Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

  “No, I think you could take a walk and explore the surroundings when I don’t need you,” I said, sure that Queen Mary would have told a servant that of course it was her place to stay close to her mistress in case she was needed. I feared I’d never be a good mistress of a stately home one day. I went to change and was just coming into the living room when there was a light tap at the front door. Since Claudette was nowhere to be seen I went to open it. A woman stood there, her face layered with an overwhelming amount of makeup, her hair the brightest blonde I had ever seen, and she was wearing a strapless peacock blue top over which a considerable amount of flesh was bulging.

  “You must be the young royal lady,” she said. “Barbara just told me about you and I thought I should do the friendly thing and come over and welcome you to our country.” And she dropped a really awkward curtsy, making me cringe with embarrassment and wonder if the rest of her breasts were about to appear from the strapless top.

  “Oh please. That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’m actually only a lady, not a princess. And I’m told that in America everyone is equal.”

  She laughed. “Who told you that? We have our own kings and queens, you know, only here it’s who has the most money.” She held out a chubby hand. “I’m Dolores. Dolores Hanford.”

  “And I’m Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “Are you visiting Beverly Hills too, Mrs. Hanford?”

  “No, honey. My husband and I are residents of this lovely city. We have a mansion up in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. My husband is a real estate developer and making more money than we know what to do with. I come down to the hotel to have lunch and meet friends almost every day. This is the place where everyone gathers. Everyone who is anyone, that is. Would you care to join us for lunch?”

  I glanced back at my mother, who was now strutting around the room gesturing. “Why not?” I said. “Thank you.”

  Several women were already seated around a table in the restaurant and Dolores produced me as if I were a prized exotic pet. “This is the young royal lady that Barbara was telling us about,” she said. “Cousin of the king. Imagine that. And wait till you hear her accent. Go ahead, honey. Say something.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” I muttered. “I’m Georgiana.”

  They sighed as if I had just sung an aria. “Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” one said. “So refined. So royal.” She patted the chair beside her. “So come and sit down and tell us what you’re doing in little old Beverly Hills and what it’s like at the palace.”

  I sat. They peppered me with questions—about my mother, the Prince of Wales, rumors they had heard. I tried my best to be discreet and answer vaguely, but it was rather like being at an inquisition. They also consumed an alarming amount of alcohol and all of them smoked. They only picked at their food, of which there were huge portions, and I was fascinated to see one of them using her hands to eat a bun with beef in the middle. Lettuce and juices squirted out of it as she attempted to get it into her mouth. Not a pretty sight. I had ordered a chicken sandwich, which at home would be a thin slice of chicken between slices of white bread. When it came up I was horrified to see it was half a chicken sitting on a roll. After the initial grilling Dolores and her crowd forgot about me and lapsed into their usual gossip. They were noisy, witty and terribly catty. It was shocking to someone like me to hear them describing the bedroom behavior of various celebrities without batting an eyelid.

  “Three of them, honey. No, of course they were men. He can’t stand women.”

  What a wild and wicked place the world was outside of Castle Rannoch and Buckingham Palace. Frankly I was rather relieved when I could make my escape and go back to the bungalow. We had dinner delivered as Mummy didn’t want to stop working on her lines. She was determined to be perfect on the first day on the set. Ronnie stopped by to see how we were getting on and told me that I’d be welcome to come to the set later in the day and he’d send a car for me. I was glad of this as I didn’t want to find myself alone at the mercy of Dolores and the catty women, or risk bumping into Charlie Chaplin again.

  THE NEXT MORNING Mummy woke me up at five with all her banging, clattering, and swearing and departed before six. I found I couldn’t get back to sleep with the sun streaming in. I ordered breakfast, then wrote postcards to my grandfather and to Belinda. If she was still working at Harrods she’d need cheering up. Then I went for a walk to see if I could find Queenie a cooler uniform, but the only shops did not have clothing suitable for maids.

