“MOVIE STARS SHOULD never have children, Diana,” Ella Sands greeted me at the top of the dramatically curved stairs, which seemed to be designed for grand entrances and exits.
“Is that because we spend our lives acting like children?” I asked, hurrying up the steps.
“Because we’re artists.” Her famous voice was soft but sure. Seventy-five years had not reduced its seductive power, nor had it diminished the inherent beauty of the once famous star who had been an icon of her generation.
We went into her sitting room. She settled in a chair that had been intentionally placed under a portrait painted at the height of her career. The young, beautiful Ella peered down from her gilded frame with a slightly perplexed expression at the old woman she had become. Next to Ella a table lamp glowed with a soft pink light that smoothed her lines and the hollows around her eyes and illuminated her still beautiful auburn hair. Ella had controlled her image and her career, including the placement of chairs and lights, with an iron discipline. Brushing my determinedly blonde hair back from my face I sat across from her.
“I know I’ve become a bit Blanche Dubois…ish but what the hell I’ve earned it.”
I laughed. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.” But I knew this wasn’t a social call. It never was with Ella Sands. She only asked to see you when she wanted something.
“Did you know Kera got married?” Her sharp green eyes took me in.
“I heard.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Doctor Logan Bradford. A plastic surgeon. Can you believe Kera married a plastic surgeon? That’s like marrying your gynecologist. There’s something obscene about it.” She tossed her head back and laughed her I-just-got-out-of-bed-with-a-man laugh.
I forced a smile. “Somebody has to marry them.”
“But not my daughter.”
“I hear he’s a brilliant plastic surgeon.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Do you remember the actor Farley Sims? He was brilliant too. When the camera was rolling I would have trusted Farley with my life. He was that good of an actor. But when the camera was off I never went near him because he hated women, he was duplicitous, and he’d walk over anyone who got in his way. Dr. Logan Bradford reminds me of Farley.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t feel any sympathy for her daughter. I had never liked Kera. She and I were under contract to Universal Studios back in the seventies when we were both young and unknown. She seemed to think she was there by right, being the daughter of a star. She never bothered to learn her lines, or be on time, while I couldn’t sleep for fear I’d be late for my makeup call. And if I did sleep I dreamed of being in front of the camera without ever having read the script.
“I think he’s experimenting on her,” Ella spoke in a whisper.
“Experimenting?”
“I don’t recognize my daughter anymore. If you passed her on the street you wouldn’t know her, Diana. My God, I’ve had my eyes done twice and my face lifted once. But I still look like me. I can’t see myself in my daughter’s face. Kera looks like he created her not me.” Possession hardened her voice.
“Kera’s a strong woman, Ella. Why does she allow it?”
“She was never strong. Just willful. I think she’s afraid of him, for whatever reason, and because of that she’s allowing him to mutilate her, destroy her. I can’t stand looking at my own daughter.” She reached out and pressed my hand in hers. “Talk to her, Diana. See if you can find out what kind of hold he has on her.”
The last time I saw Kera she was in bed with my husband. That was ten years ago.
“You know that Kera and I haven’t spoken in years,” I replied. “I don’t want to get involved with her.”
She let my hand drop in my lap as if it had suddenly developed leprosy and leaned back in her chair staring at me imperiously. Movie stars are not used to being rejected, even if they are ex-movie stars. “If Colin were alive he would do it for me.”
“Well, he’s not.” My husband had died a year ago of a heart attack leaving me with a mortgaged teardown in Malibu, an old Jaguar, two Oscars for Best Screenplay, and a sense of loss I could never fill.
“If I were still Number One at the box office you’d do it for me,” she observed, unpleasantly.
“That’s unfair even for you.”
“It’s reality. I think Kera’s husband wants to kill me.”
“What?”
“It’s not an aging woman’s paranoia, Diana.”
“Why would he want to kill you?”
