‘But I thought –’
‘Oh, let’s not waste time talking about anyone else,’ said Flavia quickly. ‘I don’t suppose you have very long, do you? I’m going to ring for some tea for us both and to get a vase for those lovely flowers and then you can show me the pictures. Now when is this next little darling due?’
‘In May,’ said Chloe.
‘A summer baby, so much easier than the winter. And hopefully this one won’t be born on a first night. Bad timing there, my darling. But how marvellous Piers was able to dash over and see you before the party.’
‘Er – yes,’ said Chloe. Obviously Flavia had got the details muddled. It was hardly surprising.
‘And how are you finding it all? Those difficult people, and so on?’
‘Oh – better now,’ said Chloe. She looked at Flavia and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d understand so well.’
‘Well, of course I understand. It must have been a nightmare for you. They haven’t always been terribly kind to me, you know. Many’s the first-night party I’ve stood and found myself ignored.’ She leant forward and patted Chloe’s hand. ‘I think you’re doing wonderfully. And you’re so young. What are you, still only twenty-one? Of course it’s better in a way. You learn faster. I was only twenty when Piers was born. Nineteen when I was married. To a considerably older man also.’
‘Yes,’ said Chloe, ‘yes, I know. Piers told me about him.’
‘Not very much, I imagine,’ said Flavia briskly. ‘Piers is very adept at ignoring difficult facts. I was married to a bit of a brute, darling. Oh, he didn’t knock me about or anything, and he kept us very well provided for. But he was always away, Piers seldom saw him, and he was a miserable old creature. That’s why we were so close, Piers and I. All the world to one another when he was little.’
‘I see,’ said Chloe.
The nurse came in with a tray of tea, and the flowers.
‘Now, darling, you be mother, and pour. Tell me more about Pandora. Is she saying anything yet?’
‘Well, actually . . .’ said Chloe and was off, on the litany so beloved, so familiar to mothers, of noises that might be words, of movements that were clearly about to be crawling (or walking), of skills mastered (holding, waving, hiding eyes), of anxieties (how will she take the arrival of the new baby?), of pleasure (she is such good company already, you can’t imagine), of delicious laughter, of touching tears, of naughtiness, of goodness, of sweetness, of cleverness, and Flavia sat enchanted, responding occasionally (although not too much) with stories of Piers’s own childhood, and it was quite dark when Chloe suddenly realized she was looking tired and was leaning back in her chair, and speaking less and less.
‘Oh Flavia, I’m so sorry, I’ve worn you out. I must go at once. Shall I ring for a nurse?’
‘My darling, I’m fine, really. And I would far rather be tired in your company than well rested in my own. Now I think you should have another cup of tea before you go and perhaps a biscuit, it’s a long drive, and you’re looking tired yourself. Oh, and you can give me a little advice before you go. Hand me my bag, darling, will you? I had a letter the other day, from a journalist, called – let me see, yes, Magnus Phillips. He wants to come and see me.’
‘What on earth for?’ said Chloe. She didn’t really trust Magnus Phillips, and she was surprised Piers did; it was a relationship that baffled her.
‘He says he’s researching a book on Piers. And he wants to talk to me about him. Here, look.’
Chloe looked: a polite letter, on Daily Sketch paper, full of apologies for intruding, of promising not to take too much of Mrs Windsor’s time, of immense gratitude should she be able to see her way to helping. It looked harmless: but if Piers was going to have a book written about him, why let Magnus Phillips do it? His last book had been outrageous, a terrible series of revelations about a politician and his sexual and professional misdemeanours; Phillips had interviewed half England getting the truth – and who was to say it was the truth? – about the man. She wondered if Piers realized that Magnus was already working on the book, which had been mentioned in the vaguest terms, and who else he might have written to; probably he did, she thought with a sigh, and it was yet another example of his devious behaviour, his compulsion to conceal things from her.
‘If I were you,’ she said carefully, ‘I should check it with Piers first when he gets back. Make sure he’s happy about it. He’s a perfectly nice man, he came to our wedding as a matter of fact, but I had no idea he was actually working on anything, b— well, you never know.’
