The Girls in the Picture

by Melanie Benjamin

  Because snotty little Miss Josephine never did invite Mary to her birthday party, after all. Never would Mary forget that. She loved making movies; she loved acting—without it she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. She particularly didn’t know what she would do with the emotions that bubbled too close to the surface for everyday life—sometimes she imagined that she had an armful of emotions, like an armful of the most colorful, varied blossoms, and she threw out her hands and released them to the camera, day after day after day—without that release, what would she do with them?

  Who would she be? Gladys Smith of Toronto, Canada, with a family to support and no idea how to do it. And she had no illusions. Douglas Fairbanks would fall out of love with Gladys Smith faster than she could say Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

  Why now? Why had Douglas decided, at this moment, when the two of them were linked together through United Artists, when they both had so much to gain—and so much to lose—why had he decided that now was the moment to make such a fuss? Ever since his divorce three months ago, he’d been after her to do the same, but never with such finality. Because he understood—that was what she told herself every day. He understood as Owen never could how it was for Mary, how unique her position was to her fans, to the world in general. America’s Sweetheart. Little Mary. Our Mary.

  And—it was different for Douglas; it was different for men. He could divorce his wife, because he was a dashing, worldly man on-screen. Divorce would only make him more dashing, in a way. But Mary was placed upon an altar. Most of her fans probably still believed she was a virgin, despite her marriage. Women—unless they were vamps on-screen—weren’t allowed passion off it. There were words for women who indulged too much in the pleasures of the flesh; disgusting, tawdry words. The worst you could call a man who did the same was playboy or rogue.

  Mary didn’t know what to do, and she had no one to talk to. Not Mama, because Mary knew what Mama would say and it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Not Lottie, not Jack. But one day she received a telegram; Fran was coming home to Hollywood! And Mary almost cried with relief; Fran would know what to do! Fran would understand. Fran had been divorced, too.

  “Let me talk to Fran,” Mary urged Douglas after another of their tense assignations—what a terrible word! What a putrid way to describe the holy union between her and Douglas! Yet try as she might, she couldn’t come up with a different one. As usual, they’d started out passionate, unable to keep their hands off each other after a long afternoon of United Artists meetings during which they could only look, and smile, and smolder. But as soon as the passion was spent they returned to the same subject—Douglas wanted to stay the night, Mary reminded him he had to leave, he brought up his divorce, and then the whole thing started all over again.

  Douglas’s eyes hardened, his mouth pursed into a stubborn pout.

  “I don’t see what Fran can tell you that I haven’t,” he said petulantly.

  “Fran has been with me almost every step of the way. She’s responsible for so much of my career. She understands me.”

  “Mary, you don’t understand me. I don’t want to share you with anyone—not your mother, not your sister, not Frances Marion. Not another man—never another man! Promise me, Mary. Promise me that we’ll marry and you’ll never look at another man the way you look at me. Promise me, sweetheart. Or else—”

  “Or else what?” Mary’s heart began to thump; she reached out to him but he threw her arm off and began to put on his clothes, tugging so tightly at his shoelaces she feared they’d break.

  “Or else I’m going away. Mary, I can’t go on like this. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it. I’m in love and I want the world to know. If you don’t divorce that idiot Moore and marry me, you’ll never see me again. Not like this.”

  Mary shivered; his voice was so different. Douglas’s voice was always booming, full of delights yet to be discovered. But now it was dead, flat. There was nothing left to say.

  “Let me talk to Fran,” Mary begged him.

  “I’m through with talking. You know where to find me.”

  Douglas stalked out the door, leaving her alone in the hotel room feeling tawdry; all her clothes were scattered on the floor, her silk stockings, her satin step-ins, her lacy camisole. One of her shoes was missing; it must be under the bed. What would happen if someone saw her like this?

  She wasn’t cut out for this, being the other woman, having assignations in hotel rooms. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of drama; everything she did on-screen was simple, truthful, no suggestive eye rolls or shoulder wiggles for her. That was for the vamps. And Mary Pickford—Gladys Smith—was no vamp.

