Kathryn pulled out the most conservative jacket in her closet, a Donegal tweed in malachite green, and showed it to Gwendolyn. “What about this?”
“It does say ‘I mean business,’ but I’m not sure it’s right for the fiery pit of perdition you might be heading into.”
“But I do mean business,” Kathryn countered. “Now more than ever.”
“I know.” Gwendolyn indulged her with a mock-disdainful smile. “I’ve been reading your columns.” She let out a long, low whistle.
Kathryn pulled out a suit of lingonberry-red bouclé. She had stopped wearing it after she overheard some drunk at the Randolph Scotts say it was the color of a baboon bottom during mating season. “I’d stand out in this one.”
“You can really only get away with darker reds.” Gwendolyn returned it to the rack. “And you know how hot those soundstages get. You’ll roast alive.” She prodded Kathryn out of the way to get a better look.
Kathryn had managed to circumvent a potential disaster at the Golden Globes, but only by shoving that briefcase between her legs. It wasn’t the last she would see of Haynes, and by the time the dawn had started glinting through her drapes, she had a plan to fight back. If she couldn’t destroy that list, she’d drag it out into the open. That way, she’d get to shape expectations and assumptions.
In her next column, she had talked about how a list was doing the rounds and had invented a bunch of theories, finishing with a list of casting options for the next project by Lucky Productions.
Going public with the Harrison list had been a risky move, so she had tied it into a larger story by decrying the Legion’s outsized influence on popular culture. Over a series of articles, she waved the “separation of church and state” flag and pointed out that what had been considered decent forty years ago was a far cry from what was considered decent now.
Haynes had wasted no time upping the ante.
The Very Reverend Monsignor Thomas F. Little of the National Catholic Legion of Decency started going after Billy Wilder’s new movie. In a statement published in the Chicago Tribune and syndicated across the country, he judged Some Like It Hot offensive to Christian standards of decency, stating that the film’s subject matter of transvestism tacitly sanctioned homosexuality and that the dialogue’s liberal sprinkling of double entendres was outright smut. The next day, Haynes had denounced the movie as “the epitome of Hollywood degeneracy that stands for everything wrong with modern-day moviemaking.”
But that was okay. If Haynes and his pursed-lipped confederate wanted to duke it out on the Goldwyn soundstages, it gave her home advantage. She whipped out a defense of Billy Wilder’s right to make whatever movie he wished and let box office be the ultimate arbiter. She had assumed that she would receive an invitation to visit the set, but no such summons appeared.
Some P.R. flunky at The Mirisch Corporation told her that Mr. Wilder was keeping an airtight fence around production. Translation: Marilyn was being uncooperative and unreliable, and Wilder was losing his mind.
Kathryn felt stymied by this impasse until she complained to her neighbor, an actress named Natalie Schafer, who told her that most Sundays, Wilder was at her favorite Jewish deli, usually with Harpo Marx. Harpo had been a Garden resident in the thirties, so Kathryn and Natalie had gone to Nate and Al’s in Beverly Hills the following Sunday. After demolishing half a honeydew melon, Kathryn table-hopped and mentioned how surprisingly hard it was to organize a visit to the set.
Billy Wilder’s normally genial face had become a grim mask as he admitted he’d ignored the war of words raging in the press over the movie. Marilyn’s insecurities had spun out of control so he’d been wholly focused on the picture.
“I don’t know if you’ll remember this,” Kathryn had countered, “but when the furor broke out over her nude calendar, it was me who presented Marilyn’s side, and she’s trusted me ever since. An hour on set is all I need to start building a case that your movie is really just a slightly risqué romantic comedy.” She returned to her cheese blintzes with an invitation to the set.
The next day, she announced her upcoming visit.
The day after that, all hell had broken loose.
Haynes demanded equal time. Wilder refused because Marilyn feared that he would intimidate her over her revealing gowns. An indignant Haynes claimed favoritism so often and so publicly that Wilder capitulated, thinking that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Not wanting to miss out, other columnists had insisted on being on the set of the movie that was dividing Hollywood into two camps: “Uphold the Production Code” versus “Toss the Production Code overboard.”
Louella Parsons, Hedda Hopper, Sheilah Graham, Mike Connolly, and Army Archerd wanted in on the act and had threatened a barrage of negative press if they weren’t extended the same courtesy. Wilder had relented; Kathryn’s exclusive was history.
