CHAPTER 5

 

 

Gwendolyn held up the organdy gown printed with snapdragons. “What do you think?”

Judy Lewis nodded. “Mom adores everything you’ve made for her. But you must know that, the way she gushes.”

Gwendolyn threaded a mahogany hanger through the gown’s shoulders. Gushes?

When Loretta had seen the gown for week one, her mouth said “yes” but her eyes said, “Perhaps this’ll be okay, after all.”

Week two’s gown—a full-skirted tea dress in dark apricot—had brought a smile tinged with hesitation.

Gwendolyn’s third gown was a tight sheath in puce wool. It didn’t flurry around her like the previous two, but it displayed Loretta’s hard-won figure in all the right places. It had earned an enthusiastic nod, but no gush.

“You’ve got a good eye for what works on her.” Judy held a stray organdy off-cut in front of her mouth like an Arabian veil. “Do I look like Mata Hari?”

With the bottom half of your face hidden, you look like your father.

The true paternity of Loretta Young’s “adopted” daughter had been the topic of conversation around poolside canasta at the Garden, but the discussion always ended with “But of course I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell the poor girl that her father is Clark Gable.”

“Scheherazade,” Gwendolyn said.

“Even better!”

Judy twisted the organdy through her fingers. It was a nervous habit she succumbed to whenever she hung around the costuming department waiting for her mother.

Gwendolyn started collecting loose threads. “No college for you?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary for what I—” She caught herself with a sharp inhale.

“What do you want to do?”

“Promise you won’t tell her?”

“If you can’t tell your mother what you want to do with your life, perhaps you ought to rethink your plan.”

“I have to pick the right opportunity.” She discarded the material. “We’re always fighting, or making up, or maintaining a tentative truce until the next argument.”

Gwendolyn rested a hip against the worktable. “My friend Kathryn and her mother are like that.”

Judy snuck a peek at the far end of the room where a clutch of seamstresses hunched over Egyptian slave girl costumes. “You know what it’s like, then.”

Gwendolyn bent forward, creating a more intimate space. “In a second-hand sort of way.”

“I want to be an—actress.” She pushed the word out like it was hooker or murderess.

“I’m guessing from your tone that your mother won’t approve.”

“Not for a second.”

Gwendolyn rested her chin in her palm, the way she often did whenever Kathryn came to her, wailing about Francine. “She seems to have done pretty well out of the acting game.”

Judy frowned. “She’ll see me as competition.”

“I doubt that,” Gwendolyn said. “She’s got this TV show now, and it’s rating its patootie off.” Loretta’s gambit to spend a sizable chunk of the budget on her entrance had proven to be astute. Each week the show pulled in more and more viewers keen to see what she wore. “And besides, you’re eighteen. You’re hardly likely to be going up for the same roles.”

“Actresses don’t think that way. Every pair of legs in a tight skirt is viewed as competition.”

A studio messenger rushed into the room, “Gwendolyn Brick?” He deposited a note in front of her without saying a word and left as briskly as he had arrived.

 

Free for lunch? Please say yes. Meet me in the commissary? 12.30? Don’t be late. I hate sitting there all by myself. MM xoxoxo

 

Gwendolyn grabbed her purse. “If your mother shows up while I’m gone, tell her the dress is nearly done but if she wants to try it on, she should watch for pins. And if you want my opinion, she might not be overjoyed about the idea of you giving acting a go, but I doubt it’ll be for the reasons you think.”

 

 

Gwendolyn found Marilyn Monroe seated at a table in the middle of the bustling commissary trying to avoid spilling beef broth on her glittering red-and-gold costume.

She spotted Gwendolyn and pointed to a second bowl. Gwendolyn was hungry for more substantial fare, but the wistfulness in Marilyn’s face made her rush right over.

They exchanged a brief kiss.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” Marilyn exclaimed, “I’ve been back from Canada for three weeks and we haven’t had a chance to catch up!”

“They keep me real busy.” Gwendolyn sampled the soup. It was the thinnest broth she’d ever tasted; the bowl probably didn’t have more than twenty calories.

“Isn’t it nutso?” Marilyn said. “You and me working at the same studio?”

Whatever trouble Marilyn had experienced on the Canadian location shoot for her next movie didn’t seem to have left a mark. She glowed like a klieg light.

“How’s River of No Return going?” Gwendolyn asked. “I hear you and Otto Preminger didn’t get along so good.”

