Hugo was recently seen out with a much younger man last week. Jack Easton, a Democratic congressman from Vermont, is only twenty-nine years old. That’s more than two decades younger than Evelyn. And if the photos of their evening together out to dinner in Los Angeles are any indication, it looks like a blossoming romance.

Hugo doesn’t have a great track record, but in this case, it seems like one thing is clear: Girard’s comments certainly sound like sour grapes.

HARRY WASN’T ON BOARD.

He was the one piece of the plan that wasn’t up to me, the one person I wasn’t willing to manipulate into doing what I wanted him to do. And he didn’t want to leave everything behind and fly off to Europe.

“You’re suggesting I retire,” Harry said. “And I’m not even sixty yet. My God, Evelyn. What on earth am I going to do all day? Play cards on the beach?”

“That doesn’t sound nice?”

“It sounds nice for about an hour and a half,” he said. He was drinking what looked like orange juice but I suspected was a screwdriver. “And then I’d be stuck trying to occupy myself for the rest of my life.”

We were sitting in my dressing room on the set of Theresa’s Wisdom. Harry had found the script and sold it to Fox with me attached to play Theresa, a woman who is leaving her husband while desperately trying to keep her children together.

It was the third day of shooting, and I was in costume, a white Chanel pantsuit and pearls, about to go on set to shoot the scene where Theresa and her husband announce that they are divorcing over Christmas dinner. Harry looked as handsome as ever in khaki slacks and an oxford shirt. He had gone almost entirely gray by then, and I actively resented him for growing more attractive as he aged, while I had to watch my value disappear by the day like a molding lemon.

“Harry, don’t you want to stop living this lie?”

“What lie?” he asked. “I understand it’s a lie for you. Because you want to make it work with Celia. And you know that I support that, I do. But this life isn’t a lie for me.”

“There are men,” I said, my voice losing patience, as if Harry was trying to pull one over on me. “Don’t pretend there aren’t men.”

“Sure, but there is not a single man anyone could draw any sort of meaningful connection to,” Harry said. “Because I have only loved John. And he’s gone. I’m only famous because you’re famous, Ev. They don’t care about me or what I’m doing unless it somehow relates to you. Any men in my life, I see them for a few weeks, and then they are gone. I’m not living a lie. I’m just living my life.”

I took a deep breath, trying not to get too worked up before having to go on set and pretend to be a repressed WASP. “Don’t you care that I have to hide?”

“I do,” he said. “You know I do.”

“Well, then—”

“But why does your relationship with Celia mean that we should uproot Connor’s life? And mine?”

“She’s the love of my life,” I said. “You know that. I want to be with her. It’s time for us all to be together again.”

“We can’t be together again,” he said, putting his hand down on the table. “Not all of us.” And he walked away.

* * *

HARRY AND I were flying home every weekend to be with Connor, and during the weeks we shot, I was with Celia, and he was . . . well, I didn’t know where he was. But he seemed happy, so I didn’t question it. I suspected in the back of my mind that he might have met someone who was capable of keeping his interest for more than a few days.

So when Theresa’s Wisdom went three weeks over our shooting schedule because my costar Ben Madley was hospitalized for exhaustion, I was torn.

On the one hand, I wanted to go back to being with my daughter every night.

On the other hand, Connor was growing more and more annoyed by me every day. She found her mother to be the very epitome of embarrassment. The fact that I was a world-renowned film star seemed to have absolutely no effect on just how big of an idiot Connor saw me to be. So I was often happier in L.A., with Celia, than I was in New York, constantly rejected by my own flesh and blood. But I would have dropped it all in a heartbeat if I thought Connor might want even an evening of my time.

The day after filming wrapped, I was packing up some of my things and talking to Connor on the phone, making plans for the next day.

“Your father and I are getting on the red-eye tonight, so I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning,” I told her.

“OK,” she said. “Cool.”

“I thought we could go to breakfast at Channing’s.”

“Mom, no one goes to Channing’s anymore.”

“I hate to break it to you, but if I go to Channing’s, Channing’s will still be considered cool.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about when I say you’re impossible.”

“All I’m trying to do is take you to eat French toast, Connie. There are worse things.”

There was a knock on the door of the Hollywood Hills bungalow I’d rented. I opened it to see Harry.

“I gotta go, Mom,” Connor said. “Karen is coming over. Luisa’s making us barbecue meat loaf,” she said.

“Wait one second,” I said. “Your father is here. He wants to say hi to you. Good-bye, honey. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I handed Harry the phone. “Hi, little bug . . . Well, she has a point. If your mother shows up somewhere, that does sort of mean that, by definition, it will be considered a hot spot . . . That’s fine . . . That’s fine. Tomorrow morning, the three of us will go out for breakfast, and we can go to whatever the cool new place is . . . It’s called what? Wiffles? What kind of a name is that? . . . OK, OK. We’ll go to Wiffles. All right, honey, good night. I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry sat down on my bed and looked at me. “Apparently, we are going to Wiffles.”

“You’re like putty in her hands, Harry,” I said.

He shrugged. “I feel no shame in it.” He stood up and poured himself a glass of water while I continued packing. “Listen, I have an idea,” he said. As he moved closer to me, I realized he smelled vaguely of liquor.

“About what?”

“About Europe.”

“OK . . .” I said. I had resigned to letting it go until Harry and I were settled back in New York. I assumed that then he and I would have the time, and the patience, to discuss it in more depth.

I thought the idea was good for Connor. New York, as much as I loved it, had become a somewhat dangerous place to live. Crime rates were skyrocketing, and drugs were everywhere. We were fairly protected from it on the Upper East Side, but I was still uncomfortable with the idea that Connor was growing up so close to so much chaos. And even more to the point, I was no longer sure that a life where her parents were practically bicoastal and she was being cared for by Luisa when we were gone was the best thing for her.

Yes, we’d be uprooting her. And I knew she’d hate me for making her say good-bye to her friends. But I also knew she would benefit from living in a small town. She’d be better off with a mother who could be around more. And to be frank, she was getting old enough to read gossip columns and watch entertainment news. Was turning on the television and seeing her mother’s sixth divorce really the best thing for a child?

“I think I know what to do,” Harry said. I sat down on the bed, and he sat next to me. “We move here. We move back to Los Angeles.”

“Harry . . .” I said.

“And Celia marries a friend of mine.”

“A friend of yours?”

Harry shifts toward me. “I’ve met someone.”

“What?”

“We met on the lot. He’s working on another production. I thought it was just a casual thing. I think he did, too. But I think I’m . . . This is a man I could see myself with.”

I was so happy for him in that moment. “I thought you couldn’t see yourself with anyone,” I said, surprised but pleased.

“I couldn’t,” he said.