“You’re meeting her?” Liesl said, eager to be off.
Polly shook her head. “Paulette Goddard’s on the train.”
“No, she got off in Pasadena,” Ben said.
Polly whirled around, surprised, glaring at him.
“We met on the train,” he said, explaining himself.
“The studio said union Station. Stanley’s in Pasadena. He doesn’t do interviews. Now the best I can do for her is an item. Is that what she wants?” Still fuming at Ben, somehow holding him responsible.
“I don’t think she knew.”
“Maybe she thinks she doesn’t need it anymore, a good word here and there. I’d be more careful. Given where she’s been.”
For a second Ben thought she meant the chorus days, less innocent than Sol imagined, but Polly had gone elsewhere, almost spitting now with irritation.
“You know, you lie down with a Red, a little pink always comes off. If I’d been married to Mr. Chaplin I’d be a little more careful before I threw away a friendly interview.” She looked over her shoulder to see Landis getting nearer. “Well, I guess it’s Carole’s lucky day. Won’t she be pleased.”
“We’d better let you get on with it,” Liesl said, beginning to move away.
“Believe me, dear, she’ll wait. Nice running into you.” She patted Liesl’s arm. “You’ll be all right. You tell that other man I’d like to have a chat sometime. As a friend. You know, he’s been signing things and you have to be careful what you sign. Carole!”
She stuck out her arm, waving, and without saying good-bye hurried over to the surprised Landis, the photographer trailing behind. Liesl stared at her for a minute, face flushed.
“My god. ‘You have to be careful what you sign,’“ she said, her voice bitter.
“Who was that?”
“Polly Marks.” She caught Ben’s blank look. “She writes for the newspapers. One hundred and twenty-three of them.”
“Exactly one hundred and twenty-three?”
She smiled a little, a slight softening. “My father told me. He’s always exact.”
“Who’s the other man? Him?”
She nodded. “You know my father is Hans Ostermann. So Thomas Mann is also here. And she imagines they have a rivalry—well, maybe it’s true a little—and so he’s the Other Mann. The names, you see. Warners bought one of his books, so now he exists for her. Otherwise—” She turned her head, annoyed with herself. “I’m sorry. She does that to me. I’m sorry for such a greeting. So, welcome to paradise,” she said with an indifferent wave toward the station.
She started through the barrier, leaving Ben to follow on his own, moving sideways with the bag through the crowd to keep up. The main hall, streamlined Spanish colonial, was noisy with leave-taking, voices rising over the loudspeaker announcements, so Ben had to speak up.
“What did she mean about the bottle?”
“They found one in the room,” she said, slowing a little but not stopping. “They think—you know, for courage. I don’t know who told her. One of her little mice. Maybe the maid. She pays them. Or the night clerk.”
Or porters on trains, Ben thought. They were passing through a waiting hall with deep chairs and mission-style chandeliers.
“I don’t understand about the hotel.”
“It’s an apartment hotel. People live there. But there’s a switchboard and a maid to change the sheets. A service, considering. You rent by the month.”
“And he used it as an office?”
“What do you think?” she said, looking at him.
They reached the high arched entrance, where Ben had to stop, blinded by the sudden glare. She had moved aside to put on her sunglasses and now was rummaging through her bag for cigarettes.
“I suppose it takes the guesswork out of getting a room. They asked me if I was going to use up the month. Since it was already paid for. They want to move someone else in. Collect twice.” She lit a cigarette, her hand shaking a little, then looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to involve you in this. Such a welcome. But you’ll hear it anyway. So it was like that.”
He looked over at her, not sure what to say. A marriage he knew nothing about.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said finally. “You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “Isn’t that the point? Cinq à sept. Like the French. Just get home in time for dinner.” She drew on the cigarette, her expression lost behind the glasses. “Or maybe he didn’t want to come home. So that’s that.” She lifted her head. “I wonder what she felt when she saw it in the papers. Maybe she left him. Maybe it was that. Well,” she said, the word like a thud, so final that for a moment neither of them spoke. Then she stepped away from the wall. “So come. With any luck we’ll have the house to ourselves. These last few days— Why do people bring food? Salka brought noodle pudding. Noodle pudding in this climate.” She turned to him, still hidden behind the glasses. “Please. Don’t listen to me. All this—business, it’s not your problem. It’s good you’re here.” She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out, and started for the parking lot, lined with spindly palms, then stopped again, staring at the rows of cars, gleaming with reflected sun. “You know what’s the worst? I didn’t know he was unhappy. Isn’t that terrible, not to know that about someone? Maybe the woman was part of all that, I don’t know. So maybe it’s my fault, too.”