“I say, that’s jolly decent of you. Thank you very much,” Darcy said. I glanced at him with amusement. He really could act. He’d discarded any trace of Irish accent and was trying to sound like a typical young English aristocrat directly descended from Henry VIII.

I started to wonder. Did he really want to act in Mr. Goldman’s epic? Did he really want to sign a contract with Golden Studios and be stuck in Hollywood, or was he just glad he’d found a way to be invited to the castle? I didn’t have a chance to ask him as Stella and Mr. Goldman swept him away and I was left alone in the darkness.

I didn’t have another chance to see him until we were in a motorcar being driven to Alhambra Two, Mr. Goldman’s castle. Mr. Goldman announced that he didn’t like taking drivers from the studio because then he’d have to pay them to hang around all weekend with nothing to do and we were perfectly capable of driving ourselves. We went in three cars with Ronnie driving Mr. Goldman and Stella, Craig driving Algie and Juan, and Darcy driving Mummy, her maid and myself. Mummy was astonished that nobody else was bringing a personal servant and that her maid would have to ride with us.

“One can have too much of this equality, darling,” she said. “Just think, if I’d stayed with Homer Clegg, I’d have had to do everything for myself too—and probably muck out horses and round up cattle.” She shuddered. “Of course Stella and Cy both grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Those little girls were as poor as church mice when I first met them in the theater. Their father was a Spanish waiter who deserted the family.”

I smiled to myself as I climbed into the car beside Darcy. Mummy too had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. She had been born in a two-up, two-down row house, daughter of a Cockney policeman. But that past had been conveniently obliterated in her mind.

Once we were under way I turned to Darcy with the question I was dying to ask. “Are you really going to play that part in Mr. Goldman’s film?”

He was staring straight ahead, navigating the unfamiliar road and driving on the wrong side. “Why not? You don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be a film star?”

“I’m sure you have. It’s just that . . .” What could I say? That I was scared he’d be a roaring success and would stay in Hollywood and have other women throw themselves at him? When I tried to form those thoughts into words they sounded petty and juvenile. I shook my head. “No, of course if you really want to, I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. Star of the film.”