It was fascinating stuff, as well as frustrating, but it was fun. And it all took time.
Shortly before I left for a lunch with Ed Victor, I wrote a note to her accepting the blame for the delay. It wasn’t entirely accurate or wholly truthful, but it would pass as an apology, and maybe she would see the need to increase the pace rather than just bitch about it.
Dear Ava,
I understand your frustration and disappointment at our progress on the book. You are right to be angry and I am wrong not to have explained the reason for the delay before. Since your material is so rich and wonderful, and we want to secure a deal as quickly as possible, a couple of weeks ago I decided to try to eliminate the first draft and go straight for the jugular! Unfortunately this approach, which I thought would speed things up, has not only slowed me down, but also failed to convey the sense of immediacy, the spontaneity and bite of our late-night conversations, when you are at your best. I shall now return to our original routine of letting you see a chapter for your thoughts before I begin a final polish. I hope this will put us back on track—as well as taking us closer to the book we both want.
Hope you had a better night.
PS: I’m enclosing the draft of the chapter continuing the breakup of your marriage to Mickey. I hope you agree it really moves the story forward apace. I look forward to your comments. PE.
Despite the stress our marriage was under, Mick and I continued to go out practically every night. If we decided to have an evening at home, the house became mysteriously filled with strangers—his press people and yes-men, the hangers-on, in fact, Mickey’s usual entourage. I saw through those people. I saw through Hollywood. A naive, little country girl that I was, I saw through the phoniness, and all the crap.
No wonder, when I think of that marriage now, I think of nightclubs: the Palladium, Ciro’s; the Cocoanut Grove, where we danced to Tommy Dorsey’s band. My God, those names bring back memories. The Cocoanut Grove was my favorite club, even though Mick often abandoned me while he sat in on drums with the Dorsey band. The music was great, and Mickey was a terrific drummer, but left alone at the table for hours on end I felt like a B girl, as we called the hookers who worked the bars in those days.
Guys didn’t trouble me much, most of them knew I was Mickey’s wife, but that’s where I learned to drink, I mean to drink seriously—not just the Beachcomber’s zombies, although they were damn lethal, too, but real grown-up girls’ drinks. All the clubs were hot on underage drinking but Mick would slip me dry martinis in coffee cups. The furtiveness of it gave the whole thing a kind of Prohibition glamour. I loved it. Sipping a dry martini out of a coffee cup seemed as glamorous as hell to me. It made me feel sophisticated but I was just another starlet, a kid seeking approval.
That doesn’t mean I let Mick off the hook. I brought up his cheating all the time. I couldn’t help myself. We fought constantly. “I’ve had it with you, you little shit,” I’d scream at him. He’d look all hurt and innocent—a real Andy Hardy look. Boy, he was some actor. He’d say that no one could love me more than he did. No one could be more faithful than he was. How could I ever doubt him? My allegations were ridiculous, he insisted. Not once did he admit to two-timing me. Neither did he ever say he was sorry.
I might still have settled for an apology and a promise not to cheat on me again. Even an empty promise would have been better than his lies. I wasn’t stupid and I resented him treating me as if I was. His lies were a kind of sadism toward me, as if I didn’t matter.
Nevertheless, when he was feeling flush, or had made a big score at the track, he would try to placate me with nice pieces of jewelry. I remember a beautiful pair of diamond drop earrings. But quite a few of those peace offerings had to go back when the bookies came knocking, and those that stuck didn’t stay around for long either. Jesus, I was careless with my good pieces in those days.
Anyway, in spite of the humiliation of knowing Mickey was cheating on me, I still wanted him to want me. I wanted him to want me all the time. I was just pissed off with his screwing around. In the end, I started throwing in a few curves of my own.
For instance, after we’d made love—and we never stopped doing that, we never got bored with each other in bed, that’s for sure—I’d say things to him that I knew would hurt him. I’d taunt him about his height. I’d tell him I was tired of living with a midget. I’d say I’d kill him if he knocked me up. That was cruel, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
I know that it hurt him because he told other people what I’d said. He told Peter Lawford, for instance, who repeated it to me. It was always a mistake to tell Peter Lawford anything. I liked him but he was a terrible gossip. He said that Mick was in tears when he told him how I ridiculed him about his height.
I didn’t care. I was pleased I’d hurt him. His unfaithfulness was tearing me apart. I had visions of him having sex with other women. I’d go into towering rages trying to figure out who they were. I’d go through all his leading ladies: Gloria DeHaven, Ann Rutherford, Judy [Garland], of course Lana [Turner]. I was pretty certain he’d had Lana. I was out of my mind with jealousy. Wasn’t I beautiful enough for him? Wasn’t I sexy enough? What were the others doing that I wasn’t doing—or was doing wrong? I was nineteen! I was always willing to learn, for God’s sake.
He told Peter Lawford how demanding I was in the feathers. How I would say to him, “Let’s fuck, Mick! Now!” I don’t know whether I ever said that. I’m not denying I said it. The gist of it was true. I was insatiable at that age. I just didn’t like the idea of him bragging to his mates—to another actor, fahcrissake—about what went on in our bedroom.
Lawford was a new contract player at the studio, a good-looking English kid, about my age. He was as ambitious as hell. He looked like a guy who did hand stands on the beach, which wasn’t my type at all. He worshiped Mickey. He’d made two movies with him, A Yank at Eton and Lord Jeff, and was always hanging around. He often sat with me at the Grove, keeping me amused, when Mick was sitting in with the Dorsey band. He was there the night I finally made up my mind to leave Mick.
Mickey had been drinking throughout the evening and was as high as I’d seen him. I don’t remember how many of us were there. The usual crowd, six or eight of us, I guess. Peter Lawford; Sid Miller, the songwriter—he and Mickey were close. A whole bunch of his regular sidekicks were there. Mick was showing off, the center of attention as usual. I was just sitting there looking beautiful as usual. We’d had a big argument over something before we came out, and he was completely ignoring me.
I knew that he’d been spoiling for a fight all evening. Finally, he took out this little book full of girls’ numbers. Too drunk to give a damn, and the guys egging him on, he started reading off their names and saying what they were good at in bed—in front of me!
That was it! I left. I tried to make a dignified exit. I don’t know how many coffee cups of martinis I’d had but I couldn’t have been too steady on my feet. Fortunately, Peter Lawford was keeping an eye on me. He followed me out. He told me later he was terrified that I was going to fall ass over tip down the staircase that led to the Ambassador lobby. He said he thought I was going to break my neck.