Authors: Kate Beaufoy
There was bound to be an answer to that, but Jessie couldn’t think of it. She struggled to find the right words, then gave up and looked rather too pointedly at the carafe.
Adèle poured immediately, then signalled to the garçon to bring another. ‘Personally,’ she added, ‘I can think of ways in which a girl can earn better money without removing a stitch.’
Jessie took a sip of absinthe, made a face, then threw it back. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘What have you in mind?’
Adèle leaned her elbows on the table. ‘There is, I am sure you know, a class of man whose work takes him to town from time to time, and who seeks in the evenings a little – erm – how to describe it? A little . . . distraction, a little pleasure.’ Jessie stiffened and Adèle gave her an affronted look. ‘My friend!’ she said. ‘You don’t have faith in me? Listen to me: let me explain. These men want women to accompany them to dinner, women who are not just lovely to look at, but who are refined and who know how to talk of lofty subjects. A genteel person like yourself – why, such men would be happy to pay for the pleasure of your company over a good dinner and a bottle of fine wine.’
‘You mean men
pay
to take a girl out to dinner?’
‘
Bien sûr
, Milady!’
‘And that’s all it would entail? Having dinner?’
Adèle nodded. ‘Trust me. These men are lonely, they are away from home, they do not want to spend an evening after a hard day’s selling or travelling, having dinner on their own. They want the company of a woman who will amuse them and who will in turn laugh at their jokes. Men are simple creatures, Mam’zelle, and have on the whole simple requirements.’
Jessie looked dubious. ‘There’s no catch?’ she asked.
‘None. I take the booking, reserve the table – and of course I take a small cut.’ Adèle leaned back and looked at Jessie with curiosity. ‘This work you do for your artist – how much does it pay you? Forgive me for asking.’
‘Twenty francs a day.’
‘Twenty francs a day!
Non!
’ Adèle went off into a peal of merriment. ‘Excuse me, kid. It’s rude to laugh, I know, but hell’s bells! Twenty francs a day to sit starkers in front of a man! If you allow me to take care of things, I could net you fifty. That way you could have your fare back to good old Blighty earned in, let’s say . . . a month.’
‘A
month
?’
‘What’s the alternative, kid? Walking to Calais barefoot and begging the price of a ticket?’
The garçon had arrived with the carafe. Adèle gave Jessie a motherly smile, and patted her hand. ‘Help yourself,’ she told her. ‘You’ve had a shock. A little more of the Green Fairy won’t do you any harm.’ Then she turned away to confab with the boy.
Jessie allowed her mind to drift, looking into the depths of the murky greenish liquid, making shapes: a leaf, a fish, a wing, a baby’s fist . . . She wondered how the baby inside her was changing shape, how it was growing. She shouldn’t be drinking rotgut – she should be drinking milk, eating fruit and fresh vegetables and red meat. But how could she afford it? Just last night she had seen a skivvy here in the bistro cramming a leftover piece of ham into her mouth. She’d picked it up off the floor – and she seemed glad of it. Jessie hadn’t sunk that low. She didn’t – couldn’t – add ‘yet’.
‘
Ma chère amie
, you are in luck!’ Adèle’s voice interrupted her reverie. ‘Jacques knows who took your dress! I have sent him off to fetch it. It will cost you to get it back, but we can deduct that from your fee. I’ll set you up with a client tonight, and then you are that small bit closer to raising the money for your fare. Let’s not allow the grass to grow under our feet.’
Jessie looked blank.
‘You want to start work as soon as possible, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Good. I will endeavour to arrange a rendezvous for you every night this week. I’ll keep a record of your earnings and pay you on Friday. If you wish to continue stripping for your artist friend during the day, that’s your lookout.’
Adèle took a small notebook from her pocket and started doing calculations. ‘Of course you could earn the price of your fare in less than a month if you were prepared to offer additional services. I’ve known girls set themselves up in business with the money they’ve earned. Just think how dandy it would be to have your own little hat shop, eh?’ She smiled at Jessie and began to croon a popular music hall song. ‘
Elle a perdu son pantalon, la la la la
. . .’
A hat shop? What was the woman thinking of? What would Jessie want with a hat shop?
‘
Tout en dansant le cancan, la la ti da
. . . Ah! Here’s Jacques with your finery!’
