Page 13 of The Lavender Bride

12

My worries about the INS lurk at the back of my mind, putting a dampener on my excitement for Saturday’s date. I can’t stop myself rehearsing what I’ll say at the interview. I’ll wear black to look serious and responsible. I’ll assure them that I have no sympathies with Communism and love the American way of life. If they know about Freddie, I’ll tearfully assure them that I had no idea he was a Communist and he’s no longer part of my life. I don’t have to say that was his choice, not mine.

On Saturday morning, I put on my favourite red and white polka dot dress with my red shell cap. As I drive into the hills above West Hollywood, I’m excited to see Rex again. His words on my birthday are a refrain running around my head. ‘You’re special to me, Audrey.’ They’ve been like armour all week, shielding me from the doubts and insecurities which are usually my constant companions.

This area of Hollywood is utterly different to the corner I call home. Rex lives in the Bird Streets, renowned for luxury homes and celebrity residents. So called because all of the streets are named after different types of birds. Each house stands behind a gated entrance and I catch glimpses of turquoise pools, stunning gardens and outstanding views.

On Nightingale Drive, I pull up beside two huge wooden gates and press the bell. There’s a high brick wall surrounding the house. I can see the tops of trees but there’s no glimpse of the house. A moment later, the gates swing open. The drive winds through lawns watered by sprinklers while holm oaks and cedar trees stand like sentries around the boundary wall. I gasp as I catch sight of the house. It’s vast. Far bigger than I’d anticipated.

Then I wince as I remember Rex coming to my flat. Pretty much all of it would fit in one of his flowerbeds. What must he have thought of my tiny space when he’s used to a place like this?

I stop in the turning circle outside the front door. There’s a fountain in the centre of it which creates a gentle tinkle of tumbling water. As I get out of the car, I look up. It’s built of dark stone with steps up to the front door. There’s a feeling of entering a castle with its curved walls and turret at one end.

The huge front door opens and Rex bounds down the stairs. He’s dressed in blue trousers and a pale-yellow, short-sleeved shirt.

‘You found it okay?’ he asks.

‘Just fine.’

He kisses my cheek. There’s a sudden rush of sensation, the proximity of his body, his strong arm on my back, his lips on my skin but not the zing I felt when Jack touched my hand.

Rex ushers me up the wide steps and through the door. From my handbag, I pull a box of Hershey chocolates and hand them to him.

‘Shucks, you didn’t have to, Audrey, but that’s real kind. You’ve brought my favourites too!’

I smile. That’s the advantage of having read pretty much everything that’s ever been written about him. I know this kind of information without us having to talk about it.

‘My pleasure.’ I gesture at the huge hall with the cream marble floor. An elegant spiral staircase twirls upwards. ‘Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful home.’

He shrugs. ‘It needs a bit of love and care. Let me show you round.’

There’s a dining room with the tallest windows I’ve ever seen. The curtains alone must cost a fortune! Opposite is the kitchen which is bigger than the whole of my apartment. I nod to the uniformed maid who’s chopping onions at one of the countertops. She’s a tall woman in her mid-forties with greying hair pulled into a bun and an impassive face.

‘That’s Trudie,’ Rex says as we move on. ‘She’s a swell cook. She’s doing fried chicken for lunch.’

Downstairs, there’s a sitting room sparsely furnished in cream and black and a den with squashy sofas, a record player and wireless. On the wall is a white and red framed American football shirt. ‘Chicago Bears,’ Rex says. ‘My dad’s a fan too. We used to go to games together as a treat.’

The first floor has six bedrooms, each with its own half-bath and a master suite which Rex tells me is so untidy, he can’t let me see it. There’s marble everywhere and it makes the place feel a little chilly. Every tiny sound is magnified; even in my espadrilles, my footsteps echo.

I can see why Dirk said the house needs a woman’s touch. Rugs, pictures on the walls, vases of flowers, maybe a sculpture or two would all help to make it feel less cavernous.

‘Have you thought of getting a decorator in?’ I ask Rex as we climb the spiral stairs to the second floor.

‘I thought about it but I don’t want it to be someone else’s taste. I want it to feel like mine but I don’t know where to start.’ He opens the door at the top of the stairs. ‘This is my favourite part of the house. This is why I bought it.’

