Page 2 of The Lavender Bride

1

HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 1951

Rex Trent is rising high in the firmament of Crown Pictures’ stars. The twenty-seven-year-old heartthrob is a welcome addition to the ranks of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors. Rarely seen out with the same girl twice, Rex confesses he’s having far too much fun to think about settling down.

PHOTOPLAY , OCTOBER 1951

‘Hi, I’m Rex Trent.’

I look up and then tilt my head back further until I finally see his face. He’s that tall! My jaw drops as awareness zips down my spine. He’s proper handsome too! That jaw! Those eyes! I feel slightly lightheaded just looking at him.

Automatically, I run my fingers through my hair. I’ve dreamed of this moment since I got the job with the Dirk Stone Talent Agency and discovered Rex Trent is its most famous client. I wish I’d known he was coming in today and I’d have worn something better than this plain old blouse and navy dirndl skirt.

His hair is dark brown and a little tousled as if he forgot to brush it this morning. As I look more closely, I see those unforgettable eyes are a soulful brown. His chin is shadowed by stubble but I can still see the dimple in it. The photographs I’ve seen of him (and I’ve looked at lots!) didn’t prepare me for the size and breadth of him. He’s wearing a navy blazer with a white, open-necked shirt with a chartreuse stripe. I can’t help but notice that his shoulders fill the blazer out beautifully. There’s no wonder the fan magazines call him ‘the beefcake’.

His eyebrows raise as he crosses his arms. Oh, boy, how embarrassing! Heat streaks across my face. I hastily lower my gaze to my desk. Say something, Audrey. He’s famous but he’s still a client. You’ve got to speak to him.

‘Hello, I’m Audrey Wade.’ I sound primly English, without a trace of my Yorkshire accent, but my voice is high-pitched and strained. ‘I’m Dirk’s new secretary.’ My blush deepens. My first time speaking to a bona fide movie star and I sound like a strangled duck. I take a deep breath and add, ‘Is Dirk expecting you?’ This time, my voice is level but my accent is back, the vowels as flat as pancakes.

Rex blinks, frowns. ‘Yes, he said I had to sign some papers.’

His voice is curt with a hint of frustration. I blink and look down. This is not how I imagined him. I’ve had a crush on him since I saw him in Emma , an adaptation of Jane Austen’s novel when he played Frank Churchill, and thought him jaw-droppingly handsome. He was funny and self-deprecating in the role and that trait came through in the interviews I’d read too. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt. What was I thinking? Of course he’s not going to be like Frank Churchill. That was acting and this is real life. Freddie always said I had trouble distinguishing between the two and here I am, proving him right. There’s the familiar lurch of loss at the thought of Freddie. I push it away. This is not the time.

‘Of course.’ I smile, hoping it looks confident and professional, as I push my chair back and stand. Unfortunately, the fabric of my skirt gets stuck between my chair and the leg of my desk and I have to yank it free. Yes, very dignified, Audrey!

Rex doesn’t return the smile. Disappointment needles me. He has such a wonderful smile. He’s always smiling in the photographs in the film magazines. Can’t he spare just one of those heartwarming smiles for me?

The papers are the extension of his contract with Crown Pictures. Dirk’s been negotiating it for weeks. As I walk around my desk, he takes a step back but I still pass within inches of his chest. I’m five foot six and he towers over me, making me feel absolutely tiny. His cologne is richly spiced. It smells enticing, elegant and expensive. Glancing up, I see Rex looks a lot more tired than he does in his photographs. There are purple shadows beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth. Could that be why he’s not as charming as I expected?

‘If you’ll take a seat for a jiffy, I’ll see if Mr Stone can see you now.’ My voice sounds breathy as if I’ll pass out at any minute.

Come on, Audrey. Pull yourself together and don’t muck this up. Rex is too important to the agency for you to behave like a dazzled bobbysoxer. Do you want Dirk to fire you? Because that’s the fastest way back to the typing pool at the insurance company. And then how will you keep up with the rent?

I make myself inhale deeply as I gesture to the leather chair underneath the window. There’s one hopeful already sitting there waiting. Such a lot of hopefuls come through the agency’s doors that I don’t bother learning their names until Dirk signs them. This one’s perched on the edge of the matching sofa, clutching his headshots.

‘You don’t expect me to sit on that, do you?’ Rex points at the chair. His beautiful mouth is twisted into a sneer. ‘Why hasn’t Dirk got a new chair? I’m sure as hell earning him enough to buy a new one.’

