It Was A Sin

         There were no gay people in South Wales when I was growing up. 

Or should I say, there were no out gay people. South Wales was not a safe space for anyone different back then, and especially not for a filthy abomination on the sanctity of God’s Holy Methodist Order of Excruciatingly Dull Things. Methodists do not share their Catholic brothers’ enthusiasm for campy bling, cherub-faced altar-boys, heady incense nor men swathed in long, lavishly embroidered gowns, with kitschy golden accessories. My Methodist history teacher actually thought playing cards were the Devil’s work, poor dear.

There were gay people, of course. In fact, my mother was convinced I was one, and swooned in utter relief when I finally brought home the gorgeous, soccer-playing stud, Steve when I was almost 17 - my first “proper” boyfriend. Mother had enjoyed several years of fervid whispering about my imagined lesbian tendencies to my wildly popular, big-haired and large-breasted older sister.  Fact was, I was scrawny, knock-kneed, wore thick National Health glasses and did my homework, whilst occasionally writing really sad poetry about The Great War (I won a pen!) and listening to Ziggy Stardust. Not exactly a femme fatale, was I. Although later, I came to play one in B Movies, which really was the ultimate irony and delicious revenge on the beautiful skinny Welsh boys that wouldn’t                   dance with me at the school disco. But they all got paunchy early from too much booze and         marital boredom, and they bald-ed young. Mother Nature has a way of working                             these things out, doesn’t she? 

Mummy, a beautiful lifelong Daily Mail reader and rather a vacuous woman, liked to date cops. My father and she had split before I was born, and he’d run off to LA with an uber glamorous American fashion model, so one could in retrospect have some empathy. But I couldn’t ever forgive her the cop-dating. There were three of them in total, but her fave was in Vice, and he got his jollies by raiding public toilets (the only place where queer
men could meet in our dank, provincial town) and arresting them after giving them a vicious - Vice-ous beating and subsequently outing them to their horrified wives and families. Such terrible times were these, and not so long ago, either. The Goddess Ru Paul had not yet been invented. 

I realize now that I did have two queer friends growing up, although neither one was out as a teen. Johnny was a camp yet butch Punk who wore eyeliner and introduced me to Ian Dury, Blondie, Jayne County and Elvis Costello. He was eternally  “tortured” and it may very well have been a pose, but he did have valid reason. The other was brilliant Alison, now an accomplished and happily married doctor. We were a rag-tag group of pseudo poets and the eternal outsiders. We loved Punk Rock, The Anti-Nazi League and we did really well on our exams; a combo which was of course, crushingly un-sexy.  But as teens, poor Johnny and Alison both had to put up the constant pretense of liking, snogging and “getting off with” spotty members of the opposite sex.  I wish I’d understood better what they were going through; it must have been horribly exhausting, but being an out gay teen was simply not an option at our violently unforgiving comprehensive school. 

I had met some out queer men in California with my dad and the model, and they were the most vibrant and beautiful creatures. Actors and artists, they were all extraordinarily stylish, flawless dancers, clear of complexion and unfailingly kind to me. I first visited LA in the summer of ’77 and their light had shone incandescently down upon this skinny Welsh mouse. And with their encouragement and some serious zhuzh-ing, I was outwardly transformed and given the confidence to leave school, flee wet, grey Wales and to become a model myself, at the start of the coolest decade, in the hottest city on the planet - London, fucking England!

               London 1980

I was introduced to my first model agent, Don by my Dad, who’d recently produced a film with him. Owning a model agency was just one of Don’s many business concerns, and he was entirely unscrupulous in all. We’d spent the summer on the tiny Greek Island of Monemvasia, where Dad and Don had co-produced a very schlocky horror film starring James Earl Jones (who really should have known better, but obviously fancied a paid sojourn on a sunny Greek Isle).  Dad, of course did all the actual producing work, while Don drank Chablis (never retsina, darling!)  on the rented yacht and tirelessly chased around the film’s pretty American actresses as well as select local teenaged beauties, much to their Orthodox mothers’ beady-eyed chagrin.

It was a halcyon time. I, who had suddenly blossomed and finally budded tiny breast-lets, almost lost my virginity to a creepy, fake-tanned American TV actor who was twice my age, and I thought, just

        gorgeous. My father managed to drag me              out of said thespian’s hotel room before                  the deed was done, and it was all a soul-                destroying embarrassment. I was very                    impressionable at 16, but in my defense I              ’d never previously seen a man that                       muscly, that tanned or with such perfect                  highlights. I cringe every time I see him                  now on TV, and somehow he still is on TV,              although markedly craggier, and I’m not                  going to tell you his name, dear reader. It’s            WAY too mortifying. He was practically                  orange, for fuck’s sake.

Anyway, I digress. September, 1980 and my father and I walked into my future model agency, which was well past it’s sell-by date but tucked alluringly behind High Street Kensington, which seemed to me the very height of mod London cachet. The agency’s claim to fame was having once repped Kelly LeBrock who was a raving beauty, a frequent Vogue cover girl, an utter nutcase and now a major Hollywood star. She had evidently moved on by this point but it was this juicy bait that lured us both in.

