And then I took the tie of her robe and pulled it open.

  I did it slowly. I did it so slowly that she could have stopped me a million times before it broke free. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she sat up straighter, looked at me more boldly, and put her hand on my waist as I did it.

  The sides of the robe broke free of each other the moment the tension slacked, and then there she was, naked and sitting in front of me.

  Her skin was creamy and pale. Her breasts were fuller than I’d anticipated, her nipples pink. Her flat stomach rounded just the littlest bit underneath her belly button.

  And when my eyes moved down to her legs, she parted them just the littlest bit.

  Instinctively, I kissed her. I put my hands on her breasts, touching them the way I wanted to and then the way I liked my own to be touched.

  When she moaned, I throbbed.

  She kissed my neck and the top of my chest.

  She pulled my shirt off over the top of my head.

  She looked at me, my breasts exposed.

  “You’re gorgeous,” she said. “Even more gorgeous than I imagined.”

  I blushed and put my head in my hands, embarrassed by how out of control I felt, how out of my league it all was.

  She took my hands off my face and looked at me.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “I do.”

  That night, Celia and I slept nude, holding each other. We no longer pretended to touch by accident. And when I woke up in the morning with her hair in my face, I inhaled, loudly and proudly.

  Within those four walls, we were unashamed.

  SUB ROSA

  December 30, 1959

  * * *

  * * *

  ADLER AND HUGO KAPUT!

  Don Adler, Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelor?

  Don and Evelyn are calling it quits! After two years of marriage, Don has filed for divorce from Evelyn Hugo.

  We are sad to see the lovebirds part ways, but we’d be lying if we said we were surprised. We’ve heard rumblings that Don’s star is set to rise even higher, and Evelyn was getting jealous and catty.

  Luckily for Don, he’s renewed his contract with Sunset Studios—which must have head honcho Ari Sullivan smiling wide—and has three films slated for release this year. That Don never misses a beat!

  Meanwhile, while Evelyn’s newest movie, Little Women, showed boffo B.O. numbers and great critical reception, Sunset has pulled her out of the upcoming Jokers Wild and replaced her with Ruby Reilly.

  Has the sun set on Evelyn’s time with Sunset?

  22

  * * *

  HOW DID YOU REMAIN SO confident? So steadfast in your resolve?” I ask Evelyn.

  “When Don left me? Or when my career went down the tubes?”

  “Both, I guess,” I say. “I mean, you had Celia, so it’s a little different, but still.”

  Evelyn cocks her head slightly. “Different from what?”

  “Hm?” I say, lost in my own thoughts.

  “You said I had Celia, so it was a little different,” Evelyn clarifies. “Different from what?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was . . . in my own head.” I have momentarily let my own relationship problems seep into what should be a one-way conversation.

  Evelyn shakes her head. “No need to be sorry. Just tell me different from what.”

  I look at her and realize that I’ve opened a door that can’t really be shut. “From my own impending divorce.”

  Evelyn smiles, almost like the Cheshire Cat. “Now things are getting interesting,” she says.

  It bothers me, her cavalier attitude toward my own vulnerability. It’s my fault for bringing it up. I know that. But she could treat it with more kindness. I’ve exposed myself. I’ve exposed a wound.

  “Have you signed the papers?” Evelyn asks. “Perhaps with a tiny heart above the i in Monique? That’s what I would do.”

  “I guess I don’t take divorce as lightly as you,” I say. It comes out flatly. I consider softening, but . . . I don’t.

  “No, of course not,” Evelyn says kindly. “If you did, at your age, you’d be a cynic.”

  “But at your age?” I ask.

  “With my experience? A realist.”

  “That, in and of itself, is awfully cynical, don’t you think? Divorce is loss.”

  Evelyn shakes her head. “Heartbreak is loss. Divorce is a piece of paper.”

  I look down to see that I have been doodling a cube over and over with my blue pen. It is starting to tear through the page. I neither pick up my pen nor push harder. I merely keep running the ink over the lines of the cube.

  “If you are heartbroken right now, then I feel for you deeply,” Evelyn says. “That I have the utmost respect for. That’s the sort of thing that can split a person in two. But I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.”

  When Evelyn says this, I stop my pen in place. I look up at her. And I wonder why I needed Evelyn to tell me that.

  I wonder why that sort of distinction has never crossed my mind before.

  * * *

  ON MY WALK to the subway this evening, I see that Frankie has called me for the second time today.

  I wait until I’ve ridden all the way to Brooklyn and I’m heading down the street toward my apartment to respond. It’s almost nine o’clock, so I decide to text her: Just getting out of Evelyn’s now. Sorry it’s so late. Want to talk tomorrow?

  I have my key in my front door when I get Frankie’s response: Tonight is fine. Call as soon as you can.

  I roll my eyes. I should never bluff Frankie.

  I put my bag down. I pace around the apartment. What am I going to tell her? The way I see it, I have two choices.

  I can lie and tell her everything’s going fine, that we’re on track for the June issue and that I’m getting Evelyn to talk about more concrete things.

  Or I can tell the truth and potentially get fired.

