We ordered fusilli pomodoro for Joe, veal piccata for me – I was still on the protein kick, hung-up on weight loss – and Joe asked for a carafe of red wine and a double vodka and tonic as well to keep him going. ‘That’ll be Patsy, don’t you think?’ I gestured towards a long-faced elderly man in a grey busboy’s jacket who looked to be in charge. Joe shrugged. He continued to studiously avoid eye-contact so I stared at the walls that were littered with wood-framed photographs, probably of famous people, but no one familiar to me. I watched waiters carrying plates aloft, eyed noisy groups waiting at a small mahogany bar, hoping for tables. I hated us being so conspicuously sour and silent; nearby diners would be whispering, saying that if we were out on a date it was going nowhere, or if married then we’d certainly had the mother of a row.
‘The man I think is Patsy is coming our way,’ I muttered, leaning forward to be heard. Joe instantly rearranged his features and began to spark. He knew how to play the part.
‘Mr and Mrs Bryant? It’s a pleasure to welcome you here. I hope you’re being well looked after.’ He nodded to a waiter arriving who set down glasses of champagne, and Joe was excessive in his thanks. ‘My pleasure,’ Patsy assured him, wreathed in smiles. ‘Now I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal.’ I wondered, staring after him, what chance we had of that.
Joe downed his champagne and I pushed my glass towards him. The bloom was off my decision, but it was made and I’d stick with it. I sighed. Where was the rosy, copybook marriage of my naive teenage imaginings? Why hadn’t I had the baby I yearned for? Was it stress? Something wrong? Should I see a doctor? I had to keep giving our marriage my all; separation or divorce seemed unthinkable. Alicia, the victor . . . She was pregnant. Didn’t she want what I wanted, a loving loyal husband and a happy home for her child? A fulfilling relationship, the faithful version that I’d dreamed of?
‘Joe, it’s not easy in here, I know, with the noise, but can we talk?’ He stared impatiently, bristling with suspicion. ‘Look, love,’ I said, sitting forward, leaning over the table, ‘I’m sure nothing will come of the film test and neither David O nor anyone else will follow up on that offhand mention, but just for the record and in the unlikely event, I’d say thanks, but I’d be wasting their time. You’re the actor in the family, not me.’
Joe looked too patently relieved, almost triumphant. ‘You’re tops at modelling, hon, you know that. Do what you do best – the devil you know and all that cock. Acting’s a tricky old game. It really isn’t your bag, old darling,’ he said, trying but failing to sound warm and conciliatory. ‘Wouldn’t do to have the wifey falling splat, after all. You’ve made a good decision there, it’s just not your scene.’
Why shouldn’t it be? Why couldn’t he be encouraging, pleased for me to have the chance to find out at least, and even, just possibly, to shine?
I felt a deep, quiet anger, rising tension and bitterness, a reversal of roles. Joe’s putdown was cruel. I’d given in, done what he wanted, put him first, hadn’t I? Didn’t I deserve a scrap of credit for that? Couldn’t he, just once, make me feel properly appreciated and loved?
He squeezed one of my knees under the small table, a patronising token gesture that only swelled my rage. Then he poured the last of the carafe into his glass and ordered another, joking and chatty with the waiter, oblivious, it seemed, to my uptight reaction.
But whether innocently or deliberately, he’d shaken my confidence – fragile enough at the best of times – and I began to feel almost relieved. It would have been a disaster for sure. I couldn’t act to save my life – I wasn’t the type. I’d have felt ill with embarrassment and never able to live it down. Better never to have known what might have been, than suffer the pain of humiliating failure.
Joe was drinking steadily, but he was back on form, making caustic witticisms that had people at nearby tables smothering smiles. He’d finished a second carafe and was onto a third brandy, but meeting my anxious eyes, accepted it was time to go. ‘I know, you need your beauty sleep, wifey old bean, off seeing Eileen Ford tomorrow. Can you be on the books of two model agencies at the same time, though?’ he asked, showing unexpected curiosity. ‘Would you come out to work here for a few weeks or what?’
‘Reciprocal arrangements,’ I said. ‘An American model would probably go to London and I’d come out here some time for a bit, I suppose.’
‘When? Where would you stay? Have you thought it through?’
