After Annabel finished working with Scott, she set off to help Jack. He was just coming out of his private swimming pool, his body glistening wet in the sunlight.
“You have an interview in Cannes this afternoon,” Annabel reminded him.
Jack groaned. “I wanted to scout locations today! Come with me to Cannes. Then you can point out a few choice spots along the way; I only speak un petit peu of French.”
At that moment they heard a car door slam, and then Téa came drifting toward them from the villa’s small parking area, which led to a very narrow access road that few people knew about. The studio’s French driver followed, for he’d taken Téa into Nice for her fittings, and now he slipped into the villa, carefully carrying some of the gowns that she was going to wear for the balls and galas and screenings. Then he departed, quickly and quietly as he always did.
Jack kissed Téa as she sat down beside him and tossed her pale straw hat on the table.
“You missed all the fun and games with Herr Hardtman today,” he said dryly.
Téa shrugged lightly. It crossed Annabel’s mind that Téa had carefully timed her jaunt to Nice to avoid being seen this morning by Sonny, Alan, and their Nazi consultant.
“Alan cornered me at the hotel gate just now,” Téa said. “Stood in front of the car to stop me, just to say Sonny doesn’t like the publicity photos we took before we got here. Says I don’t look blond enough—he wants me to bleach my hair! Like all those platinum blonds.”
“Don’t do it,” Jack said instantly. “In my next film, you’ll be playing an innocent French girl from a little Provençal village. I don’t want you looking like some peroxide floozy.”
“I heard that the bleach the studio uses, it can burn the scalp and make you lose a lot of hair that never grows back,” Téa said mournfully. “But what can I do?”
This was the first time that Annabel had heard Téa speak at length about anything. Off camera, Téa had a more pronounced German accent. She also had a tremulous quality, and this fragility made people want to help her.
Annabel, thinking of her parents’ studio with her mother up on the ladder chattering about the lights, said shyly, “Miss Marlo, your hair is already golden. You don’t have to bleach it to make it look blonder. You can get a wonderful effect just from the right lighting.”
Téa said despairingly, “The studio photographers apparently failed to do so.”
But Jack said, “No, listen to Annabel. Her parents had a portrait studio.”
Annabel nodded. “I can show you how to do it, if we get some professional lights to work with. It will make a beautiful glowing halo of your hair. Sonny’s got to love it!”
Téa’s eyes widened, and she grasped Annabel’s hand as if she were a lifesaver. Her fingers were cold, even on an August day. “Can you really do that?” she asked, enthralled.
“Yes, I helped my parents. We did it for special clients and publicity stills.”
“Wonderful! If I have the photographer come to the hotel to take the pictures, would you assist him by doing the lights?” Téa asked intently. When Annabel agreed, Téa squeezed her hand once more, her expression one of boundless gratitude.
Jack said, “Listen, I’ve got an interview in Cannes today. Wanna come meet the press?”
Téa made a face. “Those people! They latch on and won’t let go. Grab, grab, grab.”
Jack laughed. “Annabel’s coming. We’re going to scout some locations. Maybe we’ll find some nice little café and discover a great cup of coffee. Sure you won’t come?”
Téa smiled faintly but shook her head. Her glance flickered at Annabel, and a slight frown came over her beautiful face. She said, “You can’t go into Cannes like that. You need to look special. Come with me,” she ordered, suddenly maternal and bossy.
While Jack went off to clean up and get dressed, Annabel followed Téa into her room and over to a dressing table, where Téa rummaged through a few drawers and pulled out some silk scarves, which she held up to Annabel’s face.
Annabel watched in the mirror as Téa discarded them one by one, murmuring, “Yellow, no good. Green is worse. Purple, too much. Blue, not bad. Ah—this one, the red and white, perfect for your pale skin and dark hair.”
Deftly Téa draped the scarf around Annabel’s shoulders and said, “Wear it comme ça; don’t just tie it at your throat.” Annabel loved how the scarf settled on her in a rustle of silk wings. Then Téa pulled out a long strand of lustrous pearls, which she draped around Annabel. “Doormen and journalists—they always notice good jewelry.”