“Money. My jewels. The real estate I’ve invested in. This house. I wasn’t like you and Colin who spent everything you had. I never spent a penny. I’m worth over forty million and it took a lifetime for me to it. Today some stars earn that for one movie. My God, they don’t know anything about acting and they make that kind of money.”
“Logan Bedford must make a lot of money on his own, Ella.”
“He owes people. He has always lived beyond his means.”
“So he owes people. That doesn’t mean he wants to harm you.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“No, I think you’re trying anything to get me to reunite you with your daughter.”
“I took a chance on your husband back in the seventies when he was a nobody. It was having me, Ella Sands, in his first movie, which put him on the map as a screenwriter.” For emphasis she tapped a perfectly manicured finger just above her still abundant cleavage.
“Colin wasn’t my husband then. And it was a brilliant script with or without you.”
Suddenly her shoulders slumped and her face went slack making her look aged. “I’m an old woman, Diana,” she pleaded dramatically.
I grinned. “You are a wonderful actress.”
“I can see this isn’t working.” She straightened. Her face tightened. “You still blame my daughter for going to bed with Colin, don’t you?”
“I can’t help it.”
“Why blame her? Have you ever thought of blaming Colin? For God’s sake I went to bed with him, too. It may have been a brilliant script, Diana, but that little seduction didn’t hurt his chances with me.”
“That was before I knew him.”
She stood. “I’m sorry I called you.”
“Why did you, Ella?”
“I always thought you had your head screwed on right. Quite a feat in this town. I thought you’d understand that because I helped Colin you would now help me.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not to me. It seems like yesterday. My entire life seems like yesterday.”
“You never had much interest in your daughter. Why now?”
“I can’t see my reflection in her face.” She walked into her bedroom and shut the door. I was left sitting in the eerily quiet pink-shaded room. Not even a clock ticked. I wondered if I would have helped Ella, no matter what I thought about Kera, if she were still Number One at the box office? After all I was a middle-aged actress who needed work. Unable to come up with an answer I walked down the grand staircase. No one applauded my exit.
That night I stood on my small rotting redwood deck facing the Pacific Ocean with a glass of red wine in my hand and the warm salty wind pulling gently at my hair. I was trying to figure out why I had never blamed Colin for going to bed with Kera Sands. At that time I had attempted the classic French shrug where Colin was concerned. Ce la vie. Except I’m American down to my toes and my shrug was as stiff as a puritan’s soul and my French has always been mangled.
My gaze drifted from the ocean to the narrow walkway that separated my small house from Ryan Johns’ multimillion-dollar enormous white blob of a mansion; it billowed up next to me like a giant illuminated marshmallow. Near the moonlit walkway I saw Ryan lying in a heap under his hibiscus bush. I balanced my wine on the railing, took the hose that curled in the corner, turned the water on full force, and sprayed him with it. Gasping for air he fought his way out of his stupor i
nto a sitting position.
“Tidal wave! I’m drowning,” he sputtered.
“You’re drowning yourself in booze,” I yelled back turning the hose off.
“I thought I was doing a rewrite on the Titanic.” He staggered to his feet. “I love it that you look after me, Diana.”
Ryan was a big burly Irishman that looked like he was born in a pub, except he was born in Connecticut to a wealthy banking family that didn’t understand their son’s creativity. Or so he told me drunkenly over and over the night I mistakenly went out to dinner with him. His thick reddish-blond hair formed lovely ringlets when it was wet. They made me smile. He shook himself like a St. Barnard and almost fell over. Righting himself, he staggered up the steps to his veranda and announced:
“I just sold a script for five million today. I bet your husband never did that.”
“Colin’s dead Ryan. Why do you keep competing with him?”
“Nobody’s dead to an Irishman.” He collapsed on his chaise lounge and began to snore. I took my wine and went inside.
