Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

by Shéa MacLeod

  Finally, we passed into Hollywood itself. Tall palms lined the streets and glowing white art deco buildings mixed with the richer earthy colors of hacienda-style abodes.

  Cyril pulled up to a cream-colored building. An arc not unlike the Arc de Triomphe in Paris soared above us, braced on either side by elegant columns. Above the arch in stylish letters were the words Nonpareil Studios. Black wrought iron gates filled the arch, their graceful spikes formed by whimsical curls. Currently, they stood open, allowing Cyril to pull the automobile straight onto the large lot.

  The tour was beyond anything I could have imagined. The studio wasn’t just a single building; it was several buildings sprawled over what he referred to as a “lot.” Frankly, it was more land than most English manor houses claimed these days.

  He hustled us first through several massive warehouse-type buildings, each one dedicated to one thing or other. In the first, there was a painted backdrop made to look like the Pyramids of Giza looming in the distance. In front of that were set up massive pillars decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphs between which sat an elaborate gold throne. A couple of handsome young men—wearing next to nothing, their muscles oiled, and their eyes outlined in kohl—stood around with giant palm fronds in their hands and looks of boredom on their faces while men and women in street clothes rushed about shouting at each other.

  “Goodness, me,” Aunt Butty exclaimed, fanning herself. “What interesting costumes.” I was fairly certain she wasn’t staring at the costumes.

  “They’re filming a new picture,” Cyril explained. “Queen Nefertiti. Should be delightful fun. Come this way. I’ll show you a real wild west saloon.”

  Sure enough, the next warehouse was set up to look exactly like the interior of a saloon with a bar and everything. Cowboys with spurs and Stetsons lolled about, apparently waiting for their next scene.

  Cyril led us from one “studio” to the next. Each one more interesting than the last. One was made up as a New York penthouse apartment. Another the courtyard of an Italian villa. And everywhere beautiful people in costumes of every country and era imaginable.

  The most interesting place of all was what Cyril referred to as “the backlot.” They’d literally built a city right in the middle of the studio! I could have sworn I was walking down a street in London. It was that convincing.

  We even stopped to watch a scene being filmed. Cameras loomed over a man crossing the street. A car careened around a corner, narrowly missing the pedestrian. A woman shrieked. Someone yelled, “Cut!” And then there was a great bustling about.

  I marveled at how similar the scene had been to an experience I’d had a few months ago. I repressed a shudder, reminding myself that the actor surely would not suffer the same fate as the man I’d seen nearly run over.

  “It’s all so thrilling!” Aunt Butty exclaimed.

  “Isn’t it?” Cyril’s face shone like a child at Christmas. “Is it any wonder I left New York? Nothing beats Hollywood for excitement! This is where it’s at, ladies. The future of moving pictures.”

  Somehow or other I got separated from Cyril and Aunt Butty. I didn’t much mind. After all, the place was positively crawling with delicious men in the most divine costumes! Cowboys, centurions, tribal chieftains with feathers running down their bare backs. All oiled muscles and perfectly coiffed hair. It was any woman’s dream come true. I wandered about a bit, happy to enjoy the rather delightful view.

  At one point, I caught sight of a man dressed as a gangster. I was almost positive it was one of the men I’d seen at Cyril’s party—Wayne Palmer. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but he disappeared around a corner.

  “Hey, you there!”

  I turned to find a middle-aged man in a gray suit standing a few feet away. While he was neatly turned out, he somehow made the suit look cheap and frumpy. He was about my height­—five-foot-six-inches—and a bit on the plump side. He had the most enormous nose, thinning hair, a double chin, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. And yet, for all that, those around him treated him as if he were the King of Siam, bowing and scraping and running around while he barked rudely at them. I disliked him as instantly as I’d liked Marie Dressler.

  Whoever he was, I didn’t much care for being yodeled at. So I gave him my haughtiest lady-of-the-manor look.

  He strolled over, hands in pockets. “That’s perfect! I like it. Who you with?”

  “Pardon?” I asked in my most imperious tone. One that would have done the Queen herself proud.

  “You with the studio? Never seen you before.”

  “I’m the guest of Cyril Brumble,” I informed him.

