She would think back over her past. For years she hadn’t recalled those early days. Not all of them good. No, indeed not. There was a photograph in one of the drawers somewhere. The only photo she possessed of her and Charlie. Their wedding day. She should dig it out.
Marguerite and Charlie, La Côte d’Azur, 1947
The grounds of the Victorine Studios were even more extensive than Marguerite had envisaged. As she and Charlie made their approach on foot from the gare in Nice, having taken the train along the coast, a soft-top automobile, all cream and gleaming chrome, sped by them through the high-arched gates and along a winding driveway lined with palms and film-set lots. Behind the hatted chauffeur sat a middle-aged man in sunglasses. Marguerite did not recognize him, but surely he was somebody important. A producer, for certain. Or Fred Orain, big chief of the entire studios. She made a mental note to look out for his office, to introduce herself, let it be known that she was available for all suitable roles. She and Charlie gave their names at the gate and the keeper pointed them to the sound stage and offices where the screen tests were being held.
They strode up the asphalt ascent. The heat embraced and clung to Marguerite’s clothes. She pulled at the boat neck of her frock to create a flow of air while glancing about in wonder. To right and left, teams of men were at work. Men with bulging leather tool-belts were screwing and drilling scenery flats. Spiked and dovetailed together, they created a seamless plywood façade of a French village street where doors opened to nowhere other than another stretch of tumbleweed lot. Further along, in a distant expanse, a shooting was in progress, camera swinging high on a crane. A man in a white cap with a megaphone was bellowing directions. Elsewhere, another movie was in preparation: the belly of a great wooden submarine was under construction. Might this be the film she was testing for? A few sleek silver Westwood Coronado trailers were parked in the shade of a small stand of umbrella pines. Alongside them, a table dressed with a starched white cloth, laid with refreshments, was watched over by a waiter in white gloves.
Marguerite’s innards were flipping. I am where I was born to be. A silent mantra as she inhaled not the Provençal nature abundant with its natural perfumes, but the scents puffed from fashionable eau-de-toilette atomizers, hair lacquer, creams and powders.
Was anyone famous relaxing there, learning their lines while a lesser mortal doused them with cologne? Madeleine Renaud perhaps, or Danielle Darrieux, Michèle Morgan?
Marguerite’s stomach continued to lurch and dip. She paused to pat at her dress, ironed and neat. She had applied scarlet lipstick and two fingerprints of rouge to her cheeks and prayed she looked sufficiently grown-up and feminine.
‘Getting nervous?’ Charlie asked.
‘Of course not.’ She tossed her hair off her shoulder with a flick of the wrist.
Through into the reception area of a wooden building where she gave her name, enunciating it carefully. She was requested to join the line. Unnoticed before, a queue of girls were waiting apprehensively for their screen tests. The young painted hopefuls eyed one another suspiciously. All were pretty, well-groomed and maquillaged to perfection. Marguerite had not expected this. In her fantasies, she had been the sole contender for this opportunity, and once this step had been accomplished, her stardom was assured. A young man in shirt sleeves and with floppy dark hair handed her several pages of typed script and told her to memorize them. He would be back for her within the hour. Her nerves began to uncoil: her lips were dry and growing numb as she silently mouthed the dialogue. Charlie had wandered off somewhere outside in the sunshine to take a look around, he’d said, hands in trouser pockets, kicking his heels, whistling. He had wished her luck and brushed her cheek with a kiss as light as the touch of a moth’s wing, then held her gaze one moment longer, steadying her. ‘Jeepers, you look swell,’ he had reassured her. ‘You’ll bowl them over.’
She must not fail. A name was called, and from the head of the line a brunette with a wasp waist in a sleek green and white outfit with a confident stride was led away. Marguerite glanced down at her own, far less swanky beige dress, cursing the Parisian landlord who had kept her clothes. She rubbed at her knees, then settled to the three-page scene and tried her damnedest not to feel so het up.
