“Uh-oh,” he said, “there’s going to be a ruckus.”
I moved aside to make room and she arrived like a queen; one could almost imagine a string of servants carrying her train. “Hello, Jun,” she said perfunctorily, but she did not look at me, for her eyes were fixed on Tyler. “Good evening, Ashley.”
The director did not have a chance to reply, for Nora Minton Niles bubbled over. “Miss Banks, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you!” she said with the same excitement she’d shown about the speakeasy. “You’re even more beautiful in real life than you are in the pictures!”
This departed so drastically from the usual behavior of most actresses that no one knew how to respond. Even Elizabeth seemed taken aback. Then Tyler—always Tyler— stepped in to make things better. “If that is true,” he said, “then it is because my cameramen have not been doing her justice. Is it really possible that the two of you have never met?”
“That’s right,” said Elizabeth, who had recovered by now. “You’ve been keeping Nora all to yourself.” She looked at him sharply, and then pulled out a cigarette, holding it up expectantly. John Vail and I both struck matches and he, with a wink at me, prevailed.
“I’ve wanted to meet you forever!” Nora continued, oblivious to the machinations around her. “I’ve been a fan of yours since Sleight of Hand—oh, even longer than that! Since your wonderful comedies back at Triangle. Can you believe that when A Holiday Caper came out, I was only ten years old?”
A cold, thin smile fixed on Elizabeth’s lips, and she looked down her nose at the younger actress.
“I have been in Hollywood,” said Elizabeth, “since before anyone knew what pictures were going to become. Back then, hard work and talent actually meant something to people, and you had to have some skill to be successful. It is amazing,” she added, lifting her chin higher still, “the kinds of roles they give to children these days.”
“Now Elizabeth,” said Tyler in a slightly scolding tone, “I think we still reward hard work and talent. And if I’m not mistaken, you yourself were quite a youngster when you started in this business.”
I watched the two of them, who were clearly—despite the presence of other people—having a conversation with each other. And I thought, not for the first time, that it was difficult to resent the director, as he had never let his friendship with Elizabeth affect his dealings with me, nor change the way that he behaved toward Nora. Yet if Nora was the subject of their argument, she herself did not seem to know it. Seeing the admiration on her face as she gazed at the older actress, I realized that Nora was totally unaffected by the jealousies and competitiveness that poisoned most other people in Hollywood. She had never felt passionate about being an actress, and she seemed indifferent to being a star. She did not take stock in or even understand the effect her beauty had on others. It did not cost her to compliment or admire Elizabeth, for if one does not see oneself as part of a competition, one has nothing to win—or to lose. Nora was a star, yes, and a talented actress. But she was not and never would be a diva.
Elizabeth must have finally understood this herself; when she struck again, she aimed where she knew it would hurt.
“Well, Ashley,” she said in a saccharine voice, “according to you, I still am a youngster, at least in terms of my learning. Why, if it weren’t for all those nights you spend teaching me about books and art, I wouldn’t know any more than I did in primary school.”
This latest dart struck home. But even as Nora registered the kind of time that Elizabeth was spending with Tyler, she reacted not with womanly jealousy, but with a childlike turn of logic. “Oh, Mr. Tyler, that sounds so wonderful! Would you mind helping me with my studies too? I know you’re busy, so we could arrange it for whenever you wish. In fact,” she said, brightening, “if my mother would allow it, maybe you could even come to my mansion!”
I did not hear how either Tyler or Elizabeth responded, for at that very moment, my butler Phillipe came out to tell me that one of the hired waitstaff had taken ill. That left his staff a man short, with at least another hour of food service before it grew dark enough for the fireworks. As we looked out on the guests, however, things seemed to be well in hand. The crowd had topped out at around forty people, and most of them had eaten already. Phillipe and I decided no additional steps were needed, and that he and the remaining staff would be able to man the party without any interruption of service. Then, as I looked out at the people sipping drinks in the beautiful colors of sunset, which just now lit the San Gabriel Mountains a brilliant pink, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The guests were in good hands, and I think it is fair to say that people knew that when Jun Nakayama set his mind to something—whether it was a film or a party—the proceedings would always be carried out with the utmost of class and professionalism.
If there was anyone who was not enjoying herself, it was, of course, Elizabeth. After her initial encounter with
