I glanced at the cap of the driver in the front seat and decided to say no more. When we arrived at the Observatory the driver jumped out and held the door for us. I stepped out into a gaggle of network and local television cameras, radio personalities with microphones, and press people. Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, shooting daggered looks at each other, took up their respective places of honor and smiled like the doyenne-dragons that they were. The renowned Dorothy Parker was on assignment for the New Yorker, and there were less stellar representatives from Modern Screen, Photoplay, and Secrets of the Stars. (Not Al Gilbert; he only did the slimy stuff.)

When Charlie stepped out beside me I could see on his face—no matter what had brought him here—that he was delighted to be part of this moment. I took his arm with some affection, and we turned, smiled, and waved to crowds lining either side of the broad red carpet while the flashbulbs sparkled, and people applauded our appearance: Charlie, handsome, beaming in his tuxedo, me in a ballerina-length, sea-green chiffon with a long chiffon scarf over one shoulder and the rope of Julia’s pearls gleaming. I wore Terrence’s gold bracelet over my elbow-length, three-button gloves.

According to Gordon’s careful planning, Charlie and I were among the earlier arrivals—the newsreel, so to speak, before the main attraction. As we started up the red carpet, we turned and waved, absorbing a lot of anonymous attention, and I saw two older women deep in the crowd, two women who were not waving madly or jumping up and down with excitement. Smiling. Marian and Kathleen. They just stood there, like ghosts really, smiling ghosts, and honestly, when the next limo pulled up, they so swiftly melted into the crowd, I somehow doubted I had seen them at all.

Gordon rose from this limo and offered his hand to Irene, and then to Elsie as each stepped from the car. Gordon wore his worried-cobra expression, and Irene wore a white Balenciaga and sapphires, looking like the proverbial tip of the beautiful iceberg. Elsie still looked like a Victorian sofa. When, following them, Jonathan stepped out of his limo, he took his time absorbing the crowd’s adulation all by himself before he offered his hand to Barbara Marsh, who sat in the back seat, waiting to emerge.

At last Leon and Denise arrived, bathed in applause. Denise shone in the spotlight, beautifully draped in a coat of white chinchilla; she did not show in the least. Leon in his tuxedo looked as debonair, bon vivant, and sophisticated as David Niven in The Elusive Pimpernel. As part of this glittering exercise, everyone smiled and preened along the red carpet and up the steps into the Observatory, where posters of Fly Me to the Moon adorned the walls.