by Rhys Bowen
I smiled to myself as I climbed into the car beside Darcy. Mummy too had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. She had been born in a two-up, two-down row house, daughter of a Cockney policeman. But that past had been conveniently obliterated in her mind.
Once we were under way I turned to Darcy with the question I was dying to ask. “Are you really going to play that part in Mr. Goldman’s film?”
He was staring straight ahead, navigating the unfamiliar road and driving on the wrong side. “Why not? You don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be a film star?”
“I’m sure you have. It’s just that . . .” What could I say? That I was scared he’d be a roaring success and would stay in Hollywood and have other women throw themselves at him? When I tried to form those thoughts into words they sounded petty and juvenile. I shook my head. “No, of course if you really want to, I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. Star of the film.”
Darcy grinned. The drive was spectacular, out on the road that hugged the Pacific Ocean. Steep golden sandstone cliffs rose to our right, blue water and white surf on the left. The colors were overwhelmingly bright and in spite of all the tension of the last few days I began to look forward to this latest adventure, especially now that Darcy was beside me. After a few miles we left the paved road and began to climb into the hills up a narrow canyon. The dirt road twisted and turned until we came to a high wire fence with barbed wire around the top. A gate, similarly topped with barbed wire, barred our way.
“It looks like a prison,” Mummy muttered to me. “Do you think we’ll be allowed out again for good behavior?”
“When have you ever behaved well?” I turned to tease.
“Naughty child. You should spank her, Darcy.”
“Now that’s a thought,” Darcy quipped back.
There was a small gatehouse built in the Spanish style. A man came out of this and the gate swung open. The gatekeeper saluted Mr. Goldman as his car sailed past. He kept saluting as we followed. We continued on, up a steep winding track between hills of parched golden grass, dotted with oak trees and scrub, until suddenly the landscape became more obviously cultivated with shade trees, flowering oleanders and bougainvillea, even rosebushes. Among the trees I caught glimpses of small cottages and wondered if the description of a castle had just been Mr. Goldman’s private tease.
Then we came to a gravel forecourt, with a fountain in it, just like an English country estate, and behind it—for once I was justified in saying “golly.” My mother muttered not quite such a polite word. Above us, perched on a bluff, loomed a huge edifice—a cross between Moorish castle and Gothic fantasy with medieval turrets, domes of bright blue tiles, archways, balconies. The front façade was sparking white marble, while other parts were made of rough stone, to resemble a medieval castle. The white stone glowed pink in the early evening sun.
To the left of the castle was an enormous swimming pool, its clear blue waters sparkling in the pale light. It was edged by a line of Greek columns and arches. Classical statues stood between the columns and were dotted around the forecourt.
“No expense spared here,” Darcy muttered. “It looks as if he’s pillaged the Acropolis for this lot.”
Darcy parked the motorcar next to the others in front of a vast garage. As I climbed out I was greeted by the most heavenly smell—the herby scents of vegetation mingled with the sweeter perfumes of a thousand rosebushes and tinged with the fresh salty breeze from the ocean, which lay far below us, sparkling in sunshine. This really was a fantasy paradise. And to add to the illusion I spotted something moving among the trees in the parkland, and for a second I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. No deer or cows but striped animals. They really were zebras. I blinked and stared again. And could that actually be a giraffe among those oak trees? Then I remembered that the wild animals had been mentioned in our conversations on the ship. I hadn’t taken them seriously then.
“Oh my God. It’s a bloody zoo,” my mother exclaimed as she exited from the motor. “You don’t think there are any lions, do you? I’m not leaving the house.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Darcy said. “He probably feeds them with guests who have outstayed their welcome.”
