“I’m in my forties, Max,” I said. We were walking in the desert, the sun beating down on us. I had forgotten the water in the cabin.
“You are ageless,” he said to me, kicking up sand as we went. “You can do anything. You are Evelyn Hugo.”
“I’m Evelyn,” I told him. I stopped in place. I grabbed his hand. “You don’t always need to call me Evelyn Hugo.”
“But that is who you are,” he said. “You are the Evelyn Hugo. You are extraordinary.”
I smiled and kissed him. I was so relieved to feel loved, to feel love. I was so exhilarated by wanting to be with someone again. I thought Celia would never come back to me. But Max, he was right there. He was mine.
When we got back to the cabin, the two of us were sunburned and parched. I made us peanut butter and jelly for dinner, and we sat in bed and watched the news. It felt so peaceful. Nothing to prove, nothing to hide.
We went to sleep with Max cradling me. I could feel his heartbeat against my back.
But the next morning, when I woke up and my hair was out of place and my breath smelled, I looked over at him, expecting to see a smile on his face. Instead, he looked stoic, as if he had been staring at the ceiling for hours.
“What’s on your mind?” I said.
“Nothing.”
His chest hair was graying. I thought it made him look regal.
“What is it?” I said. “You can tell me.”
He turned and looked at me. I fixed my hair, feeling somewhat embarrassed at how unkempt I looked. He looked back up at the ceiling.
“This is not how I imagined it.”
“What did you imagine?”
“You,” he said. “I imagined the glory of a life with you.”
“And now you don’t?”
“No, that’s not it,” he said, shaking his head. “Can I be honest? I think I hate the desert. There is too much sun and no good food, and why are we here? We are city people, my love. We should go home.”
I laughed, relieved that it wasn’t anything more. “We still have three days here,” I said.
“Yes, yes, I know, ma belle, but please, let us go home.”
“Early?”
“We can get a room at the Waldorf for a few days. Instead of here.”
“OK,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he said. And then he got up and took a shower.
Later on, at the airport as we waited to board, Max went to buy something to read on the flight. He came back with People magazine and showed me the write-up of our wedding.
They called me a “daring sexpot” and Max my “white knight.”
“Pretty cool, no?” he said. “We look like royalty. You look so beautiful in this picture. But of course you do. That’s who you are.”
I smiled, but all I could think about was Rita Hayworth’s famous line. Men go to bed with Gilda, but wake up with me.
“I think maybe I will lose a few pounds,” he said, patting his belly. “I want to be handsome for you.”
“You are handsome,” I said. “You’ve always been handsome.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at this photo they have of me. I look like I have three chins.”
“It’s just a bad picture. You look marvelous in person. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you, really.”
But Max wasn’t listening. “I think I will stop eating fried foods. I have gotten too American, don’t you think? I want to be handsome for you.”
But he didn’t mean handsome for me. He meant handsome for the pictures he’d be taking with me.
My heart tore just a little as we boarded the plane. It split further and further as I watched him read the magazine during the flight.
Just before we landed, a man flying in coach came up to first class to use the bathroom and did a double take when he saw me. When he was gone, Max turned to me, smiling, and said, “Do you think all these people are going to go home and tell everyone they were on a flight with Evelyn Hugo?”
The moment he was done saying it, my heart had completely torn in half.
* * *
IT TOOK ME about four months to realize that Max had no intention of even trying to love me, that he was only capable of loving the idea of me. And then, after that, it seems so silly to say it, but I didn’t want to leave him, because I didn’t want to get divorced.
I’d only married a man I loved once before. This was only the second time in my life I had gone into a marriage believing it could last. And after all, I hadn’t left Don. Don had left me.
With Max, I thought that something might change, something might click, something might make him see me as I truly was and love me for it. I thought maybe I could love the real him enough that he’d start loving the real me.
I thought I could finally have a meaningful marriage with someone.
But that never happened.
Instead, Max paraded me around town like the trophy I was. Everyone wanted Evelyn Hugo, and Evelyn Hugo wanted him.
That girl in Boute-en-Train mesmerized everybody. Even the man who created her. And I didn’t know how to tell him that I loved her, too. But I wasn’t her.
IN 1988, CELIA TOOK THE role of Lady Macbeth in a film adaptation. She could have submitted herself for Best Actress. There was no other woman with a bigger part in the movie than her. But she must have submitted herself for Best Supporting, because when the ballot came out, that was what she was nominated for. The moment I saw it, I knew it had been her call. She was just that smart.
Naturally, I voted for her.
When she won, I was in New York with Connor and Harry. Max had gone to the awards that year alone. It was a fight between the two of us. He wanted me with him, but I wanted to spend the evening with my family, not in a control slip and six-inch heels.
Also, if I’m being entirely frank, I was fifty years old. There was an entire new generation of actresses to compete with. They were all gorgeous, with smooth skin and shiny hair. When you are known for being gorgeous, you cannot imagine suffering a fate worse than standing next to someone and falling short.
