Bombay Angel

Chapter 1; London, January 1928

I was at the premiere only by chance.

Promod Roy had casually mentioned it when we’d crossed paths in Gower Street the day before. My old school friend had a satchel full of large white envelopes he was dropping off for some of the faculty at RADA. He hadn’t enough invites to give me one to keep, but he swore he’d put my name on the guest list for both the screening of Shiraz, our friend Niranjan’s film opening at the West End Theatre, and the celebration afterward.

“The party will be packed with bright young people, film folk, and some genuine stars. It could be your chance, darling.” Promod drawled. He was from Calcutta, but had picked up every affectation of a London costume designer.

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” I said, because the one thing I’d learned after living in London for ten years was not to seem too eager. “Who else will be there that we know?”

“Alfred Hitchcock and Leslie Howard are on the list.”

“Goodness! They’re so famous. I know of them, but they certainly don’t know me.”

“You can tag along with Niranjan and Lily. As I’ve been telling you, Niranjan wrote the film.”

“Righto!” I’d boarded at Niranjan and Lily’s place when I was fifteen. An Indian playwright who was the son of a famous revolutionary, and working-class Irishwoman might appear to be an unusual match, but they had a house full of warm friends and lively conversation.

“Devika, that childish attitude you have—not saying anything, because you’re shy—it’s not going to help you get a job. When you’re making up your face that night, make up your mind to help yourself.”

         This was a big chance. I reminded myself of this repeatedly, as I left the packed theatre, my head clouded with visions of twelfth century Indian splendours. Shiraz had been the kind of Oriental splendor vehicle that Rudolf Valentino would have fit—only this film had been done with real Indian actors and actresses. As I stepped outside with Promod, I felt a surge of national pride.

         Along with Promod and some others, I rode a bus from the West End to a posh townhouse in Grosvenor Square. Once inside, Promod swanned off to find a drink, and I stood, feeling overwhelmed. I’d never been to a party quite like this before; so full of wildly dressed, loud people in their twenties and thirties dancing like there were coals under their feet.

         As I stood on the edge surveying the celebration, I was inundated with chances offered by several young Englishmen. However, all of them offered involved drinking or losing my virtue. Carefully, I strained my ears for fascinating conversations about theatre and film, but mostly what I overheard were girlish shrieks and masculine haw-haws. This was how rich young people communicated with each other, although I couldn’t fathom its meaning.

Nor did I understand the treatment of the Honorable Smythe-Daniels’ handsome white brick townhouse. Contrary to my expectation, there were no butlers or maids on the premises. This meant the sable and raccoon and cashmere coats were strewn in a great heap on a sofa. Two large Oriental carpets were rolled up like giant cigars on the ends of two large, interconnected parlors to allow dancing, and a foreign jazz band had taken up residence in one of the parlors. The hallway had a fancy marble-and-gilt lavatory, but the tub was filled up with ice, bottles, and a sprawled-out girl.

         She’d been standing upright when the film party began three hours earlier. She wore a black crushed velvet frock with a blue-green paisley shawl from Liberty’s winter line. I knew the pattern very well, having painstakingly drawn its feathers and diamonds on point paper. Each of the designs I created for Liberty earned me a quid—a tenth of what Liberty charged for it in their elegant store.