Page 5 of The Lavender Bride

4

Rex Trent’s darkly brooding role in Redwood Canyon shows how far he’s developed as an actor.

LOS ANGELES EXAMINER , 12 NOVEMBER 1951

I spend the weekend assessing my clothes and putting together outfits that meet Rita’s requirements and show off my bust and small waist. While I’m waiting at the launderette and then doing the ironing, I daydream about what Rex will say when he calls me next week. He’ll reschedule and next Friday will see me at Villa Nova just as I hoped. There’s an undercurrent of anxiety in the fantasies now. I can’t seem to shake the fear that he’ll cancel again and sometimes, my imaginings see me sitting alone in Villa Nova waiting for him to arrive.

On Monday morning, I follow Rita’s advice to the letter and arrive at the office dressed to the nines. Ginny tells me how nice I look. Dirk smiles cryptically when he sees me but doesn’t offer any comment. I keep up the regime for the entire week. Wearing outfits that show off my figure, ensuring my make-up is flawless, reapplying my lipstick after every meal. But it’s all wasted as Rex doesn’t come in.

* * *

I go to see Redwood Canyon as soon as it’s released. It’s on at The Orpheum, a beautiful movie theatre in Downtown. There’s such a thrill seeing Rex’s name on the brightly lit marquee outside the theatre. I know him! How exciting is that!

Before the main feature is the Movietone newsreel. Latest Atomic Test in Nevada shouts the title. I flinch as my stomach flips. The mushroom cloud blooms on the screen, billowing up as it delivers unutterable destruction and I feel sick. I turn my head away but I can’t block out the deep voice of the narrator as he praises American ingenuity and reassures us that the atomic bomb will keep us safe.

I find that impossible to believe. I’ve lived through a bombing raid and still have nightmares about it. Knowing I could be vapourised should the Russians decide to drop an A-bomb does not help me sleep easily in my bed. It feels like the entire world is living on a precipice and one wrong move – which could quite possibly happen during the war in Korea – will lead to annihilation.

It’s a relief when the feature starts. Rex struts onto the screen looking broodingly handsome and I finally start to relax. I’ve met this man! It’s wonderful to see his face again, even if it is on celluloid. I settle back in my seat and let the story take me.

Rex plays the young gunslinger with a dark past. I’m jealous of his co-star, Eliza Yorke. I want him to touch my face so tenderly, to look at me with eyes full of adoration.

Afterwards, coming out into a LA evening full of cars, brightly lit shop windows and neon signs is a shock. I feel dislocated from the modern world, still inhabiting the ruggedly beautiful landscapes of the movie.

* * *

Ginny asks me to go to a dance with her and Nate on Saturday night and I put off saying yes as I’m still hoping against hope that Rex will get in touch.

He finally rings on Friday lunchtime. ‘Audrey,’ he says. ‘How have you been?’

It is dreamy to hear his voice. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ My voice betrays my agitation, sounding high-pitched and a little shrill. ‘How are you?’

‘Real good.’ There’s a hesitation and I hold my breath, hoping that what comes next is the invitation I’ve dreamed of. ‘Look, I’m heading up to Malibu with a friend to do some surfing. I’ll call you when I get back.’

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown at me. All of my beautiful hopes and dreams are drowning.

‘Righto,’ I manage to say even though my lips feel numb. ‘Have a good trip.’

‘Oh, and can you put me onto Dirk?’ he adds. ‘I need to speak to him about this new director Crown have brought in.’

‘Hold on a jiffy.’ I transfer the call then cross my arms and curl over them as if that will hold in the dreadful pangs of disappointment.

He still doesn’t want to take me out. He couldn’t even be bothered to ring me earlier in the week to tell me he was going away. He’s left it until he needed to speak to Dirk and I’m just an add-on to a business call. Is that how he sees me? The girl who’s only good enough for a date if he’s got absolutely nothing else to do that evening? That makes me feel even smaller and more foolish. I should have done as Ginny said and gone out with her and Nate. I should have given up on Rex because he’s clearly given up on me.

