All That Glitters (67 page)

“Come on,” I protested, and she shot me an angry look.

“I can take any perversion, darling, but the picture of two diesels riding a boomerang simply starches my collar. Vi only invited them because they got a Tony. How, I’ll never know. Oh, darling, did I tell you I’m a legend?” she went on, veering sharply from her former topic. I told her I’d seen the magazine ad, and I saw that she was gratified.

Meanwhile, the party was rearranging itself. The uniformed help were setting up TV tables and I clutched at the opportunity to relocate my seat. Excusing myself, I went to the bathroom, but when I came out Claire crooked a finger at me, indicating the empty chair now set close beside hers.

“This one’s for you, darling, come sit.”

“Maybe…” I glanced toward the ladies.

“Don’t you dare!” she muttered, reaching to pull me into the chair and resetting the folding table as though to trap me. “Now I have you, my handsome friend, I want to tell you what
I’m
up to.” Here it comes, I thought, and gave Viola a grim look. Claire launched her rocket. “Charles,
I’m
writing,
too.
What do you think of that?”

I said I thought that was fine.

“Claire’s starting her memoirs,” said Vi, fortuitously appearing at my side. “She’s got six chapters.”

“Seven, but who’s counting?” Claire said with a laugh meant to amuse as well as to demean her paltry efforts. “Writing’s
hard
, or maybe you hadn’t heard, Vi, dear.”

“Don’t I know it, dear. Pity Tolstoy.”

“Art’s hard,” I ventured, my favorite solecism.

“Ain’t
that
the truth!” exclaimed Claire, clutching my arm as if she intended detaching it from my person. “Oh, to be an
artist
, not just a—a hack.”

I thought that was slicing the ham pretty close to the bone and looked to Vi for help but, miserable bitch, she only encouraged Claire.

“I’m ga-ga for good art,” Claire said. “I absolutely
haunt
the galleries and museums. I can’t seem to get enough.”

The lady-producers were heard to titter—lasciviously, it seemed to me.

“Good for you,” I said, sliding a sharp look to Vi before asking, “Who are your favorites, Claire?” I saw those great eyes widen, and as she swallowed I could tell that she was thinking frantically. “Well-l—let’s see—I—um—I
adore
the one with all the dots….”

So much for Seurat.

Despite Viola’s intimations that Claire wasn’t well, I thought she looked quite well, blooming, in fact. She had always been a Rembrandt with her face brushes; tonight she looked as airbrushed as her fur advertisement. Certainly she didn’t look her years—which were how many? Seventy? Seventy-three? -five? I remembered Dore once having said that the only way to find out Claire’s age was to saw her in half and count the rings.

“Showtime, everyone!” Vi snatched up the remote control and hastily turned on the TV set. Demanding to have her glass refilled again, Claire received it and semi-subsided. Everyone was quickly in place, digging into twelve-inch plates heaped with food from the buffet, while out in California the show began.

This year’s celebration was to be no worse than that of other years, but, alas, no better, either. Naturally the big item of the evening was whether or not Belinda would cop the Oscar, and it was easy to tell how the people seated around me felt. It was Belinda all the way. Claire had adopted a condescending attitude, declaring, “When a woman reaches Belinda’s age I think she deserves to be honored. But she’ll have to be satisfied with the nomination, they’ll never give her the statue.”

In panning the audience, the camera had caught a closeup of her in her seat. This sight threw Claire’s switch and she really started in. “Wouldn’t you think she’d do something different with her hair? She’s been wearing it like that since World War Two.”

“Back when you played her mother, you mean?” one of the lady-producers muttered.

“I heard that, just in case you think I didn’t.” Glaring at the woman, Claire went on to criticize Belinda’s gown, which I’d already seen firsthand and knew hardly bore criticism. Finally Vi sidled up again and did her best to get Claire to put a cork in it.

The next two hours were an excruciating form of torture. It was as if nothing in God’s world could keep Claire from bursting out with the most tasteless and idiotic remarks. “
Sor-ree
,” she’d say when someone shushed her, grimacing at her own forgetful-ness, but then out would pop another crack. Plates were cleared during the commercials, coffee and dessert appeared, and with them after-dinner drinks. I stared as Claire put away a brandy stinger as if it were sarsaparilla.

