AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  She told Sol she wanted to leave. Sol said why, and she told him; he was furious, shouted at her, ranted, raged, said she had broken his heart as well as Reuben’s, that she was a fool, and a disgrace to her sex and the company and the sooner she got out of his sight the better. Fleur stood humbly, listening, knowing better than to argue, wishing that Reuben had been as hard on her. ‘And what do you think this is going to do to Sylvia?’ said Sol. ‘You’ll break her heart, she’s been a new woman with your wedding to plan.’

  Fleur said she was very sorry, but she really couldn’t go through with a wedding to someone she didn’t love, simply to make Sylvia happy, and Sol said what did she know about love, was she some kind of a moron or what? By this time Fleur was lost; she told Sol again that she wanted to leave and as soon as possible, and he told her again the sooner the better, he wished her out of his company, out of his life just as fast as she could go.

  ‘Fine,’ said Fleur, ‘I’ll go today,’ and Sol said he would sue her if she did, sue for breach of contract, and what about the cosmetic launch? Fleur agreed to see the launch through, maybe on a freelance basis.

  ‘What do you think you’re going to do anyway?’ said Sol, after a moment’s consideration of this. ‘Clean toilets or what?’

  ‘Sol, I don’t need to clean toilets,’ said Fleur, fighting a strong desire by now to smile. ‘I can get another job as a copywriter. I do have a bit of a reputation. Although, actually, I thought I might go and work in London.’

  March – April 1972

  Anyone who had known him intimately – a surprisingly small handful, but one which included his secretary, Marilyn Chapman, who was taking notes – could have paid testimony to the fact that Richard Beauman was nervous. He was leaning back in his office chair, beaming, a manuscript on his desk, pouring a glass of champagne for one of his bestselling authors and his agent (although rather pointedly, as always, ignoring Mrs Chapman), the very picture of a man who was confidently expecting to see profits for his company of at least a million from the manuscript, courtesy of the author; only a certain watchfulness in his eyes, a tautness in his voice, a tendency to look repeatedly, if casually, through the pages, revealing the nervousness.

  ‘This is very strong stuff, Magnus,’ he said. ‘Brilliant, enthralling, compelling – I can see the reviews now – but terribly strong.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Magnus.

  ‘This – business of the young woman’s death. It is quite essential that we have an absolute one hundred per cent assurance that the events you describe took place. In precisely that way, that sequence, that there is not the tiniest area for doubt.’

  ‘You have it,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Of course. Naturally. But I think perhaps what I am saying is I want a one hundred and one per cent assurance. The lawyers certainly do.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Magnus. There was a strange expression in his eyes, a mixture of wariness and irritation.

  ‘What I’m saying is that of course I accept absolutely what you have written here. But the Windsor lawyers are out for our blood. We cannot afford to take any chances.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I have to insist, I think, that we get a sworn statement, from Mr Zwirn, that this is precisely what happened. In every small detail.’

  Magnus looked at him very steadily. ‘I don’t think you’ll get it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Beauman put down his glass, looked at him sharply.

  ‘Well, because it took months to persuade him to see me. He’s very reclusive. Not surprisingly. I just don’t see him making statements to a roomful of lawyers.’

  ‘Hardly a roomful, Magnus.’

  ‘Even so.’ He hesitated. ‘I expect his sister would see you.’

  Beauman swallowed rather hard, reached for his glass. ‘But she wasn’t there. Was she?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t. But he told her about it. Over and over again. All those months, years; he was obsessed by it. Naturally. It ended his life. In more ways than one. Robbed him of everything he loved. Believe me, she is your one hundred and one per cent reliable witness.’

  ‘But she’s not actually a witness.’

  ‘We’re splitting hairs here.’

  ‘I don’t happen to agree. I shall have to talk to the lawyers again. I think you’d better be there.’

  Magnus shrugged. ‘Fine.’

  Beauman looked at him, amused. ‘You seem very calm.’

  ‘I feel very calm. I know it’s all fine.’

  ‘The Windsors are playing a waiting game. It’s interesting. Of course, they’ve had their own preoccupations. All this brouhaha about Othello. And the knighthood. It’s all excellent stuff, of course, will whip up public interest still further, improve sales.’

  ‘Yes, it should do,’ said Magnus. He looked rather bored.

  ‘I have to say,’ said Henry Chancellor, speaking for the first time, ‘I feel a little sorry for Windsor.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Magnus. ‘He doesn’t deserve it. Besides, in many ways, the book is very kind about him. It’s a very touching story.’

  ‘Yes, but in a rather unacceptable way. It’s a very double-edged weapon, that relationship.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Public opinion about homosexuality is easing all the time. It’s – what, five years now since the law changed.’

  ‘Come off it, Magnus,’ said Henry Chancellor. ‘I mean, yes, there’s been a change in the law, but public opinion always lags behind. The theatrical crowd and all that lot may be quite happy with all their fairy friends, but the public feel rather differently. They’d bring back capital punishment tomorrow, don’t forget.’

  Magnus shrugged.

