Marion is the first person he tells. The first thing he learned on set is you should never underestimate Makeup and Costumes. If you want to be liked, let them have their way with you; they know how to whisper a quiet word where it counts. It’s obvious Marion knows something is up. She’s been both lingering and avoiding him, insisting on small, unnecessary touch-ups between takes but not saying much.Maybe she believes what the magazines are saying about me and Susie, he thinks.Or maybe she likes me.
“Hiya, Marion,” he says, popping into the makeup room. Twenty people are buzzing in and out, but Marion looks only at him.
She runs her fingers through her auburn fringe. “Hi.”
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
She moves to him like he is the most important person in the universe, steps out into the corridor, and half closes the door.
“I like your nails,” he starts.
“Oh,” she says shyly, wiggling her fingers. “Thanks.”
“They’re like disco balls.”
“I chipped one,” she says, grimacing as though he would give a fuck.Focus, be polite.
“Shoot,” he says. “Listen.” Her eyes grow wide as he describes the situation, asks for her help, her discretion.
“It’s not—”
“Marion, obviously it’s not mine.” He rolls his eyes, socks her lightly on the upper arm.
“I’ll talk to the girls,” she says, adding almost gleefully. “We’ll make sure she’s not in anything too tight.”
Rip is next. “Give her an illness,” Orson suggests. “Bed rest or something. Or just put me in scenes with her, I’ll help her cover it.”
Rip sighs heavily. “Buddy, why are you getting involved?”
“She says she needs time.”
“Flowers is going to be so pissed.”
“Flowers doesn’t need to find out.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“No!” Of course he loves her, but he isn’tin lovewith her. “Jesus, Rip. It’s just. She brings everyone up, you know?”
Rip nods. He knows. “We could always send her into a coma.”
For several weeks, it seems to be working. Winter comes and with it, baggy coats. The costume department makes the most of her bloating breasts, cleverly adapts a seam here and there. As more accommodations need to be made, Orson delicately slips the word around set: an AD, a cameraman. Close-ups, large props in front of her. Rip gives Margie some shift work at the bar—that keeps her hidden. But when even the child actor who plays the matriarch’s coddled daughter approaches Orson to say “Guess what…?” he knows her time is running short. Everyone knows except Flowers.
It’s late and Susan’s feet are pounding. For months she has kept her mouth shut, and the army of hidden helpers is enough to overwhelm her. Rip promised to send Margie on some kind of vacation.Somewherewarm, she requested. Rehab can be warm, he winked. It’s nice to think they’ll both come back transformed. It will be easy enough to let it all flow from her, all of the sadness of saying goodbye.You’re going to start smoking, Orson joked.Everyone does at rehab.With all of them behind her, masking her belly and rewriting her plotlines, it feels almost possible it will work out. She’ll be back. She will give birth and keep her job and Al will see the light and they will live happily ever after in Hollywood.
As if on cue, the phone rings. “Hi, Susie Q,” her husband says.
“Hi, Doc.”
On the dressing table is the latest bouquet: roses and lilacs, lavender and eucalyptus. Al sends them weekly, bursting with pride and wonder and maybe also fear. To avoid flying, Susan is subletting a small studio apartment in Sun Valley, and they are both aching. This is the longest she’s ever been away from him.
“How was today?”
“I threw up again.”
“Suze, it’s been twenty weeks.”
“I know.”
