Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

“Well, old thing, you see it’s like this. Tubby’s newspaper wanted him to come out to Hollywood on some kind of secret mission thingy so I thought I might join him. Keep him company, you know. Dashed lonely for a chap in a foreign country like this. We’ve become rather good pals. And I knew you’d be here, what with your mother making a picture, don’t you know. I thought you might be able to pull a few strings to get me a job on a film.”

  “Get you a job on a film? What on earth could you do on a film, Algie?”

  “I don’t know. I’m an adaptable sort of chap. And I’m not too proud to take lowly work. Assistant director or something. Anything would be better than chasing cows on a ranch.”

  “Well, I suppose you could come with me in the morning,” I said dubiously.

  “I say, you are a brick, old bean. What time?”

  “The car will come when I call it. Say nine o’clock.”

  “Could we make it closer to ten, do you think? I’m not exactly an early riser. They had to yank me out of bed by my feet every morning at school.”

  I laughed. “Then I don’t think the film industry is for you, Algie. My mother has to be on set at six.”

  “Six?” The word came out as a yelp. “As in six a.m.? I’ve only ever seen six a.m. when I’ve been returning home from a party.”

  “Well, that’s when film directors expect you to show up. And I’m sure ranchers go to work before sunup too.”

  He swallowed hard. I watched his Adam’s apple go up and down. “Well, I suppose I could learn anything if I really had to. All right. I’ll jolly well do my best to be there at nine tomorrow. And thanks awfully, Georgie. I really appreciate this.”

  As he turned to go a thought struck me. “Just a minute. How did you manage to find me?”

  “Ah well. Old Tubby, you know. He’s on the trail of your mama.”

  I felt the blood draining from my face. If Tubby had been following my mother then he’d know all about the divorce and Reno and my mother’s double. We’d be doomed. Homer Clegg would never divorce Mummy now. Mummy would never forgive me. “Tubby has been following us? All the way from New York? That’s absolutely despicable.”

  “Steady on, old girl. It wasn’t like that. Tubby’s editor cabled him in New York and said he’d got wind that Claire Daniels was making a picture and he wanted him to go out to Hollywood and try to get an exclusive interview—‘My return to stardom.’ You know the kind of thing. So we hopped on the next train and here we are. It seems that everyone here has heard about your mama and knew where she was staying.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, don’t you dare bring Tubby to the studio with us. He’ll have to approach my mother himself if he wants an interview, and let me warn him that she doesn’t like newspaper reporters.”

  So off he went. I let myself into the bungalow. Mummy was now reading her lines out loud, declaiming, “Thou daughter of a whore. Get thee from my sight!”

  I tiptoed past her, undressed myself, hung up my own clothes and went to bed with a heavy heart.

  IN THE MORNING Algie showed up a little after nine, pleased with himself, but looking awfully bleary-eyed and disheveled. I suspected he’d simply staggered out of bed, into his clothes and out of the door.

  “And you do understand, you’re not to mention anything of what goes on here to Tubby,” I said. “My mother would be furious if she knew. I sincerely hope he hasn’t sent you as a spy.”

  I looked him straight in the eye. The fact that he didn’t blush and look uncomfortable convinced me that this wasn’t the case.

  “Oh gosh no,” he said. “Absolutely not. I just want to find a job that isn’t as beastly as mucking out cows.”

  The gatekeeper saluted as we drove under the arch saying GOLDEN PICTURES. Ronnie came out to meet me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Not well,” he said. “Everyone is still very tense after yesterday.” He noticed Algie. “Who is this? I’m afraid no guests are allowed on the set. Mr. Goldman’s orders.”

  Before I could introduce Algie he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Algie Broxley-Foggett. How do you do. I’m a childhood friend of Georgie’s and come from a very old family connected to the Tudors. I’ve come out to California to make my fortune so I’m hoping that Mr. Goldman will find a job for me on his film.”

  I looked at Algie with wonder. So the bumbling, clumsy, likable idiot could be quite devious if he wanted. He certainly wasn’t a childhood friend, nor, I suspected, was he connected to the Tudors.

