She slipped an arm around my shoulder. “Sweetie pie, nature isn’t fair, is it? Some of us are born beautiful and some aren’t. Take your Darcy, for example. I’m sure he was a devastatingly handsome little boy, whereas you were such a homely child.” She walked away then turned from the door and added, “I wonder sometimes what he sees in you.”

With a mother like her, I thought, who needs a Mrs. Simpson to deliver catty remarks?

I was extremely glad when Mummy’s awful lawyer paid a visit, introduced us to Wanda, who was to play the part of my mother while she was in Hollywood, and said that Mummy was free to leave. Queenie and Claudette perked up at this news and packed our things in record time. Then we were off on a train again, first across the Sierra Nevada mountains to San Francisco and then down the coast to Los Angeles.

“I’m having horrible second thoughts about this whole thing,” Mummy confided to me in a rare moment of intimacy. “I mean if that dreadful place can call itself the best little city or something, then what do you think California will be like? One hears about Hollywood glamour but will it really be more dust and shacks and men spitting on the streets, do you think?”

“Golly, I hope not,” I said.

The train ride across the mountains was spectacular. We changed trains, caught a glimpse of San Francisco Bay, and then we were off again on the Coast Starlight. The first part of the trip was nowhere near the coast and all we saw were golden hills and more golden hills. We fell asleep and when we awoke there was the sparkling Pacific Ocean right beside us. We breakfasted and soon after we pulled into the Los Angeles station.

As we stood on the platform a young man with slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a worried look on his face came hurrying toward us. “Miss Daniels, Lady Georgiana?” he said. “I’m Ronnie, Mr. Goldman’s assistant. He sent me to collect you. They are filming at the set and he couldn’t get away, but he wants me to say that all is ready for you and I’m to take you to the Beverly Hills Hotel.” With great efficiency he whisked us across the station, made porters appear as if by magic, and in seconds had us seated in an impossibly long black motorcar, then directed the maids and luggage to a taxicab that looked nothing like a London taxi. As we drove away from the station I gazed out of the window in excitement. There were pastel villas dotting wooded hills and when I spotted the Hollywood sign up on top of a hill my heart gave a little leap. We were really here! Who couldn’t feel excited about being in Hollywood?