Elements of Chance. Barbara Wilkins
Valerie. It was a long shot in color of her mother sitting on the fender of a red Thunderbird, one of the little ones from the fifties that Valerie still saw driving around town.
“That was the car,” Vicki said. “Look at that dress. Her clothes were great.”
Photograph followed photograph. Cini, tall and slender, wearing a one-piece bathing suit on a beach, the ocean and blue sky behind her. Her legs were spread, her hands on her hips, and the look on her face seemed to dare the world to show her how good it was. “That was the weekend a couple of guys flew us down to Rosarito Beach in their private plane,” Vicki said. “We landed right in front of the hotel on the landing strip there, and went in for lunch. Everybody used to do that. And this is at a Jimmy Durante show in Las Vegas. What was that hotel?” Vicki paused to sip her beer. “Well, I can’t remember, but we had a ball. Here we were at Romanoff’s. Everybody used to go there. Bogart. Bacall. This is at the Coconut Grove. That’s in the Ambassador Hotel, down on Wilshire. We used to go there to see Lena Horne, Harry Belafonte. And here …”
Later that night, as she lay in bed, too exhausted to sleep, Valerie felt that nothing would ever be right again.
Terminal Two at London’s Heathrow Airport was jammed. All around her, Valerie heard the unfamiliar buzz of what seemed to be a hundred different languages as the crowd pushed her along to the line in front of the table marked Immigration. The name inside her passport was Valerie Jane Schuyler.
“Purpose of your visit?” the man asked.
“I’m a student,” Valerie said, thinking that he, at least, had a reassuring English accent. “I have a scholarship to the London Conservatory of Music.”
“Oh, jolly good,” he smiled. “We’ll be seeing you in the Albert Hall, I suppose, playing for the queen.”
“I don’t think so,” she said shyly. “I’m only going to be here a year.”
“Well, if you work hard, you never know what might happen,” he said. He stamped her passport and handed it back to her. “Welcome to London, then. Now, you fetch your luggage right over there. If you’ve anything to declare, get in the red line. If you don’t, it’s the green line.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, moving toward the baggage claim area. There was the big black and green plaid suitcase Max had given her as a going-away present, the matching two-suiter, its bottom stuffed with shoes and handbags, the little brown weekender, and the big beige canvas suitcase Vicki had borrowed from one of her girlfriends. Well, it took a lot of luggage to hold enough clothes for a year, Valerie thought, wondering if she needed to declare the new clothes inside the suitcases. Not the clothes, she decided, but maybe the money. She had five hundred dollars in an envelope Al had pressed into her hand as he and Vicki said good-bye to her at the airport. “And when this runs out,” he had told her, “you just write home for more.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” she had said, giving him a big hug, feeling touched when she saw the tears in his eyes. Vicki had cried too, but Vicki was sentimental. Valerie had expected Vicki to cry.
“Can I help you with your suitcases, miss?” asked a voice, and Valerie turned to see a tall man in the gray uniform of a porter.
“Oh, please,” she said gratefully, wondering how much she should tip him. She had never felt quite so confused in her life.
“Do you have anything to declare?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head.
“Well, you just follow me,” he said, piling her luggage onto the cart and pushing it into the crowd, past the customs tables. Valerie followed the porter until they finally trudged up the ramp leading into the arrivals area. People in all sorts of clothes leaned over the rail above, waving at the travelers they were meeting. Nobody, though, was peering over the rail and trying to catch her eye. Suddenly a man’s voice with an English accent said, “Miss?”
“Yes?” She turned to see a tall slender man in his mid-thirties, wearing a black suit, black tie, white shirt, a black cap. Lady Anne had sent her chauffeur. Of course.
“Did you have a nice flight, miss?” he asked, taking Valerie’s elbow as he helped her into the huge black limousine.
“Oh, it was wonderful,” Valerie said enthusiastically. I’m finally here, she thought gleefully, leaning back against the leather seat. I’m in England, taking my first ride in a beautiful limousine.
The highway was wet from a recent rain, and overhead, bright blue patches peeked through ominous gray clouds. When the car glided onto a long overpass, Valerie looked down on row after row of adjoining brick houses, their blue black slate roofs glistening. Behind each house was a small fenced garden blooming with flowers and neat rows of vegetables.
Soon they were passing multistoried hotels, tall office buildings, and expensive-looking shops. The morning rush hour traffic was heavy with the ubiquitous black taxis, red double-decker buses, a sprinkling of Rolls-Royces, and small European cars that Valerie had never seen before. Motorcyclists and uniformed messenger boys on bicycles darted in and out of traffic.
“We’re almost there, miss,” the chauffeur said into the speaking tube, as he made a left turn off Park Lane onto Green Street. Valerie sensed an air of quiet luxury as she noticed equestrians trotting along a bridle path rimming a huge green park. Valerie’s pulse quickened as she wondered what Lady Anne would be like.
The limousine came to a stop in front of an impressive house. Seven stories, Valerie counted, as she waited for the chauffeur to gather her luggage. Her heart raced as she followed him up the stairs to the front door.
“Oh, it’s you, Bernard,” said the portly maid who answered his ring. She wore a black uniform with a little white apron, her gray hair twisted into a bun at the base of her neck. Her blue eyes twinkled. “You’ve collected Miss Hemion.” She smiled as she turned to Valerie. “My name is Janet, Miss Valerie. You come right in.”
“How do you do,” Valerie said shyly as she stepped into the entry hall. It was as large as many living rooms she had been in, with a black and white marble floor and a high ceiling with intricate molding. On an antique table against one wall stood an arrangement of flowering branches and a silver tray, probably for the mail, Valerie thought. The giltframed mirror above the table reflected the muted rose and pink drawing room through partly open doors.
“I hope you had a nice trip, miss,” Janet said, looking Valerie up and down. “So, you come from Los Angeles, where all the movie stars live. Do you know any of them?”
“Well, no,” Valerie admitted. “But my mom used to be in movies.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Janet beamed. “Well, I suppose you’re tired, and you’d like a nice cup of tea. Maybe something to eat. Does that sound good to you?”
“It really does,” Valerie said gratefully.
“Well, Her Ladyship is out shopping. She said she’d be back in time for tea. That’s five o’clock sharp in this house. Why don’t you come down to the kitchen with me, and we’ll fix you up. Then you can go to your room and freshen up a bit, maybe take a little nap. You’re on the fourth floor. Her Ladyship’s suite is on the third.”
Sitting at the round table in the comfortable, old-fashioned kitchen in the basement, Valerie devoured the fried eggs and bacon that Janet made for her on the eight-burner stove.
“How long have you worked for Lady Anne?” she asked between gulps.
“Only a few months,” said Janet, leaning against a counter. “Lady Anne has been mostly in the south of France. She’s just opened up this house. Wanted to be in London for the season. Well, they’re like that, you know.”
“What’s