With a return of her nervous haste she jerked open the drawers and started taking out the cosmetic bottles. And then she looked up to the mirror and saw Elizabeth standing in the doorway.
‘Hallo,’ the girl said hesitantly.
Laura forced a smile. ‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘Come in.’
After the move to Burnham Falls, Elizabeth had seemed to enjoy the novelty of country living, but now that the second long summer vacation had come round, time hung heavily. She did not make friends; she was weary and bored, yawning through the hot days, lying under the trees, her book beside her unread, wandering restlessly through the house, sitting hypnotised for whole afternoons before the television set. She was like a fractious young girl, breaking and destroying her playthings and yet unable to replace them with anything better. She stood now and stared at her stepmother with a listless, mournful gaze.
As always, she made Laura feel uncomfortable. Laura dipped into the foundation cream and began applying it quickly and skilfully about her eyes. ‘It was a terrible afternoon,’ she said, grasping for something to say to Elizabeth. ‘The trouble is, I just shouldn’t be on any school-boards or committees …’
The girl shrugged, cutting her short. ‘Oh, well … you don’t have to do much. They have to ask you on because of Daddy, but you needn’t really do anything.’
For a fraction of the second Laura’s fingers stopped, then she quickly reached for the powder. ‘No … I suppose you’re right.’ She gave a shaky little laugh. ‘No one expects me to do anything.’
Elizabeth had come closer to the dressing-table. Her lumpy, awkward body seemed to fill all the space in the mirror; she crowded on Laura overpoweringly. She was untidy, and her hair was pulled back lankly into an elastic band.
Laura shifted her stool a trifle; immediately Elizabeth moved back.
‘Did you enjoy going to the Dexters’ yesterday?’ Laura asked. ‘The boys are nice, aren’t they? Tim and … what’s the older one’s name?’
‘Gene,’ Elizabeth supplied.
‘Oh, yes ‒ Gene. I suppose his name is Eugene. They say he’s very clever. Harriet told me he gets excellent grades in school. But it’s Tim, the young one, who takes after Steve. He’s mad on physics and chemistry … but not Gene. Did you like Gene?’
Elizabeth shrugged again. ‘I suppose so … I didn’t see much of him. Or either of them. They’re both too young to interest me much. They belong in Clare’s group. Tim spent hours showing her that electronic junk he has in his room, and Gene stood in the doorway and watched, and neither of them knew that that little fool didn’t understand a word of what Tim was saying. They can only see that silly baby face …’
‘And what did you do?’ Laura said, more gently.
‘Me? … Oh, I talked to Mrs. Dexter mostly. She’s nice, isn’t she, Laura? I mean, sort of … comfortable …’
‘Yes.’ Laura nodded to her in the mirror. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘And there’s this old woman who works for them … Nell. She’s been with them since Mrs. Dexter was a little girl. She told me that her nephew is married to Selma ‒ you know, who works here. And her grand-niece is that marvellous-looking girl who sells the cosmetics in Carter’s. You remember her, Laura? The one who sold you perfume when you went in there to buy soap.’
Laura smiled a little at the recollection. She picked up the hand-mirror, and began darkening and shaping her eyebrows. Elizabeth leaned in closer again. ‘I want to see how you do your eyes again. I practised, like you told me, but it didn’t come out right …’ She put her face very near Laura’s, and Laura moved away from her slightly, pretending that she needed to get nearer to the light.
‘What else did you do at the Dexters’?’ Laura said quickly. She hated anything to break the concentration she gave to the art of making-up; especially she didn’t want it to-night, when it mattered more than it had done for some time.
‘Well, I helped Mrs. Dexter do some gardening, and then we swept out the floor of that old Rolls they have.’ Her face took on some animation. ‘That’s a wonderful car! And do you know, she let me drive it!’
Laura glanced at her. ‘She let you drive it?’
‘Well, just to the gate, and back. But I told her I’d never been in a car before that had that old- fashioned gear shift on the floor, and so she explained to me how it worked, and then she let me have a go with it. Gee, that’s a marvellous-looking car ‒ all that polished wood, and everything!’
