“What do you mean?”
Celia got up and took my bowl with hers. She rinsed them both in the sink and then turned back to me, leaning against it. “It’s a sexy part. They need a real bombshell.”
I shook my head. “I’m someone’s mother now. The whole world knows it.”
Celia shook her head. “That’s exactly why you have to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a sexual woman, Evelyn. You’re sensual, and you’re beautiful, and you’re desirable. Don’t let them take that away from you. Don’t let them desexualize you. Don’t let your career be on their terms. What do you want to do? You want to play a mom in every role you take from now on? You want to play only nuns and teachers?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not. I want to play everything.”
“So play everything,” she said. “Be bold. Do what no one expects you to do.”
“People will say it’s unbecoming.”
“The Evelyn I love doesn’t care about that.”
I closed my eyes and listened to her, nodding. She wanted me to do it for me. I really believe that. She knew I wouldn’t be happy being limited, being relegated. She knew I wanted to continue to make people talk, to tantalize, to surprise. But the part she wasn’t mentioning, the part I’m not even sure she truly understood, was that she also wanted me to do it because she didn’t want me to change.
She wanted to be with a bombshell.
It’s always been fascinating to me how things can be simultaneously true and false, how people can be good and bad all in one, how someone can love you in a way that is beautifully selfless while serving themselves ruthlessly.
It is why I loved Celia. She was a very complicated woman who always kept me guessing. And here she had surprised me one more time.
She had said, Go, have a baby. But she had meant to add, Just don’t act like a mother.
Fortunately and unfortunately for her, I had absolutely no intention of being told what to do or of being manipulated into a single thing.
So I read the script, and I took a few days and thought about it. I asked Harry what he thought. And then I woke up one morning and thought, I want the part. I want it because I want to show I’m still my own woman.
I called Max Girard and told him I was interested if he was interested. And he was.
“But I’m surprised you want to do this,” Max said. “You are one hundred percent sure?”
“Is there nudity?” I asked. “I’m OK with the idea. Really. I look fantastic, Max. It’s not a problem.” I did not look fantastic, nor did I feel fantastic. It was a problem. But it was a solvable problem, and solvable problems aren’t really problems, are they?
“No,” Max said, laughing. “Evelyn, you could be ninety-seven years old, and the whole world would line up to see your chest.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Don,” he said.
“Don who?”
“Your part,” he said. “The whole movie. All of it.”
“What?”
“You’re playing opposite Don Adler.”
WHY DID YOU AGREE TO do it?” I ask her. “Why not say you wanted him cut from the film?”
“Well, first of all, you don’t go throwing your weight around unless you’re sure you’ll win,” Evelyn says. “And I was only about eighty percent sure that if I pitched a fit, Max would fire him. And second of all, it seemed mildly cruel, to be honest. Don was not doing well. He hadn’t had a hit in years, and most younger moviegoers didn’t know who he was. He was divorced from Ruby, hadn’t remarried, and the rumor was that his drinking had gotten out of control.”
“So you felt bad for him? Your abuser?”
“Relationships are complex,” Evelyn says. “People are messy, and love can be ugly. I’m inclined to always err on the side of compassion.”
“You’re saying you had compassion for what he was going through?”
“I’m saying you should have a little compassion for how complicated it must have been for me.”
Cut down to size, I find myself staring at the floor, unable to look at her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I haven’t been in that situation before, and I was . . . I don’t know what I was thinking making any sort of judgment. I apologize.”
Evelyn smiles gently, accepting my apology. “I can’t speak for all people who have been hit by someone they love, but what I can tell you is that forgiveness is different from absolution. Don was no longer a threat to me. I was not scared of him. I felt powerful and free. So I told Max I’d meet with him. Celia was supportive but also hesitant once she learned Don had been cast. Harry, while cautious, trusted my ability to handle the situation. So my representatives called Don’s people, and we set a time and place for the next time I was in L.A. I had suggested the bar at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but Don’s team changed it at the last minute to Canter’s Deli. That’s how I ended up seeing my ex-husband for the first time in more than fifteen years over a pair of Reubens.”
I’M SORRY, EVELYN,” DON SAID when he sat down. I had already ordered an iced tea and eaten half of a sour pickle. I thought he was apologizing for being late.
“It’s only five past one,” I said. “It’s fine.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. He looked pale but also a bit thinner than some of his recent photos. The years we had been apart had not been good to Don. His face had bloated, and his waistline had widened. But he was still heads and tails more handsome than anyone else in the place. Don was the sort of man who was always going to be handsome, no matter what happened to him. His good looks were just that loyal.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The emphasis, the meaningfulness of it, hit me.
It caught me off guard. The waitress came by and asked for his drink order. He didn’t order a martini or a beer. He ordered a Coca-Cola. When she left, I found myself unsure what to say to him.
“I’m sober,” he said. “Have been for two hundred and fifty-six days.”
