A Night In With Marilyn Monroe

by Lucy Holliday

  ‘No. No, I don’t work with tea leaves. And actually, Marilyn, it isn’t so much a psychic thing as …’ I take a deep breath. ‘Do you believe in magic?’

  ‘Sure I do, honey! You mean, like princesses in towers, and fairy godmothers, and that kind of stuff?’

  ‘Um, not really. Those are more, well, fairy tales.’

  ‘Oh. Because I sure believe in those! You have to, don’t you, when you grow up the way we do?’

  ‘The way we do?’

  ‘Well, you already told me you had a difficult mother, honey. And I may not be the psychic one around here, but it doesn’t take extrasensory powers to work out that you might have a little daddy trouble, too. I mean, never feeling good enough for a guy … wanting this man you like to pay you more attention …’ She shrugs, but with a heartbreakingly sweet smile. ‘It takes one to know one, honey. Besides, there’s nothing so very wrong with liking fairy tales.’

  The wind has been sucked out of my sails here for a moment.

  ‘I’m … er … not quite sure,’ I croak, when I can speak, ‘how we’ve ended up talking about fairy tales?’

  ‘Honey, you were the first one to mention fairy tales! I’m still waiting to hear what you’ve got to tell me about my future! From your rune stones, or your tea leaves, or your visions, or however else it is you do your psychic thing.’ Marilyn takes a sip from her wine glass and – outrageous, given the cocktails she’s inflicted on me for the past few nights – pulls a face. ‘I don’t have to drink much more of this stuff in my future, do I? Because, I gotta tell you, that would finish me off even more than the nine kids!’ She laughs, then stops abruptly. ‘You’re not gonna tell me I really will have nine kids, are you?’

  ‘No. And again, Marilyn, I’m really not …’

  You know what? Screw it. If she thinks my knowledge of her future comes from me being psychic, let her. I just want to let her know that her dreams are going to come true: as long as she believes what I’m telling her, and stops being so down on herself for not ‘Making It’ yet, what does it really matter?

  ‘You have an amazing future ahead of you,’ I say, in a voice that – I hope – sounds portentous enough to keep up the whole ‘psychic’ thing. ‘You’re going to become an even bigger movie star than you could possibly imagine. You’re going to star in movies with Jane Russell, and Betty Grable, and Tony Curtis, and, yes, Sir Laurence Olivier …’

  ‘Oh!’ Marilyn gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘And Tim Holt?’

  ‘Er … Tim who?’

  ‘Tim Holt. From Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Oh, honey, I have such a crush on him! If you could tell me I’ll be in a movie with him one day, I’ll be just about the happiest girl in the whole of Hollywood!’

  ‘Or Colliers Wood.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind. Well, I don’t know for sure if you’re in a movie with this Tim Holt or not, Marilyn … but aren’t the others I just mentioned enough for you?’

  ‘Sorry, honey, of course they are. More than enough! And you really mean that I’ll be the star in these movies? And that people will recognize me wherever I go?’

  ‘I really mean that. You’re going to be more than famous, Marilyn. You’re going to be legendary.’

  She sinks back into the Chesterfield with a happy … no, a relieved sigh.

  ‘It just helps,’ she says, in a little-bitty voice, so soft that I can hardly hear, ‘to know that, for once in my life, I won’t be getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘And do you know anything else about me?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My future.’ She smiles, wistfully. ‘I mean, obviously I don’t want the nine kids my foster mother was always threatening me with, but I always did think three or four might be kinda nice.’

  I swallow.

  ‘And a man? Do I end up with a good husband? Someone who treats me nice, and stays faithful, and makes me … happy?’

  I’m still unable to find the words to reply.

  Because, honestly, what am I going to tell her? That she died naked and alone, at thirty-six? That there weren’t any children at all, and that even though there were a couple of husbands, they certainly don’t qualify for the whole ‘treating her nice and making her happy’ thing she’s fondly imagining.