However, it was Gabriella that made us stay. Glamorous Gabriella was the receptionist and the most shocking vision of pulchritude that ether of us had ever laid eyes upon  Her head swathed in diaphanous scarves, lids daubed in exotic Cleopatra makeup and wearing a thousand jangling bracelets, my poor Dad fell irrevocably in love on the spot. I was just astonished to see someone like this in the flesh. A Real Life New Romantic!! And she was smiling at us. I’d read all about this latest fashion sub-culture in Honey and 19 and I desperately wanted in. Happily, Gabs was approachable and brilliant and we quickly became fast friends. Not only a stunning beauty with a tiny Monroe-esque figure, she had an astonishing head for business and a mind like a steel trap. At 18, she had seen a gap in this fuddy-duddy agency, and had created her own boutique department, known rather rudely as Freaks.

Gabriella repped Boy George and Marilyn along with the dazzlingly handsome, James Lebon, who would later become one of the great loves of my life. Gabriella’s boyfriend was a well known bass player in the coolest band on the charts, and together they knew Malcolm Mclaren and all of Vivienne Westwood’s models. It was a far cry from Llanelli, and I immediately became obsessed with dressing New Romantically and lusting after Adam Ant and most of Spandau Ballet. All the friends I made then, I hold dear to this day. Everyone was a peacock, a fledgling pop star or a designer,  and it was an incredibly fecund time in both fashion and music. Boys dressing as girls, boys wearing makeup, straight boys kissing other straight boys….it endowed me with a lifelong love of androgynous men along with an unrequited passion for drag queens. 

By early 1981, I was working fairly steadily for low level clients, as this agency (apart from La Gabriella) was simply not au courant with the fashionistas who ran the magazines. But I met and fell madly in love with the genius hair stylist, Sam McKnight on a Freemans Catalogue shoot as we shared a very Celtic sense of the ridiculous. Sam would tong my long, lank hair into a huge mass of teased ringlets, which was totally fab in 1981. I used to sleep in pipe cleaners in order to replicate the look, but by 11 am on the damp streets of London it always looked pathetic and flat. I painted my eyes purple and gold like Gabs’, and bought a mulberry taffeta pantaloon and bolero suit (probably from Miss Selfridge)  which I wore to my second cousin’s wedding in Mold, North Wales. My mother literally shunned me for that transgression and I was not included in any of the wedding photos. So there is no evidence of this sartorial monstrosity, but I assure you, it existed and I loved it so. I also bought a white puffy shirt with a huge Elizabethan collar which I wore to death, and in which I did some misguided test shots for my burgeoning portfolio. (see below, left)

After a year of tacky jobs and constant financial struggle, both Gabriella and I moved on to a new agency, which suddenly made us the coolest girls on the  London scene. Editors and designers were dying to dress me now, and luckily I had a year’s worth of invaluable experience learning my trade. I was ready, I knew exactly what I was doing and I was just eighteen. My career sky-rocketed overnight and I was constantly on a plane going somewhere.

I was also being zhuzh-ed by the greatest artists in London and in Paris, Milan and New York too. 90% of all the men in hair and makeup were gay, and I loved every one of them. Paul Gobel, Regis, Alistair, Howard, Ray Allington and Sam of course…working with them was exciting and creative and they brought real artistry to bear. Plus, they were all utterly hilarious, and we’d fall apart screaming on every shoot. Early ’80’s hair and makeup tended towards the extreme but I loved it. I adored being their baby drag queen and I watched and learned and asked for more, more, more! I wanted to eradicate that shy Welsh mouse and be fierce, just like them. My hedonistic new tribe had all experienced similar hardship and bullying growing up in small, provincial places and so our mutual bond and protective sense of humor were iron-clad. We saw each other, we understood and as a group we rejoiced in our newly minted freedom.

And at night we would dance! The Embassy, The Limelight, The Wag, Heaven, The Camden Palace, Legends…all the clubs were mixed and they were all fabulous. I had just missed The Blitz Club by virtue of being just a little too young, but dressing up was still  de rigueur and going out was a virtual art form. Cocaine, spliff and ecstasy were the party favors of choice, the music was soulful and funky and you had better bring it, every single time. I remember a birthday party for a young actress at the Camden Palace and looking around the VIP room to see members of Wham!, Sade, Generation X, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Boy George, Bananarama, Marilyn, Hayzi Fantazee, Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran all in attendance, along with fledgling designers, John Galliano, Stephen Jones, Jasper Conran, David Holah, Stephen Linard and many more all loved up and getting down with every cute fashion stylist on the planet. It was a joyous moment if rather unhealthy, but we were all young, fearless and gorgeous and we could handle it. Until of course, we couldn’t.

       AIDS began to decimate the fashion community. I remember the shameful whisperings,               the sudden fear and the abject prejudice creeping in around 1983. Gay makeup artists                 were now pariahs, and it was cruel. Models feared being touched lest they catch the                     plague. We were all terrified, and some handled it better than others. We lost many

       brilliant talents during this time, and sweet fearless Mitzi           Lorenz should be knighted for her bravery and                           extraordinary kindness in taking care of our beloved                 Ray Petrie. Perhaps the greatest fashion stylist of the               eighties and a bright light that was snuffed out way too           soon. There’s not much that I can say about the AIDS               epidemic that hasn’t been said already and by greater               writers than I. This piece is not about AIDS nor about               death, it’s about love; it’s a love letter to all the funny,               sensitive souls that have held me close and lifted me up            when I needed them the most. 

