The two faces of tomorro.., p.35
The Case of the Singer and the Showgirl, page 35
The Case of the Singer and the Showgirl
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Article in the LA Times, dated 8 December 2021
A Letter from Lisa
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Lisa Hall
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To my lovely dad
Chapter One
‘This is my favourite part.’ I turn my tear-stained face towards Eric as Scarlett O’Hara watches Rhett Butler walk away from her, out into the fog without giving a damn. ‘It’s so sad, she’s finally realised what she wants—’
‘She’s a brat,’ Eric tuts, and hands me a tissue with a grin. The pathetic artificial Christmas tree I bought from Walmart for fifteen dollars twinkles away behind him, giving his hair a multicoloured glow. ‘Pull yourself together, Lil, you know she’s a brat.’
I sniffle into the tissue, not quite sure why I find this scene so brutal. Scarlett is a brat – every old movie fan knows that – but even so, something about it hits hard. ‘Want to watch something else? We can do something less… emotional? Gaslight? Or we can even bring it into this century and do World War Z. I could do zombies for you, seeing as you’ve just done over three and a half hours of the American Civil War for me.’
It’s a rare rainy Sunday evening in Los Angeles, and after a week on my feet cleaning the bedrooms of the Beverly Hills Hotel, there is no more perfect way to spend the evening than sobbing in front of old movies with a pint of ice cream, if you ask me.
Eric, my best (and only) friend in LA, disagrees.
‘No can do.’ He gets to his feet, placing his ice cream spoon on the coffee table. ‘I have to get going.’
Sitting up, I blow my nose and grin at him. ‘Where are you off to? Are you taking Saffron out?’ I already know the answer – Eric and Saffron have been joined at the hip since they first swiped right on each other’s Tinder profiles eight months ago. If he’s not working, surfing, or here at my apartment, he’s with Saffron.
‘Uh… yeah.’ He gives me a sheepish grin. ‘Actually, I am. I’m going to ask her something really important.’
The words are unexpected, and I feel a temporary lull in the wind in my sails, but I force my grin wider. ‘Well, tell her I said hi. Hang on. Wait. What are you going to ask her?’ Something that feels a lot like anxiety starts to squirm in my belly.
Eric shuffles, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. ‘I was thinking… you know how I feel about her, right? She’s the best thing that ever happened to me… so I was thinking that I might ask her to move in. To my apartment. With me.’
‘Oh. Wow.’ This is huge. The majority of men in Hollywood (especially the ones I seem to stumble across) appear to suffer from an extreme phobia of commitment – any hint of wanting to settle down and they sprint for the hills. I don’t know Saffron that well; I’ve met her a few times, but it always feels a little awkward, in a way I’m sure it wouldn’t if Eric’s best friend was a man instead of me – Lily Jones, twenty-five-year-old displaced Londoner with a penchant for boba tea and classic Hollywood movies. After matching online, Eric met Saffron for the first time after he played the Viper Room with his band. They’d arranged to meet for drinks there after his set, and she’d snuck in early to watch him play (I’m guessing it would have been a perfect way to suss him out and make a break for it if she decided he wasn’t for her – smart girl). I hadn’t been there that night – usually I would have been, but I was working an extra waitressing shift at the Saddle Ranch Chop House on Sunset, a cowboy-style restaurant known for its giant candyfloss cocktail, if you can believe it. Tips are always better on a Saturday night. Eric had come over the next day, raving about this cool girl he’d met – she looks like Lana Del Rey, Lil – the first one who had properly turned his head in the whole time I’d known him.
‘I knew I should have come to the gig. I could have vetted her,’ I had teased him, as he blushed and I had batted away the dishonourable – and if I’m brutally honest, selfish – thought that this was something serious – this girl could change our entire dynamic.
‘Ha. No way.’ Eric had shaken his head. ‘You’re a terrible wingman. You always dazzle them with your British accent and then they only want to speak to you instead of me.’
