One hot night in August Irene and I sat by their pool after dinner drinking iced champagne with our feet in the water. Gordon meandered out to the patio, just home from work at nearly ten. Irene rose and kissed him on the cheek. She went to the patio bar, got him a glass, opened a fresh bottle with a practiced pop, and refreshed all our glasses. “Eudonna’s gone for the night, honey, but can I get you something to eat?”

“I had something at the studio.” He took off his shoes and socks, sat down, and wearily put his pale feet in the water. “I had to stay extra late tonight because Leon brought the baby to the Executive Mansion today to show him off. Work came to a halt, of course, so everyone could bow down to the little prince.”

“Did Denise come too?”

“Hell no. That Irish nanny in her white uniform stood there like the commandant. But Denise came later in the afternoon.” Gordon lit a cigarette. “She loves waltzing in, and having everything come to a halt so everyone can fawn over her. ‘What can we get for you, Miss Dell?’ ‘Who do you want to see, Miss Dell?’ Denise will get what she wants, no matter the cost in time or money to anyone else. She didn’t even have an appointment with me, but she demanded that I drop everything—cancel a production meeting!—to sit there and listen to her berate me for an hour.”

“What for?” asked Irene.

“Where was the Joan of Arc script I had promised her? I tried to tell her they’re still—”

“Joan of Arc!” I choked on my champagne so it almost came out my nose.

“She’s convinced she missed her calling with those Jean Arthur, Carole Lombard sorts of comedies and that really, she’s a great dramatic actress.”

“She couldn’t say oscilloscope! How is she supposed to lead the French to victory?”

Gordon turned his gaze to me. His voice was even and acid. “I’d tell Denise Dell she was going to play the Virgin Mary and give birth to the light of the world. I’d tell her she was going to remake the rolling-on-the-beach scene in From Here to Eternity. I’d tell her she was going to play Ilsa in a new Casablanca. I’d swear to her that she would have lines like Bacall in To Have and Have Not, that we were rebuilding Rome on the back lot so she could play Cleopatra, that Mary Pickford will come out of retirement to kiss the hem of Denise Dell, America’s new sweetheart.”

“You’re overworked, honey,” said Irene.