“I take it you haven’t told them the plan,” Evelyn says.
I place my computer in my bag. “Not yet.” I hate the slight tint of sheepishness that comes out when I say it.
“That’s fine,” Evelyn says. “I’m not judging you, if that’s what you’re worried about. God knows I’m no defender of the truth.”
I laugh.
“You’ll do what you need to do,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
I just don’t know what, exactly, that is yet.
* * *
WHEN I GET home, the package from my mother is sitting just inside my building’s door. I pick it up, only to realize that it’s incredibly heavy. I end up pushing it across the tile floor with my foot. I pull it, one step at a time, up the stairs. And then I drag it into my apartment.
When I open the box, it’s filled with some of my father’s photo albums.
The front of each is embossed with “James Grant” in the bottom right-hand corner.
Nothing can stop me from sitting down, right on the floor where I am, and looking through the photos one by one.
On-set still photos of directors, famous actors, bored extras, ADs—you name it, they are all in here. My dad loved his job. He loved taking pictures of people who weren’t paying attention to him.
I remember once, about a year before he died, he took a two-month job in Vancouver. My mom and I went to visit him twice while he was up there, but it was so much colder than L.A., and he was gone for what felt like so long. I asked him why. Why couldn’t he just work at home? Why did he have to take this job?
He told me he wanted to do work that invigorated him. He said, “You have to do that, too, Monique. When you’re older. You have to find a job that makes your heart feel big instead of one that makes it feel small. OK? You promise me that?” He put out his hand, and I shook it, like we were making a business deal. I was six. By the time I was eight, we’d lost him.
I always kept what he said in my heart. I spent my teenage years with a burning pressure to find a passion, one that would expand my soul in some way. It was no small task. In high school, long after we had said good-bye to my father, I tried theater and orchestra. I tried joining the chorus. I tried soccer and debate. In a moment of what felt like an epiphany, I tried photography, hoping that the thing that expanded my father’s heart might expand my own.
But it wasn’t until I was assigned to write a profile piece on one of my classmates in my composition class freshman year at USC that I felt anything close to a swelling in my chest. I liked writing about real people. I liked finding evocative ways of interpreting the real world. I liked the idea of connecting people by sharing their stories.
Following that part of my heart led me to J school at NYU. Which led to my internship at WNYC. I followed that passion to a life of freelancing for embarrassing blogs, living check to check and hand to mouth, and then, eventually, to the Discourse, where I met David when he was working on the site’s redesign, and then to Vivant and now to Evelyn.
One small thing my dad said to me on a cold day in Vancouver has essentially been the basis of my entire life’s trajectory.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I would have listened to him if he hadn’t died. Would I have clung to his every word so tightly if his advice had felt unlimited?
At the end of the last photo album, I come across candids that don’t appear to be from a movie set. They were taken at a barbecue. I recognize my mom in the background of some of them. And then, at the very end, is one of me with my parents.
I can’t be more than four years old. I am eating a piece of cake with my hand, looking directly into the camera, as my mother holds me and my father has his arm around us. Most people still called me by my first name, Elizabeth, back then. Elizabeth Monique Grant.
My mom assumed I’d grow up to be a Liz or a Lizzy. But my father had always loved the name Monique and couldn’t help but call me by it. I would often remind him that my name was Elizabeth and he would tell me that my name was whatever I wanted it to be. When he passed away, it became clear to both my mother and me that I should be Monique. It eased our pain ever so slightly to honor every last thing about him. So my pet name became my real name. And my mother often reminds me that my name was a gift from my father.
Looking at this picture, I am struck by how beautiful my parents were together. James and Angela. I know what it cost them to build a life, to have me. A white woman and a black man in the early ’80s, neither of their families being particularly thrilled with the arrangement. We moved around a lot before my father died, trying to find a neighborhood where my parents felt at ease, at home. My mother didn’t feel welcome in Baldwin Hills. My father didn’t feel comfortable in Brentwood.
I was in school before I met another person who looked like me. Her name was Yael. Her father was Dominican, and her mother was from Israel. She liked to play soccer. I liked to play dress-up. We could rarely agree on anything. But I liked that when someone asked her if she was Jewish, she said, “I’m half Jewish.” No one else I knew was half something.
For so long, I felt like two halves.
And then my father died, and I felt like I was one-half my mother and one-half lost. A half that I feel so torn from, so incomplete without.
But looking at this picture now, the three of us together in 1986, me in overalls, my father in a polo, my mother in a denim jacket, we look like we belong together. I don’t look like I am half of one thing and half of another but rather one whole thing, theirs. Loved.
I miss my dad. I miss him all the time. But it’s moments like this, when I’m on the precipice of finally doing work that might just expand my heart, that I wish I could at least send him a letter, telling him what I’m doing. And I wish that he could send me one back.
I already know what he would write. Something like “I’m proud of you. I love you.” But still, I’d like to get one anyway.