‘No, I’m just going to see Eileen Ford since I’m here, that’s all.’ I had a hazy idea that she occasionally put up models in her home, but I wasn’t going to elaborate. Joe needn’t think he could have a clear run with Alicia. His questions had seemed a bit keen.
He summoned a waiter and I imagined the bill would be steep, though Joe, in his relief at my decision, looked as if he thought it was worth the doubling of his overdraft.
The waiter returned with a big grin. ‘No check, nothing to pay, all seen to.’
I felt uncomfortable. Who’d taken care of it with all that drink? George? Gloria? But as Joe left a decent tip and stood up to go he looked rather more humbly relieved and pleased. He took it as a sign of having made his mark with Frank.
Frank was certainly very good to us, always including us, ever considerate of our needs – as he was with everyone he gathered up into his circle. He travelled with a pack. Sinatra had many names – the Chairman, the Pope, King of the World – and he wasn’t called Il Padrone for nothing; he suited that Sicilian role of lordly father and protector and had adopted the mantle. He expected loyalty and adulation while in return tucked all his friends under the widespread wing of his generosity.
Joe was up for sex the moment we were back in our hotel room. He was hard and horny, leaning me backwards onto the bed, tossing my shoes, light little pumps, over his shoulders; pulling off my pants and pinging the suspenders on my stockings. He felt around a bit, a two-finger attempt to work up an orgasm, but it was a bit half-hearted and heavy-handed and I was too bottled-up and brooding. I wanted Joe sober, making genuine love to me, not randy sex that felt too much like payback time. I was his wife, not just an available bit of pussy to poke when he was up for it. I was his bloody wife.
A white-haired waiter wheeled in the breakfast table and prepared it carefully; smoothing down the pristine tablecloth, arranging gleaming cutlery, glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and positioning a slim vase with a single yellow rose. Yellow for jealousy, I thought morosely, as he indicated the warmer drawer with the bacon and eggs.
Joe gave Gloria a run-down on Patsy’s. ‘You’re going again tonight,’ she said. ‘Patsy’s is the one place where Frank can dodge the press. It has a secret door with stairs up to the first-floor restaurant, and Ava Gardner’s coming; she’s in town. She’ll see Frank, but only with others around, never on his own. I feel for him. It must be painful – he does still love her so.’
‘Will it be a big party?’ I asked, overawed by the evening in store.
‘Not very, our lot plus George and Joan Axelrod and the Rubirosas; Rubi is Frank’s polo-playing, playboy friend. His wife, Odile, is miles younger and very flirty – especially with Frank! Wear your last night’s dress, you looked gorgeous, or you could pop into Bloomingdale’s and treat yourself. It’s near Eileen Ford’s. How about you, Joe?’ Gloria turned to him. ‘Any plans?’
I glanced at him, anxious to know as well.
‘Oh, I’m fine, plenty to do, people to look up. Shall we meet back here around six?’
The Ford Modeling Agency was on 51st and 2nd Avenue. I walked, leaving acres of time – sensibly as it turned out, since there were steep steps up to the office on the first floor, and it hadn’t been easy to find. Pushing open the door, I saw three girls manning a whole row of black telephones, lined up like London cabs. No one looked up; they were too busy thumbing at folders and diaries, holding one phone and speaking into another.
‘Who are you?’ the nearest girl snapped, noticing me at last. ‘Got a book?’
> I shook my head, feeling tongue-tied, but a woman at a desk on the far side of the room immediately yelled across to me: ‘You’re Susannah Forbes.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You’re early. Come right here and sit down. I’m Eileen Ford.’
She was a slight, gimlet-eyed woman in a sleeveless charcoal-wool dress who exuded such raw boundless energy that I felt helpless, a limp ineffectual rag. She stood up and shook my hand briskly, throwing back a loose wedge of wavy brown hair as she did and indicating a chair. Her every gesture seemed electrically wired.
‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Glad you made it. Hey, Rusty!’ she barked out, giving me a fright. ‘Come take a look. She’s perfect.’
The middle girl of the three returned her phone to its cradle and came over. She was tall with strong features, thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes and a mane of reddish hair. She must be the chief booker, I decided, warming to her and grateful for her friendly mother-hen manner.
‘Hi, great to meet—’ she said, breaking off with a smile as Eileen cut in.
‘Well, whaddya think?’
