by Tara Hyland
She found Max in his study. He looked up as she came in, and she could see him frowning at her appearance: she’d felt too ill to get dressed, so she’d come down in her robe. She pulled the belt tighter, trying to look more authoritative.
‘What happened to you yesterday?’
He tilted his head questioningly ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’
Franny felt tears come to her eyes, and wiped them furiously away, refusing to give into her misery. ‘You said you were going to come back here and get me.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ His tone was reasonable. ‘Don’t you remember, darling? We arranged to meet at the party.’
He got up and walked towards her. She took a step back, shaking her head vigorously. For once, she wasn’t going to let this go. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘You said that you’d pick me up here.’
‘Originally I did,’ he said levelly ‘But then I telephoned to say that a meeting had come up, which meant I wouldn’t be able to make it back here, after all. So I told you to make your own way there by car.’
Franny frowned. What was going on? Was that really what they’d agreed? No, she decided; it wasn’t. He was just trying to confuse her.
‘No! No, that’s not right,’ she objected tremulously. ‘You said you’d come back and get me.’
Hilda, who had been standing quietly by, stepped forward. ‘Madam, if you’d allow me. I do believe what Mr Stanhope said is true. I answered the phone to your husband and, having overheard your side of the conversation, you agreed to meet him at San Simeon.’
At that, Franny rounded on her. ‘Oh, what a surprise,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You’re taking his side over mine.’
The housekeeper lowered her eyes. ‘I assure you I’m doing nothing of the sort, madam.’
‘Oh, please.’ Franny’s voice dripped with scorn. ‘Don’t give me that ever-so-humble act. You’ve resented me from the first day I arrived. No doubt you believed you should have been the one sharing Max’s bed instead of me.’
If she was hoping to provoke a reaction from Max, then she was in luck. ‘Frances, please! There is no need to speak like that to Hilda.’
Franny looked from one of them to the other. ‘Oh, so that’s it, is it? You’re both ganging up on me.’ Her eyes settled on Max, and she sounded hurt as she said, ‘I expected more from you.’
She ran from the room and tore upstairs, holding her robe up so that she wouldn’t trip. She could hear Max behind her, calling out her name, begging for her to stop, but that only made her run faster. She laughed maniacally as she took the stairs two at a time, hardly aware of where she was heading until she finally reached the glass turret at the top of the house.
Max followed her up the spiral staircase, panting from the exertion of chasing her. ‘What are you doing up here?’
Staring out of the window, she said in a monotone, ‘Is this what you’re hoping for? That I’ll throw myself over like she did?’
He blanched. ‘How could you think that?’
It was only then, as she saw his genuine distress, that Franny realised what she had said to her husband. It was a low point in their steadily degenerating relationship. It seemed that they were fighting all the time; the physical side of their relationship, which had once been so passionate, was now almost non-existent. And she knew that the problem lay with her. She was the one pushing Max away all the time; she was the one saying these awful things. In that moment, Franny’s anger deserted her, and she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she cried. ‘I don’t understand why I’m like this all the time.’
Max took Franny in his arms. ‘I have no idea what’s going on, my love.’ He held his wife to him, stroking her hair. ‘But we’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise.’
Lily gradually began to suspect that Franny was drinking rather too much. She knew that her friend had taken the loss of the baby hard – in fact, she’d hardly seen Franny since the stillbirth, nearly seven months ago now. But Lily had heard the rumours. Even though Franny wasn’t acting any longer, she had remained of interest to the media because of her position as Max’s wife. Most weeks, Confidential ran an article hinting at Franny’s drinking, or her increasingly bizarre behaviour. It was obvious someone close to the household was leaking the information. Max had sacked one of the housemaids after that business with the gardener – was it possible that he had got the wrong person? There were other strange rumours going round about the Stanhope household. Max’s daughter, Olivia, who’d always been a fragile person, was said to have been committed to a psychiatric hospital. Only Max’s son, Gabriel, had escaped scrutiny. He was at Stanford now, safely away from the drama of Stanhope Castle.
