She sat there, and there was a very long silence. Finally Bernie Alberg, unnerved by it, showed signs of revving up. He rose, and came across to her.
“Hélène—it won’t stop there. The National Enquirer’s already picked up on it. They called me at home last night. This will hit the newsstands by noon, and then all hell will break loose. Once something like this starts, it snowballs. It won’t just be here, it’ll be everywhere. Europe—Hélène, you know what some of those papers are like. They’re worse than the ones here. This will be syndicated worldwide. You can see—there’s more to come—they’re running a follow-up next week. Now, listen, we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it fast. I want you on the phone to those hotshot lawyers of yours, now. You talk to them, I’ll talk to them. I want them to come down on this like a ton of bricks. I want them to throw the book at this rag. We’ll sue. We’ll sue the goddamn skin off their backs. But we’ve got to move fast. We must. We can’t let this influence the voting on the Oscars. We have to…Hélène?”
He stopped, looking at her closely. The animation and color that had returned to his face began to drain away.
“Judas Priest—for fuck’s sake, Hélène—you’re not going to put out that statement you gave me. You’re not. Tell me you’re not…”
Hélène’s face seemed to him quite expressionless. She, too, was a little pale, but otherwise betrayed no agitation at all. She simply continued to sit there, staring at the pages in front of her. She was in shock, Bernie decided—in shock.
“Look,” he said more gently, “wait a minute—yes? Don’t let’s do anything rash now. I’ll get you a drink. You need a brandy or something…”
“No, thank you. I don’t need a drink.” She turned and looked up at him. “Bernie—you already know that some of this is true…”
“Some? Some?” Bernie was trying hard to remain calm. “Hélène, one tiny fact is true, and the rest of it, the rest of it is just a tissue of lies. That’s it.” He seemed to find comfort in the cliché. “A tissue of lies.”
“Not entirely. I don’t think that picture is fake. I did live in Louisiana for a while. And the place I lived after that wasn’t much better. I expect that’s what they’re going to run next week. A trailer park in Alabama. It’s still there. They can take pictures of that too…” She hesitated. “There are people there who remember me. People they can interview.”
“A trailer park? Oh, sweet Jesus…”
“I’m afraid so.” She paused. “Most of the rest is lies. My mother left my father when I was two. I lived with her until she died. I never saw my father again—I didn’t even know he was alive, until the accident, until I went to identify his body.” There was a silence. Bernie poured himself another drink, a small drink, just enough to loosen his thoughts up a bit; his brain felt like glue.
“Right—okay. Okay.” He frowned. “Okay. We do put out the statement. We amplify it. We explain. We add a bit, maybe—like, you searched for him, years ago, like, he was a scumbag, but you forgave him, you wanted to help—you couldn’t trace him. It could work. It might work. He beat your mother up, by any chance? That’s the line we need. We go for the soft touch, the heartache.”
“It doesn’t exactly square with all the things we hinted at before, does it, Bernie?”
“I hinted. Goddamn journalists hinted. You never said a word…”
“I didn’t deny it, and I could have.” She stood up. “Bernie, they won’t buy it. And I don’t want them to buy it. I’m not going to tell any more lies. Put out that statement, and that’s it.”
“But if we put that out—it looks as if we’re admitting it. All the other stuff. How you neglected him. How you wouldn’t give your dying father a buck. The guy died at your gates, Hélène. No one’s going to believe you didn’t know him.” He paused, and looked down at the tabloid again. “And the lovers—Jesus. Not a whisper of scandal in five years, and now this. What are we going to say about the lovers?”
Hélène turned to him then, and Bernie, despite his anxiety, was impressed.
“I think,” she said slowly, “I think this is so beneath contempt that it doesn’t require an answer of any kind. And I don’t intend to give one.”
“Hélène, look, for God’s sake. It won’t work like that. Think of the Oscars…”
“No, Bernie.” Her blue eyes blazed at him, and he realized that what he had taken for shock was anger. “I will not. And if people choose to believe this, if they pay any credence to it, they are not people I want to work with, or people I want to know. That’s all. That’s the end of it.”
Bernie hesitated. He said quietly, “Hélène, there won’t be an end to it. Once something like this starts, it doesn’t end. It just goes on, and on.”
He was right, of course. There was one quiet day of respite, and then it began. The invitations canceled, sometimes without pretense of an excuse; the calls not returned; the photographers who camped outside her gates, and followed her wherever she went; the importunate writers, who had sent scripts which they had begged her to read, who now wrote and asked for their return; the minor producers and up-and-coming directors who had once seen, in Hélène Harte, the possibility of a big break, and who, having wooed her for years, now looked straight through her when she sat at the next table in a restaurant; the fashion spreads that were apologetically postponed, and then postponed again. And the letters.
Hélène felt such disgust for the people who behaved in this way that she sometimes felt she could have put up with all their pettiness, but the letters—no. She had, of course, received some of a similar kind in the past—there was probably no actor or actress in Hollywood who had not. But these letters were far worse, and the most terrifying thing about them was their quantity. At first, there was a mere trickle of them, nine or ten a day. Once Hélène and her secretaries realized what was happening, they were burned, unread. But the process of filtering them out was not an easy one, and some of their writers went to great lengths to present them in such a way—in clean envelopes, neatly addressed, often typed—that it was difficult to distinguish them from fan mail or ordinary mail, until they were opened, and at least partially read.
