Chap­ter 26

I was sent an invi­ta­tion to see Mick Riva per­form at the Hol­ly­wood Bowl that fall. I decid­ed to go, not because I cared about see­ing Mick Riva but because an evening out­side sound­ed fun. And I wasn’t above court­ing the tabloids.
Celia, Har­ry, and I decid­ed to go togeth­er. I would nev­er have gone with just Celia, not with that many eyes on us. But Har­ry was a per­fect buffer.
That night, the air in L.A. was cool­er than I had antic­i­pat­ed. I was wear­ing capri pants and a short-sleeved sweater. I had just got­ten bangs and had start­ed sweep­ing them to the side. Celia had on a blue shift dress and flats. Har­ry, dap­per as ever, was wear­ing slacks and a short-sleeved oxford shirt. He held a camel-col­ored knit cardi­gan with over­sized but­tons in his hand, ready for any of us who were too cold.
We sat in the sec­ond row with a cou­ple of Harry’s pro­duc­er friends from Para­mount. Across the aisle, I saw Ed Bak­er with a young woman who appeared as if she could be his daugh­ter, but I knew bet­ter. I decid­ed not to say hi, not only because he was still a part of the Sun­set machine but also because I nev­er liked him.
Mick Riva took the stage, and the women in the crowd start­ed cheer­ing so loud­ly that Celia actu­al­ly put her hands over her ears. He was wear­ing a dark suit with a loose tie. His jet-black hair was combed back but just slight­ly disheveled. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d had a drink or two back­stage. But it didn’t seem to slow him down in the slight­est.
“I don’t get it,” Celia said to me as she leaned in to my ear. “What do they see in this guy?”
I shrugged. “That he’s hand­some, I sup­pose.”
Mick walked up to the micro­phone, the spot­light fol­low­ing him. He grabbed the mic stand with both pas­sion and soft­ness, as if it were one of the many girls yelling his name.
“And he knows what he’s doing,” I said.
Celia shrugged. “I’d take Brick Thomas over him any day.”
I shook my head, cring­ing. “No, Brick Thomas is a heel. Trust me. If you met him, with­in five sec­onds, you’d be gag­ging.”
Celia laughed. “I think he’s cute.”
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“Well, I think he’s cuter than Mick Riva,” she said. “Har­ry? Thoughts?”
Har­ry leaned in from the oth­er side. He whis­pered so soft­ly I almost didn’t hear him. “I’m embar­rassed to admit I have some­thing in com­mon with these shriek­ing girls,” he said. “I would not kick Mick out of bed for eat­ing crack­ers.”
Celia laughed.
“You are too much,” I said as I watched Mick walk from one end of the stage to the oth­er, croon­ing and smol­der­ing. “Where are we eat­ing after this?” I asked them both. “That’s the real ques­tion.”
“Don’t we have to go back­stage?” Celia asked. “Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”
Mick’s first song end­ed, and every­one start­ed clap­ping and cheer­ing. Har­ry leaned over me as he clapped so Celia could hear him.
“You won an Oscar, Celia,” he said. “You can do what­ev­er the hell you want.”
She threw her head back and laughed as she clapped. “Well, then I want to go get a steak.”
“Steak it is,” I said.
I don’t know whether it was the laugh­ing or the cheer­ing or the clap­ping. There was so much noise around me, so much chaos from the crowd. But for one fleet­ing moment, I for­got myself. I for­got where I was. I for­got who I was. I for­got who I was with.
And I grabbed Celia’s hand and held it.
She looked down, sur­prised. I could feel Harry’s gaze on our hands, too.