  ‘Honey?’ Her blue eyes blink at me, wide and trusting. ‘You’ve gone awful quiet.’

  ‘Yes …’ My throat is dry. ‘Uh, sorry, I was just …’

  ‘Well, now you’re scaring me a little, here! Do you know something about my future that’s … bad?’ She reaches for my arm. ‘Oh, for God’s sakes, honey, do I get fat, or something?’

  ‘No, no! No need to worry about that!’ I’m relieved that it’s such a silly question – and even more so when I hear the front-door buzzer going. I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get that,’ I say. ‘You just sit back and enjoy your wine …’

  ‘No chance of that, honey,’ she says, pulling a face.

  ‘… and watch the movie,’ I finish, closing the door behind me. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  I’m blinking back tears, I realize, as I head for the entry phone and pick it up. ‘Hello?’ I sniffle into it, hoping to God it’s not Cass and Ned, back for a second bite of the cherry.

  ‘Libby?’ says Bogdan’s voice when I pick up the entry phone. ‘Is yours truly. Bogdan. Am able to be up and coming?’

  ‘Yes, Bogdan.’ I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to welcome one of his unannounced visits in my life. ‘Please. Come up.’

  He’s the only other person who’s seen Marilyn. And I desperately want to be able to talk to someone about this whole bizarre situation.

  ‘Am needing,’ he declares, in an out-of-puff manner, as he pushes open my front door a couple of moments later, ‘to be dispensing with more of the pounds. Those stairs will be the dying of me.’

  Obviously, it would be nice to talk about the situation to someone who had a marginally less mangled command of English …

  And now he’s staring at me.

  ‘Joseph, Mary and the Baby Jesus,’ he says, using an expression he’s picked up, obviously, from Dillon. ‘You are highlighting the hair.’

  ‘Oh.’ My hand flies to it; I’d completely forgotten, what with everything else going on, that this is something I’m going to have to explain to him. ‘Yes … It was on a whim, really, Bogdan.’

  ‘Whim?’

  ‘I mean, I just decided to do it on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Spur?’

  ‘I didn’t plan it,’ I finally say, keeping it as simple as possible. ‘It was a last-minute decision.’

  ‘But I am telling you to do this for the longest time.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. I don’t know what suddenly made me do it. But I’m really glad you’re here now, Bogdan, because I need your professional feedback. Did the colourist do an OK job?’

  Marginally mollified, he reaches out a hand to ruffle through my hair. He pulls an iffy face.

  ‘Is not total zone of disaster.’

  ‘OK! Good to hear!’

  ‘If am being given honour of doing it myself, am choosing more ash tones, fewer caramel ones.’

  ‘Sure. But it’s basically OK? I mean, it looks all right?’

  ‘Is suiting you, Libby, yes,’ he sniffs. ‘But this is not making me fall down in the surprise. Am the one who is always saying this. Am lone voice in wilderness. Am only surprised that you are not trusting opinion and skill of good friend and are putting your hair in hands of stranger instead.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.’ I take both of his huge, surprisingly soft hands in mine. ‘But Bogdan, look. I need to talk to you about something other than my hair. Not about Dillon,’ I interrupt myself, because he’s got that look about him that suggests this is precisely the topic of conversation he’s assuming I’ll bring up. ‘About something much more important.’

  ‘Is anything bei
ng more important?’

  ‘I think there is, Bogdan, yes.’ I take a deep breath. ‘OK, we haven’t had the chance to talk about this yet, but … well, you met a girl in my flat the other day, right?’

  He nods. ‘Am helping her to be moving hideous orange sofa.’

  ‘Right. Which was very nice of you. And as you can probably see through the crack in that door,’ I wave a hand in the direction of the partition door, ‘she’s still here, sitting on it.’

  ‘I am seeing this, yes.’ He starts towards the door. ‘Is OK if am going to say hello?’

  ‘Wait! This is exactly what we need to talk about! Now, look, I don’t know how much she said to you, or what you made of the whole situation, but …’

  ‘She is Marilyn Monroe,’ Bogdan says, ‘yes?’