  At this point, I’m starting to see that getting fired might not be so bad. I’ll have a book to publish in the future, one for which I’d most likely make millions of dollars. That could, in turn, get me other celebrity biography opportunities. And then, eventually, I could start finding my own topics, writing about anything I want with the confidence that any publisher would buy it.

  But I don’t know when this book will be sold. And if my real goal is to set myself up to be able to grab whatever story I want, then credibility matters. Getting fired from Vivant because I stole their major headline would not bode well for my reputation.

  Before I can decide what, exactly, my plan is, my phone is ringing in my hand.

  Frankie Troupe.

  “Hello?”

  “Monique,” Frankie says, her voice somehow both solicitous and irritated. “What’s going on with Evelyn? Tell me everything.”

  I keep searching for ways in which Frankie, Evelyn, and I all leave this situation getting what we want. But I realize suddenly that the only thing I can control is that I get what I want.

  And why shouldn’t I?

  Really.

  Why shouldn’t it be me who comes out on top?

  “Frankie, hi, I’m sorry I haven’t been more available.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine,” Frankie says. “As long as you’re getting good material.”

  “I am, but unfortunately, Evelyn is no longer interested in sharing the piece with Vivant.”

  The silence on Frankie’s end of the phone is deafening. And then it is punctuated with a flat, dead “What?”

  “I’ve been trying to convince her for days. That’s why I’ve been unable to get back to you. I’ve been explaining to her that she has to do this piece for Vivant.”

  “If she wasn’t interested, why did she call us?”

  “She wanted me,” I say. I do not follow this up with any sort of qualification. I do not say She wanted me and here is why or She wanted me and I’m so sorry about all this.

  “She used us to get to you?” Frankie says, as if it’s the most insulting thing she can think of. But the thing is, Frankie used me to get to Evelyn, so . . .

  “Yes,” I say. “I think she did. She’s interested in a full biography. Written by me. I’ve gone along with it in the hopes of changing her mind.”

  “A biography? You’re taking our story and turning it into a book instead?”

  “It’s what Evelyn wants. I’ve been trying to convince her otherwise.”

  “And have you?” Frankie asks. “Convinced her?”

  “No,” I say. “Not yet. But I think I might be able to.”

  “OK,” Frankie says. “Then do that.”

  This is my moment.

  “I think I can deliver you a massive, headline-making Evelyn Hugo story,” I say. “But if I do, I want to be promoted.”

  I can hear skepticism enter Frankie’s voice. “What kind of promotion?”

  “Editor at large. I come and go as I please. I choose the stories I want to tell.”

  “No.”

  “Then I have no incentive to get Evelyn to allow the piece to be in Vivant.”

  I can practically hear Frankie weighing her options. She is quiet, but there is no tension. It is as if she does not expect me to speak until she has decided what she will say. “If you get us a cover story,” she says finally, “and she agrees to sit for a photo shoot, I’ll make you a writer at large.”

  I consider the offer, and Frankie jumps in as I’m thinking. “We only have one editor at large. Bumping Gayle out of the spot she has earned doesn’t feel right to me. I’d think you could understand that. Writer at large is what I have to give. I won’t exert too much control over what you can write about. And if you prove yourself quickly there, you’ll move up as everyone else does. It’s fair, Monique.”

  I think about it for a moment further. Writer at large seems reasonable. Writer at large sounds great. “OK,” I say. And then I push just a little bit further. Because Evelyn said, at the very beginning of all this, that I have to insist on being paid top dollar. And she’s right. “And I want a raise commensurate with the title.”

  I cringe as I hear myself asking for money so directly. But I relax my shoulders the moment I hear Frankie say, “Yes, sure, fine.” I breathe out. “But I want confirmation from you tomorrow,” she continues. “And I want the photo shoot booked by next week.”

  “OK,” I say. “You’ve got it.”

  Before Frankie gets off the phone, she says, “I’m impressed, but I’m also pissed off. Please make this so good that I have to forgive you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I will.”

  23

  * * *

  WHEN I WALK INTO EVELYN’S office the next morning, I’m so nervous that my back is sweating and a shallow pool is forming along my spine.

  Grace puts down a charcuterie platter, and I can’t stop staring at the cornichons as Evelyn and Grace are talking about Lisbon in the summer.

  The moment Grace is gone, I turn to Evelyn.

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  She laughs. “Honestly, I feel like that’s all we do.”

  “About Vivant, I mean.”

  “OK,” she says. “Talk.”

  “I need to know some sort of timeline for when this book might be released.” I wait for Evelyn to respond. I wait for her to give me something, anything, resembling an answer.

  “I’m listening,” she says.

  “If you don’t tell me when this book could realistically be sold, then I’m running the risk of losing my job for something that might be years away. Decades, even.”

  “You certainly have high hopes for my life span.”

  “Evelyn,” I say, somewhat discouraged that she still isn’t taking this seriously. “I either need to know when this is coming out or I need to promise Vivant an excerpt of it for the June issue.”

