As the scene continued, they became more and more friendly, exchanging confidences and information about their lives, until Laurie asked Jo to dance. Jo explained why she couldn’t move about in her dress.
“Though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh if you want to. It is funny, I know,” Tessa said, as she spoke the last line of the pages she’d been given.
Roddy Fensterwald looked closely into her eyes, judging her ability to be surprised. He grabbed the script out of her hand and threw it, with his own, into the air and swept her into an approximation of a swinging, springing, breathless polka, with which the actual scene in the book ended. Peggy and Fiona continued to sit absolutely still, although they were both resisting the urge to cheer.
Roddy bowed to Tessa and led her ceremoniously to the office door. “Wait outside, Tessa, while we huddle, will you?”
“Thank you, Roddy! I’ve never had so much fun!” Tessa exclaimed. “Oh! Would you mind—could I just have a second to ask Miss Bancroft for her autograph before I leave?”
“Miss Bancroft?”
“I was wondering who she was, and then when she caught my eye, just before we started the scene, of course I knew immediately,” Tessa explained, suddenly shy. “After all, there isn’t another pair of eyes in the world like hers, is there?”
“Go on, get your autograph and then scoot.”
Tessa collected her autograph from a subdued Glenda Bancroft and left the room as quickly as possible.
“Peggy and Fiona, could you leave us for a minute?” Roddy asked quietly.
“ ‘Caught her eye’!” he stormed, as soon as they had gone. “Damn it, Glenda! Caught her eye! How could you be such a thundering bitch? If there was one thing calculated to throw her off, that was it. It’s unforgivable, I’ll never trust you again,” Roddy raged.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, lover, it was an accident. Did you expect me not to peek to see what that girl looked like? She happened to catch me just when I was looking at her, that’s all. And anyway, don’t carry on as if anything could stop all that tiresome inexhaustible energy. Jesus, Roddy, what a heap of ingenuous, innocent gaiety. It’s just as well something got her off the ceiling and down to business. You’re not actually thinking of casting her, are you?”
“That’s none of your business, Glenda.”
“Roddy, I want this picture to be a success even more than you do. We agreed it was an ensemble piece—that great big, enthusiastic girl would throw it entirely off balance. I’m not saying she’s not beautiful, I’m not saying she can’t act, I’m not even saying I don’t wish I were her age, for the love of God! But she’s too bloody much! She eats up all the air in the room, she’s a stage actress, not a film actress, she doesn’t have the right dimensions. She’s as big a presence as … as Ethel Merman! She’s a talent, I admit that willingly, but not for this particular picture and not until she gets some experience in acting for a camera. You know that as well as I do.”
“Glenda, go home before I forget I’m a gent and hit you, will you darling?”
“What am I seeing here, Roddy, a little tiny crush on a great big tomboy? Roddy Fensterwald in love? Don’t tell me that’s making you lose your judgment.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he grinned thoughtfully. “Interesting interpretation—but why not? We’re all capable of anything, under the right circumstances, I always say. So this is what love feels like! Be still my heart. No wonder people carry on the way they do. But just think, if even I could go for this girl, how will every other man in America feel?”
“Little Women is a fucking woman’s movie, Roddy. And that fucking girl’s too old for me to play her fucking mother!”
“Glenda, as I said before, go home so you can have this particular fit with your agent. He gets paid enough to listen to you. But remember that your contract isn’t signed yet.”
“That’s unworthy of you,” Glenda retorted with dignity.
“I love you when you try to be grand. And, sweetie, I adore your getup. Especially the head scarf. It’s a whole new you. I’ve always insisted you had untapped range, no matter what anyone else said. Will you send Peggy and Fiona in on your way out?”
7
Tessa woke up one summer morning in 1974 feeling defiant before her feet hit the floor. She was going to be nineteen in six weeks, but her life was three times as full of things she was obliged to do as it had been when she was still a schoolgirl at Marymount.
