Last Dance with Valentino, page 22
The girls and I walked to the Piggly Wiggly on Melrose to do our weekly grocery shop every Saturday. It had become quite a ritual. On that occasion, just as we were turning in, a flashy motor-car pulled up in front of us.
Out hopped a small, well-dressed woman, blonde and good-looking, about thirty – at least ten years older than we were. I didn’t recognise her. She was not a movie star. And yet even in the way she stepped from that car there was an aura of elegant authority about her – the sort of aura I dream of possessing one day.
Lorna, Phoebe and I were instantly intrigued. We fell silent, all three of us, and peered first at her, then, necks twisting, into the automobile she had exited. Phoebe gave me a violent poke in the ribs. For sitting right there inside, upright as Queen Victoria, and so small as to be barely visible behind the steering-wheel was, not Thelma or even Theda Bara, so much as America’s one and only Sweetheart. It was none other than little Miss $20,000-a-week Mary Pickford!
You absolutely are not supposed to gawk in Hollywood. Only the tourists and the new arrivals do that. The rest of us make it a studied art to appear unimpressed by stardom in whatever form it presents itself. But – as my good friend Mr Hademak himself would vouch – Mary Pickford was, and is, something else entirely. She is America’s Sweetheart! Possibly – probably – the most beloved woman in the entire world!
The three of us stood on the sidewalk barely a couple of feet from her, whispering and giggling like horrible school-girls, staring at the poor woman, until eventually she could ignore us no longer. She turned a stiff pair of shoulders towards us, looked the three of us coolly in the eye – as if to say, Shame on you – and nodded: a thoroughly royal little nod. It took the pep out of us in an instant. We stopped giggling and continued on our way.
We pushed through the turnstile in silence, rather shame-faced – and then all of a sudden Phoebe, the rib poker, let out a squeal and did it again!
‘Phoebe, will you stop!’ I cried.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ she said, grabbing a hold of my arm. ‘You realise who that other girl was, don’t you? The one who came into the store ahead of us?’
‘You’re pinching me,’ I said irritably. ‘Would you let me go?’
‘Pinch yourself, little sister!’ she said. ‘It was only the Most Powerful Woman in All Hollywood! That’s who it was. Only the Most Successful Scenarioist in the Entire World. Why, it was only Frances Marion!’
‘I know perfectly well who it was!’
‘Of course you do. Only a shame you didn’t recognise her. And only your good fortune I did. Lola, she’s in the store. Right now! She’s in the store, right now!’
I felt a lurch of something not too positive in the pit of my stomach. Phoebe and Lorna both knew I was carrying the scripts. If it was Frances Marion – and it was well known she and Mary Pickford were the closest of friends since, apart from anything else, it was Frances Marion who wrote most of her films for her – I knew just what was coming next …
‘What in hell are you waiting for, Lola?’
‘Nothing … Anyone else feel like ravioli tonight?’
Phoebe looked at Lorna, who looked back at Phoebe. Lorna said, ‘If you don’t get over there, right this minute, and put that damned script into Miss Marion’s sweaty little paw, I swear to you, Miss Lola Nightingale … you’re not coming home with us. You understand? We’re locking you out … ’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do that. Anyway, I can’t … What would Campbell say?’
‘Campbell?’
‘I don’t think he’d like it.’
‘Don’t be feeble,’ Lorna said. ‘In any case, he wouldn’t give two hoots, and if he did, then he shouldn’t.’
‘And anyway he isn’t here.’
‘It’s not the point,’ I said, sounding pathetic, even to myself. ‘I’m going to be his wife. I can’t go around … accosting people in grocery stores.’
‘Then perhaps you should think twice about marrying him,’ Lorna said. ‘If he doesn’t want you to succeed in life … ’
‘He does!’
‘As a wife and mother, yes, I’m sure.’
‘Please,’ I said wearily. ‘Let’s leave him out of it.’
They never could, though. I had confided in them too much. And despite the fact they had nagged and bullied all the months and years I wasn’t dating and, by their own admission, could perfectly appreciate what a fine man Campbell was, they were distraught – they were livid – when I broke it to them that he and I were to marry.
