In a blue t-shirt and chinos, Roberts — as tall as he was muscular, with wide Apache cheekbones and a perpetual smile — began putting away his oils and lotions in a worn leather carrying case, as the nude Marilyn lay stretched out on her stomach on the bed, her translucent, pale skin now pink, glowing, from the vigorous rubdown.
The two had known each other for only a few years, having met in 1956 at the Actor’s Studio in New York, where they’d quickly become good friends. Roberts’s gifts as a masseur kept him working when his acting talents did not, and his easygoing manner and discretion made him one of Marilyn’s closest confidants.
Whenever she called him for a massage — which was often (sometimes in the middle of the night when the Seconal or Demerol or Nembutal pills refused to kick in) — he always took her lead: if she craved silence (as was the case this morning), he was quiet as he worked his magic on her tense muscles. But if she desired some gaiety, his devilish humor could always make her laugh.
Sometimes, after a massage on the set of one of her movies, Roberts would help Marilyn with her lines, giving her the encouragement she always seemed to need, before she faced the camera.
“You did well with that diet,” Roberts said, snapping shut his case.
“You’re sweet,” she murmured. “A liar, but sweet.”
He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed as he said, “No, you have your figure back.”
“Little too much of it.”
“Anyway, you’ll look fine for the shoot. Take it easy on the diet pills.”
Her eyes flickered open, dark blue peering through lashes. “Don’t you get tired of playing Jiminy Cricket?”
“Just be careful, Pinocchio. Chosen your co-star yet?”
She propped herself on an elbow, her breasts cushioned against the mattress, hair tousled. “Leaning toward Yves Montand. He has a one-man show coming up, later this month.”
“Out here?”
She shook her head, tousling the platinum locks even further. “No, New York. Arthur’s taking me. Arthur likes him — Montand played in The Crucible, in Paris.”
“Kind of an unknown quantity, isn’t he? In American movies, I mean.”
She smirked prettily at her confidant. “Don’t you think I can carry a picture by myself? On these little shoulders?”
Roberts gave her half a smile. “Those shoulders are already carrying one of the smartest minds in show business… I imagine they can handle another movie.”
“Are you fishing for a tip, Ralph? Or a role maybe? Maybe you just wanna fuck me.”
He laughed, gave her an affectionate slap on her bare bottom, and went out, shaking his head.
As Roberts was heading out the door, two other members of the Monroe retinue entered: May Reis, Marilyn’s personal secretary, and Agnes Flanagan, the renowned hair colorist.
“Marilyn,” May said softly to her employer, who seemed to be slumbering again, “it’s time… Agnes is here.”
May — fifty-five, a small, trim, oval-faced woman, businesslike in a simple navy suit, her brown hair cut no-nonsense short — had initially been Arthur Miller’s secretary (following a stint with Elia Kazan). But after the playwright and the movie star married, and had moved into their East 57th Street apartment, it quickly became evident that Marilyn was the one who needed May’s help more. Now May handled the daily onslaught of scripts and organized everything in Marilyn’s life, from correspondence to grocery lists.
The nude Marilyn didn’t budge. From his corner, Frankie was singing, “Five Minutes More.”
“Marilyn, dear,” the secretary tried again, “Agnes is here…” Taking Sinatra’s cue, the star pleaded, “Just five more minutes,” words muffled by the pillow in which her face was buried. “All right?”
But after a few moments, when May hadn’t answered, Marilyn moaned and slowly rolled off the bed, wrapping herself mummy-like in the white top sheet, pulling its train along with her as she walked unsteadily toward the bathroom.
“I’ll bring some coffee,” May told her cheerfully, and exited the bedroom, closing the door off from the bungalow’s living room, which had become a holding area for the entourage of specialists that would attend to the movie star on this very important Saturday morning.
In the bathroom, Marilyn plopped down on a white satin chair in front of a long make-up counter and mirror, gathering the sheet around her.
“I want it white, Agnes,” she instructed the sixty-ish fire-plug of a colorist, who had followed her silently in. “White as snow.”
With a tiny smile, Agnes — who had heard these instructions countless times — nodded at Marilyn’s wishes, placing her bag of bottles of peroxide and solutions on the bathroom counter, and set about her work.
“Not just… snow,” Marilyn said, thoughtfully. Then she giggled. “Siberian snow.”
Agnes smiled again. The stout woman knew all about white hair: she had her own, of course; but also she had long ago provided that famous platinum shade for Jean Harlow’s tresses.
As a child, Marilyn — that is, Norma Jeane — had adored Harlow, sometimes sitting through her movies two or three times at a stretch, dreaming of one day becoming just like her. When the dark blonde Norma Jeane decided to give birth to a much blonder Marilyn, she had tracked Agnes down, bringing the woman out of retirement, using the colorist for her own movies and special appointments.
May returned with a hot cup of coffee, just as Frank was helpfully picking up the tempo with, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
Forty minutes later, her hair freshly dyed, shampooed, and towel-turbaned, Marilyn stepped into a warm bubble bath drawn by her secretary. She slipped beneath the foamy surface, the fragrance of an entire bottle of Chanel No. 5 — which had been poured into the running water — rising like a pleasant fog, and permeating her every pore.
Eyes closed, Marilyn soaked dreamily in the warm bath. Minutes, hours, days might have passed; she didn’t care. Time was a concept she had never quite mastered and, anyway, this was her favorite place, far away from the murky second-hand baths she’d had to take in foster homes… and the reason she was always late.
“Marilyn, dear,” May whispered gently. “Whitey is waiting.”
The actress opened her eyes, a process that took perhaps five seconds. May was standing next to the tub, a rather shabby (though clean) white bathrobe in both hands, held out and open, as if to embrace her.
Marilyn frowned. Pouted. Put on her saddest eyes. “Just… a little bit longer… Please, darling?”
Again, May didn’t answer — her expression, though not unkind, as frozen as a cigar store Indian’s.
Marilyn groaned, thinking, Damn! Who pays the bills around here, anyway?
But she kept this thought to herself, and — with a deep and oh-so-world-weary sigh — rose out of the tub, pale fresh pearled with water, Botticelli’s Venus dabbed with bubbles, a well-bathed, perfumed martyr, and stony May helped her into the robe — a souvenir from The Seven Year Itch, now tattered and stained — the terrycloth soaking up the frothy bubbles still clinging to her moist skin.
Soon Allan “Whitey” Snyder — attired in his usual short-sleeved white shirt — was ushered by May into the bathroom sanctuary. Middle-aged, with a long slender nose, receding chin, and the inevitable blond crew cut that had given him his nickname, Whitey had been with Marilyn since the actress’ first screen test at Fox, and together they had invented her “look,” defining and refining, and re-defining it, over the years.
Marilyn took the chair once again in front of the mirror, the white robe — a security blanket that always traveled with her — casually hanging open. The actress was not a showoff, where her beautiful body was concerned — she was comfortable with it… just as she was uncomfortable in clothes.