CHAPTER 40

 

 

Gwendolyn walked into the foyer of the Moulin Rouge nightclub. Immediately, she felt the tension choking the air.

“Jeez!” Monty exclaimed beside her. “I thought the Emmy Awards would be a big ol’ party, but this feels like a court martial.”

Gwendolyn pointed out an NBC television camera parked inside the glass doors. “It’s the first time the ceremony is being televised. I’d imagine everybody feels like they’re on show.”

“Aren’t show people always on show?”

A surge of excitement ran around the crowd.

Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz arrived amid a barrage of flashbulbs and applause. Lucille’s red hair seemed to catch on fire in the portable spotlights. She shielded her eyes with her hand and pressed through the mob.

“She’s looking for refuge.” Kathryn waved, beckoning them toward her.

“Thank you,” Lucille said as she approached. “Once we got inside, I panicked. Where do we go now? Who do we talk to?”

“It’s the price you pay for being the most-nominated show tonight.”

Lucille scrutinized Gwendolyn. “You’re the gal who does Loretta’s dresses, aren’t you? I saw her coming in. She looked a bit awestruck.”

“She’s flattered to be nominated for Best Actress, but she’s up against you, Gracie Allen, and Eve Arden, so she rates her chances very low.”

In truth, the real reason for Loretta’s nervousness stemmed from clinging to the perception that she belonged in feature films, and how she’d be considered “just a TV personality now” amid the sea of film people invited to tonight’s ceremony. NBC was keen to get high ratings for the broadcast, so they’d lured as many celebrities as the Moulin Rouge would fit, which was how Gwendolyn and Clark had swayed Zanuck into attending.

Clark had told Zanuck, “I’ll go if you go,” knowing he would view film people attending the Emmys as slumming it. However, Clark also knew that Zanuck was anxious to keep him at Fox. Once Zanuck had capitulated, he decreed that the stars currently at Fox were commanded to accept the Television Academy’s invitation—and that included Bette Davis, who arrived behind Lucille and Desi with her current director, Henry Koster.

Gwendolyn waved them over.

“Are we all here?” Bette asked.

“Waiting for the two main players.”

Koster frowned at his date. “What does that mean?”

Bette told him, “Private joke,” and pointed to the front door. “Look! It’s Zanuck and his wife Virginia.”

“With Gable behind him,” Koster said. “But who’s his date?”

The four of them emerged from the lightning storm of press photographers and into the foyer.

It had taken two weeks, a pack of broken needles, seven Band-Aids, three pounds of paillette sequins, and thirty yards of silk-backed lamé the color of lava, but Bella’s strapless extravaganza with the plunging neckline and the mermaid silhouette was the most exciting dress Gwendolyn had ever created.

“Virginia and Bella in the same limo?” Lucille murmured. “Must have been a hell of a ride.”

Gwendolyn caught Clark’s eye as Lucille and Desi’s production team beckoned them away. He charged across the foyer like Pecos Bill, forcing poor Bella to trail behind him.

“GREAT TO SEE YOU!” He greeted Kathryn and Gwendolyn with a bear hug, and Monty with a two-fisted handshake, then whispered, “Is he watching?”

Zanuck was used to playing kingpin to an audience of sycophantic brown-nosers, but these TV people were strangers. His smile was strained, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Gwendolyn waved at him and smiled. Relieved, Zanuck stampeded through the crowd as Clark had done.

“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “This looks like the fun group.”

Gwendolyn did what introductions were necessary, saving Monty for last.

“Ah!” Bette exclaimed. “You’re the remarkable memoirist I keep hearing about. A friend of mine at The Saturday Evening Post told me they’re hoping to serialize On the Deck of the Missouri and what a marvelous picture it would make. I assume some clever producer has snapped up the rights?”

“Gee, Miss Davis, I’m awfully sorry.” On the drive over, Gwendolyn had instructed Monty to pretend he was Jimmy Stewart, circa Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Her suggestion had meant nothing to him, so she told him to play it hayseed. “None of the rights to my book have been secured.”

Zanuck perked up. “Except the screen rights, of course.”

“I have to contradict you there, Mr. Zanuck. My agent is still fielding offers from the studios.”

“WHAT?” Clark wheeled around to square off with Zanuck. “You’ve been lying to me?” Confused, Zanuck started stumbling over half-syllables like Elmer Fudd. “You’ve been dangling this juicy carrot in front of me but you don’t even hold the rights? Christ almighty! How the hell am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve got choices now that I’ve left MGM, and I’ll be damned if I’m forced to work with anyone I can’t trust.”

