The Lost Girl

by Carol Drinkwater

  She had arrived at the studios early in an optimistic frame of mind, determined that Katsidis would test her, but when she gave her name at Reception she was informed that he wasn’t available. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was now the best part of an hour since she’d arrived. The uncertainty was unnerving her, and she had a hunch that the receptionist, who was either plugging in calls to executives or filing her nails, was rather enjoying watching her twist and squirm as each minute passed.

  ‘He is coming, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s watching rushes from a screen test. He’ll be here and I’m sure he’ll see you.’

  Rushes from a screen test! Another girl for the same role? Marguerite pulled out her compact and dabbed powder on her nose. She must keep calm, cool. She was a woman now; he’d spot the difference.

  ‘Help yourself to one of the magazines on the coffee-table. There’s an interview with Elizabeth Taylor in that one. Yes, that one there.’

  The door swung open. Katsidis thrust his head round it and looked directly at Marguerite, who had just picked up the magazine. ‘Come on in, what are you waiting for?’

  She rose tremulously, dropped the magazine back onto the coffee-table and walked towards him, head held high to counter her trembling.

  ‘Shut the door behind you,’ he snapped, as she inched inside the office. This was a different room from her last visit. This one had a sofa, comfortable armchairs and a table but no desk.

  He was scratching at his skull, his back to her, rotating his shoulder as though he had been vigorously exercising. He turned in one move to look at her. She had shut the door and stood waiting for further instructions. Katsidis was appraising her, eyes all over her, like a man about to buy cattle. ‘Turn around,’ he said.

  Marguerite obeyed him, spinning in a semi-circle.

  ‘And back again. That blouse suits you. Cherry red. Good choice, striking colour, hugs your figure.’ He pointed to the sofa. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ She felt her body tighten and a cold sweat crawled over her. Her hands were clammy. She dithered, preferring one of the chairs.

  ‘Sit down, I said. Do you have the script? Do you know the scene? The new one I gave you last time?’ She nodded. ‘You learned it word for word?’ Again she nodded. ‘Lost your voice?’

  He sat next to her, swinging himself into the space, stretching his arms the length of the sofa’s back, while she pressed herself up against the armrest.

  ‘What did you do yesterday?’ he asked, watching her. Eyes glistening, beady, excavating for some hidden trigger within her.

  ‘I … we … I went to the country.’

  ‘We? You have a boyfriend?’ He was smiling now, smirking almost, as though the very idea was derisory.

  ‘Yes, I do actually,’ she returned, head up, chin out. ‘He’s very nice. A real gentleman.’

  ‘A gentleman, huh?’ Katsidis rocked back his head and laughed loudly. ‘And what does your gentleman say about all this?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘You, his sweetheart, wanting to leave him and come to Hollywood and make pictures.’

  Where was this leading? ‘He wants what’s best for me,’ she lied, ‘for me to fulfil my dreams.’ She tossed back her blonde curls with a coquettish flick of her hand.

  Katsidis guffawed, rambunctiously, irreverently, his perfect teeth exposed. ‘Bullshit. What man wants to know that a line of directors and producers are going to ball his bird?’

  Marguerite was dumbstruck. On the losing end again. And she had been determined to show her mettle. She took a deep breath and lifted her eyes, playing sweet, impish. ‘Shall I read the scene for you, Mr Katsidis?’

  He watched her. ‘I thought you said you’d learned it.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you don’t need the script. Come here.’ He took her arm and dragged her towards him.

  ‘Ouch.’ She felt her skirt crinkle up beneath her, revealing her firm shiny thighs.

  ‘Come on, come here. Don’t be so coy.’ He was leaning over her. Close range, his frame forward over hers, forcing her backwards, jammed into the corner. ‘What did you and your handsome gentleman do yesterday in the country?’

  She was fighting now, fighting for her dignity, struggling to break free of him. He was humiliating her. Hollywood big-shot making nothing of her. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage, her pulse galloping. She fully intended to win this round. She let out a cry, like a miniature roar, to signal to him that she refused this belittling of her. She wouldn’t have it. ‘I’m a woman. Stop treating me like a child,’ she blurted out at him.

  But he was not fazed. ‘Think of what you and he did, kid, and start speaking the lines. Let me hear what you felt for your boy yesterday as you speak the lines. I want that hunger.’

  She attempted again to wriggle free of him but his grip was iron fast, pinching into her. He wasn’t letting go. He inched closer. ‘Speak the lines, honey. Think of your beau. How old is he? Is he sexy? Does he excite you? Sure, he excites you. Let me have the lines.’

  She hated him, this hairy man whose breath smelt of onions and cigars. With every fibre of her being she hated him. Still, she attempted the dialogue. A scene of longing, of lost love. Almost a soliloquy.

  Katsidis lifted himself up, affording breathing distance between them. He cupped his two hands, fingers joined to make a square as though creating the lens of a camera. Through his fingers he peered at her. A hawk’s shining gaze.

  ‘Turn your eyes towards me,’ he said softly. ‘Speak that line again, yes, yes. Look at me, move towards me. I am the camera. Play to me. You’ve got great eyes, kid. Lilac eyes, how about that? Think of your sweetheart and how good he does it to you.’