Now, I say, ‘I mean wow, Eric. This is huge. Do you think she’ll say yes?’
Eric is pulling on his battered leather jacket, smoothing his unruly dark blond hair in the mirror. He turns back to face me, a faint shadow of concern flitting briefly across his features as he takes in my tear-stained cheeks, the slowly melting pint of Ben and Jerry’s on the table, alongside a takeaway cup containing the dregs of a brown-sugar boba tea. ‘I hope so.’ He gives me a nervous grin. ‘Will you be OK if I go? You’re not going to spend the whole evening crying over old movies, are you?’
‘What?’ I follow his gaze. ‘Don’t be daft, of course I’ll be OK. This is a moment, Eric. My little buddy is all grown up.’ I get to my feet and standing in front of him I tweak his hair, so it falls perfectly across his forehead. ‘Go on.’ Turning him by the shoulders I march him the three steps to the front door and open it. ‘Go and ask Saffron to move into your apartment – she’d be a fool to turn you down.’ I wink. ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
The apartment is quiet once Eric leaves, the only sound the rain that splatters sporadically against the windows, making me feel a little homesick, as the Christmas tree lights flash red, blue, green on repeat. I have been living in Los Angeles – West Hollywood to be exact – for a little over two years, and while there have been times that I’ve felt at home here – sometimes more than others – when the weather is like this it makes me miss London. I miss the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the slap of a frosty morning across my cheeks. The feel of a steaming hot chai in a Starbucks mug against cold fingers doesn’t hit the same when it rarely seems to get below twenty degrees outside.
Shifting my weight on the sagging, second-hand couch, I feel a twinge of dissatisfaction tug at my bones as I swap tea for a glass of wine and dig my spoon back into the ice cream tub, even though I already feel a little sick. I’m glad Eric has a girlfriend. Really, I am. I mean, it’s probably going to totally change everything if Saffron agrees to move in with him… I get the impression she’s not going to want a third wheel from South London with a perpetual whiff of misery and loneliness around her hanging out with them all the time.
‘I’m thrilled for you both,’ I whisper under my breath, trying the words on for size. Eric’s been my best friend ever since I first arrived here. We work together, we spend most of our free time together. There will never be anything romantic between us – that would be too weird given how I spent my time in the past trying to deal with my raging attraction to his great-grandfather – but even so, I feel off-centre. I’ve felt this way for the last eighteen months, ever since I cleaned the Paul Williams Suite for the first (and last) time at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
‘Pull yourself together Lil,’ I mutter, echoing Eric’s words from earlier. I am living my dream, I tell myself, I wanted to live in Hollywood and here I am. OK, I didn’t dream of being a housekeeper in a hotel, even if it is one of the most famous hotels in the world, nor did I dream of taking a second job as a waitress just to make ends meet, but even so, I should be grateful for what I have. I take a large mouthful of wine, noticing that Ocean’s Eleven, the original (and best, in my opinion) version starring Frank Sinatra, is about to start on the TV. It was one of my mum’s favourite movies, and the sight of Frank, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr is familiar and comforting. Lord knows, I could do with a bit of comfort right now, as I have the feeling everything is about to change.
* * *
I jerk awake sometime later, my neck cricked where I have slumped down on the couch, my mouth sour with old wine. It’s dark outside, the only light in the room the blue glow from the television screen and the repetitive flash of the Christmas tree lights. My phone buzzes, a text lighting up the screen. Reaching forward, I lift the phone, smiling as Eric’s name shows on the screen.
She said yes!!!! Don’t wait up!! Catch up tomorrow before our shift starts ☺
It’s actually happening. Eric and Saffron are going to live together. I find I re ally am pleased for him, even though the flicker of loneliness that I’ve felt almost constantly since my mother died licks at my skin, familiar and not particularly welcome.
