The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo (Page 44)

And Connor said, “Daddy, why do your eyes look wet?”

I wasn’t sure if he’d been crying or if he was already a few drinks into the day that early in the morning.

At the funeral, I wore a black vintage Halston. Harry wore a black suit with a black shirt, black tie, black belt, and black socks. Grief never left his face.

His profound, guttural pain didn’t follow the story we had sold the press, that Harry and John were friends, that Harry and I were in love. Nor did the fact that John left the house to Harry. But despite my instincts, I did not encourage Harry to hide his feelings or decline the house. I had very little energy left to try to hide who we were. I had learned all too well that pain was sometimes stronger than the need to keep up appearances.

Celia was there, in a long-sleeved black minidress. She did not say hello to me. She barely looked at me. I stared at her, aching to walk over and grab her hand. But I didn’t take a single step in her direction.

I was not going to use this loss of Harry’s to ease my own. I wasn’t going to make her talk to me. Not like that.

Harry held back tears as John’s casket was lowered into the ground. Celia walked away. Connor watched me watch her and said, “Mom, who is that lady? I think I know her.”

“You do, honey,” I said. “You did.”

And then Connor, my adorable baby girl, said, “She’s the one who dies in your movie.”

And I realized she didn’t remember Celia at all. She recognized her from Little Women.

“She’s the nice one. The one who wants everyone to be happy,” Connor said.

That’s when I knew the family I had made had truly disintegrated.

Now This

July 3, 1980

CELIA ST. JAMES AND JOAN MARKER, BEST OF FRIENDS

Celia St. James and Hollywood newcomer Joan Marker have become the talk of the town lately! Marker, best known for her star-making turn in last year’s Promise Me, is quickly becoming the It Girl of the season. And who better to show her the ropes than America’s Sweetheart? Seen shopping together in Santa Monica and grabbing lunches in Beverly Hills, the two can’t seem to get enough of each other.

We certainly hope this means the duo are planning a movie together, because that would be a tour de force of performances!

I KNEW THE ONLY WAY to get Harry to start living his life again was to surround him with Connor and work. The Connor part was easy. She loved her father. She wanted his attention every second of the day. She was growing up to look even more like him, with his ice-blue eyes and his broad, tall frame. And when he was with her, he would stop drinking. He cared about being a good father, and he knew he had a responsibility to be sober for her.

But when he went back to his own home every night, a fact still secret from the outside world, I knew he was drinking himself to sleep. On the days he was not with us, I knew he wasn’t getting out of bed.

So work was my only option. I had to find something he would love. It had to be a script he would feel passionate about and one with a great role for me. Not just because I wanted a great role but also because Harry wouldn’t do anything for himself. But he would do anything if he believed I needed him to.

So I read scripts. Hundreds of scripts over the months. And then Max Girard sent me one that he was having trouble getting made. It was called All for Us.

It was about a single mother of three who moves to New York City to try to support her children and pursue her dreams. It was about trying to make ends meet in the cold, hard city, but it was also about hope and daring to believe you deserve more. Both of which I knew would appeal to Harry. And the role of Renee, the mother, was honest, righteous, and powerful.

I ran it over to Harry and begged him to read it. When he tried to avoid it, I said, “I think it will finally get me my Oscar.” That’s what made him pick it up.

I loved shooting All for Us. And it wasn’t because I finally got that goddamn statue for it or because I became even closer with Max Girard on the set. I loved shooting All for Us because while it didn’t get Harry to put down the bottle, it did get him out of bed.

* * *

FOUR MONTHS AFTER the movie came out, Harry and I went to the Oscars together. Max Girard had attended with a model named Bridget Manners, but he had joked, for weeks before the event, that all he wanted was to attend with me, to have me on his arm. He had even taken to joking that given all the men I’d married, he was crushed that I’d never married him. I had to admit that Max was quickly becoming someone I truly felt close to. So while he did technically have a date, it felt, as we all sat in the first row together, that I was there with the two men who meant the most to me.

Connor was back at the hotel, watching on TV with Luisa. Earlier that day, she had given Harry and me each a picture she had drawn. Mine was a gold star. Harry’s was a lightning bolt. She said they were for luck. I tucked mine into my clutch. Harry put his in his tuxedo pocket.