Cy Goldman was standing on the steps waiting to greet us. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said in his big voice. “I hope you enjoy your stay here. Feel free to use any of the facilities—swimming pool, gymnasium, riding stables—all at your disposal. And now I’d like you to come and get your keys. My guests never stay in the main house. Too much closeness for me. That’s why I had the guest cottages built on the grounds. So let’s see. Claire honey, you don’t mind sharing a cottage with your daughter, do you? I’ve put you in Honeysuckle Hall—my English-style cottage—so that you feel at home.” He held out a key to her. “And you young guys—Juan, Darcy, Ronnie and you—what’s your name.” He pointed at Algie, making it quite clear that he hadn’t expected Algie to come along. “There’s plenty of room for you all in the Hacienda. That’s the low Spanish-style building just behind the main house. Ronnie will show you the way.” He held out a key to Ronnie.
“Craig, I wouldn’t insult you by putting you with lesser mortals, so you get one of the poolside suites. Stella, it might be wiser if you took the other, seeing that Mrs. Goldman will be arriving soon.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my usual room in the house, Cy,” she said, staring at him defiantly. “I come here more often than she does and all my things are there. Don’t worry, I won’t try to climb into bed with you, I promise.”
Cy shrugged. “Suit yourself, but she’s not going to like it.”
“Do I care?” Stella muttered as she turned away. “I could always bunk in the Hacienda with the boys. I bet they’d find a way to keep me happy.” And she shot him a challenging look as she walked past him up the steps and into the main house.
Mr. Goldman cleared his throat. “Alfredo will drive you down to your cottage, Claire,” he said. “When you’ve settled in, come up to the house and I’ll give you the grand tour. Drinks will be waiting beside the pool. Bring your costumes if you want to swim. Don’t worry about the breeze. The pool is heated.”
A young and ruggedly handsome man started loading our luggage aboard a little motorized cart. It crossed my mind that he might be one of Mr. Goldman’s discoveries who hadn’t measured up and been discarded like Juan. We climbed aboard and crunched across the gravel forecourt, along a flagstone path, finally stopping outside a cottage that looked as if it had been taken, brick by brick, from a quaint English village. Honeysuckle climbed over the porch. Inside was furnished to complete the illusion, with a tall Welsh dresser full of blue and white china, copper pots, low ceilings and wood beams. As we entered it even smelled old. The furniture was definitely antique—the sort of tables, sideboard, writing desk and high-backed armchairs you’d find in any English country house. Mummy was still grinning. “I wonder if he bought the whole thing and had it shipped across from England,” she said. “How horribly quaint. I’d rather have had the Spanish-style bungalow where the men are staying. At least that’s close to the house. But I suppose he wants us to feel at home in a replica of Merrie Olde England.”
“At least it’s a trifle better than that other cottage beyond this.” I pointed out of the window to where a replica of a cottage that might have housed Hansel and Gretel’s witch stood nestled among tall oak trees. It had tiny paned windows, a ridiculously pointed roof and weathered shutters.
“No accounting for taste.” Mummy shivered.
Claudette unpacked for Mummy and I hung up my own things. I couldn’t help imagining what Queenie’s reaction to this place would have been and how she made me laugh as well as exasperating me. I wondered if I’d ever be able to afford another maid. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. When Mummy had changed into more casual wide-bottom slacks and blouse, tied her hair back with a red scarf and rep
aired her makeup, we followed the path back up the hill to the house. Of course we were one of the last. Mummy never dresses in a hurry.
“I don’t think I like the thought of walking up this path,” she said. “Where is the young man with his little cart when we need him? Did you notice a telephone in the cottage?”
“It’s not too far and it’s a nice evening,” I said.
Mummy looked around. “I certainly don’t intend to walk down it alone at night. What about the wild animals? I shall keep thinking we’re being stalked by lions and tigers.” She latched on to my arm. “I’m not even keen to meet a zebra face-to-face. I hear they’ve got nasty tempers.”
“I think wild animals are usually shy and avoid humans,” I said, staring up at the castle that loomed above us, gleaming in the setting sun. “But isn’t this place extraordinary? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s certainly over the top, and completely tasteless,” Mummy said. “He must have an awful lot of money to waste. I thought Max was rich, but at least he’s sensible. I must write and tell him about this.”
