The Original, page 17
“Coffee?” Leland says from the wide mahogany bed. Kate knows he rose earlier to make it. He is a thoughtful man when he remembers to be.
“Take me flying,” Kate says.
“Ha!” Leland laughs. “You only want to go flying because up there we can’t talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Kate says. “I want to fly.” Kate goes into the small bathroom and shuts the door. She can hear Leland getting dressed. He doesn’t like to speak about anything that matters until he is dressed. Kate’s family could walk naked from the sea up to the house shouting good morning to the neighbors. Leland cannot meet her eyes when he is undressed while standing up. Leland keeps a full wardrobe here, in this small apartment. He keeps the apartment so that he can meet her.
On the sink is a new blue toothbrush. Leland must have bought it. Does he have a whole box of them somewhere? Kate keeps forgetting hers. She can’t bear to start the day with grubby teeth; still the fact of it bothers her. It reeks of possession.
“And what if I want to talk?” Leland asks through the door. He must be dressed now. Pocket square, Brylcreem, even on a Saturday.
“Too bad,” Kate calls out. She does not want to talk about what Leland wants to talk about.
Kate does not want to divorce Luddy and she does not want Leland to divorce his wife.
* * *
—
Now that Divorcement is a hit, Kate is a name but she doesn’t receive sacks of love letters and marriage proposals as other new actresses do. George says she is going to be a thinking woman’s woman, whatever that means. There are approaches. Some successful, some not. Tallulah’s friend, Iris; Jane Loring, that brilliant film editor with the black rimmed glasses; David Manners, and Leland. George says there are others but will not say who.
And Laura. Kate knows that Laura is rotted through with hurt; she has seen photographs in the society pages, Laura’s skin tugged down with disappointment. She does not let herself think about it. Leland also is looking anxious recently. She tries to ignore it. Leland is a distraction, a flat place to catch her breath. It almost began before they left for Europe but Kate put him off. She was not ready for it to start yet.
The before-part, where nothing is ruined and everything is possible? That is Kate’s favorite part, but it never lasts long. It began when Kate returned to Hollywood. The details of Leland’s seduction were predictable. His hand on her leg at dinner, his mouth on her neck when he drove her home. All pedestrian. She had expected something more imaginative from him and the excitement seeped away. Not all at once, it was a slow leak. But when he takes her flying, he is different. Possessed by a milky calm, he is afraid of nothing. And she likes being off the ground—the air and the silence. In the plane, they are perfect together and she can feel everything that she cannot feel on the ground. She tells herself it is because she likes watching him do something he loves but that is not it. It is something less generous. In those rushing blue moments, he does not need her.
Cary
Santa Monica
February 1933
He meets her in front of the Brown Derby on Wilshire. He is not supposed to be there. He had planned to go home to the beach house after the party but it got late and Randolph does not like to drive after drinking champagne so they are staying in the Hollywood apartment. Cary enjoys the throwaway luxury of having two homes. Randolph thinks nothing of it. It was the premiere of Blonde Venus and everyone wanted to talk to Cary Grant. The studio sent a starlet, Jeanine something, but Cary only agreed to go if he could bring Randolph. It is his first hit and he needed Randolph with him for it to feel real. Good things can crumble to powder if Randolph isn’t there. The velvet ropes held back the crowds; the photographers’ cameras flashed white, the lights swung and crossed overhead. Cary stepped out of the limousine first, followed by Jeanine the starlet, followed by Randolph, climbing out of the long car like an extra syllable. But Cary believes that things that are awkward will become normal if you insist long enough. In the end, the columns do not mention Randolph. The reporters all write that Howard Hughes was at the premiere. Nothing sells papers faster than stories about Howard.
* * *
—
It is after two in the morning and Cary and Randolph sit in the center booth at the Brown Derby and order Reuben sandwiches and coleslaw. The party follows them. The Brown Derby sends out more champagne.