Today was Saturday, a day on which, by rights, she should have at least a few free hours to herself. But every single minute was scheduled. Right after breakfast she had a riding lesson, a new skill her agent insisted she needed to develop; then home to shower again and change for a talk with her business manager over lunch, a meeting her father had arranged and sternly told her not to forget. After lunch she had to go back home again to change once more for an interview set up by the producers of her new film, Gemini Summer. The interviewer, a French journalist from Paris Match, would be accompanied by a photographer who wanted to “follow her around” all afternoon. As soon as that major ordeal was over, her mother expected her home for dinner, here in Santa Monica. There was no space for her in her day, Tessa realized, as she brushed the hair that fell in a drifting cascade of natural waves no studio hairdresser would ever try to subdue.
Even worse, she thought, she loathed horses; she wasn’t interested in “equity diversification,” the subject her business manager was going to try to explain to her once again; and she was intimidated by the idea of the interview with the man from Paris Match and his inquisitive photographer. She’d rather have a cavity filled.
Novocain and drilling, a mere pinprick followed by an annoying noise that was over in a half hour, would be better than picking her way across a tightrope without losing her balance during three hours with a reporter-photographer combination, particularly when they’d told the PR people that they wanted to watch her “being herself.” Holy Mother, she thought, wasn’t it just plain crazy to expect her to be herself—whoever that was, anyway?—when they knew that she knew that the camera was capturing every move she made and the interviewer was recording every remark she made, no matter how silly?
Feeling more put upon by the minute, Tessa reminded herself that tomorrow, Sunday, when she’d finally have a few free hours after mass followed by the obligatory family lunch, all the stores in Beverly Hills would be closed.
Yet this past March, on Oscar night, when she’d won the Best Supporting Actress award for Little Women, Tessa had promised herself a present. She’d had to postpone buying it because of the demands on her time, and the longer she waited, the more alluring it became. She craved it, this gift from herself to herself, the Oscar present and the major nineteenth-birthday present she wouldn’t be anywhere near Tiffany & Co. to buy on her actual birthday. Tessa came to a decision. She was going to play hooky. She was going to Tiffany’s this morning and that was that.
She picked up the phone that had been recently installed in her bedroom and called Fiona Bridges, her just-as-recent personal assistant, and told her that she thought she might be coming down with a cold and that her riding lesson had better be canceled. She hated to lie, but she didn’t want even Fiona to go with her when she bought her present. It should be a private moment, a secret delight, with nobody looking on and giving advice. She didn’t need advice, Tessa assured herself. She’d know it as soon as she saw it—it would leap out at her.
Tessa carefully considered what to wear. She wanted to look like someone who had every right to expect service at Tiffany’s and at the same time she didn’t want to risk being recognized, something that was happening to her more and more often whenever she went out in public. Hastily she went through all the new clothes that Fiona had helped her to buy and realized that none of them would do. They had been purchased for special events and were all meant for the late afternoon or evening. Like every other California kid, her normal w
ear consisted of jeans, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and shorts.
Finally, in desperation, Tessa decided to wear her best green linen suit, with her best white silk shirt, both of which were strictly reserved for Sunday mass. She poked and pulled at her hair until it fell untidily around her face, concealing her features as much as possible. She decided not to put on any makeup.
The general effect, she thought, as she glanced with concern into her mirror, was that of someone with the money for good clothes, someone who was too hip to care what she looked like—a casual, old-money look she’d noticed was a favorite with the mothers of her former schoolmates in Greenwich, a look that she hoped would inspire a certain amount of respect in a jewelry salesman.
She phoned the local taxi company. As soon as she saw the cab stop at the front door, she was out in a flash, calling “Bye, Mother, have to meet Fiona,” before her mother could stop her to ask why she wasn’t having breakfast, what had happened to her riding lesson, and why on earth she was wearing her good suit.