I step into an enormous space and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. It’s a vast, empty space with a distinctly masculine smell of beer, cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies. There’s a circular stone bar with a wooden counter close to the door. The bar must be ten feet across and stools perch next to it. Beyond the bar stretches acres of wooden floor. There’s a pool table, a dartboard on one wall and a chrome-plated jukebox. Slouchy brown sofas rest in the areas closest to the windows. Enamel signs for beer decorate the walls. I stare around, unable to take in what I’m seeing.

‘This is where I have parties,’ Rex says as if having a hundred-foot bar in your house is an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it is in the circles he mixes in.

‘It’s enormous,’ I say because I can’t think of anything else.

‘Sure is!’ He beams but his smile doesn’t warm me as it usually does. Something inside me has frozen at the sight of this room. It feels utterly preposterous and, when many people have so little, rather obscene. But it’s also that Rex thinks it’s completely normal that unsettles me.

‘I don’t get to go out to bars any more as too many people recognise me so I wanted one at home.’ Rex crosses the room and switches on the jukebox. ‘Come on.’ He tilts his head, beckoning me over. ‘I’ve got all the hits.’

My footsteps echo as I cross the wooden floor. I stand beside him, twisting my watch round and round my wrist. I don’t know what I expected of Rex’s house but it definitely wasn’t this. This is a statement of wealth that’s oddly lacking in class. I wince because that makes me sound terribly British and snobby to boot, which I’m not.

‘You pick,’ he says. ‘I’ve got Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Rosemary Clooney.’

‘Frank, please.’ Maybe a song I know will make me feel less out of my depth.

Rex presses a button and the jukebox whirs and clicks. There’s a sultry trumpet and then Frank’s wonderful voice fills the space singing, ‘Almost Like Being in Love’. That feels a little too apt. Did Rex choose this on purpose? Is he trying to tell me that he too feels this ‘nearly but not quite’ quality in our relationship? Then I peer at the labels on the jukebox and realise this is the only Sinatra he’s got.

I raise a rueful eyebrow even though no one can see. I’m jumping at shadows today. This house has unsettled me, made me painfully aware of the differences between us.

‘Come see the view,’ he says as he reaches a floor-length window that opens onto a balcony with two wicker chairs and a table. We’re higher than the treetops and the view is sensational; I can see across the whole of Los Angeles to the ocean. Rex points. ‘Look, there’s the sign.’ He grins.

The Hollywood sign stands proudly against the hill. Each white letter in stark contrast to the ochre land around it. I wish I’d brought my camera as I dearly want to capture this moment. Rex and me on this balcony with the iconic sign behind us. If anything symbolises how far I’ve come from dreary old Sheffield, this is it!

‘Always gives me a thrill,’ I say softly.

‘Me too!’ Rex puts his arm around my shoulders. Could this be the moment when he kisses me? This would be as perfect as anything I’ve dreamed of! I stare up at his square jaw as if I can will him to pull me against his chest and kiss me. But he gives my shoulders a quick squeeze and lets me go.

‘Ready for lunch?’ he asks. ‘Trudie makes a mean potato salad.’

* * *

We have lunch in the dining room. The fried chicken is succulent, there’s an impressive choice of salads and the bread rolls are still warm from the oven. The only thing that isn’t perfect is how angry he gets at Trudie for forgetting to make any coleslaw. I feel so sorry for her as she apologises profusely, her hands twisting in her apron.

After she’s left the room, Rex huffs, ‘I wanted everything to be perfect for you.’

‘I can live without coleslaw,’ I say but he doesn’t smile.

There’s a painful silence which I break by telling him about the letter from the INS but struggle to find the words to articulate how worried I am.

He shakes his head as he listens and then says, ‘It’ll be fine. Just tell them you’re dating me. Then they’ll have to let you stay.’

I laugh because it’s expected of me but it’s not the reassurance I’d hoped for. I actually feel more alone with the problem than I did before.

After lunch, he shows me the garden. I spot the spiky yellow flowers of bird of paradise and there’s a profusion of pink, rose-like blooms on the camellias. The terrace opens onto a beautiful turquoise pool surrounded by eucalyptus trees and there’s a tennis court which he tells me he’s never used.

Next we move onto the garage. He pushes the folding door open to reveal an enormous space. There are racks of tools on the walls, a pair of white overalls hanging on a hook, a radio and a distinct smell of oil. Beside his Buick convertible are two other cars. One has an enormous bonnet, striped paintwork and is propped up on blocks; the other is perfect, a sleek burgundy vehicle that looks every inch a movie star’s car.

‘This where I have my fun.’ Rex gestures proudly around him. ‘I got the garage extended when I moved in. Got to have space to play.’

