~*~French Twist~*~

~~French Twist~~

{{RATED-PG13.}}

FRENCH TWIST

[Sequel to The Eyes Of Love] April 7, 1965

I buzzed around the townhouse after my darkroom work was finished that April morning, listening to Petula Clark on the radio, counting my mixed blessings while I waited for my husband to come through the door at last. Being married to Tracy Rattigan was a dream come true--but being married to show-business was at times a bit of a nightmare.

My first indication that I'd entered a realm far, far out of my league came early. When we returned to New York after our Las Vegas wedding, there was a huge floral arrangement waiting for us at Tracy's townhouse--a funeral arrangement, complete with a sympathy card, courtesy of one humorous Rat Pack member who shall remain nameless. (To be fair, when I met him some weeks later, he declared me "a real good dame and a class act"--apparently high praise among the Sands set.) And the night before that whirlwind of an April morning, I'd slept alone for the first time since Tracy and I tied the knot--he'd gone to L.A. for a quick trip to see his agent, only to be coerced into staying there an extra day as a last-minute replacement guest on a late night talk show. While I stretched out the wrong way on our king sized bed with a cup of cocoa (the better to be close to the solid-state TV set), Tracy deflected the probing questions of the somewhat abrasive comedienne who was guest-hosting that night.

"So," she purred, drawing out her words, "you're a newlywed? Thanks for taking time out from your busy schedule..." Laughter. I bit into a cookie, feeling a strange, distant sense of dread, as she went on at length about the suddenness of our surprise wedding, leering slightly and casting unsubtle sidelong glances to the audience through thick, false lashes.

"Now tell us, Tracy--is there a little 'coming attraction' on the way, was that it?"

It was a question in such dubious taste that even the audience seemed a little uncomfortable--a few snickers here and there, but nothing like the response the comedienne had anticipated. Tracy, bless his gentlemanly heart, would never embarrass a lady by pointing out an impolite line of questioning--but I could tell he was taken aback. Pausing, leaning backwards in his seat, he went silent for a moment--then a quiet but intense twinkle warmed his pale silver-green eyes, and suddenly I knew everything would be even better than all right.

"Dear lady," he said at last, "my lovely bride and I aren't planning any little...coming attractions for a least a year or two. However, I must say--" Tracy leaned forward, that slow, sly grin beginning to light up his handsome face, "--the initial creative conferences have been nothing short of delightful..."

I burst into giggles as the audience laughed along, probably in relief. How did I ever get so lucky...

After the show was over, Tracy called from his hotel in L.A.--he was sweet enough to be worried about my reaction to the whole thing.

"I knew how selfish it was to drag you into all this, even when I proposed to you--sorry about that little exchange, my love."

"Oh, Tracy, I'm fine--you handled it brilliantly!"

I could almost see his adorable, cocky smile. "I was rather splendid, wasn't I?"

"As always, my dear. Now...hurry back and come be splendid in person..."

His beautiful British voice took on that low, seductive tone that always sent a sweet chill down my spine. "There's nothing I'd like better than to do than just that, darlin' Lacey." With a sigh, he continued. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, mystery novel at my side--"

"Close the book, love. Shall I tell you exactly how I wish I could be there to tuck you in tonight?"

"Mmmm," I whispered. "By all means..."

Our phone bill that month would be outrageous, I knew, but it was well worth the expense. Tracy Rattigan was a gentleman of his word--on our wedding night, he said I should be prepared to be seduced once a day, and he meant it--distance no barrier.

"'Ello, darlin"!"

The minute I heard the front door slam, I raced out of the kitchen, my hands still soapy from a sinkful of water. With a huge grin and wide open arms, my husband dropped his suitcase and gathered me into his warm embrace.

"Well, this is smashing," he laughed as I squeezed him tightly. "If I'd known it felt this good to have someone to come home to, I'd leave more often--"

I gave him a playful poke in the ribs. "Don't you dare." And then everything seemed to go into a state of suspended animation for a moment as his intense green eyes met mine. Tracy's sweet lips grazed my cheek, then sought out my mouth for an agonizingly light, slow, soft tease of a kiss that hinted of far warmer times just ahead. Holding him very close, my heart racing a little, I silently wondered when and if my head-over-heels feelings would ever show any signs of fading away...

"I suppose I should let you all the way into the house," I sighed, after a long while.

"No, love--this is just fine, believe me..." He winked as I straightened his narrow tie, took him by the hand and led him into the living room.

"So tell me everything...what's new in L.A.? And how's...uh oh." I sat a little closer to him on our big blue sofa, recognizing the shadow that seemed to fall upon his eyes. "What's wrong, Tracy?"

"Well...I have good news and bad news, darlin'--"

"Bad news first," I broke in.

"Might as well get it over with, yes?" Tracy reached into one of his carry-on bags and and handed me a newspaper--a rather trashy-looking London tabloid with an obnoxiously cutesy name.

"The Palace Peeper?" I frowned a little. "I hate it already."

"I'd say it's not fit for wrapping up the remains of a London take-out dinner, but that would be a grave insult to the old fish and chips," he said. "Unfortunately, it's also our first British press appearance since the wedding..."

There we were, the main headline story on page six--"The Randy Rattigans". I won't go into details--suffice it to say it involved a recent dinner at an Italian restaurant with an uncommonly good house wine, a very affectionate after-dinner carriage ride through Central Park, and--unbeknownst to us--a pesky photographer with a telephoto lens.

"Well," I said, peering at the large, grainy photo, "at least we did wait until we got back home for the...er, main event..." Tracy smiled slyly as the memory passed between us, and I could feel myself begin to blush.

"All the same," he said, "I don't like the idea of some barmy bloke following us around with a Leica." Sighing again, he put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed it gently. " Sometimes I am a bit sorry I dragged you into all this madness without a proper engagement--at least you would have had a better idea of what you were jumping into."

"I've never been less sorry about anything in my entire life!" As I looked into his beautiful eyes, I could see how relieved he must have felt. "Tracy, I love you, no matter what you do for a living--and no matter who's watching. If the fact that a couple of newlyweds like to cuddle is headline news to anyone, then they deserve to be swindled out of the five pence they paid for this paper. Besides--" I couldn't resist running my fingers across his oxford-cloth covered chest, "--how long an engagement could we have had before one of the other of us caved in and...well, compromised your status as a gentleman?"

