LimeLight (3 page)

At her age, most actresses were only offered nonstarring roles as mothers or spinsterish old aunts. But Billie wasn’t ready to give
up her glamorous stardom or the silver screen. And despite the fact that MGM gave her not-so-subtle hints by handing her horrible scripts, she tried hard not to break her contract. But they were, in effect, showing her the door. It was quite sad really.

I sigh as I gently fold a Christian Dior cardigan, smoothing the pale pink cashmere as I lay it flat.

Growing old in Hollywood is not for the faint of heart.

Billie was such a meticulous person, the sort of woman who always packed her own bags. She didn’t want anyone to handle her clothing or personal items. In fact, she didn’t like anyone to handle much of anything that belonged to her. I even recall seeing her discreetly wiping off doorknobs, lamps, and various items her guests touched while visiting her home. It seemed a bit eccentric, but then that was Hollywood. Everyone had their little quirks.

A story actually circulated that Billie had a brand-new toilet torn out and replaced after the plumber allegedly used it. I do think it’s terribly distasteful for a plumber to use one’s toilet, but it is a bit extreme, not to mention expensive, to have a perfectly good toilet torn out. A good dousing of Lysol should do the trick. Naturally, I never mentioned this to Billie. I wouldn’t dare.

I hold up my favorite silk pajamas with dismay. They have gotten rather ratty looking during my short stint here at Laurel Hills. The laundry service leaves a lot to be desired. So much so that I have avoided sending them more than absolutely necessary. Not only do those careless people destroy perfectly good items of clothing, but they steal things as well. Since I’ve come here, several of my favorite pieces have gone missing. It’s really quite
appalling. I’ve mentioned my concern numerous times, but no one seems to particularly care. I asked the nurse’s aide about sending my clothing out for dry cleaning, and she simply laughed.

As I toss the shabby pajamas into the waste basket—no sense taking what needs to be replaced—I remember something else about Billie. She was so particular that she would only wear white pajamas to bed. And she always had a drawer full of them. I thought that was rather glamorous back then, and I even tried it myself for a while, but I soon grew bored with the repetition and returned to wearing a variety of sleepwear—much of it purchased from Frederick’s of Hollywood. I was quite popular there…back in the day.

Gavin used to compliment me on my fine sense of style, particularly when it came to things like lingerie and sleepwear. He said that his first wife, Gala Morrow, had no natural fashion instincts whatsoever. And Billie told me that when left to her own devices, Gala might actually leave the house carrying a brown purse while wearing black pumps! But in all fairness, and often to my great displeasure, that was about the only flaw Gavin ever faulted his deceased wife with. In his mind, she was perfection.

Admittedly, Gala Morrow had been a beauty. A striking actress, with dark hair and dark eyes, Gala began her career toward the end of the silent film era. But she had difficulty making the transition to talkies, and before long she was simply part of film history—archived along with the old silent movies. Not long after her career ended, she suffered a severe stroke and died at the age of thirty-seven.

Sometimes I think those are the fortunate actresses, the ones who died early. They remain indelibly youthful and beautiful in our minds. You never witness their old, haggard faces or misshapen bodies plastered across the fronts of tabloids in the supermarket checkout line. No, it’s women like Gala Morrow, Jean Harlow, and Marilyn Monroe who will remain forever young. I envy them more than ever now.

For decades after her death, black-and-white photos of the glamorous Gala remained prominently displayed throughout our home. Many a time I would catch Gavin gazing at her sparkling image with longing in his eyes. But would he have yearned for her if she’d still been alive? Goodness, Gala was five years older than Gavin. She would’ve been old and wrinkled and probably fat as a pig by then. I’m certain she’d have been the type who would’ve packed on the pounds with age. Even at thirty-seven, she had rounded out some. But those dazzling publicity photos kept her fresh and vital, haunting me endlessly with her bright-eyed youth. Meanwhile, I continued to grow older.

I longed to remove Gala’s photos from our home, but I wouldn’t dare. So they remained, mocking me from the mantle, from the grand piano, even in our master bedroom suite, right up until Gavin passed on several years ago. That’s when I finally took them all down and boxed them up. Naturally, I shipped these off to her son, Michael, in Hawaii. I knew Michael would appreciate them.

Not that he and his mother had ever been close, since a nanny saw to his care until he was old enough to be sent to
boarding school. I sometimes felt sorry for Michael, although he wasn’t the only Hollywood “orphan” in those days. And later in life Gavin did treat him like a son, but there were times when Michael seemed a bit of a lost soul.

I look at the clock above the door. It’s almost five and nearly dinnertime. They serve the evening meal so early here it feels more like a late lunch to me. But then Gavin and I, like so many Hollywood people, never ate dinner before nine thirty. And then we always slept in late.

“You keep Dracula hours,” my younger sister, Violet, used to tease me, back when she and I were on speaking terms and she would call before noon, awakening me from my precious beauty sleep—something she couldn’t possibly understand.

I close my suitcase, part of a Louis Vuitton set I’ve used since the seventies. I actually have ten pieces, but only these four managed to make it to Laurel Hills. And I have these pieces thanks to my cook, the only one who hadn’t been stealing from me—or so she claimed. Sylvia packed these bags herself. Not as well as I would’ve packed them. But I appreciated her delivering them to me and bringing me a batch of homemade lemon bars as well.

Sylvia really is a kindhearted woman, and her lemon bars are delectable, but as I keep reminding her, she should cut back on the sweets, since her thick waistline seems to grow larger every year.

