Liberty Silk (16 page)

‘Monsieur Lantier!’ he announced in tones that could not fail to be overheard by the entire salon. ‘You told me just today that you were seeking a new muse.’

The artist raised an eyebrow.

‘I hope you will not consider it presumptuous of me, Monsieur,’ continued the count, ‘but I fancy I may have found her. May I introduce you? Her name is Perdita.’

And then the count did something so outrageous that, as he predicted, it sent shock waves around
le tout Paris
that same night, and for many, many nights and weeks afterwards. He produced from his jacket pocket his gleaming silver pocket knife, took a pace forward, and with two deft movements, he slashed the straps of Jessie’s gown before backing away in the manner of a magician who has just completed an astonishing demonstration of legerdemain.

A small exclamation of surprise escaped her. She took a step forward onto the balcony, catching hold of the silk and clasping it to her before it could slide over her hips. But the modesty of the gesture contrived to make her appear infinitely more desirable than if she were stark naked. She stood motionless for a moment, silhouetted in the lamplight that streamed through the windows of the salon, then, knowing that the only alternative was ignominious flight, decided to brave it out. She resumed her erect stance and adopted the dispassionate expression she often assumed when sitting; one that would reflect whatever emotion the artist wished to project upon it.

Lantier’s expression was equally unreadable. Tossing his cigarette over the balustrade, he moved towards her and draped his jacket around her. Then he took her face between his hands. She watched as his eyes assimilated every detail, tracing, mapping, learning her by heart. Artist’s eyes, she thought. When he finally looked directly at her he gave a smile of recognition, and something told her that she could keep few secrets from this man: her face had revealed more than any curriculum vitae could have done. He leaned down and murmured in her ear.

‘Perdita. I should very much like to paint you. And I should like to do it now,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me?’

Jessie lowered her gaze, as if considering. She let a moment go by, then another, before she favoured him with an oblique look. ‘For sure,’ she said. ‘I shall allow you to paint me with pleasure, Monsieur.’

Then Gervaise Lantier took his new muse by the hand and led her from the balcony and down the green-carpeted length of the salon, impervious to the cicada-like, rasping whispers of the astonished assembly.

His eyes agleam with cupidity, Count Demetrios watched them go.

FOR THE PREMIERE
of the first film in which she played a leading role – a costume drama that again starred Lochlan – Lisa wore a gold lamé gown and wedge evening shoes in gold kid and red satin by Salvatore Ferragamo. The gown was yet another loan from the studio and she could have borrowed footwear, too (the shoe department was a fetishist’s paradise) but she wanted to glide up the red carpet in her own heels. Hadn’t she
told
Richard Napier she’d wear Salvatore Ferragamo one day!

The event was held at the Hawaii Theatre, a B-movie showcase on Hollywood Boulevard, and her companion for the evening – randomly picked by Myra from a list of celebrity escorts – was Fred Crane, who’d had a small part in
Gone with the Wind
.

‘We’re just good friends!’ Lisa told a reporter from
Photoplay
magazine as they strolled up the carpet arm in arm. ‘Be sure to quote me on that – I don’t want my fiancé in England to think otherwise! He sent me this corsage, by the way.’ She was sporting a jewel-like arrangement of dwarf orchids that Richard had gone to enormous pains to have delivered, along with a note attached that read:
Twinkle, twinkle
. . .

The engagement ring that she sported on the third finger of her left hand had kept the sleazier studio executives off her case – especially after David Niven had put it about that Lisa’s fiancé was a chum of his. It also kept reporters off the scent of her raging affair with Lochlan.

He attended the premiere with his wife, and they all posed happily together under the awning of the theatre – Judy with a proprietorial hand on Lochlan’s arm, Lisa with a smile too wide to be true.

Lochlan sat next to her in the auditorium, and at one point during the screening he brushed a hand along her lamé-clad thigh. She knew he’d done it deliberately, to make her shiver, and she longed to be able to touch him back, but she suspected that Judy’s eyes were all-seeing – even in the flickering half-light from the screen.

She still hadn’t got used to seeing her face up there, fifty times larger than life. Thanks to the artistry of the lighting cameraman and her make-up and hair people, Lisa barely recognized herself. Her skin was luminescent, her hair a gleaming cascade, her smile radiant. During the love scenes between her and Lochlan, little ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ came from the female members of the audience, and she even fancied she heard a sniff or two during the schmaltzy bits. As she glided down the aisle to take her bow after the credits had rolled, there came applause that was gratifyingly sustained.

