INT. TURKISH BATH – NIGHT.
The steam room is almost fogged. Through the murk CHAS steps uncertainly. He peers around.
CHAS
George? Where the –?
GEORGE
Over here.
CHAS follows the voice until he makes out a seated figure, a towel around his waist.
CHAS
I can’t see a bloody thing.
He sits down and leans his head against the tiled wall. They are silent for a few moments.
GEORGE
So, this girl. She’s rich, good-looking, in search of a husband. What’s the problem?
CHAS
I’m not sure. She’s great, you’re right - it’s just … I don’t feel that much for her.
GEORGE
Chas, Chas … What are we going to do with you?
GEORGE closes his eyes, head back. CHAS steals a sidelong glance at him.
CHAS
How goes it with Gwendolen, by the way?
GEORGE
It was going rather well, until I told her my news.
CHAS
You have news?
GEORGE
They’ve asked me to be Rome correspondent – for six months.
CHAS
(amazed)
And you’re going?
GEORGE
Next week. That’s why I called you, dear boy. This is arrivederci. I’m in the doghouse with Gwen.
CHAS
I thought you two had an understanding …
GEORGE
So we did. But it’s not much use when her mother is back in the very pink of health. Gwen won’t leave her, so any immediate prospect of marriage is kaput. And yet she’s furious with me for going.
CHAS
So it’s over between you?
GEORGE
Oh no. We’ll muddle through. It’s only six months, as I reminded her.
They are silent again, each occupied with their own thoughts. CHAS’s face twitches with curiosity.
CHAS
And what of the other great prospect – have you given it up?
GEORGE
Vereker, you mean? Not at all.
CHAS
I thought your ardour must have cooled. We haven’t talked of it for a while.
GEORGE
It’s never left my mind! And who knows, a change of scenery might be useful in the ongoing investigation.
CHAS
I saw him the other night – Vereker. He was with Jane at the concert.
GEORGE
You talked?
CHAS
No. I had an unaccountable aversion to meeting. Ever since he told me about it at Bridges – about the buried treasure – I find myself reluctant to engage with him.
GEORGE
Was he rude to you?
CHAS
No, on the contrary, he was kind. But I have the impression that he enjoys his secret, and he slightly despises me for not getting anywhere near it. I tried to explain this to Jane, but she hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. Isn’t it odd – she and Vereker have been friends for ages, and yet he’s never mentioned the thing to her.
GEORGE
Perhaps it’s not what he wants a friend for.
CHAS
But how can she be so incurious about him?
GEORGE
I dare say she’s more interested in the man than in the books. I can understand it. A writer doesn’t always want to be surrounded by literary people.
CHAS
Maybe it’s just writers who can’t leave it alone. Gwen, for instance.
GEORGE
Of course. But she hasn’t cracked it either.
CHAS
I read Down Deep the other day. I was impressed.
GEORGE
You should write and tell her. She loves to hear praise.
CHAS
I’d have thought she was above that kind of thing.
GEORGE
I’ve never known a writer who was. Tell her! You could make yourself a friend for life.
CHAS laughs uneasily. He steals a look at GEORGE, who remains quite oblivious.
7
Billie was having a cigarette on her break when another waitress, Janet, sidled into the canteen. There was ‘a bloke’ at reception asking for her. From the wary look in the girl’s eyes Billie knew it would be Jeff, shoulders freighted with the news of his latest setback. Since the initial agreement to take all six of his collages the gallery had negotiated it down to two. He had already lost face, as well as the promise of cash. If they reneged again she thought he might lose the will to live.
She stubbed out the cigarette and replaced her frilled cap: waiting staff were not supposed to be seen in the hotel without one. With a sinking heart she hurried down the corridor and through the residents’ lounge, rehearsing phrases the while to soothe his piqued pride. When she got to reception, however, there was no sign of Jeff, and her relief began to wrestle with her guilt: perhaps he had been unable to face her and slunk off? She saw a man with his hand raised to her in greeting.
‘Hello,’ said Nat. ‘We’ve met before.’
Billie blinked at him uncertainly. ‘Oh, yes. With Penny, at the agency,’ she said, her subconscious blanking the first time, here, when he’d caught her pilfering.
Nat looked around the lobby. ‘I wonder if there’s somewhere we could talk?’
She experienced a stab of panic. The thing had happened weeks ago, and he’d let her off – surely it was too late for him to reconsider? Trying to keep her voice steady she led him to a side office – more like a cupboard – where they kept stationery and a staff telephone. There were no chairs. Billie closed the door and held her breath.
Nat, sensing her nerves, offered a smile of reassurance. ‘I’m sorry to parachute in like this, but I wanted a straight chat. Are you busy at the moment?’
‘Well, it’s always busy round here –’
‘No, no, I mean “busy”, as in stage work?’
‘Oh. No. Nothing,’ she said.
He nodded, satisfied. ‘I don’t want to involve Penny, not yet; better to keep it informal. There’s a small part going in a film I’m writing – I’ve written – and I thought you’d be rather good in it.’
