Queen of Hearts (Royal Spyness Mysteries) (12 page)

“See, I knew it!” The woman gave a cackling laugh. “That’s royal enough for us out here, honey. Say, do I have to call you ‘Your Highness?’”

“Oh, no,” I said. I was about to say that “my lady” was the correct term of address but I remembered what Queenie had said about everyone being equal in America. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot here. “My name is Georgiana, but everyone calls me Georgie.”

The woman stuck out her hand. “Welcome to America, Georgie, honey. I’m Barbara. Barbara Kindell. I live here at the hotel and if you need anything you just ask me.”

“Thank you very much,” I stammered. We in England were not used to such friendliness. “Are you also part of the film business?”

“In a way, Georgie, honey. In a way,” she said. “I’d better let you go for your swim while I make a telephone call.”

As I lowered myself into the pool I was conscious of a small, wiry dark-haired man sitting with his legs dangling into the water and watching me with interest. Of course then I was horribly self-conscious of my lack of swimming ability. I did a dignified breaststroke up and down the pool, then when I stopped the small man slid into the water beside me. He had an interesting face with dark, alert eyes. Not exactly handsome but there was something about him—a confidence, maybe, in spite of his small stature. He swam over to me with easy strokes.

“You want to watch what you say to Barbara,” he said, “if you don’t want it splashed across the front pages of every newspaper in Hollywood.” He grinned at my surprise. “She’s our leading gossip columnist, sweetie. She prowls these places like a shark.”

“Crikey,” I said.

The man burst into laughter. “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in many years.”

I noticed then that he had a trace of English accent in his American-sounding speech.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I should sound more sophisticated but words like that just slip out, especially when I’m nervous.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous around me. I’m a real friendly sort of guy,” he said. “And do you know you have lovely long legs. I adore women with long legs.” And to my amazement he ran a finger gently up my left thigh.

“I think I should go and see how my mother is getting along,” I said, making for the steps.

“I’ll see you around then, you sweet creature. Someone completely unspoiled—now that’s a rarity for Hollywood. What a challenge.”

As I got out of the pool, my face rather red, I suspect, I met Barbara Kindell coming back from her telephone call. She beckoned me over to her. “Watch out for that one, honey,” she said. “He eats little girls like you for breakfast.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

She threw back her head and laughed. “You don’t recognize him, sweetie? He’s Charlie Chaplin.”

I looked back and saw that the little man was now sitting on the side of the pool again, looking at me with amusement in his eyes. He looked nothing like the comic figure I had seen on the screen.

I was about to make for our bungalow when I saw a sight that stopped me dead in my tracks. A large person in yards and yards of a red and white frilly bathing suit was coming toward me. On her head was a red flowery bathing cap. She looked like a buoy floating off the coast and it took me a second to recognize her.

“Queenie!” I stammered. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Going for a swim, miss. That pool don’t half look good.”

“Queenie. You are a lady’s maid. You simply can’t swim in the pool with your betters,” I said.

“Why not?” She glared at me defiantly. “This is America. We’re all equal. I do my job when you need me and when you don’t need me I can do what I like in my own free time. That’s what they told me on the train.”

I think I gasped. “Queenie, do you think the queen would let her maid go roller-skating up and down the halls of Buckingham Palace?”

“We ain’t at Buckingham Palace, are we? We’re in a different country with different rules and I don’t see why I can’t take a dip in a pool during my free time.”

I couldn’t think of a good answer to that. It was quite possible that American maids did swim in pools with Charlie Chaplin. “I’m sorry, Queenie, but this is something we need to talk about,” I said. “At the moment it is not appropriate. Please go back to the bungalow.”

“A right old spoilsport you’ve turned out to be,” she said and stomped ahead of me toward the bungalow.

A
T
THE
B
EVERLY
H
ILL
S
H
OTEL

M
ONDAY
, J
ULY
30, 1934

Talk about the lap of luxury! I’m feeling a bit like a film star myself. I wonder what Belinda would say if she knew that Charlie Chaplin had been flirting with me. I wonder what Darcy would say. . . .

I was completely shocked. I remembered having the same feeling when I adopted an adorable kitten from the stables as a child and one day it scratched me. Not that Queenie was adorable. I followed her back into the bungalow to hear an imperious voice saying, “My sister? She is not my sister. She is the spawn of a whore, a nobody.”

Mummy looked up in annoyance as we came in. “You’re not back already? I was just getting the feel of the character. Quite a challenge to make her appealing when she really is such a bitch. In fact I . . .” She looked up and those large eyes opened even wider. “My God. What is that?”

“What is what?” I asked.

She pointed at Queenie. “That. Your maid.”

“It’s my swimming costume, madam,” Queenie said. “I was going to go swimming but your daughter won’t let me.”