It seemed as if three days had elapsed by the time the male presenter for the Best Actress category asked for the envelope. You could almost feel the waves of suspense and emotion as he fumbled with the flap and then took his time in announcing the name. When it came, the auditorium burst into a spontaneous, rousing cheer. Belinda had won!

This was no round of polite applause, but a heartfelt tribute to the survivor of them all. I saw her blonde head bobbing as she hurried down the aisle, and the way she lifted the skirt of her gown as she went up the stairs was regal in the realest sense. Breathless, smiling, waiting for the applause to die, she clutched the Oscar in one hand and spoke in a voice filled with emotion. When she began the traditional litany of thanks, Claire angled her head and made mock-snoring noises.

“
Claire
!”

“Oh, all right, I’ll shut up. I won’t say another word, not one more syllable. My lips are sealed.” She pantomimed locking her lips and throwing the key away.

Belinda looked marvelous, really radiant and youthful. Hollywood loves nothing more than a tribute to a beloved star, and their tumultuous reception touched her deeply, you could see it. When she’d made a few generous remarks, she lowered her head for a moment, then looked up again.

“I especially want to thank a gentleman who unfortunately is unable to be with us tonight. Who is there here who doesn’t know the name Frank Adonis?” A wave of applause greeted this, and I had a lump in my throat. “This Oscar I hold in my hand is really for Frank. He’s the man to whom I owe so much—to whom so many of us owe so much.” She began reeling off the names he’d brought to stardom: Babe Austrian, Kit Carson, Julie Figueroa, April Rains, all of those whose lives Frank had touched; all but Claire’s name. At Viola’s, a hush fell on the room, and from where I sat I could see people stealing glances at Claire, who sat with her glass frozen in mid-air, her face a mask.

Belinda started away from the podium, but at the last instant she turned and leaned to the microphone again. “I just realized I’ve been remiss in leaving out one name, the name of a terribly important star—another of Frank’s discoveries, the greatest star of all, of course you all know who I mean—Miss Claire Regrett.”

Claire’s was one name no one ever expected to hear from Belinda’s lips. I glanced at Claire, staring open-mouthed at the TV screen.

Belinda went on: “As you all know, Claire has left us—and Hollywood—abandoned us for the glitter of New York, where she lives high up in the sky—the way a real star should. I’m sorry to hear she’s been a bit ill recently, and, Claire, if you’re watching back there, everyone here wishes you good health and happiness.” She ended by thanking all the “friends of Bill,” then went offstage to more applause.

Astounded by the unexpected tribute, a teary Claire had to borrow my handkerchief, carefully maneuvering her head while she dabbed gingerly around her eye makeup. “What the hell does she think she’s doing anyway?” she growled as she handed back my handkerchief. “Telling the whole damn world I’m sick. I’m
not
sick! Where does she get off saying something like that on network television? I’ll never get another job, not if they all think I’m back here croaking.”

“She ought to be grateful,” I heard the butch lady-producer mutter. “It’s free publicity, isn’t it? Something she doesn’t get too much of these days.”

At the opposite end of the room, Vi lent an avid ear, but failed to catch any exchange as Claire asked, “Do you think Belinda really meant what she said?”

“I’m sure she did,” I replied.

“But you know she hates my guts,” she protested, blowing her nose.

“Damn it, Claire, if she did, would she have said anything?”

Her brow furrowed as she considered, and I made a move to the bathroom. When I came out, I found Vi waiting to pounce: “Wasn’t it marvelous? Can you imagine? What did Claire think? I’m fascinated. Tell all, dear.” I recapped the dinner hour, while Vi hung wide-eyed on every word.

When the program ended, I decided to make a hasty retreat, but Vi slipped an arm through mine to ask, if it wasn’t too much trouble, would I be good enough to drop Claire off?

“
Would
you, darling?” Claire gushed at me. “How sweet that would be of you. What a
wonderful
evening it’s been, hasn’t it?” She claimed my arm and gave me an intimate squeeze. Then she circled the room, shaking hands with each guest, her euphoric mood stretching as far as the team of lady-producers, for each of whom she managed a friendly word and compliment. I could see that she was a bit wobbly on her feet; the evening had been a long one and she’d made free with the champagne and the after-supper stingers.

