She meant a reel of excerpts from Yves Montand’s films she’d had sent ’round.
Impatiently, shaking his head, the studio chief said, “Yes, yes… he looks like charming man. But we can’t use him.”
“Why not?”
“He has accent! Turrible foreign accent.”
“I think foreign accents are sexy.”
He coughed. “We talk of this later. You must hurry!”
Guilarof was putting the finishing touches on her stylish pageboy coiffure. “I won’t be late,” she said. “I’ll be early.”
Skouras groaned. “This I believe when pigs grow wings and fly.”
“The longer you stay here,” she responded sweetly, “the longer I’ll be.”
The head of the studio sighed deeply, and — dismissed like a child — turned on his heels and marched out.
Next came the dress — a little black-net number that had been whipped up by Marilyn’s favorite designer, Norman Norell. It was rather transparent in the bosom, leaving little to the imagination, and perhaps too revealing for the occasion… but so what? She had a reputation to live up to, didn’t she? And, besides, how often did a girl from the orphanage get to meet the premier of Russia?
A very cute man from the State Department had contacted her in New York several weeks ago — what was his name… Frank, Jack? — and told her that Nikita Khrushchev wanted to meet her on his first visit to the United States.
Her!
Little Norma Jeane Mortensen, who nobody had ever paid any attention to, shuttled from this foster home to that one. The State Department man… really cute, she wouldn’t mind seeing him again… said Khrushchev had been taken with photographs of her — movie stills from Some Like It Hot — displayed at the American National Exhibition which had opened in Moscow in July.
The premier, on a history-making cross-country tour of America, was scheduled to make a stop in Los Angeles. Studio chief Skouras — who had been Marilyn’s champion since her first contract at Fox, recognizing her special genius (even staying in her corner after she’d fled Hollywood for New York) — had cooked up the idea of throwing a luncheon at the studio for Khrushchev… Russia’s biggest V.I.P. meeting Hollywood royalty. And while Marilyn wouldn’t be the only star in attendance, both she and Skouras damn well knew which star would shine the brightest…
Particularly since Marilyn was the only movie star Nikita Khrushchev had indicated an interest in meeting.
A few minutes later, in the bedroom, May stood by the door at attention, as if waiting for the changing of the guard.
“Time to go,” the secretary said crisply.
They were alone in the white chamber; everyone else had gone… except for Frank, of course, who was singing, “You Are So Beautiful,” the last record on the turntable.
Marilyn raised a champagne glass to her perfectly lip-rouged lips and took a final gulp of Dom Perignon. Then she adjusted her ample breasts in the low-cut dress, snugged the material around her considerable though always admirable posterior, and looked toward May for approval.
“You are lovely,” May said, sounding sincere, even bestowing a small smile. They were words Marilyn never tired of hearing. She felt like a little girl who’d managed to do something right… something good…
On the way through the living room, where stale smoke hung in the air like an acrid curtain and cigarette butts overflowed a coffee table ashtray, Marilyn was startled by another knock at the door — yet another visitor.
May, in charge of every detail of the morning’s appointments, raised both eyebrows; she was, after all, the portal through which all must pass.
“Now who could that be?” the secretary wondered aloud.
Marilyn shrugged and shook her head, the pageboy bouncing in tribute to Guilarof’s artistry.
May crossed the thick white carpet and cracked open the bungalow door, enough to reveal a tall, slender man in a tailored brown suit and blue striped tie.
“Might I have a word with Marilyn?” he asked politely, his eyes darting past May to the movie star.
“Rupert,” Marilyn exclaimed, surprised and pleased, moving to the doorway to greet the man. “How the hell are you?” To her secretary, she said, “It’s all right, May. This is Rupert Allen… Rupert is… was… my Hollywood publicist.”
Suddenly, the awkwardness of it was unavoidable, and her surprise and pleasure turned to embarrassment. Since the move to New York, she’d had no contact with Rupert; their relationship had never been officially severed, but…
And now here he was, big as life, the man responsible for her first Look magazine cover, the real start of her rise to stardom. At age forty-six Rupert was, in the opinion of many, still the best press agent in Hollywood, and certainly among the most respected, with clients of such Tinsel Town renown as Bette Davis, Gregory Peck, Natalie Wood… and until recently, Marilyn Monroe.
There had been no falling out between them, just a… a sort of falling away. In New York, Marilyn had begun using a Manhattan P.R. agent, Patricia Newcomb. To May, Rupert was a stranger; to Marilyn, he was family.
May stepped aside to let the gentleman in; however, she gave him a gesture with a scolding forefinger. “Only a minute or two,” she warned, “or Marilyn will be late to the luncheon.”
“May,” Marilyn said, “go ahead and wait in the limousine, would you?”
The secretary frowned at this suggestion, but did not argue, slipping out of the bungalow, leaving the two old friends alone.
“Do you mind if we sit?” Rupert asked, nodding to the white couch next to a beige stone fireplace.
“So formal?” Marilyn asked.
“I admit to feeling… a little awkward.”
She sighed. “Good. We have that in common. But it’s wonderful to see you, Rupe—”
“Please. Sit.”
Marilyn complied, perceiving a problem, but she couldn’t imagine what.
He settled into a sofa chair opposite the couch where she sat. His smile was strained as he said, “I understand you’re meeting with Chairman Khrushchev today.”
She beamed at him. “Yes… Isn’t that wonderful? Can you imagine better publicity?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Rupe…”
“I don’t think you should go.”
Her smiled dropped. She couldn’t believe she was hearing these words from the lips of such a renowned P.R. agent. Meeting Khrushchev, one of the most powerful men in the world, would be the ultimate publicity coup, an event covered worldwide in the press, from Life to Pravda.
And this publicity was coming at a time when she most needed it, when she was getting back into the Hollywood swing, after having exiled herself to what many considered the pretentious New York artiness of the Actors’ Studio.
Amazed, she sat forward, eyes tensed, and — not confrontational, knowing Rupert always had his reasons — asked, “Not see Khrushchev… but why?”
His eyes were kind; his voice was harsh. “Because, Marilyn, you’re going to be used.”
“No one uses me unless I want them to!”
He smiled, just a little. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
A bit of hurt, a tinge of defensiveness, crept into her voice. “Who’s going to use me, then?”
“The government,” the press agent said. “Or the CIA or State Department or somebody else who wants to get that chubby Russian S.O.B. into a compromising position.”
Relieved, Marilyn waved that off with a laugh. “Oh, Rupe! I’m just going to meet the man. We’re not going to bed or anything. I mean, you’ve seen him, right? He looks like Marjorie Main in drag!”
The publicist didn’t smile.