‘I’ll leave Campbell out of it if you go over there and talk to her,’ Phoebe said.
I didn’t move.
‘And, by the way, she means it,’ Phoebe continued. ‘About locking you out. And so do I. And, furthermore, if you don’t “accost” that damn woman in this damn grocery store – right this instant – I swear I’ll tell Campbell you can’t marry him after all.’
‘Because you’ve got syphilis,’ Lorna said.
‘That’s not funny.’
They thought it was. ‘And you’re pregnant. By a Catholic priest,’ Phoebe continued. ‘And you’re a Bolshevik … ’ They both began to giggle.
‘And in any case,’ Lorna couldn’t resist adding, ‘you’re in love with another man.’
‘That’s not funny,’ I said. ‘That’s not funny.’
‘Oh, we know it’s not.’
We fell silent, while the awkwardness – and their unkindness – subsided a little, and we could perhaps pretend the words hadn’t been said. Then, suddenly, with a little grunt of exasperation, Lorna gave me a violent shove. ‘Do it!’ she ordered.
And I suppose that’s what friends are meant to do, isn’t it?
‘Do it, or I’ll go right over there and do it for you,’ she said.
The most powerful woman in Hollywood was reaching for a pack of macaroni when I stopped her. I had the script already pulled out of my bag, and I was so nervous that when I first began to speak, and she turned to me, macaroni in hand, with those cool, clear, intelligent eyes gazing up at me, I felt a lump at the back of my throat as if I was about to be sick. She had to wait while I pretended to have a coughing fit, just to stop myself throwing up all over her patent tan-and-white Mary-Janes. (Perfect, they were. I can picture them still!)
She was wonderful. I will never forget. It is the unwritten law of life in Hollywood (and I can’t emphasise it enough) that one should never, under any circumstances, accost an industry professional in a public place.
It’s what I did. Frances Marion wouldn’t have strayed from the rules of decency if she’d told me there and then to take a hike, but she didn’t. She waited for me to stop coughing and gagging, and listened politely while I stumbled out my unprepared introductory speech …
‘Miss Marion? I’m so sorry. I hope you will forgive me … Miss Marion … My name is Jennifer – I mean, no, it isn’t. Actually it’s Lola Nightingale. And I have been – gosh – just like everyone else, I have been such a great admirer of your work. I so much admired— Where do I start? I can’t think of a film of yours that I haven’t admired. But I suppose my favourite – it would be either Pollyanna, of course … And then perhaps The Flapper – I wished I could have written that one myself, and then, well, The Restless Sex made me laugh aloud and weep all at the same time … And then Poor Little Rich Girl … ’
She laughed. ‘I’m very flattered,’ she said. ‘I fear you may have to go through my entire catalogue before I stop you, because this is all too enjoyable. But, sadly, I have a friend waiting outside … and, as I imagine you know, I have written quite a number of films. How can I help you, Lola Nightingale?’ She looked at the script I was holding out to her. It was still addressed to the friend of the friend of the friend of the person who …
‘Would you like me to deliver it to him?’ she asked me. ‘I believe I recognise the name.’
‘No!’ I laughed. ‘Gosh, no! That is to say – yes, of course I should … If you could persuade him to read it … But in truth I should much prefer it if by some chance you had a small moment to glimpse at the pages yourself. It’s – I’ve written quite a number of these things over the years, and I confess I’ve not got anywhere with any of them … to date … But I’m convinced that I’m improving. I know it. And if only I could persuade a person like yourself – if only I could persuade you to take the smallest look … ’
She held out a dainty hand and – perhaps it was only to silence me so she could politely move away – she took the script.
‘Thank you! Thank you! I can’t begin—’ ‘And if it’s to my liking,’ she interrupted (with a smile), ‘where in the world might I track you down, Miss Nightingale? To tell you that I intend to help you with it?’
I stared at her stupidly. Then: ‘Oh! OH! Oh!’ I began to rummage desperately in the bottom of my bag for a pencil, but she had already found one of her own. ‘Where do you work, Lola?’