Marilyn rolled her eyes. “Frankenstein with dysentery would be a gentleman compared to Preminger. I was not looking forward to the reshoots. When I learned that he’s moved on to Carmen Jones, I almost sent his leading lady a note. ‘Good luck, Dorothy Dandridge!’”

“What’s next for you?”

Marilyn pushed away her bowl. She was only halfway through it. Surely she was still hungry. Or, cinched into a dress like that, maybe peeing was too hard to risk eating more.

“That’s what I wanted to see you about. The How to Marry a Millionaire premiere is coming up and I desperately need something to wear.”

“But surely Billy Travilla will be—”

“Word has come from high above that he’s only to work on my screen costumes. I was distraught until I heard that you were on board. Do you think I could come over to your place and bounce around some ideas?”

Every photographer in town would be jostling to capture Marilyn’s arrival. If she wore a Gwendolyn creation, it might be enough to lift her profile inside the studio.

“Hello!” Loretta materialized in front of them like Constance Bennett in Topper. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was so thrilled with the new dress that I had to come find you. We haven’t met yet, have we?” she asked Marilyn as she laid her tray on their table. “I’m Loretta. Mind if I join you?”

Even in a room packed with people used to seeing stars all day long, the sight of Loretta Young and Marilyn Monroe seated together made heads turn in their direction.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t seen your television show yet,” Marilyn told Loretta. “I hear it’s very good.”

Loretta lifted a bowl of the same beef broth from her tray and set it in front of her. “It was a bear to get off the ground, but now that we have, it’s skipping along nicely.”

Sitting across from an It Girl of the past trying to impress an It Girl of the future, Gwendolyn realized that, even inside the citadel, women like these two still played the game.

Gwendolyn thought about Judy. Growing up in the shadow of a movie-star mother, surely she’d witnessed the price that Hollywood exacted from its women. At least she knew first-hand what she was letting herself in for.

“Haven’t you?”

Gwendolyn blinked at Loretta. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was saying you’ve probably already conjured a bunch of ideas for Marilyn’s premiere.”

“Yes, I have.” No, I haven’t. See? Even I play the game.

A twenty-year-old kid with a nervous twitch approached their table. “Miss Monroe?”

Marilyn knitted her brows. “Ready for me so soon?”

“Makeup’ll need you in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks, T.J. Tell Ben I’ll be right over.” She turned back to Loretta and Gwendolyn. “Sorry ladies, but with reshoots cutting into the budget, poor Mr. Negulesco is under pressure to get them done as quickly as possible.” She made a point of shaking Loretta’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Young.”

Loretta smiled but did not ask Marilyn to call her by her first name. Every pair of legs in a tight skirt is viewed as competition.

Marilyn pulled at her corset and set off for the exit, oblivious—or pretending to be—to every eye in the cafeteria following her.

“Gracious!” Loretta exclaimed. “That lass sure is something.”

Gwendolyn wanted to reassure Loretta that she herself was still something, but another messenger appeared at their table.

“Can I help you, young man?”

“I’m here to see Miss Brick.”

“Oh.” Loretta’s gray eyes lost their focus.

“I’m the new messenger for Mr. Zanuck,” the kid said. “He wants to see you this afternoon.”

Gwendolyn could feel Loretta scrutinize her face for signs of surprise. “When?”

“Five o’clock sharp. His office.”

“I’ll be there.”

The two women watched the messenger boy retreat.

“Why, Gwendolyn!” Loretta exclaimed. “Is your luncheon table always this eventful?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you and Zanuck . . . close?”

Loretta tinged the brief hesitation near the end of her question with bitterness.

“We’ve met a few times, but I’d be surprised if he could pull my name out of the air.”

Marcus had put pen to paper as soon as he’d hung up from Zanuck, detailing how he was tasked with finding a secluded penthouse where Zanuck could schtup his mistress. The mistress had an odd name. What was it? Belle? Delle? Is that why I’m being summoned?

“Apparently he can pull your name out of thin air.” Loretta filled her face with a sweet smile. “Perhaps you could do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“There’s a picture in pre-production called A Woman’s World with Jean Negulesco directing. High gloss, very classy. There’s a part I’d be perfect for. I got my agent to let it be known that I want the role, but it appears to have gone nowhere. Perhaps you could bring it up when you see Zanuck this afternoon?”

“I don’t even know why he’s summoned me.”

“In case you can find a way, I’d appreciate it so very much.”

