Page 3 of The Lavender Bride

2

Tony Young is teaching Rex Trent to surf and these boys are having a divine time at Venice Beach this week!

EYEWITNESS , NOVEMBER 1951

Rex does not return. Every day when I go into the office, I hope he’ll come in. A week later, Dirk tells me Rex is on a publicity tour for Redwood Canyon , a Western in which he’s got third billing. The newspapers report that at the New York premiere, his bobbysoxer fans are screaming for Rex and ignoring the film’s more established stars. His date for the premiere is veteran stage actress Tallulah Bankhead, who must be fifty if she’s a day. She’s still a striking woman though and they look relaxed and elegant together on the red carpet.

I spend a good fifteen minutes, when I should be working, fantasising about going to a premiere with Rex. He’d look debonair in his dinner jacket, I’d wear an elegant designer gown with a crinoline petticoat beneath, evening gloves and jewels. We’d walk up the red carpet hand in hand and I’d lift my chin as I stand and smile for the cameras, thinking of Father and Freddie, who told me I’d never make it in Hollywood.

The telephone ringing snaps me out of my reverie but the daydream doesn’t fade. Over the following days, it becomes the place I retreat to when the world feels too much. When my body is going through the motions of washing up or ironing, my mind is on the red carpet with Rex Trent. Some days, the dream feels more tangible than the dull reality of being a secretary and I come back to the everyday feeling cheated that I’ve got filing to do and the post to get ready.

Rex may be absent but his name is a constant presence at the agency. Dirk is lining him up for Sealed with a Kiss , a romantic comedy with America’s sweetheart, Brenda Ball, but Harry King is driving a hard bargain on the fee to lend him to Ransome Pictures for the movie.

I agree to another date with Dan, who takes me to Lindy’s and then spends the entire evening telling me why the troops in Korea will show the Communists who’s boss and why Truman is a lousy president. During dessert (a rather lovely lemon cheesecake), I drift off into daydreaming about Rex again. It’s only when Dan says, ‘At least McCarthy is doing something to root out the Commies and the faggots,’ that I snap back into the present.

Anger floods through me. ‘McCarthy is a bigot and a menace.’ My hands start shaking and my spoon drops into my dish with a clatter. ‘My father is just the same so I know one when I see one.’

Dan throws his napkin onto the table. ‘I don’t have dinner with Democrats.’ Then he stares at me as if he’s never seen me before. ‘Or are you a Red?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I shove my chair back. I feel the eyes of the other diners on me as I snatch up my wrap. Most of the time, I just want to fit in, even if it means putting up with boring idiots like Dan. But there are things I won’t stand for and Dan’s just hit one of them on the head. ‘I’m just someone who’s seen other people treated badly because of prejudices like yours. Thank you for dinner, Dan. Don’t call me again.’

As I walk away, I keep my head up. I’m shaky and yet elated. My heart feels fluttery and desperate like a caged bird. For once, I spoke out. I didn’t let Dan get away with it as Father always did. I was brave for Freddie and everyone like him. Even though Freddie will never know, it was the right thing to do.

Tears prickle behind my eyes. I miss Freddie so much. He always understood. I never felt powerless and voiceless with him. Until that last day when suddenly I did.

I reach the front desk. My voice is wobbly as I ask the ma?tre d’ to call a taxi. Back in England, I’d walk home, but no one walks in Los Angeles, especially not in red, patent kitten heels. I self-consciously shift my weight from side to side as I loiter in the entrance of Lindy’s waiting for it to arrive. I glance over my shoulder again and again. Please don’t let Dan leave until I’m gone. When the taxi pulls up, I dart outside and blow out a long breath as I climb inside. In a few short minutes, I’m unlocking the door to my flat.

I slip off my shoes and climb the stairs. Beneath my bed is a shoebox. Careful of my wide, red skirts, I tug it out and lift the lid. Inside is my old life. There’s not much: the ribbon from the tartan dress I was given by Great-Aunt Violet on my tenth birthday; my Brownie badge; a note from Miss Stewart, my art teacher, telling me not to give up on photography; a clipping from the Sheffield Daily Telegraph of my photograph that won second prize in their VE Day competition; the copy of The Wizard of Oz that Freddie read to me from as the bombs fell in 1940. At the bottom of the box, tied with a yellow ribbon, are the few photos I brought with me. Ones of Mum, Esther and Freddie.