Sometime during the early morning hours of the next day Ella Sands fell down those dramatic stairs and broke her neck. I stood in my kitchen drinking coffee and watching Dr. Logan Bradford being interviewed on the morning TV news. Standing in front of Ella’s palatial Beverly Hills white brick house he told the reporters that Ella might have had an aneurysm or a mild stroke causing her fall. Kera, his wife and Ella’s daughter, he explained, was too distraught to talk to anybody. I studied Logan Bedford’s face. He had sharp possessive eyes, the black hair of a gigolo, and pale antiseptic skin. I turned the TV off and wondered what Ella Sands was doing out of bed in the early morning hours. Maybe she hadn’t been acting when I last talked to her. Maybe she really had been afraid for her life. And maybe if she had been Number One at the box office I would have offered my help. Maybe.
Four days later along with other mourners I was standing in Ella Sands’ living room, dressed in my black suit, white pearls, and my wide-brimmed black straw hat. Show business people have a difficult time at funerals. We forget we’re at a wake and immediately begin to talk about our next project, the script we’re reading, and the money we’re making. But we never talk about the money we’re not making, or the script we’re not reading, or the project we’re not shooting. That would be too close to death.
Ryan Johns sidled up to me. His face was so sun burnt that the lines around his mouth and across his forehead showed white. He wore dark glasses.
“What happened to you?”
“You happened. You left me out on my veranda all night so I could fry in the morning sun. And this looks good. You should have seen me four days ago.”
I laughed. “You’re not my responsibility, Ryan.”
His expression turned serious. “Yes, I am.”
“Diana Poole?” A dark haired man with long delicate fingers approached me. “I’m Doctor Logan Bradford. Kera’s my wife.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
He took my hand in his cold grip. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”
“Where is Kera? I’ve been looking for her. I wanted to pay my respects.”
“She’s not able to come down. But she wondered if you could go up to her. She’s in Ella’s sitting room.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” He moved quickly away as if he didn’t want me to stare too long into his eyes.
Leaving Ryan, I went up the stairs and knocked on the sitting room door. A faint voice told me to come in. Kera sat in her mother’s chair under her mother’s portrait. Ella was right; I would not have recognized her. Her nose was small and perfect and therefore strangely unattractive in its careful blandness. Her cheeks had been implanted and raised, causing the bottom half of her face to appear longer than I had remembered. Her sharp, defiant chin so much like her mother’s had been softened. There were no lines, no life in her face. She didn’t look like she had come from the passion of a man and a woman. She looked as if she’d been wrought from her husband’s cold fingers. Her thick auburn hair had been dyed a heavy black.
“Do you know I don’t even know who my father is?” she said, simply. “Mother wasn’t sure. Growing up I hoped he was James Dean and it was because he had died so young that I had never heard from him.” She smiled an unfamiliar smile. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”
“Fine.” I sat down in the same chair I had sat in earlier that week.
“I hear you’re acting again,” she said.
“I need the money and it’s the only thing I know how to do.”
“You’re lucky you know how to do something. I never bothered to learn. I know you’re here for mother and not me. I suppose everyone downstairs is here for her and not me,” she said resentfully. “Did you meet Logan?”
“Briefly. Kera I want to talk to you about a conversation I had with your mother.”
“Did Logan come upstairs with you?” Nervously twisting a laced-edged handkerchief with hands that looked much older than her face, she peered at the sitting room door.
“No, I came alone.”
“I thought I heard something. Would you check for me, see if he’s in the hallway?”
I opened the door and found Ryan on his knees listening at the keyhole.
“What are you doing?” I asked in a low voice.
He clasped hands together. “Will you marry me?”
Who is it?” Kera asked anxiously.
“Its just Ryan. He’s drunk.”
“I am not,” he mouthed, indignantly.
I closed the door on him. “Why did you think it was your husband?”
“Mother’s death has put me on edge.” Pulling at the hem of her black dress she shifted uneasily in her chair. “Did you know Mother adored Ryan Johns? She had an affair with him. I think she had a soft spot for writers. I had an affair with him, too. It was around the time…” she stopped.
