On a Cold Dark Sea(59)
Charlotte did find out enough to get her bearings. She gathered business cards and arranged visits to sound stages, sweet-talked her way into dressing rooms, and scribbled in her notebook as publicity-department minders doled out studio-approved stories about the stars. (Why yes, Joan Crawford and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. were deliriously happy, their marriage a real-life love story.) Charlotte found herself unexpectedly charmed by the brazen artificiality of a motion-picture set: castles built of plywood, temples of cardboard. None of it real, and defiantly so. Here, a Kansas farm girl could reinvent herself as a Polish princess, and the shy son of Italian immigrants could be transformed into a romantic hero. In a town with no history, you could be whomever you wanted.
It was the perfect place for a man like Reg.
Charlotte found out Mr. Evers was under contract to Paramount, and by sweet-talking a studio secretary, she got his home address. It was in what the hotel’s manager simply described as “the Hills,” not far from the hotel. There were no convenient excuses of distance or difficulty to put her off.
Charlotte put on her best day dress, one she’d bought for a country weekend when she’d wanted to impress a certain gentleman with a scar and a limp, who hadn’t turned out to be quite the war hero he had implied. The long sleeves and relatively high neckline looked matronly compared to the scraps of sheer fabric the other women at the Sultan’s Palace paraded around in, but it gave Charlotte a severe elegance that felt appropriate to the occasion. She walked through the hotel’s courtyard and was gratified to see that she could still turn a few heads.
As Charlotte’s taxi passed from apartment buildings and bungalows to orange groves and barren hillsides, her nerve began to falter. Would it be better to send a letter instead? The driver stopped at the bottom of a narrow, steep driveway and gave her a questioning look. Charlotte couldn’t see where the drive ended, but she decided to have mercy on the car’s brakes and paid her fare. Gathering her courage as she stepped out of the car, she began trudging upward. There were voices calling out somewhere behind the hedges on her right, interspersed with rhythmic thumps. After a few more steps, she was high enough up to see a tennis court. Two men were skittering back and forth on either side, their shirts a brilliant white in contrast to their tanned faces and arms. To her left was the house, a saffron-yellow Spanish-style villa with a red tile roof. A half dozen cars were parked along the circular driveway, and Charlotte hesitated. She’d no intention of crashing a party.
As she stood there, wavering, a young man with ruddy cheeks and smooth dark hair came bounding out the front door, like a puppy let off his leash. He drew up short when he saw Charlotte.
“Hello!”
Americans had an unnerving habit of greeting Charlotte with such warmth that she always wondered if they’d met before. As he approached, she felt sure they hadn’t, though he had the kind of face that looked familiar. His sculpted cheekbones and soulful eyes were those of a matinee idol, the kind whose picture gets clipped from magazines and pinned up in wistful girls’ bedrooms.
“Here to see Reggie?” the man asked.
“Yes.” The word was out before she’d officially decided to stay.
He held out his hand. “I’m Percy.”
Casually informal—so very American. “Charlotte.”
Percy shook her hand decisively, and Charlotte knew she was staring, but he didn’t seem to mind. He really was quite attractive, and the fact that he knew it didn’t detract from his charm. Then Charlotte realized where she’d seen him. “Were you in a film with Ramon Novarro?” she asked. “Something about pirates?”
Percy’s smile widened, which made his face glow all the more. “A Rogue at Sea. Don’t tell me you saw it? Not my best work, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I liked it very much.”
Charlotte hadn’t liked it at all—what passed for the plot was sentimental nonsense—but she’d spent enough time around theater people to know that self-disparaging comments must always be countered with compliments.
“You’re English, huh?” Percy asked. “You know Reggie from back home?”
Charlotte nodded. “I happened to be in town and thought I’d surprise him. It might not be the best time, if he’s got visitors . . .”
“Oh, it’s just the usual gang. Reggie opens the house to everyone on the weekend. I’m running home to pick up some new records, but you can go on in. Reggie was by the pool, last I saw him.”
The interior of the house was a sprawling, open space, its dark wood furniture and terra-cotta floor tiles a somber contrast to the California sunshine. Charlotte walked through the central seating area—all oversized sofas and thronelike chairs—toward a set of open French doors. She peered out onto a patio and swimming pool; beyond, the sloping grounds had been carved into a series of terraces, one with a putting green, others with fruit trees and flowers. The pool was vast and blindingly white, with umbrella-topped tables at either end. Visitors were huddled in groups of two and three, some on lounge chairs, others with their legs in the water. Charlotte hovered in the doorway, watching the tableau as if it were a film scene. Waiting for the leading man to arrive.
And then she saw him, wrapped in a navy-blue dressing gown, one hand holding a pipe, his thumb caressing the stem. Charlotte stepped forward, pushing one of the doors wider as she stepped through, and his attention was drawn by the movement. He looked at her first with blank politeness and offered a tentative smile. Then she came closer, and his hand dropped. The pipe dangled from his fingers, forgotten.