by Tara Hyland
‘You told him to leave, didn’t you?’ she said suddenly. ‘You forced him to go, because he was the only person here who was a friend to me.’
Max slammed down his spoon then. ‘Frances, please.’ She could see him struggling to keep his anger in. ‘I’m getting tired of all these accusations. I really have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you – I had nothing to do with Leonard leaving. Now, can we drop this?’
Franny stared at him for a long moment, not wanting to give in. But what was the point of continuing the argument, she thought wearily. He would just deny everything anyway.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Have it your way.’ Then, throwing her napkin onto the table, she got up and left the room.
Max came to find her later. She was in their suite, lying on the bed, all cried out. She didn’t turn as he came in. He walked over and perched on the mattress beside her, laying a hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Is everything all right with you?’
No, she thought; everything wasn’t all right. She had no idea who she was any more. Less than a year ago it seemed like everything was going well for her. And now she’d become irrelevant – a has-been. What had gone wrong? It was something that she’d been thinking about a lot lately, and the answer seemed obvious: it was all down to Max. Everything had been on track until she’d met him.
She turned to look at him, the original argument forgotten as her frustration bubbled over. ‘It’s your fault, isn’t it, that I don’t get any work these days? I bet you told Lloyd not to offer me parts.’
Max looked genuinely confused. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because . . .’ she stumbled. ‘Because you want me all to yourself. You think if you keep me here in this – this prison, then I’ll just give up on acting and be the obedient wife that you’ve always wanted.’
Max drew back, looking wounded. ‘How could you think I would do such a thing?’
He looked so hurt, so upset by her accusations, that Franny hesitated in her attack. Was she wrong about him? Or was he just trying to confuse her?
‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘I really don’t know. All I know is that ever since I met you, my life has gone steadily downhill.’
And with that, she buried her head in the pillow and started to cry again.
There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Max said at length. ‘I certainly never intended to ruin your life.’ Then he got up and left the room.
No more was said on the topic. Max was due to fly to Chicago that night, and when he got back three days later, he acted as though the argument hadn’t happened.
But it had. The hurtful words had been said and they’d been remembered. A distance had grown between Franny and Max, and she had no idea how to bridge it – or even if she wanted to.
A few weeks later, Gabriel finished school. He was planning to spend two months travelling through Europe before starting at Stanford in the fall. Although her stepson had remained outwardly cool to Franny over the past year, he must have thawed a little towards her, because before he went away he took her aside, and asked if she’d look out for Olivia while he was gone.
Franny was already aware that something wasn’t right with her stepdaughter. After all the progress Olivia had made the previous year, she seemed to have gone backwards lately. She was listless and quiet, hardly saying a word. Max was concerned, too. But Franny was feeling so strange and disoriented herself, it was hard for her to look out for anyone else.
Lily waited nervously in Brown Derby for her friend to arrive. It had taken a lot to convince Franny to meet her there. The restaurant was the place for Hollywood business lunches. Everyone who was anyone was there, eating cobb salads and trying to get noticed.
‘Can’t we go somewhere less public?’ Franny had groaned, when they’d made the arrangement on the phone. She knew the whole town was still speculating about whether she had been embroiled in an affair with Max’s gardener.
But Lily had been insistent. ‘You can’t hide away for ever.’ She was sympathetic to her friend. While this wasn’t the first time Franny had appeared in Confidential, the coverage had been particularly brutal on this occasion. But Lily was a great believer in holding her head up high and weathering a storm.
‘Show them you have nothing to be ashamed of, and they’ll soon lose interest,’ had been her advice.
Lily had known that it wasn’t going to be the easiest lunch, but even she was shocked by her friend’s appearance. Franny had lost weight. Her hair looked lank, her complexion was pasty – and her trademark green suit had a stain across the jacket. She had lost her famous sparkle. It took all of Lily’s willpower to force a smile as her friend drew closer.
‘No apology?’ she chided gently, as Franny sank into the chair.
Franny looked blank. ‘For what?’
Lily tapped her watch. ‘We said midday.’
‘Oh. I thought it was half past.’ Franny rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I seem to be forgetting things all the time.’
Seeing how fed up Franny looked, Lily rushed to comfort her. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. It was probably my mistake.’
Franny seemed not to hear her. Lily watched her friend, as she flicked listlessly through the menu. She didn’t like what was happening to Franny. The exuberant, smart, successful woman she had once known seemed to have been replaced by a tearful, absent stranger – and Lily knew who was responsible for the change in her. Max. Ever since they had married, Franny had become a different person. It worried Lily to think of her friend all alone out there in that isolated house, with just Max for company – especially as she had noticed bruises on Franny’s arms more than once now. Franny always dismissed them, saying she had bumped into things: ‘Oh darling, you know how clumsy I am.’ In fact, Lily had never noticed any such thing.
It was hard to know what to do for the best. It was such a taboo, a cardinal sin, to criticise a friend’s husband. There were only so many times that she could meaningfully ask Franny how she was without causing an argument between them. But seeing how unhappy her friend looked today, Lily decided to give it one last go.