Once I moved to New York in 1985, overt sexual harassment was a constant part of my day job.  From my greatly feared and revered model agent, who expected her “girls” to attend endless stuffy dinners with bloated old men and to cheerfully put out, or find their go-sees and bookings suddenly dwindle to zero. To the famous photographer who promised me a Cover Girl makeup campaign as long as I spent the weekend with him. He locked me in his studio and tried to ply me with cocaine, frothing at the mouth while telling me he’d make me a movie star. I’m not sure how I got out of there unscathed, but somehow I did, albeit Cover Girl campaign-free. And the fat toad of a photographer’s agent on a trip to Venice, Italy, who virtually smashed in my hotel room door, while panting and promising me the cover of Votre Beaute’, a high-end French magazine. And who could forget my delightful Parisian agent, Jean-Luc who stopped sending me on go-sees after I refused to stay at his house, and whom later served time for statutory rape of underage girls. It was exhausting fighting them off, as they considered our lithe young bodies to be rightful perks of the job and they got downright vicious when spurned. Bottom line, my NY fashion career soon dried up and I quit modeling at the grand old age of 21 to attend drama school in the West Village.

Through all the time I spent in New York dealing with these appalling men, my fabulous gay posse and stylish model girlfriends offered champagne and solace, making me laugh and taking me dancing; always naughty, always funny and always keeping me safe. New York would have been unbearable had it not been for Sam and Paul and Emma et all. I’m certainly not trying to prove my fag-hag bona fides, but you could always find me in a dark corner somewhere at Danceteria or Palladium or Area, having a good old gossip and sharing an illicit substance with at least one of the boys. Straight men just wanted to own/ change/control me. Queer men allowed me to be free and to be truly myself.

Soon I made the inevitable move west to pursue my acting career. Long story short, apart from Dallas, on which I was lucky enough to win a regular part during my second

professional audition; my life with its unabated sexual harassment continued apace. I hope this doesn’t make me sound like I think I’m all that, I was by no means alone in this, as it was widespread and simply how business was done back then, and since movie-making in Hollywood itself began. One producer told me he’d get me an audition for a leading role as long as I “took care of him.” I had no idea what this meant, (a blow job, apparently) and I found out later that most of the famous actresses from that period went helplessly along with this devil’s bargain. I once had an acting agent who told me I “wasn’t a real actress” because I refused to go topless                and  be video-taped at an audition along with hundreds of other ingenues, to be viewed                later by a famous director and his slathering cronies. All the parts I went up for were                      junkie hookers, or femmes fatales or raped nuns, blah blah blah and here all I’d ever                    wanted was to make people laugh. It really wasn’ turning out to be that funny, not at all. 

But at night in LA I quickly found my tribe, and I met my best friend Bryan soon after arrival. LA nightlife was white HOT in the late eighties, and we were out every single night, castings be damned. Warehouse parties, after hours’, art openings, Power Tools, Boys & Girls. It was wild and sadly many did not survive, whether it was the plague or the drugs that got them. We clung tightly to our new found friends, but many beautiful men that we adored left the party way too soon. 

The final death knell for my acting career came with the Weinstein incident, about which I have written before and at length but as a work of fiction. Sadly, what happened to me was no fiction, and I was that hopeful (cliche’d) girl who was chased around a French hotel room by the hugely powerful and obese film producer in his underpants. Yes, I made a joke out of it, but it could have ended very badly had I not been quick-witted and drunk-brave. It did however, end my acting career.  Sexual harassment, and that awful implied quid pro quo just never went away, and I found myself exhausted and unable to fight the system alone anymore. I have nothing but respect for the women who have brought this particularly vile man to justice. I simply didn’t have the stomach for reliving it over and over, and it was the icing on the proverbial of 20 years of this abhorrent yet commonplace behavior. I pray that the last few years of the #metoo movement and all the rolling male heads have made it easier now for young girls to work without fear. In my day, it was our word against theirs and they always won. 

Someone smart once said that men fear that women will laugh at them, while we fear that men will kill (or rape) us. Whichever is worse. Our gay friends allow us to open our hearts and to develop trust in men again. Straight men should be eternally grateful to their queer brothers for that.

As 2021 grinds on, and Covid still has our freedom in its insidious clutches, I wanted also to express what Ru Paul and her Drag Stars have done to help me and so many others. It’s God’s work that she does - uplifting us, entertaining us and bringing glamour week after week to our dull, unspontaneous lives. I once had a rather embarrassing run-in with Goddess Ru at the World of Wonder Christmas party where I drunkenly approached her (and I never approach celebrities, as it’s always been a recipe for disaster in my personal experience). Anyway, I gushed my adoration for her like a sweaty trainspotter, and she took one terrified look at me and ran, undoubtedly thinking I was a deranged stalker that might kill her. I cringe openly at this memory,  but I do worship her and value the work she has done, not just in bringing the glitz, but the fact that her very existence is a shining beacon of hope for all the sad, confused little boys that have been rejected by their families and who’ve been thrown out onto the street, often to die                 terrified and alone. Ru Paul has changed our world and brought a cultural shift to pass,               and for that she should be forever exalted.

