It was Friday. I had no plans apart from supper on Saturday with my photographer son, Josh, who was arriving back from his Kenyan fashion shoot today. Angelica was waiting for a response. ‘It’s a good time for me,’ I said, feeling twitchy all the same, ‘if you can fit me in.’ Josh could handle his mum with a bright red face, I felt sure.
After the half-hour treatment, which involved a trawl over my face with a small machine that made popping noises, I asked about the safety of breast implants. Not something I’d ever seriously contemplated, though I’d never got over the painful feelings of inadequacy all those years ago, the fear of comparisons with Alicia.
Her affair with Joe when I was hardly out of my teens and blithely naïve, had been shattering. I’d worn my misery like a dead bird round my neck, and even now there were times when I could still feel its weight. Alicia had a lot to answer for. She’d remarried a couple of times and had died very recently, I’d been told.
‘Are people put off having breast implants now, after all the scares?’ I asked, curious.
‘No, not at all. The latest trend is fat recycling from the thighs to the breast. It was proposed at least ten years ago and extensive research has concluded that it’s quite safe. It is very popular, because the patient gets body sculpting and the breasts are very soft, none of that unnatural rigidity, and provided your weight remains steady there is a forty to sixty per cent long-term increase in breast size. It is done with special needles too, so there is no scar, and only twilight sedation is needed.’
‘It sounds too good to be true,’ I said, wondering if I was really too old and squeamish ever to contemplate it.
‘No, it is true – and good! It costs a few thousand, though. Well, I’m always here,’ she smiled, shaking my hand and seeing me to the door, ‘if you ever decide to take the plunge.’
‘You mean as in plunging bras and cleavage?’ I queried and she laughed.
Taxiing home, I eyed my tingling face in a tiny handbag mirror, peering close for any dramatic reddening, but there was nothing yet to see. I tried to talk some sense to myself: all this effort to restore a little bloom, hung on a five-minute chat with Warren Lindsay at a party. A man to whom the idea of taking me to dinner hadn’t even crossed his mind.
His interest had been all about my designing skills, nothing to do with the smoothness of my skin. He’d been in the throes of a bitter divorce, tediously so, and however maturely attractive, who knew how deeply, genuinely dull he could turn out to be? A couple of months on Long Island was all good and fine, but to go out there expecting romance and excitement? Let’s get real. My phone was pinging, texts coming in. One was from my daughter, Bella – and Josh was back, he’d just landed. I read his text first. Off into Vogue, Mum, re pics and shoot, but we’re on for tomorrow night? C U then, can’t wait!
I texted back feeling, as always, an emotional rush and tinge of concern. I worried about Josh, never entirely sure how happy he was, how fulfilled. He was at the top of his game, artistic, successful; he had sensitivity, good looks – he could make people laugh. Yet despite all that he seemed vulnerable somehow, even at forty.
Bella’s text was warming, too. She wanted to do a family Sunday meal.
Josh home, you zooming off – can you make lunch here, Mum? I’ll do easy food. Al and co. can come, too.’
I texted to say that was great, nothing better and I’d bring the wine and a pud. The bonds of family were what mattered and I pulled the ties tight. My three children were loving and thoughtful, never grasping. And close – they got on. Bella was a mother to us all.
By the morning I had a bright red face. I looked like a tomato. Whatever would Josh think? Out came the make-up and I piled it on thick. I warned him about it on the phone, which caused some laughter and later, when he walked in the door – looking deliciously tanned in an open-neck white shirt, his hair lifted by the sun – he didn’t let up.
‘What’s this all about, Mum, all this beautifying? This American must have really caught your eye. Husband number five, by any chance?’ Josh handed over a pair of carved wooden elephant bookends, heavy and polished to a golden sheen. ‘These are for the lav or somewhere,’ he said. ‘I had to buy things, they’re all so desperately poor in that beautiful country.’
I had a vivid image of a hollow-cheeked youth in oil-stained rags, squatting in the red Kenyan dust, toiling for hours to turn out something so accurately and elegantly carved. Seeing Josh, feeling emotional, the tears began to prick at my eyes.
I set him straight about ‘this American.’
‘Don’t hold your breath, Josh. I’m not about to marry a client – and after only meeting this guy for minutes I suspected an underlying dullness.’
‘Bet you he falls for you, though. He couldn’t fail to – you look bright pink and gorgeous,’ Josh said, and hugged me close.