Tracy grinned and took my hand. "You are, without a doubt, the most alarmingly good-natured, well-adjusted American girl since Pocahontas." With a soft kiss on my palm, he added, "Shall we draw the blinds now or later? I don't think I want a photographic record of this next part..."

"And your good news is?" I whispered, devilishly, just as we were nose-to-nose.

"Oh, that." Tracy smiled, gazing skyward for a second. "Somehow I got distracted...where were we? Ah, yes--I've been asked to be a last-minute replacement performer again."

"Again?"

"Only this time, it'll involve a great deal more travel. Do you remember the first guest last night--Strand, the film director?" I nodded. "Well, he's been thrown an inordinate amount of money to do one of those 'Mad Mad World' style romps--you know, an international cast of fifty, with ten lines each, racing through Europe on motorbikes and all that sort of thing..." As I chuckled, Tracy stretched out on the sofa a little. "Anyway, love, Strand and I had a chat, and apparently there's a part in the film that's a tad too small to fit into Peter Sellers' schedule...so, if you'd like to accompany me to Paris--"

"Paris?" I sat up, beaming; both the romantic and the photographer within me were suddenly all ears.

"I'd be done with my bit in three days--which is pretty remarkable, since I'll be playing two characters."

"Wow--a small part as two characters? How does that work?"

"I'd play the saucy Englishman who tries to pick up Clothilde Duval, the charming French heroine, on the patio of a cafe--"

"Oooh la la...no typecasting there," I said.

"None at all," answered Tracy, with a grin. "My character frightens her into the cafe itself--where my even more wolfish old rogue of a father awaits, literally chasing her around the tables, back onto the patio, and into the path of the American lead actor--who swoops her onto the back of his Vespa scooter and out of harm's way, while I shake my head in sorrow as both father and son, in split-screen effect." I sat there silently; it made me dizzy just to think about how that scene would play out on film.

Tracy laughed. "There'll be a quiz on this tomorrow."

"I'm sure to flunk, but who cares? It's in...Paris," I finally sighed.

"I take it that means you'd like to come along with old Tracy, then?"

I gave him another gentle poke in the ribs. "You big tease. Perhaps we can make a few more headlines while we're there?" With a smile, I handed him the Palace Peeper--nearly knocking my empty mug off the coffee table in the process.

"Oh, sorry--I was just starting to do my lunch dishes when you came in. Hang on a moment..."

I rose from the sofa and headed for the kitchen, cup and saucer in my hand, dreamy grin on my face. Paris!

"Are you sure you want to do that now, love?"

"I'm very sure," I called out from my spot in front of the sink. "I've been dying to get to Paris for ages--I couldn't afford full fare, and I never could get on a standby flight, even when I worked at the airline--"

"No, silly bird," Tracy whispered in that lovely low voice, suddenly standing so close behind me that I could feel his heartbeat against my back. "I mean...are you sure you want to do the dishes just now?" He gently swept my hair to one side, and the incredible feeling of his warm lips on the nape of my neck made my knees go a little weak. Reaching into the clean, soapy water, he took my hand and guided it out of the sink; then he slipped his hand underneath the waistband of my sweater, tracing a sudsy fingertip around my belly button as I giggled.

"Housework," he murmured as he nibbled my ear, "is so overrated."

April 12, 1965

This is the final boarding call for Flight 20 to Paris, France...

Our flight to Orly Airport was both smooth and comfortable. (Flying first class was still a real novelty for someone who'd always been on the other end of the white linen tablecloth, so to speak.) I spent much of our time aloft alternately napping, writing letters and catching up on back issues of Modern Photography magazine, while Tracy carefully studied his script. And every now and then, I couldn't resist glancing at my handsome husband as he frowned, grinned and pouted in rapt concentration at the thick slab of bound pages before him.

"Lacey," he said at one point, "this is going to be one of the silliest pictures ever to race across the screen." He turned to me and smiled. "That's not necessarily a bad thing, though. Usually the sillier the role, the easier it is for me to play--"

"Hmm, wonder why?" I teased.

"You wound me to the quick, dear lady," said Tracy, smiling. Our stewardess refilled our coffee cups; he took a deep sip, pinky outstretched, and then continued. "This'll be smashing--three days of work, and then the rest of our time free to play in Paris. Brilliant as I am, I couldn't have come up with a better scheme myself."

"Not to mention getting paid to chase Clothilde Duval around--most men would volunteer for that job."

"Ah, yes, it's a rough life," he laughed.

"You and she have worked together before, right?" Tracy nodded. "But you were never an item..."

"No, my love," he said as he returned to the script. "She half-heartedly flirted with me--I think Frenchwomen flirt as a reflex, you know--but we were never involved. I think she and I had too much in common at the time, sad to say."

"Too much in common?"

"Yes--" he turned a page--"she fancied the occasional dashing bachelor, but what really seemed to turn her on was the challenge of a married man."

"Oh," I said casually--then I looked up from my magazine, a split second before the light went on in my head.

Oh...

We touched down in Paris just as night fell over the City of Lights, and even in my jet-lag induced weariness, I nearly gave myself whiplash peering through the window of our taxi. The Champs-Elysées glittered like a radiant jewel as we made our way down the busy tree-lined avenue, with the Arc De Triomphe standing tall and proud in the distance. I'd seen this street so many times in so many movies; being there in reality seemed like riding though a beautiful dream.

"We'll probably fall into bed tonight," Tracy said, as I placed my head on his shoulder. "But tomorrow, after the working day is done, we'll tour a little--have dinner in a quiet cafe, perhaps a stroll through the Tuileries Garden. One of my favorite things about Paris is how charming even the everyday sights can be..."

"I can tell you what my favorite thing about Paris is already," I kissed him softly and sighed. "You're here."

April 13, 1965

At the crack of dawn the next morning, Tracy and I were whisked away to a studio on the outskirts of Paris, where the film's director, Don Strand, seemed to be on the verge of a rather amiable nervous breakdown.