  “Great accent.” He inspected me closely as if I were a prized horse. I was surprised he didn’t pry open my mouth and inspect my teeth. “Not bad in the looks department.”

  “I say!”

  “We should do a screen test.”

  A screen test? Me? Images of glamorous Hollywood parties and my name in lights danced through my head. Could it be that I would be the next Hollywood film star? Wouldn’t that just make Lola burn. Ha!

  “You’ll have to lose some weight though.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “Well, I never.” And I wacked him with my handbag right upside the head.

  Chapter 5

  “I still can’t believe you bashed Louis B. Mayer with your handbag,” Aunt Butty chortled as she added powder to her ample décolletage.

  “I didn’t know who he was,” I said, eyeballing the spot on my chin in my compact mirror. Thank goodness it seemed to be fading. “And even if I had, the man is an utter jackanapes. Telling me I had to drop a few pounds. The cheek! Still, I hope I didn’t get Cyril in trouble or anything.”

  “Pish posh. He’ll be fine. Cyril can stand up to that man, you mark my words. Now hurry it along, Ophelia, dear. We’ve got a wedding to prepare for.”

  It was the next morning and we were gathered in Aunt Butty’s room. Cyril and Lola had insisted we attend their wedding down at the courthouse. “A casual affair,” Lola had assured me.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd they’re not marrying in a church?” I asked Aunt Butty as I dabbed on a bit of foundation cream in an attempt to cover the spot. It was fading, thank goodness, but it still stood out rather prominently. “You’d think what with Lola being a movie star she’d want something more... lavish... than a courthouse wedding.”

  “Neither of them is particularly religious,” Aunt Butty said, “and I suppose they want to get it done and over with quickly. Lola starts filming a new movie in a few days. On location somewhere or other. I imagine they want to be married before that starts.”

  “I suppose. I just don’t see the rush. Don’t you think it’s all a bit fast?”

  Aunt Butty frowned as she powdered her neck with bergamot-scented French talc. “Yes, rather. It does concern me, I admit. I’m afraid this Lola may have ulterior motives. Still, Cyril is a grown man. One can hardly make his decisions for him, much as one might want to. I swear the world would be a better place if women ran it.”

  “True, darling. I suppose we must grit our teeth and enjoy the cake.” I grinned.

  Aunt Butty rolled her eyes. “Go get dressed. We’re going to be late!”

  In my room I donned the simple peach silk day dress with three-quarter flutter sleeves and a V-neck with a sailor bowtie. I paired it with cream heels and a matching handbag and beret.

  Maddie eyed me approvingly. “You look lovely, m’lady.”

  “Thank you, Maddie. I couldn’t do it without you. How are you getting on with Mr. Brumble’s staff?”

  She shrugged her boney shoulders. “That butler man, Carter, he’s alright. A bit stiff. Mrs. Mendez, that’s the woman wot cooks. She knows her stuff, but ain’t got time for nonsense. Makes a mean sticky bun, though.”

  “High praise, indeed. What about Sam? The chauffeur?” The man was handsome enough to turn any girl’s head, and I didn’t want to lose my maid to some California Lothario.

  “He�
�s only got eyes for the Mrs.”

  “Mrs. Mendez?” I asked, aghast. I found it hard to imagine the angry middle-aged cook in a passionate embrace with the gorgeous young chauffeur.

  “No, m’lady,” Maddie giggled. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? The mistress of the house. Lola Burns wots going to marry Mr. Cyril. He’s besotted with her. Sam is, I mean.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t be. She’s stunning.” Probably half the world was besotted with Lola.

  She sniffed. “Stunning is as stunning does.”

  I lifted a brow. “What do you mean by that?” Though I knew exactly what she meant. And I didn’t entirely disagree.

  “Not very nice, is she,” Maddie pointed out.

  “She does seem rather temperamental, but we shouldn’t say bad things about our hosts,” I admonished. “Besides which, I suppose that’s the Hollywood way. She’s an artist. They’re very high strung. Or so I hear.”

  Maddie snorted.

