The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

THE MORNING WE STARTED REHEARSALS for Little Women, Don woke me up with breakfast in bed. Half a grapefruit and a lit cigarette. I found this highly romantic, because it was exactly what I wanted.

“Good luck today, sweetheart,” he said as he got dressed and headed out the door. “I know you’ll show Celia St. James what it really means to be an actress.”

I smiled and wished him a good day. I ate the grapefruit and left the tray in bed as I got into the shower.

When I got out, our maid, Paula, was in the bedroom cleaning up after me. She was picking the butt of my cigarette off the duvet. I’d left it on the tray, but it must have fallen.

I didn’t keep a neat house.

My clothes from last night were on the floor. My slippers were on top of the dresser. My towel was in the sink.

Paula had her work cut out for her, and she didn’t find me particularly charming. That much was clear.

“Can you do that later?” I said to her. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m in a rush to get to set.”

She smiled politely and left.

I wasn’t in a rush, really. I just wanted to get dressed, and I wasn’t going to do that in front of Paula. I didn’t want her to see that there was a bruise, dark purple and yellowing, on my ribs.

Don had pushed me down the stairs nine days before. Even as I say it all these years later, I feel the need to defend him. To say that it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. That we were toward the bottom of the stairs, and he gave me a shove that bumped me down about four steps and onto the floor.

Unfortunately, the table by the door, where we kept the keys and the mail, is what caught my fall. I landed on it on my left side, the handle on the top drawer getting me right in the rib cage.

When I said that I thought I might have broken a rib, Don said, “Oh, no, honey. Are you all right?” as if he wasn’t the one who pushed me.

Like an idiot, I said, “I think I’m fine.”

The bruise wasn’t going away quickly.

Paula burst back in through the door a moment later.

“Sorry, Mrs. Adler, I forgot the—”

I panicked. “For heaven’s sake, Paula! I asked you to leave!”

She turned around and walked out. And what pissed me off more than anything was that if she was going to sell a story, why wasn’t it that one? Why didn’t she tell the world that Don Adler was beating his wife? Why, instead, did she come after me?

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER, I was on the set of Little Women. The soundstage had been turned into a New England cabin, complete with snow on the windows.

Ruby and I were united in our fight against Celia St. James stealing the movie from us, despite the fact that anyone who plays Beth leaves the audience reaching for the hankies.

You can’t tell an actress that a rising tide lifts all boats. It doesn’t work that way for us.

But on the first day of rehearsals, as Ruby and I hung out by craft services and drank coffee, it became clear that Celia St. James had absolutely no idea how much we all hated her.

“Oh, God,” she said, coming up to Ruby and me. “I’m so scared.”

She was wearing gray trousers and a pale pink short-sleeved sweater. She had a childlike, girl-next-door kind of face. Big, round, pale blue eyes, long lashes, Cupid’s bow lips, long strawberry-red hair. She was simplicity perfected.

I was the sort of beautiful that women knew they could never truly emulate. Men knew they would never even get close to a woman like me.

Ruby was the elegant, aloof sort of beauty. Ruby was cool. Ruby was chic.

But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.

Ruby and I both were aware of what kind of power that is, accessibility.

Celia toasted a piece of bread at the craft services table and slathered it with peanut butter and then bit into it.

“What on earth are you scared of?” Ruby said.

“I have no idea what I’m doing!” Celia said.

“Celia, you can’t really expect us to fall for this ‘aw shucks’ routine,” I said.

She looked at me. And the way she did it made me feel as if no one had ever really looked at me before. Not even Don. “That hurts my feelings,” she said.

I felt a little bit bad. But I certainly wasn’t going to let on. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said.

“Yes, you absolutely did,” Celia said. “I think you’re a bit of a cynic.”

Ruby, that fair-weather friend, pretended to hear the AD calling for her and took off.

“I just have a hard time believing a woman the entire town is saying will be nominated next year is doubting her ability to play Beth March. It’s the chewiest, most likable role in the whole thing.”

“If it’s such a sure thing, then why didn’t you take it?” she asked me.

“I’m too old, Celia. But thank you for that.”

Celia smiled, and I realized I’d played right into her hands.

That’s when I started to take a liking to Celia St. James.