Sylvia Sinclair
The Star
‘How about this, baby?’ I say to Herb. I’m sitting on a stool in a secret room of the main bar, hidden behind a painting; I asked for somewhere private where the rest of them wouldn’t all gawp at me while I had a morning pick-me-up.
Sometimes it gets too much, you know, the attention?
Apparently they call this place the Stübli because it’s done up like a rustic Alpine joint, all low beams and low lighting and red-checked cloths on the tables, furs draped over the backs of the chairs.
Red wine stains on the floorboards. At least I think they’re red wine.
Bet this bar has seen some things. Funny, it reminds me a little of the saloon set in the Western I did with Greg Peck.
Herb just looks at me. ‘No, I know what you mean, baby. All this dark wood: a little macho and gloomy. And these photographs.’ Men up mountains holding skis, looking all heroic and stern.
‘Give me the baby pinks of the Beverly Hills Hotel any day.’ Still, after a few cocktails I suppose I wouldn’t mind climbing onto that fur-covered bench there and curling up like a babe in the womb.
Oh, why did I have to think of that? Too much like the one I—but I was sixteen, for Christ’s sake. Pretty much a child myself …
Where the hell did I put that drink?
‘Oh, Herb,’ I say, ‘what are we doing here? Have I gone totally gaga? Well, you know me. When have I not behaved like this when I’m in love? All in or not at all, that’s me.’
The barman hands me a cup of the velvety hot chocolate they do here – I’m already addicted to the stuff (probably no better or worse for me than other things I’ve been addicted to).
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ Can’t help trying the bit on the young fellow: girls out, shoulders back, little purr of thanks.
Even in the low light I see his cheeks flush, and the cup trembles a little in his grip. Nope. Not quite past it yet.
I take a long sip. Very nice: he’s added the tot of rum I asked for. I turn back to Herb. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, baby. I think I really would go gaga on my own. And you’re a good listener … for a dog. Better than most people. Better than men-people, anyhow.’
I chuck him under his whiskery chin and he closes his eyes. I drain the little cup, stay on the stool until the record on the gramophone finishes and the needle starts to hiss, then I jump up. I can never stay still for long. If I do, the little black moths start settling on me.
Up in my suite I go to the mirror, spritz a little Shalimar (good enough for Rita, good enough for me), powder my chin. ‘Give me the lighting at the Beverley Hills too,’ I say. ‘These harsh mountain rays – there’s nowhere for a girl to hide.’ I turn to Herb. ‘Am I past it? Be honest with me.’
I dress, put on my dark glasses. I had a prescription put in, so at least while I’m wearing them I can actually see something.
The rest of the time I mainly just bump into things and pass it off as klutzy.
When I’m not on screen they’re kind of my signature, the glasses.
Because here’s the thing: I’m actually a little shy.
But I learned long ago I can hide it by putting on a disguise, playing the part of Sylvia Sinclair. The glasses help. So do the martinis.
‘Right, baby,’ I turn to Herb, who raises his furry eyebrows as I open the door. ‘Here goes nothing.’