Just a few close friends, Frank had said. Amazing to think we were being included. Marilyn was still low, she’d been having treatment for the cocktail of pills she popped, Gloria had explained, and Frank was anxiously trying to look after her.
Joe appeared out of the steamy box bathroom tucking a voluminous bath towel around himself. It was one he’d bought out here with our precious funds, saying that the apartment’s towels were ‘smaller than sanitary towels’. He shuffled close and gave me a kiss, thrusting his tongue deep. He hadn’t been near me since New York. The towel slipped as his hands groped my buttocks and he pressed against me, hot, damp and aroused. I was dressed already, showing off my Californian tan in a white shift, which was going to look in a sorry limp state. It had a wide black lace-up belt; Joe fumbled with the laces ineffectually then gave up and poked me fully clothed, pinned to the wall, finding a way round my pants and coming in seconds. It was the night ahead, the stimulation – it had nothing much to do with me. Joe hadn’t looked at me with any meaningful connection – unlike Gil Foreman. I couldn’t think about that look without feeling fresh shivers.
The Romanoffs had arranged a car for us. A white Cadillac was waiting, parked alongside the Air Force blue US post box where Joe posted letters that he kept private from me. The driver took his time, chatting about the TV games show What’s My Line? to Joe’s evident frustration. He was wired up, champing to be part of the action. He couldn’t wait to talk to Marilyn Monroe.
We arrived at 2666 Bowmont Drive where a policeman and a St Bernard were keeping guard. A sign on the Sinatra gatepost read: If you haven’t been invited you’d better have a damn good reason for ringing this bell. We had and did. It was hugely satisfying. The house was on a hilltop with fantastic views over Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley. It was quintessentially Beverly Hills, a sweep of drive, steps cut into the rock that led down to an illuminated kidney-shaped swimming pool and a private cinema apparently, beyond. Frank greeted us and when Joe raved about the sound quality of the music – it was Oscar Peterson playing, I thought – Frank said he’d had the house built round the hi-fi system. Special gravel had been packed into the walls of the main room and two huge loudspeakers were installed just under the ceiling.
The room was a mix of Japanese-Italian in its décor, I decided, while looking for familiar faces among the scattering of people already arrived, some standing talking, others sprawled on an L-shaped white sofa. The Romanoffs were there, Frank’s secretary, another Gloria, Gloria Lovell, and his great bachelor buddy, Jimmy Van Heusen; blonde Dorothy Provine too, who I’d been told was a close friend of Frank’s.
No sign of Marilyn. Joe began talking to Dorothy, waving his hands, and from the lissom, animated sways of his body he was clearly out to impress.
I was still with Frank and a man came up, demanding to be introduced to me.
‘This is Leo Durocher, Leo the Lip, the Dodgers’ new coach,’ Frank grinned. ‘He’s a legend. There’s no ball-player to touch him – Leo has to win. So be warned!’
‘At baseball,’ Leo said, winking. ‘What are we out at the park for, except to win?’
He and Frank talked baseball for a bit and I gathered that Leo would be on the El Dago trip as well. I liked him. He had a square jaw, a big face-creasing grin; he seemed unthreatening and fun. ‘You play gin? Gin rummy?’ he asked me suddenly, turning.
‘Yes, but I’m not very good . . .’
‘But I am! We’ll play together in Palm Springs.’
‘And you can teach him all about cricket,’ Frank quipped, but automatically. He was restless and distracted, I could see; his eyes were darting around. They were as startlingly blue as ever, the cobalt of a Vermeer painting, the standout blue of seventeenth-century art. ‘Marilyn’s always late,’ he said, explaining his looks of concern. ‘George should have got her here by now. That chick needs protecting from herself, she messes up easy; it’s not like it’s a heavy night.’
It was an hour more before Marilyn appeared. She came into the room with George, Frank’s valet, who gave his boss a tiny acknowledging shrug.
‘Hi, guys!’ she said, gloriously breathily, looking shyly self-conscious at the same time. She was in black open-toed high heels, raspberry Capri pants and a silky, tight-fitting cream sweater that showcased the famous pointy tits to perfection. I could see how she needed the ripples of adulation, the tangible awe and sexual adoration that filled the air; they were her survival pack. Marilyn had to feel loved by all and wanted by every man in the room.