  When I rejoined Aunt Butty downstairs, I struggled to keep a straight face. While her dress was similar to mine and in a simple shade of mint green, her choice of hat wear was... astonishing. It was tall, with a giant flower on the side, and shocking pink. I coughed delicately into my hand and tried not to catch her eye.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Ophelia?” Aunt Butty demanded. “Are you coming down with some vile American plague?”

  “No, aunt. I’m fine. I see Marcel has outdone himself again.”

  She touched her hat proudly. “Ah, yes. He whipped this up for me especially for the wedding. Isn’t he a gem?”

  Marcel was her hat maker back in London. And apparently the man was either still living in 1895 or was color blind.

  “Ladies, are you ready?” Cyril asked jovially as he descended the stairs behind me. “A beautiful day to get married, don’t you agree?”

  Every day in this part of the world seemed to be a beautiful day. As to whether or not it was a good one to get married, well, I had no answer for that. But he did look rather smashing in a black suit with a white rosebud boutonniere.

  “Is it just the four of us?” Aunt Butty asked.

  “A couple of friends will be joining us,” Cyril assured us. “Wayne Palmer, you met him at the party. Trying to get him in my next film, you see. Good press and all. And an old friend of Lola’s. Dolly something.”

  I and found it interesting Wayne Palmer was attending the wedding. He hadn’t seemed particularly close to either Cyril or Lola, and I still wondered what he was doing hiding in the bushes. He’d seemed to be looking for someone all evening, had he found whoever it was?

  The jangle of a telephone sounded from somewhere in the house. At the butler’s beckoning, Cyril excused himself. He was gone only a short while, but on his return, he was beaming broadly.

  “That was a friend of yours, Ophelia. Chaz? He’s arrived safely at his friend’s home here in California. I invited him to join us at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant, thank you,” I said. “You’ll love Chaz. He’s good fun.” Not to mention handsome, but I decided keeping mum was the better part of valor. After all, it might be that Lola didn’t know her future husband’s proclivities. Or it may be that I was wrong altogether. No sense rocking the boat.

  Once Lola finally joined us—dressed in a simple white sheath dress with a little white hat perched on her platinum curls—she looped her arm through Cyril’s. “Come on, honey. Let’s get married!”

  We climbed in the Bentley and Sam drove us into town. Lola chatted the whole way, clearly excited about her upcoming nuptials. A contrast to the sharp, calculating woman I’d previously witnessed. I was still struggling to determine who the real Lola was.

  The newly opened Beverly Hills City Hall was a marvel. Cool, white stone stretched up into a clear, blue sky. On the very top of the cupola was a dome of blue mosaic topped with a gold crown. Wide steps—graced on either side with swaying palms—swept gently up to a magnificent arched entryway.

  Inside Wayne Palmer was already waiting for us, looking a little nervous and uncomfortable. Like a man who’d been invited to a party where he didn’t know or like anyone. Cyril shook his hand in a manly fashion and then nattered about the movie business and how perfect Palmer would be for his next picture. Palmer nodded politely but seemed otherwise uninterested.

  Next to Wayne Palmer stood a young woman about Lola’s age, but without the looks. Her features were pinched and mousy as if she were turning her nose up at the world. Equally mousy brown hair was done in a simple updo and topped by a plain straw cloche that was a few years out of date. Her simple day dress was an unfortunate lavender-gray which did her doughy complexion no favors.

  For a moment I wondered if she was the woman I’d seen in the bushes, then realized she couldn’t be. She was far too young. And the woman in the bushes hadn’t been wearing glasses.

  “Dolly, honey! You came!” Lola greeted her friend with genuine warmth.

  “I would never have imagined Lola would be friends with such a plain looking woman,” I said softly to Aunt Butty.

  “Nor would I. But Cyril says they’ve been friends for a number of years. Since long before Lola made her debut on the silver screen. Quite poor, apparently. Dolly that is. Lola does what she can for her, but the unfortunate soul is determined to be miserable. Some people are like that.”

  This new information added layers of complexity I hadn’t expected from the movie star. She’d mostly come across as completely self-obsessed, and yet here she was, caring for a friend she could have easily dumped by the wayside long ago.

