by Anne Girard
“To the devil with both of you...both Jean Harlows!”
He shook his head in disgust, then turned back to her. “Damn, how I love you, Harlean Carpenter McGrew. God help me, but I always will.”
She heard the front door slam after that. By the time she reached the window in the living room, Chuck was already in his car parked on the street, behind her own. She heard the engine roar, watched the headlamps flare.
“Baby, finally—let him go,” her mother urged in a honeyed tone as she came up, like a shadow, behind her.
Completely devoid now of self-control, Harlean reeled around and shot her mother a menacing stare. “Mommie, please, just this once, shut up!”
With the words barely off her lips, she watched helplessly as Chuck drove his car into the bumper of hers. How like a metaphor it seemed then, in this strange hour just as dawn began to break Chuck destroying the last vestiges of the life two wild teenagers had tried to build on a foundation that never could have supported them.
She put her hands to the window glass, her wedding band glinting in the deepening sunlight, as he rammed her car once, twice, three times, damaging it—as they forever were. Then, at last when she could bear it no longer, she forced herself to slip the ring from her finger and look away.
* * *
Harlean had gone back to her bedroom, curled up at the foot of the bed and wept herself back to a dreamless sleep after Chuck left. Once again now she awoke with a start, this time to the sound of arguing. Yet again, she wasn’t certain, for a moment, what was happening.
“I promise you, if you try to divorce me, I’ll have no hesitation sending the unpublished Hesser photographs directly to Chuck’s attorney!” Marino declared loudly. “Things aren’t settled yet and that would certainly tip the balance in the boy’s favor.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Jean growled.
“Would you care to try me, my dear?”
“You’d do that to our girl?”
“I would do that to you.”
Harlean knew that Marino referred to the photographs Edwin Bower Hesser had taken in which she had become relaxed enough to remove the scarf and pose entirely in the nude. In the moment, her mother had encouraged it, and Harlean hadn’t seen the harm in complying since he was such a noted photographer.
But it was bad enough that, to forestall the divorce, Chuck’s attorney had used the published Hesser photographs to infer that Harlean deceived him and had posed indecently. If the McGrew camp was given the nude photographs from that shoot, they would have the power, not just to hurt her personally, but to damage her career. At this new pivotal juncture, a wounded Chuck just might strike back at her like that if he received them now when the wound was so raw.
Harlean walked warily into the kitchen where Jean and Marino stood facing each other like combatants in a private war. Mother’s arms were crossed over her chest, her face was crimson, ablaze with her signature indignation. Marino’s lips were pursed and turned up slightly signaling his belief that he had won. For a moment, the two of them were at a standstill.
“Where are they, Marino?” her mother asked.
“As if I would actually tell you... Darling, think clearly. You honestly believe you can get rid of me now when we are just about to cash in on her?” he asked with the calm affectation of a man who saw himself as being far above his means. He cast a quick glance at Harlean, but was unfazed by her presence. Then he looked back at his wife. “I’m not to be tossed aside like that foolish boy you just chased away.”
“You wouldn’t dare send them,” Jean brayed.
“I’d do it in a heartbeat. If I’m going down, you’re both going with me.”
The die was cast. Harlean would no longer have Chuck in her life, but Marino Bello was here to stay. Today, the cost of fame seemed incredibly high to her, and it was growing higher. She only hoped that in the end, it would be worth the price she was so dearly paying.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Soon after the Hell’s Angels premiere, “Platinum Blonde Clubs” began cropping up all across the country as girls tried to look like Jean Harlow and copy her exact shade of silvery blond they saw in magazines.
She had become a phenomenon.
In the face of such opportunity, publicist Lincoln Quarberg devised a brilliant campaign to capitalize on the growing momentum surrounding her. He arranged a nationwide contest challenging anyone to exactly match Jean Harlow’s distinctive hair color. The whirlwind in which Harlean was living kicked into high gear as the contest caught on.
After Chuck returned to Chicago, Harlean plunged even more fully into work, preparing for the next publicity tour. She was glad for the distraction yet she quickly found it difficult to walk down the street without being stared at or asked for an autograph. Now everyone knew who she was. Steadily, her studio-funded wardrobe grew more elegant. Leather pumps and high-heeled Italian sandals replaced her favorite socks and white sneakers in public. She commonly wore fur coats and jewelry as accessories. Even though she preferred the simpler garments, she reminded herself that looking like a star for the public was a part of the deal.
Young girls followed her home. Consistently now, she required Kay or Bobbe—some person at least—by her side for protection lest she be mobbed. If she was making a public appearance, there were policemen and guards.
One afternoon, after she had posed for the well-known photographer William H. Mortensen, she and Bobbe walked out of his studio and back into the midday sunlight. Like Hesser, Mortensen had photographed some of the most glamorous girls in Hollywood and she was excited to have posed for him even though he had assured her, with a surprisingly nervous stutter, that the honor was all his.
“Gosh, Harlean, if you’d have told me when we were both at school that one day you’d be a star like this, I’d probably have laughed right in your face—although you always were the prettiest of us, hands down,” Bobbe teased.