I text him an aubergine emoji, grinning to myself, but as my eyes wander to the still flickering television screen, my smile freezes in place. If I had been watching Netflix, it would have been OK, the app would have booted me out hours ago. But Ocean’s Eleven was playing on Turner Classic Movies, and I’d fallen asleep in front of it. Now, a familiar scene from a different movie plays out.
A gleaming white Cadillac comes into shot, its tyres screaming over the loose dirt and gravel, as a blonde woman grips the wheel. The impossibly handsome dark-haired man beside her gestures, throwing his hands wide.
‘Oh phooey,’ the woman says, her eyes fixed on the windshield ahead. ‘I know when you’re lying, and this is one of those times.’
‘Please, Sofia,’ the man implores, ‘you need to slow down!’
Suddenly chilled, I reach for the TV remote. I know how this scene plays out, despite never being able to watch Goodtime Gal from start to finish. The scene ended very differently the first time it was shot, and it’s the memory of this that makes me head to the fridge for a fresh bottle of wine. Twisting off the cap, I pour another glass and watch as the movie cuts to another scene, where Honey Black and Billy Walters kiss passionately, Billy bending Honey back in his arms.
I take a huge gulp of Sauvignon, letting tears fill my eyes as I stab at the remote to mute the television, not quite able to bring myself to turn it off completely. Seeing Honey on screen for the first time since I came back to my own time is like seeing an ex that you’ve never quite got over, especially as I wasn’t expecting it. The sight of her is like a punch to the gut, and with it comes the what if? What if I had stayed in 1949? Could I have made things work, or would I have imploded the world as I now know it?
Earlier, that final scene with Scarlett O’Hara begging Rhett to reconsider leaving her hit me hard, and it’s only now, a couple of glasses of wine in, that I’m realising why. At the end of the movie, Scarlett has realised that she isn’t living the life she wants, and she knows that only she can do something about it. That’s me, I think. It doesn’t matter how much I tell myself I’m living my dream, no matter how much I love spending time with Eric, I don’t feel as if I belong here, especially now that Eric has found his soulmate online. It always feels as though something is missing.
Online. The thought tickles the back of my mind, the way it has on and off ever since I returned to my own time. I’ve tried so hard to live in the moment since I came back, pushing away thoughts of the people who meant so much to me back in 1949, too terrified to give into the urge to google their names. Even the idea of it usually makes me go cold, the fear of finding out something horrible killing the thought before it begins to fully formulate, but tonight, half drunk and desperately miserable, I reach for the laptop.
Honey Black. Celebrated movie star and the first person I met after I smacked my head on the side of the bath in the Paul Williams Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and found myself in 1949. Since I already know that Honey went on to be a huge star her name is a safe bet. My fingers fly over the keyboard and it’s a matter of seconds before her face fills the screen. A gasp escapes my lips as I lean forward, greedily running my eyes over the Wikipedia page. I know it’s not entirely accurate, but even so my gaze goes to her bio on the right-hand side of the screen. Born 26 June 1928. Spouse: Magnus Michel m. 1946 Div. 1949, Joseph Faulks m. 1949.
My heart lifts, and I top up my wine as I read on. Married high school sweetheart Joe Faulks in 1949… remained married until his death in 2014… currently resides in a nursing home in Sonoma County, California. Patron of the Honey Black Foundation in support of victims of domestic violence. I click the link to Honey’s charity, and it opens on an auction page. Holding my breath, I scroll the auction list, letting out a squeak when I see the dress Honey wore in Goodtime Gal. I can still see it in my mind, hanging forlornly on a hanger when I visited the set with Jessica Parks after shooting had finished for the day. The next item makes my heart stop dead in my chest. It’s a long-sleeved, pale blue satin dress, with a V neckline and tiny buttons dotting a line from the neckline down to mid-thigh. Also pictured beneath the dress is a pair of rose gold sparkly heels. This is my outfit. The outfit I wore to Honey’s twenty-first birthday party. An auction note beside the photo reads, ‘Outfit from the vault of Honey Black’s wardrobe. Believed to have been loaned and worn by an unknown friend.’ Beside the note is a black and white photograph from a newspaper. It shows Honey in the garden of the Beverly Hills Hotel on the night of the party, while I stand with my back to the camera, clearly wearing the dress. The bidding for the outfit – my outfit! – starts at a cool ten thousand dollars.
