Strangers in the Night, page 29
“Are you alright?” Angelo asked, concern darkening his eyes. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
I shook my head, gulped down the strong liquor, and waved at the crowd. I had to give them the show they wanted, despite the spill. I hated myself a little for it, for that need to please an audience and that yearning for sensation—pleasures, adventure, danger—at any cost.
The crowd roared in approval.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon when the booze had begun to wear off that my cheek throbbed so much I had to take painkillers. By the next day, a bruise had formed and swollen to the size of a fist. That was when the panic hit. I cursed myself as I stared in the mirror at a face I scarcely recognized. The injury continued to swell for days, and I grew distraught—terrified—that I’d permanently damaged my face after one foolish, split-second decision.
Too afraid to wait it out, I booked an appointment with a premier plastic surgeon in London and took the flight immediately. He assured me my face would heal and that for now, I needed to take care of the swelling and rest rather than take drastic action.
I returned to Spain and hid away for weeks, covering my face when I needed to buy groceries or go for a walk. Desperately worried, I cried daily, lamenting my stupidity. I’d wanted to finish out my contract at MGM—I only lacked one more film and a few months—and then make a handful of movies for some real money so I could retire. One more film to go, I thought, as I stared at the black-and-yellow knot on my cheek. Now I might not ever get the chance.
I couldn’t handle the fear any longer. I needed the one person who always took care of me, even when times were difficult, the one person who understood me to my core and loved me no matter what I did.
I called Francis.
“I’ve hurt myself, Francis. I’m scared.” I listened intently for signs of another woman in the background but there was nothing, only the strains of jazz from his record player.
“So I’m Francis again? You can’t seem to make up your mind.”
“You always were Francis, baby. I just get mad at you. But I’m not mad anymore. Anger is a waste of time.”
He didn’t say anything, just listened, one of the things I loved most about him. He was nothing if not a good listener. It was his generous side, the part of him that loved as much as he wanted to be loved.
“I need you,” I continued. “I’ve done something stupid and now I’m hurt.”
He didn’t ask questions. He only said exactly what I hoped he’d say.
“I’ll be there tomorrow, doll. Stay home, take care of yourself. I’ll take a taxi to the house.”
When he arrived on my doorstop, he folded me into his arms. The smell of his lavender cologne wafted around me and I instantly fell apart. God, I’d missed him, and I knew just how much in that moment. I’d thought our little tragedy had run its course. Time couldn’t seem to align our stars. We were too distinctive, too much at odds. And yet, he was here again. Perhaps we wouldn’t ever be through.
“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Shh. I’m here.” He stroked my hair and rubbed my back. “It’ll heal, baby. It’ll heal.”
After a good cry into his shirt, I led him inside.
“Let me get a good look at it,” he said.
I turned on the lamp and watched his piercing gaze take in the damage. I knew he would tell me the truth, even if it hurt. That’s what we were to each other: a mirror. Even when we didn’t like what we saw there.
After a moment, he said, “Well, you ain’t going to make any films looking like that, that’s for sure.”
I burst into tears all over again. “Thanks a lot.” I pushed up from the sofa and went to find something to drink.
“I’ll have whatever you’ve got,” he called after me.
I returned with water for me and a bourbon rocks for him.
“What’s this? No drink for you?”
“The doctor recommended compresses, eating well, and an intense skin regime to help it heal. No alcohol for me for a while.”
“Screw that doc, what did he do for you? Listen, I know the best plastic surgeon in New York. He’s worked on a lot of celebrities. He’ll give you some chemical injections. Maybe it’ll break up that knot.”
That’s what worried me most: there was a hard knot forming, just as the doctor said might happen, and that was the worst news of all. Yet for now, I wasn’t going to stray from his advice. If I needed surgery, I’d do it, but I didn’t want to risk an adverse reaction to the injections. I was in my mid-thirties—the age when a love goddess usually retired in Hollywood—I had a damaged face, and no earthly idea what I was going to do next. I reached out to Francis hoping he would console me, and he had, but he’d also reminded me of something I hadn’t yet wanted to admit: my beauty would fade—perhaps it was already fading—and what would I be left with? No career, no husband or family. Nothing but a broken heart and memories.
Francis stayed with me, consoling me through my doubts and after, we made love, tenderly and knowingly.
He was mine and I was his. And for now, that was the only thing that kept me going.
Chapter 42
Ava
Francis stayed with me a few days before he had to fly back for a show. We did our usual—argued on the way to the airport—but it was softer now, had less bite. It was as if we were going through the motions because of old habits, but we already knew we didn’t mean it. Our insecurities with each other had leaked away over time and friendship colored in the empty spaces. I began to dream about what it would be like to truly reconcile. What the papers would say. Could their Romeo and Juliet reunite for good, after all this time?
Francis had scarcely left Spain when my publicist called with bad news. There were pictures of my fall in magazines all over the world and because I had been in hiding, speculation about my face was raging through Hollywood.
A Career-ender: Ava Gardner Will Never Work Again!