‘Hey, babe,’ Frank drawled, hugging her protectively close as she sidled up with a little wiggle. ‘How goes? Hey, liquor for the lady,’ he shouted, snapping his fingers. ‘And fast!’
Earlier and more sober, we’d talked politics: China’s warning to America not to send troops to Vietnam, U Thant just elected UN Secretary General. Frank’s conversation was informed and wide-ranging and, except when talking passionately about music, always peppered with jokes and cracks – even when having one of his regular bitches at the press. No matter that he’d been as tense as fuse wire about Marilyn, he’d seemed to feel it was expected of him, even in his own home with no need put on a show, to be the entertainer and not let people down.
We’d got on to films, plays – A Man for all Seasons opening on Broadway, hard on the heels of Harold Pinter’s The Caretaker, so enthusiastically reviewed. And writers, too. Frank reminisced about James Thurber, who’d died that very day. ‘Sad. He was a big-leaguer, a real funny guy and a true perfectionist; he minded to hell about the scripting of his Walter Mitty. He thought the Danny Kaye film was bombsville.’
Now, though, with all the waiting, people were loosened up, telling raunchy jokes, and the tempo had changed. I watched Joe home in on Marilyn, as charming and witty with his flattery as only he could be, but she seemed unsure, nervous of him, curiously. She edged away to talk to Jimmy Van Heusen and I knew Joe wouldn’t take that well.
‘We’re having telly dinners, individual trays,’ Frank said, as waitresses in white aprons separated nests of tables and spread them about. They brought in the food on trays, each with a red rose in a thimble glass; lobster cocktail, followed by an Italian chicken dish.
I found myself next to Marilyn. It just fell that way. Jimmy, attractively bald with roguish eyes, had walked us both to the sofa, gossiping, making crude quips – like wanting to rename the Bowmont of Frank’s address, Blowmont, which Marilyn enjoyed – and we’d settled down. Jimmy was beside me while Frank came to sit next to Marilyn.
He was the perfect host, up and down, ever observant, constantly topping up wine glasses, refilling them more like, and Jimmy on my other side was concentrating on his food. Marilyn was momentarily alone.
‘I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,’ I smiled nervously, floundering, ‘and you must get sick of hearing this, but it is the most incredible thrill to have the chance to meet you. I mean, the whole world would give their eyeteeth to swap places with me right now – which is quite hard to get my head round!’ I was sounding more naïve than a hick schoolgirl. Good thing Joe was out of earshot.
Marilyn turned and took me in; she had a gentle smile. ‘Gee, that’s nice. You’re a lovely girl. You could be in films too, no kidding, but it’s tough, a bitch. And you English have so much – all that history and education . . .’ She petered out with suddenly sad eyes and gulped down her red wine like water.
‘And think what you have!’ I exclaimed, feeling awash with my own inadequacies. ‘What you’ve achieved with your beauty and talent and guts.’ Frank was back beside her by then and she lightly touched my arm before turning, smiling and brushing my hair away from my face. It was always half over one eye, a sort of comfort blanket, I suppose. I felt moved; it had seemed such a warm gesture of Marilyn’s and it gave me a glow.
She began talking to Frank and I picked at my chicken, listening curiously.
‘The President’s gonna be in town on the nineteenth, lunch in Santa Monica. Pete called, he jus
t wanted to let me know.’
‘Look chick, so TP’s visiting the Lawfords, seeing his sister, but—’
‘You’re just jealous,’ Marilyn interrupted, snuggling up and giggling, sounding as though she wanted him to be. ‘Sure TP’s hornier than Casanova, but he can have real feelings too, you know. I’m telling you . . .’
‘Who’s hornier than Casanova?’ Jimmy demanded, leaning across and putting his arm round me. ‘Not talking about yours truly, are you, by any chance?’
It was three in the morning before people began thanking Frank and saying goodbye. I plucked at Joe’s sleeve one more time and finally got him away. He was silent in the car, then swaying and stumbling on the harshly lit stairs up to our characterless apartment. Inside, he slammed the door shut violently with a thrust-out foot. And coming out of the bathroom minutes later, he took a swipe at me and knocked me down. It wasn’t quite the first time. I’d have a bruise on the side of my face in the morning, which was one thing while I wasn’t working . . .
The drink was to blame. Was I as well, though, just a little? I’d been dwelling so much and so often on a single look from a short, weird American photographer. My marriage was disintegrating and I didn’t know what to think, what I should do.
