Larry stands up from behind his desk and moves to the couch where I’m sitting. The arms on this orange couch and the cheap coffee table in front of it have scorch marks where people have left their cigarettes to burn. Larry takes the cigar from his mouth and smiles, sits down and flings his arm across the back of the couch and toys with my hair. He puts his cigar in a nearby ashtray, and his hairy hand on my knee.
I am no longer the girl I was two years ago, speechless as Irv Rakoff pressed up against my butt, but right now, I can’t help but think of Diana Jordan. At a Casa Fiesta party, Diana told everyone that her recent elevation from sword-and-sandal to an earthy Bad Girl role in a new MGM noir picture happened because Mr. Moore (yes, Jonathan’s awful father) got her on his couch, and, as she said, “All I had to do was moan.” Then, to demonstrate, she leaned back and moaned. Very convincing. Should I lean back and moan in exchange for this opportunity? (I can all but hear Charlie: Do it, Roxanne, it’s great for me. If you care for me, Roxanne—and I know you do—lie down with Larry Sanford.) In the world I live in, sex is a kind of currency. I very definitely remove Larry’s hand from my knee. But if I am honest with myself, I wonder if I’m acting on principle or because Larry Sanford is small potatoes, and his orange couch is really appalling. If it were Jack Warner . . . ? “Sorry, Larry. No go. I can take this script somewhere else.” But he pushes me back on the couch, rummages all over my blouse, yanking off the buttons while his cigar-breath covers my face, my mouth, until I can turn my head away. Larry grunts, one hand goes up under my skirt. I’m pinned there beneath him. I struggle to free my right arm. I smack his head, his ear, and then again, hard enough to make him cry out in pain. I slither out from underneath him and kick the coffee table over. Ashtray and cigar go flying.
Larry gives a rough laugh and sits up. “Well, it was worth a try. No hard feelings.”
“Sure, Larry,” I say casually, though I am trembling, sweating. I’d never let this bastard guess how much he has rattled me.
“Rethink my offer, Roxanne.” Larry ambles back to his desk while he plays with his pants.
I put Charlie’s script in my briefcase and snap it shut. I see one of the buttons from my blouse on the floor, but will not deign to bend over and pick it up.
“Your agency is barely getting by. Who else but me is going to buy your rotten little scripts?”
“Television, Larry,” I say with a lot more bravado than I feel. “Why should anyone pay to go to a Saturday matinee serial when they can stay home and watch the same thing for free on television?”
“Get out.”
Blouse buttoned the best I could manage, dark glasses on, and without another word, I walk out to the parking lot. I silently pray the MG will start without fuss, and it does. I put on my hat, stick the gear in reverse, and back the hell out of there, speeding toward Sunset, darting in and out of traffic, hoping there are no cops nearby.
Finally, on PCH, just the sight of the ocean calmed me, and I felt like I could slow down. Up ahead on the side of the road I saw a pickup truck; the hood was up and steam was pouring out of the engine. A small, forlorn woman with short-cropped gray hair stood in front of it. The least I could do was give her a lift to a gas station so that some creep didn’t come by and pick her up and try to jump her. I pulled over.
She ran up to the MG exclaiming her thanks. Then she said, “Roxanne?”
I took off my dark glasses. “Thelma?”
“My god, Roxanne, what’s happened to you? You look awful, and your blouse is all undone.”
“Oh, merde! I’m all right. Shaken. That’s all.” I gathered my blouse together.
“Who did this to you?”
“No one. Really. A total nobody. A total nobody with a gruesome orange couch. Get in. What on earth are you doing out here with this truck?”
“I work for my brother now. He owns a farm out in the Valley. I deliver produce. Or at least when the truck doesn’t overheat, I do.”
“I had no idea you’d quit Empire.”
“Oh, I didn’t quit. They fired me the same day they fired Max two years ago. Escorted me off the lot without my address book.”
“That’s so unfair! You didn’t do anything.”
“I was Max’s secretary for fifteen years. That was enough.”
