Till We Meet Again (47 page)

Tonight she was having dinner with Bruno, Delphine remembered, and her momentary petulance vanished. It was wonderful to have a brother you could trust. Bruno and she had a relationship unlike one she could have with any other man. He never pried, never asked questions about her private life, never judged or tried to act as if he were supposed to be watching over her, yet she could ask him for any kind of advice and count on him to give her an unbiased answer.

Bruno understood the subtle nuances of French life in a way she had to admit she never would. He knew which tempting invitations she must never, under any circumstances, permit herself to accept; what dressmakers she should patronize; where to order her note paper, and which was the only correct way to have it engraved; and why it was necessary for her career to attend the Prix de L’Arc de Triomphe and the Prix Diane, but not to be seen at Monte Carlo. He’d stocked her cellar, recommended the
bottier
who made the best shoes in Paris, insisted that she throw out all of her American clothes, and picked out the perfect car for her position. Delphine knew that it was a blessing for her that everyone, from her agent to her servants to her producers, knew that she was under the protection of her brother, the Vicomte de Saint-Fraycourt de Lancel. God, but the French were impressed by a title.

In return she made herself available as a hostess for Bruno whenever he asked.
“Cherie,”
he’d call and say, “could you do me a great favor and preside over my table next week?
There is an elderly gentleman coming to dinner whom I shall put at your right—he has an enormous amount of money which he hasn’t decided how to place.” And she’d dress in her most alluring new evening gown and charm even herself by playing, in stunning balance, a dual role at one of Bruno’s perfect little dinner parties; Delphine de Lancel, film star, and Mademoiselle de Lancel, daughter of the old aristocracy of Champagne, who depended totally on her brother’s advice in everything. Only a glance now and then at Bruno would reveal his admiration for how well she carried out her role. He made a splendid partner. They were two of a kind, Delphine thought, and perhaps the best thing about Bruno was how emphatically he agreed with her about love. That utterly useless,
inconvenient
emotion, he called it, invented by someone with too much imagination and nothing better to do. Some petit-bourgeois unemployed troubadour.

Within a week of his dinner party, often sooner, she’d receive a magnificently jeweled trinket from Cartier with a note from Bruno, telling her that the gentleman had now decided—most intelligently—just where to place his funds. It was such great fun to have Bruno with whom to play these little games, Delphine mused, and the fact that they were family made their interests mutual.

After all, one day she and Bruno and Freddy would own the House of Lancel. Fortunately, he would know what to do with the vineyards, because certainly neither she nor her sister would want to shoulder that responsibility. Although … on second thought … it might be amusing to own a château. Michèle Morgan did not have a château. Nor did Danielle Darrieux. And even if either of them were to buy a château, it wouldn’t be the same as inheriting one. Still, Valmont was too totally tedious to consider, Delphine decided, getting out of bed and stretching. She loved her little house, and when she left it, it was only for a suite in a great hotel at some resort, for a brief vacation between pictures.

As she rang for her maid she realized that her lazy morning was over. This afternoon she had the first meeting with the director on her new film,
Jour et Nuit
. His name was Armand Sadowski, and everyone in the world of the cinema was buzzing about him and his first three films. Brilliant they said, difficult they said, a genius they said, impossible they
said. But what did he look like, Delphine wondered, as she waited for Annabelle. Would she want him in bed? How good would he be? Questions she could hardly ask her agent.

Normally, Delphine would first meet with a new director in a restaurant chosen by her agent, Jean Abel. Abel liked to control his business as much as possible, and the man who picked the dining place, ordered the wine and paid for the lunch became, if he did it well, in charge of the occasion. The negotiations for Delphine’s participation in
Jour et Nuit
had long been over. There had, of course, been no need for an audition. The contracts were signed, but nevertheless there were bound to be conflicts in the course of the making of any film, and Abel wanted to start out on a strong footing with Sadowski. However, the director was busy supervising the editing on his latest pictue, and he had refused to leave the set long enough for lunch.

