Not even one of Lucile’s mannequin parades with London’s royal and noble in the front row or opening a new shop in the most famous cities in the world had set her so on edge as when her ship came into Southampton. After these five years away, after the mistakes she’d made, would Esme or Cosmo come to meet her? Could she resurrect any of her old professional or personal life again, and if so, on what terms?
She stood shoulder to shoulder with other passengers at the rail as the ship edged closer to the waiting, waving crowd on the pier. Leaning over, she squinted to skim faces but saw no one she knew. She bit her lower lip hard and blinked back tears.
It hurt her to see some arrivals being greeted with cheers and huzzahs, perhaps just a fortunate, normal person whose family was elated to have him back. Though she used to be such a social butterfly, she’d kept to herself so much on this voyage that she hadn’t heard whether any personalities were aboard. Some sort of confetti dusted the air, and people hugged each other on the gangway below.
Well, she thought, she’d made her bed and she must lie in it. She would work to win Esme back and play with her grandchildren and design dress-up clothes for them. As for her life with Cosmo, that remained to be seen. Now here she was alone with no one she knew waiting below.
She disembarked and made arrangements at the porter counter for her pile of luggage to be handled clear to the taxi stand on a rolling cart. Now she’d have to get herself and that to the Ritz Hotel in London. Not for years had she been forced to fend for herself dockside like this. She knew she couldn’t afford the Ritz for long, but she’d find a small house to let or buy outside of London. She wouldn’t have a motorcar anymore, but there were always cabs or trains. The Ritz had been her sister’s “hangout” once, as the Americans would put it, so she’d write her next time on Ritz stationery. She couldn’t bear for Elinor, or anyone, to know the real state of her financial affairs.
It annoyed her that, with the rolling stack of luggage behind her, she would have to stand in the queue for hired motorcars. But then as she walked that way through the thinning crowd toward the line of people . . .
“Mother! Over here!” came a familiar voice, and Esme broke from the stragglers, waving like mad and tugging her little daughter, Flavia, along. Her husband, Anthony, Viscount Tiverton, was just behind her with their son, Tiverton, in his arms.
“Wait,” Lucile told her porter. “Wait right here.”
But she wasn’t waiting. She threw her arms wide, and Esme hugged her. No Cosmo, but kisses from her dear grandchildren who had grown so much she didn’t know them. But neither did they know her, and Flavia cowered when she kissed her.
Esme was still talking. “We had a tire puncture on the way, and the men had to fix it, and once we got here, they had to wash up. Sorry we weren’t here when your ship came in, because I wanted the children to see that.”
“The men fixed it?” Lucile asked. “Did someone stop to help?”
“Oh, no, it was Cosmo’s motorcar, and he can fix anything.”
“Almost anything,” came the deep voice from behind her she had so longed to hear.
She turned. She had forgotten he was so tall. Much more silver in his hair and mustache. He looked fine—grand.
“We’ve come to take you home,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Wherever you decide is home.”
She stepped closer to him. Even in the press of people and noise here, she was sure she scented Highland heather and fresh air. He extended his arms, and she threw herself into them, her cheek against the rough tweed of his jacket. He felt so strong, so good.
She wanted to tell him that home was wherever he was, but she wasn’t sure how her ruination of these last years in America would sit with him. But she was sure that she couldn’t wait to see London, to recapture the grandeur and the grace of it all. For that much, at least, and mostly for these beloved people, she was home.
Elinor was ecstatic. For the movie based on her novel Beyond the Rocks, two of her favorite players had been cast—Rudolph Valentino and Gloria Swanson!
After all, she was the one who had first noticed Valentino’s impact among bit players so she had coached and promoted him. Unlike others who called him Rudy—which did not enhance his Latin charisma at all—she always just called him Valentino. Like Clara Bow, he had “It,” only the male variety, which was much more dangerous. Elinor herself, whom he called Madame Glyn, or “My Madame,” was totally susceptible to his charms, despite the somewhat large gap in their ages. She knew not to play with fire anymore, but she didn’t mind being warmed by it.
“No one dances the tango as well as you,” Valentino told her with one of those long, narrowed-eyed looks as they went back to their table in the nightclub to join Gloria and her companion. This was no mere lad, she reminded herself, but a twenty-seven-year-old man with much experience of all sorts. He just acted like a spoiled child sometimes, so she must be careful bringing him along for his role in the movie.
“And you are the tango king,” she told him as he held her chair for her. The dancing had made them both warm. “We will make a place for your tango in as many of your movies as long as I have anything to do with it,” she promised. “But this is not all pleasure this evening, my dear. We need to discuss your big love scene with Gloria.”
“This evening is pleasure to me,” he insisted and gave her another of his smoldering stares that so lit up the screen—and, she was sure, would help to make Beyond the Rocks a roaring success. But his screen chemistry, as they called it, had not bubbled over yet with Gloria, however excellent a sultry actress she could be—which is exactly what was wanted for this movie.
That last look almost made Elinor swoon, but she heard Gloria sniff sharply, so she turned to her and said, “Let’s call it a night, as Mr. DeMille always says. We need to go over that one scene, so I hope your friend won’t mind heading home alone.”
