On a Cold Dark Sea(58)
CHARLOTTE
Los Angeles felt like another country. It might well be, given the time it had taken to get there. It was the air, Charlotte thought: dusty and dry, the warmth lulling you into immobility. The town itself wasn’t much, to her jaded eyes, but everywhere she saw signs that its ambitions were growing: construction crews and scaffolding, motorcars spiffy enough for Mayfair. A sense of promise that lured dreamy-eyed wanderers into believing they could make a fresh start.
Dreamy-eyed wanderers . . . Charlotte jotted the phrase in her notebook for future use. Even with the windows open, the taxi was stuffy, and she pulled off her jacket and loosened her damp blouse from her chest. None of the clothes she’d packed were appropriate for the California climate, and she felt out of place in her brown tweed suit, a dowdy wren in a land of butterflies and parrots. But this was where her search for Reginald Evers had led, and thanks to the Record’s generous expense account, this was where it would end.
Charlotte could have neglected her promise to Lady Upton. It would have been easier, in many ways, if she had. But curiosity had won out over apprehension. There was no Reginald Evers listed in the New York City telephone directory, but Charlotte found two mentions of him in the archives of the New York Express, both reviews of plays in which he’d appeared in secondary roles. That sent her on a round of visits to theaters, where a manager at the Palace told her, sure, he knew Reggie Evers. He was a director out in California now, making movies. That’s where the money was, these days.
Charlotte delayed her return to London, sold Teddy on her plan to write a series of columns from Hollywood, and bought a cross-country train ticket. (First class, of course, since the Record was paying.) First, however, she had to file her story on Charles Van Hausen. Charlotte’s visit to Esme’s house had gone about as disastrously as it could have. Charlotte had been genuinely surprised when Esme agreed to meet her at the hotel later, and even more shocked when Esme launched into her maudlin confessions. At first, Charlotte’s journalistic instincts had prickled to life: What a story this would make! Teddy will be over the moon! But she’d quickly realized she would never write about Esme. Esme was like a fine piece of china: daintily pretty from afar, dangerously fragile up close. Convinced her husband had committed suicide, rattling around in that ostentatious mansion, so terribly, terribly sad. Charlotte had always remembered Esme as spoiled and overdramatic, and perhaps she still was. But that night, in the hotel room, Charlotte had also felt sorry for her. They would never be friends, yet Charlotte felt a duty to protect Esme all the same.
The following day, Charlotte sent Teddy a gushing profile of Charles Van Hausen, “an adventurer whose appetite for life was only outdone by his appetite for love.” She described him as a devoted husband and father, and sent along a picture of the oldest Van Hausen boy, who was gorgeous enough to warrant a quarter page at least. She wrote that Esme was “living in seclusion, laid low by grief.” Which was true.
Now, Charlotte was on the brink of another momentous reunion. Her taxi pulled up at the Sultan’s Palace Hotel, which looked to Charlotte like an opium addict’s vision of a mythical Arabian stronghold. Teddy had recommended the place the last time they spoke.
“Plum Wodehouse stayed there—said it’s full of soused writers who’ve got all the gossip.” Teddy spoke hurriedly, cramming as much as he could into the extravagantly expensive transatlantic phone call. “I’ll expect daily reports. Get me something on Charlie Chaplain—he’s English, he’ll talk to you. And pictures of starlets. If they’re British, all the better . . .”
Dual minarets stood sentry on either side of the hotel’s entrance, and the windows were framed with bright green and blue tiles. Charlotte walked through the arched front doors into a courtyard centered around a mosaic-lined swimming pool. A woman was floating serenely in the middle of the water, her hair splayed out around her in rays like a child’s drawing of the sun. The woman—who barely reacted to Charlotte’s arrival and questions—said lazily that the office was the front door on the right. But there was no one inside. Charlotte waited on the nearest lounge chair, feeling prim and self-conscious as people drifted past, calling out to each other and trading affectionate insults. The Sultan’s Palace felt more like a boarding school than a hotel.
The manager, as it turned out, was making a repair in Charlotte’s room. When he finally returned to the office, and then showed her up the stairs to the second floor, he pointed out the patch where the plaster was still wet. Charlotte wondered who or what had made such a big hole in the wall but was too tired to bother asking. Her room lacked the rest of the building’s exuberance: there was a bed, a small table, a chair, and not much else. Its monastic simplicity was the ideal setting for serious writing—no distractions—but after a few minutes in that bleak space, Charlotte understood why everyone gathered around the pool instead.
It wasn’t long before Charlotte drifted back down to the water, drawn by what appeared to be a nightly cocktail party. At first, she felt uncharacteristically ill at ease; she was one of only a few women staying at the hotel, and the oldest one by miles. The others were actresses and models and dancers, each more gorgeous than the last. The men ranged from earnest youngsters who believed films could be Great Art and cynical theatrical types who believed in nothing more than a steady studio paycheck. When Charlotte began introducing herself, she was welcomed at first with flattering enthusiasm. A lady reporter! From London! But the novelty wore off after a few desultory conversations. She wasn’t working on a film, and she didn’t know anyone working on a film. Therefore, her appeal was limited.