City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  “And by the way,” she told Ava, “if by ‘home-cooked meal’ you mean a bag of nosh I hauled home from Greenblatt’s Deli, then yes, I’ve prepared everything by hand.”

  Ava held her sherry glass out for a refill. “Is this lunch business or pleasure?”

  “A bit of both,” Kathryn hedged. She refilled Ava’s glass and topped up her own, although she’d barely touched it.

  “Ain’t it always?” Ava didn’t sound particularly miffed. “Let’s get the business part over with first. Knights of the Round Table, I assume?”

  Ava’s movie was MGM’s first CinemaScope film, and the first CinemaScope production shot in Britain. It was also the first one not produced by 20th Century-Fox. Under Louis B. Mayer’s stewardship, MGM had always set the gold standard. The studio’s acknowledgment that they were using a rival’s technology flashed a neon sign that, despite Dory Schary’s assertions, Hollywood’s former leading studio was unlikely to regain its primacy.

  Kathryn nodded.

  Ava sighed. “It’s the usual stuff. Robert Taylor’s very nice, Mel Ferrer not so much. I could have had an affair with any number of people but I’ve got my hands full with ol’ Frankie, so I didn’t. The costumes are lovely. The scenery, too. It’s all uncomfortable armor and clanking swords and lines like, ‘It’s the valley of death. The Devil himself has plowed it under.’ I’m not even sure I know what that means.”

  “Do you care?”

  Ava replied with a light laugh. “It was an excuse to run away to Merrie Olde England.”

  Statements like these presented Kathryn with an ethical juggling act. On the one hand, they were a pair of old neighbors getting together for an overdue catch-up. But on the other, she was a prominent gossip columnist clinking sherry glasses with a world-famous movie star married to an equally well-known singer.

  From the glittering, shiny surface she presented, it would seem that Ava Gardner had everything that society deemed worth chasing: looks, talent, success, money, marriage, fame. And yet here she was confessing she wanted to run away.

  The friend in Kathryn wanted Ava to feel she could confide in her, but the gossip columnist was aching to pick up her pad and pen, sitting two feet away.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Ava said accusingly.

  “Like what?”

  Ava drained her glass and set it beside Kathryn’s pad, tapping it several times with a fingernail. “We’re still talking on the record.”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “You’ll know when we’re not.”

  They weren’t sitting in public—surely that must have given her a clue that Kathryn’s invitation to lunch had an ulterior motive. “So Knights of the Round Table was an excuse to run away from what—or who?”

  “Frank’s great in the sack, but oh brother! Outside the bedroom, he’s exhausting. His career is on a downward spiral right now, while mine is all hands on deck and man the battle stations. Everything with him is such a drama. Even that cameo I did in The Band Wagon last year. I was on set for one goddamned day, and you should have heard him.”

  “So when you told him that Knights was a four-month shoot in England, I bet that went down well.”

  Ava cast her eyes over to Kathryn’s kitchen. “So what did you get at Greenblatt’s?”

  “Tuna salad on rye.”

  “And pickles?”

  “Why bother going to Greenblatt’s if you don’t get the pickles?”

  “Any chance we could eat outside? I’ve spent all week watching Frank record Swing Easy. He’s hoping to project a fresh, hip image so that the public will—Jesus! I’m already bored to death. Some wife I am, huh?” She jumped to her feet. “I don’t mind if it’s a little chilly. It’ll be nothing compared to England. What those people call ‘summer’ is a joke. All two and a half weeks of it.”

  They had the entire patio area out back of the main building to themselves. The house painters had done a terrific job sprucing up the place. Its fresh coat of light terracotta glowed in the sun through the daisy bushes and lemon trees.

  Ava set two bottles of Schlitz beer on a wrought iron table and cast her eyes around the pool area. “Is the bougainvillea still as glorious as I remember? The summer Artie and I lived here, I got it into my head that I needed to exercise my mind and my body, so I took up swimming. Marcus gave me some lessons. How is he, by the way?”

