Liberty Silk (18 page)

‘I’m allergic to hay,’ she told Myra, as make-up Max-Factored her mouth, and hair-tonged her strawberry blonde tresses. ‘It brings me out in a rash.’

‘We’ll Pan-Stik over it. Consider yourself lucky we didn’t bring along some smelly old hens and a pig or two.’

‘Or a goat. Ha ha ha.’

Lisa turned to see the rotund figure of Ziggy Stein framed in the entrance to the barn. Next to him stood a tall man wearing a Homburg hat. The distinctive smell of French tobacco drifted towards her on the air. ‘Ladies!’ boomed Ziggy. ‘May I present Mister Gervaise Lanteer.’

Lisa watched as the artist tossed aside his cigarette and strolled across the floor, his gaze focused entirely on her. When he drew level with her, he scooped up her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle.’ Lantier’s voice was velvet, slightly accented. His gaze was so intense it seduced Lisa into believing momentarily that they were the only two people in that cavernous place.

‘What do you think of her, Gervaise?’ breezed Ziggy, breaking the spell and making Lisa feel like horseflesh all over again. ‘Ain’t she a little doll?’

Lantier raised an amused eyebrow. ‘In France we would say
mignonne
.’ He circled her, assessing. ‘
Très mignonne
.’

‘
Mignonne
,’ echoed Ziggy in his execrable French accent, looking very pleased with himself.

Lantier turned to the women grouped around Lisa. ‘So,
mesdames
, which of you is responsible for the
maquillage
?’

This drew a blank.

‘Make-up,’ translated Lisa.

Dawn, the make-up girl, stepped forward.

‘Might you be so kind as to tone it down a little?’

Ziggy nodded self-importantly. ‘Mister Lanteer agrees with me that Miss La Touche should look as artless as possible.’

Dawn stapled on a smile. ‘Sure,’ she said, reaching for a pot of Cremine.

As Dawn started work on her face, Lisa watched Lantier and Ziggy turn and stroll down the corridor of sunlight that streamed through the open barn doors. She wondered if she was the subject – or rather, the
object
– under discussion. What might they be saying about her? Might Ziggy be making further equine references? Praising her as a breeder might a prize mare? She felt herself bristle as Dawn peeled off her false eyelashes, and rubbed spit along the line where the glue had been. She was fed up with being poked and prodded by Make-up and Wardrobe, fed up with being told what to do and exactly how to do it, fed up with simpering at Ziggy and his cronies and smiling at cameras.
Mignonne!
What did this Lantier fellow think she was? Some kind of lamebrain?

Once the revamp was finished, Dawn asked Ziggy’s PA to summon the menfolk. ‘Well, gentlemen? How’s that?’ she fluted, as they approached.

Lisa rose to her feet to present her face for inspection. Lantier gave her the once-over, and then she saw his eyes go to her feet. She was sporting a pair of peeptoe platform shoes with a buttercup yellow trim.

‘Remove your footwear, Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind.’

Lisa stepped out of her shoes, feeling ridiculously vulnerable. ‘Your stockings, too,’ Lantier told her, and she saw Myra smirk. Turning away, she lifted the hem of her frock and unrolled first one stocking, then the other, before balling them and handing them to the wardrobe girl.

Lantier took a step back, narrowed his eyes at her, then smiled. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘We can get to work now.’

‘Myra. Bring Mister Lanteer anything he needs,’ commanded Ziggy. ‘Mister Lanteer, I look forward to seeing the finished product.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Might you care to join me for dinner tonight? My wife does a mean meatloaf.’

‘I regret that I am otherwise engaged.’

‘Another time, then.’

‘That would be delightful.’

‘You be good, now, Lisa!’ Ziggy ran an avuncular eye over his pet starlet, adding, ‘Have fun, girls!’ Then he turned and strode out of the barn, his PA scurrying behind him.

The remaining ‘girls’ stood to attention, polite smiles in place.

‘Can I fetch you anything, Mister Lanteer?’ asked Myra.

‘No. A boy is bringing my equipment.’

‘Then how may I help you? Make-up and Wardrobe are happy to stay on until everything is to your satisfaction.’

The wardrobe girl flashed Lantier a flirtatious smile before plonking the straw hat back on Lisa’s head.

‘I need no help. And remove the hat, please.’

