AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  Joe lay on the bed and thought about Brendan FitzPatrick: of what Caroline had told him and what he had learnt for himself. The two portraits did not add up too well. To Caroline he had been a hero, a gentle, dashing hero who had arrived in Suffolk in the middle of the war and swept her off her feet. He had come riding into town, like a fucking prince in a fairytale, only in a Jeep rather than on a white charger, and they had fallen in love. And to everyone else he had spoken to he had been a no-hoper, weak, untalented, albeit charming, and hopelessly indiscreet. What was he to make of this enigma, he wondered that night after the funeral, for the hundredth, the thousandth time, of this man Caroline had loved so much, who Fleur had loved so much and who so clearly deserved neither of them?

  Or did he? Who was the real Brendan FitzPatrick, and what had he truly been like, what had actually happened to him? It was the apparent paradox of the man that kept Joe working away as tenaciously as Fleur herself at finding out precisely what had led him to his death. The story that he had told in his book, that had served almost as an introduction to the other famously great Hollywood scandals, of Lana Turner and Johnny Stompanato, of Errol Flynn and the rape charge, of Charles Chaplin and his predilection for young girls, of Robert Mitchum and the drugs case, the story of Byron Patrick, its details obscured in the tangle of time, intrigued and haunted him. And even as he had come to resent and even dislike, if not Brendan, then certainly Byron, the person that he had become, Byron Patrick, God damn him, with his dazzling smile and his rippling muscles, he felt a compulsion, like Fleur, to get to the bottom of the story, to find out who had betrayed him, hated him enough to talk to the scandal sheets about him, and how he had actually come to sink so low. For after all, Byron had led him to Caroline. And to Fleur.

  Joe lay on his bed, drinking bourbon and thinking about Fleur. Now what did he do about her? The best thing he could do was obfuscate the trail, not help her to follow it. Only – only she would never give up. She would give him that terrible, scornful, angry look and go right on past him, and carry on alone. And she would get to the end of it, she would find Clint and Berelman, and anyone else she needed to find, and he had to be there, to help her through. It was the least that he owed her, the least he could do.

  He woke at three in the morning, sweating. He was still dressed and the air-conditioning was off. And he had had a horrible dream, that he had been driving a car on the Pacific Coast Highway, and a drunk had come weaving towards him, shouting and waving his hands and begging him for something. But what? Joe pulled his clothes off and lay naked on the bed, the sweat drying on him, making him cold. To distract himself from the nightmare of Brendan, he began to read his piece again, raking over the details of the funeral in his mind, trying to make sure he hadn’t missed any particularly delicious little tableau. And then he remembered that he had. A nauseating guy in a toupee and an over-firm handshake, who had come up to him for no reason and said, ‘Hi. Perry Browne. Publicity director. What a very lovely lady Yolande was. How terribly sad. You wrote the Scandals book, didn’t you? Such a wonderful piece of research. I enjoyed it so very much. Maybe we could work together some time.’ And he had pressed his card into Joe’s hand. He had not been the only person to do so that day; there was a crumpled grubby handful in Joe’s pocket, a testimony to Hollywood tastelessness.

  Perry Browne hadn’t seemed to be a publicity director for anything in particular, just eager to impress anyone impressionable. Fired long since no doubt, and one of the teeming hundreds of freelance writers who scratched out a living on the overworked soil of Hollywood gossip. Well, if he had known Yolande, and he had read Scandals, he might very well have known Byron. He would call him in the morning. It was a long shot, but worth trying.

  Perry Browne lived out at Westwood; he was touchingly pleased to get Joe’s call. ‘Joe! It is really lovely of you to remember me. Can I buy you a drink? The Polo Lounge at twelve? Wonderful! I’ll book a table.’

  In the event, they weren’t allowed into the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, because Joe wasn’t wearing a tie, but after some argument by Perry and the rather more persuasive sight of Joe’s press card they were allowed to sit by the pool. Perry ordered a margarita and Joe a beer.

