Authors: Kate Beaufoy
The name of the Fairytale Girl was Perdita.
The next day, Raoul came upon Lisa writing a letter on airmail paper.
‘Who are you writing to?’ he asked.
‘I’m writing to Sheilah Graham, in Hollywood.’
‘Who’s she? Your agent?’
‘No. She’s a gossip columnist.’
‘I thought you despised gossip columnists?’
‘This one is special.’
It was true. Sheilah Graham had been the last person to see Scott Fitzgerald alive. She had been his lover and constant companion from his arrival in Hollywood until the day he died. She had interviewed Lisa once for her column ‘Hollywood Today’, and Lisa had been exceptionally charming to her. She hoped that her sucky-up behaviour would pay dividends now.
Dear Miss Graham
, (she wrote)
I do hope all is well with you in sunny California! I am taking a break from movie-making, spending some time in the South of France, where I understand Mr Fitzgerald used to vacation.
I was hoping that you might be able to help me garner some information about my mother, who resided near Antibes back in the 1920s. She knew Scott and his wife Zelda, and I believe that Zelda might be able to answer some questions I have. I should love to have an address, if you have one, so that I may write to her myself.
I look forward to hearing from you, and send my thanks and very best wishes.
Yours sincerely
,
Lisa La Touche
She posted the letter knowing that there was little more she could do to unravel the mystery that was Perdita. And then she waited for Sheilah to respond.
When she wasn’t playing muse to Gervaise, Lisa filled the days taking life easy. She swam and sunbathed and walked and read and cooked: sometimes she and Raoul ate in the villa, where they would join Gervaise on the terrace, but most of their meals were taken
à deux
in Raoul’s house, which was still known locally as the Boat House. Raoul had bought the original building from Gervaise before the war; they shared part of the garden and the right of way to the beach, which was otherwise inaccessible by land. This meant it was possible to swim and sunbathe nude, an activity that Lisa embraced with a pleasure akin to euphoria. She felt so liberated, so comfortable, so
right
in her skin that she took to wearing nothing most days, other than a length of batiked cotton tied as a sarong. It was a revelation, the luxury of rolling out of bed in the morning without having to bother about make-up or hairdos or matching shoes to handbags, or the calorie count in the meal she’d had the night before, or the empty wine bottles she put out with the trash.
She tried to compose a letter to Phil Gersh, but could not find the right words. What was there to say? ‘I’m having a ball here on the Riviera, putting on weight, skinny-dipping, and screwing the local talent?’
Instead she wrote endless letters to Cat, in which she told her daughter stories of the magical place in which she was living: a house on a beach with walls of glass, and a purple dog to throw sticks for. What child would not want to live in a boathouse, like a castaway! She told Cat how the sea here was bluer than sapphires and greener than emeralds and more dazzling than diamonds, and how a nightingale sang her to sleep every night, and how a calico cat strolled down from the farm on the hill every morning looking for a saucer of milk with its tail in the air, just like the one in the story about the Cat That Walked by Himself. And she promised Cat that as soon as she could find a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s
Just So Stories
, which had been one of her favourite books when she was her age, she would send it to her so that Mammy could read it to her.
One morning she went into Antibes to post yet another letter to her daughter, and, deciding finally to give up on finding the right words for Phil, she sent a telegram instead. It read:
AM STAYING ON HERE INDEFINITELY STOP URGENT CONTACT ONLY TO VILLA PERDITA SALAMANDER COVE ANTIBES STOP LISA
The next day she finally received Sheilah Graham’s response to her letter and a hastily composed telegram from Phil that read:
WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT STOP ZIGGY MAD AS HELL STOP SUSPENSION IMMINENT STOP PHIL.
Sheilah’s letter came on deckle-edged paper in a scented envelope.
Dear Lisa
,
This is written in haste, I’m afraid.
I’m glad you are enjoying your vacation. When you return, perhaps you would consider doing an exclusive interview for
“Hollywood Today”
? You may know that Judy Kinnear is suing Lochlan for divorce, and I’m keen to get a little insider info.
Concerning your inquiry, Zelda Fitzgerald died in a fire in a sanatorium in North Carolina a year ago.
Yours
,
Sheilah.