The sound stage was cavernous, echoing, empty of activity and dramatically cooler than the waiting area where she had spent the best part of two hours. High, high above her, banks of lights, in darkness now, were trained downwards to the spot where Marguerite was positioned. She craned her head, then looked about her. This space was a story waiting to be brought to life. It was her future. A trio of men stood grouped together in quiet conversation. One, the cameraman, was leaning close to his impressive camera, his arm almost cradling it.
‘This is Marguerite,’ announced the floppy-haired second assistant who had escorted her to her destiny. The men turned their attention towards her, eyes roaming over her. The most senior of them, a man in his forties with tanned skin and elegant, off-white linen slacks, loped the few steps towards her, smiling with teeth that glistened like snowballs. ‘Marguerite, bonjour. Have you had a moment to look over the lines?’
She nodded, quite unable to speak.
‘Good, good, follow me, please, and I will show you to your mark. Oh, I am Julien, by the way. Assistant to Maurice who will be directing this dark domestic drama.’
Marguerite followed Julien, meek as a lamb. She could feel her legs trembling and her stomach rocking in a seasick way. She wished now that she had followed Charlie’s advice and eaten the croissant he’d bought her for breakfast, even just a mouthful. Julien was instructing her to position herself in the centre of a large cross marked on the floor with yellow gaffer tape. ‘I will read the lines of Henri who is the husband in the piece,’ he was explaining as, hands on her upper arms, he physically manoeuvred her centimetres in one direction, then another, all the while looking back over his shoulder to the camera pointing in her direction.
The cameraman was silent, concentrating on his lens. ‘Très bien. Pretty kid.’ He whistled.
‘Now, Marguerite, when you say your lines, try not to look down at the page all the time. Look up, but not into the camera. Concentrate your attention on me, direct eye contact with me. I will be standing right of camera. Okay, got it? Just imagine that I am Henri, your husband, and it is to me you are talking.’
Marguerite nodded, tongue dry, swelling like a lobster in her mouth.
‘Ready to roll, honey?’
She nodded again. The trembling was rising from her knees to her thighs and upwards through her entire body. The shivering was taking hold of her as though she had been plugged into something electrical. She was terrified. All her dreams were fading, all power from her dissipating. She must not fail.
Julien shuffled backwards and pulled a few pages of tatty script from out of his back pocket. She gazed at him as instructed.
‘Lights!’ he yelled. Suddenly, the space was flooded with a hot white light. ‘Sound!’
The third man in the trio returned the cry with ‘Rolling!’
And then the cameraman spoke, ‘Camera rolling.’
‘And … action!’
Nothing happened. Marguerite listened to the low buzz of electricity, of the camera equipment operating. The swampy artificial heat radiating from the lights caused her skin to become sticky, her limbs clammy. Perspiration was gathering at the back of her knees. Her lightweight frock was clinging to her spine, which felt like a rod of iron. She supposed she was being filmed but Julien wasn’t speaking. She glanced in panic at the sheet of paper clutched between her sweating fingers. To confirm. Yes, his was the first line.
‘We’re not using a clapperboard or synch slate, honey, so before we begin the scene, look directly into the camera and speak your name clearly, please.’
‘M-my name?’
‘S’il vous plaît, Mademoiselle.’
‘M-Marguerite …’ she faltered. What name to choose? Not her own, obviously. It was
time to change. A screen name with an international ring to it. In the past, in her imagination, she had conjured up so many, and now her mind had gone blank.
‘We’re rolling, Marguerite.’
‘Marguerite C-C-Courtenay.’
‘That’s fine, Marguerite, thank you. Now look away from the camera and start to cry, honey. Can you do that? Give us some tears. Think of something sad, something that might break your heart and then let us have it.’
Enough had been said. Marguerite recalled her brother, recalled that day of separation. A wartime memory she never allowed herself to dwell on and a sob that might have cracked her in two broke out of her, splintering the silence in the hallowed make-believe space.
