Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

by Shéa MacLeod

“Not too far back, Butty,” Cyril said with a laugh before greeting me with equal warmth. What he lacked in physical attributes, he made up for in personality. “Welcome, Lady Rample. Welcome to Hollywood. And to my home.” I noticed he had a very slight accent. German, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “Please, call me Ophelia.” I figured since we were in America and they didn’t have titles, I might as well blend in.

  “And I am Cyril. Naturally.” He clapped his hands, delighted. “Now, if you will follow me, I have drinks!”

  I would have liked to wash up first, but drinks were a necessity, and there was no way on this green Earth I was going to be able to keep my aunt from her libations.

  “This is the living room,” Cyril announced as we passed through the doorway at the end of the hall from whence he’d come. “Just finished decorating it. What do you think?”

  “Very striking, Cyril.” Aunt Butty’s tone was one of approval.

  It was a large room with high ceilings, heavy wood beams, wide plank floors, and a stone fireplace large enough to roast a small cow. Plush, comfortable-looking chairs and sofas were sprinkled about—pink, like the rugs in the front entrance and modern in style and design. Heavy pink velvet drapes graced the long windows—pulled back so one could partake in the view of the lush gardens outside. An enormous art deco chandelier hung from the center of the room. But the truly startling thing was the mural painting on the ceiling itself. It portrayed a medieval scene—horses, huntsmen, knights, and so on—all in a hodge podge of color. It was... amazing. That’s the only word I could muster.

  “How’ve you been, Butty?” Cyril led us to a side board loaded down with liquor bottles.

  “Can’t complain,” she said airily. “I’ve got my health. What more can one ask?”

  “You English and your stiff upper lips. It is my opinion one could as very much more. Don’t you think? Vieux Carré for the ladies,” he announced cheerfully, without waiting for a reply, as he vigorously shook an already-full silver shaker before pouring amber liquid into cocktail glasses and graced each with a lemon peel.

  “Delightful!” Aunt Butty snatched one of the glasses from him and downed it almost in one go. Cyril didn’t seem to mind, simply poured her another.

  I decided to enjoy my cocktail and took it and myself to one of the plush armchairs. It was so dashed comfortable, I might never get up.

  We chatted inanely for a bit. How was the voyage, did visit anyone in New York, and so on.

  “Where’s your bride-to-be, Cyril? I’m dying to meet her,” Aunt Butty asked after a she’d polished off her second cocktail.

  “Ah, Lola is out on a shopping spree,” he said. “Darling girl. Trying to finish all those last-minute details so important to brides-to-be.”

  “You must tell us how you proposed. I’m all agog,” Aunt Butty said, accepting another refill from Cyril before taking a seat across from me and crossing her ankles neatly. “Knowing you, I’m certain it was romantic.” She turned to me. “When we were in New York, he fell for a showgirl. Took her up on the roof of the theater for a midnight picnic. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Lovely,” I agreed, taking another sip.

  “So tell us about your proposal. Was it romantic?” Aunt Butty urged.

  “Oh, it was.” He got a dreamy look in his eye.

  “Wait, wait.” Aunt Butty held up one beringed hand. “First, how did you meet?”

  “Oh, now that is a story,” he said with a grin. Filling his own glass, he took a seat next to Aunt Butty. “We met at one of those Hollywood parties... you know the thing. Actresses and actors everywhere. All the movers and shakers. She’d just finished a film. I’d seen it and thought she was sensational. In any case, we struck up a conversation.”

  “As you do,” Aunt Butty said over the rim of her glass.

  “Indeed.” He took a sip of his drink. “We became friends, you see. She’s a marvelous actress, Lola, but she wasn’t being taken seriously. So I thought I would help her out. Lend a hand. I knew once she got in front of the right people with the right parts, she’d really shine.”

  “And clearly she has,” I said. “Even in England, we’ve heard of Lola Burns.” She was one of the Hollywood darlings, star of the silver screen. The Golden Girl. A true blonde bombshell. How a man like Cyril Brumble had snared himself a beauty like her was beyond me. Then again, I don’t suppose looks are everything, and Cyril seemed a nice man. Besides, there’s something to be said for the sex appeal of power, though it certainly wasn’t working on me. He reminded me of a dotty uncle.

