ONE
‘Oh, Howie!’ Emma Blackstone gasped, raising astonished eyes from the band of diamonds on its velvet bed, to the tender gaze of the man who sat so close at her side.
‘It’s Harry,’ he whispered, and bowed his dark head over her hand in a passionate kiss. Two tables away, the dumpy, motherly-looking columnist for one of the Hearst newspapers looked aside quickly, feigning fascination with the dancers jigging to ‘Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ on the Café Montmartre’s highly polished floor.
‘Oh, Harry!’ Emma gasped obligingly.
‘I want you to marry me, Emma.’ Harry Garfield lifted the bracelet from its case, clasped it around her wrist. A lifetime of yearning, of promise, smoldered in the long-lashed brown eyes. ‘You’re the only woman I’ve ever known who—’
‘I can’t!’ Face averted, Emma fumbled at the catch, startled as much by the declaration (it was, after all, only the second time she’d met the man) as by the probable cost of the jewels (which even to her inexperienced eye looked like real diamonds). ‘You know I can’t.’
The powerful fingers stayed hers, drew her back towards him. ‘You don’t have to answer me tonight.’
‘I can answer you right this very—’
He rose from his chair, and with peremptory grace drew her to her feet. His warm hand in the small of her back, he guided her on to the dance floor under its fantastic canopy of blue satin.
The Hearst columnist (Mrs Barton? Preston? Emma had heard her name around the studio … ) and her sleek and chinless companion nearly knocked heads, pulling themselves back into an upright position from where they’d been leaning to overhear.
The band switched to ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’. Pasadena debutantes and the flapper daughters of railroad magnates devoured Harry Garfield with covetous eyes as he took Emma’s slim, awkward height into his arms for a fox trot, the bracelet twinkling in the myriad brilliance of the chandeliers. A tall brunette girl in yellow satin – and half a galaxy of diamonds of her own – aimed a bosomy
sigh in Garfield’s direction as she was led out by a paunchy gentleman with a nose like a mangel-wurzel and a stare that would have made a cash register appear sympathetic.
Emma had to admit that her partner was a superb dancer. His lead was firm, his touch light, he knew what he was doing and it was no surprise that hundreds of thousands of women were passionately in love with him … despite having never met him in their lives. Such, she reflected, was the magic of Hollywood. Her mother, her childhood governess, and every single one of her aunts would have expired from outrage at the thought of her dancing with such a person …
Had they not all expired from the influenza, four years ago, that had followed in the wake of the war.
Later, on the way downstairs to where a studio limousine waited for her on Hollywood Boulevard, Emma touched the bracelet and whispered, ‘I’ll send this back to you …’
‘Just slip it to me tomorrow at the studio.’ Harry kissed her hand again with an air of tenderest affection, then raised his eyes to hers, chin tucked, to give him the air of a small boy. She’d seen him perform that particular gesture in reel six of Hide-and-Seek Heart. ‘They read my mail.’
‘I shall.’ Emma wondered how one could inconspicuously ‘slip’ a handful of three-karat diamonds to anyone under any circumstances, much less when surrounded by several hundred actors, extras, wardrobe assistants, electricians, carpenters, property hands and guards. Did Euripides ever have this sort of problem? She supposed that having written a ‘scenario’ for Foremost Productions’ leading female star – plot, action, and dialog cards – she could now claim the ancient Greek playwright (not to mention Mr Shakespeare) as a professional colleague.
Not that I would have the temerity to do so, on the strength of an opus entitled Hot Potato.
‘You’re a sport, Mrs Blackstone.’ And with a quick glance over his shoulder – Mrs Parsons (I knew I’d remember her name!), her companion from the Examiner, Thelma Turnbit from Screen Stories and the ‘cinema columnists’ from Silver Screen Magazine and Motion Picture News were in the nightclub doorway behind them inconspicuously craning their necks – he drew Emma to him and kissed her passionately on the lips (Wait! What? I hardly know the man!). Someone in the gaggle of bystanders on the sidewalk took a photograph, a blaze of flash-powder and a white drift of smoke in the glare of the Montmartre’s lights. Emma was too breathless with shock and confusion to speak as Garfield led her to the limousine and bowed as he opened its door for her. Another limousine, larger and lacquered a vivid crimson, blocked the studio vehicle’s exit while the hard-faced man with the prodigious nose gave instructions to the driver. Emma was aware of the man’s yellow-silk lady-friend at the edge of the crowd, holding hands and whispering something to a good-looking young man in checkered trousers and the most American shoes Emma had ever seen.
There were worse things, Emma supposed, as her escort helped her into the studio vehicle, than gentlemen who knew how to dance and how to dress properly, even if they did propose marriage and kiss one
– and such a kiss! – on a public sidewalk …
And at least the head of Foremost Productions had arranged a limousine.
The actor sprang into his own sleek, snow-white Auburn, tossed fifty cents to the Filipino youth who’d brought it to him, and steered deftly away into the traffic of the Boulevard. Two other columnists and a photographer were crowding towards the studio car when its driver let in the clutch and followed.