Wardrobe obliged, and then Hair stepped forward with a comb and a can of spray.

Lantier held up a hand. ‘No further grooming is necessary. There is a supply of water, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Myra. ‘I can arrange for food, too.’

‘No food, thank you.’

All right for some, thought Lisa, who’d restricted her breakfast to a small bowl of fruit.

Lantier strolled towards the phalanx of Klieg lights, threw a couple of switches and began angling them adroitly. ‘Perfect,’ he said, finally, returning his attention to Lisa. ‘Now, you may all go.’

‘Are you sure, Mister Lanteer?’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

The team of women looked relieved as they gathered up the tricks of their various trades and backed off, Myra reminding Lisa to ‘return the frock to Wardrobe once you’re through.’

She stood perfectly still as she listened to the clack of retreating heels and stifled giggles. She knew that within an hour the news that Miss La Touche had had to take her stockings off in front of Ziggy Stein would be all over the studio commissary. She suddenly felt more self-conscious than she had ever felt in her life, more so even than when she had stepped in front of a camera for her first wardrobe test.

Lantier turned back to Lisa. He was still wearing his hat, which she considered not a little rude. It must have shown in her expression, because, ‘Forgive me,’ he said, removing it and setting it on a packing case. ‘Have you posed for a portrait before, Miss La Touche?’

‘For photographic ones only,’ Lisa told him. ‘And please call me Lisa.’

‘It is your real name, or one adopted for the screen?’

‘I’m coy about that,’ she said.

‘Most actresses are coy about their real names, aren’t they? I suppose it’s one way of forging a new identity.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Isn’t a new identity part of the job?’

‘Sometimes. Especially if your given name stinks.’

Gervaise smiled.

‘Anyway,’ Lisa went on, ‘La Touche is a kind of family name. We’re in Debrett’s. Oh, I guess you don’t know what Debrett’s is.’

‘On the contrary. I’m familiar with many of your British institutions.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you ready to start?’

She nodded.

‘Posing for a painter is very different to posing for a photograph, and very hard work. But if you are compliant and do as I tell you, we should be finished within the week.’ He turned to survey the hay bales. ‘I would of course prefer natural light, but Mr Stein does not want your fair skin to burn. I would like you to try some poses for me, if you would be so kind.’

As Lisa tried vainly to make herself comfortable (the hay was very prickly against her bare legs), a studio runner arrived lugging a trolley on which were piled an easel, a canvas, a knapsack and a wooden paintbox. Lantier tossed the boy a coin, glanced at his watch and said, ‘Come back at four o’clock.’ The boy touched his cap, then disappeared into the shadows beyond the circle of light.

‘I’d like you to loosen your hair a little more,’ Lantier told her. Lisa was aware of his eyes on her as she shook her hair out, running her fingers through the mane that had taken hapless Phyllis in the Hair Department nearly an hour to coax into shape. ‘That’s better,’ he said. Then he turned away and opened his paintbox. The smell that emerged, a woody combination of linseed oil and eucalyptus, sent Lisa’s mind reeling back in time, to the villa in France where her mother had swung with her on a hammock on the terrace, redolent with the scent of—

‘Chypre,’ she said.

Lantier gave her a quizzical look.

‘It’s the perfume my mother used to wear.’

He remained silent for several moments, studying Lisa’s face. Then: ‘Think of her,’ he said, ‘while I paint you. The expression is perfect.’

‘Do you want me to talk about her?’

‘No. I prefer silence while I paint. You can tell me all about yourself when the portrait is finished.’

‘There’s not much to tell.’ This was Lisa’s standard response when she was talking to somebody off the record, and not parroting Myra’s litany of fabrications.

Gervaise sent her a brief smile. ‘We all of us have stories. But for the time being, you can keep them to yourself.’

Sitting for Gervaise proved to be surprisingly therapeutic. Lisa was used to photographers and their assistants adjusting lamps and climbing ladders and fiddling around with light meters while Hair and Wardrobe tweaked and prodded.

For five days she lay on her mattress of straw and thought about her mother, and her schooldays and her grandparents in London, and about Richard Napier and the life she might have had, and she wished she were able to telephone home, to talk to her darling Gramps, or to Dorothy. But transatlantic telephone calls were out of the question during wartime.

Lisa wondered now how her family and friends were surviving the war, and if they had enough to eat, and she remembered how her grandfather’s eyes had misted over when he had seen her off in Southampton, and she wanted to weep in return for all her loved ones.