Then, the tabloid which had first broken the story ran its follow-up. There was the trailer park; there was her mother, the town slut; there was Hélène, following in her mother’s footsteps, when she was still a fifteen-year-old girl. There were the men who remembered how she’d been the talk of the school locker room; there was Priscilla-Anne, talking only too volubly; there was a hideous and garbled version of her relationships with Billy and with Ned Calvert—although he, clearly, had not spoken to them.
The National Enquirer picked up on this story too; magazines and newspapers in France, Italy, and England followed suit, spreading the story in more and more sensationalized forms. The response was immediate. The trickle of letters became a flood.
Letters which enclosed pictures of herself, either torn to shreds, scrawled with obscenities, or defaced with obscene drawings. Letters enclosing pornographic photographs, on which her own picture had been crudely superimposed. Letters in illiterate handwriting, on lined paper, and letters written with perfect spelling and careful grammar. Letters that described things she had done with their anonymous authors, or things they would have liked her to have done; letters that accused her of stealing the writer’s husband, or lover; letters that told her she’d be better off dead; letters that described just how the writer intended to kill either her, or members of her family. Letters using biblical phraseology, that called her a Jezebel, or a whore of Babylon; letters from men who believed she sent them messages over the airways in a secret libidinous code.
They sent presents, too; a neatly wrapped parcel of feces; a small box containing clippings of pubic hair; and, once, addressed to Cat, who was prevented from opening it just in time—a small parcel containing twenty used contraceptives, wrapped in gift paper.
On that occasion, and it was the only occasion, Hélène
broke down and cried. She could not believe there was such hatred in the world.
“Listen,” Bernie said when he heard some of these stories. “You think they hate you. They don’t. They hate themselves. Also, they’re nuts. Also, they like to worship idols, and then spit on them. You know what you should do? You should go away for a while. Take Cat with you. Leave town, and take a break from all this.”
“Run away, you mean.” Hélène shook her head. “No. I won’t do that, Bernie.”
“It will get worse, you know,” he said gently. “It will ease off gradually—they’ll find someone else to torment. And then…” He shrugged. “It may get better eventually. But before it gets better, it will get worse.”
And, again, he was right. At the end of March, Cassie was grabbed in a supermarket by a woman who screamed that Cassie worked for a whore. She pulled Cassie’s hair, and tried to scratch her eyes out. A few days later, Cat was invited to a birthday party, and returned home in tears. The children had heard their parents talking: no one at the party would play with her.
When these things happened, Hélène was so angry she felt she wanted to leave Hollywood for good: all right, if they wanted to pillory her, but not her family, not Cassie, not Cat.
The following week, the first week of April, came her own greatest public humiliation, at the Academy Awards ceremony. Bernie Alberg had begged her not to attend; he knew she would now not win the Oscar, despite the early predictions that she was a leading contender; in such circumstances, he argued, it was better to stay away, to be as invisible as possible.
Obstinately, Hélène would not agree. She had said she would attend, and attend she did, steeling herself to deal both with those who cold-shouldered her, and with those who went out of their way to be kind. Ellis was given eight awards, including Best Picture, and Best Director; Hélène, as Bernie had predicted, did not win.
Thad, afterward, was studiously sympathetic, but Hélène had the impression, just the same, that he was not altogether displeased.
“You’ll get it for Ellis II,” he said confidently. “Wait and see. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, Thad,” she answered.
It was the truth. With a sense of surprise, she realized that as she said it. Thad smiled. He did not believe her, of course.
Through all this, there were some people who stood by her. All the people who worked for her were staunchly loyal. So were both Homer, and Milton; Bernie Alberg and his wife did their utmost to help. She received warm letters of support from numerous writers, directors, actors, and producers she had worked with in the past. Simon Scher wrote; Rebecca Stein not only wrote, but came to see her. James Gould sent her a crate of champagne, so she could drink, he said, to the downfall of all liars and gossipmongers. Stephani Sandrelli sent her a large bouquet of white roses, with a small note attached. “I guess you won’t want to hear from me,” it read, “but I wanted to send my love, and say I know it’s all lies.” Hélène was touched by this; she was touched, too, when Lewis telephoned from San Francisco. Lewis had resolutely refused to speak to a single reporter, and when he telephoned, he was sober.
“I’m sorry this has happened, Hélène,” he said stiffly. “You probably won’t believe me, but I am. Look, if it would help—if you’d like it—I could come back. Just for a while. Just to see you through this. It might help.”
“Lewis, thank you,” Hélène said gently. “But I don’t want you to do that. There’s no need for you to be involved. It’s better like this, in the long run. I have to get through it on my own.”
There was a silence, then Lewis said quietly, “I thought you might say that. You’re probably right. As long as you know—if it gets to be too much—I’m here.”
After that, for some reason, she found it easier. The hate mail peaked in mid-April. Then the tabloids found a new victim, in a male star with a drug habit.