“I’ve heard Max and Marian are in Mexico City with Simon and Leah.” I pulled back onto PCH and drove as Thelma told me the long, sad story of four people I had loved, how they and a whole crowd of blacklisted writers and directors who had fled to Mexico were drinking too much, running out of money, quarreling among themselves about the finer points of Communist doctrine, and nursing old grievances—in short, leading the bickering, unproductive lives of café expatriates.
“It’s really just a gawd-awful way to live.” Thelma added, “No one but Simon even speaks Spanish. Max and Marian are miserable.”
“What happened to their son, Norman?”
“They moved Norman from an LA institution to one in Riverside County so Marian’s sister could visit him.” Thelma was a tiny woman, with spindly arms and bags under her big gray eyes. “But the sister died last year so no one goes to see him now. Marian is a mess, worrying about Norman, and Max is a wreck worrying about her.”
“Heartbreaking.”
“Yes. I drove out there once to see Norman, on their behalf, but he didn’t know me at all and, well, let’s just say I never went back. Anyway, I’ve got all I can do to haul produce six days a week for my brother.”
“Look, Thelma, quit that job and come work for me. I have my own agency now.” I took a business card from the glove box and handed it to her.
“There’s no address on it.”
“That’s because I have to work out of my home. I live in Malibu, up that way.” I pointed north. “I’m doing all right—well, truthfully, not great. I waste a lot of time trying to be organized. I’m not any good at keeping books, and I can’t type except with two fingers, and my calendar is a mess. I can’t pay you anywhere near what you earned at Empire, and I know I can’t pay you what you’re worth, but I can probably do better than your brother.”
“Whatever you’re paying, I’m in. I’m too old for hauling potatoes. Besides, I love bringing order to chaos. I had a lot of practice, working for Max.”
“That’s great! When can you start?”
“Tomorrow, at eight, and I’ll make the coffee!”
Is this the way fate works, then? Larry Sanford tries to jump my bones, I flee, and fate hands me Thelma Bigelow, secretary extraordinaire. I didn’t immediately tell her the bitter truth of my little agency. Larry was right. Though I worked hard, and my name was enough to get me invited to galas, to premieres, parties where I met important people, in nearly two years of being independent, my dream of discovering the writer of the next Casablanca seemed like a fatuous illusion. I would have welcomed a little nepotism. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was on some sort of weird blacklist, that maybe the other studios thought if Empire wouldn’t buy from the Granville Agency, why should anyone else? My writers relied on Poverty Row and television. Sad to say, the closest the Granville Agency came to a big studio contract was last year. A wonderful script of Maurice Allen’s generated extravagant enthusiasm from Paramount, lots of meetings, talks. Maurice did the changes they asked for. I had the pen inked up to sign, but the producers just sort of vanished, along with their promises. From that crushing disappointment, I learned what every agent and every writer knows: Nothing is real till money changes hands. Without Julia’s inheritance, I’d be broke.
* * *
• • •
The following Friday at our weekly lunch at the Ambassador, I told Irene about finding Thelma on PCH and hiring her on the spot. She looked pensive. “I wonder if it’s wise for you to hire Max Leslie’s secretary. She might be a Communist too. You never know.”
“She’s not a Communi
st.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Well, maybe I don’t. Who cares? She’s incredibly organized and efficient, and I’m in awe of her talents.”
“Leon won’t like it.”
“How would he find out? I have hardly spoken to Leon in a year.”
“That’s your own pigheaded fault. You’re the one who made this a contest with Denise, and you’ve lost. Just admit it. Make up with Leon. He’s an old man. He’s besotted with her. He’s never been happier. He told me that.”
“Forty years of marriage to Julia, and he’s never been happier?” I gulped down the lump in my throat with a swill of Campari. The bitterness was bracing.
“Denise isn’t so bad.”
“I would have thought you’d be more loyal to Julia.”
“Julia’s gone, little sister. She has been gone for two years, and if you don’t want to lose Leon forever, I suggest you rethink your opposition to Denise. Leon misses you. He loves you. He was heartbroken you didn’t come to Thanksgiving. You didn’t come to Christmas. You didn’t come to his birthday celebration in February.”