We talked about his intrepid models, quite prepared to rough it on the trip, and the obliging leopards who’d almost, Josh said, seemed to pose. We argued about the Republican contender for American President. Josh was for him, surprisingly, while I was against. Over spinach soup and steaks, his favourites, I told him all about Daisy and her ghastly lover. It was a rare delight of an evening and I hugged it to myself, rising to make the coffee.
‘Does a trip like this one to Long Island revive memories, Mum?’ Josh asked, bringing the plates over to the dishwasher. ‘You’re an old hand at the States now, but it must have been wild, arriving in California with Bella’s dad, modelling in New York, all that glam stuff when you were still so young.’
‘Sure, it was amazing, my first time in America and plunged straight into a Hollywood whirl. The flight took over thirteen hours and no films on board, of course. I have been thinking back actually, more than I’ve done in years. It’s partly because of this girl, Daisy, I was telling you about. The mistakes she’s making are very similar to the ones I made. It seems we women never learn!’
Chapter 6
September 1961
We were coming in to land. It was hard to believe. I was glued to the window, gazing down at the sprawl of Los Angeles, low square blocks of buildings spreading as far as the eye could see. We’d flown under clear skies, but it was evening now, dusky and hazy, and the city had a spattering of lights. I felt aflame, burning with anticipation and thrill. Nervous, too: my heart was spinning, the blood speeding in my veins.
Somehow we’d found the fares, the lowest class but still a whopping £239 10s return. Joe had sold a pair of antique Chinese Canton vases, one of his sillier extravagances bought after seeing something similar, staying with one of his smart-set friends.
He nudged me with his elbow. ‘We may have to get a cab. I’m not sure if we’ll be met.’ He sounded surprisingly unsure of himself. It must be even more unnerving for him, I realised, the thought of the recording sessions, being neither too pushy nor fawning; properly respectful while needing to sound in the know. Quizzing a legend like Frank must seem more daunting than a whole row of first nights.
‘You’ll do great,’ I said warmly, and he squeezed my hand, giving me hope.
‘I’d bloody better! I’ve never written a book before.’ It was rare for Joe to show any vulnerability and to need a moment of togetherness. As we stepped down onto the tarmac, the start of a unique shared adventure on the other side of the globe, I carried on daring to hope that it could bring us a little closer and help to heal scars.
We joined a wearyingly long line of tired travellers, shuffling forward, passports clutched. ‘It’s a bit of dump, this place,’ Joe said, looking round. ‘I expected LA’s airport to be state-of-the-art; instead it’s like a load of old Nissan huts.’
‘It’s temporary,’ a man in front of us said, swinging round with a look of affront. He had on a black motorcycle cap with a Triumph winged logo. ‘The airport’s being rebuilt.’
‘It’s our first time in America,’ I explained, trying to make up for ‘old Nissan huts’, ‘Terribly exciting.’
Jo
e dug me in the ribs. ‘For God’s sake!’ he hissed. ‘Think he gives a damn?’
A woman edged up beside me and stared. ‘My, just look at you . . . you an actress? You must be a famous lady.’ Joe looked irritated. He was the famous one, not me.
The beefy-armed guy who stamped our passports chatted about his aunt in Liverpool and wished us a great vacation. Through customs, though, and uncertain what to do, the airport felt a colder place. People pushed and jostled, no one seemed approachable.
A youngish man wearing a natty, sharp-pressed dark suit came towards us. ‘Mr Joe Bryant?’ he enquired. ‘I’m here to meet you, the limo’s right outside. I have a note from Mrs Romanoff.’ Keeping hold of a pair of black leather gloves, he felt in a pocket and handed over a heavy cream envelope, blue-edged and crested. ‘I’m Arthur, by the way,’ he said. ‘You folks stay close and the porter will follow.’
The limo was vast, long and black, luxuriously carpeted. Splits of champagne in a bucket, along with two flute glasses, were wedged on a ledge. ‘Wayho!’ Joe exclaimed, grabbing one, popping the cork and catching the spills with puppy-like licks of his tongue.
We read Gloria’s note. Welcome friends! We want you to hurry and come to a party! Arthur will take you directly to the house – the maid is there to look after you – and he’ll bring you on to the restaurant just as soon as you’ve freshened up. We’re hosting the party in the ballroom and it’s a black-tie affair. Longing to see you, make it as soon as you can!
