Her eyes were electric, green as bottle glass, fringed with a lush double row of dark eyelashes and crowned with fine arched brows. Her high cheekbones, always lightly dusted with pink rouge, gave definition to her delicate nose. Her jaw was sharply carved and served to enhance the elegance of her incredibly long neck. Lips, full, ripe, and rouged, would part to reveal small, perfectly aligned white teeth.
Bebe wasn’t just beautiful, she was elegant and sophisticated, an ethereal, pale vision that suggested vulnerability and fragility that only heightened her charms. She demanded compliments and adoration the way a baby demands its bottle and its mother’s arms.
Her crossing had been first class, naturally, and she had let it be known from the instant she’d placed her foot aboard the luxury liner that her father was a famous American filmmaker. There was already a certain aura of glamour attached to the West Coast movie business, and this announcement provided Bebe with instant popularity and the best seat in the dining room. She also had a bevy of eligible young men flitting about like bees to a flower. In spite of her youth, Bebe already knew how to use this power to get what she wanted.
She lied about her age whenever it suited her, and on the voyage across the Atlantic it suited her perfectly. Cocktails would be served to a young woman of twenty, milk to a child of sixteen. She lied about other things, too. For example, she said her brother was a famous lawyer who ran the legal department at Fairmont Studios, the family enterprise. She lied and said she’d been in several movies herself, and these exaggerations made her listeners believe that Fairmont was a first-rate studio instead of the third-rate quickie grinder that it was. She lied about her friendships with famous actresses and actors and hinted that certain male stars had courted her with gifts too valuable to mention.
Even the stodgy captain of the Americus had fallen under Bebe’s wily charms and asked her to talk her father into making a film aboard his ship; naturally, he’d gladly play the role of captain. She’d humored him. Later, dazzling listeners with a merry smile and mischievous eyes, she had called him a fat old man with bad breath, so ugly he’d break the camera lens.
Bebe Rosen had been the darling of the crossing. It had been a gay crowd to begin with because of the Armistice and the promise of a return to normalcy at last. And if she had left any young man’s heart shattered, she could not have cared less. What she did care about were the darting, envious glances of all the other women aboard the liner.
She was already a little tipsy on champagne when she tripped down the gangplank in her high heels, waving a gay au revoir to one and all. Her eyes searched for Aunt Mickey’s solicitor, who was to escort her to the railway station to book her passage to Marseilles. First class, of course, complete with sleeping berth, which she would not need during the three-hour trip, and a private sitting room.
It was a beautiful day for late November, crisp and cold with a bright sun warming the passengers still milling about the pier. Bebe smiled, wishing she were going along with the crowd to Paris. The pier was mostly quiet now, with all of the baggage having been sent on to different hotels or stored in automobiles waiting to take the last departing passengers to their destinations. A lone gull dove low, its wings spread, but as it neared land suddenly it swooped upward again. It appeared lonely, Bebe thought, almost as lonely as she felt. Damn, where was that attorney who was to meet her? She felt foolish as she tapped her foot, first in annoyance and then in anger.
As the minutes ticked by she grew more nervous and felt more abandoned. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not really. Back in California she thought nothing of going from one party to the next at midnight. But California was her territory, her place. This was a foreign country filled with people who hardly spoke her own language. What if she missed her train? Mickey would be worried. If Sol knew she’d been left standing on an abandoned pier, he’d have a fit, too. Perhaps she should throw a tantrum, her usual course of action when things didn’t go her way. She glanced around again at the almost deserted harbor. A family of five, obviously waiting for someone to meet them, stood in a cluster off to the side. She’d seen the plump woman on the ship eyeing her coat and probably comparing it with her own mink. She’d been dressed to the nines with jewels and shimmering dresses that did nothing for her sallow complexion and horsey teeth. The woman’s husband had flirted with Bebe every time his wife’s back was turned. Bebe snorted in disgust. Men were all alike—tomcats.
Twenty minutes later an old man shuffled toward her. Effusively apologetic, he introduced himself, saying he had experienced car trouble. He was as old as God, Bebe thought. Just like Aunt Mickey to send some old creature to take all the fun out of her travels. Mickey was acting on Sol’s orders, of course.
This trip was in fact a punishment for associating with the wrong type of people. Ha! If her father wanted to believe she was romantically involved with gangsters, let him. All she’d done was party and have fun. It was Eli, her brother, who was up to his neck in trouble. Perhaps it was a good thing she’d come over here now. If Eli was going to go to jail, she didn’t want to be around when the mud began to fly.
Bebe smiled in the darkness of the Daimler. Not only had she wanted a trip to Europe, but she’d also gotten the Russian lynx coat she’d been eating her heart out for. If a dashing young Frenchman swept her off her feet, Sol would have no one to blame but himself.
Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of Mickey. The last time Bebe had seen her aunt she’d been only seven or so, just a little girl. A wealth of dark hair and laughing eyes, gold earrings, and a smile always on her face. Bebe had liked Mickey, that much she remembered. A free spirit, Sol called his cousin. A wealthy free spirit. Often, when Sol was angry, he would compare Bebe with Mickey. Secretly, Bebe accepted it as a compliment.
Squirming down into the seat, Bebe imagined the wonderful time she’d have with Mickey. They’d go to bistros, have parties, and she would be introduced to wealthy and glamorous Frenchmen. She completely ignored the trunk filled with lesson books and the promise of a private tutor. It would be easy to get around Mickey.
Back in California there were people who had unflattering things to say about Bebe. She knew the names they called her behind her back—and it wasn’t just the newspaper reporters, but her friends as well. It was her own fault. She had never bothered to defend herself against the image the reporters presented. Deep inside she wasn’t anything like the person they portrayed. She was lonely and she was bored. Going to parties and flirting with her beaux was her only fun. Eli was always off doing something or other that would eventually lead to trouble. Sol was always at the studio, often later than midnight. The housekeeper didn’t care what she did or where she went. Quite simply, no one cared about Bebe Rosen.
“Poor little rich girl,” that’s how she thought of herself when she lay in bed at night.
Someday she would meet a young man who would sweep her off her feet and love her for all of her life. They would have children whom they would both adore. It wouldn’t matter what he did for a living; he could be a shoe salesman or sell insurance, anything, just so long as he loved her and loved her. It wouldn’t matter if they had an ordinary life, he would be her Prince Charming come to rescue her from this loneliness. Or perhaps they would live on the English moors; she would be Cathy to his Heathcliff. Romantic notions played in her head. One day she would be Cinderella and the next Cleopatra, but always there was some man, handsome and good, there to save her, to love her.
Eli called her a spoiled brat. She never bothered to explain to her brother that her selfish ways and temper tantrums were a defense against feeling lost and alone. It was an attitude that crept up on her, and she didn’t know how or when it began. She had no inclination to change. It was enough for her to know that inside she wasn’t any of those things people said about her. She was Bebe Rosen, and she ached. To reveal herself would be agony; to hide behind this facade was safety. She never knew what was expected of her, so she never seemed to fit in or belong. Confusion was a way of life for Bebe, never knowing or
