A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  I go back to my seat, pick up my menu and start to study it intently, while Tash, to be fair to her, sits and listens, with her usual enthusiasm, to Nora’s long description of that summer, and Grandmother’s treasure-trove of movie-star-worthy outfits she let us try on, and the glasses of pink champagne she’d offer us to drink before ‘going down to dinner’.

  But then, of course she does, because Tash is the sort of ideal friend who shows a real interest in everything you have to tell her.

  Pregnancy and all.

  But of course, if everything goes to plan for Tash, as I’ve no doubt it will, she won’t just end up being the friend who was chosen as the first to learn Nora’s baby news. She’ll also end up being its auntie.

  It turned into a long – very, very long – afternoon of bridesmaid’s dress shopping.

  Tash seemed to want to do such a thorough job that only trying on three dresses from every concession in Selfridges would suffice, and Nora claimed that the distraction was making her feel better than she had in days, and even once Tash had settled on a dark blue prom-style dress from LK Bennett (that she looked absolutely stunning in, by the way), there were matching shoes to be sought …

  By the time I get home, it’s six o’clock, and I need to get a move on if I’m going to be on time for Olly’s party at … well, at his mystery-name restaurant.

  ‘Marilyn?’ I call as I shut the front door behind me. ‘Are you here? I need some …’

  The words help getting ready fade on my lips.

  The Chesterfield is back in my own flat. And Marilyn Monroe is sitting on it.

  And even though this doesn’t sound that much of a surprise, believe me, it is. Because she’s no longer wrapped up in her white mink coat, or a towelling robe with a matching turban.

  She’s wearing her shocking-pink satin dress, complete with matching gloves, from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, with a glittering rhinestone choker, bracelets and – bringing back memories of Fritz’s safety gate – chandelier earrings. Her hair, if it were possible, is blonder than ever, and fluffed in a platinum cloud around her head, and her makeup – glossy red lips, thick eyelashes – has a professional-looking sheen to it, as if it’s taken a good while in front of a makeup-artist’s mirror to get it just so.

  She stands up as soon as she sees me, her face breaking into one of her dazzling smiles.

  ‘Honey,’ she breathes. ‘Gee, am I glad to see you!’

  ‘Marilyn, you look …’

  ‘How long has it even been? Three years? Four?’

  ‘Er.’ I blink at her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, however long it’s actually been, it feels just like yesterday, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s because … it was yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, honey. You always were funny!’ She sits back down on the Chesterfield, neatly folding the huge bow on the back of the dress beneath her as she does so, and pats a cushion for me to come and sit down next to her. ‘I know I’ve been lousy at keeping in touch, but I missed you, you know. And I want to hear all about how you’ve been, and how it’s going with that jewellery career of yours … oooh, and most important of all, what happened with that man you liked! The one who thought you were a Ritz cracker.’

  ‘Graham.’

  ‘Oh, was that his name? I totally forgot!’

  ‘No, I just meant … Marilyn, look, you are aware that it really was just yesterday that we last saw each other? You watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s on my sofa? Bogdan came and chatted to you about your hair?’

  ‘Bogdan! I’d forgotten all about him, too! He was your fruity friend, right? Only you didn’t like me calling him fruity, did you …? Gee, it’s all coming back to me, now! Your funny Canadian ways, and all those swell times we had in this teeny-tiny apartment … You know, I live in a much bigger apartment now, obviously, but I don’t think I’ve ever liked a place I lived in more than I liked this one.’ Marilyn gazes around, fondly, at the tired-looking walls, and the cramped bedroom area, and the one-cupboard-and-two-gas-rings zone that passes for the kitchen.

  ‘Good … good,’ I murmur.

  I mean, I’m still trying to get my head around the fact she seems absolutely convinced it’s years since we met, while I’m equally convinced that the last time I saw her she was asleep on this very sofa when I left this morning.

