Love Zelda Read online

  Love, Zelda

  Vicky Kavanagh

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Love, Zelda

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Information

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Vicky Kavanagh is a storyteller and has been all her life. Drawn to Zelda Sayre’s tale, the idea for Love, Zelda mulled in her head for a few years until she finally put pen to paper. It took three months to write. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, with her partner, Stuart, and a collection of books.

  About the Book

  I have always loved reading biographies. I was, and continue to be, fascinated by the lives of other people. I first learned of Zelda Fitzgerald by reading a biography of her husband, F Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda, credited as being Scott’s muse and the original flapper, stirred intrigue in me long after I finished that biography.

  I dove into books exploring her and Scott’s relationship and the more I learned, the more I realised how involved Zelda had been in her husband’s writing and what a great injustice history had served to her. Over the years since her death, Zelda’s character has been torn to shreds and dismissed as insane. Even when she was alive, men like Ernest Hemingway and unfortunately, her own husband, did much to damage her reputation as an impediment to Scott’s writing.

  But what history hasn’t portrayed is how much of that work would not have existed without her to begin with. Aside from her editing and being a constant support of Scott, he took large passages of prose from her letters, diaries and other written work. Scott was the suffocating presence of Zelda’s adult life; a physical conflict against any independence or artistic accomplishment she strived to achieve.

  The more I read about Zelda and got to know her – reading letters she sent to her loved ones, her various pieces of writing that she crafted during her youth, her book and the artwork she completed in her later years – the more urgent it seemed to tell her story. Zelda was not perfect. She could be selfish and childish and impulsive. But she was also exceedingly kindhearted, creative, gifted and loving. She struggled against the social conventions of her time and longed for recognition outside of her role as a wife and a mother. In this way, she was a visionary. She wished to exist on her own terms, create art that would live on after she had died and have no regrets about her life.

  It is a tragedy that Zelda never had the opportunity to provide her truth in full, unvarnished. While other books have attempted to give her a voice, many of them ignore the final decade of her life. They stop once Scott dies; even though much of Zelda’s artwork was created in the intervening years before her own death. Once again, Zelda’s story was viewed only in conjunction with her husband’s.

  With Love, Zelda I have relied on letters written by both Fitzgeralds’, numerous biographies (which are listed in the acknowledgements) and Zelda’s own work to craft a voice that I believe represents her. All factual, geographical information and timelines were intensely researched and verified by multiple sources. The dialogue is of course, imaginative, but based on research to create authentic voices for the people portrayed.

  And so I hope, that with this book, Zelda Fitzgerald gets the voice she was so often denied not only in life but more often than not in death as well.

  Dedication

  For Stuart – my champion and love.

  And Dad – forever and a day.

  Acknowledgements

  The saying goes that no man is an island and so it follows that no book is written alone. Although the practice of writing is a solitary one, for me it only successfully occurs with love and support.

  My first thanks goes to my love, Stuart. For always believing in me, always championing me and always encouraging me. You are my pillar of strength, my other half.

  Although he is not around to see it, my father – especially in those last years – repeatedly said I would write a book. You were right, Dad. I love you. I am extremely grateful to my mother who encouraged my love of reading from a young age. I will never forget our weekly trips to the library or your praise of my terrible short stories.

  To Imelda and Joe, who very kindly provided me with the shelter to write this book. I am also extremely grateful for all your support for me over these years. You are the sensible, kind, wise voices I treasure and I love you both.

  To the various people who gave feedback on this book, helped craft it into what it has become and supported this dream of mine – thank you.

  To the wonderful companions I made on social media who have followed my efforts with encouragement and good wishes. You’re all kind, lovely souls.

  As I mentioned at the start, this book was researched over the course of many years in order to create an authentic tone of voice for all the characters involved. It would not have been possible to do so without the following works: Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Fitzgerald, edited by Cathy W Barks and Jackson R Bryer; Save Me The Waltz by Zelda Fitzgerald; Zelda by Nancy Milford; Zelda Fitzgerald by Sally Cline; Sometimes Madness Is Wisdom by Kendall Taylor and On The Road to West Egg: The Volatile Relationship of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald by Paul Brody

  Finally, to every book I have ever read – you brought me into your club and gave me a home. Thank you.

