Girl About Town

by Adam Shankman

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Lulu said.

  “And I have no one to tell, so your secret is safe with me,” Freddie added.

  “It’s no use. Someone else knows.” His breath was coming fast, and he pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig. From his stagger and bloodshot eyes, it obviously wasn’t his first. “I thought it might be all right, but the doctors say . . . Oh, damn! It’s all going to hell, isn’t it?” He strode through the backyard and into the house. Exchanging looks, Lulu and Freddie followed him.

  “What did you mean by doctors?” Freddie asked Blake.

  “Ruby’s doctors. I got a call from Sassoon. The doctors say she’s awake. They think she’s going to live. I know it’s terrible to wish anyone dead, but for one brief moment I thought my problem was solved.”

  “You mean Ruby knew about your wife?”

  “She found a letter from Ethel in my . . . well, in my bedroom. She threatened to tell the press if I didn’t help her get a starring role. How can I do that? I can talk to people, but it isn’t up to me. When you beat her out for the lead in Girl About Town, I thought I was done for sure, but she gave me one more chance. I’m supposed to get her the lead in The House of Mirth, but that will never happen. I tried to offer her money, but she nixed that. She said fame is the only thing she cares about.”

  “So you’re the one who put the bullets in the gun?” Freddie asked.

  “Me? God no, but I almost wish I’d thought of it.” He sank heavily onto his sofa. “My fans are going to tear me apart when they find out. If she lives, she’s going to expose me. I’m through, Lulu—through.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Freddie asked when they were back in the cab.

  “Why would he tell us about Ruby knowing his secret if he had done it? That would be pretty stupid, to incriminate himself like that.”

  “He is pretty drunk,” Freddie said. “And not too bright, I think.”

  “Still, I think we can rule him out. Probably. The only thing we can do now is talk with Ruby. Maybe she saw something. Unless we can find hard evidence or get someone to confess, she might be our last hope. The police have talked to everyone else.”

  “Well, we can’t go now.” He lifted her wrist to check her slim gold watch, then used it as an excuse to keep hold of her hand, which nestled, warm and content, within his. “It’s two a.m.”

  Fifteen minutes later they found themselves tucked into a booth at LA’s most popular late-night haunt, Canter’s Delicatessen on Fairfax Avenue. The joint was jumping.

  “Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Lulu said when the waitress handed them a menu. “Maybe just coffee . . .”

  One hot pastrami sandwich, three pickles, and a plate of French fries later, Lulu was still in the booth across from Freddie, her stomach comfortably expanded, talking like she had all the time in the world. Sal and the police loomed over her like the sword of Damocles, but sitting in this tawdry diner with Freddie, she felt as if the moment could stretch happily on forever.

  “I could live here,” she said dreamily, and ordered a strawberry shake.

  “I wonder if they have delicatessens in Hong Kong.”

  “Oh, they have everything in Hong Kong,” Lulu said with absolute certainty, letting herself daydream about an all-night restaurant with queued chefs and waitresses in high-necked silk gowns serving dim sum on dragon-festooned plates.

  “I don’t think we’ll be able to afford to eat like this every day,” Freddie said, bringing unpleasant reality into her fantasy.

  “Oh, yes, we can. We’ll discover gold or write a bestseller and dine on caviar every night. No, forget caviar. I want burgers and fries . . . and ice cream . . . and scrambled eggs. When we move to Hong Kong, I’m going to get so fat it will take two rickshaw drivers just to haul me through the streets!”

  “You’ll be just as beautiful as ever,” Freddie insisted.

  “But I won’t always,” she said, suddenly earnest. “What about when I’m old? It doesn’t take much to make a woman old, you know. Just a couple of years and a little bad luck. What will happen then?”

  “Do I really need to answer that?” Freddie asked, looking at her with what she knew, suddenly and unequivocally, was love.

  “No,” she said softly.

  The waitress brought Lulu’s milk shake and asked, a bit amused, if there would be anything else. “Oh, yes! A big plate of bacon, please.” Luckily, the place wasn’t kosher. The stout waitress gave her a quick sympathetic smile and went for another portion of food.