He’s not wrong about the chair. The springs are shot and have a habit of poking you in places you’d much rather not be poked. I’m mortified that he’s mentioned it. Somehow, this feels like my fault, even though the chair was in situ long before I started working for Dirk. Sweat blooms in my armpits. I look around frantically as if another more comfortable chair will materialise.

The young hopeful leaps from the sofa and gestures for Rex to take it. I breathe a sigh of relief as I cross to the filing cabinet. Ginny looks up from her typewriter. She’s secretary to Will Tranby, who’s the agent to many established theatre performers. She’s a couple of years older than me with shrewd, blue eyes and a turned-up nose. She wears her light-brown hair in a ponytail and is always well dressed.

Ginny’s eyes roll towards Rex and she mimes fanning herself. I grin quickly at her as I take Rex’s contract from his file. As I turn round, I’m astounded to see he’s lying on the sofa. His eyes are closed, his hands neatly folded across his chest. Because of his height, his feet stick off the end. The young hopeful looks astonished to see Rex’s famous head at that angle.

For a second, my brain takes in only the composition. The light from the wide window above, the tall man lying on the sofa like a wounded hero. Golly, I wish I’d got my camera with me. But Dirk would not be happy if I snuck photos of his clients when they weren’t looking.

‘Mr Trent,’ I say quietly. ‘Are you all right?’ Is he sick? I can’t imagine why anyone would lie down on that sofa if they weren’t. Could that be why he’s been a tiny bit grumpy with me?

‘I’m beat.’ His eyes don’t open. I’m not even worth the effort of lifting his eyelids. My heart plummets. Instantly, I feel smaller.

For a second, I want to cry. This is the first genuine movie star I’ve met and he’s being rude. Worse, he’s making me feel small. This is not what I dreamed of back in England when fantasies of Hollywood were all that got me through my school days and the dreary post-war years. In my daydreams, the film stars were always charming and made me feel wonderful. They were definitely never rude or unfriendly.

For the whole of the five months I’ve been working for Dirk, Rex has been in Europe first on holiday and then filming The Three Musketeers in France . He plays Aramis, the restless romantic with a mistress in every town. It sounds thrilling! Working for Dirk hasn’t cured me of my love of movies. If anything, being on the inside and knowing what’s coming up makes me even more enthusiastic. Ginny laughs at me. She’s been working for Will for three years and says no one impresses her any more but perhaps Rex will be the exception.

Abruptly, I wish I’d never met him in real life because then I could have kept alive the dream of him as the perfect man. Not that any man is actually perfect (except maybe Cary Grant). I’m not that na?ve.

I tap on Dirk’s door and then enter. The room smells of cigarette smoke and peppermint as Dirk’s perpetually either smoking or crunching mint balls. He’s on the telephone, his feet on his desk, his chair tipped back. He holds up one finger, which means ‘wait’. If he points at the door, it’s my cue to leave the paperwork on his desk and go back to mine.

On the wall behind my boss’s desk are photos of his clients, all with effusive messages of thanks to Dirk for his hand in developing their careers. Rex’s head shot is centre of the top row as befits the agency’s most famous name. The wall to the left of the desk is covered with signed photos of everyone who’s anyone in Hollywood. Closest to me are Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, Irene Dunn and Lauren Bacall. I focus on Cary Grant’s superbly handsome face. What advice would he give me about dealing with Rex Trent? Cary is English too. He crossed the pond to seek his fortune in Hollywood. Did he ever feel like I do? Baffled by the sheer unreality of it? Unable to work out how a poor boy from Bristol ended up as one of the most lauded stars in Hollywood? Perhaps I should have changed my name too. Left plain old Audrey on English shores and arrived in Hollywood as Adele or Ava.

‘She won’t do it for less,’ Dirk barks into the telephone, pulling me back to the here and now. He’s mid-forties, spare and wiry with a restless energy he pours into his work. He’s got a weak chest that landed him a desk job in the war. ‘Stop wasting my time and get back to me when you can put a decent offer on the table.’ The receiver is forcibly returned to its cradle. Then Dirk grins at me as he swings his feet off the desk. ‘That was The Jack Benny Program . I’m making them sweat.’

Dirk goes the extra mile for his clients. He’s both ruthless and relentless on their behalf. In exchange, he expects total loyalty. They take his advice and no one else’s. In my four months here, I’ve seen two young starlets dropped for listening to someone else’s words of wisdom about their careers rather than Dirk’s.

