BACK at the Belvedere by midnight, I wrote in my diary:

Constance was not at the restaurant at eight when I said. I should have understood this because I’d given her only a few hours notice and she might have left home before my wire arrived. I then called her home; no one answered. I had another drink. I began walking the streets, mid town, in the unconscious activity of searching for her. I looked into the Faisan d’Or, the restaurant where, she told me, she used to meet Bob Capa. Did I really expect Constance to remain constant (Get that!) while I was in Hollywood making Blues in the Night? She told me she’d done it with someone else that summer. While I was celibate! In the back seat of a Pontiac, she said. I wondered which dress she was wearing that night. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else fingering her. The image of Constance on her back eagerly taking someone else in, legs up! And there between her legs, the flower with two petals. I never tasted that before. It’s always seemed gross. But not with her. Hers is delicate. Two pink petals and two hungry eyes. Now I understand jealousy. Don’t forget how you feel now when you next direct a scene of jealousy.