Last summer I watched in horror as my elegant, brilliant father shriveled to nothing and died a slow, painful death, about which I could do absolutely nothing, Drag Race was the one constant that kept my step mother and I going, offering an effervescent injection of joy and light relief. That kind of inclusivity, filthy humor and vibrant color is what this world needs right now to heal its divisive wounds. It’s God’s work that she does, and I believe it's far more Christian than Christianity itself. Thank you, Ru for everything you do and I promise to behave myself next time we meet. Ish....

This piece is dedicated to Bryan, Daniele, David, Gregory, Jerome, James SJ, Kurt, Matteo, Sam, Paul G, Paul R, Paris, DeObia,  Ian, Stephen H, Jon,  John G, Stephen R, Trevor, Rich R, Carlos, Gianni, Nelson, Neil B, Nick H, Christos, Greg, Joseph, Garry, Magnus, Michael R Shaun, Mark M, Mario, Duggie, Ray A, Ray P,  Regis and to all the beautiful angels living or passed - I love and appreciate you so much. Let’s hold hands and dance together soon beneath the disco ball. I’ve really missed you……x

Written by Annabel Schofield March 2021: Title inspired by the brilliant HBO series, It’s A Sin written by Russel T Davis.

Photo Credits (in order of appearance):

Annabel aged 9 by Sally Marr, Cortina

Annabel aged 16 by Graham Attwood on the set of Blood Tide in Monemvasia

Kelly LeBrock by Bill King for American Vogue

Boy George (photographer unknown)

Annabel aged 17 by Mark Lebon in London

Ray Petrie by Mark Lebon

Annabel & Drummond Murais on the set of Dragonard 1987, South Africa, 

Annabel on the set of Exit in Red 1994, Los Angeles

Ru Paul (photographer unknown)

The Thrill Is Gone…. on why I left the City of Angels (and Demons).

I was raised in a house heavy with disease and unfulfilled dreams. My mother, sister and I lived with my maternal grandparents who died in slow succession from disparate, yet equally debilitating and humiliating illnesses.  As a child, I had to be silent and to tip-toe, always praying never to disturb.  No dancing, singing nor artistic tantrums for me.  “Shush” was the word most often heard chez Schofield; medical treatments and funeral arrangements the commonest topics of hushed conversation.

Into this darkness burst the ecstatic éclat of Fred Astaire and the radiant Ginger Rogers. They whirled magically into our shadowy living room on a Saturday afternoon via the tiny black and white telly; these glowing, effervescent faerie creatures, leaving a trail of ostrich feathers and glitter in their glamourous, frothy wakes.  They were perfection, and although there was no colour visible, in my youthful mind I visualized peach, gold, mint, silver and lavender. I was immediately hooked. Hollywood became my drug, starting with hare-brained ‘30’s musicals, I was soon mainlining Monroe, the Kelly’s (both Grace and Gene) the Hepburn’s (both Audrey & Kate), Natalie Wood, James Dean, Sean Connery, Ursula Andress, Grant & Gable, Jane Fonda, Newman & Redford, Brando, McQueen & McGraw, Elvis, Maclaine, Beatty, Dunaway and Deneuve. Their talent, charisma and iconic cool magically transported me from the bland gloom of life in that tenebrous house, in that grey and violent town where to express a love of art and beauty was to place a large target on one's callow young back. 

                                                         

So I kept my feelings closeted, and secretly devoured everything glamour- and Hollywood-related that I could find: James Bond novels, books on Art Nouveau, Alphonse Mucha, Art Deco, Erte, Edith Head, Isadora Duncan, Biba, Givenchy, Ossie Clarke, Norman Mailer’s Monroe biography, everything about Elvis, Ann Margaret, Barbarella, The Valley of The goddamn Dolls…I had a subscription to Vogue by the time I was eight and I proceeded to copy all the exquisite couture gowns; hand-sewing mini-me versions for my beloved Daisy Doll (who, by the way, was usually costumed by the iconoclastic designer, Mary Quant – how presumptuous was I? ).

Jerry Hall 1975

A very strange and creative child, living a double life under the roof of an unimaginative and over-burdened mother who could not quite fathom her youngest’s arcane reading habits, nor why her diaphanous underpinnings would suddenly disappear from their lavender-scented habitat, only to be miraculously reincarnated as tiny bespoke doll clothes. I was equally obsessed with Norman Parkinson and David Bailey’s iconic Vogue editorials of those mythical glamazons, Marie Helvin and Jerry Hall.  Because the Seventies referenced the Thirties, and Thirties Hollywood was my gateway drug, fashion-wise.  Chiffon, silk, bias-cuts, tea gowns, turbans, bugle beads, satin, feathers, liquid jersey -  these were my chosen opiates, in a world meekly offering me drab denim and burgundy polyester.