‘Terrific, sweetheart,’ encouraged Julien. Then in a deeper, more affected voice he enunciated the first of Henri’s lines. ‘I’m leaving here, leaving, do you hear me? Getting the hell out.’
Marguerite glanced at her page. ‘Please,’ she sobbed softly, ‘don’t leave.’ Gaining force, gaining in confidence as the character’s predicament seeped into her, she began to cry out, yelling theatrically, ‘Don’t go. I couldn’t bear it. Henri, don’t you know how I love you? I cannot, will not, live without you.’
‘Swell, sweetheart, keep going. There’s no need to shout. More delicate. Subtle. This is not theatre. Let the emotion, the tears, do the acting for you,’ returned Julien, back to assistant director, no longer husband. ‘And don’t keep waving your arms about, honey.’
‘Can you stop that kid flapping the script? It sounds like a storm over here,’ called the sound technician.
From then, almost the entire scene was hers, a soliloquy of longing and heartbreak to a man packing his case. Marguerite, trying only infrequently to consult the written script, just kept talking, making some of it up but offering the gist. Before she knew it, Julien was yelling, ‘Cut,’ and it was all over. She was exhausted, drained. Her rigid body went floppy.
‘Thanks, honey. That was terrific. As you leave, ask Paul to send the next girl in, will you, please?’
Charlie was outside in the warm sunshine, leaning against a wooden ladder, one leg crooked up behind him. He was chewing a blade of grass and reading his book. When he saw her, he waved and sauntered towards her, smiling broadly.
A giant palm tree made out of fabric hung limply from a crane above them. Another was now upright on the ground and was being bolted to the spot.
‘None of these trees are real.’ He laughed. ‘Sculpted from wood and fabric. How about that, when they’re cultivated so easily down here? I’m guessing it’s quicker to chop one down and use the wood to carve another than wait for it to grow.’ He shook his head and slapped the trunk of the massive prop, contemplating its extraordinariness. ‘How about that?’ he repeated. ‘How did you get on?’
She gnawed at a fingernail, attempting to conceal her disappointment.
‘Well, did you sign your contract?’
‘They are seeing dozens of girls,’ she admitted. ‘I asked them when I could expect to hear and Paul, the junior assistant, said they’d be in touch.’
Charlie and Marguerite stood face to face, looking at one another. Both too unsophisticated to brush off the rejection lightly.
‘Lunch?’ he offered jauntily.
She lowered her head. ‘Not hungry, thanks.’
‘You’ve got to eat.’
‘Marguerite Courtenay!’ shouted Paul, from the direction of the sound stage. ‘You’re wanted back on the set!’
‘Oh, my!’
‘Marguerite Courtenay?’ quizzed Charlie.
‘A new name for a new life,’ she confessed.
‘Really?’ He grinned and winked. He knew something about that.
Their eyes met and she smiled at him. An unspoken merci for understanding, for being there. ‘I have to go.’
‘I’ll wait,’ he called after her.
The role offered to Marguerite consisted of one brief scene of fourteen lines. It was not the leading part she had tested for: that had been awarded elsewhere. But it was a beginning, her first step into the world of cinema and, although disappointed, she was also thrilled and excited in equal measure.
She carried away the script and sat with it on her lap on the train; her prize; her victory. She stared out at the Riviera beaches, the winking blue water overlooked by luxury villas, confident now that one day such a lifestyle would be hers. Yes, it was all coming together.
She had been given a date three weeks hence for her shooting. Three perfect spring weeks before Marguerite was due back to the studios. There would be a costume fitting to attend and a make-up test, but otherwise her time was her own. The salary offered for the few days the contract covered would be barely sufficient to keep her. She would need to find substitute employment, a roof over her head. Charlie had shelled out for the crumbling pension on the outskirts of Cannes. She owed him, and she wanted to be able to reimburse him. He was too kind-natured to be cheated. And, in spite of herself, she was beginning to really like him, to enjoy his company. With him at her side, this big day had been less nerve-racking. He had inspired confidence. Even so, she knew she would have to give him the push at some point soon.
