West of Sunset

by Stewart O'Nan

  He told Sheilah, treating it like a joke on himself, the jilted beau.

  “Am I supposed to be jealous?”

  “She’s married.”

  “So are you,” she said.

  “That’s right, you’re just engaged.”

  Her silence let him know he’d trespassed. Before he could apologize, she asked, “Do you think before you say these things, or do they just pop out of your mouth?”

  There was no right answer.

  “I hope you two have a lovely time,” she said.

  If she thought this would stop him, she was wrong. Now he was determined to make a success of it just to prove he was gallant, not awful.

  The negotiations over the arrangements reminded him of Ginevra’s elusiveness and her tendency to get her own way. He called her hotel and left a message, saying he’d received her wire. Two nights later she caught him at the Garden, her voice still low and thrilling. Just talking with her made him feel guilty, their planning illicit. She wanted him to come to a party Saturday at a friend’s place in Santa Barbara. He was free that evening but it was too far up the coast and he wanted to see her alone, so he said he was busy. He proposed Sunday dinner at the Malibu Inn, halfway between them. She said she’d have to check her calendar, and the next night countered with lunch Monday at the Beverly Wilshire, since she had to meet with some people in town later that afternoon anyway. It was a compromise. If there was less pressure seeing each other in the daytime, without the sea and stars, there was still the romance of a grand hotel, but also, if things went badly, a built-in escape.

  He would be sober for her. That weekend he abstained, prompting Bogie and Mayo to set his welcome mat on fire. In the morning, while they slept it off, he switched his for theirs, rang their doorbell and scurried away.

  He also drove over to Bullock’s Wilshire and splurged on two new shirts, wishing, as he pawed through the racks, that Sheilah were there to help him. He couldn’t find a tie he liked, and then was dismayed, Monday morning, by his choices, finally settling on a striped number Zelda had picked out at Hermes on one of their first trips to Paris. Like many men in their forties, he tended to dress in the style of his youth as if it were the current fashion. His herringbone jacket had twice been patched at the elbows, the lining resewn, but as long as it fit him and was clean, he saw no reason to retire it. Likewise, the high-waisted slacks and white saddle shoes he wore to his lunch with Ginevra cried 1922 to the waiting valet and maitre d’, as if he’d come directly from the set of a Harold Lloyd short—the snooty new beau who ends up walking home after being flattened by the lovebirds’ flivver.

  He was early, and was shown to a window table with a view across the boulevard of the wide, inviting fairways of a country club, which he thought fitting. The last time they’d seen each other had been at her parents’ club, an end of summer cotillion, the luminous paper moons of Japanese lanterns floating in the live oaks. At her insistence they tore up their cards and danced the entire night together, fending off a whole stag line of highborn hopefuls pressing their right to cut in. Simple midwestern boys, they stood no chance against Ginevra’s autocratic whims, an unhappy position he would assume back at Princeton a month later, when, with no explanation, she dropped him. She had been his and he hers, with flaming youth’s boast that this would be so eternally, and then one day he was no longer wanted. He still had the letter, the last in a thick packet that had moved with him from St. Paul to Great Neck to Cannes and now resided, with most of his earthly possessions, in the locked garage outside of Baltimore. He wished he had it with him now, or one of the many responses he’d written but—out of pricked vanity as much as despair—never sent.

  A waiter reached him. “Something to drink while you’re waiting, sir?”

  “Just water’s fine.”

  Though he’d been there only a moment, he was alone in the huge room, and now, from his own trepidation over their meeting, he feared she wasn’t coming. In that case, he thought, he would repair to the bar for the afternoon rather than go back to work and suffer more of Paramore’s abuse. Across the boulevard, a twosome of women in knickers was teeing off, their drives reminding him of Zelda’s fluid swing. When he turned away to check the entrance, the maitre d’ was coming through the tables straight for him, with Ginevra hard behind.

  He stood and stepped clear of his chair, attending their approach like a groom at the altar.

  She was still striking—slim and long-limbed, gypsy-dark with shocking blue eyes set off by a sapphire brooch over her heart. Except for her hair being pulled back into a neat chignon that showed off her neck, she hadn’t changed, making him aware of his own sallow flesh, as if marrying well had insulated her from the passage of time. It was only as she came closer that he saw the worry lines about her eyes, and the vain attempt to hide them with makeup.

  She turned her smile on him, took his hand limply and kissed his cheek.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  My whole life, he might have said. “Not at all.”

  The maitre d’ gave them menus and left them alone.

  “You look lovely as always,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  He asked after her parents, and she reciprocated. She was sorry to hear about his mother.

  “How is Buddy?”

  “He’s well. I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like, of course, but the place has done wonders for him.”

  When he’d known her, she’d been notorious among the Gold Coast set for not holding her tongue. Now, like Garbo, she had the reserve of a queen, making each word seem carefully chosen yet saying nothing. He hoped she would explain why she wanted to see him, but she took a pair of reading glasses from her purse and perused the menu. The prices were ridiculous for lunch.

