Byrne Paula - Mirror, Mirror

William Collins

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London SE1 9GF

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This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2020

Copyright Paula Byrne 2020

Cover design by Heike Schssler

Cover photographs Sunset Boulevard/Getty Images, Shutterstock

Paula Byrne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Information on previously published material appears

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008307097

Ebook Edition January 2020 ISBN: 9780008270568

Version: 2020-11-28

For Christine Marie

A sister is both your mirror and your opposite

Elizabeth Fishel

Mirrors from Lohr were so elaborately worked that they were accorded the reputation of always speaking the truth and became a favourite gift at European crown and aristocratic courts. Uniquely, the mirrors also talked , in aphorisms like one that reads in the upper corner of a frame: Elle brille la lumire (She is such a beauty).

Karlheinz Bartels, Schneewittchen: zur Fabulologie des Spessarts (Lohr am Main, 2012)

I dont remember who started the rumor that Mars was scheduled to collide with the Earth that summer of 1938 the next summer, not Mars, but a little man in Berlin changed the course of human history.

Maria Riva, Marlene Dietrich by her Daughter (New York, 1993)

Berlin, 1993

Die Deutsche Kinemathek

My mother was still alive when the wall came down, but she made no comment except this: I have cried all my tears for Germany. They have dried and I have washed my face. She had the loveliest face since Helen of Troy, but her beauty was in flight, like Nike of Samothrace.

When she died alone, in her Paris apartment, she left no will. Her millions had been spent. But she had kept every possession in cardboard boxes: hats, scarves, gowns, shoes, clocks. I sorted 45,000 pages of correspondence, 16,500 photographs, and over 3,300 textile objects, and I sent everything I had to the Deutsche Kinemathek.

She was finally being honoured. Berlins most famous and infamous child. I could never imagine her as a girl. She was a goddess; unknowable, unreachable. When I was a child I had a doll called Heidi. She was the most beautiful doll, with golden hair, and nobody could have loved her more than I. But every day, I prayed that I would never have a daughter. Dolls could not feel pain. Could not be hurt. I feared girl children. I would not know how to be a mother to such complex creatures.

And now the last box has been sent. As I enter the museum, I find myself in a mirrored lobby, like a jewel box. A hundred images of myself are reflected back at me. I am old now. I see an elegant, white-haired lady in a smart suit. There are eyes everywhere, and with a sudden burst of grief and clarity, I know how she must have felt. Every aspect, every angle of her life scrutinised, photographed, filmed, analysed and judged. Nowhere to escape, and nowhere to hide. And now I understand what she meant when she told me Kater, I was photographed to death.

Its funny how I can remember every single person whos ever been kind to me.

When I look back now, I see so much, but I guess thats the way it is for most people. I never knew my age in those days when we first went to Hollywood. That was because Mother constantly changed it, so I never had a chance to celebrate my birthday. To her friends and fans, I was a baby, to others, I was a young girl of nine, or maybe eight. All I knew was that I had the most beautiful mother in the world and that I was ugly.

My face was covered with pimples. Mother blamed the cream pastries I ate. It was one of the things I most loved about America: the food. For breakfast, the maid would bring me a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and whipped butter. There were strips of salty bacon on the side. American waffles with cream and blueberries. Gloriosky!

Mother glared at me, sipping water mixed with Epsom Salts. This was how she stayed pencil thin.

Sweetheart, hurry. The car is here. That Big Girls Blouse will be weeping into his coffee if Im even five minutes late.

Her co-star was English. Peter somebody. On the whole, she disliked Englishmen, thick, white ankles, fingers like uncooked sausages. She was obsessed by the beauty of her own slender ankles. Aristocrats have thin ankles, only peasants have thick ones. She looked at my fat ankles, accusingly, as she said this.

I felt sorrow for my mother because she had given birth to such a plain child. I looked exactly like my father, but what was handsome in a man was plain in a female. In the mirrored dining table where we were eating a hurried breakfast I could see my reflection: high forehead, large flat nose, and deep-set eyes. My bushy eyebrows made me look perpetually cross. My hair was fine and a pale shade of ginger. I had blotchy brown freckles that I tried to scrub off with lemon juice. It never worked. But I had a lovely mouth, with a Cupids bow. It was the only feature that I had inherited from my mother. I decided then that it might be best to avoid mirrors.

As usual, it was an early-morning call. Mother was expected to be in Make-up at 5 a.m. Her car and driver were already outside the house. A hot Santa Ana wind had been blowing that week, and the Hollywood hills were sharp-edged and the colour of elephant skin. The morning air was cold, however, and I wrapped a warm rug around Mothers legs. On the way to the studio, she talked non-stop: Its fine for stage actors, theyre the fortunate ones, they dont have to be acting a love-scene at 9 a.m. after being in Make-up since 6 a.m.

Any country that can make a dog a film star is not to be taken seriously.

Harlow was at the dinner. That shows you the level of intelligence there last night!

Abominable country, America.

Mother was always edgy during pre-production. I listened and nodded and smiled and tried not to get carsick. I longed for the studio, and the hum of the carpenters saw. Only then would I know I was home.

She continued to complain that no drawings had been sent to her, and Nellie, her hairdresser, had not seen a single wig sketch. Von Goldberg, she knew, was still making adjustments to the script. What was everyone doing at Paramount? Hiding W. C. Fields gin bottles?

We drew up at the Bronson Gate. In those days before the big earthquake there was an elaborate stone belfry framing the famous archway. I nodded to the frieze of Shakespeare, who seemed to be presiding over the studio lot.

Good morning, Miss Madou. Good morning, Miss Kater.

Harry, take me straight to Wardrobe. I need to speak to Travis.

Yes, Miss Madou.

That was the day I became my mothers dresser.

Like most little girls, I thought my mother was perfect. Except my mother really was perfect. Everyone told me so, and she had the face and body to prove it. I guess thats why I never told anybody the truth. Who would believe me? Its strange how people refuse to think badly of the beautiful.