intelligence and irony. Edna had all the funniest lines in the play, and she was in every single scene.
“Billy!” exclaimed Edna, after reading the script for the first time. “This is delightful, but you’re spoiling me! Doesn’t anyone else in the show get to speak?”
“Why would I take you offstage for a moment?” Billy said to her. “If I have the chance to work with Edna Parker Watson, I want the world to know I’m working with Edna Parker Watson.”
“You’re a dear,” said Edna. “But I haven’t performed comedy in so long, Billy. I’m afraid I’ll be quite stale.”
“The trick of comedy,” said Billy, “is not to perform it in a comic manner. Don’t try to be funny, and you’ll be funny. Just do that effortless thing you Brits do, of throwing away half the lines as though you can scarcely be bothered to care, and it’ll be brilliant. Comedy is always best when it’s thrown away.”
It was interesting to watch Edna and Billy interact. They had a real friendship, it appeared—based not only on teasing and playfulness, but on mutual respect. They admired each other’s talents, and genuinely had a good time together. The first night they saw each other, Billy had said to Edna, “Very much of little consequence has transpired since last we met, my dear. Let’s sit down for a drink and talk about none of it.”
To which she had replied, “There is nothing I would rather not talk about, Billy, and nobody whom I would rather not talk about it with!”
Billy once told me, in front of Edna, “So many men had the pleasure of having their hearts broken by our dear Edna, back when I knew her in London so long ago. I didn’t happen to be one of them, but that’s only because I was already in love with Peg. But back in her prime, Edna cut down man after man. It was something to see. Plutocrats, artists, generals, politicians—she mowed them all to bits.”
“No, I didn’t,” Edna protested—while smiling in a manner that suggested: Yes, I did.
“I used to love to watch you break a man apart, Edna,” Billy said. “You did it so beautifully. You broke them with such force that they would be enfeebled forever, and then some other woman could come and scoop them up and control them. It was a service to humanity,
really. I know she looks like a little doll, Vivian, but never underestimate this woman. She is to be respected. Be aware that there’s an iron spine hidden under all those stylish clothes of hers.”
“You give me far too much credit, Billy,” said Edna—but again, she smiled in a manner that suggested: You, sir, are absolutely correct.
—
Afew weeks later, I was fitting Edna in my apartment. The dress I’d designed was for her final scene. Edna wanted it to be sensational, and so did I. “Make me a dress I have to live up to” had been her direct
instruction—and forgive my boasting, but I had done it.
It was an evening gown composed of two layers of robin’s-egg-blue silk soufflé, draped with sheer rhinestone netting. (I’d found a bolt of the silk at Lowtsky’s and had spent nearly all my personal savings on it.) The dress sparkled with every movement—not in a garish way, but like light reflected on water. The silk clung to Edna’s figure without clinging too hard (she was in her fifties, after all) and there was a slit up the right side so she could dance. The effect was to make Edna look like a fairy queen, out for a night on the town.
Edna loved it, and was spinning in the mirror, to capture every twinkle and gleam.
“I swear, Vivian, you’ve somehow made me look tall, though I can’t credit how you’ve done it. And that blue is so refreshingly youthful. I was petrified you would put me in black, and I would look as though I should be embalmed. Oh, I cannot wait to show this dress to Billy. He has the best comprehension of women’s fashion of any man I’ve ever met. He’ll be just as excited as I am. I’ll tell you something about your uncle, Vivian. Billy Buell is that rare man who claims to love women and actually does.”
“Celia says he’s a playboy,” I said.
“But of course he’s a playboy, darling. What handsome man worth his salt is not? Though Billy is a special sort. There are a million playboys out there, you must understand, but they don’t typically enjoy a woman’s company past the obvious gratifications. A man who gets to conquer all the women he wants, but who does not prize any of them?
Now, that is a man to be avoided. But Billy genuinely likes women, whether he’s vanquishing them or not. We’ve always had a wonderful time together, he and I. He’d be just as happy talking with me about fashion as trying to seduce me. And he writes the most delicious dialogue for women, which most men cannot. Most male playwrights can’t create a woman for the stage who does anything more than seduce or weep or be loyal to their husbands, and that’s awfully dull.”
“Olive thinks he’s not trustworthy.”
“She’s wrong about that. You can trust Billy. You can absolutely trust him to be himself. Olive just doesn’t like what he is.”
“And what is he?”
