CHAPTER 23

 

 

The strip of chrome under Gwendolyn’s elbow caught the morning light as Judy Lewis turned off Sunset and onto Doheny. “This is new, isn’t it?” Gwendolyn asked.

“What?”

“Your car.” She ran her hand across the dashboard. “It has that fresh-out-of-the-factory smell.”

Judy smiled, but it was a grim effort.

“A Chevrolet Bel Air, right?” Gwendolyn persisted. “It certainly is a real smooth ride.”

Silence.

“Aqua blue is such a pretty color. I made a gown this shade for Alfred Hitchcock’s wife. She said it reminded her of the sea at Saint Tropez where they used to vacation each summer.”

Judy kept her eyes on the road as it dipped into Beverly Hills. “Uh-huh.”

“You ever been? To Europe, I mean.”

“No.”

The morning peak-hour drive from the Garden of Allah to Twentieth Century-Fox was starting to take longer and longer, but this stony silence made the trip insufferable. If Gwendolyn had known Judy was going to be like this, she wouldn’t have accepted the offer to drive her around until her ankle healed.

The x-ray showed that it wasn’t broken but had sustained a serious sprain, so the doctor ordered Gwendolyn to stay off it for three weeks “regardless of what your boss insists to the contrary.” The orthopedist had assumed he was talking about Darryl Zanuck, but it was Loretta Young whom Gwendolyn had to deal with.

The new season of Loretta’s show called for thirty-five episodes, which meant building thirty-five gowns from scratch. Loretta could have gotten someone else to do them, but she remained loyal to Gwendolyn.

“Of course she is,” Kathryn had told her over pumpkin soup. “She knows class when she sees it.”

Stuck at home, Gwendolyn became dependent on Kathryn, Doris, and Arlene to rotate mealtimes. Doris and Arlene always made their contributions themselves, but Kathryn preferred to stop in at Greenblatt’s or Schwab’s. Considering she was on the precipice of becoming America’s new domestic queen, the irony was lost on neither of them.

“That dramatic entrance through the doors at the top of every episode? I thought it was just a gimmick,” Kathryn had said, “but what a winner it’s turned out to be. Everyone’s tuning in to see what she’ll be wearing when she flings open those doors. And that’s because of you, my dear. Time to ask for a raise.”

Kathryn was probably right, but with a messed-up ankle, Gwendolyn was thankful that Loretta hadn’t pushed her under the bus and hired somebody else. In fact, she had outdone herself: she had conscripted her daughter into ferrying the designs, material swatches, and gowns between the studio and the Garden where Gwendolyn worked with her ankle up.

Consequently, Gwendolyn saw a lot of Judy, who would often linger for a chat or make them a sandwich. She was more relaxed away from her mother’s watchful gaze. She chatted with girlish enthusiasm about the smorgasbord of possibilities that lay ahead for a fun-loving nineteen-year-old.

But today she was a different girl.

“Judy,” Gwendolyn asked, “are you okay?”

“I have something I want to ask you but it’s harder than I thought it would be.” Judy ran a red light, realized what she’d done, and slowed down as the tall, white studio walls came into view. “How long have you known Clark Gable?”

Gwendolyn sorted through the various reasons why the girl would ask this particular question. In all their chats over tuna salad sandwiches or bolts of chiffon, they’d never talked about that night at Ciro’s.

Gwendolyn pressed a hand to her chest. “Do any of us remember a time when we didn’t know him?” The silence in the car evolved from stony to anxious. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s going to be working at the studio soon.”

The last time Gwendolyn had spoken to Clark was when she’d put in her dutiful phone call suggesting he might want to hear what Zanuck had to say. Not long after that, Zanuck had called Kathryn with the scoop that they’d made a two-picture deal and that Soldier of Fortune was due to start filming in November—two months away.