  The car came for me at eleven and off I went to the studio, feeling very grand and rather excited. The gatekeeper saluted as we drove under the big sign saying GOLDEN PICTURES. People in strange costumes crossed in front of us. We passed what looked like an old-fashioned town square, then a European village. They were filming at the latter, with young men dressed in lederhosen and girls in dirndls. The car swung around into a narrow alley between buildings and stopped. Ronnie came out to meet me, carrying a clipboard.

  “Great. You made it. Come on in. We’re about to start shooting.”

  He led me into a big dark box. At one end was a set of a palace room and my mother, in a costume more sexy and revealing than Bloody Mary ever wore, stood at a table, while Juan, in tights and doublet, stood facing her. The first thing that struck me was how young and beautiful she looked and not for the first time I marveled that I could be her daughter and look so little like her. Ronnie put a finger to his lips. “And action,” shouted a voice from the darkness.

  “How dare you, Philip,” she said. “You may be king in your country, but here I am the queen. Don’t ever forget that.”

  He walked over, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him. “But you are also my wife. And the wife is at the mercy of her husband. Do not ever forget that either.” Then he kissed her—very passionately.

  “And cut!” shouted the voice. “Great stuff, Claire, honey. Juan, we need less of an accent from you. Tone it down and don’t lisp.”

  “I can’t help it,” Juan said. “This is the way I talk. This is the way Spanish men talk. You wish me to play King Philip of Spain, do you not?”

  “Sure you should sound Spanish but the people in Peoria need to understand you. Try again.”

  Makeup women darted out to dab at Mummy’s face. She went back behind the table and the scene was played again. And again. When they broke for lunch she came over to me. “Now I know why I prefer the theater. We have gone over the same little bit thirty-four times. Of course Juan isn’t going to lose his accent overnight. He’ll have to work with a speech coach for weeks. Cy isn’t pleased.”

  Cy Goldman himself came over to join us. “Come and eat in my private dining room,” he said. “You’re doing great, Claire. So believable. What an actress your mother is, Georgie. I’m going to make her a big star.” He led us at breakneck pace across the lot, where a real-looking castle had now been built, and into a small dining room. “But Juan,” he said. “I’m having second thoughts about him. It’s the accent, isn’t it? He’s not ready for the big time yet. He’s got the looks and the sex appeal all right, but the audience has to understand him. It’s just not the voice of a macho guy. So I’m bringing in an alternative. I’ve asked him to join us for lunch.”

  And as if on cue the door opened and in came someone whom I recognized instantly. Even if I had hardly seen a film in my life I knew Craig Hart. Everyone in the civilized world knew Craig Hart. Women threw themselves at his feet. And in real life he was as tall, dark, handsome and rugged in the extreme as he was on the screen.

  “Craig. Good to see you.” Cy pumped his hand. “Come on in and meet my new star. Claire Daniels.”

  Craig sauntered across the room, moving with animal grace, and held out a big hand to my mother. “Well, hello there, gorgeous. I am delighted to meet you,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice that had reduced millions of females to a trembling jelly.

 
“Well, hello, yourself,” Mummy said, her eyes lighting up with pleasure. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Craig.”

  Oh dear, I thought. Now we might never go home to Max. Then, to my amazement, Craig turned his attention to me. “And who is this enchanting young woman? Another new discovery, Cy?”

  He took my hands in his. His dark eyes held mine and I felt my own heart beating faster.

  “This is Claire’s daughter, Craig,” Cy said. “The one I told you about.”

  “I thought it might be. What a little charmer.” And he smiled down at me. “What is your name, you adorable creature?”

  “It’s Georgie.” I could hardly stammer out the words.

  “I am really glad to meet you, Georgie,” he said. “Really glad.” He was still holding my hands but he looked past me to Mr. Goldman. “You know, Cy, I think this is going to work out very well all around, don’t you?”

