The idea that I’d be shown to enjoy my body, to desire the male form just as strongly as I was desired, to show a woman putting her own physical pleasure at the forefront . . . it felt daring.
What Max was talking about was a graphic portrayal of female desire. And my gut instinct was that I loved the idea. I mean, the thought of filming a graphic sex scene with Don was about as arousing to me as a bowl of bran flakes. But I wanted to push the envelope. I wanted to show a woman getting off. I liked the idea of showing a woman having sex because she wanted to be pleased instead of being desperate to please. So in a moment of excitement, I grabbed my coat, put out my hand, and said, “I’m in.”
Max laughed and hopped out of his chair, taking my hand and shaking it. “Fantastique, ma belle!”
What I should have done was tell him I had to think about it. What I should have done was tell Celia about it the moment I got home. What I should have done was give her a say.
I should have given her the opportunity to express any misgivings. I should have respected that while she had no place to tell me what I could and could not do with my body, I did have a responsibility to inquire about how my actions might affect her. I should have taken her out to dinner and told her what I wanted to do and explained why I wanted to do it. I should have made love to her that night, to show her that the only body I was truly interested in deriving pleasure from was hers.
These are simply things you do. These are kindnesses you extend to the person you love when you know that your job will entail the world seeing images of you having sex with another person.
I did none of that for Celia.
Instead, I avoided her.
I went home and checked on Connor. I went into the kitchen and ate a chicken salad Luisa had left in the fridge.
Celia came in and hugged me. “How was shooting?”
“Good,” I said. “Completely fine.”
And because she didn’t say, How was your day? or Anything interesting happen with Max? or even How’s next week looking? I didn’t bring it up.
* * *
I HAD TWO shots of bourbon before Max yelled “Action!” The set was closed. Just me, Don, Max, the cinematographer, and a couple of guys working lighting and sound.
I closed my eyes and told myself to remember how good it felt to want Don all those years ago. I thought of how sublime it was to awaken my own desire, to realize I liked sex, that it wasn’t just about what men wanted, that it was about me, too. I thought of how I wanted to put that seed of a thought into other women’s brains. I thought of how there might be other women out there scared of their own pleasure, of their own power. I thought of what it would mean to have just one woman go home to her husband and say, “Give me what he gave her.”
I put myself in that place of desperate wanting, the ache of needing something only someone else can give you. I used to have that with Don. I had it then with Celia. So I closed my eyes, I focused in on myself, and I went there.
Later on, people would say that Don and I were really having sex in the movie. There were all sorts of rumors that the sex was unsimulated. But those rumors were complete and utter bullshit.
People just thought they saw real sex because the energy was searing, because I convinced myself in that moment that I was a woman in urgent need of him, because Don was able to remember how it felt to want me before he ever had me.
That day on set, I truly let go. I was present and wild and unrestrained. More than I ever had been on film before, more than I ever have been since. It was a moment of purely imagined reckless euphoria.
When Max yelled “Cut!” I snapped out of it. I stood up and rushed to my robe. I blushed. Me. Evelyn Hugo. Blushing.
Don asked if I was all right, and I turned away from him, not wanting him to touch me.
“I’m fine,” I said, and then I went to my dressing room, closed the door, and bawled my eyes out.
I wasn’t ashamed of what I’d done. I wasn’t nervous for audiences to see it. The tears that fell down my face were because I realized what I had done to Celia.
I had been a person who believed she stuck by a certain code. It may not have been a code that others subscribed to, but it was one that made sense to me. And part of that code was being honest with Celia, being good to her.
And this was not good to Celia.
Doing what I had just done, without her blessing, was not good for the woman I loved.
When we wrapped for the day, I walked the fifty blocks home instead of grabbing a car. I needed the time to myself.
I stopped on the way and bought flowers. I called Harry from a pay phone and asked him to take Connor for the night.
Celia was in the bedroom when I got home, drying her hair.
“I got you these,” I said, handing her the bouquet of white lilies. I did not mention that the florist had said that white lilies mean My love is pure.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “They are gorgeous. Thank you.”
She smelled them and then grabbed a water glass, filled it from the tap, and put the flowers in it. “Just for a moment,” she said. “Until I have a chance to choose a vase.”
“I wanted to ask you something,” I said.
“Oh, boy,” she said. “Are these flowers just to butter me up?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “The flowers are because I love you. Because I want you to know how often I think of you, how important you are to me. I don’t tell you that enough. I wanted to tell you this way. With those.”
Guilt is a feeling I’ve never made much peace with. I find that when it rears its head, it brings an army. When I feel guilty for one thing, I start to see all the other things I should feel guilty for.
I sat on the foot of our bed. “I just . . . I wanted to let you know that Max and I have discussed it, and I think the love scene in the movie will be more graphic than you and I were thinking.”
“How graphic?”
“Something a bit more intense. Something that conveys Patricia’s desperate need to be pleasured.”