‘They like you,’ Lochlan told her in an aside as they bowed and smiled and posed for more photographs. ‘I’m not surprised. How I would love to peel that dress off you and cover you with kisses right now.’

Oh, God! How she wanted him. She wanted to gaze at him, to touch him, to hear his voice intimate in her ear: but he didn’t even make it to the post-premiere party. Judy allegedly missed her new baby so badly that she’d persuaded Lochlan not to attend.

In Ciro’s after the screening, Lisa drowned her sorrows with the help of champagne and Fred Crane. She couldn’t take her eyes off Lana Turner, who was sitting at her table at the bottom of the staircase, blowing kisses to a favoured few, and nodding like a potentate.

‘You screen-kiss beautifully,’ Fred told her. ‘You and Lochlan have terrific screen chemistry. It’s the second time Ziggy has teamed you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’ll want to do it again. You better watch your ass if that happens, Lisa. The press will have a field day, fiancé or no fiancé.’ And the way he tapped the side of his nose made Lisa wonder if he’d seen Lochlan caress her thigh earlier.

The film received fairly mediocre reviews, but Lisa didn’t care, because her performance attracted mostly raves. The one she loved most she read over and over.

Miss La Touche was costumed exquisitely. The drama of her first appearance on screen is heightened by the effect of having her sit in a darkened carriage, giving the audience the sense of an apparition beyond life, a mysterious creature in the dark. When she finally does lean forward into the light – and the Technicolor – audiences were not jerked rudely back to earth. She simply was unreal. A proper goddess.

Ziggy was very happy with the impact she was having on cinema-goers. He upped her salary to $250 a week and, as Fred Crane had predicted, immediately started searching for another vehicle in which to team Lisa and Lochlan. Louella Parsons was intrigued enough to summon Lisa to her house for an exclusive. Having heard so many horror stories about the hack, Lisa was more than a little apprehensive – but her press agent was dogged.

‘You gotta play ball in this town, girl,’ said Myra. ‘Paulette Goddard and Frances Farmer are universally loathed because they’re so stuck-up about the press. That’s what lost Paulette the role of Scarlett O’Hara.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yep. Her tests were terrific, and word around the industry was that Scarlett was hers. But her snooty attitude made the MGM press chief decide to count her out. You turn down an invitation to talk to Louella or Hedda or Sheilah Graham and you’re shafted, honey. You might as well roll up that film script and invite them to shove it up your royal British ass.’

Lisa winced. She still hadn’t got used to the way most people in Hollywood spoke.

‘You’d do well to heed my advice,’ continued Myra. ‘This is Ziggy Stein’s Hollywood, not King George’s England, and you’re not the only Brit in town. Greer Garson and Ama Lee and Deborah Kerr are easily as plummy and beautiful as you, and there’s a new girl arriving every day from some posh finishing school. So you take care to mind your Ps and Qs, whatever they are.’

‘Very well, Myra,’ Lisa said, meekly.

‘And another thing. Louella’s style of journalism may be of the rubbishy variety, but don’t let that persuade you that she’s not a sharp cookie. Don’t try to bullshit her. She won’t thank you for it.’

So Lisa screwed her courage to the sticking place, and went to lionize the lioness in her den in Beverly Hills, bearing a massive bouquet of hothouse flowers.

Miss Parsons’s maid showed Lisa into the living room. It was the last word in vulgarity, boasting a cocktail bar so crammed with highball, champagne and wine goblets it resembled a glassware shop. On the wall, resplendent in a gilt frame worthy of an Old Master, a
Time
magazine cover was flanked by votive candles. It featured Louella talking on a white telephone, wearing a pearly evening dress, kid gloves and a diamond crucifix. Her grinning mouth resembled a red-painted letter box.

The real Louella was sitting on a throne-like armchair, scanning the press release that Myra had sent her. ‘Take a seat,’ she commanded, and as she flounced an arm at her, Lisa smelt whisky in the air.

Sitting down obediently on a tasselled couch, she waited until Louella had finished reading the litany of lies that the publicity department had dreamed up. The hack finally set the press release aside, took a cigarette from an enamel box and lit it with a silver table lighter in the shape of a horse. ‘I guess you’ll want tea?’ she asked, giving Lisa a look of assessment.