“That many, huh?” I said as I took a sip of my iced tea.
“I was a drunk, Evelyn. I know that now.”
“You were also a cheater and a pig,” I said.
Don nodded. “I know that, too. And I’m deeply sorry.”
I had flown all the way here to see if I could do a movie with him. I had not come to be apologized to. The thought had never occurred to me. I merely assumed I would use him this time the way I used him back then; his name near mine would get people talking.
But this repentant man in front of me was surprising and overwhelming.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked him. “That you’re sorry? What is that supposed to mean to me?”
The waitress came and took our orders.
“A Reuben, please,” I said, handing her the menu. If I was going to have a real conversation about this, I needed a hearty meal.
“I’ll have the same,” Don said.
She knew who we were; I could see it in the way her lips kept trying to hold back a smile.
When she left, Don leaned in. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I did to you,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “Because it really doesn’t.”
“But I hope it might make you feel a little better,” he said, “to know that I know I was wrong, I know you deserved better, and I’m working every day to be a better man.”
“Well, it’s awfully late now,” I said. “You being a better man does nothing for me.”
“I won’t hurt anyone like I did then,” Don said. “To you, to Ruby.”
My heart of ice melted briefly, and I admitted that did make me feel better. “Still,” I said. “We all can’t go around treating people like dog shit and then expecting that a simple I’m sorry erases it.”
Don shook his head humbly. “Of course not,” he said. “No, I know that.”
“And if your movies hadn’t tanked and Ari Sullivan hadn’t dropped you like you got him to drop me, you’d probably sti
ll be living high on the hog, drunk as a skunk.”
Don nodded. “Probably. I’m sorry to say you are most likely right about that.”
I wanted more. Did I want him to grovel? To cry? I wasn’t sure. I just knew I wasn’t getting it.
“Let me just say this,” Don said. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. I loved you madly. And I ruined it because I turned into a man I’m not proud of. And because I ruined it the way I did, because I was awful at treating you the way you deserved to be treated, I am sorry. Sometimes I think about going back to our wedding day and wanting to do it all over again, wanting to fix my mistakes so that you never have to go through what I put you through. I know I can’t do that, but what I can do is look you in the eye and tell you from the very bottom of my heart that I know how incredible you are, I know how great we could have been together, I know that everything we both lost was my fault, I am dedicated to never behaving that poorly again, and I am truly, truly sorry.”
In all my years after Don, all my movies, all my marriages, I had never once wanted to go back in time in the hopes that Don and I could get it right. My life since Don had been a story of my own making, a mess and a joy of my own decisions, and a string of experiences that landed me with everything I ever wanted.
I was OK. I felt safe. I had a beautiful daughter, a devoted husband, and the love of a good woman. I had money and fame. I had a gorgeous house in a city I had reclaimed. What could Don Adler take from me?
If I had come to see if I could stand him, I found that I could. There was not a bone in my body that was afraid of him.
And then I realized: if that was true, what did I have to lose?
I did not say the words I forgive you to Don Adler. I simply took my wallet out of my purse and said, “Do you want to see a picture of Connor?”
He smiled and nodded, and when I showed him her photo, he laughed. “She looks just like you,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I don’t think there’s any other way to take it. I think every woman in this country would like to look like Evelyn Hugo.”
I threw my head back and laughed. When our Reubens were half eaten and taken away by the waitress, I told him I’d do the movie.
“That’s great,” he said. “Really great to hear. I think you and I could really . . . I think we can really give them a show.”
“We are not friends, Don,” I said. “I want to be clear on that.”
Don nodded. “OK,” he said. “I understand.”
“But I think we can be friendly.”
Don smiled. “I’d be honored by friendly.”
JUST BEFORE SHOOTING WAS SET to commence, Harry turned forty-five. He said he didn’t want a big night out or any sort of formal plans. He just wanted a nice day with all of us.
So John, Celia, and I planned a picnic in the park. Luisa packed us lunch. Celia made sangria. John went down to the sporting-goods store and got us an extra-large umbrella to shade us from not only the sun but also passersby. On the way home, he got the bright idea to buy us wigs and sunglasses, too.
That afternoon, the three of us told Harry we had a surprise for him, and we led him into the park, Connor riding on his back. She loved to be strapped to him. She would laugh as he bounced her while he walked.
I took his hand and dragged him with us.
“Where are we going?” he said. “Someone at least give me a hint.”
“I’ll give you a small one,” Celia said as we were crossing Fifth Avenue.
“No,” John said, shaking his head. “No hints. He’s too good with hints. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“Connor, where is everyone taking Daddy?” Harry said. I watched as Connor laughed at the sound of her name.
When Celia walked through the entrance to the park, not even a block from our apartment, Harry spotted the blanket already set out with the umbrella and the picnic baskets, and he smiled.
“A picnic?” he said.
“Simple family picnic. Just the five of us,” I said.
