His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  “Let’s hope you dance like him later.”

  “We scrub up well, don’t we? Bit different than chastity belts and cavalier boots,” he said looking over at our little group.

  “Everyone looks so posh, you included.” I took another sip of bubbles. “I can’t see Rogan anywhere.”

  “And you won’t. Flew back yesterday, franchise business I expect.”

  “Getting his cape measured, hey? Sorry about my sudden disappearance the other week.”

  “You don’t need to keep apologizing, Lilly, I assure you. How are you, darling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You looking for someone in particular?”

  “No.”

  “Lilly, for a damn fine actress you can’t lie for toffee.”

  “That obvious?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Someone I know might be here.”

  “It wouldn’t be a certain Mr Salter would it?”

  “How do you know?”

  “One doesn’t have to be P D James to work that out. Anyhow I was aware he was in town.”

  “I wish he wasn’t.”

  “I doubt he’ll be here. He doesn’t strike me as someone who would frequent this sort of occasion. He is far too busy and important to waste his evening receiving adulation and praise. Probably working on his next masterpiece.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “You don’t sleep with all your director’s, do you?” he smiled under his beard.

  “I do actually.”

  “I am a bit old. Not very mobile.”

  “Older the better.”

  “Even a sixty-one-year-old?”

  “Especially sixty-one-year-olds.”

  Soon we were all escorted to somewhere else to sip champagne, the men separated off, as did the women. The men to talk about whatever it was that men talked about, women probably. And us girls were left to find a table, talk about whatever girls are supposed to talk about, which turned out was also women. And jeez did this place have some women in it, the most amazing women. Taller than me, in both height and ability, and in dress sense. Nude gowns, plunging necklines, floor-length chiffon, they looked breathtaking.

  We drank some more, laughed a lot, deliberated over other actresses’ breasts and more importantly how they controlled their breasts, where invisible bras started and where they ended. I chatted to Carey Mulligan, told I loved her hair all short and blonde. Kirsten Stewart, too, even met David Bowie’s son, he was nice, we both apologized for not seeing each other’s movies. There were so many dishy men on display that night, in particular Jeremy Renner, who smiled at me as he walked past with his entourage. The girls dared me to go on and talk to George Clooney, too. I never did, I was drunk but not that drunk, though the night was early.

  After a while I forgot about Max, plied myself with more liquor, even Jon told me to slow down, which was rich seeing the whisky he had knocked back himself. Not long after I was called over by suits in earpieces with instructions and directions of where I had to be and how long I had to do it in.

  It was show time.

  * * *

  Backstage was surprisingly non-chaotic, must be the British way of getting things done, calm and collected, just like Jon, the elegant way of dealing with panic. The dressing room was nice, white lilies, drinks and fruit. I took a few deep breaths, sipped some water, ate an apple, a croissant. I hadn’t eaten all day, I ate a second croissant. I remembered Sally telling me food soaked up the alcohol, despite all the pastry and rehydration, I still felt drunk. There was a knock at the door, Marla Miller.

  The Marla Miller.

  She went over, past me and to the nearest chair. One of the runners asked her if she’d like a cup of tea, she laughed and coughed.

  “Tea is for nice old ladies. I ain’t no lady and I ain’t that nice either, doll. Get me a pack of Winston’s,” she said as he left the room, more confused than he was offended.

  I looked over at Marla, hoping she would say something, but she didn’t, as she fiddled with her skirt and bra.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs Miller. I’m Lilly,” I said. “I’m looking forward to presenting an award with you.” I went over to shake her hand.

  “Darling, let me take a look at you,” she said, holding my hand, bringing me in close as she looked me up and down. She smelt stale, old smoke and perfume.

  “You have a very good nose. Is it real?”

  I laughed. “My grandpa was a big fan of yours, Mrs Miller. How many movies have you made. Must be a lot?”

  “Oh, I’ve made a bunch. I’ve been a bit quiet these last few years. Been busy getting old. Here’s hoping my next one will be my big break. Be a doll and fetch me a glass of something.” She pointed to the table. “Nothing fizzy or sweet, or you’ll be presenting the award on your own.”

  We both went quiet, as she sipped her drink and I looked over my lines. The runner came back to the door, apologized to Marla, tried to explain smoking was not allowed indoors.

  “You heard of prohibition, boy? Didn’t stop me drinking then, so I’m as sure some sign on a door ain’t gonna stop me smoking either.” The runner disappeared. Marla took a cigarette from her purse, lit it up and began to smoke, with a frown.

  “Have you seen any of my movies, darling?” she asked me.

  “Oh, lots of times. My dad loves all the old black and white shows.”

  “I’ve starred with all the greats, you know. Elvis, Joan Crawford. I should write my memoirs, that would ruffle a few feathers in Hollywood. You heard of Errol Flynn?”

  “He was Robin Hood, right?”

  “He was a bit of swine that one.”

  “You live in Hollywood now, Mrs Miller?”