When they called out the nominees for Best Actress, I realized that I hadn’t really ever believed I could win. With the Oscar would come certain things I’d always wanted: credibility, gravitas. And if I truly looked inward, I realized I didn’t think I had credibility or gravitas.

Harry squeezed my hand as Brick Thomas opened the envelope.

And then, despite everything I had told myself, he said my name.

I stared straight ahead, my chest heaving, unable to process what I’d heard. And then Harry looked at me and said, “You did it.”

I stood up and hugged him. I walked to the podium, I took the Oscar that Brick was handing me, and I put my hand to my chest to try to slow down my heartbeat.

When the clapping subsided, I leaned in to the microphone and gave a speech that was both premeditated and extemporaneous. I tried to remember what I’d prepared to say all the other times I thought I might win.

“Thank you,” I said, looking out into a sea of familiar, gorgeous faces. “Thank you not just for this award, which I will cherish forever, but also for letting me work in this business. It hasn’t always been easy, and God knows I’ve made a bumpy road of it, but I feel so incredibly lucky to live this life. So thank you not just to every producer I’ve worked with since the mid-fifties—oh, God, I’m really dating myself here—but specifically to my favorite producer, Harry Cameron. I love you. I love our child. Hi, Connor. Go to sleep now, honey. It’s getting late. And to all the other actors and actresses I’ve worked with, to all the directors who have helped me grow as a performer, especially Max Girard, I thank you. By the way, I believe this counts as a hat trick, Max. And there’s one other person out there, whom I think of every day.”

Ten years before, I would have been far too scared to say anything more. I probably would have been too scared even to say that. But I had to tell her. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I had to show her that I still loved her. That I always would.

“I know she’s watching right now. And I just hope she knows how important she is to me. Thank you all. Thank you.”

Shaking, I walked backstage and got hold of myself. I talked to reporters. I accepted congratulations. And I got back to my seat just in time for Max to win Best Director and Harry to win Best Picture. Afterward, the three of us posed for photo after photo, grinning from ear to ear.

We had climbed to the very top of the mountain, and that night we stuck our flags into the summit.

SOMETIME AROUND ONE IN THE morning, after Harry had already gone back to the hotel to check on Connor, Max and I were outside in the courtyard of a mansion owned by the head of Paramount. There was a circular fountain, spraying water into the night sky. Max and I sat, marveling at what we had accomplished together. His limo pulled up.

“Can I give you a ride back to your hotel?” he asked.

“Where’s your date?”

Max shrugged. “I fear she was only interested in the ticket to the show.”

I laughed. “Poor Max.”

“Not poor Max,” he said, shaking his head. “I spent my evening with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

I shook my head. “You are too much.”

“You look hungry. Come get in the car. We will get hamburgers.”

“Hamburgers?”

“I’m sure even Evelyn Hugo eats a hamburger from time to time.”

Max opened the limo door and waited for me to get in. “Your chariot,” he said.

I wanted to go home and see Connor. I wanted to watch the way her mouth hung open as she slept. But the idea of getting a hamburger with Max Girard actually didn’t sound so bad.

Minutes later, the limo driver was trying to navigate the drive-through of a Jack in the Box, and Max and I decided it was easier to get out of the car and go in.

The two of us stood in line, me in my navy-blue silk gown, him in his tux, behind two teenage boys ordering french fries. And then, when we got to the front of the line, the cashier screamed as if she’d seen a mouse.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “You’re Evelyn Hugo.”

I laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. After twenty-five years, that line still worked every time.

“You’re her. Evelyn Hugo.”

“Nonsense.”

“This is the greatest day of my life,” she said, and then she called to the back. “Norm, you have to come see this. Evelyn Hugo is here. In a gown.”

Max laughed as more and more people started to stare. I was beginning to feel like a caged animal. It’s not something you really ever get used to, being stared at in small spaces. A few of the people in the kitchen came forward to look at me.

“Any chance we could get two burgers?” Max said. “Extra cheese on mine, please.”

Everyone ignored him.

“Can I have your autograph?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“Sure,” I said kindly.

I was hoping it would be over soon, that we could get the food and go. I started signing paper menus and paper hats. I signed a couple of receipts.

“We really should be going,” I said. “It’s late.” But no one stopped. They all just kept pushing things at me.

“You won an Oscar,” an older woman said. “Just a few hours ago. I saw it. I saw it myself.”