An Inconvenient Woman

by Dominick Dunne

  “But make it quite light for Mr. Mendelson, Dudley,” said Pauline. “I forgot to ask Dr. Petrie if it was all right.”

  “In the library?” asked Dudley.

  “Fine, yes, fine,” they both said together.

  Alone, still in their splendid front hall, their staircase floating upward, their six Monet paintings of water lilies lining its wall, their blue-and-white Chinese cachepots filled with orchid plants from their greenhouse amassed at its base, Jules and Pauline Mendelson looked at each other.

  “I have to rest here for a while, Pauline,” he said. “I can’t make those stairs.”

  “Of course. Sit here. Olaf will be arriving any minute, and he can carry you up the stairs,” she said.

  “Imagine me being carried,” Jules said, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to watch me when he does lift me.”

  “But you didn’t want to leave the hospital on a stretcher, Jules.”

  He nodded. “I wanted to walk out of that hospital under my own steam, no matter what. All my life I’ve avoided the press, and I wasn’t about to allow those sons of bitches to photograph me being carried out on a stretcher. It would make me look sicker than I really am.”

  Their eyes met for a moment. Each knew he was far more ill than described in the optimistic propaganda about his condition that was being carefully circulated in business circles by Sims Lord and other associates. Jules sank onto the caned seat of a gilded chair, one of a set of six, which he had never sat on before in the twenty-two years that he had lived in the house.

  “Did Dr. Petrie give you the pills?” he asked.

  “Yes,” answered Pauline.

  “May I have one?”

  “He said one every four hours, Jules. It’s only slightly more than an hour since the last.”

  “I’m weary from the drive. I want one now.”

  She opened her bag and took out an amber plastic container. He took the pill she handed him and swallowed it.

  “Is this what our life is going to be like, Jules?” asked Pauline. “Photographers lying in wait for us outside the gates of our own house? Reporters screaming rude questions at us? There is a limit, Jules, to the obligations of the marriage vows, and I think I can honestly say that I have reached that limit.”

  He weakly nodded his head in recognition of the truth of what Pauline had just said. Pauline again noted how old Jules looked.

  “I am not the first woman whose husband has had a mistress,” she continued. “I might not like it, but I could have learned to deal with it, if it was a thing that never encroached on my life; but this way—no, never. This common little strumpet has made a mockery of my marriage.”

  “Don’t think of her as a bad girl, Pauline. She’s not a bad girl. I may be a bad man, but she’s not a bad girl. If you only knew her, you’d agree.”

  “Knowing Miss March is a life experience that I intend to deprive myself of, Jules,” said Pauline. “I don’t know which I dread more, having everyone I know, and tens of thousands of people I don’t know, gossip about me. Or pity me. To the best of my knowledge, I have never been gossiped about in my life, and, in certainty, I have never been pitied.”

  Jules, drained, could only stare at Pauline. “Don’t leave me, Pauline,” he said.

  “No, of course, I won’t leave you, not now, not with you so weak and sick.” She started to say more, but stopped herself.

  Instead she walked over to the foot of the stairs and broke a yellowed leaf off an orchid plant.

  Jules nodded his head, understanding.

  “How terrible, Jules, to end such a distinguished life in a cheap sex scandal. That is what people will remember about us,” said Pauline.

  Jules nodded again. He knew what she said was true, but he could think of no reply. “I’ve never sat in one of these gold chairs before,” he said.

  “They were a wedding present from Laurance and Janet Van Degan. Absolutely authentic, of the period. Whatshername at the Getty Museum verified them, Gillian somebody, but you didn’t like them. You said you hated gold furniture. Too spindly, you said. So I put them here in the hall where they wouldn’t be sat upon too often.”

  Jules nodded. “Thank you, Laurance and Janet Van Degan,” he whispered. From the courtyard came the sound of cars and voices. He rose slowly from his seat and looked out of the window. “What are all those cars coming into the courtyard?” he asked.