Cassie said, “Honey, we’re winning. You’re winning. Don’t let it beat you now. We’re almost through the worst—I feel it in my bones.”
Hélène said nothing; she was not through the worst. It was more than two months since she had mailed her letter to St. Cloud. And there had still been no answer.
In early May, Madeleine insisted that Hélène should pose with Cat for the birthday photographs which she always took religiously at this time of year. When, a couple of days later, Madeleine gave her one of the prints, Hélène looked at it with a sense of shock. Was this really herself? She looked tired, she thought, and suddenly so much older. She remarked about this to Madeleine, and Madeleine was offended. She became very fierce.
“You are wrong,” she said firmly. “Quite wrong. You are beautiful in my picture. Now you do not look so much like a young girl.” She paused. “Maintenant vous êtes devenue une femme…”
A woman, and not a girl. Hélène looked at her own face in the mirror that night, and she could see what Madeleine meant. It was then, she thought afterward, as she looked at her own reflection, that she finally accepted it: Edouard would not write.
The next day, for the first time since the stories appeared, not a single hate letter was received. Hélène’s spirits rose a little. She began to see that she had coped, that she had not given in, nor gone under, nor run away—and that it was this experience, perhaps, that gave her the strength to accept that the silence from Edouard would be permanent.
She began to feel—not optimism exactly—but a certain vitality and determination, and she began to be impatient to work.
Long Division had now been postponed three times. The new start date was May 19, two days after Cat’s birthday. On May 18, Gregory Gertz came to see her. Hélène knew, as soon as he came into the room, that something was wrong.
It was mid-afternoon. He sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette nervously. “You may as well know straight out. I’ve lost the backing from A.I. They’re pulling out.”
Hélène stared at him.
“Now? Can they do that? At this stage?”
Gertz sighed. “They can do anything at any stage, you know that and so do I. You’re never safe until the cameras are rolling, and sometimes not then. There isn’t a contract in the world that their lawyers can’t unravel if they set their minds to it. They’ll lose their development money, of course.” He gave a bitter smile. “I don’t imagine that will worry them too much. Overall, they’ll drop a million, not much more. I’ve been a fool. I should have made them really lay out up front, the way Angelini does—that way they’re in so far, they can’t back out…”
He was having difficulty meeting her eyes. Hélène could see the tension in his body, and hear it in his voice. She paused, and then she said, “Why are they doing this? You’d better tell me. Is it because of me?”
Gertz looked at the floor. He shrugged.
“Yes. It is. Stein doesn’t want you playing the wife. He’s insisting I recast.” He looked up. “Hélène, I told him that was unacceptable. I said, no way. I wasn’t going to take that kind of thing lying down. I don’t want you to think that…” He hesitated. He had just extinguished one cigarette, now he lit another.
“The thing is—apart from the contractual situation—this was a personal thing. I asked you to do it, way back. I really wanted you for this part. I haven’t forgotten that…”
He paused again, looked down at his hands, which he seemed unable to keep still, and then up again, slightly to one side of Hélène’s face.
“Of course, a lot has happened since then. The script’s gone through several drafts. It’s changed a good deal. I’m not saying it would be impossible to recast. In some ways, I suppose you could say there are other actresses it might suit better. I mean, in your case, we always knew you’d be playing against the grain…” He paused. “And it did occur to me, in view of your having separated from Lewis, and all those stories in the press…well, that you might feel, now, that this wasn’t the part for you. An unsympathetic character. A tough woman. A divorcee…”
He could not
look at her now. He stared miserably in the direction of a painting on the wall. Hélène leaned forward.
“Greg,” she said quietly, “who have you approached? Who have you been sounding out? Fonda? Remick? Someone else?”
Still looking at the floor, he told her. Hélène sighed.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Stein thought you might want to ask to be released from your contract.”
“I see.”
“Don’t look like that, Hélène!” He stood up. “I said I’d put it to you, that’s all. I told him he might be right. Maybe you felt you didn’t want to do it anymore, but that you thought it was too late to back out…I just agreed to ask, that’s all.”
He glanced down at her face, and then began to walk up and down the room.
“Try and see it my way for a moment. Think of the position I’m in. I’ve been working on this for a year—more. I really need this movie. If Runaways is a hit this summer, and then this one works—well, I’ll be in a position to call the shots for once. Really do the kind of work I’ve always wanted to do. And besides, I have responsibilities—to the writers—to the people who helped me develop the script. Obviously—I want you for the wife. But if that means starting all over again, trying to get backing again—well then, obviously, I have to try and look at this thing unemotionally. I just don’t know how easy it would be to start over, I just don’t know how people are going to react when I say I want you for the wife. I mean—they could see it the same way as Stein does, and then where are we? I have to…”
“It’s all right, Greg.” Hélène stood. “You can do your movie. I’ll telephone Milton today and tell him to contact A.I. and get me released. I imagine the whole thing can be arranged very quickly. I’m sure you’re eager to start filming. I don’t want to feel I might be holding you up.”
Color ebbed and flowed in his face. He turned back to her.
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