“That I found you in bed with my husband? Maybe like your mother you also have a soft spot for writers.”
“I think you’re still angry at me, Diana.”
“After ten years the word angry is a little extreme.”
“Why do we always blame the woman and never the man?” Her strangely tilted eyes met mine. I could still see her mother’s familiar glint in them.
“Your mother asked me the same question.”
“Do you remember when we were young, maybe nineteen, driving down Sunset Blvd.? And you pointed out all the houses that you liked, trying to decide which one you would live in when you were a rich movie star. I never pointed out one because I lived in a movie star’s house. And now it is mine. And Logan’s,” she added ruefully.
“Kera, before your mother died she told me she was worried about you.”
“Are you sure you have the right mother?” She forced a laugh, a pale copy of Ella’s deep sexual laugh.
“Ella wanted me to contact you, to see if you were happy in your marriage.”
“Mother and I were like star-crossed lovers always communicating through liaisons. Always misinterpreting one another. I am going to miss her, Diana.” Tears slowly dropped one by one down her creaseless face. She was like a statue crying.
“She was also worried about herself,” I persisted.
“When wasn’t she?” She dabbed at her cheeks.
“Kera, she thought that your husband wanted to kill her.”
She bit at her lower lip, then asked, “Did you believe her?”
“No. But now that she…”
“Fell down the stairs? Diana, I’ve always lacked confidence. Mother thought my lack of confidence was a weapon, something I contrived, just to get back at her, to make her feel inept because I was a failure. She didn’t like Logan because he gave me confidence. He did a few things to my face that made me feel better about myself. That’s all.” Her voice was shrill and defensive.
“I just thought you should hear what she told me.”
She stared into
her lap. When she looked at me there was fear in her eyes. “He keeps finding things wrong with me. He tells me I need this done, that done.” She grabbed my hand. “I know what I look like. Oh, God, he has a mistress and…”
The door opened and Logan Bradford came in. “Are you ladies having a nice chat?” His long meticulously kept fingers smoothed his slick hair. I didn’t like the way he said the word ‘ladies’.
“Yes we are, Logan.” Kera said, submissively.
He looked up at Ella’s portrait. “I think we should hang that downstairs in the living room. What do you think, Kera?”
“Whatever you want, Logan.”
“Really?” He stared at her with contempt. “Then what I want is for you to rest.”
“Do you mind, Diana? I am tired.”
“Not at all.”
Outside on the lawn under the liquid amber trees the mourners peering from behind their sunglasses conversed in somber groups. Near the portable bar I saw Ryan talking to a young actress. He was writing something down on a piece of paper. She was swaying her body against his while she flipped her long golden hair back from her creaseless face.
“I want to talk to you,” I said, joining them.
“Diana, you have such a gentle way about you. This is Sydney spelled with ‘i’. I haven’t quite figured out just where the ‘i’ is placed.”
“Anywhere you want,” she cooed and swayed away.
“Her phone number.” He waved it under my nose then put it in his pocket.
“Why were you listening at the door?”
“I wanted to hear what Kera had to say about her mother.”
“Why?”
He pushed his glasses down to the tip of his crooked pugilistic nose and stared at me with intelligent, mischievous, red-rimmed eyes. “I loved Ella. When I was a very young lad and new in town I met her at a party. She took me home and into her bed. I couldn’t believe it. The first woman I bedded in Hollywood was Ella Sands. I still can’t believe it.”
“I hear she went to bed with most men.”
“But only one at a time,” he countered. “I felt very special. The next morning I saw Kera sitting out by that pool.” He gestured with his drink to an Olympic-size pool shimmering baby blue in the relentless sunlight. “She stared at me as if I were—well, what I was—just another man coming into her mother’s bed for the night then tip toeing out in the morning. But it was a look I’ll never forget. One of true hatred. But I understood it. I felt sorry for her.”
Shooting Hollywood Page 6
