Last Dance with Valentino. Daisy Waugh
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. And Rudy isn’t like a lot of men: he certainly notices these things. He appreciates beauty, elegance and all that. So I was standing there in front of the glass, seeing the wretched dress as I imagined he would see it, and just knowing I would have to go and buy another, and thinking about all the other things I had meant to do today – watch the Marion Davies movie, visit Papa’s grave, which I’ve not done, not even once, not since . . . and then I realised that, more than anything else, more than a new dress, even, I needed to get a gift for Rudy.
I wandered up and down Fifth Avenue in a ferment of indecision. A mah-jong set? A cigarette case? Something terribly clever? I went to some lengths to discover what was the most recent offering from Sigmund Freud . . . Inhibitions, Symptoms and Anxiety . . . Well, I flicked through that pretty briefly, and thought I would probably die from all the symptoms of every anxiety under the sun, if I ever laid eyes on the thing again . . . Finally, I was on the point of buying a live parrot (green and yellow and quite stunning – Rudy adores animals) when I had the most wonderful brainwave.
I headed to Altman’s and bought him the disguise. There is a Homburg hat and some spectacles, and a wig made from the hair of some poor German, I suppose. Or Swede. It’s quite blond – actually it reminded me of Justin Hademak. I don’t suppose Rudy will much want to wear it, my funny wig – but he might. He doesn’t complain but I see how it gnaws at him to be constantly recognised and fawned over. I think in some ways he is horrified by what he has done – the crazy whirlwind he has created. But perhaps it won’t last for ever. Perhaps one day he will be forgotten again, and we will be free to wander about, with our children around us, like any ordinary couple in love. Perhaps we could live in Italy. And he could build his cars and breed his horses, and I could write . . .
By the time I’d collected all the parts for his disguise it was late, the shops were about to close for the evening, so I had no choice but to stay at Altman’s – which was not quite the place I had in mind when I set out to buy the perfect evening dress. (I should be astonished if Pola Negri had ever crossed its threshold. Ditto for the last Mrs Valentino.)
But then there it was! Just crying out to me . . . the most beautiful dress I had ever laid eyes on and, by the way, at seventy-five dollars, the most expensive dress I have bought in my entire life.
It’s of pale blue, made from the sheerest, sleekest satin, with a hemline a little lower at the back but to the knee at the front. And there are flowers embroidered at the back – which scoops very low – and at the hip-band there are flowers too, only slightly larger ones.
And then, of course, I had to buy a set of beads to bring out the blue of the flowers, and slippers to match the beads – if only I’d stopped there. I was about to. But on my way out, when already I was feeling quite sick about the money I’d spent – I saw the stole. It was of rabbit skin – like the stole Papa gave me, and which I gave to Madeleine in the midst of all my angry grief when I simply couldn’t bear to look at the thing again. It was the same colour. That’s all. How many hundreds of rabbit skins have I seen in the intervening years and thought nothing about them? But this one stopped me, on this hot August day. There I was on my way out of the store, and I simply couldn’t move away from it. Exhaustion, I suppose, mental and physical. I stood in the middle of Altman’s, my fingers running through the fur and the maddest tears streaming down my face: tears for my father, tears I haven’t wept in many years, and they wouldn’t stop.
I felt quite a prize fool. And I’m sure Mr Sigmund Inhibitions-and-Anxieties Freud would have plenty to say on the matter. Too bad. Only it’s true that just then, at that particular moment, I felt my papa very close.
Buck up, my silly friend, I could hear him saying. He would have been horribly embarrassed. And pleased, perhaps, and even surprised – as surprised as I was – to discover that I miss him still, and that I am still so very, very fond of him. I felt his arms around me. Truly, I did. How silly is that? I could hear him teasing me; and it made me smile. And I picked up the wretched rabbit fur – all fifty-eight dollars of it, if you please – and I gave it to the shopgirl, who wrapped it up in tissue. I have it here, lying on the bed, still wrapped in tissue. It’s far too hot for tonight. Too hot for Hollywood. Heaven only knows what I shall do with it.
Chapter 4
1916–17 Long Island
The plan, so far as I understood it, had been for Papa to go back to the city with Mr de Saulles first thing the following morning. Mr de Saulles had, until that point, taken quite a shine to Papa, of course, and I think he’d been intending for the pair of them to have a lot of fun together. He would show my father round town a bit, and help him to drum up work among his rich friends.
But I guess Mr de Saulles’s friendly and helpful intentions were just too advantageous for Papa not to feel driven to sabotage them. I often wondered if Mrs de Saulles hadn’t played some part in it too – if she and Papa hadn’t cooked up something together the previous evening. It doesn’t matter anyway. The point is, Papa had fallen madly in love with her and was, as always, unwilling to fight or even to hide it. His budding friendship with her husband, which promised to be so helpful to his career, rather withered on the branch as a result. It didn’t survive beyond breakfast, in actual fact.
Papa informed everyone in the dining room that morning (young Jack Junior and myself included) that he had decided not to travel to Manhattan with his host but to stay behind at The Box.
‘Would you mind awfully, Jack?’ Papa said, pulling a long face. ‘Only it’s so frightfully hot in the city. And my lungs . . . ’ He gave a series of feeble little coughs. ‘It would be far better for me if I stayed here a while. Until it cools down. I could set to work at once . . . Perhaps begin with a painting of your delightful son . . . Or perhaps Mrs de Saulles . . . if she will permit it?’
A silence fell. An awkward clattering of knives and forks. My father’s intentions were obvious and I think, even in that brazen crowd, everyone was slightly embarrassed.
Mr de Saulles didn’t bother to look up from his plate. After a while, his mouth still full of griddled waffle, he said, ‘Your lungs are perfectly fine, old sport. And I’ve made all sorts of plans for you. Come back to town with me.’
My father coughed a bit louder.
‘Oh, do stop,’ Mr de Saulles said.
‘I wish I could stop, Jack. Sincerely. I do. ’ (Cough cough.) ‘I really think I should call a doctor.’
Mr de Saulles just kept shovelling in more of the griddled waffle, and nobody spoke.
‘I must say,’ the duke finally piped up, ‘you seemed perfectly fine last night. It’s rather boring of you to – suddenly decide you’re ill. Just like that.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ Cough cough cough. ‘But last night is one thing. This morning, I hardly need to point out to you, Your Grace, is entirely another.’
Silence again. This time it was Mrs de Saulles who broke it. Looking not at her husband or at my father but at Rudy, she said, ‘Well, if you’re utterly determined that Marcus should paint me, Jack . . . Although honestly I can’t see why you would be . . . ’
‘Because, sweetest, you are my wife. And I should like to have a painting of you.’
‘Well, then, he might as well paint me now as later. I intend to be home in Santiago by the end of next month in any case.’
Clearly, it was the first he had heard of it. He looked at his wife – they all looked at her, the duke, the thin man with the waxy face, Miss Sawyer, my father – all of them looked at her, except the one whose attention she sought: Rudy, I think, made a point of looking anywhere else. He caught my eye, briefly, sent me the smallest flicker of a smile, and I felt myself blushing.
So,