Hence I found myself with a jolly companion on our way across the park, while the taxi meter seemed to jump every half block. She was waxing sentimental all over the place, doing a big number on Manhattan and how much living there had changed her. All that art and culture. Yes, I thought, I know; the ones with the dots.

While we wound along the park drive, she fell silent, and, glancing at her, I saw her head turned away, staring out the window as the trees flashed by. We came out through the Seventy-second Street exit and pulled up at her apartment building, the San Remo, one of the noblest on Central Park West, the one with the two tall lighted towers, and no sooner had the doorman opened the door—she sort of tumbled out of the cab—than she discovered to her horror that she’d lost both her earrings.

“Were you wearing earrings?” I questioned, not recalling them.

“Good God, don’t you think a woman knows if she’s wearing earrings or not?”

A search failed to turn them up and I felt obliged to volunteer to cab it back and look for them at Viola’s.

“Oh,
would
you, dear? What a darling you are! And call me in the morning, won’t you, to let me know? I’m for beddie-byes, I’m simply done in.” I walked her to the elevator and as it arrived she threw her arms around me and kissed me on the mouth. Definitely
not
an MGM kiss, but with lips full open and the tongue at work. She hung on, clutching me, as if she’d be happy to stand there for hours, smooching away like Corliss Archer. I extricated myself, saying I’d better get back to VPs before she went to bed.

“And, Charles, dear, don’t forget your promise, will you?”

“What promise is that?” I asked as she stepped back into the elevator car.

“Why, to help me with my autobiography.” She kissed her fingers to me as the doors began to close. “Bless you, darling.”

If Viola had retired I’d damn well wake her up.

“Earrings? What’s she talking about?” Vi demanded testily at my ring from downstairs. “She wasn’t wearing any earrings.”

Saved by the bell.

“Vi, you’d better put the lady straight on one thing. I ain’t ghosting her autobiography, no way. Where’d she get the idea I would?”

“Ohh… you know how she is, dear.”

No, I didn’t know, I countered, and would frankly rather not know, if it was all the same to her. Ten minutes later, when I let myself into my apartment, the phone was ringing. Somehow I had the idea it had been ringing for some time, and a little birdie even told me who it was.

“Hello, Claire.”

“Darling, you’ll never guess—I found them!”

I didn’t ask where but she told me anyway.

“In the bathtub, isn’t that the limit? Don’t ask me how. They’re insured, but I’d have hated to lose them, they belonged to the Queen of Sweden. Anyway, thanks for dumping me off. I hope it wasn’t any trouble. And I adored seeing you again. Now. When can we get together?”

The first part had been all smarmy and laugh-laden; the last sentence was pure cast iron, right down to the nitty-gritty.

“Well, I’m not sure—I’ll have to check my schedule,” I responded warily.

“
Oh
.”

That “oh.” I knew the next line in advance. “Very well. If that’s the way you feel. I’ll just have to get someone else, I suppose.” My ear chilled; the frost was on the pumpkin again.

“It really might be best at that,” I said, not believing it could be this easy, then adding, “There are plenty of writers around who specialize in that kind of thing.”

“You don’t have to hit me over the head, you know. I can certainly see that
you’re
not interested.” Her voice actually broke with her poor little Claire sob. “It’s just that—I felt—since you’re such a good,
good
writer, you’d have a deeper appreciation of the material—having known the milieu yourself, if you get what I mean.”

Did I ever.

“My legacy—to my lifelong profession,” she went on in that crystal-clear voice, all choked up to hell and gone. “For the record—tell the truth for once—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And I just thought you and I had a—sort of—special rapport, going as far back as we do. I guess you really don’t like me after all—I always thought you did.”

“Sure I do. But—”

“No, you don’t, either,” she pouted like a child. “You never even sent me a Christmas card, not once.” Now she was really into her Poor Little Match Girl number. “Every year I’d hope to find one—I literally get thousands of cards every year, but I’d look and look and there’d never be one from you and it always made me so sad to think you’d forgotten me.”

“I don’t send cards, Claire. I don’t even send my mother—”

“No, no, it’s all right. I understand, I really do. You don’t have to explain. Remember Noel Coward—‘Never complain, never explain.’ Just forget the whole thing. It was only an idea—Vi’s idea, actually. She said it was the book you were born to write. But we won’t speak of it anymore. It’s best we don’t. Thank you and g-good night.”