Ruby arrived at 119 Derilla Drive to find Frederick Lutz sitting on a lawn chair in his driveway. On his lap was a dachshund. He raised a hand in greeting and slowly heaved himself up from his chair. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘This is Paullie,’ he added, indicating the dachshund.
The dachschund raised its head and regarded Ruby sleepily.
‘Hey Paullie,’ said Ruby.
Lutz stood, lifting Paullie carefully. He set the dog down on the grass, and Paullie stood on his tiny legs waiting.
‘Come,’ said Lutz.
He led Ruby into his workshop, a spare room that he had converted into a kind of salon, every surface covered with movie memorabilia. He sat her down in a swivel chair in front of a brightly lit mirror, and took in the horror show that was her face.
‘So I see we are starting with Halloween and heading backwards. Kind of unusual for me; I usually start off with pretty and head on in the other direction.’
‘Yeah, I know, it’s bad huh – is there anything you can do with it?’
‘Can I do anything? Can I do anything? Kid, you’re talking to Frederick Lutz here, course I can do anything! Never fear, I’ll have you looking like Shirley Temple in the blink of an eye – that’s the look we’re going for right?’ he winked.
Ruby smiled. ‘Well, something along those lines.’
The Hollywood make-up genius worked on Ruby for a good couple of hours and while he worked he talked. Mainly he talked about the old days when the industry was dominated by sirens of the silver screen – Erica Grey, Bette Davis, Lauren Bacall.
‘They were some women, I can tell you,’ said Frederick, ‘they don’t make ’em like that any more.’
The make-up artist’s walls were crammed with framed photographs and posters of the actors he had worked with and the movies he had worked on and stuff he had collected over the years. There were no end of big names. One poster that caught her eye was the one for The Cat that Got the Canary. The image was of the Little Yellow Shoes, and Margo’s lower legs were all that could be seen of the actress. A black cat walked off to the right of the picture, a yellow feather in its mouth. It was a striking image. The poster was signed by the actress herself.
‘So did you meet her?’ asked Ruby, pointing to the poster.
‘Oh, many times,’ said Frederick. ‘One fabulous lady, too bad she married that George Katsel.’
‘Not nice?’ asked Ruby.
Frederick scrunched his face into a sour expression. ‘Not nice at all, only interested in himself. It was all about him and what he wanted; never did a thing for anyone else.’
Ruby winced – the words so closely echoed her mother’s.
‘He had magnetic appeal though, it was hard for anyone to resist him when he set his baby blues on something.’
‘Old George sounds like quite the egomaniac,’ said Ruby.
‘You better believe it,’ said Frederick, shaking his head. ‘They called him the Cat, because he was so darned lucky. Katsel always got what he wanted, always the Cat that got the cream.’ Frederick paused, to make a careful adjustment to Ruby’s foundation. ‘I met Margo after that time, long after she broke it off with George and much later on in her career when she was already quite famous and I can’t think of a bad word to say about her, except I wish she hadn’t been so darned tall.’
‘Funny. . .’ considered Ruby. ‘I always thought she would be kinda small, more like my height, well taller than me but, you know.’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Frederick.
‘She looks little in The Cat that Got the Canary,’ said Ruby.
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ said Frederick, pausing for a minute, to review his latest creation. ‘If I needed to touch up her make-up on set, I had to stand on a crate. I know I’m not the tallest guy in town but Margo, she must have been 5' 10", 5' 11". Making Margo look small was the magic of the movies!’ Frederick Lutz chuckled and dusted Ruby’s face with some bronzer. ‘Meanwhile, making your face look like it never came into contact with a sidewalk is the magic of make-up!’
And when Ruby turned to view her face in the mirror, she saw that he wasn’t lying. . . she looked just like she usually looked, her face restored, not a visible scratch on it.
HAVING THANKED FREDERICK ABOUT TWENTY TIMES, Ruby set off for Ada Borland’s studio, which as it turned out was located not so far from the Scarlet Pagoda. She buzzed the buzzer and a stern-looking woman dressed entirely in grey came to open the door. The woman (named Abigail) was actually very friendly and showed Ruby around the gallery while she waited for Ada to appear.
The Scarlet Pagoda had obviously been a huge influence on Ada, and there were many framed photos of the theatre taken over the several decades that she had been working there. It was fascinating to see the various changes made to the building, how it had become a popular destination, flourished and then later was left to rot. There were pictures of many of the famous faces who had performed there, actors, acrobats, contortionists, dancers and singers. Starlets in extravagant costumes, circus people in fabulous creations. Ruby was lost in this world of performers when she heard a thick croaky voice.
‘Ms Redfort?’
She turned to see a small woman, quite elderly, with dyed black hair that was cut into a neat bob. An enormous pair of orange-rimmed glasses obscured most of her face; her lips were painted the same colour and perfectly matched the frames.
‘I’m Ada,’ she said, ‘let’s take your picture.’
It was clear from looking at Ms Borland’s work that the photographer was interested in a lot more than her subjects’ physical appearance. She seemed to look beyond all this and capture the uncapturable. The portrait itself became a story, layered with atmosphere and meaning. The more you looked the more you saw and the more the background told you – the things that just happened to be there were part of the story too.
Ruby was curious about all these people who had sat for portraits: some grand, some ordinary; old and young. Faces strange, ugly and beautiful. Posed pictures and casual but all had something of the artist, her viewpoint. And as Ruby looked, she asked, so what was Erica Grey like, what was the president like, what was this grocer man like, and every time, Ada replied, ‘You tell me, it’s all there in the photograph if you care to look.’
Ruby enjoyed the experience, and although sitting for her portrait took more time than she would have thought possible, chatting to Ada was a rare opportunity and she was glad she hadn’t missed it.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Ruby Redfort,’ called Ada. ‘Do visit again.’
Ruby snuck back into the house only to be greeted by Mrs Digby who jumped about six inches when she saw Ruby.
‘Jumping jack rabbits, child, what happened to your face?’
‘It looks bad?’ said Ruby.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Mrs Digby, ‘I’d say it looks the way it oughta look, but where’s the black eye and the fat lip?’
Ruby thought it best to explain what she had been up to. Mrs Digby was not an easy old bird to fool. RULE 47: NEVER LIE TO SOMEONE WHO IS LIKELY TO SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOU.