Page 12 of The Lavender Bride

11

Does Ann Roberts know about her date, screenwriter Irving Bridges’, past? We can’t believe he’s not told her he was once in the Communist Party. But if she knows, why’s she still seeing him?

THE LOS ANGELES TIMES , 10 JANUARY 1952

Rex finally calls me on the day Dirk returns from Palm Springs. He apologises for not calling sooner, saying he’s been very busy with filming. I thank him for the beautiful camera, my words tumbling over themselves in my enthusiasm.

‘I’m real glad you like it,’ Rex says and then adds, ‘A little bird told me it’s your birthday on Friday. How about I take you to Villa Nova to celebrate?’

It’s pretty obvious the little bird is Dirk but although I’ve been miffed by his silence, I’m thrilled to be asked. Whatever it is that’s going on or not going on in our relationship, I’m not going to turn down another evening at Villa Nova with Rex.

He’s utterly charming all evening. He orders a bottle of champagne to celebrate. I’m entranced by the performance of it, the heavy bottle topped in gold foil, the silver bucket of ice, the waiter who opens it with careless precision, the white cloud that blossoms from the bottle as the cork pops, the bubbles that fill my coupe glass. The taste is headily delightful.

It’s a moment to savour, all right. Drinking champagne in a swanky restaurant with my movie-star boyfriend is a very long way from Ecclesall Road.

Over dessert, Rex gives me my present. It comes in a square box which is a hefty hint that it’s jewellery. Under the tissue paper is a double-strand pearl bracelet. The clasp is hidden behind a circle of gold dotted with diamonds and sapphires. I stare at it, open-mouthed. It’s the prettiest (and very likely most expensive) thing anyone has ever given me. As with the camera at Christmas, it’s a little overwhelming for a girl who grew up with not much at all.

‘Thank you,’ I say breathlessly. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Put it on.’ Rex points at my wrist. ‘I want to see you wearing it.’

As I struggle one-handed with the clasp, Rex leans over and takes over. I smell the deep spiciness of his cologne. The urge to touch him is overwhelming. I catch his strong, square hand as he leans back.

‘I love it,’ I say, staring deep into his brown eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re special to me, Audrey.’ He gives my hand a little squeeze. ‘I wanted you to know that.’

I blink at him as my heart fills with warmth. Is this how falling in love feels? I don’t know. The only man I’ve ever loved was Freddie, but thinking of him makes the champagne curdle in my stomach. I look down. The moment has gone and yet Rex is staring at me expectantly. I summon a smile as I say, ‘You’re special to me too, Rex.’

He smiles a little shyly. ‘Aww, shucks, Audrey. That means the world to me.’

Once Rex drops me home, again kissing me on the cheek as he says goodnight, I sit on the sofa with a cup of cocoa and think about the evening. Why don’t I feel more? We have a nice time together but where’s the passion? Other men have struggled to keep their hands off me but not Rex. Is it me? Or is it the two of us together that doesn’t work?

Unbidden, Jack walks into my thoughts. I remember that thrill of awareness as we shook hands, the little spark that ran through me as our eyes locked. I want that with Rex but it’s not there. Do you need it for a relationship to work?

I remember Esther telling me that love isn’t about romance and big gestures like in the films but kindness and building a life together. That sounded really dull back then and it still does. I’m dating a film star but do I need to accept that, even with him, life isn’t like the movies?

* * *

At work, Dirk is caught up with a crisis. Gossip queen Hedda Hopper uses her column to claim that Ann Roberts, one of the agency’s most successful clients, is dating a Communist. The man in question is Irving Bridges, a respected screenwriter.

I feel really sorry for her. What a situation to find yourself in! I bet she had no idea. In the fevered paranoia that’s engulfed Hollywood since the HUAC started investigating again, being in a relationship with a Communist could be enough to end her career.

Dirk asks me to ring Ann to arrange for her to come in to see him. ‘Listen for any clicks on the line, kid,’ he says, standing over me as I pick up the receiver. ‘I need to know if the Feds are tapping her phone.’

My eyes widen. ‘They do that?’

‘Sure. But try to sound natural, okay? I don’t want them to know we’re onto them.’

Feeling absurdly self-conscious, I dial the number. As it connects, I press the receiver tight against my ear. As Ann picks up, there’s a couple of sharp clicks. If I wasn’t listening for them, I’d have just thought it was a bad line. Dirk is watching me intently. I nod. He turns away from me and lets out a stream of swear words.

‘Hello?’ Ann says.

‘Miss Roberts. This is Audrey from the Dirk Stone Talent Agency.’ I sound tentative even to my own ears. I hate the thought of a Federal agent listening to this. How is that fair? America’s supposed to be a free country and, as it’s not illegal to be a Communist, how can it be wrong to date one? ‘Dirk would like you to come in for a meeting tomorrow. There’s a matter he needs to discuss with you in person.’