  “Do you know, one thing hasn’t changed at all since my poor days. When I lived in the slum, I’d lie awake dreaming about bacon. We could rarely afford meat, you see, and if we got a little bit, we usually couldn’t just eat it. It had to be stretched, so it went into the soup. I never got to eat bacon in my life, not real sizzling, crispy bacon. Just a chewy little lump of it that had been boiled in three nights of soup in a row. We couldn’t eat the bacon pieces as long as they had any flavor to give to the soup.”

  She felt Freddie’s ankle stroke hers in sympathy under the table.

  “Then, when I got to Hollywood and had some money, I thought I’d be able to eat all of those nice things. But the first day I signed my contract, they sent a woman over to weigh and measure me and give me two lists, one of things I’m allowed to eat, one of forbidden foods. One’s a footnote, the other’s a novel. So here I am, a working actress, still lying in bed and dreaming of bacon.” She sighed.

  “When we move to Hong Kong, I promise I’ll serve you bacon for breakfast in bed every day.”

  She held out her hand and they shook, another excuse for contact. “It’s a deal,” she said. “Except on your birthday. Then I’ll serve you bacon in bed.”

  She suddenly realized they’d been talking about beds, when they hadn’t so much as kissed yet, and she flushed.

  It’s just a joke, she told herself. An impossible dream. But such a nice one.

  They talked until five o’clock in the morning, sometimes laughing and teasing, then falling into moments of somber seriousness. Lulu let herself believe that it was possible—either that they could expose the truth and clear her name, or else run away together.

  She paid the bill (noticing a pained look from Freddie as she handed over the cash), and they took a taxi to the hospital to see if they could visit Ruby.

  “Then, if she has nothing new to offer, we can go back to the set and snoop around,” Freddie said.

  Even in the predawn hour, the hospital was a mob scene of media and rubbernecking tourists. Lulu belatedly wished she’d stopped home to change as the cameras turned on her in what was clearly last night’s gown. They’d see her with a man in the morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes, and make nasty assumptions. And she knew she must be disheveled, and probably greasy from her bacon indulgence. She ducked her head and let her hair partly conceal her face as the flashbulbs exploded.

  “Lulu! Did you shoot her?”

  “Hey, Lulu, is this a publicity stunt?”

  “This way, Lulu! Give us a smile!”

  “Do you think they’ll let you have a couture prison jumpsuit?”

  The spirits of Veronica and Mrs. Wilberforce rallied her, and she gave them what they wanted. She adopted a sad little smile and said, “My only thoughts are for the health of my dear friend Ruby.” Then, in the classic, ironic plea of famous people throughout the ages, she added, “Please respect my privacy during this difficult time.” Privacy was the one thing she was paid not to have.

  It was quieter in the critical-care wing. There were only a few dozen of the top paparazzi and twenty or so stars who either cared deeply about Ruby or hoped to piggyback on her dramatic story. Lulu’s publicist and agent met her in the waiting room.

  “She’s awake!” Veronica said. “And how on earth do you manage to look so good at six a.m.? It just isn’t fair. Anyway, they say Ruby’s going to be fine. Well, she’ll still have her old personality, unfortunately. I’d hoped cutting off the
oxygen to her brain might have made her a changed woman, but we can’t have everything, can we? Oh, and she’ll have a scar on her chest, so no more provocative décolletage for old Ruby. Of course, when you throw the gals in peoples’ faces, they’re more inclined to flinch than stare, so it might be all for the best. She’ll have to be demure now.”

  Lulu looked at her friend, a little shocked. “Veronica, you are the limit! Still, it’s nothing that a headshrinker and the love of a good man won’t cure. Can we see her?”

  “Not yet,” David said. “We’ve been trying. She’s supposed to be making a statement to the press at any moment. We can all go in for that.”

  “Good,” Lulu said. “Maybe she’ll have some information for us. I’ll try to talk to her in private after the press statement.”

