Beebo felt conspicuous, even though they rarely stopped the car or got out. She was afraid somebody would recognize Toby, and she hated to be stared at, with her short hair and slacks and casual cotton shirts. Skirts looked wrong on her and men’s pants looked fake.
She looked the best in riding wear: a formal tight-waisted jacket and white stock, hard velvet cap, smooth leather boots, jodhpurs. The kind of clothes she used to wear at shows around Juniper Hill, when she won ribbons for jumping other people’s horses. She had a lithe elegance that the riding clothes dramatized.
But you can’t walk into Schwab’s drugstore in formal riding clothes. At least not if you have orders to make yourself invisible. Beebo began to feel hemmed in. The only safe place in the county of Los Angeles was the Bogardus estate, and even there she worried about guests and servants.
Miss Pinch disapproved sniffily of her, but she’d probably hold her tongue for Leo’s sake. Mrs. Sack was as plump and amiable as a currant bun, and about as perceptive. The others were a shadowy and obsequious crew whom Beebo rarely saw, yet she distrusted them all.
In the evenings, when she was alone, Beebo started writing to Paula and Jack. They were short letters at first, though the ones to Jack were longer and franker. To Paula, she described the flash of October across the southern California landscape; the whipped-cream weather, the purple hills, the flowers.
To Jack she said, “Venus is wonderful. She’s working so hard I hardly ever see her, though. But she says she’d spend every minute with me if she could. Nobody else exists but me. It’s funny—that looks so made-up on paper. But she really said it, and I believe her.
“I almost never see Leo, either. When I run into him, I ask about his diet and he asks me about the horses. I think he’s a good man—good for Toby—but I’d hate like hell to have him mad at me.
“I guess the one thing I don’t like about it here is being alone so much. Even Toby’s gone till late in the day. What a nice kid he is, underneath the shell. He wants to be somebody in his own right, and I’ll bet he makes it.
“How is that doll you room with? Please write and tell me everything about Paula. Best—Beebo.”
There was no trouble between Leo and Beebo until the day she and Toby picked Venus up at the studio in Television City. They knew she was coming home early to prepare for a party, and they talked one another into it like a pair of school boys ditching class for a day to have a ball. It seemed quite innocuous, and yet rather worldly and exciting when they discussed it, tooling around in the silver car.
But when they actually arrived in that principality of a parking lot, they were rather abashed.
“What if she doesn’t see us?” Toby said.
“That’d probably be all for the best,” Beebo said.
But Venus saw them plain and clear when she emerged from the building, surrounded by aides and admirers. She walked briskly to the car, surprising the crowd, which began to straggle after her, opened the door, and pulled Toby out by his collar.
“Darling,” she said smoothly, “I want you to meet Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Klein. Boys, will you introduce him around for me?” She smiled at one of the men, who quickly obliged her.
Venus thrust her head into the car. “Beebo, what the hell!” she hissed.
“I’m sorry—we thought it would be fun,” Beebo faltered.
“You thought—” Venus shut her eyes a minute and swallowed her temper. “Oh, balls. I’m not going to get mad at you. I can’t, I’m too much in love with you. But oh! you fool, Leo can. I hope to God he doesn’t hear about it.” She withdrew, collared Toby again, and popped him into the front seat, sitting down beside him to wave and smile at the group of people so charmingly that no one but herself was likely to be noticed as they pulled away.
The sponsors for Million Dollar Baby were openhanded, despite long rehearsal hours and high rents and salaries, because they figured that with Venus in the show, it had to be a smash. So Leo, anxious to live up to their expectations, worked her unremittingly day and night throughout October.
Venus not only had to act, she had to dance and sing. The big number for the second show, then in production, was “I’m Putting My All on You.”
“I never sang before in my life!” Venus yelled at Leo.
“Marilyn Monroe can do it,” he said softly, infuriating her.
“Leo, I can’t sing!” she cried, trying to explain fundamentals to him as if he were retarded.
“Well, don’t,” Beebo said, surprising both of them. She was watching the scene in the Bogardus rec room. Leo threw her an irritated look, and Beebo explained quickly, “Talk the song. Whisper and wiggle like Marlene Dietrich. Venus, Leo’s right. You have to live up to the title. Million Dollar Baby. God, you ought to be able to do anything for that price, including grand opera.”
Leo laughed, a clattering jangle of a sound, while Venus salved her wounds in prim silence, peeved at Beebo for backing up her husband.
“Now, you see?” Leo told her, waving at Beebo. “That’s it. Beebo can see it. Why can’t you? I tell you the same damn thing and you squawk at me like a fishwife. Okay, I’m not young and handsome, but I’m smart. That’s how you got where we are today. You