  “Good, as far as I—”

  “By the end of that summer, I was a swimming machine, plowing through the water like a goddamned mermaid! But I also decided to read every book on the bestseller list. I started with Forever Amber. Christ knows why. The damned thing was nearly a thousand pages long.”

  “Probably because everybody was reading—”

  “So there I was, sitting in that villa.” Ava pointed across the pool to number eight, where Arlene now lived. Next to it lay the rectangular patch of newly turned dirt where Gwennie’s tulips should soon come into bloom, brightening the place with winter color. “I was reading about little orphan Amber when Artie comes in and says, ‘What the hell is that?’ He grabs it out of my hand, calls it ‘a pile of stinkin’ fuckin’ trash’ and throws it clear across the room. Like he’s the goddamned Literary Police.” She bit off half a pickle spear and chomped it with her mouth open. “That was the beginning of the end, let me tell you.”

  “The Razor’s Edge might’ve been a better—”

  “Do you remember who that bastard married three days after our divorce came through? Kathleen Winsor. Do you know who she is?”

  Kathryn hadn’t seen Ava rant like this before. Her hopes of guiding the conversation in a different direction ebbed. “The author of Forever Amber.”

  “Ain’t that the limit? Husbands—blagh!” She raised her Schlitz. “You’ve got the right idea, honey. Keep yourself single and avoid the melodrama.”

  As Ava slugged herself with more Schlitz, Kathryn sensed it was now-or-never time. “I have a favor to ask.” It wasn’t until the confession was out that she realized Ava had spoken at the same time. “What did you say?”

  Ava unleashed a honking laugh. “I said that I need a favor from you. It’s why I jumped at the chance to come over. If I hear Frank warble ‘Jeepers Creepers’ one more time, I’m going to lose my ever-lovin’ mind. If I go out for lunch without him, he hits the roof. The only reason I’m here is because it’s you and the Garden of Allah. He’s got fond memories of this place and he respects you. As soon as I could see the first hint of him relenting, I beat it out of there so damned fast.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so jumpy?” Kathryn asked.

  “I could ask the same thing.”

  “What?”

  “Take a look at your pickle.” Kathryn’s kosher pickle had snapped in half, but she couldn’t remember doing it. “I guess we’re both a bit distracted.”

  “You want to go first?”

  Ava dropped her sandwich onto her plate. “I need to get out of LA.”

  “But you only just got back.”

  “Sinatra and his goddamned jealousy. It drives me batty! If I stick around, I’ll end up planting a knife between his ribs.”

  “Let’s try and avoid that scenario.”

  “You get the lowdown with what’s going on around town before everybody else. I was hoping—I mean, I know it’s a long shot and all—but perhaps in a movie that’s shooting outside LA. Canada, maybe? Mexico?”

  “What about Rome?”

  Ava clamped a firm hand around Kathryn’s wrist. “Perfect!”

  Marcus had recently written about how Jean Negulesco told him that Joe Mankiewicz wanted to cast Rossano Brazzi in his next movie and so it might be in Marcus’s interests if he took tons of photos of Brazzi on the Three Coins set. Recently, Kathryn heard that Mank had signed Brazzi, but was still looking for the female lead.

  “How would you like to work for Joe Mankiewicz?”

  It was a redundant question to ask any actress after what he’d done for Bette Davis in All About
Eve.

  Ava’s face filled with excitement. “Is this the one about the naked duchess?”

  “Barefoot Contessa. Would MGM consider lending you out?”

  “If I beg the right people. Who else is in it?”

  “Bogie.”

  “Oh boy!”

  “Lauren will probably be with him and Marcus is still there. It’ll be a mini Garden of Allah reunion.”

  Ava clapped her hands. “This gets better and better!

  “I could put in a call to Mank’s office and plant a seed. He owes me a favor after I wrote a positive item about his Julius Caesar.”

  Ava started strumming the patio table hard enough to chip a nail. “I’d really owe you one.”

  Kathryn put down the remainder of her tuna sandwich and wiped her mouth. “I’ve heard that Winchell is squiring you to the opening of The Wild One.”

