There was a subtle disgust in his eyes, as if he was unsure if what he suspected was true but that the thought in his head made him nauseated and it was my fault for putting it there.
I wanted to slap both of them across their faces and tell them that what I did was none of their business. But I knew I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t safe to do that. I wasn’t safe. We weren’t safe.
Mick hit an instrumental part in the song and started walking toward the very front of the stage, talking to the audience. Reflexively, I stood up and cheered for him. I jumped up and down. I was louder than anyone there. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted to make the two of them stop talking, to each other or to anyone else. I wanted the gossip game of telephone that had started with that woman to end with that man. I wanted it all to be over. I wanted to be doing something else. So I cheered as loudly as I could. I cheered like the teenage girls in the back. I cheered as if my life depended on it, because maybe it did.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Mick said from the stage. He had his hand over his brow, shading the spotlight from his eyes. He was looking right at me. “Or is that my dream woman right there in the front?”
Sub Rosa
November 1, 1961
EVELYN HUGO AND CELIA ST. JAMES SLUMBER PARTIES
How close is too close?
Girl-next-door Celia St. James, with her Oscar win and her trail of hits, has been a longtime friend of honey-blond sexpot Evelyn Hugo. But lately we’re starting to wonder if these two aren’t up to something.
Insiders are saying the two are quite a pair of . . . thespians.
Sure, plenty of girlfriends go shopping together and share a drink or two. But Celia’s car is parked outside Evelyn’s home, the one she used to share with none other than Mr. Don Adler, every night. All night.
So what’s happening behind those walls?
Whatever it is, it certainly doesn’t sound like it’s on the straight and narrow.
I’M GOING OUT ON A date with Mick Riva.”
“Like hell you are.”
When Celia was angry, her chest and her cheeks flushed. This time, they’d grown red faster than I’d ever seen.
We were in the outdoor kitchen of her weekend home in Palm Springs. She was grilling us burgers for dinner.
Ever since the article came out, I’d refused to be seen with her in Los Angeles. The rags didn’t yet know about her place in Palm Springs. So we would spend weekends there together and our weeks in L.A. apart.
Celia went along with the plan like a put-upon spouse, agreeing to whatever I wanted because it was easier than fighting with me. But now, with the suggestion of going on a date, I’d gone too far.
I knew I’d gone too far. That was the point, sort of.
“You need to listen to me,” I said.
“You need to listen to me.” She slammed the lid of the grill shut and gestured to me with a pair of silver tongs. “I’ll go along with any of your little tricks that you want. But I’m not getting on board with either of us dating.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“We have plenty of choices.”
“Not if you want to keep your job. Not if you want to keep this house. Not if you want to keep any of our friends. Not to mention that the police could come after us.”
“You are being paranoid.”
“I’m not, Celia. And that’s what’s scary. But I’m telling you, they know.”
“One article in one tiny paper thinks they know. That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re right. This is still early enough that we can stop it.”
“Or it will go away on its own.”