Margaret walked along the Central Park Zoo’s gray concrete path to the seal pen, straining to see Michael through the crowds of people and pink balloons. It was chilly. Men and women were dressed in dark overcoats. What would Michael be wearing? she wondered. Her hair would be wild and free to catch the wind, as always, not hidden beneath a dull, dark hat. She remembered that Michael was tall and statuesque because she had to lift her eyes up to meet Michael’s. Margaret looked over the top of the crowd but didn’t see her anywhere.
She waited for a long time and wondered if she was mistaken about where they were supposed to meet. She remembered that, as a child, Michael had run away from her nanny to the zoo. They had found her at her favorite place in the zoo, the polar bear pen. Margaret walked to the bear’s cage but didn’t see Michael. The polar bear, too, was nowhere to be seen, submerged somewhere in the water. She returned to the seal’s pool and looked through the crowd again; no Michael.
She must have changed her mind about coming, Margaret thought and turned to leave. Then she heard a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” behind her. She looked around, and there was Michael dressed in a dark coat, and on her head was a springy blue straw hat accented by a white grosgrain ribbon. A little white veil covered her face, and in her white gloved hands she held a bouquet of white flowers. Michael laughed, delighted she had fooled Margaret. Tweed had said Margaret would never recognize her in those clothes, and he was right. Michael had been following Margaret around the whole time.
It still felt like winter, so they walked briskly around the zoo arm in arm, gossiping about the writers they knew. Michael complained about the intellectual crowd. They were humorless; they wore the clothes of artists, but were, at heart, without creativity. Michael told Margaret that she and Margaret weren’t like those boring intellectuals; they were poets at heart.
As the two women continued their tour through the zoo, Margaret thought about her deepening relationship with the entrancing Michael. Michael frequently invited Margaret to the Colony Club, the most exclusive women’s club in the city, for lunches and dinners. The luxurious club had every comfort of the grand resorts, including bedrooms, servants’ quarters, a gymnasium, and a rooftop garden, but it was only a cab ride away on Park Avenue. For Michael, it was a second home and frequent getaway after arguments with her husband.
Margaret delighted in watching Michael move through the club’s elegant dining room. Michael designed her own suits in an androgynous style that mixed tight pants cropped above the ankle, fitted vests, and V-neck blouses topped with a long-tailed blazer. She sometimes added gold epaulets to the shoulders of the jacket or pinned on the stunning diamond brooch John Barrymore had designed for her. Her flamboyant attire stood out against the backdrop of society ladies dressed in lace and long gloves. Margaret heard the hushed comments some of the women made as Michael walked by. Michael assured her she’d grown used to the comments and jealousy. She was living the dream they secretly desired. She was beautiful and wealthy. She had been married to a Hollywood star; she was an actress and an author. She had made the fairy tale come true, and they could never forgive her.
Margaret and Michael called each other at any hour of the night, chortling together about their days. They talked about the parties they’d gone to and the men who had flirted with them while they were there. Each admitted she’d had an affair with Thomas Wolfe. Margaret’s had been brief, but not Michael’s.
Now, although winter still gripped the air, holding Michael’s arm in her own, Margaret began to feel that her friendship with Michael made all her other friendships seem half-asleep. Margaret still loved Bill, and the time she spent with him was comfortable, but when she was with Michael, she felt clever, young, and beautiful. Times with her were an adventure. They walked to the amphitheater, where a chamber orchestra was performing, and took seats. Margaret wondered how the musicians could play in this cold weather. She and Michael snuggled close for warmth and listened to the music.
*
Over the last few months, Margaret had also formed a bond with Michael’s daughter, Diana. They learned that intervening on each other’s behalf when Michael became unduly stubborn could aid all concerned. When a movie studio had offered Diana a contract and wanted her in Hollywood right away, her mother refused to let her go. Michael knew enough about the business to know the studio only wanted the Barrymore name on a marquee; she worried that Diana’s acting fell short of the public’s expectations of a Barrymore and that the press would take pleasure in tearing the girl apart. Michael wanted Diana to use her real last name, Blythe, until she gained more experience, but the deal was contingent on using the Barrymore name.
Diana was only nineteen, and Michael still held guardianship over her career. The studio couldn’t hire Diana without her mother’s signature, so the girl pleaded to Margaret for help. She and Diana waited for Michael to join them for dinner at the Algonquin Hotel. The hotel had aged along with its clientele, but it held firmly to its literary cachet and reputation. Diana was early, as usual, and her mother was late, as usual. Michael had finally arrived with Tweed in tow, looking mischievous. More telling were the smudges of Michael’s lipstick on the side of Tweed’s face. They seemed terribly pleased with themselves as he ordered a scotch and soda. When Michael ordered nothing, Margaret and Diana exchanged quizzical glances. For an uncomfortable period, the four sat in silence.
To Margaret, the scene had been surreal: waiters with trays of old-fashioneds moved around the crowded tables; eccentric old ladies shuffled off to their rooms; people arriving for dinner in formal evening clothes filled the restaurant. All the while, Margaret watched Diana succumb to nervousness. Michael was right; Diana would be destroyed. She didn’t have her mother’s calm, Margaret thought. If she went to Hollywood, she would never overcome her insecurities.
Once the drinks arrived and the waiter had stepped away, Michael launched a verbal attack on her daughter. She knew Diana had just given an interview to a Hollywood reporter about her movie deal. Michael said that if the article mentioned her in any way without her approval, she would sue the magazine without hesitation. The year before, Diana gave an interview to Life magazine which depicted Michael as a controlling stage mother, and she was clearly still angry about it.
Diana, though, believed that Michael had blinders on when it came to film. Diana would never be able to earn the same kind of money on Broadway. Her brothers had inherited millions from their father, but Diana’s only inheritance was the Barrymore name, and she intended to use it.