  Ava shot her a side-look. “You can blame Harry Cohn for that. Frank’s been nominated for Supporting Actor on From Here to Eternity and Harry doesn’t get much of a crack at Oscar bragging rights, so he asked Frank to let me accompany Winchell to the Wild One premiere in exchange for getting fully behind a campaign to win Frank an Oscar.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Kathryn asked.

  “I’m a Hollywood actress. I’m used to getting shoved around like cattle. The question is, what do you want from me?”

  “I was hoping that perhaps when the conversation starts to run a little dry, you could suggest Winchell call me when he’s in town.”

  “Is that all?” Ava jammed her cigarette butt into the remainder of her sandwich. “I could do that without getting out of bed.”

  “If he presses you for more information, tell him that I had you over for lunch and that I hinted at a story that’s so big, you got the impression that I didn’t know how to handle it.”

  “Why don’t you call him up yourself?”

  “Because I need him to think it’s his idea. Plant the seed that I need someone with Winchell’s status and influence, and he’ll come running.”

  She lit up another cigarette, took a breath, and shook her head. “Male vanity. They make it so easy, don’t they?”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Kathryn said, “but Winchell’s a cunning little swine.”

  “Yeah, but he’s still a man.” She slouched in her chair and slung an arm over the back. “You leave it to me, honey.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Gwendolyn and Doris stood at the edge of their tulip bed.

  “Maybe we dug too deep?”

  Doris stabbed the bare ground with a rake. “Should we excavate and do an autopsy?”

  Gwendolyn heard the patter of heels slapping the concrete that the construction workers had laid for the bar’s remodeling. The Garden’s new management had promised the residents more sunlight, more booths, more elbow room, and a dance floor. The re-opening was in three weeks’ time; Gwendolyn wasn’t sure that it was achievable, but at least the concrete was dry enough to walk on.

  Doris slung the rake over her shoulder. “If they’re not poking up out of the dirt by February, we’ll know we’ve committed mass murder.”

  “Careful!” a voice behind them warned. “You could take an eye out with that thing.”

  Even in a frayed woolen dark blue coat, a nondescript dress that neither accentuated nor hid her figure, and ankle-laced espadrilles, Marilyn Monroe still managed to ooze a little something special.

  “What on Earth . . .?” Gwendolyn cried out. “I thought you were hiding out until the whole Playboy ruckus blew over.”

  Marilyn brushed a lock of white-blonde hair out of her eyes. “Assuming it ever will.”

  Between her romance with Joe DiMaggio, her Photoplay’s “Hollywood's Fastest Rising Star” award, and her Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and How to Marry a Millionaire hits, Marilyn had been everywhere. And just when her fame seemed to be approaching saturation point, a new magazine had hit the stands.

  Playboy touted itself as a men’s magazine that would teach single professional men how to choose Bermuda shorts, shop for steaks, initiate a conversation with a pretty girl, and navigate modern politics, while exposing newly fabricated urbanites to Hemingway, the beat culture, and what was going on in an obscure country called Vietnam—all for fifty cents.

  And to catch their attention, Playboy had acquired the rights to Marilyn’s nude calendar photographs, dubbing her their “Sweetheart of the Month.”

  “I was going stir crazy at home,” Marilyn said, “especially with Joe leaving for San Francisco.” Marilyn peered at the bare patch of dirt behind Gwendolyn and Doris. “Whatcha doing?”

  “We planted tulips but nothing’s appeared.”

  Marilyn squatted and dug a finger into the ground. “This feels awfully damp.”

  Gwendolyn and Doris traded looks of we-drowned-’em regret.

  “Well, that does it for me.” Doris grabbed up the rake again. “I’m off to see Beneath the 12-Mile Reef at Grauman’s.” She bid them adieu and headed back to her villa.

  “Do you like honey spice cake?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever had it.”

  “Betty Crocker sent Kathryn a ton of cake mixes. More than she could use in a year, so we each got a bunch. Want to help me bake one?”

  Marilyn sighed. “That’s the most normal question anyone’s asked me in a year.”

  Inside Gwendolyn’s villa, Marilyn shucked her coat as Gwendolyn pulled the cover off her Mixmaster—another perk of being Kathryn Massey’s best friend.