Edna paused and thought about it. “He’s free,” she decided. “You won’t meet many people in life who are, Vivian. He’s a person who does quite as he pleases, and I find that refreshing. Olive is a more regimented soul by nature—and thank goodness for it, or nothing around here would function—and thus she’s suspicious of anyone who is free. But I myself enjoy being around the free. They excite me. The other magical thing about Billy, I dare say, is that he’s so handsome. I do love a handsome man, Vivian—as surely you have already gathered. It’s always been a pleasure just to be in the room with Billy’s handsomeness. But with that charm of his, beware! If he ever puts the full game on you, you’re a dead pigeon.”
I had to wonder if Billy had ever “put the full game” on Edna, but I was too polite to pursue it. I did, however, have the courage to ask: “About Peg and Billy . . . ?”
I wasn’t even sure how to finish the question, but Edna instantly understood my gist.
“You’re wondering about the nature of their alliance?” She smiled. “All I can tell you is that they do love each other. Always have. They are so similar in intellect and humor, you see. They used to positively spark off each other when they were younger. If you were a noninitiate into their brand of wit, it could be intimidating—one never quite knew how to jump into the mix. But Billy adores Peg and always did. Now, to be loyal to just one woman would be awfully narrowing to a man like Billy Buell, of course, but his heart has always belonged to her. And they delight in working together—as soon you shall see. The only problem is that Billy has a deft hand with chaos, and I’m not
certain that Peg is seeking chaos anymore. These days, she wants loyalty more than fun.”
“But are they still married?” I asked.
By which I meant, of course: Do they still sleep together?
“Married by whose standard?” Edna asked, folding her arms and looking at me with her head tilted. When I didn’t answer the question, she smiled again and said, “There are subtleties, my dear. You will discover as you get older that there’s practically nothing but subtleties. And I hate to disappoint you, but it’s best you learn now: most marriages are neither heavenly nor hellish, but vaguely purgatorial. Still and all, love must be respected, and Billy and Peg possess true love. Now if you could fix this belt for me, darling, and find a way to stop it bunching about my ribs whenever I lift my arms, I will absolutely die with gratitude.”
—
Because Edna’s prestige was going to elevate the tone of the play, Billy was convinced that the rest of the production had to be of
equal quality to its star. (“The Lily Playhouse just got her pedigree papers” was how he described the situation. “This is a whole new dog show, kids.”) Everything we created for City of Girls, he instructed, would have to be far better than what we were accustomed to creating.
This would not be easily achieved, of course, given what we were accustomed to creating.
Billy had sat through a few nights of Dance Away, Jackie! and he made no secret of his disdain for our current troupe of players.
“They’re garbage, honey,” he said to Peg.
“Don’t butter me up,” she said. “I’ll think you’re trying to get me into bed.”
“They are twenty-four-carat garbage, and you know it.”
“Just give it to me straight, Billy. Stop flattering me.”
“The showgirls are fine as they are, because they don’t need to do anything other than look good,” he said. “So they can stay. The actors are vile, though. We’ll need to get some new talent in here. The dancers
are cute enough, and they all look like they come from bad families, which I like . . . but they’re so heavy on their feet. It’s assaulting. I love their tarty little faces, but let’s keep them in the background and bring in some real dancers to put up front—at least six. Right now, the only dancer I can stand to watch footing around the front of the stage is that fairy, Roland. He’s terrific. But I need everyone else to be of his caliber.”
In fact, Billy was so impressed with Roland’s charisma that he’d initially wanted to give the boy a song of his own to sing, called “Maybe in the Navy”—a tune that would seem to be about a boy wanting to join the Navy in order to pursue a life of adventure, but would actually be a clever and veiled reference to Roland’s very obvious homosexuality. (“I’m picturing something like ‘You’re the Top’” is how Billy had explained it to us. “You know, a suggestive little double entendre of a song.”) But Olive had instantly shut down the idea.
“Come now, Olive,” Peg had begged. “Let us do it. It’s funny. The women and children in the audience won’t catch the reference, anyhow. This is supposed to be a racy story. Let’s allow things to be more spirited for once.”
“Too spirited for public consumption” was Olive’s verdict, and that was the end of it: Roland didn’t get his song.
—
Olive, I should say, was not happy about any of this.
She was the only person at the Lily who didn’t get caught up in Billy’s excitement. On the day he arrived, she commenced sulking, and the sulk never lifted. The truth is, I was beginning to find Olive’s dourness awfully irritating. The constant niggling over every dime, the policing of sexually suggestive material, the slavish devotion to her rigid chain of habits, the way she gave Billy the brush on every clever idea he proposed, the constant fussbudgeting, and the general quashing of all fun and enthusiasm—it was just so tiresome.
For instance, let’s consider Billy’s plan to hire six more dancers for the show than we normally had onstage. Peg was all for it, but Olive called the idea “a lot of fuss and feathers for nothing.”