                                                                 

But dear reader, all was not lost for this repressed and glamour-obsessed tyke, for my father and his model slash artist girlfriend, Sally moved to Los Angeles. After several years

Sally Marr 1975

of circling the globe, these two feckless nomads finally settled in West Hollywood! My young heart sang with unfettered joy, and although it would be another 5 years before we would actually visit them, at last I had an in. There was a klieg light at the end of the tunnel. And fabulous Sally, bless her - she saw a kindred spirit in me – having been brought up in a violently fundamentalist Christian burg in Texas, and having escaped to the catwalks of Paris at an early age. Sally was my pusher, and she frequently sent photos of parties that they had attended – Sally perpetually swathed in some outrageous costume, combining ostrich feathers, a million noisy bangles and perhaps a turban or embellished headband to complete the look. My personal Auntie Mame combined with a dash of Tony Montana, I don’t know how I would have survived childhood without Sally and those images; and the delicately lovely gifts which arrived wrapped perfectly, all fuelling my innocent passion and obsession for glamourous Hollywood.

Bette Davis

My sister and I finally visited California in 1977. My father and Sally lived in a glorious apartment (no prosaic 'flat' this) on the penultimate floor of the Colonial House on Havenhurst, which is an example of golden age Art Deco perfection made concrete. I nearly died on arrival, only to discover that Bette Davis lived in the Penthouse.  Bette fucking Davis!  And one evening we saw Lyndsey de Paul and James Coburn in the elevator. In 1977 this was HUGE as she had just represented the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest and was radiantly blonde and elfin. Google it, children. Naturally, Sally drove a 1969 silver-green E-Type Jaguar, and the household was completed by a snooty Borzoi named Boris who was perhaps the most beautiful (and brainless) canine ever to paw the earth.  He even had his own agent.

                                                                      

Our family: 1978

My father and Sally were part of a rather racy, yet impossibly gorgeous and creative set, all of whom appeared to be sleeping with one other.  Well, it was the Seventies. But the oddest part was that everyone was genuinely nice, and complemented me and encouraged my previously closeted dreams.  Suddenly, I was being told I was beautiful which I honestly thought quite mad, as it was widely accepted knowledge that my sister was the pretty one, and that I was smart and gawky; but it was our gorgeous mother who was the undisputed beauty of the family.  But who was I to question these Californian weirdoes? I felt reborn within their kindness and attention, and I blossomed that summer, as Sally dressed me up in her fabulous designer clothes and then proceeded to photograph me, paint my portrait and finally parade me, her freakish little creature at all these amazing parties, before all these exotic people.   Finally, I was home.

                                                                   

Sunset Blvd 1979

Even I, a mere country bumpkin sensed there was something special happening in West Hollywood during those drowsy, halcyon days. It truly was a Bohemian place, welcoming to all creeds: gay, straight or otherwise. Dad and I would walk the dog along Sunset Boulevard, the heady air scented with honeysuckle, night blooming jasmine and the odd illicit whiff of marijuana, while gleaming convertibles cruised stunning transvestite hookers. Dad knew all “the girls” by name, and I was immediately smitten by their outrageous glamour and cheeky humour (still am!).  Boris loved them too and gave each carefully sequined crotch a respectful sniff.  In West Hollywood, everyone was creative, everyone was most definitely stoned, but it resembled a Utopian village filled with beautiful actors, musicians, writers, painters and directors, all of whom smiled and welcomed me in. The perpetual late summer sunshine bathed the world in a treacly and hypnotic golden glow, all set to the distant throb of a dissolute disco beat.

Then come September, I would have to return home.  Cue the ugly, cheap  comprehensive school uniforms, the endless drizzle and the incessant teasing. I would retreat into my shell and hibernate, endlessly reliving those hot summer nights in my fervid, teenaged brain.

                                                       

My Hollywood summers continued until I was 16, when I left school to start my own

The author by Bailey for Vogue

fashion career in London. After a slow start, I did make a go of modeling and was lucky enough to not only travel the world, but also to work extensively with one of my idols, the great mentor and artist, David Bailey.  Awestruck as I was in his presence, those Bailey shoots were the highpoint of my photographic career, where grubby commerce was left behind and pure creativity blissfully took over.

                                                              

I loved London in the early eighties, also Paris and even New York, but always at the back of my mind was my golden, Hollywood dream. Its siren song was strong, and I finally made the move west in 1986, from New York where I’d been feverishly studying The Method in the Village.

                                                                 

Sally and my father had split by this point, but on arrival, I stayed with her on Sweetzer at  El Mirador, another exquisite Art Deco apartment, then shortly after, I moved  into my Dad’s larger version on Sunset and Doheny Drive. I dove headlong into the culture, and soon I was enrolled in acting classes and driving lessons and meeting many other like-minded young people, all chasing their own magic-hour version of the Hollywood dream.

                                                                

Charlie Sexton

1986 Los Angeles was lit by Ritts and shot by Weber. It was the Rebirth of the Cool set to a Hip Hop beat.  Everyone drove a classic car and slowly cruised around checking each other out. The smell of sex, sensimilla and gasoline lay heavy on the air. And the beauties! My god – on any one day you could see Paul Simonon and Charlie Sexton steering their Triumphs down Melrose, helmet-less perfection, trailing Mickey Rourke and a score of other too-cool eighties icons with vertiginous cheekbones, their Levis cut just so.  At night, we went to The Olive, to Smalls, to Smokey Ho and to Power Tools, and to underground warehouse clubs too dodgy and illicit to mention. 