  With the tornado of publicity generated by the Playboy cover, Zanuck wanted an update on the possibility of a Monroe/DiMaggio wedding. But Marilyn hadn’t been at the studio much now that retakes on River of No Return were finished, so Gwendolyn had nothing to report.

  “See what you can find out,” Zanuck had barked, then tempered his voice. “I’m not asking you to betray confidences.” The hell you ain’t. “And I’m not asking that you manipulate her.” That’s exactly what you’re doing. “I need to know if she’s going to marry DiMaggio. A marriage like that has repercussions. And you’ll do well to remember who signs your paychecks.”

  Gwendolyn smiled at Marilyn. “Still wearing my Sunset Boulevard perfume?”

  “Now that you’re no longer in business, I have to ration myself.”

  Gwendolyn angled her head toward the bedroom. “I still have a hundred bottles. Any time you want more, just holler.”

  “Quelle relief! It’s Joe’s favorite.”

  Gwendolyn retrieved a couple of eggs from the refrigerator and returned to the counter, where she ripped open the box of cake mix and emptied its contents into the bowl.

  “So Joe went back to San Francisco?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In a huff over Playboy?”

  “What’s five notches above a huff?”

  “Bad mood? Sulk? Rage?”

  “Bingo.”

  She added the water to the batter but it sat there in a gluey lump. “How are you supposed to resolve a row if he leaves town?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “He’s rather traditional, isn’t he?”

  “And how. It’s not like I asked them to publish those photos, but when the person you’re going to marry is furious beyond furious, it makes life even harder than it already is.”

  Gwendolyn cracked the eggs into the bowl and inserted it under the beaters. “Are you going to marry him?”

  “I love him, so why wouldn’t I?”

  Marilyn hadn’t been using the breathy baby-girl voice that she used on screen—until just now. She pulled the Mixmaster toward her and flipped the switch to “ON.” The noise prevented conversation.

  Gwendolyn hated how she was being pressured into interrogating Marilyn like this, and for what? To keep her lousy job?

  But it wasn’t a lousy job. If Chez Gwendolyn had to close, this new situation was ideal. She was creating gorgeous outfits for television’s
best-loved fashion icon. Plus she got to work with Billy Travilla and Charles LeMaire, who knew everything about dreaming up clothes that would influence the course of American fashion for the next ten years.

  What’s not to like? She observed Marilyn’s sadly beautiful but beautifully sad face as she watched the Mixmaster whip the batter into a maple-colored brew. This, she decided, is what I don’t like.

  Marilyn flipped off the Mixmaster and lifted the beaters out of the bowl. She ran a finger along one of the blades and tasted the batter. “This is good!”

  Gwendolyn pulled her cake tin from her cupboard and set about greasing it. The words I have a confession hung on the tip of her tongue when Marilyn said, “You were right. Joe was furious about Playboy, which is hypocritical seeing as how he’s never seen it. Then again, nor have I.”

  Gwendolyn plunged her wooden spoon into the cake mix. “You haven’t?”

  Marilyn’s bright blue eyes flew open. “Have you?”

  “I’m not the one featured in a controversial magazine.”

  “If I brought home a copy, it’d be the start of world war three.”

  “But you must be just a teensy bit curious.”

  “I’ll say!”

  “Do you want to go out and get one?”

  Marilyn’s lips formed a perfect “O” as she pressed her fingertips to her cheeks. “Where will we go?” Her question came out a hoarse whisper, as though DiMaggio might hear.

  “Schwab’s has a newsstand.”

  “No!” Marilyn blurted out. “Sidney’ll be there!”

  Sidney Skolsky was a journalist best known for his gossip column, From A Stool At Schwab’s, and was one of the reasons why the pharmacy was still a central hub of Hollywood social life. He was also Marilyn’s close friend and enthusiastic booster.

  “There’s a newsstand on Hollywood Boulevard,” Gwendolyn suggested.

  “The one near Musso and Frank?”

  “But you’re bound to be recognized.”

  “Oh, please!” Marilyn swatted away Gwendolyn’s caution. “I walked down the Strip just now and nobody recognized me.”