The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  You see, after you left—don’t be mad—I caught the eye of Christopher Roderick, the producer from Descent of the Sun. He liked me. He thought I was smart. The moment he asked me to marry him was one of the most elevating experiences of my life. Little Welsh Anna engaged to a Hollywood producer!

  Our engagement party, open bar at his mansion Zedora, was the talk of the town for months. An orchestra played in the lobby. We had a full dance floor in the courtyard. Two naked baseball players canoed in the swimming pool—that’s true—and the fountain overflowed with pink champagne. Christopher agreed to everything on my wish list. He even okayed my full-length Schiaparelli feather gown. Oh, it was beautiful. What I’d give to wear it again!

  All of it, Archie. I had all of it. Then I walked away. Because there’s one thing I now know: you can’t fake true love. That feeling I had—that giddy, gorgeous, swooping feeling I had the night I ate brisket at the Casa Casanova with you—not a single second with Christopher ever felt like that. As much as I love a marble staircase, Archie, no mansion is worth my soul. The truth is, my engagement to Christopher, and all the spoils that came with it, were nothing more than a sham. Despite his quick and showy proposal, he wasn’t in love with me, or even particularly interested in marrying me. He delayed and delayed our wedding plans, avoided all talk of it. In the end, I stopped asking. Our one romantic clinch, in the early days following our engagement, had been awkward and clinical. The fact that it produced our daughter, Nancy, has been nothing short of remarkable. After that, he hardly touched me. Sometimes I got the feeling I disgusted him.

  Do you remember us, Archie? Do you remember our kiss? All the time, you had this running monologue, and I just wanted to shut you up and dive my hands through your hair, because your eyes sparkled and your lopsided smile was so natural and free and you weren’t like anyone I’d ever met.

  Well, it wouldn’t surprise you to know that Christopher showed as little interest in our daughter as he did in me. At the end of the fall, 1948, after weeks of arguing, I made the decision to seek something better. I’d done it before, when I left Wales, so I knew I could do it again. With Nancy still only eight years old, young enough to benefit from a fresh start, old enough to feel the pain of a disinterested father, I began to pack our things.

  At first I thought I’d go back to the mountains, to Pel Tawr, where my father Emery’s family still lived, but as I sat out the five-day transatlantic boat ride, Nancy at my side, a sense of shame got to me. I’d left the mountains for a reason. I couldn’t return to rural life. Besides, I’d read in a letter from one of my cousins that the house had been overrun by the army, of all things.

  The capital appealed, where the fashionable lived. London, surely, needed costume jewelry designers of distinction! But, goodness me, Britain after the war was a shock to the senses, and I soon learned there was limited appetite for well-crafted pot-paste bangles, not when a loaf of stale bread was being hailed as a miracle. In my cocoon across the ocean, I’d had no idea how tough it had been, how the poverty and rationing and bombing raids had bitten great chunks out of my homeland. With no more money and no obvious way of making money, the true calamity of my decision to leave Zedora rained down on me. But it was a calamity I had to live with. For my dignity. For my daughter.

  I’ve now come to understand that with Christopher, I was merely a foil. He prefers the company of men. This, in itself, doesn’t bother me. I guess it’s the fact that for years, he didn’t confront it, was content to use me as cover, stringing me along like I was nothing but a tool for him. When actually I could have been—Oh, Archie!—I could have been so happy with you!

  So here I am. Sometimes, during these long days alone, trying to block out the drabness that surrounds me, the only thing that settles my nerves are thoughts of us. I write this for you, and maybe for myself, because if nothing else, it gives me a bit of hope. No one else listens or cares. They think I’m some drunken has-been with an overactive imagination. Even my own daughter tells me I’m ruinous.

  So perhaps you’ve forgotten me completely and are wondering whom this mad, ranting, airmail-writing female could be. Perhaps I’ve not meant anything to you. But perhaps—just perhaps—you still think of me sometimes?

  I do hope so.