Instead, he had given Delphine a rendezvous toward the end of the afternoon, all the way out at his own office at Billancourt, to which Abel had finally, and most reluctantly, had to agree, since Sadowski was finishing his current picture and starting Delphine’s new film with only a weekend’s break, Abel planned to pick Delphine up and escort her to this much-too-businesslike meeting, unwarmed by the consumption of food and wine, but she had told him that it wasn’t convenient. She preferred to be driven out to the studio in her own car, since she needed it afterwards to go on to a long-planned fitting at her lingerie maker. He could meet her at Billancourt.

Delphine dressed carefully to meet Sadowski. The part in
Jour et Nuit
called for her to play a scatterbrained rich girl, suspected of murder, who falls in love with a police inspector. She knew already that the costumes, designed by Pierre Goulard, had been inspired by Schiaparelli’s surrealistic, witty, often downright crazy clothes. Inspired? “Copied” was a more honest word, she decided. The clothes, strident and showily aggressive, would be right for the character, but wrong for the way she wanted any unknown director to first think of her.

Delphine had mastered the art of underdressing. The more famous she became, the more powerful she found underdressing to be as a weapon in any relationship. Everyone expected a film star to look like a film star. But that was
too easy to do, too orthodox.
Obvious
. It was forgivable to be orthodox, perhaps, but never to be obvious. A film star decked out in the newest dress from dear Jean Patou, wearing Paulette’s most extravagant hat, dripping silver fox from one arm—no, never. That was fine for public appearances, but not for the beginning of an uncertain skirmish in which all of her armament might have to be employed. Why alert the director’s defenses so soon? She might, after all, detest the man. It had happened.

She picked out an absolutely plain, thin wool sweater in a shade of gray so misty, so insubstantial that it underlined the matte whiteness of her skin, even more than black would have done. She added a perfectly simple, supremely well-cut skirt in gray tweed, one shade darker than the sweater; pale gray silk stockings; low-heeled, unadorned black kid pumps; and a classic, belted raincoat from England. Small jet earrings and a little black velvet beret, such as students wore, completed the ensemble. She could be anonymous, she, could be nobody, she could be anybody, if one didn’t look at her face, if she didn’t happen to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, Delphine thought dispassionately. She was not vain. In her career, her looks had to be weighed and considered as coldly and seriously as the quarterly report of a large company. A diamond cutter in Amsterdam didn’t judge a stone any more severely than Delphine did the angle of her nose, the perfect curves of her upper lip, the shadows below her cheekbones. Satisfied, she tightened the belt of the raincoat and pulled the beret down so that it covered the widow’s peak that made her instantly recognizable.

At the studio she made her way toward the editing department. Abel should have been waiting for her in the parking lot, but perhaps he had been delayed; the traffic was snarled by the rain. She passed a number of people she knew casually, but none of them noticed her unless she deliberately caught their eye, smiled and nodded. This raincoat really managed to transform her into one of the masses, she thought, pleased.

Christ, but it felt good to be back at the studio. She hadn’t worked in two weeks, since the last day of her last picture. She had needed the time to take care of the many details of her elaborate personal wardrobe, for which she never had a minute during a film. It had been like going on a two-week-long retreat into an overperfumed, overheated,
worldly sort of convent, she thought, a world of giddy, chattering, excited women with only one thing on their minds. Now she was back in the world of men, thank the Lord.

Delphine lingered at the open door of a set that had just been struck. She could smell the distinctive metallic odor of the lights as they cooled down, and she watched the electricians, the grips and the prop men as they dismantled the massive set, observing, with a quickening of her breath, the brute strength with which they hoisted and pushed and pulled and lifted, and went about their work without noticing her, their loud, careless voices calling to each other, in a hurry to get the job over with, and go home. She backed away from the open door into the corridor behind her, to avoid being brushed by a large flat that was being carried off the set. Suddenly she was struck a heavy blow across her left shoulder from the hand of a passerby, who was gesticulating broadly, in conversation with a group of three other men.

“Hey! That hurt!” she exclaimed, shocked, and the man who had accidentally hit her, still moving fast and already several paces away, glanced back and shook a finger severely at her.