Elizabeth picked up the eye shadow stick. ‘You use this kind of silvery stuff at night?’
‘Yes, it seems to spark up my eyes a little.’
Next Elizabeth took up the foundation cream, opened and smelled it, and then laid it down, leaving the lid off. Laura hated having any of her cosmetics left exposed to dust.
‘Is Daddy going to have a swimming-pool put in this summer?’ Elizabeth asked. It was said without the faintest enthusiasm.
‘Wouldn’t you like that? Don’t you think you’d like to be able to swim whenever you wanted?’
‘There are plenty of lakes around here to swim in.’ Then she added swiftly, ‘No one else has a swimming-pool in this town.’
‘Don’t you want a pool?’ It had never occurred to Laura that such a thing might be unwelcome. Remembering her own childhood of wanting and envying those who had what she wanted, she was utterly bewildered. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice for … your friends?’
Elizabeth shrugged again, indifferently acquiescing. ‘Pools are so chi-chi ‒ I’ll bet we have those horrible tables and umbrellas around it.’
‘I’ll let you pick whatever you want,’ Laura promised. ‘What about that?’
‘It doesn’t matter that much,’ Elizabeth said. She had lost interest. For a minute she reflectively bit on a hangnail. Then she said abruptly, ‘The Dexters have a nice house, don’t they?’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I’ve always liked it ‒ kind of big and roomy. Mrs. Dexter told me those big trees have been there more than two hundred years.’
Laura had finished at the dressing-table, and she got up and took from the wardrobe a dress of dull olive-green jersey, muted and soft, that clung to her figure like wax. As she zipped it up, she said to Elizabeth, ‘Your grandmother’s place in Pennsylvania is old, too.’
‘Oh, Grandmother’s! That’s only a show-place.’ She plumped herself down on the dressing-stool. ‘I wish we lived in a place like the Dexters’.’
‘Why, don’t you like this house?’ Laura was turned away from her, searching for the copper-beaded handbag that went with the dress.
‘Oh, it’s all right, I suppose. But you can’t go anywhere in this house. All this glass ‒ you stand inside the front door, and you can see from end to end of it. And all those crazy pictures Daddy’s hung on the walls! It looks like a museum!’
‘Those pictures are worth a great deal of money,’ Laura said mildly. ‘Their price is going up all the time ‒ as you’ll know when you inherit them. They’re a good investment. And this house … well, you read what they said about it in the New York Times.’
‘Oh, yes, I know. A show-place ‒ just a different kind from Grandmother’s.’
‘It isn’t so bad,’ Laura said, turning back to the girl. ‘It could be … Elizabeth! … Put that down! Not martinis! Not yet!’
The girl returned the glass angrily to the tray, spilling most of what was left.
‘Oh, damn you! I was only having a sip! What do you think I am ‒ a kid, or something?’ Her face had flushed an ugly red; she looked big and clumsy, and wretched, twisting one hand nervously in the other. She moved jerkily past Laura to the door, then paused.
‘Well, it won’t be long before I’m eighteen, and then I can go and live with my mother in Paris! I won’t be shut up any more in this stupid one-horse town!’
On her way out she banged her elbow against the door jamb. Laura listened to her heavy footsteps along the passage, and the slam of her bedroom door. Half a minute later cam
e the blaring sound of a rock-and-roll record, with the volume turned up high. The noise seemed to vibrate through the house. Laura found herself clenching her hands.
Then, through the sound of the record she heard the too-sharp braking of Ed’s car in the driveway, but his quick light footsteps in the foyer made hardly any sound.
‘For God’s sake, what’s that row!’ He came through the bedroom, and paused as he caught sight of Laura standing in the dressing-room.
‘Well, hell, can’t you do something about it? Make her turn it off! And get me a drink, will you? We’re going to be late!’