  “Well, I guess that will be okay then,” Ronnie said uncertainly. He looked at me. I was tempted to say what I had been thinking but decided to give Algie the benefit of the doubt. He needed all the help he could get in life, I suspected.

  We waited until the red light went off then followed Ronnie into the darkness of the studio. At the other end lights blazed over an interior palace set, this time with a four-poster bed front and center.

  “And action,” shouted a voice and the clapboard snapped together.

  “Get out of my sight, thou daughter of a whore,” Mummy said with venom.

  “Cut,” came a voice from the blackness. “Cy, we can’t let her use the word ‘whore’ if we don’t want the picture to end up with an A rating.”

  “Okay. Claire, sweetheart, you’d better say ‘prostitute’ then.”

  “Cy. Maybe not ‘prostitute.’ A little risqué for the censor,” said the voice.

  “What the hell do you want her to say. ‘Daughter of a naughty wench’?”

  “Cy,” Mummy interrupted. “Trollop. How about if I say ‘trollop’?”

  “Great idea, Claire. Nobody will know what a trollop is. Go ahead with it. And Stella, you’re supposed to be an innocent young girl and these are the talkies, remember? That voice wouldn’t convince anyone you were a British princess. Listen to how Claire sounds . . . or better still, wait until her daughter gets here and listen to her. Maybe she can give you coaching.”

  “I have made thirty-five pictures, Cy. I do not need coaching,” Stella said in a frosty voice.

  “But they were mostly silent, weren’t they, honey. You’ve got great expressions for the silent screen, I’ll give you that . . . but I wouldn’t mention those thirty-five pictures. They give away your age.”

  “Fine, if you don’t want to do my script, I can always take it to another studio,” Stella said angrily.

  “Not while you’re under contract to me, honey.” Cy laughed. “You aren’t going anywhere, baby. You know which side your bread is buttered on. Now let’s get on with it.”

  Mummy delivered her line about the daughter of a trollop. I could tell she was feeling rather pleased with herself, knowing that she’d scored a point over Stella. There was no such thing as bosom friends in the acting profession, I decided.

  We moved away from the door to find seats. “I say, old bean, that’s not right, is it?” Algie whispered to me. “I mean Mary and Elizabeth didn’t ever love the same man. I don’t think Mary loved anybody!” I put a finger to my lips just as Algie stumbled in the blackness and kicked over a chair.

  “Cut!” Cy Goldman yelled, then wheeled around and spotted Algie. “What’s this guy doing here?”

  Ronnie stepped forward before we could answer. “He’s a childhood friend of Lady Georgiana and from a real distinguished British family with connections to the Tudors themselves. He’s hoping he might be useful to you on the picture.”

  “The first thing he’d better learn is that nobody talks or moves around when we’re shooting.” Cy glared. “What do you do, young man?”

  “Do? Well, not too much until now. Just came down from Oxford. Oh, I see what you mean—what job could I do on the film. Well . . . I rather fancy myself as an actor,” Algie said. “It might be ripping fun to be dressed up like that in tights and a doublet and with a sword.”

 
; “Have you had much experience?”

  “Oh, rather. My Lady Macbeth got rave reviews.”

  “Lady Macbeth?”

  “In prep school. You should have seen my sleepwalking scene, my hands covered in blood and saying, ‘Out, damned spot. Out, I say.’” He swung out his arms in a dramatic gesture, knocking one of the lights. It teetered and would have fallen, had not two of the crew leaped to grab it.

  There was a cross between a moan and a cry from the set. “He quoted from the play we never mention,” Mummy wailed. “The Scottish play. Now we are cursed, doomed. Something terrible will happen.”

  “It will be fine, Claire,” Mr. Goldman soothed. “The boy doesn’t know any better. But I don’t want him on set upsetting my stars. You say you’re related to the Tudors?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Oodles of Tudors in the old family tree,” Algie said. He went to lean nonchalantly against a rough stone wall only to find it was a flat that teetered and again he had to be grabbed by a stagehand.

