Strangers in the Night, page 14
I headed to the club, trying not to think about the outstanding bills on my kitchen counter, trying to talk myself into believing I’d sign with another studio one day. Most of all, I was trying not to think about Ava but was tortured by imagining another man’s hands on her.
As soon as I walked in the door, I downed a couple of quick drinks and talked myself into the three performances ahead that night. The sound of horns and woodwinds, and the piano, drifted from the main stage where the band was already warming up. I went backstage and when it was time, the lights dimmed, and the very lean audience meandered to their seats.
I plastered on a smile and attempted to summon up a little charm. As I held the microphone to my lips, I belted out the first lyrics. Oddly, my voice felt thin. I kept going, straining to shape the notes but they sagged and fell flat. After two songs, I drained a large glass of water. What was going on with me? I nodded to the band and when the next song began, the taste of blood filled my mouth.
I swallowed quickly, panic winding through me. I cast a glance at my pianist, Skitch Henderson. Concern was etched on his face, and then I knew I sounded as bad as I thought I did. I’d been putting off going to the doc for weeks, but this was the third time I’d had blood in my throat while singing. I closed my eyes for an instant and forced out the next song, all the while praying my voice would hang in there.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. I’d see the doctor tomorrow. I just needed to get through the shows tonight.
I finished the first show and the second, though they were rocky at best. I downed as much water as I could stand to lubricate my vocal cords before going on for the final show. It was two thirty in the morning, and the joint was now nearly empty. I blew out a relieved breath. For the first time ever, I was glad the audience was so scarce.
The show began and this time, we opened with the theme song from South Pacific. As the strings filled the room, I opened my mouth to sing “Some Enchanted Evening.”
My voice faltered. No sound came out.
I looked at Skitch. His eyes widened and he gave the band the signal to backtrack a few chords, setting me up to begin again.
I focused on the back wall, trying to control my panic. That had been a fluke. I wasn’t losing my voice—I couldn’t be. These pitiful shows were the only thing I had left.
As the song wound up again, I opened my mouth a second time—not so much as a squeak came from my throat. My heart pounding in my ears, I gave the band the signal to stop. At the very least, I was through for the night.
I leaned to the mic and whispered, “Good night.”
The audience looked bewildered as I shot across the stage, down the back stairs, and out to the exit. I couldn’t believe it. My voice—gone. What if my vocal cords didn’t heal? If I lost my voice for good, I didn’t know what I’d do. Who I’d be. Frank Sinatra was a singer, first and foremost, and if I couldn’t sing . . .
With shaking hands and a churning gut, I lit a cigarette and walked the dark streets to the hotel, my head bowed.
* * *
It took twice the medication to knock me out. When I finally woke up a groggy mess, I took myself directly to the doctor.
“You’ve hemorrhaged your vocal cords,” the doc said as he shined a light down my throat. “You said you’ve been singing three shows a night, several days a week?”
I nodded, trying to speak as little as possible.
“And smoking and drinking, too?”
Another nod.
“Your vocal cords need time to heal. Take two weeks off, and no cigarettes or alcohol. This includes no talking except when absolutely necessary. This is very serious. If you don’t take the time to rest, you may damage your voice permanently.”
Those words struck a bolt of fear in me so strong, I nearly puked up my breakfast.
I’d give up my favorite vices for a short period of time if it meant saving my voice. I’d scale a damn mountain naked if he asked me to.
I tried to whisper a question and the doctor shook his head.
“No, Frank. If you need to communicate, write it down.” He gave me a notepad and I took it, scribbling down my question. “Yes, I’ll write you a doctor’s note to release you from your shows,” he said. “We’ll start with two weeks off and see how we do. If they’re healing well, we’ll get you back onstage.”
I perked up at the best news I’d had in a while. Sure, two weeks without work would mean a hit to my bank account, but it also meant I had a two-week break. And the first thing I’d do was book a flight to Spain to surprise Ava—and that lousy, scheming matador.
It was time to reclaim my woman.
Chapter 20
Ava
If London was slate gray with splashes of red and green, Spain was bright gold and ochre and brown. Tossa de Mar charmed me with its terracotta roofs and walled medieval city that had stood the test of time, and the grape vines that scrolled through the valleys and over the rocky earth beyond the town. The Mediterranean lapped against a glimmering sandy shore in vivid blue and aqua, so unlike the steely waters of the Pacific to which I’d grown accustomed. Something sultry drifted on the breeze here, and as the blazing sun dropped into the sea in the evenings and the sky twinkled with stars, the night came alive with the kind of energy I’d never experienced before, an ancient beauty full of story and song. It spoke to me in a way no other place had. The heat, the music, the simple emphasis on the day-to-day, and as Spain soaked into my skin, I felt as giddy as if I were in love.
I made friends on the set of Pandora and the Flying Dutchman; it wasn’t difficult when you spent endless hours with the same people, day in and day out. We shared jokes, poked fun at our blunders on set, or shared a bottle of bourbon. We had more fun than anyone had a right to for something we called work, and for the first time, I truly enjoyed being an actress. I did my best with Al’s demand for many, many retakes—something this director had become known for in the business. Most of all, I gave him what he wanted: a young woman who’d enchanted three men, all to their demise. Somehow that seemed fitting that I should star in such a role.
