by ILIL ARBEL
“But I tried to get under her skin, express her pain. Besides, what about my own pain? Shouldn’t I drown it in my writing?”
“What pain? Seems to me your life is very easy and pleasant, what with the money you got from Mr. Goldwasser, and the lovely little flat we found for you, and all these new and interesting friends. Altogether, I believe you are leading a fabulous new life. Ah, to be a young writer in London...”
“Yes, it’s true, I do enjoy myself tremendously in London. But there are things, nevertheless… I am sure there are… let me see… I must be hurting over something or other… What about Emma? I really like her and I am convinced she does not like me and she is in love with Noel. That is some kind of pain, isn’t it?”
“Such drivel does not count as pain, my boy. And getting under the skin of a woman is certainly not easy for someone like you who does not understand women at all even when they are not lunatics. If you understood them, you would know that Emma’s ‘eternal love’ for Noel is a mere childish infatuation with an interesting and successful mature man who is leading an exciting life, a crush that will play itself out in a few months or even a few weeks in Paris.”
“Do you really think so, Mr. Clover?”
“Yes, I do; girls always fall for the unattainable, but it does not last. As a playwright, I would say that the script of your life calls for your eventually marrying Emma and living happily ever after. At any rate, this has little to do with your work. So stick to comedy. Tell me the truth, doesn’t it cheer you up when you write it?”
“Oh, yes, I find myself smiling half the time, and I can work very long hours,” said Edmond.
“But not when you write drama, right?”
“I must admit I get so bored with the drama, that I go out a lot and take long walks, or telephone my friends,” confessed Edmond, looking rather sheepish.
“Case closed. Don’t throw this play out, though. Keep it in a drawer. It is so awful as a drama that perhaps some day you can turn it into a hilarious piece, something on the lines of a satire. The final scene, when the murderess’s body floats on the Thames, her face pale, her hands folded on her chest, and a garland of garbage hanging on her long hair to differentiate and at the same time compare her to Ophelia, made me burst out laughing. It can be used some day.”
“Actually, this comes as a relief,” admitted Edmond.
“I will never understand why people think authors have to suffer to write. Of course, the authors create this myth to make themselves look important, but let’s face it, unless writing is a pleasure, why do it? There are many other ways to make a living,” said Aubrey. “I adore writing my plays. And by the way, mine are all comedies, you know.”
“True,” said Edmond, a little surprised by having overlooked this important fact. “I never thought of that. And I do greatly admire them.”
“Thank you,” said Aubrey, laughing. “So have you heard from Emma lately?”
“Yes, I got a letter yesterday. Emma is very good about correspondence,” said Edmond. “She is very happy living with the Boulle family, and she is looking forward to starting her studies. I think she will do very well.”
“This Boulle family keeps coming back into our lives ever since that fateful summer when they stayed near Lady Graham,” said Aubrey. “I met them then, and I will never forget the girl, Ursule, a fat, silly thing who ate and giggled and giggled and ate and never did anything else.”
“Apparently Ursule is now a lovely middle-aged Parisian, well married, beautifully dressed and charming, according to Emma,” said Edmond, laughing.
“You have to hand it to these French ladies,” said Aubrey. “They always eventually learn how to dress. Yes, Emma is happy. We got a letter too, and I think sending her to Paris was the right thing to do. She did not mention Noel Merton even once, incidentally, but talked quite a bit about a young man named Gaston who works at one of the great fashion houses and who took her to a fashion show there.”
“Yes, she mentioned Gaston to me too. But I don’t think I have to be concerned about him, Mr. Clover. He won’t be interested in Emma. He, well, he has other interests.”
“I see,” said Aubrey with a noncommittal expression. “Let’s join Jessica and have some tea, Edmond. I am glad we will now stick to what we do best.”
