Authors: Harriet Evans
More than anything, I wanted to love him, but I didn’t know how to reach out to him. We were in this marriage together, yet I found I didn’t know him at all. What was more terrifying was that I was discovering as time went on that I didn’t know myself at all, either. I couldn’t remember who I was, what I was supposed to be. I had a new name, new hair, new teeth; I played parts all day; I came home to a beautiful house where unseen hands changed the sheets and pressed the dresses in my closet and made my food, and to a husband who was the dream-boat idol of my teenage years – and none of it seemed to make sense to me. The
Photoplay
story had been a triumph of optimism.
Hollywood’s Newest Sweethearts, at Home and at Play
: us playing tennis, kissing at the net after I lost, Gilbert swimming in the pool, me brushing my hair at the dressing table, entertaining a group of friends to dinner, playing with our poodle puppy Maurice:
Maurice, a gift from the couple’s close friend Conrad Joyce, star of the new Mrs Travers’s upcoming film,
A Girl Named Rose
. Mr Joyce gave the bride away at the couple’s private wedding last year. ‘It was so romantic,’ Eve tells us. ‘A bower of white roses, and I walked through them with Conrad, and there was Gilbert waiting for me. Conrad was rather angry; he said I was pulling at his arm, so eager was I to reach the groom!’
It was the usual pack of lies; however, I’d become used to it. I’d worked with Conrad on
Lanterns Over Mandalay
and loved him. We’d become firm friends; he was a darling, hilarious, vain, terribly catty, the best fun to be with, but kind and considerate too. One of the few people I felt I could be myself with, talk to just a little about where I’d come from, and how strange it was, these lives we were leading. But Gilbert couldn’t stand him. Said he was a cissy.
We’d had white roses, but not at my behest. I hated them. Hated them. The sight of them at the top of the aisle, as I got ready to walk towards Gilbert, had nearly made me up and run away. The Baxters were there, that horrible fat man and his brother, smiling solemnly as I walked down the aisle, and I wished so much I was Rose, that I was brave enough to hold up his hand and shout ‘Pervert!’ as she had once done to Tom, the chemist’s son who used to drop things and then look up ladies’ skirts. And Moss Fisher, sunglasses on, his shiny grey suit oily in the sun. They sat in a row, like crows. I wished I hadn’t had them to our house.
The rest of it was tosh, too. The poodle was hired for the day, we never played tennis, and we rarely had friends over. Gilbert had his bridge chums, and I was either working or sleeping.
It was a normal morning then, that April day, as I came out of my room humming to myself, and dropped a kiss onto Gilbert’s head. He grunted, shifted away from me, and went back to reading his paper –
The Times
, which he had flown out every week and read religiously, even if the news was by then out of date. I’d set my head into place:
It’s another beautiful day. You’re filming your best part yet. Gilbert’s been offered the role in that WW2 drama and he’s going to take it
.
Maybe next year you’ll have a baby.
‘What are you up to today, dear?’ I asked him, reaching for a thin slice of toast, buttering it methodically, and then pouring some coffee for myself and him.
He shook his head. ‘Going into the studio. See a few chaps. Do a few final tests.’
‘What do they want you in for again?’ I said. I’d spoken to Mr Baxter two days ago, and he’d told me they’d already drawn up contracts, that Gilbert was signed to the part. ‘I thought it was all agreed.’
My husband looked up at me in annoyance. ‘I don’t know, do I? I’m sure if it was you, they’d be rushing to roll out the red carpet, scattering damn white roses as high as an elephant’s bloody eye, but I’m awfully sorry, they’re not. It’s me, my dear, not you. No one gives a damn about me.’
I took a tentative sip of my coffee. ‘I’m sure it’s a formality. The part’s definitely yours. They said so.’
‘Who did?’ His voice was low. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you been interfering, Eve? Tell me.’
I shrugged, trying to stay calm. ‘Of course not, darling. Mr Baxter mentioned it to me, and I said—’
Instantly he was on his feet – he still moved fast when he wanted to. He came over to my side of the table, in one step. ‘Listen to me, Eve,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘Don’t interfere. Keep your damn skinny arse out of it. Otherwise—’ He was almost growling in my ear; I could smell his anger, as fear rose inside me. ‘Otherwise I’ll damn well kill you. You understand? You understand?’