Emma settled back into the velvet upholstery and reminded herself that Harry Garfield – né Howie Mellnick of Tumwah, Iowa – kissed women for a living, and the lurid intimacy was in fact less significant than a handshake. (Si fueris Romae, Romano vivito more … had we been in Alaska I expect he would have rubbed my nose with his own.) She turned the diamonds over in her gloved hand, and hoped that the photograph wouldn’t appear in any journal her sole surviving aunt – or, God forbid, any of her late husband’s family – would be likely to read.
‘Did Howie ask you to marry him?’ inquired Kitty Flint – known to the film-going multitudes of America as Camille de la Rose – an hour later, coming into the kitchen of the villa that perched like a fantasy Moorish castle in the Hollywood Hills.
Emma, sustaining herself with a cup of tea at the kitchen table, glanced in surprise at the clock. It was barely one in the morning – What on Earth is Kitty doing home so early? – and she asked, almost involuntarily, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, darling, of course.’ Kitty turned toward the door that led into the rest of the house, squatting with the supple grace of a former Ziegfeld chorus girl as her three Pekinese bounded into the kitchen in a great clattering of toenails and flouncing of fur. ‘Yes, yes, sweethearts, Mamma’s home.’ She lifted and cuddled the pale-golden Buttercreme, while Black Jasmine stood on wobbly little hind legs and butted at her elbow, and big, rufous Chang Ming ran excitedly around her feet.
‘It’s just that that pestilent hag Desiree Darrow came in. Seth and I were at Man Jen Low in Chinatown, someplace Frank wouldn’t be caught dead in’ – Frank Pugh, head of Foremost Productions, was – as
far as he knew, anyway – the Man in Kitty’s life – ‘with Jack Gilbert, who must have been hiding out from that awful wife of his … You know she’s hired detectives to follow him, with the divorce coming up? Not that you’d need detectives to keep track of his love life … But Desiree has been absolutely hounding Seth for months, and it would be just like her to go tell Frank that she saw me and Seth together, to get me in Dutch and Seth too, I bet, the nasty weasel.’
Seth Ramsay – the blond Adonis currently starring in The Thornless Rose – had been squiring Kitty to any number of roadhouses, racetracks, and less-fashionable eating establishments outside the immediate area of Hollywood for some weeks now. On several occasions he’d turned up at Kitty’s house at two in the morning, after Kitty had been brought home from dinner and romance with the obese, middle-aged studio head. When first Emma had arrived in Hollywood seven months ago in October of 1923 – to serve as her gorgeous sister-in-law’s secretary, assistant, companion and dog-brusher – she had attributed Kitty’s unflagging stamina to the cocaine that was so freely dispensed around the studio. But Kitty’s decision to abandon the drug some months ago had had, so far as Emma could observe, no visible effect on her ability to dance and drink all night (Prohibition be damned) and act in front of the cameras under the blistering glare of the klieg lights at Foremost all day …
If, reflected Emma, one could call what she did ‘acting’.
I suppose one can’t have everything …
‘And anyway –’ Kitty blithely gathered Black Jasmine into her free arm and stood – ‘Mickey’s supposed to pick me up here at two, for drinks at Enyart’s – that gorgeous boy who plays saxophone at the Coconut Grove …’
She scooted a chair out from under the table with one foot and sat, two dogs in her lap and Chang Ming continuing to bounce eagerly at her side. Storm-dark hair piled in loose curls around her face, dark eyes enormous and bright in their frames of kohl and mascaro, and Pekineses licking her chin, she looked nothing like the sinister femme fatale who routinely lured the heroes of her films to insanity, disgrace and
tragic death. She reached around Black Jasmine, with some difficulty, to light a cigarette. ‘So did Howie ask you to marry him?’
‘He did.’ Emma fetched another cup from the cupboard – old Mrs Shang the housekeeper never left so much as a spoon in the drainboard – and scratched a match to light the gas-burner under the breakfast coffee.
‘Are you going to?’
Emma turned, startled. ‘I can’t imagine he meant it—’
‘Oh, of course he did, darling.’ Kitty regarded her with surprise. ‘He asked me, last September.’
‘But I thought—’
‘Oh, that.’ Her airy wave left a faint trail of smoke. ‘Yes. That’s why Frank asked me to get you to go out with him. And Mr Zukor over at Paramount told Roger Clint – that’s Howie’s friend, you know – that he had to start being seen with Clara Bow or Mae Murray … Could you get me that gin that’s in the cupboard, dearest, while you’re up? Thanks … I think they’re trying to get him to marry Mae, as soon as her divorce goes through …’ She poured equal parts cream and gin into the coffee Emma brought her.
And here I thought scandalous the discreet hand-holding between the wives of the dons and the younger tutors behind the library shelves at Oxford …
Latere semper patere, quod latuit diu, her father had always admonished, but she remembered her mother and her aunts whispering about such things the moment that scholarly gentleman left the room. And the recollection of her home – her home before the war, before marriage and widowhood and the death of them all – was like hearing the drowned ringing of Atlantis’s bells, echoing up from the deep. A lost world – where a glance from the wife of the Dean of King’s College toward a handsome lecturer at Merton would be the occasion for months – perhaps years – of averted glances, blushes, speculation, whispers, and discretion …
These people in Hollywood would make Caligula look quaint.
