Well Behaved Women, page 15
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ Alla turned from side to side as though she didn’t know which way to go, then threw her hands up in the air, clearly in a state of some agitation. Nearby, a train whistled as it approached the station, rails clanking and grey smoke billowing into the firmament. ‘No. No, I’m not. Simka, please, go back inside and tell Sergei I’ve gone back to the boarding house. I don’t want him to follow me. I don’t want… there will be no wedding night. Please… make my excuses. Say I’m unwell. Tell Sergei I’ll speak with him tomorrow.’
Simka hesitated, but knew better than to question Alla. She nodded her agreement and went back inside.
Alla began to walk, instinct urging her to get as far away as possible from the scene of the crime, to go back to the safety of her rooms. She felt numb, trying not to think about what she’d just done – marrying a man she didn’t love to spite another – and she stumbled as she walked, seemingly impossible to place one foot in front of the other.
The train had pulled into the station and a crush of people streamed down the street towards her, barely bothering to conceal their curiosity at the sight of the unhinged-looking woman in the wedding dress, the hem filthy where it trailed along the dirty cobbled street. Alla put her head down and pushed on, until something – something inexplicable yet visceral – caused her gaze to alight on a figure in the crowd, intuition identifying a familiar curve of the shoulder, the broad brace of the back, the sweep of the thick, dark hair she’d dreamed of running her hands through. It took her a second to place him, his presence was so unexpected, and she stopped dead, as though struck by a thunderbolt, certain she must be dreaming.
‘Alex!’ she gasped. She began to run towards him, shock giving way to joy. ‘You came. My God, I don’t believe it, you came!’
Everything would be all right now. She would throw herself into Alexander’s arms and he would rescue her, would take her far away from here, back to Moscow, and everything would be all right. She didn’t register the horrified look on his face, but couldn’t fail to miss the way he recoiled as she reached for him, how he stepped backwards, shaking his head in disbelief.
The crowd swarmed around them; some paused to watch, anticipating a scene.
‘I got your letter.’ His voice had that deep, arresting timbre, yet his throat sounded tight. ‘You said you were to be married, but I never thought…’ He gestured wordlessly at her.
Alla looked down at the billowing dress, realising it was impossible to deny the unspoken accusation.
‘But you don’t love him… I know you don’t.’
‘You’re right. I love you. I only married him to make you jealous, and—’
‘This is madness.’ Alexander laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’re insane.’
‘It’s not madness,’ Alla protested, though even to her own ears it sounded anything but rational. ‘I love you, and you obviously love me or else you wouldn’t have come all this way when—’
‘You’re wrong. I thought I did but I… I don’t want any part of this lunacy. This circus. Are you acting, Alla? Are you playing a role right now? You’re like some demented Dostoyevsky heroine—’
‘Alex, my love—’ Alla reached for him but he pushed her hand away, more forcefully than intended.
‘I can’t believe I came here. What was I thinking?’
Alla opened her mouth but she had no more arguments with which to convince him. She could sense him slipping away from her, that panicky, freefall feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her it was happening all over again. She’d come so close but now she was losing him a second time and this time she’d never get him back.
‘Goodbye, Alla.’
Alexander turned and walked back into the station. Alla could only stand and watch, taking in every heart-rending detail – the small leather suitcase, the smart coat that she knew had been borrowed from the MAT costume cupboard, the way his hair had grown long and curled over his collar – before he disappeared inside. But she wouldn’t follow him. She knew when she was beaten. Instead, she sank to the ground in her cursed white dress and sobbed as though the world was ending.
Chapter Fifteen
MAYBELLE
Los Angeles, USA, 1921
The inconsequential city of Vernon, barely five miles southeast of Los Angeles, did not seem the most likely location for one of the hottest nightclubs in the state. Confounding expectations, it was home to the Vernon Country Club, a haven for movie stars and fashionable Angelenos looking to flout the prohibition laws in favour of showgirls and illicit liquor, gambling and dancing and good times.