He wasn’t touching me. He was inches away from me. I met his gaze as calmly as I could and nodded. I didn’t say anything. My heart was thumping. Gilbert came back to his side of the table and sat down.
‘Good. Now. Did you say you were away, filming? When?’
‘Well, I’m going today,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, to not show how much he’d disturbed me. ‘Darling, I did tell you—’
He shrugged. ‘That’s a shame. I’ll miss you.’ He still said these things, and I never knew what he meant.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I said. ‘I – why don’t you come up, join me one weekend? It’s in Big Sur. We’re staying in an old lodge off the highway. It’s supposed to be beautiful. They’d love to have you.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’
I was warming to my theme. ‘I’m sure they would, Gilbert! You could go fishing, do some hunting during the day, then we could have dinner. It’s very remote, so beautiful. There’s a darling little town not far, with a golf course on the sea, you’d love it.’
‘The ocean, not the sea,’ he corrected. ‘I’ve been there, my dear. That’s very kind, but I’ll stay here and make my own amusement. If you don’t mind.’ He bowed his head, touched his lips to his fingers and blew me the tiniest of kisses, and I gave him a small, glad smile, before he disappeared behind the paper again, and chuckled about something else.
the cream kid gloves
THE JOURNEY TOOK longer than I’d thought. A section of the highway had fallen into the ocean, which frequently happened in spring after the stormy wet winters that lash the northern Californian coast. We had to take a detour through the rolling plains that stretch out towards agricultural Steinbeck country, the land of
East of Eden
, then up on crumbling, rocky roads through the misty hills, where eagles soared in and out of the clouds that seemed to sit right next to us, so high were we. I sat in the back of the car transfixed by the unfolding vistas, the occasional flash of cliff and blue ocean, sometimes opening my window to inhale the sea air, and thinking how glad I was to have left Los Angeles.
By the time we arrived, it was a beautiful evening, and the smell of pine floated in through the open windows of the car as we arrived. The lodge was an old wooden hotel with a series of chalets nestling into the hills. Birds sang overhead as I stepped out onto the soft earth and took a deep breath, glad to be out of the car, on firm ground again. Two men carried my bags in, the Revelation leather trunks and suitcases, hatboxes and vanity cases, navy leather and stamped with my initials. Half of what was packed I wouldn’t need, I was sure.
‘Hello, my dear.’ Jerome Trumbo, the director, strode into the lobby, pressed his hand into mine. ‘How wonderful that you’re here.’
I took in his outfit – the tweed jacket and jodhpurs, the yellow turtleneck sweater, the boots – and clapped my hands together. ‘Dear Jerry, you look terrific. D. W. Griffith would be intimidated by you. What a get-up.’
Jerry smoothed his hand over the rough tweed with some pride. ‘Why thank you, dear Eve. Long journeys must suit you – you look even more beautiful than ever. I love that darling jacket, bouclé is it? Will you join me for a drink in the bar, after you’ve freshened up? I have a couple of things to talk over with you about tomorrow. Not changes, just suggestions.’ He squeezed my shoulder lightly. ‘Dear, this film is going to be wonderful.’
We were finally starting work on
A Girl Named Rose
. It was a spruced-up version of the script Don had written for me, but he had detached himself – or been detached – from the project long ago, and though it had been changed somewhat to fit the Baxter brothers’ whims, it was, indeed, wonderful. I don’t know whom Jerry had got in to rewrite it, but it worked just as well, maybe even better than before.
Lanterns Over Mandalay
had been a hit, but not quite enough of a hit. Musicals, historical epics, were still all the rage, so out went the black-and-white drama, in came the Technicolor fantasy. Rose was no longer a shy young girl from a small town who came to work at a bustling New York fashion magazine; she was a shy young girl who dreamed extraordinary, fantastical daydreams and who came to work in a lavishly oversized Manhattan. There were a lot of musical insertions, and some, I dare to say, rather fey routines involving me and special effects: a talking cat, on the roof of the apartment next to Rose’s; and an all-singing, all-dancing set of mannequins in beautiful couture frocks in the window of Sak’s Fifth Avenue that came to life and sang with me. We were in Big Sur to shoot some of the final home-town scenes, as well as most of the fantasy set-pieces, beginning with the picnic I have with my true love Pete (played by Conrad) where the wind sways the grasses in time to the beating of our hearts. I really wasn’t sure if it would be a complete failure or a rather clever triumph, which just goes to show you, doesn’t it? How funny to think that now. It was so unusual that one just couldn’t tell, but luckily the rewrite was terrific, unusually for rewrites. And there was still enough of Don’s original script to make me confident it could work. I loved saying his lines.