“Queenie, in the first place I suspect that maids don’t swim in the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel and in the second I’ve never seen anything more hideous in my life. Where on earth did you find it?”

“I bought it a while ago. Just in case I ever got the chance to go swimming,” Queenie said defiantly.

“It is utterly hideous. You look like a beached whale wrapped in a barber’s pole. Go and take it off, for God’s sake.” And she started to laugh. “Absolutely hideous. Never seen anything worse in my life. Oh my God. It will probably give me nightmares!”

Queenie went to say something, then glared and pushed past me into her room. I followed. “You do understand, don’t you, Queenie? There’s a gossip columnist at the pool. The press would love to print pictures of you, and then the queen would see them and be mortified.”

She looked like a deflated balloon and as usual I felt sorry for her. “Maybe we’ll find a way to go to the beach soon. I’m sure nobody would mind if you swam in the ocean there.”

“Well, I don’t want to wear my uniform,” she said. “It’s too ruddy hot for this weather and I sweat something terrible.”

“I understand,” I said. “I had no idea we’d be away long in a climate like this. I’ll arrange for a lighter uniform. I’m sure Ronnie can make one appear by magic for you.”

“And I don’t have to stay in my room in the bungalow all the time, do I? There’s not enough space to swing a cat in here.”

“No, I think you could take a walk and explore the surroundings when I don’t need you,” I said, sure that Queen Mary would have told a servant that of course it was her place to stay close to her mistress in case she was needed. I feared I’d never be a good mistress of a stately home one day. I went to change and was just coming into the living room when there was a light tap at the front door. Since Claudette was nowhere to be seen I went to open it. A woman stood there, her face layered with an overwhelming amount of makeup, her hair the brightest blonde I had ever seen, and she was wearing a strapless peacock blue top over which a considerable amount of flesh was bulging.

“You must be the young royal lady,” she said. “Barbara just told me about you and I thought I should do the friendly thing and come over and welcome you to our country.” And she dropped a really awkward curtsy, making me cringe with embarrassment and wonder if the rest of her breasts were about to appear from the strapless top.

“Oh please. That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’m actually only a lady, not a princess. And I’m told that in America everyone is equal.”

She laughed. “Who told you that? We have our own kings and queens, you know, only here it’s who has the most money.” She held out a chubby hand. “I’m Dolores. Dolores Hanford.”

“And I’m Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “Are you visiting Beverly Hills too, Mrs. Hanford?”

“No, honey. My husband and I are residents of this lovely city. We have a mansion up in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. My husband is a real estate developer and making more money than we know what to do with. I come down to the hotel to have lunch and meet friends almost every day. This is the place where everyone gathers. Everyone who is anyone, that is. Would you care to join us for lunch?”

I glanced back at my mother, who was now strutting around the room gesturing. “Why not?” I said. “Thank you.”

Several women were already seated around a table in the restaurant and Dolores produced me as if I were a prized exotic pet. “This is the young royal lady that Barbara was telling us about,” she said. “Cousin of the king. Imagine that. And wait till you hear her accent. Go ahead, honey. Say something.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I muttered. “I’m Georgiana.”

They sighed as if I had just sung an aria. “Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” one said. “So refined. So royal.” She patted the chair beside her. “So come and sit down and tell us what you’re doing in little old Beverly Hills and what it’s like at the palace.”

I sat. They peppered me with questions—about my mother, the Prince of Wales, rumors they had heard. I tried my best to be discreet and answer vaguely, but it was rather like being at an inquisition. They also consumed an alarming amount of alcohol and all of them smoked. They only picked at their food, of which there were huge portions, and I was fascinated to see one of them using her hands to eat a bun with beef in the middle. Lettuce and juices squirted out of it as she attempted to get it into her mouth. Not a pretty sight. I had ordered a chicken sandwich, which at home would be a thin slice of chicken between slices of white bread. When it came up I was horrified to see it was half a chicken sitting on a roll. After the initial grilling Dolores and her crowd forgot about me and lapsed into their usual gossip. They were noisy, witty and terribly catty. It was shocking to someone like me to hear them describing the bedroom behavior of various celebrities without batting an eyelid.

“Three of them, honey. No, of course they were men. He can’t stand women.”

What a wild and wicked place the world was outside of Castle Rannoch and Buckingham Palace. Frankly I was rather relieved when I could make my escape and go back to the bungalow. We had dinner delivered as Mummy didn’t want to stop working on her lines. She was determined to be perfect on the first day on the set. Ronnie stopped by to see how we were getting on and told me that I’d be welcome to come to the set later in the day and he’d send a car for me. I was glad of this as I didn’t want to find myself alone at the mercy of Dolores and the catty women, or risk bumping into Charlie Chaplin again.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Mummy woke me up at five with all her banging, clattering, and swearing and departed before six. I found I couldn’t get back to sleep with the sun streaming in. I ordered breakfast, then wrote postcards to my grandfather and to Belinda. If she was still working at Harrods she’d need cheering up. Then I went for a walk to see if I could find Queenie a cooler uniform, but the only shops did not have clothing suitable for maids.