"This is not the way it's usually done," he said to me, after Tracy told him that this was my first-ever visit to a film set. "The Scandalous Scooter Chase is more like a crazy patchwork quilt than a real movie. You know, it's funny," Strand sighed, "when I was a starving newcomer, I had few actors, no money and all the time in the world. Now, I've got a cast of thousands, a huge budget, and about fifteen minutes to wrap up the project! Go figure." Strand smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Anyhow, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rattigan--"

"Please, call me Lacey," I said.

"Lacey it is, and feel free to snap away. You really should talk to our still photographer, Barry Bensen--he's been in the business since Edison--"

"Tracy!" A musical-sounding voice called out from a distance; as I turned around, a tall, slim, beautiful black woman in her mid-40's waved and walked swiftly to my husband's side.

"Ah, Harriette!" Tracy turned to me with a delighted grin. "Darling, this is Harriette Dillard, the best make-up artist in the Western world--Harriette, this is my beloved bride, Lacey."

"I heard all about it--I'm so very happy for you two," she said with a kind and gracious smile as she took both my hands in hers. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lacey." Harriette Dillard was mature and quietly elegant in an Audrey Hepburn-ish, understated way, but the genuine warmth in her dark eyes was what really caught my attention. I liked her immediately.

"Later today, Harriette here is going to transform your husband into a dirty old man," Strand said, "but first--"

Suddenly, all the sounds on the set died out. Lighting technicians stopped in their tracks; scurrying script girls stood still and stared; carpenters ceased their repairs on a distant damaged wall.

Clothilde Duval had entered the building.

To say Clothilde was beautiful was like saying the Eiffel Tower was tall. She was pure, radiant, drop-dead gorgeous perfection, from her flowing apricot-strawberry-blond tresses to her tiny high-heeled Vivier shoes. Her huge cornflower-blue eyes swept the studio with a trace of goddess-like disdain; her provocatively curved bosom bounced discreetly under her tawny, expensive sweater; her trim hips swayed like a dancer's as she walked toward the four of us, wearing the beatific smile of an angel. And with a purring sound that was very, very French but needed no translation whatsoever, she immediately threw herself into the arms of my husband.

"Pourquoi ne m'avez-vous pas appelé, chéri?" I stood there, stunned, watching her wrap herself around Tracy while my mind went into an automatic time-delay, extracting my rusty high-school French from a file cabinet in my head. Why haven't you called me, dear?

"Lacey, my love, this is Clothilde Duval," he said as he gently eased out of her embrace and squeezed my hand. "Clothilde, my wife, Lacey."

Reluctantly, Clothilde took her eyes from his face and regarded me for a second, frowning a little as if she had a hard time translating the key word in Tracy's sentence. Wife, I thought, loudly. Epouse?

"Yes," she said at last, with a tiny nod in my direction. "Elle est tres douce." I'd been declared sweet. "Bonjour, Lacey."

"How do you do," I replied, hoping I didn't sound anything like I felt. I almost expected a bell and a referee. And in this corner, weighing 110 pounds, the French champion...

"Oh, Clothilde," Harriette began in French, and through the verbal flurry I could grasp that Clothilde had brought her own make-up artist along; Harriette would be free to age Tracy after the initial blocking and run-through, while Clothilde posed for a few stills by Mr. Bensen. Then rehearsal and lighting cues, a dinner break, and the final filming of the interior cafe scene.

Tracy put his arm around my shoulder, and we excused ourselves for a moment.

"I'm sorry, love--it looks like that quiet dinner might end up being more of a midnight snack, at this rate."

"That's okay, Tracy...unless something drastic happens, I'm sure the Tuileries will be there tomorrow," I smiled.

"You're an angel. Are you sure you won't be too terribly bored with all this?" A half-grin crossed his face as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you'd like to begin our official Parisian honeymoon, I'd bet there's an Victorian boudoir set around here somewhere.."

"You're incorrigible," I laughed. "Is that your solution to everything, sir?"

Tracy's sparkling eyes looked into mine with mirth and affection. "No, but it's an enchanting way of forgetting about the problem, Lacey darlin'." He tapped the tip of my nose lightly with his fingertip and smiled. "You're a good sport to hang around a soundstage when all of Paris awaits--and I promise I'll make it up to you."

"I don't doubt that at all," I answered. "Besides, I want to see the highlights of Paris with you by my side. I can wait. And I might even learn something today--I have a date with Barry Bensen this afternoon..."

Elderly, friendly and very, very talkative, Barry Bensen was one of those master craftsmen who made his amazing work look easy. He graciously allowed me to stand by and observe as he prepared to do a set of still portraits of Clothilde in her form-fitting motorscooter racing jumpsuit.

"Here's the secret, Lacey--you want to make sure the stills fit the film, but you also want to make sure the portraits are useful beyond the life of the movie. Now, we need to capture the feeling of Juliette, the innocent young country girl who entered the race to save her family's farm--but we never want to obscure the sensual appeal of la belle Clothilde."

"Merci," Clothilde said, acknowledging the compliment with a tiny, angelic smile. Her makeup artist, a quiet middle-aged lady in black, fluttered a brush along Clothilde's delicate pointed chin while the young beauty squinted at one of the tabloid newspapers in the surprisingly large stack beside her chair. (I couldn't help noticing that among them was--of course--the Palace Peeper.)

"Ah! Johnny and Sylvie have married," Clothilde announced. (Barry Bensen quickly explained that Johnny Hallyday and Sylvie Vartan were two of France's most beloved pop singers.) "They are so young, but who knows? It may work out--they are both performers, they understand each other's world...it is not as if he married some...waitress." She closed her eyes as the makeup artist applied a fine dusting of power to her forehead. "Still...a man like that, so handsome, so successful...he will want variety. All men do. Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but..." With an expressive little shrug, she opened her eyes, looking straight into mine with a sweetly malevolent expression resembling pity. "Poor, poor Sylvie," sighed Clothilde. "She will have sad songs to sing someday."

I would have walked out, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. Barry, who'd no doubt been witness to all sorts of cattiness in his decades among the stars, quickly began to speak of exposure times and f-stops, but I was barely listening...

"Mrs. Rattigan!" Harriette Dillard appeared by my side, in a makeup-smeared smock. "Just the lady I was looking for--Tracy would like your advice on something right away." She smiled at Barry. "Will you excuse us?"

Barry, a true courtly gentleman, thanked me for coming to him for pointers, even as I was expressing my appreciation for his work and his tips. While we walked to her work space, Harriette offered a confession.

