It’s not Gene Kelly or Ginger Rogers who catch my eye amongst the glitterati, but a simply dressed white haired woman on a walker. I’m beguiled by her very ordinariness, fascinated to know who she was or who she had been. But what she revealed to me as by way of her place card at dinner elevated her far above the ordinary, what she told me that night catapulted me to the very epicentre of Hollywood during the silent era. As the second Mrs. Charlie Chaplin, Lita Grey wanted to talk. I wanted to listen.