It was taken in the summer of 1945 before he went to university. I remember the day perfectly. We’d taken the bus to Bakewell, eaten our sandwiches by the river, throwing the crusts to the ducks. I had the camera I’d borrowed from Miss Stewart and I’d taken the photo of Freddie beside the bridge. He was squinting at the camera, his hair ruffled by the breeze, his hands sunk into the pockets of his blazer.

Emotions surge through me as I look at his face. How can I miss him so much when I’m still angry with him? If only he hadn’t lied. Hadn’t said those terrible things. Hadn’t made me feel as small as Father used to. Then I might have understood.

I run a finger over his face. If only I could tell him about this evening. Let him know I stood up for him. But those days are long gone.

A sour sadness washes through me. I put the photo back in the box, close the lid, push it back beneath my bed. Freddie chose a different life. One without me in it.

* * *

When I wake up on Sunday morning, anxiety is chewing at my guts. As I get myself a bowl of cornflakes and eat it at the fold-down table, I see again Dan’s face as I shoved my chair back. What if he tells everyone that I’m a Red? You can’t be too careful in Hollywood with the House Un-American Activities Committee hauling people in to ask them if they are or ever were Communists.

I should have been more careful. What if I’m never asked out on another date because I’m known to sympathise with subversives and queers? Women aren’t supposed to have thoughts of their own. Especially not young, single ones who want to get married. The magazines make it very clear that it’s a woman’s role to agree with whatever their man thinks. If that’s what marriage is then it’s not much different to being a daughter. I hated Father telling me what to think and believe. It’s hard to believe I’d take it much better from a husband, no matter how much I loved him.

I thought the world was changing during the war but the freedoms women enjoyed have shrivelled and died since VE Day. It felt viciously unfair that Esther got to join the Women’s Land Army at seventeen but those choices weren’t available to me because I was too young. I’d longed to join the WAAFs which would have taken me far from Sheffield but the war ended before I was old enough. Since then, women have been relegated to jobs which are considered suitable – teacher, nurse, secretary – and expected to forget they’d been riveters, mechanics and ambulance drivers when their country needed them.

It’s baffling how quickly the world has forgotten how strong and resourceful women can be. We’ve been shoved back in our boxes and it’s stifling to have scented that freedom and feel it yanked away again. To be expected to sit quietly while idiots like Dan blither on.

Getting angry again won’t help. It’s Sunday and I’ve got laundry to do. I strip my bed and stuff the sheets into the dirty washing bag. With Photoplay in my hand, I haul the washing across the street to the launderette. Fortunately, it’s still quiet. I push open the door, releasing the smell of washing powder and sweat. A middle-aged lady reading next to the dryer nods to me.

Once the machine is going, I sit on the bench and open up Photoplay . There’s a photograph of Rex at the Los Angeles premiere of Redwood Canyon . This time, he’s accompanying Olivia Swift, who had a string of hits in romantic comedies before the war but more recently has taken on serious dramatic roles. She’s a stunning strawberry blonde in her late thirties. I covet her midnight-blue evening gown. Rex’s smile is as magnetic as always.

I rest my head against the wall, close my eyes and shove away the noise of the washing machines. I replace it with a big band playing as Frank Sinatra sings. The smells of the launderette waft away and the only scent is of roses and lilies. Rex and I are dancing the waltz in a beautiful ballroom filled with flowers. We glide effortlessly across the floor and as the music fades, he smiles at me. My heart flips. I’m alive with sensations, safe in his arms and yet gloriously aware of every gorgeous inch of him.

The fantasies keep me going as the washing machine churns on, as I fill the dryer and watch it turn and then, back in my flat, as I make my bed and iron my clothes ready for Monday.

* * *

Two weeks pass. The new furniture is delivered. The green tweed upholstery brightens up the office. Dirk complains at the cost but as he takes every opportunity to sit on the sofa, I think he’s secretly pleased.