‘Yes, darling, I will. How clever of you, I knew you’d know what to do. Tell me, darling, do you mind Piers being away so much?’ she asked, casually, as Chloe started gathering her belongings.
‘Oh – well, you know, of course I do miss him. But it’s nice when he comes back.’
‘Where is he this time? Hollywood? Of course it doesn’t seem quite so far away these days. When he first went, I could hardly bear it, it seemed like the other side of the world.’
‘What, when he went off to make Town Cousins?’
‘Oh, no, darling, long before that. He made an earlier foray – hasn’t he told you about it?’
‘No,’ said Chloe slowly. ‘No, he hasn’t.’
She could hear Piers’s voice now, very clearly, at the Ritz, that first night; she knew she was right, every word of that evening was etched on her mind: she’d asked him if he’d gone to Hollywood in his early days and he had said, very firmly, ‘No, I never got into that. The cattle call culture. Professional suicide.’ Why should he lie about such a thing?
‘He’s a bit sensitive about it,’ said Flavia, smiling, seeing her confusion. ‘It was a disaster, and it was when he was still upset about Guinevere. He doesn’t like people to know. You’d better not let on I’ve told you. Silly boy. I told you I spoilt him. Now, darling, off you go, give that baby a huge kiss from me, and take care of yourself. And thank you for coming. It’s been such a lovely day.’
Chloe drove home slowly; she was very tired and for some reason the information about Piers being in Hollywood had upset her. Not because it mattered, but because it was yet another example of his near compulsion to keep so much of his life to himself.
1968
Fleur was stark naked when she saw Piers Windsor for the first time. She had been getting ready for bed, and had switched on the news (one of the perks of her job was a colour TV paid for by the agency, so that she could see their own and the opposition’s commercials), and there he was; she stood and stared at him, transfixed, at the absurdly handsome chiselled face, the fine, wide eyes, the patrician nose; at his beautiful clothes, the perfectly cut suit, the hand-made shoes (a quirky side benefit of her affair with Nigel had been an ability to recognize hand-made shoes), the overcoat slung over his shoulders, the slim leather briefcase in his hand. Well, he was certainly a looker. She’d give him that much. If you liked that sort of thing, which she absolutely didn’t. Chloe was welcome to him.
He was being interviewed arriving at Kennedy; she listened to the famously beautiful voice, so perfectly modulated, so English, so musical, talking about how delighted he was to be in New York, how proud to be putting on the Lady there. ‘How long are you going to be here, Mr Windsor, and will you be doing any auditioning during that time?’ ‘Oh, about three weeks,’ he said, maybe four, and yes, of course, a great deal of auditioning. If there were any marvellous actresses and dancers out there, longing for a part in the Lady, would they contact him immediately. (This to camera, with the slow, perfect smile.) Where would that be, Mr Windsor, where could they find you? Oh, the theatre, naturally, where the Lady was to be put on, the Warwick. And was there no chance now that Tabitha Levine who had made the part her own in England would be bringing it to New York? Very little, said Piers Windsor (and Fleur, watching him intently, saw the muscles of his jaw tighten just a
little, noticed the slightly less easy smile), New York Equity had made it very difficult for her to get her card, but he was still hoping, because although of course it would be marvellous to find a new actress and watch her create the role, there was not a great deal of time left and it was not a part that could be just knocked into shape overnight, it needed care and understanding and love of a sort and . . .
Fleur switched off the TV; she could take no more. What a creep! What a pure-bred, A1, record-breaking creep. The thought that he was some kind of a relation of hers, her brother-in-law in some convoluted, warped way, made her want to throw up. Well, she was very unlikely to meet him, she supposed. Thank God.
‘Fleur, can I come in?’
Mary Steinberg was at the door, baby at her breast; she looked exhausted.
‘Of course. Coffee?’