  A few minutes later the doctor stood in front of the corridor, his hands clasped together prayerfully. “My patient desires to make a short statement about what happened to her. Though she is out of danger, she is still very fragile, and I must ask for complete silence while she addresses you. There will be no questions. Hospital security is standing by to remove anyone who does not comply with these instructions.”

  Then he led everyone to a large private room. A few people managed to squeeze inside, but most, including Lulu and Freddie, were in the hallway, craning their necks to see Ruby.

  She sat propped up against fluffed pillows, her face pale but carefully made-up, even to the false eyelashes. She wore a pale champagne-colored bed jacket, which, while perfectly modest in what it covered, was of a hue to suggest uninterrupted bare flesh. A white bandage peeked out from the loose folds below her shoulder. The room was stuffed to the gills with flowers.

  Ruby, pale and interesting, let her eyes roam around the crowd. She nodded and smiled to one or two people, but it wasn’t until she found Lulu’s face in the back of the crowd that her eyes really lit up. It was a look of pure malice.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Ruby said. “The good wishes of my friends are what pulled me through. My road will be difficult, but my doctors tell me that I may hope, one day, to make a full recovery.”

  (“She looks like she could hop out of bed and dance a jitterbug,” Veronica said in a loudly whispered aside.)

  “I know you’re all wondering what happened that fateful day,” Ruby went on. “I’m here to tell you that I know exactly who put real bullets in that gun.”

  Lulu felt for Freddie’s hand, and he clasped it tight. With just a few words, it would be all over. She’d name Sal—or someone else, but Lulu was sure Sal was responsible—and the police would rush out and make an arrest and she’d be free. She’d have her acting career . . . and Freddie. Her heart surged, but she trembled now that they were on the cusp.

  Ruby picked Lulu out of the crowd again and fixed her with a steady look, her cat’s eyes narrowed. “Just as the second take began, I saw Lulu Kelly open up the gun and put bullets inside. Lulu Kelly was the one who tried to kill me.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lulu turned and ran. She didn’t even think about defending herself to the mob. It was too late for that. Ruby’s damning words hung in the air like a dead man hanging from the gallows. Or a dead woman. Lulu knew all too well the power of a well-acted scene, and Ruby’s had been a doozy. It was worthy of an Academy Award. No one present in that room would doubt its truth.

  Lulu’s heels clacked on the hospital linoleum as she ran. The corridors were confusing. The multicolored lines painted on the wall to guide visitors to different wings seemed to mock her, sending her past the sick, the dying; past children with bald heads, sitting up, bewildered, in bed; past old people in wheelchairs hooked up to tubes and bags. Where was the exit? She had to escape, from the hospital, from Hollywood, from her life. . . .

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned in a panic, her arms up, ready to ward off whoever was coming for her.

  “Freddie!” she cried, and collapsed against his chest. “She’s lying! You know it’s not true. Tell me you don’t believe her!”

  “Never!” he swore, and would have kissed her, but she pulled away from him and ran on.

  “We have to get out of here,” she insisted. “The press! They’ll crucify me.” At the moment they frightened her worse than the police. At least the police—the real police—would take her away, keep her in isolation while they questioned her. The press would be like jackals picking at a baby gazelle, holding her in place and ripping bits off of her.

  “This way,” Freddie said, and hustled her toward a back exit. But the press were there, too. She could hear their mutters and growls from around the corner, so she tried to turn tail. Freddie pulled her into a room marked NURSES ONLY. Luckily, it was empty.

  Freddie rummaged through lockers until he found a white uniform with TILLY in neat pink embroidery on the pocket. “Put this on.”

  “But that’s stealing!”

  “On the road you have to use a different morality. Leave her your dress. She can pawn it for a dozen new uniforms. If it bothers you so much, you can always send hers back to her afterward.”

  “If there is an afterward,” Lulu said grimly.

