Strangers in the Night, page 12
I wasn’t the only one who was a wreck. Francis was all over the place with his pills and booze, and I thought I might be witnessing the true unraveling of the man I loved. I’d read that Hollywood could do this to a person, but I’d never witnessed it firsthand.
At last, my final day in New York came and I was exhausted, ready to escape to Europe. That morning had brought one of the worst letters of all: Dear Bitch, I hope your plane crashes . . . It had sparked tears. First I called Reenie, who’d listened and consoled me the way she was so good at doing, and then I called David.
“That’s awful,” he said, his voice mournful, and I wanted to hug him for being kind. “It all seems a little unfair, doesn’t it?”
“You can say that again,” I said, sniffling.
“If you didn’t have a film abroad, MGM was going to ask you to go into hiding until the storm passes.”
“I’m getting on a plane tomorrow.”
“Just lay low in Spain. Do your work, enjoy the sights, and stay out of trouble,” David said.
“Of course I will.”
Little did I know, the promise I’d made wouldn’t hold water for long.
Bappie arrived in New York, ready to go with me to London the next day, and I filled her in on everything only to get a terse shake of the head.
“I don’t like what you’re up to with Frank,” she said. “It’s not right, Ava.”
“He’s left Nancy! And he asked for a divorce. They aren’t officially separated, but they may as well be.”
“But they aren’t yet,” Bappie added quietly.
I glared at her. “We’re in love! He’s asked me to marry him.”
“He did? Oh, Ava.” She slipped her arms around me in that big sister way, and I laid my head on her shoulder.
“This will all stop, as soon as we get married,” I sniffed. “We’re just being kept apart is all, and it’s stressful.”
“It’ll be alright,” Bappie said, brushing my hair off my forehead. “Ride out the storm. In the meantime, let’s make a list of the sights we’d like to see in London and maybe in Spain, too. It’ll be a good distraction.”
I blew out a breath, more grateful than ever that my sister was here, and that she would go with me, at least for part of the time I was in Europe. I was moving up the MGM ladder at last and I wanted to enjoy it. To bask in my success a little. I also wanted to give the role my all and I couldn’t do that if I was mired in anger at the world and worry about Francis. Couldn’t he understand that?
“That sounds perfect,” I said. “I’ll just get us a pen and some coffee.”
Bappie smiled, her dark eyes approving. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
Later that night, I dressed for Francis’s concert, opting for something pretty but subdued in a dark skirt and blouse with a cardigan, and black flats to match. I didn’t want to attract attention to myself, not tonight. All I wanted was to show him my support and then the next day get on that airplane to London, where I could breathe again.
I ordered a martini followed by another, trying to stifle my anxiety. By the time I was drunk, my anxiety had shifted to irritation. The crowd was particularly ornery that night, chattering during the show, being rude to Francis. Some walked out early. A few booed a song they didn’t care for. I had to admit, his performance wasn’t like any I’d seen in the past. His songs were flat, his usual swagger absent; he was exhausted and cheerless, burned by the very fans who had once loved him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. I didn’t know what to do with him—or us—either.
When the show ended at last and he did his usual walk through the dwindling crowd to shake hands or sign autographs, I went to the bar for a last round. It was going to be a long night of listening to his litany of complaints. He’d begged me all day not to go to London. I’d tried to make him see how important it was to my career, but he didn’t seem to care that it was something I needed, not just something I wanted to do. That didn’t sit well with me, but I didn’t want to pick a fight.
We decided on dinner at a steak house several blocks away in a quieter part of town. The restaurant was still bustling, however, and the owner welcomed us inside with a smile. I ordered chicken and roasted vegetables, but hardly touched my plate. Instead, I made my way steadily through another dry martini.
I watched the happy patrons around us finish their meals, eating and talking and heading back into the night. It was a relief to not be bothered here, to be able to have dinner without anyone eager to snap our photograph or beg for autographs.
