The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo(57)

I went inside. I talked my way into borrowing some scrubs and being given a private room to wait in. I threw my clothes away.

When a man from the hospital staff asked me for a statement about what happened to Harry, I said, “How much will it take for you to leave me alone?” I was relieved when the dollar figure he came up with was less than what I had in my purse.

Just after midnight, a doctor came into the room and told me that Harry’s femoral artery had been severed. He had lost too much blood.

For a brief moment, I wondered if I should go get my old clothes, if I could give some of his blood back to him, if it worked like that.

But I was distracted by the next words out of the doctor’s mouth.

“He will not make it.”

I started gasping for air as I realized that Harry, my Harry, was going to die.

“Would you like to say good-bye?”

He was unconscious in the bed when I walked into the room. He looked paler than normal, but they had cleaned him up a bit. There was no longer blood everywhere. I could see his handsome face.

“He doesn’t have long,” the doctor said. “But we can give you a moment.”

I did not have the luxury of panic.

So I got into the bed with him. I held his hand even though it felt limp. Maybe I should have been mad at him for getting behind the wheel of a car when he’d been drinking. But I couldn’t ever get very mad at Harry. I knew he was always doing the very best he could with the pain he felt at any given moment. And this, however tragic, had been the best he could do.

I put my forehead to his and said, “I want you to stay, Harry. We need you. Me and Connor.” I grabbed his hand tighter. “But if you have to go, then go. Go if it hurts. Go if it’s time. Just go knowing you were loved, that I will never forget you, that you will live in everything Connor and I do. Go knowing I love you purely, Harry, that you were an amazing father. Go knowing I told you all my secrets. Because you were my best friend.”

Harry died an hour later.

After he was gone, I had the devastating luxury of panic.



IN THE MORNING, a few hours after I’d checked into the hotel, I woke up to a phone call.

My eyes were swollen from crying, and my throat hurt. The pillow was still stained with tears. I was pretty sure I’d only slept for an hour, maybe less.

“Hello?” I said.

“It’s Nick.”

“Nick?”

“Your driver.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yes. Hi.”

“I know what I want,” he said.

His voice was confident. Its strength scared me. I felt so weak right then. But I knew it had been my idea for this call to happen. I had set up the nature of it. Tell me what you want to keep you quiet was what I had said without saying it.

“I want you to make me famous,” he said, and when he did, the very last shred of affection I had for stardom drained out of me.

“Do you realize the full extent of what you’re asking?” I said. “If you’re a celebrity, last night will be dangerous for you, too.”

“That’s not a problem,” he said.

I sighed, disappointed. “OK,” I said, resigned. “I can get you parts. The rest is up to you.”

“That’s fine. That’s all I need.”

I asked him his agent’s name, and I got off the phone. I made two phone calls. One was to my own agent, telling him to poach Nick from his guy. The second was to a man with the highest-grossing action movie in the country. It was about a police chief in his late fifties who defeats Russian spies on the day he’s supposed to retire.

“Don?” I said when he answered the phone.

“Evelyn! What can I do for you?”

“I need you to hire a friend of mine in your next movie. The biggest part you can get him.”

“OK,” he said. “You got it.” He did not ask me why. He did not ask me if I was OK. We had been through enough together for him to know better. I simply gave him Nick’s name, and I got off the phone.

After I set the phone back in the cradle, I bawled and I howled. I gripped the sheets. I missed the only man I’d ever loved with any lasting meaning.

My heart ached in my chest when I thought about telling Connor, when I thought about trying to live a day without him, when I thought of a world without Harry Cameron.

It was Harry who created me, who powered me, who loved me unconditionally, who gave me a family and a daughter.

So I bellowed in my hotel room. I opened the windows, and I screamed out into the open air. I let my tears soak everything in sight.

If I had been in a better frame of mind, I might have marveled at just how opportunistic Nick was, how aggressive.

In my younger years, I might have been impressed. Harry most certainly would have said he had guts. Plenty of people can make something out of being in the right place at the right time. But Nick somehow turned being in the wrong place at the wrong time into a career.