I gaze around me with wide eyes. I remember him telling me he enjoyed fixing cars but I’d not imagined he was actually good at it! It’s rather appealing, thinking of him in his overalls doing something technical with a spanner.

‘You fixed these yourself?’ I ask.

‘Sure did.’ He runs a proud hand over the burgundy one. ‘This is a 1938 Cadillac Sixty-Special. V-8 engine. 135 horsepower. She’s a beauty to drive. I’ll take you out in her one day.’

Now there’s a wonderful thought! Rex and me heading down the coast in this amazing car, getting admiring glances from everyone that we pass.

Rex moves on to the one on blocks. ‘I’ve only had this a few weeks. It’s going to need a lot of work but she’ll be real cool when she’s finished. She’s a 1934 Packard Sport Phaeton.’ Rex gives the car a proprietorial pat. ‘They only built 960 of them so she’s a real rarity.’

The cars bring something out in him that I’ve not seen before: a boyish enthusiasm which is rather swoony.

‘Where did you learn to fix cars?’ I ask as I can’t make any sensible comment about the vehicles themselves. I’ve no idea what a V-8 engine is or how much horsepower is worth having.

‘My dad’s a mechanic. He taught me a lot and you know I was an engineer during the war?’ When I nod, he continues, ‘It’s satisfying. I like fixing them up. If I hadn’t got into movies, I’d have been a mechanic like my dad.’

‘You wouldn’t live in a house like this if you were a mechanic.’ I laugh but I’ve still got a point to make. Because sometimes, he does seem to have forgotten the realities of work and money that the rest of us live with.

‘No, that’s true.’ Rex looks disconcerted that I’ve mentioned it. ‘But it’s good to have a back-up plan. Just in case my name ends up on that blacklist one day.’

I glance up at him, my eyes wide and my smile tight. ‘Is there any reason why it should?’

I won’t be ambushed this time. If he’s got political affiliations that will cause problems then I want to know before this goes any further. Especially with my INS interview coming up.

‘No.’ Rex shrugs. ‘I’m not much interested in politics. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about the state of the world. I worry about Russia and the atom bomb and Korea same as most folks. I just don’t see that there’s much difference whether it’s Republicans or Democrats making the decisions in Washington.’

I reach out and rest a hand on his arm. ‘Well, I can promise you I’m not a Communist.’ There’s a slight tremor in my voice on the last word. Fortunately, he doesn’t spot it.

‘Aww, shucks, Audrey. I never thought you were. You’re far too nice a girl for that.’

Is that how he sees me? I’m oddly disappointed. I was brought up to be nice, of course, but I’d like Rex to see more than that in me.

‘It’s your photography exhibition next Friday,’ Rex says as we walk back to the terrace where Trudie’s left a jug of iced tea. He pours me a glass. ‘Do you want to go out for dinner afterwards?’

I’m thrilled that he’s remembered. I want him to come yet I’m worried he’ll be disappointed. I’ve only got two photographs in the exhibition: the one of the girl on Santa Monica pier and one I took at the Santa Claus Lane Parade of a drum majorette.

That makes me think of Jack. I wish Rex took the same kind of interest in my photography that Jack does. But Rex wants to come to the exhibition. Maybe when he’s seen my work, he’ll understand why photography is important to me.

With that in mind, I beam up at him. ‘That’d be wonderful. The opening is from seven until eight-thirty so we could go out for dinner after that.’

‘Sure thing. I’ll book somewhere nearby.’ He chinks his glass against mine. ‘And maybe I’ll buy your photographs to fill my empty walls.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’ I frown because although I know it’s well-meant, it feels a little patronising. ‘There are some excellent photographs in the exhibition, though. Perhaps one of those will catch your eye.’

‘I know exactly what will catch my eye,’ he says with a theatrical wink. I laugh and give him a playful shove. Perhaps I did need to see him on his home turf. He’s a different person here. Especially in the garage. That’s where he really comes alive.

I smile up at him. Rex Trent, my boyfriend. He’s so damned handsome and he makes me laugh. He’s kind and considerate and he wants to take me out after the exhibition. How lucky am I?

Then my jaw tightens and I glance away, staring out at the incredible view. Why can’t I relax and enjoy this moment? Is it my anxiety about my visa that’s tarnishing it or is there something else? Am I scared of trusting again and believing that Rex and I can have a future? Is it because of Freddie that I always hold back, waiting for the sky to fall?

I am living my childhood dreams. So why do I constantly feel it’s all going to dissolve into a puff of smoke?