Fallen Angels

by Tara Hyland

  Franny felt a blush rising in her cheeks. She looked over at Hunter, to judge his reaction. But he seemed relaxed, as though this was something that happened all the time.

  Nodding outside, he said: ‘How about it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know—’

  But Hunter wasn’t listening. He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the terrace. Clearly unaware of how uncomfortable she felt, he began to strip. Naked, he turned to her.

  ‘Coming?’

  She averted her eyes. It wasn’t that she considered herself to be particularly prudish. She’d already crossed a line that most people never would, having slept with Clifford to get what she wanted. But somehow this felt like a whole new level of decadence.

  ‘Maybe in a bit.’

  Shrugging, he went to join the others in the pool, leaving Franny alone on the side. Part of her wondered if she should call a cab and leave them to it. But for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to go. There was a lure about the party which kept her here. She snuck a look at the pool. Steam rose from the water, creating a dreamy feel to the night, and preserving everyone’s modesty. They were treading water, six faces looking up at Franny expectantly, each calling out to her to join them.

  ‘Come on, Frances!’

  ‘The water’s lovely!’

  ‘What’re you waiting for?’

  From the edge of the pool, Franny stared down at the swimmers. They all looked like they were having such fun. And that’s why she was here, wasn’t it? So she could finally live rather than just exist. She was twenty-five years old: if she didn’t grab this moment now, then who knew when she would have the opportunity again. They were right – what was she waiting for?

  With a chorus of clapping, cheers and wolf whistles egging her on, Franny stepped out of her shoes, unzipped her dress and then, after a moment’s hesitation, began to unhook her brassière. Standing there, completely naked, her ivory skin glinting in the pale moonlight, with six strangers staring up at her, Franny was surprised to find she wasn’t embarrassed or shy, not even of the tiny little silvery marks that had appeared on her stomach and thighs since having Cara. Instead, she felt strangely liberated. This was her time, and she was going to start making the most of it.

  Taking a running jump at the pool, she dived in head first.

  PART TWO

  1956–9

  Good Intentions

  ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions.’

  Well-known saying

  Chapter Sixteen

  Los Angeles, August 1956

  Franny pressed her foot down on the accelerator, enjoying the roar of the engine as the car sped along the Hollywood Freeway. There was nothing more liberating than driving at night, opening up her Pontiac convertible on the empty roads. She loved the feeling of the warm Californian air against her cheeks, the wind rustling the scarf that held her hair tightly in place. Right now, she felt on top of the world.

  That evening at Ciro’s had signalled a change in Franny’s luck. In the two years since then, she had become a star. It was My Fake Wedding which had set her on the road to fame. Although veteran Lily Powell garnered most of the attention, Franny’s comic timing as the gold-digging nurse also ensured she was singled out for praise, being variously described as ‘a notable newcomer’ and ‘one to watch’.

  On the strength of those reviews, Lloyd gave Franny her first shot at a lead: it was only a monster movie, a ridiculous story about a giant snake terrorising New York, but Franny played her part as the damsel in distress well. Seeing how good she looked on screen, Lloyd decided to test her for Juniper’s epic Western, The Gunslinger. She was perfect for the role of the plucky, passionate daughter of a Reverend, forced to hire an ex-convict to defend her father’s water-rich lands from the greedy local landowner. When The Gunslinger was a box-office success, much of the credit went to her.

  From there, Juniper negotiated a personal contract with Franny, raising her salary to one thousand dollars a week. With her red hair, green eyes and buttermilk complexion, comparisons to Maureen O’Hara were inevitable. The studio capitalised on this, casting her in roles that required a spirited heroine with high moral principles. Her characters were fiery but sensitive; passionate and sensual without being slutty; proving themselves to be the match of any man, without losing their femininity.

