He glanced over at me and found me studying his shoes. I looked up, could not look away.
He nodded and said, “How are you?”
“You bet,” I replied.
I tore my look away, picked up my Perrier, and wondered what the hell I had said that for.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Astaire lean toward his companions. A moment later, they laughed, all three. At me, I decided. At my dumb remark. Maybe at my stupid pre-tied bow tie? (I would certainly never wear it again!) At my Perrier?
Johnny returned, but stopped at Fred Astaire’s table for a bit of backslapping, wife-kissing, and shoulder-rubbing. I prayed he would not introduce me. It would be, at this moment, mortifying. My prayer was answered.
Johnny rejoined me, took a sip of his drink, grinned, and said, “We’re all set.”
“You bet,” I said. Was my needle stuck? Would I ever say anything else again?
“She wasn’t sure about Barbara, though. She’s going to try, though. But just in case—I mean, in case not—who’s your second favorite?”
“Greta Garbo,” I said.
“Not a chance.”
“Why not?” I asked, by now emboldened.
“Because she’s not there, you cluck, that’s why not. She never
has
been. Not so far as
I
know, anyway.”
“Katharine Hepburn,” I said.
“Come
on
!” he said, irritated and impatient.
“What’s a matter?”
“Katharine Hepburn,” he said as though pronouncing the name of a deity. “What’re
you, nuts
?”
“You asked my favorites,” I said stubbornly. “So I told you. So don’t yap at me.”
“
Favorites
, sure,” he said loudly. Fred Astaire looked over. I touched Johnny’s arm in an attempt to turn down his volume. I failed. “Favorites, for Chrissake. But
possibles
. Don’t be unreasonable.
Jesus
!”
I became reasonable. We went on to Mae’s. Winding up through the Hollywood Hills—up up up through the thinning, rarefied air—I wondered what awaited me at the top. Who? Barbara Stanwyck? Bette Davis? Carole Lombard?
I could hardly wait.
My buddy-agent-mentor-sponsor whistled all the way.
We drove through the impressive entrance gate, up a winding driveway, under the porte-cochere, and stopped.
“Nice place,” I said.
“About an hour and a half, Eddie. Go get a bite if you want.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eddie, impassive.
The driver’s extraordinary good looks suddenly troubled me, because they made me aware of my
lack
of good looks. Just before he drove off, he winked at me. Twice.
We stood before the imposing main door. Johnny rang the doorbell. I heard chimes sound from within. The door was opened by a stunning, coffee-colored maid, wearing a black uniform and a lace apron and cap.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Good morning, Della,” said Johnny. He laughed. She nodded politely, marking his attempted joke, but not responding.
Class, I thought.
“Miss West is in the library,” she said. “Would you join her there, please?”
Miss West. Mae’s! My head snapped around to Johnny on a delayed take. My obvious astonishment delighted him.
Miss West! What the hell
was
this? What was going on? Where
was
I? What
time
is it? What year?
As we moved through the ante-bellum atmosphere, my sense of disorientation was sharpened.
Greater astonishments lay ahead.
We moved into the formal, paneled library, its shelves replete with fine bindings.
My experienced theatre eye indicated to me that the room had been lighted by an expert. David Belasco himself could hardly have improved upon the soft glows and the strategically placed spills. It did not occur to me until much later that the entire establishment was arranged in half-light, and that this was essential to the success of the fantastic enterprise.
Near a gently burning flame in the fireplace, in a large armchair with a matching footstool, sat a vision of Mae West, wearing, I could have sworn, the gown she had worn five years earlier in the nightclub scene of
Night after Night
when the innocent ingénue, wide-eyed at the spectacle of Mae West’s dripping jewels, exclaimed “Goodness!” And Mae said, “Goodness…had
nothin’
tuh do with it!”
On a board before her, she was playing what appeared to be a complex form of solitaire. Beside her, on a small end table, stood the largest brandy snifter I had ever seen, about one-third full. Could she lift it?
Had I not been in wine, and overexcited; had the makeup been less skillful and the lights brighter, I suppose I would have seen at once that the woman in the chair was not actually Mae West, but a remarkable facsimile, a
pasticheuse
.