  Though, come to think of it, I’m not really sure why this should bother me any more than her appearing on my sofa in the first place. Given that she’s about as real as a unicorn being ridden by a flower-fairy, that is. I suppose there’s no reason whatsoever that she can’t materialize from the Chesterfield from pretty much any life-stage she likes. (It does make me a tiny bit concerned, though, that I might end up with barbiturate-filled, chronically neurotic Marilyn from her later years the next time she visits. If I’ve been worried about her fragility up until now, I don’t quite know how I’d cope with that.) Either way, I think the best thing right now is just to Go With It. I mean, I could sit around here trying to insist it’s barely even been twenty-four hours since the last time we spoke, but based on the past few conversations I’ve attempted with Marilyn about the peculiarity of this situation, I don’t think I’ll get very far.

  ‘So! You’ve … er … made it?’ I go on, sketching a hand in the direction of her shocking-pink outfit. ‘In Hollywood, I mean. That’s a costume from one of your movies, right? With Jane Russell?’

  ‘That’s right, honey!’ She beams at me. ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes! Did you see it yet? I’ve had a few pretty decent reviews, and people in Hollywood are being real nice about it, and all, but I still haven’t dared ask anyone who really knows me what they think of it.’ She bats her long lashes, looking shy all of a sudden. ‘Did you think I was any good?’

  ‘You were terrific, Marilyn.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Oh, honey. You don’t know how much that means to me.’ Her blue eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s just nice to hear it from someone who knew me before all this craziness began. Because things really are crazy for me these days, you know. I mean, that’s partly why I’ve been wanting to come back and see you for so long – to tell you that you were right!’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Your predictions, honey! All that psychic stuff! I’ve made movies with all the people you said I would: Jane Russell, obviously, and I just finished shooting this little comedy with Lauren Bacall and Betty Grable, of all people …! It’s all turned out positively uncanny!’

  ‘Oh, er, well, you know. I always knew you had it in you, Marilyn.’

  ‘Honey, there’s no need to be all Canadian and modest about it! You have an incredible gift. In fact, if I were you, I’d be thinking about giving up the jewellery making, and concentrating on a full-time career as a psychic. I mean, no offence, honey, but if you’re still living in this little place three years on, cute as it is, I don’t imagine the jewellery making is going all that well.’

  ‘Actually …’

  ‘And you could charge anything you liked as a bona fide psychic, honey! I have a tonne of friends in Hollywood these days who’d give their right arm to know what’s going to happen to them in the future … well,’ she adds, as a fleeting expression of sadness passes across her face, ‘I don’t know if I can call them friends, necessarily. I mean, sure, people are all super-nice to me these days, but it can be hard to tell if they’re being nice to me for me, or if it’s just because they want to be friends with, you know, Her. Marilyn Monroe.’

  ‘No. I get that.’ I reach over to pat her hand but, suddenly feeling uncomfortable about touching such a dazzling screen icon, settle for sort of rubbing the seam of her glove instead. ‘I’m sure they like you for you, though, Marilyn. Just be yourself, and I can’t imagine who wouldn’t.’

  She doesn’t say anything in reply for a moment. Then she takes a breath, shakes her shoulders, and smiles again. ‘Just one aspect of those psychic skills I think you need to work on, though, honey, and that�
��s the ones to do with romance. Didn’t you predict I was going to marry a farmer, or something?’

  ‘No, I think that was your foster mother.’

  But she isn’t listening. Her eyes have lit up, and her body language has become coy. ‘Because I met someone, honey, and he sure as hell isn’t a farmer! Now, I’d better not go into too much detail, because he sort of likes to keep himself to himself, and he doesn’t like the whole three-ring circus that comes from being with me … but he’s a very, very famous sports star indeed.’

  ‘Joe DiMaggio,’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.

  ‘Oh! You’ve seen a photograph of us together, then?’

  ‘That’s right. A photograph.’