  With the salary increase, Franny moved out of the roach motel and into a duplex on Wilshire Boulevard. It was a typical starlet apartment, a glitzy, glamorous place, filled with lacquered furniture, crystal chandeliers and ornate mirrors. She also treated herself to the Pontiac convertible in a pretty silvery-blue. Although the studio provided a car and driver, she preferred the independence that came from being behind the wheel, and soon became a familiar sight driving east on Wilshire Boulevard, top down and red hair flying out behind her, towards the bright lights of downtown LA.

  You’re about to miss the exit. The thought broke into Franny’s reminiscences. Making a sharp right, she turned onto Hollywood Boulevard and began to slow down as she saw her destination: Musso & Frank. The famous restaurant had become a regular hangout these past two years. Pulling up outside, Franny switched off the car engine and took off her leather driving gloves. Opening her handbag to pop them inside, she paused. There, nestling next to her Chanel compact, was a letter from Cara, which she’d picked up on her way out that evening. Seeing the envelope, with its scratchy handwriting, Franny felt the familiar rush of guilt that hit her whenever she thought about her daughter.

  The only blight on Franny’s otherwise perfect life was that she was living it without Cara. Franny hated being away from her child. She missed Cara dreadfully, and she could tell from her daughter’s letters that she was unhappy, too. As the months went by, the little girl had begun to complain more vocally about life at her grandmother’s, saying that she was bored and how she missed Danny and the Connollys – and her mother, of course. At the end of every letter, she would always ask when Franny was coming back for her.

  Franny never knew how to answer that. She hadn’t intended to be apart from her daughter for so long. But the past two years had slipped by without her noticing. Life moved so fast out here in Hollywood – there was always so much going on, what with filming and all the parties and public appearances. And she’d gradually realised that she couldn’t just broadcast the fact that she had a daughter. The McCarthy witch-hunts had created a climate of conservatism in America: given that her whole career was built on being a morally upright heroine, she was worried the papers would crucify her if they found out the truth about her past. Her career would be over, and she couldn’t stand the thought of giving up something for which she had fought so hard.

  Because, when it came down to it, she loved being an actress. While she might like the trappings of success – the apartment and the car; the furs and the jewellery – they weren’t why she stayed in Hollywood. She stayed because she still got a flutter in her stomach every time she stepped onto a film set. And not only did she love acting, she was good at it, too. For the first time in her life, she had respect, and she didn’t want to give that up.

  But she also didn’t want to go on living here without Cara. She just needed to find a way to have everything – her career and her child.

  As she got out of the car, Franny resolved to put the matter from her mind for now. Tonight she had a date with Duke Carter – and she wanted to put all her energy into that.

  Aside from her career success, Franny had become something of a party girl, too. After that night at Ciro’s, she’d started to go out regularly with Lily and her crowd. She’d become a fixture at swanky Sunset Strip nightclubs like Mocambo and Trocadero, spending her evenings drinking, flirting and laughing, always surrounded by male companions. The press adored her, and most weeks she made the LA Times, usually pictured arm-in-arm with a well-known actor or wealthy businessman, with an accompanying paragraph speculating about a budding romance.

  But although she had plenty of male at
tention and had enjoyed her share of lovers these past two years nothing ever seemed to develop into a serious romance. It was something that had been on Franny’s mind a lot recently. Perhaps it was her age – she was, after all, twenty-seven now, even if the rest of the world thought she was only twenty-three – but she was tired of being single.

  Then earlier that summer, in May 1956, she had been cast alongside Duke Carter in a swashbuckler, The Princess and the Pirate. Since that initial meeting in Ciro’s, the two stars had flirted on and off, but this was the first time they’d ever acted together. It turned out to be a perfect pairing. Duke was born to play the dashing, devil-may-care hero, and Franny was a delight as the prim but feisty princess, alternately appalled and intrigued by his rough charms. On screen, Duke and Franny smouldered. Their verbal sparring was quick and witty; the sexual chemistry between them palpable. Viewing the rushes for the first time, Lloyd saw an opportunity. What better way to publicise the movie, than to have a romance between the two leads played out in the papers?