Who’s this friend he’s going to Malibu with? I picture a beautiful starlet with red hair like Rita Hayworth who looks stunning in a bathing suit. I instantly hate her!

Ginny’s at lunch so there’s no one to see me as I leave the office and go to the ladies’ toilet. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look older, more polished, attractive. I’ve seen the appreciative glances of men I’ve passed in the street this week, the smiles that have been thrown my way. But it doesn’t matter because Rex hasn’t been into the office and now he’s going to Malibu and it could be ages before he gets back. Will he ring when he returns? I want to believe it but it’s getting harder and harder.

I don’t want to wait and hope and dream for another week only for it to end in another frustrating letdown. But how sad would that be? To give up on all I’ve dreamed, to accept that my life in Hollywood will only ever be typing, filing and making coffee. I could have stayed in London to do that.

I was going to show everyone who thought I was a fool for coming to America. I could have used Great-Aunt Violet’s money to rent a little flat in London, buy nice clothes and go on dates with respectable young men with jobs in a bank or the civil service. Men who were on the lookout for a pretty, amenable wife.

But I wanted more. I always have. I was that close to getting it but it blew through my fingers like thistledown and now it’s worse than if I’d never met Rex.

Ginny will tell me to forget him and look for a nice, ordinary guy at the dance tomorrow night. But what nice, ordinary guy can compete with Rex? Ginny doesn’t understand what I’d be giving up if I settled for an ordinary guy. I’ve come so close! I know the elation of being asked out by a movie star. The confidence of believing he’s chosen my company over everyone else’s. The thrill of expecting to walk into a glitzy restaurant on his arm.

For a few short hours, I felt like a million dollars. I want that feeling back.

* * *

Rex’s trip to Malibu must be a long one as the weeks keep passing and I don’t hear from him. Sometimes, I still allow myself to dream about him but it’s bittersweet now. I know it’s only a fantasy.

On Thanksgiving Eve, I work through my lunchbreak so I can leave early. Ginny’s got tickets for the grandstand on Hollywood Boulevard for us to watch the Santa Claus Lane Parade. I went last year with some of the girls from the YWCA, peering through the crowds at the procession of floats, marching bands and, of course, Father Christmas on his sleigh.

Ginny’s had the day off to help her mum prepare for Thanksgiving and I’ve arranged to meet her and Nate outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre before we take our seats. I’m a little early so I spend time looking at the handprints of stars that cover the forecourt. Famous names abound including Humphrey Bogart, James Stewart, Ginger Rogers and Judy Garland. Rex’s name isn’t here yet. It’s an honour that will no doubt be on its way if he keeps on having hits like Redwood Canyon .

At five thirty, I move to the entrance to the forecourt and lean against the wall. It’s already dark and although it’s not cold by British standards, for LA, it’s a little nippy. I button my navy topcoat and arrange my navy polka dot rayon scarf to fill the gap at my throat.

Beneath the brightly lit Christmas trees attached to each lamp post, there are crowds of people flocking along Hollywood Boulevard towards the parade. There are groups of lads and girls, couples hand in hand and many families; the children alight with excitement, bouncing as they walk hand in hand with their parents.

I’ve brought my camera with me, even though using it with the flash is a skill I’m still trying to perfect. I’m hoping this evening will provide interesting subjects for photos. The final cut on the exhibition will be made immediately after Christmas and I’ve still got only one photograph that shines enough to have any hope of being included. Rita’s got half a dozen at least and, although I know she’s far more experienced than I am, that spurs me on to give it one last try.

An elderly couple walk hand in hand across the entrance to the forecourt. They’re slow and stately amidst the bustle. It’s their clothes that snag my attention. She’s dressed in fashions from before the war: a fitted jacket with a built-in cape, a felt hat sporting a jaunty feather. He’s natty in a three-piece suit with a fedora and a brass-topped walking cane. If I can just frame it right then this might be a decent photograph.