‘Darling, I don’t mean to be a pain, but you look ever so pale. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Franny smiled then, but it looked forced to Lily. ‘Everything’s great, actually. I was going to wait to tell you this but, here goes – I have some news.’
‘Oh?’
Franny seemed to take a deep breath. ‘You see, I just found out yesterday that I’m pregnant.’
Lily choked on the ice water she was drinking. ‘Pregnant?’ she spluttered. It was the last thing she’d been expecting Franny to say. ‘I didn’t even know you were trying.’
‘Yes, we have been. For a while now.’
It was a complete surprise to Lily. Franny had never struck her as the maternal type, and she’d clearly struggled to get along with Max’s children. Worried about appearing rude, Lily tried to ask the kind of questions that she knew were required in this situation.
‘That’s wonderful news! How far along are you?’
‘Oh . . .’ For a moment, Franny looked thrown. ‘Three months,’ she said vaguely. ‘Maybe four.’
‘And how’s Max? Is he happy?’
‘Delighted.’ Franny’s tone was bright, but something didn’t quite ring true about the whole thing. If anything, she seemed troubled rather than happy.
Lily thought then of the Stanhopes’ recently dismissed gardener. she’d never directly asked Franny if there was any truth in those magazine stories – it was part of an unspoken code among their group of friends not to. But now, with this sudden pregnancy news, she couldn’t help wondering if Franny had got herself into some serious trouble this time . . .
‘Well, that’s fantastic,’ Lily said again, because she had no idea how to bring up the suspicion that had suddenly presented itself. ‘What an exciting time for you both!’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes,’ Franny said flatly. ‘It really is.’
Lily tried to be pleased for her friend. After all, in those first few weeks, she seemed to be a little happier than before. Not that she saw Franny much after that. During the seventh month of her pregnancy there were complications – high blood pressure, Franny told her on the phone, and she was confined to bed. Lily tried to visit, but any time she called to arrange to come out, she was told by that awful housekeeper, Hilda, that it wasn’t convenient. Allegedly it was Franny who’d said that, but Lily didn’t believe it for a second: it was Max, of course. She was sure of it. From what she could see, he wanted Franny all to himself, and he was cutting her off from everyone else.
Lily had hoped that once the child was born, she might see more of her friend. But then she’d received that terrible call, from a tearful Franny, telling her that she’d lost the baby.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sisters of Charity Orphanage, San Francisco, December 1958
‘Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops . . .’
Sitting in the rocking chair, the sleeping baby cradled in her arms, Sister Marie moved gently back and forth as she sang. The motion seemed to soothe the child, something the nun had learned in the weeks that the tiny girl had been here. It was hard to believe that ten minutes earlier, she’d been screaming at the top of her little lungs.
Anyone watching the two of them together now would find it hard to believe that at first Sister Marie hadn’t wanted to take care of the baby. The night that Sophie – as they’d been instructed to name her – had arrived, the Reverend Mother had taken the child up to the nursery. Sister Marie had followed reluctantly. Once they were there, the older nun had held the baby out to the novice.
‘Here, she will be your responsibility.’
Sister Marie hadn’t taken her straight away. What with the storm and the way that the child was . . . it felt as if there was something ill-fated about the baby. She didn’t want to be spending time with her every day.
Mother Superior sensed her underling’s reluctance and said in gentle rebuke, ‘We are all God’s creatures. Doesn’t she deserve as much looking after as the other children here?’
There was nothing Sister Marie could say to that, so she did her duty and looked after the baby. Sophie wasn’t a good sleeper. One night she wouldn’t stop crying. Happening to pass the nursery, the Reverend Mother came in and picked up the screaming child from her crib. Taking Sophie to her breast, the old nun began to rock her.
‘Now, what is it that you want?’ she cooed down at the baby. ‘What will make you stop crying?’
‘I’ve done everything I need to,’ Sister Marie said sulkily. ‘She’s been fed and changed. I think she’s just being difficult.’
But as though to prove her wrong, the baby began to quieten down, until she stopped screaming altogether. Peering over, Sister Marie saw that she was fast asleep.
‘I–I don’t understand.’
Mother Superior smiled softly. ‘A baby needs more than food and clean clothes, Sister Marie. Sophie may be different from the other children here, but like them she still requires love in order to thrive.’
Feeling ashamed, the young nun had resolved then and there to make more of an effort. Instead of simply going through the motions of caring for a baby – feeding, changing and laying her down to sleep – she had started speaking to the child as she went about her duties. At first it had seemed a little strange; after all, it wasn’t as if she was going to get a response. But gradually as she talked, she began to feel more of a connection with the baby. And once she had overcome her initial reservations, she realised that this child was just like any other.
Now, as she finished singing the nursery rhyme, the baby gurgled in her sleep, and Sister Marie felt her heart contract.
‘She seems quite taken with you.’
Sister Marie looked up, and saw the Reverend Mother standing in the doorway of the nursery, smiling at them.
‘And I with her,’ the younger nun replied. ‘She’s a very special little girl.’
Mother Superior’s smile broadened. ‘I know.’