I close the leather latch on the case and hope that the other six pieces of luggage made it safely into storage and not into the backseat of a run-down vehicle of one of my servants. I’ve heard
that these vintage pieces are even more expensive than the new ones. Funny how some things grow more valuable with age. Hopefully, my pilfering servants weren’t aware of this. Most of their thievery involved newer items, mundane things really. Still, it peeved me. And who knows what they might’ve stolen after my sudden departure in the back of the ambulance that day. I may have been picked clean by now.

It had been a trying day and a difficult week. I’d been in the midst of sorting out the contents of my home. Naturally, this was necessitated by the unfortunate announcement made by the IRS people two weeks prior. Being old, I wasn’t moving terribly fast, and I’d hired some packers and an estate sale lady to help me out. But I’d been doing my part too, steadily plodding along, picking out which items would go to storage, marking some things to be saved for Michael, setting others aside for the estate sale that supposedly took place several weeks ago. My accountant, Jackie Berkshire, assured me that the check had been deposited into my account.

But life those few days had grown very, very stressful. Seeing so many fragments of the past, handling bits and pieces of my life, and preparing to leave the only home I’d known for nearly sixty years was tearing me apart. The thought of losing that lovely house just broke my heart. How could I simply walk away and leave it all behind? It was just too much to bear.

I’m sure that’s why I dropped the table lamp. Not just any lamp, mind you. It was a signed Louis Comfort Tiffany lamp, one with the much-coveted golden dragonfly design. It had been an
anniversary present from Gavin. It slipped from my hands onto the marble foyer floor, and all that was left of my marvelous lamp lay littered about my feet in a thousand glittering pieces. I stood there frozen, unable to think or move or even speak.

Several of the servants and packers rushed out to see what had happened, and they looked nearly as horrified as I felt. Although I suspect they were greatly relieved that it was I who had done the damage instead of them.

“I help.” Marbella ran back to the kitchen to fetch a broom.

After she cleared a path, I walked away from my disaster area and, without speaking to anyone, slowly made my way up the curving staircase, balancing myself with the cool surface of the carved marble handrail until I reached the master suite. I went into the bathroom, opened the gilt-trimmed medicine cabinet, removed an old prescription bottle of Valium, filled a Waterford tumbler with water, and proceeded to ingest all those pretty blue pills, two at a time.

I had barely swallowed the last ones and was just getting ready to take a nice long nap when Sylvia came looking for me and discovered the empty bottle. I was already quite groggy and don’t really remember what happened next, but when I woke up I was in the emergency room…and two days later I came here.

The staff physician at Cedars-Sinai assured me that my stay at Laurel Hills would be short and restorative. “Just long enough for an evaluation and treatment,” he promised. He also informed me that it was the only way I could be released from the hospital, so I fell for it.

Now, nearly six weeks later, I am more than ready to leave this horrid place. I cannot wait to see Michael again. He’s always been such a dear. Nothing like his fashion-challenged mother, Michael always had an expert eye for style. I’m sure that’s why he was such a successful set designer. His taste in décor and art is impeccable. I used to adore shopping with him.

If Michael weren’t gay, I might’ve gone after that man for myself. Well, not until Gavin passed on, of course. And not because I never had an affair while my husband was alive, because it’s no secret that I’ve had more than my fair share of men—although rumors as to who I’ve actually slept with are greatly exaggerated. Even so, I would never have stepped over that line with Michael, simply because if I’d had an affair with Gavin’s stepson, life as I knew it would’ve been over. I’m certain it would’ve ended our marriage or, rather, what was left of our marriage—a lovely facade of a devoted couple who had been together for many, many years.

This was one of the few things that set us apart in Hollywood. We were considered “the lucky ones,” one of those rare couples like Bob and Dolores Hope, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, even Aaron and Candy Spelling, who had managed to stay together to the end. Or so it seemed.

But everyone in Hollywood knows that nothing is ever as it seems.

D
arling.” Michael bursts into my room. “You didn’t tell me they locked you up in the nut house.”

“Oh, Michael.” I rush dramatically to him and embrace him. “My knight in shining armor… You’ve come to my rescue.”

“Poor Claudette.” He steps back and looks me up and down, finally blinking as he stares at my frowzy hair. At least I have on my pale blue Armani pantsuit and my perfectly matched antique pearls. “You poor thing; it looks as if you haven’t been to the salon in—”

“I know, I know. I look simply dreadful. The first thing I want to do, once I’m out of this hellhole, is to make an appointment with André.” I remove the Hermès silk scarf from my purse and tie it around my head, as if I’m about to go for a ride in a convertible. To complete the drama, I put on my oversized pair of Chanel sunglasses.

“I still remember his number, darling. I only wish I had him on speed dial.”

The orderly helps us get my bags out to the parking lot, and Michael actually tips him.

“Thanks,” says the surprised young man. “Want me to put them in the trunk for you too?”

“That would be divine.” Michael gallantly opens the passenger door for me. “Terribly sorry about the rental car, Claudette. It was the best they had.”

“I am so thankful to be out of that place. I wouldn’t complain if you’d driven here in a hay truck.”

“Is Dad’s Bentley still around?” he asks hopefully.

I shake my head and frown. “The IRS took it along with the house.”

He swears at the IRS.

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Did they take your old Jag too?”

“No, for some reason they didn’t want that. It’s in storage now.”

“Do you still drive, Claudette?”

“When the need arises. I’m not completely helpless.”

“But you were able to save
some
things?” His brow creases. Has he given up on Botox treatments altogether?

“Oh yes.”

Now I’m fully aware that seeing what I’ve saved for him is the primary reason Michael made this trip. Oh, certainly he loves me in his way. But more than that, I think he loves the idea of getting his hands on some of Gavin’s treasures. And truly, parting with a few original pieces of art and Gavin’s Hollywood memorabilia collection seems a small price to pay for Michael’s help.

“Where to, darling?”