me that I had ruined her breasts when she had fed me as a baby, so it was important that I make them perfect again, as they had once been.
Papi had given me opera glasses, and when I peered through them I admired the beauty of the dress extras, which caused great mirth to my parents, who explained that these were real people in real clothes. In Hollywood, central casting often hired old failed actors from a special list who came perfectly groomed and dressed in their own evening clothes. It was sometimes so hard to tell reality from studio life.
We visited Versailles and lingered in the Hall of Mirrors. Even for someone who feared mirrors as I did, it was a glorious sight. The seventeen mirror-clad arches echoed the seventeen windows looking out on the garden. I counted each of the twenty-one arch mirrors, 357 in all. The guide explained how Jean Baptiste-Colbert had enticed glass-makers from Venice to teach the art to French manufacturers. Mirrors were a symbol of power and status. The guide told us how the Venetian Republic sent agents to France to poison the workers who had betrayed the secrets of mirror-making.
The light reflected from the glass and the chandeliers and the windows bathed us in a golden glow. I heard Mother muttering darkly to herself as she caught sight of her iridescent beauty in the mirrors.
Later that evening, she confined herself to fish soup and coffee, smoking furiously in short, stabbing motions. Over dinner, there was talk of Berlin. Words I had never heard: Nazi, Gestapo, SS. Germany was not safe, so we packed for Vienna.
Mother had longed for coffee with Schlag, which, as she had promised, was delicious. The Viennese adore this rich, sweetened whipped cream, which they put on pies, fruit, cake and coffee. ‘Papi, do you think the Viennese do it with Schlag?’
We shopped at the House of Knize for tails and tuxedos, bought tickets for the Mozart concerts in the Golden Hall of the Wiener Musikverein, and took strolls in Belvedere Palace park.
In Salzburg, Mother wore blue-flowered chiffon, and played ‘The Blue Danube’ over and over again on her gramophone. In Lanz of Salzburg, she dressed me in a Tyrolean peasant dress with a red bodice and full blue skirt.
‘Sweetheart, another size larger? How is that possible? Here put this striped apron around your waist. Stand straight. Slouching does not help matters. Hmm, the blouse is too tight around the upper arms.’
A circle of customers gathered to watch the show. They pitied my beautiful mother, who was only trying to do her best with me. Salzburg was a disaster.
But then, gloriosky! A telegram arrived from the studio trusting that she’d had a pleasant rest and bidding her imminent return to California. Von Goldberg was to direct her in a film that he had written for her, and she was to wire her acceptance so he could proceed.
The phone rang: ‘Mo, sweetheart, what is this madness? Those little Russian Jewish furriers think they are God. They should kiss your feet, not de Mille’s behind. You tell them that Mr von Goldberg will tell me what to do, and I will do it.’
She hung up. I tried hard not to show my joy that I was going home. That evening we stayed in and had room service. Papi finished his accounts, and Mother read her book. It felt just like being in a real family that I had once seen in a movie.
Madou stares into me as she scrubs her hands over and over again with Roger & Gallet sandalwood soap. It is time to teach that bastard a lesson. Ever since she returned from Europe, at his behest, he has been beastly.
Jealousy … such an ugly emotion, so demeaning, so low-class. He has become boring, joyless, with his cow-like eyes full of recrimination and self-pity. But there will be no undignified scenes. Better to behave admirably in the face of his ungovernable rage.
She knows this is their swan song. She’s said it before, and gone crawling back to him, but this time, he’s gone too far. She is contracted for one more picture, and then she is free. This movie will be her favourite because she has never looked more ravishing. It will be the only picture of which she will ever own a print, but sitting here, in the thick of it, all she feels is the pain, the humiliation.
Regrettably, she is, once again, playing a whore. Why? Because that’s what he truly thinks of her. It’s time for more finger-wagging.
‘So you’ve come back for more, my dear? Glutton for punishment or Jacobean revenge tragedy? That type of man never changes.’
She takes a cigarette out of the case on her dressing table and lights it.
‘Most women set out to try to change a man, and when they have changed him, they do not like him. I’ve never tried to change Mo. He is what he is. I accept him the way he is.’
‘You’re in for a bitter time.’
‘Then I shall summon up my courage and face it properly.’
‘You need to develop as an actress. Every picture you appear in is exactly the same; frivolous, superficial, and without the slightest intellectual significance. Don’t you want to go down in posterity as a great actress?’
‘I don’t give a damn about posterity. Why should I care what people think about me when I’m as dead as a doornail?’
‘You might feel differently when you’re older, and wiser. Well, you have been warned. Better stop shilly-shallying and get to it. You’re needed in the Canvas room.’
The setting of the new picture is Seville. There is lace everywhere; scalloped lace, Chantilly lace, antique lace in every colour imaginable. Mo loves lace because he can put his light behind it, creating patterns and shadows that enhance his star’s beauty. In the Canvas room, they unfurl flags of silks and muslin. The Child hovers, as ever, her eyes watchful.
‘Kater, sweetheart, we must have Spanish combs. Tortoiseshell and ivory. And those silk carnations we found in Paris with Papi. I knew we would need them one day. Fetch Travis. And Nellie.’
Nellie crafts a braided wig that looks similar to Madou’s blonde, wispy hair, and then sews the wig onto the large comb. Madou’s hair is dragged so tightly back from her forehead it makes her scalp bleed. She loves the effect it has on her skin; a natural facelift. She never complains about the pain.
And nor does she demur when Mo explains his insane idea about his close-up opening shot. His plan is to fire an air gun into a mass of party balloons. When all of the balloons have exploded, the camera will reveal her perfect face. He tells her it is important not to flinch, not to blink. Not to show fear.
‘Excuse me, Mo. I’m not sure I understand you. You are intending to explode balloons in my face? Who is shooting the gun?’
‘I am, my darling, I would not trust anyone else. But you must not show any reaction. Not a flicker of an eyelash.’
‘Then we will need to change the top of the dress, so it’s lower. And we must have a very high comb, with a veil. And if you shoot me in the eye, we will need an eye patch.’
The Child looks on anxiously. She fiddles with her doll. She’s far too quiet for a child. Easy to forget that she’s around, except that I see everything. I also observe that Nellie has made a tiny doll comb and veil. Travis has created a ruffled Spanish doll dress, red with black silk spots. The Child forces the comb up into the hair of the doll, pushing the hair back from the face. The doll