* * *
“ALL RIGHT,” I say. My spot at Evelyn’s desk has become my second home. I’ve come to rely on Grace’s morning coffee. It has replaced my usual Starbucks habit. “Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday. You’re about to start Little Women. Go.”
Evelyn laughs. “You’ve become an old hand at this,” she says.
“I learn quickly.”
A WEEK INTO REHEARSALS, DON and I were lying in bed. He was asking how it was going, and I admitted that Celia was just as good as I’d thought she’d be.
“Well, The People of Montgomery County is going to be number one again this week. I’m at the top of my game again. And my contract is up at the end of this year. Ari Sullivan is willing to do whatever I want to make me happy. So just say the word, baby, and poof, she’s out of there.”
“No,” I said to him, putting my hand on his chest and my head on his shoulder. “It’s OK. I’m the lead. She’s supporting. I’m not going to worry too much. And anyway, there’s something I like about her.”
“There’s something I like about you,” he said, pulling me on top of him. And for a moment, all my worries completely disappeared.
The next day, when we broke for lunch, Joy and Ruby went off to get turkey salads. Celia caught my eye. “There’s no chance you’d want to cut out and grab a milk shake, is there?” she asked.
The nutritionist at Sunset would not have liked me getting a milk shake. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.
Ten minutes later, we were in Celia’s baby-pink 1956 Chevy, making our way to Hollywood Boulevard. Celia was a terrible driver. I gripped the door handle as if it was capable of saving my life.
Celia stopped at the light at Sunset Boulevard and Cahuenga. “I’m thinking Schwab’s,” she said with a grin.
Schwab’s was the place everybody hung around during the day back then. And everybody knew that Sidney Skolsky, from Photoplay, worked out of Schwab’s almost every day.
Celia wanted to be seen there. She wanted to be seen there with me.
“What kind of game are yo
u playing?” I asked.
“I’m not playing any game,” she said, falsely insulted that I’d suggest such a thing.
“Oh, Celia,” I said, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. “I’ve been at this a few more years than you. You’re the one who just fell off the turnip truck. Don’t confuse us.”
The light turned green, and Celia gunned it.
“I’m from Georgia,” she said. “Just outside of Savannah.”
“So?”
“I’m just saying, I didn’t fall off a turnip truck. I was scouted by a guy from Paramount back home.”
I found it somewhat intimidating—maybe even threatening—that someone had flown out to woo her. I had made my way to town through my own blood, sweat, and tears, and Celia had Hollywood running to her before she was even somebody.
“That may be so,” I said. “But I still know what game you’re running, honey. Nobody goes to Schwab’s for the milk shakes.”
“Listen,” she said, the tone of her voice changing slightly, becoming more sincere. “I could use a story or two. If I’m going to star in my own movie soon, I need some name recognition.”
“And this milk shake business is all just a ruse to be seen with me?” I found it insulting. Both being used and being underestimated.
Celia shook her head. “No, not at all. I wanted to go get a milk shake with you. And then, when we pulled out of the lot, I thought, We should go to Schwab’s.’ ”
Celia stopped abruptly at the light at Sunset and Highland. I realized at that point that was just how she drove. A lead foot on both the gas and the brake.
“Take a right,” I said.
“What?”
“Take a right.”
“Why?”
“Celia, take the goddamn right before I open this car door and throw myself out of it.”
She looked at me like I was nuts, which was fair. I had just threatened to kill myself if she didn’t put on her blinker.
She turned right on Highland.
“Take a left at the light,” I said.
She didn’t ask questions. She just put on her blinker. And then she spun onto Hollywood Boulevard. I instructed her to park the car on a side road. We walked to CC Brown’s.
“They have better ice cream,” I said as we walked in.
I was putting her in her place. I wasn’t going to be photographed with her unless I wanted to be, unless it was my idea. I certainly wasn’t going to be pushed around by somebody less famous than I was.
Celia nodded, feeling the sting.
The two of us sat down, and the guy behind the counter came up to us, momentarily speechless.
“Uh . . .” he said. “Do you want menus?”
I shook my head. “I know what I want. Celia?”
She looked at him. “Chocolate malt, please.”
I watched the way his eyes fixed on her, the way she bent forward slightly with her arms together, emphasizing her chest. She seemed unaware of what she was doing, and that mesmerized him even more.
“And I’ll have a strawberry milk shake,” I said.
When he looked at me, I saw his eyes open wider, as if he wanted to see as much of me as he could at one time.
“Are you . . . Evelyn Hugo?”
“No,” I said, and then I smiled and looked him right in the eye. It was ironic and teasing, with the same tone and inflection I’d used countless times when I was recognized around town.
He scattered away.
“Cheer up, buttercup,” I said as I looked at Celia. She was staring down at the glossy counter. “You’re getting a better milk shake out of the deal.”
“I upset you,” she said. “With the Schwab’s thing. I’m sorry.”
“Celia, if you’re going to be as big as you clearly want to be, you need to learn two things.”
