“I slept with Mick because I wanted to protect our careers, mine and hers. And that was more important to me than the sanctity of our relationship. And I slept with Harry because I wanted a baby, and I thought people would get suspicious if we adopted. Because I was afraid to draw attention to the sexlessness of our marriage. And I chose that over the sanctity of our relationship. And when Max Girard had a good idea about a creative choice in a movie, I wanted to do it. And I was willing to do it at the expense of the sanctity of our relationship.”

“You’re hard on yourself, I think,” I say. “Celia wasn’t perfect. She could be cruel.”

Evelyn shrugs slightly. “She always made sure the bad was outweighed by so much good. I . . . well, I didn’t do that for her. I made it fifty-fifty. Which is about the cruelest thing you can do to someone you love, give them just enough good to make them stick through a hell of a lot of bad. Of course, I realized all this when she left me. And I tried to fix it. But it was too late. As she said, she simply couldn’t do it anymore. Because it took me too long to figure out what I cared about. Not because of my sexuality. I feel confident you’re going to get that right.”

“I promise,” I say. “I will.”

“I know you will. And while we’re on the subject of how I’d like to be portrayed, there’s something else you need to get exactly right. I won’t be able to clear things up after I’m gone. I want to know now, I want to be absolutely sure, that you’ll represent what I’m telling you accurately.”

“OK,” I say. “What is it?”

Evelyn’s mood turns a bit darker. “I’m not a good person, Monique. Make sure, in the book, that that’s clear. That I’m not claiming to be good. That I did a lot of things that hurt a lot of people, and I would do them over again if I had to.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You don’t seem so bad, Evelyn.”

“You, of all people, are going to change your mind about that,” she says. “Very soon.”

And all I can think is, What the fuck did she do?

JOHN DIED OF A HEART attack in 1980. He was just shy of fifty. It didn’t make any sense. The most athletic and fit of us, the one who didn’t smoke, the one who exercised every day, he shouldn’t have been the one whose heart stopped. But things don’t make sense. And when he left us, he left a giant-sized hole in our lives.

Connor was five. It was hard to explain to her where Uncle John went. It was even harder to explain to her why her father was so heartbroken. For weeks, Harry could barely get out of bed. When he did, it was to drink bourbon. He was rarely sober, always somber, and often unkind.

Celia was photographed in tears, her eyes bloodshot, walking into her trailer on location in Arizona. I wanted to hold her. I wanted us all to see one another through it. But I knew that wasn’t in the cards.

But I could help Harry. So Connor and I stayed with him at his apartment every day. She slept in her room there. I slept on the sofa in his bedroom. I made sure he ate. I made sure he bathed. I made sure he played make-believe with his daughter.

One morning, I woke up to find Harry and Connor both in the kitchen. Connor was pouring herself a bowl of cereal while Harry stood in his pajama bottoms, looking out the window.

He had an empty glass in his hand. When he turned away from the view and back toward Connor, I said, “Good morning.”

And Connor said, “Daddy, why do your eyes look wet?”

I wasn’t sure if he’d been crying or if he was already a few drinks into the day that early in the morning.

At the funeral, I wore a black vintage Halston. Harry wore a black suit with a black shirt, black tie, black belt, and black socks. Grief never left his face.

His profound, guttural pain didn’t follow the story we had sold the press, that Harry and John were friends, that Harry and I were in love. Nor did the fact that John left the house to Harry. But despite my instincts, I did not encourage Harry to hide his feelings or decline the house. I had very little energy left to try to hide who we were. I had learned all too well that pain was sometimes stronger than the need to keep up appearances.

Celia was there, in a long-sleeved black minidress. She did not say hello to me. She barely looked at me. I stared at her, aching to walk over and grab her hand. But I didn’t take a single step in her direction.

I was not going to use this loss of Harry’s to ease my own. I wasn’t going to make her talk to me. Not like that.

Harry held back tears as John’s casket was lowered into the ground. Celia walked away. Connor watched me watch her and said, “Mom, who is that lady? I think I know her.”

“You do, honey,” I said. “You did.”

And then Connor, my adorable baby girl, said, “She’s the one who dies in your movie.”

And I realized she didn’t remember Celia at all. She recognized her from Little Women.

“She’s the nice one. The one who wants everyone to be happy,” Connor said.

That’s when I knew the family I had made had truly disintegrated.

Now This

July 3, 1980

CELIA ST. JAMES AND JOAN MARKER, BEST OF FRIENDS

Celia St. James and Hollywood newcomer Joan Marker have become the talk of the town lately! Marker, best known for her star-making turn in last year’s Promise Me, is quickly becoming the It Girl of the season. And who better to show her the ropes than America’s Sweetheart? Seen shopping together in Santa Monica and grabbing lunches in Beverly Hills, the two can’t seem to get enough of each other.

We certainly hope this means the duo are planning a movie together, because that would be a tour de force of performances!

I KNEW THE ONLY WAY to get Harry to start living his life again was to surround him with Connor and work. The Connor part was easy. She loved her father. She wanted his attention every second of the day. She was growing up to look even more like him, with his ice-blue eyes and his broad, tall frame. And when he was with her, he would stop drinking. He cared about being a good father, and he knew he had a responsibility to be sober for her.

But when he went back to his own home every night, a fact still secret from the outside world, I knew he was drinking himself to sleep. On the days he was not with us, I knew he wasn’t getting out of bed.

So work was my only option. I had to find something he would love. It had to be a script he would feel passionate about and one with a great role for me. Not just because I wanted a great role but also because Harry wouldn’t do anything for himself. But he would do anything if he believed I needed him to.

So I read scripts. Hundreds of scripts over the months. And then Max Girard sent me one that he was having trouble getting made. It was called All for Us.

It was about a single mother of three who moves to New York City to try to support her children and pursue her dreams. It was about trying to make ends meet in the cold, hard city, but it was also about hope and daring to believe you deserve more. Both of which I knew would appeal to Harry. And the role of Renee, the mother, was honest, righteous, and powerful.

I ran it over to Harry and begged him to read it. When he tried to avoid it, I said, “I think it will finally get me my Oscar.” That’s what made him pick it up.

I loved shooting All for Us. And it wasn’t because I finally got that goddamn statue for it or because I became even closer with Max Girard on the set. I loved shooting All for Us because while it didn’t get Harry to put down the bottle, it did get him out of bed.

* * *

FOUR MONTHS AFTER the movie came out, Harry and I went to the Oscars together. Max Girard had attended with a model named Bridget Manners, but he had joked, for weeks before the event, that all he wanted was to attend with me, to have me on his arm. He had even taken to joking that given all the men I’d married, he was crushed that I’d never married him. I had to admit that Max was quickly becoming someone I truly felt close to. So while he did technically have a date, it felt, as we all sat in the first row together, that I was there with the two men who meant the most to me.

Connor was back at the hotel, watching on TV with Luisa. Earlier that day, she had given Harry and me each a picture she had drawn. Mine was a gold star. Harry’s was a lightning bolt. She said they were for luck. I tucked mine into my clutch. Harry put his in his tuxedo pocket.