The Chelsea Girls(26)
Seeing her again brought up all kinds of emotions: pride at her accomplishments, jealousy at her uncomplicated life—at least compared to mine—and, above all, a love for her. I loved the way she looked at me, like she didn’t quite believe whatever was coming out of my mouth, and called me on it, when necessary. My grandmother is the same way, someone who truly understands me.
I suggested we go out and celebrate her good news. We put on our posh frocks—I wore my fiery-pink Balenciaga. Whenever I put on that dress, I feel divine, but then Hazel stepped out of her bedroom in a strapless white number, stunning in its simplicity, that made it seem like there was a halo around her. How does she do that?
* * *
“I hope there aren’t any photographers still waiting outside,” said Hazel as we stepped off the elevator.
No such luck. I counted four, that I could see, and had steadied myself, like I was about to dive into a pool filled with alligators, when Mr. Bard popped into the lobby from a side hallway.
“You don’t have to go out that way, if you don’t want.”
“Is there a back door to this place?” Hazel asked.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Follow me.”
We took a staircase tucked beside the lobby phone booths down one flight to the basement, past the laundry. The maids stubbed out cigarettes and began loading sheets into enormous dryers as soon as we came into view.
Their lackadaisical work ethic didn’t seem to bother Mr. Bard, who kept up a running commentary as we zigzagged through the narrow hallways. “Back when the hotel was built, in the 1880s, we had a billiard parlor, wine cellar, and butcher shop down here.” Hazel rolled her eyes, she’d clearly heard all this before. But Mr. Bard had a giddy hop in his step, leading us deeper into the basement, to a narrow door, which he opened with a flourish. “The servants used to be housed in a brownstone on Twenty-Second Street, but now it’s empty. This tunnel connects the two buildings.”
We entered a dank, dark hallway, lit by bare bulbs spaced widely apart. Strange to think we were directly underneath the ragged courtyard that separated the Chelsea from the row houses to the south. I wouldn’t want to come down there on my own. I was sure rats and other critters used it as a highway when the humans weren’t about.
We eventually emerged inside a small cellar. Up five steps and we were out on the street, not a camera in sight.
“Well done, Mr. Bard,” said Hazel. He grinned with delight. I blew him a kiss as we jumped in a cab, and in no time we arrived at the Russian Tea Room. Nothing classier than that, I’ve always thought. The place was jumping, the red leather banquettes full up and golden samovars gleaming in the low light. I blended in just right. Showy but with a purpose. That’s me.
“Hazel, over here.”
A man whose shiny bald pate rivaled the gleam of the samovars stood and waved his arms. “You must join us.”
Hazel looked uncertain, worried. “We could get a more private table upstairs,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
“Nah. Let’s meet your friends.” Something was holding her back, and I was curious to find out what it was.
The older man turned out to be Mr. Canby, the producer of her play, who sat next to the director, Mr. Williams. A hussy with glossy lips was squashed up against Mr. Williams like a barnacle. “This is Miss Brandy Sainsbury,” remarked Hazel. “She was kind enough to do a reading of the show earlier today.”
We ordered Moscow mules and got acquainted. At first, Miss Sainsbury pretended to not know who I was, before doing a wide-eyed double take. “Wait a minute, weren’t you in that movie with Linda Darnell? I can’t remember the name. Well, gosh almighty.”
What a liar. Any aspiring actress with Hollywood dreams knows every last thing about the film business—who’s in, who’s out, the names of all the speaking cast members on the silver screen, from the stars on down. Miss Sainsbury knew exactly who I was, but she preferred to try to diminish me in front of these men rather than admit it. It was the oldest power play in the world, and she probably sensed it was a waste of effort from the get-go. At this table, there was no denying who was queen. Or maybe little Brandy’s objective was less to establish the upper hand than to telegraph how much she already hated me. The feeling was entirely mutual.
The director and the producer, on the other hand, cozied up to me big-time. Theater folk love to think they might end up in Hollywood, however much they pooh-pooh the film business. Usually, I’d luxuriate in the attention, but instead, I turned the subject right around to the play. This was Hazel’s town, not mine. For now.
“We’re planning on opening in July,” said Mr. Canby. “It’s fast, but I’ve been telling investors that our playwright is the next Lillian Hellman, another lady writer great with a turn of phrase.” He lit a cigarette, pleased with himself. “I tell you, it makes people swoon.”
“Lillian Hellman, that’s a lot to live up to,” said Hazel. “We’ve still got to cast the thing. That’ll be the key, to get the right people in the leads.”
I noticed she avoided looking at Miss Sainsbury as she spoke.
“Now, how do you two know each other?” Mr. Canby asked.
“We acted together in the USO tour.” I put my arm around Hazel. “In fact, that’s where our soon-to-be-famous playwright first put pen to paper. She wrote up news items that I translated over the radio to the Germans as part of the propaganda effort, known as Lina from America. I was the voice of Lina, but Hazel was the brains.”