Strangers in the Night, page 26
As the production unfolded, I shifted impatiently in my seat. When they finally reached the nominations for Best Supporting Actor, I held my breath. I tried to look nonchalant, but the truth was, my heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and I was pretty sure I was about to lose my lunch.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our nominees are Frank Sinatra in From Here to Eternity, Eddie Albert in Roman Holiday, Brandon deWilde in Shane, Jack Palance in Shane, and Robert Strauss in Stalag 17.”
This was it, the moment.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .”
I gripped my hands together and tapped my foot impatiently against the leg of my chair.
“Frank Sinatra, From Here to Eternity.”
My stomach dipped wildly, and I leapt to my feet. The audience broke into thunderous applause as I jogged down the aisle in exuberance. I couldn’t believe it! I’d shown those bastards! I’d shown everyone! Emotion rushed up my throat and as I took the stage, a huge smile stretched across my face like sunshine after a storm.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m deeply thrilled and very moved, and I really, really don’t know what to say because this is a whole new kind of thing . . . ,” I began.
I finished to more applause and a kind of exhilaration I’d never felt before. I was a winner, goddammit. I was a winner!
I shook hands and received lots of pounding on the back and drinks pushed into my hands. But as the evening wore on, my exhilaration faded.
I stopped by one of the parties after the program, only to find I couldn’t seem to rally my rapidly deflating mood. Everyone had a plus one, a spouse or girlfriend, or, in some cases, a relative on their arm. In spite of my enormous achievement, or perhaps because of it, I’d never felt more alone. I left the party, ignoring the waiting car, and wandered down the streets, floating through the night like a ghost, my golden statue my only company. And one thought played over and over again in my mind.
I would never give myself over to someone so completely again. I couldn’t stand that kind of heartache again, not ever. It would kill me. Ava had shattered something in me that could never be fixed, and I had to accept that now—and move on.
Chapter 36
Frank
My Oscar win was a lightning rod to my career.
Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of me. Movie studios, television networks, casinos in Vegas and Atlantic City, clubs . . . They threw money at me like it was on fire and soon, all my debts were paid and my bank accounts were padded and growing fast. My singles were hitting, too: “Anytime, Anywhere,” “From Here to Eternity,” and “The Girl Next Door.” I had to hand it to Nelson Riddle, the man was a genius. He had a sound, a know-how, and something about his know-how melded beautifully with mine. He wasn’t threatened by my take-charge attitude with the orchestra, or my obsession with learning all the new gadgets and technology in the world of music. He relished my curiosity and we had fun together, experimenting with rhythm and tempo.
With Ava and I officially apart, I started properly wooing women again. Gloria Vanderbilt, Marlene Dietrich, Jeanne Carmen, Jill Corey. I had them all and so many more that I lost track of their names, the times, the place. Eventually, I hired George Jacobs, my valet and right-hand man, to help me handle the ladies and all of my guests. I sent him out for roses or dinner reservations, asked him to chauffeur my friends, or anyone I wanted to show a good time. No one went without if they were in the company of Frank Sinatra, I made sure of it.
Did I have something to prove? Sure. What man didn’t? If nothing else, I wanted to be remembered. And that was what consumed me now—creating something memorable, leaving behind the kind of legacy that was unrivaled. Who could stand the test of time the way I could? No one. That was who, and I’d prove it.
The only thing I couldn’t have was Ava.
I tried to put her out of my mind. There were more important things distracting me at the moment: Bogie was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He tried not to let it get him down and we partied with exuberance. He’d always been a ringleader and the head of our group of friends that Betty called the Rat Pack. Now, he was in no shape to lead anything so I took the reins planning our excursions, encouraging him to keep things light for as long as possible. If we weren’t at his house on Mapleton Drive in Holmby Hills, we were sailing on his fifty-foot schooner named the Santana.
One perfect morning, we took the boat out for the whole day. The sun blazed as clear and hot as oil in a frying pan, and I was glad I’d brought my wide-brim fedora. I mopped my face with a towel and thought about cracking open a beer despite the early hour.
“Hey, get me a beer, will you?” Bogie called from the deck.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
I fished around in the cooler, pulled out a couple of beers for us and poured a glass of champagne for Betty. She looked beautiful today, her sandy-blond hair swept into a braid that showed off a graceful neck and a plunging neckline. There was something intoxicating about her face, something unique. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, but it was her arched brow and piercing blue eyes that made me want to take her to bed. And we nearly had, a few times. The chemistry between us was undeniable, but I couldn’t betray my best friend that way. I loved the guy; he was a real man’s man, a tough guy with an edge who didn’t put up with any crap from anyone, least of all me.
“How are you feeling, pal?” I asked.
“Tired, mostly, but alright,” Bogie said, taking a swig from the bottle.
He was starting to shed weight from his already-thin frame. His collarbones had begun to protrude and his cheeks were hollow, the flesh on his face appeared loose and gray.