The pearls undeniably gave a lovely glow to Annabel’s complexion, and she felt that the face that stared back in the mirror looked more sophisticated, giving her a glimpse of the person she’d always wanted to be and might yet become.
Téa reached for a glass perfume atomizer that had a rubber ball you squeezed to spray it. But she sprayed it just on herself. “When staying at home, you need only to wear perfume to be beautiful,” she advised as she wafted outside, trailing the scent of attar of roses.
“Well, that looks fine!” Jack said when he saw Annabel, but his smile was for Téa.
“Go take your interview,” Téa replied, giving him a playful shove.
“Oh!” Annabel exclaimed. “I almost forgot. Miss Marlo—”
“Call me Téa. It’s short for Tibelda. But Marlo is a name the studio made up, because nobody could spell Meinrad.”
“Well, Herr Hardtman—the man at the meeting this morning—he said to give you this,” Annabel said, reaching into her notebook, where she’d tucked the formal invitation.
Téa looked at Jack, puzzled, and he explained, “Courtesy of the German ‘adviser’ to our film. He was here, it turns out, for a pleasant morning of arm-twisting.”
Annabel said, “He insisted that I say to you, ‘Tell her that there will be people at this party whom she is very eager to see.’” She disliked the taste of that man’s words on her tongue.
Téa’s face froze. Dispassionately she tore open the invitation, scanned the contents quickly, and tossed it aside on the table. “Grab, grab, grab,” she said again. But she suddenly looked like a frightened German schoolgirl, afraid of disobeying a teacher.
“I may have to go to this party,” Téa murmured. “It’s on Herr Volney’s yacht—and he is the German distributor for Sonny’s films. Alan told me to be nice to him and get him to use his influence so Hardtman will stop fussing about our little Love Isn’t Easy film.” She sighed.
“Maybe there’s another event scheduled that day, and you can beg off,” Jack suggested. “Why don’t you let Annabel take a look at your diary and see what she can do?”
“No!” Téa said emphatically. “I don’t use that diary. It makes things too—permanent.”
“Okay, okay,” Jack said. He turned to Annabel. “A secret admirer gave Téa a diary—and those pearls. I think it was Sonny, but she won’t say. Come, Annabel, the press awaits.”
* * *
Annabel loved going off with Jack at the wheel of his baby-blue convertible. But she had an embarrassing moment when he stopped the car at the front of the Grand Hotel just as Oncle JP stepped out to have a word with the porters. He moved toward her as Jack hopped out to exchange some American money for French with the concierge.
Oncle JP registered Annabel’s presence in the car with one of his raised eyebrows, then leaned over to hear her explanation. She told him that Jack had an important interview and some location scouting to do and needed her to show him around and translate if necessary.
“Ah,” said Oncle JP, nodding sagely. But she could see that he was sizing her up and surely noticed the silk scarf and pearls, which she hadn’t been wearing this morning. She blushed. Jack came strolling back, and the two men exchanged pleasantries.
Then Oncle JP’s eagle eye spotted a small fallen twig lodged between the windshield and the wipers. With one deft gesture, he reached out and removed the twig.
In a low voice that only Annabel could hear, he murmured, “Even little distractions can cause big accidents.”
Jack didn’t notice, for Sonny’s plump daughter, Cissy, was returning from a forced jogging workout with her nurse. They were in exercise clothes, and the poor girl was covered with sweat. Cissy paused at the driver’s side to say hello to Jack, who obliged her with a smile and a mild comment about how nice the weather was. Cissy watched wistfully as he drove off.
“Poor kid,” Jack commented. His departing car caused a small sensation as hotel guests waved at him, the men shouting hello and the women coquettishly blowing kisses as if they half expected Jack to stop the car and scoop them up into his arms. It all had such a strange urgency that it was almost violent, and seated beside Jack, Annabel flinched involuntarily.
“God! I thought those women were going to jump right through the windshield!” she exclaimed. “So weird—they looked almost angry while they cheered you.”
Jack nodded. “Téa says adulation is just a disguise for ‘the rage of envy.’”
As they passed the black wrought iron gate and the guard’s booth at the stone pillars, Annabel breathed a sigh of relief. The wind that blew in from the sea ruffled her hair, as if to dispel the feverish frenzy they’d just experienced. They breezed along a road that followed the curve of the coastline, until traffic slowed them down as they approached the city of Cannes.