II
The glass had been well chilled before the martini was poured, and even the stem felt cool to her touch; she gripped it in a nervous, tight enjoyment, and let the sounds of the voices flow over her, the excited, brittle voices that always had an unceasing urgency in them. She listened to the dull crack of ice against glass, saw the studied motions of women smoking cigarettes in holders, the flash of jewellery, real and fake, noticed the alert scanning by those already seated of each new group that entered the dining-room, the readiness to claim acquaintances, the extravagance of the greetings ‒ all the familiar tricks and gambits to gain a few seconds of attention, to be for a moment the focal point. Then at last she leaned back and relaxed her grip of the thin stem; it was good to feel at home again.
She drew a cigarette from her case, and immediately Phil Conrad, seated beside her, proffered his lighter.
‘Laura, it’s wonderful to see you looking so well,’ he said smoothly. ‘But I’m glad country life hasn’t changed you into an outdoor-girl type … you know, suntan, and close-cropped hair.’ He looked across the table to include E. J. Harrison, and Ed, sitting opposite. ‘You know, there’s nothing I admire so much as a really well-turned-out woman, and in my book, Laura has always taken the prize.’
She drew on her cigarette, and wondered if the remark had offended Bette Harrison, who was corseted just a little too tightly into her five-hundred-dollar dress. Bette Harrison was almost thirty years younger than E. J., and his third wife; recently she had started to put on flesh, and her once doll-like features had begun to coarsen a little. It did Ed no good to have Bette ruffled by compliments paid to his wife. But to-night, Phil Conrad could say anything he wanted, and they would all take it without a murmur ‒ because to-night Amtec was trying to buy Phil Conrad, and he hadn’t yet said ‘yes’.
Laura gestured to deprecate his last words. ‘What did you expect me to do? … Change my name to Maggie and use a perfume that smelled like hay? I’m hardly that good an actress.’
E. J. patted her hand approvingly. ‘You’re a very fine actress, my dear ‒ as Amtec has reason to be grateful for.’
‘Amtec?’ Phil said. ‘What does ‒?’ Then he recovered himself quickly. ‘Oh, yes … the commercials. You know, Laura, I caught one or two of those … and you managed to stand beside a kitchen stove and still look beautiful. Quite a feat.’
E. J. kept hold of her hand. ‘Laura did very well for Amtec with those commercials … we don’t forget that.’ He leaned closer and gave her hand a squeeze. Later, after he had drunk a good deal more, when dinner was over and they were leaving, he would take the opportunity to kiss her, not affectionately or in camaraderie, but holding her too purposefully and too close. Ed would pretend not to notice. And because he was Ed’s boss, she would let him kiss her in that way.
‘And speaking of commercials …’ Phil went on, ‘I hope this deal doesn’t mean I’m supposed to stand in front of the camera and sell corporate goodwill.’ He said it with a trace of a laugh, but at the same time he nodded almost imperceptibly across at Martin Ewen, who was meant to take over from this point.
Laura sat back, and let them talk. She had nothing to add to this part of the evening; her role was to sit and to look decorative, a strong and tangible link between Amtec and the world of show business, the world of Philip Conrad.
At the moment, Conrad was riding the top of his world, which was why Amtec wanted him. He had three successful shows currently running on Broadway, and in the past few years he had turned two of his previous hit plays into movies, and both of them had made big slices of money at the box office. He was a star-maker for the Broadway stage. He was forty-four years old, and some people said his fall would be as swift as his climb, that he had had luck, not taste or talent. But for the moment he had the name and the prestige, and Amtec wanted to buy them.
They were trying to persuade him to lend the Conrad name, the Conrad touch, and the Conrad stars to a proposed series of dramas for television ‒ which Amtec would sponsor for corporate advertising and prestige. They would be ninety-minute specials, produced with the kind of budget and stars that Conrad would demand, and Amtec would be glad to pay for. Overtures had first been made to Conrad two months ago; he had listened, with no very great show of interest, and had, as yet, neither said yes nor no. And there would not be a definite answer until the price had gone higher, and he was given stock options in Amtec.