She left Sister Marie alone then, safe in the knowledge that the small child would always have someone to look out for her, in what was undoubtedly going to be a strange, difficult life.
Chapter Twenty-eight
California, June 1959
Dr Robertson smiled gently at the woman sitting in front of him. ‘I think you need to give the pills a chance to do their work.’
Franny felt her eyes automatically filling with tears, as they did so easily these days. ‘But it’s been three months.’
‘You can’t put a time limit on these things, I’m afraid,’ he said sympathetically. ‘It’s been a difficult year for you, what with the baby . . .’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Franny sighed wearily. It was Max who had first suggested that she go to see the doctor, a few months earlier, when her emotional swings seemed to be getting out of control. She’d described her symptoms to the physician – the constant exhaustion, the forgetfulness – and he’d prescribed antidepressants for her. Dutifully she’d taken them, but they didn’t seem to have helped. Something was wrong with her, something more than depression, she was sure. This wasn’t about being a little blue or a bit down in the dumps. Some days her body just wouldn’t work properly. Her hands would shake uncontrollably. ‘But if anything, I seem to be getting worse,’ she told the doctor.
‘Oh?’
‘I’m clumsier than usual. I was having tea yesterday morning and I dropped my cup. And sometimes I bump into things.’ She pulled up her blouse and showed the faded remnants of a bruise, from where she’d walked into the sharp edge of a table the previous week.
Dr Robertson frowned. ‘That does look nasty.’
‘And I’m forgetting things, too. I took my wedding ring off to have a bath this morning, and when I got out . . .’ she faltered a little. ‘I couldn’t remember where I’d put it.’
The doctor stared at her for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, a sure sign that he was building up to a sensitive question. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs Stanhope. But have you, uh, perhaps been drinking more than usual?’
Franny stared back at him. Her first instinct was to utter an outraged denial. But then again . . . was he right? She supposed there were some nights when she couldn’t sleep and she found herself taking a drink or two from Max’s decanter of brandy.
‘Perhaps,’ she admitted reluctantly.
Dr Robertson nodded understandingly ‘Well, let’s talk about that.’
Half an hour later, Franny left the office, armed with a prescription for sleeping pills, to use instead of alcohol. She had wanted to ask how substituting one drug for another was really going to help her. But she would give it a go. ‘A good night’s sleep can be a great healer,’ Dr Robertson had said. While Franny didn’t feel terribly hopeful, she thought it was worth a try – for her daughter’s sake, if nothing else. With everything that had happened these past few months – the loss of the baby, followed by her strange mental state – she hadn’t felt able to think about bringing Cara over to America. Communication with Theresa and her daughter had gone from sporadic to almost non-existent now, and Franny knew that she urgently needed to make things right. Perhaps once she was more rested she would be in a position to finally resolve the problem.
Along with prescribing the sleeping pills, Dr Robertson had suggested to Franny that it would be useful for her to get out and socialise. ‘Too much time alone isn’t good for you. You need to do something to occupy your mind.’
So when an invitation to Hunter’s thirtieth birthday arrived, Franny decided to go. Max was against it, of course. He didn’t think she was up to it.
‘You seem so fragile, my darling,’ he said, when she raised the subject. But she overrode him.
‘I need to get out,’ she insisted. After all, the party was going to be held at San S
imeon, William Hearst’s estate, which was only an hour’s drive from Stanhope Castle.
The night of Hunter’s party, as Franny gazed at herself in the mirror, she felt her spirits lift a little. She looked more like her old self. Her dress, by Christian Dior, was a Grecian-style floor-length gown in midnight blue. Hilda had curled her hair into ringlets, and she had gold bracelets on each arm. She looked a little like Cleopatra, a deliberate reminder of the halcyon days of her career, and she would make a great impression tonight. That was what she wanted, given it was the first time she’d been out in public for such a long while. At the thought of these past few bleak months, her smile faltered a little. But no, she wouldn’t let herself dwell on those bad times this evening.
Instead, she finished getting ready. Spritzing Chanel No. 5 on her wrists and neck, she grabbed her clutch bag and went downstairs to wait for Max. He had been working in San Francisco that day, and had promised to collect her on the way to the party. As it started at eight, he would need to be back by seven so that they got there on time. But by half past he still wasn’t home. Franny wondered what had happened. Maybe he’d got caught up at work. But if they didn’t leave soon, they’d be late . . .
Franny thought quickly. There was no way she was going to miss out on tonight. She summoned Hilda, and asked her to get the driver to bring her car around. ‘I’ll go on my own and Max can always join me later,’ she said decisively.
The housekeeper pursed her lips together. ‘Unfortunately, madam, the tide has already come in. There’s no way out of here for the time being.’
With that piece of news, Hilda left the room. As soon as she had gone, Franny went over to the drinks trolley and poured herself a brandy.
Franny woke up feeling horrible the next morning – more horrible than she should have had any right to feel, because she was sure that she hadn’t drunk that much last night. Sure enough, when she made it downstairs, she checked the decanter and saw it was only a little way below where it normally was. Then why did she feel so bad?