But despite hearing whispers of what was going on, Lily had never seen any evidence of her friend being drunk. Then, one sunny day in that summer of 1959, she turned up at Stanhope Castle for afternoon tea. It was a standing arrangement that the women had for the last Friday of every month. But this time Lily was told, by that dreadful housekeeper Hilda, that Mrs Stanhope wasn’t available.
‘She’s asleep,’ she told Lily, who was still standing on the front step.
‘Well, go and wake her then,’ the blonde actress said pragmatically.
The grim-faced housekeeper clearly didn’t want to let her in, but Lily was determined to see her friend, so she pushed past the old bag, and insisted that Hilda go up and wake her mistress.
It was half an hour before Lily heard footsteps on the stairs and rose to greet her friend. But the words froze on her lips as Franny came into view. ‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. ‘What the hell’s happened to you?’
Franny looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
Lily could only stare at her friend. Her hair, usually Franny’s pride and joy, hadn’t been styled, and the red tresses were a tangled mess that needed a comb taken to it. She’d obviously attempted to apply some make-up to cheer her appearance, but her foundation was too heavy, her cheeks too rouged, and instead of adding colour, the blood-red lipstick made her appear grotesque. She hadn’t bothered to get dressed. Instead, she wore a floor-length lilac satin nightdress and matching lace robe.
But Franny obviously didn’t think there was anything wrong with how she looked. So Lily decided to gloss over her shock, and tried to sound cheerful as she said, ‘Oh, I just meant that I missed you at Hunter’s party the other week. Why didn’t you show?’
‘Oh,’ Fran waved her hand vaguely. ‘There was a silly mix-up.’
She stumbled a little, and Lily reached out to steady her. As Franny tipped her head up to thank her friend, Lily smelled alcohol on the other woman’s breath.
‘Franny!’ She was shocked; it was so early in the day still. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘What?’ Franny’s hand instinctively went to cover her mouth. She looked as though she was about to deny the charge, but then she seemed to change her mind. ‘Well, yes,’ she said a little defensively. ‘Maybe I have had a little drinkie or two. Is that a crime?’
Lily sighed. ‘No, of course it’s not. But it seems to be a lot more than that lately, doesn’t it?’
Franny drew herself up, her eyes hardening. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but I think you ought to drop it.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, please.’ Lily tried to sound gentle and understanding, not wanting to get into a fight. ‘Don’t be like this. I’m just worried about you.’
‘I don’t need you to worry about me,’ Franny said haughtily. Then she rang the bell for Hilda. ‘Now, why don’t you drop this nonsense, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea together instead.’
Lily had no choice but to do as her friend asked.
Officer Rafferty took his job very seriously. A lot of the guys hated Highway Patrol. They found the long hours tedious, and would switch on the radio, or have a snooze to pass the time. They especially hated the night shift, when few cars passed along the highway. But Officer Rafferty took note of every vehicle that ca
me by, and if he judged that a car was going too fast or was being driven erratically, he had no qualms about pulling the driver over and explaining what they had been doing wrong.
It was the late 1950s now, and more and more people were becoming owners of motor vehicles. The post-war boom had seen the rise of the purchasing power of the middle class, and now Ford and General Motors were competing to bring their cars to ordinary folk. But this new phenomenon brought a whole new set of problems with it. His first night on the job, five years ago now, a high-school boy took his father’s car for a drive and ended up wrapping it round a tree. Officer Rafferty had been the first one on the scene, and he had seen the damage that speeding could do.
That night in early November, he heard the vehicle long before he saw it. He was standing outside his patrol car, taking a leak, when he caught the sound of an engine, far off still, but eating up the distance quickly. Zipping up, he turned just in time to see the car – a silvery-blue Pontiac – whizzing by. The top was down, and as it sped past, he spotted a young woman at the wheel, a scarf wrapped around her head to keep her hair in place. Looking at the way the automobile was swerving from one side of the road to the other, he had a feeling he was about to witness another fatality.
