Hannah Partos Working for a Hollywood Legend
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t is 2011 and I am a student in Paris, teaching English for a year and renting a small flat only two metro stops from Olivia de Havilland’s residence. Her personal assistant is my friend Kate, whose duties include bringing De Havilland her daily tipple – she likes to have a glass of champagne at 6pm. Planning to go away for a long weekend, Kate asks if I’ll hold the fort chez De Havilland. I say yes straightaway and am invited round to meet my new boss. I take the metro to Porte Dauphine, in the smart 16th arrondissement and, as instructed, phone Kate to tell her I’ll be arriving in a few minutes “so that Olivia can reapply her lipstick”. I can’t quite get my head round this: a Hollywood legend taking the time to polish herself for a scruffy 20-year-old student. De Havilland’s home is a stately white hotel particulier, or Parisian townhouse, five storeys high, in the same street as three foreign embassies and a sprawling mansion that, I later discover, belongs to former French president Giscard d’Estaing (a police officer hovers permanently outside). Kate leads me upstairs for introductions. De Havilland is sitting on a small couch, dressed in a cream silk blouse and dark skirt (probably Dior, whose designs she’s been faithful to since moving to Paris – “under the reign of King Christian the First”, according to her memoir). Although nearing her 95th birthday, she is a commanding presence, with her red lipstick, her large pearl earrings, her white hair set in a bouffant – and a surprisingly deep voice. I’m particularly nervous as Kate, a Canadian, has hinted that her boss isn’t very fond of Brits; being hard of hearing, De Havilland now favours American
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