  At the time I didn’t know what he meant. I was still in shock that Craig Hart was paying attention to me and not my mother. After a lunch when I could hardly swallow a thing we went back to the set. Mummy was giving me curious and amused glances. I’m sure my face was still beet red.

  “Isn’t Craig being kind to you,” Mummy said. “What a nice man, making you feel special like that.”

  She went back to makeup before returning to the set. I was about to go in when Ronnie stopped me. “Not a pretty scene in there at the moment,” he said. “Cy has just told Juan that he’s not playing Philip any longer. Juan is upset. Stella is furious.”

  Even as he said it the door burst open and Stella stormed out, dressed in full Elizabethan costume with long red hair flowing over her shoulders. Cy came hot on her heels.

  “I can’t believe you.” She turned on him like a tiger. “You promise him the moon and then you let him down like that.”

  “He wasn’t good enough, Stella. Be reasonable,” Cy shouted, grabbing her arm and whirling her back to face him. “He didn’t make the grade. He was nothing. A Spanish peasant. He should be damned grateful I brought him here.”

  “He’s not a peasant. He comes from an old, old family with a castle, parts of which you tried to buy, if I remember rightly. You take everything you want from Spain, don’t you?” Stella demanded. “The great Cy Goldman. Just because you have money you think you can buy everything. Well, you can’t buy me.”

  He pulled her close then so that their faces were only inches apart. “Don’t forget, sweetheart, without me you’re done for. You were a has-been. Your voice isn’t really good enough for the talkies, is it? Who else would give you a starring role in a picture, huh?” He released her then. “Maybe you’re getting just a little too fond of the Spanish peasant, huh? You want to watch your step, Stella baby. There’s plenty more where you came from. Now get back in there and try a little harder, because you know what? Claire Daniels will outact you in every scene.”

  Stella tossed her red hair and stalked back into the studio. I saw Cy give a little smirk as he followed her. It wasn’t a comfortable afternoon on the set. Cy had appeased Stella by letting Juan try out for Don Alonso, the dashing Spanish advisor. We moved on to a scene between Stella and my mother and I could see what Cy meant. Mummy shone, the way she always did on stage. Stella’s voice had an annoying sharp quality to it and even with all that makeup she still looked older than the eighteen-year-old girl she was supposed to be playing. And the more I saw of the script, the more stupid I thought it was. It wasn’t just that the history was completely wrong. The dialogue was peppered with Old English words and phrases like “forsooth,” “gadzooks” and “fie, my lord, fie.”

  When we were finally driven back to the hotel Queenie was remarkably subdued. I suppose my talking-to had made her realize that she had behaved inappropriately. Or perhaps Claudette had made her see sense. Either way she laid out my dress for dinner, took my day clothes to be pressed without a word or a single “Bob’s yer uncle.”

  At seven o’clock there was a knock on our door. I opened it cautiously, dreading Dolores or her chums. Instead Cy Goldman and Craig Hart stood there. Cy’s arms were full of flowers. “We’ve come to take you lovely ladies out to dinner,” Cy said. “Come on. Put your dancing shoes on.”

  Mummy acted pleased and flattered. As we walked to a waiting car I heard Craig mutter to Cy, “Yes, I think she’ll do nicely.” And I got the feeling they were talking about me. Was I about to be discovered and turned into a film star? Then I grinned. That would be too absurd. Craig drove us in an enormous white convertible. We were whisked down Wilshire Boulevard at great speed to another fine hotel called the Ambassador and walked past palm trees to a club called the Cocoanut Grove. A negro jazz band was playing and the place was full.

  “Everybody’s here tonight,” Cy said. “Hi, Norma, honey.” He kissed a cheek. “Norma Shearer,” he said to us. “And Errol, you old devil.” He turned to us. “You haven’t met Errol Flynn yet, have you?”

  Another gorgeous dark man eyed us both appraisingly. “You and I have to dance when the music gets going,” he said to my mother.

  Craig put an arm around my shoulder. “Watch out for that one,” he said. “He likes his girls pure and innocent.”