Jacques dumped a duffel bag on the table and pulled the dress from it with grubby fingers. As it unfurled, it gleamed like a pennant in the surrounding gloom. Jessie rose unsteadily from the table and reached for it.
‘That’s right,’ said Adèle, with an encouraging smile, ‘take it now, and go and change. By the time you come back downstairs, I will have gentlemen queuing to escort you to dinner. Dinner – just think! And maybe the
Folies
afterwards!’
Jessie was confused. What gentlemen? What
Folies
? She was feeling sick now, from the absinthe.
‘Mademoiselle Beaufoy!’
Looking up, Jessie made out a figure approaching their table through the fug in the bistro. It was Count Demetrios. She stumbled as she took a step towards him.
‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ he said, roughly. ‘Come with me at once. Come on!’
‘Count Demetrios,’ began Jessie, realizing to her shame that the syllables were slurred. ‘I’m sorry. I owe you an explanation. My friend has—’
The count didn’t bother to throw so much as a glance in Adèle’s direction. He took the dress from Jessie and began to steer her forcefully towards the door.
‘Hey! Hey – that’s my property!’ she heard Adèle shout. ‘Give it back!’
‘Get out. Just get
out
!’ commanded the count. ‘This is no place for a gentlewoman like you.’
Jacques had nipped between the tables and was blocking their way. ‘A gentlewoman?’ he sneered. ‘That
poivrotte
? Pay up, mister. Pay what you owe us. The dress is worth a lot of money.’
Demetrios sent a handful of coins spinning, and as Jacques went scrambling for them Jessie looked back and saw Adèle spit in her direction. Her face was twisted and ugly with fury. ‘I don’t know why I bother my arse with ungrateful little bitches like you!’ she screeched. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you!’
‘Keep moving,’ said the count, gripping her elbow. ‘Keep moving.’
‘Fuck off!’ Jessie heard from behind her. ‘Fuck off with your fancy pimp and don’t come looking to me for help again, you scrounging little tart.’
They had reached the door. The count pulled it open and stood back to allow Jessie to precede him. She was confused still, disoriented by the liquor. She cast a look over her shoulder. Adèle was lighting a cigarette. She sucked hard hard on the end, blew out the match, then snapped a familiar silver case shut.
‘Count Demetrios!’ Jessie tugged at his arm as the door shut behind them. ‘She has my cigarette case!’
‘No matter. Have you any idea how lucky you are to have escaped the clutches of that abominable woman? Her kind is notorious, Mademoiselle. If you
ever
tell the authorities that you suspect her of larceny, she will not hesitate to send one of the many cut-throats she has in her employ after you post-haste, and the very
least
you can expect is a lacerated face.’
Jessie gave him an uncertain look.
‘You have the gown – that’s all that matters. Go and change. I will settle your bill with the
patronne
.’
‘But Adèle took everything I own! She—’
‘Mademoiselle Beaufoy, if you go back in there I shall not answer for the consequences.’ The count’s eyes were boring into hers. ‘
I shall not answer for the consequences
,’ he repeated. ‘Do you understand me?’ He very deliberately removed his hand from hers, then stepped back. ‘I am in a position to help you, and I shall do all in my power to protect you, but if you will not take my advice –
hélas
.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘You are the mistress of your own destiny, Mademoiselle. You alone must make the decision.’
LISA GOT THE
part of Daphne Bolingbroke. She also got a congratulatory telegram from Richard and two massive bouquets – one from Lochlan, the other from Ziggy Stein. But before she signed the contract that was being drawn up for her, Lisa got in touch with David Niven, who invited her to lunch at his house on North Linden Drive.
‘Now, my little chickadee,’ said David as they settled down to shrimp cocktail. ‘Since I gave my solemn word to Richard that I would look after you, I want to know how you have been getting on.’
Lisa told him about her screen test and how well it had gone, and how pleased Ziggy was, and how over the moon she felt.
‘This is all good,’ said David. ‘Mr Stein is one of the more genial souls in Hollywood. He’s happily married, devoted to his wife and his kids, and he isn’t likely to jeopardize that domestic bliss by screwing around with his starlets. Excuse my French. He looks on his stable as family, too, so don’t let him down.’