  ‘And poor little Mrs Windsor has had a terrible time. Nothing to do with Tinsel, I hope, but not good.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yes. She crashed her car, ended up in hospital, lost a baby she was carrying. Very sad. Surely you must have heard? It was in all the papers.’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus. He looked very intrigued, very thoughtful. ‘I don’t read the papers when I’m writing. Poor Mrs Windsor. My goodness, that is a fertile marriage. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Magnus, really! Do you have no finer feelings?’

  ‘Not many,’ said Magnus cheerfully. He grinned, slightly apologetically at Marilyn Chapman. She looked coldly back at him.

  ‘Now, there’s another witness we shall need a signed statement from,’ said Beauman, ‘concerning the other – accident.’

  ‘No problem there,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ll talk to her. Now I must go.’

  Marilyn Chapman, who had never liked Magnus Phillips, and had just heard nothing to change her mind, went to fetch his coat, saw him out, and went back into the meeting wishing something might happen to bring him down a peg or two. Or preferably a great many more than that.

  Piers’s Othello, which was to open the summer season at Stratford, had attracted an enormous amount of critical and press attention. Apart from the fact that he was to alternate the roles with Ivor Branwen, it was to be played in Victorian dress, in itself revolutionary, and he had had a huge row with Elizabeth Fraser, who was playing Desdemona, three nights before the opening, resulting in her withdrawing from the production and holding a very well-attended press conference at which she gave as her reason she had never tried – ‘please note that word, ladies and gentleman, “tried”, it’s important’ – to do a role with so selfish and greedy a pair of actors. ‘I simply spend every moment on stage fighting to be heard, and even to be seen.’

  It was only the threat of legal action, combined with a major reworking of two of the scenes which most upset her, that had persuaded her back into the production.

  Chloe had only met Elizabeth Fraser twice, and had at the time found her arrogant and self-seeking
; she decided, on hearing all this and even while trying to soothe Piers, to agree it was all outrageous, that she must, at some future date, go and shake her by the hand.

  She drove up to Stratford quite early in the afternoon; Piers had been staying at a small hotel in the town, but had booked her into the Royal Hotel for the night. There was to be a party after the show. ‘Nothing much, just drinks and so on, but I’d like you to be there,’ he had said the weekend before, his white face strained and anxious, and she had remembered his glowing showy confidence at the first night of The Lady of Shalott and felt frightened at the change in him. He was at the hotel when she got there, and suggested they had tea. Chloe was amazed, he was normally locked into last-minute discussions, and panics with the cast at this stage; she sat and looked at him, trying not to notice the shaking hand as he lifted his cup, to crush the fear that the constant coughing must, surely, interfere with the delivery of his lines, to persuade herself that this frail, thin, pallid creature could possibly become the towering, menacing Moor of Venice.

  ‘I’ve had the press on to me today,’ he said suddenly, putting down his cup.

  ‘Well, I expect you have,’ said Chloe. ‘I’d have thought you’d have had them on to you every day. All this business about Elizabeth Fraser and everything.’

  ‘No,’ he said, and his face was infinitely wretched. ‘No, nothing to do with Elizabeth. Rumours about a knighthood, and what I thought my chances were.’

  ‘Oh, Piers,’ said Chloe, knowing the rider to this and her heart aching for him, knowing how desperate he was, ‘and what did you say?’

  ‘I said of course I knew nothing about it, nothing whatsoever, that if in the fullness of time I was to be honoured by Her Majesty, I would be thrilled and proud, but I had no reason to believe that at the moment it was more than a remote hope. A fine speech, it was. One I’ve made several times now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, and then the reporter, I think he was from the Mirror or the News, said did I feel any possible repercussions from the Magnus Phillips book might affect my chances. I said I had nothing to say about the book, that I hadn’t read it, that Mr Phillips hadn’t had the courtesy to talk to me about it, and I had no idea what he was going to write in it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloe. ‘Piers, I’m so sorry. But – don’t you see? That’s exactly why I thought we should try to get an injunction. If we could prove that the book contained a libel that was going to affect your chances of a knighthood, then we would have a good chance of stopping it. I think.’

  Piers looked at her. ‘Yes. I suppose so. And what did you say Marshall said about this?’

  ‘Well’ – she looked awkwardly at him – ‘he wasn’t very hopeful. But he rather reluctantly agreed it might be worth a try. If we could actually prove it. But he said it would be very expensive.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very relevant. At this point. What does expensive mean?’

  ‘He said it could be anything up to a hundred thousand pounds. Or more,’ she added with a rather weak smile.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to do something.’ He suddenly looked slightly better, more decisive. ‘This gagging writ Ludovic mentioned. I think maybe the time has come to go for that one. I’m beginning to feel I have nothing to lose. Any more.’

  Chloe didn’t say anything. She just took his hand and squeezed it.

  Piers looked at her and smiled his sweetest, most tender smile. ‘I love you so much,’ he said suddenly. ‘I couldn’t live without you. You do know that, don’t you, Chloe?’