  Forever yours,

  Anna Elizabeth Taylor

  Jess sits back, blinking, absorbing every detail of what she’s just read. Clearly by the sixties, poor Anna’s bitterness had set in. Yet this second letter isn’t entirely without hope. Where, she wonders, has Archie been all this time? But then she thinks back to what Ellen said about him disappearing after going to Europe to fight in the Second World War, and the dread thought rises inside her that Archie met a similar fate to poor Emery Floyd, another casualty of another war, in some unmarked grave in Belgium.

  She sighs.

  “Oh, Anna.”

  All that pining in vain.

  ***

  On the second day of her LA exodus, Jess’s physical challenges get the better of her and she is forced to spend most of the afternoon lying down. It’s a frustration, but one she tolerates, because after her encounter with Anna’s love letters—which she rereads again and again—the rest of Hollywood seems brash and soulless. On her third and last day, a little recovered, she joins a bus tour for the full hit of Hollywood hot spots, then takes a final amble down the Boulevard, absorbing the sights and sounds of the sun-filled evening: the buskers, the street artists, the party crowds. She is reminded of her early twenties, when she traveled extensively, welded to the buzz of new destinations, the tantalizing idea that life in parallel places is always happening, whether you’re there to witness it or not. Could Tim ever understand this? He certainly didn’t buy into the Hollywood adventure. With a tickle of regret in her belly, she takes a photo of the sunset and sends it to him, adding a message:

  Miss You x

  The second it’s sent, however, she questions herself. Yes, her choice to take the trip was rash, but only because he made it feel that way. It could have been fun, but he made it feel irresponsible and silly. She bristles, walks on, head pounding with doubt. Is she actually missing Tim? Or is her text simply fulfilling an obligation? What would LA with Tim have been like anyway? A riot of spontaneity and adventure, or a teacher’s timetable?

  In her rumination, she loses track of her steps and ends up at the Egyptian Theatre, where the sun casts long shadows across the Boulevard. In front of her is Musso’s, and she thinks fondly of Guy’s praise for it, his suggestion that they should eat dinner there. The thought of food appeals. The walking has given her an appetite. Not that there would be a table. The whole place looks like it’s heaving. But out of curiosity, she decides to get a closer view.

  ***

  The interior drips with old-school glamour: high ceilings, dark wood paneling, and upholstered leather booths. Each booth has its own hat rack. How many famous movie people, she wonders, have hung their fedoras here? A waiter in a bolero jacket shimmies past, holding aloft a tray of prime rib, balanced on the very tips of his fingers. She hastens to leave before having to face the embarrassment of being asked for a reservation she doesn’t have, glad that she has at least seen the restaurant for herself. But just as she’s pulling open the door, a familiar voice bears down on her.

  “Jess Taylor! What are you walking out for?”

  She blinks and spins around, only to see Guy Arlo van der Meer, in the flesh, standing beside one of the oxblood-red booths, wearing a vintage Hawaiian shirt and slacks.

  “I told you,” he says, with a tone that suggests it’s perfectly normal she should find him here, halfway around the world, “this is the greatest place to eat in the whole of Hollywood. Come, sit down. I got us the best table.”

  She is speechless. Her feet don’t move. Meanwhile Guy gives the waiter a nod.

  “Two of the house martinis please, Sergio,” he says, beckoning her forward. �
��And, Jess, don’t look so freaked out. We made a date.”

  “We did?”

  “Come on,” he says, ushering her into a seat. “Sit down. Check out the menu. You have to try the mac and cheese.”

  “But—?”

  “Seven o’clock, Saturday night. Old Hollywood. I told you…we’d do dinner.”

  “But I thought you were joking—”

  “I sort of was, but then you sent me that photo and…it was very tempting. One thing you’ll learn about me, Jess, I always follow temptation.”

  Jess just blinks, her thoughts cascading.

  “It was bit of a gamble to hop on a flight,” he continues, “but as it turns out, you’ve honored the date, only twenty minutes late.”

  “Except I didn’t,” says Jess, staring ahead of her. “I just happened to be passing.”