Judy slowed her Chevrolet to a crawl. “Did I ever tell you about the day I got home from school and he was sitting in Mother’s living room?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I walked through the door and there he was! It’s not like I’d never met movie stars before, but this was Clark Gable! Waiting to meet me!” Judy panted as she marshaled the strength to push the words out. “But that night at Ciro’s, I noticed him staring at me. He wasn’t being rude or anything. It was like when you see someone who reminds you of someone else, but you can’t put your finger on who. At one point I waved at him, but he pretended not to see me.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“He saw me, all right. Soon after that, I saw the two of you on the dance floor and—I dunno . . . I thought I’d ask. It’s been playing on my mind but just forget I said anything. Sorry to come across so cranky.”

It sounded to Gwendolyn like Judy was starting to grope around in the dark without the sort of flashlight Gwendolyn could provide.

The studio was coming up on them fast.

“Billy and I have started work on the Soldier of Fortune costumes for Susan Hayward and Anna Sten,” Gwendolyn said, “Billy has also asked me to put together options for Gable and Michael Rennie. You could happen to be around when the guys come in.” She realized she had pushed too hard when Judy hit the brake at the security gate.

The guard leaned out the window. “The big guy’s office called down here. Mr. Z. wants to see you straight away.” He lifted the boom gate and waved them through.

Judy gave a long whistle. “Does he think you’re gonna sue him for getting popped on his lot?” She parked outside the administrative building and pulled out a copy of The Disenchanted. The novel was a biting attack on life in Hollywood—an interesting choice for a nineteen-year old. “I’ll be here until Zanuck’s finished with you, then I’ll run you over to Costuming. Mother’s chomping at the bit to have you back.”

* * *

When Zanuck told her to take a seat, Gwendolyn gave up any ladylike pretense of lowering herself into the visitor chair with poise and dignity. She half-threw herself into it, landing with a soft groan.

“I was sorry to hear what happened to you on No Business.” Deep furrows wrinkled his brow with what appeared to be candid concern.

“Thank you, Mr. Zanuck.”

“I assume your foot or ankle or whatever is okay now?”

“Getting better every day.”

He let out a yelping guffaw as he pulled on a half-smoked cigar. “Man, oh man, but that damned DiMaggio guy can be a hothead, huh? I sure hope he apologized to you.”

Gwendolyn weighed up the pros and cons of pointing out that the only two people she hadn’t heard from during her convalescence were Joe DiMaggio and Darryl Zanuck. Marilyn was the one who’d sent cards and letters and flowers and books and magazines and apologies and regrets. But her ankle was healing nicely and she was keen to get back to work.

“How may I help you, Mr. Zanuck?”

“I’m taking you away from costumes.”

Gwendolyn felt a jolt. “Why would you do that?”

“You’re too valuable to me to waste your time stitching frocks together.”

“I do more than just—”

“I’m creating a new job. You’re going to be a special assistant.”

“A—what?”

“You’ll be doing special projects for me.”

“What kind?”

“As needed.”

Gwendolyn didn’t like the sound of this. No sirree, not one little bit. Zanuck was a man with a well-earned reputation of keeping tabs on every aspect of the movie-making process. “As needed” sounded suspiciously vague. But he said it with such decisive finality that she felt as cornered as she had when he’d recruited her to snoop on Marilyn.

“Why me?” she asked him. “I’m handy with needles and threads, and, I suppose, I have an appealing bedside manner when it comes to handling insecure actresses like Loretta and Marilyn. But that’s about it.”

Zanuck snuffed out the cigar in a square copper ashtray with his initials, DFZ, stenciled in complex, intertwining calligraphy. He fixed her with a look that bordered on wistful.

“You have the darndest habit of popping up like a jack-in-the-box. You stopped me from getting poisoned that night at Chasen’s. You reconnected me with Hilda. And when that nude calendar debacle blew up with Marilyn, there you were, giving her safe harbor. Who stepped in to stop DiMaggio when nobody else was shutting him down that day? And who helped bring Gable to Fox?”

“I’m sure I was one of a whole chorus of crickets chirping in his ear.”