  “Yes, she’s done rather well.” He beamed proudly. “It was just friendship at first, but one thing led to another and, well, here we are!”

  “And the proposal?” Aunt Butty prodded.

  “Oh, now that was a thing—”

  But he didn’t finish his story. There was an almighty crash from the entry hall and an angry female voice yelled, “Cyril!”

  Cyril blanched. “Oh, dear. I wonder what’s gone wrong.”

  “Cyril!” The female voice held a sharp edge, and the sound of heels furiously tapping across the hardwood floor was unmistakable. Quick, determined steps. The steps of a woman not to be messed about with.

  “In here, my darling,” Cyril called out. He gave us a tight smile, a small tic flickering at the corner of his left eye. “You must forgive Lola. She’s doing a new film, you see. Plus getting ready for the wedding. I’m afraid she’s been rather... overwrought of late.”

  The clip clop of heels neared the living room door. The strident, nasal voice—nothing like the melodious tones from Lola’s movies—continued, “Cyril, you have got to have a word with these people. This is positively unacceptable— Oh!”

  Lola Burns stood in the doorway. I wondered if she realized she’d posed in the perfect place to show off her beauty or if it just came to her naturally. But she stood there, framed by dark wood, a ray of sunshine turning her hair into a halo of white gold. One of the most breathtaking women I’d ever laid eyes on.

  She was a tiny thing, barely above five feet, but substantial where it counted—yes, I’m speaking of her bust. Her face was delicate and heart-shaped with a dimple in her chin, a beauty mark—probably fake—on her left cheek, and perfectly penciled half-moon brows. All the rage these days. Her platinum blonde hair was done in the most fashionable waves, and she wore her signature true-red cream lip rouge. I’d bought it at Harrod’s one day, but it made me look like a tart. On Lola, it was sophisticated and elegant.

  “Well, who have we here?” she asked with a small smile before striding slowly toward her husband-to-be, hips swaying side to side. I wasn’t so mesmerized as not to realize her voice had changed the minute she realized she had an audience other than Cyril. Gone was the strident, unattractive nasal voice that sounded more like a gun mol than a starlet. She now spoke in the musical tones she was known for. She must have one doozy of a vocal coach.

  “Darling,” Cyril greeted her, rising to give her a peck on the cheek. “This is my dear old friend, Lady Lucas, and her niece, Lady Rample.”

  It escaped neither me, nor my aunt that Cyril had put an emphasis on the word “old.” Granted, he’d also emphasized our titles.

  “Aces! Proper ladies from England. That’s swell! Dear Cyril has told me so much about you!” Lola rushed to greet each of us in a flurry of cheek kisses and perfume. It was floral with a touch of spice. I remembered reading in a magazine that Lola preferred Mitsouko by Guerlain. I found it a little heavy for my taste.

  “Lovely to meet you, Miss Burns,” I said with all the gravity of my station. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

  “Oh, that was all Cyril’s doing, but you are most welcome.” Her expression exuded warmth, but her eyes were carefully blank. As if she were playing the part of hostess in one of her movies. Just another role with the appropriate script to follow.

  I was having a hard time deciding whether I disliked Lola or was drawn to her. Maybe a little of both.
Either way, I had a feeling that I’d only caught glimmer of the real Lola Burns in the hall. Or perhaps that was a role, too.

  “Now, my dear, have a cocktail and tell me why you are so upset,” Cyril said soothingly as he rose to fix her a drink. She immediately took his seat, and I noticed once again, the sun high lit her hair and features perfectly. As if she knew exactly where to sit or stand in order to get the best lighting. I could take lessons from her.

  “Remember that part in Valiant Lover you had me read for?” she asked, crossing her legs at the knee in an unladylike fashion and swinging one foot back and forth.

  “Of course, my darling. You’d be perfect for it.” He handed her a drink. Unlike the amber Vieaux Carré, this was a lime color. I wondered what it was.

  “Well, they gave it to some b... Somebody else.”

