Page 34 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
In early September 1933, Netta, Jessica and I moved to Los Angeles and into a newly built mock Tudor house in Laurel Canyon with a large garden and a terrace overlooking the city, a swimming pool and a separate cottage. Up in the hills, we were away from the noise and dirt of downtown Los Angeles, the air a little cooler, the privacy unexpected. Coming from the constant rain in New York, the dry heat was a welcome relief.
My grief over the death of Tori and the shock and fear over the birth of Jessica had begun to slip from my shoulders and I’d started to see glimpses of happiness. Netta again had a smile on her face and had discarded her old felt hat and scuffed lace-up shoes and put on a light summer dress and a straw hat. At five months old Jessica had finally lost her permanent frown and suddenly, almost overnight, had stopped screaming, transforming into a happy, gurgling baby who loved to sit in the garden with her little fat feet being tickled by the grass.
Netta had persuaded me to bring Annina as my assistant. Haughty Annina had kept away from my studio, instead diligent and hardworking Annina had turned up, ready to learn, impressing both Oti and I with her ability to concentrate and focus.
‘That girl needs someone to believe in her. You had Mrs Marshall. Why don’t you get rid of some of that guilt you carry around with you,’ she’d sniffed at me. ‘Here’s your chance to redeem yourself in her father’s eyes.’ I was happy to bring her along. Not only would I have a promising assistant, but I could keep an eye on her and report back to Matteo on her progress and safety.
We decided she might like a place for herself, so I offered her the cottage.
‘Don’t you want me in the house?’ Her voice had a touch of shock about it.
I was taken aback by her question, but before I could answer she whispered, ‘I’ve almost never been by myself. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get used to it.’ In awe she wandered around the three rooms of the cottage: double bedroom, bathroom and kitchen-living area. It even had its own little terrace, hidden from the main house. ‘It’ll be too quiet. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep by myself.’
I felt a profound sense of relief. Normally I would have been annoyed by this, by the difference between us, me who had been so independent, so happy to have space in that tiny cabin on the SS Furnessia , to have my own room at my first boarding house on Jones Street, but now I just wanted to make sure she was safe. Is that what a bit of sleep and some time outdoors did to your sense of well-being or was it the effect of motherhood?
‘Why don’t you try it out. I’ll get the maid to make up a bed in the house and you can always come and sleep there whenever you like. If you eat with us you don’t really have to spend any time down here at all.’
After a week of settling in, unpacking our belongings and getting to know our neighbourhood, we’d been summoned to meet one of the producers. He sent a car, a gleaming Chrysler Imperial with wire-spoked wheels and a gazelle statuette leaping from the front of the bonnet. Annina and I sat side by side in the back, Annina overexcited, giggling and pointing, thrilled by the scent of the eucalyptus trees, not caring about the wind on her face or the dust from the road, riding in the back of a brand-new car, driven by a uniformed chauffeur through the meandering hills, until we reached a mansion with a winding driveway.
The car stopped and the door was wrenched open, our driver pointing us towards a set of double doors. Standing on the steps was a genial-looking man dressed in a well-cut grey suit and tie, with a balding head, dark, almost black eyes, and slightly pointy ears. Coming forward, he introduced himself as Harold Finerman.
‘So sorry Sam can’t be with you today, he has an important engagement that he couldn’t break.’ He kissed my hand in a showy manner. ‘And who is this fine young woman?’ he asked as he bowed too low at Annina.
‘Annina Bassino,’ I said, already distrusting this too ostentatious man. ‘She’s my assistant.’
‘Ah,’ he smirked. ‘Nothing like a good assistant.’
I shuddered at the lewd intention in his voice, but Annina seemed not to notice, too starstruck by the whole show.
We walked into the house, through a huge open-plan seating area and out the other side into the garden where there was a large swimming pool occupied by six young giggling women in gaudy swimsuits and wearing too much make-up.
‘Take a seat, ladies. Perhaps you’d like a drink?’ asked Mr Finerman.