  Piers had often talked about the actor’s mythical Dr Stage, and his magical properties, the way simply going on to the stage could heal sickness, defeat pain, work miracles. There were countless stories of people going through immense four-hour performances with raging temperatures, broken limbs, in appalling grief and not merely surviving, but triumphing. But Chloe had never seen a manifestation of it until that night. The shaking, frail creature who had finally left the Royal Hotel that night stalked on to the stage at the Royal Shakespeare two hours later, a powerful brooding figure, in evening dress, a great black cloak swirling out behind him, Iago at his impatient heels; and when the marvellous, rich, emotive voice delivered its first few lines, speaking of courage, of determination, of love, no shadow of weakness, of frailty even echoing in it, she sat back in her seat and briefly closed her eyes, feeling faint herself with relief.

  The performance was dazzling, from first moment to last, and when she saw again the scene she had watched that day in the empty theatre, heard not Piers, not an actor, but Othello himself say, the great voice cracked with pain, ‘I have no wife,’ she found herself as profoundly moved as she had been then; and when the audience rose at the end, standing, shouting, cheering, throwing flowers on to the stage, refusing to let the actors go, any of them, but especially Piers, she looked at him and felt amongst all the other conflicting emotions a sense of sheer awe at what he had accomplished.

  The reviews were unanimous: the finest Othello, the finest Iago for many years, a brilliant feat, by both actors, neither drawing on the interpretation of the other. Piers Windsor, they all said, as one man, had done the impossible and surpassed himself, given his finest, most brilliant, most dazzling performance yet, and had allowed Branwen to dazzle too: this was truly great acting, great craftmanship, and, as Harold Hobson remarked in the Sunday Times, the great humanity of a great man.

  The papers rushed to interview him: hundreds of column inches appeared, most of them referring to The Tinsel Underneath (although interestingly, in the briefest, most scathing terms), all of them propounding that this was his hour, that his services to the theatre were outstanding, and that he should finally be rewarded for them by the Queen in the forthcoming birthday honours list.

  Fleur had decided after three weeks of indecision, lonely, sad, remorseful weeks, to call Magnus Phillips. She had left Morton’s, and was working freelance from home until she had something more satisfactory sorted out; Mick diMaggio had heard of her availability with patent delight and had asked her to knock out some Juliana pack copy for him (‘The new girl we have on the account feels it’s beneath her, Fleur. I wish you’d come back here full time’) and Baz Browne had given her all Bernard Stobbs’s new books to promote (‘He never stops asking for you’). They had both offered her fulltime jobs; Fleur had turned them down, without being in the least sure why.

  She had heard nothing from Magnus since she had got back to New York; she told herself on alternate days, alternate hours even, and according to her mood, that there was no reason why she should, that he thought she was going to marry Reuben, that it would be very unfair of him to contact her in any way; and then her brain turned full circle and she told herself instead that if he loved her as much as he had said he did, he would want to know at the very least how she was, might, should, even, wonder if there was any chance she might not be going to marry Reuben any longer.

  She found it extraordinarily difficult, even after this considerable time, to think about much else. He obsessed her: she saw his face, heard his voice, remembered him, oh God, she remembered him, everywhere, all the time. Time if anything increased her desire for him. She also thought, constantly, incessantly, about his book, about everything that he had told her, about the burglaries, the threats, about what might happen. That was upsetting her too, upsetting her horribly; if he was really so concerned about her, she thought, so anxious for her safety, then would he not have checked on her from time to time, made sure she was safe? It was outrageous: to frighten her and then to neglect her totally. He had no right to do it; no right at all. And on it went, on and on, wearing a great wound in her brain. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer, and one morning when it would have been breakfast time there, she picked up the phone and put in a call to London.

  She stood there, her heart beating, thinking of, hearing, seeing even the phone, hanging
on the kitchen wall, thought of him getting up from the table, putting down his toast spread with that ridiculous, foul-tasting, shitty marmalade of his, walking over to the phone; she wondered what he would be wearing, probably just his bathrobe. God, she and Magnus Phillips had seen more of one another in bathrobes than anything else and she felt a shot of pure physical hunger at the thought of him, standing there, so far away, yet within reach, and she caught her breath, waited, longing to hear his voice, to hear his reaction to hers: the phone was answered. ‘Magnus?’ she said quietly, too quietly to be heard. A voice said, ‘734–5677, Magnus Phillips’s residence,’ and she dropped the phone, crashed it back on the receiver, and sat down sharply in the chair, her hands clasped in her lap, rocking backwards and forwards like a demented creature, tears starting in her eyes. For the voice had not been that of Magnus Phillips, it had been another unmistakable voice, one she knew well and had once loved as well: it had been the voice of Rose Sharon.

  Joe Payton was a great defender of the gutter press. He said (as indeed did his colleague Magnus Phillips) that it served a valuable function, questioning propaganda, puncturing pomposity, probing comfortable cosmetic untruth. It uncovered official lies and unofficial fraud; it mocked the sanctimonious, and laughed at the over-serious. But he was having a difficult time defending it late one Saturday night, late that April, when he had gone with Chloe to Fleet Street to get the advance copies of certain Sunday papers. The Sunday Graphic devoted a double-page spread to what it called ‘Scandal Off-Stage’, and which it had advertised extensively in its sister daily the day before; it had been Joe’s idea to go and get hold of it before the rest of the world.