  ‘Those darn newspaper men! They drive poor Joe absolutely crazy. I don’t mind so much, for myself – if they want a picture of me, I’m not gonna deny them – but Joe says it isn’t what he signed up for. And you have to keep a man happy, right? Otherwise they don’t stick around.’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘And trust me, honey, this man is worth the sacrifice! If we get married – I mean, he hasn’t asked me yet, of course – I think I’d be absolutely fine about giving up the whole Hollywood thing. After a couple more years, that is. Get it all out of my system and then just settle down with my man and those kids I used to talk about … do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. But, Marilyn, don’t you think—’

  ‘I’d love for you to meet him one day real soon,’ she goes on, ‘so you can see what I’m talking about. I’ve told him a lot about you, too.’

  The thought of Marilyn Monroe filling in some spectral Joe DiMaggio on all the gossip about me is just too weird to get my head around, to be honest.

  ‘I mean, you’re still the best girlfriend I ever had,’ Marilyn adds, almost shyly. ‘I really felt like you cared about me, while we were rooming together.’

  ‘I did,’ I say, with surprise – because I’m feeling like a pretty shit friend right now, and it’s unexpected to hear that Marilyn feels differently, even if her standards of female friendship are admittedly pretty low. ‘I’m really glad you thought that,’ I go on. ‘I was actually worried I was too distracted to be a decent friend to you. I mean, I stood you up the other … er, I mean, one night, to go out with the guy I liked. And I left you alone here a lot of the time while I ran around town doing other stuff …’

  ‘Honey, are you kidding me?’ she breathes. ‘The time I spent living here were some of the happiest days of my life!’

  I don’t point out that, from my point of view, it was, quite literally, days, because she’s continuing.

  ‘I mean, I had a really lousy childhood, you know? I moved around like a hobo, and nowhere ever felt like home to me. But this funny little place did feel like home. And most of that was down to you. I liked that you listened to me. I liked that you took me seriously. I liked that you seemed to think I mattered.’

  This should be lovely to hear. But it isn’t. It’s just making me realize how very, very far away I’ve ended up – since Dillon first came into my life – from the person I used to be.

  Because it isn’t just this past week, since Dillon’s reappearance, that I’ve let down Olly: I’ve been so busy trying to keep myself busy these last few painful months, that I’ve not been anywhere near as involved in the restaurant as I should have been. I mean, even that first time I visited the place, two months ago, with my congratulatory bottle of champagne, I ended up leaving with Adam and throwing myself into a relationship with him for the next few weeks. I wasn’t there for Olly right from the word go. And I’ve not exactly been the greatest friend to Nora, either. I should have taken the reins of her hen night weeks before now; I should have been calling her more often, just to check in. And while she’s been down here in London, for all my pie-in-the-sky plans about us having a proper chance to catch up over bottles of wine (or even sparkling mineral water, given her current state), I didn’t even get round to texting her until I wanted to find out if she was leaving me alone with Tash or not.

  I’ve not just been a bad friend. I’ve been a nonexistent one.

  After all these years of having a nonexistent family, I’ve somehow ended up pulling exactly the same shit on the very people who’ve really been my family all along. The people whose good opinion actually matters to me.

  ‘Honey? Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No … you didn’t say anything wrong, Marilyn.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’m really glad you said what you did. And I’d love to sit here much longer and chat, but I absolutely can’t risk being late for this party I’m going to tonight.’

  ‘Oooh, a party!’ Marilyn gives that familiar little shoulder-wriggle. ‘Is Graham going to be there?’

  ‘Graham …? Oh, you mean Dillon! God, no. This is my best friend Olly’s party, for the opening of his new restaurant … at least, I hope he’s still my best friend,’ I mutter, as I head for my wardrobe, open the door and pull down a couple of hangers. ‘It would serve me right if he barred me from the door, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, I gotta tell you, honey, if you turned up to a party of mine wearing one of those outfits, I’d bar you from the door.’ Marilyn gets to her feet and, with a rustle of pink satin, shimmies her way over to me. ‘I mean, gee, it’s a restaurant opening, right, not a wake?’

  ‘Yes. His first-ever restaurant. His dream for the last twenty years.’