I get the camera out and check the light, one eye still on the couple as they proceed across the square. Once I’ve got the setting right, I take a few quick steps until I’m slightly ahead of them. I’ve got one shot at this. That’s the challenge of candid photography. As soon as the subject notices me, the moment is lost. I wait, one breath then another, until the man’s cane arcs out and then I press the shutter. The flash lights up the night. The couple look in my direction. I turn away, camera hidden in the folds of my coat. I take a step back and bang straight into someone.

The collision jars me and automatically, I reach out to steady myself. My hand connects with an arm. My grip tightens on the camera.

‘Whoa!’ a man exclaims.

There’s a confusion of impressions. Bone and muscle, rough fabric, the smell of coffee. A clatter as something hits the pavement.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

The man is in his late twenties. He blinks at me from pale-blue eyes. Or are they grey? It’s hard to tell in this light. Whatever colour they are, they’ve got remarkable thick, dark lashes. He’s a few inches taller than me, with a lithe, athletic build, untidy, dark hair that falls across his forehead and a six o’clock shadow across his chin. He’s dressed in dark trousers, a cream jumper and a baggy navy jacket.

‘Can you see them?’ he asks.

‘Sorry?’ I hastily fasten the case around the camera. ‘See what?’

‘My glasses.’ He gestures at his face. ‘Blind as a bat without them.’

I snatch them up from the pavement. They have heavy, black frames and are luckily unscathed. I hand them to him with another apology. My hand brushes his and electricity zips through me and I glance at him to see if he’s felt it too. He pushes the spectacles into place, blinks at me through the thick lenses and a flash of surprise passes across his features.

‘I can see you now,’ he says. ‘You were just a blur before.’

‘I’m really sorry.’ Without thinking, I reach out towards his arm again. My fingers hover an inch above his sleeve before I pull them back. What am I thinking? Haven’t I been impolite enough by barging into him? ‘I should have been more careful.’

He waves his hand as if to dismiss the apology. ‘No harm done.’ He nods at my camera. ‘Did you get your shot?’

He must have seen the camera before his glasses fell off. ‘I hope so, although I’ll not be sure until I develop it.’

He tilts his head as if reassessing. ‘You do that yourself?’ There’s surprise in his voice.

I raise my chin; I hate being considered a clueless amateur just because I’m a girl. ‘Yes, a friend has a darkroom she lets me use. I’m hoping this photo will be good enough for the exhibition my camera club is putting on in February.’

His eyes widen as I mention the exhibition.

‘An exhibition, heh? You must be good.’

What did I say that for? Now it sounds like I was bragging. Heat streaks up my cheeks. ‘Well, the rest of the group are good,’ I mutter. ‘I’m still finding my way.’

He blinks those amazing lashes as he studies me through his glasses. ‘You take candid shots?’

‘Mainly.’ I pull my shoulders back. ‘There’s a raw beauty in candid shots. I aim to capture people as they really are. That’s when you get to the truth.’

He looks at me for a long moment as if considering. ‘Stripping away the artifices we all hide behind, you mean?’

‘Exactly!’ I grin, delighted to have met someone who understands. My hands sweep out as they always do when I’m excited. ‘It’s in the moments when we believe ourselves to be unobserved that happens. That’s what candid photography captures.’

‘How long have you been interested in photography?’ he asks. A small boy of about eight wearing a cap and a woolly scarf darts past us, his feet barely inches from mine. Instinctively, we both take a step back and, as we do, the man’s arm extends as if to shield me from further intrusion.

‘Since I was at school. I had a wonderful art teacher, Miss Stewart, who encouraged me.’ As I speak, I peer at his face to see if he’s genuinely interested. His gaze meets mine and he nods slightly and that encourages me to add, ‘I’ve always been interested in light and colour and composition. It’s when you make them all work together that you get something really special.’

A frown passes over his face and then he says, ‘You’re English. From the north. I was trying to place your accent. It’s clearer when you’re passionate.’