However, the surrounding mood was such that it was impossible not to play the game. The necessary suspension of disbelief was instantaneous. I was thrilled to be in
the presence of—and about to be presented to—“Miss Mae West,” the great Paramount star and, obviously, the Madam of this establishment.
“Hullo, ‘Chollie,’” said her nose. “Glad t’see yuh.
Real
glad.”
Johnny went to her, leaned over and, of all things, kissed her hand.
“‘Miss West,’” he said. “I’d like you to meet my friend ‘John Smith.’”
I came forward.
“This is a great honor, ‘Miss West,’” I said, sounding like someone else.
She offered her hand. I took it.
She squinted at me, and asked, “Y’wouldn’ be, I s’pose, ‘
Captain
John Smith’?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry. He was my great-great-grandfather.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I knew ’im well. He was great-great, all right.”
So. It was going to be one of
those
nights. Trading toppers. I wished that I was less fatigued.
“What can I offer you genimen t’drink?” she asked.
“Scotch soda,” said Johnny.
“Just soda,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said. “We don’t happen t’have any of that.”
“Water?”
“That neither.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s what we’ve got the
least
of, sonny.” (Was she annoyed?) “Have a drink,” she commanded.
“All right, ‘Miss West.’ Same as him.”
“Fine. Call me ‘Mae.’” She turned to the hovering Della. “Got that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Della left.
“The first rule of the house,” said “Mae,” “is no lushes and no teetotalers. I don’ know which is the worse.”
“A lush teetotaler!” cried “Charlie.”
“Y’got it!” purred “Mae.”
Della was back (already?) with the drinks on a tray. She served “Charlie,” then me.
“Mae” picked up her brandy glass—she
could
lift it!—and raised it.
“Your health ‘n’strength, men.”
We drank. The Scotch was superb. How could I find out what brand it was?
“I’m sorry, ‘Chollie,’ but ‘Irene’ isn’t in tonight. She had to go to her preview.”
“I know,” he said. “We were there.”
“How was it?” asked “Mae.”
“Smash,” said “Charlie.”
“Great,” I said.
She looked at me, critically, and inquired, “Y’mean great, or
Hollywood
great?”
“Well,” I said, deflated, “
you
know.”
“Sure,” she said. “I don’ mean t’be a pain about it—but I’m a writer, don’t y’know, and words are important t’me. I write all my own stuff. That’s why it’s so good.”
Was this a whorehouse I was in, I wondered? As I was wondering, “Alice Faye” came into the room.
I had unaccountably finished my drink and been served another. This time, I was not so sure it was
not
Alice Faye.
“Hi, ‘Alice,’” said “Charlie.”
“Hello, sugar,” she said.
They kissed, lightly and politely.
“Mae” spoke. “This is ‘Mr. Smith,’ ‘Alice.’ ‘Miss Faye,’ ‘Mr. Smith.’”
“How do you do?” she said.
“How do you do,” I echoed.
We touched hands.
I said, “I’m really delighted to meet you, ‘Miss Faye.’ I saw some stuff the other night on
Alexander’s Ragtime Band
. The cutter’s a friend of mine. You were marvelous. Better than ever.”
“Thank you,” she said demurely. “That ‘Blue Skies.’ Isn’t that some
wonderful
song?”
“Wonderful,” I said.
I was now living an inch or two off the ground and the entrance of “Barbara Stanwyck” did not reduce my elevation.
Greetings. Another introduction. Another drink.
We are in the long, impressive living room. A grand piano at one end. A pianist who, in the circumstances, looks to me like Teddy Wilson.
“Alice” sings. “Night and Day” from
The Gay Divorce.
I am alone in the room with “Barbara.” We talk of the theatre, of her hit in the play
Burlesque
with Hal Skelly. I did not see it, but pretend that I did and hope she does not suspect I am lying.
Later, in her room, I study the stills all around. She is with Neil Hamilton in
The Bitter
Tea of General Yen
, with John Boles in
Stella Dallas
, with Preston Foster in
The Plough
and the Stars
, and alone in
So Big
, the Warner movie in which she first captivated me.
The five of us are in the library again. Elegant little sandwiches and champagne. Tender goodnights. Promises to meet soon.
Eddie is waiting in the driveway with the car. “Charlie” or Johnny or whatever the hell his name is talks all the way home. I do not listen. I am fully occupied in digesting the experience.
