a raw nerve: broke open a secret sore. She did something she only ever did alone, and then only rarely: she wept. Not for herself, but for the Beechams. Later, when they came to fetch her onto set, she locked the letter inside a small jewel box and said not a word about it to anyone.
‘What do we know about M-Max and Eleanor Beecham, Charlie?’ Marion asked him suddenly. ‘I mean to say, just for example, do you imagine it’s their real name?
‘Beecham?’ Charlie laughed. ‘It would make them quite a rarity in this town if it were. Why don’t you ask them tonight?’
‘I might j-just do that …’
Charlie let it hang there. She would do no such thing, of course. Say what you like about Marion – and people did – but she was never intentionally impolite or unkind.
Even so, Charlie noted, she was on edge this evening. Something was bothering her. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Nothing’s the trouble, Charlie. We can be curious about each other every once in a while. That’s all …’ She stopped. ‘Only, don’t you wonder sometimes, what draws us all to … w-wash up w-where we do? The way we do? The Beechams, for an example. There they are, y’know? Part of the scenery since I don’t even know how long. Can you remember? When you f-first laid eyes on the Beechams? They’ve just been there. Beautiful and clever and on top of the world … But where did they come from?’
‘He was at Keystone when I first came to Hollywood. Playing piano on set … They all adored him there.’
‘Well, I know that.’
‘Then they teamed up with Butch Menken, didn’t they? … They made some very fine movies. Between them. You can’t say they’re not talented.’
‘Of c-course I’m not saying it, Charlie. Max Beecham is terrific. One of the best in the wide world … Everybody knows that.’
‘Let’s not go too far.’
‘Well I think he is. I think he’s a great director, and even if it wasn’t such a hit as some of his other ones, I think Beautiful Day was the best – the best t-talkie – of last year. Including mine – and you didn’t bring any out, Charlie, and I specially said t-talkie – so I can say that. C-can’t I?’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart.’
‘… I also think Eleanor is a g-great actress.’
‘No better than you are, Marion.’
‘But where did they come from? Who in hell are they? They seem so … together. They’ve got that beautiful, perfect house, and everybody knows they just adore each other – they’re probably the happiest couple in Hollywood …’
‘It’s not saying so much.’
‘But you can see the way they look at each other.’
‘They seem …’ Charlie thought about it. ‘They do seem to care for each other. Yes.’
‘And I mean to say they’re a mystery. Don’t you think?’ She stopped. ‘I just wonder …’
‘Wonder about them especially? Or about everyone?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You could ask the same questions about any of us. We all have secrets.’
‘Huh? I thought you and I were pretty close friends.’
‘Of course we are. But we don’t know everything about each other.’
‘I should certainly hope not!’
‘Exactly. We all embellish. It would be dull if we didn’t. Look at Von Stroheim! One of our greatest directors, yes. But do you suppose he’s really a count, as he pretends to be?’
‘Oh, forget it,’ Marion said, suddenly sullen. ‘It doesn’t even m-matter, anyway.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I shouldn’t have b-brought it up. Eleanor Beecham’s a terrific lady. That’s all I’m saying … Let’s get going, shall we? Are you taking me to this stupid party or aren’t you?
Charlie checked his not-bad-for-a-workhouse wristwatch. Heavy gold, it was. Cartier. A gift from Marion. ‘We’re too early yet,’ he replied. ‘In any case, Marion, the mood you’re in, I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re so damn miserable you’d reduce the entire party to blubbering tears in less than a minute.’
‘Ha! I would not!’
‘Nobody’d want to talk to you.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Except for me of course … I always want to talk to you.’
‘Well, that’s not true— Oh!’ she interrupted herself. ‘But you know what we need, Ch-Charlie?’ she cried, brightening all at once. ‘Cocktails! Don’t you think so, h-honey? Then we’ll definitely be in the mood for a party!’
2
High up in the Hollywood Hills, at home in their splendid Castillo del Mimosa, Max and Eleanor Beecham were nicely ahead of schedule. Between them, as always, they had everything for the evening under good control. Max had paid sweeteners to all the necessary people to ensure the hooch flowed freely all night. Cases of champagne, vodka, Scotch and gin, and the correct ingredients for every cocktail known to Hollywood man had been delivered discreetly in the early hours of the morning, and tonight the place was heaving with the finest liquor money could buy. Al Capone himself would have been pushed to provide better.
Meanwhile Eleanor had seen to it that the halls, the pool and garden were decked in sweet-smelling and nautically themed California lilacs: white and blue – a subtle reminder to everyone of Max’s nautically themed latest movie, Lost At Sea. There was a jazz band running through its numbers in the furthest drawing room, where carpets had been removed and furniture carted away; and in front of the house, on the Italianate terrace, beneath a canopy of blue and white nautically themed silk flags, there stood a long banqueting table. It was swathed in silver threaded linen, with a plait of bluebells curling between silver candelabras. The table shimmered under the marching candles and the artful electric light-work of Max’s chief gaffer – the most sought-after lighting technician in the business – fresh from the set of Lost At Sea.
Eleanor was longing for a drink. But she was of an age now – somewhere in her mid- to late thirties – where even the one drink made her face wilt just a bit, and like any professional actress she knew it well. She also understood how much it mattered. So she was holding out on the liquor until all the guests had arrived and they could move onto the artfully lit terrace.
She was holding out changing into her evening dress, too, for fear of creasing the damn thing. In the meantime – though her short dark hair, shorn into an Eton crop, was perfectly coiffed, and her finely arched eyebrows, her full, wide mouth, her green eyes were perfectly painted – she was still wrapped in an old silk bathrobe.
She had