‘Might as well. I’m not going to get any sleep tonight anyway. This one is a nightmare. Anyway, there’s a letter for you. It got mixed up with ours this morning. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Fleur, slitting it open. ‘I –’ and then she was silent, stunned, her eyes racing over the words, her heart thudding furiously.
Coldwater Canyon Road, Los Angeles. April 1968
My dear Fleur,
Good news! I am coming to New York for a couple of days next week and I thought we could maybe meet at last: have a meal or something. I’ll be staying at the Pierre, arriving Monday. Call me. I can’t wait to see you!
Yours,
Rose
‘Holy shit!’ said Fleur. ‘Fuck me! Oh, Mary! Oh, my God.’
She had written to Rose Sharon at MGM which was where all the movie magazines said she belonged, after quizzing Joe ferociously on the phone about any possible consequences of the trip to L.A. after Yolande’s death. He had been carefully vague, but had finally told her about Rose and that she and Brendan had been ‘like Romeo and Juliet’. ‘I really don’t think she’ll see you, Fleur.’
‘She won’t if I don’t ask her to,’ said Fleur. ‘You’re a seriously negative person, Joe,’ and rang off.
There had been no reply. She had been upset, but not surprised. Stupid spoilt, stuck-up bitch, of course she wouldn’t reply to a letter from a girl she had never heard of, who came at her out of the blue, telling her she wanted to talk to her about a man far into her past she had once had a love affair with. It was six months later that she read that Rose Sharon was in India, filming, and realized that in any case she had written to the wrong studio, that she was no longer with MGM but with Universal. She tried again, putting Please Forward on the letter and enclosing a self-addressed envelope. Universal wrote back and gave her the address of Rose Sharon’s fan club; she tried that, and got a signed photograph and a membership card.
Tearful with frustration she wrote again to Universal putting Personal and Urgent all over the letter: finally almost a year after her first attempt she got a note from Rose Sharon’s secretary saying that Miss Sharon was away filming in Europe, but that when she got back, she would certainly pass on Miss FitzPatrick’s letter.
Just after Christmas that year, finally a slightly guarded note came from Rose, saying how lovely to hear from her, that of course she remembered Fleur’s father, and that she’d always be very welcome if ever she was in Los Angeles.
Fleur wrote back and said she didn’t get over to LA too often, but thanked her for writing, and said she really wanted to talk to her about her father. A warmer note came back, saying Rose would be in New York in the spring and that she would certainly be in touch then. Yeah yeah, said Fleur crossly to the letter, throwing it in her trash can as a gesture – not many people could throw away a personal letter from a world-famous film star, it made her feel good for at least an hour; and now, only a few weeks later, this wonderful letter had arrived. Maybe Rose Sharon wasn’t such a stupid, spoilt, stuck-up bitch after all . . .
She wasn’t. She was lovely. She still looked wonderful, despite being quite old, at the very least (Fleur calculated) thirty something; she had golden-brown hair and blue eyes, and a real peaches and cream skin, and an oddly gentle, very sweet smile, and Fleur thought that if she could have coped with her father being in love with anyone it would have been Rose Sharon.
She was staying in a suite at the Pierre: a woman with iron-grey hair, a rather severe electric-blue suit and a very fierce face came down to meet Fleur and she thought for a dreadful moment that she was Rose. But of course she was not, she was Rose’s secretary, Martha Johns. Fleur was taken upstairs and led into the suite, where Rose stood up, smiling, and said, ‘Fleur! If you only knew how often I’ve thought about you. You know you look just like your father.’
‘Do I?’ said Fleur. ‘That’s really nice. I think,’ she added and burst into tears.
Rose Sharon signalled to Martha Johns to disappear, and passed Fleur a handful of Kleenex. Then she said, ‘I feel so terrible, never getting in touch with you. But – well, I didn’t know how much good it would do. And you were such a little girl. And Yolande said not to. It was stupid of me. But anyway –’
‘I wish Yolande was still alive,’ said Fleur, sniffing hard, wiping her eyes.