‘She’s got it made,’ Rusty answered. ‘She should go see Penn, of course, and Gil Foreman, he’ll love her to death. So will Lillian Bassman, Dale Kane, Bert Stern – they all will! Shall I hit the phones?’
Before I knew it, I was being packed off on a couple of go-sees, without even my book. Eileen said she’d sort that, get onto my London agent for pulls of my head sheet and follow up on the calls. She pushed me to stay in New York, offering a bed and to arrange for a three-week work permit. It was tempting. I was smarting, chewed-up about Joe . . .
But there was Frank’s inaugural flight, Marilyn Monroe, and a small sombre voice warning like a priest through the confessional box, of fresh lures and excitements in the Big Apple. I had a marriage to try to keep afloat. As I said my goodbyes and left, the other two bookers looked at me with new eyes. That cheered me up at least.
Gil Foreman’s studio was ten blocks downtown, also on 2nd Avenue. I was saving dollars and kept walking. It was a crisp bright day. Sunlight glanced off grimy junkshop windows, refractions of light gilding the leaves on trees, patterning the uneven sidewalk. The wide avenue with its small shops and seediness felt quintessentially New York, energising, from its steaming manholes to its skyscraper skyline. It was alive, different and enriching.
Few people were striding along the sidewalk. A man in a smart suit and brown felt hat gave me the eye. Two bored kids larking about by a roadside news-stand were making faces at passers-by. ‘Hey, miss,’ one of the kids called after me. ‘Wanna be my date?’
Life felt good. But whenever my mood bubbled up, the shadow of Joe was always there like a wisp of cloud over the golden orb in my lit-up sky. I never felt completely light-hearted. But it was a thin sliver of cloud today. I enjoyed the sight of a typical deli with a colourful fruit and veg stall extending onto the sidewalk. A large green and blotchy-white fruit, like a marrow only rounder, caught my eye. ‘What’s that?’ I asked a Mexican-looking youth in a lumber shirt, idling, leaning against the doorpost behind the stall.
‘Watermelon. Want one? You from England?’
‘No, sorry – just curious.’ I’d never seen the whole fruit before.
I reached Gil Foreman’s warehouse of a building. His studio was on the fourth floor. The elevator creaked and shuddered its way up and I stepped straight out into the studio. Facing me was a sort of partitioned-off reception area where a curly-haired girl at an L-shaped desktop was on the phone. I waited, gazing at all the model charts pinned up behind her: no shortage of competition. I could see above the partition into the studio, a vast all-white space. Huge pipes swooped and dived along the ceiling like the inside of a submarine. Loud music was playing, Ray Charles thumping out ‘Hit the Road, Jack’, and I could hear the click of a camera shutter, voices, a shoot going on.
She finished a call and looked up. ‘Hello? Ah, you’re the English girl Rusty called about. Gil’s shooting, not sure how long he’ll be. Can I see your book?’
‘I’m afraid it’s in London. I hadn’t expected to be here.’
She gave me an impatient look as if to say what the hell was I doing there then, but was conveniently distracted by a man coming out of the studio.
‘Gil, this is the girl—’ she began, before he overtook any need for her to go on.
‘Hey, you’re Susannah Forbes!’ He came closer and grinned. ‘Don’t go away, I’m nearly done in there. Hang about – talk to Dee. I want to take a proper look.’
I opened my mouth, but didn’t speak, didn’t even properly close it again. He was giving me a double-take look that reached into me somehow, this shortish man with a wide full mouth who was holding his arms, slightly apelike, well away from his body. Some quiver travelled through me: that hadn’t been a professional look. He swung back behind the partition only to immediately stick his head round it again. ‘Don’t go away! I want to photograph you.’
He was taking forever. Dee had long given up on small talk, was busy making calls and I’d studied the charts on the wall till I knew every face; studied my diary, my nails. A striking black-haired model finally appeared. She sloped cat-like up to Dee’s desk with her tote bag, signed a release form, gave me a cold curious stare and left.
Gil didn’t give me a cold stare. He stuck me on a stool in front of a white backdrop and began clicking away. I felt him studying me through his lens. He hadn’t much hair – what remained was thin and wispy, but his body shimmered with agility. ‘I want you for a bourbon ad,’ he said, looking up. ‘I want to show these to the client.’
‘But I’m flying out tonight, with my husband. Eileen Ford wants me to come back and I’m longing to, but . . . Well, it may have to be after Christmas.’
