Page 4 of Jane Deyre
“Sometimes I wish I could be young again.” Madame Tussaud sighs, leading me to a room off the entryway to the left. “Do things differently...” Her wistful voice trails off. “Please watch your step as the great room is sunken. We’ll settle in and talk more about your job.”
Following her, I descend two steps into a vast room with a wood-beamed cathedral ceiling and tall mullioned lead-glass windows bracketed by velvet drapes and sconces. It’s filled with a motley collection of couches, chairs, and ottomans upholstered in sumptuous scarlet and orange fabrics, slightly faded from time. Fringed lamps and torchères light the room, illuminating the eclectic mix of artwork lining the walls. A huge antique rug covers the glistening dark oak floor, the jewel colors tying everything together. Fine wood furniture, some hand-painted, abounds, the lemony scent of polish wafting in the air and mixing with that of the ubiquitous multicolor roses. An intoxicating blend. What a rich person’s home must smell like.
Who is this woman?
On my next awed breath, I find out. I stop dead in my tracks and my heart almost beats out of my chest. Hanging above the mantel of the massive stone fireplace is a life-size oil portrait. Of a stunning young woman, with lustrous waves of jet-black hair cascading over her shoulders, posing seductively, her hands splayed on her cinched waist, and wearing a shimmering strapless scarlet gown with a train that drapes across the canvas. I study her familiar face. Her luminous white-as-milk skin, pursed ruby-red lips, and sparkling amethyst eyes. Looking straight at me. So lifelike, she looks as though she can step right out of the gold-leaf frame and come to life.
It’s the legendary actress Edwina Rochester. I’d recognize her anywhere. The image is virtually identical to her likeness in the wax museum. Oh my goodness! Is this her standing next to me in the flesh? Can it be? I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
“Dear, are you okay?” she asks, heading toward what looks like a bar.
“Are you Edwina Rochester?”
“That’s the God-given name I sign on my dreadful tax returns.” She looks over her shoulder. “Now, please have a seat. We have important details to discuss.”
“Where would you like me to sit?” I manage, still in shock. Holy moly! I’m in the same house, the same room as one of the most famous actresses who’s ever graced the silver screen. Tomes have been written about her. I’ve watched her every movie, some as many as a dozen times. There are some I know by heart and can virtually recite every line. And just the other day, I saw her handprints in the cement courtyard of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Like the tourists surrounding me, I squatted down and splayed my hands over the imprint. Had I not been wearing my Smurfette costume, I bet the size of our hands would have been about the same. Small and slender like those of the extraordinary woman standing before me. Her husky voice cuts into my ruminations.
“Please take a seat on one of the slipper chairs facing the couch.” She pulls out the stopper of a crystal decanter. “How old are you, Jane Deyre?”
Or is she saying Jane, dear?“I’m twenty-one.” I lie through my teeth. I’m only twenty and won’t be of drinking age until October.
“Excellent.” She pours some of the clear, viscous liquid into a tumbler. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I awkwardly sit down, and chimes ring in my ears. They draw my eyes to the tall grandfather clock in a corner. I catch the hour hand move to the Roman numeral eight. “Um... it’s only eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Well, my dear, it’s six o’clock in the evening somewhere.” She pours the liquor into another tumbler. “After this morning’s harrowing experience with that naughty Pilote, I think we both need a drink. I insist...”
“B-but—”
“There are no buts.” The tone of her voice grows more demonstrative. “Let’s make that the first rule of your job. When I insist on something, I do not expect you to challenge me. You will do as you’re told.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I splutter.
“And please,nevercall me ma’am. That’s such a horrible-sounding prefix. Mrs. Rochester is what I prefer.”
“Of course,” I concur as she waltzes over to me, the two tumblers in her hands. She hands me mine before settling into the velvet couch. The spacious room looks like it belongs in a bygone era. Maybe the nineteen twenties. My eyes travel to the fireplace again, and there on the mantel I see it. The tall gold statuette. My breath catches.
“Is that your Oscar?” She won it for her extraordinary performance inMiracle in the Rain, the last movie she made. The portrait above it features the famous red gown she wore in the movie. That her handsome co-star Malcolm Carr ripped off her body before ravaging her in the rain. The sensuous, scandalous scene altered the face of the movie industry.
Her gaze follows mine. A melancholy expression falls over her face. “It’s no big deal. The pastisthe past. I’d prefer to talk about the present.” Cupping her slender manicured fingers around the crystal tumbler, she lifts it to her lips and takes a long sip of her drink. For the first time, I notice that she has a slight tremor. The tumbler shakes in her hand. She sets the glass down on a coaster on the marble-topped coffee table between us and returns her eyes to me.
“Dear, drink up!”
Hesitantly, I put the tumbler to my lips and imbibe the colorless liquor. The sweet, orangey taste hits my taste buds as the velvety liquor warms my palate. After swishing it around, I swallow, letting the liquor, whatever it is, sweep down my throat. I roll my tongue inside my mouth, savoring the remnants of the flavor.
“Do you like it?” asks Edwina.
“Yes, very much. What is it?” I have no familiarity with alcohol except for cheap wine and beer.
“Cointreau.Je l’adore!I have it shipped directly from France. It makes life brighter. Brings out the colors in your mind.” Another long swig. “Do have some more.”
With less hesitancy, I take another sip and this time I feel the Cointreau seep into my veins and warm my body, easing the tension that sweeps from my neck to my coccyx. I relax my shoulders and sit less stiffly.
Edwina reaches for a glossy burl wood box on the coffee table. She snaps open the lid and dips her hand inside it.
“Would you like a cigar?” She lights up a skinny rolled stick of tobacco with a monogrammed gold lighter. “They go so well with Cointreau. Better than love and marriage.”
“Um, uh, I don’t smoke.”