Liberty Silk (10 page)

‘I’ll have my driver pick you up around one o’clock, OK?’

‘You betcha!’

‘And Baba?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Try to refrain from saying things like “No kidding!” and “You betcha!” You’ve got to sound British.’

‘Very well, Sabu. What marvellous weather we’re having.’

‘That’s more like it. See you tomorrow.’

Baba smiled as she put the phone down.

Ziggy Stein! Ziggy Stein was one of the most powerful players in Hollywood. When he’d arrived in LA back in the twenties he had been an assistant producer of B-feature westerns, but because he had devised a way of shooting two pictures simultaneously – thereby slicing production costs almost in half and endearing himself to the money men – he had risen through the ranks and formed his own production company, Orion, in 1931. Baba had, of course, sent a mug shot to Orion, but then she’d sent mug shots to all the major studios and hadn’t heard back from any of them.

However, what Sabu had told her made sense. British stars were the latest accessory for a Hollywood hotshot. Selznick had Vivien Leigh; Korda, Merle Oberon, and Stromberg had just signed Maureen O’Sullivan for
Pride and Prejudice
.

Baba looked out her most alluring bathing suit, shaved her armpits, did her calisthenics, cold-creamed her face and had an early night.

She wore the bathing suit under floral-printed cropped slacks, teamed with a pair of high cork sandals and a white bolero jacket. And then she changed her mind and substituted a rather more demure pleated skirt for the slacks, flat pumps for the platforms, and added a string of pearls. English girls had a reputation for being demure, after all, and if Mr Stein was looking for glamour, she’d be able to give him a taste of
that
once he saw her by his pool in her bathing suit.

Sabu picked her up in his chauffeur-driven Cadillac, and they headed for the Hollywood Hills in the golden-yellow California sunshine.

‘It’s like the Pink Palace in
Thief
,’ Sabu remarked, as they rolled up the driveway of Mr Stein’s house. And indeed, the house was the last word in ersatz oriental glamour, with stuccoed walls and turrets and minarets everywhere.

Limousines lined the driveway. ‘Look, look!’ cried Baba, as a stout man with an enormous cigar between his teeth emerged from a white Packard Sedan. ‘He’s
got
to be someone important.’

‘Every man you meet here today will claim to be someone important, Baba. They’ll tell you that they have the perfect role for you – even if they’ve never set foot in a studio in their lives. They’ll suggest some publicity shots of you in your bathing suit, and then they’ll invite you out to dinner. And after dinner they’ll want you to join them for a nightcap in their apartment.’

‘How do you know? Surely you can’t have had people come on to you?’

Sabu gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘At least I’m in the fortunate position of being able to tell them to get lost. Be warned, Baba. You’re a gazelle in the sights of a hunter.’ He leaned forward to address the chauffeur. ‘You can let us out here, please,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the chauffeur, and not for the first time Baba smiled at the notion of her fifteen-year-old friend being called ‘sir’.

The moment Sabu emerged from the car, he was hauled off by someone who wanted him to meet the columnist for the
LA Times
, so, trying to look casual, Baba walked into the grand hallway of the house, which was full of people drinking and talking and laughing. So determined was she to find some opportunity to impress the great Ziggy Stein, that she decided the best thing to do was to brazen things out and not allow herself to be fazed.

Since it was a pool party, Baba told herself it would be logical to find Mr Stein by the pool. She hadn’t a clue where the pool might be, but, having seen a photograph of Ziggy Stein at the Oscars sporting a tux and a bow tie, she had a vague idea what he looked like: middle-aged, overweight, avuncular and balding. But, she realized as she looked around now, there were an awful lot of middle-aged, overweight, avuncular, balding men at this party. Which one was the legendary Ziggy?

She meandered through a succession of rooms – a billiard room, a parlour and a library – before spotting a pair of enormous latticed windows that opened onto the poolside. All around the pool people in swimming costumes were jumping in and out of the water, splashing and shouting and showing off. Baba felt ridiculously out of place in her pleated skirt and pearls, but she carried on until she happened upon a waiter. ‘Excuse me, would you happen to know if Mr Stein is here?’ she asked.

The waiter turned and flashed her a grin before producing a horn from behind his back, tooting it in her face, waggling his tongue at her and scarpering.

