take very very,’ said Ruby. ‘No need to get your underwear in a bunch on my account.’
Hitch drove the Redforts to the venue. It was a big deal affair, red carpet, the whole circus.
The costume show was being held at the Scarlet Pagoda – the proceeds from the very expensive tickets and raffle would hopefully raise enough money to keep the old art deco building from crumbling to dust. The place was considered an architectural gem of great historical importance, having been built in the heyday of the roaring twenties. Any elderly star worth an Oscar had tripped across this stage.
And many of those stars had left their footprints – literally. Outside the theatre was Twinford’s own walk of fame, where brass star shapes were set into the sidewalk, commemorating the town’s most famous. Next to each star was a cast of the actors’ shoes, their footprints pressed into wet concrete.
Ruby and her family walked past the footprints, and as they walked Sabina gave a running commentary.
‘There’s Fletch Gregory, what a man, and oh, look at dear little Arthur Mudge’s teeny feet – I always thought he was taller, and goodness, are those really Margo Bardem’s?’
And on into the theatre.
It had begun as a theatre for circus and stage productions, then much later it had become a movie theatre. But now it was just a room, a large empty space, where each week another tiny gold mosaic tile would drop from the ceiling. A place where the elegant ladies who silently stared out from the murals faded a little more each year. Soon, if nothing were done, their faces would disappear altogether and then the wrecking ball would be called in.
For tonight, though, it was a sparkling extravaganza of a party; a hint of the things to come when it was renovated. Everyone who was anyone was there, champagne glasses in hand, laughing and chatting as elegant young waiters glided around with silver trays of canapés.
As soon as Ruby and her parents walked in they were surrounded. ‘It’s such a wonderful example of the deco era,’ said Dora Shoering, Twinford’s self-declared expert on all things historical. She had to talk loudly over the hubbub of voices and chinking glasses. ‘You can touch the history, run your hands over it, breathe it into your lungs.’ The women all took deep breaths.
Sabina coughed – the Pagoda was a haven for dust mites. ‘You know your onions, Dora. I mean it would be a perfect sadness if it were destroyed,’ she said.
‘I totally agree,’ agreed Marjorie Humbert, who was now looking for a tissue, having just run her hands over history. ‘It would be Twinford’s bitter loss.’
Elaine Lemon joined them. ‘So what are you ladies talking about? Gossip I hope!’
‘Oh we were just saying how it would be the most terrible pity if they were to flatten this building,’ said Marjorie.
‘I so concur,’ said Elaine, opting for a sad-face expression. ‘It would be the most awful tragedy.’ She paused. ‘A tragic one.’ In truth, Elaine was not there because she was remotely interested in the Scarlet Pagoda, but had eagerly accepted Sabina’s offer of a free ticket because everyone else was going.
Ruby felt this conversation wasn’t really going places and so moved off in search of something entertaining. As she circled around the room she recognised many big names from the stage and screen, including one of her favourites, Erica Grey. She was a star of the B-movies and had played some of the most curious and monstrous villains on the medium-sized screen. She was originally from Alabama and spoke in a drawn-out drawl, her voice rich and deep. Every few sentences she would throw her head back and laugh – her red lipsticked mouth opening wide to display perfectly white shining teeth.
Ruby weaved her way on through the crowd and caught a glimpse of Crazy Cops actor Dirk Draylon as he made his way to his seat on the other side of the catwalk. Apparently the show was about to begin.
Boy, Mrs Digby would love this, she thought.
There were many other well-known personalities mingling in the crowd but none whom Ruby felt eager to shake hands with. Not because she didn’t admire them, she did, she just had a wariness about meeting screen heroes; meeting one’s hero could be a mistake, a big let-down. This illusionary world that was film often survived better if it was never contaminated by real life.
At least that’s what she thought until she met the make-up artist Frederick Lutz. Frederick Lutz was a man Ruby greatly admired – a true artist, he had created some of the most startling monsters, villains and victims of the screen, as well as making up the faces of the great and beautiful.
They chatted for a while and then he thanked her for her compliments, and as she moved off to find her seat he called, ‘If you ever need make-up for a very important occasion then think of me – it would be my great pleasure Ms Redfort.’
‘You can bet I will,’ said Ruby, who was thinking Halloween. Then she turned and bumped heads with her friend Red Monroe.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Red, rubbing her forehead.
‘Hey Red, where’s Sadie?’ asked Ruby clutching her nose.
‘Oh, Sadie’s just backstage helping the radioactive lobster fix his pincers.’ She said this as if it was not so very different from mentioning that someone needed help straightening their bow tie.
Red’s mom, usually referred to as ‘Sadie’, was a costume designer – she mainly designed for thrillers and sci-fi flicks and had done more than her share of B-movie work. Ruby liked hanging out at Red’s place because her mother always had something unusual going on in her studio and Mrs Monroe was often to be found with pencil poised, asking some kind of curious question. ‘So Ruby, tell me, what do you think a Grungemeister looks like? Do you think he would have fingers or grabbers?’
Ruby and Red made their way to their seats. Elliot Finch was already there, studying the programme.
The lights went down. Everyone clapped.
‘Clancy not here?’ whispered Red.
‘He had to smile for his dad,’ replied Ruby.
‘That kid’s gonna dislocate his jaw one of these days.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Ruby.
A crabby lady in the row behind them started making shushing sounds.
‘Welcome to the opening of the Twinford Film Festival – A Date with Thrills!’ said the host Ray Conner, bounding onto the stage.
Applause from the audience.
Ray Conner was a bit of a cheeseball, in Ruby’s opinion.
‘As you all know, tonight’s extravaganza is a fundraiser in aid of this beautiful theatre of ours, the Scarlet Pagoda.’
Pause for more applause. Smiling from the host.
‘The title of this year’s festival is A Date with Thrills, in other words, Thriller Flicks, be they comic, romantic or just plain terrifying. And tonight we are particularly celebrating our wonderful costume designers, all too often unseen.’
More clapping,