I stared at the ocean, studying how the light played over the water, glistening in a way that made me think there really was a God, even if he was cruel. I couldn’t bear to think about Bogie suffering to the end, slipping away to nothing. My anger flared at the injustice of losing someone so alive.
“Is there anything you want to do, man? You know, do you have anything you’ve always hoped to get around to?” I asked.
“You’re looking at it.” He clinked his beer bottle against mine. “Cheers. To being out on the water with my girl and my friends.”
“You know I’d do anything for you,” I said, trying to stanch the emotion welling in my throat. “Anything at all. You just say the word.”
“I know,” he said. “But enough of that. I want to keep living, got me?”
“Yeah, pal, I’ve got you.”
We watched boats whiz by us in the harbor for some time when the sound of laughter caught our attention. I looked up, put my hand over my eyes, and squinted into the sun. “Looks like we have company.”
A sailboat skidded over the top of the water toward us in the harbor, slowing as it neared. When the people onboard realized who they were looking at, they whooped and hollered, shouting for Bogie, who waved, and then for Betty and for me. Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, and Frank Sinatra—they’d hit the jackpot.
“Sing for us, Frank!”
“What do you think?” I said to Bogie.
“I’d tell them to piss off, but it’s up to you,” he said.
I wasn’t one to let an audience down so I stood easily because of the calm waters of the harbor, and launched into one song after another, growing drunker and more sunburned by the minute. They cheered and clapped, and I had a grand old time, soaking up the unexpected praise, until finally, Bogie had had enough.
“Will you knock it off, Frank? Let these people go on about their business and give the rest of us some peace.” He seemed more exhausted than irritable.
“Alright,” I said. “You heard the man. That’s it for the day.” I waved good-naturedly as the sailboat of fans set sail.
Bogie’s tolerance had waned in recent days. He coughed more, bent as some unseen pain racked his body when he thought no one was looking, and he’d snapped at me more often, too, lecturing me about my flamboyant wealth and the stupid parties I threw when I flew an entire group of friends to Vegas. I put everyone up in individual rooms and presented them with a bag of silver dollars to gamble. But that was my way; I wanted everyone to have a good time, even if I wasn’t. Bogie never understood it, and I didn’t try to explain it. He’d come from money and had never wanted for anything in his life, not in any real sense. I’d always wished I’d been in his shoes, until now. Despite the attempts to end my own life in the past, I was glad to be alive, to be back on top and living the dream, even when things were hard. Going out by cancer seemed about the worst way to go.
One night I sat beside Bogie’s bed as he drifted to sleep. The smell of vinegar tinged the air and the shades were drawn, making the room feel more like a cave than a warm bedroom. It had been a particularly rough day for all of us. Betty seemed to be at her wits’ end, racked with grief and exhaustion from the round-the-clock care. That night, I learned that sometimes death was a mercy.
We tiptoed from the room and headed to the kitchen for a drink.
Betty stopped in front of the cabinets, her back to me, clutching the counter to steady herself. Her shoulders shook slightly and I knew she was crying.
“I know,” I said. “Come here.” I reached for her, pulling her into my arms, wiping the tears away, and clinging to her for dear life. We were both losing someone we loved, and only we understood what that meant.
After her tears subsided, she leaned back to look at me. “I just want it to end,” she said. “But I can’t imagine the end either.”
“I know,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. As we gazed at each other, suddenly the distance between us disappeared. I grazed her lips with mine.
And then we did the unthinkable. We left, went back to my place, and fell into bed together, consoling each other and engaging in the kind of furious affection that I would soon—and forever—regret.
Chapter 37
Ava
When filming concluded in Rome in May, I flew home knowing this was it—I was finished with life in Los Angeles. I wasn’t truly cut out for a life in the spotlight and the social pressures that came with it, and I learned that evermore with each passing year. I wanted to do my movies and disappear into a regular life between them, enjoying myself, seeing the world, so I next made a decision that would change my life forever. As soon as I finished filming my next picture, I’d pack up and move to Europe for good. I had Spain and its heat in my veins, the Spanish zeal for life bubbling inside me. And the best part of living there—people left me alone.
The first thing I had to do to cut ties with this godforsaken town, was to finish what I’d been putting off. I had to file divorce papers. Frank would either give me hell about it or drag things out between us, so I was left with one choice: a trip to Nevada. Filing for divorce was a nonevent, I told myself. I was dating my bullfighter still, from afar, though I knew my time with Luis would be short-lived. We’d been living out a fairy tale together—until he’d pressured me for a commitment. The last thing I wanted was being shackled to another male, and especially to one who had a flair for the dramatic. I’d had enough of that with Frank.
After dinner with Howard Hughes and some old friends in the city, I packed a few things to spend six weeks in Nevada to file for divorce. Howard was so happy I was splitting with Frank that he rented a monstrous house for me in Tahoe. Reenie and I set out in June and luxuriated in the gorgeous place that was more of a manor than a home. It was a nice gesture, but it wasn’t long before I discovered that Howard was up to his old ways.
