CHAPTER 31

 

 

Gwendolyn drove up the main gate of the Fox lot and waved to the security guard.

“Got a message for you, Miss Brick.” He passed a slip of paper through her window. “Marked URGENT.” She thanked him and headed toward the executive tower.

Her “Assistant in Charge of Special Projects” title sounded grand, and her increased salary was helping to shrink the hefty sum she owed the bank, but Zanuck’s idea of a special project was somewhat elastic. Mostly it was organizing outfits for stars like June Allyson, Lauren Bacall, and Arlene Dahl to wear at premieres, or shepherding visiting VIPs around the lot.

Sometimes he called on her to drive a top-secret script to the home of an actor or agent so they could read it while she waited. During the filming of Désirée, Zanuck had ordered Gwendolyn to look after Merle Oberon after she’d dozed off under a sunlamp, forcing her director to redesign her close-ups until the sunburn healed.

When Zanuck had nothing for her, she helped Billy Travilla or Charles LeMaire, or the woman who now did Loretta Young’s wardrobe, which gave her a chance to catch up with Judy, who was still drifting around the studio.

What made today’s directive different was Zanuck’s own scrawl. That was a first.

She exited the elevator, flicking the message across the tops of her fingernails. When Zanuck’s secretary, Irma, spotted her, she motioned for Gwendolyn to go right in.

The first rule of seeing Zanuck inside his domain was: Don’t sit down unless specifically invited. She stood on the lush carpet, breathing lightly, until he was ready to address her.

Behind him stood mockups of forthcoming posters for There’s No Business Like Show Business, Prince of Players, and The Racers. The last movie wouldn’t be coming out until well into 1955, but it starred Bella Darvi, who was about to jet off to Rome for the opening of The Egyptian.

Whenever she saw Bella’s name, Gwendolyn thought of Marcus. As the autumn leaves began to fall across Los Angeles, his letters had subsided to a trickle.

“So,” Zanuck closed a script with a sharp slap, “today’s the day.” He turned around to see what had caught Gwendolyn’s attention. “You don’t like the poster?”

Gwendolyn presented what she called her “Zanuck smile”: bland, sweet, detached. “Today is what day?”

“What were you thinking just now?”

“Bella’s all set for her trip to Europe.”

“Great job on managing her wardrobe. She’s going to make the biggest splash Rome has seen since Cleopatra.”

“Are you sending her there by herself?”

“If you’re angling for a free trip, forget it.”

“I was thinking about my friend Marcus Adler,” Gwendolyn replied. “He knows the lay of the land pretty well.”

Zanuck frowned. “Adler’s still there?”

“He could escort Bella around town. Look out for her. Look after her.”

Zanuck nodded thoughtfully, tapping his blue pencil on the Carousel script in front of him. “That’s a good idea. Set it up as soon as you can.”

“Will do.” Gwendolyn waved the note. “You sent for me?”

“Today’s the day Gable starts work on Soldier of Fortune.”

“That’s quite a coup,” Gwendolyn said. It was the sort of ego-stroking she’d learned men—even astute ones like Zanuck—found irresistible. “Dory Schary must be steaming mad.”

He emerged from his vast desk and planted his butt on the edge.

“Back in 1947 when we out-grossed MGM for the first time, Mayer gave me such a pile of shit about it being a blip on the radar, and that they would be back on top. I vowed I’d do whatever it took to steal the King of Hollywood from them. I knew I had to play the long game. I had my strategies and I put them in place like a trail of candy, luring him onto the Fox lot. And here we are.”

“Edward Dmytryk, too,” Gwendolyn said. The director of Soldier of Fortune was one of the Hollywood Ten, but he had rehabilitated his career by testifying to HUAC. So this movie was also Zanuck’s “Screw you!” to the blacklist, which was another reason why Gwendolyn had brought up Marcus’s name. “It’s a big day.”

“I’m gathering together a welcome party to make a fuss when he arrives. You know, the usual movie star ego stuff.”

“I don’t know that Gable’s the sort who responds to—”

“I want you to be a sheepdog.”

“Excuse me?”

“Discreetly, of course. There’s going to be at least twenty people there, so I need someone to herd them together. Not too close, but not too spread out, either.”

“Okay.” Gwendolyn wasn’t sure if she had any herding skills.

“But before that whole circus starts, I wanted to talk about Marilyn.”

This is why I’ve really been summoned.

“If I can get the King and Queen of Hollywood together in the same picture, the marquee value alone would be worth a couple of million in box office. I had to give him co-star approval, so I want you to convince him to replace Susan Hayward with Marilyn.”

“But they start in about an hour.”

“The public only cares about the finished product. A week or so to get Marilyn up to speed is nothing in the long run.”

Gwendolyn went to ask him if that was a wise move considering Gable was in his fifties and Marilyn was only twenty-eight. But she kept her trap shut when she realized the age gap was roughly the same between Zanuck and Darvi.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, boss, but Marilyn has hightailed it to New York and she’s not likely to return any time soon.”