  ‘I’m so pleased you called,’ said Perry. ‘So very pleased. What a touching ceremony that was, Joe. I have to tell you I saw much of it through a blur of tears. This town will never forget Yolande, never.’

  Joe opened his mouth to say it seemed to have done a pretty good job while she lay in the hospital and then shut it again.

  ‘Now, Joe, what can I do for you? I have to tell you I would just love to work with you. I have many many contacts here, and I admire your writing so much. What exactly are you working on at the moment, Joe, and for which paper?’

  ‘A series for the Sunday Times,’ said Joe.

  ‘The Sunday Times! How wonderful!’ said Perry. ‘Oh, that is just such a coincidence. I dined with Michael Boxman last time he was over and he said I had only to come up with an idea, and he would commission it just like that.’

  Joe presumed that by Michael Boxman he meant Mark Boxer and smiled at him weakly. ‘So what happened?’ he asked with a touch of malice.

  ‘Oh, well, you know, I’ve been so busy, I just haven’t had the time. But I will, Joe, I certainly will – although of course I don’t want to crowd your space.’

  He smiled his gleaming smile, and patted his toupee a little uncertainly. It was windy by the pool. The wind wafted the strong smell of his aftershave in Joe’s direction. Joe felt glad they weren’t in the Polo Lounge.

  ‘Uh, Mr Browne –’

  ‘Oh, please call me Perry. Please!’

  ‘Perry. OK. I’m researching a new book. On the old studio system. I thought maybe you could help me with that.’

  ‘Well, surely I will. I’d be glad to. Of course I’m not actually tied to a studio any more, but that makes me lighter on my feet. Er – what kind of a fee did you have in mind, Joe?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know,’ said Joe helplessly. ‘It would depend.’

  ‘On what?’ said Perry. He looked sharper, suddenly, like an ageing ferret. ‘I mean my time is precious, Joe, I don’t have to tell you that. Time magazine are paying huge sums, and we’re talking really huge here, for their show pages.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Joe. ‘You must tell me who you’re working for there. I did a piece for them last week and got fifty dollars for it.’

  ‘Oh, you did?’ Perry looked uncertain. ‘Well, I suppose we all have our little areas of expertise. Joe, suppose we do it on the basis of fifty dollars a day. That way we’ll all be happy.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe easily. He had no intention of using Perry for five dollars’ worth of day. ‘You can invoice me. Now, Perry, which studio were you with?’

  ‘Oh, well, Joe, I was with all of them in my day. Universal. MGM. Paramount. ACI . . .’

  Joe felt a stab of violent excitement. Byron had been at ACI. This was better than he had hoped.

  ‘When were you at ACI, Perry?’

  ‘Well, I was there at the time Naomi MacNeice was there. We worked very closely together. Poor Naomi, she is so ill you know. I take tea with her every week or so.’

  ‘So you were there when Byron Patrick was there?’

  ‘Well, in his early days there, Joe, yes, I was.’

  ‘Really?’ said Joe, concentrating as hard as he could on the drink in his glass.

  ‘Yes, and I would have talked to you very gladly about him for your book, had I known, but of course I had left by then, fallen out with Naomi. A very difficult woman, Naomi.’

  Joe nodded agreeably at Perry. ‘So I gather. Did you know Byron well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ said Perry, and there was a pained look on his face. ‘He was difficult, you know, Joe. Very difficult. And he could be quite rude. I sometimes felt he di
dn’t like me.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Joe carefully.

  ‘Well, I have to tell you I did. But – well, it’s all blood on the tracks now. He was foolish. And I was truly sad when he died. Very very sad.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Joe. ‘In what way would you say he was foolish, Perry?’

  ‘Oh, the friends he made. The company he kept.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Not very savoury, I imagine. Did you see much of that company?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ said Perry with dignity.

  ‘Perry,’ said Joe, fighting to keep his voice calm, ‘Perry, do you remember an English actor in his crowd? At that time?’