Clearly we have allowed ourselves a little trip again, this time to London, but since we all know the Clovers’ wonderful apartment which their landlord has allowed them to convert into a spacious two-floor luxury dwelling, we don’t feel too strained about having left Barchester for a short visit with them. We can safely leave Edmond there, drinking tea with Jessica, Aubrey and Miss M., and talking about Emma and her adventures in Paris. But now we must return to Barsetshire and to Norton Hall, where Send Me No Lilies is moving on merrily with Mr. Alcott enjoying every minute of his part as Nestor Chardonay, playing against his Goddess and providing Mr. Goldwasser with infinite amusement. At that moment he was waiting for his friend Maisie at the train station, since she was summoned by Mr. Goldwasser to work with Mrs. Rivers on the preliminaries for the sequel. He saw her coming out and waved, and Maisie waved back, strode toward him, and suddenly stopped in her tracks.
“Heavens to Betsy! Nestor Alcott, how did you become so gorgeous all of a sudden?” she screamed.
“Why, thanks awfully, Maise,” said Nestor, embarrassed by this heartfelt cry that made half the people at the station turn to look at him. “They did all sorts of things to me…”
“But can you see without your glasses?”
“I never needed them. I only wore them so I would look like a serious young businessman,” said Nestor.
“A disguise,” said Maisie, always delighted with romance and intrigue. “Of course you don’t need subterfuge anymore, now that you are a Star! But tell me, what did they do to you, other than take away your glasses?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute, let’s just get into my car and go.”
They piled the two suitcases that Maisie brought with her onto the back seat, and drove away. “Well?” said Maisie. “I am dying of curiosity.”
“They washed off the brilliantine, gave me a new haircut, and made me wear more fashionable clothes which seem to fit better, or so they said at Wardrobe. Then they made me tan a bit. They said I was too pale, since Nestor Chardonay is supposed to spend a lot of time on the Riviera, not stuck in some office.”
“Tan? In England? How? The sun is never out here!”
“They have this special lamp… you smear some stuff on your face, I have no idea what it is, and then sit in front of the lamp for about fifteen minutes each day, and it looks as if you went to the beach,” explained Nestor.
“I would love to try it myself,” said Maisie enviously. “The tan makes your eyes such a clear green, Nes. The women will be raving about them in the theatres. But what did Her Nibs say about it all?”
“Come on, Maise. Don’t use these horrible British expressions. And about Miss Tudor, too… She said the changes were very becoming, and she seems to like working with me, particularly the dancing parts, but she is not the way she was with Keith; I have a feeling she is still thinking about him. I don’t care what anyone says to the contrary, I believe she is in love with Keith.”
“What if she is? You’ll have to get over this crush,” said Maisie. “It’s not good for you to pine for a person who does not love you back. Still, love is never forever, anyway, so you will get over it soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Maisie in the most unconvincing manner.
“Come on, Maise,” said Nestor. “Let’s stop somewhere and have a glass of beer and you can tell me about things. We must stick together among all these Brits, you know. They are great, but still, a bit different from us.”
“Miss Brinton is the only one I know who can really bridge the gap and understand both sides of the ocean,” said Maisie.
“What about the Boss?”
“Mr. Goldwass
er does not have to adapt, you know. People rather adapt to him.” Which was very observant of Maisie, we think.
“You are in a pensive mood, Maise,” said Nestor over the beers which, while not as cold as he was used to them in America, still were pretty good, he thought. “Now come out with the story.”
“Well, Nes, I don’t know if I should tell you, it’s indiscreet to tell, but since you have always been a real pal…” said Maisie hesitantly.
“Fire away, Maise,” said Nestor encouragingly. “I will try to help. Is it something to do with Mrs. Rivers? Are you worried about working with her? She is a horrible person, I can’t stand her, but I think after all that happened she will treat you well enough.”
“Oh, no. Believe it or not, we get along famously most of the time, and when she loses her temper and becomes The Queen, I just ignore her. No, it’s what’s going on back home.”
“Your fiancé?”
“Yes. He is two-timing me, Nes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I confronted him and he did not deny it. You see, he is fed up with my work and my travels, and he prefers someone close to home, right there in New York. So there is this girl who works with him at Macy’s, and who has been making eyes at him for a long time. She is really pretty, much better looking than me.”
