One night in late July, the Saturday before they would commence filming Fly Me to the Moon, Leon threw a soiree under the stars at Summit Drive. I attended with Jonathan, and we were stuck for what felt like hours talking to Mr. Moore who (surprise, surprise) actually had kind words to say about Jonathan’s upcoming starring role. Jonathan’s father could do to him what my mother did to me, and it wasn’t pretty. Denise Dell came to our rescue, taking Jonathan’s arm and saying she wanted to dance with her leading man.

I took the opportunity to escape Mr. Moore, though I shortly found myself marooned instead with Elsie O’Dell, who mentioned sotto voce that today was Denise’s birthday. She was thirty. Elsie must have been pretty soused to part with that fact. No actress will ever willingly acknowledge a birthday. Look at Mary Pickford. She stayed in ringlets, hair bows, and flounces till she was old enough to be someone’s granny, and then she simply vanished and became part of Hollywood’s collective unconscious. Denise waved to her mother from the garden tier above us. Elsie rose to join them. “Are you coming, Roxanne?”

“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.” I meandered alone among the guests, most of whom I knew, stopping to chat with those I liked best, like Buster Keaton and Fred Astaire.

For the first time in my life, I watched the waiters at a party. I wondered if they too were relatives of the Dexters and Prescotts, the Goodalls, the Bowers. Where was it written, on what tablets of social stone, that the help should all be black, and the party guests all white? The orchestra, however, was mixed, and the leader was black, and they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and that cheered me. I knew from Terrence’s columns that the only reason they could play together in public (integrated after-hours jam sessions were an open secret) was that the two musicians’ unions had combined into one. I noticed Clarence standing at the French doors, overseeing his particular empire. I would have waved, but he averted his gaze immediately. Well, tant pis, I thought, still angry at the idea of those white gloves he’d handed Terrence with instructions about touching my white skin.

Irene interrupted my thoughts, taking my arm in a no-nonsense fashion. “You’ve been positively beaming all summer long, every time I see you, and it’s getting tedious. You’re sleeping with someone new and fascinating, aren’t you? Tell me.”

“We’ll always have Paris.”