id="ud36f9aee-9133-56da-a149-5b8a7a663284">
DAISY WAUGH
Contents
Chapter 1 - Ambassador Hotel New York
Chapter 3 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 4 - 1916–17 Long Island
Chapter 5 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 7 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 8 - 1918 Long Island–Hollywood
Chapter 9 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 10 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 11 - 1918–21 Hollywood
Chapter 12 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 14 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 16 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 17 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 18 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 20 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 22 - Police Precinct, New York
Chapter 23 - 1926 Hollywood–New York
Chapter 24 - Hotel Continental New York
Chapter 25 - Hotel Continental New York
For my mother, with love.
‘Without any more words, he turned to me – and we danced. There on the veranda, by the light of the moon . . . I swear I never danced so well. I think, in his arms, it would have been impossible to dance badly – as if his grace were like his laughter: irresistibly, magically infectious.
. . . Did I write that I hadn’t fallen in love with him that night? Did I write that? How absurd!’
Chapter 1
Ambassador Hotel New York
Friday, 13 August 1926
I can still feel him.
I can still feel him, I can still smell him, I can still see the fold in my pillow where he leaned over to me . . . I can feel his tongue . . . his hands . . . his lips . . . his fingers in my mouth. I can still taste him. Only a moment ago he was here, with me, and I can still hear the sound of the latch closing softly behind him. I can hear his voice and his laughter fading as he moves away down the hall.
We made love for hours; all night and all morning and late into the afternoon. Mr Ullman must have telephoned him a hundred times, until finally he pulled the wire from the wall and sent the whole wretched contraption flying to the ground. And we lay quietly, talking in whispers, smoking cigarettes, covering our laughter, even while Mr Ullman was outside the door to the suite, imploring him to come out, to pick up the telephone at least, and to talk . . .
In any case he had to leave our bed eventually, of course. There were people waiting for him. Thousands of them – waiting only for him. What a feeling it must be! I can’t even imagine – I’m not sure I really even want to. But that is his life now, for better or worse. It was what he wanted, all those years ago. Or, at least, perhaps, it is the price of what he wanted – and today I see him carrying the burden of his extraordinary success with that sad, delicious grace, which is so much his own, and which so entirely melts me. Which melts us all, I think.
So – now what? I watched him dress. In evening clothes, for such a dazzling occasion. I lay in this enormous, sleek black bed, and watched him as he prowled, his footfall soundless, from dressing room to bathroom and back again. He stood before the glass at the beautiful Chinese dressing-table