  I stare at him.

  A strange croaking sound comes out of my mouth.

  ‘Libby?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to speak again, and just about managing this time. ‘She is.’

  ‘OK. This is what I am assuming.’

  ‘But … don’t you … didn’t you think it was strange? I mean, surely you assumed she was a lookalike, or a kissagram, or …’

  ‘Kissagram? What is this kissagram?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just this silly thing,’ I say, faintly, ‘where people dress up as someone famous and show up at parties to kiss the birthday girl or birthday boy. Marilyn Monroe, quite often, or Tarzan, or James Bond … that sort of thing.’

  ‘Am never hearing of this thing before.’

  ‘No, of course, but I’d rather we stayed with the main issue here—’

  ‘Tarzan, you are saying?’ His eyebrows have knitted together. ‘There is good money to be made by becoming this kissing-a-gram, Libby?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Maybe look it up on Google or something. Right now, I’d really like to talk about the fact that …’

  ‘You are thinking I am making the more convincing Tarzan or the more convincing Bond?’

  ‘Bogdan!’ I yell. ‘For crying out loud! Can we please talk about the fact that Marilyn Monroe is in my flat? And that you don’t seem to think there’s anything odd about that? Anything magical?’

  There’s silence for a moment.

  ‘But of course,’ Bogdan says, calmly, ‘is being magical. Am not questioning this for solitary minute.’

  ‘But … shouldn’t you be?’

  ‘What are other explanations?’ he asks, with a shrug. ‘That am becoming insane? That am seeing the ghosts? These are not the convincing explanations, Libby.’

  ‘And the fact that she might be magical; that I might own a magical sofa from Pinewood Studios: this is a convincing explanation?’

  Bogdan takes a step towards the partition doors, then stops and looks at me.

  ‘In Moldova,’ he says, slowly and rather wisely, ‘we are having saying.’

  He mumbles something at high speed in his own language, then looks at me for a reaction.

  ‘Er … as you know, Bogdan, my Moldovan isn’t exactly conversational …’

  ‘Is translating something like …’ He thinks for a moment. His eyes are half closed. ‘When you are eliminating what is impossible, whatever is remaining, however improbable, must be truth.’

  I think about this.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, after a moment, ‘isn’t that from Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Is not mattering where it is originating from!’ Bogdan looks irritated. ‘What am trying to be saying is that in my home country, we are accepting the magic as part of the everyday life. My great-uncle Viktor is having the magical well on his farmland. It is producing the water even in the middle of Great Drought of fifty-five. My grandmother is having the magical grandfather clock. It is always stopping at exact second of death of major world leader: Josef Stalin, President Kennedy, Mahatma Gandhi …’

  ‘That sounds very … all-inclusive of it,’ I say, faintly.

  ‘And you are having magical sofa.’ Bogdan shrugs. ‘Is not being the big deal to me.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Besides, am knowing about this before. Am overhearing you chatting with Audrey Hepburn when she is the one who is popping out of it.’

  Which leaves me standing, motionless with amazement, in my half of the flat, as Bogdan wanders through the partition door and towards the Chesterfield.

  ‘Good evening,’ I hear him saying to Marilyn. ‘Is very pleasant to be greeting you again.’

  ‘Oh! It’s real pleasant,’ Marilyn breathes, gazing up at him with those wide blue eyes, ‘to be greeting you again, too.’

  ‘Let me be giving you some more of the wine,’ he goes on, sitting down on the Chesterfield beside her, ‘and we can be having some chat.’ There’s a short pause, filled only with the clink of bottle on glass, before he goes on. ‘Am just wondering, Miss Monroe, are you ever thinking how you might be looking as brunette …?’

  Today’s the day I’ve agreed to go bridesmaid’s dress shopping with Tash and Nora.

