Stella tossed her red hair and stalked back into the studio. I saw Cy give a little smirk as he followed her. It wasn’t a comfortable afternoon on the set. Cy had appeased Stella by letting Juan try out for Don Alonso, the dashing Spanish advisor. We moved on to a scene between Stella and my mother and I could see what Cy meant. Mummy shone, the way she always did on stage. Stella’s voice had an annoying sharp quality to it and even with all that makeup she still looked older than the eighteen-year-old girl she was supposed to be playing. And the more I saw of the script, the more stupid I thought it was. It wasn’t just that the history was completely wrong. The dialogue was peppered with Old English words and phrases like “forsooth,” “gadzooks” and “fie, my lord, fie.”

When we were finally driven back to the hotel Queenie was remarkably subdued. I suppose my talking-to had made her realize that she had behaved inappropriately. Or perhaps Claudette had made her see sense. Either way she laid out my dress for dinner, took my day clothes to be pressed without a word or a single “Bob’s yer uncle.”

At seven o’clock there was a knock on our door. I opened it cautiously, dreading Dolores or her chums. Instead Cy Goldman and Craig Hart stood there. Cy’s arms were full of flowers. “We’ve come to take you lovely ladies out to dinner,” Cy said. “Come on. Put your dancing shoes on.”

Mummy acted pleased and flattered. As we walked to a waiting car I heard Craig mutter to Cy, “Yes, I think she’ll do nicely.” And I got the feeling they were talking about me. Was I about to be discovered and turned into a film star? Then I grinned. That would be too absurd. Craig drove us in an enormous white convertible. We were whisked down Wilshire Boulevard at great speed to another fine hotel called the Ambassador and walked past palm trees to a club called the Cocoanut Grove. A negro jazz band was playing and the place was full.

“Everybody’s here tonight,” Cy said. “Hi, Norma, honey.” He kissed a cheek. “Norma Shearer,” he said to us. “And Errol, you old devil.” He turned to us. “You haven’t met Errol Flynn yet, have you?”

Another gorgeous dark man eyed us both appraisingly. “You and I have to dance when the music gets going,” he said to my mother.

Craig put an arm around my shoulder. “Watch out for that one,” he said. “He likes his girls pure and innocent.”

“How do you know I’m pure and innocent?” I heard myself asking and surprised myself.

Craig laughed. “Honey, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you know. That’s what’s so appealing about you.”