  Perry sounded mildly impatient. ‘Joe, I told you, I kept away from them. There were a lot of English actors here. Fighting to get breaks. I dare say he knew several of them. He put himself about a great deal, I have to say. He really had only himself to blame, you know, in the end.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Joe. ‘All he needed maybe was a friend.’

  ‘Well, I think a little more than that, Joe. This town is very unforgiving.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Tell me, Perry, did you know a pair of guys called Clint and Berelman?’

  Perry’s eyes were watchful again. ‘Hilton I knew. Kevin not so well. They were very big at one time.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And did Byron know them?’

  ‘Well, he certainly did!’ said Perry. ‘He and Hilton were really very close when Byron first came to Hollywood. Kevin discovered him, of course, in New York. But you know, and it may shock you to hear this, Joe, because I’m sure you would have imagined Byron to be a nice person, he fell out with them, and then once he had made the big time, he would have nothing to do with them. Nothing! I think that kind of behaviour is so unnecessary.’

  ‘Yes, but if they were big –’

  ‘Joe, we all need one another,’ said Perry, looking pained. ‘And Hilton was having a difficult time. It would have meant so much to him if Byron had put just a little business his way. But he didn’t. I think Hilton was very hurt by that. Very hurt.’

  ‘So you were quite close to Hilton, were you?’

  ‘Oh, well now, Joe, it depends how you mean! Professionally yes, but personally no. I didn’t admire his style. Not at all.’

  Joe reflected that whatever Hilton Berelman’s style had been, he would undoubtedly have preferred it to Perry’s. ‘And – er, what has happened to them now? Do you know?’

  ‘Kevin is still in New York, to the best of my knowledge. Hilton has gone to live in San Francisco. He has friends there, and he felt he could start all over.’

  ‘In the same business?’

  ‘Of course. He was very talented.’

  ‘So tell me, Perry, in what way did you not admire his style? Here, let me get you another drink. Same again?’

  ‘That’d be wonderful. Thank you.’

  Joe waved his arm at one of the starched retinue of barmen standing round the pool, ordered more drinks. He leaned back, enjoying the warmth in the air, the sun on his face, the ice-cold beer. Every time he opened his eyes he saw yet more beautiful women, wearing the minimum of clothing. He could get to like this life.

  ‘What were you asking me?’ said Perry, sipping daintily at his margarita through the pink straw. ‘Oh yes, about Hilton. Well, he was a little flamboyant. And he could be rather tasteless.’

  ‘In what way?’ said Joe, amused. He was completely unable to imagine any behaviour which would seem tasteless to Perry Browne.

  ‘Well, he used bad language. In mixed company, which I have never liked. Have you, Joe? No, I thought not. And he used to tell very questionable stories. I once did confront him. I said, Hilton, that is not the kind of story we want to hear at a dinner table.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

  ‘Oh, he was very rude to me. In fact I wouldn’t like to repeat his exact words. But I think one has to take a stand sometimes, don’t you, Joe? Over what one believes in.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Joe.

  Perry suddenly looked at him more sharply.

  ‘Anyway, Joe, I really don’t think you want to hear any more about Hilton Berelman. We’re here to talk business. Now you tell me which studios you’re interested in and I’ll see what I come up with for you in the way of ideas. I have a contact book second to none, believe me.’

  When Joe got back to his hotel, there was a message to call Fleur. He ordered himself a large bourbon and settled down at the phone.

  ‘Hi, Fleur.’

  ‘Joe! Why have you been so long? It’s five days since our picnic.’

  ‘Darling, I have some bad news. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What kind of bad news? Doesn’t Yolande remember anything about Clint and Berelman?’

  ‘Fleur – sweetheart – she doesn’t remember anything about anyone any more.’

  There was a long silence. Then Fleur’s voice came down the lines and across the thousands of miles, careful, frightened. ‘What do you mean, Joe? Is she – is she –’

  ‘She died, Fleur. Three days ago. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Shit. Shit, Joe, why didn’t you tell me? Did they have the funeral yet?’

  ‘Yes, they did. Yesterday.’