He draped his arm around Bella, landing a hand near the top of her right breast. He hauled her off into the rubbernecking onlookers, who parted like rehearsed movie extras.

* * *

“Thank you!” Steve Allen boomed. “You’ve been a marvelous audience.” He looked into the camera in front of him. “And that goes for you lovely people at home, too. I hope you’ve enjoyed our broadcast, but it’s time for me to say good night and God bless.” He froze until the house lights came on.

“What a shocking evening,” Kathryn remarked. “I Love Lucy goes home empty-handed and Loretta wins Best Actress.”

People were starting to circulate in the aisles and drift toward the foyer, congratulating, commiserating, schmoozing, gossiping. But no Zanuck.

Gwendolyn joined Kathryn in the aisle. “He left early?”

“I’m not sure what upset him more: realizing that he didn’t hold the rights to Monty’s memoir, or that his mistress was Clark Gable’s date.”

Virginia Zanuck battled against the tide of people ambling up the aisle. It was a good sign—if she was still here, her husband probably was, too.

Though reasonably attractive in her actress youth, Zanuck’s wife looked ten years older than her fifty-three years. She was unfailingly pleasant, though, and nobody’s fool.

“My husband needs to see you,” she told Gwendolyn. “Immediately if not sooner, to quote him verbatim.”

She followed Virginia to a side exit, which led to a corridor. Zanuck stood in the doorway that Gwendolyn guessed opened onto the wings. The end of his fat Montecristo glowed bright orange in the semi-dark.

“Your brother’s memoirs—are they really still up for grabs?”

“The other day he commented on how surprised he was that movie negotiations took so long, especially considering you’re going to have to deal with him if you want the navy’s cooperation.’”

“I thought we’d locked down the rights months ago. I don’t know what happened.”

What happened is that you’re losing your grip.

“Do you know how much the other studios have offered?” he asked.

She started fanning herself with her purse. “Goodness gracious me,” she pretended to fret. “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable revealing—”

“Who pays your salary?”

“You do, Mr. Zanuck.”

“Don’t make me repeat the question.” He obscured himself behind a veil of smoke.

“Monty doesn’t share everything with me but I can tell you that MGM’s price was $220,000.”

“That much, huh?”

“Monty’s agent told him it was high because Dore Schary couldn’t stand the thought of losing to Paramount. So you can assume Paramount bid at least two hundred big ones.”

Zanuck started pacing the width of the corridor like a skittish colt. “But why Paramount?”

“You must have heard the scuttlebutt about DeMille’s remake of The Ten Commandments.”

Zanuck shook his head.

You really are losing touch. “Kathryn’s date tonight is head of writing at Paramount and he told her that filming on Ten Commandments has gone so well that it could be the biggest moneymaker of the decade.”

Zanuck choked out a scoffing grunt. “The budget’s twelve mill. It’s the most expensive film ever made. They’ll be lucky to break even.”

“But if they’re right, they’ll be able to outbid everybody. You need to swoop in with a can’t-say-no offer.”

“Of how much?”

Gwendolyn started pawing at her handbag. “This is a conflict of interest. I’m not—”

“HOW MUCH?”

She threw him an outraged glare. “The phrase ‘quarter of a million’ will serve a whole bunch of purposes. My brother lives on a military salary, so he’ll say yes; it makes for great P.R. copy; it’ll shut out the competition; it’ll almost guarantee you’ll get Gable, which means you’ll probably get John Ford. It’s a ripping yarn right up Ford’s alley, but you already know that.”

The door to the wings swung open and a couple of performers ran past. In the light slipping in from the doorway, Gwendolyn caught the hesitation in his eyes.

“You have read it, haven’t you?” she asked.

“Not exactly.”

“You’re prepared to shell out a quarter of a million on a book you haven’t even read?” The Darryl F. Zanuck of ten years ago wouldn’t have done that.

“I’ve been busy,” he snapped.

“With Bella?”

Zanuck rolled the cigar back and forth along his fingertips. “Is she sleeping with Gable?”

Gwendolyn wanted to swat him across the face with her handbag, but it featured an oversized paste emerald that could leave a mark if she struck him in the wrong place. “That’s a hell of a question to ask the girl you all but forced into having sex with Gable.”

“Oh. Yeah. I did feel bad about that later.”

“Careful, Mr. Zanuck, your conscience is showing.”

He jabbed the burning end of his cigar at her. “From what I hear, you were having a damn good time.”

“It wasn’t the worst job I’ve ever had, even if it ended up—”

She cut herself off five words too late.

“I heard rumors,” he said, more softly now.