‘Me too. I miss her so. It just broke my heart. I was away when she died, you know, all that time, filming in India.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Fleur.
‘You do? You’re obviously a very good detective.’
‘Not really,’ said Fleur. ‘But I try.’
‘Coffee?’ said Rose.
Fleur nodded.
‘Come and sit down. Tell me, how old are you?’
‘Twenty-three,’ said Fleur.
‘Oh, my God! Well, I suppose you would be. I know your dad told me you were only ten or something when he left you. Oh, my goodness, he had such remorse over that. And he missed you so.’
‘Did he?’ said Fleur. ‘He had a very strange way of showing it.’
‘Really? No letters?’
‘Almost no letters,’ said Fleur. ‘And he never sent for me either. He promised he would, and he never even mentioned it ever again.’
Rose’s face was thoughtful, careful. ‘Fleur, he couldn’t. Believe me. In the beginning he didn’t have any money, none of us did. And later on – well, he just couldn’t have. It would have been impossible.’
‘Why?’ said Fleur.
‘Naomi wouldn’t have allowed it. You know about Naomi?’
‘I met her,’ said Fleur.
‘You met her?’ Rose’s voice was amused. ‘You really are a good detective. When?’
‘Oh – a couple of years ago. She was completely gaga.’
‘Still is, darling. Well she would be. I can see it’s terribly hard for you to understand even now, but there was no way anyone in Naomi’s pocket would have been allowed to have any kind of life of their own. She swept me away from Brendan’s door very effectively; she certainly wouldn’t have stood for you.’
Fleur liked it that she called her father Brendan, rather than the terrible Byron.
‘Why did you let her? Sweep you away?’
‘Fleur, you have to live in Hollywood to understand that. It’s just the toughest place on earth. Hundreds, thousands of people all fighting to get noticed, for just a moment. And about as much chance of making it as an icicle in hell. If you got that chance, you jumped. You did what you were told. That’s all your dad was doing: what he was told.’
‘But – didn’t you mind?’
‘Of course I minded. Like hell. But I understood.’
‘Oh,’ said Fleur. She was beginning to feel very miserable, not better.
Rose looked at her. ‘Fleur, what can I actually do for you? I mean, presumably you have a reason for getting in touch, or are you a journalist elaborately disguised?’ She laughed. ‘I warn you, I don’t like journalists.’
Fleur managed a smile. ‘I’m trying to find some answers,’ she said, ‘to some very tricky questions. I had never ever thought you might be able to help. But – will you?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Rose, cautiously. ‘Who put you on to me?’
‘Oh, it’s such a long story. But it was through someone called Joe Payton. He’s a journalist. He said he’d been told you and my dad were – well, as he put it, were like Romeo and Juliet. Is that right?’
Rose smiled, and her clear blue eyes took on the sweetly thoughtful look familiar to a million, ten million film fans all over the Western world. ‘That certainly is,’ she said. ‘I loved him, the son of a bitch. Really loved him. He was a kind, funny, gentle creature, almost totally untalented – sorry, Fleur, but it’s true – and we had a really good time together. We lived in a tiny apartment on La Brea, and we were very hard up, I worked as a waitress and he worked pumping gas and I never was so happy in my life.’ She smiled at Fleur slightly sadly. ‘They were such good days.’
‘But he – he did tell you about me?’
‘Of course he did. I told you. And your mother and that whole romantic war story, it would make a great movie.’
Fleur shuddered. ‘God forbid.’
‘Yes, God forbid. But yes, he did, he talked about you a lot. He was so proud of you. He used to say so often he was going to get you over here to live, when he hit the big time. Which of course I never thought he would. Hit it, I mean.’
‘But he did.’
‘Yes, he did. God knows how. Well, he was very good looking. And extremely photogenic.’ She refilled Fleur’s cup. ‘And acting is a kind of bonus, at a certain level.’
‘And of course there was Miss MacNeice.’
‘There was indeed.’
‘I like it that you call him Brendan,’ said Fleur suddenly. ‘I feel you really did know him.’
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