Cary goes outside to get the car while Randolph pays the bill. Virginia Cherrill is standing alone, smoking, being herself. Cary will see her play many people, but this first night, her shoes pinch and she is too tired to pretend to be someone else. She is small-framed and blond with thick lashed crescent eyes, shaped like sunrise. Her mouth is small and curvy. She is prettier when she doesn’t smile. Her teeth do not photograph well. Cary has heard about her: that Charlie Chaplin went crazy for her, that she is a friend of Marion Davies and so is often a guest at William Randolph Hearst’s fairy tale castle at San Simeon, that Ziegfeld wanted her and she said no, that MGM wanted her but lost out to Fox, that Louella Parsons says she is the most beautiful woman in Hollywood. He does what he never does and walks up to her. Cary can do this, he can make people feel good, feel seen. Usually, he saves this skill for the camera.
* * *
—
She writes the telephone number on a white card. She does not use his pen, she has her own, pulls it out of her evening bag and leans on the hood of a car to write. He is worried she will get grime on her dress. Cary looks. It is a Hollywood exchange. She says she lives with her mother. Not Chaplin then. He’s heard rumors. By the time Randolph joins them, the white card is in Cary’s breast pocket and Virginia’s date has brought his car around.
* * *
• • •
Cary is walking to the set of the new Mae West picture. Mae West has been spreading the story that she saw him on the lot, put him in her picture. Fiction. They met at the Friday night fights once he had already been cast. It’s the second week of filming and everyone can see they work well together. His reserve grounds her blowsy charm, pinning down her wit like a stake anchoring a circus tent. Cary does not like her much but a good part of that is jealousy. Mae West is getting rich off this picture. Again. She is the writer and star and she’s a skilled negotiator—she held out for a good contract. Cary feels undersold when he learns what she’s making.
Mae West has given herself the best lines. Anyone would. In the script, he sets up the pins and she knocks them down in one sharp swipe. It doesn’t leave him with enough to do and so Cary repositions. He doesn’t quite change the text but he doesn’t play the part as she wrote it. It is his phrasing, his stillness. His performance is small and tight and it resets the physics between them. He pulls back and she steps forward to fill the space—she must chase him. Cary has figured it out: it is better to be the pursued rather than the pursuer. The audience think just a little bit less of the pursuer, just a little bit more of the pursued. This will become his signature stance. By 1955, audiences will expect Grace Kelly to chase him across the French Riviera in an ice gray Sunbeam Alpine convertible. It will feel plausible.
Walking across the bright pavement, Cary is thinking about Virginia Cherrill. They have been out four times now: two lunches, a dinner at the Cocoanut Grove and the opening for the new Garbo picture. It’s not that she is a woman. That has happened before, not often, two, maybe three times. It’s the urgency he feels that is unusual. He wanted to telephone her that first night, the next morning—the hours felt fizzy and incomplete until he called her. When he telephoned, her directness was unexpected. Yes, she would meet him for lunch. Yes, she could do it today.
They met at Musso and Frank’s, sat in one of the cracked brown leather booths. Reporters arrived. Someone must have called the papers, a busboy, the bartender.
“Photographers. Schulberg will be pleased,” Cary said, pointing to the men in brown jackets peering through the front window.
“Schulberg wants to see you photographed with women? Or with me?” she asked, delicately wiping her mouth. She ordered the roast beef but would not take another bite now that there were cameras.
“With you,” Cary said, reaching for her hand, and lying. “They are all so happy about you.”
* * *
• • •
He is right. Schulberg is delighted when he sees the photographs and the suggestive headlines. Schulberg puts in the call to Louella Parsons himself. She leads with it. Now everyone is watching Cary Grant and Virginia Cherrill.
* * *
—
The paper lies open on the kitchen table, the page turned to Louella’s article. Cary does not bring it up. Neither does Randolph. Cary cooks breakfast, crisping the mushrooms the way Randolph loves. He does it automatically. His thoughts are elsewhere.