  But who was she? A child on-screen; a passionate, troubled woman off it.

  She began to get dressed, trying to concentrate on one thought, only one, out of all the agonies that were tumbling through her mind, causing her head to ache: Did Douglas mean it? Would he really leave her? How would that affect United Artists? Would Owen cooperate?

  At that moment, she was tired of being the only woman in the room. She needed Fran. Fran would know what to do. Fran—who had created Little Mary, who had written her very best films. Fran would write her a way out of this.

  Fran would give her the happy ending she so desperately desired.

  —

  “Fran, dear! You look—you look—” Mary felt ridiculously shy after she knocked on Fran’s door at the Hollywood Hotel; she stopped short of flinging herself into Fran’s arms when she opened it. Something held her back.

  Fran had changed! She looked different—older, yes, but not in a haggard way. Her black hair was still lustrous, she was as slim as ever but not too slim, and she even seemed to have grown an inch or two, although surely that wasn’t possible?

  But still, there was something about Fran—a sadness, yet also contentment. She’d always been cheerful, she’d always been fully in the moment, eager to enter into whatever scheme Mary proposed. But Mary had never detected any bit of regret or sadness, and now she did; Fran’s eyes carried some memory of sorrow now. But she also seemed purely content in a way she never had; she seemed thoroughly at home in her own skin, not uncertain, not a bit shy. And that skin was surprisingly rosy in a way Mary could not recall. In fact, Fran was much more beautiful than Mary remembered her; how was that possible? Had she changed so much? Or had Mary simply not noticed before?

  “How do I look?” Fran spun around, showing off a new, fashionable dress—Mary always felt a bit frumpy next to dear Fran. Frumpy, and short. “I bought this in Paris!”

  “Ooh la la!”

  That broke the ice. Something—some barrier—had been between them but now it melted away.

  “Oh, Fran, I’ve missed you!”

  “Squeebee, darling, I’ve missed you, too!”

  And in a moment they had kicked off their shoes, loosened their stays, and called down to the kitchen for some sandwiches to be brought up; as the sun set outside the window—that bewitching, brief Los Angeles sunset, the sun hovering, hovering, and then abruptly swallowed whole by the ocean—the two of them sat side by side on a sofa, the only item of furniture in the room that wasn’t covered with hats and gloves and dresses and skirts.

  “I was in the middle of unpacking,” Fran said with a groan. She turned her head to survey the room. “I have too many clothes.”

  “Frances Marion, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that!”

  “It’s true. Why do I buy so many? It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? In Europe, all I wore was the same uniform over and over, just like everyone else. I never even thought of clothes, until the war was over. And as soon as I stepped foot on American soil, I had to go shopping. It’s a sickness!” She groaned again.

  “What does Fred think about your pretty clothes? As matchmaker, I have a vested interest in the two of you!”

  “He doesn’t mind,” Fran admitted, blushing. “He thinks I’m quite the fashion plate.”

  “You are. You a
lways have been.” But then Mary smoothed the silk skirt of her new violet suit, waiting for Fran to notice; even though she couldn’t begin to compete with Fran, she was dressing much more elegantly than she used to, as befitted the head of her own studio.

  “That’s lovely,” Fran said, her eyes widening. “No more sashes and lace?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mary grinned; she’d finally grown up, that’s how it felt, now that Papa wasn’t around dictating her behavior and her style. Still, she’d never go too far.

  “I saw all the headlines on the train out. Heavens, Mary! What you’ve done! What you’ve accomplished! United Artists—what a perfect name for a studio!”

  “It made sense. Business sense.”

  “I’m proud of you. You’ve invested in yourself, because you’re worth it. That’s not an easy thing for women to do, for some reason. Heaven knows, men don’t seem to have a problem doing it!”

  Mary smiled, basking in the admiration in Fran’s eyes. Naturally, Mama praised her up and down, as did most of the press. But Fran’s approval meant the most. Hadn’t she been the one who’d shared the worst humiliation of Mary’s career?

