The Wives of Charles Monroe

Beloved and world-renowned actor, Charles Monroe, died in his home last night, reportedly of liver failure. He was seventy-five years old. Monroe, who first burst onto our screens in ‘When God Created Man’, went on to have a long and respected acting career, winning three academy awards in his lifetime. He is perhaps best known for his collaborations with first wife Marnie Monroe, in romantic dramas such as ‘Slow Burn’ and ‘A Thousand Goodbyes’. Monroe’s life was often the subject of tabloid scrutiny, drawing particular attention when he married Piper Hastings, heiress to the Hastings & Swanson conglomerate - who is almost fifty years his junior.

A funeral will be held at Westwood Hills Church on Thursday 19th September. Fans and well-wishers are welcomed to leave flowers or cards outside the church - the funeral itself is for friends and family only.

“Marnie!”

“Marnie, over here Marnie!”

“Look this way, please, Marnie!”

Marnie Monroe walks swiftly towards the church in her black patent kitten heels, a large pair of dark glasses shading her eyes from the paparazzi’s cameras.

“Vultures,” she mutters to her assistant, who is holding an umbrella over her head, protecting her from the light smattering of rain that pours from the grey clouds above. Secretly, she is actually glad to see them standing behind the velvet rope, though they truly are vultures. The paparazzi have been a part of her life for so long that they’ve almost become comforting. In their constancy. After five failed marriages and a long list of short-lived flings, her relationships with some of these photographers are her longest and most reliable to date.

Charles Monroe, dead. They say you die twice - when you take your last breath, and when your name is spoken for the last time. In that sense, Charles’ second death won’t occur for a long, long time, Marnie thinks.

There was always something magnetic about him, even when she set eyes on him in an acting class all those years ago. Marnie was born and raised in California, part of a loving, middle-class family, who were very supportive of her when she moved out at sixteen and took a waitressing job while lining up auditions. Charles, on the other hand, had moved to the golden state when he was twenty, to try and make it in Hollywood. He was from a dirt poor family in the Midwest, and had grown up sharing a bedroom with his four brothers.

It was clear to everyone in that acting class that he had serious talent, and that he would go on to have a great career. He was classically handsome, with his dark blonde hair and big brown eyes, and all the girls in the class flirted with him furiously - but he immediately set his sights on Marnie, chasing her down after class and asking her to dinner.

Things moved quickly, and they were married within six months. His career took off rapidly after When God Created Man, and suddenly he was getting callbacks from studios left and right. Marnie was still doing small parts in movies that hardly made any money, and she was rather disappointed (and to be honest, envious). Fortunately, Charles used his newfound fame and influence to help Marnie’s career flourish, putting her in touch with all the right people. Soon she was as famous as he was, and their most popular films were the ones they acted in together.

Their marriage was passionate, exciting, all-encompassing. They worked together, they played together. But once her late twenties started creeping in, Marnie wanted to settle down, to have a family, to stop partying quite so much. Charles showed no signs of slowing down, and she tried hard to keep up with him, but it wasn’t enough for him. They were staying at the Chateau Marmont one weekend, celebrating their wedding anniversary. Charles had been in the shower, while Marnie was out on the balcony, reading the paper. Guests in every corner of the hotel had heard a piercing scream, followed by crashing sounds and a string of expletives. The police were called by several people who assumed a murder was taking place, but that wasn’t the case. In the paper, on page six, was a photograph of Charles kissing his co-star, Christine Velez - and this photo was very clearly not taken on-set. Marnie had gone into a fit of rage, lashing out and destroying the hotel room. As she was escorted out by a police officer, she looked over her shoulder to see Charles standing in a towel, water dripping onto the plush cream carpet, pain and regret painted on his face. They were divorced by the end of that year.

Andrea Arnold waits in the vestibule, watching Marnie, the woman who used to intimidate her so much. After all, she was Charles’ first real love, one half of a notorious Hollywood power couple. Andrea often suspected that he had still harboured feelings for Marnie, and during drunken arguments, he would confirm her fears, saying that she could never make him as happy as his first wife had. Andrea spent the best years of her life being put down by that man, turning a blind eye to his infidelities and cruelty, supporting him through rehab for his alcoholism.

Getting sober did wonders for his career - the press loved him again, and he made a triumphant return to the awards circuit for his supporting role in the acclaimed war movie, Operation Sparrow.

“It’s all thanks to my wonderful wife,” he’d said in his Golden Globes acceptance speech, beaming at the camera. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Andrea.”

It was true - without her, Charles would be either dead of alcohol poisoning, or a washed up star doing car commercials and poorly reviewed plays. Andrea had paid for his stay at an expensive rehab facility, and used her industry connections as a casting manager to get him a recurring role on a popular TV drama that launched his career comeback.

