In Hollywood, the term “exclusive party” means you invite everyone you owe money to, and everyone to whom you owe favors, as well as everyone you might want to ask for money or a favor in the future. Knowing this, Jonathan and I sat in the back seat of the limo, wordlessly passing his hip flask back and forth, nursing our anxieties. My anxieties were personal. I’d promised to accept Denise as Leon’s wife, to be nice to a woman I detested. Jonathan’s anxieties were professional. Jonathan intended to use this party to kiss whoever’s ring, or tush, needed kissing to get a good role. He hadn’t got the role in The Bridges at Toko-Ri or any other decent picture, and he was madly jealous of friends like Rock Hudson whose careers were on the ascendant while Jonathan’s talents were still confined to clunkers like The Silver Chalice.

At Summit Drive we stepped out of the car into a herd of photographers snapping pictures as we entered the high, marbled foyer. Tall, austere Clarence, looking more like a senator than a butler, gave a slight smile and nodded to me. The place looked exactly the same as when I left it two years ago as we passed into the long salon at the back where French doors gave onto vast, tiered gardens. In the high upstairs gallery ringing the salon, an orchestra played movie themes from recent pictures. The people who made those pictures collected below—there was more star power here than you can see at the Griffith Observatory. Leon’s close allies in the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals gathered in their own galaxy. When the orchestra took up the theme from The High and the Mighty, on cue, John Wayne turned from his conversation with Gary Cooper and Hedda Hopper and waved to everyone present. Standing there between those twin pillars of American masculinity, Hedda, who usually bristles with righteous indignation, looked like a delighted damsel.

Jonathan bent his head to mine and murmured, “You are the only woman here in red.”

“Mais oui.” I had chosen this red dress particularly for tonight, just for a bit of tant pis to Leon and all the rabid Red-baiters I knew would be here. A strapless bodice, full at the hips, with two layers of shimmery, brilliant red-patterned voile over silk, it rustled softly when I walked, and it screamed Dior. I carried a small, chic Dior handbag and accessorized with elbow-length red gloves and Julia’s diamond choker, diamond bracelet, and ruby earrings, retrieved from the safe-deposit box. I didn’t wear them with Julia’s grace or glamour. How could I? How could anyone? My hair, longer now, was swept up into a fashionable French twist, except for one long lock that fell down the right side of my face, à la Veronica Lake, obscuring the birthmark.