  “Oh, Fran! Isn’t it exciting? And you’ll come with me, of course. You’ll write for me at United Artists. I need you for my first picture there. I can’t imagine doing it without you!” Mary still had to do one picture for First National, but then she was free to concentrate on United Artists. It was both thrilling and daunting; her first film had to be an enormous hit, and she couldn’t think of anyone but Fran to write it. As much as she was longing to stretch a bit as an artist, move into some more womanly roles now that she felt more womanly, she knew it would be smart to launch United Artists with a sure thing; another movie in which she played a child, since that’s what the public seemed to want. So she had in mind to do Pollyanna; Fran would do a brilliant job adapting it.

  “Well,” Frances stalled; she suddenly became very interested in a loose thread on the sleeve of her blouse. “I do have a contract still at Famous Players, I assume?”

  “Oh, you can get out of that! Papa and I parted on excellent terms. I know Papa will let you go if I ask.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right about that, Mary.” Fran didn’t meet Mary’s gaze. “Actually, they’ve already contacted me. They want me to write for Mary Miles Minter—Anne of Green Gables. Just the one picture, then I’m free.”

  “Mary Miles Minter?” Mary scowled, picturing that simpering little moon-faced actress with golden curls exactly like hers! It was such an obvious ploy, Papa trying to replicate Mary, as if she could be replaced by just anyone with curls! And that Minter was such a terrible actress—and Fran and she had often talked of making Anne of Green Gables! Mary had loved the books when Fran read them to her, back when they were sharing the bungalows. They’d make a perfect vehicle for Mary.

  But Mary swallowed her rage; it wasn’t Fran’s fault. She was a working scenarist, after all. This was all “dear” Papa’s doing.

  “I can’t start my picture for six months anyway, so of course, Fran. That’s all right.”

  “And, well—Hearst telegrammed. He’d like me to write for Marion.”

  “Marion Davies? His mistress!” Mary couldn’t conceal the priggishness in her voice; she heard it, and winced. Because, of course—she was a mistress, too.

  Fran gave her a look, and Mary nodded, conceding the point. “I know, I know. But it’s different! Douglas has his divorce, and now—I love him, Fran. I love him and he wants me to divorce Owen. And I want to! But—sometimes, I don’t know if I deserve him and a career. I don’t want to lose either—but I don’t know that I deserve both. Or if I’m even allowed both.”

  “Isn’t that strange? I wonder the same about Fred—if I deserve him. I mean, I’ve been divorced twice. But you, Mary—what on earth have you done that would make you think you didn’t deserve Doug or your success?”

  “No—it’s not that, it’s just—I’m afraid, Fran. I’m afraid of being alone, and I’m afraid of disappointing my fans.”

  “I see. You have to decide which is more important.”

  “Yes.”

  They lapsed into silence; Fran looked thoughtful, while Mary found she couldn’t control her hands; she kept poking her hat pin in and out of her hat until she tore a tiny hole in the straw.

  Then she threw the hat across the room, startling them both.

  “Oh, Fran, I don’t want to decide! That’s the thing—I can’t decide! I want to believe I deserve Douglas, I really do. But at what price? That’s what I need to know—that’s what I need you to tell me, darling Fran. Will my fans let me do this? Will they still come to see my movies? Will I still be able to play a child, which is what they want, even if I’m not sure I want to anymore? But if I divorce and remarry, can I even get away with it? I can’t—I won’t—give up my career, Fran. I can’t! What would happen to Mama? To Jack and Lottie—” Mary couldn’t remain seated; she jumped up to retrieve her hat.

  “Is Douglas sympathetic? Or is he—”

  “Like Owen?” Mary spun around and met Fran’s gaze unblinkingly. “Does he hit me? No, never. Does he resent me? No. Does he want too much from me? Maybe. But he would never ask me to give up my career, not like Owen. But in a way, Douglas is asking me to, though I know he doesn’t see it like that.”

  “He’s asking you to take a chance. A bigger chance than he had to take.”

  “Yes! And he’s always been so lucky—nothing bad has really ever happened to him. He didn’t have the childhood I did. He didn’t have to work as hard to get to where he is—he didn’t have to give up anything.”

