The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  “You could really be big,” Harry said. “Everybody’s saying so. If Next Door does as well as Father and Daughter and you and Don keep going on the way you have been, you could be a big deal.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s what I’m banking on.”

  “You want Little Women to come out just when people are thinking you only know how to do one thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had a huge hit with Father and Daughter. People know you can be funny. They know you’re adorable. They know they liked you in that picture.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now you’re gonna do it again. You’re going to show them that you can re-create the magic. You’re not just a one-trick pony.”

  “All right . . .”

  “Maybe you do a picture with Don. After all, they can’t print pictures of the two of you dancing at Ciro’s or the Trocadero fast enough.”

  “But—”

  “Hear me out. You and Don do a picture. A matinee romance, maybe. Something where all the girls want to be you, and all the boys want to be with you.”

  “Fine.”

  “And just when everyone is thinking they know you, that they ‘get’ Evelyn Hugo, you play Jo. You knock everybody’s socks off. Now the audience is going to think to themselves, ‘I knew she was something special.’ ”

  “But why can’t I just do Little Women now? And they’ll think that now?”

  Harry shook his head. “Because you have to give them time to invest in you. You have to give them time to get to know you.”

  “You’re saying I should be predictable.”

  “I’m saying you should be predictable and then do something unpredictable, and they’ll love you forever.”

  I listened to him, thought about it. “You’re just feeding me a line,” I said.

  Harry laughed. “Look, this is Ari’s plan. Like it or not. He wants you in a few more pictures before he’s gonna give you Little Women. But he is gonna give you Little Women.”

  “All right,” I said. What choice did I have, really? My contract with Sunset was for another three years. If I caused too much trouble, they had an option to drop me at any time. They could loan me out, force me to take projects, put me on leave without pay, you name it. They could do anything they wanted. Sunset owned me.

  “Your job now,” Harry said, “is to see if you can make a real go of it with Don. It’s in both of your best interests.”

  I laughed. “Oh, now you want to talk about Don.”

  Harry smiled. “I don’t want to sit here and listen to you talk about how dreamy he is. That’s boring. I want to know if the two of you might be ready to make it official.”

  Don and I had been seen around town, our photos taken at every hot spot in Hollywood. Dinner at Dan Tana’s, lunch at the Vine Street Derby, tennis at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club. And we knew what we were doing, parading around in public.

  I needed Don’s name mentioned in the same sentences as mine, and Don needed to look like he was a part of the New Hollywood. Photos of the two of us double-dating with other stars went a long way toward solidifying his image as a man-about-town.

  But he and I never talked about any of that. Because we were genuinely happy to be around each other. The fact that it was helping our careers felt like a bonus.

  The night of the premiere of his movie Big Trouble, Don picked me up wearing a slick dark suit and holding a Tiffany box.

  “What’s this?” I asked him. I was wearing a black-and-purple floral Christian Dior.

  “Open it,” Don said, smiling.

  Inside was a giant platinum and diamond ring. It was braided on the sides with a square-cut jewel in the middle.

  I gasped. “Are you . . .”

  I knew it had been coming, if only because I knew Don wanted to sleep with me so bad it was nearly killing him. I’d been resisting him despite his very overt advances. But it was getting harder to do. The more we kissed in dark places, the more we found ourselves alone in the backs of limousines, the harder it was for me to push him away.

  I’d never had that feeling before, physical yearning. I’d never felt what it is to ache to be touched—until Don. I would find myself next to him, desperate to feel his hands on my bare skin.

  And I loved the idea of making love to someone. I’d had sex before, but it had never meant anything to me. I wanted to make love to Don. I loved him. And I wanted us to do it right.

  And here it was. A marriage proposal.

  I put my hand out to touch the ring, to make sure it was all real. Don shut the box before I could. “I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said.

  “What?” I felt foolish. I’d allowed myself to dream too big. Here I was, Evelyn Herrera, parading around as if my name was Evelyn Hugo and I could marry a movie star.