“That’s Jean Harlow to you, now,” Harlean giggled, sounding, she knew, more like a teenager than a movie star, but it felt so good to be able to laugh again with a friend she knew she could trust. There were likely to be fewer of those in her future and more need than ever to rely on family and friends.
A group of adolescent girls Harlean had caught a glimpse of waiting near the door were still there when they came out. Seeing her, they surged forward, excitedly shoving copies of her various publicity photos at her.
“Please, Miss Harlow, will you sign this?” one asked in a high-pitched squeal.
“You’re my idol,” cried another. “Golly, your hair looks just like a cloud!”
“How lovely of you to say,” Harlean brightly exclaimed, bending down and giggling right along with them, in her French silk suit with a fox-fur collar and dyed-to-match heels.
After she signed each of their magazine covers with thoughtful inscriptions, she glanced at Bobbe. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. Would you girls like to join us for a hot dog? My favorite stand is just around the corner.”
She watched their expressions go swiftly from shock to sheer delight. “You eat hot dogs, Miss Harlow?”
“Sure,” she said with a sunny smile. “They’re my favorite food. Come on!”
After that, they all trooped around the corner to the yellow hot dog stand with the cheery pink-and-red awning. The girls gaped at her as Harlean bought lunch for all of them and ate her own hot dog with unabashed delight. She asked each of them their names and what they wanted to be when they grew up as a black Cadillac pulled to the curb beside them. Her mother sprang from the car, trailed closely by Arthur Landau who, it was clear, had followed her.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like? We’re having lunch, of course.” Harlean answered her mother lightly, but the girls’ expressions all turned
guilty in the face of what sounded like a reprimand.
“You can’t just go off with random teenage girls like this anymore, for heaven’s sake. You’re Jean Harlow,” Arthur charged.
“Well, ‘Jean Harlow’ was famished,” she quipped, even as he wrapped a protective arm over her shoulder and shepherded her toward the open car door.
“Wait just a minute now!” Harlean commanded as she stopped in her tracks and pivoted back away from him.
Then she opened her handbag and withdrew four theater tickets for a weekend showing of Hell’s Angels which had been meant for Rosalie, Ivor and two of their friends, but she would get others. This suddenly felt too important to her right now.
“Here, girls,” she said, handing them over. “Enjoy the picture, with my compliments.”
Clutching at them greedily, each of them swooned and cried out their thanks and proclaimed their utter devotion to their new idol as Harlean was led toward the car.
“Clearly she needs someone more commanding with her now, a personal assistant who can handle the growing challenges of her fame.”
Arthur was speaking to Jean, who sat with him in the front seat. It was as if Harlean and Bobbe weren’t inches away behind them as he steered the car back into traffic.
“I have to agree with you, Arthur,” said her mother.
“As it happens, I’ve had a letter, a rather insistent one in fact, from a candidate who has quite an impressive résumé. She has followed your daughter’s notoriety and, as she is between jobs, she thought perhaps she could be a helpful guide. I have meetings all day tomorrow, I’m afraid, but should I send her up to the new house for an interview?”
“Sure, that’ll work,” Harlean answered as she leaned forward, gripping the back of the front seat in an attempt to be heard.
This was her life, after all. She was beginning to believe that, at last. Within that realization was a level of pure moxie she hadn’t known before and she definitely liked the way it felt.
“I’ll let you both know what I think.”
“We will decide,” Jean Bello added without turning around.
“What’s her name?” Harlean asked.
“Blanche Williams,” Arthur said.
“I’m going to like her. I’ve already decided that,” Harlean could not resist adding in order to get the last word.
* * *
The impressive, two-story Tudor-style house on Club View Drive sat alone on a steep rise, far up from the street, so that it gave the appearance of nearly touching the sky. The fact that it was accessible only by climbing a long, steep flight of flagstone steps, made it appear almost majestic. Marino had fought for the house almost more for himself than he had for Harlean. Nothing less than a mansion would do, and he had made that clear in the dealings with his wife over the Hesser photographs.
It still did not matter to him, or to Jean, that Harlean’s income from her contract with Howard Hughes remained a frighteningly paltry sum for the lifestyle they had adopted. Things would improve, they both said. All they must do was believe it.
In response, Harlean had gone to Hughes several times since the premiere of Hell’s Angels, pleading for either another movie role, or to be released from her contract. She desperately needed to earn more money, but she was denied both requests. He alone had made her a star, he stubbornly continued to declare. He alone meant to capitalize on it.
She tried to shake the feeling, but Harlean steadily grew to despise him for the control he insisted on keeping over her.
Since Paul Bern had not found her an appropriate picture, either, Harlean had been forced to grudgingly agree to yet another multicity publicity tour to promote the picture as it opened progressively around the country. Since she was still uncomfortable speaking in front of crowds, the prospect was made more excruciating, but there was no other choice. The McGrew fortune was no longer accessible. She could only rely on herself to pay the bills, and she meant to find a way to do it.