‘That’s why they had to quit living together,’ Kitty went on. '
Howie and Roger, I mean. Which is dreadfully unfair … Oh!’ She reached across Black Jasmine’s insistent efforts to snuggle and drew the diamond bracelet to her.
‘He gave me that.’ Emma was still trying to digest that thought.
‘How sweet of him!’ cried Kitty. ‘That’s the one he gave me back in September. It cost over a thousand dollars at Cartier’s. He’s such a prince! It would be almost worth it to marry him, just to keep it. Just don’t mail it back to him. That awful ghoul who writes for Cinema World pays somebody in the mailroom at the studio to read people’s letters …’
‘He warned me about that.’
‘And you know that overage pocket-twister Darlene Golden writes love letters to me at the studio, signed from people like Ronnie Colman, who I only ever slept with just the one time … except for that time on location in Palm Springs. And that time after the Christmas party at Paramount.’ She tallied quickly on ruby-nailed fingers. ‘Just to get rumors in the screen magazines and stir up trouble for me with Frank. And from Charlie Chaplin, of all
people, though anybody who knows Charlie would know I’m … um …’
She stopped herself, unwilling and almost unable to speak the words: Too old for him …
Emma finished drily, ‘Over fifteen?’
Kitty sipped her gin-laced coffee with coy dignity. ‘Not that much over …’
Emma refrained from shaking her head, well aware that the birth date in her friend’s official studio biography was a solid nine years later than the actual year of her arrival in this world. Instead she said, ‘No, I’ll hand it to him, tomorrow, at the studio.’
‘Oh, good!’ bubbled Kitty. ‘They moved my scene with Ken back to Friday – did I tell you? [She hadn’t] Because Ken has a horrible toothache and can’t see a dentist until tomorrow …’
The Thornless Rose, as a costume epic, was shooting on the much-larger Stage One at Foremost, Hot Potato on Two.
‘But since Frank isn’t going to be on the lot tomorrow, Seth’s meeting me at nine, because his own scenes in Rose aren’t going to be shot until after lunch … You will remember to wake me up at seven, won’t you, dear? Oh!’ she squeaked, scooping first Buttercreme and then Black Jasmine to the floor and springing to her feet. ‘That will be Mickey …’
A car-horn blatted somewhere in the night, around toward the front of the house. Emma could only be grateful that Kitty’s pink stucco Alhambra was one of the few dwellings this far up Ivarene Street. She followed her beautiful sister-in-law up the four steps to the dining room, down two steps to the dark cavern of the living room, with its gleaming chromium furniture and Chinese silks, and across to the door.
‘Do you have your house key?’
‘Oh – nertz …’ Kitty set down her cigarette and fished in her handbag, while Emma doubled back to the kitchen to fetch the keys which still dangled from the back door. ‘You’re a darling, Emma!’ she added, when Emma returned, carrying not only the keys but the extravagant concoction of silk and chinchilla that served in these warm California nights as a coat. Past her, through the now-open
front door, Emma glimpsed moonlight glinting on a huge, humped shape, rather like a silver-trimmed dinosaur in the darkness of the yard below.
‘Now, you think about marrying Howie.’ Kitty turned in the doorway, her perfect oval face suddenly grave. ‘You wouldn’t have to give up seeing Zal, you know. I mean, Howie would understand – and so would Zal—’
‘I have no intention of—’ began Emma, though she knew how the sturdy cameraman would greet the news of the proposal. With a grin and a kiss – a real kiss, Emma thought. Lover, dear friend, sheet anchor in this gaudy maelstrom.
Like Harry, Kitty gestured her objection aside. ‘And Frank would be ever so grateful … You could keep the diamonds and go out dancing every night.’
Emma tried to picture herself in the sort of baroque menage-à-trois (or quatre, or cinq … ) engaged in by a number of Kitty’s friends in the Hollywood community, and concluded that she simply hadn’t the stamina. She was still searching for words to express this view of the matter when Kitty tiptoed to kiss her cheek, waved airily, and scampered down the steep, tiled steps in a clatter of diamond-studded heels.
Emma closed the door after her, and thought again of her mother and her aunts, her father and her brother Miles who lay beside them in Wolvercote Cemetery, and what they would have thought of their scholarly, responsible Emma adrift six thousand miles from home in this gaudy American Babylon.
But as she bent to gather up Black Jasmine and Buttercreme in her arms – the tiny Sleeve Pekes were too small to climb the stairs to the bedrooms – she heard, at the back of her mind, Jim Blackstone, Kitty’s brother – the tall American soldier she had married and loved and lost in the closing months of the war – laughing with delight.
Diamonds and an offer! Good for you, Em!
She was smiling as she climbed the stairs to bed.
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