“Evelyn, I’m so sorry,” he whispered into my ear.

I pulled back and looked at him, stunned. No one had ever apologized for hitting me before.

“I never should have laid a hand on you,” he said. His eyes were filling with tears. “I’m ashamed of myself. For doing anything at all to hurt you.” He looked so pained. “I will do anything for your forgiveness.”

Maybe the life I thought I had wasn’t so far away after all.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked.

Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe it didn’t mean anything had to change.

“Of course I can,” I said.

The director ran back to the camera, and Don leaned back, taking his hands off our mics.

“And . . . action!”

Don and I were both nominated for Academy Awards for One More Day. And I think the general consensus was that it didn’t matter how talented we were. People just loved seeing us together.

To this day, I have no idea if either of us is actually any good in it. It is the only movie I’ve ever shot that I cannot bring myself to watch.

A MAN HITS YOU ONCE and apologizes, and you think it will never happen again.

But then you tell him you’re not sure you ever want a family, and he hits you once more. You tell yourself it’s understandable, what he did. You were sort of rude, the way you said it. You do want a family someday. You truly do. You’re just not sure how you’re going to manage it with your movies. But you should have been more clear.

The next morning, he apologizes and brings you flowers. He gets down on his knees.

The third time, it’s a disagreement about whether to go out to Romanoff’s or stay in. Which, you realize when he pushes you into the wall behind you, is actually about the image of your marriage to the public.

The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a silk, emerald-green, one-shoulder dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has too much to drink at the after-parties, trying to nurse his wounds. You’re in the front seat of the car in your driveway, about to go inside. He’s upset that he lost.

You tell him it’s OK.

He tells you that you don’t understand.

You remind him that you lost, too.

He says, “Yeah, but your parents are trash from Long Island. No one expects anything from you.”

You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you asshole.”

He opens the parked car’s door and pushes you out.

When he comes crawling to you in tears the next morning, you don’t actually believe him anymore. But now this is just what you do.

The same way you fix the hole in your dress with a safety pin or tape up the crack in a window.

That’s the part I was stuck in, the part where you accept the apology because it’s easier than addressing the root of the problem, when Harry Cameron came to my dressing room and told me the good news. Little Women was getting the green light.

“It’s you as Jo, Ruby Reilly as Meg, Joy Nathan as Amy, and Celia St. James is playing Beth.”

“Celia St. James? From Olympian Studios?”

Harry nodded. “What’s with the frown? I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“Oh,” I said, turning further toward him. “I am. I absolutely am.”

“You don’t like Celia St. James?”

I smiled at him. “That teenage bitch is gonna act me under the table.”

Harry threw his head back and laughed.

Celia St. James had made headlines earlier in the year. At the age of nineteen, she played a young widowed mother in a war-period piece. Everyone said she was sure to be nominated next year. Exactly the sort of person the studio would want playing Beth.

And exactly the sort of person Ruby and I would hate.

“You’re twenty-one years old, you’re married to the biggest movie star there is right now, and you were just nominated for an Academy Award, Evelyn.”

Harry had a point, but so did I. Celia was going to be a problem.

“It’s OK. I’m ready. I’m gonna give the best goddamn performance of my life, and when people watch the movie, they are going to say, ‘Beth who? Oh, the middle sister who dies? What about her?’ ”

“I have absolutely no doubt,” Harry said, putting his arm around me. “You’re fabulous, Evelyn. The whole world knows it.”

I smiled. “You really think so?”

This is something that everyone should know about stars. We like to be told we are adored, and we want you to repeat yourself. Later in my life, people would always come up to me and say, “I’m sure you don’t want to hear me blabbering on about how great you are,” and I always say, as if I’m joking, “Oh, one more time won’t hurt.” But the truth is, praise is just like an addiction. The more you get it, the more of it you need just to stay even.

“Yes,” he said. “I really think so.”

I stood up from my chair to give Harry a hug, but as I did, the lighting highlighted my upper cheekbone, the rounded spot just below my eye.

I watched as Harry’s gaze ran across my face.

He could see the light bruise I was hiding, could see the purple and blue under the surface of my skin, bleeding through the pancake makeup.

“Evelyn . . .” he said. He put his thumb up to my face, as if he needed to feel it to know it was real.

“Harry, don’t.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“No, you won’t.”

“We’re best friends, Evelyn. Me and you.”

“I know,” I said. “I know that.”

“You said best friends tell each other everything.”

“And you knew it was bullshit when I said it.”

I stared at him as he stared at me.

“Let me help,” he said. “What can I do?”

“You can make sure I look better than Celia, better than all of ’em, in the dailies.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“But it’s all you can do.”

“Evelyn . . .”

I kept my upper lip stiff. “There’s no move here, Harry.”

He understood what I meant. I couldn’t leave Don Adler.

“I could talk to Ari.”

“I love him,” I said, turning away and clipping my earrings on.

It was the truth. Don and I had problems, but so did a lot of people. And he was the only man who had ever ignited something in me. Sometimes I hated myself for wanting him, for finding myself brightening up when his attention was on me, for still needing his approval. But I did. I loved him, and I wanted him in my bed. And I wanted to stay in the spotlight.

“End of discussion.”

A moment later, there was another knock on my door. It was Ruby Reilly. She was shooting a drama where she played a young nun. She was standing in front of the two of us in a black tunic and a white cowl. Her hood was in her hand.

“Did you hear?” Ruby said to me. “Well, of course you heard. Harry’s here.”

Harry laughed. “You both start rehearsals in three weeks.”

Ruby hit Harry on the arm playfully. “No, not that part! Did you hear Celia St. James is playing Beth? That tart’s gonna show us all up.”

“See, Harry?” I said. “Celia St. James is going to ruin everything.”

THE MORNING WE STARTED REHEARSALS for Little Women, Don woke me up with breakfast in bed. Half a grapefruit and a lit cigarette. I found this highly romantic, because it was exactly what I wanted.

“Good luck today, sweetheart,” he said as he got dressed and headed out the door. “I know you’ll show Celia St. James what it really means to be an actress.”

I smiled and wished him a good day. I ate the grapefruit and left the tray in bed as I got into the shower.

When I got out, our maid, Paula, was in the bedroom cleaning up after me. She was picking the butt of my cigarette off the duvet. I’d left it on the tray, but it must have fallen.

I didn’t keep a neat house.

My clothes from last night were on the floor. My slippers were on top of the dresser. My towel was in the sink.

Paula had her work cut out for her, and she didn’t find me particularly charming. That much was clear.