Authors: Kate Beaufoy
‘Thank you.’ Lisa sat down in the chair that the
maître d
’ was holding out for her.
‘Champagne?’
‘Yes, please.’
Fizz was poured, and glasses raised.
‘Here’s to you,’ Howard said in his low, clipped Texan voice. ‘That was some entrance you made. You’ve succeeded in making quite an impact on Hollywood, Miss La Touche.’
‘Please call me Lisa. And I’ve been rehearsing that entrance for years.’
Hughes gave a gratifying laugh. ‘You’re knockout, Lisa. And I simply love your English accent. Shall we order?’
As she consulted her menu, Lisa studied her date out of the corner of her eye. He was about forty years old, tall, handsome, with a rakish moustache and a debonair manner. As well as being a movie-maker, he built and flew his own planes! How sexy was that?
‘Is that an engagement ring you’re wearing?’ Howard asked, after the waiter had brought their food. The ‘usual’ Howard had requested turned out to be strip loin steak and peas – twelve of them – geometrically lined up.
‘Yes,’ she replied, resisting the impulse to lean over with her fork and ruin the symmetry of his plate. ‘My fiancée—’
‘Is a barrister called Richard Napier, I know. Since you’re engaged to him, what are you doing playing around with Lochlan Kinnear?’
Lisa dropped her fork. ‘Goodness! What a thing to say! I – my relationship with Mr Kinnear is purely professional.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Lisa. If we are to be friends, I would appreciate the courtesy of an honest reply.’ She started to protest, but he raised a cautionary finger. ‘Because when your affair is over, you’re going to need a shoulder to cry on. I’ve been around the block a few times, and I’m very good at listening.’
Lisa was so astonished that she almost did burst into tears. Since the very beginning of her affair, she had confided in nobody – not even Dorothy, in the letters she occasionally wrote. Lochlan had instilled such paranoia in her about the press that she was terrified her mail would be intercepted – a commonplace enough occurrence in wartime. She couldn’t talk to her hairdresser the way most women did, or the wardrobe girls, or any of the other chatterboxes she met during the course of her working day. She couldn’t talk to Sabu because she feared his opprobrium, or to David because he’d gone back to Blighty to enlist, and any female friends she had made were far too fairweather to trust.
‘Why not spill some beans?’ said Howard.
So she told him about Lochlan, and about how he’d been tricked into marrying Judy. She told him how Lochlan had to allow a decent interval before he could initiate divorce proceedings, and about how they planned to marry at the soonest opportunity thereafter. She told him how envious she was of Judy’s baby, and how she longed for a child of her own.
‘And how does Mr Napier feel about this?’ asked Howard, when she’d finished.
Lisa felt herself turning bright red. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Not very tidy behaviour, Lisa.’
‘No.’
‘I’m not one to stand in judgement, but you might want to set about some spring-cleaning. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good to ditch your British fiancé while there’s a war on, but you need to drop Kinnear like a ton of bricks.’
‘But I love him!’
‘Sure you do. But once your fling hits the headlines, you’re on the ropes.’
‘Do people suspect?’ she whispered.
‘Sure.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Stop seeing him.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Don’t be stupid, Lisa. You want your career to move forward, you listen to what I have to say. Your agent’s Phil Gersh, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll give him a call.’ Howard pushed his plate away as the orchestra swung into ‘In the Mood’. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said with a smile. ‘Sometimes it’s the only thing to do, whether you’re in the mood or not.’
The next day Miss La Touche accepted delivery of so many dozens of gardenias – compliments of Mr Hughes – that she ran out of vases.
On the morning of the grand unveiling of her portrait, Lisa stumbled into one of her streamlined Moderne style bathrooms, crouched down on the gleaming white tiles, pushed back her hair, and threw up into the lavatory. It was the sixth consecutive day that she had been violently sick; she had not had a period in over two months. Hauling herself off the floor, she peered into the glass above the porcelain basin. She looked peaky – gaunt, even. Her Max Factor free complexion was patchy; there was a burgeoning pimple just above her upper lip. She needed no consultation with a doctor to tell her that she was pregnant.
From the sitting room came the jangle of the telephone bell. It would be Myra, calling to fill her in on the press interviews that were lined up for today. She had another gruelling schedule to look forward to, culminating this evening in the official unveiling of the Lantier painting.