‘Rex Trent is here to see you,’ I say as I put the contracts on Dirk’s desk.

My boss smooths his moustache with nicotine-stained fingers before picking them up. ‘He should sign these in blood after the rigmarole I went through with Harry King to negotiate it.’ He reaches for another mint ball and pops it in his mouth. ‘Send him in. And bring more coffee.’

Reaching the door, I still. Rex is motionless. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. He can’t be asleep, can he? I approach and a small snore escapes him. I look at the young hopeful. He shrugs as if to say, He’s famous, he can sleep if he likes.

I should wake him. Dirk’s expecting him. I cough and say, ‘Mr Trent?’

As if my voice disturbs him, he huffs out a long breath and then turns over. His broad back is towards me, the fabric of the blazer straining across his shoulders.

What do I do? Find him a blanket and let him sleep? Or prod him until he wakes up?

I turn to Ginny and mouth, ‘He’s asleep.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. She crosses the room to join me.

‘Sure is,’ she whispers. ‘You’ll have to wake him.’

I reach out to touch his shoulder but then I snatch it back. I don’t want to be the one to do it. What if he’s furious with me for waking him? I do not want to deal with Rex’s anger. Seeing him irritated has been bad enough.

I glance at Dirk’s office door. He’d wake Rex without a second thought. He’s got a very important contract to sign. Dirk would say snoozing can wait. Rex’s shoulders rise and fall as he breathes. He must be absolutely exhausted to fall asleep on that sofa. He may be one of Hollywood’s hottest rising stars but right now, he’s as vulnerable as a baby. If the agency really does go the extra mile for its clients, shouldn’t we accept the unorthodox and let our client take the nap he clearly needs?

‘I can’t do it,’ I murmur.

Ginny shrugs next to me as if to say, It’s your funeral. I hope to goodness she’s not right and Dirk won’t fire me for this.

I turn to the young hopeful. Could Rex’s slumber be his lucky break? I tiptoe to the coffee maker, fill a cup and take it in to Dirk. ‘Mr Trent is indisposed?—’

‘What?’ Dirk snarls. ‘You just told me he was here.’

‘There’s a young man to see you instead.’ I clear a space amongst the sea of papers and yesterday’s Hollywood Reporter to put his coffee down. ‘I think he’s got potential.’

A large part of my job is sifting through the hundreds of letters Dirk receives every week. Almost every applicant is good-looking, many are undoubtedly talented but only a handful have the magnetism that makes a movie star.

Dirk sighs. ‘He’d better be good, kid. And make me a lunch reservation at Scandia – twelve thirty for two.’

I nod and send the young hopeful in. He smiles gratefully at me, which is almost undoubtedly premature. Dirk’s brutal with those who don’t make the grade. There’s a strong chance he’ll be out on his ear in ten minutes.

I settle back at my desk. As my fingers hover over the typewriter keys, I glance over at Rex Trent again. Seeing him like this stirs memories of Freddie. Freddie wasn’t as handsome or anywhere near as tall. Yet that vulnerability reminds me of my lost friend. If only I could tell him about this most confusing encounter. But Freddie is gone from my life. He chose a different path and made it entirely clear I had no part in it. My stomach clenches at the memory.

I thought coming to Hollywood, living the dream we’d had growing up would heal me. That I’d never feel small and lost once I arrived in LA. But it turns out I’m still the same Audrey even here. I pretend to be like everyone else but inside, I’m quaking in case they find out I’m worthless, just as Father always said. Freddie used to lift me up. Without him, there are days when I’m fragile as finest crystal. I miss him so much, I’m sometimes surprised people can’t see it. That they don’t know I’m broken-hearted, not for a lover but for my best friend.

I take a deep breath to push through the wave of sadness and then pick up my telephone to call the restaurant. I keep my voice low as I make the reservation. Still Rex doesn’t stir. Even the rattle and ding of my typewriter doesn’t wake him. The young hopeful leaves, head down. Another who didn’t have the ineffable quality Dirk’s looking for.

I keep glancing over at Rex, alert for any sign he’s stirring. Will he be embarrassed as people often are when they fall asleep in front of strangers? Or angry with me for letting him sleep? Perhaps he’ll feel better after he’s had some rest and be more like the man I’ve seen in the films and read about in the magazines.