  “At least, not yet.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment. “Have it your way, then,” I said, turning away from him to grab my clutch.

  “Don’t be sour,” Don said.

  “Who’s sour?” I said. We walked out of my apartment, and I shut the door behind me.

  “I’m going to ask you tonight.” His voice was pleading, nearly apologetic. “At the premiere. In front of everyone.”

  I softened.

  “I just wanted to make sure . . . I wanted to know . . .” Don grabbed my hand and got down on one knee. He didn’t open the ring box again. He just looked at me sincerely. “Will you say yes?”

  “We should go,” I said. “You can’t be late to your own movie.”

  “Will you say yes? That’s all I need to know.”

  I looked right at him and said, “Yes, you dumb fool. I’m mad for you.”

  He grabbed me and kissed me. It hurt a little. His teeth hit my lower lip.

  I was going to get married. To someone I loved this time. To someone who made me feel the way I was pretending to feel in the movies.

  What could be any further from that tiny sad apartment in Hell’s Kitchen than this?

  An hour later, on the red carpet, in a sea of photographers and publicists, Don Adler got down on one knee. “Evelyn Hugo, will you marry me?”

  I cried and nodded. He stood up and put the ring on my finger. And then he picked me up and spun me in the air.

  As Don put me back down, I saw Harry Cameron by the theater door, clapping for us. He gave me a wink.

  Sub Rosa

  March 4, 1957

  DON AND EV, FOREV!

  You heard it here first, folks: Hollywood’s newest It Couple, Don Adler and Evelyn Hugo, are tying the knot!

  The Most Eligible of Eligible Bachelors has chosen none other than the sparkling blond starlet to be his bride. The two have been seen canoodling and cavorting all over, and now they’ve decided to make it official.

  Rumor has it that Mary and Roger Adler, Don’s oh-so-proud parents, couldn’t be happier to have Evelyn joining the family.

  You can bet your bottom dollar that the nuptials will be the event of the season. With a Hollywood family this glamorous and a bride this beautiful, the whole town will be talking.

  WE HAD A BEAUTIFUL WEDDING. Three hundred guests, hosted by Mary and Roger Adler. Ruby was my maid of honor. I wore a jewel-necked taffeta gown, covered with rose-point lace, with sleeves down to my wrists and a full lace skirt. It was designed by Vivian Worley, the head costumer for Sunset. Gwendolyn did my hair, pulled back into a simple but flawless bun, to which my tulle veil was attached. There wasn’t much of the wedding that was planned by us; it was controlled almost entirely by Mary and Roger and the rest by Sunset.

  Don was expected to play the game exactly the way his parents wanted it played. Even then I could tell he was eager to get out of their shadow, to eclipse their stardom with his own. Don had been raised to believe that fame was the only power worth pursuing, and what I loved about him was that he was ready to become the most powerful person in any room by becoming the most adored.

  And while our wedding might ha
ve been at the whim of others, our love and our commitment to each other felt sacred. When Don and I looked into each other’s eyes and held hands as we said “I do” at the Beverly Hills Hotel, it felt like it was just the two of us up there, despite being surrounded by half of Hollywood.

  Toward the end of the night, after the wedding bells and our announcement as a married couple, Harry pulled me aside. He asked me how I was doing.

  “I’m the most famous bride in the world right now,” I said. “I’m great.”

  Harry laughed. “You’ll be happy?” he asked. “With Don? He’s going to take good care of you?”

  “I have no doubt about it.”

  I believed in my heart that I’d found someone who understood me, or at least understood the me I was trying to be. At the age of nineteen, I thought Don was my happy ending.

  Harry put his arm around me and said, “I’m happy for you, kid.”

  I grabbed his hand before he could pull it away. I’d had two glasses of champagne, and I was feeling fresh. “How come you never tried anything?” I asked him. “We’ve known each other a few years now. Not even a kiss on the cheek.”