“There’s the Carlton Hotel,” said Annabel, pointing out their destination. The color of whipped cream, this hotel had a fairy-tale quality, with white columns, a multitude of tall french windows and little balconies, and two large, dusky domes rumored to have been inspired by the breasts of a fiery Spanish courtesan and performer.
The hotel overlooked a famous promenade called la Croisette, where strollers could “see and be seen.” Beyond it was the beach, dotted with the hotel’s signature umbrellas and sunbeds; and the breathtaking Mediterranean Sea, sparkling in the sun like a sea of sapphires.
Once again, Jack’s pale-blue convertible caused everyone to stop and stare. Even Annabel was being admired and scrutinized now, for no one knew who she was. She was grateful for Téa’s silk scarf and pearls, which helped Annabel to hold her head high as flashbulbs popped when they alighted from the car at the entrance to the Carlton Hotel.
The valet bowed to them. A smiling doorman ushered them inside. Everyone in the lobby stepped deferentially out of the way, and Annabel went gliding through with not a single obstacle to impede her progress. So this is the good part of being famous, she thought.
They went down a long corridor to the hotel lounge, where Jack was hailed by a bartender, who seemed to know and like him. So did a dapper Englishman drinking at the bar—a man with a longish face, a well-tailored suit, a silk kerchief in his breast pocket, and a white carnation in his buttonhole—who shook hands with Jack and nodded politely at Annabel.
“Wasn’t that Noël Coward—the man who writes those clever songs and plays?” she whispered to Jack when they were out of earshot. “I saw him in New York at one of his opening nights taking a bow onstage.” She half expected the playwright to stand up and sing “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” because this lounge looked like the sophisticated stage sets where his lightning-quick comedies took place.
Now a woman in an apricot-colored suit with an outrageous hat decked with false flowers stood up and waved vigorously to them.
“That must be the British movie columnist,” Annabel said. The lady had commandeered a low table and plush chairs. She was accompanied by a photographer who had his camera and flashbulb slung over his shoulder. A waiter arrived with a pot of tea.
“We’ll take the pictures later, outside,” the woman said to the photographer, who drifted over to the bar and waited politely as the interview commenced.
“Espresso,” Jack said to the waiter. Annabel diplomatically had the tea. The interview began with a polite discussion about the upcoming film festival; Jack was as tolerant of inane questions as he was of the better ones, without giving away too much of himself. Annabel could see that this was as vital a skill as the acting itself.
But then the woman said archly, “Do I hear wedding bells for you and Téa Marlo?”
“No,” Jack said shortly. Evidently this was a sore subject for him, and the interviewer seemed to have expected that, for she patted his hand with false solace.
“Is it true that the Führer has summoned Téa to return to Germany and the UFA studio?” she asked, her small gold pen poised above her notepad.
“Téa loves America, and she belongs in Hollywood,” Jack said firmly. “No one is going to be summoning her anywhere.”
The woman made notes and then leaned in, purring confidentially. “What’s Téa Marlo really like? Is she beautiful when she wakes up in the morning? Does she snore?”
Annabel gasped indignantly, but Jack only laughed. “I sleep late,” he said. “The whole world is awake and on the move before my feet go into my slippers. But once I’m on my feet, I do like to work hard. Now, this new picture of ours, I think you’re really going to love it . . .”
Annabel was glad when they finally stepped outside into the blazing sunlight and crossed the street so that the photographer could snap a bunch of photos of Jack on the beach, his smile as dazzling as the sun. After the reporter and photographer left, Jack obligingly signed a few autographs for the cluster of fans who’d gathered to watch.
Annabel had strolled off a few paces and waited for Jack in front of the official poster for the first Cannes Film Festival. She studied it idly. The artwork showed a very elegant man and woman in profile, seated against a cream-colored background, as if they had good seats at a theatre and were leaning forward attentively. The man was formally dressed in black and seemed to be wearing a monocle. The woman’s hair was swept up into a dramatic pompadour, and she wore a strapless gown with a plunging back. She had long, slender arms, and extremely long fingers raised as if she were applauding. There seemed to be great deal of peach-colored billowing clouds beside her.