At twelve, I go out for lunch with Ginny as usual. I’m curiously unwilling to leave Rex, as if I’m the one protecting his slumbers. I look back over my shoulder as I leave the office. Will he still be there when I come back? It’s unlikely. Dirk will have no compunction about waking him.

‘Who’d have thought it?’ Ginny says as we walk downstairs. ‘He really must have been exhausted.’

As we eat, we talk about her boyfriend Nathaniel and their plans for the weekend. She asks me whether I’ll risk another date with Dan, a pilot I met through a friend who’s an airline hostess. I’ve been out with him twice and he’s spent the entirety of both dates talking about himself. ‘Probably,’ I tell her. ‘Even Dan’s better than sitting at home on my own on Saturday night.’

Weekends are the worst. During the week, work keeps me occupied but my weekends can feel very empty. That’s when the gloom can set in. I’ve made a few friends in Los Angeles but many, like Ginny, are busy with their boyfriends. Ginny’s the closest I have to a genuine friend and yet I still feel a gulf between us. Her life has been full of sunshine, siblings and sports (Ginny plays golf, tennis and badminton). She’s from a large, boisterous and well-to-do family from Pasadena. Her father is a partner in a law firm, her mother attends fundraisers and is a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. They’re the kind of people who’d have been wholly out of my sphere back in England and that makes me uneasy when I accept their hospitality as I always worry they’ll realise I don’t quite come up to the mark.

‘That’s the problem with pilots. They’re like actors,’ Ginny says with a laugh. ‘Egos the size of California.’

Is that the case with Rex Trent? It didn’t seem that way from all I’ve read about him and when I’ve heard him interviewed on the wireless. Yet this morning’s grumpiness could be down to ego. Was he angry at having to wait to see Dirk and being forced to deal with a mere secretary? He’s not the first bad-tempered actor I’ve dealt with while I’ve been with Dirk and previously at Arden & Arden, the theatrical agents I worked for back in London.

I’ve always put it down to artistic temperament and accepted it as part of my job. I’ve never been as sharply disappointed as I was with Rex. I really did like him such a lot before I met him.

Ginny dashes to the drug store. I pick up a packet of Pall Malls for Dirk as he’s like a bear with a sore head if he runs out of cigarettes. I return slightly earlier than usual, running up the stairs in my ballerina flats. Will he still be there? Will he sleepily wake up, blink at me and offer that heart-stopping smile? Might he apologise for being rude earlier and bring me flowers to say sorry? And then I’ll be delighted and thrilled and know he’s the absolute nicest man in Hollywood.

Heart thumping, I open the door a crack and peer inside. He’s gone. The fantasy evaporates. ‘Cheerio, Rex,’ I murmur. Suddenly, I feel cold and tired and reach for the cardigan I keep on the back of my chair.

My sister, Esther used to say that my dreams wouldn’t keep me warm. Those words feel painfully true right now. She’d laugh at me for creating such a bubble of expectation around Rex. But it was such a beautiful, glittering bubble. Letting it go brings me down to earth with a bump. Now I’m just the secretary again.

After plumping the sofa cushions and refilling the coffeepot, I return to my desk. On it are the contracts I gave to Dirk earlier. I turn to the last page and see Rex’s signature. The handwriting is neat, almost childlike, each letter perfectly formed.

I sigh out a long breath of frustration. I’d thought working for Dirk, I’d meet famous people, that they’d get to know me and I’d become part of the Hollywood set. But all I get to do is make coffee, type letters and post contracts. There’s no reflected glory in being the girl who sends Rex Trent’s contract back to Crown Pictures. Even today, when I was within touching distance of a movie star who actually fell asleep on the sofa next me, doesn’t get me any closer to my dreams.

Ginny’s return prompts me to square my shoulders before rolling a clean sheet of headed notepaper onto my typewriter. I don’t need Dirk to dictate letters of this kind. I’ve done this time and again. The stock phrases flow from my brain to my fingers. I paperclip the letter to the contracts and return them to Dirk’s desk.

Dirk returns late from lunch. ‘Indisposed, was he?’ he says to me as he passes my desk. ‘You’re too soft, kid.’

I cross my arms and meet his gaze. ‘He was exhausted. It was only common courtesy to let him sleep.’ As Dirk opens his mouth to argue, I add, ‘We need to replace that chair. Rex refused to sit on it. He said with the amount he earns the agency, you should be able to buy a comfortable chair.’

‘He obviously didn’t have a problem with the sofa.’ Dirk huffs out a breath that’s heavy with peppermint. ‘Damnit! Get W&J Sloane on the horn and get them to send something over.’