Right now the atmosphere was raucous, bordering on febrile. Alla, who usually stayed in control of her drinking, was undeniably intoxicated, calling for the waiter to bring shots of vodka, calling an ironic ‘Na Zdorovie’ over the noise of the Paul Whiteman band. June Mathis and Patsy Ruth Miller, a young actress who’d had a small role in Alla’s latest film, were there, along with Rose Dione and Eva Le Gallienne, an old friend of Alla’s from her time on Broadway.
She’d gathered her closest friends and we’d all turned out to support her. Metro Pictures – the studio which had brought her across the country from New York, made her into an international film star, and paid her $13,000 a week at the height of her fame – had terminated her contract. On reading early drafts of Aphrodite, they’d been appalled at the sex and violence it contained and abruptly cancelled the project. Alla’s next film, Camille, managed mediocre ticket sales and split the critics; she was no longer the box office gold she had once been, yet her list of demands grew ever more extravagant. And, although I hated to acknowledge it, Alla was now in her forties, playing ingenues in their twenties, and the American public found it unpalatable. She still carried herself like a queen, but I knew the termination had hit her hard, and Joe and I had been rallying round.
Natacha had supported her too, as best she could during her recovery. After turning up at Hayvenhurst that terrible afternoon, Natacha had been rushed to hospital where they removed the lead shot from her leg, her bloodstained silk dress unsalvageable. Unbelievably, she returned to Theo during her convalescence, despite me begging her not to and Alla insisting she could stay with her. As Natacha physically healed, she became mentally stronger, summoning the courage to leave her abusive fiancé once again. This time, her departure was far less dramatic; Theo behaved rationally, realising he couldn’t change Natacha’s mind, and willingly let her go. The scar below her knee would never fully heal, but now she was thriving.
Alla staggered to her feet, tapping a knife against her glass to get our attention – as feeble against the nightclub noise as a lone piccolo against the might of a full orchestra. She had shunned her usual black for this evening and was wearing a silver satin number that Natacha had designed, clearly a statement that she didn’t intend to fade into the background anytime soon.
‘I have an announcement to make. No, two announcements,’ Alla corrected herself. ‘The first is that Marcus Loew—’ her voice was dripping with disdain as she named the head of Metro Pictures, ‘—can go and fuck himself.’ This elicited whoops and cheers and the raising of champagne coupes, as we all expressed our view, in the most impolite way possible, that Loew had never known his father and was likely illegitimate.
‘The second is that my husband and I—’ here she grasped Charles’ hand and raised it skyward, ‘—are going to make a movie. It will be financed by Nazimova Productions, it will be independent, and I will be able to do whatever the fuck I choose without being dictated to by those ignorant, unimaginative, wet-the-bed-at-night assholes.’ More shouts in solidarity and yells of approval.
‘And all of you—’ now she took time to gesture round the table at her assembled entourage, looking each of us unsteadily in the eye, ‘—are going to be a part of it. All of us, my friends. And it’s going to be like nothing anyone has ever seen before, the pinnacle of art and creativity. It’s going to be extraordinary. It’s going to be a triumph. And Marcus mudak Loew is going to realise he made the worst decision of his life.’
The roars and whistles had reached fever pitch; even in the rowdy atmosphere of the Vernon Country Club we were beginning to attract attention.
‘We’re making a movie of Salomé. I will play the lead, of course – a woman who dances with her bare feet in the blood of a man she has craved for and slain. And my handsome, talented husband will direct.’
She kissed the back of his hand and, even in my hazy state, I noted the incongruity of the gesture. I confess, I still found the relationship between Alla and Charles a curious one, and Joe was frustratingly evasive if I tried to question her about it. Physically they were opposites: Charles was blond and well-built, classically handsome and towering a whole twelve inches above his diminutive wife. Perhaps it was their immigrant status that provided a common bond, for Charles was an English gentleman who’d moved to the States when he was seventeen. They clearly got on well together, both personally and professionally, having co-founded a production company where Alla would play the lead and Charles would co-star or direct. And they were obviously fond of one another, despite Joe once letting slip that they slept in separate bedrooms, like brother and sister. Charles certainly didn’t seem to mind the harem of young women that forever surrounded his wife. Even now, Eva was sitting beside Alla, gazing at her adoringly as she delivered her announcements.
