more beautiful than I could ever remember her being.
We were married on a Saturday afternoon in October in a small chapel on the eastern side of the Hollywood Hills. Eighty people were in attendance, mostly socialite friends of ours from the circles in which we moved, a lot of studio people, a few newspaper columnists, a couple of writers. We were famous for being famous and adored for being adorable and everyone wanted to celebrate our celebrity with us. We were Matthieu and Constance, Matt and Connie, celebrity couple, socialite darlings, the talk of the town. Doug had sprained his ankle in a tennis match and arrived on crutches, supported as usual by Mary, and received an awful lot of attention for someone with such a minor wound. William Allan Thompson was there, and, as it had been rumoured that Warren Harding was about to appoint him Secretary of War, he represented another centre of attention. (In the end, he lost the job when a scandal involving a bordello erupted and the Senate vetoed his appointment; he lost heavily in gambling thereafter and killed himself in 1932, on the day F.D.R., his mortal enemy, was elected president for the first time.) My young nephew Tom arrived from Milwaukee where he was living with his wife Annette and I was pleased to reacquaint myself with the lad, even if I did find him a little churlish. He seemed more interested in trying to spot movie stars than in telling me of his life and career plans and I was a little surprised that he had failed to bring his bride to meet me. When I challenged him on it, he said that she was newly pregnant and that the thought of a trip â any trip â made her ill from morning to night. If I didnât want a scene at my wedding, he said, it was for the best that he leave her at home. Charlie and Amelia arrived arm in arm, the former grinning away as usual with the smile that now served no purpose other than to infuriate me, the latter looking red eyed and dazed, barely even acknowledging me when I reached down to kiss her cheek. She appeared drained, as if life with Charlie had all but vanquished her, and I didnât hold out much hope for their future happiness together, or hers on her own.
The ceremony was simple and quick; Constance and I exchanged vows, we were pronounced husband and wife and the whole wedding party repaired to a large marquee which had been erected outside a building a few hundred feet away where a dinner was to be served, followed by dancing and revelry. Constance wore a simple, figure hugging dress of pale ivory, a lace veil covering her perfect face, offering only whispers of her features to me as we stood at the altar. Afterwards, when she removed it, her smile was perfect and joyful, her happiness absolute. Even when Charlie kissed his congratulations, she was smiling, making no unpleasant associations which could spoil our day. He was simply another guest whom she could barely even see, so intent were we on staring at each other.
Speeches were made. Doug called me a âlucky son of a gunâ, Charlie wondered aloud why he had never proposed himself â then made the audience laugh by saying it was because he realised he had not been attracted to me and so it would never have worked out. Even Constance and I found him amusing and I felt a warmth for my fellow man which had not been present for a good sixty or seventy years. We danced late into the evening, Constance performing a perfect tango with a young Spanish waiter which was one of the highlights of the evening. The young lad â who couldnât have been more than about seventeen â appeared flushed with pride at his success on the dance floor and his tan deepened by several shades when his dancing partner kissed his lips hard at the end. The day had been perfect and, in retrospect, trouble was almost inevitable.
Constance had gone to change clothes â we were leaving for an overnight express train which would bring us to Florida, where we
We were married on a Saturday afternoon in October in a small chapel on the eastern side of the Hollywood Hills. Eighty people were in attendance, mostly socialite friends of ours from the circles in which we moved, a lot of studio people, a few newspaper columnists, a couple of writers. We were famous for being famous and adored for being adorable and everyone wanted to celebrate our celebrity with us. We were Matthieu and Constance, Matt and Connie, celebrity couple, socialite darlings, the talk of the town. Doug had sprained his ankle in a tennis match and arrived on crutches, supported as usual by Mary, and received an awful lot of attention for someone with such a minor wound. William Allan Thompson was there, and, as it had been rumoured that Warren Harding was about to appoint him Secretary of War, he represented another centre of attention. (In the end, he lost the job when a scandal involving a bordello erupted and the Senate vetoed his appointment; he lost heavily in gambling thereafter and killed himself in 1932, on the day F.D.R., his mortal enemy, was elected president for the first time.) My young nephew Tom arrived from Milwaukee where he was living with his wife Annette and I was pleased to reacquaint myself with the lad, even if I did find him a little churlish. He seemed more interested in trying to spot movie stars than in telling me of his life and career plans and I was a little surprised that he had failed to bring his bride to meet me. When I challenged him on it, he said that she was newly pregnant and that the thought of a trip â any trip â made her ill from morning to night. If I didnât want a scene at my wedding, he said, it was for the best that he leave her at home. Charlie and Amelia arrived arm in arm, the former grinning away as usual with the smile that now served no purpose other than to infuriate me, the latter looking red eyed and dazed, barely even acknowledging me when I reached down to kiss her cheek. She appeared drained, as if life with Charlie had all but vanquished her, and I didnât hold out much hope for their future happiness together, or hers on her own.
The ceremony was simple and quick; Constance and I exchanged vows, we were pronounced husband and wife and the whole wedding party repaired to a large marquee which had been erected outside a building a few hundred feet away where a dinner was to be served, followed by dancing and revelry. Constance wore a simple, figure hugging dress of pale ivory, a lace veil covering her perfect face, offering only whispers of her features to me as we stood at the altar. Afterwards, when she removed it, her smile was perfect and joyful, her happiness absolute. Even when Charlie kissed his congratulations, she was smiling, making no unpleasant associations which could spoil our day. He was simply another guest whom she could barely even see, so intent were we on staring at each other.
Speeches were made. Doug called me a âlucky son of a gunâ, Charlie wondered aloud why he had never proposed himself â then made the audience laugh by saying it was because he realised he had not been attracted to me and so it would never have worked out. Even Constance and I found him amusing and I felt a warmth for my fellow man which had not been present for a good sixty or seventy years. We danced late into the evening, Constance performing a perfect tango with a young Spanish waiter which was one of the highlights of the evening. The young lad â who couldnât have been more than about seventeen â appeared flushed with pride at his success on the dance floor and his tan deepened by several shades when his dancing partner kissed his lips hard at the end. The day had been perfect and, in retrospect, trouble was almost inevitable.
Constance had gone to change clothes â we were leaving for an overnight express train which would bring us to Florida, where we
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