  “That’s impossible!” Cyril assured her. “I spoke to—” He seemed to catch himself and cleared his throat. “Who got it?”

  “Katharine Hepburn,” Lola spat. “Can you believe? She’s not nearly as pretty as me. Nor as talented.”

  I would agree on the pretty. Katharine Hepburn was not pretty, but she was stunning, and she had presence. As to talent, Ms. Hepburn had more in her pinky than Lola would ever possess, but it wouldn’t do to tell our temperamental hostess that. Something her intended clearly understood, for he commiserated with her, refilling her cocktail glass, reassuring her of both her attractiveness and her talent. Although I noted he behaved in a more fatherly manner than a lover.

  “I will speak to my friend at the studio. I’m certain we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Cyril assured her.

  For her part, Lola was quickly zozzled, her ranting becoming ever more unintelligible as she muttered about Cyril’s friends. The way she said “friends” set my suspicions on high alert. Cyril finally excused himself and escorted her to her room. No doubt to sleep off the effects of both her temper tantrum and her overindulgence.

  “Goodness me,” Aunt Butty said when they’d at last exited the room.

  I glanced over to find her shaking her head. “She’s a bit... dramatic, isn’t she?”

  “It’s not only that. It’s that she’s so... young.”

  “Yes, there is quite a bit of age difference, isn’t there?”

  “Twenty-three years!”

  “There was more than that between Felix and me,” I pointed out. When I’d married Lord Rample, I hadn’t yet turned thirty and he was sixty. Large age differences between spouses weren’t that uncommon.

  “Yes, but that was different. You were quite mature, and both of you had an agreement.”

  It was true. Passion wasn’t the stone upon which our marriage had been built. It had been friendship, companionship, and mutual admiration. He got an attractive young wife—if I do say so myself—and I got security. Marriages had been based on far less.

  “Perhaps they have an arrangement as well,” I suggested.

  “Don’t be daft. He clearly dotes on her. But I fear she’s not at all suitable.”

  She had a point there. Despite my niggle of unease, he did seem to cater to her every whim. “Maybe she dotes on him, as well?” Even I could hear the doubt coloring my tone. As far as I could tell, Lola Burns was unlikely to be besotted with anyone but herself.

  Aunt Butty snorted, her thinking clearly along the same lines. “I doubt that. What is she getting out of it, I wonder? It has to be something.”

  “He mentioned calling someone, a friend at the studio. When she was talking about the movie. Perhaps he’s helping her with her career.”

  She sighed. “What a shame. He’s such a nice man. So kind and generous to a fault. Why, do you know, one time he gave his coat—a very expensive one, too—to a beggar. In New York! In the winter! You haven’t any idea how ghastly New York winters can be. He was a saint for doing it if you ask me. He deserves better than a gold digger.”

  Perhaps he did, but he certainly seemed happy enough with what he had. And I was pretty sure that Lola had plenty of money herself. I polished off my cocktail and got up to refill my glass. “I should probably check on Maddie. And I don’t suppose Cyril would mind if I used his telephone, do you?”

  She snorted. “You’d better reverse the charges. He may be rich as Croesus, but he’s tight. That German thriftiness, I suppose.”

  So that explained the accent. “But you met him in New York, not Germany?” Aunt Butty had traveled most of the known world and had collected interesting acquaintances everywhere she went.

  “Oh, yes. He came to New York as a young man. Got involved in the theater. Directing and whatnot. We met through a mutual friend at that party I mentioned.”

  “Yes,” I said dryly. “The one with the naked woman.”

  She chuckled. “Indeed. Then he convinced me to play Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “You were in a play? On Broadway?” I asked, astonished. Why this surprised me, I couldn’t say. Aunt Butty was full of tales of adventure. She’d do anything she took a fancy to. She once told me she joined a Buddhist monastery for a week because she liked the outfits. I had my doubts as to the veracity of her claim on that one.

  “Yes, dear. For a short while. Marvelous good fun. Eventually Cyril gave up the theater and joined the movie business. Worked for some studio or other in New York before everyone moved out here to film in orange groves.”

  We’d passed some of those orange groves on the way from the train station. It was all so... exotic.

  Something crashed overhead. The sound of breaking glass followed by an angry shriek.