The following week, Dirk is preoccupied. Whenever I go into his office, he’s on the telephone but nine times out of ten, he stops speaking until I’ve left the paperwork and closed the door behind me. He asks me to buy Eyewitness for him. It’s a scandal rag packed with gossip the studios don’t want to get out. When I ask why he wants it, he mutters something about ‘it being good to know what those sharks are saying’.

While Dirk is out at lunch, I pick up Eyewitness . On the front page is a photograph of rising star Marilyn Monroe on a date at Ciro’s with Charlie Chaplin Jr. The implication of the article is that Monroe is dating Chaplin (described as the son of Hollywood royalty) to further her career. I shake my head. I saw Monroe’s latest, Love Nest , last month and I’d say she’s one to watch. Eyewitness fails to mention Love Nest , instead focusing on her being voted ‘Miss Cheesecake of 1951’ by the troops in Korea. I huff out a long sigh. That is utterly unfair. She’s a talented actress and all men want talk about is her looking good in swimwear!

On page three is an article about Rex and one of the agency’s other client’s, Tony Young (real name, Terry Stoker), saying they’ve been seen surfing together at Venice Beach. Tony is brother to Ida Young, dancing sensation, who’s got a glittering career ahead of her at MGM. Ida was once a client of the agency but left after a falling-out with Dirk.

The article starts with a shot of Rex and Tony in swimming trunks carrying their surfboards up the beach. I’m distracted by seeing Rex with so few clothes on. His chest is muscular, his arms perfectly shaped, his legs like tree trunks. The outer door opening makes me snap the magazine closed and I hurriedly return it to Dirk’s desk.

The problem, whatever it is, must go away because Dirk is more relaxed the following week. On the Wednesday afternoon, he drops two signed letters on my desk and then leans on it. ‘Got any plans after work?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got camera club at eight,’ I tell him as I fold the letters and slide them into envelopes. Camera club is the highlight of my week. For two hours, I get to be a photography buff and not worry whether anyone thinks it inappropriate for a woman to be interested in composition, exposure settings and metering. It was daunting joining as they’re all far more experienced than me. The only other woman is Rita, who has rather taken me under her wing. She’s a widow in her sixties who takes incredible landscapes and allows me to use the darkroom in her house on Doheny Road.

‘That gives us plenty of time. Come to the Cock’n Bull with me for a drink.’

I freeze as dread walks icy fingers down my spine. My breathing snags as his proximity suddenly takes on a different meaning. Ginny’s not at her desk. There’s no one to help me if I need it. Dirk’s not the first boss who’s made unwanted approaches. Back in London, my middle-aged boss pinned me between two filing cabinets and grabbed my breasts. Only the fact that I had a staple remover in my hand and didn’t hesitate to apply it where it could do most damage stopped the encounter from being much worse. I’d been immediately sacked. Righteous anger had propelled me out of that office with my head held high. I couldn’t let that slimy toad see how much he’d upset me.

As I’d trudged back to my digs through the pouring rain, my umbrella struggling to cope with the deluge, the anger had dissolved. I’d felt cold to the bone, shaken and nauseous. My brain had replayed the incident again and again. Each time, the physical reaction felt worse until I had to stop and vomit in the gutter. Acid still in my mouth, I’d stood by the Thames for a long time, wondering where I’d gone wrong. I was nineteen and entirely alone in the world. I was furious with Freddie for letting me down. He should have been there for me when I was hurt and upset but Freddie didn’t want to know me any more.

That afternoon had been the closest I ever came to packing up and getting the train back to Sheffield. Only the knowledge that Father would blame me for what happened with my boss stopped me. In his eyes, it was always the woman’s fault. I knew he’d tell me that if I’d dressed more modestly or behaved more demurely, it wouldn’t have happened. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of being right. He’d told me I’d never make it on my own, that I was too much of a dreamer to stand on my own two feet whether that was in London or Hollywood. I had to show him he was wrong.

So I’d squared my shoulders, faked a reference and, through some quirk of luck, landed the job at Arden & Arden.

I’d worked there for over a year but I was never more than the secretary. Famous people swanned in and out but no one noticed me. I felt more insubstantial than I had in my previous jobs, as if through proximity to fame, I became out of focus. I told myself it was English snobbery, that I could never fit in where class and accent were so highly prized. I told myself it would be different when I got to Hollywood. But it isn’t really.

