Secrets from the Past

My mother, a movie star in the same league as Elizabeth Taylor, had been beautiful, glamorous, beloved by millions, a box-office draw, fodder for the gossip press. One of a kind, actually, and, like the other Elizabeth, larger than life. My mother had remained a huge star until her death.

THREE

In the kitchen I was attempting to do three things at once: heat a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, toast a slice of bread and phone my sister in Nice, when the other line began to shrill. I swiftly ended my message to Cara and took the incoming call.

Much to my surprise, it was my sister Jessica.

‘Hi, Pidge,’ she said, using the nickname she had bestowed upon me when I was a child, a nickname no one understood except me. ‘What’s up? How are you?’

‘Hey, Jess! Hello!’ I exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I’m pretty good, and where are you? You sound as if you’re just round the corner. Are you in New York?’ I was hoping that she was; Jessica and I had a very special relationship and I hadn’t seen her for some months. When she was with me, I was immensely cheered up.

‘Not exactly, but kind of … I’m in Boston on business. Meetings yesterday and this morning. Now I’m done I thought I’d jump on a shuttle, spend the weekend with you, if you’re not caught up with a lot of other stuff. I can’t be this close and not see my darling Pidge.’

‘I’m not doing anything special, and I’ll be mad at you if you don’t come. What time will you get here?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ll head out to the airport now, get the first flight available. I’ll probably be there in a few hours, but I’ve got my door key, so don’t worry if you have to go out.’

‘I’m not going anywhere. Hightail it to the airport and get here as fast as you can,’ I ordered, bossing her for a change.

‘I’ll be there in three shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ she shot back, using a familiar expression we’d grown up with. Our English grandmother, Alice, had been unusually fond of it, had used it constantly – much to our irritation most of the time.

There was a small silence and then we both burst out laughing before we hung up.

The toast had gone cold, the soup looked congealed, so I threw everything away and started again. I made some peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, a childhood standby, and a mug of tea, and took everything to my office where I ate at my desk, as I usually did at lunch time, a bad habit picked up from my father and Harry.

Later, I went to Jessica’s room and looked around, wanting to make sure everything was in good order. It was, thanks to Mrs Watledge, who came in twice a week to clean and do odd jobs for me. She always dusted every room in the apartment, whether it had been used or not. Much to my pleasure, she was fastidious.

Jessica had left in a rush the last time she’d been here. I had hung up the clothes she had strewn around on pieces of furniture and put away all the scattered shoes once she was gone, and Mrs Watledge had vacuumed, polished the furniture and changed the bed linen.

I saw there was not a thing out of place, and that would please Jessica, who was normally the neatest of the three of us. A crisis in the auction house she owned in Nice had necessitated her unexpected and swift return to France last November, hence the messy room she had so blithely abandoned without a backward glance, as usual focused on the problems in Nice.

I was thrilled my sister was coming for the weekend. Although she and Cara had once teased me unmercifully, as the much younger child of the family, things had eventually levelled off as I grew older.

We became the best of friends, the three of us, very bonded, and we were still extremely close. We shared this apartment and the house in Nice, which our mother left to us equally. The two places were our parents’ main homes for many years. Their special favourites and ours; the ownership only passed to us after our father’s death last year, which was the stipulation in her will.

Closing the door of Jessica’s room, I went to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. Mrs Watledge filled it up with basic items and bought a fresh roasting chicken from the butcher every Friday.

There was plenty of food, and if my sister felt like eating out we could go to Jimmy Neary’s pub on Fifty-Seventh, or the French restaurant, Le Périgord, at Fifty-Second and First. Two old favourites of ours, where we’d been going for years, starting when we were teenagers.

I wandered down to the office, sat at the desk and opened the top drawer, staring at the two cell phones and the BlackBerry.

I knew there would be no messages. I never used the BlackBerry these days; only ever took a cell phone with me if I intended to be gone for several hours.

Grimacing at them, I reached for my Moleskine notebook and closed the drawer firmly. Those devices reminded me too much of the front line.