  “Nothing could have survived our life.”

  – Letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to Scott Fitzgerald

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © Vicky Kavanagh (2019)

  The right of Vicky Kavanagh to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781528919203 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781528919210 (Hardback)

  ISBN 9781528962605 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  March 10, 1948

  Asheville

  It feels like the sun. The gorgeous, pulsating Mediterranean sun. It reminded her of days at the Murphys’ villa. Endless days in an endless summer. Heat. Grainy sand against her smooth skin. A coarse palm across her thigh.

  But then she smells it.

  Smoke.

  Fear.

  From the depths of her slumber, she hears it.

  A crackle. Something falling.

  A scream.

  She tries to open her eyes but they don’t want to be opened. The chemicals flooding her body are strong. She moves her head up and down, her eyes still closed, trying to stimulate herself into alertness. Into survival. She manages to sit up in bed and with great difficulty, pushes her lead-filled legs across the narrow mattress and onto the floor. The crackling is getting louder. There are bells. But to her, they seem far away. Somewhere she can’t reach.

  She cannot stand, she’s too drugged for that. She crawls on her belly across the floor. She knows there are people, there have to be people around. But she doesn’t see them. She only sees the entranceway into the hall. She only notices the spreading dread across her body. The jolt of realisation. The awareness of what is happening.

  It’s a few feet in difference, but as soon as she gets into the corridor the heat becomes unbearable. Her skin was never quick to burn, it would always tan. The Bronzed Goddess of the Riviera, Scott would say, laughing. A bit jealous that her skin did not redden and crisp as his did. Standing there, glass in his hand, staring and laughing and wondering if he loved her or hated her more.

  But now she will burn. She knows that. She just wonders how long it will take.

  For she can see the flames now. Tall and angry and licking up the walls and floor in front of her. She sees the others become engulfed by them, submerged. Their screams are piercing.

  She cannot escape. It has taken the last of what she had to get here. Her mind is clouding, closing her vision from the edges. Her body, a dead useless weight lying on the floor, unable to move. Unable to live. She closes her eyes and gives in. The last thing she hears is the crackle.

  Chapter One

  1915

  Montgomery, Alabama

  Zelda believes the last time the Judge looked at her without frustration or disappointment in his eyes was in 1904. It was her first day of school.

  Mama held her hand as she hopped down the staircase. Zelda was in love with how the chiffon of her dress lifted and fell with her steps. Thrilled that she was allowed to wear such a thing to school. Mama always did indulge her. Unusually, his office door was open a crack. Normally it gave off a 50-yard persona non grata signal, unless you had been invited or summoned.

  Mama knocked on the door all the same. A light flutter.

  “Yes?” he called out, his voice strong and clear.

  “I’m just about to bring Zelda to school, Anthony. I thought you might want to see her before we go,” Mama called back in her sing-song voice. She didn’t move a muscle towards the door though. She was waiting for permission.

  “Come in.”

  Minnie pushed the door open, holding Zelda’s hand as she trailed behind her.

  The Judge, sitting behind his desk, didn’t look like her father. He was, though, of course. But whenever Zelda saw him placed in the trappings of his position—whether it was behind the colossal wooden fortress of his desk or in his robes preparing to go to court—he ceased to a living person. He was his position, his duty. He became so wholly the Judge (not that it was ever far from him), that she would wonder how the same blood ran in both of their veins.

  Pushing himself back from the desk, he lowered his glasses and a small smile crept across his lips.

  “Well, let’s take a look at you,” he said. She gave a starburst smile in return, dashing around to his side.

  “Stand back,” he said, “turn around. Show me your outfit.”

  She tried to twirl gracefully, the way the ballerina in her music box did. Arching her back, balancing on her toes, chin held high, staring at an imaginary spotlight. When she finished, she met his eyes and saw them sparkle.

  “Beautiful, Zelda. Come here,” he said, gesturing for her to sit on his lap. Something she could only recall happening once before when she was severely ill with influenza. She was delirious with fever and Mama sat crying on a chair in her room as the Judge held her, silently, rocking her in his strong arms and wiping her brow before the sweat would drip into her eyes.