She had woken up that morning expecting to leap out of bed, ready to attack the day, but fear weighed her down. And when she opened her closet, the choices overwhelmed her.
“Today’s goal is to stand out, right?” Gwendolyn asked her.
“The six biggest columnists are going to be there today. I don’t want to get lost in the crowd.”
Gwendolyn ran her hand along the jackets and skirts and dresses. “Ah!” She pulled out a smart jacket that Kathryn liked but rarely wore. It was a very deep ruby with wide lapels appliquéd with an even deeper red lace. Next, Gwendolyn found what she considered the perfect accompaniment.
“PANTS?!” Kathryn gasped. “You can’t be serious!”
“What will Louella and Hedda be wearing?” Gwendolyn asked.
“The usual frumpy old stuff.”
“And Sheilah?”
“As though she’s heading off to afternoon tea at the Biltmore.”
Gwendolyn laid the black pants on Kathryn’s bed next to the jacket. “You’ll be showing Haynes who wears the pants around here.”
The red jacket and black pants did look good together. Kathryn sighed. “Do you think he’ll even notice?”
“When I was at Fox, Billy Travilla and Charles LeMaire talked endlessly about expressing the character through costume. You’d be surprised what can be communicated with patterns, colors, and material. You called me over here for my opinion, so here it is: You’re going into battle so you’ll need every weapon at your disposal.”
Kathryn studied the get-up with fresh eyes. “I do have a lipstick that matches perfectly.”
Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon tottered toward the columnists like a pair of slightly daffy librarians who’d just chugalugged their first whiskey. Curtis wore a shin-length black fur topped with a high white collar. Lemmon’s coat featured leopard skin that reached almost to his waist. Neither of them had convincingly mastered walking in heels.
Curtis wiggled his fingers. “OH, YOO-HOO!” He’d raised his voice into a strangled falsetto. He stopped, taking in Kathryn’s pants. “Now you’ve got me wondering if perhaps we’ve accidentally gotten dressed in each other’s outfit.”
The group laughed, all except Haynes, who glowered at the two actors. Kathryn had expected him to throw his ego around but he’d said nothing as the group gathered at MGM before Mirisch’s head of publicity led them to the railway station back lot.
The Samuel Goldwyn studios didn’t have a standing railway set, so this scene was being shot at MGM. It wasn’t hard to guess why Wilder had chosen this scene today. It gave them an idea of how Tony and Jack would look in the movie. Marilyn would be wrapped in a thick fur coat that would minimize the chances of anyone being scandalized. All she had to do was walk alongside the train and stumble a little when a jet of steam took her by surprise. No dialogue, no close-ups, no choreographed bits of visual comedy.
“Now you know what we women go through,” Kathryn told Tony and Jack. “No fun, huh?”
Jack lifted his right leg to show his heel. “What is this? A medieval torture device? But you have to admit, they do make my legs look heavenly!”
“I wouldn’t mind a pair of those myself,” Sheilah said. As Kathryn had forecast, she was enfolded in a wafty concoction of layered chiffon.
Louella made a comment about how the guys’ felt cloches resembled her favorite hats from the twenties and wondered if their wardrobe master had broken into her home and stolen them. Naturally, Hedda jumped into the conversation. “I’ve built my reputation on hats,” she declared. “I must say, Tony, yours is to die for.”
He turned to Jack. “See, Daphne? I told you I’m the prettiest!”
Mike Connolly stepped forward. He and Kathryn hadn’t said two words since nodding hellos in the Thalberg Building. “I know Josephine and Daphne are just roles, but don’t you feel ridiculous in these get-ups?”
His question soured the light-hearted mood, causing everyone to fall into an awkward silence. Everyone, that is, except Haynes.
“I’d hate for my children to see me dressed like that.” He looked over Jack and Tony’s fur coats like they were blankets infested with smallpox. He went on and on, belittling the two actors for agreeing to appear in the movie, questioning their taste and their moral compass. With nobody stopping him, he started raising his voice like he was a bogus Elmer Gantry demanding of them, “Have you no pride? No self-esteem?”
Kathryn couldn’t take any more. “Oh, for crying out loud! These guys couldn’t pass for women in real life, but in the context of the movie, it’s comical. This is a comedy. Just a bit of harmless fun; it hardly heralds the downfall of godliness.”
“As it says in Galatians 5:19: ‘The acts of the flesh are obvious—’”
“Don’t start quoting the Bible,” Kathryn cut him off. “You’ve got the wrong crowd.”
