Bombshell

Chapter One Blonde Ambition

In bungalow number seven on the lavishly landscaped grounds of the Beverly Hills Hotel, the bustle of Hollywood had been banished. A goddess was — with the help of others — preparing herself for an appearance before those who worshipped her.

At just after nine a.m., Ralph Roberts — Marilyn Monroe’s personal masseur — had just finished giving the celebrated actress a rubdown in a bedroom decorated all in white (with the exception of heavy black-out curtains). The man — handsome, muscular, heterosexual — and the woman — beautiful, curvaceous, blonde-all-over, naked — had exchanged only a few words, the massage all business, but for the pleasure the actress received from skilled hands.

In a corner of the room, a portable hi-fi — fit for the most pampered teenage girl — perched on the white-carpeted floor, spinning the latest of a stack of Frank Sinatra 45s. Later in the day the swinging come-fly-with-me Sinatra might have been heard in this snowy chamber; but at this early hour, the singer was crooning, “September Song,” softly, lulling the actress into wakefulness.

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 57^th 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.

“Let’s make Marilyn,” she said.

As the make-up artist began his familiar routine, Marilyn was quiet and withdrawn. It was nothing personal. Her mini-conversation with Ralph and dealings with May were all she could manage this morning. She knew Whitey understood that she was conserving her energy. It wouldn’t be until the make-up artist had carefully applied the lipsticks — several different shades for contouring, because her lips were surprisingly fat — that together they would bring to life her creation, “Marilyn Monroe” emerging from Norma Jeane like a butterfly from its cocoon.

Whitey lined Marilyn’s famous mouth with dark red pencil, and even as he was skillfully coloring it in, May entered again, and announced the arrival of hair stylist Sydney Guilarof.

Discovered by Joan Crawford in 1935, the Canadian Guilarof — at age forty-nine — was still the most sought-after hairdresser in Hollywood. And for an event as crucial as today’s, Marilyn insisted on no one but the best.

Marilyn, now in her movie-star persona, bid goodbye to Whitey, and greeted Guilarof — ever dapper in a gray sharkskin suit and silk black tie — with a delighted squeal and outstretched hand.

“I want something different, Sydney,” Marilyn said, wrinkling her upturned nose. “How are the women wearing their hair in Moscow these days?”

“Under a babushka,” he answered dryly.

Marilyn giggled. “Well, that won’t do.”

“I doubt today’s honored guest wants to meet Marilyn Monroe,” the hairdresser opined, “because he’s longing to meet a typical Russian woman.”

“You’re right as always, dear.” She plopped down on the satin chair, facing the mirror. Guilarof removed the towel from her head and ran his fingers expertly, like an intelligent comb, through her thick, damp, naturally curly locks. Out in the bedroom, May was putting on another stack of Frank Sinatra singles.

“Let’s style it straight, with a flip on one side,” Guilarof suggested, his narrowed eyes meeting her wide ones in the mirror.

“Okay!” she said, in the little-girl voice that belied the strong-willed woman possessing it.

While Guilarof began setting the screen queen’s hair in large rollers instead of the usual pin curls, his client coyly asked, “And how is Liz?” She knew the hairdresser had just come from Elizabeth Taylor’s.

“Delightful as always,” he responded. “All of my clients are sheer delights… you know that.”

“I’m sure… Any gray hairs…?”

It was a game she played with Sydney, to get him to talk about his other clients. But no matter how much she cajoled him, or tried to trick him into candor, he never succumbed. Having coifed screen legends from Clara Bow to Doris Day, Guilarof was rigorous about maintaining strict client confidentiality — whether to the press or his other patrons.

“I tell you what, Sid…” And now Marilyn turned her head to look right at him, disrupting his work. “I’ll give you permission to reveal to anyone you like that…” She looked side to side, then leaned toward him conspiratorially. “…I dye my hair.”

He chuckled and, as she turned away, resumed his work.

She grinned cutely at him in the mirror. “Come on, Sid… just one little tidbit.”

Guilarof sighed dramatically. “All right,” he said. “I give up. But just one.”

Marilyn straightened, eyes bright. “Just one.”

He bent and whispered into a perked ear. “After I finished with Elizabeth, working absolutely all of my magic, giving it my very best effort, and in spite of whatever extreme measures I took…” He paused.

