"Fred, are you sure this is the right place?" the old lady asked her driver with a worried look on her carefully made-up face.
The driver of the black Rolls Royce limousine nodded as he drove on into a run-down trailer park. This was not to kind of neighbourhood one would expect a former Hollywood star to live in, but what did he know. He was just Ms. Christian's assistant, which meant that he lived in her world 24/7. Mary Christian was, of course, one of the last living legends of old Hollywood, someone whose career had essentially been over since the early 1970s, even though she didn't see it that way.
For some reason, she had chosen New Year's Day, this day of all days, to meet up with an old frenemy, Chantelle Davis. At 86, Chantelle was 3 years younger than his boss, and the two women had been under contract at the same film studio in the 1950s and 1960s. They had been best friends and fallen out over one of Mary's husbands, number three or four, the one she refused to talk about because he had hurt her badly.
He stopped the car in front of a large, old trailer that had obviously stood here for years.
"Are you sure it is safe here?" Mary asked. She was obviously shocked that anyone could live here.
"Well, it's where Ms. Davis lives nowadays if you still wish to see her," her driver replied.
"Oh, yes, I must see her," Mary said and got out of the car, bracing herself for whoever would open the door at Chantelle Davis's trailer.
A really old lady opened the door. She was about five feet tall and had more wrinkles than anyone the driver had ever seen before. "Yes?" The driver could hear her ask blankly.
"Chantelle, it's me - Mary: I've come to make peace! Let bygones be bygones!" Mary said and would have embraced her at once if the old lady hadn't spoken - and if embracing someone had still been an option, but it wasn't at present, which is why both ladies wore masks as well.
"I think you've got the right address, but the wrong person," the old lady stated matter-of-factly.
"C'mon, stop your Marlene Dietrich impression, Chantelle! It's me, Mary!" Mary exclaimed.
"And I'm trying to tell you that I'm not Chantelle Davis. She died a few months ago. Sorry!" the old lady shrugged and closed the door to her trailer.
"Wait! Don't you at least want to know my name... or my autograph? Do you have any idea who I am?" Mary asked as she had never been treated that offhandedly before.
Her driver noticed that she was quiet when the. Drive back to her heavily mortgaged house.
The truth was beginning to dawn upon her: It was too late.