“I told him it was not all play and no work,” Gloria said and downed the rest of her martini. “Come along, and I’ll walk you out,” she told her companion. Gloria was between husbands, definitely her weakness for such a bright girl.
Unfortunately, when they left the table, Valentino was recognized, and two women sashayed up for autographs and breathless wonder, just staring at him. It annoyed Elinor but amused her too. There might be only one Valentino, but he surely topped any so-called acolyte Lucile had always kept in swarms about her, including that Bobbie.
But these women hanging on annoyed her even more. “Come on, then,” she repeated, standing. “I see Gloria coming back, and we’ll take her right out to the limousine.” She picked up Gloria’s little silk purse from the table and took Valentino’s arm to gently tug him away. They were running a tab on Mr. Hearst’s dime—actually, more than a dime—since this was his and Marion Davies’s table.
In the limousine, Elinor sat them on the main seat and took the back-facing one. She called to the chauffeur, “Drive slowly, please, and close that sliding window behind me.” When he complied, she went on, “Now, you two, I am going to teach you what your director evidently cannot. Specifically how to be romantic in the European way, gently, but with leashed passion.”
Strange, but right in the middle of this important moment, even with Valentino staring at her, she remembered how she had loved to sprawl half-clad on her tiger skins for inspiration. She’d brought the oldest one with her to Hollywood, but seldom was so foolish anymore. Would you like to sin with Elinor Glyn on a tiger skin? The words of that old, naughty doggerel darted through her mind. She had bought the first skin years ago in Venice, infuriating Clayton, but Milor had given her the other—one he had slain himself, even as he had slain her dreams.
She shook her head to stop the memories and cleared her throat. “Now, our director, Sam Wood, is very nervous about the censors, you know. No kiss can run longer that ten feet of film. And they will be shooting two different, culminating kisses in the climactic scene with the more passionate one for the European market. The Americans have that—what do they call it?—Puritanical streak yet. Now, slowly, with feeling, with leashed passion. Of course, look into each other’s eyes. Gloria, concentrate. Valentino, emote. Now kiss at least for half a minute.”
Surely, Elinor thought, Gloria could sense the electricity. If a woman in her fifties could, she could!
Elinor knew she could do a better job of directing a movie than some of the men in Hollywood. She’d prove it right now. “Slower. Slower! First, kiss the palm of her hand, lingeringly, looking deep into her eyes. Gloria, look a bit stunned, a bit unsure, then change the expression to surprise and segue that to desire. Then come closer—pulled inevitably together. No kiss on the mouth yet, but you are breathing as one, becoming one in heart and mind—later in body. Everyone will feel it . . .”
Elinor felt she would die of the heat in here, but was it just her? Not since that rat Curzon had she nearly fainted at someone’s feet. If Gloria didn’t feel that and act on that . . .
When the two of them kissed tentatively, then powerfully, Elinor flopped back in her seat and fanned herself. Oh, to be young and stubborn, but hungry for life again. But as fake and phony as the movies and written romance could be, there was such a thing as living through others instead of for others. Did that and her continued quest for emotion and wealth, even power, make her unique? Or just more like Lucile than she ever wished to admit?
Lucile happily agreed to stay with Esme at their country home for a few days before heading back into London to the Ritz while she looked for a small house, one maybe she could afford on the outskirts of the city. She’d heard Hampstead Heath had some places like that to let or purchase.
Cosmo didn’t stay long that first night, but it was obvious that he was more at home here with her family than she was. Little Tiverton sat happily on his lap and played toy soldiers with him, and Anthony and Cosmo got on well.
But Cosmo was back the next day, and Esme suggested just he and Lucile take a motorcar ride.
“Town or country?” Cosmo asked her when she was seated beside him. They were still rather stiff with each other.
“Since I am with you, the countryside. Esme tells me she seldom goes into London.”
“Good girl, your Esme.”
“I do mean to visit the London shop soon.”
“Like Londoners, it’s much changed since you left,” he told her, starting the engine and pulling away. “Women worked hard during those tough war years. Fancy fripperies are not so common now.”
“And styles are plainer. I know what you’re hinting at. I learned that the hard way in New York. Cosmo,” she went on, turning toward him on the leather seat, “I’m sorry I made a mess when I sold the U.S. and Paris stores. I just wanted desperately to get out from under them—everything but the design part, which is very different now. The styles are so—not Lucile anymore.”
He frowned but kept his eyes on the road. The countryside was lovely, but she kept her eyes on him.
“You always were a disaster with finances, lass.”
She teared up that he had finally called her by that simple pet name again—lass. “And you weren’t there to advise me,” she added.
“Because you let me down, and I couldn’t bear that again.”
“I never loved or trusted anyone the way I did you.”
“Did, not still do or could again?”
Her insides cartwheeled. “You know what I mean.”
“I fear I don’t and haven’t for a long while. Look, Lucile, let’s not argue. Let’s just be together and remember the good times, not the bad. And see what we can salvage for the future.”
She wanted to ask him if he meant a future together but she was afraid to make another wrong move, professionally or personally. She wanted to promise Cosmo that—if he wanted—she would like to visit Scotland again, but perhaps he had his own life there now, even another woman. She glimpsed for a moment how badly she had hurt him.
“Yes,” she said and reached out to briefly lay a hand on his arm, “it is a lovely day, partly because I am, at last, again with you.”