“Your German must have improved,” I said.
She glared at me. “He has a secretary to translate.” She looked around again. “Drinks by the pool, didn’t he say? I didn’t bring my costume, did you?”
“No,” I said. There was no way I’d have wanted to reveal my body to a group that included Craig and Stella.
“It’s a little nippy for a swim,” Mummy said, “and I don’t look my best with goose bumps.”
As we approached the pool we could see Cy Goldman and several other people already assembled amid the archways and palm trees. Stella was in a bright green, formfitting bathing suit, sitting with her feet in the clear blue water, holding a martini in her hand. She was looking up at someone, laughing, and I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with Juan or Darcy or both. Mr. Goldman beckoned us over and told us to order cocktails from the barman.
“Enjoy yourselves while you can before my wife gets here,” he said. Then he looked up and swore under his breath. Another motorcar was coming up the canyon. “Too late,” Cy said.
The motor came to a halt. A chauffeur opened the back door and a large woman in black stepped out. She was dressed for New York not California in a two-piece suit with a diamond brooch on her lapel. Her hair was marcel waved into tight curls and her face was a mask of bright makeup. She looked around with disapproval then stalked over toward us. “There you are, Cyrus,” she said. “I was expecting you’d have had the courtesy to wait until I arrived. But no, you can’t even be bothered to greet your wife when you haven’t seen her in ages. I only saw you for a couple of seconds when you were in New York.”
“Nice to see you too, Helen,” Cy replied dryly. “It wasn’t my fault that you had your museum auxiliary meeting when I came to the apartment. Anyway, you’re here now. Come and have a drink and meet everyone.”
She looked at us with disapproval. “You’ve brought a whole slew of people here? How thoughtless. Didn’t it occur to you that I’d want us to spend some time together?”
“You never did before,” Cy said. “Anyway, we need to keep working on the picture we’re shooting. It’s just cast members and a few friends.”
“Well, I’ve brought some friends too,” she said. “I ran into Barbara at the Beverly Hills Hotel and she was delighted to keep me company on the drive. So was dear Charlie. I gather you’d invited him and he was planning to drive up later, but then he decided to hitch a ride with us.”
I watched as Barbara Kindell and Charlie Chaplin emerged from the car.
“Charlie’s okay, but what did you want to bring her for?” Cy hissed. “You know that anything that happens here will be in the New York newspapers tomorrow.”
“Don’t be so stuffy, Cy. She’s an old friend. A good friend. A loyal friend, which is more than I can say for some people.” She reached out for Barbara Kindell and hooked her arm through Barbara’s. Barbara gave us a small triumphant smile. Charlie Chaplin had headed straight for the bar, took a cocktail and then turned toward my mother and me, raising his glass to his lips.
“Ah, the flower of English womanhood,” he said.
He was about to come over to us when he noticed Craig and Darcy. “Don’t tell me I have competition this weekend,” he said. “I’m not exactly worried about my boy Craig, but who are these other fellows?”
“My new stars, Charlie.” Cy Goldman moved across to put an arm around his shoulder. “Juan is a Spanish matador and this guy O’Mara is a true-blue English lord. I’m going to make him the next Fairbanks. And Juan the next Valentino.”
“Good luck.” Charlie looked amused. “So long as neither is a comic. But then they don’t look very comical.”
Cy was looking past him, frowning. “Did you bring someone else, Helen? Is that your new maid?”
Mrs. Goldman turned around. “No, Cy. This is a charming young lady I met on the train. She was so helpful to me when I couldn’t get my bag down from the rack. And when she told me she was an up-and-coming costume designer and she was actually on her way out to see you, I insisted that she come along. What’s more she’s a real blue-blooded descendent of the Tudor family and I heard it just happens you’re making a movie about the Tudors. So I thought she might be quite a help in designing your costumes for you.”