‘Ha ha ha!’ trilled a girl wearing a satin bathing costume trimmed with artificial flowers. ‘You just got pranked by Harpo Marx!’

Baba gave a wan smile, then went back into the house and walked upstairs. In all the bedrooms gaggles of beautiful girls were powdering their noses and applying lipstick and babbling like brooks – but Baba ignored them with as much feigned indifference as they ignored her. After negotiating a maze of corridors, she made her way back to the grand staircase that led down to the hall. There was no sign of Mr Stein anywhere, and she was starting to lose her nerve. Should she just give up and go home?

Out in the garden she thought she had to be dreaming as she walked past the tennis court. There was Ronald Colman knocking a ball about with Joan Fontaine! She was so overwhelmed that she couldn’t help herself. ‘Look who it is!’ she said in an awed voice to a man in baggy swim trunks and a sun hat who was spraying bougainvillaea with a hosepipe.

The man turned to her and smiled. ‘I guess that underneath it all stars are just regular folks, Miss, like you and me.’

‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Five minutes ago I mistook Harpo Marx for a waiter.’

‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,’ he said. ‘Carole Lombard’s up next, playing with David Niven.’

Baba’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Carole Lombard?’ she squeaked. ‘And David
Niven
? My fiancé was at school with him. They used to go beagling together.’

‘Beagling?’

‘Yes – you know, the dogs. It’s like fox-hunting, only for hares. I always thought it was awfully cruel, until I heard that the Mitfords hunted their own children.’

The gardener looked aghast. ‘With beagles?’

‘With bloodhounds, actually. For fun.’

‘You British sure have a strange sense of humour. You
are
British, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘This your first time in America?’

Baba nodded. ‘I came over with
The Thief of Bagdad
, Mr Korda’s film.’

‘So you’re an actress?’

‘I’d like to be, but I’ve only been on stage once, in a production of
As You Like It
.’ The gardener looked blank, so Baba added, ‘That’s Shakespeare.’

‘The guy who wrote “to be or not to be”?’

‘Yes. We had to learn all of Hamlet’s soliloquies by heart at school.’

‘Lucky you.’

Baba gave him a sceptical look, but he clearly wasn’t joking, because he added, ‘I never had the benefit of a regular education, Miss.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. I’d much rather have learned something useful, like gardening. What a spiffing job you have, out in the California sunshine all day.’

The gardener looked tickled pink. ‘We’re all gardeners in life, Miss. The best place to find God is in a garden.’

On the tennis court, Ronald Colman served an ace.

‘Oh – good shot!’ cried Baba.

‘You fancy seeing Miss Fontaine’s new film, Miss?’ said the gardener.

‘
Rebecca?
I should love to see it.’

‘There’s an advance screening later today, in the projection room.’

‘Thanks so much for the tip-off.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I must find my friend, and tell him. It’s a pleasure to have met you.’

‘Goodbye, Miss.’ The gardener winked and tipped his hat at her, then went on with his watering.

Sabu was sitting in a pergola talking to a woman wearing an outrageous cartwheel of straw on her head. Baba hovered, hoping that he’d catch sight of her in his peripheral vision. Just as his companion was rising regally to her feet, he beckoned Baba over.

She approached, stapling on a smile. The woman turned towards her and Baba recognized her immediately.

Hedda Hopper was a pretty, autocratic woman of around fifty years old, so thin it looked as if you could break her in half. She was also the most important person Baba had yet met in Hollywood. The woman could make or break an actor’s career with a single stroke of her pen.

‘Miss Hedda Hopper, may I present—’

‘Lisa La Touche,’ Baba interjected. She didn’t want Sabu to introduce her as Baba McLeod. It was time for Lisa to take centre stage. ‘I’m charmed to meet you, Miss Hopper.’ She extended a hand, trying to make her handshake just right – firm, but not too firm.

‘Likewise,’ said Miss Hopper, raking her eyes over Baba, as if taking a mental photograph. ‘You’re British?’

‘Yes,’ said Baba. ‘From London.’

‘I adore London,’ Hedda remarked. ‘It’s an absolutely marvellous city. The British Museum. Buckingham Palace.’

‘Indeed,’ Baba replied uncertainly.

‘Well, welcome to Hollywood,’ said Hedda, not sounding welcoming at all. ‘I suppose you’ll be joining the Hollywood Raj.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The Hollywood Raj. It’s a club for ex-pat British actors. They celebrate St George’s Day, play cricket, that kind of thing. David Niven’s a member – you should talk to him. He’s here today.’

