AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe, giving the photographer a warning wink. ‘And I wondered if a couple of shots in the kitchen? I read that you like cooking.’

  ‘I do. Good idea. I have a girlfriend coming down a little later for Sunday lunch. Wouldn’t that be rather cosy?’

  ‘Very,’ said Joe. And very cosmetic, he thought. God, he didn’t like this man.

  The pictures took over an hour to do; the photographer was just loading up his car when a dark green Mini Cooper roared into the drive and a very pretty girl with wild red hair climbed out. Aha, thought Joe, Tabitha Levine. The Lady of Shalott herself. Even more cosmetic.

  Tabitha hugged Piers, and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Darling, you didn’t tell me the press were coming.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Piers. ‘Want to be in a piccy or two?’

  ‘Oh – well, I don’t know. . .’ Her reluctance was charming, transparently phoney.

  ‘Oh Miss Levine, please do.’ Joe smiled at her. ‘It would make my article. Make the feature.’

  ‘Yes, darling, do,’ said Piers. ‘Then we can just mention, you know, that you are being considered – only considered, mind – for the Lady. It’s all absolutely marvellous publicity. And it is for the Sunday Times magazine. Nothing tacky.’

  ‘Oh – oh, well all right,’ said Tabitha Levine. ‘I’ll just go and do my face a bit. Can you wait?’ she said to the photographer.

  ‘Of course. As long as it takes.’

  It took over three quarters of an hour. Piers started talking to Joe, dishing out the well-rehearsed details of his early life.

  ‘I had the most marvellously happy childhood: just the three of us. Father died when I was fourteen, which was tragic of course, but until then it was just perfect; lovely summer holidays in Cornwall, and we had such a pretty house in London, in Kensington, near the gardens. I used to sail my boat in the Round Pond, and Mummy and I used to go and chat to Peter Pan. Of course there were dark times, I had to go away to school at eight, which I didn’t like so very much, but I really don’t think it did me any harm, and the holidays were even more wonderfully happy. And I adored St Luke’s of course; you know I won the acting cup for Juliet, a source of great amusement to everyone.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Joe, making notes: check out prep school for quotes, where is Mummy now, contemporaries at St Luke’s. ‘Was that the trigger for your acting ambitions?’

  ‘Oh, no, not really, I did little plays at prep school, that sort of thing. I always loved it. I suppose I liked being the centre of attention,’ he said and laughed modestly.

  Too right, thought Joe.

  On and on it went: the days in the RAF (‘I was so disappointed never to get any action, but I just had this flair for radar’), RADA (runner-up for the gold medal) and then into rep.

  ‘And then you met your first wife?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Piers easily, his grey eyes wide and candid, ‘Guinevere Davies. She was the most wonderful actress and a truly lovely person. We were very much in love. But – well, you know as a profession its success rate is not high in the marriage business. After two years our careers began to clash; parting seemed inevitable.’

  ‘What was the biggest clash?’ said Joe carefully, raking over dates in his head.

  ‘Oh, she was offered a wonderful part: Jennifer Dubedat in the Doctor’s Dilemma at the Bristol Old Vic. I had just got a six-month run in Edinburgh. I suppose – selfishly – I thought she should come with me. Although I didn’t say so, didn’t try to press her.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Joe.

  ‘And – well, after that it was downhill all the way. We divorced in – oh, 1956, something like that.’

  ‘And you were on the rep circuit all this time? From 1950 to 1958, when you got the famous Mercutio? Quite a long time.’

  ‘Mr Payton, some actors never leave the rep circuit,’ said Piers. ‘But yes, that’s right. The companies got better of course: finally I followed Guinevere down to Bristol.’

  ‘Never tried your luck in Hollywood?’ Joe was trying so hard to sound casual, he was afraid it came out rather leadenly.