I blush at the word ‘passionate’. Yet it doesn’t sound like a bad thing when he says it. ‘I’m from Sheffield in Yorkshire.’ He’s the first person I’ve met in Los Angeles who’s identified my accent so precisely. ‘Do you know it?’

‘I changed trains there once.’ He fiddles with his glasses, before adding, ‘I was in Norwich with the Eighth Air Force.’

The US Air Force brought a huge number of bombers and airmen over to Britain during the war. They flew incredibly dangerous bombing raids deep into German-held territory. We didn’t know it at the time but thousands of airmen died and equally large numbers were captured.

He adds hastily, ‘Don’t go thinking I was some glory boy pilot. I was only a humble radio operator.’

I raise an eyebrow as I say, ‘You were still up in the sky to get shot at.’

He smiles a little ruefully. ‘Yeah, that did happen.’ He reaches into one of the wide pockets in his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. Then he takes his glasses off and gives them a thorough polish. ‘I’m from Oregon so the flat lands of Norfolk were an alien world to me. When I got a few days’ leave, me and a buddy hopped on a train and ended up in the Peak District. They weren’t mountains like at home but, they were sure as hell better than Norfolk.’

Hearing him talk about it conjures up images of the rugged hills of the Peaks, only a short bus or train ride from Sheffield. There’s a sharp twinge in my chest as I take a step closer to him. ‘Where did you stay?’

‘Matlock. You know it?’

‘Of course! I went on a Sunday School outing to Matlock.’ It was only once, in the summer of 1939. Father was in holiday mood, his sternness masked as he joked with his congregation. Freddie and I took a pedal boat out on the boating lake and giggled the whole time as we struggled to get it to go in a straight line.

I tense, ready for the cold thrust of pain that always comes when I think of Freddie, but it’s muted. Is it the festive air of this evening that’s made it more bearable or something else?

‘You sound like you miss it.’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to deny it but then I hesitate because the truth is more complicated than that. ‘I shouldn’t,’ I say softly. ‘I couldn’t wait to leave but it’s,’ I press my hand against my heart, ‘still in here.’

The man nods as if he understands. He opens his mouth to speak and then his gaze shifts beyond my shoulder. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

I hear running feet and turn to see Ginny dashing across the forecourt, one hand holding onto her burgundy hat. I’m relieved to see her and yet disappointed because he’ll say something polite and leave. I don’t want that. It’s so rare to meet someone who’s interested in photography and talks to me about home.

‘Yes. My friend, Ginny,’ I say. ‘We’ve got tickets for the grandstand.’

The man nods. ‘Enjoy the parade.’ As he starts to walk away, he adds, ‘Nice meeting you.’

‘And you,’ I call after him. He smiles at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

‘Sorry!’ Ginny puffs as she joins me. ‘The traffic was terrible. Nate’s parking the car. He told us to go ahead and get our seats. He’ll meet us there.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ve still got time,’ I tell her. I glance at where the man joined the crowd but there’s no sign of him.

‘Who was that?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know. I bumped into him while I was taking a photo.’

Ginny shakes her head. ‘You could have got a name. He’s a good-looking guy under all that hair.’

‘He’s not my type.’ I cross my arms as my chin comes up. He’s not tall or broad and he looked like he’d been pulled through a proverbial hedge. His eyes were beautiful though and I felt that zip of electricity as we touched.

Ginny rolls her eyes as she takes my arm. ‘Because your type is hunky movie stars?’

‘Yes, it is.’ I nod decisively. Or at least, I want it to be. If only Rex would do as he promised and call!

I press my lips together. I’m not going to think about that now. It’s the start of Thanksgiving. The whole country is celebrating. This year has already given me such a lot to be thankful for: my (almost) dream job, my friendship with Ginny and meeting a movie star.

Yet as we walk up Hollywood Boulevard, it’s not Rex I’m thinking about but the man I bumped into with the beautiful eyes.