  She nodded. “You heard of Thunderbird?”

  “I haven’t sorry. Is it a show?”

  “No, it’s a house. It’s where they send movie stars to die in peace, argue over fame and who has the most of it. If you think I’m bad you ain’t seen nothing. A lot of strong women in there, strong perfume too. The men are pussies, we eat them for breakfast. Gloria Stuart, one of my dearest friends, she lives there too, hundred years old, bless her. Met her when we both worked for Universal Studios. She’s got a star on the south side of Boulevard. You know Gloria Stuart? Gold Diggers of 1935? Kiss Before the Mirror? Titanic?”

  “She was on the Titanic?”

  “No sweetheart, the film. Old Rose.”

  “Oh, I loved that film.”

  “So, did the critics. She wouldn’t have got that Academy award or that bloody star on Boulevard if it wasn’t for that movie. And I told her that, she agreed with me too. That’s what I need. Some big-shot director to give one old girl a second crack of the whip.”

  “You haven’t got a star then?” I asked, regretting it straight away. From her reaction, it was obviously a subject to be avoided.

  “There is still time, honey, not much of it, but enough. Might get one when I die, that’s worked for some.”

  I didn’t say anything. It looked like we were about to be called to the stage.

  “I could always die on stage tonight, keel over.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Mrs Miller.”

  “Call me Marla. And less of the Mrs. I’m no one’s wife,” she snarled before smiling. “Don’t worry, kid. I was only teasing you. I didn’t always look like this you know.” She took a photo from her purse and handed it over, black and white and crumpled. “That’s when I was most beautiful. I keep this for the non-believers. When I had the best tits in the business.”

  “My grandpa always thought you were the most beautiful woman in pictures.”

  “I’d like to meet your grandpa. He sounds like a fun night.”

  “He died last fall. He was ninety-four.”

  “I’ll have to meet him upstairs then. Or
downstairs depending on how good we’ve both been. I’m probably headed downstairs, heaven has always felt a little too high for me.”

  “My grandpa would be hard to miss. Flirting with Garbo or smoking cigarillos with Telly Savalas.”

  Marla laughed. “I like you, Lilly. You remind me of me. Don’t let these fuckers chip away at you. It can be lonely being a female in this business. It’s a world run by men and by youth, too. The first one you can handle easily, the second is trickier. Everyone I know is dead or dying, me included.”

  “You’re still beautiful, Marla.”

  “Thank you. darling. I appreciate the sentiment, even if it’s a load of BS.”

  We started to be ushered towards the stage, we were handed the trophy.

  “You know your lines?” she said, as I started to walk her up the steps to the stage.

  “Yep. Stand and smile. Don’t fuck up.”

  “Sums up my career so far, darling.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Let’s give ’em a bit of sass,” she coughed. “Wake up the cheap seats.”

  * * *

  All of us were sat round a large round table, a mess of empty glasses and bottles and plates, the ladies had taken their shoes off, men had undone their bow ties. The table may have been without a trophy, but no one cared by now, if they had before then the food and liquor had filled them up enough to forget. A few of the mad ones were still licking salt and sucking limes. Me, I was as inebriated as I wanted to be without the need for more tequila, the croissants and water must’ve worked. I wasn’t the stumbling mess I was before and although I still felt a little giddy I wasn’t the drunkest in the room, which was the measure I’d always tended to use to consider stopping or carrying on.

  I had no idea of the time, it must’ve been nearing the end, I was told there were a few after-parties in various clubs and hotel rooms around the city. The younger me would’ve snapped that up, the new me was very different. In fact, I was genuinely looking forward to taking my shoes off and losing the eyelashes.

  Jon came over, put his drink down on the table.

  “Would you care for a dance, Miss Rogers. Make an old man’s day.”

  “Certainly, Mr Astaire. You lead the way.”

  “You assume I can lead.”

  We walked across the dance floor, as I took Jon’s hands and put them where they were supposed to be.

  “Apologies in advance if I step on your feet,” he said as we began to sway to the music.

  “Jon, do you know what they said about Fred Astaire on his first screen test?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Can’t act. Slightly bald. Also dances.”

  Jon laughed loudly. “That doesn’t surprise me. We are in a business surrounded by educated people with not one brain between them. Years ago, I sent a script over to my production company.”

  “Was it a film I would know?”

  “Not unless you have access to my office cabinet. It never made it to camera.”

  “Shame.”

  “Not really. It wasn’t my best work. Anyway, where was I?”

  “People with education but not brains.”

  “Oh yes. So, the executives weren’t too keen on this script I’d given them, so they sent it back to me, told me to do an urgent rewrite. Now I loved my script as it was. I’d already rewritten it three damn times. It was as close to perfect as it was ever going be.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I sent it back, with a new front cover.”

  “What, exactly the same screenplay?”

  “Yep, damn same thing.”

  “What did they say.”

  “They said it was perfect.”

