Nineteen

A stretch limo picked me up from LAX and whisked me to the fabled Beverly Hills Hotel. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the reception desk. Evidently the room had been booked in my writer-friend’s name but that didn’t seem a problem. Blithely I followed the bellhop out to one of the little cluster of bungalows. The room was splendid, all I had imagined it to be. I was a little surprised that so far my benefactor hadn’t arrived to welcome me, but this was LA: everyone was busy-busy-busy! I spent some time looking at everything, found a little bar, helped myself to a small bottle of champagne and went out on the patio to enjoy the scenery, luxuriate in the tiny bubbles bursting against my nose, the warm sun dappling down between the heavy shards of the palms and the undeniable fact that I had made it to the City of Angels, the city of dreams.

Having rested, I decided it was time to get my act together, to unpack and let the studio know that I had arrived. I opened the huge, sliding-door wardrobe in the walk-in dressing-room and, to my confusion, was confronted with a row of suits. I checked the drawers: shirts, socks, the usual men’s gear. I guessed my American writer-friend was looking for a pay-off for his charitable act but when I rang reception they explained that the room, although booked by Mr Stern, was in the name of someone I did not recognise. I was his guest. This was turning nasty. It looked as if I was the victim of a pimping raid on foreign shores. I slumped on the bed, my hopes in ruins. How could I have been so daft? I castigated myself. Like a dumb cow I’d shut my mind to the possibility that I was being imported for anything other than my talent. Why hadn’t I insisted on getting an official letter from the studio?

I rang Fox. No, there was no screen test scheduled in my name. Yes, the man was one of the money men behind the company. No, I couldn’t have his address. I pushed. The woman said that he was at Beechcraft in Santa Monica buying an aeroplane. He was due back that evening. She was curious and asked me why I wanted to get in touch with him. I had the impression that she had guessed pretty accurately our relationship. I hung up, rang for the bellboy and demanded another room. How I was going to pay for it didn’t enter my head.

My new room wasn’t a patch on my old one but in the Beverly Hills Hotel they’re all not to be sniffed at. I lay on the bed and wondered furiously how I could make this terrible situation work for me. The telephone rang. It was my blind date. I recognised that nothing would come from meeting him with steam hissing out of every orifice so I cooled my temper and agreed to meet on neutral ground in the Polo Lounge.

My date was straight out of the make-up cave for ageing Don Juans: face-lift, stomach belt, Persil-white teeth, slicked-back rug and a suntan that had little to do with anything in the solar system. Just to make sure that he had covered all the points of bad taste he was wearing the sort of outfit that would have looked too young on a twenty-year-old. He flashed his bleached dentures and told me that there had been some terrible mistake. Unfortunately the screen test had been cancelled due to factors beyond his control but he was sure that if we could be friends he could talk to any one of a number of highly placed tycoons who would love to help me out. Understanding only too well what his idea of friendship would involve, I told him sweetly that he would have to pick up the tab for my room and food until I was able to sort out something else and that if he saw Mike he should tell him that if he ever crossed my path again he would be singing soprano before nightfall. Slightly amused, but more bored with the whole business, he agreed to my demands, got up and walked off without another word. I went back to my room and hoped he wouldn’t renege on the deal later.

The next morning I was sitting by the pool when a telephone call came through for me. The waiter plugged in the instrument. I thought it might be Maria who had taken Steffanie to Santander to give her a little holiday while I was away but it was Mike Stern. He apologised profusely and, before I could slam the phone down, asked if I needed some bar work. It took Mike a while to calm me down. He swore that he would get me something more worthy of my talent as soon as possible. Meanwhile, waitressing was the time-honoured way of getting started in Hollywood. Two days later I was cooking.

I hadn’t travelled 10,000 miles to work in a restaurant but the rest of the staff were nice, all with dreams of making it big in LA-LA Land, CV and scripts always at hand just in case a producer or director walked in. I was soon fed up with cooking spaghetti and offered to make plum cake. It was my father’s favourite and before long became the favourite of the customers. Later I added Polish cheesecake which got me a lot of accolades but no nearer to my goal.

The Spaghetti House did at least throb with the fat and famous. None of them so much as did a double-take when this fabulous blonde primped and gushed and served her plum cake, until one day Willy Wilder, Billy Wilder’s brother, walked in. Willy loved my plum cake and soon started to stop by to chat with me in German. One day he invited me out to lunch and began to tell me about a film called The Omegans that he was going to shoot in the Philippines in only a month’s time. Would I like to play the lead? he asked. I sat there and looked at him. A film shooting in four weeks, with no leading lady? It was not credible. The only explanation was that Willy was just like all the others. I burst into tears. Willy sensitively guessed at the reason for my outburst and hastily assured me that the offer was kosher. I was just what he wanted for the lead.

Willy’s wonderful offer meant that I could go home at once and be with Steffka again. He gave me an advance on my pay to cover expenses and soon after I got back to Madrid the script arrived with a return ricket to Manila. I had, stupidly, put myself in a vulnerable position but, through determination and amazing good fortune, I’d won the day.