El Dago’s inaugural flight was a whirlwind of excitements. The trip of a lifetime, as Joe kept saying. He was in his element again, starry-eyed. El Dago had its own stars too, tiny sparkly lights set into the dark blue of the ceiling over the bar area. The press had made a bit of a stink about the plane – a twin-engined Martin – though, as Frank said, there were people with private planes all over the country. It was quite a plane, a unique airborne den-away-from-home. It had an electric piano and a tape machine, low stools fixed to the floor beside the bar, armchairs, banquette seating, a separate little conference-cum-card room, and the rest room even had a sofa and telephone.
We flew to Las Vegas via San Francisco, where we had a night atop Nob Hill, staying at the Fairmont Hotel as Frank’s guests. It was sheer luxury. Henrietta was with us; she’d been back home in England, but had come out again for the El Dago trip. I was glad to see her; we’d become mates and I thought she understood about Joe’s moods. The Rubirosas, whom we’d met in New York, were also part of the group. Dorothy Provine was too, along with the Romanoffs and a woman called Mary, who took the very rich on tiger shoots; she had a sleek, cat-like elegance, quite like a tiger herself. Bill Miller, Frank’s pianist, and George, his valet, were with us, of course, and Frank’s daughter, Nancy, who was coming as far as Vegas to be at her father’s opening night at the Sands Hotel. Her mother, Big Nancy, would probably be there too, Gloria said. Frank was on good terms with his ex-wife, he called her up almost daily. Joe and I were going to be in Vegas for the whole two weeks of Frank’s engagement, then it was onward in El Dago to his home in Palm Springs.
We ate Chinese on our one night in San Francisco, at Kan’s, a regular haunt of Frank’s in the city’s great Chinatown. He’d lived with the problem of being mobbed and had booked the private dining room, which was called Gum Shan – Gold Mountain. Exquisite watercolours lined the walls – images of early Chinese history – and the food, the shrimp with cashew, crispy Peking duck, ginger beef, was sublime.
Earlier, Frank had taken us to Saks where he insisted we all choose a gift. ‘Anything, just whatever hits the spot.’ I felt uncomfortable about it, shy to accept a present at all, and picked out a small silk scarf, wine-red, not my colour, but the least pricy item I could find. Others were less reticent. Mary, the tiger lady, chose a shimmering sequinned black sheath, Leo Durocher, a pricy Mexican bowl, and Joe became the proud owner of a pair of authentic cowboy boots complete with shiny spurs. He didn’t ride. When would he ever wear them?
I’d hate to have got through life without seeing San Francisco; the streets as steep as ski runs, the trams that felt like riding a Big Dipper, the fabulous Golden Gate Bridge – all the crackle and buzz of that living, breathing city. We’d packed in plenty, but it was time to move on to Las Vegas.
The Sands Hotel sign was a tall neon light box that stood proud of the building and hit you in the eye like a tabloid newspaper strapline. The hotel too, with its space and scale, the low spread of pink-painted walls, rich vegetation and vast car park, made an instant impact; it felt at the very heart of the action, a giant of Vegas. Other establishments, however gimmicky and lit up in neon, seemed tackier, almost Lilliputian in comparison.
Las Vegas was unreal, like a one-horse, Wild West town gone crazy. It was hardly more than a single street, an incongruous slash of glitter and gaudiness in an unending monochrome desert. My eyes had been out on stalks, driving into town, having a first glimpse: winking lights, screeching automobiles, back streets and residential sprawl, but all the splashiest clubs and saloons, the Pioneer Club with its vast neon cowboy (Vegas Vic who had a movable arm), The Golden Nugget Gambling Hall, The Horseshoe Gambling Saloon were all contained, tight-packed into the famously flashing and uniquely exhilarating strip.
We’d arrived at the Sands in time to see Sammy Davis perform. It was the final night of his act. Frank would be taking over and starting to rehearse in the wee small hours, he told us, when the last stragglers from Sammy’s audience, which was hundreds strong, had dispersed.
