Ugly Money. Philip Loraine
back when she was acting.’
Gently they explained that of course they’d known Ruth in those ancient far-off days, she’d been their client and they adored her, but they were sure Marisa wouldn’t mind if they, personally, opted out of this absolutely fantastic plan, This is Your Life, Ruth Adams. Too old, they hated to admit it – but of course they’d keep the secret, it sounded such a fun project.
Acting intense disappointment, Marisa said, ‘Well, perhaps you know someone else. Maybe some other actress, she must have had friends.’
Henry VanBuren pounced on this like a drowning sailor bumping into a floating life-saver: ‘Barbie, who was that gal who brought Ruth around to the office – when she first came to town?’
Marisa wanted to shout, ‘Where from? Tell me where she came from,’ but that would have set the drums beating all right. She sat mute. ‘You remember, dear, Julie Something. They’d just made a picture together, hadn’t they?’
‘Oh yes.’ Barbara VanBuren’s eyes congratulated him on finding this perfect escape. ‘You mean Julie Wrenn – I saw her in Hughes Market a couple of weeks ago.’ And to Marisa, benevolently, ‘An actress would be much more fun than a couple of old agents, she’d give you a real performance. And I bet your mother hasn’t seen her in years. You’re right, Henry – you clever old puss! – it was Julie Wrenn who introduced Ruth to the agency.’
Before leaving them to their boredom, from which they hadn’t even wanted to save themselves, Marisa again swore them to secrecy: it would all be spoiled if Ruth got so much as a hint of what was being planned. They stood together on their shining wraparound deck, with their expensive ocean view behind them, waving their bony, liver-spotted hands in farewell, and the breeze lifted their scanty white hair, showing the pink scalps beneath. Oh God, Marisa thought, turning back onto Pacific Coast Highway, save me from that, let me die young. Well, youngish.
She paused at this point, blue eyes inward turning on her thoughts. I noticed that she had taken something from her pocket and was holding it in one hand, touching it gently with the fingertips of the other. I said, ‘What’s that?’
She smiled, revealing a piece of green soapstone carved into a toad, the kind of thing the Chinese turn out by the million. ‘Nick gave him to me.’
Nick, drinking beer, said, ‘She’s kinky that way.’
‘I always take him with me if I’m … you know, going to do something a bit way out.’
‘Like coming a thousand miles to look for Biological Dad.’
‘Right. He brings me luck.’
Nick grimaced. ‘Didn’t bring you much luck today.’
Ignoring him she added, ‘He’s called Cross-eye.’ She leaned towards me, a child suddenly, showing me how a fault in the stone did indeed make the little creature look cross-eyed. Then she put it back in her pocket. I remembered now that when I’d seen her at intervals over the years there had usually been some kind of talisman in her life: a round stone with a hole in it, found on the beach; an old one-dollar chip from Las Vegas; things like that. Now the toad. I said, ‘OK, we can eat.’ I carried the dish of pasta to the table; Nick followed with the salad; Marisa brought up the rear with hot French bread, two loaves – I’d remembered about teenage appetites.
Pouring wine, I asked, ‘Did you find this Julie Wrenn?’
‘Did I ever!’
The lady had not been at home when Marisa first called; but she was at home on the Saturday morning, and she was every bit as dispiriting as the VanBurens but in a different way. It seems she had the kind of hangover which sticks out all around its owner like the horns of a naval mine – touch one and they explode. She lived in a shabby street off La Cienega near Olympic Boulevard; immediately led the way out of the cramped little rented house onto an equally cramped patio where dead plants drooped in their pots, long unwatered: she probably knew the living room stank of booze and a sink full of dishes waiting to be washed. The sunlight made her wince and shade her eyes. ‘Ruth Shallon’s kid, well I’ll be darned! She should never have given it up – your dad being who he is, she’d be getting roles till she dropped.’
Marisa couldn’t see the This is Your Life angle going down too well with this defeated, once-pretty, maybe even once-slim bag of lard. Impossible to believe she must be roughly the same age as her mother; the difference was heart-rending. She sat down gingerly on a rather sticky lounger. Julie Wrenn kicked off her slippers and wiggled her toes; they were far from clean.
And Marisa had been right: in such a setting This is Your Life, Ruth Adams sounded surreal, but she played it to the hilt, deducting a couple of years from her age in the process. She wasn’t sure Julie Wrenn even believed her, such pretty little excitements being so far, far outside the life to which she’d condemned herself. And the idea of her actually taking part in the mythical romp was grotesque – Marisa hastily added, ‘I mean, I’m not asking you to, you know, be in it. I just thought you could tell me someone who knew her back in her acting days. I mean she must have had agents, things like that.’
‘Batty old Barbara VanBuren. Saw her the other day in … I forget. Saw her anyway; she’s still around.’
Marisa said, ‘I’ve kind of heard of the VanBurens. Were they your agents too?’
‘Long before they were hers. I introduced her.’ A touch of … what? Pride, combativeness, sagging into indifference.
‘Of course! You made a movie together, didn’t you?’
‘She had a bit part. Local girl.’ She scratched between her sagging breasts. Marisa all but held her breath: would the oracle continue to speak? The oracle took a gulp of orange juice: ‘All I ever drink in the mornings. Want some?’ Marisa could smell the vodka from where she was sitting. No orange juice for her, she didn’t fancy using one of those smeared glasses.
‘Sure we made a movie. Small budget. Your dad’s first.’
A piece fell into place. (‘He saved me from a very awkward situation.’)
‘Can’t remember the title, something about a wagon. Total bummer. I wonder he ever got another job, let alone …’ A wave of the grubby fingers sketched the upward trajectory of Jack Adams. ‘Luck of the draw, dear, that’s what they call it. All about the pioneers coming to Oregon. Crap, arty crap. Didn’t do me a blind bit of good. I played the daughter, nice part.’
Marisa sat very still, not even daring to look at the woman. She said, ‘Oregon’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Kind of quiet, but … yeah, it’s beautiful.’ Oh God, she seemed to have come to a stop. Or maybe just searching her pickled memory for names: ‘The Columbia. And that other river, what’s it called? Runs through Portland.’
Marisa felt that too many questions might seem suspicious, might dam the flow; but questions had to be asked. ‘Did you … Did you like Portland?’
‘It’s OK. Better than this asshole city ever was, even in its good days.’
A local girl. Portland, Oregon. She could hardly believe how much she’d managed to discover in so short a time. Jack Adams’ first movie had been something about a wagon, about pioneers coming to the West. An arty failure. This pathetic woman had played the daughter, and her mother, the local girl, had been given a bit part. How come? Obvious – she’d been an actress up there in Portland; sometimes she spoke about acting on the stage, but she had never done it in LA, therefore it must have been in Portland. And if the wagon movie was being made on a small budget they would have depended on local talent, would have visited the theaters to find it, had found Ruth Shallon.
And when shooting was finished she had left Oregon to come to LA – to hide her pregnancy? – just another out-of-town girl trying to make the big time; and Julie Wrenn had introduced her to the VanBuren Agency. How did things then stand between the young actress and the young director?
Sitting