  The studio’s publicity machine had gone into overdrive, and soon Duke and Franny were being seen everywhere together. Dolores Kent, of the LA Times, was among those eagerly following the courtship.

  ‘Don’t they look adorable?’ Dolores cooed in print, below a staged photo of Duke helping Franny on with her coat after a dinner at Chasen’s. ‘I predict an October wedding.’

  Reading the article earlier today, Franny found she liked that idea more than she’d thought possible. Mrs Duke Carter – it had a certain ring to it. Perhaps it was because of this that she’d found herself dressing more carefully than usual for her date with Duke tonight. Because while Franny knew that it was the studio who had arranged for her and Duke to be seen together, as she walked into the restaurant she couldn’t help hoping that it might turn into something more.

  Musso & Frank was one of Franny’s favourite places in Hollywood. The grillroom, famous for attracting the likes of Raymond Chandler, Charlie Chaplin and Rudolph Valentino, had a wonderful old-school feel, with its oak beams and mahogany wood furnishings. As a waiter escorted her to the table, she saw that Duke was already seated in his favourite red-leather booth. In a dinner jacket, he looked suave and debonair.

  He rose as she approached. Already smiling, he took Franny’s hands to hold her at arms’ length, as though to inspect her.

  ‘Well, don’t you look wonderful tonight,’ he said appreciatively, bending to kiss her hand. It was a typical Duke compliment – he was always so smooth, especially round the ladies – but Franny lapped it up anyway.

  It helped that she knew how good she looked tonight. Right now, she was at the height of her beauty. Her ivory skin was free of lines and blemishes, and her rich red hair – which had been painstakingly styled by her maid earlier – fell in soft, barrel curls around her shoulders. Poured into a midnight-blue cocktail dress, she looked as sensual as Lana Turner. Between the nose job, the grooming and the different accent, she was unrecognisable as the girl she’d once been. She’d even stopped worrying about someone from her past coming forward to spill her secrets. There was no way anyone would guess that Frances Fitzgerald was Franny Healey.

  Duke stood back to let her slide into the booth.

  ‘I reckon every guy in the joint wants to switch places with me right now,’ he said smoothly.

  Franny smiled. ‘And I’m sure every woman would love to be in my shoes,’ she returned.

  They settled at the table, and the waiter brought over two martinis.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Duke said, ‘but I took the liberty of ordering drinks.’

  ‘Fabulous.’ Franny lifted her glass. ‘Here’s to a wonderful evening!’

  Duke smiled politely as Franny threw her head back and laughed. It took all his willpower not to look at his watch. They’d been here for about an hour now, and he was wondering when it would be all right to leave.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like Franny. He’d be the first to admit that she was beautiful and amusing, but the fact was, he simply wasn’t interested. As a rule, he didn’t like dating actresses – well, not successful ones. He’d preferred Franny that first time they’d met at Ciro’s, when she’d been just starting out in Hollywood, and was still fresh and naïve. There was only room for one fragile ego in a relationship, and he’d found that he preferred to be the one who was adored.

  Looking past Franny, he spotted the cigarette girl who’d sold him a packet of Chesterfields earlier. At first glance she was pretty enough, but close up you could see her eyes were a little too close together and her nose had a large bump on the bridge. He would bet anything that she was a failed starlet: sweet, adoring and grateful for his attention.

  Feeling his eyes on her, the girl looked up. She blushed prettily as she realised that he was staring at her. That made up Duke’s mind.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he told Franny, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Franny sipped at her martini, and tried to amuse herself with people-watching as she waited for Duke to return. She flicked a look at her watch. He’d been gone for about twenty minutes now. Where on earth had he got to?

  Assuming that he’d been waylaid at another table, Franny twisted around in her seat to see if she could spot him. But as she scanned the restaurant, she saw instead that he was sitting up at the long, mahogany bar, talking avidly to the rather plain-looking cigarette girl. It took Franny a moment to work out what had happened – that she’d been dumped by Duke in favour of a nobody.