This conversation was supposed to be about manipulating Zanuck into coughing up a fortune for Monty’s book, but it had veered into territory Gwendolyn hadn’t anticipated. “Sleeping dogs, Mr. Zanuck.”

“Was it that bad?”

“I think Virginia’s probably waiting for you out there—”

“Please tell me.”

“If you must know, I had a miscarriage that resulted in emergency surgery and now I’m unable to have children. Glad you asked?” She regretted her catty tone when she saw his horrified look.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

“What’s done is done—”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You can do that by making my brother a rich man. “Lookit, at my age the question of kids is largely a moot point. So let’s move on and make sure Monty’s agent receives a generous offer.”

“No, really, I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how, but I will. But before I go, you still haven’t answered my question.”

The desperation in his voice said everything.

“No,” Gwendolyn replied, “your mistress isn’t screwing Clark Gable.”

* * *

Zanuck’s $250,000 offer arrived on the desk of Monty’s agent the next day. In a coincidence that usually only happens in a P.R. manager’s wet dream, Monty signed the deal the same day that his book came out.

News of the screen rights, along with glowing reviews, helped On the Deck of the Missouri climb up the bestseller list alongside Auntie Mame, Marjorie Morningstar, and Bonjour Tristesse.

With his huge payday, Monty settled the outstanding debt for Gwendolyn’s store. She told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted, saying it was the least he could do. She accepted his generosity and felt lightheaded as she walked out of the bank with a statement that read, “ZERO AMOUNT DUE.”

But while Zanuck had wasted no time fixing the Monty Brick situation, his promise to Gwendolyn went neglected—but that was okay.

As she’d half-expected, Gwendolyn’s “special assistant” job dried up. She’d done for him what he wanted, so she returned full-time to the costume department, where her paycheck reverted to what it had originally been. But with her bank debt wiped away, it was enough for her needs.

Over the month that followed the Emmys, she assisted Billy Travilla and Charles LeMaire on a silly movie about two burlesque dancers hiding out in a college. Hoping to recapture some of the magic from How to Marry a Millionaire, Zanuck promoted its writer, Nunnally Johnson, to write and direct How to Be Very, Very Popular, and cast Betty Grable in what was going to be her last movie for Fox. Her reign was grinding down; an end-of-an-era feeling pervaded the whole production.

On the last full day of shooting, Grable charged into the workroom holding a dress that Gwendolyn knew she ought to be wearing in front of the camera right at that minute.

“This needs a repair job,” Betty said. “The shoulder.”

Gwendolyn took the garment from her. It was an ordinary dress that she wore under a coat in the chicken-eating scene and would barely be visible. She inspected the dress as Betty played with a zipper that Gwendolyn was about to insert into a blue dress she was making for Jennifer Jones in Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing.

Gwendolyn was used to an upbeat, chatty Betty Grable, not this nervous, distracted woman unable to look her in the eye. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Betty dropped the zipper. “I’m in hiding from Zanuck’s secretary.”

Irma was efficient, loyal, diplomatic, and discreet, and knew how to tie her hair into the tightest bun in Hollywood, but she wasn’t scary. “Why would you be hiding from her?”

“Because Zanuck’s been hounding me with messages and telegrams to come see him once Popular has finished filming. But the closer I get, the harder it is for me to face the fact that twenty-five years are coming to an end, so I’ve been avoiding him.”

Zanuck’s secretary appeared at the costume department’s doors. “There you are, Miss Grable.” Irma held considerable power and had a fleet of runners to do her bidding. She rarely went out of her way to track down anybody herself.

Betty rolled her eyes at Gwendolyn and turned around. “I had a costume emergency and it seemed quicker if I came here myself. We’re holding up filming, so perhaps it could wait until—”

“Mr. Zanuck has been trying to speak with you all week. He has an audition for you.”

Betty’s mouth fell open, and Gwendolyn didn’t blame her. For two decades, she’d been one of the most famous women in America.

Irma approached Gwendolyn’s workbench. “MGM has announced its first foray into television with a half-hour show called The MGM Parade. So now Mr. Zanuck feels like he’s got to take action.”

“Like what?” Betty’s question sounded like it’d been throttled to within an inch of its life.

“He’s calling it Fox Fanfare,” Irma said. “They need a host and he wants you to report to Stage Nine at two o’clock. And don’t worry, Nunnally is happy to shoot around you until you get back.”

“I guess it’s all set.” Betty forged her most appealing musical-comedy smile, and waited until the swinging doors had stopped swaying behind Irma. “He’s asking me to audition?” she demanded. “For television?”