We arrange the time and then just before she rings off, I add, ‘This is a very bad line. I wouldn’t use it if I were you.’

‘I don’t think that’s any of—’ she exclaims sharply and then her voice abruptly softens. ‘I see. Thank you, Audrey.’

‘Cheerio, Miss Roberts. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

As she ends the call, the clicks come again.

‘I told you to keep it natural!’ Dirk snaps as I put the receiver down. ‘You practically told them we know they’re listening.’

‘I couldn’t bear her not knowing. It’s so unfair.’ My hands bunch into fists. It’s McCarthy and his bully boys ruining everything again. ‘What if she’d kept using the phone and said something they can use against her?’

Dirk paces away from me, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Yeah, okay. Maybe you did the right thing.’

‘What do the FBI expect to find? She’s only dating this Irving fellow.’

‘Anything the HUAC can use.’ Dirk cracks his knuckles. ‘Hopefully against Irving Bridges, not Ann herself, but there are that many pink slips flying about it’s impossible to know who’s next.’

A pink slip is a subpoena to appear before the HUAC. They’ve been the death knell to far too many careers over the past few years. The blacklist keeps on growing and Dirk won’t want to see any of his clients’ names on it but especially not Ann’s.

The following day, Ann arrives in the office looking like she’s going to a funeral, in a black suit with a pillbox hat. The half-veil hides her red-rimmed eyes. I usher her straight into Dirk’s office. He pours her a whisky from the bottle he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk even though it’s only ten in the morning. I close Dirk’s office door and return to my desk.

‘Just shows you can’t be too careful who you date.’ Ginny’s got her arms folded and a look on her face that I’ve never seen before.

‘It’s hardly her fault the chap turned out to be a Communist.’ I’m appalled that Ginny can be so judgemental. ‘I bet she didn’t have a clue.’

‘How can you not know you’re dating a Red?’

‘They don’t spend their whole time quoting Karl Marx and whistling “The Internationale”,’ I say sharply. If they did then I’d have known what to expect when I got to that house in Camden.

‘Golly, Audrey!’ Ginny leans back and looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. ‘You sound as if you know one!’

I shake my head as I unjam two typewriter keys that have got stuck together. Not any more , I want to say. Not for four long years. And I’ve missed him every one of those days.

After Ann leaves, Dirks calls me into his office. ‘Looks like it’s her dresser who’s the rat. Christ!’ He opens his cigarette case and takes out a Pall Mall. ‘You can’t trust anyone in this town any more.’ The click of his lighter punctuates the sentence. ‘I thought it was bad in ’47 but this is like watching Rome burn. How’s anyone supposed to make a decent movie when everyone’s looking over their shoulder wondering if they’ll be the next to end up on the blacklist because they once spoke to someone who was a Communist for ten minutes in 1938?’

I’ve not heard Dirk get angry about the blacklist before. It makes me like him a little bit more. There is a heart under that cynical exterior after all.

‘What will happen to Ann?’ I ask. ‘Will she be blacklisted?’

Dirk blows out a plume of smoke. ‘Not if I can help it, kid.’

* * *

The following day, I arrive home to find a buff envelope with the words ‘U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service’ in bold letters across the top of it. I feel a lift of excitement. I applied to renew my visa before Christmas and this should be confirmation that they’re going to grant it.

But it isn’t. My heart plummets as I read. The INS are in receipt of my application but will carry out checks to ensure my continuing eligibility before they extend my visa. I am required to attend a meeting at an address Downtown on Tuesday, 12 February. There is a list of documents I must bring with me which includes my passport and proof that I’m in employment.

I sit down abruptly on the sofa as my knees feel a little weak. What does it mean? Why might I not be eligible? I’ve done everything that I was told to when I got the first visa at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square. I’m working, which is the key thing, and I’ve applied to renew my visa in good time. What’s changed in the past two years to require further checks and an interview?

I twist my watch around my wrist as my mind churns through a host of possibilities, all more dire than the one before. What happens if I’m not eligible? Do I get kicked out of the country? Could I be sent home in disgrace? I see myself being escorted to the docks and put on the first boat back to England. To have come this far and fail would be unbearable.

I can’t go home. I can’t let Father and Freddie be proved right, because they’ll both be convinced it’s my fault. That I was too much of a dreamer, too na?ve to read the application form correctly or send some important document.

If I get sent home, I’ll never see Rex again. I’ll be alone in digs in grey old London, boring everyone I meet with tales of dating Rex Trent when I lived in Hollywood. They’ll look at me askance, not quite sure if I’m a lunatic who’s made it all up.

I cannot bear that. To have come this close and then find it all ripped away would tear me apart.