“Tiffany’s in Beverly Hills,” Tessa told the driver, feeling a sudden surge of freedom as the cab pulled away quickly. She hadn’t been this excited since the audition that had won her the part of Jo. And what if she hadn’t talked Steve Miller, her business manager, into letting her open a little checking account of her own, Tessa asked herself delightedly. What if every last penny of the money she’d made were tied up in those safe investments that Steve told her would give her financial security when she was too old to work?
“I’m young, for heaven’s sake, Steve,” she’d told him, amazed. “I can play ingenues and leading ladies for another twenty years and I’ll still only be thirty-eight. Wow, imagine, thirty-eight! That’s practically middle-aged! Then, when it’s time, I’ll move into character parts. You’ll see, Steve, I plan to get older in some wonderful way, maybe a dignified, distinguished way, like an English actress, or in a sexy, fascinating way, like a French actress. I’ll play anything—mothers, maiden aunts, teachers, taxi drivers, nuns, you name it—because I intend to keep on working until I drop dead from real old age one day, waiting for my close-up.”
He’d laughed at her, but eventually she’d managed to get him to fork over three thousand dollars, more money than she’d ever believed she would have in her possession. Tessa’s never-used checkbook lay snugly in her handbag.
The taxi stopped in front of Tiffany & Co. at the corner of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. She’d never been in the store—she’d hardly ever been to Beverly Hills, for that matter—yet she didn’t linger to gape at the windows but entered eagerly, marching through the door as if she’d done it dozens of times before. She moved with her characteristic walk, coltish yet swinging, both youthful and immodestly alluring, slightly boyish but enduringly graceful—a walk she was never to lose.
Swiftly Tessa cruised around the store, her proud head on her proud neck set at a critical, appraising angle, as if she weren’t sure there could possibly be anything here she’d want to buy. She took in the lay of the land quickly. China and silver to the right; men’s watches and cuff links at one counter; women’s jeweled pins, necklaces, and earrings at another; silver picture frames, clocks, and key chains at a third. No, not what she was looking for. The salespeople all seemed to be occupied with customers, and for a minute Tessa stood still and looked around. At five feet seven inches, she was so perfectly made that she looked taller, and her disciplined posture was commanding without her realizing it. She made a vivid sight in her green suit: this tall, slim girl with a treasure of almost-black hair tumbling around her face, a face whose features were instantly translated into beauty, no matter how little of them could be seen.
“May I be of assistance?” asked a man’s voice. Tessa turned to see a pleasantly smiling, reassuringly middle-aged man who had materialized behind her.
“Yes, thank you. I’m looking for … for a pearl necklace.”
“You’ve certainly come to the right place,” he nodded. “Let’s go over to the back of the store. That’s where we keep our pearls.”
Tessa followed him to a long counter where, under glass, lay dozens of pearl necklaces and earrings. She noted that there were many differences in the size of the pearls and the lengths of the necklaces.
“Are these for a gift or for yourself?” the salesman asked.
“For myself,” Tessa answered, the normally spontaneous tone of her voice suddenly tentative as she realized that pearl necklaces came in more varieties than she had ever imagined, although she’d been daydreaming about one for over a year.
“Well then, if you can give me some idea of what you have in mind …?” He gestured at the abundance of choice. If it were up to him, he thought, he’d dip into the case and hand her as many pearls as her two hands could hold and tell her they were a gift from an admirer.
A genuine pearl necklace I can buy for three thousand dollars, including sales tax, Tessa told herself, but she heard herself say, “I really won’t be able to tell you much until I try one on, will I?”
“That’s absolutely right,” the salesman agreed. “Each necklace is different from any other. Even two necklaces that seem identical to the naked eye will look different on your skin.” On this girl’s very white, extraordinarily perfect skin, he thought, any necklace was going to look exquisite. No necklace would be the best adornment of all.
“Of course,” Tessa said, looking down at rows of pearls that all seemed to be the same color. Pearl color.