I had given up covering wars eleven months ago, and had no intention of ever walking onto a battleground again. The mere thought of this sent an ice-cold chill running through me, and I shivered involuntarily.

For eight years I had been lucky. But I had come to believe my luck wouldn’t last much longer. And I’d grown afraid … afraid to put on my flak jacket and helmet and head out to some no-man’s-land on a far-flung distant shore, my camera poised to get the most dramatic shot ever. Fear had taken hold of me bit by bit by bit.

When you’re afraid you don’t function with the same precision and skill, and that’s when you’re truly putting yourself at risk. I understood all this. The game was over for me.

Flipping through the pages of the Moleskine, I came across some jottings I had made during the week, regarding the year 1999. I needed to talk to my sisters about that particular year, and what we’d all been doing then. I had a photographic memory, but several months of that year were somehow missing in my head. Jessica would no doubt remember.

I pulled the manuscript towards me and glanced at the one section that continued to trouble me. As I pored over the pages I realized that only my father appeared in this long chapter. Obviously it was the reason I was worried.

His family and friends needed to occupy those pages as well, didn’t they? Yes, I answered myself.

A thought struck me. I jumped up, went to one of the cupboards built in below the bookshelves, and looked inside. Stored there in stacks were many photograph albums which had been carefully put together by my mother.

I pulled out a few and glanced at the dates. Albums for the years 1998 and 2001 were there, but not 1999 and 2000. So those must be in Nice. The albums ran up to 2004, and some were much earlier, dated in the early Nineties. All would come in useful at some point, but these were not the ones I needed at this particular moment.

FOUR

I took the two albums I wanted to review and carried them over to the sofa. Balancing the one marked 1998 on my knee, I opened it, and a smile immediately flashed across my face.

In the middle of the first page my mother had written: MY THREE DAUGHTERS GROWN UP.

When I turned the page my smile widened. There were a number of snapshots of Jessica, which had been taken by my father. She had been twenty-five years old at that moment in time, tall and arresting.

I gazed at the images of her, thinking how beautiful she was, with her glossy black hair framing her heart-shaped face. Her large dark eyes were full of sparkle and she was smiling broadly, showing perfect white teeth. Our grandmother had called it ‘the smile that lights up a room’.

What a knockout she had been. The snaps were taken in the summer of that year; Jessica had a golden tan, was wearing a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and white jeans. She looked even taller because she was in a pair of high, wedged espadrilles.

On the following pages were shots of her taken outside Laurent’s, the well-known auction house in Nice, which the ancient owners had, somewhat ridiculously, allowed to become rundown and decrepit. Jessica had bought it with my parents’ help. I saw how cleverly my father had told the story of Jessica’s first business venture. He had documented almost every step, showed her supervising the restoration and remodelling of the Belle Epoque building, working on the outside and in the interiors. His picture story showed me how diligent she had been in bringing it back to its former architectural glory.

Stone’s, as she had named it, became, under her direction, one of the most technically modern and digitally up-to-date auction houses in Europe. And a most glamorous venue. And it had happened because of her vision, talent, hard work and determination.

The pièce de résistance of my father’s brilliant picture story was the next section devoted to Jessica’s opening night. My sister had inaugurated Stone’s with a grand auction – the contents of our mother’s Bel Air house, which our mother had recently put on the market, plus selections from her haute-couture clothes by famous designers. Also in the auction were pieces from our mother’s collection of jewels, from the world’s greatest jewellers.

The auction had been a sensation, had broken all records, and the publicity for Stone’s had continued to roll ever since. It was now considered to be one of the most important auction houses in the world.

Now there we were, me and Cara, our images captured on the next few pages of the album. I stared at them eagerly, had forgotten how special we looked on that gala evening. We were in attendance to boost Jessica’s confidence, and cheer her on, wanting to make her opening night a big smash. Naturally, it was a family affair.

I peered at the pictures; we were glamorous, beautiful – or perhaps we only looked that way because of Dad’s superb photography, plus the skilful professional help from our mother’s makeup artist and hairdresser. I wondered who we were trying to impress? Or which men to attract?