  “Well, I guess we could use an extra script consultant, seeing that you know the Tudors personally,” Mr. Goldman said, eyeing him dubiously. “And that you’re a longtime friend of our Georgie.”

  “Can we get on with this?” Stella snapped. “How am I supposed to stay in character if we keep being interrupted every second? And I know it must be tough for Claire too, playing such a young woman.”

  A few days ago Mummy was her bosom friend, I thought. I wondered why this sudden hostility now? Perhaps Juan was showing interest in my mother. Perhaps Stella had suggested my mother for the part because Mummy was older and a has-been and thus not a threat. But now it was clear that Mummy was a better actress and looked better too. They went back to work but the tension level was still extremely high. Were they all thinking what Mummy had said about the curse of Macbeth? I knew theater people were terribly superstitious.

  We broke for lunch in the cafeteria. It looked so funny to see everyone in costume eating American food. When we came back to the studio after lunch there was still tension in the air. The afternoon dragged on. I was definitely wishing I was back beside the pool and wondering if I dared summon the car when the door opened, sending a shaft of light across the set. Mr. Goldman swore, yelled “Cut!” and swung around. “What now?” he bellowed.

  Ronnie came toward him, looking more worried than usual. “Real sorry to interrupt, Mr. Goldman, but I’ve just had your wife on the telephone.”

  “My wife? What does she want now?” Goldman growled.

  “She’s heard about your shopping spree in Europe—buying stuff for the castle,” Ronnie said, wincing as he said it.

  “So? What of it?”

  “She thinks you’ve gone crazy and you’re turning the place into a Gothic nightmare—her words, not mine, sir. She’s flying out this weekend to see for herself.”

  Mr. Goldman muttered a string of swear words, some of which I’d never heard before. Then he said, “Well, maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all. I’m not getting a good feeling here. It’s not going well. Maybe we all need a break. Okay. Listen up, everyone. I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking you all up to the castle.”

  “All of us?” Stella asked. “And your wife too?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s a big place. Plenty of bedrooms, Stella honey. Give you a chance to relax and settle down. It won’t be wasted time. We can do some read-throughs and blocking with Craig. Is he still in his trailer?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Goldman.”

  “Then maybe Georgie would like to go and tell him the plan. He was asking about you, Georgie.”

  “Craig? Mr. Hart, you mean? Asking for me?” I stammered. “What did he want?”

  “Missing you, I guess.” And he gave me a wink.

  “Golly,” I said.

  “Tell him we’ll work here on set Friday morning, then drive up to the castle Friday afternoon. Got it?”

  “I’ll show you where the trailers are,” Ronnie said, escorting me to the door. I followed, rather stunned by everything that had happened and by the suggestion that Craig Hart—internationally adored heartthrob—wanted to see me. Surely not when my mother was available. When every woman between fifteen and fifty was available? I gave a little grin, but then I paused to think. These film stars were notorious womanizers. Was Craig Hart expecting to find me his next willing victim? Was he interested in the challenge of an English virgin?

  “You’d better come with me to the trailer,” I said to Ronnie. “Protocol at home would demand that I didn’t go into a gentleman’s trailer alone.”

  Ronnie laughed. “How refreshingly quaint,” he said. “Lady Georgiana, I think you should know . . .” He broke off as he saw Craig himself coming toward us.

  “Well, hello there, you lovely creature,” he said in that deep, rumbling voice that had melted a million women’s hearts. “I was just coming to find you to tell you I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. Have the driver take you home early enough so you can make yourself beautiful, okay, sweetheart?”

  I saw a look of amusement cross Ronnie’s face. Was he relishing Craig’s next conquest? Still I didn’t want to say no. What girl would? But I wasn’t quite so naïve these days. I did know that when men invited me up to their room to show me their etchings it wasn’t a discussion on art that they were after. I’d go to a restaurant with him but that would be all. And I’d make sure to tell him about Darcy. Of course I would. . . .

