Love Me Page 6

  “You said grapefruit,” Margo said, grateful for the change of subject.

  “I reserve the right to change my mind. Now shoo. But leave the fur,” Rex instructed. “Maybe I’ll get inspired and whip up some kind of Russian evening stole.” He arched an eyebrow as he poked the end of his ivory cigarette holder into the soft golden pile. “You never know. It could be fabulously … concealing.”

  “Whatever you say,” Margo said.

  And I’ve got to do it, she thought as she walked down the stairs and back out to the car. Just like Dane said. If I want to stay at Olympus, I’ve got to be exactly the girl they want me to be.

  “Duchess! Over here!”

  Squinting through the bright sun—she realized, too late, that she’d left her sunglasses along with the fur—Margo instantly recognized the small man bounding toward her, his gait as cheerily choreographed and expertly spontaneous as if it were backed by an entire studio orchestra.

  “Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, you know. Photo shoot. Earning my keep. You?”

  “Fitting,” Margo said, gesturing toward Rex Mandalay’s tightly drawn curtains.

  “Real top-secret stuff, huh?” Jimmy grinned. “All done now? I’m starving. What say we go down to the commissary and grab a bite? A little bird told me they’ve got Boston cream pie on the dessert cart today.”

  Reflexively, Margo’s hands flew to her stomach. “I’d better not.”

  “Oscar diet?” Jimmy chuckled knowingly. “You and everyone else in town. That’s why God invented the fruit plate.”

  “Rex is serious this time,” Margo said. “He’s probably alerted the Olympus secret police by now. When we get to the commissary, I’ll be lucky if some rebel waiter lets me have a spoonful of milk in my coffee.”

  “Well, in that case, why don’t we do something really crazy?” Jimmy’s eyes twinkled. “Why don’t we leave the studio lot?”

  “I love the Brown Derby,” Margo said happily as the maître d’ made a big show of seating them in the booth under Jimmy’s caricature, which grinned toothily, oversized top hat in hand, from between the inky likenesses of Katharine Hepburn and Adolphe Menjou. “It always makes me so happy to come here.”

  “Me too,” Jimmy said. “It’s one of the only places in Hollywood that makes you feel like you’re actually living in the movies.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Truthfully, what made her the happiest was the attention she and Jimmy seemed to be getting. It had only been a matter of months since they’d been a studio-approved, loudly feted item, and if almost everyone in the restaurant knew, as Margo did, that Jimmy generally preferred the romantic company of men, they also knew that in Hollywood, the way things looked in public meant a whole lot more than anything that happened behind closed doors, and how things looked in the press meant the most of all.

  And there would be press. A couple of photographers were loafing around the entranceway; Louella Parsons, Margo was pleased to see, looked alert as ever trundled into her all-seeing perch in the back. Well, let them look. It was good to be noticed. And if some headline tomorrow about her and Jimmy made Dane stand up and pay some attention to her again, so much the better.

  It wasn’t as though Dane had been mean lately, just a bit distant. The unexpected Oscar nod seemed to have propelled his career into a realm it had never quite reached before. Right after the nominations were announced, he’d been awfully attentive, maybe even—Margo thought guiltily—downplaying his own happiness so as not to make her feel bad.

  But that had only lasted a couple of days. Now he seemed to spend hours on the phone with his agent, or in meetings with Larry Julius and Mr. Karp, or holed up in his study reading the spec scripts he kept getting from independent producers like David Selznick or that new hotshot director from England, Alfred Hitchcock. She was happy for him—she knew she was—but still, she couldn’t remember the last time Dane had taken her to the Brown Derby. She couldn’t remember the last time Dane had taken her anywhere.

  “So,” said Jimmy, picking up a menu. “How are things with the old man?”

  It was if he could read her mind. “He’s fine.”

  “Not too high and mighty?”

  “About the nomination?” Margo asked innocently. “Naturally, we’re both thrilled.”