And the girls – these rare beauties – yes, of course there was Christy and Cindy and Tatijana, but what of the other girls? The real girls: Jade, N’Dea, Misha, Fabian, Janelle, Kat, Lola, Lisa Ann, Lisa Marie. The list goes on, such wild, stylish

Herb Ritts

beauties – their only artifice, a slash of scarlet lipstick and an omnipresent, sticky lip-hanging cigarette; their natural bodies devastating in cinched black vintage cocktail gowns from Aardvarks, or upscale from Maxfields with ripped fishnets, high-heeled boots and their boyfriends’ leather jackets.  Such cool girls – their beauty unsullied by Botox and filler, just a little tired and dissolute from having too much fun - their wild, teased hair in a perpetual state of just-fucked disarray.

                                                                            

And boy, did we have some fun.  There was Botswana – Sean and Maria's tiny boite on Sunset where I first encountered (and secretly fell hard for) that troubled young genius, Robert Downey Jr; the after-

 Bruce Weber

hours, Compton BBQ joint BJ’s, which one entered through a swiveling bookcase, and which served groovier sustenance besides its special sauce to us nefarious night crawlers; my 25^th birthday party at a historic, haunted mansion which was gate-crashed by Malcolm McLaren and whence he quietly played the grand piano all night, while chaos, B-Boys and drag queens spun all around him, this supernaturally calm force of cool.  Boys and Girls and the infamous blue drinks where we played psychedelic charades with baby Bryan in shadowy corners until way past dawn.  The week that Big Audio Dynamite slayed The Roxy and every rock-star in the known universe came to bow down and pay homage – and the mad after parties we had at the Hyatt House (at least I think we did –  although little is remembered).

Helena’s in Silverlake – eternal king of cool, Jack Nicholson and Boy Toy, Madonna's club where I was laughingly thrown out for misbehaving with a certain member of Pink Floyd (you know who you are!); and of course, our royal leader, Prince’s surprise after-show gigs, which will ever go down in funk history and with which he continues to grace us to this day.  All Hail the King.

Prince

Yes, Los Angeles was cool then, and Downtown was the final Frontier. The corporations and the condominiums had not yet taken over, and we all jitteringly cruised Sunset and Melrose in our classic cars, the jasmine-scented night air blowing through our high-teased up-do’s while funk, Hip Hop, reggae and soul mix-tapes by Mike, Matt, Rick, Jon or Duff blasted from our soon to be ripped-off stereos.   Yes, Los Angeles was cool once.

                                                      

And what of my lady now? Now she just makes me sad. Like watching an ex-lover or a close friend distort her beautiful features with plastic surgery, in a dangerous attempt to slow, or deny the natural aging process; El Lay is bright and hard and shiny and desperate, lousy with anorectic, "enhanced" octogenarians, and with scarily entitled teenagers, all gagging for a reality show, no charisma nor talent evident in their lifeless eyes.  

Kim K and friend

Was it always thus? Was my romantic love for her just that? An infatuation? A cinematic projection of all my childhood dreams made manifest, and then somehow chemically altered? I don’t know. But it’s no place for a Hollywood ending, which is what I’m now looking for. Fame used to be something magical that was bestowed upon the truly gifted and dedicated, but now it's a cheap, black-market currency available to anyone with an Instagram account, a video camera and an equally desperate lover.

Andy Warhol was right of course. In the future everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes. Well the future is now, and ain’t it grand?  

The thrill is gone. 

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Chapter 8: Cannes, 1991 continued...

Angelika’s bleary eyes creaked painfully open. She was lying fully dressed, top to tail with Samantha in her narrow single bed in Sam’s elegant hotel suite. Luke lay snoring exuberantly in the second bed that was situated across the room.

               “Oh God.” murmured Angelika, who surmised that hormonal hamsters had to have been fornicating all night in her mouth. 

               Samantha's eyes snapped open. “You are aware that you kept me up all night, talking and kicking me?”

               “I'm sorry. I feel terrible, I really do...” replied Angelika, chastened. Samantha could be such a mother some times, and Lord knows she didn’t need one of those right now.

               “I am a pregnant woman, you know.” admonished Sam, “Oh zip it. Here's an Advil. And water. Rehydrate.”

               Angelika gratefully accepted them and then she looked over at Luke’s disheveled and bedridden form. “Who’s he?” she asked.

               “You're oldest and dearest friend, apparently.” replied Samantha, snottily.

               Angelika incredulously mouthed "Really?" and Samantha nodded. As if to underline the point, Luke chose that moment to fart voluptuously in his sleep. 

               “Weird.” responded Angelika, pulling her Gucci frock into a slightly more modest assemblage. “Well. What do you want to do today? Personally, I feel like sleeping by the pool."

               “Can do.” said Samantha, while stiffly pulling herself out of the tiny bed and tottering to the bathroom. 

               “Oh shit, hang on, I'm supposed to meet someone...” Angelika wracked her echoing memory for an inkling of a clue, but no, millions of brain cells were definitely gone for good this time.

               Luke stirred, muttered “Herbie the Lovebug.” And then he immediately resumed snoring. 

               “Excuse me?” replied Angelika, and then with a heavy thud it struck home, “Oh fuck, he's right.” She looked up at Sam who had just emerged from the bathroom clad in a complementary Hotel Majestic bathrobe and asked, “Can you hand me the phone?”

