Elizabeth and Marilyn

by Julie Owen Moylan

Genres: General Fiction; Biographical; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

What really happened when Queen Elizabeth II met Marilyn Monroe? This stunning historical novel imagines the summer that bonded the world's two most famous women, both thirty years old and chafing against the façade of global celebrity.

On a cool early-autumn evening in 1956, a glittering array of stars turns out in London for a Royal Film Premiere, where they will be presented to Queen Elizabeth II—an elegant young mother and wife, gracious and self-sacrificing, who has embraced her patriotic duty despite never expecting to take the throne so soon. Cameras flash, and a crowd surges forward as a limousine pulls up. Out steps a vision in dazzling gold: the greatest star of the era, Marilyn Monroe. She's a global sensation and money-making machine for Hollywood, with curves that drive men wild and a smile that lets women know she’s in on the joke.

Finally, the two most famous women in the world will come face-to-face in public for the first time. And the world is watching—unaware that Elizabeth and Marilyn have already had an accidental encounter that has changed their lives.

Inspired by the months in the summer of 1956 when Elizabeth and Marilyn lived as neighbors in nearby Windsor, British author Julie Owen Moylan imagines a meeting the two might have had in their shared garden. Born within weeks of each other, Lilibet and Norma Jeane would seem to have only their age in common. Yet beneath the glamorous costumes and jewels, both women are fighting  to hold on to the men they love while trying to do their work in a man's world, battling demons their adoring public could only guess at. Until now...

Release date: April 7, 2026

Publisher: Ballantine Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Norma Jeane

1956

I hate night flights. There’s something so lonely about everyone sleeping when you’re wide awake. Yesterday I was excited to go to London, but that was Marilyn. She’s fearless. I should know because I created her. I made her out of all the parts of me that know how to pretend. I wish I could be like her all the time, but once I got on the plane it was just me and the thoughts of all the things that could go wrong.

That stewardess keeps looking at me every time she passes by our seats. Sly, checking glances when she thinks I can’t see her. I know what she’s doing. It’s always the same. They all want to see Marilyn—­to compare themselves to her.

Sometimes they’ll say it out loud when they think I can’t hear them. “Oh, I thought she’d be taller . . . or different somehow.” Their faces are always puzzled because they can’t understand why the woman in front of them looks the same—­yet somehow she’s not the same woman at all. I guess it’s because Marilyn lives up there . . . on a movie screen. The truth is I slip her on and off like a fur coat. Those faces searching for her only find me: Norma Jeane . . . Mrs. Arthur Miller.

Arthur is fast asleep in the seat next to mine. His face carries that worn creased look I love so very much, and for a moment I just sit back and look at him. His dark hair curling around his ears, the slight tan of his skin, and the folds around his mouth. I’m just crazy about him, and the best part about it is that he loves me too. He shifts slightly in his seat, moving closer to me as his fingers come to rest on my hand. A tiny gleam of light from the galley glints off his wedding ring, and I thread my fingers through his, wanting to feel the truth of it. He’s my man forever and ever.

The plane dips a little and my stomach gives a nervous flip at the thought of landing in England. My mind begins to chew over the movie that I’m making there and whether it will be any good. It’s the very first film for Marilyn Monroe Productions, and suddenly I let out a small nervous sigh. This has to work—­ I can’t afford for it to go wrong. And it’s not just me—­Arthur has a new play opening in the West End, so there’s a lot riding on this trip for both of us.

But I’m excited too. The two of us have been looking at pictures in magazines, and at night, Arthur and I talk about all the things we’ll do on our English honeymoon. I keep imagining a quaint little cottage where we’ll live, the kind with a thatched roof and tiny windows like you see in the movies. I can already see myself baking pies for my man when I’m not working.

Well, I’ll try—­I’ve never been much of a cook. And we’ll take long romantic walks in the rain with our arms wrapped around each other, and every day Arthur will love me more and more. I have everything that I ever wanted. And this time I know I have the right guy.

That stewardess passes by our seats again, but this time she doesn’t look. Maybe she’s seen enough to tell all her friends about the night she worked the TWA flight from Idlewild to London Airport with Marilyn Monroe on board.

Once she moves away, I lay my head on Arthur’s shoulder and nuzzle in, smelling the sweet earthy scent of his skin. His white shirt is soft against my cheek and I can feel the warm rhythmic shift of his breathing.