PS: Zelda’s body was identified by a charred slipper found beneath it.
So that was it. The original baby vamp, the darling of the Jazz Age, the American beauty who had inspired millions of others to bob their hair and raise their hems and dance till they dropped, had burned to death in a sanatorium. Whatever had happened to Jessie could not be worse than perishing there, locked up and loco among the jazz-mad nuts. Lisa’s mother would remain forever Perdita, the muse with the Mona Lisa smile, the Fairytale Girl. Lisa trashed the letter.
The telegram she showed to Raoul later that evening, when he’d got back from repairing someone’s roof. They were on the terrace, drinking Campari and soda from cheap Duralex tumblers that Lisa had found in the
quincaillerie
in Antibes. She had hit on the idea of adding borage to the aperitif, for flavour. The plant grew wild on the hill behind the Boat House, along with countless other edible herbs that Lisa had taken to gathering. She had decided that if she were ever to write a cookbook, she could give Countess Morphy a run for her money.
‘So, Ziggy’s mad at you,’ said Raoul. ‘So what? Stay here. Live with me.’
‘What?’
‘Live with me, here in Salamander Cove. You hate Hollywood, and you’ve told me your career is as good as finished.’
Lisa hesitated. Looking down at the antique ring she wore on the fourth finger of her right hand, she twisted it, thinking of Scotch, thinking of Jessie,
thinking of . . .
‘If you’re concerned about what the scandal sheets might say, why not make it official and marry me?’
‘Ha ha, Raoul. You break me up.’
‘I’m not joking.’
She looked at him sideways.
‘I’m not,’ he repeated. ‘I’m divorced, you’re single. We’re both of an eminently marriageable age, and we seem to get along harmoniously, to say the least. Marry me.’
‘I can’t, Raoul,’ she said. ‘I’d love to, but I really can’t.’
‘Is there some kind of impediment?’ he asked. ‘You’re not married already, are you?’
‘No. No, I’m not.’
‘But . . .?’ he prompted.
‘But what?’
‘There has to be a “but”, doesn’t there? There always is.’
‘Yes, there’s a “but”.’
‘Out with it.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Raoul, I have to tell you that there is somebody much more important than you in my life.’
‘That sounds portentous, but I thought as much. You have a child.’
‘How did you know?’
‘My mother guessed. Like all good grandmothers, she has a knack of seeing such things.’
Lisa nodded.
‘And you talk sometimes, in your sleep.’
‘I do? I guess it’s because I have a recurring dream.’
‘A nightmare?’
‘No. It’s rather a lovely dream. But sometimes I can’t get to her – to my little girl.’ Lisa took a hit of Campari.
‘Where is she?’
‘Her name is Cat, and she lives with my cousin, Róisín, in Connemara, in Ireland. She’s seven years old now, and she calls me her Aunt. She calls my cousin Mammy.’
Raoul took a Gitane from a pack, and lit up. ‘Are you ever likely to tell her the truth?’
‘No. Never. Only, that is, if Róisín decides to say anything.’
‘I see.’ He looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘Tell, me, Lisa. Do you want more babies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then marry me. Don’t go back to that vile place you hate so much. Stay here. Salamander Cove was your first home, after all.
Où se trouve le coeur, là est la maison
. You have a phrase for it, in English, don’t you?’
‘Yes. “Home is where the heart is”.’
‘Is your heart here, Lisa?’
Gazing down at the beach, she remembered running through the shallows on plump, unsteady legs, giggling, with her mama in pursuit. She remembered the garden of the Villa Perdita lit up by lanterns, and the smell of coconut oil mingled with mimosa blossom, which had always been for her the smell of summer. She remembered the day that a lanky, dark-haired boy with laughing eyes had let go of her hand as she’d stood waist deep in water, and allowed her to swim on her own.
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘My heart is here.’
Raoul held up the telegram and struck his lighter, holding the flame a fraction away from the edge of the paper. Then he quirked an eyebrow at Lisa. She nodded. The corner of the telegram caught alight. As the flame took it, Raoul let it drop to the ground, and together they watched it burn.
ZIGGY MAD AS HELL were the last words Lisa saw.
In Hollywood, poor old Ziggy was about to get madder still, and so were the accountants and the agents and the attorneys and the actuaries – and she knew now that she didn’t give two figs.