As Rex Trent proved, I’m still barely visible. Being Dirk’s secretary doesn’t feel all that different to being ‘the Minister’s daughter’. I want to be seen for who I actually am. Instead of being labelled by the men in my life.

Back in the here and now, Dirk’s waiting for an answer. He’s looming over me, taking up too much of my space. My heart rate is erratic. Sweat prickles under my arms.

‘Plenty of time for what?’ I ask as I open my desk drawer and fumble for the staple remover. My hand closes over it, just in case.

‘What kind of question is that?’ Frowning, Dirk shifts his weight and takes a step back. I breathe a little easier. ‘You’ve been here six months. You’re smart. I think you can do more. If you want to?’

My jaw drops. I blink as my mind scrabbles to catch up. I release my grip on the staple remover. This is what I’ve hoped for since I started working for Dirk. I’d never have got an opportunity like this if I’d stayed in London. Could this be the start of a life where I’m respected for what I can actually do, not just for my typing speed?

‘I do want to.’ My chin comes up. ‘Definitely.’

Once he’s returned to his office, I press my hands against my pounding heart and let my head drop. I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Dirk’s a married man who appears devoted to his wife, Lillian. Yet I can’t blame my body for its reaction. I’d been unprepared once and I will never allow myself to end up in that situation again.

Could this be my chance to be finally seen? To prove I can do more than type and make the coffee? Could I be the one negotiating on behalf of clients or escorting them to the studios to meet talent scouts? Just the idea makes me feel fizzy with excitement. If I pull this off, then Father and Freddie will really have to eat their words!

* * *

The Cock’n Bull is what Hollywood thinks an English pub looks like. Timber beams divide the ceiling, the walls are wood panelled, and the carpet is checked. There’s a picture of King George VI on the wall. A suit of armour stands in an alcove. The place smells of cigarette smoke and grilled cheese which is definitely not authentic. (Only two ounces of cheese a week was the hardest part of rationing for me. I used to have dreams about cheese sandwiches!) The clientele is far more illustrious than at most English pubs. Bette Davis and Orson Welles have been known to drink here.

Dirk’s seated at one of the tables, but I notice he’s not alone. For a second, I hesitate. Dirk doesn’t just drink here for the Moscow Mules. If he’s chatting to a studio exec then he won’t want to be interrupted. Then Dirk sees me. As he raises a hand, the man with him turns. I realise it’s Rex Trent and my stomach does a little flip.

I can hardly believe my eyes! I’ve been longing to see him again but I wish Dirk had warned me. I feel crumpled and sweaty and there’s a smudge of ink on the front of my blouse from when I replaced the typewriter ribbon this afternoon. I run my fingers through my hair as I cross the room to join them. If only I’d reapplied my lipstick before I left the office.

Then Rex smiles and, honestly, my heart skips a beat. It’s like a thousand-watt bulb has been turned on and happiness radiates from his skin. I cannot believe that smile , the one I’ve seen on the screen and in the magazines, that I’ve dreamed about every night, has been turned on me. It’s as if he’s a magnet pulling me towards him across the room and I’m powerless to resist.

‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ I say as I reach their table, speaking to Dirk as my gaze flits to Rex and then away again. Beneath the excitement at seeing Rex, I’m disappointed that my chat with Dirk will have to be postponed. ‘We can do this another?—’

‘Join us!’ Dirk gestures to the chair next to Rex. ‘You two have met, haven’t you?’

Really? I frown as I pull out the chair. He must be serious about me doing more at the agency if he’s happy for me to sit down with him and his best client.

‘I think I owe Audrey an apology,’ Rex says as I sit. ‘Last time, I fell asleep, which wasn’t real polite when you first meet a lady.’ He offers me a shy smile which is just as beautiful as the first one. I blink as my mouth goes dry and my heart jumps. He pushes his dark hair back with a strong hand. I watch the muscles in his arm flex before it comes back to rest on the table mere inches from mine. Oh, boy! He really is swoony!

‘Please don’t worry about it,’ I manage to say. ‘You were clearly very tired.’

‘I sure was.’ Rex looks downcast for a second. ‘Aramis is a great role but all that fighting and horseback riding sure was tiring.’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ Dirk says. ‘I’ve a good feeling about this one.’

