The Notorious Pagan Jones

“And you think he jumped into the first girl who looked like you and married her.” Devin considered the prospect. “Probably. He’s a fool.”

“I was his girlfriend for nearly a year,” Pagan said, not ready to forgive Devin yet for tracking her down. “What does that make me?”

“Young,” he replied.

“When you are so old and wise.” She eyed him, seated so comfortably across from her in his pricey suit with the sophisticated air of a man twice his age. He was awfully cagey, Devin Black. He must have a lot to hide.

Time to find out more about this so-called legal guardian of hers. She needed leverage if she was ever going to truly escape him. She made a wild guess, based on nothing more than instinct. “Coming from a rich family makes you pretentious, not more mature.”

He smiled skeptically. “Whereas growing up in Hollywood makes you down-to-earth?”

She waved aside this attempt to insult her, intent on wringing some kind of admission from him. “No studio pays press agents enough to have custom-made Savile Row suits,” she said. “Did your mother pick it out for you?”

His smile broadened. “Mother can’t be bothered with my suits. She’s too busy ruling her little kingdom of wealthy socialites.” He shrugged the elegant shoulders of his jacket. “You’re right, of course. I had no idea you were so observant.”

So his mother was still alive, and he referred to her as “Mother” rather than “Mom.” A distant, formal relationship then.

The waiter was approaching with their food. She moved her water glass aside. “And your father? Does he rule that tiny kingdom by her side? Or is he like my dad was—just happy to be on the team?”

Devin’s face went blank. The emptiness there was so profound, a chill ran down the back of her neck.

Then the waiter was at the table, putting down plates of rosy butterflied steak filets and snowy white mashed potatoes dolloped with chunks of golden butter.

Devin picked up his fork and knife, contemplating his food with anticipation, and the moment was gone.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” He nodded at the waiter. “Thank you.”

He began cutting the steak, and she took up her own utensils, waiting for a response to her question. But he only made a small appreciative sound as he took a bite. “I always eat here if I’m stuck waiting for a flight,” he said. “Better than the Clipper Club.”

The warm rich smell wafting up from her plate was making her mouth water, so she cut into her steak. But she made a mental note: Devin didn’t like discussing his father. That relationship held some kind of secret pain for him, and knowing that, she’d gained a tiny victory. He knew so much about her, it was only fair that she find out more about him, and she resolved to dig further into this whole father issue of his when she could.

The filet melted between her teeth. She groaned involuntarily with pleasure. She hadn’t tasted anything so delicious in months.

“See?” Devin cut himself another neat piece. “Did you want sour cream for your potatoes?”

She had practically forgotten sour cream existed. “Oh, yes please!”

As he signaled the waiter, she realized that for a good five minutes she hadn’t thought about Nicky Raven and his new bride. Maybe that’s just how Devin Black had wanted it.

The Dior suit dress withstood the trip to Berlin without a wrinkle, but by the time they landed Pagan was very much looking forward to getting out of it and into a nice soft bed, faraway from everyone on earth, particularly Devin Black.

While on the plane, and with a showy flourish to demonstrate how she was ignoring him, Pagan had plunged into an article in Time about the Cold War.

She’d found herself caught up in the article in spite of herself. Nothing like the serious threat of nuclear war to grab your attention.

A defeated Germany had been divided into four parts after the Second World War, each part governed by a different Allied nation—the United States, England, France, and the Soviet Union. They’d similarly divided up the German capital, Berlin.

But the alliance soured fast after Soviet leader Joseph Stalin effectively took control of all the countries east of Germany, as well as a big chunk of Germany itself, now known as East Germany.

So the other three powers remained huddled in the three quarters of Berlin that had been given to them, surrounded on all sides by the new country of the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany as Westerners liked to call it.

The man now in charge of that country, Walter Ulbricht, had been tight with Stalin, and even more than the Soviets, maintained rigid control of every aspect of daily life—from the price of bread to what people could read and say.

Well, that was glum, restricting, and oddly familiar. Pagan’s biggest hit, Beach Bound Beverly, would never have been made in East Germany—too frivolous. Also, the East German government spied on its citizens all the time, so even if you managed to get your hands on something “decadent” like a Dior suit dress, you could never wear it out or the government would punish you.

This Walter Ulbricht guy sounded a lot like a balding, grumpy version of Mama.

