AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘No, Chloe, it’s out of the question. You’ve got plenty of dresses, you’ll have to wear one of them.’

  ‘They’re all too small for me. And it’s such an important party.’

  ‘Nonsense. They’re fine. And you’re only thirteen, it can’t possibly be an important party.’

  ‘I’m nearly fourteen and it is. There are going to be boys.’

  ‘Boys! Oh, my God.’ Toby clasped his hands together and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Better be careful, Chloe, you might get raped.’ He was twelve and in his last year at prep school: large for his age, good-looking, arrogant. His mother spoilt him disastrously.

  ‘Not likely,’ said Jolyon, ‘none of them would even look at her, never mind rape her. They’ll go for the pretty girls. Or at least the less ugly ones.’ Jolyon was two years younger than Toby, gentler, nicer, still badly behaved, still spoilt.

  ‘Be quiet both of you,’ said Caroline. ‘Chloe, I’m sorry, but I really can’t take you. Maybe we could go into Colchester early on Wednesday morning, before you go to Sarah’s.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Chloe. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I’ll wear one of the ones I’ve got. I’ll breathe in a bit.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a lot with that stomach,’ said Toby.

  ‘Well if you’re sure . . .’ said Caroline.

  ‘Of course,’ said Chloe.

  Caroline looked at her and thought that Toby had struck home. Chloe was pretty, in an English rose kind of way with her dark red hair and her creamy skin, but she was definitely overweight. She really must try to get her to do something about it. ‘All right, darling. That’s very nice of you. I’ll make it up to you some other time.’

  ‘Fine.’ Chloe smiled at her mother and went in search of Mrs Jarvis to enlist her help with clearing up the orange juice. But she knew her mother wouldn’t. Caroline didn’t put a great deal of effort into making things up to her.

  Caroline didn’t have the faintest idea what Joe Payton was going to be like. She had somehow expected someone slightly middle-aged, wearing a suit; not a tall, rangy, attractive creature, clearly several years younger than she was, with rather long, floppy blond-streaked brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a peculiarly soft shy smile, wearing a big shaggy grey jumper and blue jeans. She immediately felt rather silly in the smart going-to-London outfit she had chosen from her crowded wardrobe with great care that morning (mindful of Joe Payton’s interest in her appearance): a cream bouclé wool suit, just covering her knees, and very high-heeled, very pointed-toed shoes. She felt at once over-dressed and country bumpkinish, and her hair, flicked up neatly at the sides, seemed suddenly stiff and formal, her eye make-up black and heavy and clearly ageing.

  Nevertheless Joe Payton stood up as she approached the table and smiled appreciatively. He didn’t see a formal suit or a stiff hairstyle, he saw a tall woman with a perfect oval face, creamy skin, oddly hungry blue eyes, hair of a ravishing dark red, and a great length of very good leg ending in particularly slender feet. Joe was a connoisseur of beautiful women; he also knew a class act when he saw one.

  He held out his hand. ‘Mrs Hunterton, I presume?’

  Caroline hesitated briefly. ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘You don’t seem too sure.’

  ‘Well – no – that is, yes. But please call me Caroline.’

  ‘OK, Caroline. Call me Joe.’

  ‘This really is very kind of you – Joe.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now this is a funny old place, but it’s quiet and the steak’s great and the wine is wonderful. And although it’s full of journalists, they’re the quiet kind. Quiet drunks.’ He smiled at her again. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  Caroline looked round the room, an odd blend of café and grill room, with its yellow-brown walls and its old-style waiters, and at Joe’s reassuring, ravishing smile, and felt her nervousness leave her. ‘A gin and tonic please.’

  ‘Ah. That’s what I like. A real lunch-time drinker. None of this small sherry nonsense. Michael, two gin and tonics please. And then we’ll order quickly. As we have very important business to attend to, don’t we, Caroline?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we do.’

  ‘Do you like steak?’

  ‘Yes. Or cutlets if they have them.’

  ‘They do. Good idea. Pink, I presume? Thought so. Michael, lamb cutlets, rare for two and some veg, and a bottle of the ’57 Beaune. Now then, fire away.’

  ‘Well, it’s –’ She was suddenly tongue-tied, not knowing where to begin. ‘Oh, dear, I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Let me ask you some questions, like a good journalist. How did you meet Byron Patrick?’

  ‘He was a GI. He came to Suffolk, where I live, in the war. Only he wasn’t called Byron Patrick. He was called Brendan FitzPatrick.’

  ‘Jesus, what a wonderful name. Only Hollywood could change that. OK. So what happened next?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Sorry, not a leading enough question. So you got along really well? You must have been – what? Twelve? Did he give you chewing gum?’

  She laughed. ‘He did actually. But I was a little more than twelve. I was twenty when I met him.’

  ‘Living with Mummy and Daddy?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘And, forgive the blunt Fleet Street question, but did you have an affair with him?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Look, this isn’t going to be published, is it?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Caroline, you don’t have to tell me anything. You can ask all the questions if you like. I just started because you didn’t. I’m not very subtle, I’m afraid.’