He enjoyed her frozen look of surprise. For a moment she seemed unable to speak, so he continued. ‘It’s five weeks’ work. Maybe six. The film’s called Eureka, a sort of romance–mystery thing. Reiner Werther Kloss directing. We need someone to play a rich young lady named Jane. You’d take a screen test, but I think with –’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Billie, feeling a lightness inflate her lungs. A film. A part in a film! She’d heard of Reiner Werther Kloss. ‘But … you’ve never seen me act.’
Nat arched his eyebrows. ‘That’s not quite true, is it?’ He patted his breast pocket, where the faint outline of his wallet was visible. He felt a delicious quiver of guilt as she blushed. ‘Pardon me. But you were very convincing.‘ ‘I’m sorry that I – you know. It’s not something I’ve made a habit of.’ This was true. Apart from the incident with Nat, Billie had only stolen once before, in another opportunistic moment when an American businessman had accidentally left his money clip in the hotel bar. The fold of banknotes rested there, ignored, and almost without thinking she had lifted it. The man had reported the theft to the hotel manager, an investigation was mounted and Billie, along with the rest of the staff, was questioned. But she never really felt suspected, and she had been eighty pounds to the good.
She had got away with it. She had been strapped for cash – waitressing barely paid the rent – and had depended on handouts from Nell for too long. In the days following she had gloried in her luck and bought herself a few things. It was wonderful to have money in your purse. But her peace of mind was shot. She didn’t feel guilty about her victim, exactly; he didn’t look like the type who would go short. But she felt guilt nonetheless, a deep-lying throb of disquiet that wouldn’t leave her alone. It made
her cringe to think what Nell would say if she ever found out.
She had resolved not to do it again. And until the afternoon Nat had come in and casually tossed his wallet onto the table she thought she never would. Temptation had got the better of her: had nearly plunged her into calamity. But some angel of providence had intervened. Instead of being prosecuted for theft she was now being courted for a job. If she had believed in God she would have got down on her knees and thanked Him.
Nat in the meantime was telling her about the auditions. ‘We’ve seen a few. Isabel Duncannon was the last.’
Billie felt a sudden deflation: Isabel Duncannon was too bright a star to fail. ‘She’s bound to get it.’
‘Not necessarily. The producers weren’t sure about her, and our director was distinctly un-enamoured. So the door’s still open.’
Billie squinted at him. ‘I’ve not done any film acting before.’
‘My dear girl, you seem determined to back your way into the limelight. Modesty is all well and good, but occasionally in life there comes along a gift so obvious it might as well be tied with a bow. This is one such.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s come … out of the blue.’
‘The best things usually do,’ said Nat, taking out his card and a pen. ‘There’s a little rehearsal studio in Marylebone the company’s using. I’ll write the address here. Say, twelve thirty this Friday?’
She took the card and read it. ‘Thank you. Really. Will you send me a script?’
Nat hesitated. ‘Don’t worry about that for the moment. They’ll want a look at you, that’s all. Perhaps you’ve got a party piece you can do.’
‘Will you be there?’
‘Of course,’ he said, moving to open the door. ‘Don’t look so tragic about it; this could be your Judy Garland moment! See you Friday.’
Filming was due to start the last week of May, so they needed a decision on Isabel Duncannon quickly. Nat, Berk, two assistant producers, the cinematographer and an associate producer found themselves in agreement that Miss Duncannon was a good fit for the part. All that was required now was the OK from Reiner. He had watched her audition from behind his tinted Lennon spectacles, and at the end thanked the actress with a graciousness that Nat found somewhat disconcerting. He had never known a director to have such manners.
After she had gone they sat around the table while one of Berk’s assistants ran through the production schedule. Then they listened to a report from a location manager. An hour passed before the talk turned back to Isabel Duncannon and the expected formality of hiring her. Through the gathering murmur of agreement Nat, picking up that Reiner had gone quiet, leaned in to ask him his view of the matter.
‘She is very good. She has poise, and a clear voice, and of course she’s very beautiful.’ Reiner paused, then squinted into the distance. ‘But this is a woman to admire. Not one to love. There is confidence in her – too much. I want someone who brings uncertainty to this character. Jane is young and rich, yes, but she doesn’t know her own attraction. She has the humility of the self-doubter. Miss Duncannon …’ He shook his head. ‘She is not that woman.’
Berk shifted in his chair, frowning. ‘Well. She’s the hell of an actress, my friend.’
‘That is not in dispute,’ said Reiner. ‘We invited the lady to this audition already knowing what she could do. I was looking for something else, something beyond the reach of technical skill. Maybe – maybe it’s just an expression on a face. A look.’
A blank silence intervened. One of the producers asked him what sort of ‘look’ he meant. Reiner leaned back.
‘Well, consider the story of a young and virtuous wife. Her husband is serving a prison sentence – not for a violent crime, just some error of judgement. Maybe he was bankrupt, or involved in a fraud. For some years she has patiently waited for him, visiting him in jail while enduring her own loneliness. In the meantime she has had to resist the advances made by other men, who know her situation. She is like Penelope waiting for the return of Odysseus. The imprisoned man is fortunate indeed to have the love of such a woman!’
Nat glanced around the table to check the effect of Reiner’s story; he could almost discern a vaporous cartoon question mark floating above the heads of the assembled. Oblivious to their confusion, Reiner continued.