It did not matter how beautiful I used to be. The clock was ticking, and everyone could see it.
My roles were starting to dry up. The parts I was being offered were the mothers of the great roles being offered to women literally half my age. Life in Hollywood is a bell curve, and I had prolonged my time at the top for as long as possible. I’d lasted longer than most. But I had come around the corner now. And they were all but putting me out to pasture.
So no, I did not want to go to the Academy Awards. Instead of flying to L.A. and spending the day in a makeup chair and then sucking in and standing up straight in front of hundreds of cameras and millions of eyes, I spent the day with my daughter.
Luisa was on vacation, and we had not found someone we liked to step in for her, so Connor and I spent the day making a game out of cleaning the house. We made dinner together. Afterward, we popped some popcorn and sat down with Harry to watch as Celia won.
Celia was wearing a yellow silk dress with a ruffled edge. Her red hair, now shorter, was pulled back in a chignon. She was older, certainly, but never more breathtaking. When they called her name, she got up on the stage and accepted her award with the grace and sincerity that audiences had always known her for. And just as she was about to leave the microphone, she said, “And to anyone tempted to kiss the TV tonight, please don’t chip your tooth.”
“Mom, why are you crying?” Connor asked.
I put my hand to my face and realized that I had teared up.
Harry smiled at me and rubbed my back. “You should call her,” he said. “It’s never a bad idea to bury hatchets.”
Instead, I wrote a letter.
My Dearest Celia,
Congratulations! You absolutely deserve it. There is no doubt you are the most talented actress of our generation.
I wish for nothing more than your complete and total happiness. I did not kiss the
TV this time, but I did cheer just as loudly as I did the other times.
All my love,
Edward
Evelyn
I sent it with the peace of sending off a message in a bottle. Which is to say that I expected no response. But a week later, there it was. A small, square, cream-colored envelope addressed to me.
My Dearest Evelyn,
Reading your letter felt like gasping for air after being trapped under water. I hope you will forgive me for being so blunt, but how did we make such a mess of it all? And what does it mean that we have not spoken in a decade but I still hear your voice in my head every day?
XO,
Celia
My Dearest Celia,
I own all of our missteps. I was selfish and shortsighted. I can only hope that you have found bliss somewhere else. You deserve so much happiness. And I am sorry I could not give that to you.
Love,
Evelyn
My Dearest Evelyn,
You are dealing in revisionist history. I was insecure and petty and naive. I blamed you for the things you did to keep our secrets. But the truth is, each time you stopped the outside world from coming into our life, I felt immense relief. And all my happiest moments were orchestrated by you. I never gave you enough credit for that. We were both to blame. But you were the only one to ever apologize. Please let me rectify that now: I’m sorry, Evelyn.
Love,
Celia
P.S. I watched Three A.M. some months ago. It is a bold, brave, important film. I would have been wrong to stand in the way of it. You have always been so much more talented than I ever gave you credit for.
My Dearest Celia,
Do you think lovers can ever be friends? I hate to think of the years we have left in this life wasted by continuing not to speak.
Love,
Evelyn
My Dearest Evelyn,
Is Max like Harry? Like Rex?
Love,
Celia
My Dearest Celia,
I am sorry to say that no, he’s not. He is different. But I am desperate to see you. Can we meet?
Love,
Evelyn
My Dearest Evelyn,
To be frank, that news breaks me. I do not know if I could bear seeing you given those circumstances.
Love,
Celia
My Dearest Celia,
I have called you many times in the past week, but you have not returned my calls. I’ll try again. Please, Celia. Please.
Love,
Evelyn
HELLO?” HER VOICE SOUNDED EXACTLY like it used to. Sweet but somehow firm.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Hi.” The way she warmed up in that moment made me hopeful that I might be able to put my life back together, the way it should have always been.
“I did love him,” I said. “Max. But I don’t anymore.”
The line was quiet.
Then she asked, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’d like to see you.”
“I can’t see you, Evelyn.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What do you want us to do?” she said. “Ruin each other all over again?”
“Do you still love me?” I asked.
She was silent.
“I still love you, Celia. I swear I do.”
“I . . . I don’t think we should talk about this. Not if . . .”
“Not if what?”
“Nothing has changed, Evelyn.”
“Everything has changed.”
“People still can’t know who we really are.”
“Elton John is out of the closet,” I said. “Has been for years.”
“Elton John doesn’t have a child and a career based on audiences believing he’s a straight man.”
“You’re saying we’ll lose our jobs?”
“I can’t believe I have to tell you this,” she said.
“Well, let me tell you something that has changed,” I told her. “I no longer care. I’m ready to give it all up.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m absolutely serious.”
“Evelyn, we haven’t even seen each other in years.”