  “Have you eaten here?” she asked.

  “Not in years.”

  “I wonder how the sole is.”

  What had they talked about when they were together? Themselves. Their plans. The next time they’d see each other. How they might find a way to be alone. Everything about her had seemed intriguing then, every moment brimming. Now they sat like strangers, or, worse, an old married couple.

  Along with the sole, she ordered a glass of wine. He asked for a Coke.

  “So,” she said. “Tell me about Hollywood.”

  “It’s actually rather dull. I go to work, I come home.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

  He could have told her about playing cards with Gable, or meeting Dietrich, but chose the truth. “The money’s good and the people are interesting.”

  “It sounds ideal.”

  “It is,” he said, surprised to find that on the whole he agreed with himself. “How is dear old Chicago?”

  “I’m actually at home right now. Bill and I have been—” She waved a hand in front of her face and shook her head. “It’s all been a mess.”

  For a confession of that magnitude it was oddly glib, as if she were having trouble with the gardener. He could sense her gauging his reaction.

  “Should I ask?”

  “Oh, there’s no scandal. We just can’t seem to get along. It’s been going on forever. It finally reached a point where we’d both had enough.”

  “I’m sorry.” He waited, giving her the stage.

  “It’s going to be official next week. I wanted to tell Buddy in person, which was difficult but the right thing to do. I’m not sure how much he understands. I think it’s going to be hard on him when he comes home for the holidays. He’s so used to us being a single entity.”

  “Of course,” he sympathized, without drawing on his own divided life, and then felt dishonest.

  Was this why she’d come, to bring him news? Was he supposed to
feel vindicated? Sorry for her? Because now it seemed doubly sad, an utter waste. Until Zelda, he’d never met anyone he thought more capable of happiness.

  “You have children,” she asked.

  “One. A girl. A young lady, I should say.”

  “How old?”

  “Too old. And wiser than her father, thank God.”

  “What’s her name?”

  As he related the barest details, he was aware that he was holding her off, as if in her misfortune he felt superior to her, when there was no reason. She was someone he’d known once, and then imperfectly, at a distance. Their courtship, in keeping with the mores of that select tribe, took place under the watchful eyes of her parents and the other club members. For all of their promises, he and Sheilah had been more intimate their first week together.

  “And your wife?” she asked.

  He faced the question rarely, if only because most people in his circle knew the answer. That she might be ignorant of his situation seemed unlikely, yet she’d asked casually, with no more than the requisite interest.

  “Back East,” he said. “Hollywood doesn’t agree with her.”

  “Too hot.”

  “Too hot, too dry, too many earthquakes.”

  “How long are you out here?”

  Again he found himself hedging, and was heartened to spy the waiter heading in their direction, shouldering a tray. He was suddenly hungry, and realized the only thing he’d eaten today was his pills.

  Rather than lapse into silence, they felt compelled to keep the conversation going while they ate. What did she do? Besides taking care of her family, she volunteered at church and the YWCA. She was on the board of trustees at Buddy’s school. She golfed and swam and rode. Traveled. At one time he’d aspired to that comfortable, orderly life, just as he’d dreamed of being with her. He’d had several chances but always his plans dissolved into chaos, and he wondered if constitutionally he was incapable of it.

  Working at his sole with Ginevra sitting across from him and the bright world streaming by outside, he thought of Zelda and what she would be doing now. In the middle of the afternoon, like children, they had quiet time. She might be reading, or writing him a letter. He pictured her sitting in a wicker chair in the dayroom, the sun slanting through the Venetian blinds.

  “You know we’re all very proud of you back home,” Ginevra said. “Not that I was surprised. You were always so clever with words. I remember your letters used to make me laugh. That’s one reason I liked you.”

  “Not the only one, I hope.”

  “You were dreadfully handsome, and knew it.”

  “Not the most admirable quality.”

  “I was just as bad. Worse.”

  “No, just prettier.”

  “I was afraid to cable you the other day. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t know if you’d even want to see me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because I was selfish and unkind.”

  “You were young,” he said, and if, as grounds for absolution, it was slippery, he didn’t need her to explain or apologize further. It was enough that she’d acknowledged not what she’d done but, simply, him. Strangely, after torturing himself for so long, he didn’t want her to feel badly.

  “How was your sole?” he asked.

  “Very good, how was yours?”

  “Delicious. Good choice.”

  “You can’t go wrong so close to the ocean.”

  When he’d agreed to see her, he feared they’d have nothing to say. Now, having broached the unspeakable past, their memories came naturally. She hadn’t forgotten their days and nights on the lake. Just the mention of the boathouse made her smile.

  “I was wicked, wasn’t I?”

  “You were wonderful,” he said.