* * *
• • •
Walking in the hot morning air, Cary is thinking about his dates with Virginia; how many? Six? Eight? All in three weeks. The colors smear and the edges grow wide and soft; he cannot remember what they talked about. Where did she order the chicken? Where did she drink pink champagne? What did he say when he dropped her at her apartment on Melrose? What did she say when he introduced her to Irene Dunne at the Ambassador Hotel? Where did she catch the heel of her shoe on the doorsill? It doesn’t matter. What matters, is that each time, Virginia Cherrill agrees to the next time. Cary knows he is the pursuer but he doesn’t care.
Los Angeles
March 1933
Cary Grant and Randolph Scott are watching the photo shoot from their kitchen window. It is cold on the beach and empty for a Saturday morning except for the photographers, makeup team and the two stars. It is their friends, Joel McCrea from Paramount and Kate Hepburn. McCrea waits until the cameras are set up before he takes off his shirt. Kate wears a striped sweater and shorts over her swimsuit but still rubs her arms to keep warm. Publicity teams always prefer winter for beach shoots. Less busy, better light, plus, actors work fast when they’re cold.
Cary and Randolph agree that Kate and Joel are well matched, believable romantic leads. They are making each other laugh, easier to get good photographs that way. Teeth, real smiles. Kate and Joel huddle together under a striped towel between setups. Randolph has heard the rumors about Laura. He looks at Cary who knows Kate better.
“Men?” He doesn’t need to say more.
“Sometimes, I think. Depends on the man apparently.”
“I thought women.”
“Same goes for women.”
Randolph understands. The same can be said of Cary.
The photographs are good. Kate and Joel lying on a beach blanket, Kate and Joel peeking over a wall. These are publicity shots for a film that won’t happen. Paramount is asking too much for the loan-out and RKO won’t agree. Too bad, they would spark together onscreen. Cary and Randolph bring out blankets and mugs of hot coffee.
* * *
—
By the time Leland Hayward arrives, the photographers are packing up the last of their equipment and Kate and Joel are gone.
“In there,” the makeup woman points to Cary and Randolph’s house.
Leland goes around to the front door. He knows the house. Two rising stars from the Paramount stable live here. He can hear bolts of laughter, deep and from the belly. It’s all of them. He leaves without knocking.
Howard
Hancock Park
Howard Hughes does not like to employ people who lie. But in Noah Dietrich’s case, he makes an exception. Noah is indispensable. What Howard wants Noah buys. Today, Howard wants to buy a plane.
“Sikorsky. Announced it today. Did you know?”
“Howard, we have to get Hughes Tool back in the black. Things are bad. We laid off a quarter of the workers, the bottom dropped out of the oil market! Haven’t you seen the papers?” Noah lowers his voice. He doesn’t want to sound as though he is accusing Howard of being ill informed, even though he is.
“I did see the papers,” Howard says, holding up a page of The New York Times. “And I saw that Sikorsky is coming out with a new amphibian for Pan Am and we need it! You usually know months before they announce. Now, did you know?”
“Howard, I am telling you that your employees lost their jobs, their pensions, their homes and you are worrying about buying a plane?” Noah stops, grips his anger with both hands, pressing it flat into something he can store. Insinuation. This is as far as he goes. It is their waltz, Noah and Howard, circling in perfect time, the same steps, same rules. Howard will never fire Noah as long as Noah can pull down the sky when Howard asks for it. Noah will never leave Howard as long as he feels indispensable. Noah tells himself that Howard is not like other people. Howard has never had to worry about how to pay for rent or food or gas or taxes. Those are other people’s problems. Noah likes that he is no longer one of the other people.
Kate
Coldwater Canyon
April 1933
The phone is ringing again but Kate does not look up. She is slicing bread for toast, her knife rhythmic and heavy. It will be Luddy, it will be Leland, it will be RKO. She doesn’t want to speak to any of them. What would she say? The knife slides through the dense, spongy loaf. She has been feeling off lately and all she wants to eat is bread.