"There's no emergency--I just thought you'd like an exit cue," she said with a shake of her head. "I couldn't help overhearing the tail end of that little soliloquy. Poor, poor Sylvie," Harriet added, doing such an accurate impression of Clothilde's faux-sympathetic tones that I had to laugh. "Lovely to look at, yes, but subtle as a sledgehammer..."

Perched on a stool in Harriette's workroom, I sipped coffee while the two of us chatted for half an hour or so. (Tracy was forbidden to talk "until the paint dried"...and Harriette playfully swiveled his chair away from me as she worked, explaining that she wanted his new look to be a surprise.) Finally, with a wink at Tracy, she stood up straight and put away her brush. "This is exaggerated for the lights, Lacey, but you'll get the general idea. Ready?"

She turned the chair around, and I almost fell from my stool.

It was Tracy, without a doubt...but it was Tracy as a very convincing, totally believable sixty-something-year-old man. Harriette's work was not the usual, overdone gray-wig-and-fake-wrinkles movie aging that you saw in film after film--it was art, pure and simple. In place of a wig, she'd brushed a silver creme-powder of her own invention into Tracy's own hair, and her careful blending of light, shade, latex and silicone perfectly simulated the effects of gravity and time. He had the lines left by traces of decades of smiles around his beautiful lips; his jawline was somehow appealingly softened, giving him the distinguished contours of a mature and thoughtful gentleman. And his eyes...the gentle bags and subtle crinkles around his lively pale green eyes spoke silent volumes about the laughter and the tears that had passed through a life well and fully lived. I had an odd sense of seeing into the future--and I liked what I saw.

"So, what do you think of your old husband now, darlin'?" asked Tracy in a slightly raspy, age-mellowed voice.

A surprisingly strong wave of emotion hit me as I looked at him and realized that there would never, ever be a time when I didn't find him absolutely beautiful. Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be...

"Wow," I finally answered.

"So nice to know I still have that effect on the young birds," Tracy winked. I examined his handsome, aged face carefully.

"I can't believe--what was the name of that big Biblical film last year?" Tracy supplied the title, and I continued. "I can't believe they didn't call on you instead of whoever it was that made the poor actors look like clowns. Do you ever work in Hollywood?"

"I'd love to," Harriette said with a sad little smile," but between my color and my gender, I could never get into the union in the States. Very closed shop, unfortunately."

"I had no idea, Harriette," said Tracy, softly. "I thought you worked here in Europe all these years because of Henri." (Henri, Tracy then told me, was the late Monsieur Dillard.) "Whatever we can do--whatever strings we can pull back home--we'll do so." I nodded in agreement. "You have our word. Talent like yours shouldn't be wasted because of idiotic prejudice."

"I'll say," I added. I simply couldn't get over how incredible Tracy looked. "And Clothilde is supposed to be running away from him?"

"According to the script," said Harriette.

"She's an idiot," I muttered, gazing fondly into the eyes of the most attractive old man I'd ever seen.

Harriette suppressed a laugh and simply cleared her throat. "In the interest of diplomacy, I'll let that statement stand on its own..."

The long hours mercifully drew to a close about ten p.m., with the final filming of the cafe scene and a welcome announcement; Tracy's part would be wrapped up by the next afternoon, when the exterior scenes would be filmed at a famous cafe in the heart of Paris.

"Oh--only two days with Tracy? I am so disappointed," Clothilde pouted, prettily, as Harriette and I watched from the other end of the cafe set.. "C'est la vie. At least we have tomorrow, oui?" Lowering her voice a little, Clothilde added, "And perhaps someday..."

I won't be forced into the role of the insecure jealous wife, I thought to myself while Clothilde hugged Tracy and gave me a poisonously sweet smile over his shoulder. I won't...

"Hmmph," said Harriette. "Pay her no attention--she's so envious of you she can hardly see straight. Not that she can see straight anyway--this day would have been over sooner if Mademoiselle Duval's vanity allowed her to wear her glasses when there's a man in the room." Shaking her sleek salt-and-pepper bangs from her dark eyes, Harriette chuckled. "Forgive me, Lacey--I'll retract my claws now. Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine," I replied, a little wistfully. "I guess every woman in the world wonders what it would be like, though--to be so stunning that conversation stops when you walk into the room..."

"Oh, you wonder about that, do you?" Harriette's eyes met mine, and a soft grin crossed her face. "How would you like to join me early for breakfast tomorrow, Lacey? I have an idea..."

April 14, 1965

I woke just before sunrise, and getting out of bed was one of the hardest things I'd ever had to do.

Between the jet lag and the long day of work at the studio, Tracy had barely been able to keep his eyes open during the ride back to our hotel the night before. But as I looked at my sleeping husband that morning, I saw no traces of the frantic pace we'd been forced to keep over the past two days. The rosy glow of the Parisian dawn streamed through our balcony doors, giving an almost angelic cast to his face as he slept, with his dark hair adorably tousled and his lovely nose pressed into the pristine white pillow. A trace of a smile crossed his lips as he sighed in his slumber, and I couldn't resist softly kissing his warm shoulder before slipping out of bed.

"Mmmmm," Tracy murmured. His long lashes fluttered for a second before he opened his eyes and gave me a slightly unfocused, sleepy silver-green look that struck me as incredibly sexy.

"Good morning, Mrs. Rattigan. Running out on me already, are you?"

"I have a breakfast date with Harriette Dillard...remember?"

He smiled and reached for my hand, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, right beside him.

"I have all sorts of vague memories...I seem to remember flying into Paris, and checking into a rather luxurious hotel with a terribly comfortable bed." Squeezing my hand and stifling a yawn, he went on. "Oddly enough, I also seem to recall that all we've done in this terribly comfortable bed is sleep like logs."

"Play your cards right and that may change this evening, sir," I said, lightly running my hand through his hair.

"You naughty bird...I thought you were a respectable married lady."

"Married, yes...respectable, not quite." Tracy's hand reached up and ever-so-gently began to untie the ribbon at the bodice of my nightgown, and I realized that if I didn't leave immediately, Harriette would be enjoying the croissants and coffee all by herself that morning.

"Tracy," I said, pulling the ribbon from his fingers. "I'd better hit the shower--" His eyes lit up a bit. "Alone." Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. "I'll see you at the cafe..."

