“Great idea, Claire. Nobody will know what a trollop is. Go ahead with it. And Stella, you’re supposed to be an innocent young girl and these are the talkies, remember? That voice wouldn’t convince anyone you were a British princess. Listen to how Claire sounds . . . or better still, wait until her daughter gets here and listen to her. Maybe she can give you coaching.”

“I have made thirty-five pictures, Cy. I do not need coaching,” Stella said in a frosty voice.

“But they were mostly silent, weren’t they, honey. You’ve got great expressions for the silent screen, I’ll give you that . . . but I wouldn’t mention those thirty-five pictures. They give away your age.”

“Fine, if you don’t want to do my script, I can always take it to another studio,” Stella said angrily.

“Not while you’re under contract to me, honey.” Cy laughed. “You aren’t going anywhere, baby. You know which side your bread is buttered on. Now let’s get on with it.”

Mummy delivered her line about the daughter of a trollop. I could tell she was feeling rather pleased with herself, knowing that she’d scored a point over Stella. There was no such thing as bosom friends in the acting profession, I decided.

We moved away from the door to find seats. “I say, old bean, that’s not right, is it?” Algie whispered to me. “I mean Mary and Elizabeth didn’t ever love the same man. I don’t think Mary loved anybody!” I put a finger to my lips just as Algie stumbled in the blackness and kicked over a chair.

“Cut!” Cy Goldman yelled, then wheeled around and spotted Algie. “What’s this guy doing here?”

Ronnie stepped forward before we could answer. “He’s a childhood friend of Lady Georgiana and from a real distinguished British family with connections to the Tudors themselves. He’s hoping he might be useful to you on the picture.”

“The first thing he’d better learn is that nobody talks or moves around when we’re shooting.” Cy glared. “What do you do, young man?”

“Do? Well, not too much until now. Just came down from Oxford. Oh, I see what you mean—what job could I do on the film. Well . . . I rather fancy myself as an actor,” Algie said. “It might be ripping fun to be dressed up like that in tights and a doublet and with a sword.”

“Have you had much experience?”

“Oh, rather. My Lady Macbeth got rave reviews.”

“Lady Macbeth?”

“In prep school. You should have seen my sleepwalking scene, my hands covered in blood and saying, ‘Out, damned spot. Out, I say.’” He swung out his arms in a dramatic gesture, knocking one of the lights. It teetered and would have fallen, had not two of the crew leaped to grab it.