  She bursts into giddy laughter. How is it that they are both here together? A feat of flirtatious engineering? Or a touch of True Love fate? With her mouth still agape, she claws her way to reason.

  “I cannot believe you came all the way here, just to take a chance on meeting me for dinner. You made all this effort…for me?”

  Guy smiles.

  “Doesn’t seem like an effort. It seems…I don’t know…fun. You wanted me to, right?”

  He holds her gaze, those eyes sparkling, making her feel like she is his number one, the only woman in the world, the only one that matters. It’s intoxicating. Without her having yet sipped the coming martini, her head is already spinning.

  “You are good,” she says, wagging her finger at him. “So good. I mean, this is a gesture. There aren’t many of my species who wouldn’t be flattered, but—”

  “Too much?”

  Jess shrugs, keeps her answer to herself, cautious to admit that while, yes, it is way too much, it is also mind-blowingly brilliant. And now all she wants to do is snuggle in and get lost in the moment. Nevertheless she flashes her Tim badge.

  “It’s too much for someone who already has a boyfriend, which I do,” she asserts, determined to keep her loyalties intact.

  Guy nods.

  “I hear you, Jess. I haven’t forgotten about Education Tim, but I really like your company, so…can we at least settle on friends?”

  Jess smiles, teases the corners of a napkin. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Friends it is.”

  Guy looks at her and beams.

  “Great,” he says. “Let’s order, shall we?”

  ***

  The rest of the evening passes in a glorious, if slightly surreal, bubble of elation. They eat the Musso favorites, chops and fettuccine, washed down with martinis. They talk boundlessly about Hollywood costume departments, the trickery of the camera, fake beards, and cleavage brooches.

  “So how is my necklace?” says Jess as dessert is finally served.

  “Your necklace?”

  “Mine by proxy.”

  “I believe it’s doing fine. More to the point, how’s your grandma?”

  “She’s okay. She’s hanging in there. Tough old girl.”

  “I bet. Tell me about her.”

  “Well, she certainly liked a cause. She used to wear a jacket covered in Amnesty International badges, and apparently back in the eighties, she was regularly arrested for getting mouthy with policemen during public demonstrations.”

  Guy laughs. “A spirited soul?”

  “She had a certain passion in her, yes. I’m not sure she was the world’s most loving mother. Or grandmother for that matter, but she made an impression on me and I’m grateful for that. She traveled a lot, eventually settling in North Wales, where she built her own log cabin and lived liked a hermit. I went to check on it, and you know what? It turns out that’s where it all began—”

  “What did?”

  “The necklace.”

  Jess opens up about Pel Tawr and Bevan Floyd and Minnie’s diary and the story of the necklace’s creation. She then explains everything she’s discovered about Anna in Hollywood. When she’s finished, Guy interlaces his fingers across his chest and gives a long sigh.

  “Oh, Jess, talk about the wonder of lost-and-found jewelry. That’s incredible. No wonder you’re on such a mission to get your necklace back.” He lowers his eyelids, looks into his lap. “Just so you know,” he adds, “I deeply regret selling it to Stella.”

  “Well, I’m glad you understand,” says Jess. “It’s not just a piece of jewelry to me.”

  “No,” says Guy. “It’s your history.”

  Her eyes drop to his leopard-head ring. She would like to ask him about it, his own family heirloom, but when he senses her looking, he cups it, presses his hands into his lap, a warning not to probe. So instead she dives into her slice of dessert.

  “I have to ask,” she says, between mouthfuls of vanilla-scented cheesecake. “Is this normal behavior for you, to jet across the world for an evening?”

  “Normal-ish. Can’t say I do it weekly, but spontaneity is definitely in my nature. I like to get on a boat or a plane or a kayak…and just go. Arms wide open to whatever I find.”

  “Arms wide open,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I like that.”

  She bites down on her spoon as a memory flashes into her thoughts, of herself—her old self, before the accident—up in the foothills of Mexico, standing on the ridge at dawn, the jungle canopy beneath her, shrouded in mist; how the beauty of the moment made her throw her arms wide open. Where’s that self now? She smiles ruefully, points her spoon at Guy.