Pagan giggled, then caught herself guiltily. Mama had been warm as well as firm, and Pagan loved her. The world had seemed to bow to Mama’s control. Pagan had been safe with her around, and Mama had taught her many useful ways in which to navigate the strange world of Hollywood. That was one of many reasons her suicide had cast Pagan so adrift.

But Mama had been a perfectionist—overseeing Pagan’s every word and gesture, grooming her meticulously for success, managing every tiny detail of her career. Pagan had barely been allowed to breathe out of her mother’s sight. As long as Pagan was perfect, the family would get to keep their fine house in the Hollywood Hills, and Mama would be happy. One mistake could ruin them.

All of that effort had paid off. Pagan had become a star. She hadn’t made any mistakes until Mama died. After that it had been the secret stashes of alcohol that soothed her anxieties instead of her mother’s firm hand on her shoulder.

Maybe Ulbricht’s approach was paying off for East Germany, too. Maybe he loved his people the way Mama had loved Pagan. Pagan couldn’t be sure, but she doubted it. You couldn’t mold millions of people the way you could your own child.

It was for the best that Mama hadn’t been in charge of an entire country. Every little girl would have been forced to walk for thirty minutes each day with a book on her head, and every husband would have been lectured regularly on how to fold the morning newspaper just so.

Hours passed, and Devin sat next to her the whole way. He never seemed to sleep. She would nod off, then jerk up her head to find him alert and reading the latest editions of the New York and London newspapers. He was polite; he knew when to speak and when to be quiet, but he was there.

They changed planes in Frankfurt to Air France, one of the airlines with permission to fly into Berlin’s Tegel airport. By then Pagan was so tired and grumpy, the plane could have been a flying palace and she would have found something to complain about. Devin Black just kept reading, taking one of the German language journals from the stewardess with a smile. By the time they reached Berlin, fatigue had smudged dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed alert. Pagan decided he was either a robot or one of the aliens from Invaders from Mars.

Tegel airport had a dreary, military air, and men in French uniforms stamped their passports. A chauffeur was waiting in a large Mercedes-Benz. The sight of the car set off the usual jitters in Pagan, echoes of the accident, but as she had with the cab to LAX, she shoved them into a dark corner of her mind and made herself get in. As they left the airport with the rising sun at their backs, her nerves calmed and she could look around.

The car sped down a tree-lined road with the blue-gray River Spree on the left. The streets were busy with foot traffic, motorcycles, and cars, but Pagan couldn’t help noticing the number of armed men in uniform either walking or stationed on various street corners. A vivid reminder that West Berlin was a lone island surrounded on all sides by the hostile Communist East Germany.

“We’re in the French sector of the city at the moment,” Devin said. “But we’re staying in the American sector at the new Hilton. It’s very close to the Tiergarten, which has grown back nicely since the war—”

“It sounds lovely.” She interrupted him in a repressive tone. “Perhaps after I’ve gotten some rest far away from you, I’ll give a damn.”

“You can rest,” he said, his voice calm in a way that only irritated her more. “But I won’t be far away.”

She turned to look at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t trust you.” His voice was bland, but his face carried a warning.

“I never promised you anything—” she started to say.

“You signed a contract,” he said, voice getting sharper, “which includes a clause stating that you have a guardian, with all the authority of a parent. Deviate from my orders and you could go back to prison.”

“I’m not your child,” she said, just as sharp. “Or your slave, or your wife.”

“You’re my ward,” he said. “You’re on parole, and it’s very easy for me to make a call to the judge.”

She lapsed into fuming silence, her head abuzz with fatigue and fury. Maybe some of this was her fault. Fine. But why, when boys broke the rules, did they get called “rebels” and “hotheads,” while girls were “bad”? Pagan being a nice little girl hadn’t kept Mama from dying, so she’d done what she wanted after that. She saw no reason to change now.

There had to be a way out from this new Devin-bound prison, an escape. That’s what alcohol had always provided, and without that tool available to her, she had to find a new way to be free.

Devin had too much power over her. But he also had secrets­—there was more to him than just some minor studio executive. If she could decrypt the riddle that was Devin Black, she might find her freedom that way.

They drove past a crowd of people lining up in front of a warehouse-like building. Thousands of men and women in neat summer clothes were carrying suitcases and shepherding children. Pagan remembered what she’d read about the mass exodus of people from East Berlin and craned her neck to see if these were indeed immigrants from East Berlin. No way was she going to ask Devin a question now. She glimpsed a sign: Réfugiés/Flüchtling.