  “I’ll kiss you on the cheek if you want,” Harry said, smiling.

  “Not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “Did you want something to happen?” he asked me.

  I wasn’t attracted to Harry Cameron. Despite the fact that he was a categorically attractive man. “No,” I said. “I don’t think I did.”

  “But you wanted me to want something to happen?”

  I smiled. “And what if I did? Is that so wrong? I’m an actress, Harry. Don’t you forget that.”

  Harry laughed. “You have ‘actress’ written all over your face. I remember it every single day.”

  “Then why, Harry? What’s the truth?”

  Harry took a sip of his scotch and took his arm off me. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “You’re young.”

  I waved him off. “Most men don’t seem to have any problem with a little thing like that. My own husband is seven years older than me.”

  I looked over to see Don swaying with his mother on the dance floor. Mary was still gorgeous in her fifties. She’d come to fame during the silent-film era and did a few talkies before retiring. She was tall and intimidating, with a face that was striking more than anything.

  Harry took another swig of his scotch and put the glass down. He looked thoughtful. “It’s a long and complicated story. But suffice it to say, you’ve just never been my type.”

  The way he said it, I knew he was trying to tell me something. Harry wasn’t interested in girls like me. Harry wasn’t interested in girls at all.

  “You’re my best friend in the world, Harry,” I said. “Do you know that?”

  He smiled. I got the impression he did so because he was charmed and because he was relieved. He’d revealed himself, however vaguely. And I was meeting him with acceptance, however indirectly.

  “Am I really?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, then, you’ll be mine.”

  I raised my glass to him. “Best friends tell each other everything,” I said.

  He smiled, raising his own glass. “I don’t buy that,” he teased. “Not for one minute.”

  Don came over and interrupted us. “Would you mind terribly, Cameron, if I danced with my bride?”

  Harry put his hands up, as if in surrender. “She’s all yours.”

  “That she is.”

  I took Don’s hand, and he twirled me around the dance floor. He looked right into my eyes. He really looked at me, really saw me.

  “Do you love me, Evelyn Hugo?” he asked.

  “More than anything in the world. Do you love me, Don Adler?”

  “I love your eyes, and your tits, and your talent. I love the fact that you’ve got absolutely no ass on you. I love everything about you. So to say yes would be an understatement.”

  I laughed and kissed him. We were surrounded by people, packed onto the dance floor. His father, Roger, was smoking a cigar with Ari Sullivan in the corner. I felt a million miles away from my old life, the old me, that girl who needed Ernie Diaz for anything at all.

  Don pulled me close and put his mouth to my ear, whispering, “Me and you. We will rule this town.”

  We were married for two months before he started hitting me.

  SIX WEEKS INTO OUR MARRIAGE, Don and I shot a weepie on location in Puerto Vallarta. Called One More Day, it was about a rich girl, Diane, who spends the summer with her parents at their second home, and the local boy, Frank, who falls in love with her. Naturally, they can’t be together, because her parents don’t approve.

  The first weeks of my marriage to Don had been nearly blissful. We bought a house in Beverly Hills and had it decorated in marble and linen. We had pool parties nearly every weekend, drinking champagne and cocktails all afternoon and into the night.

  Don made love like a king, truly. With the confidence and power of someone in charge of a fleet of men. I melted underneath him. In the right moment, for him, I’d have done anything he wanted.

  He had flipped a switch in me. A switch that changed me from a woman who saw making love as a tool into a woman who knew that making love was a need. I needed him. I needed to be seen. I came alive under his gaze. Being married to Don had shown me another side of myself, a side I was just getting to know. A side I liked.

  When we got to Puerto Vallarta, we spent a few days in town before shooting. We took our rented boat out into the water. We dived into the ocean. We made love in the sand.

  But as we started shooting and the daily stresses of Hollywood started fracturing our newlywed cocoon, I could tell the tide was turning.

