For THE NEXT TWO AND a half years, Rex and I stayed married, living in a house in the hills, developing and shooting movies at Paramount. We were staffed up with an entire team of people by that point. A pair of agents, a publicist, lawyers, and a business manager for each of us, as well as two on-set assistants and our staff at the house, including Luisa. We woke up every day in our separate beds, got ready on opposite sides of the house, and then got into the same car and drove to the set together, holding hands the moment we drove onto the lot. We worked all day and then drove home together. At which point, we’d split up again for our own evening plans. Mine were often with Harry or a few Paramount stars I had taken a liking to. Or I went out on a date with someone I trusted to keep a secret. During my marriage to Rex, I never met anyone I felt desperate to see again. Sure, I had a few flings. Some with other stars, one with a rock singer, a few with married men—the group most likely to keep the fact that they’d bedded a movie star a secret. But it was all meaningless. I assumed Rex was having meaningless dalliances, too. And for the most part, he was. Until suddenly, he wasn’t. One Saturday, he came into the kitchen as Luisa was making me some toast. I was drinking a cup of coffee and having a cigarette, waiting for Harry to come pick me up for a round of tennis. Rex went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He sat down beside me at the table. Luisa put the toast in front of me and then set the butter dish in the center of the table. “Anything for you, Mr. North?” she asked. Rex shook his head. “Thank you, Luisa.” And then all three of us could sense it; she needed to excuse herself. Something was about to happen. “Tl be starting the laundry,” she said, and slipped away. “T’m in love,” Rex said when we were finally alone. It was perhaps the very last thing I ever thought he’d say.