“Don, I—”

He waved me off, determining, before I’d even said anything, that whatever I had to say was useless to him.

The lights dimmed. The crowd quieted. The credits started to roll. And my face appeared on the screen.

The entire audience stared at me on-screen as I said, “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents!”

But by the time Celia said, “We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” I knew it was all over for me.

Everyone was going to walk out of this theater talking about Celia St. James.

It should have made me afraid or jealous or insecure. I should have been plotting to one-up her in some way by planting a story that she was a prude or sleeping around. That is the fastest way to ruin a woman’s reputation, after all—to imply that she has not adequately threaded the needle that is being sexually satisfying without ever appearing to desire sexual satisfaction.

But instead of spending the next hour and forty-five minutes nursing my wounds, I spent the time holding back a smile.

Celia was going to win an Oscar. It was as plain as the nose on her face. And it didn’t make me jealous. It made me happy.

When Beth died, I cried. And then I reached over Robert’s and Don’s laps and squeezed her hand.

Don rolled his eyes at me.

And I thought, He’s going to find an excuse to hit me later. But it will be for this.

* * *

I WAS STANDING in the middle of Ari Sullivan’s mansion at the top of Benedict Canyon. Don and I had made it up the winding streets without saying much of anything to each other.

I suspected he knew the same thing I did once he saw Celia in that movie. That no one cared about anything else.

After our driver dropped us off and we made our way inside, Don said, “I need to find the john,” and disappeared.

I looked for Celia but couldn’t find her.

Instead, I was surrounded by brown-nosing losers, hoping to rub elbows with me while they drank their sugary cocktails and talked about Eisenhower.

“Would you excuse me?” I said to a woman in a hideous bubble cut. She was waxing on about the Hope Diamond.

Women who collected rare jewels seemed exactly the same as men who were desperate to have just one night with me. The world was about objects to them; all they wanted to do was possess.

“Oh, there you are, Ev,” Ruby said when she found me in the hallway. She had two green cocktails in her hand. Her voice was lukewarm, a bit hard to read.

“Having a good night?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder, put the stems of both glasses in one hand, and then pulled me by the elbow, spilling as she did.

“Ow, Ruby,” I said, noticeably perturbed.

She nodded covertly to the laundry room to the right of us.

“What on earth . . .” I said.

“Would you just open the goddamn door, Evelyn?”

I turned the handle, and Ruby stepped in and dragged me with her. She shut the door behind us.

“Here,” she said, handing me one of the cocktails in the dark. “I was getting it for Joy, but you have it. It matches your dress, anyway.”

As my eyes adjusted, I took the drink from her. “You’re lucky it matches my dress. You nearly poured half the drink on it.”

With one of her hands now free, Ruby tugged on the pull chain of the light above us. The tiny room lit up and stung my eyes.

“You have absolutely no decorum tonight, Ruby.”

“You think I’m worried about what you think of me, Evelyn Hugo? Now, listen, what’re we going to do?”

“What are we going to do about what?”

“About what? About Celia St. James, that’s what.”

“What about her?”

Ruby hung her head in frustration. “Evelyn, I swear.”

“She gave a great performance. What can we do?” I said.

“This is exactly what I told Harry would happen. And he said it wouldn’t.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“You’re losing out, too. Or do you not see that?”

“Of course I see it!” I cared, obviously. But I also knew I could still win Best Actress. Celia and Ruby would be competing for Best Supporting. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ruby. We were all right about Celia. She’s talented and gorgeous and charming, and when you’ve been bested, sometimes it’s good to recognize it and move on.”

Ruby looked at me as if I had slapped her.

I had nothing else to say, and she was blocking my way out of the room. So I put the drink to my mouth and downed it in two gulps.

“This is not the Evelyn I know and respect,” Ruby said.

“Oh, Ruby, put a lid on it.”

She finished her drink. “People have been saying all sorts of things about the two of you, and I didn’t believe it. But now . . . I don’t know.”

“People have been saying all sorts of things like what?”

“You know.”

“I assure you, I haven’t the faintest.”

“Why do you make things so difficult?”

“Ruby, you’ve pulled me into a laundry room against my will, and you’re barking at me about things I can’t control. I’m not the difficult one.”

“She’s a lesbian, Evelyn.”

Until that point, the sounds of the party going on around us had been muted but still distinct. But the minute Ruby said what she said, the minute I heard the word lesbian, my blood started beating so fast that my pulse was all I could hear. I was not paying attention to what was flying out of Ruby’s mouth. I could only catch certain words, like girl and dyke and twisted.

The skin on my chest felt hot. My ears burned.

I did my best to calm myself. And when I did, when I focused on Ruby’s words, I finally heard the other piece of what she was trying to tell me.

“You should probably get a better handle on your husband, by the way. He’s in Ari’s bedroom getting a blow job from some harpy from MGM.”

When she said it, I did not think, Oh, my God. My husband is cheating on me. I thought, I have to find Celia.

EVELYN GETS UP OFF THE sofa and picks up the phone, asking Grace to order us dinner from the Mediterranean place on the corner.

“Monique? What would you like? Beef or chicken?”

“Chicken, I guess.” I watch her, waiting for her to sit back down and resume her story. But when she does sit, she merely looks at me. She neither acknowledges what she has just told me nor admits what I’ve been suspecting for some time now. I have no choice but to be direct. “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

“That Celia St. James was gay?”

“I’m telling you the story as it unfolded.”

“Well, yes,” I say. “But . . .”

“But what?” Evelyn is calm, perfectly composed. And I can’t tell if it’s because she knows what I suspect and she’s finally ready to tell the truth or because I’m dead wrong and so she has no idea what I’m thinking.

I’m not sure I want to ask the question before I know the answer.

Evelyn’s lips are together in a straight line. Her eyes are focused directly on me. But I notice, as she’s waiting for me to speak, that her chest is rising and falling at a rapid pace. She’s nervous. She’s not as confident as she’s letting on. She’s an actress, after all. I should know well enough by now that what you see isn’t always what you get with Evelyn.

So I ask her the question in a way that lets her tell me as much, or as little, as she’s ready to say. “Who was the love of your life?”

Evelyn looks me in the eye, and I know she needs one more tiny push.

“It’s OK, Evelyn. Really.”

It’s a big deal. But it is OK. Things are different now from how they were then. Although still not entirely safe, either, I have to admit.

But still.

She can say it.

She can say it to me.

She can admit it, freely. Now. Here.

“Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.”

Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.”

The room is quiet as Evelyn lets herself hear her own words. And then she smiles, a bright, wide, deeply sincere smile. She starts laughing to herself and then refocuses on me. “I feel like I spent my entire life loving her.”