  “Now, Zelda, I want you to listen very carefully,” he said, “you are to be a good girl at school. You are to do as you’re told and do it well. Do not answer the teacher back. When you leave this house, you carry my name with you. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t, but she nodded her head anyway.

  “Good. You are a Sayre and that means something in Montgomery. It means you must always be on your best behaviour outside this house. Can you do that?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  Frowning, he said, “Nodding is not an answer, Zelda. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I can be good,” she said, her voice conveying a greater confidence than she felt. She didn’t think she was bad. But she felt like she had just promised him something she wouldn’t be able to keep.

  “Good girl. Right, Minnie, take her way,” he said to Mama. They were dismissed.

  She didn’t see him that evening, he was late coming home from work. Zelda was in bed, but she could hear Minnie talking to him in their room as he changed out of his robes.

  “She did what?” he growled.

  “She’s a child, Anthony. It’s what children do,” Minnie replied, pleading.

  “Not what my children do!” he retorted.

  “I think she’s too young to start school,” Minnie said.

  “She’s the same age as the rest of them were when they started,” he replied, followed by a dull bang as one of his shoes fell to the floor.

  “But Zelda’s different! Her concentration is still developing,” she heard Minnie protest.

  “She has her head in the clouds. And her disobedience! Answering a teacher back on her first day? Refusing to do as she was told? I would’ve been whipped!” he shot back. There was a silence between them.

  “I don’t want to fight,” Minnie said firmly, “but she was very upset when she came home today, she said it was like prison.”

  A low chuckle escaped from the Judge.

  “Maybe she’s not mature enough for school yet. Maybe she’s not ready. Isn’t it better to keep her home for another year until she is? Rather than her starting off on a bad foot and getting into trouble? Getting a reputation?” Minnie knew just how to appeal to her husband.

  The tears rolled fat and wet down her child’s face. She had already failed something, and she had only just begun. That feeling, the failure, how it made her feel; she would nurse it inside her. A little flame, flickering in the dark.

  *

  In the years after Zelda met Scott, she would look back on her life in Montgomery and think how removed it seemed. How small. It had seemed small and constrained as she lived it. But with each fight and party, the country hopping and column inches, it grew smaller and smaller, diminishing in comparison.

  Zelda’s life was divided in two: before Scott and after Scott. Not only because of their love, but because of what their life gave her, what it meant. The permission to be herself, to be as wild and free and shocking as she could imagine.
Something that was never have been possible in Montgomery. No matter what else her relationship with Scott had brought—the pain, the infidelities, the disgust and the drinking and the madness—she couldn’t regret it. In Scott, she found herself. In their love, she made a home.

  In those early years, the only other person who understood her frustrations was Tallulah. The town made her skin itch the same way it did Zelda’s. Its conformity and sedateness suffocated them.

  On Sundays, as they walked to church under the unforgiving Alabama sun, in their best clothes, parasols held ever so delicately aloft, Minnie and the Judge nodding and greeting as they moved along, Zelda wanted to scream.

  She could feel the guttural, primal noise rumbling inside her, desperate to get out. The forced smiles and false humility. The transparency of the routine; Sunday’s weren’t about religion, they were a weekly reminder to others of your standing. Of all you had achieved and all you held.

  She never felt close to God in a church. Wherever God was, it wasn’t there. She told the Judge that she would rather lie in the back garden, the scent of magnolias wafting and the birds singing, and talk to God there then falsely present herself at church with a bunch of posing pretenders. That got her grounded for a few days and nearly a whipping too. Although Minnie, in her pity, slipped Zelda back the books the Judge had confiscated so she wouldn’t go completely mad in her solitude.

  In Montgomery, nothing much ever happened; at least not in public. The only things that ever did happen in public normally had something to do with Zelda and the Judge didn’t like that one bit. Her brothers and sisters had never given Daddy any cause for shame—Zelda seemed to provide an endless supply.

  I heard Zelda Sayre dove off the quarry edge into the water without a stitch of clothing on her. I heard she passed out drunk in a bush in her next-door neighbour’s house! She smokes 55 cigarettes a day, did you know? She swirls peppermint oil in her mouth so the Judge won’t smell it.

  Wherever she went, whatever she did, rumours and gossip followed Zelda Sayre around like flies to honey.