‘Now, the time of the husband’s release draws near. They are counting down the weeks, and the wife is excited, tidying and preparing their home for the big day. While she is clearing out an old trunk she happens to come across a box she has never seen before. She opens it, and finds there a cache of letters. What are these? She reads them, one by one, and slowly her expression changes – they are love letters written to her husband by another woman. And she instantly knows from the dates on them that this affair happened within the span of their marriage. To think: the husband that she loved and stood by for years – this man has betrayed her. Picture her face as turmoil rises within, the different emotions, of hurt and anger, yes, but also of terrible confusion. She loves him still. Imagine this agony played out. That is the face I am looking for.’
Berk was first to break the silence. ‘But where’s that in the movie?’
Reiner shrugged. ‘It’s not. It’s a story I’ve invented to explain something.’
The air of bafflement was palpable. Nat felt inclined to laugh, but in admiration, not mockery. He loved the casual way Reiner had trotted out his fable. That was the moment he understood what sort of actress was required for the part of Jane. What’s more, he knew where to find her.
Billie stepped off the bus at Kentish Town and crossed Fortess Road. The heat of the day was uncomfortable, but she hardly noticed. Her mother’s house was a tall Victorian villa that had seen better days; the stucco and brickwork were flaky, the front windows clouded. It had been inherited from her parents, but with no money for its maintenance it looked a little forlorn. A palisade of dusty trees screened it from the street. Billie hurried up the tiled path and rang the bell.
A young denim-jacketed man with a northern accent (Kevin, she thought his name was) answered the door. He was a student at UCL, one of an ever-changing retinue of lodgers; her mother liked the company, and probably needed the rent money. Billie greeted him brightly. ‘Is Nell in?’
Kevin, peering at her from beneath a lank fringe of brown hair, mumbled, ‘Yeah, upstairs, I think.’
He stepped aside and she passed down the hallway, which smelled of boiled lentils and old carpets, with top notes of patchouli oil. From one of the rooms she heard singing and the plaintive strum of a guitar: someone was playing ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’ as though it might be the end of the world. Billie climbed the staircase. The walls were covered with Nell’s work – landscapes from her time at the Slade, the odd portrait, more accomplished as the years went on. Billie felt quite proud of her mother’s stuff; though it made her a modest living, it had never received its due. She used a back bedroom as her studio, from which was emanating the muffled drone of a radio.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, poking her head round the door.
Nell gave a little jump and shot her a goofy grin. ‘Darling – I wasn’t expecting you.’ She dropped a thin brush in a jar and moved her easel to make room for them both. ‘Careful. Don’t get paint on you.’
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ she said as they kissed each other. ‘Can I have a look?’
‘Oh, I was just pottering,’ said Nell, who after a little coaxing showed her the picture she’d been working on. It was a landscape, with two distant figures standing at its edge, one of them puzzling over a map. ‘Have you taken the afternoon off?’
‘Actually, I’ve just handed in my notice at the hotel.’
Nell, in the middle of wiping her hands, looked up sharply. ‘You haven’t.’
Billie nodded. ‘I had to. I’ve got another job.’ She allowed herself a gratifying little pause. ‘It’s a part in a film. They called me today to say I’d got it.’
Nell’s
mouth dropped open in surprise, then let out a shriek of triumph. They fell into each other’s arms. ‘Oh, Billie! That’s smashing news. But you didn’t even tell me you had an audition.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ she admitted. ‘I decided to keep shtum.’ She had learned that it was better not to raise people’s hopes: if it turned out you hadn’t got it you then had to deal with their disappointment as well as your own.
Nell beamed at her. ‘You’re a sly one. So tell me, tell me!’
Billie recounted the story of running into Nat Fane at Penny Rolfe’s office (she omitted mention of their first encounter) and how he’d called at the hotel to invite her to an audition. It was the part of a young society woman called Jane. She hadn’t realised at first what a ‘big’ film it was to be – a young German called Reiner Werther Kloss was directing, he’d won all sorts of awards, this would be his first film in English …
‘But, Mum, you’ll never guess who’s starring in it. Vere Summerhill.’
‘Go on!’ cried Nell. ‘God, I remember swooning first time I saw him in They Fought Them on the Beaches. Vere Summerhill and John Mills.’ Her eyes misted over.
‘Maybe I could get you onto the set to meet him.’
‘Ooh, imagine! Mind you, he’s queer, isn’t he?’
‘Christ! I wasn’t planning on matchmaking you.’
‘And this fellow Fane – he must think you’re the bee’s knees. Never seen you in anything and yet seeks you out personally! What’s he like?’
‘Oh, lots of charm, rather a tease. Bit full of himself. He’s written a lot of plays and films; won an Oscar a while back.’
Nell made a just-fancy-that face. ‘So when d’you start?’
‘End of this month. They all seemed very excited about it.’
‘I should think so,’ said Nell, who glanced at her watch. ‘Are you going to stay for some dinner?’
‘Well, I thought we might go out for a curry, you know, to celebrate. I mean, it’s not every day you get cast in a motion picture, is it?’
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