  ‘No. Never.’ Was the voice just a touch too quick, too firm? Or was it imagination, distorting it? He looked up at Piers; the smile was boyishly rueful. ‘I should have done, perhaps. But I didn’t. Then, tremendously luckily, Hollywood came to me, with Town Cousins. And you know the rest.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He listened, as Windsor talked about his roles, his interpretations, his ambitions, his theories of acting. It was one of the great hazards of doing an interview: cutting them off too soon. Nobody really wanted to read all that stuff (except the actor himself) but if you didn’t give them a good run at it, you never got close enough to them to ask them the tough ones.

  Like: why have you never married again; how upset were you by Guinevere’s departure; how much money are you looking for to put on The Lady of Shalott?

  He edged towards that one carefully now: ‘How close are you to getting backing for The Lady of Shalott?’

  ‘Oh – very near, I think.’ Windsor’s smile was neat, controlled. ‘The thing about this business is, you get the money if you can get the names. I’ve been wonderfully lucky with my names. David Montague is conducting. Damian Lutyens is doing the lyrics, he’s young but wonderfully talented and high profile; he did the score for Pretty Lady last year, you might just remember. Lydia Wintour is doing the costumes and the set design and Julius Hovatch has provisionally signed to play the Knight. That was the big breakthrough, really, getting Julius. “Tell the others I’ll do it for scale,” he said, and that was the most wonderful gesture of course; you know what scale is, Joe, the Equity rate, because then everyone else tumbles in on that and you save thousands.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ said Joe. They were impressive names: David Montague frequently conducted at the Royal Opera House (where his wife was a diva), Damian Lutyens was the current darling of the critics, and Julius Hovatch had played in hit after hit both on the legitimate stage and in musicals. Of course they all played follow my leader, these guys. And Tabitha Levine, with her haunting beauty, her glorious voice, her short but dazzling chain of successes, most recently a glorious revival of Guys and Dolls in a limited run (orchestrated by David Montague). Piers Windsor was clearly as talented an impresario as he was an actor.

  ‘Why the switch from acting?’ asked Joe, suddenly, genuinely interested.

  ‘Oh, but it isn’t really a switch,’ said Piers, just slightly reproachful. ‘I’ve been directing for years, of course. I directed this Romeo you know, and As You Like It last year. Musicals are a new venture, but they fascinate me, I’ve wanted to do one for years. Pulling all the elements together is just a very exciting experience. But I remain an actor, Joe. Even when I’m directing, I act.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Joe, carefully humble.

  Tabitha Levine appeared in the doorway, looking only very slightly more glamorous than when she had arrived. ‘Piers darling, the photographer wants us in the kitchen. Can you come?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Joe, help yourself to a drink, over there, look; I won’t be long.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joe. He poured himself a tonic water, and wandered over to the window: the garden was beautiful, but perfect, overdone, even the spring blossom looked as if it had been painted on. He turned back into the room; also pin-neat, unlived in. Well, the guy couldn’t possibly spend much time here. It was a backdrop, like all the others he commissioned. Joe went over to the bookshelves and studied the books: all predictable stuff, theatrical biographies, art books, rows of Dickens, of Trollope. Then he noticed, right on the very top shelf, a familiar cover: Scandals by Joe Payton.

  Intrigued, he pulled it down; it looked scarcely opened. He flicked to the flyleaf: Piers Windsor, it said, June 1960. Joe turned to the chapter about Byron an
d a card fell out; in a sloping, rather fanciful script was written, ‘Piers. Aren’t you glad you escaped all this? It’s a good read. Enjoy! Happy birthday. Best love, Guinevere.’

  Now, thought Joe, I wonder exactly what that might mean.

  Mrs Guinevere Windsor seemed an interesting person to talk to suddenly.

  He tracked her down through Equity; she was living near Cardiff and fronting an arts programme on regional TV. He called the station, asked if they could ask her to ring him.

  Nothing happened for nearly a week, while he wrestled with the piece, tried to make it sound less bland and predictable; he had given up all hope when the phone rang one afternoon, and a lovely deep lilting voice said, ‘Mr Payton? Guinevere Davies.’

  ‘Miss Davies!’ said Joe. ‘How very kind of you to ring me.’