‘Joe, my wonderful, talented, beloved friend – you are going to write this movie.’
‘I think Oscar Wilde got there before me, darling,’ Joe quipped, to the amusement of the table. Despite her throwaway comment, I could tell she was thrilled at the prospect of adapting Wilde’s translation. I looked across at her, properly seeing her for the first time in a long time. She’d grown out her blunt bangs, and favoured wearing her russet bob in Marcel waves, a style which I felt aged her. Faint lines appeared at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and she rebuffed all my attempts to update her style, preferring baggy trousers and a man’s shirt at home, plain skirts and sweaters if we were out in public.
Joe was a decade older than me and, though this had initially felt irrelevant, at times now it seemed insurmountable. I was still excited to be learning, discovering, having adventures. In contrast, Joe was… comfortable. Though still ambitious, she knew who she was, what she liked and disliked, what she would and wouldn’t tolerate. But that dearth of curiosity made her intractable, and I found her lack of interest in new experiences a source of frustration. I was ready to go out and conquer the world and had found new friends to help me do that; I was no longer reliant on Joe, and it was hard to remember a time when we had been inseparable.
‘Natacha – you, of course, will be the art director. How could I possibly have anyone else’s vision but yours?’
A delighted Natacha blew Alla a kiss.
‘Maybelle.’ Alla turned to me and my surprise was evident. ‘You look glorious tonight, as you always do.’ I was sporting a vibrant pink dress that I’d made myself, with an oversized silk bow at the waist, the hem trimmed with marabou feathers. ‘I thought you might like to second Natacha. Assistant art direction and costumes.’
‘Me? Of course… th… thank you,’ I stuttered. I was flattered by the trust she’d placed in me, emotional in a way that wasn’t solely a result of the alcohol I’d imbibed. My first real role! I thought about how far I’d come, how my life had changed since I’d moved from Kentucky. Then I remembered the conversation I needed to have later with Joe, and my glow dimmed a little.
Alla moved on, naming other people around the table, handing out their hallowed roles. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it really did sound as though Salomé would be an incredible production – dramatic, groundbreaking, sexual and heavily stylised. It would prioritise movement and dance, giving it the feel of a theatrical performance or even a ballet, a bold new interpretation of the story of King Herod’s stepdaughter who requests the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter as a reward for performing the Dance of the Seven Veils. I knew this was something Alla had longed to do for many years, but the studio had always been too apprehensive. Now that she’d been released from her contract, she could do whatever she liked.
Across the table, Natacha mouthed her congratulations, and I moved to sit beside her, my mind already brimming with ideas. I admired her hugely, was in awe of her talent and ambition, and I couldn’t wait to learn more from her.
For the past few months, since escaping the clutches of Theodore Koslov, she’d been stepping out with Rudolph Valentino, whom she’d met on the set of Camille, and who’d since become a huge star due to his role in Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Ironically, his first job after moving to California was at the very establishment we were in right now – the Vernon Country Club – as a tango dancer. And in another peculiar twist of fate, two years ago he’d married Jean Acker, the woman Alla had brought from New York and who’d made fun of me at the first Sunday pool party I attended, diving into the water and claiming to be born again. Jean had regretted the marriage immediately, refused to spend the wedding night with Rudy and fled to the house of her ex-lover Grace Darmond, with whom she’d lived ever since. Rudolph and Jean had been living in denial, trying to pretend the marriage had never happened, and only filed for divorce a few months ago. Although Rudy and Natacha were an unlikely match, it seemed to be going well.
‘Alla’s talked of making a movie of Salomé as long as I’ve known her.’ Natacha grinned as I settled in beside her.