  She took a large mouthful of the gin and tonic. It tasted very strong. She felt herself relaxing. ‘All right. Let me ask. Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘Oh, no. He died in 1957, long before I wrote the book.’

  ‘Nineteen fifty-seven?’ She was silent again. So Fleur had been twelve. Just twelve.

  ‘You didn’t know that?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t. Until I heard you on the radio, I thought he was still alive.’

  ‘But you’d lost touch?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

  To her horror she felt tears stinging her eyes, a lump in her throat; she looked down, away from Joe. He caught the flash of tears, studied her bent head, and felt an overpowering urge to caress her slender, suddenly vulnerable neck. He put his hand over hers instead.

  ‘Look, don’t be embarrassed crying in front of me. I cry a lot myself. I cry in films. I cry at weddings. I even cry on Christmas Day. If I were you I’d be blubbing my head off.’

  She looked up at him and smiled shakily. ‘You’re being awfully nice to me.’

  ‘Well, I like pretty ladies.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now let’s get on. Ask me some more questions.’

  ‘How did you find out about Brendan?’

  ‘Well, like I said, I was researching this book. Looking out for scandal. I looked up all the old columns Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons wrote – you know they were – are – the Hollywood gossip queens. And got out all the back files of Confidential – you know about Confidential?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much really. It was the most powerful and the most feared publication in Hollywood at that time. It claimed to “tell the facts and name the names” which made it sound more as if it conducted a fearless search after truth, rather than the filth-peddling it actually was. They used hidden mikes and telephoto lenses and infra-red film, and sent private detectives and hookers in pursuit of the people they were trying to nail. Nasty stuff. They made the terrible twins look like innocent cub reporters by comparison. I came across Byron – Brendan – quite late in my investi
gations. There was just a small paragraph about him. It was actually something they’d picked up from another rag, something very small and a great deal tackier. If that’s possible. And less accurate,’ he added hastily.

  She looked at him intently, almost frightened. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Joe easily, ‘it said, you know, he was living with this woman, this studio head, and she’d, well, got tired of him.’

  ‘That’s not what you said on the radio.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ He looked at her wide-eyed, and drained his glass.

  ‘No. You know it wasn’t. You said there’d been some dirt.’

  ‘Yes, well there was, but I don’t remember quite what.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Please tell me.’

  He looked at her anxiously. ‘Look, Caroline, it wasn’t very nice – dirt.’

  ‘Dirt isn’t often nice.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘There’s dirt and dirt. But this was dirty dirt.’

  ‘I want to know what it was.’

  ‘Really? You sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure,’ said Caroline irritably. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. As you can very well see,’ she added inconsequentially. The gin was making her head spin slightly.

  ‘I can indeed see that. I can see you are a very worldly, very sexy and probably very wise woman. The kind I like. How’s that?’

  ‘Flattering,’ said Caroline, laughing.

  ‘Good. Have another gin.’

  ‘No, thank you. But they could pour that wine.’

  ‘I think it’s breathing or something.’

  ‘Well, let’s suffocate it.’

  ‘You’re really fun,’ he said. ‘I like you.’

  ‘Now tell me the dirt.’

  ‘Well,’ he said carefully, watching her face, ‘it seems there had been implications of homosexuality.’

  Caroline felt the table rock slightly beneath her. She stared at Joe, trying to sort his words into sense. ‘But – but that’s ridiculous. Really.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is,’ said Joe, relieved at her reaction. ‘Most of what those rags print is ridiculous. Was. They’ve gone now, the worst of them.’

  ‘So how could it hurt him? Saying he was homosexual when he clearly wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, mud sticks. And Hollywood’s a sticky place.’

  ‘Is this – this part of the story in your book?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Joe simply. ‘But no details, just that there had been these stories about him, implying that he was homosexual.’

  ‘Pretty irresponsible,’ said Caroline coldly, ‘when you didn’t know if it was true.’

  ‘I saw the cuttings. And whether they were true or not, that was not the point of my story. The point is that lies in Hollywood get to be believed. If they’re interesting enough.’

  ‘I see. So you think this woman he was living with believed it?’

  ‘I imagine so, yes.’

  ‘And drummed him out of the studio?’

  ‘Something like that. Well, actually yes, she did. Literally. Turned him out of his apartment. Like I said, he was sleeping on the beach.’

  ‘And – and he was killed by a car?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe Payton, very quietly, watching her. ‘He was. While – while he was drunk apparently.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A wonderful old dame called Yolande duGrath. She was Byron’s – Brendan’s – drama coach. And a good friend to him. She really tried to help him. She was very fond of him. She said he was one of the good guys.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline, hearing the catch in her voice, trying to control it, ‘yes, he was. Definitely.’ She waited, struggling to control herself. ‘And – and is he buried there?’

  ‘Yes, he is. Over in the valley. At the back of the Hills. Yolande went to his funeral.’