Maybe it was the combination of Spain’s lurid, dark charm and my own natural lust for adventure that intoxicated me one night when Mario Cabré, the bullfighter both in the film and in real life, made his move. I was seduced by his regal features, and by the perfume of the night. I was also very, very far from a lonely—and desperate—Francis.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Mario asked, his eyes as dark as ebony, the scent of sandalwood and earth rolling off his skin. The soft glow of lamplight illuminated his crooked but beautiful smile. Conceited though he was, he was also handsome—and I was alone.
“A vino tinto,” I replied, ordering the typical local beverage of readily available Spanish red wine.
“You’re an enchanting woman,” Mario said, leaning entirely too close to me.
“And you’re pushy,” I said, sipping my drink.
He laughed darkly. “I face life and death each day I step into that ring. You’d learn what you want very quickly, too, in that case.”
I smiled slowly. “Honey, I always know what I want.”
“And what is that?”
“Another drink,” I said, but his smile reflected the wicked gleam I knew must be in my own eyes, too.
He motioned to the bartender.
Another round arrived instantly.
After several drinks, plenty of dancing, and a surprising proposition from the bartender that I declined, Mario and I danced all the way to bed. For me, it was all fun and exhilaration and freedom from the stifling press coverage at home. Ava the homewrecker, Ava the slut. I wasn’t the one who was married and yet I was taking so much of the heat. It had been exhausting, crushing even, and now I finally felt like myself again. Wild, flying free, taking life by the horns any way I damn-well pleased.
It wasn’t until the next morning when the booze had worn off and the sensation of Mario’s lips and eager hands had dissipated that the guilt crashed over me. I didn’t even like Mario. He was a pompous ass, and he wasn’t worth losing the man I loved, no matter how hot the nights were here. Yet, the studio had other plans. They used our pairing in the picture as a way to drum up publicity and insisted we be seen all over town together. I obliged but prayed Francis wouldn’t catch wind of what had really happened between me and the matador. It was all a big mistake.
During a day off from filming, Mario showed me around some of the small surrounding villages and the beautiful countryside; the cattle and markets, and a sky so wide it nearly swallowed the landscape. Afterward, we returned to my bungalow for some lunch.
As we pulled into the drive, the production assistant stood from the solitary chair on my porch. He held a clipboard and his features were arranged into an ugly pout.
“Where have you been?” he asked as I got out of the car. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I wasn’t aware I needed babysitting,” I quipped, annoyed with the presumption I should be reachable at every moment. A day off was a day off.
“Frank Sinatra has been here for hours! He wanted to surprise you,” he said. “We showed him around set and introduced him to the crew. He’s been playing poker while waiting for you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “You have to go, Mario. Now.”
Mario glanced from me to the assistant and back again, anger turning his brown eyes almost black. He was jealous and I didn’t give a damn. Mario was a flash in the pan. A little entertainment while I licked my wounds and tried to figure out what was next for Francis and me.
“Ava,” he began.
“Not now, Mario,” I said, shooing him off my porch like an unwanted rodent that had gotten lost. “You’ve got to go.”
He stomped away dramatically, and I rolled my eyes as I ducked inside my cabin. I straightened it quickly, fluffed my hair, and raced back to set. There, I found Francis. He wasn’t even playing poker, he was watching the others play.
At the sight of him, my heart somersaulted in my chest.
“Darling!” I exclaimed, inserting myself between him and the two men holding a full hand of cards. “What on earth are you doing here? What a wonderful surprise! Did you just get in?” I kissed him and then slid my arms around his neck, trying to hide my nervous energy. “You’ve gotten here just in time for my days off.”
His sharp blue eyes captured mine—and he took my breath away. How had I forgotten their power in such a short time?
“Where the hell have you been, woman?” His voice came out a whisper. “I’ve been here for hours.”
His vocal cords!
Alarmed, I asked, “Baby, what’s wrong with your voice?”
He started to speak but thought better of it and scratched down a short explanation on a pad of paper.
“Oh my Lord! Well, the only good thing about this is your time off. I’m so glad you’re here!”
“I missed you,” he said. “Where have you been?”
I reached for his face and cradled it in my hands. “Shh, darling. Don’t tax your voice. I’ve been out driving in the country. I had to get away from set for a while.”
We stood and he picked me up off my feet, swinging me around. I squealed, gripping him tightly as a whiff of his familiar lavender cologne washed over me. When we’d stopped twirling, he kissed me hard, right in front of everyone.
Some looked away, others whistled.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, smiling. “Or do you need to sleep for a while? You must be exhausted. It’s a long flight.”
“Can we go somewhere alone?” he rasped.
“I know just the place,” I said.
We loaded into the car—he insisted on driving—and as we pulled away, I studied him. His thinning hair, the bags under his eyes, his rail-thin frame.
