by Lulu Taylor
She shared a cabin with Gunter, who was deathly afraid every night that they would wake up sinking in the freezing water, so slept in her clothes, her handbag clutched to her chest. During the day, when Gunter could be sure that they were still afloat, she was quite calm, and, once they had had their constitutional walk, she was happy to let Xenia roam the great liner and join in the various activities for the youngsters on board. She made friends and joined them for walks on the decks and games, made up and organised. They watched for whales and pods of dolphins, and created an epic hide-and-seek competition that stretched over the entire boat. There was even a screening room, where films were shown for the children in the afternoons.
‘Wasn’t it marvellous?’ said her new friend Patricia, when they came out blinking from watching Melody Time. ‘Wasn’t the duck so funny? I do so love films, especially cartoons.’
‘We’re going to Hollywood to see my mother,’ Xenia told her. ‘She’s going to be a film star.’
‘I want to be a film star,’ Patricia sighed. ‘You are so lucky! Will you see a film being made?’
‘I should think so. I hope so.’
They played at being film stars most of the time after that, and the friendly waiters, their roles explained to them, didn’t mind pretending along and coming up to ask for autographs or to offer cocktails of orange juice and soda water and lemonade champagne in coupes to the small movie stars.
Papa often stayed in his cabin or in the drawing rooms of the liner, sleeping and reading, but every afternoon he would meet her for tea in the lounge, and then they would walk the deck together, talking about what they would do when they got to Hollywood. Xenia had hundreds of questions, and always wanted to hear about the magical story of how Mama had been cast in the role of Delilah.
‘She had to audition many times for Archibald Thomas,’ Papa told her as they strolled along the deck, her hand in his, ‘with dozens of different actors playing the other parts. They filmed her with different hairstyles, and different make-up and costumes, and to see how her eyes and mouth moved, and how she looked on camera.’ He smiled down at her. ‘She had to kiss lots of actors.’
‘Kiss them!’ Xenia was shocked. ‘Were you very angry, Papa?’
‘Oh no. It’s only acting. It’s nothing, actors have to pretend romance all the time, it’s not one bit like real life.’
‘That’s good.’ Xenia was relieved to hear it. ‘And did they decide they liked her best?’
‘Mama was the best right from the start.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s very exciting, Xenia. Mama is going to be a proper film star, and be famous all over the world. We are very proud of her, aren’t we, darling?’
‘Very,’ Xenia agreed, and skipped beside him with glee.
The evenings were her absolutely favourite time. Gunter would help get her ready for dinner: she had a smart black velvet dress with a white collar and matching black velvet ribbons for her hair. Then she would wait for Papa to collect her, and they would go to the dining room. Papa drank real cocktails while she had lemonade, and they always sat with the most glamorous people on board: beautiful women in long dresses and jewels; handsome men in their dinner jackets who smoked cigars and sported moustaches and oily-looking, slicked-back hair. At least, that was how they appeared to Xenia. Papa looked the handsomest of all, and how he was fawned over.
‘Oh, Prince,’ the women would say, touching his arm and laughing at his witticisms. ‘You’re so charming! So witty. So interesting.’
‘Tell us, Prince, your opinion of what’s happening in Russia,’ the men would say, and then they’d listen as Papa told them what he thought of the evil old despot Stalin and how he hoped it would not be long before he died.
Sometimes they talked admiringly of Mama and her career. They had all heard that Natalie Rowe was making an important film with a famous director, and they knew Papa was going to visit her in Hollywood.
‘I’m told she is simply extraordinary on film – it’s her first real motion picture, you know,’ Papa would say with a slight swagger. ‘It began just as a little fun for her, and yet now she is on the cusp of becoming a great actress. Naturally, my mother is a little shocked – it’s not how she was brought up. She doesn’t understand that the world has changed since she was a girl. She still has a horror of actresses and scandal and doesn’t realise that today’s stars are ladies.’
‘Dear Princess Arkadyoff,’ they said, as if they knew her. ‘She must remember the way things were, before the revolution. Do tell us – what was the Tsar like? The Tsarina? Those poor grand duchesses?’