I was lying outright to hide a lie of omission. I was crafting a new narrative, in which Celia would believe that I had asked for her blessing before doing what I had already done.
“Her need to be pleasured?”
“We need to see what Patricia gets out of her relationship with Mark. It’s not just love. It has to be more than that.”
“That makes sense,” Celia said. “You’re saying it answers the question Why does she stay with him?”
“Yeah,” I said, excited that maybe she would understand, maybe I could fix this retroactively. “Exactly. So we are going to shoot an explicit scene between Don and me. I’ll be mostly nude. For the heart of the movie to really sink in, we need to see the two main characters truly vulnerable together, connecting . . . sexually.”
Celia listened as I spoke, letting the words sink in. I could see her grappling with what I was saying, trying to make it fit for her. “I want you to do the movie as you want to do it,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I just . . .” She looked down and started shaking her head. “I’m feeling very . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure I can do this. Knowing you’re with Don all day, with these long nights, and I never see you, and . . . sex. Sex is sacred between us. I’m not sure I can stand to watch that.”
“You won’t need to watch it.”
“But I’ll know it happened. I’ll know it’s out there. And everyone will see it. I want to be OK with this. I really do.”
“So be OK with it.”
“I’m going to try.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m really going to try.”
“Great.”
“But Evelyn, I don’t think I can. Just knowing that you were . . . when you slept with Mick, I was sick for years afterward, thinking about the two of you together.”
“I know.”
“And you slept with Harry, God knows how many times,” she said.
&n
bsp; “I know, honey. I know. But I’m not sleeping with Don.”
“But you have slept with him. You have. When people watch the two of you on-screen, they will be watching something the two of you have already done.”
“It’s not real,” I said.
“I know, but what you’re saying to me is that you are prepared to make it look real. You’re saying you’re going to make it look more real than anything else any of us have done so far.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess I am saying that.”
She started crying. She put her head in her hands. “I feel like I’m failing you,” she said. “But I can’t do it. I can’t. I know myself, and I know this is too much for me. I’ll be too sick over it. I’ll make myself ill thinking of you with him.” She shook her head, resolved. “I’m sorry. I don’t have it in me. I can’t handle it. I want to be stronger for you, I do. I know that if the tables were turned, you could handle it. I feel like I’m disappointing you. And I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I will work forever to make it up to you. I’ll help you get any part you want. For the rest of our lives. And I’ll work on getting there so that the next time this happens, I can be stronger. But . . . please, Evelyn, I can’t live through you sleeping with another man. Even if this time it only looks real. I can’t do it. Please,” she said. “Please don’t do this.”
My heart sank. I nearly vomited.
I looked down at the floor. I studied the way two planks of wood met just under my feet, how the nailheads were just the littlest bit sunken in.
And then I looked up at her and said, “I already did it.”
I sobbed.
And I pleaded.
And I groveled, desperately, on my knees, having long ago learned the lesson that you have to throw yourself at the mercy of the things you truly want.
But before I was done, Celia said, “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be truly mine. But you’ve never been mine. Not really. I’ve always had to settle for one piece of you. While the world gets the other half. I don’t blame you. It doesn’t make me stop loving you. But I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Evelyn. I can’t live with my heart half-broken all the time.”
And she walked out the door and left me.
Within a week, Celia had packed up all her things, at my apartment and hers, and moved back to L.A.
She would not answer the phone when I called. I couldn’t get hold of her.
Then, weeks after she left, she filed for divorce from John. When he got the papers, I swear, it was as if she had served them to me directly. It was clear, in no uncertain terms, that by divorcing him, she was divorcing me.
I got John to make some calls to her agent, her manager. He tracked her down at the Beverly Wilshire. I flew to Los Angeles, and I pounded on her door.
I was wearing my favorite Diane von Furstenberg, because Celia had once said I was irresistible in it. There were a man and a woman coming out of their hotel room, and as they walked down the hall, they couldn’t stop looking at me. They knew who I was. But I refused to hide. I just kept knocking on the door.
When Celia finally opened it, I looked her in the eye and didn’t say a word. She stared back at me, silent. And then, with tears in my eyes, I said, simply, “Please.”
She turned away from me.
“I made a mistake,” I said. “I’ll never do it again.”
The last time we had fought like this, I had refused to apologize. And I really thought that this time, if I just admitted how wrong I was, if I gave in, sincerely and with all my heart, she would forgive me.
But she didn’t. “I can’t do it anymore,” she said as she shook her head. She was wearing high-waisted jeans and a Coca-Cola T-shirt. Her hair was long, past her shoulders. She was thirty-seven but still looked like she was in her twenties. She always had a youthfulness to her that I never really had. I was thirty-eight then, and I was starting to look it.
When she said that, I got down on my knees, in the hallway of the hotel, and bawled my eyes out.
She pulled me inside.