The car came for me at eleven and off I went to the studio, feeling very grand and rather excited. The gatekeeper saluted as we drove under the big sign saying
GOLDEN PICTURES
. People in strange costumes crossed in front of us. We passed what looked like an old-fashioned town square, then a European village. They were filming at the latter, with young men dressed in lederhosen and girls in dirndls. The car swung around into a narrow alley between buildings and stopped. Ronnie came out to meet me, carrying a clipboard.

“Great. You made it. Come on in. We’re about to start shooting.”

He led me into a big dark box. At one end was a set of a palace room and my mother, in a costume more sexy and revealing than Bloody Mary ever wore, stood at a table, while Juan, in tights and doublet, stood facing her. The first thing that struck me was how young and beautiful she looked and not for the first time I marveled that I could be her daughter and look so little like her. Ronnie put a finger to his lips. “And action,” shouted a voice from the darkness.

“How dare you, Philip,” she said. “You may be king in your country, but here I am the queen. Don’t ever forget that.”

He walked over, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him. “But you are also my wife. And the wife is at the mercy of her husband. Do not ever forget that either.” Then he kissed her—very passionately.

“And cut!” shouted the voice. “Great stuff, Claire, honey. Juan, we need less of an accent from you. Tone it down and don’t lisp.”

“I can’t help it,” Juan said. “This is the way I talk. This is the way Spanish men talk. You wish me to play King Philip of Spain, do you not?”

“Sure you should sound Spanish but the people in Peoria need to understand you. Try again.”

Makeup women darted out to dab at Mummy’s face. She went back behind the table and the scene was played again. And again. When they broke for lunch she came over to me. “Now I know why I prefer the theater. We have gone over the same little bit thirty-four times. Of course Juan isn’t going to lose his accent overnight. He’ll have to work with a speech coach for weeks. Cy isn’t pleased.”

Cy Goldman himself came over to join us. “Come and eat in my private dining room,” he said. “You’re doing great, Claire. So believable. What an actress your mother is, Georgie. I’m going to make her a big star.” He led us at breakneck pace across the lot, where a real-looking castle had now been built, and into a small dining room. “But Juan,” he said. “I’m having second thoughts about him. It’s the accent, isn’t it? He’s not ready for the big time yet. He’s got the looks and the sex appeal all right, but the audience has to understand him. It’s just not the voice of a macho guy. So I’m bringing in an alternative. I’ve asked him to join us for lunch.”

And as if on cue the door opened and in came someone whom I recognized instantly. Even if I had hardly seen a film in my life I knew Craig Hart. Everyone in the civilized world knew Craig Hart. Women threw themselves at his feet. And in real life he was as tall, dark, handsome and rugged in the extreme as he was on the screen.

“Craig. Good to see you.” Cy pumped his hand. “Come on in and meet my new star. Claire Daniels.”

Craig sauntered across the room, moving with animal grace, and held out a big hand to my mother. “Well, hello there, gorgeous. I am delighted to meet you,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice that had reduced millions of females to a trembling jelly.

“Well, hello, yourself,” Mummy said, her eyes lighting up with pleasure. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Craig.”

Oh dear, I thought. Now we might never go home to Max. Then, to my amazement, Craig turned his attention to me. “And who is this enchanting young woman? Another new discovery, Cy?”

He took my hands in his. His dark eyes held mine and I felt my own heart beating faster.

“This is Claire’s daughter, Craig,” Cy said. “The one I told you about.”

“I thought it might be. What a little charmer.” And he smiled down at me. “What is your name, you adorable creature?”

“It’s Georgie.” I could hardly stammer out the words.

“I am really glad to meet you, Georgie,” he said. “Really glad.” He was still holding my hands but he looked past me to Mr. Goldman. “You know, Cy, I think this is going to work out very well all around, don’t you?”

At the time I didn’t know what he meant. I was still in shock that Craig Hart was paying attention to me and not my mother. After a lunch when I could hardly swallow a thing we went back to the set. Mummy was giving me curious and amused glances. I’m sure my face was still beet red.

“Isn’t Craig being kind to you,” Mummy said. “What a nice man, making you feel special like that.”

She went back to makeup before returning to the set. I was about to go in when Ronnie stopped me. “Not a pretty scene in there at the moment,” he said. “Cy has just told Juan that he’s not playing Philip any longer. Juan is upset. Stella is furious.”