‘I was just a boy, I’m afraid, far too young to remember,’ Papa would say, declining as always to discuss what had happened to his family in the revolution. ‘And naturally it was too painful for my mother to speak of.’
Xenia was coming to realise that her family was shrouded in a peculiar glamour, one that she didn’t understand at all. She had yet to meet her grandmother or her aristocratic Russian relations, though she knew she had plenty, but that glittering title and a connection to a vanished imperial court fascinated everyone. With a film-star wife thrown into the mix, it was no wonder that the first-class passengers found Papa so thrilling, and he basked in their approval, his dark eyes sparkling with merriment and his lips curving into a smile that revealed his small, slightly yellowed teeth, as he smoked his endless cigarettes. He liked to be at those tables, being deferred to and flirted with. Xenia sat quietly and watched, until he remembered her presence and showed her off to everyone.
The ladies cooed over her: ‘The sweet little princess, how old is she?’
‘She’s almost twelve years old.’
‘What beautiful manners she has! And those eyes, just like yours. She’ll be a beauty.’
Xenia knew she would never be a beauty, not like Mama, but she liked being fussed over and behaving like a grownup. Then, suddenly, Papa would remember that she was only a child.
‘Xenia, that’s enough. It’s late, you must go and find Gunter and ask her to put you to bed.’
‘I can put myself to bed.’
‘Off, off, off.’ And he would wave his hand at her, or point at her with the lighted end of his cigarette. ‘Go away, child! You need your sleep.’
That would be the end of her glamorous evening. But she had learned to creep out onto the deck and peer in through the lighted windows of the dining room. From there, she could carry on watching, unseen. She loved to see Papa animated and smiling. She liked it when the band struck up and the diners took to the floor in the centre of the room to spin and turn, the dresses glittering and shining as they twirled. How wonderful to be grown up and to have the freedom to stay up late and dance for as long as one wanted.
She was watching one particular couple who danced with real elegance and grace when she heard footsteps quite close on the deck, and voices nearby too. It was, she realised to her horror, Papa, strolling out with a cigarette in one hand and a woman’s arm tucked through his other arm.
‘Paul, you are so romantic,’ purred the woman in an American accent. ‘I simply don’t understand how your wife could bear to be away from you for a minute, let alone six months. You must be so understanding.’
‘She is afraid of her own talent. She needs me to realise it for her, to give her the impetus and the strength to harness and tame it.’
Xenia had shrunk into the shadows as they stopped close to her, standing at the railing with their backs to her, half engulfed by darkness and half illuminated by the light from the dining room windows.
Is that true?
The woman said, ‘How lucky she is to have you by her side, to encourage her.’
Papa laughed. ‘You flatter me. But it’s true that, without me, she couldn’t be Natalie Rowe. I have created her as surely as Frankenstein created his monster.’
‘What a horrible analogy! She’s so beautiful—’
‘Beautiful without, but damaged and difficult within. I don’t mean to sound disloyal but
it’s not always easy being her husband. Her success and fulfilment, those are my rewards and I ask for nothing more, but it’s exhausting, I can’t pretend that it’s not.’
‘You’re a saint,’ murmured the woman, pressing close to Papa. ‘You must love her very much.’
‘I do – but I have my own needs . . . needs that are not always recognised . . .’
Papa’s voice had sunk low and Xenia could hardly hear the words he murmured to the woman beside him; then there were no more words and she realised, to her horror, that the couple by the railing were caught in an embrace and were kissing.
Appalled, she darted out from the shadows and around the corner, along the deck to the stairs. She didn’t stop running until she arrived, breathless, at her cabin. Gunter was sitting up for her, and scolded her for being late before shooing her into bed. But when Gunter was snoring happily away, Xenia was still awake, staring into the darkness and mulling over everything she had heard.
Perhaps, she told herself, it was like Mama kissing the actors. Just pretending.
But she was very afraid that it wasn’t at all like that.
