by Tara Hyland
So far, in all the weeks that she had been here, Cara had tried hard not to answer back. But after the terrible, disappointing day, she was moved to anger. ‘That’s mine! Give it back!’
But Theresa looked unimpressed with her outburst. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. It’s not yours. Your mother wrote this to me.’
‘Oh.’ Cara was shocked into silence. ‘So she didn’t write to me?’
That made her even more depressed. She lived for her mother’s letters: they were her window to the outside world. The envelopes were always addressed to Theresa, but the letters inside were to her. Why was it different this time?
Theresa hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, she included a letter for you, too,’ she said carefully. ‘But she wanted me to speak to you first.’
‘Why?’ Cara heard the tremor in her voice. She was beginning to feel scared. Something wasn’t right.
Theresa’s eyes softened. There was something in her expression that Cara had never seen before: compassion. ‘Because she wanted me to tell you that she won’t be coming for you as soon as she’d hoped.’
‘No!’ The word came out as an anguished cry.
‘She has the chance of some more work, you see,’ Theresa explained gently. ‘And money’s been so tight for her. She wanted you to know that she’s doing all this for you.’
But Cara wasn’t interested. She didn’t care about the money – she just wanted them to be together again.
‘How much longer before she comes back?’
When her grandmother bit her lip, Cara knew it wasn’t going to be good. ‘Three months. Maybe four.’
Cara was already shaking her head. ‘No! I can’t stay here! I don’t want to! She said she wouldn’t be long—’
At that, Theresa’s expression hardened. ‘And were you expecting anything more from your mam? She’s a selfish so-and-so, and the sooner you learn that the better!’
‘No, she’s not! She’s wonderful, and I can’t wait for her to come for me, so I never have to see you again!’
Cara ran from the room.
After a moment, Theresa heard Cara’s bedroom door slam shut. Then the crying began. Hearing her, Theresa felt bad. She wanted to comfort her granddaughter, but she wasn’t sure how – it simply wasn’t in her nature. The woman had had a hard life, filled with much sorrow, and there had been little room for displays of affection.
But despite her unfriendly hard exterior, she liked the girl. Cara seemed smart and willing to learn, and took a genuine interest in the different vegetables and herbs that Theresa grew. She never minded helping out with chores, and she had inherited none of her mother’s vanity or selfishness. Theresa had never thought much of her other grandchildren – Maggie’s offspring; they were a slovenly pair who had no interest in anything. Cara wasn’t like that. Whatever Franny had done wrong in her life, she had raised her daughter right.
So Franny’s letter today, saying that she wouldn’t be back for a while, had been a godsend for Theresa. She was pleased to be getting more time to spend with her granddaughter. And it upset her to see that something which had brought her so much pleasure, obviously caused Cara such pain.
Theresa knew it was difficult for the girl to understand why she imposed the rules that she did. But there was in fact a good reason for keeping Cara a secret. Here in Ireland, unwed mothers still had few rights. It was considered that a child would be better off without the influence of someone with such loose morals. So if the authorities found out about Cara, that she was an illegitimate child staying with her elderly grandmother while her mother waltzed off for months at a time, they might very well take her away. That’s what all the secrecy was for. But how could she begin to explain that to a child?
Theresa was trying to do her best with Cara. She had a little money put by – enough to ensure her granddaughter was fed and clothed. But she was most worried about the girl’s schooling – she seemed bright, and Theresa didn’t want to see her fall behind. So she’d been forcing Cara to sit down for two hours every morning, to practise her writing and do some rudimentary sums. Luckily, the girl liked to read, and so she’d get out books from the local library for her, encouraging Cara to ask if there were any words she didn’t understand.
She was a clever little thing. Inquisitive, too. The other day she’d asked whether Theresa had known her father.
‘What’s yer mam told you about him?’ the old woman had asked warily.
‘That he was a nice man, who loved us both very much, and that he’s in heaven, like Danny’s dad.’