‘I work … ’ But I didn’t want to tell her I was working for a miracle-beverage peddler on Whitley Heights. It had the wrong ring to it. ‘I work all over the place, Miss Marion. Here and there. Actually I’m just on my way home … ’
She smiled, sensing my embarrassment. ‘Maybe you should tell me your home address, then. But don’t go waiting by the postbox each morning, will you? It won’t be at once, mind. I have a horrible amount of work stacked up but I promise you I shall look at it when I can. It may be several months – if you can wait that long? ’
I could wait, I said, for ever. And she laughed.
By the time I was back beside my friends – spying on me from behind the high shelves – my knees were shaking so badly I needed to lean on them to stay up. They put their arms around me, laughed, congratulated me on my courage …
‘I never would have dared!’ Phoebe cried. ‘But look at you! You did it! Look at you!’
‘Oh, my gosh, Lola,’ Lorna said. ‘I swear it, you’re on the way now!’
Campbell took me to Vincenzi’s for an early dinner. He had tickets to see a movie at the Million Dollar Theater, downtown. (Campbell did everything properly.) Normally, since becoming engaged, we would go to the movies and he would take me to dinner afterwards. This time he said he couldn’t wait that long. He had a gift.
I tried to stop myself, but as we followed the waiter to our booth my eyes slid instinctively, surreptitiously, along the other tables – just in case. There was no Rudy. There never was.
We sat down opposite one another, ate a happy, companionable dinner together, and at the end Campbell delved beneath our table and emerged with two teacups filled with Champagne, and a small, square leather box.
It was a beautiful ring – he’d had someone in San Francisco design it especially. It was surprisingly modern: a diamond, cut in a perfect square and as big as my thumbnail, with a plain platinum band holding it in place. It was beautiful, and it fitted perfectly. He said, ‘Lola, sweetheart, don’t you think it’s about time we set a date?’
With the ring on my finger and a date set for July – three months hence – we set off to the movie theatre.
As we walked together, my beautiful sharp ring pressing between our clasped hands, Campbell talked of the future. ‘When we are married,’ he said, ‘as soon as we are married, Lola, I will buy us a little bungalow of our own in Hollywood. Would you like that? And you can do it however you like. I don’t mind. You can paint the outside any colour you want, if you want to. They’ve got them all sorts of colours, haven’t they? Purples and pinks. I shan’t mind. And you can have as many children as you like, and you can have a little room where you can write your movie stories, if it’s what you’d like – though I expect, with the kids, you might find you’re a little busy for that … But it doesn’t matter at all, if you do or if you don’t – because whatever you do, Lola, I will love you, and I intend to make you the happiest girl in all California. In all America. In all the world … ’
He had bought us tickets to see The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse – from the novel, strangely enough, that Perry, in his feeble way, had been trying to turn into a movie when we’d first met. There had been enthusiastic reviews just about everywhere, most especially for its new star, and for numerous reasons I was excited to see it. The previous evening Dr Leibowitz’s ordinarily quite sensible daughter had returned from a viewing, and had been so struck by this new, unheard-of star it had rendered her quite idiotic. ‘I swear,’ she said, ‘I could hardly prevent myself from swooning right there in my seat! Thank goodness I only went with the girls – and all the girls were saying it, not only me ... He’s dark, really quite dark, and he dances as if … he is the most – it is the most … ’
He had changed his name. Of course he had. Everyone changes their name in Hollywood. And when I saw him up there on the big screen for the first time, with Campbell beside me and his custom-designed diamond engagement ring glistening on my finger, I gasped. I gasped, as if the whole world had stopped: for there, before me, and magnified a hundred times over, and as handsome as any man I had ever set eyes on, appearing through the dust, as if in a mirage, was the man I adored. The man who had kissed me under the electric lights at Coney Island …
Rodolfo Guglielmi.
My Rudy.
Rudolph Valentino.
I must have screamed. Because from the edge of my vision I noticed Campbell turn to me, full of anxiety.
