“It’s probably a cliché at this point for someone to tell you she hasn’t taken a shower without fear since seeing Psycho,” Margaret said as she reapplied her lipstick in the mirror to a knowing chuckle from Leigh, “but I have to wonder if it was traumatic for you too.”

“Are you kidding? I almost stopped taking showers,” Leigh said, dabbing her nose with a powder puff. “And I’m always facing the door, watching, no matter where the showerhead is.”

Margaret laughed. “You have no idea how much better that makes me feel.”

Leigh reached over and gently caressed Margaret’s cheek as a sister might. The two closed their purses, wandered to the bar, then found a table, drinks in hand. The shower scene, Leigh confided, was the most difficult shoot of her life; though it lasted just forty-five seconds in the movie, it was composed of fifty-two cuts requiring seventy-eight camera setups. It took more than seven days to film, Leigh said. The shower water was ice cold, the blood was Hershey’s chocolate sauce, the sound effects came from a knife plunging into a casaba melon, and a body double was used for every shot in which the audience didn’t see her face.

“Marli Renfro was her name,” Leigh said. “A stripper from Dallas. One of the first Playboy cover girls! She’s shooting some dreck right now, a soft-core comedy, the only gig she could get.” She tsked knowingly and took a sip of her cosmopolitan.

“Well, at least she’s safe from these octopuses,” Margaret said. “Octopi,” she corrected herself.

Leigh laughed. “They’re a handsy bunch, aren’t they,” she said. “As soon as they found out Tony was leaving me for that teenager, every one of them stepped right on up for a piece.”

It hadn’t hit the papers yet, but Leigh’s husband, actor Tony Curtis, had filed for divorce and was leaving her for Christine Kaufmann, his seventeen-year-old costar in the film Taras Bulba.

“Frank was first in line, of course,” Leigh continued. “Tony had me served right before we shot the train scene on Manchurian and the attempts to ‘console’ me began shortly thereafter.” She smiled modestly. “But I’ve heard far too many horror stories.”

“What do you mean?”

Leigh looked around the room. Charlie and Lawford were deep in conversation, as were Giancana and Judy, but most of the remaining crowd was gathered around the main table where Sinatra, Frankenheimer, and others regaled the guests with uproarious tales.

“Don’t get me wrong, Frank is a real charmer,” Leigh said. “He’s just also kind of, well, unstable.”

“He has moods,” Margaret agreed.