  Her back was drenched with sweat, her cherry cotton top gluing itself to her spine and tickling, prickling her. Her neck ached from holding her head upwards towards the man who was perched with one knee on the upholstery and the other leg outstretched on the floor. He dropped his created lens and began to speak the lines of the male in the scene. He was actor now, not director, as Julien had been in her first screen test here. She knew how this went. She began to relax. Just a little.

  ‘Keep it soft,’ he said, director again. ‘That’s great, kid.’ She was encouraged. He was moving towards her, partially crawling along the sofa, nudging her shoulder backwards so that she found herself semi-supine and he looming above her. And then he was on top of her. She panicked, attempting to push him away. His limbs were made of steel. His hand was on her leg. Sliding towards her soft inner thigh. ‘You like this?’

  ‘No – stop. Please, stop.’ She wanted this role. Were they acting? Was this how he intended to shoot the script?

  He was bullying in tone, yet soft, coaxing. Willing her onwards. ‘Come on, kid, let go, don’t be tight. Show me what you can do.’

  What did he expect of her? ‘Stop now,’ she begged. ‘I want to stop!’

  This man was so much uglier than Charlie. She remembered the noises, the groans Charlie had made, and she was revolted at the thought that Katsidis, who was now handling her with rough gestures, might do the same.

  ‘Let me go,’ she yelled, beating her fists against his shoulders.

  ‘Now that’s passion,’ panted Katsidis. ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Get off me!’ she shrieked. He slammed a hand over her mouth. Her eyes watering, wide with panic, were focused on his watch, second-hand moving, pressing into her cheek. Her lipstick had smudged and was now smeared across his thumb.

  ‘Open your legs.’

  ‘’Et go. ’Et go.’ Words swallowed, contorted. She wriggled, resisted, drilled a fist against his collarbone, attempted to bite the palm of his hand, horrid, salty, gristly flesh, while his knee kicked and bullied her left leg. He was prising her legs apart. ‘Keep saying the lines.’

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t open her mouth; she thought she might choke. He was tearing off her pants, dragging them expertly downwards, thrusting her legs wide open. She wa
s pinioned as he propelled himself inside her. She raged against him, convulsing, mute, distorted screams. He was groaning, humping her. Now she was fighting the impulse to throw up. Waves of nausea rose to her throat. She was attempting to pull herself free, writhing and twisting, like a trapped catch. Her back was being hammered against the arm of the sofa. The spinal pain shot through the base of her neck to her head. Back and forth against the velveteen arm of the sofa. She thought he would split her apart. And then it was over. Mercifully swift. And he was standing and buttoning his pressed slacks. ‘You did good, kid. Now get outta here.’

  She couldn’t move.

  ‘Come on, kid.’ He threw her knickers at her, which she stuffed shamefacedly into her pocket. She hauled herself up, head spinning, dazed, bruised, adjusting her creased clothes. He strode to the door, waiting, shuffling his brogue shoes impatiently.

  She paused an instant. As he turned the door handle, she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Come on, kid. I got things to do. I’ll talk it over with the producers. You’ll hear from us.’

  And with that she was out in the hot sun.

  That evening at Le Rêve, Marguerite excused herself from the communal supper downstairs, an evening ritual with all the occupants of the house, insisted upon by Lady Jeffries. Begging a headache, she remained alone, upstairs, door locked, walling herself into her room.

  After dinner, Charlie came knocking. She was surprised. He had never been near her within the boundaries of the house before. ‘Open up.’ He tapped lightly.

  She was lying on her bed, knees to her chest.

  ‘Marguerite.’

  She eased herself off the bed, bruised, and turned the key, releasing the door a few inches.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled broadly. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘What do you want?’ She was reluctant to offer him access to her secret, her private humiliation. Would he be repelled if he knew the debasement she had suffered?

  ‘Can I … May I come in, please?’

  Cautiously, gingerly, she drew back the door, clutching tight to the handle as he passed on ahead of her into the room, brushing lightly against her.

  The air hung heavy with scent. It smelt like Marguerite. Of sweet irises, like her big blossom eyes. There was a radio playing softly in the background, dance music. The attic room was surprisingly untidy. A small dressing-table standing alongside the French windows was cluttered with tubes, flacons of make-up, a little bottle of L’Heure Bleue eau de parfum and a white lace handkerchief streaked with lipstick, or was it blood? So busy was he clocking her surroundings that he didn’t notice her puffy eyes or that she had been crying. There was a photograph of a young man, unframed, lying face upwards on her pillow. It was ragged as though it had been travelling a while. Charlie, compelled to examine it, crossed the stone floor and gathered it up. The man, boy, was sixteen or seventeen in scruffy country clothes and working boots, with laces loosely fastened. His hair was blond, like Marguerite’s, coarsely cut. Was this her brother? Did the face, the features resemble Marguerite’s? Or might it be a beau who meant something special to her? Charlie flipped it over to see whether any words had been written there. The reverse side was blank. How many years of her short life he had not known her. It mattered to him, with a deep-seated sense of alarm, to confirm that it was her brother.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he demanded, then cursed himself for sounding more possessive than he’d intended.