Her eyebrows climbed the smooth forehead. “Yes?”

He shrugged. “…she looked simply fabulous.”

Marilyn slapped at him playfully. “You’re lying. She’s a fat, hideous witch and you know it.” And she slumped in the chair, half kidding, but nonetheless not pleased to hear of her competitor’s beauty.

Though she barely knew Taylor personally — just to exchange strained pleasantries with, when they’d attend the same studio function or wind up at the same party — Marilyn disliked her fellow Fox star with an unreasonable intensity. Not so much because of Taylor’s beauty — which didn’t hold a candle to her own, she thought (usually) — but because of the high salary her brunette rival commanded.

Yet who was it that had pulled Twentieth Century’s fat from the fire, time after time? Marilyn Monroe’s movies had kept the studio afloat — despite the bad scripts that were frequently foisted upon her. Even a weak vehicle was strong at the box office, when it had Marilyn in it. Could Liz Taylor have survived River of No Return? Or There’s No Business Like Show Business? Not hardly!

Anyway, that busty little munchkin couldn’t carry a tune in a paper bag, and that mannered acting style of hers — well, really!

Marilyn had been crushed when she didn’t get the ripe role of Maggie the Cat in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. She could have torn up the joint in a rich part like that — done a much better job than the stilted Taylor. Even Tennessee Williams himself had admitted as much, when Marilyn cornered him at a party recently.

Anyway, Marilyn oozed sex — whereas Liz Taylor just oozed.

And now La Taylor seemed about to bring the whole goddamn studio to its knees with that exorbitant barge of a picture, Cleopatra, what with her outrageous demands and film-halting illnesses… how could any actress be so unprofessional?

The only reason Twentieth Century Fox remained afloat, at present, was Marilyn’s latest box-office smash, Some Like It Hot.

Marilyn was just pondering what an interesting position this put her in when a knock drew her attention to the reflection of the bathroom doorway in the mirror, where a figure appeared unannounced.

Few men would have dared such a thing — even Arthur or Joe would have waited for May to present them…

But this was — speaking of the devil… that is, the Twentieth Century Fox variety — the president of the studio, Spyros Skouras himself, a tall, imposing, yet fatherly fellow, with thinning white hair and black glasses. The normally cool and collected president seemed quite unnerved.

“Dahling! For once in your young life, you must be on time!” Skouras delivered this lamentation to his star in his trademark Greek accent, which was no thicker than a slab of feta cheese.

“Don’t worry, S. S.,” she said slowly, drawing the words out, again mimicking Sinatra, who from his bedroom corner sang, “Don’t Worry About Me.” “Have I ever let you down?”

Skouras looked skyward, slapped his sides, though not in laughter. “Constantly!”

She gave him a million-dollar pout. “Don’t be mean.”

He shook a scolding finger. “This is big honor, today, young lady — for both of us.”

“I know.”

“World leader. Very important person.”

“Oh yes,” Marilyn nodded. “Almost as important as a movie star, don’t you think?”

Skouras tried not to smile; he was very fond of her, despite the difficulties she brought to the sets of the movies he produced, and she knew how to manipulate him.

“Please,” he said. “For once, my sweetness, my dumpling, hurry up your sweet tushie.”

Her mouth pursed into the famous kiss. “I love it when you talk dirty… Have you looked at those clips yet?”

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.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked.

He nodded. “You don’t always prize attractiveness in your men, my dear… You’ve always been more attracted to power, and fame.”

She stiffened. “Rupe, you’re crossing the line, now…”

“Frankly, I was thinking of your meeting with Sukarno.”

Marilyn stood abruptly. “Nothing happened between us,” she said emphatically, putting her hands on her hips. “How many times do I have to tell you, before you believe me? You’re worse than my husbands!”

“Nothing happened? Okay. Fine. But something could have… and I believe the CIA put you next to Sukarno for their own purposes.”

Rupe had a point. Sparks had flown between her and the darkly handsome President of Indonesia, Achmed Sukarno, at a reception held for diplomats a few years ago… right here at the Beverly Hills Hotel, coincidentally enough.