               Samantha begrudgingly passed it over and Angelika frantically dialed a local number. A very sleepy and hung-over Shelly finally answered it. “Yes?”

               “Shel,” croaked a husky–voiced Angelika, “we're supposed to be having lunch, right? With Herbie the lovebug.” 

               Shelly sounded more than a little confused, “Oh..Who?...oh...sorry, darling, I can't make it - rampant runs. Don’t even think of coming over here, it’s truly a scene of utter depravity and I’m probably highly contagious.”

               “Lovely. Well I'm not going alone.” pouted Angelika, while desperately searching for a hand mirror in her purse. Having located one, she immediately regretted that rash decision.

               “You'll be fine,” continued Shelly, “Herbie's a doll. As long as you're in the restaurant, what could possibly happen? Stop being such a baby, he's really important. You have to go. It's the Hotel Du Cap.”

               “OK. Fine.’ said a resigned Angelika, ”I'll get a cab. Look, eat some bread. Feel better and I'll call you later.” She then hung up the phone, looked at Samantha and said, “Shit.”

The surly French cab driver deposited Angelika outside the wildly impressive entrance to the uber-chic Hotel Du Cap. This was where the real players stayed and a bar bill here could within minutes reach such dizzying heights that one would have no choice but to immediately procure a second mortgage. Angelika gazed up in awe at the serenely palatial hotel exterior and the phalanx of feral looking yet elegantly well-behaved cypress trees that lined the driveway as she shakily paid for the cab.

              Angelika was still wearing last night’s now decidedly off-white and rather inappropriate-for-lunch Gucci confection as Samantha had had nothing to offer her in the way of non-stained, non-maternity couture. She’d managed a quick shower and had tried to repair her wrecked makeup, but thankfully Samantha had been charitable enough to lend her friend a fabulous pair of sunglasses and now Angelika didn’t look too bad, if all things were considered. She gave a silent prayer that Herbie wouldn’t remember her look from the previous night. He was straight after all, she reasoned, and straight men rarely notice designer gowns until they physically have to pay for them.

              “Merci bien.”  shouted Angelika to the disappearing dust cloud that had until just recently been her ride. A grey haired concierge approached smiling, which marginally took the edge off her intense sartorial discomfort.

              “Mademoiselle Angelique? Monsieur Schuley vous attendez.”

              “Huh?” replied Angelika, as her own native tongue was a struggle right now, let alone advanced bloody Francais.

              “Mister Schuley, he is wait for you.” said the charming concierge. Angelika smiled, feeling much more at home. She really liked this man.

              “Cool. Where's the restaurant? Je suis starving.”

              “Follow me, mademoiselle, s’il vous plait.”  Angelika suddenly felt very Audrey Hepburn and as gracefully as her long, tight skirt would allow, she hobbled after the lovely man into the hushed marble lobby of the famed Hotel Du Cap.

                                    

Angelika was finding it a touch irregular that the restaurant appeared to be situated down one of the maze-like residential corridors, but she let it go. What did she know? Maybe that’s how they did it in Cannes. She was feeling decidedly too brain-dead to argue the point in any language; her stomach was concave and growling from lack of food and she also sensed that a rapidly administered cocktail might just help matters no end.

             Finally they reached a door subtly marked Eden Roc Suite and the concierge discretely rapped upon it.

             “This is the restaurant?” queried Angelika, trying not to panic.

             “Mais, non. Is much better.” replied the concierge.

             A tiny warning bell chimed in the far off recesses of Angelika’s addled psyche, but there wasn’t much that she could do now without looking like a completely unsophisticated dweep, so she stayed her ground, while nervously stifling her instinct to run.

             The door opened and an effusive, smiling Herbie appeared, wearing a prohibitively expensive, most definitely cut-to-order Brioni suit and a pink Lacoste sports shirt. Herbie obviously didn’t shop at The Big and Tall and he certainly was no prettier in daylight. “Merci, Henri. You can go.”

             The bowing concierge obeyed and Angelika gulped as her guardian disappeared in the opposite direction from which they’d just come. “Angelika. How are you? Still sporting the fabulous Gucci, I see!” continued Herbie, opening the door wide.

             Angelika flushed and looked beyond Herbie into what was the most glorious and spacious suite ever to be perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. The aquamarine ocean stretched to infinity beyond the terrace and there was a palpable aura of elegant calm as a light sea breeze wafted sensuously through the room, carrying with it the co-mingled scents of gardenia and jasmine. Talk about a room with a view. A white, linen-draped table was set up elegantly on the wraparound terrace and a fine bottle of vintage Dom Perignon idled teasingly on ice. Angelika reflected that she could probably die here very happily.

             “Wow. Not bad.” she said, knowing full well that this had to be the understatement of the millennium.

             “Come in.” welcomed Herbie.

             Angelika couldn’t discern any visible sharp teeth or any protruding dorsal fins, and so against all of her better judgment, she stepped cautiously across the threshold into Herbie’s exquisitely airy suite.

             Herbie led Angelika to the marble tiled terrace where he expertly popped the champagne’s cork and without spilling a drop, poured her a glass of Dom Perignon. He raised his in a toast and smiled, “To you.”