Beauty and the Beast: One of Hollywood’s Most Beautiful Faces Ruined by a Drunken Fall
“The articles are shit,” David said, his deep voice cracking. “Don’t worry about them. Just get yourself ready for your last picture in Rome and then you can say goodbye to MGM for good.”
I hardly heard him. How in tarnation could I do a film with this mark on my face? Everyone would see it, especially with the camera close-ups.
The swelling had receded, but I grew obsessed with the knot forming under the skin, touching it constantly, gazing into the mirror. I slept on my back, stayed out of the sunlight. I stopped wearing makeup and using creams and spent a fortune on facials from a Swiss therapist. Nothing worked—nothing could change the aftermath of my stupidity.
“I can’t do it,” I said, miserable. “I have this knot on my face. They’ll toss me off the lot as soon as they see it.”
“Look, it’s the last one you have to do for them, and they know it. You’re still under contract, Ava,” David said.
“What if they take one look at my face and send me packing?”
“How bad is it really?”
I sighed heavily and the phone crackled with static. “It’s not that bad, I suppose, but it’s definitely noticeable.”
“Let’s look at it this way,” he said. “People will flock to the movie to make sure their beloved Ava Gardner is still beautiful. And I suspect you’re as gorgeous as ever. A little bump on your face can’t change that. Now, make your plans. You’re heading to Rome.”
* * *
I packed for Rome, trying to pretend that my face didn’t matter when the truth was, I was terrified. I wasn’t getting any younger, after all, and the roles as a ravishing young woman were now limited. Lana had already begun to play roles as a mother and the very few other parts subscribed to middle-aged women, and she was three years older than me. So I went. I flew to France to rent a car so I could drive to Rome and avoid the press at the airport.
While not on set, I couldn’t bring myself to hole up in my apartment and obsess about my face and the next phase of my career, so instead, I partied like a young thing with nothing to lose. I made my way from club to club that steamy summer with steamy men—if not for my own pleasure, for someone to keep me company. I thrived, throwing myself into the social life that Rome and the buzzing Via Veneto had to offer. The one thing that slowed me down was the cameras. As soon as the press appeared at a night spot, I ducked out, anxious to hide my aging face and the damage I’d done to it after one ridiculous decision.
Though there was a revolving door of men, the truth was, I missed Francis. I attempted to push him out of my thoughts completely so we could both move on with our lives, and yet, somehow, he stayed there, ever present in the back of my mind. I compared everyone to him, but the truth was, there was no comparison.
When I learned he was headed to London for a show—months after I’d last seen him in Madrid—I called him.
“Hi, Angel,” he said, his voice turning buttery smooth.
“I heard you’ll be in London. That’s not terribly far from Rome.”
“You miss me?”
“Something like that,” I said, playing coy with him. Given the tabloids and the gossip I’d heard coming out of Las Vegas and Hollywood, he wasn’t spending his nights alone.
We sat on the telephone for well over an hour. He told me a story about being up nights, thinking about us. He read me some poetry and then I read him the funny pages from the newspaper, and we laughed and missed each other all the more. We didn’t only make good lovers, we made the best of friends.
“I’ll stop by as soon as I’m done in London,” he said. “I don’t have long to stay. I have to get back to the States.”
“We’ll make the most of it, I promise,” I purred.
The time and distance between us had done us some good, as it always had. I couldn’t help but hope that maybe things would be different this time. We were older and wiser, weren’t we?
The day before he was to arrive, I had a facial, bought a new dress and some negligees, and had the house cleaned to a shine the way he liked it. I went out to pick up a newspaper and to restock my liquor cabinet when my dream of a reunion with Francis came crashing down around my ears.
I reached for the tabloid on the stand and read the headline: “Frank Sinatra Courting Lady Adele Beatty?”
My stomach turned at the photo of Francis holding the door open for Adele, who was dressed to the nines in her satin gloves and mink stole. Did he plan to romance a different woman in every country? I was a fool to assume we could reconcile, or that we should spend time together at all. I drank myself into a stupor that night, ignored the ringing phone, and passed out. I hated myself for how much I still loved that man and worse, for my continued naivete.
When he arrived the following day, I made myself unavailable. And despite the voice in my head that reminded me I had seen someone behind his back more than once, I gave Frank the cold shoulder until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I drove to the Hotel Hassler, where he was staying, my dog Rags at my side, my head on fire. I would give him a piece of my mind, tell him how much he’d hurt me. Tell him I wasn’t the next hooker in line that he could make a quick pit stop with and leave all over again.
When Frank opened the hotel room door, Rags leapt from my arms and raced inside, barking happily.
“Hello, old boy! Glad to see your poppa?” Frank said, bending to scrub him behind the ears. He laughed as the dog licked him enthusiastically. When he sat on the couch, Rags promptly jumped into his lap.
“You traitor,” I scolded my dog, the speech I’d planned evaporating completely. Instead, I removed the wedding ring that I still wore from my finger. “Here,” I shoved it into Frank’s hand. “Why don’t you give this to your English lady.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, the smile sliding from his face. “And where have you been? I’ve been beating down your door all day.”
“What do you care?” I said, gathering Rags from him. “You said the most beautiful things to me on the phone, and all along, you were planning on hooking up with that woman in London! I’m so sick of your shit, Frank.”