Cara, as dramatic in appearance as her twin, was wearing a clinging, royal blue silk gown, with a plunging neckline. The dress showed off her hourglass figure to perfection, and she had never looked so sexy before.

Jessica had chosen her favourite colour, daffodil yellow. She appeared sleek and elegant in the chiffon dress, which fell in narrow pleats to the floor and was somewhat Grecian in style. Her black hair was swept up on top of her head, and she was wearing diamond chandelier earrings, which our mother had loaned her for the event.

I gaped when I saw the pictures of myself. I was in scarlet, and now I remember how brave I had felt, choosing the red silk strapless sheath. I certainly pulled that one off, I thought, continuing to study myself, filled with surprise. Seventeen. I had been seventeen that year, so young, so innocent … it seemed so long ago.

Of course, we were overshadowed by our mother, as was every other woman who attended the auction, blotted out by her staggering beauty. She was, quite simply, incandescent. With her shimmering blonde hair, exquisite features and turquoise-blue eyes, she was incomparable in those photographs.

That night she wore a sea-foam bluish-green chiffon gown, and aquamarine-and-diamond jewellery. As I looked at her image now I heard again the many compliments she had received, remembered how delighted she was. After all, she had been fifty-nine at the time, although she appeared years younger.

When I came to the last section of the album I found myself staring at pictures of my father, which had been taken by Harry.

Tommy Stone. As dashing as ever, and glamorous in his own masculine way. He was in an elegant tuxedo, the white dress shirt accentuating his tan. He had cut quite a swathe, as I recalled, with women swirling around him as they usually did. In the pictures he stood next to Mom, his arm around her waist, surrounded by his daughters.

There were several different shots, and then a series of new images, starring Harry, as debonair as his pal Tommy, wearing an impeccably tailored tux. Those two had always known how to dress well when not rushing off to war zones in fatigues.

Harry was standing next to my mother, and we were on either side of him. I peered at Harry, a sudden rush of affection swamping me. He was smiling hugely, as proud of Jessica as we were. Whatever would I do without him? He had been my mainstay since my father’s death, the person who was there for me anytime, night or day, constant, caring and full of wisdom.

I sat up straighter on the sofa, asking myself where Jessica’s husband Roger was? There were no pictures of him in this album.

Then everything came back to me. He hadn’t been there that night because he’d been in London. His absence had infuriated everyone.

Poor Roger. My memories of him were pleasant. He was a nice man, kindly. I filled with pity for him as I realized he hadn’t stood a chance in that family of ours, now that I thought about the situation in hindsight.

Roger Galloway, an Irishman of considerable charm and good looks, somehow ‘got lost in the shuffle’, as Cara had once put it.

He was an artist, but worked as a set designer at theatres in Dublin and London, and was frequently away. I know Dad had liked Roger, yet he had genuinely believed the marriage was ill-fated.

‘They’re poles apart,’ Dad had once muttered to me, looking decidedly glum, even troubled. My mother had overheard this comment, had frowned, glanced at me worriedly. But she had not said a word. However, at the time I believed that she felt the same way as Dad. They thought alike.

Whatever the reason for the split, Jessica had kept it to herself. She had said very little to me, and Cara was also kept in the dark. I was positive our mother knew the full story, although she never revealed anything to either of us. My mother was very good at keeping other people’s secrets; loyal, discreet. ‘I keep my mouth shut,’ she once told me. ‘I’ve no desire to cause trouble or play God.’

One day Roger disappeared forever. Just like that he was gone, and Jessica moved back into the house in Nice to live with us, having left their rented apartment for good. Eventually, they were divorced. Amicably. At least, that was what I heard through the family grapevine.

The whole family loved the old manor up in the hills above the city, with its white, ivy-clad walls and dark green shutters, terraces, orange groves and beautiful gardens, hence its name: Jardin des Fleurs.

