stand-in was at the door of the coach, wearing an imitation cape, made of brown squirrel, not the silver-tipped Russian sable that Mother had insisted upon. She kept up her joke about the head of the studio, and his origins as a furrier.
‘Sweetheart, he knows the cost of good fur. But I bet he never sewed on real sable.’
She chuckled, and there was a malicious glint in her eye. She loved it when she got one over on the studio bosses. They would be furious when they found out about the expensive sable. The thought was delicious to imagine: ‘But Mr Zukor, I thought you liked fur.’ Mother scanned the set for her director, until she found him astride a boom mic, like a witch on a broomstick.
‘My mirror, Kater.’
I held it aloft as she donned her sable cape and pulled the hood over her golden hair. Dot from Make-up daubed glycerine onto those perfect lips, and with a ‘We are ready for you, Miss Madou’ from the assistant director, she was primed.
She stood perfectly still, in front of the door of the coach, gazing in wonder at St Petersburg in the depths of winter. The last time I had been in the studio, I had been to Shanghai. I remember Mo painting cloud formations on the top of a real-life express steam train. I didn’t need to go to the real China or Russia. I had it all right here. That day in China, I had learned that when the director uttered the words ‘Quiet on the set’ I dared not move, even breathe.
Mother could stand still for hours without even taking a bathroom break. She was as still as a statue, just like Queen Hermione in my book about Shakespeare. That was a winter’s tale, too. The queen was accused of a bad thing and, to avenge her husband, she locked herself away for sixteen years until she returned as a statue who magically becomes human again – right in front of the audience.
Thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty – warm life –
I stood in the shadows, fidgeting, clutching her hand mirror. Travis had made me a white coat, in honour of my new occupation as ‘assistant to Miss Madou’. My stomach rumbled and groaned. I was so hungry. I hoped no one could hear. The commissary had a new sandwich. I wondered if I would be allowed a Coca-Cola. Or one of those wonderful vanilla milkshakes, with ice cream. My mind wandered.
‘Make-up.’
With those words, I dashed onto the hot set. Mother took the hand mirror and scrutinised her face. A false eyelash had dropped onto her cheek. She removed it expertly, handed back the mirror, and smiled at me. I had done well. I escaped back into the shadows.
‘Cut. Print.’
Back in Mother’s dressing room, there was a buzz of activity. I knew that the first sign that Principal Photography was about to begin was the influx of slim white boxes containing flowers. Her director always sent her tuberoses or white lilacs, the studio sent snapdragons or lilies, her new co-star sent her red roses, a bad mistake, as she loathed red roses, especially ‘American Beauty’. She loved yellow roses, but they were only to be given at the end of the affair. Never at the beginning.
I put the roses on one side to be given away to the maid, then I began my job of filing away the flower cards, not so that Mother could send thanks, but so she knew who had forgotten to send flowers.
That morning, she had swept into her dressing room armed with white vinegar and bleach. She took it upon herself to clean every room she occupied. Surgical alcohol was used to sterilise the bathrooms. She would never sit down on a toilet seat for fear she would contract a disease. Many years later, I discovered the reason for her paranoia. At the time, it was just another mystery to be kept ‘from the Child’.
Then we unpacked the boxes. All of them were marked in German so that only we would understand their contents. The first box contained her African doll, her lucky mascot, her ‘savage’. He was a present from Mo, and he sat on her dressing table, propped up by the mirror. He was always the first to be unpacked and the last to be packed. I never liked him.
Besides, I had my own doll, with silky flaxen-blonde hair, like Mother’s, and enormous blue eyes. My Heidi. Mother said she was very expensive. She came from a famous shop on Regent’s Street in London. When I lay her down, her eyelids closed, like magic. When I pressed her tummy, she cried ‘Mama’. She had her own wardrobe: an outfit for every occasion. I loved to dress and undress Heidi. No one could be a better mother than I was to my doll. On special occasions, I would allow her into my bed.
Travis, one of the kindest of Mother’s friends, made doll clothes that were miniature versions of the ones he made for Mother. He even made Heidi a real sable coat and matching muff to keep her warm. He would wrap the doll clothes in fine tissue, and tie them with pink grosgrain ribbon. Travis was a man interested in detail. He told me that he was born in Texas, where the men rode horses and wore cowboy hats, even to the office. He spoke to me as he would to a grown-up, and if I didn’t understand a particular English word, he would take out his pencil and draw an image to explain it.
Travis had a secret. When he thought that no one was watching, he would take out his hip flask and pour amber liquid into his coffee, his hands trembling. He had such beautiful hands; slender and elegant, with perfectly polished nails. On his pinky finger, he wore a gold and black ring. I think he knew that I was watching him, but he knew that I would never tell on him. I was so good at keeping secrets.
After I unpacked Mother’s savage doll, I undressed Heidi and put on her white lace nightdress. I brushed out her long blonde hair with a doll brush that was made of real silver. I popped her into her doll bed. Then I got back to work.
Mother and I decanted vases, gramophone, records, ashtrays, cigarette boxes, pens, pencils, writing paper, special padded hangers, towels, bath mats, flasks. Thermoses, containing her beef tea and chicken soup, soon lined the shelves. Mother was the only star to have her own kitchen appended to her dressing room. Her famous goulash would bubble away on the stove, scenting the air with caraway and sweet paprika.
I went to the studio every day with Mother because of the Lindbergh baby who was taken away and killed in the woods. Mother, hysterical with fear, hired a bodyguard, who stationed himself outside her dressing room. To keep me busy, Mother gave me a list of duties.
Shine the shoes
Pass the hairpins
Pour the coffee (morning)
Pour the champagne (evening)
File the flower cards
Open the mail
Put cufflinks in boxes
Sharpen the black wax eye pencils
Pop out the top hat (this was probably my favourite)
The one duty I didn’t like very much was tidying her vanity table. It was always cluttered with pots of cold cream, flacons of No. 37 Veilchen, make-up, brushes, sponges, photographs, and the savage who stared at me with its tiny red eyes.
I kept my eyes averted from the silver and black glass triptych … mustn’t catch its eye. But I knew he was watching me, trying not to laugh at me, keeping his disdain at bay.
Night falls quickly in Hollywood. The Child removes her mother’s shoes and leaves them to cool. Later, they will be stuffed with tissue and stored