I stop reading then, blinking hard. Honey is still alive, and she kept my dress and shoes for all this time. She’s old – really old – but still here. Should I go and visit her? Or will that be one glitch too many for the matrix? Swiping at my salt-stained cheeks, I smile and turn back to the laptop. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so afraid after all. My mind flies to Louis, but still, I can’t quite get my fingers to type his name.
Instead, I type in Evelyn King. The Evelyn I knew was sour, sarcastic, and more than a little possessive over Louis, long after he stopped being her boyfriend. She had her heart set 100 per cent on marriage, babies, and a white picket fence, and she would do whatever it took to make it happen. Now, as I wait for the search results to load, a bubble of apprehension pops in my belly. Despite Louis Jardine being Evelyn’s boyfriend, there had been an unavoidable spark between us, and I don’t think I imagined the last words he said to me before I slipped beneath the water in the bathtub of the Paul Williams Suite and returned to my own time. Even so, as a page of Evelyn Kings appears on my screen, there is still a smidge of worry in my veins that maybe I heard wrong.
I scroll through results for Evelyn King, American singer, and Evelyn King, British politician, until – on the verge of giving up completely – I see my Evelyn’s features smiling out from a grainy black and white photo. Gulping the warm Sauvignon in my glass, I pull a face, and then with one deep breath, I click. Almost immediately, I wish I hadn’t.
It’s a newspaper article, in the LA Times. At first glance I think it must be some sort of wedding or engagement announcement, as the words ‘husband’ and ‘marriage’ leap off the page. A huge splashy spread in a prominent newspaper is exactly the kind of thing Evelyn would want to announce any upcoming nuptials, even though she wasn’t from a family that was particularly prominent, but as I read, my spine liquifies and an icy chill cloaks my shoulders.
MELROSE HILL WOMAN FOUND SLAIN
Police were called yesterday evening to a home in Melrose Hill where the badly beaten body of a woman was discovered. The victim has been identified as the wife of a local businessman. Evelyn Castillo, née King, was a beautiful young lady who had recently moved to Melrose Hill from West Hollywood with her husband, and the pair have been described by neighbors as having a ‘perfect marriage’. The brutal savagery was discovered by the deceased’s mother following a desperate call for help, but despite her frantic dash across town, Mrs King was unable to save her daughter, instead finding her broken body in the bedroom of her daughter’s new home. Despite rumors of a perfect marriage, evidence at the bloody scene suggests that the young woman’s husband of eighteen months, Mr Jackie Castillo, is most likely responsible for this unbelievable act of violence and police are keen to talk to him. This heinous crime has sent a shockwave through the community, and despite the police urging the public not to panic, residents are advised to keep their doors locked. If you encounter the suspect, please do not approach him as he is considered a dangerous individual – please call the Los Angeles Police Department via the operator.
I close my eyes, wishing I hadn’t read it, but I can’t help myself from returning to the page like some rubbernecker at the scene of an accident, the lure of the terrible too strong to resist as I reread the article, the words “brutal savagery” making me wince.
Feeling strangely numb, I sit back after rereading for a third time, my mouth sour with the taste of old wine, my stomach roiling with too much ice cream and an unexplained feeling of… what? Fear? Regret? Ashamed as I am to admit it, there is the tiniest hint of relief that it wasn’t Louis’s name that followed Evelyn’s – relief that he never married her, coupled with relief that his name didn’t appear in the article in connection with her death. I didn’t like Evelyn, but I never would have wanted anything like this to happen to her.
