May was patting the air with both hands. “Now, dear… calm yourself… you have a genuine concern, but you’re starting to make a movie out of this.”
“If this were a movie,” the actress said, irritably, “I’d know what to do!”
And if this were a movie, a leading man would enter, and believe her, and solve all her problems.
Marilyn started back in pacing, puffing the cigarette, wobbling in the heels. The shoes hurt her toes, but she didn’t dare kick them off; her feet were swollen and she’d never get the fucking heels back on again.
“It’s so goddamn hot in here,” Marilyn said irritably. “Is the air conditioning working?”
“I think so.”
The actress untied the robe, letting it fall open over her otherwise naked form.
May started to rise from the desk. “I can open some windows…”
“No!” The whole business with the KGB guards in the bathroom had fueled Marilyn’s paranoia. What if they somehow knew she’d been there? What if someone had seen her leave the restroom after the guards had? “Please, May… let’s keep the curtains closed.”
May shrugged and nodded, and returned to the letters.
Marilyn sank down on the couch. “Maybe I should call the White House…” she wondered aloud.
May’s eyes tightened as the woman formed a response — a public figure like Marilyn Monroe calling the White House was no wild fancy, and definitely a possibility… MM might even be put through to Ike himself — but Marilyn discounted the notion herself.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, Guilarof’s pageboy ’do bouncing. “They’d think I’m just a dumb blonde, well-meaning but nuttier than a Baby Ruth.”
“I don’t know…”
“I do. Hell, May — I don’t have any real proof… Just a few Russian words and a… a feeling.”
“Your fleeting ‘feelings’ are worth more than most people’s well-considered thoughts,” May said, sincerely if placatingly.
But Marilyn was not mollified. She looked helplessly over the back of the couch at her secretary. “What if no one believes me?” she asked.
“Why shouldn’t they, dear?”
How could Marilyn explain to this refined, intelligent woman, who could be as naive as she was wise? How could May understand this the way Marilyn did? That you could tell your foster mother how the father of the house was molesting you, and be ignored? Or even vilified?
Then came a sharp gunshot of a knock.
Marilyn jumped up from the sofa and dashed toward the bungalow door; but a spiked heel caught in the hem of her robe, and just as Marilyn opened the door the robe fell from her shoulders, puddling at her feet, leaving her naked as September Morn.
The rangy, hazel-eyed man standing on the bungalow stoop wore a dark suit, blue shirt, gray tie, and stunned expression.
Marilyn herself was mortified — she’d suddenly realized her perfectly manicured and polished nails were now ragged and chipped. She hoped Harrigan — was it Jack, or Frank? — wouldn’t notice.
May, coming to her employer’s rescue, retrieved the robe and snugged it up and over Marilyn’s shoulders.
Marilyn had a sensitivity that often allowed her to read people unerringly; but she did not understand the odd look of relief in Harrigan’s eyes when May appeared, to return the robe to her. The actress had no self-consciousness about her body, and was particularly proud of it at the moment, because she had lost just enough weight to get the chubbiness off her belly and return the sleekness to her legs while still retaining the bustiness she was famous for (few knew that, when her weight was down, her bosom was a rather average B-cup affair).
Marilyn, tying the robe’s belt in a secure knot, beamed at him. “I’m so glad to see you, Agent Harrigan. Please come in… what’s your first name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”
Like May had earlier, the man seemed to frown and smile at the same time; he said, “It’s, uh… Jack, Miss Monroe. Or do you prefer Mrs. Miller?”
“Marilyn’s fine. Jack, come in… make yourself at home. This is my secretary — May. I’d trust her with my life. You can speak freely in front of her…”
May — who had already returned to her desk — smiled and nodded at the agent.
Marilyn, her back to May, whispered to Harrigan, “Except for… you know.”
His eyes flared, then narrowed, and he nodded. “Of course,” he whispered.
She took the agent by the arm and led him to the white couch by the stone fireplace, saying, “You spoke to Mr. Skouras… Spyros. He sent you.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
“No… just that you had something important to report, about the premier. Concerning his safety?”
Marilyn felt a wave a relief. Agent Harrigan… Jack… was taking her seriously. The State Department was listening to her… something could be done, something would be done…
“I was afraid maybe you were no longer in charge of Mr. Khrushchev’s security,” she said. “I didn’t see you at the luncheon.”
He smiled a little. “Oh, I was there. Sort of on the fringes… running around like a crazy man.”
She shrugged. “It’s like Hollywood. All the really important people are behind the cameras and lights.”
“I guess that’s right, Miss Monroe.”
“Marilyn.”
“Maybe we should make it ‘Miss Monroe.’ ”
“Marilyn… you’re mad at me.”
“I am? I mean, no, of course not. Why would I be mad?”
“Because I forgot your name. It’s just… you look more like a Frank to me than a Jack. I won’t forget again… I promise.”
He swallowed. “Miss Monroe… Marilyn… I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot on my plate.”
“Oh! Did I interrupt your lunch?”
“No, I just…”
“How thoughtless of me! You couldn’t have lunch until after the festivities… and now I’ve—”
“No. I just meant, I’m very busy. Looking after the premier’s security and such. Much as I’d like to socialize…”
The relief faded. “This isn’t a social call, Jack. Agent Harrigan. This is serious. Very, very serious.”
“I apologize, Miss Monroe. What is this about?”
She took a long, hard look at him. His hair could use some Byrlcreem, she thought, and his face could stand a shave — that five o’clock shadow made his cheeks look dirty, and the pouchy darkness under his eyes said he’d suffered a lack of sleep. Poor baby.
And this was her leading man? The hero who would ride in to save the world from destruction? He might look a little like Bob Mitchum, but she would have preferred the real, fake thing.
“You look like hell,” Marilyn blurted.
His eyebrows climbed. “Thanks a bunch.”
She placed a hand on his knee, which twitched at her touch. “No — you’re a beautiful man. I only meant that it’s obvious your job’s been a terrible strain.”
He chuckled, leaned back on the couch, admitting, “It has been one hell of a bad day.”
“Well,” she said, leaning in close enough to kiss him (but didn’t), “it’s going to get a lot worse…”
“It is?”
She nodded. “It is if somebody doesn’t do something about… something.”
His brown tightened. “Do you think you could be just a little more specific, Miss Monroe?”
“Marilyn.”
“Marilyn.”
She nodded gravely. “I have to whisper.”
“You do?”