Dirk’s feelings are legendary in the business. He has a gift for spotting stars and spent a fortune on Rex before his career took off, sending him for acting, singing, dancing, fencing and horse-riding lessons as well as coming up with his stage name.

‘What are you drinking, kid?’ Dirk asks me as he gestures towards the bar.

‘A Moscow Mule, of course,’ I tell him. As the drink was invented here, it would be rude not to try it. I won’t deny that there’s a thrill in thinking how appalled Father would be if he could see me now. He despises women who go to pubs, has strong views on temperance and thinks Hollywood deserves a similar fate to Sodom and Gomorrah. In his eyes, I am supping with the Devil and he’d caution me to use an extremely long spoon.

Rex asks for another beer and Dirk crosses to the bar, stopping to talk to a tall man in a shabby suit on the way.

‘Dirk tells me there’s a new sofa and chair at the office and I’ve got you to thank for it.’ Rex turns those remarkable, dark-brown eyes on me. I abruptly feel rather lightheaded, as if all of the air has been sucked from the room.

‘I only reminded him that he didn’t want to make his best client unhappy.’

‘Good for you.’ Rex gives me an appraising glance and I blush. ‘What’s he like as a boss? I hope he doesn’t make you stay late on a Friday night?’

I laugh as I press my hands against my heated cheeks. It feels naughty, talking about Dirk behind his back. It makes me feel like a child again, giggling with Freddie after church.

‘He’s all right. I’ve had far worse. I just have to make sure his coffee is strong enough and not forget to buy Pall Malls and mint balls.’

Rex hoots with laughter and a flush of pride spreads through me. I made Rex Trent laugh. Well, look at me! Not bad for the girl who left Sheffield with nothing.

‘What is it about him and mint balls?’ he says. ‘I’ve seen him request them at restaurants and while everyone else is eating, he just sits there crunching away.’

‘It’s his thing. He told me once that if you want to get noticed in Hollywood, you have to have a thing that everyone remembers you by.’

‘I didn’t know that.’ Rex looks suddenly pensive. He taps his fingers on the table before shooting a sideways look at me. ‘So what’s your thing, Audrey? Other than being very pretty indeed.’

It’s as if someone has snatched my breath away. My fingers cover my parted lips. Rex Trent thinks I’m pretty! Oh, my giddy aunt! The urge to pinch myself to make sure I’m not daydreaming is very strong indeed.

‘I’m not sure I’ve got one,’ I manage to say. ‘Not yet.’

‘Maybe it’s that you’re English,’ Rex says. ‘Your accent is real cute.’

‘Oh!’ I look at him with wide eyes. ‘You really think so?’

‘Sure, I do.’ He frowns as he peers at me a little more closely. ‘Why do you look like you don’t believe me?’

I take a breath, wondering how much of this I want to share. He’s different today, exactly as he seemed in the magazine interviews. He’s looking at me, one eyebrow raised, and that gives me the courage to explain.

‘Well, I don’t talk proper like.’ The words are pure Yorkshire and I laugh at Rex’s puzzled look. ‘I mean, I don’t talk like the Queen or as they do on the BBC. At the agency I worked at in London, that was very much a problem.’

‘Well, that sounds real stuffy.’ As Rex smiles, crinkles surround his eyes. It’s hard to look away. Not that I want to. Not at all.

Then behind his shoulder, I spot Dirk returning carrying the drinks. My lips press together as I try to hide my disappointment that my time alone with Rex is about to end.

Dirk gives a beer to Rex, keeps a martini for himself and pushes a substantial copper tankard across the table towards me. I blink. This is taking the old-world charm a bit far, isn’t it? I peer into it, hoping it’s a lot more ginger beer than vodka.

Dirk raises an eyebrow at Rex, who shakes his head very slightly in reply. I glance between them. What’s that about?

‘I saw a bit of England while I was away.’ Rex shifts in his seat, slanting his body towards mine. ‘I had a fine time in London. Went to the Tower, saw the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, took a ride on a London bus.’

I smile at his obvious enthusiasm. ‘I used to take one of those buses to work every morning.’

‘How long did you live in London?’

