3

      Three hours later, the Beechams’ famous 17 October Supper Party was in full and boisterous swing. Eleanor’s aquamarine satin sheath dress, which brought out the magical green in her eyes had, indeed, become a little creased. And Eleanor knew quite well that after the third glass of champagne – or was it the fourth? – her face was more than a fraction wilted. But, as she kept reminding herself, it didn’t matter. Not any more. In the softly falling terrace lights, and with the liquor freely flowing, no one was going to notice anyway. Everyone was canned. For the hundredth time that evening, she told herself to relax.

      There had been an incident with one of the waitresses shortly before the guests arrived which hadn’t helped to ease her mood. But she really ought to have shaken it off by now. These sort of things happened to movie stars all the time. Thomas Mix found one in his bathtub. Gary Cooper (who lived in the house next door) was constantly encountering them roaming his private grounds. Mary Pickford found one splashing about in her swimming pool. It came with the territory … There were always stories of stray fans slipping through the stars’ careful barricades, and it wasn’t the first time it had happened to Eleanor, either. Perhaps, Eleanor considered, if the wretched girl had been anywhere else, holding anything else, on any night but this one, it would have felt less threatening: simply an amusing story to tell. But Eleanor found her right there in the bedroom – standing, guilty as a thief, at the same dressing table she’d left Max at only half an hour earlier. In the girl’s hand was a heavy gold photograph frame; and in her eyes – Eleanor shuddered – dark pools of emotion and fear: all the madness of a fan obsessed. Eleanor had never seen it so close, and it frightened her. She had shouted for help, and within moments, Joseph the houseman had been there, standing beside her, and then, just a little later, Max had come, too. The wretched girl, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching Eleanor’s precious gold photograph frame until it was taken from her hand, had been escorted safely from the property.

      It was nothing. A hazard of the job. Poor girl … Max had brushed it off; told Eleanor not to fuss. She should take comfort, he teased, considering some of the notices for her last picture, that there were still fans out there who cared enough to bother. And he was right of course. These things happened.

      In the meantime here she sat, the Queen of her own fairy tale. She should try to enjoy it. The evening’s guests were seated at the long banquet table before her, deep in noisy conversation, and from what she could tell, they were happy to be there. The freshly boiled lobster had been eaten and carried away, and so, by now, had all remnants of the perfectly judged, entirely exquisite Beecham Supper Party feast … She could hear the sound of the jazz band filtering delightfully through the open windows. Soon, after coffee, and more drinking, she would slip quietly inside and ask them to snazz up the tempo, and there would be dancing. Everything was just as it was supposed to be. Everything was Lovely.

      Eleanor had decided, finally, to put Marion in place of honour, beside clever, gently spoken Irving Thalberg, whom Marion knew well. She had placed herself on Irving’s other side. Not because she liked him (although it happened that she did), but because, as chief executive producer at MGM, the largest and most profitable studio in Hollywood, he was the most powerful man at the table, if not the industry. And since her seven-year contract with the almost as large, but not quite so magnificent, Lionsfiel Pictures was shortly up for renewal, it seemed like a good time to foster relationships with the alternatives.

      On her right side she put Douglas Fairbanks, who was tiresome in all sorts of ways, but a big star – and he would have been offended if she hadn’t. Max, far away at the other end of the table, had Gloria Swanson on his right side, for the same reason.

      But he must have switched round the name cards on his left, because where Irving’s wife, Norma, was meant to be sitting, there sat none other than Blanche Williams, chief feature writer for Photoplay magazine.

      Eleanor knew, because Butch Menken had told her; and Butch knew because … Butch made it his business to know everything. Also because he knew a German actress who lived in the same block, and the German actress had spotted Max going in and out of Blanche Williams’s apartment on numerous occasions. So Eleanor knew. Or she almost knew. And she had known (or almost known) for a couple of years now.

      Did Max know she knew? Did he even care? She could never be sure, not about anything, any more, let alone who knew what about anyone else … Christ.

      She could leave him, of course. And maybe one day she would. But not today … Eleanor needed to think of something else.

      She wondered if Irving Thalberg was aware that her deal with Lionsfiel was up for renewal. Probably not. Should she tell him? Or would it be just too awkward? And if he already knew, would he perhaps suggest she came across to MGM?

      Of course he wouldn’t.

      Why would he do that? Why would he do that? Perhaps she should boast to him about the fan she’d only just encountered in her own bedroom? He might be impressed. He might even think – Eleanor pinched herself. She was drunk. Any minute now, if she wasn’t careful, she was going to burst into tears.

      A passing waiter refilled her glass. She swallowed it back without tasting it, fixed a blank smile to her beautiful, full lips, and allowed her gaze to travel down the table. Stars, stars – and more stars … Buster Keaton and Natalie Talmadge … Gary Cooper from just next door, John Gilbert, Greta Garbo,