I watched the show at a table with Joe and the Romanoffs. Frank was nowhere to be seen – resting, I presumed, relaxing his voice. Sammy sang, danced, delighted the diners and drinkers in the packed room, but the whole place erupted when, near the end of the act, Frank strode out onto the stage. The audience yelled and roared as he and Sammy camped it up, harmonising, singing in turn, wisecracking; everyone went wild. Sammy, small, sleek, one-eyed, immaculate in his tuxedo, did cartwheels with abandon until he was finally raised on high by a couple of waiters and transported bodily off stage – for going on too long, Frank quipped, and keeping the punters from gambling.
Joe stayed to watch Frank rehearse. I went to our low-lit room where the curtains, which were three thicknesses deep and with a blackout blind, had been tightly drawn. Punters who slept in, had a late lunch by the pool, and an afternoon zizzing in the sun, were popular with the management; they’d be fit and eager to stay the course and gamble the night away.
I had no idea how late Joe was back from the rehearsal session, but in the morning he described it with wonder. How Frank had sung lyrical ballads, cradling the microphone while waiters crashed about turning up tables, clearing detritus, and men had been up wobbling step-ladders painting a new backdrop. Even as electricians shifted equipment in their midst, Sinatra, and the orchestra too, had carried on, oblivious to all.
Joe was back on me in Vegas. He looked quite proud when Jack Entratter, who ran the hotel – a big man whose smile was both fearsome and avuncular – paid me lavish over-the-top compliments. Joe was back up high, way high. He loved Vegas, from the blackjack tables to the one-arm bandits, from Dinah Washington singing late-night in a bar, to the hours he could keep, the unlimited booze he could consume.
I played the fruit machines, since it let me off the hook when I couldn’t keep pace with Joe and the other drinkers. The punters pulling down the handles alongside me were a motley bunch: rheumy, paunchy old men, young men, mostly obese, with hideous crew cuts, shrivelled aged women jangling their bracelets, fleshy peroxide black-root blondes with blood-red nails and caked-on make-up . . . but they all had one thing in common: their concentration was total.
By day I swam, read books by the pool and thought about the future, wondering yet again why it was that I hadn’t got pregnant. I’d cried less about it recently; my intense jealousy of Alicia, the pain and final insult of her own pregnancy, was a lessening hurt. Not my instinctive suspicion about the father, though, which still burned like a pot of acid chucked in my face. A maggot had burrowed into my marriage; it was lodged there, a canker at its core, and I didn’t know whether or for how long Joe and I could go on.
Frank was king in Vegas. We saw little of him by day. He
occasionally toured the bars and gambling rooms by night – he was part-owner of The Sands – which always caused a small stampede and kept the burly guards, who looked ten foot tall, on their toes. He even took over a blackjack table once or twice and turned dealer – but only to women, five at a time, tittering with excitement in their busty frocks or faded Chanel suits, smelling of cheap drugstore perfume. I felt sad about those tired suits. They spoke of falling on hard times, a deserting husband perhaps, compulsive gambling or a business deal gone wrong. Somehow Frank fiddled things so the women always went away with winnings. Gloria said he bore the cost himself.
Playing the fruit machines, I won the jackpot one night. The three stars lined up and a profusion of coins showered to the floor while a disbelieving crowd quickly gathered, transmitting awed intense envy. I’d swear Frank had fixed it, but I’ll never know.
He gave a dinner party at the hotel the night before Henrietta flew home. She’d holidayed with a friend in LA, come with us on El Dago as far as Vegas, but had to get back. Henrietta had money, but a job in publishing that she loved.
Frank ordered some incredible French vintage as usual and Joe leaned forward. ‘Never in my dreams . . . that’s the vino of the Gods, generosity gone mad.’ He was flushed, he’d fallen asleep in the sun; it gave him a glow and with his staginess, his wiry, nervy magnetism, he was an arresting presence.
Frank had a fatherly smile. ‘Look, kid, I’ve been rich twice, poor twice, I like to give.’
Henrietta was in high spirits, making the most of her last hours and, as before, taking pictures of everyone at the table with her Box Brownie camera. It was a prized possession of hers, I knew, and since I was seated between Frank and a short bald man called Johnny Formosa – smooth-faced and cuddly, but who still looked straight out of one of the tough-guy films I used to see with my father – I became party to a fascinating little scene. It was over the photograph Henrietta had just taken of Johnny Formosa and me. On a nod and a whisper from Mr Formosa, a hotel heavy had gone round the table, leaned over Henrietta and removed the camera from her lap. ‘May I borrow that?’ I heard him murmur, taking it anyway, to her shocked surprise.
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