was fun!”
Chapter Six
“Are those oil derricks?” Elizabeth peered out of the limousine window. The silhouettes of palm trees had given way to the unmistakable silhouettes of oil wells. And, not just one or two, but an entire forest of them.
“The only thing the city has more of than actors,” Alan said, “is oil.”
A few minutes later they rounded a corner and arrived at their next destination.
“Just saying hello to a few friends,” Alan said casually as their car pulled up to the Biltmore Hotel.
As they got out of the car, Elizabeth noticed again how incredibly handsome Simon looked tonight and took hold of his hand. She knew this was hardly a vacation, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy being with her husband. Simon squeezed her hand and then wrapped it through his arm as they walked up the front staircase to the hotel.
The Biltmore was a perfect example of Los Angeles' delightful madness. It combined Italian, Spanish and, absurdly, French styles into an ornate orgy of frescos, caste bronze staircases, Mediterranean murals, and Romanesque columns. It probably caused epileptic seizures in traditional architects. And Elizabeth loved it.
An enormous double grand staircase led to a bank of elevators, but instead of going up, Alan led them down a staircase into a cavernous posh nightclub. The Sala D'Oro was filled to capacity. Dozens and dozens of tables, with white linen and silver and candles made a crescent around the dance floor. In front of the stage an entire orchestra sat playing Cole Porter standards.
They'd barely reached the bottom of the stairs before Alan began shaking hands and gliding from table to table as he made his way across the room. He always introduced them as “my dear friends, Simon and Elizabeth Cross” as though they'd known each other for years and not hours.
As they approached yet another table, Elizabeth noticed Simon staring at something across the room. She followed his eye line and saw one of the men from Musso & Frank. He sat at a table with several other men she didn't recognize.
“Elizabeth,” Alan said, touching her arm to get her attention.
Elizabeth turned around and there was no mistaking the woman at Alan's side. Even without the introduction, Elizabeth knew who she was. Her platinum blonde hair and bombshell figure gave her away. Jean Harlow. She was Marilyn before there was a Marilyn.
“How'd ya do?” she said, flashing a grin. “Any friend of Alan's and all that.”
She was so beautiful and vivacious; it was hard to believe she'd pass away just a few years later. Even better than meeting her was seeing Simon's expression as he turned to shake her hand. Whatever or whoever he'd been expecting it wasn't Jean Harlow. His eyes widened in a wonderfully cartoony way. He licked his lips twice before stammering a smitten hello and casting Elizabeth a nervous glance. Didn't watch old movies, my eye, Elizabeth thought.
“See you at Eastside?” Jean asked Alan.
“Wouldn't miss it.”
Jean blew them all a kiss and disappeared into the crowd. Alan held out a chair for Elizabeth at the vacated table. As Simon sat down next to her she whispered, “Just Monty Python?”
Simon tugged on his collar as a bright red blush crawled up his neck.
“Are you blushing?” she asked. It was adorable.
Try as he might, Simon couldn't conjure a scowl and pretended to busy himself with adjusting the perfectly perfect cuff of his shirt.
Alan caught a waiter's eye and gestured to the table.
“That man from Musso & Frank is here, who is he?” Elizabeth asked trying to sound casual.
“The cigar with a man stuck to it? That, my darling, is Sam Roth — the head of Mammoth Studios and my most gracious employer. Sam!” Alan raised one of the abandoned glasses on the table in mock salute. “You colossal pain in my ass,” Alan added under his breath.
Sam Roth grunted, not that he could hear what Alan said, and turned back to his friends.
Alan put the glass down and
Chapter Six
“Are those oil derricks?” Elizabeth peered out of the limousine window. The silhouettes of palm trees had given way to the unmistakable silhouettes of oil wells. And, not just one or two, but an entire forest of them.
“The only thing the city has more of than actors,” Alan said, “is oil.”
A few minutes later they rounded a corner and arrived at their next destination.
“Just saying hello to a few friends,” Alan said casually as their car pulled up to the Biltmore Hotel.
As they got out of the car, Elizabeth noticed again how incredibly handsome Simon looked tonight and took hold of his hand. She knew this was hardly a vacation, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy being with her husband. Simon squeezed her hand and then wrapped it through his arm as they walked up the front staircase to the hotel.
The Biltmore was a perfect example of Los Angeles' delightful madness. It combined Italian, Spanish and, absurdly, French styles into an ornate orgy of frescos, caste bronze staircases, Mediterranean murals, and Romanesque columns. It probably caused epileptic seizures in traditional architects. And Elizabeth loved it.
An enormous double grand staircase led to a bank of elevators, but instead of going up, Alan led them down a staircase into a cavernous posh nightclub. The Sala D'Oro was filled to capacity. Dozens and dozens of tables, with white linen and silver and candles made a crescent around the dance floor. In front of the stage an entire orchestra sat playing Cole Porter standards.
They'd barely reached the bottom of the stairs before Alan began shaking hands and gliding from table to table as he made his way across the room. He always introduced them as “my dear friends, Simon and Elizabeth Cross” as though they'd known each other for years and not hours.
As they approached yet another table, Elizabeth noticed Simon staring at something across the room. She followed his eye line and saw one of the men from Musso & Frank. He sat at a table with several other men she didn't recognize.
“Elizabeth,” Alan said, touching her arm to get her attention.
Elizabeth turned around and there was no mistaking the woman at Alan's side. Even without the introduction, Elizabeth knew who she was. Her platinum blonde hair and bombshell figure gave her away. Jean Harlow. She was Marilyn before there was a Marilyn.
“How'd ya do?” she said, flashing a grin. “Any friend of Alan's and all that.”
She was so beautiful and vivacious; it was hard to believe she'd pass away just a few years later. Even better than meeting her was seeing Simon's expression as he turned to shake her hand. Whatever or whoever he'd been expecting it wasn't Jean Harlow. His eyes widened in a wonderfully cartoony way. He licked his lips twice before stammering a smitten hello and casting Elizabeth a nervous glance. Didn't watch old movies, my eye, Elizabeth thought.
“See you at Eastside?” Jean asked Alan.
“Wouldn't miss it.”
Jean blew them all a kiss and disappeared into the crowd. Alan held out a chair for Elizabeth at the vacated table. As Simon sat down next to her she whispered, “Just Monty Python?”
Simon tugged on his collar as a bright red blush crawled up his neck.
“Are you blushing?” she asked. It was adorable.
Try as he might, Simon couldn't conjure a scowl and pretended to busy himself with adjusting the perfectly perfect cuff of his shirt.
Alan caught a waiter's eye and gestured to the table.
“That man from Musso & Frank is here, who is he?” Elizabeth asked trying to sound casual.
“The cigar with a man stuck to it? That, my darling, is Sam Roth — the head of Mammoth Studios and my most gracious employer. Sam!” Alan raised one of the abandoned glasses on the table in mock salute. “You colossal pain in my ass,” Alan added under his breath.
Sam Roth grunted, not that he could hear what Alan said, and turned back to his friends.
Alan put the glass down and
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