I hadn’t seen him since we had kissed and had our terrible row on the studio lot, over a year ago. I’d heard he’d been fired from a couple of projects. Gilbert had even brought him up in conversation one evening, which was strange, although I should have known; Gilbert noticed everything, even if he pretended not to. ‘That friend of yours has got himself into more trouble, I see,’ he’d said, reading Louella’s column in the
Los Angeles Examiner
one evening, not long after we were married.
Once Hollywood’s favourite screenwriter, one of the few pinkos to have survived the McCarthy era unscathed, Don Matthews seems to be making more enemies every day. Spotted getting cosy at the Cocoanut Grove last night in a dark booth with a young starlet named Priscilla Jones, Matthews ran into an old buddy – ex-wife and Vegas top-liner Bella Brettner – and her newest buddy – her partner in their act, Carl von Kant. Words – and drinks – flew as the gentlemen did more than embrace … wrestling on the floor like brawling teenagers, till Matthews was forcibly ejected onto the sidewalk, nursing a bruised jaw – as well as ego. Third time this month alone our hero’s been asked to leave this way. And we thought screenwriters were dull. Stay tuned, folks …
I’d heard several times that he’d been drinking too much, and I was worried for him. Hollywood had a crazy attitude to screenwriters. They were happy to let them drop like flies, send them to jail or lose them to TV, to alcoholism; they didn’t understand that the very thing that made a success of their biggest pictures was the script. They analysed everything else to replicate it again: the stars, the composer, the costume maker, the title, the setting … everything but the person who wrote the story.
Moss Fisher was the architect of my relationship with Gilbert and had the most to lose if it went wrong, and of course he had passed all this bad news along. I always felt he had his suspicions about something happening that day and I did wonder once or twice if he’d seen us. But it was so very long ago now. I told myself this, whenever I thought about it, which I tried not to; it seemed like such an extraordinary thing to have done, kissed this man I barely knew, then felt such anger towards him.
No.
Don was simply a friendly face, part of those lost early days in Hollywood.
‘Good evening, Miss Noel,’ the receptionist said, smiling shyly, when I returned from my room having combed out my hair, smoothed down my skirt a little. ‘We’re so honoured to have you staying with us.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling back at her, swallowing back the prickle of embarrassment I still always felt at moments like these.
She paused and took a deep breath. ‘There are several members of the cast and crew in the bar having drinks, if you care to join them.’ She pointed to her right.
‘That’s lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much,’ and made to leave.
‘Oh – Miss Noel.’ She made a sweet little gulping sound, like a frog. ‘Please, forgive me. I just have to say,
Lanterns Over Mandalay
is my favourite film, and you’re my favourite star,’ she said, in a rush. ‘I think you’re a wonderfully talented actress.’
‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘Thank you, that’s awfully kind of you.’
‘You coming here is the biggest event in my life. I’m so excited. I’ve been planning for days what I’d say to you, and now it’s gone out of my head. Miss Noel,’ she added, bright red.
I put my head on one side. She was so young, younger than me, I’d say about seventeen. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.
‘Katie,’ she said. ‘Katie Hyde.’
‘Would you like a signed photograph of me, Katie? I can arrange to have one sent up here,’ I said.
Katie’s eyes filled with tears; she blushed, and took a gulp of air. ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Noel.’ She twisted her fingers together. ‘All those dumb magazines – they say you’re forgetting your fans now that you’re married and so famous. I knew that it simply couldn’t be true!’
I took the key from her, touching her fingers briefly. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you,’ I said, and walked into the bar.
It was a long, low room with beams and a fire crackling merrily in the grate. The evening light, splintered into shafts by the trees, shone softly through the leaded windows. Moss Fisher was waiting by the door, along with Jerome and the others. ‘Nice work, kid,’ he said. ‘Good job. Well remembered. I’ll tell her she don’t get the picture of you if she don’t write the letter.’