After that, she didn’t watch the goings-on in the dining room after being sent away, and she spent dinner itself pushing food around her plate and wondering which of the glamorous ladies Papa had kissed on the deck under the stars. She suspected them all, and soon she began to hate every one of them. They were pretty on the surface – no wonder Papa couldn’t resist them – but underneath they were rotten, using their wiles and charms to trick Papa and steal him away from her mother. Poor Papa, he was their victim. She longed for the journey to be over so that her parents would be together again, because as soon as Papa was with wonderful Mama, he would never want to do such a thing again. The important thing was to keep Papa away from the ladies with their makeup and fancy clothes, so she stuck to him like a small shadow until they docked in New York two days later.
After the enormous boat and the long stretch at sea, it was strange to board the small plane and arrive in California just a few hours later. There, at the airport, the sunshine dazzled her and the clothes that had kept her warm on the ocean voyage were hot and uncomfortable.
‘Darlings! Darlings!’ It was Mama, beautiful in a white dress and sandals, a large straw hat and sunglasses. Perhaps she was trying to be inconspicuous but she stood out like anything, and everyone stared, wondering who she was. ‘Oh Xenia, my sweetheart!’
The next moment, Xenia was held tightly in a sweet-scented hug, pressed hard against her mother. ‘Mama,’ she said almost wonderingly, and hugged her back.
‘Paul!’ cried Mama, and the next moment, Xenia was released so that Mama could fly into Papa’s arms and kiss him rapturously.
Real, she thought, gratefully. Not pretending.
‘What do you think?’ Mama asked, showing Xenia the sparkling blue swimming pool at the back of the house, set in a garden full of fat pink blooms and glossy dark shrubs.
‘It’s amazing,’ Xenia sighed. She had never seen anything like it. It was as though she’d arrived in a world of heightened colour and scale, after grey, dirty London, full of bomb sites and drabness. Here, nothing seemed ordinary. Even the people glowed with health and vigour, not like the thin, pale, shabby population back home.
The studio had loaned Mama a beautiful house on a road called Bristol Avenue. It was an exotic mansion, with arched doorways and an orange tiled roof. Inside, the rooms were great fields of plush carpet furnished with soft, plump chairs and sofas. Everything seemed vast after the small proportions and spindly antique furniture of the London house. Xenia’s room was huge, with a bed with a canopy over it, a pink marble bathroom, and a wardrobe she could walk into.
Papa was delighted. ‘This is it, Natalie, you’ve arrived, you’ve really arrived!’ He sighed with pleasure, walking about and pointing out everything that thrilled him.
‘The studio rented it for me,’ Mama said proudly. ‘As soon as I got the part.’
Xenia watched carefully for any signs something was wrong between her parents but there was nothing and she wondered if perhaps she’d imagined that horrid moment on board ship. They seemed ecstatic to be reunited, and Mama was happier than Xenia had seen her for a long time, fizzing with excitement to have her family with her and eager to show them the excitements of the new country. She took Xenia to a place called a drug store, where they sat at a long counter on high stools and ordered ice cream floats and banana splits. Mama laughed at Xenia’s expression when they were put in front of her.
‘This is America, darling, everything is big and beautiful here! You’ll see!’
Mama was right: it was a baffling but entrancing, oversized dreamland.
At dinner, served by dark-haired silent maids, Papa questioned Mama about the film.
‘We’re over schedule,’ she said. ‘We began late, the final casting took so long, and the rehearsals went on more than expected. And Archibald is such a perfectionist, we do the same scene over and over until it’s absolutely right. He’s hired a special coach for me, to work on scenes with, and he makes me stay in my character at all times. He takes me out to dinner and makes me act as Delilah the entire evening. He enjoys that.’
‘How wonderful,’ Papa said admiringly. A maid put a bowl of salad decorated with boiled eggs and chopped ham in front of him, and he spooned some of it onto his plate. ‘He’s a true artist. You’re lucky to work with such a man.’
‘I know.’ Mama pushed her plate away almost untouched and lit a cigarette. The glass in front of her was half full of amber liquid bathing a small mountain of ice cubes. ‘But it’s exhausting. I’m not Delilah, and it’s not easy to be a hard-as-nails vamp for hours on end. Archibald demands take after take – he’s such a perfectionist. I can’t tell you how tiring it is.’
‘It’ll be worth it, Natalie.’ Papa smiled. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Xenia, half listening, puzzled over the strange new food put in front of her. She was staring at a pink fruit with dark pips inside it when Mama leaned over, blowing out a stream of cigarette smoke.