Lisa was on the verge of saying: ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ when something made her think twice. ‘Perhaps I could have something a little stronger, just to help me relax? I may as well tell you that I’m nervous as anything, Miss Parsons. It’s such an honour to be interviewed by you.’

Louella threw her a smile as she rose to her feet and moved to the bar. ‘No need to be nervous. Under the hard-bitten exterior I’m soft as an ice-cream sundae. What’ll you have?’ she asked, reaching for a bottle of Seagram’s VO.

It was only two o’clock in the afternoon and Lisa hated whisky, but she sensed that it would be a good idea to follow the example set by her hostess. ‘Whatever you’re having would be lovely, Miss Parsons,’ she said politely.

‘Call me Louella,’ said Louella, pouring whisky into a glass and handing it over in the manner of someone bestowing a precious gift. ‘That’ll put hair on your chest. Bottoms up! That’s what you Brits say, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Bottoms up!’ Lisa took a pull and managed not to gag.

Louella resumed her throne. ‘So. You wanna be a star, Lisa?’

‘Well, yes!’ she said brightly.

‘You think you got what it takes?’

‘I hope so, Miss – Louella.’

‘There’s been a flurry of British actresses fighting it out for stardom in recent years. I know that little Miss Vivien Leigh had her heart set on landing the lead in
Rebecca
. Tell me, Lisa.’ Louella regarded her shrewdly. ‘How did you feel about Joan Fontaine getting the part? Isn’t that the role all you English gals would’ve killed for?’

Lisa had heard that Joan Fontaine and Louella Parsons were as thick as thieves. She would have to tread carefully.

‘I was thrilled for Joan,’ she enthused. ‘Really thrilled. She and Larry Olivier made a splendid on-screen couple. Joan is a fabulously talented actress, and everyone tells me she’s a lovely person.’

It was the right answer. Louella nodded and helped herself to a cigarette. ‘What’s Ziggy lined up for you next?’ she asked.

‘A contemporary version of
The Lady with the Little Dog
. It’s a short story by Chekhov.’

‘Chekhov, schmeckhov. Who’s the screenwriter?’

‘Anita Loos.’

‘Smart choice. Who’s co-starring?’

‘Lochlan Kinnear.’ Lisa made sure her voice was deadpan.

Louella looked thoughtful, and for an apprehensive moment Lisa thought she might be given the third degree about her co-star. But instead Louella picked up a shorthand pad and propelling pencil and said, ‘OK, Lisa. It’s time for you to spin me your spiel. Tell me what you think you’ve got that makes you different to all the other Great British Hopefuls who’ve invaded Hollywood.’

What had Myra told her?
Don’t try to bullshit her.

‘Well, Louella,’ she said. ‘I’m very much a woman, and I’m not afraid to say that I enjoy it. Womanliness is a gift from God, and I believe that God’s gifts should be put to good use on this earth. Otherwise it’s disrespectful to Him.’ She put a little emphasis on the word ‘Him’ to make sure the capital letter registered. She had heard that Louella kept a five-foot-high illuminated statue of the Virgin Mary in her back garden.

Louella gave a robust laugh. ‘Good girl! Honest injun – I am so sick to death of coy actresses. Sex sells: we all know that, and it’s refreshing to hear someone tell it like it is. ‘Oomph’ girls and ‘It’ girls and ‘Sweater’ girls! For Christ’s sake! What’s wrong with being plain sexy?’

‘My guess is that the Hays Office is afraid of women, Louella. They’d rather keep us in the kitchen or put us up on pedestals than admit that women enjoy being women as much as men enjoy being men.’

‘Great stuff!’ remarked Louella, scribbling on her pad. ‘Carry on, honey. Be as candid as you like – and don’t worry that you’ll say too much. I have a great talent for dreaming up euphemisms.’

‘Well, it seems to me that one of the greatest advantages of being put on a pedestal is that men haven’t yet realized that women can give orders better from there.’

‘Ha ha ha!’

‘I firmly believe that the quality of womanliness comes from within, Louella. It doesn’t have much to do with physical attributes. And the secret is not just what you got – it’s what people
think
you’ve got.’ Lisa prayed Louella wouldn’t suss that this hooey was a rehash from a Sheilah Graham column.