  I realized as I was driving back to the hotel that I’d left Algie to fend for himself. He’d probably bring the scenery crashing down on top of the stars. Still, it would serve him right for telling such fibs. A dear childhood friend indeed, and I’d be willing to bet that there wasn’t a single Tudor in his family. Let him find his own way home on the tram.

  It was strange to go into an empty bedroom and realize that there was no Queenie. I’d half expected that her American employer might have thrown her out by now and she would have returned with her tail between her legs, but it hadn’t happened. I took off my clothes, went for a quick swim, ran a bath and then changed into my dark blue backless evening gown—the one in which I looked almost sexy. Was this wise? I asked myself as I examined my reflection in the mirror. Did I want to encourage a man like Craig Hart? But then I didn’t want to look like a frump, either.

  “It’s just dinner,” I told myself. “An experience. Something I’ll be able to tell Belinda about in my next letter.”

  When Mummy heard about the dinner with Craig, her eyes lit up. “Oh, isn’t he a peach taking us to dinner again.”

  “Not you, Mummy. Me. He’s taking me to dinner.”

  “Whatever for, I wonder,” she said. “Maybe he has a thing for virgins. You want to watch yourself. The backseat of these American automobiles is big enough for a multitude of sins.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  “And you know what we used to say on the stage? If you can’t be good, be careful, and if you can’t be careful put a sixpence between your knees.” And she laughed.

  Craig arrived for me at eight and off we went, to the Cocoanut Grove again. It was rather heady being the center of attention. Flashbulbs flashed. Gossip columnist Barbara Kindell came over to us. “Well, here’s a couple I’d never have expected to see together,” she said, grinning at my discomfort. “And I hear we’re off to Alhambra Two, right? Away from prying eyes.”

  I’d forgotten that that was what Cy Goldman had called his castle.

  “A whole group of us, Miss Kindell,” I said.

  “I might just secure myself an invitation. Should be fun, especially since I gather that Mrs. Goldman is coming into town.” And off she went, presumably to write about us in tomorrow’s newspapers.

  Craig drove me home about ten. He was a perfect gentleman in the taxicab. “I’ll see you safely to your bungalow,” he said.

  Alarm bells went
off in my head. “It’s lovely,” I said. “I share it with my mother and our servants.”

  He smiled, slipping an arm around my shoulder. Go on, a voice whispered. Tell him about Darcy now. We walked past the pool. “I’ve had a great time,” he said. He took me into his arms and he kissed me. I knew I should resist, but it was such a practiced, gentle kiss—and what girl would turn down the chance to be kissed by Craig Hart?

  “Excuse me. Your ladyship,” a man’s voice called from the darkness. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve a young man at the front desk asking for you. I didn’t like to send him out to the bungalow alone. Not at this time of night.”

  Oh Lord. It was obviously the wretched Algie again. Probably Tubby had left and he was trying to cadge a place to stay now. Or it might even be Tubby himself, angling for that interview with Mummy. “Tell him to come back tomorrow morning. I’m busy now,” I said.

  “I can see that for myself,” said a second man’s voice. One that I recognized.

  And to my utter horror Darcy stepped into the torchlight.

  Chapter 15

  THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 1934

  I broke away from Craig Hart, my mouth open with disbelief.

  “Darcy. What on earth are you doing here?” I stammered.

  “More to the point, what have you been doing here?” Darcy was staring at me coldly. “No. Don’t answer that. I can see for myself perfectly well. ‘Don’t bother me now. I’m busy. While the cat’s away, the mice will play.’ Well, you are certainly full of surprises, Georgiana Rannoch.”

  Craig stepped up beside me. “You know this guy, honey? Is he bothering you?”

  “He’s my”—I was about to say “fiancé” when I remembered the rest of the world wasn’t supposed to know that—“boyfriend,” I said.

  “Hey there, fella,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice. “Just a friendly little kiss, you know. No harm done. And all’s fair in love and war, they say.”

  “Do they?” Darcy demanded. “I’ve heard about creeps like you, taking advantage of innocent girls. I should punch your pretty nose.”