“Being too modest will get you no place in this town.”

“I’m just a gal who’s trying to get along.”

“Of course,” Zanuck continued, “this does mean a pay increase.”

Gwendolyn doubted that Zanuck had any idea of her salary. On the other hand, he was King of All Details.

“It does?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as best she could.

“I’m doubling your pay.”

It meant halving the time it would take to pay off her Chez Gwendolyn bank loan. “That’s very generous.”

“Effective immediately.”

Gwendolyn pictured the mound of half-finished gowns waiting for her in the costuming department. She could only accomplish so much at home with a throbbing ankle hoisted onto pillows. The vision of inchoate outfits vanished, and in its place rose Loretta Young, her face flushed with irritation, demanding to know why she was being left in the lurch.

“When you say ‘immediately,’ you don’t mean today, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Miss Young’s show starts again in a couple of weeks. I haven’t completed any of her entrance gowns.”

“We have a whole costume department.”

“The relationship between a performer and their costumer isn’t about needles and threads. It’s about trust, and support, and—”

“How long do you need?”

“I’ll have to butter her up. Of course, it would’ve helped if you’d cast her in A Woman’s World.”

“June Allyson was a much better fit, but point taken.”

“I’ve got six gowns lined up and with help, I can probably finish one every other day. So, two weeks?”

“Three days.”

“But Mr. Zanuck—”

“That’s all I can give you.” He pushed aside a stack of scripts and dragged across a folder with a bunch of pages jammed inside. “I want to talk to you about a new project. It’s called On the Deck of the Missouri, and I need your help to land the screen rights.”

Gwendolyn’s ankle started to throb. “On the deck of the what?”

“Don’t look at me like that—I know the author is your brother.”

As far as Gwendolyn knew, Monty had called his memoir My Summer in Tokyo Bay. She thought of all the times Monty had visited with her, often first thing in the morning or when he got home at the end of the day. I wish I could say I knew that he’d changed the title.

“Yes, he is.”

“It has the earmarks of a damn fine motion picture, so all the major studios are putting in bids.”

“And you want me to persuade Monty to give you the rights.”

“See? You’re one smart cookie.”

“You don’t need to involve me, Mr. Zanuck. Just offer Monty more money than everyone else.”

The rosy hue of Zanuck’s lips disappeared as he pressed them together. “Your brother’s literary agent is one taciturn bastard.”

You think Monty shares all this with me? If you’re willing to double my salary to get the rights to a book whose name I didn’t even know, the joke’s on you, mister.

A generous offer from a Hollywood studio could set Monty up very nicely should he decide to quit the navy. The last thing Gwendolyn wanted was to inadvertently sabotage the deal. She’d spent more than enough years watching Marcus getting pushed and pulled by the studio system to know what it thought of writers.

“Mr. Zanuck,” she said, “I’ve only seen my brother a handful of times in the last twenty-five years. He’s a military man who plays his cards closer to his chest than your gold tiepin. I doubt my poking around in his business will do either of us much good.”

He opened his mouth but she raised her right hand and showed him her palm.

“Which isn’t to say I won’t try,” she continued. She made an exaggerated movement of looking at her watch. “I’ve been away from the department for three weeks. I’ve fallen behind with Miss Young’s gowns and The Seven Year Itch is coming up. Now that you’ve only given me three days, I’ll need every minute I can get.”

Zanuck pushed his chair away from the desk and rapped a knuckle against his window. “The girl in the convertible down there—is that Judy Lewis?”

“It is.”

“You planning on taking her to the Solider of Fortune set?”

“Already suggested.”

A knowing look passed between them. “And that is why I’m promoting you to special assistant. Now get along, and if Loretta kicks up a stink, tell her to come see me.”

Gwendolyn hauled herself to her feet and made the long trek from Zanuck’s desk to his office door as soundlessly as she could. By the time she got there, he was already in his seat, blue pencil in hand, eyes darting across a new script as though he’d already forgotten she’d been there.