‘A little early,’ I said, archly, despite my own desire for a drink.
‘Never too early in this business, my girl,’ he retorted as he poured himself a quarter glass of neat bourbon.
I tried very hard not to dislike the man, but he had an oleaginous manner, his tone was patronising and he watched Annina a little too closely.
‘Miss McIntyre. Unfortunately, we probably won’t be working together that often, my film projects tend to be the less showy ones, more along the lines of government propaganda type films.’
My own inward sigh of relief as he took in a deep breath, as if sucking through his teeth. ‘There is an important question I have for you. It’s come to our attention that you have a young child.’
‘Yes, I do. What has that to do with anything?’ I tried to keep my voice even.
‘Well, you know, the film industry is a very demanding industry. We work long hours,’ he said condescendingly, as if I’d never worked a long day in my life. ‘We didn’t know you had a child. It’s likely we wouldn’t have offered you the job if we knew you were a mother.’
I let the words sink in, Annina was sitting bolt upright, next to me, her hands held tightly in her lap. I stayed silent for a moment longer, trying hard to push down my anger.
‘Mr Finerman, do you have children?’
‘Why, yes, of course I do. I have two fine nippers, a girl of two years and a boy of four.’ He beamed at me as he took another sip of his bourbon, but those eyes, too small and too beady, didn’t smile.
‘Does anyone question your ability to do your job because you have children?’
‘Well, of course not. That’s different.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked, all innocently, as if I had no idea why.
‘My wife, of course. She looks after the children so I can concentrate on my work. She deals with the housework, plans the meals with the cook, briefs the pool boy. But you don’t have a wife, you are the wife.’
‘I am no such thing, sir. I’m just as capable of concentrating on my work as you are. I have a nanny.’ As I said this, Annina turned to stare at me, panic in her eyes.
‘But how can you possibly organise the house, the garden, the dinner? How can you do that and make sure that you design and deliver costumes for all of our films?’
‘I have a cleaner, I have a cook, I have someone who looks after my garden and cleans the pool. You are I are no different, except that I’m more capable than you.’ I stood up, grabbing my bag, nodding at Annina to follow.
‘And now that we’ve got that straight, I will take my leave. Perhaps you could tell Mr Goldwyn that I’d like to see him in the morning, it’s obvious we have terms to discuss.’
We started walking back through the house, but I just couldn’t help myself. Telling Annina to go on out to the car, that I’d be with her in a moment, I turned back to Mr Finerman. I walked straight up to him and leaned down to whisper in his ear. He smiled as if he thought I’d relented, was ready to be supplicant and malleable.
‘Don’t you dare belittle me in front of my assistant. Do that again and I’ll return the favour. I don’t suppose you’d like to be put down in front of all these badly dressed starlets. By the way, where are your wife and children? Do you always invite a posse of girls over when the cat’s away? Do give her my love, I can’t wait to meet her.’ My voice was full of saccharin.
I couldn’t stop the shaking as I walked back through the house of bad taste: chandeliers that were too large for the room, buffalo horns and tiger skin rugs. The place made me shudder and I couldn’t leave it quick enough.
Mr Finerman aside, costume design in had always been a difficult business. Because of the time lapse between approved design and release of the film, the costumes may well have already gone out of fashion. It’s even more of a gamble than producing a collection twice a year and not everyone had succeeded, Coco Chanel being the latest. These were the days of black and white films, everything needing to be emphasised to make sure it stood out: a hat that may look perfectly balanced in real life with three ostrich feathers would need six to be striking enough, if an evening dress had the perfect equilibrium with a train two yards long, it would need to be double that to be eye-catching. If your designs were restrained and discreet, they’d simply fade into the background. Bold designs and a clever use of the shades of black and white were called for; cream looks muddy on screen, pure black too harsh. In 1932 the Letty Lynton dress became known as the iconic dress, described even by its designer, Adrian, as ‘a trifle extreme’. A white mousseline de soie dress with enormous, ruffled sleeves, worn by Joan Crawford. Overemphasise the shoulders, exaggerate the waist. I didn’t just have the legacy of Chanel to deal with, I also had to re-think the way I designed.
