ‘and pay the Ford Agency a visit? Crazy not to while you’re there.’ Perhaps I would.

  At dinner, over the filet mignon and strawberries Romanoff, zesty with orange, drenched in Cointreau, Henrietta was bouncy and friendly, taking snaps of everyone with her Box Brownie camera, jollying us all along. I felt better, squashed up in the cosy horseshoe bench seating, more able to cope. Late on in the evening, Frank arrived. He sat with us at the Romanoffs’ table, wisecracking as people came to pay court, flattering and sweet-talking his audience and stopping every female heart. He held the men’s attention, too. Those spellbinding blue eyes did it every time.

  ‘Hey, it’s David O!’ he said, as a well-built man of around sixty strode in.

  Joe looked stunned and catching my eye, whispered impatiently, ‘You do know who that is, wifey? It’s David O. Selznick. He produced Gone With the Wind.’

  Frank introduced us. David O had a powerful, slightly formidable face, dark crinkly hair, a large nose. He was a legend. Joe asked after his next film in reverential tones.

  ‘I’m out of it, young man. I’ll never make another. Hollywood has moved on. Your wife,’ he said suddenly, ‘is very beautiful. She has the classic look that everyone in the business is after; it’s not all Gina Lollobrigida and tits.’ Was I hearing right? I tingled with adrenaline, and my insides clenched tight as he carried on, talking directly to me: ‘You should have a screen test. I’ll fix it up. Call you, Gloria? I’ll do that.’

  Only that morning I’d been in tears at the window of the hideously functional building on Sunset Strip, Joe dragging me down into a bog. I had a life, too. Was David O serious? Could I conceivably have a shred of acting ability in me – let alone be any good? If he followed through, a huge if – I had at least to give it a try. Life was built on dreams.

  I said my stumbled thanks, heart sinking as I became conscious of Joe’s frozen smile. Only a wife could have picked it up, but I knew that phony beaming crust of old. It was a thick layer of ice, that smile – it needed to be, to contain the seething. Joe was boiling over inside, lethal fumes that would escape the moment we were alone. It was breakpoint. He didn’t want me doing any screen test. I felt wretched, wondering how he’d play it, determined to fight for the right to give it a go.

  It was late. People were leaving, even Frank who was off to New York to film his last scene for Manchurian. Gloria and Mike were going with him, taking a mini-break from the restaurant. I sent signals to Joe, ignoring the hostile vibes, and he finally made a move.

  Gloria drew me to one side during the goodbyes. ‘About that call you mentioned from your model agent,’ she said. ‘We have free use of a suite in the St Regis Hotel in New York and I wondered if you’d like to keep us company. It’s a reciprocal arrangement, no costs, so don’t worry on that score, and we’ll travel with Frank. It’s only for forty-eight hours, a quick in and out. Do come!’

  How a day and a mood could turn; how things spun on a pin. Joe’s acid resentment over a screen test that had been restaurant chat, flattering but not remotely likely to happen, was put on hold. We had to pack a bag and be ready to roll by noon the next day.

  Chapter 7

  November–December 1961

  The suite at the St Regis was stupendous. I’d never seen such luxury: elegant Sheraton furniture, sofas, writing desks, opulent cream and gilt mirrors, sweeping curtains with swags and tails – and we had yet to see the bedrooms. The sumptuous sitting room had stopped us in our tracks.

  Gloria smiled at my awe. ‘We can have a nice big room-service breakfast here in the morning,’ she said. ‘They roll in a table with a heated drawer, a rose in a vase – the works. Let’s meet then and make plans, but right now I’m pooped! I’m going to grab the chance, since Mike’s out with Frank, probably till dawn, to curl up in bed with a book.’

  Manhattan was giving off a tangible buzz. I could feel its throbbing pulse even up on the seventh floor and hear, far below, the blaring horns and metallic sound of screeching brakes and slamming car doors. The city was a temptress, beckoning, luring us out to explore.

  ‘You two should go see the lights,’ Gloria urged. ‘Stroll the streets and eat out. Frank has plans for tomorrow night, I think, and then we’re off again. It’s your one chance.’

  ‘George told me about Patsy’s, near Broadway,’ Joe said. ‘“Mr S’s favourite place”, he called it, which sounds a pretty good recommendation.’

  ‘Yes, true, Patsy cooks all the traditional Italian stuff that Frank adores. Patsy’s a man, his name’s really Pasquale – his surname – but back in the forties some immigration wonk wrote down Patsy and it stuck.’

  The last thing Joe wanted in his present hostile mood was to be saddled with me, on his very first night in New York. But we were Gloria’s guests and she was beaming in that firmly encouraging way of hers, so he had no out.

  We went to our bedroom, the smaller of the pair of suites, but still palatial. Our scuffed overnight bag looked lost and sad on the large tapestry-lined luggage rack. Joe flung himself down on the vast bed, scattering the heaped decorative silk cushions, the chocolate and cream of a bowl of profiteroles. ‘This bed would sleep an orgy,’ he said, but with a scathing edge and he wasn’t holding out his arms. His bitter resentment clung as tight as a wetsuit. There was no way to reach him, no way in – and all over a stupid film test.

  The concierge said the lights of Broadway stretched from 50th to 41st Street, which was just a few blocks west and down from the hotel. We set off in silence, soaking up the city in our separate ways, the drugstores and tattier shops of the West Side, the harshly lit diners that reeked of onions and fried chicken. There were red-plush establishments too, with a uniformed maitre d’ on the door, and an apartment block or two whose entrances looked inauspicious, but probably, being so central, house
d grandiose living space inside.

  The streets steamed. Backed-up yellow cabs, frustrated drivers in Hudsons and Cadillacs, rusting trucks, they all leaned on their horns. People pushed past, unseeing, pressing ahead while never jaywalking; they waited dutifully at every crossing for the lights to change.

  Broadway was a familiar sight from postcards and films, yet to be here, right at the hub, gazing up at all the sparkling winking neon, gave me the sort of spring in my step, the bouncy pizzazz that often kicks in after seeing a catchy warm-hearted show. The huge ads and hoardings were as brazen and colourful as peacocks or birds of paradise, all vying to be the brashest and best. I’d made a decision too, and had a sense of release to add to my urge to skip and dance on the pavements.

  We seemed to be expected at Patsy’s. A table was booked in our name. It was probably George’s or Gloria’s doing; they’d have known, with the theatre crowds, that the place would be heaving. The tables were tight-packed and it was impossible to talk or even shout over the din, but Joe’s look of relief at not having to communicate with me hurt deeply; he could at least have smiled, if only for appearance’s sake.

  He was ridiculously wound-up and jealous, but was it understandable? He was used to topping the bill, not sharing it, and the movie crowd had made quite a fuss of me, taking fair English looks and shyness as a sign of class and treating me almost like royalty; I’d been having a head-swelling time. And Joe, less in the limelight than usual, had chosen to take that personally. It was pointless and petty, and he knew it – but that only made matters worse.