‘Three years.’ I left home when Father banned me from seeing Freddie. I’d followed him down to London only to be… My stomach clenches as it always does at the memory of that time, leaving me a little breathless. I shake my head. This is not the time to think about that.

‘That’s not where you’re from then?’ Rex asks.

‘No, I grew up in Sheffield.’ I pause to see if there’s any recognition of the name in his eyes. His dreamy, dark eyes look blankly back at me so I add, ‘It’s where stainless steel comes from.’

Rex frowns. ‘I thought that was Pittsburgh.’

Dirk laughs. ‘Nearly right.’ He pushes a bowl of roasted nuts across the table to Rex. I take a sip of my drink and gasp as vodka scours the back of my throat. ‘That’s got a kick like a mule,’ I say.

‘You did ask.’ Dirk grins as he lights a cigarette. ‘Just don’t let Senator McCarthy seeing you drinking it or he’ll think you’re a subversive.’

For a second, I freeze. Then I realise he’s ribbing me. Of course he is. No one in America knows about Freddie.

Feeling Dirk’s gaze on me, I fake bravado to hide my slip. I raise my tankard as if I’m proposing a toast. ‘To Senator McCarthy. And if he can’t tell the difference between a drink and a political party, he should get his eyes tested!’

‘Christ, Audrey!’ Rex gives a startled laugh. ‘People have been blacklisted for saying not much more than that.’

‘I’m only saying what’s obvious. McCarthy is a bully and bigot.’ I cross my arms as my chin comes up. ‘Anyway, they’re not going to bother blacklisting a secretary.’

‘Just don’t take us all down with you, kid.’ Dirk winks at me. Then he adds, ‘Moving to safer subjects, why don’t you tell Rex why you wanted to come to Hollywood?’

Dirk sounds like an anxious teacher prompting their prize pupil. I glance at him. Have I ruined things by talking about McCarthy? I just see red when it comes to that bully. He’s turning Hollywood inside out with his questions and his stupid list.

Dirk nods encouragingly and Rex tilts his head expectantly so, feeling I’ve got to behave nicely now, I pick my words carefully. I don’t want Rex to think I’m a loose cannon. He can’t guess that McCarthy reminds me of Father and it’s far too soon to share with him the realities of growing up with a dictatorial parent during wartime.

‘The cinema was my favourite place when I was growing up.’ My smile comes easily as I’m transported back to the Star Picture House on Ecclesall Road. ‘I went every week and saw whatever was on. Musicals, weepies, westerns, they all felt like magic to me, a world away from grey old England. Sheffield was bombed very badly in 1940?—’

‘Gee!’ Rex says, leaning a little towards me. ‘Were you okay?’

‘I was fine.’ His obvious concern warms me and makes me speak more confidently. ‘Our house wasn’t hit. But a lot of people died and were injured.’ I swallow around the lump in my throat. Too many people. Such horrendous ways to die. ‘A huge number lost their homes. My father opened the church to provide temporary accommodation.’

Rex darts a look at Dirk, who nods in response. Anxiety creeps back in. What is going on? There’s some subtext here that I’m missing.

‘Your Father’s a minister?’ Rex asks.

‘Yes, a Methodist minister.’

‘Audrey taught Sunday School,’ Dirk adds and my eyebrows shoot up. Why has he mentioned that? The last thing I want Rex to know about me is that I was a Sunday School teacher. It makes me sound as dull as ditchwater.

‘You did?’ Rex gives me a gentle smile. ‘Well, ain’t that just the nicest thing!’

He beams at me. I blush because his gaze is so intent. I feel like I’m floating on air.

Maybe the Sunday School revelation wasn’t the worst thing after all. I’m staggered Dirk remembered, though. I mentioned it months ago, just after I started working for him.

‘I’m not sure I was very good at it.’ I risk another sip of my drink. It’s growing on me, the warmth of the ginger beer complimenting the sharpness of the vodka. ‘Father pretty much foisted it on me once I turned fourteen.’

Another look passes between Rex and Dirk. I glance between them to try to divine what this unspoken communication is about. Dirk smiles blandly at me. Rex tosses a nut up in the air and catches it in his mouth. Then he grins at me and all other thoughts go out of my head.

There is something adorably childlike about him. It reminds me again of Freddie. He’s got the same playfulness and ease with the world that Freddie had when we were growing up. I drink again, hoping the vodka will drown the sadness I feel.