I was staring in amazement. Of all the surreal things I had seen today this was the most unbelievable.
“Belinda,” I exclaimed.
Chapter 17
AT MR. GOLDMAN’S CASTLE, SOMEWHERE UP THE COAST FROM LOS ANGELES
AUGUST 3
Belinda dropped her train case and rushed toward me, flinging out her arms. “Georgie, darling. What a lovely, lovely surprise. Fancy meeting you of all people here.”
She looked back at Mrs. Goldman as she kissed my cheeks. “This is my oldest and dearest friend in the world. Lady Georgiana, you know. Cousin to His Majesty the king. I’d heard that you were in Los Angeles but I had no idea . . .” She looked around the group, beaming. “And your dear mama, and good heavens—there’s Darcy too. It’s like a family reunion.”
Mr. Goldman was looking bemused and for once speechless. “Let me get this straight. This kid is another Tudor relation? Did they breed like rabbits?”
“The British aristocratic families are all related to each other in some way,” I said, although I was fairly sure that Belinda was in no way linked to the Tudors. I was giving her full marks for her acting ability. She knew very well that we were with Mr. Goldman and that the film was about the Tudors. “This is Miss Warburton-Stoke. Belinda and I were at school together.”
Belinda turned the full force of her charm on Cy Goldman. “How do you do,” she said, “and how kind of you to include me at this lovely, lovely place.”
Of course then he could hardly say that he didn’t want to include her. He scratched his head. “Where are we going to put these people, Ronnie?” he asked.
“We can put Mr. Chaplin in the other poolside suite, if Miss Brightwell’s not using it,” Ronnie said. “And we can have Maria open up Trianon for Miss Kindell and the young English lady. Unless you’d like your new protégé to sleep in the big house, Mrs. Goldman?”
“Barbara can sleep in the big house with us,” Mrs. Goldman said firmly. “I want to have her close by, just in case I need her.”
“I have an extra bed in my room. Belinda can share with me,” I said, smiling sweetly at her. “It will be just like old times at school.” Belinda opened her mouth to protest but then decided not to. “Thanks, Georgie,” she said.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Cy said. “You’d all better have a drink. And to what do I owe this honor, Helen?”
“I need permission to come to my own house now, do I?” She faced him defiantly.
“No, but since you haven’t been here in years I thought you weren’t
interested.”
“I heard you bought a chapel from a Spanish convent and you’re having it shipped over here, brick by brick,” she said. “I wanted to see for myself.”
“It’s not here yet,” he said.
“So where are you going to put it?”
“It’s going to be my new bathhouse for the pool. Imagine taking a shower with all those saints looking down from stained glass windows.”
I caught Charlie Chaplin’s eye and he winked. I was beginning to like him in spite of the rumors. Belinda had returned to the group with her cocktail. She looked around. I saw her appraising Juan, then her gaze fixed on Craig.
“My goodness. That can’t be Craig Hart, can it?” she said breathlessly and she made a beeline for him. “I’d recognize you anywhere, Mr. Hart. I’m such a big fan. I loved you as a pirate in your last film.”
“Well, thank you very much, little lady,” Craig said. “What was your name again?”
“Belinda,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. It was lucky that I really had no interest in being Craig Hart’s next conquest. I moved over to Darcy.
“Well, that’s a turnup for the books. What’s she doing here?” he whispered. “Did you invite her?”
“Of course not. I wrote to her from New York and told her about Mr. Goldman and the film. She must have taken the next boat. You know Belinda. She never misses a good opportunity. Perhaps she now wants to be a costume designer for the movies. She’d be good, I think.”
“I think she’d rather catch a rich film star,” Darcy muttered behind his cocktail glass. “Look at her turning on the charm.”
The fog was now rolling in from the ocean and with it a chill breeze. Stella shivered and hauled herself out of the pool. “I’m cold, Cy. Let’s go inside.” She put on a toweling robe and slippers.