The studio had decreed that she wear an Adrian gown for the occasion, even though Maria, her dresser on
Lady and the Little Dog
, had told her that the zipper on the dress was faulty, and it had acquired a permanent taint of sweat after being loaned out to actresses in the talent department for social engagements. With a sinking heart, Lisa remembered the full-length body stocking she would be required to wear underneath, and how problematic it would make visiting the bathroom. For recently Lisa had felt an increasingly urgent and frequent need to pee. She remembered how poor Maria had used to lunge towards the bathroom door with her hand clutched to her crotch, whimpering lest she might not make it in time. The dresser had given birth to a stillborn baby in a corner of the wardrobe block some weeks later, fenced off by costume rails laden with antebellum crinolines.
The phone stopped ringing, then started again. Pulling her negligee tighter around her, Lisa moved into the sitting room, managing a quick do-ray-me to warm up her vocal cords before answering.
‘Good morning!’ she said, brightly.
‘Get your ass over to the Biltmore by midday,’ barked Myra. ‘You’re talking to
Collier’s, Modern Screen
and
Click
. They’ll be through with you by two-thirty.’
‘The Biltmore, midday,’ said Lisa, trying to sound businesslike. ‘Is there a suite booked?’
‘Who do think you are? Olivia de Havilland? They’ll look after you in the lobby. Order tea: Lord Grey or whatever that English shit is. No liquor – not even if the hack offers.’
Liquor at midday! Lisa was about to riposte; then remembered that Myra routinely splashed gin into her tea from nine o’clock in the morning onward. ‘I’ll call by the studio and pay a visit to Make-up first, shall I?’ she volunteered.
‘Bob has no time for you in Make-up until after six o’clock. He’s a dozen new girls testing.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t “but” me. We’ll supply the mags with studio pics, OK? Once you’re through rendez-vooing get on over to Barney’s Bowls for a ribbon-cutting: bring a change of clothes with you. Something sporty – socks and loafers and a kilt or something.’ A kilt! What was Myra thinking? ‘And a tight sweater.’ The photographers liked them tight. It would have to be the baby blue angora again, teamed with her pleated rayon.
‘Will I have time to get something to—’
‘Put her on hold, Olive.’ Myra’s voice over the line was muffled, suddenly. ‘On second thoughts, tell her I’m out of the office until next week.’
Lisa wondered what poor sap was being given the brush-off, and decided against asking Myra if she’d have time to eat. She didn’t want to antagonize her. Anyway, missing a meal would be good for her: she’d want a perfectly flat stomach this evening.
‘Next item,’ resumed Myra. ‘Your gown will be ready for you in Wardrobe when you’re through at Barney’s. Makeup’s scheduled for six-thirty; Bob’ll throw a fit if you’re any earlier. There’ll be a car, and diamonds courtesy of Cartier—’
‘Cartier!’
‘Make sure you return them to the goon at the end of the evening.’
‘Will it be a late night?’
‘Hey! I said
black
coffee, asshole!’ Myra wasn’t listening.
Lisa tried again. ‘Will the car take me back to studio at the end of the evening, Myra? I’ll need to change.’
‘You think those overworked gals in Wardrobe wanna hang around waiting for Cinderella to get back from the ball? Not a chance, sweetie.’
‘But how will I get out of the gown? The zipper’s faulty – I’ll have to be sewn into it.’
‘Not my problem. I’m sure the goon’ll be happy to oblige.’
‘But—’
‘Biltmore, midday. Don’t be late.’
There was a click on the end of the line, and Myra was gone.
Shambling into the bathroom, Lisa fetched a cloth from under the basin, got down on her hands and knees and wiped vomit from the floor.
‘
THESE ARE SO
good
! D’you know, I never tasted croissants until after the war.’
Jessie and Gervaise were sitting cross-legged at a low table in his apartment, breakfasting on fruit, croissants and apricot conserve. It was the first time she had emerged from the bedroom to explore her new home. There was something louche about it, something of the kasbah. The furniture was intricately carved, the windows draped in heavy, oriental silk. Embriodered cushions were heaped on vast couches and faded Turkish rugs carpeted the floors. On a wall, handpainted gesso panels depicted couples engaged in acts from the Kama Sutra.
Jessie was sporting nothing but one of Gervaise’s shirts, haphazardly buttoned. She reached for her third croissant, and spread it with lavish amounts of butter.
‘That shirt looks very fetching on you,’ he remarked. ‘But have you given any thought to what you might wear when you venture out?’