‘I’m so excited,’ I gushed. ‘I can’t thank her – and you – enough for trusting me to work on this.’
‘You wouldn’t have been given the job if she didn’t think you could do it.’ Natacha shrugged. Her voice dropped lower, and she leaned in towards me: ‘I know Alla wants this production to be very sensual, very erotic – are you up for the challenge?’
I couldn’t help but notice the way her red lips curved as she spoke, the way her dress bagged a little as she leaned forwards, displaying a hint of décolletage. Alcohol made me bold, and I held her gaze. ‘As long as you’re on hand to help me…’ I breathed.
There was a moment where time seemed to stand still, then Natacha sat back, breaking the spell. ‘What about the colour palette?’ she wondered, sipping her drink. ‘What do you think?’
‘Let’s do it all in black and white,’ I suggested eagerly.
‘Black and silver,’ Natacha corrected – her preferred aesthetic.
‘Of course,’ I laughed. Across the table I caught Joe’s eye; she was speaking to Alla but watching us intently. I gave her a little wave. ‘And the costumes need to be… minimal.’
‘Even the men’s!’ Natacha squealed. ‘We need big men – muscle men. And dwarves!’
‘All in metallic silver loin cloths.’
‘We’ll get everything from Maison Lewis in Paris – it’s the best! Are you familiar with Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations?’
‘Yes! Joe has prints in her – our – bungalow.’
‘Marvellous! Say, what are you doing tomorrow? Let’s meet for coffee, compare ideas. Do you want to come to my place, around 11?’
‘Perfect. I’m so excited, I can’t wait for us to work together again.’ I reached out to give her a spontaneous hug. She smelt wonderful – of amber and jasmine with a hint of something more intense, like patchouli – her cheek brushing against mine, my fingers on the bare skin at the nape of her neck. I held on for longer than I should have done.
In the car on the way home, Joe was in an odd mood. The road was dark as we drove too fast through unilluminated scrubland, and there was a definite atmosphere between us – and not in a good way. I remembered how it had been in the early days, how excited I was to sit beside her when she picked me up from the farm and whisked me away to a world of infinite possibilities. My leg resting alongside hers had filled me with lust, an undeniably erotic charge between us. Tonight, Joe held herself tightly, lips pursed, body far away from mine.
I chattered on, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Alla and Charles are such a strange couple, don’t you think? I’ve never understood their relationship.’
‘Other people’s relationships are usually a mystery from the outside. You don’t have to understand them – it’s none of your business.’
Joe’s tone was sharp, and I was briefly chastened, but the alcohol in my bloodstream meant I didn’t stay silent for long.
‘I’m so happy for Alla that she’s decided to produce Salomé. Natacha said she’s wanted to do it for years, and it’ll keep her busy now that Metro… I mean… it’s such a bold decision. She’s not scared of anything is she?’ Silence met my outburst, and I pushed on. ‘And you must be delighted – to script Salomé, to adapt Oscar Wilde!’
‘Yes, well, Alla’s always looked out for me.’
‘And it’s a big step up for me, too,’ I replied, starting to get annoyed at Joe’s terse responses, her lack of acknowledgement that this was a huge moment in my fledgling career. ‘Won’t it be fun for us to work together on the same project?’
‘Mm hmm.’
We were back in suburbia now, rumbling through silent streets past rows of identical houses whose occupants were engaged in blissful slumber, unaware of the quarrel unfolding in the erratically-driven Chevrolet.
‘I’m meeting Natacha tomorrow to go over our ideas. We could have waited I guess, but I wanted to do it before I go away and—’
‘Before you go away? Where are you going?’
I hesitated, furious at myself for the drunken slip. I hadn’t meant to tell Joe like this. ‘I’m going home.’
‘What? Are you being serious?’
‘Eyes on the road, please!’ I begged as she swerved onto the sidewalk, almost mowing down a skulking raccoon whose terrified eyes gleamed bright in the headlamps. ‘Just for a few days. My brother Frank’s getting married. I got the letter yesterday.’