             “Yeah. I'm fab.” replied Angelika, who felt stupidly overwhelmed by all of this. They silently sipped their respective glasses, and the wine was perfect; the flavor, the temperature, even the crystal glass was undeniably the finest Angelika had ever experienced. Herbie immediately refilled her glass and Angelika felt herself begin to relax.

             “Sit, Angelika, I won't bite. Have some fois gras.”

             Angelika sat on the softly yielding chair and then she helped herself to one of the tiny round toasts that were thickly spread with pale, creamy and delicious pate’. The sensation was incredible as it burst in her mouth while teasing her taste buds into love-struck submission.

             “Oh my God. That is the best thing I've ever tasted, really.” She said, trying desperately to remember her table manners, while fighting an undeniable urge to stuff the whole lot into her face.

             “Have some more.” said Herbie, while negotiating his enormous carcass into the spindly chair opposite Angelika’s. She didn’t wait to be asked twice, and she devoured the pate’, then the oysters, then the goat cheese and endive salad which had been delicately doused in a tangy raspberry balsamic vinaigrette. She had evidently been transported to gastronomic heaven. Herbie watched her with amusement as he chain-smoked and periodically refilled her glass. He’d never seen an actress eat quite this much before. Actually, he’d never seen an actress eat, period.

             The wine and the victuals were helping immeasurably and Angelika eventually found herself coming back to life. Herbie started to talk about his passion for film and literature and they discovered that they shared a mutual love of many of the same books that they would both have like to see made into features. Herbie actually owned the rights to some of her favourites and he spoke eloquently and zealously about continuing to make the kind of interesting, challenging films that no other mainstream studio in Hollywood would ever touch.

             Angelika found it incredibly refreshing. Herbie was a hyper-literate and extremely intelligent being and he had real integrity when it came to film. He actually made her want to continue acting but on the caveat that she should hold out for projects with real artistic value. She sensed that he was on the verge of offering her just that kind of career with Everest Films and she was deeply flattered.  My God, she thought, this powerful man gets me. She knew then with absolute clarity that her life’s course was about to change dramatically.

They were half way through the second bottle of Dom, when Herbie suddenly stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette and after struggling with his mountainous stomach, he pushed his chair back from the table and emphatically announced,

             “Hey, Angelika, I've got a great idea. Let's put on bathrobes and give each other massages.”

             The warning bell now came screaming back, but this time with fire alarm intensity. “Huh?” She replied, almost choking on her chilled champagne.

             But Herbie had already started undressing, right there in the middle of the marble terrace and the man weighed three hundred pounds if he was an ounce. Angelika smiled, weakly.

             “C'mon, what are you waiting for?” continued Herbie enthusiastically, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

             Herbie was now clad solely in a pair of enormous Y-front briefs and a luxurious Hotel Du Cap bathrobe, only he was so morbidly obese that the tie belt couldn't begin to circumnavigate his huge bulk.

             “C'mon - take something off!” he demanded.

             Angelika, who was seriously freaked out by now, hastily removed her shoes. “There you go!” she smiled, as winningly as possible, given that she was about to be molested by Moby Dick. This didn’t placate Herbie.

             “No. Put on a bathrobe!” he said, generously throwing one at her. Angelika dutifully wrapped the sumptuous bathrobe around her fully clad form.

             Herbie was rapidly becoming intensely irritated. “You're so fucking uptight, C'mon relax! Get on the bed, I'll massage you.”

             Angelika had no fucking idea how to handle this one, so she tried her level best to act cool until she could figure a way out, “No that's okay, Herbie, I'm fine. Totally chilled.”

             Herbie then approached Angelika and forcefully pulled her up from the table, dragged her across the room and pushed her face down on the immense Egyptian cotton-swathed bed.  “You'll sit on the bed.”  he said, an unspoken threat evident in his guttural tone.

             Breathing heavily, he began rubbing her shoulders, hard. Angelika was frightened by now but somewhere inside of herself she realized that she was relieved that she wasn’t entirely sober, otherwise she might seriously fucking lose it and God knows what he’d do then. The man was a maniac; a huge, scary, drunk, powerful maniac. Angelika had to remain calm and think, God-damnit.

             “Um, Herbie...I'm not entirely comfortable with this situation.” squeaked Angelika, with further crashing understatement.

             “Why?” replied Herbie, who looked genuinely perplexed by her continuing resistance.

             “Um...You know what?” Angelika looked hopefully at Herbie, “I really dig you a lot, but my whole thing is that I only like young stupid boys that I can boss around?”

             Suddenly, Herbie sank to his knees by the side of the bed and looked up at her imploringly, in the manner of a young lamb and pouted, “Angelika, I can be really docile.” 

             Oh Christ, thought Angelika, well at least he was off the bed, “No, it's not that, Herbie,” she continued looking down at his supine form, “you're such a powerful and interesting man, that it couldn't possibly work. I mean, I could never really, properly disrespect you enough. On that level.”

             Herbie stood up, scarily red-faced and thoroughly incensed and then he violently threw Angelika's Robert Clergerie sandals at her. “Well, get the fuck out of my suite,”  he screamed, “and you can tell that cunt Shelly that I want my fucking money back.”

             Angelika, shoes in hand, leapt off the bed, grabbed her bag and sunglasses and then she sprinted for the door, slamming it fast behind her.