We’d been on the go for eighteen hours. We were on borrowed time, though, and riding high. Joe was grinning like a hyena.
The Romanoffs’ guest cottage was thoughtfully furnished with curtains and loose covers in matching chintz. It was an English look, yet with little differences, another way of folding towels, an abundance of cushions; jelly beans in a bowl, spare toothbrushes . . .
‘Stop gawping, can’t you?’ Joe yelled from the bathroom. ‘Let’s get there.’ I dived into my suitcase, settling on a dropped-shoulder white silk top and a long taffeta skirt; my own clothes, not Alicia’s, the skirt full and a jewel-coloured tartan, ruby, emerald and amethyst.
I had brought one or two of her outfits with me. I’d fought with my pride, but in the end felt a grim masochistic need to make Alicia very well aware of me, to plant myself squarely in her path to Joe and try to touch her conscience. I was Joe’s wife and he was signed up to me, not her, and we were off to California. Alicia would be far away, out of sight – if not out of his thoughts or mine.
She’d pressed me about the clothes as well, calling after Rory’s party, suggesting a time to come, but in the event it had been ghastly. Being in her bedroom, stiffly polite, choosing a couple of outfits – any two, I didn’t care, didn’t want to take them – a print dress, a heathery wool suit with strips of black braid on the front like a devil’s fork. I’d left her large silent house in Belgravia with the clothes in a transparent, zipped moth-protector over my arm, feeling mangled and trampled, wretched, humiliated.
Whether or not she’d intended to hurt and shock was hard to know, but Alicia had managed it triumphantly – simply by telling me the story of the run of cupboards along her bedroom wall. ‘A hidden door was left in at the back when they were built,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t show at all from the landing side with the patterned wallpaper, and I’ve always thought what a typically French little touch. We’d bought the house from a Parisian couple, in fact. I mean, a lover hearing a returning husband on the stairs would only have to dart in there, behind all the clothes, and make good his escape!’
How could she have said that? Had she no shred of sensitivity in her soul? It slowed me up, sitting on a padded chintz stool in Beverly Hills, putting on false eyelashes, the bile rising inside me all over again. Alicia might be thousands of miles away, yet I could never escape like the lover in the cupboard. She was constantly in my mind.
It was tiredness, I told myself, making me turn up that particular stone. And I’d been feeling so elated, on such a high.
Joe was staring at me in a vacant way. He looked coolly glamorous in his dinner jacket, slim and sinuous, very British. ‘Will I do?’ I asked, needing reassurance. ‘They’re sure to be dressed up as if it’s a Royal banquet. Do you think Sinatra will be there?’
‘Dunno. Come on, if you don’t stop wittering, we’ll never find out.’
Sharp-suited Arthur was waiting and we drove in style the short distance to Romanoff’s. He shook his head vehemently when Joe felt in his pocket. ‘Oh no, you put that back, Mr Sinatra’s orders. You go on in and have yourselves a grand time.’
Shown to the ballroom, we stayed by the door, adjusting to the low lighting, the buzz of chatter rising above the band, the red-plush luxury. The crisp starched linen on the tables looked almost fluorescent, brilliant white squares dotted around the floor, which was packed with couples dancing. Many of the faces seemed uncannily familiar. I had the weirdest feeling, staring round at a roomful of strangers, of knowing half the people there.
Gloria saw us. She hurried over with enthusiastic greetings, and as we joined her husband Mike at the table, he rose, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Gorgeous girl,’ he said, giving me a squeeze.
‘Frank’s just talking to Tuesday Weld,’ Gloria said. ‘He’ll be with us in a minute. He’s on our table, and Bob Hope and Dolores are, too. Oh, do look at Bob on the dance floor, showing off those fancy steps of his!’
Bob Hope was twizzling and pointing his toes, laughing with his partner as they swirled around, looking for all the world like someone I knew of old. It was surreal.
‘And isn’t that Bing Crosby as well?’ I asked, staring gormlessly. ‘And Edward G Robinson! I’ve seen so many of his films. My father used to take me as a child.’
‘We’ll get Eddie over,’ Mike said. ‘You must meet him. He’d love meeting you too, you can be sure.’
‘Hey, you’re here, you made it, that’s a gas!’ Frank joined us, flashing his familiar white-teeth smile. He immediately took charge, summoning a waiter, seeing to people’s drinks and the wine. He ordered a Mouton Rothschild ’49.