My mother had bought the house in 1972, when she was thirty-three, just a few months after she had married my father. It became her favourite place to live over the years, and I had long accepted that it was the one place she was truly happy and at ease. It was also near the international airport in Nice, convenient when she had to fly off to work.

Finally closing the album, I placed it on the coffee table and stretched out on the sofa, closing my eyes.

I remember once asking my mother, when I was about seven or eight, if she liked being a movie star. I’ll never forget the intense, perplexed look she gave me. ‘I’ve been a movie star all my life,’ she had murmured, frowning. ‘What else would I do?’ I had no answer for her; I was only a kid.

By the same token, a few years later, I was foolish enough to wonder out loud if she minded being so very famous. Once again she threw me a puzzled stare. ‘I’ve been famous for as long as I can remember. Fame doesn’t bother me,’ she had answered.

What she had said on both occasions was true. She had first become famous when she was fourteen months old. Born in London in May of 1939, she was a beautiful baby with a marvellous gurgling smile, silky blonde curls and those unique turquoise-blue eyes.

Her photograph was on the label of a new baby food being introduced, and very soon my mother was the most famous baby in England. Every pregnant woman hoped her child would be a girl, and as beautiful as Elizabeth. Very soon the new brand of baby food was as famous as the child herself. And it still was.

By the time she was five, she was a successful model for children’s clothes; in 1948, after the end of the Second World War, Elizabeth was in her first movie. When it was released in 1949, it was a big hit. Everybody had gone to see it because of her. She was ten years old, and the new child star.

Several films followed, once again big hits, and then Kenneth and Alice Vasson packed their bags, and took their talented and beautiful child to Hollywood, where they believed she should be, and where they were certain she belonged.

The Vassons went to stay with my grandmother’s twin sister, Dora, who had married her GI Joe boyfriend, Jim Clifford, after the war. Dora and Jim lived in Los Angeles, which was Jim’s hometown, and where he was connected. He was a young lawyer working in a well-established show-business law firm. Jim, intelligent, street smart and savvy, had a keen eye and saw endless possibilities and opportunities for his wife’s niece, whom he fully intended to represent.

The Vassons had jumped at the chance to go to America. They had agreed to stay for three years at least, but in fact they never left.

At fifteen, my mother appeared in her first Hollywood movie. A star was born overnight, and that star never looked back. Not for a single second.

The sound of the front door banging made me sit up with a start. Pushing myself to my feet, I rushed down the corridor to greet my favourite sister.

FIVE

My sister Jessica had always been very special to me since my childhood. Even when she was teasing me or being bossy, I never felt angry, nor did I ever bear a grudge, because I knew there was no malice in her.

I once asked my mother why everyone seemed to love Jessica so much, and my mother answered that Jessica was a good person, that people instantly perceived this, knowing she had a heart of gold.

Since I was quite little at the time, I immediately had an image of a gold heart, similar to my mother’s locket, and for ages I was certain my sister had one just like it embedded in her chest.

Later, when I was grown up and earning a living, the first present I bought Jessica was a gold locket, which she still treasured. If I was with her, and if she happened to be wearing it, we exchanged a knowing smile.

Although Jessica looked like my father, had his dark hair and eyes, it was from our mother that she inherited certain qualities: her grace, her loving manner and optimistic nature. Jessica had an aura of happiness surrounding her; I didn’t know anyone as upbeat as Jess. She always seemed to be in a good mood, holding the belief that tomorrow would be far better than today.

When I hurried into the hallway, Jessica was hanging up her long camel overcoat and a red wool scarf in the closet, and she swung around when she heard my footsteps.

Immediately, she took hold of me and hugged me close. ‘Hi, darling, it’s good to be here. I’ve missed you.’

My spirits lifted as usual. ‘And I’ve missed you too, Jess. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Boston?’

‘Only because I didn’t want you to be disappointed if I couldn’t make it to New York,’ she answered, and beamed her dazzling smile at me. ‘As it turned out, things went quickly, and here I am for the weekend.’ Grabbing the handle of her suitcase, she rolled it behind her, walking towards her room.