  “That’s so funny.”

  “I wouldn’t take anything people say too seriously. Film companies just see dollar signs, they don’t think about the craft that goes into it.”

  “I think everything is run by dollar signs, Jon. Depressing really.”

  “Only if you let it impact your decisions.”

  “OK, Jon, why did you choose this film? Why eighteenth-century England?”

  “I could say immorality, the role of women in society, manipulation.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not one of those things?”

  “It was a little. But I just like films with sex and tits in them. There was a lot of that about back then. That’s me being honest. I’m just a dirty old man really. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why did you choose this film?”

  “Cos I wanted to run away.”

  He smiled.

  “You’re not offended are you, Jon?”

  “No, course not. I’d hoped it was my dazzling script and reputation.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You do a lot of running away, don’t you?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish I knew. I nearly didn’t come tonight.”

  “What, because of Max Salter?”

  “It’s not even him, it’s more what people and situations like Max bring out in me.”

  “And what do they bring out?”

  “My worst attributes. I just roll over, say yes to anything. I’m easily influenced. I just do whatever someone tells me to do. Running away always seems the sensible choice to avoid both.”

  “You could just try staying put. Charge towards the things you’re scared of. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of passivity, and I can think of worse traits than being easy-going. You’ve just got to be careful who you are being influenced by.”

  “That’s the problem. I’m an awful judge of character.”

  “True. I mean you trust me for a start and I’m an awful human being. You don’t like being directed by me, do you? Be honest, now.”

  “Like isn’t the right word, Jon. I enjoy working with you.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s just different to what I’m used to, that’s all.”

  “And what are you used to?”

  “I’m used to criticism. Doing things over and over, getting it right, making things better. Being stretched to the limit, physically and emotionally.”

  “And you enjoy this type of torture? Suffering for your art.”

  “I don’t feel I’ve worked hard enough till my voice is hoarse or my feet are covered in corns and blisters.”

  “Art should be enjoyable, darling. It doesn’t always need such intensity.”

  “But that is what I’m used to. A decade of dancing has taught me nothing else. And Max, of course.”

  “Well, I can try to be more of a brute for the next few weeks if it would help. Throw something at you, use profanity.”

  “No, that’s fine, Jon. You don’t have to be an arsehole. Leave that the Max Salters of this world.”

  “I’ve met a lot of Max Salters. I used to be one.”

  “What changed?”

  “Confidence.”

  “What, in yourself?”

  “No, in others. If you pick the right people to do the right job, then you can trust them to do what is required without all the shouting and hollering. Look, I’m just an old man, I’ve been round the block a few times. Met a lot of different people from various walks of life. There are heroes and cunts out there, and a lot in between. There is no magic formula to recognizing the differences. I just tend to go with my gut, if something smells off at the start, it most likely means it will be full of shit.”

  “Is that Walt Whitman?”

  “Jon Noble. I’m better than Whitman. He never knew when to shut up.”

  “I’d have to disagree.”

  “Look. Take my advice. The same advice I give to the heathen that is my personal trainer.”

  “And what advice is
that?”

  “Stop running. Nothing good comes from running.”

  “I’ve been given a lot of advice today. Is this what happens when you get old? You feel the need to educate everyone you encounter on all the mistakes you’ve made?”

  “Well, are you going to listen to any of it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Can we stop dancing now? My legs might seize up.”

  “Mine too. I haven’t danced in ages.”

  “You’re a good person, Lilly. Hollywood needs people like you.”

  “You too.”

  “You do need to focus on people your own age. You can’t hang around with folks like me and Marla Miller all night.”

  “I love people like you and Marla Miller.”

  “Why?”

  “People like you and her, they don’t give a shit. You don’t care who they upset.”

  “And you like that? Upsetting people?”

  “Not upsetting them, but giving them the honesty they deserve. I think the more time I spend in this industry the more I feel strangled by it all. What happened to all the characters out there? Doesn’t seem like anyone has a voice any more. Every interview I’m told what to say, what not to say and why.”

  “Well, perhaps you should change that.”

  “What, become the femme fatale? The new Lana Turner?”

  “If that’s who you are.”

  “I don’t know who I am really.”

  “You seem to surround yourself with old people.”

  “Because I always need reassurance that I’m not fucking things up.”

  “Fucking up is the best part. And believe me, all ages fuck up.”

  “You are right. I’m not ditching Frank and Sally though. I couldn’t.”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying it’s about time you started being Lilly Goodridge again. Whoever that is. If you say being passive and easily influenced are the worst of traits, then bring out the opposite.”

  “What, Lilly Goodridge, confrontational and opinionated?”

  “If that is you, then yes. Sounds a lot more fun, too.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Go grab us a port from the bar please, darling. I haven’t the legs for the steps. There’s a young gent at the bar, he looks like he needs the company,” he said, pointing to a man sat head down into his drink. “He looks young. Go be a bit wild.”