And how did he thank her? By divorcing her for a twenty-seven year old… model? Socialite? Andrea isn’t sure what Piper Monroe does exactly, but photographs of her leaving restaurants or sunbathing at the beach are always splashed across the media. Famous for being famous, they called it in her day.

Piper stands at the front of the church, speaking to the priest in hushed tones. She wears a black veil and a simple black dress: knee-length, high-necked, as though deliberately trying to show off as little skin as possible.

“Whose child is that talking to the priest?” A husky voice behind Andrea calls. She turns to find Marnie, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, lips perfectly lined in a dark red shade.

“You’re terrible,” She says, exchanging air kisses with her ex-husband’s first wife. “That’s Piper. You must have seen her pictures in the papers.”

“I don’t read them,” Marnie scoffs. “But the press have been hounding me non stop since he died. Have they been bothering you too?”

Andrea blushes. “Not so much. No one’s interested in the second wife. It’s like being a middle child.”

“Wouldn’t know. I was the spoiled youngest daughter.”

“Of course you were,” Andrea rolls her eyes. She used to feel so jealous of Marnie, those cruel words of Charles playing over and over in her head - but since the divorce, the two women had, in a strange way, developed a sort of friendship.

“I only hated you while you were still married to him,” Marnie had told her when their paths had crossed for the first time, at an industry party. “Now we can be friends.”

The priest asks everyone to takes their seats, and the two women head towards the pew second from the front, in accordance with the seating plan devised by Charles’ agent.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Andrea whispers.

Marnie fans herself with the order of service booklet she’s been handed. “Not as though I had much else to do,” she replies. “There aren’t enough roles in Hollywood for seventy-three year old women, you know.”

“There’s plenty of roles - witches, old hags…”

“I wouldn’t get cast. I’m far too pretty.”

Andrea snorts, and a middle-aged woman wearing a black velvet blazer frowns at her from across the aisle. Right, laughing at funerals, probably a no-no. She abandons the conversation with Marnie and instead stares at the back of Piper’s very blonde head, which is swept up into an elaborate bun, secured tightly with tortoiseshell hair grips.

Piper feels an uncomfortable warmth on the back of her neck, as though someone’s gaze is burning into her. She feels all mixed up inside - paranoid and anxious and lonely. Not only is she grieving her husband, but she is under immense pressure to act in the right way, to say the right things, to play the perfect doting widow of the legendary Charles Monroe.

She knows what both the press and the public says about her. Talentless. Vapid. Golddigger. The latter always makes her laugh. Piper’s father has more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes - she didn’t need to marry rich, she’d been rich her whole life.

Vapid does bother her, though. Despite growing up in the public eye, she is introverted and somewhat shy. She has no interest in speaking to the media, and as a result of her silence, journalists are left with no choice but to make things up. People assume that because she has very little to say, she must be stupid. Piper thinks wistfully about nights sat on the porch with Charles, talking about classic literature, or her teaching him phrases in Italian or French (both of which she spoke fluently). But, she doesn’t mind so much that people think she’s all beauty and no brains. Sometimes, it can be beneficial for people to underestimate you.

The funeral is meticulously organised, timed down to the second. One of Charles’ sisters, Kathleen, reads out a poem. Several prayers are recited, a nod to Charles’ Catholic upbringing, though he himself was non-practicing for most of his adult life. Then it is time for Piper to speak, and she stands at the pulpit, her heart beating rapidly as the eyes of at least two hundred mourners bore into her. Public speaking does not come naturally to her, and there’s a terrifying moment where she thinks she won’t be able to get a single word out, but it passes.

“Charles and I had four wonderful years together,” she begins. “But it wasn’t enough. He led an incredibly full and interesting life, but I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say he was taken from us far too soon.”

She praises Charles for his wit, his charisma, his softness in his later years. As she speaks, both Marnie and Andrea are deep in thought. What would they say, if they were up there giving a eulogy?

Marnie’s memories of the marriage are a blur of glamorous parties and luxurious travels mixed up with long, tiring days on set, and even longer, more tiring arguments - in which things would get thrown and feelings would get hurt. Mostly, she thinks about how young they were, how much she has changed over the years, and that Charles Monroe in his seventies was probably a very different man to the man she left in a hotel room when she was twenty-eight.

Andrea, to her surprise, finds tears welling up in her eyes. She’s always struggled to differentiate between Charles' true self and Charles the alcoholic. Underneath the liquor-scented breath and biting remarks was a vulnerable, complicated man. He would lash out at her, make her feel small. He would disappear for days at a time, leaving her pacing back and forth around their home like a caged tiger, wondering whether he was dead in a ditch somewhere.