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. Before she could think about what she was doing, Franny picked up her martini glass, walked across the room to where Duke was sitting, and threw the drink in his face.

  The following morning, Lloyd Cramer, newly promoted Head of Juniper Studios, stared down at the latest issue of Confidential magazine. There, on the front cover, was a picture of a furious Franny shouting at a perplexed Duke, in front of an entire restaurant. The Studio Head was appalled. Not only had her behaviour undermined his carefully staged romance between his two stars, but he certainly couldn’t have his leading lady behaving in such an unladylike manner.

  Sighing heavily, he asked his secretary to get Frances Fitzgerald on the phone.

  ‘Tell her to get her butt in here,’ he growled. ‘ASAP.’

  Sitting in Lloyd Cramer’s office later that morning, Franny was feeling somewhat contrite. It was the first time she’d been told off by Lloyd, and she didn’t like how it felt. She’d listened attentively to the Studio Head’s lengthy lecture on her conduct, and felt herself go cold with fear as he told her that if anything like this happened again, then he would invoke the moral clause of her contract, and drop her from the studio’s roster.

  ‘Once you start getting negative press, it’s hard to get back in the media’s good books,’ he warned.

  ‘But the papers love me!’ she interjected, unable to stand the criticism any longer.

  ‘They won’t if you keep carrying on like this.’

  Hearing that, fear again gripped Franny. Falling out of favour with the press would spell the end of her career. Lowering her gaze, she tried to focus on appeasing Lloyd. ‘Again, I’m really sorry. I promise, this is the first and last time we’ll be having this conversation.’

  ‘Good. Well, we’ll draw a line under this. Although I have no idea what to do with you next. I was going to put you on another picture with Duke, but that’s blown out of the water now.’

  Franny mumbled another apology, but Lloyd carried on as though she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I don’t have much else for you at the moment,’ he said. ‘There’s The Black Rose, of course . . .’

  At that, Franny’s ears pricked up. She’d heard all about The Black Rose, a film noir set in London during the Second World War. The main female lead was a nightclub singer who may or may not be a double agent. Usually that type of role wouldn’t have interested her, but this did for one reason alone: the movie was going to be filmed in England
, which meant she would finally get to see her daughter.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She tried not to look too eager. If Lloyd guessed that she had a hidden agenda, then he would veto her involvement in the movie. ‘That’s right. The lead sounds amazing.’

  ‘Not really the type of role we’d usually cast you in,’ Lloyd mused. The Studio Head looked at her sharply. ‘You know it’s going to be filmed in London?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gazed at him impassively. ‘That’s why I thought it’d be ideal for me. It would give me a chance to get away from here for a while, until all the gossip dies down.’

  Lloyd couldn’t deny that her reasoning made sense. Frowning, he said, ‘Let me think about it.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Being back in London was a strange experience for Franny. Before, it had been a place of poverty for her. Now, she had returned in triumph: she was the one staying in the Savoy, going out to supper clubs.

  She was there for six weeks. Despite the weather – the incessant rain and thick pervading fog – filming on The Black Rose was completed quickly, and she felt it had gone well. She was tired of being typecast as the noble female, and relished playing a character with a little more bite to it. The director seemed delighted with how the dailies had turned out, and the London fog – which seemed to have worsened since she was last there – gave extra atmosphere to the outside shots.

  And then it was time to see her daughter again.

  Franny had organised every detail of the reunion perfectly. Given the limited time she had in Europe, she’d asked Theresa to bring Cara over to England to meet up. Of course it was crucial that the rendezvous remained secret. With that in mind, Franny had decided it would be best to get away from London, so she had booked the Grand Hotel in Brighton for a week’s stay. It would be lovely, she thought, for Cara to have a seaside holiday. She made the reservation in Theresa’s name, and brought enough cash to pay in full. This week, she wanted to be anonymous, to be a normal person again.