because it changed my thinking about myself.”
“You knew you were good.”
“I knew I was an actress. I left Ninety-first Street, rented a house in the Hollywood Hills, and within three years I won my first Oscar. You see, it’s all about self-image. We can’t let anyone take that away from us.”
A mumbling waiter brings two plates of Manicotti Dolly Parton. I had stared at the menu, confused by the Shrimp Angeli Mickey Rourke and the Chicken Dabney Coleman, and decided to get whatever she was getting.
“I’m sure you’ve heard terrible things about me — that I’m late on the set, that I’m drunk or high or rude, but let me tell you,
“I’m having a wonderful time,” I say as we dig into our fat creamy noodles, “but what does this have to do with Randall Eberhardt?”
She folds her hands on the tablecloth so the bangles splay out with a golden splash. “This is why I am so passionate about bringing this man to justice. Despite everything I have learned, I am still a sucker for the male animal, and Randall Eberhardt took advantage of me all over again. I’ve worked too hard.”
She accepts another vermouth. “I’m sure you’re too smart to fall for that kind of thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
“How do you handle men?”
“I avoid them at all costs.”
Jayne throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my
“It works.”
She regards me quizzically, then hunches her shoulders in the white cotton jacket and works for a while on the Veal Johnny Carson.
“My third husband, the used car king, once secretly filmed us making love. Not many people know that. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone you can trust?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Magda’s the only one who’s stood by me all these years. Thank God for her and my children and grandchildren. I’ve had a rough time of it, but I still believe in romance.”
She catches the indulgence in my smile.
“I’ll bet you think it’s silly to wear all this makeup. I don’t do it for men, I do it for myself. I wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and keep
She laughs and I laugh with her, although trying to follow the increasing zigzag of her conversation has lost me.
“I did a musical directed by Vincente Minnelli. It was a Technicolor extravaganza and in one scene I wore a fox cape. Well, Mr. Minnelli had it sent to New York and dyed to match my eyes. Why? Because it was
“I think I saw that one.”
“Louis B. Mayer always told me his philosophy was to make beautiful pictures about beautiful people,” she goes on with great sweep. “We all need romance, even you, Ana, dear. You are a serious young woman — I could see that right away — but there’s a part of you that needs to blossom.”
She is leaning over the table, fixing me with misty green-blue eyes. The pupils are dark and wide and wondering in the caressing orange-red sunset light.
“Give yourself the magic, Ana.”
It is as if she has seen through to my soul, seen what was missing, and supplied it. I feel myself touched and melting. I nod. I want to say, Thank you.
Tom Pauley is holding the car door open as we exit the restaurant.
“Did you enjoy dinner?”
“Lovely, Tom,” says Jayne with an edge.
Inside the limousine, she explains, “Now when I talk about romance, I don’t necessarily mean between a sixty-year-old driver and a twenty-one-year-old wardrobe girl, not that I think there’s anything
“So Tom and Maureen are an item,” confirming what I’d seen on the beach.
“Yes, but all is not well in the castle,” Jayne sighs, “all is not well.”
Pauley pulls the limousine into traffic.
“Take this.” She hands me a rooster water pitcher she has evidently just filched from the restaurant under my very eyes. “To remember the evening.”
I take it. It seems a harmless, endearing gesture. After the movie and the manicotti and the veal and the cheesecake and espresso, I feel cozy and content as a pet cat, stretching out and yawning unself-consciously, hoping Jayne Mason will start singing again.
Like Randall Eberhardt, I have totally lost my bearings.
• • •
Barbara looks up I enter her office carrying a large heavy glass containing two dozen yellow roses.
“For me? Are we getting engaged?”
I put the vase down.
“From Jayne Mason. On my desk this morning.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m such an understanding person.”
“You?”
“She said so in her note: ‘Thank you for being understanding.’ We went to the movies and dinner and she told me her philosophy of life.”
Barbara’s fair face flushes red. “You had dinner with Jayne Mason?”
“Just the two of us. She likes me.” I sit down and cross my feet up on her desk.
“A once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Barbara murmurs enviously.
“It was pretty amazing,” I admit, still basking in the warmth of the limousine. “ ‘Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse.’ She said that in one of her movies. I told her, Hey, Jayne baby, you’re talking about
“What else did she say about her philosophy of life?”
Barbara has stopped fingering the yellow petals. Her smile is tentative.
“Oh, she told a lot of great old Hollywood stories. You would have loved it. like the time this guy had a fox cape dyed to match her eyes—”
“Who did?”
“Liza Minnelli’s father.”
“Vincente Minnelli? The director?” she asks incredulously.
“Yeah, she was doing a picture with him and he sent this fur to New York to be dyed … What’s wrong?”
Barbara’s mouth is tight and her exhilaration has drained to pale concern.
“That was Norma Shearer in
“Can’t be.”
“It was one of the most excessive movies ever made. They spent a fortune on period antique furniture and incredible costumes and the wardrobe designer, Gilbert Adrian, even had a fox cape custom-dyed to match Norma Shearer’s eyes. The punchline is, to save money they wound up shooting the movie in black-and-white. It’s a famous story.”
“But Jayne Mason said it happened to her.”
“It didn’t.”