“Take me back, Celia,” I begged her. “Take me back, and I’ll give the rest of it up. I’ll give up everything but Connor. I won’t ever act again. I’ll let the world know about us. I’m ready to give you all of me. Please.”
Celia listened. But then she very calmly sat down in the chair by the bed and said, “Evelyn, you are not capable of giving it up. And you never will be. And it will be the tragedy of my life that I cannot love you enough to make you mine. That you cannot be loved enough to be anyone’s.”
I stood there for a moment longer, waiting for her to say something else. But she didn’t. She had nothing else to say. And there was nothing I could say that would change her mind.
Facing reality, I got hold of myself, held in my tears, kissed her on her temple, and walked away.
I got back on the plane to New York, hiding my pain. And it wasn’t until I was back in my apartment that I lost it. Sobbing as if she’d died.
That’s how final it felt.
I had pushed her too far. And it was over.
THAT WAS TRULY IT?” I say.
“She was done with me,” Evelyn says.
“What about the movie?”
“Are you asking if it was worth it?”
“I guess so.”
“The movie was a huge hit. Didn’t make it worth it.”
“Don Adler won an Oscar for it, didn’t he?”
Evelyn rolls her eyes. “That bastard won an Oscar, and I wasn’t even nominated.”
“Why not? I’ve seen it,” I say. “Parts of it, at least. You’re great. Really exceptional.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Well, then, why weren’t you nominated?”
“Because!” Evelyn says, frustrated. “Because I wasn’t allowed to be applauded for it. It had an X rating. It was responsible for letters to the editor at nearly every paper in the country. It was too scandalous, too explicit. It got people excited, and when they felt that way, they had to blame someone, and they blamed me. What else were they going to do? Blame the French director? The French are like that. And they weren’t going to blame the newly redeemed Don Adler. They blamed the sexpot they’d created whom they could now call a tramp. They weren’t going to give me an Oscar for that. They were going to watch it alone in a dark theater and then chastise me in public.”
“But it didn’t hurt your career,” I say. “You did two more movies the next year.”
“I made people money. No one turns away money. They were all too happy to get me in their movies and then talk about me behind my back.”
“Within a few years, you delivered what is considered one of the most noble performances of the decade.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have had to turn it around. I did nothing wrong.”
“Well, we know that now. People were praising you, and the film, as early as the mid-’80s.”
“It’s all fine in hindsight,” Evelyn says. “Except that I spent years with a scarlet A on my chest, while women and men across the country screwed each other’s brains out thinking about what the movie meant. People were shocked by the representation of a woman wanting to get fucked. And while I’m aware of the crassness of my language, it’s really the only way to describe it. Patricia was not a woman who wanted to make love. She wanted to get fucked. And we showed that. And people hated how much they loved it.”
She’s still angry. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens.
“You won an Oscar shortly after that.”
“I lost Celia for that movie,” she says. “My life, which I loved so much, was turned upside down over that movie. Of course, I understand it was my own fault. I’m the one who filmed an explicit sex scene with my ex-husband without talking to her about it first. I’m not trying to blame other people for the mistakes I made in my own relationship. But still.” Evelyn is quiet, lost in her thoughts for a moment.
“I want to ask you something, because I think it’s important
for you to speak directly about it,” I say.
“OK . . .”
“Did being bisexual put a strain on your relationship?” I want to make sure to portray her sexuality with all of its nuance, in all its complexity.
“What do you mean?” she asks. There is a slight edge to her voice.
“You lost the woman you loved because of your sexual relationships with men. I think that’s relevant to your larger identity.”
Evelyn listens to me and considers my words. Then she shakes her head. “No, I lost the woman I loved because I cared about being famous as much as I cared about her. It had nothing to do with my sexuality.”
“But you were using your sexuality to get things from men that Celia couldn’t give you.”
Evelyn shakes her head even more emphatically. “There’s a difference between sexuality and sex. I used sex to get what I wanted. Sex is just an act. Sexuality is a sincere expression of desire and pleasure. That I always kept for Celia.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that before,” I say.
“Being bisexual didn’t make me disloyal,” Evelyn says. “One has nothing to do with the other. Nor did it mean that Celia could only fulfill half my needs.”
I find myself interrupting her. “I didn’t—”
“I know you’re not saying that,” Evelyn says. “But I want you to have it in my words. When Celia said she couldn’t have all of me, it was because I was selfish and because I was scared of losing everything I had. Not because I had two sides of me that one person could never fulfill. I broke Celia’s heart because I spent half my time loving her and the other half hiding how much I loved her. Never once did I cheat on Celia. If we’re defining cheating by desiring another person and then making love to that person. I never once did that. When I was with Celia, I was with Celia. The same way any woman married to a man is with that man. Did I look at other people? Sure. Just like anyone in a relationship does. But I loved Celia, and I shared my true self only with Celia.