* * *

I’m bleary eyed and grumpy when I get to the office. I make myself a coffee and slump behind my typewriter. Ginny arrives a few minutes later and I manage to let her take her coat off before I pour out my worries. I show her the letter and she frowns as she reads it.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ she says as she hands it back to me. ‘Everyone’s worked up about immigration at the moment because of the Red Scare. You’ll be all right once they meet you. They’re looking out for Soviet spies and people with subversive sympathies.’

I go entirely still. ‘What?’ I manage to murmur between stiff lips. Because although I’m no Communist, I knew a man who is. What if I’m going to be like Ann Roberts and pilloried for the company I once kept?

‘Don’t look so worried.’ Ginny laughs. ‘Just don’t tell the INS what you think of McCarthy. I don’t want you to end up on the first boat back to England!’

She’s ribbing me but it doesn’t feel like a joke. I feel myself fall back through time. I remember the dim sitting room, the sour smell of milk that’d gone off, the red flag on the wall. Can the INS possibly know that I once visited the home of Communists? And about my friendship with Freddie? In the summer of ’48, while the Olympics brought a brief jamboree spirit to London, I saw a poster with his name on it. He was speaking at an event in Mile End with Phil Piratin, who was a Communist Party MP at that time. Obviously, I didn’t go. Freddie had made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing more to do with me, but he must have been important to be asked to speak at the same event as the MP. What if Freddie’s now some bigwig in the British Communist Party and everyone who knew him is suspect?

An image forms of Freddie, a little older, his hair cropped shorter. He’s making a speech about workers’ rights and the abolition of private property. He raises a clenched fist as he finishes speaking and the audience roar their approval.

I shake my head and the image shatters. Oh, please, don’t let that be true! Let that be only my imagination running away with me. I suck in a deep breath. I have no idea what Freddie’s doing now. He may have given up being a Communist ages ago. But what if I end up being deported because the INS think I’m a subversive? Someone in the government threatened to kick Charlie Chaplin out of America for his political views. If they’d do that to Hollywood royalty, what chance does a mere secretary have?

My heart is pumping like mad. I can’t leave Hollywood. Not when I’m with Rex and we’re getting on so well. Not before he’s even properly kissed me!

If he ever does , a little voice whispers at the back of my mind. I push that voice away. It will happen. He’s just tired at the moment from filming.

Dirk throws the door open and stomps past my desk. I know those signs. I shove my fears to the back of my mind and head to the coffee maker to get him his first cup of the morning.

As I take it into his office, I say, ‘Any news about Ann Roberts?’ My voice wobbles slightly.

Dirk blows smoke up at the ceiling before he replies. ‘She’s dumped Irving. The studio is wavering. They don’t want to blacklist her when she’s getting such good receipts. We need to play on that. I’ve lined up a meeting for us tomorrow morning with Harry King for her to apologise to him in person for bringing Crown Pictures into disrepute.’

Will that be what I’m forced to do? No matter the things we said to each other on that last day, Freddie was my friend. If I have to disown him in order to stay in America then it will break my heart all over again.

‘Then I’ve got Louella Parsons to do a puff piece,’ Dirk continues. ‘She’ll paint Ann as a poor dupe who didn’t realise the guy was a Red. It’ll hurt Ann’s pride but it’s better than the blacklist.’

I frown. ‘Louella will do that?’ After my own brushes with the gossip columnist, I’m surprised she’s prepared to be so helpful.

‘Louella will do anything to make Hedda Hopper look bad.’ Dirk stubs his cigarette out and pops a mint ball into his mouth. ‘You look glum this morning too, kid. What’s up?’

As I explain about the letter, my voice wobbles as anxiety clogs my throat. I finish by saying I’ll need a letter from him confirming I work here.

‘It’s all part of McCarthy’s Communist paranoia,’ he says, crunching his mint ball. ‘You’ll be fine once they meet you. Just don’t tell them what you think of McCarthy.’

‘That’s what Ginny said,’ I say. Unease stalks down my spine. Apart from sharing my views on McCarthy, I’ve not done anything that could be thought subversive while I’ve been here. Would they really go to the trouble of looking at what happened nearly five years ago back in London?

‘Write the letter they’ve asked for, tell them I can’t run this place without you and I’ll sign it,’ Dirk adds. ‘Then cheer me up, kid, and tell me when you’re next seeing Rex?’

Dirk’s fascination with my love life still perplexes me. He never showed any interest in who I was dating before Rex.

‘He’s invited me to lunch at his house on Saturday.’ The thought lifts some of the worry. They can hardly deport me when I’m dating one of America’s hottest movie stars, can they?

Dirk grins widely. ‘That place could use a woman’s touch.’

I fold my arms. ‘I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.’

He winks. ‘We’ll see!’