He went back to the police cruiser, ready to give chase, but before he could get in, the sports car veered out of control and ploughed across the road. It was sheer luck that it hadn’t gone straight over the cliff edge and plunged into the ravine below. Rushing over to the vehicle, he saw the driver – a red-haired woman, he could tell now that the scarf had fallen away – slumped across the steering wheel. The car was side-on to the cliff edge, teetering precariously. He tried to walk round to the driver’s side, but the limestone started to give way. So instead he went back to the passenger door, and knelt down.
‘Miss?’
He called out loudly, but there was no reply. Was she even alive? If she wouldn’t wake up, there was only one way to find out. He leaned in and grabbed hold of her shoulder, trying to get her to sit up. She fell back against the seat, her head lolling to one side. There was a nasty gash just above her left eye; it was deep and bleeding badly. But her chest was still rising up and down, so at least she wasn’t dead. Having established that the driver was still alive, the officer did a quick survey of the vehicle. It wasn’t in good shape. He didn’t like to move the woman, but he was worried that at any moment the cliff might give way, so instead he opened the car door and slid her across the leather seats, until he was able to pick her up. As he did so, he smelled the distinctive acidic odour of alcohol on her breath.
He carried the woman across the grass, until they were a hundred yards from the car, and laid her down on the ground. After checking her airway, and establishing that she was still breathing alone, he went to radio for an ambulance.
‘Vehicular accident, involving one female driver . . .’
As soon as she heard about Franny’s accident, Lily rushed to the hospital. Unfortunately, when she got there, Max was inside with Franny, talking to the doctor, and as she wasn’t a family member no one would let her know what was going on.
As she sat waiting in the corridor, she overheard a police officer talking to the receptionist, and figured out from their conversation that he’d been first on the scene. Concerned about her friend being exposed to further bad press, Lily followed the officer outside the building.
‘Excuse me,’ she called out, as he was walking to his patrol car.
Hearing the woman’s voice, he turned back. ‘Can I help you, mam?’ he asked politely.
She hurried over to him. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’ she said, looking round to check that no one could hear. ‘At the car accident – the one involving Frances Fitzgerald.’
Hearing that, his face closed up. ‘I can’t talk about that,’ he said, about to get into his car.
But Lily put out a hand to stop him. ‘Well, that’s my point. I don’t want you to talk about the accident.’ She held out a hundred-dollar note. ‘Not to anyone.’
The officer stared at the money. ‘What the hell’s that for?’
‘Look,’ Lily said in a low voice, ‘I care about Frances, is all. And I’d hate to see any details about this scandal ending up in the papers.’
It took all of Officer Rafferty’s self-control not to explode. A principled young man, who took his job seriously, he would never have dreamed of selling his story to the press, and didn’t like the implication that he would.
‘Firstly, I would never take a bribe,’ he said stiffly. ‘Secondly, I certainly wouldn’t go gossiping about any aspect of my job.’ He watched with satisfaction as the blonde’s cheeks reddened. ‘And lastly,’ he said quietly, ‘if you care as much about your friend as you claim, then bad press should be the least of your concerns.’
Lily stared at him, confused. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The officer hesitated for a moment, as though he’d said too much.
‘Please,’ Lily pressed. ‘Tell me.’
He seemed to debate with himself for a moment, before finally deciding to reveal what he knew. ‘As standard procedure,’ he told her, ‘I looked back at the ground, to see what had caused the crash. There was no oil slick on the road, and no skidmarks. Nothing there to suggest that she lost control.’
Lily frowned. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
The officer’s eyes were solemn. ‘To me, it looks like she drove deliberately towards that barrier. I think your friend was trying to kill herself.’
The state trooper’s words haunted Lily. So later that night, she decided to take Max to one side and voice her concerns. Franny’s husband listened silently until the actress finished speaking.