“Sorry, but that’s a damn stupid place to stand and gape,” he called, turning away as he spoke, to continue his animated conversation.

“Well, screw you too,” Delphine said out loud in English. She looked around angrily for someone to whom she could complain about such rudeness, but the corridor was now empty. Abel’s lateness was unforgivable, she thought, no longer pleased that she had managed to become invisible. She marched on down the hall, finally found the editing department, pushed open the door without ceremony, and spoke brusquely to a receptionist.

“Monsieur Sadowski, please.”

“He can’t be interrupted. What is it about?”

“I’m expected,” Delphine said, annoyed.

“Your name, please?”

“Mademoiselle de Lancel,” Delphine said coldly. The receptionist blinked.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I didn’t recognize you. I’ll let him know at once. Will you have a seat?”

“No, thank you.” Delphine stood, tapping her foot in impatience. She was not about to sit down as if she’d nothing better to do than to wait around at Sadowski’s beck and call in
a reception room. She should have been escorted into his office immediately. Abel would have seen to that, damn him.

“Mademoiselle de Lancel is here, Monsieur Sadowski,” the receptionist said into her desk telephone. “Yes, I understand.” She turned to Delphine. “He’ll receive you as soon as he has finished his meeting, Mademoiselle.”

Delphine stared at her, outraged. She looked at her wristwatch. She was late as it was. If she had been on time she would already have been kept waiting ten minutes. She looked a fool, she thought, standing like a supplicant. She sat down in an uncomfortable chair and glared at the door to the corridor, expecting to see Abel rush in, full of apologies, at any second. Five more long minutes passed in silence, while the receptionist read a magazine. Delphine rose to her feet. She didn’t intend to wait another second. This had gone beyond the limit of possibility. Several men burst out of an office door, arguing, and walked past her out to the hall without a glance.

“He’ll see you now, Mademoiselle,” the receptionist said.

“You don’t say,” Delphine snapped. The receptionist looked confused, motioned her into a small office and disappeared, closing the door behind her. Inside, a man sat alone with his back to Delphine, holding up a long strip of film to the window and inspecting it closely. He swore out loud in a string of inventive obscenities while Delphine stopped in front of his desk. He was the man who had hit her in the hall. She could barely wait till he turned. He’d be mortified when he realized with what a lack of breeding he’d treated his star. She had the upper hand already—nothing could change what had happened.

Still looking at the film, he flung words carelessly over his shoulder, “Delphine, babe, sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute. Lucky I didn’t hurt you back there—you should be more careful. I only hit women on purpose.…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the film intently. “Damn! God damn that cameraman. The cretin, a Neanderthal. I’ll tear his bloody guts out for him the next time I lay eyes on the bastard. No, no, it’s really not possible, what he did, just not possible, and, of course, entirely too late to do anything, but recut the whole scene. We’ll be here all weekend. Shit!”

He put down the film, swung his chair around and, abruptly, smiled. The director half rose, leaned forward and
extended his hand over the desk. Sadowski gave her a quick shake. “A filthy métier, isn’t it, babe?”

He was very tall, Delphine saw, with an astonishing head. Masses of black hair, straight, ridiculously long, rumpled in every direction. He was young, not much more than twenty-five, and his face was like her idea of a hawk, all eyes and nose and alive with energy. There seemed to be more energy bursting from behind his desk than if he were fighting a duel. He wore huge horn-rimmed glasses, which he took off and placed on his desk, rubbing the place on his nose where they pinched him.

“Abel not here yet? Good, I didn’t want him here anyway, but he insisted.” He talked rapidly, intensely. Delphine was speechless. The director was using the familiar
tu
form of address with her, and calling her by her first name. That could happen between a director and a senior crew member when they knew each other well, but never otherwise. Absolutely never between a director and a star, unless they were old personal friends. Just who the hell did he think he was?

Sadowski sat back and studied her in silence through his glasses, making a tent of his hands, so that his own face was partly hidden, staring at her as if he were alone in a room in front of a painting he had bought in an absentminded moment and wasn’t at all sure he liked. “Take off your beret and your raincoat,” he said finally.