  ‘I can never resist an opportunity to talk,’ she said. ‘I can tire the sun with talking.’

  Joe grinned into the phone. ‘Sounds like – let me see, Dylan Thomas?’

  ‘No, no. Hopeless. Someone called W.J. Cory. Bet you haven’t heard of him.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Joe.

  ‘I tend to talk in quotations. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. As you know. Two things. First I’m doing a round-up of all the arts programmes for a piece in the Guardian.’ God, the lies he told in the course of a working day. ‘So I’d like to talk to you about yours. Second, and this is really cheeky, I’m writing a profile of your ex-husband in the Sunday Times. I’m getting background on him, you know, filling in colour so to speak. I wondered if you had any anecdotes of your life together that you would share with me?’ There was a silence: she’s going to ring off, he thought, and braced himself for the click. It didn’t come.

  ‘I’m not giving you any dirt,’ she said, ‘I’m fond of the old bugger, really. We stayed good friends. I value friendship. Love without its wings.’

  ‘Byron.’

  ‘Good. We could get along well, I think, Mr Payton. I liked your book about scandal, by the way. In fact I gave it to Piers for his birthday once.’

  ‘Really? How very nice of you.’ Joe’s heart began to thump rather hard. ‘Why did you think he would like it?’

  ‘Oh, I thought all that early Hollywood stuff would amuse him. He was – shit, I have to go to the studio right now. Excuse me. I’ll ring you when I’ve had time to think a bit.’

  ‘Please do. And I’m not looking for dirt,’ said Joe earnestly.

  ‘All journalists are looking for dirt,’ said Guinevere, laughing. ‘Is this arts programme stuff on the level?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe humbly. He liked her too much to lie to her.

  ‘I thought not. I’ll ring you anyway.’

  The prep school Piers had attended, Abbots Park, was still open. The headmaster sounded young and enthusiastic; he said Mr Windsor’s headmaster had been at least three before him, a Mr Jeffries who had sadly passed away. ‘But I tell you who might be interesting for you to talk to, Matron. Her mother was matron here, at that time, and she would have stories to tell, perhaps. How would that be?’

  ‘It would be great,’ said Joe.

  Matron’s mother was a formidable lady called Mrs Gregson with a shelf of a bosom and a stern mouth. Joe couldn’t imagine she would have been a great comfort to any small boy who was homesick. Yes, she remembered Piers Windsor; she remembered all her boys. It was clearly a point of pride with her. ‘He was a nice little boy, although he was not a good mixer. And not sporty, of course, which never helps. He had a lot of trouble settling down. Even after the first year, we still had tears. He was teased, I’m afraid. Well, it’s part of growing up, isn’t it? A good preparation for life. They all settle in the end. It just takes some longer than others.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Joe, his heart going out, albeit reluctantly, to the small, tearful Piers Windsor, being teased, crying still, in his second year. ‘Er – was he in school plays that you can remember? Early promise?’

  ‘Yes, he was very good indeed. In his last year, they did Toad of Toad Hall and he was Toad. Quite out of character, and remarkable. I remember some upset in an earlier year when he was going to be Mr McGregor in Peter Rabbit, but he had to be pulled out. Had trouble learning his lines. And – well, these things pass.’

  ‘Oh, that was a shame. Er – what things?’ said Joe carefully.

  ‘Oh, you know, ups and downs of school life,’ said Mrs Gregson rather too quickly. ‘But yes, Mr Toad, wonderful. His mother was such a charming woman, and so pretty. She used to worry about him, being homesick, but of course we all reassured her. No point parents being worried, is there?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Joe. ‘And his father?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t remember his father. He never came, as far as I can recall.’

  ‘Didn’t he even come to plays and things?’

  ‘Oh, I really wouldn’t know that, Mr Payton. I think I’ve done quite well for you already.’ She stood up, and smiled rather sternly; the interview was clearly over.

  The head of St Luke’s was less helpful; he said he would consider Joe’s request and come back to him: three days later Piers called Joe.