  “No responsibilities to consider?” she asks.

  “I built my business so that I could live on my terms,” he replies. “I get to travel and focus on the things that interest me. No paper clips on a desktop. No boss to answer to.”

  “Apart from Stella Weston?”

  “That’s different. We’re friends.”

  “No kids?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I’m not sure kids are for me. There are plenty of excellent parents out there doing a sterling job, so I’ll let them take the glory. I’ll just be the cool, globe-trotting uncle who flies in for dinner every now and then, tells good stories, and slays everyone on the PlayStation.” He catches her eye, a twist in his lips. “Is…is that an issue for you?”

  Jess blinks, flusters.

  “Why would you think it’s an issue for me?”

  “In case you wanted them.”

  “But…we’re not… This isn’t…” She sighs, shuts her eyes. “Just friends, remember. I’m in a relationship, as you well know. I’m committed.”

  “Committed? That sounds very…dutiful.”

  “I mean happy. I’m happy.”

  He glares at her from the rim of his martini glass, with a Yeah, sure you are glint in his eye. Suddenly—and luckily, thinks Jess—they are distracted by the arrival of a large dining party. The waiters scurry around, making space.

  “Looks like the bigwigs have arrived,” whispers Guy. “There are at least three well-known directors in that crowd.”

  Jess cranes her neck.

  “Don’t make it obvious,” he chides, laughing. “This is where they come to be ‘normal.’”

  ***

  When it is time to leave, they are both joyous and drunk.

  “What a way to spend my last night in Hollywood,” says Jess. “I mean, talk about filmic—”

  “You know what we should do?” Guy slurs, his curls flopping. “Go to the sign. Since it’s your first visit and all.”

  “The Hollywood sign?”

  Jess stares down at her legs, just about sober enough to appreciate that alcohol, night hikes, and walking canes are never a good mix.

  “You know it was originally a real estate advert,” says Guy, “been there since 1926. Nothing says old Hollywood like a bunch of white plastic letters, huh? Let’s do it. Let’s go.”


  “I can’t,” she says.

  “Can,” he argues, then swoops her up in his arms. “I’ll carry you there if I have to.”

  “Stop!” she shrieks, giggling, half-aghast, half-delighted. “I’m heavier than I look!”

  He spins her around and flings her over his shoulder, the strength in his arms thrilling her.

  “Don’t make me go!” she cries, beating his back. “I heard there’s snakes up there!”

  They get a few yards up the path and then, exhausted, he drops her to her feet.

  “You win,” he says, heaving a breath. “It’s a tacky trip anyway.”

  “This entire place is tacky.”

  “Not Musso’s”

  “Definitely not Musso’s. Musso’s is great. I’ll always remember Musso’s.”

  Her words trail off as, suddenly, she realizes where this is heading. He grasps her hand. The gesture shocks her into stillness. His warm fingers wrap around hers. The intent is unmistakable. Every cell in her body wakens, arrows of desire shooting up her arms, through her heart, to her soul. In the valley beneath them, the lights of LA twinkle, a fairy blanket at their feet. Silent now, he stares at her. This is it. He’s about to kiss her. And she would really like him to.

  But…

  She pulls away, snaps to reason, inwardly berating herself for her recklessness, for the sneaky, disloyal clinch she has gotten herself into.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, shielding her mouth with her hand. “I can’t… I just can’t.”

  Guy pouts. “Right. Okay.”

  “We said ‘just friends.’ I love your company, Guy, but I have to think of Tim.”

  His eyes roll. “Of course. Education Tim.”

  “Don’t say it like that. Tim’s great.”

  “Sure he is.”

  “I won’t betray him,” she asserts. “Oh god!”

  She throws her head back, feels wrought with frustration, her conscience torn in two.

  “Thank you for surprising me and making me feel brilliant, but you have to understand it can’t go anywhere. I’m not a cheat. I’ve been on the other side of cheating, and it’s hideous. Besides, my flight is super early. Really, I–I should get back to my hostel—”