Harry smiled. He closed his eyes for a moment. As if he’d reached heaven. “Absolutely perfect,” he said.
“I made the sangria,” Celia said. “Luisa made the food, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Harry said, laughing.
“And John got the umbrella.”
John bent down and grabbed the wigs. “And these.”
He handed me a curly black one and gave Celia a short blond one. Harry took a red one. And John put on the long brown one that made him look like a hippie.
We all laughed as we looked at one another, but I was surprised to see just how realistic they managed to be. And when I put on the coordinating pair of sunglasses, I felt a little freer.
“If you got the wigs and Celia made the sangria, what did Evelyn do?” Harry asked as he took Connor off his back and put her on the blanket. I grabbed her and helped her sit up.
“Good question,” John said, smiling. “You’d have to ask her.”
“Oh, I helped,” I said.
“Actually, yeah, Evelyn, what did you do?” Celia said.
I looked up to see the three of them all staring at me teasingly.
“I . . .” I gestured vaguely to the picnic basket. “You know . . .”
“No,” Harry said, laughing. “I don’t know.”
“Listen, I’ve been very busy,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Celia said.
“Oh, all right.” I lifted Connor up as she started to frown. I knew it meant tears were coming any moment. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”
The three of them started laughing at me, and then Connor started laughing, too.
John opened the basket. Celia poured wine. Harry leaned over and kissed Connor’s forehead.
It was one of the last times we were all together, laughing, smiling, happy. A family.
Because after that, I ruined it.
DON AND I WERE IN the middle of shooting Three A.M. in New York. Luisa, Celia, and Harry were trading off watching Connor while I was at work. The days were longer than we anticipated, and the shoot ran long.
I played Patricia, a woman in love with a drug addict, Mark, played by Don. And every day, I could see that he was not the old Don I knew, showing up to set and saying some lines with charm. This was striking, superlative, raw acting. He was pulling from his life, and he was putting it on film.
On set, you really hope that it’s all coming together into something magical in the camera lens. But there’s never any way to know for sure.
Even when Harry and I were producing work ourselves, when we were watching the dailies so often that my eyes felt dry and I was losing track of reality versus film, we were never one hundred percent sure that all the parts were coming together perfectly until we saw the first cut.
But on the set of Three A.M., I just knew. I knew it was a movie that would change how people saw me, how people saw Don. I thought it might just be good enough to change lives, to get people clean. It might just be good enough to change the way movies were made.
So I sacrificed.
When Max wanted more days, I gave up time with Connor to be there. When Max wanted more nights, I gave up dinners and evenings with Celia. I must have called Celia almost every day from the set, apologizing for something. Apologizing that I couldn’t meet her at the restaurant in time. Apologizing that I needed her to stay home and watch Connor for me.
I could tell that part of her regretted pushing me to do the movie. I don’t think she liked me working with my ex-husband every day. I don’t think she liked me working with Max Girard every day. I don’t think she liked my long hours. And I got the impression that while she loved my baby girl, babysitting wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.
But she kept it to herself and supported me. When I called to say I’d be late for the millionth time, she would say, “It’s OK, honey. Don’t worry. Just be great.” She was an excellent partner in that regard, putting me first, putting m
y work first.
And then, toward the end of shooting, after a long day of emotional scene work, I was in my dressing room getting ready to go home when Max knocked on my door.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
He looked at me with consideration and then took a seat. I remained standing, committed to leaving. “I think, Evelyn, we have something to think about.”
“We do?”
“The love scene is next week.”
“I’m aware.”
“This movie, it is almost done.”
“Yes.”
“And I think it is missing something.”
“Like what?”
“I think that the viewer needs to understand the raw magnetism of Patricia and Mark’s attraction.”
“I agree. That’s why I agreed to really show my breasts. You’re getting what no other filmmaker, including yourself, has ever gotten from me before. I’d think you’d be thrilled.”
“Yes, of course, I am, but I think we need to show that Patricia is a woman who takes what she wants, who delights in the sins of the flesh. She is, right now, such a martyr. She is a saint, helping Mark all through the film, standing by him.”
“Right, because of how much she loves him.”
“Yes, but we also need to see why she loves him. What does he give to her, what does she get from him?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I want us to shoot something almost no one does.”
“Which is?”
“I want to show you screwing because you love it.” His eyes were wide and excited. He was creatively enthralled. I always knew Max was a little lascivious, but this was different. This was a rebellious act. “Think about it. Sex scenes are about love. Or power.”
“Sure. And the purpose of the love scene next week is to show how much Patricia loves Mark. How much she believes in him. How strong their connection is.”
Max shakes his head. “I want it to show the audience that part of the reason Patricia loves Mark is because he makes her orgasm.”
I felt myself pulling back, trying to take it all in. It shouldn’t have felt so scandalous, and yet it absolutely was. Women have sex for intimacy. Men have sex for pleasure. That’s what culture tells us.