To-night’s meeting was only one in a series of equally inconclusive ones. It was understood that no real terms would be discussed at this table; in any case, it was not the function of the Chairman of the Board and a president of one of the Amtec subsidiaries to make Conrad an offer. They were simply here to let him know that the interest in the project went to the highest level of Amtec, and that they had a proper respect for Conrad’s status. Conrad was not going to be bought by money only; he demanded courting and wooing.
So they sat around the table, smiling and genial, with only the vaguest references to the purpose that had brought them all together … E. J. Harrison and Bette, Martin Ewen, Conrad’s business manager, Conrad, Ed, and Laura. Conrad had been divorced two years ago, and had not remarried. He had been invited to bring a companion, but had brought Ewen instead.
Ed Peters was there only because of Laura. In striving to create a balance between the business and aesthetic overtures of this meeting, E. J. had found an answer in Laura. She had been a Broadway star, her name was well known in show business, for years she had had a slight acquaintance with Conrad, and a year ago she had persuaded Ed to invest rather heavily in one of Conrad’s productions. This last fact wouldn’t have especially endeared her to Conrad, because his productions were usually over-subscribed, but The Lark at Morning was the work of an unknown English writer, and Conrad had had difficulty raising the money for it, and even casting it. The Lark at Morning had opened to rave reviews last January, and had already returned the money to the backers. Conrad was said to have a special affection for the play, and it extended to the people who had helped bring it to Broadway. E. J. had wanted Laura and Ed at this dinner as proof that Amtec was not controlled only by people who dealt in figures and machines. As further proof he had brought Ed’s collection of modern art into the conversation. When Conrad had expressed polite interest in it, Laura had seen E. J. glance meaningfully at her, and she knew that she was to press Conrad to visit them ‒ to see the pictures, the new research centre, and the Pirello statues.
But for the most part Laura sat and listened passively to the conversation. She was not hungry, and hardly touched the lobster she had asked for. E. J. had ordered a lovely hock, dry and light, but the martinis had blurred the taste for her; even the smell of it was lost a little. She regretted that; Larry had taught her some of his own appreciation of fine wines. She was aware ‒ in the way that a woman always senses it ‒ that Phil Conrad kept looking towards her with more than ordinary interest; she did nothing about it, and did not try to draw his attention back to herself when he looked away. But he kept coming back, and she was warmed and reassured by it. She felt languid, where before she had been tense; it was a soothing dream-like sensation. She liked the knowledge that she was making no special effort to please, and still was pleasing. The dinner came to an end with nothing concrete having been said by Conrad or E. J. The negotiations were still in existence, neither forward nor back, it seemed. They all sm
iled genially at each other, and nothing much was said. Laura sensed that the wooing of Phil Conrad could take a long time.
Bette Harrison led the way out of the room, and Laura felt as a beautiful woman feels when she is forced to stand back and allow another woman to precede her.
Five
A kind of hush had now settled on the Carpenter place, the hush that replaces the bustle of preparation; now it was the time of waiting. The summer night was warm; the breeze was barely strong enough to stir the leaves of the oaks, and it carried with it the scents of the countryside in summer ‒ a dusty scent because there had been too little rain, and the scent of the roses that bloomed on the creeper below the bedroom window. From where she sat at the dressing-table Harriet could smell the roses, even above the perfume she wore; she was dressed, and had finished her make-up and her hair. The room was tidy and waiting for the women who would stand and talk here during the evening, while others bent towards the mirror to apply powder and lipstick. There was nothing more to do but go and re-inspect all the things that had been ready before she came upstairs to change.
She walked downstairs slowly, but Steve heard her step, and he came out of the small room at the back of the house where he kept his books and papers. As she reached the bottom of the stairs he gave a little admiring whistle.
‘Excuse me, ma’am ‒ are you doing anything to-night? Could I have the pleasure of your company?’ Then he added, ‘Wonderful ‒ what’s it called? Whipped chocolate mocha?’
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