‘Stay just like that – looking at me like that. That’s the picture! We’ll get you here. Or I’ll come to London.’
‘I really have to go now.’
‘Who else are you seeing?’
‘Irving Penn – and I’m due there, sort of now. I, um, must go.’
My head was in a whirl by the time I got back to the hotel. ‘It was all amazing!’ I confided to Gloria. ‘I saw Penn, who’s just the best. Everyone at his studio treated him like God. He was delightful, friendly, very calm, measured; he had a sort of solid quiet dignity – and pointy ears! He said we’d definitely work together if I came out – it sounded wonderfully positive. There’s masses to tell, but I’d better change quickly if we’re expected down in the bar. Oh, and I made it to Bloomingdale’s. I’ve got a new frock.’
I’d bought a low-cut cinnamon dress with a wide matching belt and slim skirt. It showed off my waist and I felt good, but all eyes tonight would be on Ava Gardner.
Frank and the people whom Gloria had mentioned were established in a quiet dark corner of the King Cole Bar, attracting stares, but being left alone. I liked the look of Joan Axelrod, with her short waved blonde hair; she said a warm hello. Odile Rubirosa’s greeting was less warm. As her husband Rubi bent to kiss my hand, she turned pointedly to Frank.
He was commanding attention, taking charge and encompassing us all. ‘You gotta have Bloody Marys here,’ he asserted, as a waiter brought a trayload of them to the table. ‘It’s the House special, invented right here in this bar. Fernand Petiot, the barman, called it a Red Snapper, and I dunno how the name got changed, but it sure tastes as good! Great bar. Salvador Dali comes in, lives in this hotel when he’s in town. Bill and Babe Paley do too, and Marlene Dietrich in her day.’
‘That’s some Bloody Mary,’ Joe said, tasting it. ‘Perfection!’
Joe sipped his drinks slowly, but they still disappeared fast and Frank never allowed a glass to remain empty. It worried me no end as refill after refill arrived.
Mike was relating some lewd catchphrase of Frank’s, that a hard dick had no conscience. I was more involved in trying to catch Joe’s eye to slow him up on his fourth Bloody Mary. ‘We’ll be going soon,’ Gloria whispered, catching the look. �
�We’re meeting Ava there, and Frank will want to be ahead of her for sure.’
The secret door with steps up to Patsy’s first floor was down a skinny little alley that smelled a bit pissy and beery. A solid metal door opened onto a single flight of stairs up to the restaurant where Patsy was on welcoming hand. He ushered us into a screened-off area where a large round table awaited us, white-covered and laid with an artillery of cutlery and glass. Frank settled himself on a plush bench, leaving a space beside him, and gestured to us to sit where we fell. He called for drinks, ‘Like now!’ and a flurry of bustling waiters saw that bottles of champagne, wine, Jack Daniel’s – which made me think of Gil and the bourbon ad – and vodka arrived. We’d been drinking for hours already; the long mural on the wall behind Frank, a sepia-coloured Bacchanalia, seemed a fitting backdrop.
I was seated between Mike and Rubi, Joe was next to Odile on Mike’s other side. The clock ticked on – and no Ava. Joe was on his eighth vodka, including the Bloody Marys; I was counting. Hors d’oeuvres were spread over the table to keep us going, and spirits unsurprisingly, were high. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was just about to open. I was dying to see it, and Frank showered George Axelrod with praise. ‘You’re gonna win the Oscar, no question. And Manchurian’s gonna make it bigtime, too – I feel it in my bones. My best role, your best screenplay . . .’
Joe was up in Axelrod’s films and raved about The Seven Year Itch. ‘An iconic, uncappable masterpiece – and yet you’re about to cap it! Adapting Truman Capote can’t have been easy either, for sure.’
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s wrote itself,’ George shrugged. ‘I could see it all.’
Frank was watching the door. The tension in him was reaching across the table, seeping everywhere, like the glass of red wine that Rubi had spilled.
I had tensions of my own. I’d edged my chair back, about to go to the loo, and had seen Joe’s hand on Odile’s thigh, rubbing rhythmically. My heart throbbed to a chill beat, I felt wretched through and through. She hadn’t brushed his hand away . . . It was the drink, I told myself. She’d know that and was probably just avoiding a scene. Oh, shit.
Tell the Girl Page 9