The goddamn article is in the morning paper. She does not say straight out that Kate is married but next time she will unless they can trade her something better. Louella does not bluff. She means what she says. It is her way. Leland leaves early for the studio. He has a meeting with George and Selznick so they can “put their heads together” as he phrases it. What can they do? Louella has more arrows in her quiver. She knows about Laura as well as Luddy, not that there is anything to know anymore but what there is, or was, will not help matters. And then there is Leland. Louella knows Leland keeps spare shirts at her house. And that is enough to put the rest together. She may even know about the small apartment in Laurel Canyon. Laura, Luddy, Leland. All Kate’s problems begin with L.
* * *
—
Dinner is cold and sticky. Kate is sorry Ragnhild went to the trouble; she has to ask her to stop trying. All she can eat is bread and milk. The phone has stopped ringing. The East Coast is asleep. Luddy has had a telephone installed by the bed in his house so he can wake if she calls him late. Kate finds it endearing.
* * *
—
Kate leaves the food on the table. She has hired a woman who comes in to help Ragnhild and Joanna with the cooking and cleaning. Leland hired her. “And, we will hire a secretary for bookkeeping,” he tells Kate. “Everything Laura did.” Kate knows it’s his way of keeping Laura away, but it is difficult to say no when so many need work. “Everything Laura did?” Kate teases. Leland can get twitchy when talking about Kate and Laura in bed.
Tonight, Kate has sent everyone away. If her soft, round world is going to split open, she wants to be alone when it happens. Kate switches off the lights and goes upstairs.
* * *
—
“Selznick gave her an exclusive with Connie Bennett and I gave her Clark Gable,” Leland says, rolling his head back and stretching out his shoulders. He looks worn and the skin under his eyes is baggy and saddlebag creased in the morning light. He did not sleep well.
“Both?” Kate asks, cracking eggs into a blue bowl. She keeps up the egg shampoos at home now.
“I was worried she would ask for Gary Cooper and I knew Paramount would never agree. Louella is relentless and her threats are never empty.”
“Let her publish and be damned,” Kate says. She is irritated. Why should the public care about her private life? But she knows they do, and she wants them to care. She would be crushed if they didn’t.
“You will not be able to make another picture if your husband gets into the papers,” he says. “A wife who came to Hollywood, deserted her husband and lied about it? No. And then you”—he pauses, either for effect or out of exhaustion, Kate can’t tell—“would have to go back to your old life. Do you want to go back to being Mrs. Ludlow Ogden Smith?”
“Mrs. S. Ogden Ludlow,” Kate says, tipping the shells into the sink. “He called this morning, early.” She doesn’t turn around. “When he read the article, he went straight down to the registry office and changed his name. If Louella Parsons looks for Mr. Ludlow Ogden Smith, she will find no one there.
Los Angeles
May 1933
We are discreet, civilized. We understand how these things are done. Cary and Randolph are uncomfortable. Their neat square of life has been stretched into a thin-skinned triangle. Reservations for three. Invitations for three. Hollywood hosts spread the word. It is now Cary Grant plus two. No one is shocked. These are the last sexy days of old Hollywood. Some are curious about the details of Cary and Virginia and Randolph. How does it work? Where do they sleep? Some are fascinated by the inevitability of pain and watch to see who will get hurt. Some say it will be Virginia but most who know them say it will be Randolph. Some, those who know them best, phrase it in the past tense, as though it has already happened. It has.
Cary still hopes he can pull it off; love Virginia when he is with her and then come home to the steady heartbeat of his life with Randolph. It is selfish and Cary does not think it through carefully. He does not have time. Virginia is popular, flirtatious and poised for flight. Richer, more handsome, more successful men will get her if he lets her go. And so, he chases Virginia and tells himself Randolph will understand.