Where Maison McIntyre had women making the decisions, studios tended to be run by men. In couture, I was used to focussing on the woman, what she wants, the event she goes to, her shape, colouring and her personality. When you are working as a costumier your first port of call is the script. Is your heroine a Roman slave, a rich girl from Rhode Island, a woman who was brought up in a jungle, or a fashion model living in Paris? Once you’ve understood the script you must then work with the director, the stars, the producer, art director and camera man and learn to deal with their opinions as well as get their approval. Suddenly I was just another wheel in the huge movie machine.
But, somehow, this reset, this new way of doing things revitalised me. Normally, I like to be in complete control, to understand every detail; I don’t want some man, whose job is to make sure he’s within budget, telling me how to make a dress. Maybe it was the weather, perhaps it was Jessica’s burbling giggles, but I relaxed and found myself enjoying working with this committee of men.
I designed for romantic screwball comedies, westerns, psychological thrillers, blockbuster musicals, sweeping love stories, wild farces and action adventures. There was a gaudiness and vulgarity to the work that the old me would have hated, but leaving behind the cold of New York, the social strictures of Manhattan, the rigid seasons of couture, had let me become a more accepting person, someone who pushed aside the frustration when a leading man decided he wouldn’t wear what I’d given him, when the director changed his mind at the last minute, and I let my work become unrestrained. To keep the threat of boredom away, I got to run to New York twice a year and step back into the world of refined, structured couture for a few weeks, working with Oti on the next season’s collection. I’d change gear, find new equilibrium, revel in those weeks without my family, without the constant noise and discussion of the film studios, re-becoming Maisie McIntyre, ambitious, outgoing, colourful. I’d work long hours, eat in my favourite delicatessens, sit in my studio with only the background noise of Manhattan to accompany me, surrounded by my designs, the colours, the fabrics and the threads of my New York life. Then I’d go back to California and change my colours. I became a chameleon and re-embraced the extravagance and garishness, again revitalised, like a snake having shed its East Coast skin.
Netta, like Jessica, blossomed in the heat of Los Angeles, becoming a lighter, less disapproving version of the Netta who stepped off the ship in New York. The more I heard her laugh, the more I didn’t want her to leave. I told myself I was making up for all those lost years, giving her a life she’d craved by doing my best to turn her head with the impossible glamour. Every time she told me she must pack her bags and go back to Carla, I took her off to the studio for the day, accidently letting her bump into Anna Sten, Barbara Stanwyck or Humphrey Bogart. I even managed to persuade Cary Grant, pretty much an unknown in those early days, to inadvertently pour his cocktail over her and then take her to the Clover Club as an apology, introducing her to the hidden gambling rooms. They rolled in at five fifteen in the morning, two hundred dollars the richer and fast friends. The suavity of that man. In return I made him the most expensive and flawless suit he’d ever owned. He had an eye for a good suit; I appreciated the presence of my sister. Our arrangement benefitted the both of us. She dined off that evening for years and forgot to mention going home for many months after.
Annina quickly became my West Coast Oti, only without the sense of humour. But what she lacked in wit she made up for in organisational ability. She would know well before I did how many costumes would be needed for a film, how many hours of labour were required, what kinds of fabrics were available, whether there would be an issue with the schedule. She’d know exactly what the other studios were producing, whether Travis Banton or Dolly Tree would be dressing Carole Lombard, she’d find out that Adrian’s latest designs were a little too close to mine and suggest that I’d need to tweak them. She’d forewarn me if I was likely to clash with one of the producers or directors on our new film and if so, then she’d do her best to fend them off, distract or protect them from the worst of my occasional avarice; she made it her mission to befriend every single leading actress, smoothing the way for an easy collaboration. By the time I left for my first stint in New York, she’d changed from a mousy-haired, opinionated New Yorker into a blonde, sophisticated woman with good taste and stamina, who could hold her own in a roomful of men.