‘No.’ She furrowed her brow. She really hadn’t an idea what was currently in vogue, but if the glad rags sported by the gargoyles in the boulevard Péreire the other night were anything to go by, she wasn’t impressed. After months of living like a vagabond, blissfully free from sartorial constraints, the simpler the get-up the better, as far as she was concerned.
‘In that case I shall have to take you shopping,’ said Gervaise.
‘I can hardly go shopping wearing nothing but a shirt.’
‘I have something I can kit you out with.’ He left the room, and came back a couple of minutes later with a suit on a hanger.
‘I can’t wear that!’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s – well it’s a sailor suit, isn’t it?’
‘It is. It was a prop for the marquis de Villeparisis. His mother insisted I paint him as a jaunty
matelot
. It was one of the most fiendishly difficult portraits I’ve ever had to do.’
Jessie held the suit at arm’s length and frowned.
‘The only alternative is a dressing gown. Coco’s emancipated enough to have ditched her corset, but even she might draw the line at receiving a lady sporting a
robe de chambre
.’
‘Who’s Coco?’
‘Coco Chanel is the mistress of a friend of mine – Boy Capel. She’s a dressmaker, and she’s just opened a
maison de couture
on the rue Cambon. We’ll pay her a visit today.’ Pulling the sailor suit off the hanger, he tossed it across to her. ‘Go get changed. I rather fancy the notion of you dressed as a cabin boy.’
Jessie looked dubious. ‘What about my hair?’
‘There’s a beret in the pocket. You can stuff it under that.’
‘Will I have to go barefoot again?’
‘No. The other indignity forced upon the hapless
comte
was a pair of girlish patent pumps. They’ll do you for today, until we can get you properly shod.’
‘You make me sound like a pony.’
‘There’s a joke there somewhere, but I won’t be coarse enough to put it into words. What did you think of the style on parade at my sister’s soirée, incidentally?’
‘I thought it was hideous.’
‘I agree. That’s what makes me think that you and Coco will get along famously. She’s considered more than a little bohemian by her rival modistes.’
‘Bohemian, how?’
‘Let’s just say that she has a healthy disregard for convention – like you.’ Gervaise grinned. ‘Bring on those society beldames with their chain-mail couture and their painted visors and their pomaded helmets of hair. You and Coco’ll knock ’em for six, Perdie dear.’
Jessie crammed the rest of her croissant into her mouth, then moved in the direction of Gervaise’s bedroom, shrugging off his shirt as she went. She was glad that she had no qualms about nudity. If Scotch had taught her one thing, it was that the human body was to be celebrated, not shrouded in shame.
Once she had secured the last button on the jacket, she raised her head and regarded her reflection in the cheval glass. The sailor suit fitted her almost perfectly. It was a touch tight over the breasts, but that only had the effect of flattening them and making her figure appear more boyish.
Another successful disguise! she thought, stuffing her hair up under the beret. She, Perdita, was becoming a veritable mistress of them.
Chez
Chanel on the rue Cambon, Gervaise and Jessie followed a chic salesgirl upstairs to a suite of rooms on the second floor. The furnishings were sparse, but exquisite: Madame Chanel evidently had excellent taste. A statue of a blackamoor stood sentinel in a corner, an elaborate crystal chandelier was reflected in an ornate gilt mirror, a screen had been angled just so, to display its lacquered panels.
Silhouetted against a window with her back to them, a woman knelt on a suede-upholstered ottoman, clearly preoccupied in taking measurements of the casement.
‘Madame?
Voici
Monsieur Lantier,’ announced the salesgirl, then bobbed a curtsey before backing out of the room.
Madame Chanel – who, Jessie judged, was in her early thirties – was quite ravishingly pretty. Her face – framed by soft bangs and devoid of make-up – boasted the kind of cheekbones Scotch had raved about. Her eyes beneath slanting brows were candid; her nose a perfect retroussé and her mouth curved in a wide smile. She was wearing a shift dress made from unstructured black jersey that fell in supple folds to mid-calf, and Jessie realized that Gervaise had been right when he’d said that Coco Chanel was unconventional – to construct a dress from fabric that hitherto had been reserved for men’s underclothing was nothing short of revolutionary. Over the dress Madame wore a tabard of embroidered silk; a single strand of pearls was her only adornment. The effect was breathtakingly artless.