Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 263: Chapter 263 — A Party of Old Legends

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Was Katharine Hepburn fond of social banquets?

No.

In her youth she fiercely guarded her privacy and had no patience for shallow, meaningless social occasions. She rarely appeared in public and would not even dine at ordinary restaurants.

But she was never a recluse. She enjoyed her own fame.

And as she aged, her attitude toward protecting her private life softened as well.

Just look back to 1992, when Henry was traveling all over the world as an assistant to another Miss Hepburn.

Katharine Hepburn even starred in a TV movie that year—The Man Upstairs.

That TV film earned her a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actress in a Miniseries or Television Film at the 50th Golden Globe Awards.

It told the story of an elderly woman who develops an unlikely romance with a fugitive.

Even in her twilight years, the woman once rumored to be a lesbian clearly still enjoyed the idea of romance.

Still, despite being less commercially valuable than younger celebrities, old Hollywood legends like her became highly sought after during awards season—for one very simple reason:

They held Academy voting ballots.

And Oscar campaigns revolved around them.

So during this season, countless banquets were held specifically for these seniors, and the young actors in attendance were usually ones with eligible films from the past year—hoping to make an impression on Oscar voters.

Henry had been invited to exactly such a banquet.

It was held at a villa in Los Angeles—not quite Beverly Hills level, but with a landscaped yard and swimming pool, designed by a known architect.

Pretty upscale.

By the time Henry arrived, the street was already lined with cars.

Contrary to the stereotype of Hollywood parties—rows of luxury cars worth the price of a house—this event was far less ostentatious.

Even so, Henry’s old Cadillac stood out like a sore thumb.

But following the principle of ”as long as I’m not embarrassed, someone else will be”, Henry confidently pulled into the villa’s parking area.

The moment he parked, staff approached him.

This was a semi-public banquet—open to attendees even without an invitation, but only if they were industry people.

Letting paparazzi or crazed fans in would be disastrous.

Which was exactly why Katharine Hepburn sent Henry an invitation.

He wasn’t a Hollywood veteran or a recognizable young star; without a letter, he might have been turned away.

The staff spotted the invitation’s design immediately.

No need to even examine it.

”Welcome, sir,” the attendant said warmly. ”The banquet has just begun. Please enjoy the food inside.”

”Thank you.”

A place like this didn’t require tipping.

If every small interaction involved a tip, half the young, broke actors would go bankrupt just by attending one event.

Henry followed the signs into the party.

As expected, the room was filled mostly with elderly men and women.

A handful of younger attendees inevitably stood out like rare specimens.

When Henry walked in—an unfamiliar, ordinary-looking face—people stared.

The old folks whispered, trying to recall who he was.

The young actors wondered if he was some new competitor they hadn’t met.

Then—

”Henry, here!”

Eighty-seven-year-old Katharine Hepburn called out, her voice still strong.

Given the guests’ age, the atmosphere was subdued.

Everyone knew why they were here and behaved elegantly—no deafening music, no scantily clad starlets.

Katharine wore a navy-blue dress with small white dots, and a red vest for warmth.

Her hair was naturally gray and uneven, never dyed.

Henry wore his trusty Navy-blue Armani suit—the one he’d worn a hundred times—paired with a textured tie.

He blended in perfectly with the retirees.

Beside Katharine, a white-haired gentleman asked:

”Who’s this young man, Katharine?”

”Oh, Anthony, jealous already?” Hepburn teased. ”You’re only my onscreen lover.

This kid’s like a nephew—I brought him to broaden his horizons.”

Henry immediately extended his hand.

”Henry Brown. Just a nobody, sir.”

”Anthony Quinn,” the old man replied warmly.

”Anyone standing next to Katharine Hepburn is no ’nobody,’ young man.”

Before Henry could respond, a spirited old lady approached.

”Katharine, I think I’ve seen this young man before!”

Katharine smiled wickedly.

”Oh, Betty, that’s the oldest pickup line in the book.”

”No, I mean it. I have seen him. New York, wasn’t it?”

Henry nodded.

”Miss Lauren Bacall, we met at a charity gala in New York. I was working as Miss Audrey Hepburn’s assistant then.”

”Ah, yes, yes—the boy standing beside Audrey,” Lauren Bacall said, then added meaningfully,

”Our era loses another icon every year... It makes you wonder who’s next.”

Katharine shot back instantly:

”Betty, aside from us old fossils, who’d even remember you? When we’re all gone, you’ll be forgotten too.”

Henry opened his mouth—

”How could anyone forget Lauren Ba—”

Hepburn pinched him.

Not hard, but with surgical precision—sharp enough that even a Kryptonian felt it.

Her eyes narrowed.

”Silence, boy. I don’t want you reciting her filmography in front of me.”

Henry shut his mouth... but silently mouthed:

”The Big Sleep.”

And gave Bacall a secret thumbs-up.

Lauren Bacall—born Betty Joan Perske—smiled so wide her eyes turned into crescents.

”I like this kid.”

Katharine reacted instantly, smacking Henry’s hand.

He exaggeratedly sucked his finger in mock pain, which made the surrounding seniors break into laughter.

Truth be told, Katharine and Lauren had no real feud.

They were good friends.

Back in their Golden Age, rivalry was inevitable—but now, it was just playful reminiscing.

Henry had picked the safest reaction possible—flattering them both, and amusing the crowd in the process.

Even the old legends were clearly enjoying the show.