“Maise,” said Nestor seriously, “he is not worth it. You deserve better than a Macy’s travelling salesman anyway, a smart girl like you, honestly.”
“Smart? What men want is pretty, Nes. Not smart. Look how you fell for Miss Tudor. It’s not her brain you are in love with.”
“Miss Tudor is a different story, she is not just pretty. She is a star, a Goddess,” said Nestor reverently. “But about you. You know what? You are the way I was before they turned me into a film star. You wear the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes, the wrong hair, everything. You are so engrossed in your work you never even bother to put on lipstick. If you changed all that, you would be swell.”
“Skinny old me?”
“You are neither old nor skinny, Maise. You have an excellent figure, and you have good legs, too, when you get into a nice skirt rather than wearing your eternal trousers. I’ll tell you what; I’ll speak to Miss Merriman. She was telling people about this beauty parlour they have in Barchester, a ridiculous name you won’t believe, let me see…. Yes, Maison Tozier, I think. They have a woman there, a Miss Dahlia, who is so good with face and hair that even Miss Tudor goes to her occasionally. Hollywood quality, Miss Tudor said. Yes, we must get you to Miss Dahlia.”
“So Miss Merriman is still with us?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, yes,” said Nestor. “Terrific woman. She can do anything.”
“Even make me into a beauty?”
“No doubt,” said Nestor.
“And Miss Brinton does not mind her being here?”
“Miss Brinton is coming back tomorrow,” said Nestor. “We’ll find out. But I really don’t think she minds at all. They became such good friends, and what with the possible marriage, it all works out very well.”
As brusque and efficient as ever, Miss Brinton got off the train and looked around her. Immediately, two young men materialized silently to collect her luggage and take it to an awaiting car. She, of course, expected nothing less as service due to her, but seeing Miss Merriman waiting in the car, and coming out to welcome her, was an unanticipated pleasure.
“I am so happy to see you again, Miss Merriman. You must tell me everything I have missed,” she said graciously after they shook hands cordially and got into the car.
“You know about the exchange of stars, of course, which is the most startling event to have happened to this film,” said Miss Merriman.
“Yes, I understood Mr. Keith was very ill, to a point of needing a private nurse and a hospital stay, and then he resigned his part to Mr. Alcott’s superior dancing,” said Miss Brinton. “At least this is what was conveyed to me. I never would wish such a nice young man any ill luck, but perhaps this influenza attack, if it really was the major factor in his decision, was the best thing that could have happened to the film and to everyone involved.”
“The facts are right, Miss Brinton, but not the implications. The influenza had nothing to do with his decision, and he desperately wanted out of the film. So there he was in the Mertons’ home, with Sister Chiffinch, or as they call her, Chiffy, but he was already perfectly well when the events took place.”
“So they call this nurse, Sister Chiffinch, by the nickname ‘Chiffy,’” said Miss Brinton thoughtfully.
“They do. And her friends, two other delightful nurses with whom she shares an apartment, are known as ‘Wardy’ and ‘Heathy’ if I am not mistaken,” said Miss Merriman. “The three of them have taken care of just about everyone in the County; births, deaths, illnesses, injuries, they have done it all.”
“And they call you ‘Merry,’ I noticed, at least your close friends do. This is something so peculiar to the English people, making a nickname from your surname. Do you know what my English friends call me?”
“Let me guess,” said Miss Merriman, laughing. “They call you ‘Brinty,’ don’t they?”
“Indeed they do. And the funny thing is, I have a perfectly good nickname in America, but my friends here just won’t use it. Tell me, what is wrong with calling me Meg? I am Margaret, of course.”
“Nothing is wrong with calling you Meg,” said Miss Merriman. “A very pleasant nickname. It’s just one of our strange customs.”
“Ah, well, one must be tolerant of foreign customs,” said Miss Brinton. “So go on, please. What did Mr. Keith do, exactly?”