  “Cut the crap, duchess,” Jimmy said, putting down the menu with a bang. It was just a prop anyway, Margo thought. Jimmy had a disconcerting habit of turning the most commonplace activities into portentous stage business. “It’s me, Jimmy, your old friend. I’ve been around long enough to know that there’s nothing like a lopsided awards season to wreck a happy home. Dear old Oscar is the deadliest femme fatale there is.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Margo said. “He’s been busy, that’s all. It’s natural. Although …”

  “Although what?”

  “Rex mentioned Diana today. During my fitting.”

  Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Jeepers creepers. How’d she come up?”

  “I don’t know.” Margo couldn’t bring herself to tell Jimmy what Rex had really said, although she wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing: the weight gain or how he’d assumed it had happened. Or the fact that the way he thought it happened is impossible. “Just … just in relation to Dane, I guess.”

  “Well,” Jimmy said, twisting his mouth in a wry smirk, “Hollywood loves a comeback.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Margo asked hotly.

  “Nothing, duchess. Just that what’s out of sight doesn’t always stay out of mind. Sooner or later, everything old is new again.”

  “Stop talking in riddles,” Margo said crossly. “You sound like you’re in a Charlie Chan movie.”

  Jimmy reached across the table and squeezed Margo’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying any of this to hurt you. But I meant what I said. This kind of thing can be awfully tricky for a pair like you. Just to give some unsolicited advice: if you love Dane—”

  “And I do!” Margo interrupted a little too quickly.

  “Then don’t make him choose between this”—Jimmy swept his eyes over the sea of world-famous faces grinning cartoonishly from their frames on the wall—“and you. Believe me, even if you win, you’ll lose. You understand?”

  “Sure I do.” Margo gave him her most reassuring smile. If he didn’t believe her, at least he dropped her hand and picked up his menu. “So,” she continued, still grinning perkily, “have you got a date for the big night?”

  “I believe I’ll be escorting the ravishing Miss Preston to the ceremony,” Jimmy said drily, “since Larry Julius seems fanatical about arranging the red-carpet arrivals by height. Afterward, who knows? I’m up for anything.”

  “What about Roderigo?” The words were out before Margo could stop them. She and Jimmy had never spoken of the silent, handsome boy she’d accidentally discovered in his bed at the Chateau Marmont on the night that had effectively ended their “romantic” arrangement, but she wanted Jimmy to know that he could confide in her, that she was his friend. “Is he still … in the picture?”

  “He’s gone back to Mexico,” Jimmy said. “His mother’s not been very well, you see.”

  His expression remained studiously pleasant, but a slight edge had crept into his voice, letting Margo know that this was not something he was prepared to discuss. Not now. Maybe not ever. And certainly not with Louella Parsons in the vicinity.

  Margo was scanning the room, desperate to find a change of subject, when her eye fell on a familiar-looking redhead in a chic black suit at a table nearby. “Oh my God. It’s Amanda Farraday.”

  Jimmy peered over the top of his menu with interest. “So it seems. In the flesh.”

  “God, I haven’t seen her for ages,” Margo said, noting with more than a pang of envy that Amanda appeared not to have gained so much
as a stray ounce in the intervening period. If anything, she looked even thinner. Maybe it’s the suit, Margo thought as Amanda lifted an enormous forkful of what appeared to be the Brown Derby’s signature pork chop smothered in apricot glaze to her dainty lips. She made a mental note to buy herself a plain black suit at the earliest opportunity. “Where the hell has she been?”

  “Holed up at Gabby Preston’s, if you can believe it,” Jimmy said.

  “You’re kidding.” Margo’s eyes widened. As far back as she could remember, Gabby had never had a nice word to say about the gorgeous redhead—and if you wanted to know why, you just had to look at the adjective in front of the noun. “How did that happen?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe times are tough and they’re taking in boarders. Maybe our little songbird has finally grown a heart to go along with her ego. Maybe she just thought Amanda might have a good line on some under-the-table prescriptions. Who knows?”

  “Gabby’s still on the pills, huh?”

  “Duchess,” Jimmy said, “everyone in Hollywood’s on some kind of pills. The difference is that Gabby likes them.” He sat back in his chair. “Anyway, it’s all over now. Rumor has it Viola’s kicked Amanda out.”