“I know you were able to forget me,” I said. “I know you were with Joan. I’m sure you were with others.” I waited, hoping she would correct me, hoping she would tell me there had been no one else. But she didn’t. And so I continued. “But can you honestly say that you stopped loving me?”
“Of course not.”
“And I can’t say that, either. I have loved you every single day.”
“You married someone else.”
“I married him because he helped me forget you,” I said. “Not because I stopped loving you.”
I heard Celia breathe deeply.
“I’ll come to L.A.,” I said. “And you and I will have dinner. OK?”
“Dinner?” she said.
“Just dinner. We have things to talk about. I think we at least owe each other a nice, long talk. How about the week after next? Harry can watch Connor. I can stay for a few days.”
Celia was quiet again. I could tell she was thinking. I got the impression that this was a deciding moment for my future, our future.
“OK,” she said. “Dinner.”
* * *
THE MORNING I left for the airport, Max slept in late. He was supposed to be on set later in the afternoon for a night shoot, so I squeezed his hand good-bye and then grabbed my things from the closet.
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to take Celia’s letters with me or not. I had kept them all, with their envelopes, in a box at the back of my closet. Over the past few days, as I was gathering what I would take, I packed them and then unpacked them, trying to decide.
I had been rereading them every day since Celia and I started talking. I didn’t want to be apart from them. I liked to run my fingers over the words, feeling the way the pen had embossed the paper. I liked hearing her voice in my head. But I was flying to see her. So I decided I didn’t need them.
I put on my boots and grabbed my jacket, then unzipped my bag and pulled the letters out. I hid them behind my furs.
I left Max a note: “I will be back on Thursday, Maximilian. Love, Evelyn.”
Connor was in the kitchen, grabbing Pop-Tarts before heading over to Harry’s house to stay while I was gone.
“Doesn’t your dad have Pop-Tarts?” I asked.
“Not the brown sugar kind. He gets the strawberry ones, and I hate those.”
I grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek. “Good-bye. Be good while I’m gone,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me, and I wasn’t sure if it was for the kiss or the directive. She had just turned thirteen, beginning her ascent into adolescence, and it was already breaking my heart.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
I went down to the sidewalk to find my limo waiting. I gave the driver my bag, and at the very last minute, it occurred to me that after my dinner with Celia, she might tell me she didn’t want to see me again. She might tell me she didn’t think we should talk anymore. I might be on the flight back, aching for her more than I ever had. I decided I wanted the letters. I wanted them with me. I needed them.
“Hold on, one moment,” I said to the driver, and I dashed back into the house. I caught Connor coming out of the elevator just as I was going in.
“Back so soon?” she said, her knapsack on her back.
“I forgot something. Have fun this weekend, sweetheart. Tell your dad I’ll be home in a few days.”
“Yeah, OK. Max just woke up, by the way.”
“I love you,” I said to her as I pushed the button in the elevator.
“I love you, too,” Connor said. She waved good-bye and headed out the front entrance.
I made my way upstairs and walked into the bedroom. And there, in my closet, was Max.
Celia’s letters, which I had kept in such pri
stine condition, were flung about the room, most of them torn from the envelopes as if they were nothing more than junk mail.
“What are you doing?” I said.
He was in a black T-shirt and sweatpants. “What am I doing?” he said. “That is too much. You coming in here asking me what I am doing.”
“Those are mine.”
“Oh, I see that, ma belle.”
I leaned down and tried to take them from him. He pulled them away.
“You are having an affair?” he said, smiling. “How very French of you.”
“Max, stop it.”
“I do not mind some infidelity, my dear. If it is respectfully done. And one does not leave evidence.”
The way he said it, I realized he had slept with people outside our marriage, and I wondered if any woman was ever really safe from men like Max and Don. I thought of how many women out there thought they could prevent their husbands from cheating if only they were as gorgeous as Evelyn Hugo. But it never stopped any man I loved.
“I am not cheating on you, Max. So would you cut it out?”
“Maybe you are not,” he said. “I suppose I can believe that. But what I can’t believe is that you are a dyke.”
I closed my eyes, my anger burning so hot inside me that I needed to check out of the world, to momentarily gather myself in my own body.
“I am not a dyke,” I said.
“These letters beg to differ.”
“Those letters are none of your business.”
“Maybe,” Max said. “If these letters are just Celia St. James talking to you about her feelings for you in the past, then I am in the wrong here. And I will put them away right now, and I will apologize to you immediately.”
“Good.”
“I said if.” He stood up and came closer to me. “It is a big if. If these letters were sent leading up to you deciding to visit Los Angeles today, then I am angry, because you are playing me for a fool.”
I really do think that if I told him I had absolutely no intention of seeing Celia in Los Angeles, if I really sold it well, he would have backed off. He might have even said he was sorry and driven me to the airport himself.
And that was my gut instinct, to lie, to hide, to cover up what I was doing and who I was. But just as I opened my mouth to feed him a line, something else came out.