  ‘Was there anyone else there?’

  ‘Well, his mother and his sisters. And his – his girlfriend, she said.’

  ‘Ah.’ Well, there would have been a girlfriend, Caroline Hunterton, what do you expect, you silly cow. You have a husband and three more children. Naturally he would have a girlfriend. Caroline stood up suddenly. ‘I – just have to find the Ladies,’ she said. ‘Excuse me.’

  In the Ladies she sat and cried quite hard for about two minutes and then felt calm again. She washed her face, repaired her make-up and went back to the table, with a bright smile. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Joe Payton looked at her thoughtfully, almost tenderly, and then he said, ‘Don’t mind me. Nobody does. Look, your cutlets have arrived. Pink and pretty. Bon appétit. Have some more wine.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Suffolk do you live?’ he said, clearly anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Quite near Framlingham. Do you know it?’

  ‘A bit. My second wife lived in Ipswich.’

  ‘Do you have a third wife?’

  ‘No. I’m not fit for marriage.’

  ‘What went wrong?’ she said, genuinely curious.

  ‘I suppose I haven’t grown up yet.’

  ‘And how old is not grown up?’

  ‘Oh, I’m twenty-eight.’

  ‘That’s young to be a film critic and have written a book.’

  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t waste time going to university or any of that nonsense. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t waste time going to university either.’

  ‘No, you silly woman, I mean are you married? Still? Not divorced or anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Caroline. ‘Yes, I’m married.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three. A girl and two boys.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Chloe is nearly fourteen, Toby’s twelve, Jolyon’s ten.’

  ‘You must have heard it a hundred times, but you really don’t look old enough. Chloe, Toby and Jolyon. Very upmarket. And what does Mr Hunterton do?’

  ‘He’s an antique dealer.’

  ‘And do you live in a grand house? And have ancient retainers and ride to hounds?’

  ‘Quite grand, I suppose.’ She smiled at him, enjoying herself, suddenly willing to play the part he was casting her in, that of a glamorous older woman. ‘The retainers are quite young and I do ride to hounds.’

  ‘And have a passionate affair with your groom, I dare say.’

  ‘Fairly passionate,’ said Caroline. ‘Certainly we’re very close.’

  ‘Well it all sounds like a film script to me. You don’t have a title as well, do you?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Caroline, slightly shamefaced, ‘yes, I do.’

  ‘I knew it. I knew you were a high-class bird. So you’re – what? Lady Hunterton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow.’ He looked at her, smiling, appreciating her heightened colour, her widened smile. ‘You know I really am enjoying this.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Caroline, ‘and I was dreading it. Now – could we get back to Brendan?’

  ‘If we have to. I was rather hoping we’d get on to me.’

  ‘In time, maybe. So there wasn’t a – little girl at the funeral?’

  ‘No. Well, not as far as I know.’

  ‘And Yolande – this drama coach – she didn’t tell you about her?’

  ‘Absolutely not, no.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was silent again. Then she looked up and met his eyes very directly. ‘I have to find her. I simply have to. Do you think I could write to the drama coach? Or the girlfriend?’

&nb
sp; ‘You could. If you like. Er – who exactly is this little girl?’

  ‘I told you. Brendan’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah, yes. But – but who’s her mother?’

  She looked at him, her eyes wounded and afraid.

  He took a deep breath, covered her hand with his. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Let me tell you about it.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘Go on then. Have some more wine.’

  She had some more wine and told him. It took a long time.

  ‘But I gave him the baby,’ she finished. ‘I’d never signed the adoption papers, you see, so I arranged for him to have her, to take her home to America. And that made sort of sense of it all, him having our baby, taking care of her, loving her. And that was the last time I saw him.’

  She looked up; Joe was staring at her, his green eyes full of tears; one rolled down his face and splashed on to his brown wrist. He wiped it away and got out his handkerchief, blew his nose.

  ‘I told you I cried easily,’ he said.

  Caroline smiled at him shakily. ‘I thought journalists were supposed to be tough, thick-skinned, cynical people.’

  ‘They are. I just haven’t been trained properly.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘what a story! What a fucking awful thing to happen. It must have been very – painful.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it was. But you see why I have to find her. I have to know who’s looking after her. If anyone is.’

  1960

  Joe sat down at his desk as soon as he got back to his flat, and wrote a long letter to Yolande duGrath. He told her everything he had learnt from Caroline that day, explaining why she needed to find Fleur; he said he assumed Yolande might well have known about the child, but hadn’t mentioned her in order to protect her. He said he respected Yolande’s loyalty, but he felt if she could now help Caroline, she should. He added that he swore on his mother’s bible (women, particularly older women, were always impressed by mothers and their bibles) he wouldn’t write about any of it, and he asked Yolande to write back to him as soon as possible. He added that Caroline was a really nice woman and was obviously acting with the best possible intentions. ‘There is no way she’s a stringer for Confidential or the Screws of the World.’