  “Why?” Margo asked, ears pricked.

  “Once again you are asking me to comment on the motives of the inscrutable Preston women,” Jimmy said. “It’s a task you couldn’t ask of the almighty Leo Karp himself. But in my humble opinion, I think the old lady probably didn’t relish having another younger redhead around. The kind with a carpet to match the drapes, if you get my drift.”

  “Don’t be vulgar. Who’s that she’s having lunch with?”

  Jimmy peered at Amanda’s companion, a heavyset fellow in brown pinstripes eying his lunch date with the calculated appreciation of a man who knows he wants to buy a car but clearly means to hold out for a damn good price. “I have no idea. But that’s no surprise anymore. Ever since Selznick, the town is lousy with independents trying to set up shop, thinking they’ll strike gold on their own, studios be damned.” He shrugged. “Personally, I think the jury’s still out on Gone with the Wind. Don’t forget what Irving Thalberg said: ‘No Civil War picture ever made a nickel.’ ”

  “What about Birth of a Nation?”

  “That was a silent,” Jimmy said dismissively. “This is a whole new era.”

  “Shhh. I think she sees us.”

  Sure enough, Amanda’s lovely oval of a face was turned in their direction, her hand half raised in greeting. “I think she’s going to come over and say hello.”

  “Not to us,” Jimmy said gently. “Look over there.”

  Margo looked.

  Harry Gordon had just entered the room.

  Surrounded by an entourage of stone-faced Olympus bigwigs, Harry appeared to be as careless and rumpled as ever, although closer inspection revealed a number of small but significant changes. The sloppy sweater was now of the softest cashmere, the scuffed shoes molded perfectly to his feet, the cheap glasses replaced with genuine tortoiseshell frames.

  Like he’s been turned into a Central Casting version of Harry Gordon, Margo thought.

  Amanda stared at him, her face white, looking as beautiful and terrified as Margo had ever seen anyone. Harry stared back, unmoving but trembling slightly, as though every muscle in his body was clenched. An electric hush fell over the room as every diner at the Brown Derby leaned forward in his or her chair, not wanting to miss what happened next.

  Amanda’s lips parted. Her eyes glowed. Harry’s body lurched forward; for a moment it seemed as though he was going to run across the room and into her arms.

  Then he turned on his heel and went straight out the door.

  “Oh,” Jimmy breathed. “Oh no.”

  Amanda’s eyes were unnaturally bright. Two dark red spots blossomed on her pale cheeks as she shakily murmured some excuse—clearly inadequate, from the look on her lunch companion’s face—and dashed toward the comforting oblivion of the ladies’ room.

  Margo, to her surprise, found herself reflexively scooping up her purse. “I’m going to talk to her.”

  “No, Margo.” Jimmy reached out to stop her. “Leave her alone.”

  “But she’s upset,” Margo protested. “I can’t just leave her. Remember how she helped us at the Cocoanut Grove that night Gabby was sick? It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”

  “And I’m telling you, let her be. This isn’t some drunk little girl throwing up in the bathroom, Margo.” Jimmy seized her hand, looking gravely into her eyes. “This is a real broken heart.”

  A real broken heart. And there, in the corner, was the real Louella Parsons, gleefully writing every bit of it down.

  Six

  He cares.

  The words thrummed through Amanda over and over again, like a heartbeat. Harry still cares.

  Sure, maybe storming out of one of the most famous restaurants in town in front of a veritable title sequence of Hollywood’s Who’s Who was not the usual way of showing it. But Harry had never been the sort to do things the usual way. Truth be told, if he had done anything else, she would have been worried. A “civilized” man, a suave Dane Forrest type—someone like that might have handled things differently. That man might have been able to nod a greeting from across the room, even pop by her table for a cordial, if impersonal, chat.

  But Harry Gordon was not that man. Harry Gordon was no Dane Forrest. And thank God for that.