“He helped Mr. Clover and Mr. Goldwasser in an elaborate ruse of putting brandy in Mr. Alcott’s orange juice; they took the idea from a P.G. Wodehouse novel, where the young man involved is a teetotaller, like Mr. Alcott. In the novel, the young man just made a fool of himself at some prize-giving at a school, but Mr. Alcott seems to react to brandy by dancing very beautifully, and indeed he danced with Miss Tudor under the influence of the drink. To be fair, the dancing was superb. The tango that they performed was extraordinary… but I don’t know how to describe it, really, without using words you and I don’t approve of. At any rate, it went so well, that when Mr. Keith told Miss Tudor he wanted to resign his part, she agreed. I have no idea if she guessed that this was contrived or not.”
“Excellent,” said Miss Brinton. “I did not like Miss Tudor’s attachment to Mr. Keith. It really worried me, and I hope this will resolve it. I want her to be happy… do you know, Miss Merriman, Miss Tudor has a reputation of being silly, difficult, and imperious, but it’s not her true character; we all love her.”
“I have noticed that, Miss Brinton. As a matter of fact, I have come to like Miss Tudor very much.”
“That is good, since I have heard that Mr. Goldwasser offered you a permanent job. I will be thrilled if you take it. Working with you is a pleasure.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Brinton,” said Miss Merriman with genuine gratitude. It was heart-warming to see that Miss Brinton was completely free from any professional jealousy or possessiveness. “That is most kind. I am not sure, as yet, what to do.”
“We have a few more weeks to finish the film,” said Miss Brinton. “Plenty of time to consider the options, and Mr. Goldwasser would never rush you.”
“He is a very considerate employer,” said Miss Merriman. “Unusually so. But on another matter, should I congratulate you on a special subject yet?”
“Thank you, but not quite yet… The general and I are still negotiating the deal,” said Miss Brinton, laughing. “You know, Miss Merriman, I simply have cold feet. The general will never cause me an hour of unhappiness voluntarily, and if we marry, he would put up with my work, come with me on some of my trips, and always be flexible. But marriage! At my age! I should have married him ten years ago. It would have been easier then.”
“I can understand your hesitation,” said Miss Merriman. “But something tells me th
at a happy ending will still occur.” The two ladies laughed, and the car entered the grounds of Norton Hall.
Chapter Twelve
“I am boarding a ship to Tahiti next week, Aurora,” said Lord Arthur. They were still in Vienna, in another café, which was created in the Nortons’ garden.
“Tahiti?” whispered Aurora. “So far away… why?”
“I think Polynesia, with its simplicity and calm atmosphere, will do me good,” said Lord Arthur. “However, I must tell you the rest of my plan, and what I have decided to do.” He pulled a slim folder out of his breast pocket, and handed it to her. She took it with an obviously reluctant air. “Are these divorce papers, Arthur?”
“No, dear. I will never initiate an attempt to part from you, and as I have been saying, I will always abide by your decisions. No, this is a ticket for another ship that goes to Tahiti in three weeks. Keep it. If you decide to stay with Mr. Chardonay, throw it away and receive my blessings in advance. If you decide to come back to me, and make me the happiest man on earth, just board the ship and come. I’ll be there.”
Aurora looked at her husband with awe. In close-up, her big violet eyes showed extremely painful emotions. Then, what the audience was waiting for took place – a glowing tear swelled in each eye but never fell, thus leaving the mascara unsullied – which was one of Glamora Tudor’s most celebrated tricks of the trade. The audience wondered if Lord Arthur noticed. Of course, he could not do anything about it, but did he see the tears?
“Goodbye, Aurora, and may God bless you,” said Lord Arthur with great simplicity. He got up and left, his tall figure looking almost military in its stance, showing his self-control and steadfastness to the millions of sobbing women in the audience. Most of them would now root openly for Lord Arthur, still feeling very sorry, of course, for Mr. Chardonay. What will the poor, harassed lady decide? Only those who had read the book would know, but even they would not be sure of the outcome. After all, in the films, endings were changed so often by the script writers.