‘You’ll come to the studio tomorrow, darling, and see what it’s like. I’ve cleared it with Archibald. Would you like that?’
Xenia looked up. ‘The studio?’ she breathed. She hadn’t dared to hope she’d be allowed on such hallowed ground. ‘Yes please. Patricia would be so jealous!’
The film studio was not what Xenia had imagined. She’d envisaged something like a large theatre without all the seats but instead it was like a small town, with office blocks, canteens, warehouses and even its own roads where little open cars, like something from a fairground, trundled back and forth with their passengers. There were vast hangars called sound stages where sets were built for the indoor sequences, and exterior lots where whole towns were built for the outdoor scenes.
‘Why don’t they just use the normal outside?’ Xenia asked, when Papa pointed one out to her as they passed in the car on the way to the set.
‘It’s not as easy as you might think. It’s difficult to film something and get it right, especially outside, where the weather or the light might be wrong, or it might not be possible to get the camera in the right position. Just to be sure, they build whatever they need. Those aren’t real houses. They’re just fronts.’
Xenia stared. The candy-coloured houses looked so real, but they were only pretend, made to fool people. Everything here was part of an elaborate plan to create make-believe that appeared like reality.
Mama had already been there at the studio since early morning, and they were taken to her dressing room: a beautiful, luxurious white cabin set up inside the huge warehouse-like set. Mama was sitting in front of a dressing table and a mirror surrounded by light bulbs. She was just having her hair and make-up finished, and she looked beautiful and yet strange. Xenia’s expression made her laugh.
‘Oh, sweet thing, don’t be afraid. They have to make me look like this, because it looks best under the lights, for the camera!
I know it’s odd, though. I wouldn’t go out like this.’
Mama’s soft peachy skin was buried under a thick layer of pancake make-up that blotted out every mark and freckle. Her eyes were heavy with false lashes and painted with brown and white shadow. Her eyebrows were blackened and made more arched, and more brown shadows had been added around her cheeks. Her lips were fuller and bigger than usual, outlined in dark red pencil and painted with glossy sticky stuff, and Mama’s hair was stiff with a webby covering of hairspray; the fat curls at her shoulders and on her forehead were solid and unmoving. A script sat abandoned on the dressing table before her.
‘You look very pretty, Mama,’ Xenia said politely, but she thought that Mama looked much prettier without all the paint.
‘You’re done, honey!’ said the make-up woman, lifting off the paper bib that had been shielding Mama’s white jacket.
‘Thank you, Sissy, you’re a genius.’ Mama smiled. ‘Can you get me a glass of champagne please?’
Papa had been standing watching, a half frown between his brows. ‘Champagne, darling?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Isn’t it a little early?’
‘I’ve been up since five. It’s lunchtime for me!’ Mama said gaily. Sissy was already pouring out a fizzing glass from a bottle sitting in a bucket of ice. Xenia could see that it was half empty. ‘Why don’t you have one, Paul?’
‘No, thank you.’
His tone was uncharacteristically cold. Xenia glanced at him but his expression was unreadable. Then there was a knock on the door and Mama was called to the set.
Archibald Thomas was tall with a round face and black owlish spectacles, and was wearing a bright blue suit and huge brown shoes. He stared at Xenia intensely but only talked to Papa, asking few questions but explaining the day’s work schedule quickly, almost brusquely, before directing them off the set. Xenia went to sit in a chair in the darkness next to Papa, and Papa smoked while they watched the scene being filmed. The set – a smart, modern drawing room – looked exactly like a real room, but brightly lit by the lamps hanging from rails in the darkness above. Around its flimsy walls, in the shadows, were dozens of people hurrying about, absorbed in their allotted tasks, but who all subsided into silence and stillness when the director yelled for quiet. Archibald Thomas sat in what looked like a kind of garden chair on stilts, his jacket off now and his sleeves rolled up as he scowled at the set. Beside him, on a much lower stool, sat a young woman in a jersey and kilt, with a clipboard on her knee and a pen poised. Everyone waited, then he bellowed, ‘Action!’