  “Except his wife and child,” Fran said, gently, and Mary’s face burned with shame. Yes, of course. Why did she always forget that?

  Because Douglas didn’t seem to miss them; he didn’t lie awake at night agonizing about them. He slept the sleep of the sound and just. How was it that men could do that—simply walk away from a family, a child, without a second thought? Mary supposed there were women who could do that, too. But she didn’t think she knew any—until she remembered.

  Yes. Yes, she did.

  “Mary, I can’t tell you what to do.” Fran shook her head. “You’ve made every decision about your career so far, and they’ve all been right. I can only tell you what I think, after years of watching your fans practically tear you to pieces, they love you so. I think they love you so much that they only want your happiness. If they knew how happy Doug makes you—if you tell them, I mean—then they’ll love you even more.”

  “But we can’t know for sure, can we? Yet Douglas—he wants me to say yes, right now, I’ll divorce Owen and marry him. Or else—or else he’ll leave me! And, Fran, I can’t bear that!” She hid her face in her hands, afraid for Fran to see the anguish and torment in her eyes; she saw it herself every day in the mirror, the way she had deep circles beneath her eyes, her cheeks were sunken, she was losing weight. How could she go before the camera as long as she felt this torment? How could she play an innocent little girl when her body ached with unfulfilled longing?

  Frances got up and put her arm around Mary, very gently—as if she was as startled by this new, lovesick Mary as Mary had been startled by the new, war-weary Fran. She steered Mary back to the sofa.

  “Dearest, I think—I think you should tell Doug you’ll divorce Owen. I think your fans will only want you to be happy.”

  “Mama doesn’t agree. She keeps reminding me I’m America’s Sweetheart. But oh, Fran—I don’t want to be anyone’s sweetheart but his!”

  And as she said it, she knew it was true. This moment, anyway.

  Fran bit her lip, her eyes thoughtful, deciding. She took a soft breath. “Then do it. Be Douglas’s sweetheart.”

  “Owen said he’d give me a divorce—if I paid him. A hundred thousand dollars, Fran.” And as the familiar anger stiffened her spine, Mary wondered: Was the only thing that had kept her in this marriage for so long anger? If she didn’t hate Owen, would s
he have tortured him for years with her absences, her niggling little allowances? Oh, she could have given him more money, anytime, but she didn’t; she doled it out so he’d always have to come back begging for more. Most of all, she wouldn’t have tortured him with her success. Which he had no choice but to observe, up close and personal, every single day of their miserable married life.

  Now he wanted money in exchange for a divorce. She wasn’t surprised; the man had no self-respect. But the truth of the matter was, he should have paid her for every black eye, every bruised arm, every blow to her self-esteem he’d tried to inflict for so long.

  “He never even hesitated to name the price,” Mary snapped. “He had it on the tip of his tongue, as if he’d only been waiting for me to ask him. One hundred thousand dollars! He put a price on me, exactly like everyone else does—Lottie, Jack, those men at the studio. Even Mama, Fran. Sometimes, I think even Mama does.”

  “No, not everyone else,” Frances reminded her.

  “No.” Mary shook her head; her curls were a little loose, tickling her shoulders, half-up, half-down. “Not everyone else. Douglas doesn’t want my money. He only wants me.”

  “Then go to him, Mary. I’ve always believed we’re allowed one great love in our lives. I’ve found mine, thanks to you. Now it’s your turn. We can’t know the future. But we can know our hearts.”

  Mary laughed, hollowly. “Who could have imagined we’d be where we are today? Two girls who used to brush each other’s hair. Remember those days in the bungalows? Sometimes, Fran—sometimes, I long for those days. Before things were so complicated. When we only had one dream, and it was to make as good a film as Griffith. Remember that? The first time we saw The Birth of a Nation?”

  “I thought of it often, in France. How easy—how entertaining!—it was to see a film about a war, and how terrible it was to see war, firsthand. But I remember those days, too. You and me and Charlotte. Before we had to deal with men! They complicate everything, don’t they?”

  “Sometimes I think it would be simpler if we loved women. Like Nazimova. You know?”