  Evelyn thinks. She is sitting cross-legged on the sofa opposite me, in slim black jersey pants, a gray shell tank, and an oversized white cardigan. “OK,” she says, nodding. “You can give them a piece of it—whatever piece you like—for the June issue. If, and only if, you shut up about this timeline business.”

  I don’t let my joy show on my face. I’m halfway there. I can’t rest until I’m done. I have to push her. I have to ask and be willing to be told no. I have to know my worth.

  After all, Evelyn wants something from me. She needs me. I don’t know why or what for, but I know I wouldn’t be sitting here if that weren’t the case. I have value to her. I know that. And now I have to use it. Just as she would if she were me.

  So here we go.

  “You need to sit for a photo shoot. For the cover.”

  “No.”

  “It’s nonnegotiable.”

  “Everything is negotiable. Haven’t you gotten enough? I’ve agreed to the excerpt.”

  “You and I both know how valuable new images of you would be.”

  “I said no.”

  OK. Here we go. I can do this. I just have to do what Evelyn would do. I have to “Evelyn Hugo” Evelyn Hugo. “You agree to the cover photo, or I’m out.”

  Evelyn sits forward in her chair. “Excuse me?”

  “You want me to write your life story. I want to write your life story. But these are my terms. I’m not going to lose my job for you. And the way I keep my job is I deliver an Evelyn Hugo feature with a cover. So you either persuade me to lose my job over this—which is only possible if you tell me when this book is being sold—or you do this. Those are your options.”

  Evelyn looks at me, and I get the impression that I am more than she bargained for. And I feel good about that. There’s a smile forming that is hard to keep in.

  “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” she says.

  “I’m trying to protect my interests.”

  “Yes, but you’re also good at it, and I think you’re delighting in it a bit.”

  I finally let the smile out. “I’m learning from the best.”

  “Yes, you are,” Evelyn says. She scrunches her nose. “A cover?”

  “A cover.”

  “Fine. A cover. And in exchange, starting Monday, I want you here every waking moment. I want to tell you all I have to say as soon as possible. And from now on, when I don’t answer a question the first time, you don’t ask it again. Do we have a deal?”

  I get up from behind the desk, walk over to Evelyn, and put out my hand. “Deal.”

  Evelyn laughs. “Look at you,” she says. “You keep this up, you might just rule your own part of the world one day.”

  “Why, thank you,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, not unkindly. “Sit down at the desk. Start recording. I don’t have all day.”

  I do as I’m told, and then I look at her. “All right,” I say. “So you’re in love with Celia, you’ve divorced Don, it looks like your career is down the tubes. What’s next?”

  Evelyn takes a second to answer, and in that moment I realize that she has just agreed to the very thing she swore she would never do—a Vivant cover—just so I won’t walk.

  Evelyn wants me for something. And she wants it bad.

  And now I’m finally starting to suspect that I should be scared.

  GULLIBLE

  MICK RIVA

  PHOTOMOMENT

  February 1, 1960

  * * *

  * * *

  EVELYN, GREEN’S NOT YOUR COLOR

  Evelyn Hugo showed up to the 1960 Audience Appreciation Awards on the arm of producer Harry Cameron last Thursday. In an emerald-green silk cocktail number, she failed to wow like she has in the past. Evelyn’s signature color is starting to seem like a signature bore.

  Meanwhile, Celia St. James dazzled in a stunning pale blue beaded taffeta shirtdress, updating the typical daytime look with a glamorous, fresh twist.

  But the icy Evelyn didn’t say a single word to her old best friend. She avoided Celia all night.

  Is it because Evelyn can’t handle the fact that Celia received the Most Promising Female Personality Award that night? Or is it that Celia’s been nominated for an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress for their movie Little Women, and Evelyn didn’t get a mention?

  Looks like Evelyn Hugo’s green with envy.

  24

  * * *

  ARI DROPPED ME FROM ANY productions within Sunset and started offering to loan me out to Columbia. After being forced to do two forgettable romantic comedies—both of them so bad that it was a foregone conclusion they would fail spectacularly—the other studios didn’t want much of me, either.

  Don was on the cover of Life, gracefully coming out of the ocean onto the shore, smiling as if it was the best day of his life.

  When the 1960 Academy Awards came around, I was officially persona non grata.

  “You know that I would take you,” Harry said when he called that afternoon to check in on me. “You just say the word, and I’ll come pick you up. I’m sure you have a stunning dress you can slip on, and I’ll be the envy of everybody with you on my arm.”

  I was at Celia’s apartment, getting ready to leave before her hair and makeup people came over. She was in the kitchen, drinking lemon water, avoiding eating anything so she could fit into her dress.

  “I know you would,” I said into the phone. “But you and I both know it would only hurt your reputation to be aligned with me right now.”

  “I do mean it, though,” Harry said.

  “I know you do,” I said. “But you also know I’m too smart to take you up on it.”

  Harry laughed.

  “Do my eyes look puffy?” Celia asked when I got off the phone with Harry. She opened them bigger and stared at me, as if this would help me answer the question.

  I saw barely anything out of the ordinary. “They look gorgeous. And anyway, you know Gwen will make you look fabulous. What are you worried about?”