On the fifth day, the artist turned to her with a smile and said, ‘It’s finished.’

Lisa’s thoughts were dragged back to the here and now, to the cavernous interior of the sound stage, the heat of the lights, the itch of the hay on her skin, and the smell of oil paint. ‘May I see?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

The portrait was stunning. There was about it an ingenuous quality reminiscent of a world pre-war, where a lovely girl could loll barefoot and bareheaded, and daydream. Lisa gazed and gazed at it, and then, with tears in her eyes, she turned to Lantier. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It is the most beautiful image that anyone has ever made of me. It’s me as I really am. How did you know?’

‘It’s what I saw in your expression. That is why I don’t like my subjects to talk to me while I work. People are generally more eloquent when they keep their mouths shut. But I should be delighted to listen now. Perhaps I could take you to dinner? You’ve certainly earned it.’

‘It’s late, and I rather think
you’ve
earned it. If you don’t mind slumming it, I’d be more than happy to cook something for you in my apartment. I’ve just moved in, and I’m dying to show it off.’

Lisa’s all-white ‘Moderne’ style duplex boasted a bar in the spacious living area, three bedrooms, four bathrooms, a walk-in wardrobe, a cantilevered staircase and her own small kidney-shaped swimming pool. Apart from an eye mask, some skincare products and a bottle of Dom Pérignon, the fridge was virtually empty, but she could rustle up a mean spaghetti Alfredo in minutes. The notion of having to dress up and make an entrance into some fancy eatery fatigued her, and she sensed that Gervaise felt the same.

‘You cook?’ Gervaise sounded surprised.

‘Yes. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t do meatloaf. Is pasta OK?’

‘Pasta would be perfect.’

‘And just in case you’re wondering some more, if I say I’m going to slip into something more comfortable, I’m not making a move on you.’

Gervaise laughed. ‘Poor Lisa. Do you always feel obliged to add that proviso when you invite a friend into your home?’

‘I don’t have many friends in Hollywood.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Will you travel with me in my roadster? I can take you by the scenic or by the tourist route.’

But before Gervaise could make a decision either way, there came the sound of urgent footsteps, and a runner arrived, breathless and red-faced.

‘There’s a telegram for you, Mister Lanteer,’ he said.

The telegram had been from France, telling Gervaise that his brother was dying. That same evening he packed his bags, and checked out of the Château Marmont.

The next day, flowers were delivered to Lisa’s apartment accompanied by a card that read: ‘Gervaise Lantier. Villa Perdita, Cap d’Antibes, France’. On the back, in a bold black cursive script, was the following: ‘If ever you should want a break from La La Land, I know the perfect place. Keep in touch. G.’

Lisa learned later that the ship transporting him back to Europe had narrowly missed being torpedoed.

‘Miss La Touche?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Johnny Meyer. I got your number from Myra Blake. I’m calling on behalf of my boss.’

Lisa sat up very straight on her couch. She knew what was coming. Johnny Meyer procured for Howard Hughes. ‘Ye-es?’ she said.

‘Mr Hughes saw you in
The Lady with the Little Dog
and admired your performance and all that jazz. He wants to take you to dinner at the Cocoanut Grove in the Ambassador Hotel. This evening, OK?’

She couldn’t turn down an opportunity to meet Howard Hughes! Dorothy would shoot her dead if she did.

‘That’s terribly kind of Mr Hughes,’ Lisa said. ‘Just let me check my diary.’ She set down the receiver and counted to twenty. Then she picked it up again. ‘Yes. I just happen to be free this evening.’

‘I’ll send a car. Seven-thirty,’ said Johnny Meyer. ‘And be sure to speak up.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mr Hughes is a little hard of hearing,’ said Johnny Meyer. And he hung up.

Lisa went straight to an incredibly exclusive dress shop on Hollywood Boulevard, and bought a black silk chiffon and Chantilly lace gown that cost her an entire week’s salary. But it was worth it.

When she made her entrance into the Cocoanut Grove five hours later, the cameras of the press photographers who haunted the hotspot went into overdrive.

‘That gown is Howard Greer, isn’t it?’ said a gallant Mr Hughes after he’d introduced himself.

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘Not many men would know that.’

‘And not many women can carry off his look. You do so with great style.’