  “Cars?” asked Pauline.

  “Three, four, six of them, eight of them, with a lot of ladies in flowered hats getting out. What is this?”

  “Oh, my God,” said Pauline. “I forgot.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the Los Angeles Garden Club. I agreed weeks ago, months ago, to give them a tour of the gardens and the greenhouse. They heard about the yellow phalaenopsis that Jarvis and I have developed, and I promised.”

  “I’ll tell Dudley to tell them you’re not well and can’t come out. They can come another day,” said Jules.

  “You can’t do that, Jules,” said Pauline.

  “Then let Jarvis take them on the tour.”

  “No, Jules, no. They’ve paid fifty dollars each for the tour. Let’s face it, it’s me they want to see as much as the yellow phalaenopsis, not poor Jarvis, who did all the work.”

  “I was only thinking of you.”

  “I know.”

  They looked at each other.

  “We’re acting as though we’re still very married, aren’t we?” said Pauline. She touched his shoulder.

  Dudley entered the hall, making a coughing sound to announce his entrance. “There are people arriving who say they are expected.”

  “Dudley, I completely forgot that this is the day that the garden club was coming to see my yellow phalaenopsis, and the ladies are outside in the courtyard. I’ll go out and take them around. Tell Gertie in the kitchen to make tea for I don’t know how many, and some cucumber sandwiches, and to use those lemon cookies she made yesterday. We’ll have tea in the library. They’ll love the White Roses, the perfect group for that.”

  “Yes.”

  “But first, help Mr. Mendelson up the stairs, and then ask Blondell to turn down his bed. Mr. Mendelson will be in the room where Mrs. Cliveden usually stays. And, Dudley, there will be a nurse arriving soon. Miss Toomey, she is called, Mae Toomey. Have the red room next to where Mr. Mendelson will be staying made up for her, and, Dudley, tell Gertie that Miss Toomey’s meals will be served on trays in the upstairs sitting room, and make sure there’s a television set in her room, and magazines, any of the ones that I’ve finished reading.”

  She walked over to the Chippendale mirror over the gilded console table and pinched color into her cheeks, reapplied her lipstick, and combed her hair. “There will be two male orderlies arriving tomorrow to lift Mr. Mendelson, and take him to the doctor when he’s feeling better, and whatever else. They can sleep in the pool house. Have beds brought down from the third floor and put there. This dress is all right, isn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the front door and walked out into the courtyard.

  “Hello, Blanche. Hello, Mavis. Welcome to Clouds.”

  Flo’s Tape #19

  “I’ve heard myself called trash and tramp, and other words in that same category, and they hurt. So I want to make something absolutely clear. Except for once, only once—I mean only with one guy, not one time—was I ever unfaithful to Jules, and that was during the time I broke up with him, briefly broke up with him, after he pretended he didn’t know what my name was when we ran into that snobby Madge White at the steak house in the Valley. I guess there’s no protocol for a situation like that, where a guy is having dinner with his girlfriend and runs into his wife’s best friend. Like, should he introduce her, or not? That’s one for Dear Abby or Dr. Joyce Brothers.

  “Anyway, there was this guy who took me in for a few days, after I ran away from Jules that night. He’s called, uh—No, I’m not going to give his name, because he’s back with the girl he
had just broken up with, and I made it sound to her like nothing had gone on between us. But it did. I’d be lying to you if I said it was just a grudge fuck against Jules. This guy was really a cute guy. I originally met him at an AA meeting, and that night he was lonely and I was lonely, and we told each other all our secrets, and we did it during those days he let me hide out in his place. This guy had a tattoo in the damnedest place you ever saw. I could never get over that.

  “Then I met his girlfriend. I’m not going to give her name either, because I liked her, and later she did me a good turn. Right away I could see that they really belonged together. After that I went back to Jules.”

  20

  “Mr. Mendelson’s office.”