Gwendolyn admired Loretta’s refusal to be tossed aside in favor of fresher faces, but if Zanuck cast her in a movie, it wouldn’t be because some peon like Gwendolyn Brick suggested it. On the other hand, Loretta had been at this game since before The Jazz Singer. At the very least, Gwendolyn would be doing her boss a favor.

“I can try.”

* * *

Darryl Zanuck was selecting a pipe from a chrome rack behind his desk as Gwendolyn walked through the redwood door that opened into the mogul’s huge office. “Miss Brick, always a pleasure.” He indicated she could take either of the chairs in front of his desk.

She smoothed her dress as she lowered herself into the closest one.

“I need you.” His candor made the hair on the back of Gwendolyn’s neck stand up. “You and Monroe are friends, right?”

“We were having lunch together when your messenger—”

“I know. Here’s my problem: she’s becoming difficult to manage. River of No Return has been a nightmare.”

“The reshoots with Jean Negulesco have gone smoothly, so I don’t know that you can hold Marilyn solely responsible—”

“She’s heading down the same goddamn road that every actress with great tits and a modicum of success heads down. She’s already started showing up late, or not at all. She stumbles over her lines or blanks on them, fusses over her hair and makeup for hours.” He lit his pipe. “I need her to quit draining the budget of every movie I put her in.”

“You want me to give her a talking-to? I can certainly try, but I doubt—”

“I need someone reporting every move she makes as soon as she makes it.”

Gwendolyn had played enough poker to know that Zanuck was consciously refusing to blink.

“You want me to spy on her.”

During the war, the FBI had approached Kathryn to inform them if the people she worked with showed signs of falling prey to Communism. After one particularly stressful encounter, Kathryn had told Gwendolyn, “You don’t know how it feels to be forced to squeal on people you love and admire.” Gwendolyn was getting a taste of it just now, and it made her chest tighten.

“Don’t think of it as spying.” Zanuck used a gentler tone but he still hadn’t blinked.

“A rose by any other name, Mr. Zanuck.”

“Quoting Shakespeare now, are we?”

The guy played with his gold cigarette lighter. He was using it as a prop to control the conversation, and Gwendolyn resented how well the tactic worked.

He picked from his tongue a loose sliver of tobacco that she suspected wasn’t there. “Confidential magazine ran an article that was so damaging, you had to close your store. The merchandise you couldn’t sell was offloaded at a highly discounted rate, which failed to cover what you owed your suppliers. Consequently, Miss Brick, you’re in debt. Quite deeply, I believe.”

He pulled a long draw on his pipe and blinked his eyes with infuriatingly slow deliberation.

Everything Zanuck said was true. Her holding a regular job at Twentieth Century-Fox had helped convince Gwendolyn’s bank manager to agree to pay off a fraction of her debt each week. It was going to take years, but at least it saved her from the ignominy of declaring bankruptcy.

Was Zanuck threatening to fire her? Or blackball her from the industry? After watching Marcus struggle for so many years, Gwendolyn knew the consequences of non-cooperation.

“I guess you leave me no choice.”

“Oh, come now.” He jumped to his feet again, but stayed on his side of the desk. “Don’t look at me like I’m the Gestapo and you’re the French Resistance. I’m just asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. Especially DiMaggio. If you catch wind of her marrying that wop, you tell me immediately. And I want you to talk her out of it.”

If Kathryn could worm out of her enforced obligations with the FBI, I can get around this egomaniac without losing my job. “I’ll do my best,” she told him, “but I’m not her mother.”

Zanuck’s eyes crinkled with victory. “I hope not—I hear she’s crazy.”

Gwendolyn propelled herself from the chair. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Did I ask for any?”

It was a fair point, but Gwendolyn was in no mood to concede defeat. “By the way, Loretta Young wants you to consider her for the lead in A Woman’s World.”

Zanuck snorted. “Her? For a theatrical feature?”

“She’s made over ninety pictures!”

“In the eyes of the public, she’s now just a television actress.

“You cast Jack Lemmon opposite Betty Grable and he’s a television actor.”

“That’s different. Jack’s on his way up. Don’t worry, Miss Brick. You’ve done what you promised. You can assure your boss that you pleaded her case.”

Gwendolyn took a step backward. The carpeting in Zanuck’s office was unusually plush and as she turned to go, her heel sank into the thick pile. She managed to recover before she stumbled back into the chair like a messy drunk at Ciro’s. With her back now turned to Zanuck, she wasn’t sure if he’d seen the expression on her face. She made a straight line for the exit and didn’t breathe again until she closed the massive redwood door behind her.