  “Movie stars,” Aunt Butty sighed. “So overly dramatic.”

  She was one to talk.

  SINCE CYRIL DIDN’T seem to be in a hurry to return to his guests, I decided to explore the main floor. And hopefully find a telephone. Aunt Butty chose to remain behind and enjoy another cocktail. I had no idea where Maddie had got to. One could only hope someone had shown her—and the luggage—to our rooms.

  Stepping out into the hall, I turned right. The hallway dead ended at a simple wood door with a black knob. I opened the door and popped my head in. It was a cloak room, of sorts. Not the euphemistic cloak room of the English—cloak room being a code name for the toilet—but an actual cloak room with coats and wraps and hats hanging from pegs along the wall, boots lined up neatly by the door, and a bench for sitting on. Probably to put on said boots, though why anyone needed boots in this land of eternal sunshine was beyond me. Within the room there was a door straight ahead and one to my left.

  The straight-ahead door opened onto a flagstone patio with a marvelous, kidney-shaped pool. Deck chairs, bistro tables, and potted plants graced the patio around the pool, creating an almost second living room. Thick foliage surrounded the whole thing, ensuring a private sanctuary.

  Next, I tried the door on the left, which proved to lead into a thoroughly modern kitchen complete with brand new refrigerator, an electric range, and what looked like a dishwasher! Goodness, my kitchen at home seemed hopelessly out of date. I made a mental note to look into getting some new appliances. It would certainly make Maddie’s job easier. She’d no doubt be thrilled as it would allow her more time lurking in my library.

  A heavyset woman with skin the color of a copper coin and gray-streaked dark hair done up in a blue kerchief was kneading dough, occasionally smacking it against the kitchen table as if it had offended her. I quietly shut the door, not wanting to disturb her. She seemed... angry.

  Back in the hall, the living room door stood open on my left. A few feet beyond, also to the left, was a second door, closed. Across the entry way on the right double doors leading to a dining room stood open, the room beyond done in heavy wood paneling and enough antiques to open a museum. Situated beneath the stairs was another door, discretely designed to look almost as if it were part of the wall. It led into what we British actually referred to as a cloak room. The neatly tiled room was all white with a small sink, toilet, and a mirror. After ensuring my hair
and makeup were still presentable, I decided to try the closed door. I was betting it was a library. Or perhaps a study.

  Sure enough, the room was clearly Cyril’s study. His desk was surprisingly small. I had expected something large and extravagant and masculine. Instead it was delicately carved from pale wood, all curves and smooth lines. The top was glass and gleamed in the dim light reflecting back my image. It was so clean. Completely bare of the usual knickknacks and supplies so common in studies. Not even a pen marred the surface. Only a simple brass lamp with a green shade on one side, and a black telephone on the other.

  I immediately sat down and placed a call. It would be late evening on the French Riviera, but I knew Mr. Singh would still be up. It took some time for the call to be routed, but at last a voice came on the other end of the line, tinny and full of static, but distinctly Mr. Singh.

  “Villa de la Belle Mer.” I could almost picture him in a purple dastar, his neatly trimmed black beard accentuating a face that was always calm regardless of my aunt’s antics.

  “Oh, Mr. Singh. It’s Lady Rample.”

  “My lady, are you well?” His musically accented voice held a note of concern.

  “Yes, yes,” I assured him. “I’m fine. Aunt Butty is fine. I just... Mr. Singh. Could you possibly do me a little favor?”

  “But, of course, my lady. Whatever you wish, I shall accomplish.” He had one of those voices that just made one want to trust him. He also had the wherewithal to back up his promises. Mr. Singh had never let Aunt Butty down.

  “Have you heard of a nightclub in Nice owned by an American? They play jazz music there, apparently.”

  “But of course. The Americana.”

  “You have heard of it then?”

  “Everyone has heard of it, my lady. It is very popular at the moment,” he assured me.

  “Could you take a message to one of the musicians there?”

  “Anything you wish, my lady.” There was no indication from him of whether or not he approved. But of course, he was used to Aunt Butty’s carryings on, so likely nothing I could do would shock him.