Great Big Beautiful Life(93)

“I don’t do this,” she said as, together, they pushed the door shut behind them.

“I do,” he said.

“Fine,” she said, “I do too.”

Because of that, she thought she was safe. Insulated. This would be one more wild night, a private story that would belong just to her, in a life that she largely lived as a worldwide broadcast.

It couldn’t be more than that, if for no other reason than she refused to subject Laura to Cosmo’s presence.

So it was just one night.

And in the morning, when he sent her dozens of bouquets, each one a different flower, with a note that read Didn’t know what you liked. —C, she told herself that was just an addendum to the night itself.

Laura continued her grieving. Gerald had left her his father’s old journals, and all day long most days, she sat in his favorite chair, reeking of his cigar smoke, and read about the past, closing herself off from the future.

Margaret continued her life out on the town once her bruises had healed, and while some astute members of the press noted that the spark seemed to have left Peggy Ives’s eyes, this change was always attributed to the recent loss of the “beloved patriarch of the Ives family.”

Margaret passed as much time as she could with her sister, but all Laura really did, aside from read, was sleep, with the aid of the pills the family doctor obligingly prescribed.

Once the coverage of Gerald’s death had dissipated and the news cycle hit its first lull, the pictures from the so-called Rock ’n’ Brawl made a renewed appearance in the papers. Margaret knew this because she’d become obsessed with tracking them since that night. But she never brought the papers home. For once she was grateful that Laura was housebound, protected from the unkind things people were writing about her.

Still, one night, Margaret had walked past another of her father’s secretive phone calls and heard him whispering, “Laura’s not like you, Bernie. She’s not tough. She can’t handle this kind of scrutiny,” and the shame filled her up from her feet to her head.

Three months passed since her night with Cosmo.

Occasionally he sent Margaret letters from his home in Nashville. Letters might’ve been an overstatement. They were more like notes, short missives about things that had reminded him of her, or mentions of vague plans to be back in Los Angeles, well-wishes for her and her sister. He always included Laura, which cracked Margaret’s heart a bit deeper every time.

She kept every letter.

She replied to none of them.

Gradually, Laura emerged from those first stages of mourning. She’d finished reading the journals and moved on to new territory. Books about physics, biology, philosophy, religion. Sometimes, she could be coaxed outside to read on a blanket alongside Margaret, with the makings of a tea party spread between them.

Margaret kept waiting to stop missing the man she’d spent one night with. But when the letters stopped coming, she felt like a melon that had had its insides scooped out. She ached. She was…lonely, like she hadn’t been since Ruth died, and before that, in those dark days when her parents’ anger with and mistrust of each other had been so great that there was no room for anything else, even in a castle as large as theirs.

Three more months of silence went by. Margaret read about Cosmo turning twenty-four years old, about the raging, star-studded party thrown at Chateau Marmont, and thought she might break in half at learning he’d been so close to her.

It terrified her. That one person could have so great a pull on her. That she could feel so much. That she could miss a person she didn’t know. She wondered if something was wrong with her.

Laura had become obsessed with a young, controversial psychologist whose book she’d read. She’d excitedly spout some of his nonsensical theories at Margaret, one being that people were always the source of their own pain.

There was no logical reason Margaret should’ve felt this kind of loss at being disconnected from a total stranger like Cosmo Sinclair, which for the first—and, frankly, only—time made her think Dr. David Ryan Atwood might not be completely full of shit.

But time moved on and she thought of Cosmo less and less, until finally she stopped thinking of him at all.

In 1962, four years after Margaret’s grandfather’s death, one of Bernie’s films was nominated for an Academy Award. Margaret’s stepfather, Roy, never liked attending awards shows, so sometimes Freddy would step in to escort his ex-wife, but that year Bernie took Margaret as her date.

Margaret wore a silver gown, her hair piled glamorously atop her head, while Bernie wore simple black, as was her approach every time she found herself in a situation where a dress was more appropriate than her usual slacks.

Margaret felt more like herself that night than she had in a long time. It was promising. She and Laura would recover from the last four years, and things would go back to normal. That page would be refolded along its crease, and she would continue wandering through her sumptuous, extravagant, fun life.

She talked, she flirted, she drank, she laughed. She and her mother rolled their eyes at the inane stage banter and roared their applause for their favorite films, actors, writers of the year. Or Bernie did, and Margaret followed her lead, happy to bask in the glow of her lovely mother.

She felt filled back up by the time the night was over. She even decided to stop by the Board of Governors Ball, the after-party that had started up a few years ago. Their driver took her to the doors of the venue, and she kissed her mother—who’d decided to head home—good night, then stepped out into the line of paparazzi fire, smiling prettily. She paused to pose for several who called out her name. Just ahead were Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, who wore a beaded gown and long white gloves. They chatted with Margaret for a moment before heading inside.