“Not hungry?” he asked.
“No, are you?” I glanced at his plate. He’d hardly touched his pork chops.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said.
“We’ve been over this,” I said, my tone a warning. I didn’t want to rehash this for the hundredth time, especially here.
“I don’t want you to forget what we have.”
“How could I ever forget you, especially after the last two weeks?” I snapped. I loved the man intensely, but I couldn’t keep this up for much longer. The pleading, the despair, especially now, after what we’d been through. I was a patient woman, but my patience was now wafer-thin.
“I saw the letter from this morning,” he said.
“Yeah, let’s not talk about it.”
“Good idea.”
I took a few bites and excused myself to the ladies’ room. As I took my seat again, a beautiful blonde waved Francis over to her table. He nodded back politely but didn’t get up.
Good boy, I thought, as I reached for my napkin.
The woman wouldn’t be put off and crossed the room.
“Why, if it isn’t Frankie Sinatra.” She eyed me up and down. “And are you Hedy Lamarr?”
“Who’s asking?” I said, slugging back some of my martini so I didn’t slug her.
“I’m Cherrilee Williams,” she said, putting one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. She looked like she was trying to imitate Marilyn Monroe with her bleached out hair and heavy makeup. What she didn’t know was Marilyn wore that makeup only when she had to and not on the regular, same as me, and she was stunningly gorgeous without it. Furthermore, Marilyn was smart as a whip—not just beautiful—but no one outside of Hollywood knew that either.
“Well, hello, Cherrilee,” Francis said with one of his charming smiles.
She leaned over him, dipping her breasts forward so he could see down her dress. “Can I have your autograph?”
I rolled my eyes. Why did he have to encourage her? My annoyance escalated and I found it harder and harder to keep my mouth shut.
“Sure thing, but I don’t have a pen,” he said in an almost purr. I’d know that voice anywhere; it was his bedroom voice and—I’d thought—something he reserved for me.
She moved closer to his ear, said something, and then giggled prettily. Her breasts nearly brushed his face when she stood erect again.
“As you can see, I’m having dinner, Cherrilee,” Francis replied.
Cherrilee faked a pout and smiled again before sauntering away.
Francis glanced at me then, his smile fading quickly. “What? I can’t help it if they come on to me. What am I supposed to do, tell her to leave?”
“For starters, yes,” I said, now fuming. “We’re trying to have a private dinner.” I pushed my plate in front of me, my appetite now completely gone.
“Come on, Ava, can’t we forget it? I’ve been looking forward to dinner with you all night.”
“Then why did you have to flirt with little miss desperate, right in front of me? She looked like a strung-out version of Marilyn Monroe.”
He barked a laugh at my insult. “I’d hardly call that flirting.”
Heat swept up my neck and spilled over my cheeks. “She shoved her knockers in your face, practically giving you a lap dance, and you sat there, smiling through it all!”
If there was one thing Francis couldn’t ignore, it was a beautiful woman. I knew this about him no matter how many times he told me he loved me, and it gnawed at my trust in him. There were also rumors he hired prostitutes regularly and the rumors made me crazy, even if I didn’t necessarily believe them. It all drove me to do stupid things to make him jealous. I thought about the time I’d sat on a friend’s lap at the studio on purpose, just as Francis arrived. He became incensed, and I felt like a cad for making him angry, all because I’d heard a rumor that he kept a list of the women he’d slept with in his dressing room.
The words to that morning’s letter flashed again through my mind. Dear Bitch . . . Well, yes, I could be one, and it was time Dear Bitch showed her face again. After all we’d been through the last two weeks, I was fed up.
I threw my napkin across my half-eaten dinner. “All of a sudden I can’t wait to leave.” I knew it would hurt his feelings, and that was precisely why I’d said it.
“Fine. Leave. See if I care!” He pulled his money clip out of his jacket pocket and threw a wad of cash on the table.