  Don’s last movie, The Gun at Point Dume, wasn’t doing well at the box office. It was his first time in a Western, his first crack at playing an action hero. PhotoMoment had just published a review saying, “Don Adler is no John Wayne.” Hollywood Digest wrote, “Adler looks like a fool holding a gun.” I could tell it was bothering him, making him doubt himself. Establishing himself as a masculine action hero was a vital part of his plan. His father had mostly played the straight man in madcap comedies, a clown. Don was out to prove he was a cowboy.

  It did not help that I had just won an Audience Appreciation Award for Best Rising Star.

  On the day we shot the final good-bye, where Diane and Frank kiss one last time on the beach, Don and I woke up in our rented bungalow, and he told me to make him breakfast. Mind you, he did not ask me to make him breakfast. He barked the order. Regardless, I ignored his tone and called down to the maid.

  She was a Mexican woman named Maria. When we had first arrived, I was unsure if I should speak Spanish to the local people. And then, without ever making a formal decision about it, I found myself speaking slow, overenunciated English to everyone.

  “Maria, will you please make Mr. Adler some breakfast?” I said into the phone, and then I turned to Don and said, “What would you like? Some coffee and eggs?”

  Our maid back in Los Angeles, Paula, made his breakfast every morning. She knew just how he liked it. I realized in that moment that I’d never paid attention.

  Frustrated, Don grabbed the pillow from under his head and smashed it over his face, screaming into it.

  “What has gotten into you?” I said.

  “If you’re not going to be the kind of wife who is going to make me breakfast, you can at least know how I like it.” He escaped to the bathroom.

  I was bothered but not entirely surprised. I had quickly learned that Don was only kind when he was happy, and he was only happy when he was winning. I had met him on a winning streak, married him as he was ascending. I was quickly learning that sweet Don was not the only Don.

  Later, in our rented Corvette, Don backed out of the driveway and started heading the ten blocks toward set.

  “Are you ready for today?” I asked him. I was trying to be uplifting.
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  Don stopped in the middle of the road. He turned to me. “I’ve been a professional actor for longer than you’ve been alive.” This was true, albeit on a technicality. He was in one of Mary’s silent movies as a baby. He didn’t act in a movie again until he was twenty-one.

  There were a few cars behind us now. We were holding up traffic. “Don . . .” I said, trying to encourage him to move forward. He wasn’t listening. The white truck behind us started pulling around, trying to get past us.

  “Do you know what Alan Thomas said to me yesterday?” Don said.

  Alan Thomas was his new agent. Alan had been encouraging Don to leave Sunset Studios, to go freelance. A lot of actors were navigating their careers on their own. It was leading to big paychecks for big stars. And Don was getting antsy. He kept talking about making more for one picture than his parents had made their whole careers.

  Be wary of men with something to prove.

  “People around town are asking why you’re still going by Evelyn Hugo.”

  “I changed my name legally. What do you mean?”

  “On the marquee. It should say ‘Don and Evelyn Adler.’ That’s what people are saying.”

  “Who is saying that?”

  “People.”

  “What people?”

  “They think you wear the pants.”

  My head fell into my hands. “Don, you’re being silly.”

  Another car came up around us, and I watched as they recognized Don and me. We were seconds away from a full page in Sub Rosa magazine about how Hollywood’s favorite couple were at each other’s throat. They’d probably say something like “The Adlers Gone Madlers?”

  I suspected Don saw the headlines writing themselves at the same time I did, because he started the car and drove us to set. When we pulled onto the lot, I said, “I can’t believe we’re almost forty-five minutes late.”

  And Don said, “Yeah, well, we’re Adlers. We can be.”

  I found it absolutely repugnant. I waited until the two of us were in his trailer, and I said, “When you talk like that, you sound like a horse’s ass. You shouldn’t say things like that where people can hear you.”