“I told him I’d never return to that house as long as Denise was in it.” The dramatic declaration that had once felt so Vivien Leigh grand now struck me as overblown.
“Do you think you are a Daphne du Maurier character, Roxanne? In case you hadn’t noticed, you live in the real world.” Irene ordered us each another cocktail and lit up a cigarette as only Bette Davis and Irene Conrad could. She gave me a long, hard stare. “Leon and Denise got married last week up at his place in Tahoe. They’ll announce it publicly in a few days. He asked me to tell you. He didn’t want you to read it in the papers.”
I felt my innards turn to chalk. “How could someone as smart, as powerful, as Leon Greene be felled by such a little gnat?”
“She’s not a gnat. We underestimated her. So did Julia, for that matter. It was never enough for Denise just to be a rich man’s mistress. Denise and Elsie both have clawing ambition. They see a shelf full of Oscars in their future, and so does Leon. He truly believes she’s a gifted actress who just hasn’t yet found the right film. Don’t roll your eyes at me, Roxanne. She’s not that bad, and you know it.”
“‘Mediocre’ is hardly a bouquet of praise.”
“Look, I don’t want to argue with you about Denise’s gifts. Let’s talk about you and Leon, about our family. You need to come down off your high horse. He misses you. He really does. He loves you. He wants us all to be a family again. He sent me with a peace offering.” She reached in her handbag and drew out a long, flat velvet box, the sort that would hold a diamond bracelet.
“I already have a diamond bracelet in my safe-deposit box. One of his many remorseful gifts to Julia.”
“Just open it.”
It was a key, two keys actually, to the front door and the back door of a modest house on Clara Bow Drive in Culver City. “But I don’t want to leave Malibu. I love it there.”
“It’s not for you to live in, silly. I told Leon you can’t go on running your business out of that ramshackle place in Malibu. Use the house for an office! Clara Bow Drive is perfect for the Granville Agency. I checked out a couple of Leon’s real estate holdings before I found it. Two bedrooms, big living room. Nice big oleander hedge to shield you from the street. Rent is a dollar a year, which I already paid when I signed the lease, so now you really owe me.”
I fondled the keys. Smiling. I couldn’t help it. A secretary. An office. I was established.
“For Leon it really was a gift, but I’m insisting on a condition. I want you to make up with him. Think about it, Roxanne, Leon is not going to live forever, and—”
“Is he sick?” I asked, alarmed.
“He’s not sick. He’s old. Make up with him, Roxanne. Don’t lose your grandfather because you’re so pigheaded and stubborn. Be reasonable. All families are complicated. Be nice to Denise. You can do this. Otherwise Julia wasted all that money on that fine French finishing school, didn’t she?”
“I suppose if my father can play Lear, I can be civil to Denise Dell.”
“Better than civil. Nice.”
“Nice.”
“Good. Next weekend there’s an exclusive party at Summit Drive to celebrate Denise’s new picture, Banner Headline. Be there, and be nice to Denise. I mean it.” She kicked me gently under the table. “I have my own reasons for wanting you to come to the party. I want you to meet one of Gordon’s friends. Elliott Dunne.”
“Oh, Irene, you know I can’t abide any of those crew-cut types that Gordon hires. They’re all so . . . so starchy.”
“Elliott Dunne is single, smart, and ambitious, and I want you to marry him and live in a lovely ranch house with a pool in Encino.”
“And serve hubby his mashed potatoes wearing a little apron over my Dior dress and high heels? Dream on.”
“Well, I’m tired of seeing you out and about with Charlie Frye these past few months.”
She and Gordon had met Charlie and me at the Cocoanut Grove a few times. Irene found him boring, but he was fine for me, good-looking, and a good dancer. He’s a good writer too, though not so wildly ambitious that he loves to work. We started dating after he invited me to a surfing competition (where he came in fifth). At first I thought Charlie was attracted to me on behalf of his scripts, and that might have had something to do with it, but now I sometimes wonder if it’s because he can leave his surfboard at my house when he goes home to his nasty Hollywood walk-up.