  But Freddie would have none of that. “Chin up, girl! There’s always a next scene. Life doesn’t have fade-outs and closing credits.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” she quipped. “It’s called an obituary.”

  He turned his back while she stripped off her gown and put on the uniform, complete with white leather shoes far more comfortable than any she’d worn in the last year. They made her think what her life could be if she left everything behind. Comfortable shoes, a little farm . . . even factory work, with a nice fella to come home to. A man who was always there for her, who would never believe she was capable of wickedness.

  “They’ll never recognize you,” Freddie said when he checked her disguise. “You look positively frumpy. In the nicest possible way, of course. Just tuck your hair up under your cap, like this.” She shivered at his touch. “There. Now you go out the back. Look like you’re in a hurry, but still interested in what’s going on. If you just sail by all the excitement, you’ll look suspicious.” He laughed. “Listen to me, giving the actress advice.”

  “Thanks, Mr. DeMille. It’s much appreciated,” she managed to joke.

  Then he did kiss her, tenderly, lingeringly.

  “Where should we meet?” he asked when he released her.

  “Meet? You’re not coming with me?”

  “It will attract less attention if you’re just a nurse heading home alone at the end of her shift.”

  She didn’t like it, but she had to admit he was right. “There’s a movie theater around the corner to the right and down a few blocks.”

  “Will they be open at this hour?” he asked.

  “This is Hollywood. The movie theaters are always open. At least, this one is. Family movies in the afternoon, risqué ones at night, and a show for the kiddies in the morning. Oh, Freddie, I’m scared!”

  “But you’re strong, too. We both know you’re innocent. You’ll get through this. No—we’ll get through this.”

  It was the worst acting of Lulu’s life. She felt stiff and wooden as she shuffled toward the crowd, not at all convincing. Vasily said she had to become the character, to feel everything as the character would feel it. But for the first time she found she could not escape herself. Why? she wondered as she maneuvered through the throng of visitors and press and curious gawkers. There was always so much she wanted to escape from. It was freeing to become someone else, even a nurse for just a few minutes. I can keep the costume, go to Mexico, and keep right on pretending, Lulu thought desperately. If I believe I’m a nurse, I can be a nurse, and leave everything behind.

  That, she realized, was why she couldn’t get into this role. There might be things in her life she was desperate to abandon, but there was one thing, one wonderful thing she would never let go, no matter what. Her love for Freddie made her cling to herself. She could be no other th
an Lulu, the girl who loved Freddie, the girl Freddie loved . . . even if being Lulu came with its own host of problems.

  She never thought it would work. She felt their stares boring into her. But it was only her imagination. The crowd was alive, hunting like a hungry thing, like a single animal with eager eyes. But they looked at everything with equal intensity, searching for a scoop or a scandal. After a tense few minutes, she was out the door.

  She walked briskly until she came to the movie theater, still aware of the astounding comfort of her feet in the soft, sensible shoes. For one panicked moment she thought Freddie had abandoned her. But no—he’d run ahead, and there he was, beckoning to her from inside the smoky glass doors. “Got a quarter for a pair of tickets?” he asked, looking a little sheepish. She handed over the money and they sat down in darkness.

  The theater was almost empty. One man, who looked like a hangover from the night crowd, was slumped in a corner seat, asleep. Harried mothers and nursemaids caught a few winks in the center aisles, while kids sat fidgeting in the children-only section. There were many more children than guardians; some had evidently been dropped off to be entertained by the continuous cycle of shorts, newsreels, and double features that played on repeat. Though mostly unsupervised, the kids could take care of themselves. When a man came in and tried to sit next to a little girl in the children’s section, she announced in a penetrating shrill voice, “I have a hatpin!” It was enough to make the man leave the theater entirely, under disapproving glares of all the children.

  Lulu and Freddie hunkered in their seats and conferred in low voices.

  “Hong Kong is looking better and better,” Lulu said. Before them on the huge screen, little Emil was confronting the man who stole the money he had pinned to the inside of his jacket. He proved the money was his by pointing out to the police where the pinholes had pierced the bills.