  A thirty-something woman in a smart, town tailored dress of teal silk strode up to us. “Brumble-Burns wedding party?” Her voice was smooth and cultured, her tone no-nonsense.

  Cyril confirmed that we were the party, and she shook hands with both him and Lola. “Miss Helen Stern. Secretary to Judge Arnott. Follow me, please.” She turned and strode away, sensible heels clacking against marble.

  She led us through the rotunda, down a short hall, to a small chapel-like room. A white-haired man in a black gown greeted us while Miss Stern got everyone to stand in their proper places. Then Judge Arnott droned on about the sanctity of marriage and so forth before launching into the vows.

  As Cyril repeated his vows, I noticed Wayne Palmer fidgeting, tugging at his necktie as if it were strangling him. It was an odd reaction. Was he bored? Perhaps the thought of matrimony gave him a rash?

  Perhaps he was the “he” Cyril and Carter were arguing about the night of the party. Surely not. Why would Cyril invite Palmer to his own wedding if he wanted his butler to stop seeing him? Perhaps Palmer’s discomfort came not from being the subject of the argument, but from having realized overheard the argument and realized what it was about.

  Now Lola was reciting her vows. I forced my attention back to the matter at hand.

  “To love and to cherish, 'til death us do part,” Lola repeated.

  I couldn’t have told you why, but at her words, a shiver went down my spine. As if someone had stepped on my grave.

  OUTSIDE CITY HALL, Wayne shook Cyril’s hand, kissed Lola on the cheek, and congratulated both of them. “Sorry, but I must dash,” he said apologetically. “Another engagement.”

  “Of course, of course,” Cyril said. “Thank you for coming.” As Wayne scurried off, Cyril turned to the rest of us. “Brunch at Cairo’s is just the thing!”

  My stomach certainly agreed with him. And I couldn’t wait to see Chaz.

  Cairo’s turned out to be a lovely little spot not far from city hall. It was very low key on the outside, but the inside was stunningly beautiful. Lush, potted plants filled every corner while crystal chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling. The walls were painted in Ancient Egyptian-themed murals and the chairs and benches were upholstered in tan-and-salmon-striped damask.

  Chaz was already there looking exceedingly handsome in a dark suit. He suitably impressed the ladies by bowing over their hands as he was
introduced around. Lola fluttered her lashes at him, despite being a newly married woman. Her husband didn’t appear to notice. He was too busy staring at Chaz himself.

  We were seated in one of the more intimate booths, and immediately a black-and-white-garbed waiter brought a bucket of champagne to the table. We all cheered—except for Dolly—at the popping of the cork.

  “It’s too early to be drinking, don’t you think?” Dolly said tartly, eyeing us all from behind her thick glasses.

  “Oh, lighten up, Dolly,” Lola chided. “It’s my wedding day!”

  To which we cheered again.

  Aunt Butty raised her glass. “A toast to the happy couple. May you have a long and satisfying marriage.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Chaz agreed.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Cyril agreed. And down the hatch went the champagne. “To my lovely bride!” Another glass disappeared, but the waiter immediately reappeared with a new bottle.

  The brunch was delightful. In addition to some truly marvelous bubbly, we were served an extraordinary spread. Which was fortunate as I was half starving.

  Plates appeared under our noses, piled with luscious servings of eggs benedict. I found it amusing when Cyril referred to the rounds of bread as “English muffins” since they were nothing like muffins in the least. Though I supposed they were quite similar to a crumpet, so perhaps something got lost in translation. In any case, the bread was piled with ham, topped with poached eggs, and half drowned in a gloriously rich, yellow Hollandaise sauce. Murder on the waistline. I utterly approved.

  There were many more dishes: fresh berries in cream, buttery croissants with jam (delicious, but not nearly as good as one finds in France), sautéed veal and kidneys, potato cakes, and fish fillets, among other things. There was so much food, by the time we finished, it was a wonder I wasn’t splitting my seams. It was astonishing to think that there was a Depression going on. You’d never know it based on this meal... or the Hollywood lifestyle in general.

  Chaz and Cyril chatted about the business of making movies. I was surprised to find Chaz so knowledgeable. He’d never before expressed a particular interest in film.