  She was meeting people at one, so they skipped dessert and waited for them in the bar. She had a second glass of wine, and to celebrate their friendship he ordered a Tom Collins. He’d forgotten how mesmerizing her eyes were, that unnerving sky blue. The drink and his new mood made him ebullient.

  “Your husband’s a fool.”

  “Please, you don’t know the first thing about him.”

  “I don’t have to. How could any man not adore you?”

  “You mean, how could any man put up with me for that long?”

  “You’re not so awful.”

  She laughed. “You forget.”

  “I didn’t forget. What do you think I’ve been writing about this whole time?”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it. I recognized myself in some of your books.”

  “Which bitch did you think you were?”

  The word made her smirk.

  “All of them,” she said.

  “Not all,” he said. “Just the irresistible ones.”

  “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “You should.”

  He wanted to ask which books of his she’d read, and what she thought of them, but couldn’t, and let her grill him about the writer’s life, and living in New York, and on the Riviera. He wondered if she regretted never leaving Chicago, and imagined what would have happened if, after Scottie was born, they’d stayed in St. Paul.

  Too soon her friends arrived, a trio of stout society wives in fashionable hats with netted veils which on Ginevra might lend a bridal air of mystery but in their case made them look like frumpy beekeepers. She introduced him as an old and dear friend. They appraised him as if he were her new beau.

  “Sorry, girls,” she said, “he’s taken,” getting an easy laugh.

  They parted as they’d met, with smiles and happy platitudes. It was so good to see you. We really shouldn’t wait twenty years next time. He squeezed her hand as he kissed her cheek, then let her go.

  “Gorgeous,” he marveled when he was alone, and stood at the bar, unfocused, lost in contemplation. He’d hoped seeing her might finally lay her ghost to rest, and here she was, alive and real. He wanted another drink, but thought of Sheilah. Despite her pretense of not caring, she’d ask how their lunch went, and for that he needed to be sober. Grudgingly, with the indignation of a slave, he retraced his route to the studio and spent the afternoon restoring a scene Paramore had gutted, and then, punching out at six, felt exceedingly virtuous.

  All evening he waited for her to call, the clock on the stove and the news on the radio counting off the hours. At eleven fifteen he called her, letting it ring in case she was just walking in the door, then gently set the receiver in the cradle and went around turning off the lights.

  When he tried her in the morning she didn’t answer, though that wasn’t uncommon. On the lot, before he punched in, he stopped by the newsstand and scanned her column. Among the casting rumors and studio press releases was a tidbit about Dick Powell and June Allyson getting cozy in a booth at the Victor Hugo. He told himself he had no right to be jealous, no cause. While it stung just as much, it was possible she’d been working rather than purposely ignoring him.

  Neither guess proved to be true. That night, when he finally called, she apologized. She’d been with Donegall.

  He was standing at the mantel, and buckled as if punched. Looking back, he should have expected it.

  “I broke it off.”

  Anything he might say would implicate him, so he said he was sorry.

  “I felt sick after I told him. He’s a decent man. The awful thing is, I think he’d still have me.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I couldn’t marry him because I’m in love with you.”

  There was silence, as if he’d lost her.

  She choked, releasing a low keening that broke in a wild sob, and then she was crying. “I hurt him, Scott. I hurt him—all because you couldn’t bear to be alone. I never wanted to love you. I tried everything I could not to care about you, b
ut you made me, coming around, sending me flowers. Why did you have to do that?”

  The force of her despair simultaneously frightened and moved him more than any desire he felt for her. He hadn’t realized she was that abject. Her helplessness left him at once giddy and terrified. He accepted that it was his fault, being the original pursuer. As if she were his responsibility, he pledged he would try to be worthy of her sacrifice.

  “You were right to tell him. He had to know anyway.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Then it’s better he found out now. You did the honorable thing.”

  “I was not honorable. He trusted me and I cheated on him. We’re not honorable people, we’re liars! What are we doing? You don’t love me, you just wanted me. Now you don’t even want me. You’d rather drink and chase after some old girlfriend who threw you over.”

  “I do want you. And I’m not chasing after anyone.” He might have said that she was the one who’d been avoiding him, but chose diplomacy. He told her he loved her, and promised he’d try to stop drinking. He said everything he could short of saying he’d marry her, but even as he reassured her that she’d done the right thing, he feared that—especially after seeing Ginevra—he didn’t love her as much as he should.

  When she asked about their lunch, his account was factual, brief and incomplete, and accepted with skepticism.

  “You don’t still love her?”

  “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t love her. I don’t even know her anymore.”

  “Is that what’s going to happen to us?”

  Beyond the daunting assumption of oneness, it was an impossible question, bordering on the rhetorical.

  “Whatever happens,” he said, “I know I’m happier when I’m with you. I didn’t like not having you around this week.”

  “I wasn’t happy either. I was so sick I couldn’t eat.”

  “You made it to the Victor Hugo.”

  “That’s where we went. Oh Scott, it was awful. He thought we were just having a nice evening out. The whole time I wanted to throw up.”