My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht Page B

intently.
    â€œBlonde,” he said, “pneumatic, and full of peasant health. Just the type meant for me.”
    I thought he was going to put his arm around me but he didn’t. His voice sounded sleepy as he continued.
    â€œPlease think it over, Miss Monroe. I can promise you only one thing if you marry me. You’ll become one of the most glamorous stars in Hollywood. I’ll help you. Word of honor.”
    Mr. Sanders put his glass down and dozed off.
    I left him on the stairs and walked across the hall, out of the mansion door into the Beverly Hills night. I felt grateful to Mr. Sanders for having spoken to me. But out of the incident came my first Hollywood feud.
    I’ll skip ahead and tell the feud story here. A year and a half later I was still broke and looking for jobs, but the first little buzz of success had touched my name. I’d been on the screen in
The Asphalt Jungle
, and audiences had whistled at me—just as the wolves on the beach had done the first time I’d worn a bathing suit. And though I didn’t seem able to land another job after my “great success,” the photographers were after me as a model.
    Among these was Tony Beauchamp who was one of the more important camera artists in Hollywood. He was married to Sarah Churchill. I had been to his studiooften to sit for pictures. One day he asked me to come to his home on Sunday afternoon “for cocktails.”
    I was thrilled by the invitation and eager to meet his wife. I had always looked up to Winston Churchill as an oldish but very noble man.
    The Beauchamp home was on the beach. I drove out alone dressed in a sweater and skirt. I hadn’t yet learned that “come for cocktails” meant a party. I thought the cocktails would be only for Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp and me.
    When I entered the Beauchamp home I stood still and didn’t move. It was filled with people all drinking cocktails. The only person I knew was Tony Beauchamp.
    â€œMake yourself at home,” he said and introduced me to his wife. I said how do you do and remained standing still. The Beauchamps moved on.
    I noticed a commotion among the guests at the other end of the crowded room. A blonde with a funny accent was cutting loose about something. I couldn’t make out her words, but she was whooping away in unmistakable fury. I saw her take a tall man by the arm and march him out of the room. The tall man looked familiar.
    Tony came up to me with a grin.
    â€œDear, dear,” he said, “what have you done to Zsa Zsa Gabor?”
    â€œWho is that?” I asked.
    â€œThe Hungarian bombshell,” said Tony. “You just drove her out of the party fuming!”
    â€œMaybe she didn’t approve of my sweater,” I said. “I wouldn’t have worn it if I’d known it was a party.”
    â€œOh no,” said Tony. “It’s deeper than that. Zsa Zsa said Sarah and I couldn’t expect nice people to remain at our party if people like you joined it. Now, frankly, Marilyn—what in heaven’s name did you do to her?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “I never even saw her before.”

    I walked over to have a look at this Hungarian bombshell. I saw she was one of those blondes who put on ten years if you take a close look at them. I also saw that the tall, handsome man she was clucking and making other Hungarian chicken noises at was George Sanders. I learned from Tony beside me that Mr. Sanders was her husband.
    Poor Mr. Sanders, he had made that stairway speech once too often.

13
    Â 
i didn’t like parties
but i liked mr. schenck
    Â 
    I was to go to a number of fancy Hollywood parties and stand among the glamorous figures dressed as well as any of them and laugh as if I were overcome with joy, but I never felt any more at ease than I did the first time I watched from the hallway.
    The chief fun people get out of those parties comes the next day when they are able to spread