As I rose, the bodice of my gown came completely undone, exposing a bit more of me than I'd planned; instinctively, I began to tie the ribbon again, but the drowsy smile on my husband's gorgeous face stopped my hands in midair.

"Get a little more sleep," I whispered, leaning over the bed rather provocatively and planting the softest possible kiss on his sweet lips. "You'll need it."

As I walked away, I could have sworn I'd heard a tiny whimper...

An hour and a half later, I was in Harriette's makeup trailer on a street in the heart of Paris, looking into a full-length mirror. A very, very glamorous stranger stared back.

Harriette had gone all out. When I met her that morning, she'd already selected an outfit for me--a cute red and white tweed skirted suit, very business-like except for a quite low-cut, squared-off neckline. (On the hanger, the curvy lines of the suit made it look as if no mortal woman could ever hope to wear it, but Harriette smiled and handed me a small bag--"all new, and yours to keep"-- containing a waist cincher, a girdle and a pair of special theatrical "helpers" for my own brassiere.) When she shook out the wig she'd chosen for me, I nearly fainted--it was a shoulder length flip in a highly unusual silver-blonde shade that I never would have hoped to get away with in a million years.

"Trust me, " said Harriette, twirling a makeup brush.

It was crazy, but somehow it all worked--in less than two hours I was transformed into a classic blonde bombshell, complete with feathery lashes, full glossy pinky-red lips, and--I guess Harriette couldn't resist--a beauty mark.

"And now for the cherry on top," she said, grinning. With a flourish, she handed me a pair of horn-rimmed glasses--the kind of glasses gorgeous movie heroines have worn since the 20's, glasses that convey bookishness without obscuring a fabulous, million-dollar face. One I donned them, the disguise was complete. Even my own father would have been hard-pressed to recognize me.

"These are going to be some amazing shots--oh!" I set the timer on my camera again, beckoning Harriette over. "We need one last shot of the two of us--it's not every day a girl gets a new look and a new friend."

After the flash went off, she put her brush aside and laughed.

"The real working day's just about to begin--ready?" I nodded. "Okay, Miss Va Va Voom...put a wiggle in your walk and think sexy thoughts." (I felt myself blush a little--I doubted I'd have too much of a problem with that, considering how the day began). "It's showtime!"

Our first "victim" was Don Strand himself--he took one look at us as we emerged from Harriette's trailer and practically set a land speed record walking over.

"Good morning," he smiled brightly, his eyes sweeping me from head to toe. "I see we have a visitor..."

"Only for a few hours, I'm afraid--my friend here has always been curious about what it is I do all day," laughed Harriette. "This is our director, Don Strand."

"How do you do," I said softly, giving him what I hoped was a mildly smoldering glance from behind my glasses. He took my hand and gave it a gentle, almost reverent kiss.

"So you're interested in the film business, eh?" Through my demurely lowered lashes I could see that Harriette was valiantly fighting the urge to burst into laughter. "It's a fascinating field, you know..." Strand casually put his arm around my shoulder and slowly began to walk away with me. "Far too fascinating for a single visit to a location shoot. Really, there's nothing I like better than talking about my work--perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner sometime, and I can tell you more about it, Miss..." With a wolfish grin, Strand continued. "I don't believe I caught your name..."

"It's Lacey."

"What a beautiful name--and oddly enough, one of my actors has a wife named..." Strand's jaw dropped a mile as the light began to dawn on him, and poor Harriette broke into hysterics. "Harriette!"

"Guilty as charged," she said, through her giggles. Don Strand gave her a mock-dirty look, then began to chuckle.

"Lacey," the director said, shaking his head, "if you ever get tired of working behind a camera, I think you've got a great future in front of one--"

"It looks as though the party's started without me," a familiar voice called out, and I turned to see Tracy striding confidently toward us. He'd already been to wardrobe--and he looked so handsome in his snug black racing jumpsuit and cycle boots that my first impulse was to borrow one of the motorscooters parked on the narrow street, and ride away with him.

"'Ello, Harriette dear--good mornin'," he said, with a polite nod at the blonde stranger. "You wouldn't happen to know where...Lacey?" He moved closer, studying my new look carefully, and I succumbed to the urge to lift my horn-rimmed glasses and give my husband a kittenish wink.

"Can you spare a moment for one of your biggest fans, Mr. Rattigan?" Sidling up to him, I added, in a breathy stage-whipser, "I'd be ever so grateful."

"Oh, we need a shot of this," said Harriette, reaching for my camera.

"I do like your jumpsuit..." As I fiddled with the oversized silver tab on the zipper at his chest, Tracy's sparkling eyes looked into mine in a way that made me a little dizzy.

"Stop that, darlin'," he whispered with a crooked grin. "This costume's too tight as it is..."

Don Strand shook his head again and sighed.

"And they say that bachelors have all the fun..."

The working day went remarkably well--much more smoothly than the long hours at the studio had led me to expect. Tracy's cameo was the second of several scenes to be filmed at the cafe that morning, and as we all waited patiently for la belle Clothilde to emerge from her trailer, I finally felt as if our real trip to Paris would begin very shortly.

Clothilde did not disappoint. She made a quietly dramatic entrance, tossing her tawny hair with just the right insouciance, as her makeup artist followed closely behind her. The extras, native Parisians one and all, cheered as she walked among them.

After a brief conference with Strand, Clothilde made her way over to where Tracy and I sat at an unused cafe table, holding hands.

"Bonjour, Tracy...where is--" She squinted very slightly at me, somehow guessing that the unfamiliar blonde was not a Frenchwoman. "Où est Madame, aujourd'hui?"

Where's the Mrs. today? Right under your delicate little nose...

I watched as Tracy gave her a slow, silent, expressive wink.

"Ooh la la," she whispered, smiling. "Do not worry, cherie--your secret is safe with me." With a tiny furrow of her brow, Clothilde studied my face again for a split second. "Ooh la la..."

"Hmmm," I murmured to Tracy, as we watched her glide away. "I wonder if ooh la la means that she recognized me, or that she didn't..."

Tracy chuckled and squeezed my hand. "Does it matter?"

