Henry gave him a sour look. "You're in fine form tonight, I see."
Another of their endless arguments was in the works; I excused myself and went in search of Patricia.
It was around then that one Miss Marilyn Monroe arrived.
She stood framed in the doorway for a moment and surveyed the party. The shy, vulnerable look on her face infuriated me. Whom did she think she was fooling? I'd read about what sort of woman she was.
A silence fell over the room when people first began to notice her. Apparently she had come unescorted. I wondered who had invited her.
She wore a dress even shorter than mine, and she certainly had the legs for it. Her dress was made of layers of translucent silk the red of candied apples, snug at the waist with a flaring skirt. Brilliant, heart-shaped diamonds made up a cluster of buttons at her waist, and more of the same were stitched into her plunging decolletage. The diamond teardrops at her ears and a matching pendant on a gold chain must each have weighed at least four carats. She had the pale skin and dark mole on her lip she was so famous for, and her hair was shoulder-length, and wavy. She had let the color return to its natural dark chestnut.
Several men rushed forward, including doddering old Thomas Mannerly, the firm's senior practicing partner. Patricia caught my eye and motioned me toward the ladies' powder room down the hall, where we spent a few minutes repairing our faces and remarking upon Marilyn's taste in clothes. Not to mention certain of her other characteristics.
"I feel so embarrassed for her," Patricia said, "wearing a dress like that."
I arched an eyebrow at her in the mirror; the dress I wore was similar to Marilyn's — at least in its length. Patricia sat down at one of the chairs and applied a little eyeliner, then caught a look at my expression.
"I mean, for a woman her age. Did you know she's supposedly at least forty-five? Well, forty, anyway."
"Did you see those diamonds?" I asked, dabbing a bit of powder onto a shiny spot on my nose.
"They're a bit overdone, aren't they? Someone should take her aside."
"What embarrassed me was that cleavage!" I said. "You could see practically everything. And her breasts, they are so enormous. I can't imagine they're real."
"Those Hollywood doctors can work miracles."
We both giggled.
Patricia was smaller in stature than I, with a round face and a tendency to pudginess. She was always dieting. Tonight she wore an empire-style black gown With black bead embroidery and pearls. More pearls were wound up her swirling hairdo, which she now teased with a comb.
She wore a more subdued style than usual because she was five months pregnant with her first child. Looking at the curve of her belly I felt a tightness in my chest. The doctor's appointment came back to me; my hands curled into fists on my own, flat belly. I had to breathe deeply for a couple of seconds before my heart stopped pounding.
My face had lost color. I applied a bit of rose-colored rouge and brushed more powder over it. Patricia didn't seem to notice my reaction; she was applying a new Chanel color to her lips.
"Did you hear how she got invited?" she asked, squinting as she pursed her lips at herself. Looking at her expression, my anxiety passed. I suppressed a smile.
"For heaven's sake, dear," I said, "stop impersonating a fish and put your glasses on. We're alone here."
She gave me a rueful glance and slipped her rhinestone-rimmed, catseye glasses out of her handbag. She put them on and surveyed her appearance, dabbed at the comers of her mouth.
"I hate these things." She tucked the glasses back into the bag.
"You look fabulous. Tell me who invited her."
"Oh! Caroline's husband found out that she was going to be in town, and went straight into old Douglas's office." Patricia laid a hand on my arm, leaned close enough to me that I caught a whiff of her spicy perfume, and continued in with a conspiratorial tone. "They were holed up in there for two hours, his secretary told Caroline. And the invitation was hand-delivered by Douglas's private chauffeur."
I paused with my powder puff in midair, studied her reflection in the mirror. "Two hours, eh? Maybe they want to set up a Hollywood office."
"Who knows? They're always up to something." She gave me a meaningful look in the mirror. "It's going to be nothing but trouble while she's in town, you know, with the partners courting her influence. She'll sleep with anyone, they say. I'm keeping my George under lock and key and you'd be wise to do the same with Brandon."
I put my compact back into my handbag and gave Patricia a thin-lipped smile. "Brandon's too busy pursuing glory to waste time puising women. Especially an older, burned-out woman like our dear Marilyn."
Still, on our return to the party, I had to admit she didn't look old and burned out. She looked pretty damned good for a forty-year-old, pardon my language.
Looking at her wide, innocent eyes, her winsome expression, my heart filled with rage. I wanted to bring her down. I wanted to see her humiliated.
Dr. Rudo had taken her hand and was saying how lovely it was to see her again; it'd been so long, etc. etc., as Brandon and I came forward to be introduced. But something about how they acted — the way she straightened almost to stiffness, something in his face — made me believe they loathed each other.
"How is your movie deal proceeding?" he asked. At her lifted eyebrows he added, "That is why you're here, is it not? That's what the papers say."
"Oh, I'd love to discuss it with you, Dr. Rudo," she said in a light tone, "but you know, how these ventures are. The backers get jittery if we discuss too many details before the deal is closed."
"But of course. Pardon my prying." He smiled. But his attitude was aggressive, and he didn't take his eyes off her. It seemed to make her a bit nervous. Which suited me just fine.
Dr. Rudo's example emboldened me. When Brand and I were introduced I refused to take her extended hand, merely gave it a cool, quizzical glance. As if to say, what should I do with that?
A look of hurt and bafflement came into her eyes, but she simply gave me that smile she is so famous for, equal parts innocence and sensual languor, and nodded to me. She kept her hand extended, transferring it to my husband, who bent over it and kissed it, lingeringly.
I wanted to scream. As I pulled Brand away he gave her a charming little grin and a shrug, and I knew he'd seek her out later. Then and there I decided to glue myself to Brand for the evening.
"What is your problem?" he asked sotto voce, summoning up his courtroom smile, a parody of the one he'd given Marilyn. I suppose you could say he was more concerned about appearances at the moment than I.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lower your voice. You know precisely what I'm talking about." Brand pried my hand loose from his arm and, folding my hand and arm under his in a deceptively tight grip, dragged me along toward the end of the room with the dance floor. He nodded a greeting at Councilman Hartmann, who stood nearby watching us.
"Let me go."
"I mean it. I have important plans for tonight. This may he my big chance to make some important contacts and I won't have you interfering."
"Exactly what sort of contact did you intend to make, darling?" I asked, showing as many teeth as he, though his fingers were digging hard enough into my wrist to leave bruises. "And with whom?"
"Don't bait me."
"I saw how you looked at her."
"Someone had to show some courtesy."
"That woman is in no need of your courtesy."
He virtually dragged me out onto the dance floor, with that hateful, suave smile on his face, making pleasantries all around. The song was Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World." He grasped me in a clutch with a hand around the back of my neck and an arm around my waist, and whispered in my ear, "This is my big night and I wont have you interfering."