“That’s the French sector processing center for refugees,” Devin said as if she’d asked him aloud. His voice was friendly as ever. “The city gets nearly two thousand a day. The other borders with East Germany are closed, so Berlin’s the last place of escape. For now.”

She didn’t reply as the car entered a wooded area. Up ahead loomed a column that glinted gold on top. She leaned forward to look up at it through the windshield and caught sight of a glittering winged statue with arms outstretched.

“The Victory Column,” Devin said, still in his best tourist guide voice. “But the Berliners call it Goldenelse—Golden Lizzy. The Prussians erected it last century to commemorate their victory over the Danish. But by the time it was done, they’d also defeated Austria and France in other wars, so it covers a lot of victories.”

Pagan said nothing as they circled the monument’s red granite base. A lot of wars had come and gone since then. The Germans sure wouldn’t be erecting a victory column to commemorate the last one.

The parkland gave way to newly constructed buildings, some still with scaffolding. “Still rebuilding,” Devin said. “From the war.”

Pagan stared. Sixteen years later they were still rebuilding?

It was one thing to read about World War II, another to see how people’s lives were still affected by it here. No wonder Berliners were fond of Golden Lizzy, their angel. They needed one.

Pagan could’ve used an angel, too, a few times in her life, but how could her tiny little troubles stack up against what Berlin—what all of Europe—had been through? Hollywood seemed like the center of the universe when you were there, making movies, attending award shows, reading about yourself in the paper. But Berlin was a reminder that in the big-budget epic of the history of the world, Pagan was nothing but an extra.

* * *

The Hilton was sleekly modern and sparkling behind its subdued but gracious facade. Pagan blearily followed the bellboy and her luggage up to her room. When Devin stopped at the door next to hers and let his bellman take his luggage inside, relief overtook her. So she would get time to herself after all. And if she needed to, she could walk quietly past his door and he’d be none the wiser.

The room turned out to be a suite. She gave the bellboy five dollars, apologizing in German that came out better than she expected that she didn’t have any German marks. He replied in perfect English that dollars were better anyway.

Then she was blessedly alone, wandering from the large living area with its low-slung sofa and large curtained windows looking onto the Tiergarten to a set of double doors that led to a room with a queen-size bed and adjoining bathroom.

She kicked off her shoes and began unzipping her dress. Lovely as it was, she couldn’t wait to get it off and crawl into the fluffy red-and-white bed, which, as usual, had way too many pillows. She unsnapped her garters, yanked off her stockings, and walked barefoot over the thick carpet to investigate another set of double doors. They opened up to reveal a second bedroom, complete with its own bed and bathroom.

She stood in that doorway, frowning. Why would they give her two bedrooms? In the distant past her mother would have stayed there, but the studio had no reason to be extra generous with her now.

There came a chunk and a scrape—a key turning in a lock. She turned to see a door she hadn’t noticed before in the opposite wall. It opened, and Devin Black stood framed there. She could see a portion of his unlit room behind him.

She grabbed the gaping hole in the side of her dress, where she’d unzipped it, strongly aware of her bare legs and feet. “Is that how you’re going to keep watch on me, unlocking the adjoining door between our suites?”

“Not at all,” he said, and, picking up his suitcase, he walked a few steps into her suite to set it down. “That room is just for show.”

Her face flushed, scalding hot. “But…but…”

“I left you alone in your bedroom in Los Angeles, and you chose to run away,” he said. “I don’t make the same mistake twice. Thank you for saving the bedroom closest to the exit for me.”

Words failed her. She fled to her bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

Through the wood she heard his low laugh. “Sleep tight,” he said.

Breakfast the next morning was of the very silent room service variety. How bizarrely domestic to sit across the tray table from Devin, sipping coffee and eating eggs while he, the picture of ease and elegance in another splendid Savile Row suit, his dark hair combed perfectly back, read the International Herald Tribune. Pagan couldn’t help staring at his deft hands as they poured her coffee. Unbidden, the thought of those skillful hands on her skin flashed into her mind. But that was only because she missed Nicky. Still, her cheeks burned. She needed to refocus on something, anything.

“How old are you?” she asked Devin, not caring how abrupt it sounded.

He set down the paper and looked at her. His eyes were darker today, a stormy blue closer to the navy of his suit, and they took a moment to slide over her, taking in everything from her teased updo to her new green Givenchy dress.

The effrontery of the frank assessment made her flush. What was it about him that made her acutely aware of the brush of her blouse against her collarbone, of the taut line of her garter as it bit into her thigh?

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