The two of them nailed the scene in a few takes. Tracy was charming and sly as the British rogue with a bit more than scooter racing on his mind; Clothilde was believably sweet as the bright-eyed country girl who just happened to look jaw-droppingly sexy in a form-fitting jumpsuit. (Amusingly, my bombshell-Américaine look turned a few heads as well--during a break, a cute Parisian teenager shyly asked me for my autograph.) After the scene was done, and the hugs and handshakes and pats on the back were over, Tracy had a quick word with Strand, then he vanished for a moment. He reappeared at my side a few minutes later, astride a gleaming white Vespa scooter.

"Goin' my way, darlin'?"

Gallantly, he took my camera bag and slung it over his shoulder; then, as a cast and crew of a hundred watched, I climbed onto the scooter, wrapped my arms around my husband's waist, and made my getaway.

"Well, that was a short but sweet ride," I laughed, after Tracy stopped the scooter at a tiny park about a block away from the busy cafe.

With a warm smile, he helped me off the scooter and onto my feet. "This is as far as I can run off with studio property, unfortunately," he replied. "Not that riding away into the sunset with you wouldn't be a smashing idea..."

It was almost a shock to go from the chaos of a location shoot to this peaceful little tree-lined wedge of a park, bordered on three sides by graceful old four-story buildings with deep green awnings and shuttered windows. Tracy leaned against a tall birch tree, looking so dashingly handsome in his racing gear that he took my breath away. I'd have been content to just stand there and enjoy the way the mild April wind ruffled his dark hair--but he held out his hand and pulled me close, and I sighed as our lips met, enjoying the delicious feeling of his warm, sweet tongue swirling gently around mine .

Our honeymoon had finally begun.

"Welcome to Paris, Mrs. Rattigan."

I put my head on his shoulder and relaxed as his arms encircled my waist--or, to be more precise, the "slenderizing" foundation garment around my waist.

"My dear girl," Tracy laughed, "you feel just like an actress." With a wicked grin, he traced the low, square neckline of my jacket, then began to softly nuzzle my neck. "Ah...now that's all you..."

"Tracy...let's go back to the hotel...now."

"Now that's the best idea I've heard all day--"

Then, just beside my ear, I heard the unmistakable sound of a shutter going off.

"You bloody--" The photographer, a little weasel of a man in a stained gray overcoat, dashed away into a waiting car and took off like a rocket to parts unknown.

"I assume this means we'll be appearing in the Palace Peeper tomorrow morning," I muttered.

"I'm afraid it's worse than that, my love," Tracy said, his voice a mixture of anger and sorrow. "This means I'll be appearing in the Peeper tomorrow. I have a dreadful feeling the bloke has no idea who you really are."

"Oh--the disguise!"

Suddenly, Tracy stopped dead in his tracks--then, to my utter surprise, he let out a great whoop of a laugh.

"Lacey, my love--" He seized my shoulders and gave me an energetic kiss. "Even I couldn't have come up with something this brilliant!" Tugging at my hand, he ran with me to the scooter. "Hop aboard, my darling genius--I'll take you back to the cafe..."

We zipped down the block, and after a short conference with Don Strand, Tracy fired up the Vespa and gave me a hearty hug.

"I'll explain everything tonight at the hotel." He kissed me again, leaving me a little breathless, then in his best American accent, he whispered in my ear. "Keep your motor running, blondie..."

And with a saucy wink, he was gone.

Back at the hotel, I showered and changed, grateful to see my old familiar self in the mirror. On an impulse, I chose a deep blue, lace-trimmed camisole-and-panties set that I'd never worn before--it had seemed too over-the-top skimpy to don as actual underwear back home in New York. But somehow, in an lush Parisian hotel suite, it felt just right under my conservative cashmere cardigan and skirt. From room service, I ordered champagne, fresh bread and chocolate; a light dinner would follow later in the evening.

If I'd put two and two together correctly, Tracy deserved a hero's welcome when he came back.

"Hello, my angel--"

I greeted my husband with a long, soft kiss.

"You really are going to have to stop meeting me like this, Lacey," he said, dropping my camera bag on the velvet chaise longue and taking me into his strong arms again. "I can see myself in my old age, finding all manner of excuses to walk in and out of our front door, fifty times a day..."

I squeezed him tightly. "Fine."

"Aren't you even going to ask what I've been up to today?"

"Nope." With a wink and a tug at his hand, I led Tracy into the spacious, elegant blue and white tiled bathroom. "I'll draw a bath for you--relax, slip into something more comfortable..."

"Wait a minute, darlin'," he said, "you're going to spoil me tonight without a clue as to what I've actually done?"

"That's right." I turned the old-fashioned brass tap handle all the way around. "Let's just say I enjoy the suspense--I'll find out tomorrow, yes?" He nodded, clearly a bit mystified. "In the meantime..." I tugged at the zipper of his jumpsuit, and in turn, he reached for the first button of my cardigan sweater. Gently, I eased his hand away.

"Enjoy your bath," I whispered as I closed the door behind me.

Some moments later, I re-entered the bathroom, dressed only in my camisole and panties and carrying two champagne glasses on a tray. Tracy was blissfully stretched out in the enormous claw-footed bathtub, his dark hair framing his beautiful face in slightly damp curls, his long-lashed eyes closed, his magnificent nose pointing skyward. My darling, darling hero, I love you, body and soul...

"A bit of bubbly, sir?"

Tracy lifted his head from the bath pillow and slowly opened his eyes. Between the intoxicating scent of his favorite Yardley Lavender Spice bath salts and the hypnotic sweetness of his silver-green gaze, I was feeling a little lightheaded even before I took a sip of champagne. I pulled up the tiny chair from the vanity table and sat down at the edge of the tub; Tracy took a glass from the tray and drank it slowly, never taking his eyes off me.

"Join me, my love," he said, very softly. "Plenty of room and the water's fine..."

Surrendering to an emotion I could no longer resist, I leaned over and kissed him passionately, savoring the taste of his champagne-flavored lips with the tip of my tongue. I was taken by surprise at the intensity of my sudden hunger for him, and as he knelt at the edge of the tub, rising a little from the water, my lips never left his body. I nibbled at the tender spot just below his ear and the strong, graceful curve where his neck met his shoulder, enjoying the quickened rhythm of his pulse as he responded to my loving touch. With a smile, I made my way down his chest, lost in the warm, wet, fragrant beauty of his tanned skin. When I reached his lovely pinky-brown nipples, I lingered a bit, strumming them playfully with the tip of my tongue, fully aware of how beautiful that made my husband feel. Tracy let out a long, soft moan, and my heart seemed to swell with an inexplicable joy. It felt so transcendently good to make him feel good...