  ‘Then for Pete’s sake, honey, don’t wear black pants,’ Marilyn says, taking one of the hangers that does, indeed, hold my very smartest and most chic pair of black trousers, and casting it on to the futon behind her. ‘And don’t wear a black dress, either!’ she gasps, grabbing the second hanger from my hand, the one that’s holding my favourite, figure-flattering Little Black Dress. ‘Don’t you have a nice white dress you could wear? Everybody always pays attention to you if you wear a white dress.’

  ‘That’s usually because it’s a wedding, and the one in the white dress is the bride.’

  ‘So you don’t own a white dress?’

  ‘I don’t. No.’

  ‘Well,’ she replies, rather snippily, ‘all you had to do was say so, honey. Oh! This is pretty! How about this?’

  She’s reached into the wardrobe and taken down the blue silk dress I’m going to wear to Nora’s wedding, as her chief bridesmaid.

  ‘I mean, if you dress it up a little with a nice fur jacket … stuff your brassiere with pantyhose, so that neckline doesn’t look so empty …’

  ‘Marilyn, for the last time: I don’t wear fur! And it’s a bridesmaid’s dress, anyway.’

  ‘Honey! Who’s getting married?’

  ‘My best friend Nora.’

  She frowns. ‘I thought you said your best friend was this Olly, with the restaurant.’

  ‘Yes. He is. They both are. They’re …’ I sit down on the futon, on top of my nicest trousers, and my favourite LBD, and stare, miserably, down at the floor. ‘They’re sort of my family, really. More than my actual family has ever been to me. But I’ve screwed up with returning the privilege to them myself, recently. Especially with Olly. He’s always been like a …’

  I’m about to say the words big brother, but find that I can’t. I mean, I can’t get those words out of my mouth. They’re sort of lodged, somewhere, at the back of my throat, like a particularly troublesome fishbone.

  Which is odd, because I’ve described Olly as my de facto big brother for years, and never had the words turn into a fishbone in my mouth before.

  ‘Oh, honey, you don’t have to tell me about friends being better than family. And if this Olly is as good a friend as you say he is, he’ll forgive you. I mean, you’ve forgiven me for not keeping in better contact with you for the last three years, haven’t you? We’re right back to the way things always were between us, just like that!’ Marilyn snaps two be-gloved fingers. ‘It’s just like the two of us only spoke yesterday!’

  ‘It’s exactly like that, Marilyn, yes.’ I get up and start
to rifle through my wardrobe again, only to be stopped by an excited gasp from Marilyn as she seizes a hanger from the end of the rail.

  ‘This looks perfect!’

  She’s pulled down a pale yellow sundress that I last wore when … yep, now I think about it, I was actually wearing this in Miami when the hurricane started rolling in.

  I’m not sure I’d fit into it now, or that it would even look OK without a tan: it has a halter neck and a flippy, just-above-the-knee hemline, and it might just feel too revealing in warmish Clapham rather than sweltering Miami. But this doesn’t seem to concern Marilyn, who’s holding it out and gazing at it approvingly.

  ‘This will look swell on you, honey. Far better than all that gloomy black!’

  ‘I suppose …’

  ‘Don’t suppose it, honey! Do it! I mean, not that I’m criticizing, but you haven’t changed at all since the last time I saw you, and … well, look at me!’ She strikes an eerily recognizable little pose, hip jutted out, arms aloft. ‘I doll up real nice, don’t I?’

  ‘You certainly do.’

  ‘In fact, you know what, honey …’ She notices one of her rhinestone bracelets dropping down to her elbow, and lowers her arm. ‘Take one of these. It’ll really jazz up that dress for an evening occasion.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sweet of you, Marilyn, but I can’t possibly.’ I gaze down at the heavy bracelet she’s just handed me. ‘These are incredibly valuable.’

  ‘They’re not real diamonds, honey! Just paste.’

  ‘I know, but that’s not why they’re valuable.’

  She looks confused, and slightly hurt. ‘Honey, I’d really like you to have one. It could be … well, would it sound funny if I called it a friendship bracelet?’

  It’s a far cry from the sort of woven-thread friendship bracelets I used to make for Nora and Cass and my other friends back in the day, which were the things that kick-started my interest in jewellery making in the first place.