Harlean descended the carpet-softened mahogany staircase the next morning to meet her new assistant. At the moment, she had too much on her mind to have anything more than a passing interest in interviewing the woman Arthur had arranged for her to meet. Besides, she was probably a dour old maid who, whether Harlean liked it or not, would be assigned to monitor her when her mother was not available.
The large wood-paneled living room, with its impressively beamed ceiling, lay ahead. She made her entrance in a white silk dressing gown with white fur lapel and fur-topped high-heeled slippers that clicked across the hardwood floor as Harlean entered the room. To her surprise, Blanche Williams was not old, or dour, at all. The chocolate-skinned woman, with the tight ebony curls, had the most incredibly warm and wise eyes. The connection Harlean felt before she spoke a word was stunning to her. Harlean was someone trying to beat the odds in a world marked by challenges. So was Blanche Williams. She had not come here as a servant, but as someone with goals and determination. The pride in her expression, as she extended her hand and Mother Jean looked on, was something Harlean instantly admired.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harlow.”
“You as well, Miss Williams.”
“You need an assistant and I need a job. I’m quite capable of handling the busy world you’re living in just now. I’ve done it before, I can do it again, for you.”
Her tone was direct, not pleading. She did not pander, which Harlean welcomed.
“I’ve taken the liberty of reading all about you, and speaking to Mr. Landau so that I am up to speed, should you decide to hire me.”
“Miss Williams’s references are impeccable. Everything checks out,” her mother said as she gestured to the paper-filled folder that lay on the coffee table between them.
“When can you start?” Harlean asked.
Blanche’s eyes widened slightly but she did not smile. “Why, right now, if you’d like.”
“Shouldn’t you at least ask her a few questions?”
“I don’t need to. I have a good feeling, and I told you I was gonna like her.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but your hair truly is the most extraordinary shade,” Blanche said.
“Actually, so is yours. We’ll look like salt and pepper together,” Harlean chuckled.
“Baby, you can’t go saying things like that!” her mother gasped.
Only an instant of awkward silence followed before Blanche finally smiled, then began to laugh, too. “I hope she does,” Blanche said. “It will make working here so much more comfortable.”
“Would you like to come up and give me a hand with the outfits for my publicity tour?”
“Sure, if you’d like.”
“I’m in a sorry state, trying to decide on my own from the collection the studio sent over, and I leave tomorrow. We leave, actually. I believe that’s the arrangement.”
Blanche and Jean Bello exchanged a glance. Her mother was suddenly more wary. “Are you certain, Baby? The two of you are bound to get looks.”
“I’m growing quite used to that now,” said Harlean, still smiling at Blanche as if they were already the best of friends. “Come on up. I haven’t a moment to waste.”
* * *
A combination of trains and terrifyingly small prop airplanes took Jean Harlow across the Midwest so that she could greet the crowds of her fans. Blanche Williams accompanied her everywhere, carried her date book and pressed her determinedly through throngs of autograph seekers with a firm hand. By the time they arrived in Chicago, they had become true friends.
They were late to board the train because a local radio executive who had been squiring them around town had run out of gasoline. Mother Jean was not happy they had been reduced to hailing a cab.
Harlean mounted the train steps in her own foul humor, after listening to her mother’s tira
de about it. But it was more than that. This was the exact platform where she and Chuck had waited to embark on their honeymoon, culminating in the cruise with his grandparents. She loathed how fragile the memory still made her feel after everything. That chapter was over, she reminded herself. She was a star now—or nearly so.
In spite of how busy the Caddo publicity machine had kept her these past few days, memories of Chuck seemed still to loom, moving in and out from the shadows of her mind, where they lingered. They were divorced. She wanted to forget him—she needed to forget him. It was time to move on. But putting her plan into action was still difficult.
Ever allowing herself to love again seemed absolutely impossible.
“If it isn’t Sunshine, right here in the flesh!”
The familiar voice was a welcome sound so far from home. Once she reached the top train step, she glanced up and met the kind, cherubic smile of Oliver Hardy.
“Babe!” Harlean cried, and flung herself into his arms. There could not have been a better time in her life to see an old friend than now. “Oh, my gosh, what are you doing in Chicago?”
“On my way home to Georgia for a little R & R. I just stopped off here. And will ya look at you! If you’re not the cat’s meow,” he exclaimed. As he did his signature comedic move, fluttering fingers over his heart, with a sweeping gaze he took in her tailor-made tweed traveling suit, kid leather gloves and matching hat.
“Expensive looks good on you, Sunshine, you wear it well.”
“They’re only clothes, Babe, bought for this tour by the studio.”
“But still, fit for a star.”
They sat down together in the first-class compartment after that and Harlean couldn’t get over how happy she was to see him. Her mother and Blanche sat facing them as more passengers filed in past them down the aisle. Both women seemed uninterested in their reunion, as each opened a book and began to read so that Harlean felt an all-too-rare moment of privacy.
“I always told you you’d be a star. Remember?”
“Of course I remember, Babe. I think you were my first real friend in Hollywood.”