Talitha Getty embodied the style and extravagance of the 1960’s. Fascinated by this socialite and model, Jane Green spent nine months researching her, finding that not much existed about Talitha other than iconic photos and thin accounts of parties and pastimes. “I had to come at it sideways, working from the outside in,” Jane writes, “reading countless memoirs from people whose paths had crossed with the Gettys.”
Sister Stardust, a PARADE Magazine Most Anticipated Book of the Year, is a compelling and wonderful story of Claire, from small-town England, swept up in Talitha’s Morocco. Swirling with fame, rock, drugs, and excess in every direction, the glamorous lifestyle turns sinister, reflecting the trajectory of Talitha’s life.
My room was off another courtyard, a second garden with a tiny star-shaped fountain in the middle but, much to my disappointment, no peacocks. The walls were coral waxed plaster, and a fire roared in the fireplace. Lanterns sat on either side, and the scent of mint and rosemary filled the room, mixing with the delicious smells of the orange wood burning.
A four-poster bed with intricately carved posts was hung with lavish tapestries of green velvet embroidered with gold. Ancient Amazigh rugs covered the stone f loor. The bathroom had rich royal blue plaster on the walls, a plaster called tadelakt,a traditional lime-based technique that had been used in Morocco for thousands of years. The f loor and bath were covered in zellige, a mosaic of tiny tiles, in blues, greens, yellows and reds. As I lay back on the bed, turning my head to look out the window, I caught the shadow of the Atlas Mountains in the distance.
I was drifting into sleep when there was a knock on the door. I managed to rouse myself, my hair mussed, and opened it to find a man standing there, his arms filled with clothes.
“Pour vous,” he said, as I stepped aside to let him in. I presumed either Lissy or Talitha had sent them, knowing I had nothing to wear. Once he had left, when I laid them on the bed, I knew they were from Talitha.
There were midnight blue velvet robes embroidered in reds, yellows, blues and golds; beaded kaftans that swept to the floor, harem pants, silks and velvets and beads. And among the traditional Moroccan clothes were Yves Saint Laurent couture dresses, elaborately patterned fabrics with high beaded collars, lavish silk fringe encircling the skirts, down to the floor.
I had never handled clothes more beautiful, and was far too terrified to wear the Saint Laurent. I had never understood before this moment why people spent fortunes on clothes. I thought you could wear Miss Selfridge and make it look expensive, but I now understood that wasn’t true; these weren’t just clothes, they were art. Which is how I knew they were Talitha’s.
Just as I was holding up one of the Saint Laurent dresses, noting the beaded corset, the bedroom door opened. There, in the doorway, with the sunlight shimmering behind her like a halo, stood Talitha.
“Oh! Look how perfect that is! That’s exactly the one I was hoping you’d pick! Lissy said you hadn’t brought anything. I hope you don’t mind my sending down some clothes. Aren’t Yves’s clothes the most beautiful?”
I wondered if she was wearing Yves now, in a richly embroidered short dress with bell sleeves, strappy gladiator sandals climbing up her calves. I looked at the dress I was holding and sighed.
“I can’t wear this! It must have cost a fortune. I’d be terrified of spilling something on it.”
Her eyes danced with delight. “Darling, it was a gift from Yves. If you spill anything on it, I’ll get another. Try it on.”