‘I was in the Navy during the war.’ Rex leans in as if imparting a confidence. ‘I was an aircraft mechanic on carrier ships repairing fighter planes.’

I didn’t know that. It’s not been mentioned in any of the articles I’ve read. An image forms in my head of him in overalls doing something technical to the inner workings of a plane. A hero with a spanner. How dreamy is that? ‘In Europe?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘No, I was in the Philippines.’ He tosses another nut in the air but fails to catch this one in his open mouth. It falls on the floor. Rex simply shrugs. ‘So when did you come to America?’

‘April last year. I…’ When I followed Freddie down to London in 1947, I thought we’d make good on our plan and be on the first liner across the Atlantic. But it didn’t work out like that. My hands knot in my lap as I remember the bitter words we exchanged the last time I saw him. ‘I wanted to come before but I had to save up. Luckily, when I turned twenty-one, I inherited some money from my great-aunt and booked my passage.’ The bequest was ￡500. For someone earning ￡4 10 shillings a week, it was a life-changing amount of money.

Knowing I had enough to live on even if I struggled to get a job, I set sail. Arriving in New York was like walking into my dreams. I’d seen On the Town with Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra only a week before I left and it felt unbelievable to be actually walking in Central Park and down Broadway. Everything in New York was bigger. The skyscrapers, the cars, the people. They didn’t look pinched and deprived as everyone did in England. America was bursting with confidence and you could see that simply in the way people walked down the street and how they dressed.

I couldn’t believe the food. There was so much of everything. Yet after ten years of rationing, I’d forgotten how to enjoy it. I swiftly learnt to ask the waiters for the smallest portions as if I was an invalid recovering after a long fast.

It was easier to indulge with clothes. Clothes rationing had ended the year before and I owned one New Look dress but I’d been too broke to buy much back in England. Saks, Bloomingdales and Macy’s were a slice of heaven, full of clothes that were feminine, emphasising curves rather than hiding. I splurged on a new wardrobe. There was no way I was going to arrive in Los Angeles looking drab in my wartime Utility garments.

After a glorious, heady week in New York, I took the train to Los Angeles. I’d arranged to stay at the Mary Andrews Clark Memorial Home which is run as a YWCA but looks like a French chateau. I shouldn’t have worried about finding work. My excellent typing and shorthand speeds made it easy to get a job. Secretaries are always in demand which, annoyingly, was the point Father made when he insisted I go to secretarial college.

Initially, I worked at an insurance company, which was not very different to some of my jobs in London. It was frustrating to be in Los Angeles but still have no part in the film business. Then in May this year, Phyllis, who had a room down the corridor at the Mary Andrews Clark Home, asked if I’d be interested in meeting her boss, Dirk Stone. Phyllis was leaving to get married and she knew I’d worked for a theatrical agent back in London.

The interview was at Scandia, Dirk’s favourite bar. It’s got a distinctly Viking feel to it, being decorated in dark leather with horned helmets, drinking steins and sheepskin rugs. Dirk was constantly being called away to the telephone, leaving me for long minutes on my own when I felt painfully self-conscious. Apart from the blonde waitress, I appeared to be the only woman there. Dirk would return to say, ‘That was New York. They want Ann Roberts on the Ed Sullivan show,’ or, ‘That was Universal. They want to loan Rex Trent. I’m making them sweat.’ I’d blinked at the famous names. In the brief periods Dirk was sitting at the table, he asked me next to nothing about myself. I was convinced I’d blown it. This had been my one shot at getting a job in the movie business and it’d come to nothing. As he got up to leave, I started to thank him for his time, thinking I’d never see this man again. ‘You start Monday,’ he said. ‘Be there at nine o’clock. Phyllis will show you the ropes.’ Then he walked out, leaving me staring after him with my mouth open.

I’d come all this way. I’d uprooted my life, not once but twice, and now I was finally going to work in the movie business. I wanted to tell Esther and Mum and Freddie. They’d be over the?—

Then the reality hit me. Only my sister would want to know. Mum and Freddie were lost to me. The missing, which I carried every day, was suddenly as sharp as a blade through the heart. I’d done it. I’d showed them but I couldn’t even tell them.