  Harry could never hide his feelings or separate his heart from his head. It was one of the reasons why Amanda loved him. From the look in his eyes when he saw her, she could tell her feelings were far from unrequited. When she’d run to the bathroom crying—not her most poised moment, true, and one that had certainly pissed the hell out of that poor schmuck she’d been having lunch with, who’d disappeared while she was gone and stuck her with the bill—the tears streaming down her face had been ones of joy, not despair. She’d been crying with gratitude, because Harry still loved her.

  And now, right in front of her, was the evidence. Once again in black-and-white. Ink, that is.

  Amanda took a long drag from her cigarette—smoking, she thought ruefully, being just one of the seemingly unbreakable bad habits she’d picked up during these last terrible months. Gingerly, she laid it still smoldering on the side of the cracked bathtub and reached for the newspaper on the floor. Careful to keep the precious pages from falling into the tepid perfumed water, she began once again to read the words she had by now practically learned by heart:

  Like Something Out of the Movies

  The song says life is just a bowl of cherries, but lunch was much more than just a Cobb salad for Tinseltown’s own Romeo and Juliet, Harry Gordon and Amanda Farraday. ’Tis in the fair Brown Derby that we set our scene, where the two star-crossed lovers held each other’s burning gaze across a dining room filled with the grandest grandees in town. You could have heard a pin drop … and you’d have wondered if that pin was from a grenade, the atmosphere was so combustible. They don’t call it chemistry for nothing, chickens!

  Alas, they went their separate ways with nary a word exchanged … but to this humble observer, they might not be separate for long. Maybe we’re sentimental, but nothing would make us happier than to see a happy Harry go home Oscar night with a sexy little gold man in one hand and a sexy little redhead in the other. This story isn’t over yet, kids. But let’s just hope Olympus’s hottest scribe can come up with a happier ending than that mopey old Bill Shakespeare.

  “Hey, sister!” There was an angry pounding on the bathroom door. “Open up in there!”

  “Hold your horses, will ya?” Amanda yelled back. “I’m just finishing up.”

  “You’ve been finishing up for forty-five minutes. Open the door or I’m going to call Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Amanda sighed. That was all she needed, for the landlady to get involved, wh
en she was already late on this week’s rent. “All right, all right.” Reluctantly, she heaved herself out of the water and, teeth chattering, pulled on her black lace peignoir. I really need to buy a nice thick toweling robe, Amanda thought, or maybe cashmere. Something warm.

  Pulling the thin wrapping of silk tighter around her body, she lit a fresh cigarette and tucked the newspaper under her arm before she opened the door to find Mildred, her down-the-hall neighbor, tapping her foot impatiently, her wide mouth twisted into a snarl.

  “Took you long enough.” With her yellow hair wrapped up tightly in curling rags, she looked like Medusa with a head full of live snakes. Mildred has probably turned a man or two to stone in her day. “Thought I was going to have to take a leak right here in the hallway.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Amanda said sweetly. “I left a bottle of Chanel Bois des Iles bubble bath in there, if you’d like to use it,” she added.

  Piggy eyes widening with greed, Mildred darted into the bathroom and slammed the door without so much as a thank-you, as though she was worried Amanda was going to change her mind.

  Typical, Amanda thought, rushing down the dirty corridor toward her own bare room to dress. This boardinghouse stuff was for the dogs. Nosy neighbors peeping into her room at all hours, sniffing among her things for whatever they thought she wouldn’t miss. Stern-faced Mrs. O’Malley with trailing rosaries and endless rules about curfews and gentleman callers and “being respectable”—ironic in a house in which every tenant, to Amanda’s practiced eye, at least, either used to be a professional or was about to be. Having to wait in line for everything: the bathroom, the pay phone, the enormous morning vat of sludgy Irish oatmeal that qualified as the second half of room and board.

  Oh well, Amanda thought, deftly zipping up the back of her black crepe Chanel dress (might as well match the bubble bath, she figured) and pinned her velvet hat into place. Mrs. O’Malley’s was relatively clean, for what it was, and the price was right—at least, it would be once she was a little more … liquid.