‘Sweetheart, are you all right?’
But he needed to ask me three or four times before I even registered it was his voice …
‘Sweetest Lola. Darling. What’s happened? Are you all right?’
‘Lola, my love – what is the matter? Are you ill?’
I craned forward, to be closer to that vast screen. I felt him pulling at my shoulder.
‘Lola?’
I stood up.
‘Lola!’
I remember the brief moment of silence, the music from that giant organ-player must have paused. It’s such a big theatre, and ordinarily the music plays so loud I might have said anything and nobody would have heard. But there – just then – the camera lingered on Rudy’s face, and in the silence I heard myself shouting out his name: ‘RUDY!’
I looked back at Campbell, becoming aware of him for the first time. He looked bewildered. Shell-shocked. ‘It’s Rudy!’ I told him, as if the name might mean anything to him at all, when I had gone to such pains never to mention it. ‘Campbell, don’t you see?’
‘Sweetheart, sit down. Please. Calm down. You’re making a show of yourself.’
‘But don’t you see?’
‘See what? Lola, I have told you to sit down. Do as I ask. Please. Sit down at once!’
‘But can’t you realise?’ I shouted, pointing at the screen. ‘Campbell – don’t you see that – that man there? It’s why I came to Hollywood. It’s why I wake up each morning and go to bed every night. Because of that man! All this time I have been looking for him! And now I have found him, and all you can think to say to me is, sit down!’
Chapter 14
Hotel Continental
New York
Thursday, 19 August 1926
9 a.m.
Rudy is improving. I knew it at once because when I went down to the hospital early this morning there was barely anyone there. The summer fair had upped sticks and departed, and all that remained was a statement from Rudy’s doctors attached to the door.
‘Mr Valentino,’ it said, ‘is making satisfactory progress and, having passed his most critical period, no further bulletins will be issued unless some unexpected development occurs.’ I wept when I read it – unobserved, thank heavens. The gawking, wailing crowds and those horrible pressmen have lost interest now. My darling Rudy is going to live. There is nothing to report.
Well, it is only nine o’clock and I have been up for hours, but he has not called for me yet. He will. He will. The morning stretches ahead. And he shall call for me, just as soon as he is strong enough. As soon as Mr Ullman allows him …
In any case, in all the dreadful happenings of the last few days he has no doubt forgotten the name of this stink-pot of a hotel I am staying in. And really, what with Larry the room clerk and his meaningful glances each time I pass this way or that, and the night-time wheezing and coughing from the johnnie in room 348, and the crazy couple on my other side alternately caterwauling at one another or banging away so furiously even my own bed creaks, I should happily forget the name of this place myself.
And so I shall forget it, one fine day … when my scenario writing leads me to a bed of my own at the Algonquin. Oh, imagine that! And there will be Miss Dorothy Parker, inviting me to join her for luncheon, and poisonous Miss Anita Loos, sitting up and taking notice, shuffling up to make a space, and Miss Frances Marion, of course, and Miss Hedda Hopper, and Louella Parsons and Elinor Glyn and Mary Pickford … What a thing it would be to be a part of that crowd, and to feel as if I had every right to be among them! Not just this once, today, as a special charity case, but on any day I pleased. Gosh, I should die of it! I should die from pride.
Enough. I have a long way to go. So – I shall wait. Calmly. And with the utmost confidence. Rudy will call for me as soon as he is able.
They have a picture of me in this morning’s Graphic. Unfortunately I am caught flying through the air, my legs up above my head, my face already flat against the sidewalk: GRIEFSTRUCK SHEBA EXPELLED FROM SHEIK’S BEDSIDE, it says. But it is a small article, a long way from the front page, and they didn’t know my name. Or even, I’m pleased to see, that of Mr Hademak. I wonder if he will see it? Oh, my gosh – what if Rudy should see it? What would he think? Would he recognise me? Perhaps not. Almost certainly not. I’ve never worn that dress for him, and my face is quite hidden. I suppose, if it weren’t me but somebody else, I might even think the picture quite funny. I look a sight.