‘And you like it here?’ Rex asks, interrupting my thoughts. ‘You don’t miss England?’

‘I love it here.’ I beam at him. ‘There are things I miss about home but Los Angeles is an amazing place to live.’ The list of things I miss doesn’t include the rain, the cold winters or Father.

‘Telephone for Dirk Stone,’ the barman calls. Dirk stands and strides to the kiosk built into the panelled wall, which leaves Rex and me at the table alone again.

Rex gives me another of those shy smiles. I smile back at him. He’s so different this evening to when we first met. It must have been the exhaustion that made him grumpy that day. There’s no other explanation because he’s completely charming today.

Into the pregnant pause, he says, ‘How would you feel about having dinner with me on Friday?’

I stare at him as my eyes widen. Dinner with Rex Trent? I blink at him as the shock fades and excitement zings through my body.

‘Of course, if you’ve got plans…’ Rex adds, turning away and taking a gulp of his beer. He’s misread my hesitation. Thought it was rejection, rather than overwhelming, earth-shattering surprise. Because moments like this do not happen to secretaries from Sheffield. And yet it just has and I have to make him see that I’m completely and totally delighted.

‘No. No plans.’ My hand reaches out and touches his sleeve. ‘I just didn’t expect… That is, I didn’t think—’ I break off because I cannot finish that sentence. I can hardly tell him he didn’t seem interested in me.

He shifts back to face me. ‘Then you’ll come?’ He looks eager, as if I’m going to make his day by saying ‘yes’.

‘I’d love to.’ I smile widely as excitement bubbles through me. It’s actually happening! I’m going on a date with Rex Trent! This is the best moment of my entire life. The dreams which gave me solace during my school days and the grim post-war years in London are coming true. The only thing that’s wrong is that Freddie isn’t here to see it. Will I ever get used to living without him? Will the hole above my heart where our friendship used to reside ever heal?

‘Swell!’ A big grin sweeps across Rex’s face. He looks like a child on Christmas morning. There’s something so appealing about that and it sweeps me back into this incredible moment. ‘Would Villa Nova be all right?’

Villa Nova is a romantic little Italian not far from the office. It’s also a known hangout of some very famous names – Bing Crosby and John Wayne are regulars. This is so thrilling! It’s going to be absolutely incredible to go there with Rex Trent. I must be the luckiest girl in Hollywood right now!

‘Wonderful,’ I say, my voice vibrating with excitement.

‘Write down your address,’ Rex adds, ‘and I’ll pick you up at seven.’

I do as he asks and hand it to him. As he reads it, I take a quick gulp of my Moscow Mule. Do they put fairy dust in these tankards? Because that seems like the only explanation of how this has happened.

Back when it was a game to us, Freddie and I talked about who we’d meet in Hollywood. I always teased him that I’d go out with movie stars and, oh boy, did I want that! But in my heart, I always believed I’d marry Freddie.

I grip my skirt with shaking hands as I push the memories away. I made such a mess of things back then. But I couldn’t allow Freddie Greenwood to derail my plans. I’m here in Hollywood and I’m about to go on a date with a movie star. You can stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Freddie and Father and everyone else who told me I was a fool to move here!

‘I can’t wait!’ I say to Rex.

He smiles at me again but this time, it doesn’t have the movie-star wattage behind it. I’m wondering what to say next when Dirk emerges from the telephone kiosk. As he strolls back to join us, he raises an eyebrow and Rex nods. Did Dirk leave us alone together on purpose? Did he know Rex wanted to ask me out and that’s why he invited me for a drink this evening?

I look at my boss with new eyes as he retakes his seat. Maybe he’s more of a romantic than I thought. Perhaps that’s what his long-suffering wife sees in him. I wonder if Rex will tell Dirk of our plans but the conversation moves on to Rex’s next movie role. He talks excitedly about meeting Brenda Ball and the team at Ransome Pictures.

I drift off as they talk. Images of Friday float through my brain. Rex is wearing a navy suit with a pale-blue shirt and a dusky grey tie. I’m… Then the image dissipates as reality once again intrudes on my dreams. I look down at my navy skirt and plain white blouse with the ink smudge on it.

I’ve got absolutely nothing to wear!