“And what are they?”
“First, you have to push people’s boundaries and not feel bad about it. No one is going to give you anything if you don’t ask for it. You tried. You were told no. Get over it.”
“And the second thing?”
“When you use people, be good at it.”
“I wasn’t trying to use you—”
“Yes, Celia, you were. And I’m fine with that. I wouldn’t have a moment’s hesitation in using you. And I wouldn’t expect you to have a second thought about using me. Do you know the difference between the two of us?”
“There are a lot of differences between the two of us.”
“Do you know the one in particular I’m talking about?” I said.
“What is it?”
“That I know I use people. I’m fine with the idea of using people. And all of that energy that you spend trying to convince yourself that you’re not using people I spend getting better at it.”
“And you’re proud of that?”
“I’m proud of where it’s gotten me.”
“Are you using me? Now?”
“If I was, you’d never know.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
The guy behind the counter came back with our milk shakes. He appeared to have to give himself a pep talk just to give them to us.
“No,” I said to Celia, once he was gone.
“No what?”
“No, I’m not using you.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Celia said. It struck me as painfully naive, the way she so easily, so readily believed me. I was telling the truth, but still.
“Do you know why I’m not using you?” I said.
“This should be good,” Celia said as she took a sip of her shake. I laughed, surprised by both the world-weariness in her voice and the speed with which she spoke.
Celia would go on to win more Oscars than anybody else in our circle back then. And it was always for intense, dramatic roles. But I always thought she’d be dynamite in a comedy. She was so quick.
“The reason I’m not using you is that you have nothing to offer me. Not yet, at least.”
Celia took a sip of her shake again, stung. And then I leaned forward and took a sip of mine.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Celia said. “I’ll give you that you’re more famous than me. Being married to Captain Hollywood can have that effect on a person. But other than that, we’re at the same place, Evelyn. You’ve turned in a couple of good performances. So have I. And now we’re in a movie together, which both of us took on because we want an Academy Award. And let’s be honest, I have a leg up on you in that regard.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m a better actress.”
I stopped sipping the thick shake through the straw and turned myself toward her.
“How do you figure that?”
Celia shrugged. “It’s not something we can measure, I suppose. But it’s true. I’ve seen One More Day. You’re really good. But I’m better. And you know I’m better. That’s why you and Don almost had me kicked off the project.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. Ruby told me.”
I wasn’t mad at Ruby for telling Celia what I’d told her, the same way you’re not mad at a dog for barking at a mailman. That’s just what they do.
“Oh, fine. So you’re a better actress than me. And sure, maybe Don and I discussed getting you fired. So what? Big deal.”
“Well, that’s just my point exactly. I’m more talented than you, and you’re more powerful than me.”
“So?”
“So you’re right, I’m not very good at using people. So I’m trying this a different way. Let’s help each other out.”
I sipped my milk shake again, mildly intrigued. “How so?” I said.
“After hours, I’ll help you with your scenes. I’ll teach you what I know.”
“And I go with you to Schwab’s?”
“You help me do what you’ve done. Become a star.”
“But then what?” I said. “We both end up famous and talented? Competing for every job in town?”
“I
suppose that is one option.”
“And the other?”
“I really like you, Evelyn.”
I looked at her sideways.
She laughed at me. “I know that’s probably not something most actresses mean in this town, but I don’t want to be like most actresses. I really like you. I like watching you on-screen. I like how the moment you show up in a scene, I can’t look at anything else. I like the way your skin is too dark for your blond hair, the way the two shouldn’t go together and yet seem so natural on you. And to be honest, I like how calculating and awful you kind of are.”
“I am not awful!”
Celia laughed. “Oh, you definitely are. Getting me fired because you think I’ll show you up? Awful. That’s just awful, Evelyn. And walking around bragging about how you use people? Just terrible. But I really like it when you talk about it. I like how honest you are, how unashamed. So many women around here are full of crap with everything they say and do. I like that you’re full of crap only when it gets you something.”
“This laundry list of compliments seems to have a lot of insults in it,” I said.
Celia nodded, hearing me. “You know what you want, and you go after it. I don’t think there is anyone in this town doubting that Evelyn Hugo is going to be the biggest star in Hollywood one of these days. And that’s not just because you’re something to look at. It’s because you decided you wanted to be huge, and now you’re going to be. I want to be friends with a woman like that. That’s what I’m saying. Real friends. None of this Ruby Reilly, backstabbing, talking-about-each-other-behind-our-backs crap. Friendship. Where each of us gets better, lives better, because we know the other.”
I considered her. “Do we have to do each other’s hair and stuff like that?”
“Sunset pays people to do that. So no.”
“Do I have to listen to your man troubles?”
“Certainly not.”
“So what, then? We choose to spend time together and try to be there for each other?”
“Evelyn, have you never had a friend before?”
“Of course I’ve had friends before.”
“A real one, a close friend? A true friend?”
“I have a true friend, thank you very much.”
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo Page 9