‘That sounds about right,’ Theresa had lied. It seemed better than telling her the truth – that Sean had run out on Franny, and that the last Theresa had heard of him, he was drinking his way through the bars of Cork.
Upstairs, the girl was still crying. Theresa wished there was a way to stop her hurting, but she had no idea how to comfort Cara. There was no way that she would ever be able to share her thoughts or feelings with her granddaughter – it wasn’t in her upbringing or her nature. Instead, she went to the foot of the stairs, and called up to Cara.
‘Will you get yourself down here?’ Her voice was gruff. ‘I need help with the dinner.’
In the kitchen, they began to silently prepare supper together. Theresa watched her granddaughter struggling to peel a potato, removing half the vegetable as she tried to take off the skin. Theresa tutted.
‘Not like that, you eejit.’ The old woman snatched the knife from Cara. ‘Like this.’ Then she began to quickly and expertly scrape away the outer layer under running water in the sink.
Once she was finished, Theresa handed the knife back to her granddaughter. ‘Now you have a go.’
Frowning in concentration, Cara attempted to mimic her grandmother’s actions. After a couple of minutes, she held up the potato. It was jaggedly cut, and not as proficient as Theresa’s effort, but it was an improvement on before.
‘Not bad,’ Theresa said.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she patted her granddaughter on the shoulder. It was an awkward gesture, unfamiliar to the old woman, but it seemed to work. Cara smiled up at her grandmother, her earlier anguish forgotten, for now at least.
Theresa quickly withdrew her hand. ‘Come on, then,’ she said brusquely. ‘You need to do two more of those.’
But she was secretly pleased with herself for having finally done something right for the child.
Chapter Fifteen
That first night at Ciro’s was Franny’s initiation into the Hollywood party scene. Lily insisted on loaning her an outfit, and the two young actresses left the studio in matching wiggle dresses: Lily’s in sinner’s red, Franny’s in emerald green. With their similar builds – they were both five foot five and voluptuous – they could have passed for twins, distinguishable only by their hair colour: the blonde and the redhead, out looking for trouble.
Outside in Juniper’s garage, Lily had her own reserved space, where she parked her flip-top white Corvette.
‘Don’t sweat it, honey,’ the blonde actress said, when she saw Franny looking enviously at the car. ‘You’ll have wheels like this in no time. I’m certain of it.’
It was a short drive from the studio to West Hollywood and the Sunset Strip, the mile and a half stretch of Sunset Boulevard where the rich and famous went to party. The area owed its existence to the fact that it fell outside the Los Angeles city limits, so during Prohibition, nightclubs and casinos had moved out there, to escape the harsh regime of the LAPD. Since the thirties, its glamorous clubs and expensive restaurants had become a magnet for movie stars and the industry’s power brokers. Now, at ten o’clock on a Friday night, the Strip – as Lily called it – was buzzing. Ciro’s was busier than most. At the moment, Herman Hoover’s nightclub was the place to be, the clientèle made up of A-list stars. It was Lana Turner’s favourite hangout; Mickey Rooney had chosen the venue for his birthday party; and earlier that year, Frank Sinatra had hosted Sammy Davis Junior’s comeback there.
‘Let’s go, sugar. We’re not getting any younger sitting here.’
Franny needed no further encouragement. She stepped out of the car and into the warm evening, trying to take in every detail, hardly able to believe that she was actually here.
Ciro’s exterior was one of understated elegance: a low-rise building, painted black, with a white neon sign announcing the club’s name. Inside, though, was another story. This was old-school Hollywood glamour, the baroque décor overdone and luxurious: the walls covered in silk drapes; the bandstand a raised dais fringed with velvet; tiny coloured lights turning and sparkling in the moody darkness. Everyone was done up to the nines, a sea of sequins and fur, long evening gloves and cigar smoke. Scantily-clad waitresses smiled and sashayed their way through the crowd.
In the lobby, a leggy girl in a short skirt and heels took their fur shrugs. That could be me back at the Victory Club, Franny thought. It was nice to be on the other side. Before she could dwell too much on the past, Lily grabbed her hand.