At the very last moment, I remember to say, “Thank you.”
I never became a regular at “Mae’s.” The fees were far beyond my means. But from time to time, “Charlie”/Johnny would take me up there, and I found that there were others who were acquainted with “Mae” and with “Mae’s.”
More often than not, I went along only as a nonparticipating hanger-on. “Mae” and the girls did not seem to mind. I was young and eager to please, and full of conversation.
The girls. In addition to “Barbara Stanwyck” and “Alice Faye,” I met “Irene Dunne,” “Joan Crawford,” “Janet Gaynor,” “Claudette Colbert” (speaking beautiful French), “Carole Lombard,” “Marlene Dietrich,” “Luise Rainer,” “Myrna Loy,” and “Ginger Rogers.” But
never
, as had been earlier indicated, “Greta Garbo” or “Katharine Hepburn.”
There were, needless to say, cast changes from time to time. Stars faded and fell away. New stars appeared. Novas. A stage star, say Margaret Sullavan, would come out, make a success and settle down. Before long, “she” could be seen at “Mae’s.”
I came to know a good deal about “Mae’s” unique institution as the months went by. The large house contained fourteen suites. There were four maids. The excellent food was prepared by Marcel, a French chef, assisted by his Dutch wife. The pianist played on weekends only. The basement contained the makeup, hairdressing, and wardrobe departments.
The wardrobe mistress turned out to be a dear Jewish lady from the Boyle Heights section, the mother of an assistant director who was, later, to work with me. She had spent years in the wardrobe departments of Metro, and Twentieth, as well as Western Costume, and had many valuable contacts. Often, she would buy clothes from the studios, then remodel them to fit the girls at “Mae’s.”
On other occasions, she would watch current films with a sketch pad on her lap and draw what she saw. Her reproductions of the work of Adrian, Orry-Kelly, Irene, Howard Greer, and other leaders of the Hollywood fashion world were excellent. It was not uncommon to see a dress on Myrna Loy in one of the
Thin Man
pictures and later the same night, see it on “Myrna Loy” at “Mae’s.”
Two beautiful young men—a couple—were, respectively, the house hairdresser and makeup man. They quarreled often and acrimoniously, but did superlative work. It was this team that was mainly responsible for the amazingly accurate likenesses upstairs.
“Mae” had, in the manner of the Hollywood upper crust, a projection room. Here were shown old films (by request), previews (“Mae’s” contacts were solid), and often break-up reels and tests.
One of these was Paulette Goddard’s test for
Gone with the Wind
. “Paulette” arranged the screening. The girls, along with the rest of us, were most impressed. (Only “Margaret Sullavan” seemed, understandably, less than enthusiastic. After all,
“she”
was up for the part, too.) When, eventually, Vivien Leigh was signed to play Scarlett, the girls were stunned, said nothing, and “Paulette” was unavailable for a week.
This was not in itself unusual. There were frequent absences. The most common reply to the question, “Where’s ‘Myrna’ tonight?” (Or “Claudette”? or “Jean”?) was: “Oh, she’s on location.” Often the information would jibe with items in
The Hollywood
Reporter
or in
Daily Variety
—those morning harbingers (one green, one red) that started every movie person’s day.
The “trades,” as they are known, were much in evidence at “Mae’s.” Her girls were trained to read them daily and carefully, in order that they might be able to converse convincingly with the clients.
And they did. The house was invariably filled with gossip, rumors, innuendos, reports, inside info on movies or the people who made them, and on the homes some of them owned. A surprising amount of the information at “Mae’s” was accurate.
There was the intriguing case of the husband of a Big Name who shall be nameless. He had to deal with a difficult marital problem, because Big Name was convinced that during those periods of time when she was shooting, she had to abstain absolutely from all sexual activity. She was not getting any younger, she pointed out, and those closeup lenses could be cruel—no matter how soft the focus or how kind the diffusion.
One Monday morning, following a splendidly wild Sunday night, she had overheard the cameraman, Joe Ruttenberg, mutter to his gaffer, “Jesus! I think the only way to shoot her today is through an Indian blanket!”
That did it.
She made her resolution of abstinence and held to it from then on. She was disciplined, as are all long-lasting stars, and although she loved her husband, she loved her career equally.