  “Miss Maple?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is, uh.” Flo stopped, afraid to use her own name. “My name is, uh—”

  “I know who you are,” said Miss Maple, recognizing the voice of Flo March from the one telephone call she had had with her, when she told her she was spending too much money.

  “Red Houlihan,” said Flo at the same time, blurting out the name finally that Jules sometimes used as a disguise.

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  “I haven’t received my check.”

  “I know.”

  “For two weeks.”

  “I know.”

  “Where is it?”

  “There’s a problem.”

  “What sort of problem? I was to be taken care of for life.”

  “I think you had better contact Sims Lord.”

  “There’s bills here at the house. There’s men working on the new closets. Nellie Potts said they’re union workers and have to be paid on time.”

  “Look,” said Miss Maple. “I think what you should do first is tell those men to stop working on your closets. And tell Nellie Potts that you’re not going to have anything more done on your house. Then call Sims Lord. Do you know Sims Lord?”

  “Yes. Kind of. I’ve never actually met him.”

  “I’ll give you his number.”

  “I have his number. Jules left his book here.”

  “So that’s where the book is. We’ve been looking everywhere for it. I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

  “No, don’t. I won’t give it to you.”

  “Look, Flo. You have to understand. I only work here. I’m just doing what I have been told to do.”

  “Is it her? It is her, isn’t it?”

  “Who?”

  “You know damn well who. Pauline.”

  “You must understand, I can’t talk,” said Miss Maple. “You have to call Sims Lord. He’s the closest person to the situation.”

  Flo could hear kindness in Miss Maple’s voice.

  “Listen, Miss Maple?”

  “I really have to go.”

  “Do you go up to the house to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him. Please. Tell him she’s cut off my money. He wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  It was not that Miss Maple was unsympathetic to the plea of Flo March that kept her from relaying Flo’s message to Jules Mendelson. Each afternoon she was picked up by Jim, the Mendelsons’ chauffeur, and driven up to Clouds, where she stayed with Jules for only fifteen minutes, which was thought by Dr. Petrie and Miss Toomey to be all the time that he was able to concentrate before he became exhausted and had to rest. During that brief time Miss Maple kept him abreast of the business transactions of the office, the stock market closings, and the enormous numbers of calls from well-wishers in the business and banking community. Mostly Jules only nodded in agreement, or shook his head in disagreement, although sometimes he managed to smile in recognition of the name of a business associate who had called to wish him good health. When he did speak, he spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper, and the effort tired him. Miss Maple was shocked at the physical wasting-away of the enormous and vital man she had served for so many years. She knew that he would go into a rage if he were aware that Flo March’s weekly check had not been paid for two weeks, and she was aware that such a rage might terminate his life.

  • • •

  In her day Faye Converse had had her share of love affairs with married men. So she was sympathetic to the plight of her beautiful young neighbor, who was so distraught over the condition of her married lover, Jules Mendelson.

  “Did I ever tell you about Senator Platt of Wyoming?” Faye asked Glyceria.

  “No ma’am,” said Glyceria.

  “Jack Warner threatened me with suspension if I didn’t break that one off, after Mrs. Platt claimed she was going to spill the beans to Dorothy Kilgallen. That was when Rittenhouse Square was about to open, and Jack was not about to jeopardize his investment. ‘Break it off, Faye, or else,’ he said. That was Jack all over. God, I hated Jack Warner.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Glyceria.

  “And then there was Harry O’Dell. I was making a picture with Cagney, and he introduced me to Harry. Harry had millions. Did I tell you about what Edith O’Dell did?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Glyceria.

  But Faye Converse was in an extremely awkward position in that Pauline Mendelson was a close friend of hers and she was a frequent guest at Clouds. And Jules had advised her on several investments that had made her future secure. She felt it best to distance herself from her neighbor, whom she liked. She felt also that Cyril Rathbone, who seemed to be up-to-date on every aspect of the affair, might be planning to write about it in a more serious way than in his gossip column.