“Is that her gown all around her? It’s a little odd,” Annabel observed as Jack joined her.
He peered at it and said, “Looks more like flames, as if the whole theatre is on fire and that couple doesn’t realize it, because they are so riveted by the movie they’re watching.”
“Here’s some posters for other films showing at the festival in September,” she pointed out. “The Wizard of Oz, Only Angels Have Wings, Union Pacific, The Four Feathers. Some lineup!”
There was a sudden shout a few yards away from a team of workmen who were raising an enormous cardboard display on the beach. It took ropes, pulleys, and more shouting to get it up, but when they succeeded, the watching crowd said in unison, “Ahhhhh!” and applauded.
For it was a huge replica of the Parisian cathedral of Notre Dame.
“Looks like RKO Radio Pictures has spared no expense to promote The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” Jack observed. “It’s a new movie being presented on the opening day of the film festival. I bet the French will love it, because the story’s from Victor Hugo’s novel.”
“Can’t wait to see that one!” an Englishman in the crowd exclaimed.
“Hooray for Hollywood.” Jack grinned. “Come on, let’s sit down somewhere. I want to tell you the plot of my next movie so we can make a list of locations for you to show me.”
They took a discreet table at a seaside café where Jack, in his panama hat and dark glasses, might not be noticed. He ordered rosé wine, so cool and refreshing on this hot day.
“My film takes place in France, during the Great War . . .” Jack began.
Annabel obligingly took out her pad and pencil to make notes. “Does it have a title?”
“I’m calling it Farewell at Dawn,” Jack said enthusiastically. “Our story begins at the onset of the Great War, about a village girl who came to Paris with stars in her eyes and went to work for a fashion designer—a tough bird like Coco Chanel or Elsa Schiaparelli—but our girl becomes disenchanted.” He paused as Annabel’s pencil flew across the page.
Then he continued, “When war breaks out, she rushes home to the little Riviera village where she was born, where her parents—and childhood sweetheart—still live. But the war takes her man to the trenches. A mobster from Nice, who’s running a black market in wartime, wants our girl to marry him. Her family’s starving, and she’s told that her boyfriend is missing in action, presumed dead. Of course, he returns. We’ll shoot it right here on the Côte d’Azur.”
She had been jotting it all down rapidly, imagining the whole film as it unfolded scene by scene. Jack had been staring at her as if contemplating Annabel for the first time.
“You can help me ‘see’ my heroine’s motivations. For once, I’d like to do a story about how a woman really feels, if she were truly free from the tyranny of ancient, silly fears of men. Her hero will be something special, too. You ever been in love?” he asked rather unexpectedly.
She recalled David’s disapproving remarks and wholesale rejection of her prospects as a good wife, and she blushed. “I—yes, but—it didn’t work out.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Jack said softly. Then he added rather astutely, “Some men can’t deal with a woman who’s smart and beautiful. His loss, the fool.” He looked as if he meant it, as if he’d discovered in Annabel something others had overlooked, something precious, like a perfect seashell on the beach, and he leaned forward, saying intently, “Don’t ever let anybody make you scrunch yourself into something smaller and more manageable than what you are.”
The waiter quietly deposited the check on their table. Jack said brightly, “Say, we’ve got to find the perfect village for the hometown of the girl in this story. I want to see it, smell it, taste it! I want to see all the best sights of the French Riviera through your eyes.”
Annabel nodded, glad to focus on business once again instead of her past. They made a list of preliminary locations, then returned to the Carlton. A valet brought their car round.
There wasn’t enough time for them to actually stop at potential locations, so Annabel pointed to various turnoffs where they might come back another time. But all the while, she felt acutely happy just to be here with Jack beside her, with his strong arms guiding their car on this sunny day, gliding alongside the sea, feeling so utterly peaceful.
When they reached the road that would eventually take them back to the Grand Hotel, with the fiery sun dancing behind them, Annabel simply rested her head back and closed her eyes, feeling the wind caress her cheeks; and she found herself wishing that the sun would never set, so that her day out with Jack could go on forever.