  ‘Look, Joe, I’d rather you didn’t go raking around my past, without checking with me first. It’s a tiny bit intrusive, I feel. I’ve told St Luke’s I’d rather they didn’t talk to you, but if you want more information, then ask me. I’m at your disposal.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I really didn’t mean –’

  ‘Of course not. And I know it’s standard practice with these things. I’m just a bit stupidly sensitive, I suppose. A private person. Look, you obviously want more. Let me buy you lunch. What about the Garrick one day next week? Thursday?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe. ‘Thanks.’

  He rang Guinevere; she was slightly defensive. ‘I’ve had a think,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think I should start talking. I can never stop, you know.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful to me,’ said Joe. ‘But –’

  ‘No, really. I don’t think I should. I’m so sorry, Joe. I think it would have been fun, meeting you.’

  ‘OK. I think the same,’ said Joe. ‘Maybe I’ll find another pretext for that. Er – you were in the middle of telling me why you thought he’d like my book when you had to go on air. You wouldn’t like to finish that sentence even, would you?’

  ‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious,’ said Guinevere, increasingly cool. ‘Hollywood at that time was so intensely glamorous and shocking. I knew he would like it.’

  ‘That was the only reason?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Fine. Well, hail and farewell, Miss Davies.’

  He knew when he was beaten. He had a strong feeling Piers had been on to Guinevere.

  Lunch at the Garrick was actually very pleasant. Piers was a good raconteur; he told wonderful stories of actors, of first-night horrors, last-minute rescue operations and spoke with genuine passion and intense seriousness of his work. Warmed by the bottle and a half of claret they shared, and the new small knowledge of what had clearly been a sad childhood, Joe warmed to him. He also decided the man was if not homosexual, then certainly with very strong inclinations in that direction: it was not simply the theatrical dialect, the intensely showy behaviour, the phoney intimacy that gave the impression. They in themselves meant nothing; it was something much more subtle, more delicate, more refined. Joe rather prided himself on his sexual instincts; he would have staked a year’s salary on this one.

  ‘Tell me about your father,’ he said suddenly.

  Piers, caught unawares, looked at him sharply and then down at his plate; there had been a strong flash of anger in his eyes. Joe thought it was directed at him, and braced himself for further castigation, but when Piers looked up
again, he was smiling carefully.

  ‘He was what would now be called an absentee father,’ he said, ‘always working, always away. But very generous. I suppose he was just making a life for my mother and me.’

  ‘Were you close to him?’

  ‘Well – not really. No, not at all.’ That was almost too quick. There was something here all right. ‘It’s hard to be close to someone you never see. But when he died, I was desperately upset. To have missed out on so much. So obviously I did – love – him.’ The words came out with difficulty.

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Well, of course I loved her – oh so much. She was wonderful. So brave and – gay. Always such fun. Always there when I needed her. I had an ear abscess at school once, and she came down, sat with me all night. I think Matron was a little disapproving.’ He laughed. ‘And of course always at plays and everything. She’s very frail now, poor darling. Lives in a nursing home. Angina.’

  ‘How sad. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well. I would hate her troubled in any way.’ The meaning of his remark was very clear.

  ‘Of course not. Er –’ Joe didn’t want to let on he’d been down to Abbots Park. ‘What plays did you do at your prep school?’

  ‘Oh – well, my moment of greatest glory was Toad in Toad of Toad Hall. Gave me my first real taste of applause. Three curtain calls.’

  ‘Did you like it that much?’ said Joe, grinning at him.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ said Piers, slightly (but carefully) shamefaced. ‘It was wonderful. Dreadful lot, we actors.’

  ‘Nice to meet an honest one,’ said Joe. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh, let me see. No, nothing much. Joseph in the Nativity Play. Walk-on part in Peter Rabbit, I seem to remember. It was early on, the younger ones didn’t get to be in the plays.’

  Joe didn’t ask him about Mr McGregor. Maybe Mrs Gregson had confused him with someone else.