‘I need to find work,’ she announced gravely.
He frowned, then smiled. ‘You just got yourself work.’
‘To pay you what I owe.’
‘Fine by me.’
They went job-hunting at a shabby agency in Cannes offering domestic staff to wealthy vacationers and ex-pats. They had no difficulty at all in finding themselves a live-in situation looking after an affluent widow of seasoned years. They had been billed as a young, healthy, employable bilingual couple. Personal assistant and assistant chauffeur. Marguerite was anxious not to tie herself down, not to promote them as a ‘couple’. Charlie had been good to her but she was not allowing herself to be drawn into anything that might hinder her career or give him false ideas.
He suggested they take the position, remain together ‘at least until your filming has been completed and you have a clearer picture of what your future holds’. As far as he was concerned, he had no plans, and being in Marguerite’s company suited him down to the ground. Marguerite considered, then agreed. It would be for just a few weeks until she’d settled her debt and the roles came pouring in.
Paris, November 2015
It was the buzzer that roused Marguerite from her fog of exhaustion and memories. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Almost 4 a.m. It could only be the Englishwoman, whose name, at this moment, she could not recall. Under normal circumstances she would be too suspicious to answer the door at such an hour but these were abnormal, terrifying times.
Her legs were stiff as she staggered unsteadily to the hall where she pressed the intercom. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Kurtiz.’
‘Oh, good. I’ve been waiting for you. Take the lift to the second floor.’
‘Lady! Lady!’ One of the two police officers who had given Kurtiz a lift to the rue de Charonne was calling her, running towards her. She turned her head.
‘You forgot this.’
He was proffering her camera bag. Her precious cameras. Never since she had owned her first Powershot had she let them out of her sight. She noticed as she pulled her camera onto her shoulder that the glass on her watch face was splintered. It must have happened when she’d fallen earlier. ‘Merci.’
‘I hope you find your husband and daughter, Madame. We pray they have pulled through this tragic night. Bonne nuit.’
Kurtiz, London, 2000
Kurtiz’s grandmother died unexpectedly. A stroke, which took her within days. ‘Mercifully,’ wept her mother. ‘She would have hated to be in a chair, handicapped, reliant upon us, fussed over. It would have made her miserable and grumpy.’
Still, the unexpectedness of it shocked them all. Mortality spread its threatening shadow. Kurtiz took the train with five-year-old Eliza, now fondly known as Lizzie, to spend a few days with her grieving mother.
Kurtiz shook her head. ‘A small memento would be nice, something you aren’t intending to keep.’
‘Would you like her wristwatch?’
‘Yeah, that’d be lovely, thanks.’
‘And … I know you and Ollie aren’t broke –’
‘Please don’t call him Ollie – he hates it.’
‘Well, he’s not here to hear me. What I was saying was that I know he’s doing frightfully well and all that and we’re both very proud of him, but what about you? Your father and I have been worrying that you’ve given up everything for him and lovely little Eliza. You have no life of your own, Kurtiz.’
‘My choice. Mum.’
‘I know, darling, but you must consider your own future.’
Her mother’s words hit a nerve which she was not ready to own up to. ‘I’m happy, Mum. Don’t start picking holes where there’s nothing to find.’
‘Women drool over him. All my middle-aged friends, even dear old Nan. He won’t be impervious to it for ever, darling. When did you last go to the hairdresser, buy a frock, get yourself dolled up, pay attention to yourself?’
‘Mum, for God’s sake!’
Her mother held up her hands in front of her chest in a defensive gesture, then pulled her chequebook from a kitchen drawer and rummaged for a pen. ‘I want you to spend this on yourself. Buy something extravagant, whatever you fancy. Your father wants me to do this. And don’t put it aside for later, for a rainy day. Michael has willed a small sum to pay towards Eliza’s education or whatever needs might arise in the future. This is for you, Kurtiz. We want you to spoil yourself. You don’t even have to tell Oliver we’ve given it to you.’
The Lost Girl Page 17