“Why don’t you follow Cherrilee home. I’m sure you’d make her day.”
“Come on,” he growled, gripping my elbow to steer me across the restaurant and through the doorway. “You know you’re the only woman I want.”
“Then why did you look down her dress? I can’t so much as glance in the direction of another man without you giving me an earful about it.”
He gritted his teeth. “She threw herself at me. What was I supposed to do? I told her no, only to get a lousy talking to.”
“Lousy?” My voice raised an octave and the next words came out as a shout. “I’ll tell you what’s lousy! Lousy is drowning in hateful letters! Lousy is watching the man I love come unhinged every time a reporter is nearby. Lousy is watching women throw themselves at you and I can’t do anything about it!”
A few patrons turned to watch us, but I didn’t care.
“Calm down, Angel,” he said holding out his hand as if to keep me quiet. “Let’s get out of here. We can talk about this—”
“I don’t want to talk to you! I want to leave.” I jerked away from his grasp and started for the door.
“Ava!”
Somewhere inside me, I knew I was being irrational but the stress of the last weeks, coupled with too much vodka, set loose all the frustration that had been building inside me. I dashed outside and into the street, flagged a taxi down, and jumped in, slamming the door closed just as Francis stepped outside the restaurant.
“Go!” I ordered the driver, and we screeched away from the curb. I turned to look out the back window.
Frank stood there, holding his napkin, fury etched on his face.
Served him right.
Once back at the suite, I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Frank so soon—of him crowding me. I paced, trying to decide where to go when I spied my address book by the phone. I flipped it open, scanning the list of names. Artie—he was in town. I’d forgotten my ex-husband was living in New York these days with his new girlfriend. In spite of our split, we’d somehow managed to remain friends of a sort, and we talked from time to time. It was a gift of mine, to befriend old lovers and boyfriends, and I knew Artie would be up late.
I picked up the telephone and dialed his number.
“How about a nightcap?” I cooed. “I’d like to meet that new girl of yours. Besides, I can’t sleep.”
He invited me over and not long after, a taxi dropped me at his apartment. I hadn’t bothered to close the address book. If Francis really wanted to find me, he could—and it would serve him right to find me at Artie’s. I knew, underneath it all, Francis was jealous of him. He hated that I’d been Artie’s wife once upon a time, and that the man I’d been with before him was an incredibly talented musician. Francis couldn’t dispute Artie’s skills, much as he wanted to.
“Come on in, Ava,” Artie said. He wore silk pajamas and slippers. “This is Ruth.”
A beautiful woman with mussed brown hair tied the sash of her robe into place before saying, “How do you do, Ava? Why, you’re more beautiful in person than you are on-screen. I didn’t think that was possible.”
I liked her immediately. “How kind of you to say so,” I said, accepting a bourbon from Artie and following them both into the living room to a set of overstuffed pin-striped chairs.
“So tell me,” he said, “what brings you to the city?”
As we talked, I felt my anger cool and I was glad I’d stopped by, even if I knew I’d interrupted their evening. They didn’t show any signs of irritation at my late arrival. Artie had always been the quintessential host when he wanted to be, and a good friend. Just as long as you weren’t his wife.
Our peaceful conversation didn’t last. Soon, someone pounded on the door.
“What the devil?” Artie’s face tensed and he stood to answer it.
I knew who was on the other side of that door and braced myself for a fight.
“Frank?” Artie said. “Come on in. Take your coat off, have a drink.”
A large man in an immaculate dark suit pushed in behind Frank. I rolled my eyes. Frank had brought one of his goons, though he’d call him his manager and bodyguard. He denied Hank Sanicola was a part of the Mafia, but Hank shadowed us regularly while in the city. Any fool could see that, and I knew he’d been put up in the hotel a few floors down from us, probably by Willie Moretti.
“What’s going on here?” Frank demanded, his voice loud.
“I wanted to get away from you!” I snapped.
