I knew I should say “I do have a boyfriend,” but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I had Mummy and Cy to keep an eye on me, didn’t I?

We dined. A man called Bing Crosby got up and sang. Mummy went off to dance with Errol Flynn. Craig asked me to dance and held me close. It was all rather heady. I couldn’t wait to write about it to Belinda. Cy insisted that we leave at ten as we had to be on the set early next morning and Craig had to study his lines, so I didn’t have a chance to see what might have happened later. Neither did Mummy. She and Mr. Flynn were getting along remarkably well. I could tell she was in her element here and wondered if being Frau von Strohheim still had its appeal. And I did wonder what I would do if Craig made advances to me.

THE NEXT DAY the car came to take me to the set again. “Lots of tension,” Ronnie muttered as he escorted me inside. “Stella and Cy. She hasn’t forgiven him. Juan is doing badly and muffing his lines and may well be out altogether.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Is making talkies always like this?”

“Worse, sometimes. We haven’t had a real catfight yet, although Stella has clearly decided that having your mother in the film was not such a good idea after all. She wanted an older woman so that she could look young, but I must say your mother looks magnificent. And she can act too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t end up as a big film star.”

“I think she’s intending to go back to Europe after this picture,” I said.

“Cy won’t let her. He’ll sign her to a contract if it’s the last thing he does.”

We got through a long and tense day. There was no mention of dinner this evening. It was hot and muggy as we drove home and all I longed to do was go for a swim.

“Queenie. Help me out of this,” I called as I came into my bedroom. No answer. I bet she had fallen asleep again. At least it wasn’t on my bed this time. “Queenie?” I opened her door. The bed was made. The room was tidy. I came out into the living room.

“Claudette. Queenie’s not here. Don’t tell me she went for a swim again.”

Claudette shook her head. “She ’as gone. I tried to talk to her but she doesn’t listen to me. She is fou, that one. Mad.”

“What do you mean, gone?” I asked.

She pointed at the coffee table. “She left you a letter.”

I picked it up. Written in Queenie’s childish script:

Dear Miss,