Because this was how things should be, how they were meant to be.
Later that day, Hélène brought Lisa the journals she had spoken of on the night of the Reverdys’ party, the ones that had belonged to Jessie. There were six of them.
Lisa had been sitting on the terrace of the Villa Perdita-after a sitting with Gervaise, smoking a cigarette and contemplating sea and sky, feeling content and carefree, the way she had promised herself she would feel some day. When Hélène set the journals on the swing-seat beside her, she tensed, uncertain what secrets might spring out at her from between the red cardboard covers.
‘Where did you find them?’ she asked.
‘They were in your mother’s closet. I unearthed them when I first came here to work for Gervaise. They’ve been in there for around thirty years, I guess. All her stuff’s there still – perhaps Gervaise thought she’d come back for it. Would you like to see it?’
Lisa hesitated. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, I would,’ she said. She extinguished her cigarette, then, on an impulse, grabbed one of the exercise books.
‘Has Gervaise read these?’ she asked, following Hélène out of the room and up the stairs.
‘I don’t know. I never mentioned that I’d found them.’
‘I wonder should I say anything to him?’
‘That’s up to you. They’re yours now, to do what you like with.’
Hélène stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor.
‘Is this her bedroom?’ asked Lisa.
‘I guess it’s more of a boudoir than a bedroom.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The word “boudoir” comes from
bouder
.’
‘To sulk?’
‘Yes. A boudoir is “a place for sulking”, if you translate it literally.’
The room beyond the closed door did not look like a place for sulking. Bright kilims covered the floor. A length of silk had been furled and looped above a divan fit for an odalisque. Two Lloyd Loom chairs flanked the French windows, and on a low table several copies of
Vogue
magazine still lay, the covers depicting powder-pale women sporting sleek bobs and jazzy bangles. In a niche, a dinky beaded cloche was perched atop a stern-looking marble bust.
On the wall, faint lines showed that a painting had hung there. Hélène followed the direction of Lisa’s gaze. ‘That’s where your mother’s portrait usually hangs. Gervaise took it down so that he could study it before painting you.’ Moving to a pair of louvred panels that ran the length of the room, she pulled at them. The panels concertinaed back to reveal a walk-in closet.
Jessie’s brimming wardrobe was a magician’s cabinet of drawers, cubbyholes and compartments. There were tall spaces for hanging garments and wide spaces for folding them. There were trays for costume jewellery and racks for scarves and shawls; there were sandalwood clothes hangers, and hangers padded in silk and velvet; there was a vanity table with an array of silver-backed brushes and Lalique flacons; there was a damask-upholstered slipper chair in which to lounge and contemplate the sartorial profusion, and an elegant cheval glass to reflect it.
‘Are these her clothes?’ asked an astonished Lisa.
‘I told you Gervaise kept everything. That’s how he has the dress you’ve been posing in. There’s some really gorgeous stuff. I don’t know much about couture, but it’s clearly top quality – although
démodé
is putting it kindly.’ Hélène glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it – I’d better head up to the farmhouse. Bruno’ll be wanting his dinner.
Bonsoir
, Lisa.’
‘
Bonsoir
.’
Lisa set the red journal on the vanity table. With reverent hands, she took garment after garment from its allocated place and scrutinized the workmanship. She had never seen such exquisite tailoring, such meticulous construction. The cut, the finish, the attention to detail was breathtaking. Not one of the couturiers in Hollywood whose gowns Lisa had begged or borrowed could match this genius. She knew, of course, that one designer only could be responsible for such works of art, and that was Coco Chanel.
As Lisa examined a pocket cunningly concealed in the folds of an embroidered silk tunic, she realized there was something tucked inside. Inserting a careful hand, she withdrew a fine silk ribbon, to which was attached a curious jade-green charm. Suddenly a line from one of her mother’s letters came back to her:
Scotch found, tucked away in a dusty corner of an antique shop, a little Egyptian charm – most fascinating – a little figure of a devil or something . . .
So this had been a gift to her mother from her father! As she wound the ribbon between her fingers, her eyes fell on the red book that lay upon the vanity table. She reached for it, then curled herself up in the slipper chair and opened the book at random.