“Francis, my love, you look like hell. You’re thin as a ghost. What’s happened?”
“Things haven’t been going well.” He filled me in on the performance when his voice cut out on him, and then he started in on the tabloid stories about me. Again. We talked about them every time we got on the phone, and he was quickly making me wish he’d stayed home. “I’ve been missing you,” he rasped, “and seeing all of that trash about the bullfighter messed me up.”
“You know he’s nothing to me but a costar,” I said, wishing like hell I hadn’t slept with Mario. It wasn’t even particularly satisfying. “You’re the man I love. You know that. Let’s talk about something else, baby. I can’t believe you’re here!” I squeezed his knee and snuggled up next to him, kissing softly along his jawline.
He groaned. “I’m so glad to see you.”
The car rumbled over the rocky, dusty roads in silence until the town disappeared behind us and we neared the ocean.
“What else is going on?” I purred in his ear and enjoyed watching him shudder.
He coughed, cleared his throat and said, “I got fired.”
“What!” I sat up straight in my seat. “From the Copacabana? Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“Not from the Copa, from MGM. Turns out Mayer has the humor of a wet mop. I don’t know, baby. I’m afraid I won’t be able to book anything else. You’ve seen what’s happening to me in the papers. And with Columbia Records . . . I’m trying to pick myself up, but I’m getting nowhere. And then there’s my voice.”
Regret slashed through me. Regret that I wasn’t there for him when he needed me, and regret that I’d wasted time with the matador, who meant absolutely nothing to me. Francis and I were a mess together, but I loved him something awful, and he needed me right now.
I stroked his hair. “Baby, you know I’ll do anything I can to help you. Maybe I can call my manager, see if there’s a part we can find for you? There are other studios.”
He didn’t reply. We both knew MGM was the largest and one of the most powerful studios, and if they fired someone, the other studios would hear about it. They might very well choose to snub a so-called troublesome actor, too.
We drove through the countryside for an hour, catching up on friends and gossip from New York and Hollywood, and I regaled him with tales from the set from the last few weeks. By the time we arrived at a little tavern on the beach, we were laughing again—and we were as together as ever. At the restaurant, we ordered a Spanish aperitif and the owner brought plate after plate of tapas: oily fish, grilled octopus, mushrooms a la plancha. By the time we opened our second bottle of wine, the difficulties of the last few weeks had faded and all that remained was the way this exasperating, darling man looked at me and the way my heart responded when he was near. I might not have been a romantic, but my love for him made me a believer. Perhaps when we married, the fears and doubts—and the circus in the media—wouldn’t matter a lick and we could get on with being in love.
I knew he needed to hear me say it, to reassure him.
“I love you, baby.”
His eyes softened and he leaned in to kiss me. After, he reached for the wine bottle on the table and refilled both of our glasses. “So who is this jerk I keep seeing in the papers?”
“Who? Mario?” I feigned an innocent expression.
“You two are everywhere. I know you’ve said it’s a publicity stunt but—”
“Darlin’.” I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. “You know how the press is. We’re making a movie together, and that’s all I have to say about him. I’ll never see him again after this and that’s fine by me. He’s a bit of a horse’s ass, truth be told.” I held up my glass. “Let’s toast, to our love.”
He hesitated a moment and raised his glass.
“Together again,” I said with a smile.
“Together for always.”
He seemed appeased—for now—and we enjoyed our first night together in my bungalow. First thing the next morning, we left for a romantic getaway in the country. We watched the landscape undulate with verdant meadows or olive groves and endless yellow flowers that bloomed in the sun, until we were hours from Tossa or anywhere I recognized. We stopped in a tiny town, if one could call it that, where there was nothing but a general store. Not even a gas pump could be found within miles of the place. Luckily, we’d thought to fill up before we’d left.
Francis brought up Mario again in the car, but I brushed away the conversation like a noisome fly. We didn’t need to go over it again and again, especially since his visit would be short. We needed to focus on us. We pulled into the drive of a small house I’d rented that faced a vast field covered in scrub and dotted with trees. The land was wild and unsettled and the vastness of the sky bore down upon us. It reminded me a little of Palm Springs, though far more temperate, and we were both enchanted by the untamed beauty of the place.
I’d arranged for someone in the village to stock the refrigerator with the basics before we arrived, and to the Spanish, it appeared the basics meant olives, eggs, potatoes, a little cheese, and some beef. Two fresh loaves of crusty bread lay in paper sheaths on the countertop next to a long-necked bottle of olive oil and a half dozen bottles of red wine. They’d definitely gotten that right. We could go to the general store if we needed more later.
“I brought some fruit, too,” I said, taking some oranges from my bag and setting them on the counter. “And whiskey.”
Francis smiled. “My girl knows what I like.”
He brought in the suitcases and left them in the hall. Then he reached for me.
I ran my hands over his shoulders and chest, and every cell in my body tingled. He didn’t hesitate and swept me into his arms, carrying me to the bed. We made love tenderly, and lay together afterward, telling stories and planning for the future.