‘Come meet the gang.’
Lily’s ‘gang’ turned out to be some of the most famous names in the movie business at the moment. A genuinely fun party girl, she was now Queen Bee of what had become known in the press as ‘the hive’ – an elite group of young, hot actors who were always pictured partying together. Stories about the group’s incestuous romances and rivalries mysteriously circulated whenever one of them was about to release a movie.
Franny recognised the four faces already at the table. There were two women: Emily Apple, former chubby, curly-haired child star, now a half-starved, wistful-looking brunette, and raven-haired Helena Harris, a sharp-faced, serious character actress. She was currently a hot property, having taken the Oscar for Best Actress earlier in the year for playing the headmistress of an all-girls’ school, whose strict discipline begins to border on psychopathic. Emily and Helena both acknowledged Franny with a brief ‘hello’, but neither of them looked terribly interested in her – they were more preoccupied with each other. The two men were another matter. Both were equally well-known: handsome, suave Duke Carter, who had been at the Victory Club in London with Clifford Walker, and Hunter Holden, one of the new breed of brooding young male stars, who seemed to be all the rage since James Dean appeared in East of Eden.
It was Duke, all charm and good manners, who stood to greet the two newcomers.
‘Good evening, ladies. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’ The comment might have been addressed to Lily, but his eyes never left Franny.
‘Frances Fitzgerald,’ Lily announced. ‘Fresh meat at Juniper.’ She winked at her new friend, to show that the last part was a joke. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her role as Franny’s mentor.
‘How wonderful,’ Duke murmured, bending low to kiss Franny’s hand. He obviously didn’t remember her from the Victory Club, which was a relief.
Watching them, Hunter gave a snort of disapproval, although Franny wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or Duke. Slouched moodily across the leather banquette, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, he looked as meanly handsome as in his movies – and also bored out of his mind.
‘Oh, don’t mind Hunter,’ Lily told Franny. ‘He never says much. He just likes to act all mean and moody.’
True to form, Hunter just glared at Lily. She ignored him.
‘Come on now,’ she ordered. ‘Scooch up and make room for Frances.’
Despite the obvious attitude, he did as he was told, and Franny soon found herself squeezed in between Hunter and Duke, two of Hollywood’s greatest heart-throbs. In that moment, she finally felt like she’d arrived.
A tuxedo-clad waiter came over to take their order.
‘Martini, straight up,’ Lily said. The waiter turned expectantly to Franny.
‘Make that two,’ Franny added quickly, trying to look as though she ordered drinks like this all the time, and wasn’t simply copying her new friend.
But if anyone suspected that she didn’t know what she was doing, they didn’t seem to care. Duke in particular wasted no time in getting to know Franny. His arm slid round the back of the booth, as he leaned over towards her.
‘So, come on now, gorgeous.’ He flashed his trademark megawatt smile. ‘I want to know everything about you.’
Franny went into the standard spiel that the studio had made up: about how she was a poor Irish country girl who’d gone to London to make her fortune; how she’d been discovered there and got whisked off to Hollywood. It was a familiar story, nothing particularly special, but Duke seemed fascinated by every word.
‘I’ll talk to Lloyd,’ he said, his hand finding hers on the table. ‘See if he can’t find a project for us to do together. I’m sure we’d have great onscreen chemistry. Don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Franny nodded vigorously. She couldn’t have been more thrilled. The evening was turning out to be far better than even she’d expected.
Drinks kept arriving at the table. One martini turned into two, and then three. Franny, who wasn’t used to alcohol, was soon feeling light-headed and giddy with happiness.
‘I can’t believe how lovely he is,’ Franny whispered to Lily, when Duke got up to go to the restroom. ‘Do you think that, well, maybe he’s interested in me?’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Lily laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Duke’s interested in anything with a pulse. Take it from me,’ she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘he’s a great lay, but don’t expect anything more than that.’
It took all of Franny’s acting skills not to show how shocked she was by Lily’s words. The waiter had just set down more drinks. She reached for a fourth martini. Hunter, who had been silent throughout the conversation, stayed her hand.