“New York? What the hell’s she doing there? Jesus Christ, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I assumed—”

“Your job isn’t to assume. It’s to apprise me of any major decisions Marilyn makes that might affect my shooting schedule.”

“Including pictures she isn’t cast in?”

“INCLUDING EVERYTHING!” He walloped the top of his desk. “You should have kept a shorter leash on her.”

“She’s a grown woman, not a Chihuahua.” Gwendolyn could feel the thin ice cracking below her feet but she didn’t care. I’ll find some other way to repay the bank. “Besides, it’s your own fault.”

“What is?”

She plunked her handbag onto his desk. “Aren’t you the one who suggested DiMaggio use Barney Ruditsky to trail Marilyn?”

His smile was part surprise, part impressed, part arrogance.

“I suggested it to Sinatra.”

“Well, it worked out peachy-keen, didn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“The night of the fifth? At Sheila Stewart’s apartment?”

Blank face.

Gwendolyn laid out for him the events of the previous week. “So you see,” she finished up, “you’re going to have to work hard to get her back to Hollywood.”

He rubbed his hand along the rigid line of his jaw. “Who else knows about this?”

You mean apart from Kathryn Massey, Walter Winchell, and probably Robert Harrison by now? “It was just us three girls in the apartment, and poor old Florence downstairs. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.”

“Shit! SHIT!” Zanuck returned to his side of the desk. “Why is this business so hard?”

“You’d prefer to run a paintbrush factory?” Gwendolyn asked.

“THAT’S NOT FUNNY!” Zanuck exploded. “Everyone thinks it’s easy massaging egos, juggling schedules, begging for bank loans, staying up all night to fix a story only to be told the next morning that your leading lady doesn’t like it because the rain storm is going to muss her hair.”

Gwendolyn heard a piercing crack in the ice beneath her. “I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to—”

“I brought you in as a special assistant. I never said, nor did I imply, that the job came with the privilege of telling me I’ve fucked up.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And quit calling me that. I want to hear ‘sir’ or ‘Mister Zanuck.’”

“Yes, sir.”

He started straightening piles of papers that didn’t need tidying. “As far as Soldier of Fortune goes, I’m assigning you to keep Gable happy during the shoot.”

The almost imperceptible way he hesitated before the word “happy” set Gwendolyn on edge. “What do you mean, ‘keep him happy’?”

“Whatever he needs, take care of it.”

That pause. Whatever he . . . needs. “Could you be more specific?”

“I had to move heaven and earth to get Gable here, and I want to ensure he’s glad that he signed on with us. You’re a woman—you know what it takes to keep a man satisfied.”

Zanuck’s office door swung open and Edward Dmytryk walked in with the studio’s head of P.R., along with a pair of flunkies and a photographer. Gwendolyn slipped on a bland smile and retreated to a wall while Zanuck greeted them with a round of handshakes. They were going over the morning’s plan when Hedda Hopper arrived.

Unlike Louella Parsons, who was now well into her seventies, strongly conservative Hedda was hitting her stride amid the post-war, post-HUAC, post-McCarthy, mid-Eisenhower era. Consequently, Zanuck couldn’t afford to piss her off. He reassured her that it was wonderful to see her, and that her inclusion in “our little welcome wagon” delighted him.

Although Hedda had contributed to the demise of her store, Gwendolyn wasn’t sure Hedda knew what she looked like. In case she did, Gwendolyn tried to fade into the background, mulling over Zanuck’s last statement.

You know what it takes to keep a man satisfied.

She wanted to think that Zanuck meant Make his coffee how he likes it and ensure a supply of his favorite cigarettes is always on hand, but those words—“keep a man satisfied.” It was hard not to interpret them any way but horizontally.

* * *

Zanuck’s eighteen-member cheer squad applauded when Gable walked onto the Chinese restaurant set.

Zanuck grasped Gable’s hand. “Welcome! Welcome!” He sounded like a circus ringmaster playing to a crowd of thousands. “We’re so pleased to have you here on what I know will be a thrilling picture. Let me introduce you around.” He presented his prize pig to Dmytryk and Hedda and the principal actors: Susan Hayward, Michael Rennie, Gene Barry, Anna Sten.

Gable had arrived on his own: no agent or assistant, publicity person, manager, or hangers-on. If he was anxious about making his first picture since escaping MGM, Gwendolyn saw no signs of it. He exuded all the charm and self-confidence that had made him a major screen star for the past quarter-century.

“And finally,” Zanuck said, “this is Gwendolyn Brick. You know each other, I believe.”

Gable smiled. “We do.” He gave a slight bow. “Nice to see you.”

“Gwendolyn is the girl I mentioned,” Zanuck said.

“She is?”

“If you need anything, Gwendolyn is your point man—er, point girl, as the case may be.”

Gable continued to stare at Gwendolyn, more than a little disconcerted, as Zanuck turned back to the gathering. “It’s time I left things in Ed’s capable hands. I wish you all well!”

He swept out of the soundstage like an emperor.

Gwendolyn ran after him. “What am I supposed to do? Hang around in there?”