“I’ll admit,” she said, chin up, “that later that night, after the party, I called President Sukarno, for a private meeting. But I just wanted to know more about his country, which really isn’t a country at all but a bunch of islands. You know how eager I am for knowledge. Do I have to tell you I’m not just another blonde bimbo?”

He arched an eyebrow, as if to say, No, you’re the blonde bimbo. But all he said was, “And?”

“And,” she continued with a toss of her sumptuously coifed head, “at the last minute I decided that I was too tired.”

Rupert looked up at her sharply. “Hedda Hopper reported that you kept that meeting.”

Marilyn frowned. “Jeez, Rupe… I always thought you told her that… for publicity’s sake.”

“No,” he said, with a head shake, “I did not.”

Marilyn sat back down on the sofa, puzzled, a cushion swallowing her bottom.

“You know,” she said, eyes tightening as she leaned toward him. “There was a kind of click on the phone when I called President Sukarno that night…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You don’t suppose… the line was tapped?”

“After what you and Arthur have been put through by the House Un-American Activities Committee,” the press agent said tightly, “do you have trouble believing as much?”

She was shaking her head now, risking Guilarof’s handiwork. “But why in hell would anybody care about the President of Indonesia meeting with some actress?”

“Not ‘some actress,’ dear… Marilyn Monroe.” Rupert shrugged. “Obviously, to get something on him.”

“Why? I just don’t understand…”

“Uncle Sam put Sukarno in power expecting Indonesia to go democratic,” Rupert explained. “Then what does the ungrateful wretch do? He stops free elections and aligns himself with the communists… Russia and China.”

Marilyn’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. I… admit I really haven’t kept track. I thought Sukarno was one of the good guys.”

“So did our government, early on. Now they’d use anything against him… even you. And if they feel that way about a comparative small fry like Sukarno… how do you think they feel about Nikita K?”

Marilyn put one finger to her lips and bit down on the platinum nail. She trusted Rupert. He was smart, and knew things she didn’t. Yes, she always wanted to learn things, but her methods were pretty hit or miss. The press agent hadn’t risen to his rarefied position without great instincts and greater knowledge.

Why did politics have to make things so difficult? If a man and a woman wanted to get together, why shouldn’t they? Why couldn’t people just be people?

“Now do you understand why I don’t want you to meet with Khrushchev?” Rupert was asking.

Marilyn stood again. “I’m already ready,” she said stubbornly, spreading her arms wide. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble. My people have gone to a lot of trouble, too. And damnit, Rupe, I want to go. Khrushchev asked to see me… of all the stars in the Hollywood heavens… me.”

“How do you know that?”

“The State Department said so. I mean, I don’t want to go up against the State Department — you want me to start World War III or something?”

Rupert stood and his eyes drilled through her. “You know the press will skewer you,” he said, not giving up. “They’re going to dredge up all that commie nonsense about Arthur, and they’ll drag you down with him.”

Marilyn felt her face grow hot. “Arthur wasn’t charged with anything,” she retorted. “Anyway, I’m no communist… I’m an American. I haven’t even been to Russia!”

Rupert patted the air with his palms in a “calm down” fashion. “All right,” he said. “Go if you want. Make the public appearance… but avoid anything else, no private meetings, no ‘educational’ rendezvous with the little fat man. And, please, Marilyn… be careful.”

The heat had left her face, and a warmth for Rupert had taken its place. “I will, Rupe,” she said. “I promise.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, smiling, his eyes sad. “You know, no matter what happens, how much or how little we might see each other, that I care about you, very much. That I’m your friend, always will be.”

Marilyn nodded, swallowing, touched by his concern. “Rupert?” She took one of his hands.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t called you.”

He shook his head, shrugged. “We’ve both been busy,” he said.

It was so goddamn sweet of him to let her off the hook so easily.

“Let’s stay in touch,” she said.

“Let’s.” He gave her a tender smile. “Now… go knock ’em dead, Miss Monroe.” He looked her over, and raised his eyebrows. “With that dress… what there is of it… you can’t miss.”

As Marilyn watched him go — pausing to toss her a little wave and smile, before slipping out — she felt a surge of melancholy roll through her, and linger. Then, taking a moment to summon back her movie star persona — that character she had created, that she played so well, and that to some degree she had become, leaving Norma Jeane behind — she put on her sunglasses and exited the bungalow and walked out to the waiting limousine.