“Let’s go. Now,” Frank said, pointing at the ground as if I was to scurry to his side. The very hubris of it made me laugh. He fumed at my amusement, and by the shade his skin was turning, I thought he might burst.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said. “I’m enjoying myself with Artie and this lovely woman. Ruth, meet Frank.”
“Hello—”
“Ava,” Frank interrupted her, “get your coat. We’re going, or I’ll drag you out myself and it won’t be pleasant.”
“You should watch your tone, Sinatra,” Ruth cut in. “This isn’t your house, and she’s welcome here.”
I smiled, daring him to continue. I wondered whether Frank would make more of a scene than he had already. I was just drunk enough to test him to find out.
“You mind your own business, lady,” Frank snapped.
Hank Sanicola flexed, stepping closer to Frank.
“You’d better watch yourself, or I’ll make good use of my pistol,” Artie said, his voice quietly menacing.
A shiver ran over my skin. I knew that tone—Artie had reached his limit. He wouldn’t hesitate to use his gun, should he need to. God knew he’d been trained how to use it while serving in the war.
Frank paled and went silent. Hank Sanicola balled his hands into fists as if poised for a brawl.
“I think it’s time you were on your way, too, Ava,” Artie said, motioning to the door. “Our visit has taken an unpleasant turn.”
I stood, tossing my hair to hide my embarrassment. I don’t know what I was thinking, egging Frank on to follow me here. It couldn’t have gone well no matter what.
Frank stepped backward into the hall. “Alright, we’re going.”
“Good night, Artie. Thanks, Ruth,” I said, walking out after Frank. I pushed past him to the elevator and tried pushing the button to close the door before he could enter.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, pushing open the door.
“Back to the apartment to lock you out!”
“Come on.” He stepped inside and Hank followed. “Let’s forget all of this. You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Don’t touch me,” I fumed.
Hank crossed his arms over his chest and looked from me to Frank and then trained his eyes on the ceiling, not saying a word, probably wishing he were anywhere but here.
When we’d made it back to the hotel, I staggered inside, pushing into the bedroom I was sharing with Bappie. I was glad Frank was across the hall for the night. At this point, I didn’t want to talk to him and I didn’t care about anything but drinking a giant glass of water and resting my bone-dry eyes.
From the bedroom, I heard some rustling around in a cabinet and then the apartment went blissfully silent. I climbed into bed and was about to drift off to sleep when the telephone beside the bed rang. Who the hell could that be?
“Hello?” I said, irritated to be roused from sleep.
“It’s all over.” Frank’s voice drifted through the receiver. “So long, baby, it’s been fun, but it’s over.”
“What are you talking about—”
The sound of a gunshot boomed over the line.
I screamed, dropped the phone, and dashed into his room, heart racing. No. No, it couldn’t be true. Francis wouldn’t take his own life! This was all a mistake. I loved him. I couldn’t lose him.
I kicked open his door. “Francis! Baby—”
My words stuck in my throat. He lay in the bed on his side, his back to me.
Panic stole my breath and I raced to the bed, touched his shoulder, terrified of what I’d find. I may have been angry with him, but goddamn it, I loved him. I loved him more than just about anything on this earth. I couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.
Bappie raced in behind me, her hair mussed from sleep. “What’s happened?”
Francis rolled over then and peered up at me, mirth in his blue eyes. There was a gaping hole in the mattress and a pile of stuffing and feathers that had blown apart from the gunshot.
“Got you,” he said.
“You scared me, you jerk!” I screeched. Too relieved to be angry, I pulled him into my arms, kissed his face, stroked his hair. “That wasn’t funny! I was afraid you’d offed yourself. What would I do then?”
He wrapped his arms around me for a moment, whispering, “I love you.”
“You’re crazy, do you know that?” Bappie shook her head as she treaded back to the bedroom.
“I always did like a good prank,” he said, a wicked gleam in his eye.
