The Bette Davis Club Read Online Free PDF

just outside London. There I lived in miserable exile for the next eight years, a free-spirited California girl who picked up an English accent simply to survive. And there I lived a bleak, lonely existence like . . . like Cinderella or Jane Eyre or young Princess Diana stuck with Charles.
    In the meantime, Charlotte and her mother, Irene, occupied the Malibu house. And all these years, I’d assumed the MG, like so many pieces of my childhood, was gone. I thought Irene had sold it. My shock is enormous. It’s as if Charlotte were telling me she had a time machine.
    “You have Daddy’s car?” I say.
    “Actually, it’s mine now.”
    “Yes, understood. But, I mean . . . my God, his car. Does it run?”
    “Certainly it runs. Do you think I expect you to push it to Palm Springs?” She inspects one of her plum-colored nails. “Mama hung on to all of Daddy’s things after he died. Not because she loved him. She didn’t. She kept everything out of plain old Catholic guilt. She honestly believed they’d meet in the afterlife, that he’d walk up to her in heaven or purgatory or some damn place and demand his golf clubs, a Tom Collins, and the car keys. Anyway, she always kept the car in perfect condition.”
    Perfect condition. I only wish someone had kept me in perfect condition. Still, the car, I’ll get to drive Daddy’s car!
    But wait a minute. What am I getting myself into? What is it exactly I’m agreeing to? Putting aside the car, certain other practicalities come crashing down. “I don’t have any cash,” I say. “I’ll need an advance or something.”

    Charlotte looks relieved to be off the subject of our father. She crosses to a writing desk and motions for me to come over. She picks up a leather handbag that’s lying on the desk. Rootling round in the bag, she pulls out several impressive credit cards, including an American Express Black Card, and hands them to me.
    She puts down the bag and reaches for her smartphone. “What’s your cell phone number?”
    “I haven’t one,” I say.
    The frozen look on her face tells me how inadequate this response is. Putting down her phone, she leans across the desk and retrieves a tiny clamshell phone from its charger. “I keep this old one as a spare,” she says. She hands me the phone and charger. “You never know when an emergency will turn up.”
    Or, I imagine, a clueless, cell phone–impoverished half sister.
    I turn the phone over in my hands, examining it. “I’ve never liked these things,” I say. “I know I’m old-fashioned, but I’ve always avoided having one. And if you call when I’m driving, I won’t answer. Driving and talking at the same time is not only illegal in many states but also dangerous. They’ve done studies.”
    Her mouth twitches. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to do that.”
    Something else occurs to me. “My bags—”
    “I sent Juven for them,” she says, not missing a beat. “He’s getting the car out too.”
    I realize what the “other thing” was that she asked Juven to take care of earlier. It was the car. For me.
    I look down at my dress. “I have to change,” I say.
    “There isn’t time. You can do that when you stop for gas.”
    Always a flair for theatrics, my half sister. Fine, I think, remember I’m wearing your Donna Karan. See if you get it back.
    Charlotte steps over to the French doors and opens them wide. The ocean air rushes in, filling the room with the scent of the sea. With a nod for me to join her, she passes through the doors and out onto the broad flagstone terrace. I drown my cigarette in my glass of port and follow her out into the sunlight.
    It’s there, as I’m standing on the terrace with Charlotte, that I look down and see it. Just like that, I see it. Looking past the terra-cotta planters and the marble balustrade, I catch sight of something so beautiful it takes my breath away.

    Below us, parked on the circular drive, is my father’s two-seater MG. Top down,