But outside of work I noticed a troubling and possibly dangerous streak, that she could be reckless with men. I, who had virtually discarded any ideas of romance or involvement with a man, found her continuous need for male company disturbing: out dining and dancing every single night, gambling and drinking, partying and flirting until the wee hours and still capable of a full and productive day at work. There was a mania to her, some need to prove to the world that she was as glamourous as the very best leading ladies, that she was as capable as they were. Sometimes I’d notice bruising on her arms, as if someone had held her too tightly, occasionally her eyes were too bright, her wit and charm just a little too overdone.
Twice a year Aidan would visit. He was everyone’s favourite, always swanning in with a flurry of presents and stories, treating us like he was our kindly uncle, dishing out wise words that he was able to produce because he lived on our sidelines and saw all our faults. His visits had become highly anticipated, and we always felt better for his presence. We’d be kinder, more tolerant, more open when he was in our midst, better versions of our everyday selves. There were impromptu parties, picnics and soirees, all of wanting in on the feel-good factor that spread out from our Laurel Canyon house. Four years into our stint his arrival garnered no less affection.
‘Aidan is coming to visit,’ I said over breakfast one morning.
‘Uncle Aidan!!’ Jessica shrieked.
Netta, knitting at the table, making a new cardigan for Jessica, said, ‘I’d better get a new dress then.’
I smiled. Netta, never one to spend money on a new outfit, understood that Aidan meant parties, which meant visiting young, up-and-coming actors, because Aidan simply loved to be surrounded by beauty, especially beauty that was out to impress. When Netta first arrived in New York, she’d have been more than happy with her floppy hat and fading dress. Four years on and we’d managed some modest changes; she’d lost a little weight, sat up straighter, her hair was dyed a discreet blonde, she even wore a little make-up. But she’d go nowhere without her knitting, always looking to make a hat for one of her grandchildren, booties for whoever’s newest baby, she’d even started making for the local Goodwill charity. But Netta and her knitting had become a bit of a legend, the no-nonsense, sharp-witted observer who kept our heads level, laughed herself into the ground when some starlet was trying to impress, all with a ball of wool and a pair of knitting needles clacking away on her lap, usually sitting at the bar of some hot-shot producer with a whiskey and soda beside her.
‘We have to throw a party,’ Annina said. ‘We have to welcome him in style.’ Nina, as she’d become known, was now living in the cottage full-time but still ate breakfast with us every day, no matter how late she’d got in, always there to persuade Jessica to eat her fruit and porridge. They’d become like sisters, one more like the spoiling aunt, the other transfixed by the increasing glamour of Nina, her body sheathed in her black worksuit, her hair in a glamorous updo, her nails sensibly short but impossibly red. There was a sweetness in their exchanges that warmed me.
‘Party!’ Jessica interjected. She had a full understanding of the word ‘party’, it had become a way of life. ‘Ice cream,’ she continued, pushing her porridge aside.
‘When’s he arriving?’ Nina asked, trying to put a spoonful of the rejected porridge in Jessica’s open mouth. My daughter artfully ducked and flicked the spoon to the floor. Nina sighed.
‘Next Thursday,’ I replied, folding up the letter. ‘Why don’t you take Netta down to the studio to work on a new dress.’ Netta’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe we should make one for Jessica too,’ I continued, kissing her on the top of her head as I grabbed a piece of toast. ‘But only if you eat your porridge.’
Hurriedly, she grabbed a clean spoon from Nina and happily fed herself.
‘Let’s organise it for Friday night. I’ll sort the guest list, the food, the drink.’ Netta turned to Jessica. ‘The ice cream.’ She stuck her tongue out at my little girl, tickling her bare feet underneath the high chair. They shrieked at each other, fat giggles ensuing.