Joe looked astounded. ‘And I’m still reeling from that monumental Margaux ’47 we had at the Mirabelle,’ he said. ‘It’ll be hard landings back home!’
Frank grinned. ‘You’re coming along to Monday night’s recording session, right? Just roll on over, eight o’clock at the studios. I never record before evening time, the voice is more relaxed, no broken mirrors in the throat. You should talk to Nelson Riddle too, while you’re here, set up an interview. He’s the best, the greatest arranger in the world. He’s like a tranquilliser – calm, slightly aloof, never gets ruffled. One of the true greats,’ Frank said, ‘and they have their ways. With Billy May it’s like having a cold shower. He’s all pressure, but I don’t mind that. Too much time available equals not enough stimulus.’
He turned and pinned me with his dazzlingly blue gaze. ‘Joe’s gonna be busy; how’d you like to go on the sets of Manchurian Candidate? It’s a helluva film. I’m real excited about my Major Ben Marco character. I’ve been living that part, I can tell you, more than any other. I’m through filming now, just one scene left to do in New York, but Larry Harvey’s still on set. He’ll see you right.’ Frank tipped back his chair and called over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Larry, come meet these kids from London, Joe and Susannah Bryant. He’s a young stage actor and she’s one helluva chick, a real barn burner! I’m telling her she should look in on Manchurian, see what it’s all about.’
It was fixed up in no time. ‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Laurence Harvey assured me. ‘I’ll send the Rolls to pick you up.’ He had a thin elegant face, high cheekbones; a voice that was like nectar, honeyed and liquidly mellow. He was immensely smooth, super-sophisticated – utterly, compellingly charming.
Mike Romanoff nudged my arm. ‘It’s a lilac Rolls,’ he whispered. ‘A gift from Larry’s friend, Joan.’
‘What’s a barn burner, Mike?’ I whispered back when I had a
chance.
‘A broad who’s all polish and class,’ he replied, with his pitted, beat-up face creased in a grin. It cheered me up; I wasn’t so bourgeois out here, I thought, wishing Joe had heard.
I danced with Bob Hope, who held me very tight and swung me round the floor. I practically flew! Back at the table, baseball ruled. The New York Yankees were zapping the Boston Red Sox in the World Series. Bob, who had a stake in the Cleveland Indians, seemed resigned.
‘I’m a loyal son of a bitch,’ he sighed. He was never at a loss for a quip. Someone blew a kiss to Gloria and he said solemnly, gazing deep into my eyes, ‘People who blow kisses are just hopelessly lazy.’
When his wife tutted at that, wagged a finger and took herself off to the loo, Frank wagged a finger at Bob and tutted in a mimicking way. ‘That’s one of Bob’s standard lines,’ Frank said, with a great big grin on his face. ‘You watch out for him, he’s a player, famous for it. And he thinks he can get away with anything. When Dolores caught him in bed with a broad once, he sat up and said, “It’s not me!”’
Bob kissed my hand. ‘Not true, don’t you believe a word of it. I just like making friends.’
Frank drank bourbon, Jack Daniel’s; he pressed others to have vodka stingers and jiggers of brandy, but stuck to his ‘Jack’s’. ‘Not too much water,’ he stressed. ‘Water rusts you.’ He smoked Lucky Strikes, courteously offered cigarettes, which he lit with his gold Dunhill lighter. He watched for empty glasses like a hawk and sprang forward with an ashtray the moment ash was about to fall. His manners were impeccable. There was more to him than an arresting directness and the incontestable blue of his eyes.
Laurence Harvey sent his Rolls for me as promised; it was as lilac as the blooms in spring. ‘You won’t see another like it,’ the elderly uniformed chauffeur assured me with pride, holding open the door. ‘It’s unique.’
By the time he returned me from a day on the sets of The Manchurian Candidate I’d watched Larry doing one of his terrifying scenes with Angela Lansbury. I’d mingled with dirt-smeared, sweaty, tin-hatted soldiers who chatted me up on a set that was a squalor of frying pans, bowls of eggs and fold-up chairs. I’d spied other sets littered with oriental lanterns and white wicker chairs, Korean extras lolling around. Press photographers had taken pictures, even of me. It was quite a day.
Tell the Girl Page 7