"Lacey...oh, darlin'..."

He reached for me, tenderly stroking my hair and caressing my shoulders, but I remained where I was--I wanted to concentrate on his splendid body a little while longer. Tugging discreetly at his hips under the sudsy water, I silently urged him to stand up in the tub; he took the hint and I rose with him a little, nuzzling the long, lean muscles of his slender waist and giving a swirling, tickling lick to his cute inny of a belly button.

"Mmmm..." I looked up at his handsome face and recognized the expression of sweet arousal. His pale green eyes were half-closed, his lips parted slightly; as I ran my hands up and down his sides and reached around to squeeze his tidy round bottom, Tracy took a deep breath and sighed again, sweeping my bangs from my eyes with a soft, reverent touch. He knew what would soon follow, and I was far too excited to prolong his torture much more. With tiny featherlight nips at the wet, clean skin of his firm thighs, I moved upward toward the treasures that my mouth so eagerly sought.

I could eat you up with a spoon, I thought, wickedly, as I smiled up at him. Or without one...

Pausing for an achingly brief moment to admire the view, I took a deep breath and bestowed the most intimate of kisses upon my husband, luxuriating in the salty-sweet taste of his hard, smooth, incredibly tender flesh. My hands were hungry for him too; I let my fingers enhance the caresses my lips and tongue joyously gave him. My senses were almost overloaded--I could have easily stayed there forever, just basking in the beautiful scent of lavender and spice and Tracy's warm skin, reveling in the sensation of my lips gliding across his body, listening to the music of his lusty, deep moans. His hips began to rock in time to my movements; then he took my hand and placed it on his chest, just above his racing heart, and he bent down and--I had to smile--sweetly kissed the top of my head.

"Lacey darlin', please...it's too good..." Tracy stroked my shoulder and urged me to my feet. "I want the night to last as long as it possibly can, my angel." Eye-to-eye now, we looked at each other for an exquisite moment, a look that said I love you more succinctly than words could ever convey. I flung my arms around his shoulders and he kissed me deeply, running his fingers through my hair and teasing the proud peaks of my breasts through the satin fabric of the camisole I still wore.

"Join me," he whispered, and as I gazed into his twinkling eyes, I realized I'd been given the sexiest kind of command. Silently, I obeyed.

The water was fine...it felt like we were immersed in warm, fragrant silk. I got into the huge tub and sat behind Tracy at first, offering to scrub his back. And I did, first with the soft bath sponge, and then with my sudsy, wet bosom, as he laughed and muttered something about my unorthodox bathing techniques. "Not that I mind at all..."

There was more than enough room for us to lie side by side, and Tracy soon stretched out beside me with his arm around my shoulder, as we both relaxed our heads against the white terrycloth bath pillow.

"I think we ought to buy this marvelous old tub and have it shipped home...what do you say?"

Playfully, I turned onto my side and threw a leg over his thigh. "Excellent idea."

"I thought you might agree." His free hand disappeared under the water; I shuddered with delight as he stroked my leg, slowly moving upward. My lips sought his once again, then they parted in pure pleasure as his fingers gently massaged the sweet spot at the heart of my womanhood. Tracy's caress sent intense waves of joy through my already-too-excited body, and I clung to him, moaning as he kissed and nibbled my neck and shoulders.

"Oh my," he sighed with a note of appreciation, as I rocked wantonly against his talented touch, all pretensions of cool utterly abandoned. I could feel myself swiftly aproaching the brink of ecstasy, but I wanted him to be fully with me...

"Tracy..." I reached for him underneath the water; he knew my intentions without another word. Quickly, Tracy slipped under me, reaching for my waist--and as he did, a lavender-spice scented tidal wave caught us both by surprise.

I burst into a helpless fit of laughter; Tracy sat there underneath me, drenched and smiling.

"Darling...remember what I said about buying this bathtub?" I nodded and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Let's buy the chaise longue instead..."

We hurriedly toweled off and made our way into the main room of the suite, where the red velvet chaise longue awaited us. Tracy smiled and stretched out on his back, reaching up for me, but I paused for a minute, loving the way he looked just then...aroused and happy and eager for my touch. I straddled the chaise, sitting up, and teased him, my skin barely brushing his at first--but then he began to run his hands all along my body, making slow circles around my sensitive breasts and tracing the long curve of my waist. By the time he took my bottom in his strong grip, I was in no mood to tease any longer.

"Mmmmm..."

I groaned passionately as I lowered my hips to his and our bodies became one. Emotionally and physically, I was filled to the point of overflowing with joy, and when I looked at Tracy's face, I could tell he felt the same sweet wave of bliss. Making love on the chaise meant being able to sit up and stroke his chest or kiss his lips without him being flat on his back and too far away; I availed myself of that lovely advantage as we moved together in a slow, deep, comfortable rhythm.

Then a wicked light came into Tracy's silver-green eyes, and my heart raced as I knew he'd take advantage of it, too...

"Yes, darlin' Lacey," he said in a deep, throaty voice, as his hand returned to the sweet spot he'd been stroking in the depths of the tub. "Let yourself go, my angel..."

At that point, I was utterly helpless against his expert touch--my beloved husband knew my body all too well. He watched me with a mixture of amusement and sheer lust as I closed my eyes for a moment and my movements and breathing grew quicker and stronger.

"Now, my love...now..."

His hands clutched my bottom tightly; he sped up his rhythm to match mine, and when I surrendered to the first sweet, intense bolt of ecstasy, Tracy pulled me forward onto his chest, so that we were heart-to-heart. I moaned softly in his ear, still trembling with pleasure, as he reached his peak of passion with a glorious muffled roar, his lips still pressed against my throat.

It was wonderful to lie there on the chaise together, catching our breath as our shared heartbeat gradually slowed down, enjoying the sensation of the evening breeze as it wafted through the balcony and cooled our skin. Tracy's arms encircled me; he held me to his strong chest as if I were a rare and priceless treasure, to be kept very close to his heart.