Then again, I might be giving that moment too much credit in Nick’s own story. He changed his name, cut his hair, and went on to do very, very big things. And something tells me that even if he had never run into me, he would have made it happen all on his own. I guess what I’m saying is it’s not all luck.

It’s luck and being a son of a bitch.

Harry taught me that.





Now This

February 28, 1989




PRODUCER HARRY CAMERON HAS DIED

Harry Cameron, prolific producer and onetime husband of Evelyn Hugo, died of an aneurysm over the weekend in Los Angeles. He was 58 years old.

The independent producer, formerly a Sunset Studios mogul, was known for shepherding some of Hollywood’s greatest films, including the ’50s classics To Be with You and Little Women and some of the most exciting films of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, such as 1981’s All for Us. He had just wrapped on the upcoming Theresa’s Wisdom.

Cameron was known for his keen taste and kind but firm demeanor. Hollywood has been left heartbroken with the loss of one of its favorites. “Harry was an actor’s producer,” said a former colleague. “If he picked up a project, you knew you wanted to be involved.”

Cameron is survived by his teenage daughter with Evelyn Hugo, Connor Cameron.





Now This

September 4, 1989




WILD CHILD

BLIND ITEM!

Which precious Hollywood progeny was caught with her pants down? And we mean that literally!

This daughter of a former A++-list actress has been having a rough time. And it appears that instead of lying low, she’s going wild.

We hear that at the age of 14, this Wild Child has been MIA from her prestigious high school and is often seen out at one of New York’s various high-profile clubs—at which she’s rarely, ahem, sober. We’re not just talking alcohol, either. There seems to be some powder under your nose there . . .

Apparently, her mother has been trying to get a handle on the situation, but things hit the fan when Wild Child was caught with two fellow students . . . in bed!





SIX MONTHS AFTER HARRY DIED, I knew I had no choice but to get Connor out of town. I had tried everything else. I was attentive and nurturing. I tried to get her into therapy. I talked with her about her father. She, unlike the rest of the world, knew he had been in a car accident. And she understood why something like that needed to be delicately handled. But I knew it only compounded her stress. I tried to get her to open up to me. But nothing was helping me get her to make better choices.

She was fourteen years old and had lost her father with the same swiftness and heartbreak with which I had lost my mother so many years before. I had to take care of my child. I had to do something.

My instinct was to move her away from the spotlight, away from people willing to sell her drugs, willing to take advantage of her pain. I needed to bring her someplace where I could watch her, where I could protect her.

She needed to process and heal. And she could not do that with the life I had made for us.

“Aldiz,” Celia said.

We were talking on the phone. I had not seen her in months. But we talked every night. Celia helped ground me, helped me to keep moving forward. Most nights, as I lay in bed speaking to Celia on the phone, I could speak of nothing but my daughter’s pain. And when I could speak of something different, it was my own pain. I was just starting to come out of it, to see a light at the end of the tunnel, when Celia suggested Aldiz.

“Where is that?” I asked.

“It’s on the southern coast of Spain. It’s a small city. I’ve talked to Robert. He has a call in to some friends he knows in Málaga, which isn’t too far. He’s going to ask about any English-language schools. It’s mostly a fishing village. I don’t get the impression anyone will care about us.”

“It’s quiet?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said. “I think Connor would have to really go out of her way to find trouble.”

“That seems to be her MO,” I said.

“You’ll be there for her. I’ll be around. Robert will be there. We will make sure she’s OK. We will make sure she’s supported, that she has people to talk to. That she makes the right types of friends.”

I knew that moving to Spain would mean losing Luisa. She had already moved with us from L.A. to New York. She wouldn’t want to uproot her life again to move to Spain. But I also knew she had been taking care of our family for decades and was tired. I got the impression that our leaving the United States would be just the excuse she needed to move on. I would make sure she was taken care of. And anyway, I was ready to take a more hands-on approach to maintaining my home.