It wasn’t the first time Lisa had heard movie actors referred to as belonging to a ‘stable’. Privately she hated it, but she knew she was going to have to get over it.
‘It seems that you, Lisa,’ continued David, ‘are ready for representation. Allow me to recommend my agent, Phil Gersh. While he may not be up there with the big guns like Selznick or Wasserman, he’s hard-working, keen and honest. Mark my words, Lisa – that’s a big deal in a town where most people don’t know how to spell the word “integrity”, let alone define it. Who’s written the screenplay, incidentally?’
‘A chap called Scott Fitzgerald. Apparently he and his wife were famous, back in the twenties, but he’s a lush now. Have you heard of him?’
‘My dear! Haven’t you read
The Great Gatsby
?’
‘No.’
David gave her a look of reprimand, then moved to the bookcase, scanned the spines, and took down a well-thumbed volume. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You may borrow this. And this . . . and this. Have you read any of them?’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Lisa, leafing through the pages of Voltaire’s
Candide
. ‘And I’ve seen some of the films.
A Tale of Two Cities
was awfully good.’
‘Hardly the same thing. Read the books. When you have finished, return them and we’ll have a little chat.’
Lisa looked baffled. ‘A chat about
books
?’
‘Yes indeed. I’m going to educate you, my dear.’
‘Why?’
‘To stop me from going mad with boredom. Oxymorons amuse me.’
‘Where’s the oxymoron?’
‘In this instance, “well-read” and “starlet”,’ said David.
The next day, along with another floral tribute from Lochlan, Lisa accepted delivery of a Morocco-leather-bound dictionary from Mr Niven, along with a signed copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short stories. The cover was adorned with dancing jazz-age couples, and Lisa settled down to what she assumed would be an undemanding read. The first story wasn’t at all undemanding; it made her think. And by the end of the afternoon, she had finished all eleven stories in the book and was ready to start on the novels.
Phil Gersh signed Lisa, and got her a little-above-bog-standard contract with Ziggy Stein. She bought a second-hand fire-engine red Chrysler coupé and moved out of her tiny apartment into a marginally bigger one in the Westwood area, north of Sunset Boulevard.
And she and Lochlan saw each other as often as they could manage it.
If anyone in the studio knew that a torrid affair was burgeoning under their noses, they didn’t let on. Yet it befitted the star-crossed lovers to tread carefully, for while such liaisons were unremarkable among the jaded denizens of Hollywood, extra-marital antics between artistes were an abomination according to the code laid down by the all-powerful Hays office, and an outrage in the eyes of a brainwashed public who believed the marriages of their screen gods and goddesses to be apple-pie wholesome.
Producers went to extreme lengths to ensure that reputations remained spotless. For the preview of
Gone with the Wind
David Selznick had insisted that Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier take separate planes to Atlanta and stay in separate hotels, even though they had been lovers for nearly four years. It was rumoured that Louis B. Mayer had paid Clark Gable’s ex-wife one hundred thousand dollars if she promised not to cite Carole Lombard as co-respondent. And Joan Crawford had become box office poison after speculation about her less than perfect marriage to Franchot Tone. Press agents were kept busy sweeping up the shards of careers that had been shattered by the bogeyman infidelity, and consigning them to the trash.
The PR woman assigned to Lisa was called Myra Blake. She took Lisa to lunch and interviewed her, then came up with a press release to circulate amongst all the fan magazines. A couple of weeks later, Lisa came across an article in
Screen Book
along with a publicity photograph of her wearing a dress by Molyneux that the studio had lent her. She skimmed through it, wincing at each outright lie or half-truth she happened upon, then rang Myra in a tizzy.
‘Myra?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you have got rather a lot of things wrong about me in your press release.’
‘Oh? Like what?’
‘Well, my father isn’t an earl.’
‘Earl, schmearl. What are your aristocratic credentials, then?’
‘One of my ancestors was a baronet.’
‘That’ll do. So what’s your pa?’
‘I never knew him.’
‘We’ll stick with what’s there. The great American public don’t want to know that. Any other quibbles?’
‘I’m not athletic.’
‘Yeah. I just made that up.’
‘I don’t use Nulava shampoo.’
‘They paid me to say that.’
‘And I don’t do needlepoint and I haven’t read the complete works of Dickens.’