Let yourself go. How wonderful it was to be free to let myself go in his tender arms, knowing that he was there to embrace me, long after the passion of the night became a sweet morning's memory...

I lifted my head a little to look at my husband. He was very close to falling asleep, but when my eyes met his, he smiled and drowsily kissed my brow.

"I love you, Mrs. Rattigan," he said.

April 15, 1965

Late the next morning, Tracy rented a zippy Peugeot convertible and we made a quick trip to return his jumpsuit and my tweeds to the studio--but before we headed that way, he stopped at a news kiosk and picked up two papers--the Palace Peeper, and the more respectable-looking London Sunrise.

"It's not quite as prestigious as the Times, but it is the second most popular paper in all of Great Britain," Tracy explained as he flipped to the entertainment section. "Ah, there we are" he said, teasingly. "Are you still somewhat interested in what I was up to yesterday?"

It was all I could do not to wrestle the paper away from him; instead, I sat close to him and read over his shoulder.

Mistress of Disguise...
Makeup Artist Fools Tabloid in a Daring Publicity Coup

The tabloid press in London has apparently been the victim of a brillant publicity stunt for the upcoming film The Scandalous Scooter Chase, currently being filmed in Paris for Medallist Productions. British actor Tracy Rattigan, whose bachelor days ended a mere two months ago, was reportedly caught in a clinch with a "mystery blonde"; the blonde in question was none other than Mrs Rattigan, cleverly disguised by one of the best makeup artists in the business, American-born Harriette Dillard. Below, in an exclusive photo story for Sunrise readers, is a step by step look at her amazing transformation. (Photos by Lacey Rattigan.)

"Tracy!" I hugged him tightly, then covered his face with kisses. "But how on earth did you--"

"I had your camera case over my shoulder when we hopped on the Vespa, remember? It pays to be a gentleman, my love." He looked so beautifully cocky that I had to laugh and squeeze his hand. My hero...

Don Strand practically knocked us over when we appeared on the set, and Harriette came running.

"You two!" Strand hugged me and shook Tracy's hand with an almost unearthly vigor. "And you!" With a grin, Harriette did a mock bow to the director. "If you ever decide to get out of your respective fields and go into film publicity---we couldn't have bought a better ad for the movie if we tried! Unless..." Strand looked at the suit and the wig I'd just returned to Harriette, and I could almost read his mind.

"No, Mr. Strand, I think one bombshell per film is enough," I said, as Clothilde walked our way. "Don't you?"

"Bonjour!" Clothilde looked quietly triumphant that morning when she strolled by us, as if she'd gotten a rich slab of good news. I thought she was happy about the unexpected publicity, until I noticed the top banner headline on the stack of tabloids she carried.

"Dewey defeats Truman," Tracy said with a wink.

"Listen, Lacey, you haven't heard the best news yet," Harriette said. "The wire services picked up the story. I got a call from Moses himself this morning!"

I must have looked confused--Tracy and Harriette laughingly explained that the actor whose main claim to fame was playing Moses in a hit Biblical film was also the president of the American Screen Actors Guild.

"He seems to think I'd be a great candidate for opening up the union I should belong to. I could very well get to work in the States for the first time--after twenty-five years in the business." I hugged her tightly, happy for her beyond words. "Thank you two so very much..."

"I realize how...feminine this is of me, but I have to know," I said to Tracy as we walked by Clothilde's stack of papers. (La belle was busy conferring with her makeup artist about the proper delivery of a cup of coffee.) "Did she or did she not recognize me yesterday?"

"I'm willing to bet that not only did she not recognize you--she's also probably the one who tipped off the Peeper moles about the mystery blonde, " muttered Harriette.

"I'm shocked at your cynicism," Tracy said to her with a grin. "You're almost certainly correct, of course, but I'm shocked." He winked at us and opened his copy of the Sunrise to the pertinent article, then placed it on top of the pile, just above the Peeper with its Racy Tracy's Mystery Blonde--Caught in Action! headline. "We'll see in a moment, won't we?"

Clothilde walked by us, the controversial coffee in her hand, and we said our goodbyes.

"Bonne chance, Lacey" (Good luck.) Her cornflower blue eyes met mine, and I suspect we both regarded each other with a little pity. "I am sure you are going to have an interesting day today." And then, right in front of me, she winked at my husband.
"Call me," she whispered.

"The day she learns to be truly happy for another human being," Tracy said as she walked away, "she will become a beautiful woman." He squeezed my hand, and we turned to leave.

"Incroyable!"

We were no longer able to see her, but the unmistakable tones of Clothilde Duval's celebrated voice rang out as we made our exit. "Monsieur Strand! Why was I not told! This is...inexcusable! I will not work today--"

"Clothilde, please..."

"Lacey, darlin'," said Tracy, "I believe you've just heard the correct translation of ohh la la."

An hour later, Tracy and I relaxed in wicker chairs on the terrace of a green-awninged cafe, sipping esspresso and watching the people go by, as if we'd been in Paris all our lives.

"You're terribly mysterious and quiet, love," Tracy said, resting his chin on his hand. "Penny for your thoughts."

I sighed, embarrassed. "Just remember, you asked for it." He nodded, his green eyes twinkling with affection. "I was thinking that we still haven't used that marvelous bed in our hotel room for anything other than sleep..."

"Hmmm...a tub, a chaise--unusual places do have their appeal, you know." Tracy took my hand and intertwined my fingers with his. "You know, it's such a dreadful shame that we missed our chance to join the mile-high club while you were still a stewardess, Mrs. Rattigan..." A mischievous little grin lit up his face. "How tall do you suppose the Eiffel Tower is, my flower?"

I won't say whether we did or not...all I'll say is that the view from the observation deck is breathtaking under any circumstances--especially at sunset.

The film, of course, went on to become one of the biggest hits of 1965. Harriette's work has been an even bigger hit--there's nothing like winning an Oscar to ease the pain of decades of bias. And of course, Clothilde Duval is best known these days for her line of optical fashion accessories. She is rarely seen without a pair of chic eyeglasses.

Other than the usual publicity blurbs, our names stayed out of the gossip columns--well, except for the quiz-show scandal the next year. But that, as they say, is another story...

The End
********************

FanFic
The Richard Dawson Experience

Email: RichardDawsonFan@aol.com