But he also made her laugh - they had the same dry sense of humour. He would open up to her during whispered conversations in the early hours, confessing how hurt he was by his difficult relationship with his father. They understood each other, fit together. They just made sense…until they didn’t.

“I know there has been much speculation on the contents of Charles’ will,” Piper says. Everyone in the room stares at her in disbelief. Who talks about a will at a funeral?

“I’m almost certain that the gentleman sitting on the very back pew is a journalist who has very cleverly snuck in,” She continues. “So please, do take notes for this part.”

Two-hundred something heads swing towards the back of the church, where a man with grey-streaked brown hair is shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Piper clears her throat. “I assume you have a notebook.”

The man’s face and neck turn entirely red, but he nods, and pulls a small notebook and pen from his suit pocket.

“Thank you,” says Piper. “Everyone in this room will have experienced a different version of Charles. We will all have different memories of him. But what I’m sure we can all agree on is that he was an extremely talented actor. Charles loved performing and was an incredibly hard worker. He came from nothing, and went on to become one of the most beloved actors in Hollywood. As he had no children, I have inherited his entire fortune. I’d like to take this opportunity to announce that this money will be used to launch the Charles Monroe Trust - a charity which will help support aspiring actors from underprivileged backgrounds.”

The room is silent, except for the scratching of the journalist’s pen as he scribbles in his notepad.

Marnie stands, and the room is filled with the sound of her applause. Slowly, the other mourners join in, and Piper smiles broadly, her cheeks turning pink. She returns to her spot on the front pew, and the priest takes his place behind the pulpit once more. He closes the ceremony by asking everyone to participate in a two minute silence in Charles’ memory.

“Use this time to remember Charles, as you knew him. Feel free to close your eyes or bow your head as you reflect, perhaps recalling a favourite memory.”

Marnie shuts her eyes and thinks about Charles’ twenty-ninth birthday party, which took place the week after he’d won his first Academy Award for Best Actor. He was on a high, having been inundated with calls from casting agents and directors all week, and his energy was infectious.

“I’ll love you forever,” he’d whispered in her ear, one arm round her waist, the other gripping a bottle of champagne. “Together, we’re unstoppable.”

Andrea keeps her eyes open, but stares down at the stone floor of the church, remembering a rare moment of tenderness shortly before Charles went to rehab. He’d been sitting on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet, while Andrea watched from the doorway, looking defeated.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d croaked, eyes watery and bloodshot. “You deserve better than this. You deserve happiness.”

Piper’s eyes are closed, breath steady, sitting up tall. She feels more relaxed after giving the eulogy - almost peaceful. The image of Charles’ final moments flash in her mind. His hand in hers, the skin heavily wrinkled and yellow tinged.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Piper. I’d do a lot of things differently, if I could do it all again.”

He’d squeezed her hand gently, taken his last breath, and then he was gone.

After the funeral, Piper is mobbed by reporters. She is happy to talk to them about the new charity she’s setting up in Charles’ name, but they don’t seem particularly interested - instead, they shout questions about her marriage, about her late husband’s alcoholism, about what she’s wearing. She needs to get out of here.

“Piper!” A woman calls out. She has mousy brown hair and is leaning out of the door of a nearby black limousine. Is that…?

“I don’t think we’ve had the honour of being introduced,” The woman says, as Piper moves closer to the car, the photographers following her. “I’m Andrea Arnold.”

Piper swallows nervously, her throat feeling as though it has a huge lump in it. Charles’ ex-wife - the woman he left to be with her.

The paparazzi are shouting again, and Andrea has to raise her voice to be heard over the hubbub. “Come on, in you get. We’ll take you home. You don’t need to look so scared - I don’t bite.”

Piper’s not sure if this is a good idea, but if she doesn’t get away from the yelling and flashing lights soon, she’s going to burst into tears. She climbs into the car and shuts the door behind her.

Inside, alongside Andrea, is an older woman with white-blonde curls and dark red lips. Piper has seen this woman in dozens of films, always struck by the way her face seemed to glow, as though she was lit from within. She is fascinated to find that the glow absolutely translates to real life, despite the woman’s clear signs of aging.

“Hello dear,” Marnie says as the car moves off, the paparazzi attempting to chase after it until they can no longer keep up. "My God, you are young, aren't you?"

“Um, hi,” Piper replies, uncertain how she’s found herself in this extremely surreal situation.

“You look like you could use a drink.” Marnie pulls a bottle of champagne from the limousine’s small built-in bar. She pops the bottle expertly and pours it into three glasses. Piper takes one graciously. Though she isn’t much of a drinker, she could use a drink right now.

The three women observe each other silently, all bonded in a strange way by the same man. The first love. The caretaker. The young widow.

“To Charles,” they say, and clink their glasses together.