“Yes,” he barked. “You’re to do exactly that.”

* * *

Gwendolyn took a seat at one of the tables on the Chinese restaurant set and tried to look interested as Dmytryk led his cast through their first table-read of the script.

If she’d known she was going to be sitting around for hours on end, she could have brought along a sewing project, or written a letter to Marcus, or finished the new Edna Ferber book, Giant.

But no.

She was a well-paid piece of objet d’art waiting until somebody wanted something that she wasn’t sure she was willing to give.

Surely he didn’t promise Clark that he could just . . . After all, their womanizer reputations aren’t unwarranted. But I’m forty-four years old, for goodness sake. If Zanuck was going to offer up the services of a companion, surely he’d have enlisted any one of the kewpies under contract.

Gwendolyn tried to put questions she couldn’t answer out of her mind and focused instead on watching the cast work through each page, stopping to clarify a motivation or polish a line. The tactic worked for short intervals but her thoughts kept straying.

Clark’s first wife had been seventeen years older than him, and so was his second. Lombard had been younger, but Sylvia Ashley, whom Gable had divorced a couple of years ago, was five or six years older than Gwendolyn.

When the company broke for lunch, Clark wandered away from the table. Gwendolyn expected Dmytryk would corral him, but his cinematographer waylaid him. Gwendolyn marched up to Clark as he was putting on the jacket of his impeccable gabardine three-piece suit. “I imagine you’re hungry?”

Those famous Gable dimples dented his face as he grinned. “Famished.”

“The commissary makes out like it’s French, but it’s more like American-French. Let me take you there.”

He lifted his hand in the direction of a cabin standing in a corner of the soundstage. It was painted an unobtrusive dark blue; Gwendolyn hadn’t even noticed it. “I ordered lunch for two to be served in my dressing room.”

A combined living room/dining room made up nearly half the space. The other half contained a bathroom and makeup table, and beyond that a bedroom with a double bed. A pair of large paintings of Half-Dome at Yosemite and Old Faithful at Yellowstone filled the back wall.

“Cozy,” Gwendolyn commented.

“It was Zanuck’s idea,” Clark said, “but I chose the décor.”

She ran her finger down the wall that separated the living room from the bedroom. “What color do you call this paint?”

“Californian Avocado. I find it calming. If Zanuck’s going to the trouble to build me a whole bungalow, I figured I might as well get what I want.”

The dining table was set for two: Caesar salad, cold meats, cottage cheese, and sliced tomatoes.

Clark pulled out a chair for Gwendolyn. “You have the whole menu to choose from,” she said. “Nothing hot?”

“Not during the daytime. That’s dinner to my way of thinking, but if you’d prefer a hot dish, I could call—”

“Mr. Gable—”

“When it’s just us, the name is Clark.”

“Clark, it appears that I am the person you call when you want a hot dish.”

A warm blush prickled her face. If a program of pre-war love songs hadn’t been playing on the cathedral radio set in the corner, the silence mushrooming between them would have been unbearable. He broke it first.

“Can we clear the air?”

Gwendolyn clutched her fork like a spear. “I sure hope so.”

“I was told to expect an assistant to attend to my every need, but I didn’t know it would be you. I must say, though, I was pleasantly surprised.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.”

“I’ll always be grateful for how you organized Judy to be at Ciro’s that night. I was able to watch her for hours.”

“I’m glad I could make it happen. I could bring her to the set—”

“No! I’d be self-conscious with her around. And I’m insecure enough working at a new studio.”

“You? Insecure? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Because I’m Clark Gable?”

His withering tone made her realize that the man sitting opposite her could play self-possessed newspapermen, aviators, and big-game hunters better than anybody else in the business, but that didn’t mean he was one himself.

She finished her final bite of Caesar salad and pushed the plate away. “My instructions are to do whatever is necessary to keep you happy. So if there’s anything I can do to alleviate anxiety, let me know.”

The smile that surfaced on Gable’s face was hard to read. Smug without arrogance, relief tinged with expectation.

“Including . . .?” He glanced at the bed in the room behind him, then turned back.

Conflicting emotions avalanched over Gwendolyn, stifling her breath, choking off her voice.

I’m not a hooker. I’m not a chess pawn. I have a choice. I can say no. I can get up and walk out. But Zanuck’ll fire me. And then what? Go out and get a regular job for a quarter of the dough? Spend the next ten years paying off my debt? Or I could go in there. Sure I could. I’m not married. It’s not like I haven’t had casual flings. I’ve been around. But this is different. It feels like business. Will I walk out afterwards feeling like a cheap slut?

Gable finished his salad. He pulled the napkin from his lap and slowly wiped it across his lips.

On the other hand, you’ve got Clark Gable sitting in front of you, offering a tumble in the hay. Thousands—no, millions—of women would have jumped as soon as he said “including.” What the hell are you waiting for? Zanuck’s permission? I don’t think so. This one’s for ME.

Gwendolyn uncrossed her legs and pushed away from the table. “They give us an hour for lunch,” she told him. “We’ve still got forty-eight minutes.”