‘Just the chair?’ I ask as he turns away. ‘Because it’ll look odd if they don’t match. You don’t want your best client to be unhappy.’

‘You think I’m made of money?’

I wait. Dirk protests first and thinks second.

A beat later, he adds, ‘Fine, get both.’ After another beat, he says, ‘But that’s the end of it. I’m not having you and Rex bleeding me dry.’

There’s a thrill in hearing our names paired like that. I smile as I say, ‘Thank you, Dirk.’

‘Huh!’ At his office door, he snarls, ‘Where’s my coffee?’

Once he’s back in his office with the door closed, Ginny flashes me a thumbs up. I pour the coffee and take it through to Dirk. Then I find W&J Sloane’s number in the directory and they promise to send me a catalogue in the mail.

The rest of the day passes in the usual way. As I take dictation and type, I’m distracted by thoughts of Rex. Does he fall asleep with strangers all the time? Or did I do something which put him at his ease? I want to believe it’s the latter, that he sensed I’d understand. Is that why he reminds me of Freddie, because despite Rex’s grumpiness, he seemed at ease with me? Because Freddie and I were always easy together. Until, of course, we weren’t.

* * *

When I get home to my tiny apartment on Fairfax Avenue, I’m restless, flitting around the small space, unable to relax. I moved here shortly after I started working for Dirk, the deposit eating up what was left of my inheritance from my Great-Aunt Violet. It has a living area downstairs which includes the kitchenette with cheery yellow cupboards and a fold-out Formica dining table. Stairs lead to the tiny mezzanine which holds my bed. Beneath the stairs is a petite bookshelf which I found in a thrift store and painted white. I share a bathroom down the hall with Miss Miles who works at Central Casting and Mrs Nowak who has a job at City Hall.

The flat may be small but it’s light and bright. I’ve spent every spare dime to make sure it’s nothing like the house I grew up in. It came furnished but as nothing matched, I’ve done my best to hide the furniture. The sofa and chair are covered with orange, white and yellow striped Mexican blankets. The brown carpet is largely hidden by a geometric patterned rug in the same colours. I replaced the lampshades with zingy yellow ones from the Five and Dime store. Upstairs, there’s an emerald-green counterpane on my bed which was another Five and Dime store find.

What I don’t have, and never will, is an ashtray. I don’t want this space to smell of smoke as home did. Father’s pipe smoke permeated every room and clung to my hair and clothes when I went out. It felt like I carried a constant reminder of him everywhere I went.

The only reminder of home is a photograph of Esther and Bill with my nephew David and my niece Ruth. It’s framed in a cobalt-blue plastic frame that glows when the sun floods through the window. The bright colours remind me that this is my space and I decide who comes into it. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived that feels like a sanctuary, where I know I’m safe when I close the front door behind me. That feeling is worth every cent that goes on rent.

After I’ve eaten, I settle on the sofa and pull out the bundle of film magazines I’ve accumulated since I moved to LA. As I flick through then, I spot plenty of mentions of Rex, snippets about upcoming films, interviews, photographs. I spend a lot of time looking at the photos, at his handsome, smiling face. There’s not one in which he doesn’t look delighted with life. I re-read the interviews. The down-to-earth charm I remembered comes over in every line. He seems enchanted by every experience, thrilled to spend time with the interviewer, captivated by the movie business. There’s not a hint of the grouchy man I met this morning.

He must have been feeling off-colour, that’s the only explanation. He was exhausted after filming The Three Musketeers and the long journey home.

I get ready for bed and once I’m snug beneath the green counterpane, I allow the fancies to form. Rex will come back to the office. I’ll be wearing my best blue and white dress, he’ll ask me to have coffee with him to say sorry for the other day and we’ll go to Schwab’s Pharmacy (where Lana Turner was discovered) and he’ll be just as charming and gorgeous as he is in the magazine interviews. And we’ll get on so well that he’ll ask me out again and I’ll be taken to The Cocoanut Grove and Earl Carroll’s and Ciro’s. I’ve never been to a nightclub but I’ve seen them in the movies. My imagination provides me with an off-the-shoulder satin dress in emerald green with yards and yards of skirt which makes my waist look tiny. We’ll dance the slow foxtrot, his strong arms cradling me. But when I look up, it’s not Rex’s face I see but Freddie’s, bruised and shadowed as it was the last time I saw him.