Mirisch’s P.R. manager pointed out a row of directors’ chairs lined up along the periphery. “Mr. Wilder would appreciate it if he didn’t arrive to find his guests squabbling like—” He broke off before he called them children. “Let’s take a seat, shall we?”
The railway station set had grown crowded with crewmembers carrying lights, microphones, and prop luggage. Kathryn had to battle through them to get to the seats; the only vacant one was next to Haynes. He whispered into her ear, “The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity, and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy—”
“I get it,” she whispered back. “You can quote the Bible. Hooray for you. But that sort of morality is crumbling away. You’re living in the past.”
“The Bible isn’t the only thing I can quote verbatim,” Haynes replied. “There’s a list. It’s got forty names on it. While we’re sitting here waiting, why don’t I recite it? It’ll be like a Show-and-Tell. Let’s start with Lorelei Boothe.”
Kathryn yanked him off his chair and hauled him toward the end of the train. Connolly went to get up and follow them but she lifted a reproachful finger at him.
A stagehand had wetted down the concrete platform to give the scene texture, so it wasn’t easy to tug Haynes around the carriage to the other side, where nobody could hear them.
“Now, you listen to me.” The self-righteous leer he’d plastered on his face made her want to puke. “You think this sort of picture is sinful and reprehensible? Okay. Fine. Your opinion; you’re entitled to it. But this list you’ve got, why ruin so many reputations? None of us wanted to be in that situation we found ourselves in. We did what we did because we had to. Because the rules of society gave us no other choices.”
“The extramarital sin and the terminations that result are what’s wrong with Hollywood. And because of Hollywood’s influence over society, if you can fix Hollywood, you can fix America.”
Kathryn felt her fighting energy drain out of her. She flattened her back against the fake railway carriage. “Those visits to Dr. Harrison . . . They happened so long ago. What does it matter now?”
“It’s not just the doing, it’s also the covering up. But look who I’m talking to.” Haynes took a step backward and gestured at Kathryn like he was a stage magician about to impress his audience with his astonishing sleight of hand. “The queen of cover-ups.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I know.”
“Know what?”
“I was Sheldon Voss’s second-in-command. His closest confidant. I know that you are his niece. And I strongly suspect that you know more about his death than you’ve ever let on. I don’t know what happened that night at the Ambassador but it was all very fishy.”
Kathryn’s lungs burned for a cigarette but she’d left her handbag on the armrest of her chair. She’d have to do this without the support of the Chesterfield cigarette company. “Everything about Sheldon Voss was fishy,” she said. “He didn’t believe a word of all that hogwash he sprouted, but I think you do. In my view, that makes you equally dangerous because if you were Uncle Sheldon’s closest confidant, you had to know that he was a fraud. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Haynes threw his hands up theatrically. “Like any man, he had his flaws, but he didn’t deserve such a sordid demise.”
“Is that what’s behind this goading?” Kathryn launched herself away from the side of the train carriage. “There were slippery sheets flung all over and Voss slid on them.”
“I knew you were there! I just knew it!”
“Let me tell you, that hotel room was like a brothel. It stank of booze and cigarettes and body odor so I opened the window.”
“The one he was pushed out of.”
“HE WASN’T PUSHED! He was so drunk it was disgusting. The man barely knew what he was doing.”
“These slippery sheets just happened to be on the floor in front of the window that you just happened to have opened? And he happened to fall out?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. He stumbled, reached out to regain his balance, but miscalculated and fell out.”
“And at what time did you report what you saw to the hotel management or the police?”
He had her there. She’d watched the man fall to his death. And if he’d been someone more deserving, she might have called the authorities. But he wasn’t, so she didn’t.
Haynes jumped onto her silence. “Withholding details of extramarital affairs between movie stars is bad enough. Remaining silent about illegal abortions is another matter altogether. But failing to report a death? My, oh my, Miss Massey, that’s quite a list of cover-ups you’re accumulating. And you wonder why I preach against the sin of Hollywood.”
A movement off to the side caught Kathryn’s eye. She looked up to see the rest of the group—Louella, Hedda, Sheilah, Army, and Mike Goddamned Connolly—lined up inside the train carriage. The windows on the non-filming side contained no glass. Haynes had manipulated this slugfest so that she had blurted out everything right in front of the biggest gossip columnists in Hollywood.
A bell rang out, signaling for quiet on the set in preparation for the first take. But to Kathryn, it sounded more like the squawk of a vulture ransacking the carcass of her career.