The moment she entered she began to chuckle. ‘I see you cleaned up after me – thanks for that, Pidge. What a mess I left behind in November. So sorry about that.’

I laughed with her. ‘I understood. Your mind was focused on your problems in Nice.’

I sat down on a chair and watched my sister as she unpacked her carry-on bag, hanging up a black trouser suit, two white silk shirts and a black sweater. As usual, she travelled light, the way our father had trained us. Although it worked with us, he was never able to make the slightest impression on our mother, who considered six suitcases to be the minimum for a weekend.

‘I missed a call from Cara earlier today. Apparently she found some of Dad’s pictures, and some of Mom she was really taken with, that I might want to use in my book,’ I confided.

‘Yes, they are great,’ Jessica said without turning around, placing underwear and small items in a chest of drawers. ‘We’ve been looking at Dad’s collections in his studio, and there’s a treasure trove there. We’ve left everything the way it is, since you’re the best judge, Serena. We want you to review everything.’

‘I will when I come to Nice.’

Straightening, Jessica turned around. ‘For Dad’s memorial dinner on April twenty-second, I know that. But can’t you come before then?’

I detected something in her voice, a flicker of concern behind her eyes, and wondered if everything was all right. Had Cara become depressed again? She had been very low since her fiancé had died. I was about to voice this thought, and changed my mind. I said, ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can, Jess, I promise.’

‘How’s the book coming along?’ she asked, closing the drawer.

‘I’m pleased with most of it. There’s just one chapter that needs work,’ I answered, and rose. ‘I’m going to make coffee. Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?’

‘Not really, but I’d love some coffee, Pidge.’ She threw me a smile before going back to the carry-on and the last of her unpacking. ‘I’ll meet you in Mom’s den in a few minutes.’

‘Okay.’ I didn’t bother to correct her. She still referred to it as our mother’s den, sometimes even called it Mom’s sitting room, and it had been both. It was now my office, but even I associated it totally with our mother. It was the room in the apartment where I spent the most time.

‘I’d forgotten all about this album!’ my sister exclaimed ten minutes later, when I walked into my office carrying the tray holding coffee and cups and saucers.

‘Leaf through it, Jessica, it’s great! I can’t believe the way we all look,’ I answered, and placed the tray on the coffee table. Glancing at her, I added, ‘Even Dad was impressed with us that night of your gala. He took great pictures.’

Jessica was already turning the pages, staring at all the photographs and laughing out loud at times, exclaiming about some of the images of herself and Cara and me.

I poured coffee for us both and sat down in a chair opposite her. ‘That’s a lovely picture story Dad did, the way he took shots of you at every stage of the remodelling of the auction house. And you look great. We all do. Especially Mom.’

‘That’s true. Why were you interested in this particular album?’ she asked, finally closing the album, putting it back on the coffee table.

‘I was actually searching for the 1999 one,’ I explained. ‘Because I want to know what we were all doing then. You see, I need more information for that one chapter that needs rewriting. Do you remember anything much about that year?’

Jessica took the cup of coffee I was offering, and sat back on the sofa. ‘I certainly do. Aside from it being my first year in business, I got a divorce from Roger. Cara finished building her second large greenhouse. Dad was off in Kosovo – somewhere in the Balkans, anyway, covering a war. And you and Mom were not too happy with each other.’

Her last statement startled me and I sat up straighter, stared at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I shook my head. ‘Mom and I weren’t quarrelling.’

‘That’s true, you weren’t, but she wasn’t too happy with you, Serena. Have you forgotten how angry she was with you?’

I was speechless for a moment, but my mind raced. After a long moment, I said, ‘Mom was never angry with me, ever, Jess. You must be mixing me up with Cara.’

‘No, I’m not. Mom was definitely angry with you in 1999. I know because I witnessed it. Do you want me to tell you about it?’

I could only nod.

SIX

Jessica’s announcement had taken me aback. I was certain she was mistaken, filled with disbelief as I sat waiting for her to explain her statement more fully.