  “How do you know I’m pure and innocent?” I heard myself asking and surprised myself.

  Craig laughed. “Honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you know. That’s what’s so appealing about you.”

  I knew I should say “I do have a boyfriend,” but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I had Mummy and Cy to keep an eye on me, didn’t I?

  We dined. A man called Bing Crosby got up and sang. Mummy went off to dance with Errol Flynn. Craig asked me to dance and held me close. It was all rather heady. I couldn’t wait to write about it to Belinda. Cy insisted that we leave at ten as we had to be on the set early next morning and Craig had to study his lines, so I didn’t have a chance to see what might have happened later. Neither did Mummy. She and Mr. Flynn were getting along remarkably well. I could tell she was in her element here and wondered if being Frau von Strohheim still had its appeal. And I did wonder what I would do if Craig made advances to me.

  THE NEXT DAY the car came to take me to the set again. “Lots of tension,” Ronnie muttered as he escorted me inside. “Stella and Cy. She hasn’t forgiven him. Juan is doing badly and muffing his lines and may well be out altogether.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “Is making talkies always like this?”

  “Worse, sometimes. We haven’t had a real catfight yet, although Stella has clearly decided that having your mother in the film was not such a good idea after all. She wanted an older woman so that she could look young, but I must say your mother looks magnificent. And she can act too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up as a big film star.”

  “I think she’s intending to go back to Europe after this picture,” I said.

  “Cy won’t let her. He’ll sign her to a contract if it’s the last thing he does.”

  We got through a long and tense day. There was no mention of dinner this evening. It was hot and muggy as we drove home and all I longed to do was go for a swim.

  “Queenie. Help me out of this,” I called as I came into my bedroom. No answer. I bet she had fallen asleep again. At least it wasn’t on my bed this time. “Queenie?” I opened her door. The bed was made. The room was tidy. I came out into the living room.

  “Claudette. Queenie’s not here. Don’t tell me she went for a swim again.”

  Claudette shook her head. “She ’as gone. I tried to talk to her but she doesn’t listen to me. She is fou, that one. Mad.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” I asked.

  She pointed at the coffee table. “She left you a letter.”

  I picked it up. Written in Queenie’s childish script:

  Dear Miss,

  I am sorry to say that I am leaving your emplo
yment. I have been offered a good job by Mrs. Hanford. She has always wanted an English maid and she offered me a lot of money to leave you. Since we haven’t been getting along too well lately and you keep telling me off I thought I’d take my chances with her. Sorry to leave you in the lurch but you know how to take care of yourself quite well.

  Yours faithfully,

  Queenie Hepplewhite (your former maid)

  I just stood there staring. I couldn’t believe it. Queenie—hopeless little Queenie had landed herself a plum job. And I couldn’t believe the sense of loss I felt. I knew I should have been relieved to be rid of her. Now I could find myself a proper lady’s maid—one who wouldn’t fall asleep on my bed, or iron holes in my evening gowns. But I found instead I was blinking back tears.

  “Queenie’s gone,” I said to my mother, who was sprawled on the sofa with her script on her knees. “She’s left me. Got a better job.”

  “Good luck to whoever’s landed with her,” Mummy said, not looking up. “Don’t worry, darling. Claudette can take care of both of us. She has very little to do here. She won’t mind a bit—will you, Claudette?”

  “No, madame,” Claudette said, giving me a look that said the opposite.

  “Now leave me in peace. I must work,” Mummy said.

  I felt too upset to go to bed. I wandered the grounds. Suddenly I heard a man’s voice saying, “There she is at last.” And a hand reached out from the bushes and grabbed me.

  Chapter 14

  AT THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1934

  I was about to scream when a male voice said, “Georgie, old bean. Steady on, it’s me. Algie.”

  His face came into focus in the light of the torches that lined the pool.

  “Algie? What on earth are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you were supposed to be working on a ranch.”