A private investigator tailed me wherever I went, which probably meant the house was wired, too. I figured staying and eating for free was worth the price of admission and what did I have to hide anyway?
The second week I was in town, Howard showed up at the door.
“I made dinner reservations,” he said. “Put on your best dress.”
We ate like kings at a private steakhouse and as the dessert and port were served, Howard reached into his jacket pocket. “I have something for you.”
“What’s that?” I sipped the tawny port with notes of butterscotch and then licked my lips.
“Open it,” he said.
I reached for the small package, tearing the paper away. Inside was a box that could mean only one thing: he’d bought me jewelry. As I opened the box, I gasped. A sapphire and diamond ring, at least two carats but likely closer to four, sparkled in the lamplight. I glanced at him, stunned. Hadn’t he already learned that I wasn’t someone he could buy? What was he playing at?
“Will you marry me, Ava? It’s my turn.” He smiled awkwardly.
I tossed the ring back at him. “Haven’t I answered this question, Howard? There’s no such thing as turns. I’m not some pony ride at the fair!”
He sat back in his chair, defeated for the last time, or so I thought. In time, I’d be offered a diamond necklace once owned by the Romanovs attached to a few other outrageous pleas until, at last, Howard not only grasped the truth but ruined our friendship forever.
To make sure he understood, I dug the knife in a little deeper. “Besides, I’m still in love with Frank.”
I wasn’t sure why I said it. At the time I told myself it was to get rid of Howard, but after I’d been in Tahoe for a couple of weeks, Frank caught wind of my visit. He knew why I was there; he knew I’d given up on our marriage. I thought we were through, but when he took off after a late show at the Sands to pay me a visit, I didn’t turn him away. As I opened the front door to find his famous blue eyes and charming grin, I fell upon him like a vulture on its prey.
As we made love, every nerve tingled, awakening something inside me that had been lying dormant since the last time we’d seen each other. And goddamn him, what I’d said to Howard was true—I still loved Frank.
“You missed me,” he said after we’d done what we did best together beneath the sheets, more than once. “No one will ever love you like I do, Angel.”
“It’s too soon to tell,” I said.
He laughed. “You’re about to divorce me—and here I am to persuade you that I’m still the love of your life and you’re mine—and it’s too soon to tell?”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Would you have it any other way?” he asked, his gaze searing right through me.
I didn’t know, really. Yes, I would have liked for him to not be an egomaniac and a traditional old fool who felt threatened by every moment I left his sight. But truth be told, I would have fled the marriage a lot sooner if we didn’t have sparks flying, and a deep understanding of each other that no one else could touch.
After the sun rose in the sky and another particularly tender and languorous lovemaking session, he turned over to peer at me closely, a grin on his face. “Let’s go down to the dock.”
“Sounds like a fine idea.”
We dressed and walked down to the dock to find a sleek motorboat.
“Take it for a spin?” he asked.
I hadn’t been out on the lake yet and it seemed like the perfect way to spend a romantic interlude. “Sure,” I said. “I’m up for a ride. Let me grab a few things.”
I returned with a basket of fruit, cold meats, some bread, and a big bottle of vodka.
“Now you’re talking,” he said, winking. “Hop on, first mate.”
He looked handsome behind the wheel and my heart fluttered at the sight of him happy, beside me, on a day where the sky smiled down at us and everything felt right between us. My thoughts of divorce had drained away like a swirl of dirty dishwater in a sink.
As I slid into a seat on the boat, he fired up the engine and we rode out onto the lake. The wind whipped through my hair, and I reached out to take his hand in mine. He smiled and after several minutes of gliding over the water, we slowed and eased into a private cove.
I poured us each a drink and laid out the food spread, and we lazed on the boat, drinking, laughing, eating. We didn’t talk about why I was here, or Luis or Frank’s lovers. We drank each other in, remembering why we’d fallen in love in the first place.
Hours later, the sun began to slide down the arc of sky and I grew chilled.
He revved the engine and looked out over the water.
“Has that boat been there the whole time?” He motioned to a cigarette boat about four hundred yards away.
I squinted in the sun. “I don’t know, has it?”
The man at the helm didn’t bother to hide a large pair of binoculars. They were pointed directly at us. I knew who that was. It was another PI—or maybe the same one that had been following me all week.
“It’s probably Howard’s PI,” I said, stifling a yawn after hours of loving, sun, and vodka.
“What do you mean ‘Howard’s PI’? Who the hell does that creep think he is? He’s not the fucking president of the United States!” Frank whipped the boat around swiftly and in an instant, slammed the gear shift to crank up the speed—and immediately gunned for the other boat.
“What are you doing!” I shouted over the wind. “Just ignore him. Who gives a damn if Howard knows we’re out on a boat together!”
He ignored me and, cussing, cruised in tight circles around the other boat over and over, creating an enormous wake. I slid from my seat twice, landing in the bottom of the boat on my rear end.
“Frank! Knock it off! Let’s go!” I shouted.
He ignored me, screaming at the man and nearly capsizing the other boat.