“Do you want to hear something funny about Charlie?” I whispered.
“Always.”
I lowered my voice and told her how making love with Charlie was like an athletic event, like he expected to feel a ribbon break across his chest as he crossed the finish line, especially since he insisted on having John Philip Sousa marches on the hi-fi. I hummed a few bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and Irene and I laughed so hard we started crying, and the waiter came over and asked if we needed assistance.
“No, no.” I waved him away. “We’re fine.”
Irene wiped her eyes and caught her breath. “Well, whatever you do, don’t bring Charlie Frye to the party.”
“Don’t worry. I never take writers to anything important. They drink too much. I’ll come with Jonathan. He’s always presentable.”
“He’s certainly collecting an unpresentable reputation. He might work more if there were fewer orgies at Casa Fiesta.”
“Oh, don’t believe what you read in the gossip columns. Anyway, actors need a whiff of scandal just to keep the publicity machine oiled so people don’t forget them.”
“Actors need to be up and in the makeup chair at five a.m. Without a hangover. If Jonathan wants serious roles, he should be a serious actor. I must run, I can’t be late for my meeting with the principal at Junior’s school.” She gathered up her purse and gloves. “Leon wants you to call him and thank him personally for the keys to the new office.”
“I can do that.”
“Now.” She reached into her handbag and gave me a dime and a piece of paper with the Tahoe number on it. She nodded toward the row of pay phones in the lobby. “Tell him you’re happy about his wedding. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Promise.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Call collect.”
Chapter Nine
In Hollywood, the term “exclusive party” means you invite everyone you owe money to, and everyone to whom you owe favors, as well as everyone you might want to ask for money or a favor in the future. Knowing this, Jonathan and I sat in the back seat of the limo, wordlessly passing his hip flask back and forth, nursing our anxieties. My anxieties were personal. I’d promised to accept Denise as Leon’s wife, to be nice to a woman I detested. Jonathan’s anxieties were professional. Jonathan intended to use this party to kis
s whoever’s ring, or tush, needed kissing to get a good role. He hadn’t got the role in The Bridges at Toko-Ri or any other decent picture, and he was madly jealous of friends like Rock Hudson whose careers were on the ascendant while Jonathan’s talents were still confined to clunkers like The Silver Chalice.
At Summit Drive we stepped out of the car into a herd of photographers snapping pictures as we entered the high, marbled foyer. Tall, austere Clarence, looking more like a senator than a butler, gave a slight smile and nodded to me. The place looked exactly the same as when I left it two years ago as we passed into the long salon at the back where French doors gave onto vast, tiered gardens. In the high upstairs gallery ringing the salon, an orchestra played movie themes from recent pictures. The people who made those pictures collected below—there was more star power here than you can see at the Griffith Observatory. Leon’s close allies in the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals gathered in their own galaxy. When the orchestra took up the theme from The High and the Mighty, on cue, John Wayne turned from his conversation with Gary Cooper and Hedda Hopper and waved to everyone present. Standing there between those twin pillars of American masculinity, Hedda, who usually bristles with righteous indignation, looked like a delighted damsel.
Jonathan bent his head to mine and murmured, “You are the only woman here in red.”
“Mais oui.” I had chosen this red dress particularly for tonight, just for a bit of tant pis to Leon and all the rabid Red-baiters I knew would be here. A strapless bodice, full at the hips, with two layers of shimmery, brilliant red-patterned voile over silk, it rustled softly when I walked, and it screamed Dior. I carried a small, chic Dior handbag and accessorized with elbow-length red gloves and Julia’s diamond choker, diamond bracelet, and ruby earrings, retrieved from the safe-deposit box. I didn’t wear them with Julia’s grace or glamour. How could I? How could anyone? My hair, longer now, was swept up into a fashionable French twist, except for one long lock that fell down the right side of my face, à la Veronica Lake, obscuring the birthmark.
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