I stormed to the door and as I slammed it behind me, his voice drifted into the hall.
“You’re goddamn crazy, did you know that!”
I rushed down the stairs, the nails on Rags’s little feet clicking over the wood, and when we’d reached the street outside, I looked down at my little furry friend. He tilted his head sideways as if confused—and I burst into tears.
The next day, I learned Frank had already left Rome.
* * *
Though it stung, I went about my business without Frank, setting Roman nights on fire until filming concluded. I was relieved to be finished. At last I was ready to take my chances and have surgery on my cheek.
I called my publicist, in desperate need of a friend to accompany me to London. David flew from LA and met me there with a grim smile.
“How are you?” he said, slipping his arm around my shoulders.
I gritted my teeth. “I’m ready to get this over with.”
“It’ll be fine,” he reassured me. “You’re in good hands with this doctor. I did some research on him.” He steered me inside the hospital and down the hall to check in for surgery. As they hooked me up to an IV and I began to fade into a drug-induced slumber, I considered how nervous the doctor must be to work on one of the world’s most famous faces.
I closed my eyes, praying he had a steady hand.
When it was over and I came to, I opened my eyes to the doctor’s smiling face. “Good news, Miss Gardner. I was able to remove the scar tissue. You’ll always have a small dimple here in your cheek from the initial impact, but it’s innocuous enough to look natural. I think you’ll be pleased with the result.”
I burst into tears.
I cried in relief. I cried for the injustice of being held to an impossible standard in my profession. I cried for the simple fact that my youth was fleeting, and that beauty did not endure. I cried for the yawning fear that gripped me when I considered the future. But I’d find what was next soon enough. For now, I just wanted to go home, to be comforted.
Only no one would be waiting for me there. And I would hate myself for missing Francis all over again.
Chapter 43
Ava
After the surgery, things didn’t look up. Perhaps it was the blow to my confidence that the damage to my face had brought, or maybe it was my prowess with making bad choices, but suddenly, I was lonelier than ever and found myself adrift. That’s when George C. Scott walked into my life. My new costar, he joined me on the set of The Bible and I couldn’t help but be drawn to his strength. He was an ex-marine, had a muscular physique, and was playing the bad guy in the film. We talked politics, books, poetry. He was passionate about acting, though we both agreed the show business was garbage. I fell in love almost immediately. Something about him reminded me of all the men I’d loved—the sensitive, dark inside always lurking beneath the surface. He was darker than most and I’d soon learn exactly what that meant.
One night after dinner at his apartment, I mentioned Francis’s name in passing. He was in Italy filming, too, and I’d wanted to see him. I thought if I was aboveboard with George about visiting Francis, he wouldn’t be suspicious or jealous.
“What did you say to him?” George said, his tone curt.
I looked at George through my drunken haze and I swore I could see heat steaming from his ears. “To Francis?” I asked. “He’s filming Von Ryan’s Express so I stopped by his hotel last night. We had some dinner, talked. It was good to see him. Nothing happened. We’re friends.” And for once, that was true. Francis and I hadn’t gone to bed as usual, and we got along like biscuits and gravy. Always had, as friends.
“What are you doing still talking to that asshole?” George fumed. “He never loved you. He hires whores and everyone knows it.”
My mouth fell open. What did he know about my relationship with Francis?
“And you have a wife and a baby at home,” I snapped. “How are you so different? At least he doesn’t pretend to be something he isn’t.”
His face shifted to red and then purple, and with one decisive strike, he punched me.
I reeled backward, grasping my cheek, stunned by the reproach as much as the hit. I hadn’t yet recovered from the blow when he jumped atop me, straddling me. His eyes were glazed over and a person I didn’t know—hadn’t seen until now—emerged in their depths. He hit me again and again, until I kneed him swiftly from the back, taking him off guard. I took advantage of his surprise and shoved him off me. Without grabbing my purse or shoes, without looking back, I bolted for the door, darting into the night, panting, terrorized, tears streaming down my cheeks.
What had just happened? I was stunned by his violence. I’d found myself a real prince among men, it seemed.
I headed back to my rented apartment, trying to hold myself together. I swore as I locked the door behind me and promised myself I’d never see that asshole again.
The next day, the makeup artists on set did what they could to help cover the bruises George had left on my face. The crew seemed as shocked and disgusted as I was. George begged for my forgiveness, but I ignored him. I didn’t care how passionate he was. All I could think about was how his wife managed to marry such a man. She must have been battered within an inch of her life on a regular basis, poor thing.
And yet, somehow, I forgave him. I found myself lured in by his profuse apologies and utter embarrassment, his promise not to ever be in that place again. He was completely sincere, and I could see it etched on his face. He wooed me and I fell for him again. In the evenings after shooting, we’d have drinks and all would be well—until it wasn’t and he’d had one too many. He’d start with name-calling and progress to slapping and choke-holding me to the ground. I grew terrified of being with him—and terrified of trying to end things.
Francis called one night and we got to talking, whiling away an hour and next thing I knew, I was talking about George.