‘Thank you so much for the advice, Miss Hopper!’

‘Good luck. You’ll need it. It was delightful to meet you, Sabu,’ she added, before turning and marching off magisterially across the croquet lawn. Her high heels left little pockmarks in the grass as she walked, as if she was stabbing it with daggers.

Lisa and Sabu exchanged looks of mock-trepidation, then clutched each other and burst out laughing.

Later, they joined Hollywood royalty in Mr Stein’s projection room. Down from the ceiling the screen came, and as Baba was looking around with awe at the stars sitting around like everyday folk, the door opened and the gardener walked in. Except this time he wasn’t wearing swimming trunks and a sun hat, he was wearing dark pleated trousers and a silk shirt that had to be from Sulka.

‘What’s the gardener doing here?’ Baba asked Sabu.

‘That’s not the gardener,’ Sabu told her. ‘That’s Ziggy Stein.’

OVER BRANDY AND
sodas and fragrant Turkish cigarettes Jessie told Count Demetrios her tale of woe: how she’d woken in the Hôtel Simonet in Finistère one grey morning at the end of summer to find Scotch gone.

‘Gone? You mean he abandoned you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Despicable! That kind of conduct’s beneath contempt. Where did he go?’

‘I haven’t an idea.’ That was a lie. She knew only too well that Scotch had gone to Chambéry, to the Italian girl.

‘And why did you decide to come here to Paris, instead of returning to your family in England?’

‘I – I suppose I rather hoped that Scotch might drift back here.’

‘Unlikely. My guess would be that he has gone to Corfu. He expressed an inordinate interest when I suggested that I could introduce him to some patrons there. There’s money to be made in the wake of the war, if you know where to look for it, and he knows that the mere mention of my name will open doors for him. Do your parents know that you are alone in Paris, Madame?’

‘No.’

‘Why haven’t you told them?’

‘I couldn’t bear the shame, Count. My mother had warned me against marrying Scotch, and I didn’t listen to her.’

‘Why didn’t she want you to marry him?’

‘Because we’re from completely different backgrounds. She said I’d regret it, and sadly, it would appear that she was right.’

‘Have you taken a job of work?’

‘Yes. As an artist’s model, for twenty francs a day.’

The count sucked in his breath. ‘Twenty francs!
Tiens!
How do you manage?’

Jessie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been living on bread and cheese and
Bouillon Zip
.’

‘
Bouillon Zip?
That disgusting packet soup?’

‘It’s cheap.’

The count gave her a look of assessment, then raised his hand and clicked his fingers peremptorily. ‘
Garçon!
The menu, if you please.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Now, Madame. What would you care to eat?’

‘Oh, really – I couldn’t accept—’

‘You must. I insist.’

Jessie bit her lip. The image of her most cherished fantasy meal – escalope of veal with
pommes rissolés
and
petits pois
– swam before her mind’s eye. Oh, God! She realized now that she hadn’t had a decent meal for months – not since Florence. She’d been too sick with worry when Scotch had fallen ill in Chambéry to look after herself properly; her chief concern then had been to make sure that
he’d
been well fed.

A waiter was approaching with a menu. Another bore aloft a dish of
boeuf bourguignon
so aromatic that Jessie thought she might pass out. Her pride insisted that she couldn’t accept the count’s hospitality, but her stomach was begging her to. It felt as if it was turning inside out with hunger. With an encouraging smile, Count Demetrios slid the menu across the table, and to her horror she found herself bursting into tears.

‘My dear! What’s wrong?’ asked the count.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m expecting Scotch’s baby.’

Demetrios said nothing for a moment or two. He gave her a pensive look, then gently laid his hand over hers. ‘Then you most certainly cannot refuse my offer of a square meal,’ he said, ‘if you are eating for two.’

‘Oh!’ His solicitude made her want to cry harder.

‘There, there,
pauvre petite
. Dry your tears.’ Count Demetrios handed her a big linen handkerchief. And when she’d cried herself out and blown her nose, he leaned back in his chair, shook his head mournfully and said: ‘Things have come to a pretty pass. It is imperative that we get some food inside you – and none of your protests,’ he added, as she made to object once more. ‘I am putting my foot down, as they say.
Garçon!
’