‘Be careful,’ he growled. He fixed dark, frowning eyes on Franny, nodding over at the drink she was holding. ‘Them things are lethal. And there ain’t nothing worse than a drunk broad.’
Flattered by his interest, Franny’s natural coquettishness surfaced for the first time that night. ‘Well, aren’t I the lucky girl,’ she teased, lowering her lashes flirtatiously, ‘having someone like you looking out for little old me?’
Reaching for a glass of water instead, she raised the tumbler in a silent toast to his chivalry. By the time Duke got back from the restroom, he had some serious competition for Franny’s attention.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. As the evening wore on, people kept dropping by their table: fellow actors, directors and producers. Some pulled up chairs, and by one in the morning there were at least a dozen people crowded around. For Franny, the highlight of the night was when LA Times gossip columnist Dolores Kent stopped by.
Lily had shrewdly cultivated Dolores’ friendship over the years, ensuring that her name was rarely out of the papers. Now, as the gossip columnist neared the table, she leaned over to whisper a few words of advice to Franny: ‘Make sure to suck up to the old cow. She loves that.’
The gossip columnist had been primed by her good friend Lloyd, Head of Casting at Juniper, to watch out for the studio’s new starlet tonight. Juniper’s PR machine had been sending her releases about Frances Fitzgerald for weeks, but so far, apart from that small initial mention, she hadn’t seen any reason to give the new girl any additional coverage. Now, seeing her in such illustrious company, Dolores came over and introduced herself, extending a bejewelled hand to Franny.
‘You do know who I am, don’t you, dear?’ she said, peering at the Juniper starlet.
‘Oh, gosh, yes.’ Franny was on her feet, at once the wide-eyed ingénue. ‘I make sure to read all your columns, Miss Kent. It’s such an honour to meet you.’ Although it seemed as if she was following Lily’s advice, in fact Franny genuinely meant every word.
Dolores beamed. She liked respect, and loved having her ego flattered even more. The pretty redhead had won her over.
By three, the nightclub was closing up, and the party moved on to Lily’s home in the Hollywood Hills. The two-storey, Spanish-style villa was a typical movie-star pad, expensively furnished with William Haines furniture and filled with little luxuries like cream silk sheets on the beds. Franny thought of her poky little room in Sunset Lodge and vowed to move out as soon as possible. This was what she wanted.
All around the house, couples were pairing off, some of them disappearing into darkened rooms behind closed doors. Franny noticed Emily and Helena going off into one of the bedrooms, hand in hand; she frowned, wondering what that was all about. Outside, Lily was holding court by the pool. Franny spotted Hunter by the bar, mixing drinks. She went over.
‘Can you handle another martini?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ After spending three hours drinking water, Franny felt that she deserved one.
Hunter poured himself a bourbon, and they clinked glasses. He didn’t say much, just watched Franny moodily over his drink. She was beginning to get used to his silences.
Outside on the veranda, a girl screamed. Franny looked around just in time to see Duke push Lily into the pool. There was an almighty splash, and she disappeared beneath the water, so all that could be seen were ribbons of blonde hair floating in the pool, before she finally resurfaced, coughing and spluttering.
‘You bastard!’ She gestured down at her dress. ‘That’s a Balenciaga you just ruined!’
But there was no real anger in her voice, only outrage and a trace of amusement. She was enjoying this, Franny realised. In fact, instead of getting out of the water, as Franny had expected her to, Lily slithered out of her dress, and threw the sopping material onto the terrace. A moment later, her underwear joined her clothes, making a soggy pile.
‘Hey, Duke!’ Lily called. He moved closer to the edge and crouched down to try to hear what she was saying. Franny had already guessed what her new friend was about to do. She was right: grabbing him around the ankle, Lily pulled him into the pool. He surfaced laughing, and was already unbuttoning his shirt as three others – two starlets, whose names Franny couldn’t remember, and a well-known screenwriter – began undressing, too.