‘I would rather you didn’t talk about my wife in those terms again,’ he said at length. ‘These rumours have a nasty habit of getting out, and I’m sure as someone who cares deeply about Frances, you would hate to see anything negative being said about her. As you well know, the studio doesn’t care for troublemakers, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think that you are one.’
The words were said so mildly that it would be hard for anyone to hear the threat. But it was there: if Lily brought the subject up again, he would see that she was blacklisted.
She got shakily to her feet. ‘I see. Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Max. I’m sure you know better than anyone else how to take care of your wife.’
It was said with as much defiance as Lily dared show. Then she left Max alone, and went to have a strong drink herself.
Despite Max’s warning, Lily decided to go out to Stanhope Castle the following week, once Franny was out of the hospital. She thought about calling to let her friend know that she was on her way, but decided against it. That old witch Hilda always answered the phone, and she’d just try to dissuade her from coming. So she drove out to Stanhope Castle without telling anyone. Unfortunately, when she got there, Hilda refused to let her see Franny.
‘Mrs Stanhope’s resting,’ she told her.
‘Fine,’ Lily said. ‘Why don’t I wait?’
The housekeeper’s mouth tightened. ‘There’s really no point. Mrs Stanhope has told me that she’d rather not see anyone until she’s fully recovered from her accident.’
They were standing in the entrance hall when something caught the corner of Lily’s eye, the flicker of a dark shadow, like someone moving across the entrance of the open door to the drawing room. But when she looked over, no one was there. A trick of the light, she told herself. Then she heard a click to her left. She looked back, and sure enough, the door was closed – when she was certain it had been open before.
‘What was that?’ she demanded, taking a pace in that direction.
Hilda moved with her, placing herself between Lily and the drawing room. ‘It was just the wind,’ she said. ‘Big houses have draughts.’ She had an answer for everything.
Lily might have believed her, but at that moment she caught a sudden whiff of Franny’s perfume, Chan
el No. 5. It was her signature scent. Of course, she wasn’t the only woman to wear it, but Lily couldn’t imagine that anyone else in this household did. Instinct told her that someone was skulking in the drawing room, and she was sure it was Franny. But what could she do? It wasn’t as if Hilda was holding Franny here against her will. Mrs Stanhope was the mistress of the house, she called the shots. If Franny didn’t want to see her, there wasn’t anything Lily could do about it.
‘All right, then,’ Lily said resignedly. ‘I’ll go.’
She looked towards the closed drawing-room door, and felt the urge to call out something to Franny, who she was certain was back there. Instead, as she left, there was one question on her mind:
Why on earth would Frances be avoiding her?
Later, Lily would wish she had been more persistent that day in trying to see Franny, because a month later, she woke to the news that movie star Frances Fitzgerald had lost control of her car on Highway 1, driven over a cliff and died in the ensuing explosion.
PART THREE
1960–62
Hard Lessons
‘Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards.’
Vernon Law, Major League Baseball Pitcher, 1930–
Chapter Twenty-nine
Connemara, Ireland, April 1960
One morning, a few weeks before Cara’s thirteenth birthday, Granny Theresa didn’t wake up.
It was four months since Franny had died. As no one knew of Cara’s existence, she’d found out about her mother’s death from a newspaper. It was a small piece, simply reporting on the funeral. To Cara’s surprise, she hadn’t cried, refusing to mourn for the mother who had first abandoned, and then forgotten her. She hid the piece from her grandmother, not wanting to upset Theresa’s already troubled mind.
Over their years living together, Cara and her grandmother had settled into a routine. Theresa invariably woke first, at around five, a habit she had developed after all those years living on the farm. If she was having a good day, she would feed the goat, milk the cow and light the fire in the kitchen, in order to have a frugal breakfast of bread and stewed tea prepared for when Cara rose a couple of hours later. As usual that particular morning, Cara awoke at seven. But she knew straight away that something wasn’t right. There was no sound coming from downstairs. The house was as still as death.