“Look what it’s done for Loretta Young,” Gwendolyn rejoined.

“After twenty-five years, if that’s the best he can do, I’m better off out of here.”

“And fair enough, I guess,” Gwendolyn said, “but are you really going to let the whole crew—and probably Zanuck himself—wait around until they realize you’re not coming?”

“That would be unprofessional, huh?” Betty toyed with the zipper again as she paced the length of the workbench. “But I can’t bring myself to—I mean, I just can’t. I want to run out the door and keep running.”

“Do you want me to fetch Irma and tell her?”

“Forget it. That woman is faster than the Super Chief. I don’t suppose you could go for me?”

Gwendolyn looked down at the silk with white flowers embroidered onto it. The design wasn’t quite right yet and Charles was waiting on her next sample. She hadn’t encountered Zanuck since the night of the Emmys, which was fine by her. He’d delivered on his promise to Monty and that was enough.

Betty scooped up her costume. “This place is swarming with pretty girls who’d gleefully do backflips if it meant auditioning for a television show, so let them. We can finish Popular tomorrow. I’m o.u.t., out.”

She dashed from the room.

* * *

The set was a den, if designed for a woman’s use: frills around the lampshades and pink throw cushions. Twenty people milled around, adjusting lights and checking lists. Zanuck was conferring with a rotund gent in horn-rimmed glasses, who Gwendolyn took to be the director. She waved down an earnest girl in long braids and a Peter Pan collar, but it attracted Zanuck’s attention. He crossed the set in seven long strides.

“I was with Betty Grable when Irma told her about this audition,” Gwendolyn told him. “She was dreadfully insulted.”

“What? Why?”

“There’s a way to go about asking a star of her stature to audition for television, and sending your secretary wasn’t it.”

He rolled his notes into a baton and slapped his leg with it. “I’m not auditioning her. It’s everybody else: the cameramen, lighting, sound. Nobody here’s done TV. The guys are nervous as hell that we get this right, so I asked them who they wanted in front of the camera so that they’d feel comfortable. Down to the last man, they said, ‘Betty Grable!’ She’s always been so kind to them, they’ve loved working with her. With her contract coming to an end, they figured it’d be the last chance they have.”

“Why didn’t you explain that to her?”

“She’s been avoiding me like I’ve got leprosy. So now I have to send someone to the Popular set?”

“Too late,” Gwendolyn told him. “She was so insulted that she’s flown the coop.”

“JESUS!” He slapped his rolled-up paper against his leg again; this time a loud thwack echoed across the soundstage. Every member of the crew froze. “We’ve only got a couple of hours. The Left Hand of God crew’s gotta start building their hospital set today.” He eyed her, tossing an idea around. “I need you to do me a favor. It’s real easy. Just stand in front of the camera and read the cue cards. That’s all. But you’ll need to do it a bunch of times because like I said, we don’t know what we’re doing.”

Gwendolyn fought back a rising urge to run screaming out the door. “Not on your life.”

“Just smile and say the words. Is that such a big ask?”

She wanted to scream YES! but an explanation meant describing how her calamitous screen test for Scarlett O’Hara had led to becoming the laughing stock of private screening rooms across Hollywood.

He told the crew to stand by for the first take.

It’s a few words on cue cards. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’ll be over.

“I know you requested Betty Grable,” Gwendolyn announced to everyone, “but she couldn’t do it so you’re stuck with me.”

The makeup guy pulled out a pot of tar-black lipstick, and eye shadow almost as dark.

Gwendolyn reared back. “You’re not putting that on me!”

“Television cameras need more light,” he explained, “so there’s greater contrast.”

“I’ll look like a panda bear!”

“Not on the TV monitor, you won’t. Come on, honey, I’ve got five minutes to get this done.”

He went about his work as Gwendolyn read through the lines on the cue cards carried by the girl in braids.

Hello and welcome to Fox Fanfare. Each week we’ll be bringing you one of the many Twentieth Century-Fox motion pictures that you’ve loved so much . . .

When he was finished, he stepped away to assess his work.

“I look like Morticia Addams from those New Yorker cartoons, don’t I?” she asked.

He admitted that she did as the portly gent called for quiet. “Could we get full lights now?”

Light flooded the set; Gwendolyn could barely see the cue cards.

“Everything okay?” Zanuck’s voice came from someplace on her right.

Heat hit her skin like the flames of hell. “We’d better get going before I melt like a cheap candle.”

“Attagirl,” Zanuck chuckled. “You ready?”

Yeah, Gwendolyn thought. Ready to get back to the costume department.