At the beginning of last year, I was so very miserable and desperate to leave Hollywood to start over somewhere else. I couldn’t have believed how my life would change. I feel like a fairy godmother suddenly showed up and granted me all my wishes in one go—­the man of my dreams and the chance to control my own movies—­doing the work that I want to do. I have it all now!

A small giggle escapes from somewhere inside me and Arthur turns away, his head resting back against the seat as his mouth falls open. I must have slept a little during the night— ­I took a Nembutal when I got on board. It made me kind of dozy in that nice way you feel when you’re a kid. But just like every other night my eyes suddenly opened wide and I was awake again.

At least the bad dreams didn’t come.

Everyone else is fast asleep, and the only signs of life are the stewardesses whispering in the galley and padding softly up and down the aisle to see if Marilyn Monroe snores or maybe even drools in her sleep. I think the answer is no, but you can’t be sure—­I mean, if I’m asleep then I hardly know what I’m doing. Anyway, I hope they all get something to go back and tell their friends about.

“Hey, what time is it?” The sound of Arthur’s voice startles me. He leans forward in his seat and rubs his hands over his face, trying to push away all traces of sleep, before fumbling in his shirt pocket for his thick black-­rimmed glasses.

“I don’t know—­it’s getting lighter outside so we can’t be far away now,” I whisper softly.

The same stewardess appears right by our seats as if we’ve summoned her there. “Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Miller?” She smiles, bright and wide, like a Girl Scout trying to sell us cookies. She wants us to remember her. Arthur doesn’t even glance up. He’s grumpy first thing in the morning, but she wouldn’t know that.

He mumbles, “Yeah . . . coffee.”

And then Girl Scout turns her big smile on me. “Miss Monroe . . . sorry, Mrs. Miller, can I get you something?” Her eyes are wide blue pools, drinking me in. I don’t like being looked at this way when I get nervous. I always feel as if people will go away disappointed in some fashion.

“Oh . . . I would very much like a glass of warm milk,” I tell her. I hate to be a nuisance, but I like what I like.

“Of course . . .” she replies, only too glad to help now.

“Wait—­I’d like two eggs beaten into a glass of warm milk and with a dash of sherry if you have it.”

Arthur pulls a face, but it’s my breakfast drink of choice and I won’t apologize for it—­and anyway it’s good for you. Someone told me that dairy makes your bones strong. The stewardess is still standing there, her smile slightly faded as she thinks about what I just asked for. Then she nods and goes off to the galley while Arthur and I try to face the day. He puts his hand on my knee and squeezes it gently. Then I feel the warmth of his lips on my cheek and I breathe him in—­every last drop.

“Happy?” he says.

“Sure am,” I say as our hands entwine, and my heart feels fit to burst.

The plane makes a sudden turn, the wing on our side dipping down toward the sea, and I push aside the little curtain that covers our window. It’s daylight outside. The night is over and from today I’m going to be living in England for four whole months.

Suddenly a bolt of fear shoots right through my body like an arrow and I have to remind myself that I wanted this more than anything. I try to block out the feeling and remember it was only eighteen months ago that I walked out on 20th Century-­Fox. The parts were junk—­one dumb-blonde role after another—and I knew I could do more than that. So I took a chance and ran away to New York, before issuing a list of demands to the studio. Norma Jeane might constantly doubt herself, but when I’m Marilyn, I know what I’m worth.

Director approval. Project approval. The right to make my own movies with my very own production company. Then I sat back and waited . . .

The thing about making a big deal about something is that when you finally get what you want, it really has to go well. And here I am in charge of Marilyn Monroe Productions along with my business partner, Milton, and now we’re all on our way to film a movie with one of the greatest actors in the world.

The fear shifts and tangles inside me, forming tight knots in my stomach and my chest until my hands begin to tremble.

I can do this. I can.

This is my movie, I tell myself. It’s not like any of the others. I chose Sir Laurence Olivier to make it with me, and I get to call the shots . . . but if this goes wrong, I don’t know what I’ll do. I take a deep breath, the way my acting coaches tell me to. Find your center. Breathe in calm and breathe out the fear. The breath going in feels sharp and jagged like I’ve forgotten how to breathe properly, but I keep on going and eventually that stillness drapes right over me.

It’s all going to be okay.