  The last time she saw Flo, she said to her, “Whatever you do, Flo, don’t talk to Cyril Rathbone. He’s trouble.”

  Glyceria continued to make her late morning visits to the next house, however. She noticed that Flo March sometimes didn’t get dressed up anymore, the way she used to. She just pulled on her terry cloth robe in the morning and stayed in it all day. She also noticed that Flo didn’t drink Diet Cokes all day, the way she used to. Sometimes she opened a bottle of white wine and drank a glass or two.

  “No more hammerin’,” said Glyceria one day.

  “The workmen stopped,” said Flo.

  “How come?”

  “I can’t pay them. I haven’t gotten a check for three weeks.”

  “I didn’t know your gentleman was Mr. Jules Mendelson,” said Glyceria.

  “You didn’t?”

  “You never told me his name,” said Glyceria. “You just always said, ‘Don’t come by in the afternoon after three-thirty.’ I didn’t know the gentleman was Mr. Mendelson.”

  She said “Mr. Mendelson” in such a way that Flo looked at her.

  “Do you know Jules Mendelson?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How?”

  “My brother is his barber.”

  “Willi? Willi, who’s shaved Jules every morning for twenty-five years, is your brother?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you know Willi?”

  “No, but I hear of him.”

  “Mr. Mendelson gave Willi the money to start his own shop on Sunset Boulevard,” said Glyceria.

  Flo stared at her friend.

  “Tell me something, Glyceria.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Does Willi still go up to Clouds every morning to shave him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Even now, when he’s so sick?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Marty Lesky, the head of Colossus Pictures, walked into Willi’s Barber Shop on Sunset Boulevard without an appointment, as was his habit, it was not thought remarkable that Joel Zircon, the agent, who did have an appointment, but was considered to be no more than up-and-coming in the business, was asked to remove himself from Willi’s chair and give his place to Marty. Joel Zircon was only too happy to inconvenience himself in order to accommodate Marty Lesky. The brief exchange of conversation between them was considered, from Joel’s point of view, to be advantageous to his career.

  “We met at Cas
per Stieglitz’s dinner, Mr. Lesky,” he said.

  “Right, right,” said Marty, who didn’t remember and didn’t want to get into a conversation with an agent on the make.

  “At the party where Pauline and Jules Mendelson were,” continued Joel.

  “Right, right,” said Marty.

  “And Arnie Zwillman, and Amos Swank,” said Joel, wanting to prolong his moments with the studio head as long as possible.

  “Right. You ready for me, Willi?” Marty called out, and disappeared into the private room where Willi dyed the hair of his famous clients.

  While Joel was waiting for Willi to finish dyeing Marty’s hair, he used the time to schmooze, as he put it, with Lupe, the receptionist, and then to read the trade papers. His attention was momentarily taken up by an announcement that Hortense Madden, the literary critic of Mulholland, “may have discovered the lost manuscript of Basil Plant’s Candles at Lunch, his famous unfinished novel.” But Joel Zircon’s attention span was brief, and he wearied of the story before he finished reading it.

  The brass-studded leather entrance door of the shop opened, and a young woman entered. She hesitated inside the door, as if she felt out of place. Then she approached the appointment desk.

  “May I speak to Willi, please?” She spoke quietly.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “He doesn’t do women’s hair.”

  “I didn’t come to see him about my hair.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “My name will mean nothing to him.”

  “He’s in with a customer.”

  “Would you ask him if he could step outside for a minute?”

  “He’s in with Marty Lesky, the head of Colossus Pictures,” said Lupe importantly. “I can’t ask him to come outside.”

  “I’ll wait.” Flo March took a seat opposite Joel Zircon.

  Lupe watched her from her appointment desk and noticed from the style that her hair had been done by Pooky, that her suit was couture, and that her bag and shoes were very expensive. She got up from her desk and went to the back of the shop.

  “Flo?” said Joel Zircon. “Is that you?”

  Flo looked at Joel Zircon and smiled. “Hello.”