“I assume you’re looking for a sixteen-inch necklace?”
“Probably,” Tessa said guardedly.
“It’s the most useful length, unless, of course, you have one already.” How could she not, he asked himself? How could such a splendid creature, who so obviously came from a moneyed background, not have an entire wardrobe of pearls? Of course, she was still so young she’d probably been borrowing her mother’s.
“Why do you think sixteen inches is so useful?” Tessa asked, not about to admit that she’d never measured the inexpensive string of artificial pearls she’d been given for her confirmation. Years of hard use had worn off their glossy surface in many places and shown them to be mere painted glass beads.
“You can wear a sixteen-inch strand with anything from a ball gown to a sweater,” he said, trying to decide whether her amazing eyes were more green than gray. Tessa looked up at him. Far more green, he decided, a green like early spring in the forest on a day that was touched by a faint mist. “When you get to eighteen inches there’s always the problem of the necklace dipping under your collar.”
“Then let’s go for sixteen,” Tessa said, relieved to have one element isolated from the other possibilities.
“As for the millimeter …?” The salesman paused tactfully. The size of the pearl determined the price.
“The millimeter,” Tessa mused, not betraying the fact that she was entirely at sea. Was the millimeter the weight of the pearl or the diameter? “The millimeter, yes, naturally. Now what would you buy, if you were me?”
“For a young woman, I usually recommend eight and a half to nine millimeters, not too big a pearl, not too small, and it’s always appropriate. This strand, for instance,” he said, reaching into the case and pulling out a necklace whose pearls were only slightly bigger than those of the old necklace she’d worn out.
“Is that eight and a half or nine?” she asked, ignoring a definite stirring of disappointment.
“Both,” he answered. “A discrepancy of one half millimeter is standard in a necklace of uniform size.”
“Oh, of course, because they’re natural,” Tessa said hastily, realizing that pearl divers couldn’t be expected to pop up out of the ocean with a bunch of pearls that were exactly the same size.
“Not natural, no.” The salesman repressed even the hint of a smile. “These are all cultured pearls. You can only tell the difference if you X-ray them. There haven’t been any natural pearls available since the 1930s, unless you buy them at auction, and then they�
��re fabulously expensive.”
“At auction?” Tessa said shocked. “Secondhand pearls? I’d never do that. How would you know what you’re getting?”
“Precisely. Whereas here …”
“They’re Mikimoto,” Tessa finished his sentence, remembering the name from the ads she’d seen for Mikimoto cultured pearls.
“Actually, they’re not.”
“No? Hmm.” Tessa looked dubious to hide her confusion.
“These come from our special sources. Mikimoto is a trade name and it includes many standards of pearls, but only one standard is considered good enough for Tiffany and Company. Our experts eliminate all the others, even if you, or I, for that matter, would never be able to tell the difference.”
It was her mouth, the salesman thought, that was making him ramble. It was just enough larger than the mouths of ordinary women to be utterly fascinating: sharply incised at the corners yet rising to an unusual plumpness, the deep indentation in the middle of her upper lip precisely the right distance from the ravishingly high peaks on either side. No wonder she didn’t wear lipstick. It would obscure this natural gift of all the pagan gods and goddesses.
“I think the only way for you to decide,” he continued, “is to sit down in our private room and try on a number of necklaces. The light is better in there.”
“Fine,” Tessa agreed quickly. Out of the corner of her eye she’d noticed several people looking at her with the kind of interest that she’d learned meant that she’d been recognized.
The salesman unlocked the case, extracted three identically sized necklaces, and escorted Tessa to a small room lined in gray velvet, where there were a desk, a chair, and a large round mirror on a stand. He laid the necklaces out carefully on a square of gray velvet.
“Which one would you like to start with?” he asked Tessa.
“That one,” she said, pointing at random. He undid the clasp and, standing behind her, fastened the necklace around her neck.
The Jewels of Tessa Kent Page 7