  At least, I hope Nora will be coming, too. I had a message from her yesterday morning saying she was still feeling a bit ropey, but I haven’t had a reply, yet, to my message this morning asking her if she’s feeling recovered enough to come along today. Because, lovely though Tash is, obviously, I don’t think she and I gel well enough to get through an entire lunch and shopping session, just the two of us. We’re meeting – Tash’s suggestion – at the second-floor restaurant, near the shoe department, in Selfridges, which is a much more formal setting than I’d have chosen (I’d thought that we were just going to grab a quick sandwich before the shopping action began), so maybe she has a long lunch in mind, with the booze flowing, while we talk about …

  … Well, this is what’s making me desperately hope that Nora’s coming, too.

  Apart from our friendship with Nora, I don’t think Tash and I have an awful lot in common.

  Anyway, I’m the first to arrive at the second-floor restaurant, so I ask the head waiter for a table for three (I’m keeping my fingers crossed) and sit down, giving my tired feet a rest, just as my phone chimes with a message.

  Lunch? D x

  So we’re back here again.

  Back here being the place where my heart starts to thud and my hands start to sweat at the slightest contact from him.

  Can’t L x, I reply. Because it’s better to keep these things short and sweet. Not get sucked into anything that could become flirty.

  His reply comes a moment later: Shame Dx

  I type back: Yes L x

  Dinner? D x

  Can’t L x

  There’s a brief pause in our one-word tennis. Then another message comes through.

  Date? D x

  Is he asking me on a date, or interested to know if I’m going on a date?

  Party L x, I reply.

  Whose? D x

  Friend L x

  Another, brief pause.

  Olly? D x

  Yep L x

  Ah D x

  To which I’m not sure what to reply. I mean, ‘ah’ doesn’t give me much to go on, does it? But I’m getting such a thrill from this little game that, childish though it sounds, I don’t want it to end.

  I haven’t worked out what cute little witticism I can message back, though, and I can see that the head waiter is showing someone towards the table …

  Thank God, it’s Nora.

  ‘Wow,’ she says, open mouthed, before she’s even sat down at the table. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Oh, the hair, you mean?’ I touch it, self-consciously. ‘Just a couple of days ago. Do you like it?’

  ‘I really like it … I mean, it’s very different, Lib, don’t get me wrong … but I like it. And I like this whole sex-kitten thing you’ve got going on with your outfit, too.’ She sketches a hand in the direction of my pencil skirt and – today’s fresh foray into the world of Marilyn-wear – twinset.

  Well, it’s a black short-sleeved sweater beneath a
black cotton cardigan. Not an actual twinset, but my version of it.

  I’d have asked Marilyn’s opinion this morning before I left, but she was fast asleep beneath her white mink on the Chesterfield, and I didn’t want to disturb her. She was up even later than I was last night, drinking cocktails and chatting to Bogdan while I tried to get on with my business plan for Benjamin Milne. I did double-check, I’ll be honest, that she hadn’t allowed Bogdan to transform her into a brunette or anything, even though this involved me lifting up a corner of the disgusting mink, as most of her head was covered by it. But no: she was still as platinum-blonde as ever. And as naked as ever; if she stays very much longer, I’m going to have to see if I can persuade her to borrow some of my clothes, or possibly even order her a few things as cheaply as I can on ASOS, or something.

  ‘Lib?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re miles away.’

  ‘Sorry … I was just … you look great, too,’ I say, as Nora sits down opposite me. (This is a tiny bit of a fib, because she looks rather pale and shadowy under the eyes, but I’m not about to point this out.) ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. Better-ish, anyway.’ She glances down at her hands for a moment. ‘I didn’t know if you knew I was feeling rubbish. I mean, apart from that message you sent this morning asking if I was coming today, you haven’t called or messaged since we last spoke on Monday …’

  ‘Oh, God, Nora, you’re right. I’m really sorry. I’ve just been so busy.’

  ‘It’s OK. And I meant to reply to your message this morning, but I was over at the restaurant helping Olly hang pictures on the walls, and I didn’t get the chance.’

  My heart plummets into my stomach.