  ‘Shit, Joe, I really hate you.’ He could hear the pain cracking her voice. ‘I would have come. You know I would. She’s been so kind to me. God, I hate you.’

  The phone went dead. Joe sat staring at it, feeling slightly shaky and very sick. God, he was an insensitive, thoughtless lout. Why hadn’t he called Fleur at least to tell her, to give her the chance to come if she could? Once again, Fleur had needed them, and once again they had failed her. No wonder she was so hurt, so hostile to them all.

  He decided to go for a walk; drove down to Santa Monica and wandered for a couple of hours along the shore, hating himself. He didn’t eat dinner when he got back, but sat in his room, trying to work, getting drunk. Then the phone rang. It was Perry Browne.

  ‘Joe? I have some people for you to talk to down at Venice. Just mention my name and I know you’ll find them very co-operative.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joe, and sat there while Perry reeled off a list of names, not even bothering to write them down. ‘Thanks,’ he said when Perry had finished; he was half asleep.

  ‘Oh and Joe? I have a number for Hilton Berelman for you.’

  Joe woke up with a start. ‘Yes?’

  He scribbled the number down, feeling suddenly alert and rather heady.

  ‘Oh, do please call me Hilton,’ said the light, amused voice down the phone. For some reason, Joe felt he would greatly prefer him to Perry.

  ‘Well – Hilton. I’m actually researching a book into the Hollywood star system. I’d be really grateful if you could give me some case histories.’

  ‘This your first book?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe carefully. He had thought about this one. ‘I wrote one earlier. About Hollywood scandals.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Didn’t read it.’

  ‘You didn’t miss much. Now tell me, Hilton –’

  ‘How’d you get my name?’

  ‘Oh – from a lady I think you may remember. Yolande duGrath.’

  ‘Sure. She was a one-off. How is she?’

  ‘I’m afraid she died.’

  ‘You’re kidding me! Now that is really sad. Recently?’

  ‘Quite. I was very upset. She was a good friend to me. Anyway, these things happen.’

  ‘Yeah. Poor old Yolande. What a great shame.’ He was silent for a moment.

  Joe decided it was time to cut the sentiment. ‘Now, Hilton, if you could give me a few case histories, I’d be really grateful.’ He got his notebook out and made some notes out of sheer force of habit. He w
as so tired the page was blurring. As much to wake himself up as anything, he said, ‘Hilton, does the name Byron Patrick mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sure it does. He was one of mine. Originally. How d’you know about him?’

  ‘Oh – Yolande had mentioned him.’

  ‘He was no good really. No talent. He deserved all he got.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Well, in the end, nothing, nothing at all. He was killed. Run down. He was drunk at the time, weaving up the Pacific Coast Highway. He’d been living on the beach at Santa Monica. Destitute.’

  ‘But why did he deserve that?’

  ‘He didn’t treat people very well,’ said Berelman briefly. ‘His agent, Kevin Clint and I, we did a lot for him. Kevin was a real ace. Could spot a face anywhere. Not so hot on whether there was any talent there though. He’s dead now; I really miss him. Anyway, we got Byron to Hollywood, got him signed, bought him nice clothes, you know the whole thing. Then when he got taken up by that MacNeice woman at ACI he didn’t want to know. Wouldn’t even speak to us at parties.’

  ‘I – see.’ Joe hesitated, not knowing quite what line to take. He didn’t want to sound over-sympathetic, but something was clearly called for, if he wasn’t to cut Hilton off mid story. ‘Well, that certainly doesn’t sound too nice. But –’ He had obviously said the right thing. Hilton went on chatting easily.

  ‘Anyway, his past found him out. And Kevin too, of course.’

  ‘His past?’

  ‘Yeah. He was declared guilty of the one crime Hollywood won’t forgive. Still. Not officially anyway. Not in its heroes.’

  ‘You mean Byron was a – a homosexual?’ said Joe sounding carefully innocent.

  ‘He certainly was. Quite a wild little boy, as I recall. AC-DC of course. I mean Rose Sharon always swore he was straight. But I can show you plenty of people who could personally testify to the opposite.’