I enlisted Nick to help me get Harry into our car. I made him help me put the other man back into the totaled sedan, this time in the driver’s seat.
And then I quickly grabbed a scarf from my bag and wiped the steering wheel clean, wiped the blood, wiped the seat belt. I erased all traces of Harry.
And then we took Harry to the hospital.
There, bloodstained and crying, I called the police from a pay phone and reported the accident.
When I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Nick, sitting in the waiting room, blood on his chest, his arms, even some on his neck.
I walked over to him. He stood up.
“You should go home,” I said.
He nodded, still in shock.
“Can you get yourself home? Do you want me to call you a ride?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I’ll call you a cab, then.” I grabbed my purse. I pulled out two twenties from my wallet. “This should be enough to get you there.”
“OK,” he said.
“You’re going to go home, and you’re going to forget everything that happened. Everything you saw.”
“What did we do?” he said. “How did we . . . How could we . . .”
“You’re going to call me,” I said. “I’ll get a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Call me there tomorrow. First thing in the morning. You’re not going to talk to anyone else between now and then. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Not your mother or your friends or even the cabdriver. Do you have a girlfriend?”
He shook his head.
“A roommate?”
He nodded.
“You tell them that you found a man on the street and you brought him to the hospital, OK? That’s all you tell them, and you only tell them if they ask.”
“OK.”
He nodded. I called him a cab and waited with him until it arrived. I put him in the backseat.
“What are you going to do first thing tomorrow?” I asked him through the rolled-down window.
“I’m going to call you.”
“Good,” I said. “If you can’t sleep, think. Think about what you need. What you need from me as a thank-you for what you did.”
He nodded, and the cab zoomed off.
People were staring at me. Evelyn Hugo in a pantsuit covered in blood. I was afraid paparazzi would be there any minute.
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 Ange
les. 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.
I wanted to be the kind of person who made dinner, who scrubbed a toilet, who was available to my daughter at all times.
“Are any of your movies big in Spain?” I asked.
“Nothing recently,” Celia said. “Yours?”
“Just Boute-en-Train,” I said. “So no.”
“Do you really think you’ll be able to handle this?”
“No,” I said, even before I knew what Celia was specifically talking about. “Which part do you mean?”
“Insignificance.”
I laughed. “Oh, God,” I said. “Yes. That’s about the only part I am ready for.”
* * *
WHEN THE PLANS were finalized, when I knew what school Connor would go to, what houses we were going to buy, how we were going to live, I walked into Connor’s room and sat down on her bed.
She was wearing a Duran Duran T-shirt and faded jeans. Her blond hair was teased at the crown. She was still grounded from when I had caught her having a threesome, so she had no choice but to sit there with a sour face and listen as I spoke.
I told her I was retiring from acting. I told her we were moving to Spain. I told her I thought she and I would be happier living with good people, away from all the fame and the cameras.
And then I very gently, very tentatively, told her that I was in love with Celia. I told her I was going to marry Robert, and I explained why, succinctly and clearly. I did not treat her like a child. I spoke to her as an adult. I finally gave her the truth. My truth.
I did not tell her about Harry, about how long I had been with Celia or anything that she didn’t need to know. Those things would come in time.
But I told her what she deserved to understand.
And when I was done, I said, “I’m ready to hear everything you have to say. I’m ready to answer any questions at all. Let’s have a discussion about this.”
But all she did was shrug her shoulders. “I don’t care, Mom,” she said, sitting on her bed with her back against the wall. “I really don’t. You can love whoever. Marry anybody. You can make me live wherever. Go to whatever school you decide. I don’t care, OK? I just don’t care. All I want is to be left alone. So just . . . leave my room. Please. If you can do that, then the rest of it, I don’t care.”
I looked at her, stared right into her eyes and ached for her aching. With her blond hair and her face thinning out, I was starting to fear that she looked more like me than Harry. Sure, conventionally speaking, she would be more attractive if she looked like me. But she should look like Harry. The world should give us that.
“All right,” I said. “I will leave you alone for now.”
I got up. I gave her some space.
I packed up our things. I hired movers. I made plans with Celia and Robert.
Two days before we left New York, I walked into her bedroom and said, “I’ll give you your freedom in Aldiz. You can choose your own room. I’ll make sure you can come back here to visit some of your friends. I’ll do whatever I can to make life easier for you. But I need two things.”
“What?” she said. Her voice sounded disinterested, but she was looking at me. She was talking to me.
“Dinner together, every night.”
“Mom—”
“I’m giving you a lot of leeway here. A lot of trust. All I’m asking for is two things. One is dinner every night.”
“But—”
“It’s nonnegotiable. You only have three more years until you’re in college anyway. You can handle one meal a day.”
She looked away from me. “Fine. What’s the second?”
“You’re going to see a psychologist. At least for a little while. You’ve been through too much. We all have. You need to start talking to someone.”
When I had tried this before, months earlier, I was too weak with her. I let her tell me no. I wasn’t going to do that this time. I was stronger now. I could be a bette
r mother.
Maybe she could detect it in my voice, because she didn’t try to fight me. She just said, “OK, whatever.”
I hugged her and kissed the top of her head, and just when I was going to let go, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me back.
EVELYN’S EYES ARE WET. THEY have been for some time. She stands up and grabs a tissue from across the room.
She’s such a spectacular woman—by which I mean she, herself, is a spectacle. But she’s also deeply, deeply human. And it is simply impossible for me, in this moment, to remain objective. Against all journalistic integrity, I simply care about her too much not to be moved by her pain, not to feel for all she has felt.
“It must be so hard . . . what you’re doing, telling your story, with so much frankness. I just want you to know that I admire you for it.”
“Don’t say that,” Evelyn says. “OK? Just do me a favor, and don’t say anything like that. I know who I am. By tomorrow you will, too.”
“You keep saying that, but we’re all flawed. Do you really believe you’re past redemption?”
She ignores me. She looks out the window, without even looking at me.
“Evelyn,” I say. “Do you honestly—”
She cuts me off as she looks back at me. “You agreed not to press. We’ll be done soon enough. And you won’t be left wondering about anything.”
I look at her skeptically.
“Really,” she says. “This is one thing on which you can trust me.”
Agreeable Robert Jamison
Now This
January 8, 1990
EVELYN HUGO MARRIES FOR THE SEVENTH TIME
Evelyn Hugo got married this past Saturday to financier Robert Jamison. While this is the seventh trip down the aisle for Evelyn, it is the first for Robert.
If his name sounds familiar, it might be because Evelyn isn’t the only member of Hollywood royalty he’s linked to. Jamison is an older brother of Celia St. James. Sources say the two met at a party of Celia’s just two months ago. They have been falling head over heels in love since.
