what can you do?
Charlie came to a stop just behind her, and then, absently, he dropped a warm kiss on that part of her – the nape? – which had been so distracting him, and breathed in the familiar perfume.
‘I didn’t ask,’ he replied at last.
‘You didn’t ask? Charlie! Why ever not?’
He kissed her again: inhaled the smell of her skin. ‘You really are … very lovely,’ he murmured.
‘Why didn’t you ask him, Charlie? I thought you were going to do that. Because I’m all ch-changed now, and ready to l-l-leave. You can see for yourself! I thought you were going to ask him!’
‘Well I didn’t ask, I informed. I told him that I would be bringing you along.’
‘No!’
‘In fact – now I think about it, I didn’t even do that … I informed whoever it was picked up the telephone. The maid, I guess—’
‘Oh God. Charlie!’
‘Sweetheart – it’s a small party. Max and Eleanor Beecham are splendid people … Smart people. You know them well enough. What do you think they’re going to say? The biggest movie star in history wants to come to their party, bringing with him the reigning Queen of Hollywood—’
‘It’s not funny …’
‘… The finest hostess, the most beautiful and talented actress—’
‘I’m not laughing, Charlie. Because you’re not being funny. Why’s everything got to be a joke with you?’
‘And a movie star, too – in her own right …’
‘Ha! If you don’t count it’s WR who pays for the movies.’
‘And – without wishing to put too fine a point on it – the beloved mistress of the most powerful man in the most powerful nation … in the world …’
‘Oh Charlie, no he’s not!’
‘Well, you may not think so.’
‘He’s the s-second. S-second most powerful. It’s what he says. After President Hoover. WR says …’
‘HA! He says that, does he?’
‘Because he’s more modest than you are, Mr Charlie Chaplin. So it’s no use your laughing. In any case, I don’t like it when you talk that way. It’s vulgar. It’s not attractive to me. And who says you’re the biggest star in America, anyway?’ She flashed him a provocative smile. ‘Your good friend Douglas Fairbanks certainly wouldn’t agree with you …’
‘Because my good friend Dougie is a fool …’
‘Mary Pickford wouldn’t agree.’
‘She’s a floozy.’
‘Jack Gilbert, John Barrymore, Gary Cooper, Thomas Mix …’
Charlie laughed aloud. ‘Sweetie, you insult me!’
‘… Rudolph Valentino …’
‘Ah! … But you’re vicious, Marion. Merciless. Cruel. Rudy may once have been more adored than I am, but in case you didn’t notice it, honey, Rudy is dead.’
She sighed. Bored of the game, now. ‘Well. I suppose I shall just have to change out of my fancy clothes then. Since you haven’t asked if I can come along. And you can go on your own. See how much I care …’
But Marion did care. More than she would ever let on to anyone: Not to her ageing lover, the newspaper magnate, multimillionaire, and possibly the second most powerful man in America, William Randolph Hearst. Nor even to Charlie Chaplin. Keeper of everyone’s secrets, including his own, and probably her best friend in the whole world. No.
She hated to moan, so she never did. But she was careful. There was never any knowing, even in this crazy town, who thought what about anybody else’s business. With Marion’s standing in Hollywood society being what it was – ever so high and yet ever so low and, frankly, internationally notorious – there was always a risk when she ventured out in public, and she preferred not to go where there might be a scene. As a result Marion rarely attended other people’s parties. And since her own were notoriously the wildest, most extravagant and most glamorous in the city, she didn’t generally feel she was losing out.
Even so, Max and Eleanor Beecham’s annual shindy had quite a reputation, and she’d never been to it yet. The couple had been holding the party at their house every 17 October since the building was completed, eight long years ago. The party was as close to a tradition as the Hollywood Movie Colony yet knew and, for that alone, it would have been treasured. Added to which, people said it was fun.
No one could compete with Marion when it came to scale: the Beechams were too smart to try. Their party was exquisite and select – never more than fifty people, but always the best (in a manner of speaking). Moguls and movie stars. Sometimes even a sprinkling of European royalty. One year, somehow, they’d managed to produce Mr and Mrs Albert Einstein.
Marion Davies imagined, correctly, that she would know just about every person present. Added to which, WR was out of town and she was tired of staying in. She felt like dressing up and getting canned in some decent company.
None of which would have been enough, ordinarily, to make such a difference. But last week a piece of information regarding the Beecham host and hostess had been brought to her attention and, before Marion acted on it, as she longed to do, she wanted to investigate further.
Most stars never touched their fan mail. But it was well known and often commented upon that Marion Davies read and replied to every one. This particular letter had been delivered, along with the usual weekly sackload, to her bungalow at the MGM studio lot. She was waiting to be called onto set, and it was lying at the top of a large pile of unopened letters on her assistant’s desk.
Dear Miss Davies [the letter began], I hope sincerely that you will forgive me for intruding in this way upon your precious time … I have long been a fan of all your movies, and I adored you in Tillie the Toiler …
It was a harmless beginning: crazy, perhaps – because everybody who wrote was crazy – but polite enough. She read on.
… However this is not why I am writing. I have a most unusual request …
After she had finished reading it, Marion wondered if it was luck or something more sinister which had persuaded the writer to approach her for help. For sure, she and Eleanor had been photographed together at a handful of Hollywood gatherings: they were indeed friends, at least up to a point. And they were of similar ages, perhaps a little older than most of the leading ladies. But since they both lied about that, it was hardly relevant.
There were the rumours about Marion, too, of course, which would have made her an appealing target. But the fans shouldn’t have known about them: not even a whisper. The fans shouldn’t have known anything – not about her, nor about Eleanor – except what their studio publicists put out.
Of course it was possible – likely, even –