  Marguerite had popped her head out of the door to be sure that none of the other staff had seen Charlie entering her room. They would tittle-tattle about her, judge her loose. The other girls, the two plump kitchen maids and the horrid cork-nosed cook, all three of them, yammering. On Sunday mornings, they always walked side by side, three abreast in their best starched clothes, to Mass, huddled tight, humming hymns or fervently gossiping. When she and Charlie had first arrived, they had invited her along with them to the first few holy days, to make the priest’s acquaintance, but she had declined the invitation and soon they stopped including her. She closed the door quietly and swung about to catch Charlie holding her brother’s photograph. ‘Give me that,’ she snapped as she hurried to snatch it from him.

  ‘Sorry. I should’ve let it be. How did you get on today?’

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, switching off the wireless and then, as an afterthought, turning the knob back on again because the music might serve to drown their voices should any mischief-maker be eavesdropping.

  ‘To be with you, spend a little while together, talking, cuddling.’ He bridged the inches that separated them and stroked her hair with the palm of his left hand. It was damp. After her return from the studios, from her hateful encounter with Katsidis, she had scrubbed herself thoroughly, head to toe, shampooed her hair, soaped her private parts, anointed herself extravagantly with her prized perfume.

  ‘You washed your hair. It smells nice,’ he purred. Both hands now were caressing her head.

  She shrugged him off. ‘Stop it, Charlie. I don’t want you to touch me.’

  He was hurt, startled. Hadn’t they recently made love? Hadn’t she given herself to him willingly? Why was she always so changeable?

  ‘You’ll make the curls drop,’ she added, more softly.

  Hadn’t she given him her most precious gift? He recalled the words of his first love, Doris Sprigley, crooned so sweetly in his ears as they had moved together in rhythmic motion beneath his family’s apple trees: My gift to you, Lordy.

  Marguerite had given him the same. With less enthusiasm, no doubt, but her precious self nonetheless, and he would stand by her. He was not going away. He would honour and love her. He would not let her down as he had dear Doris. He loved Marguerite in spite of her stick-like frame and her all-consuming ambition. Those eyes, so agitated, perturbed. He had fallen in love with those lavender eyes, and he wanted to care for her, protect her. To give her a decent life. He could make money from the flower business, he felt sure of it. He would settle here, try to blot out England and the past, make a life on the hills with this crazy young girl.

  Marguerite had bowed her head. Without looking up at him, she slowly placed the precious photograph on the dressing-table. ‘It’s my brother,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘The one who went to war and never came back. Broke my mother’s heart. I was just sitting here looking at it, remembering him, wishing I could talk to him again.’

  Charlie felt the fish hook catch him in the stomach. Imagining his own mother’s broken heart. Doris’s broken heart … ‘I won’t disappear on you,’ he mumbled, attempting to take her, the small, wan, determined creature who possessed such contradictory passions and opinions, in his arms. How could such a minuscule frame encompass such complexity? She shrugged him off and lifted her face. He frowned. She was crying, great barking sobs, like a seal. He was at a loss to understand her. ‘I hope you don’t regret …’ he stammered.

  She shook her head but her expression was bleak. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want it to happen again and I would prefer it if you don’t come knocking at my door again, expecting something.’

  ‘No,’ he retaliated. ‘I don’t expect … anything. I thought we could sit together, get to know one another … Enjoy some free time in one another’s company just like we’ve been doing. Growing closer.’

  ‘Charlie, I’m going to America. I’ve got plans. K-Katsidis has said … says … he’s – he’s taking me. He has to now. He has to choose me.’

  ‘Of course he will …’

  ‘So you mustn’t go getting any fancy ideas about us. What you and I did was …’ She sighed, a long weary exhalation. Would Katsidis take her to Hollywood? Hadn’t she proved to him and the producers that she was a woman, that she could convey passion? Even if he had left her feeling grubby and sluttish and shameful. She was so confused, and worn out by the questions circling her beaten brain.

  ‘Was what?’

  She gave it consideration. ‘An experiment.’

  He c
ouldn’t believe his ears. ‘An experiment? Don’t you care for me? I love you, you surely know that. See how we look out for each other. You said it was paradise up there in the hills –’

  ‘But I don’t love you, Charlie.’

  He let out a foghorn moan.

  ‘I mean, I do love you, of course I love you, Charlie. I love you as much as I could love anybody. You’ve been the best thing that’s happened to me and you do look out for me like no one ever has, but I’ve got plans and they don’t include you.’ She saw the agony twist his face, embedding itself in his grey-green eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.’ She hated herself for hurting him like this because she did genuinely care for him but better to be blunt now than later when matters had gone too far. ‘Charlie, what we did the other afternoon was …’ A world away from what happened to me today was the phrase that sprang immediately to mind.

  ‘An experiment,’ he repeated. He swung his arms impotently. They crossed over one another like a giant pair of scissors.

  ‘Well, no, that wasn’t what I meant to say.’ She wanted him to go, leave her room. Her sacred space where she might unravel the bedlam in her head. This physical business was too complicated to engage in. ‘I meant that it was a thank-you, my thank-you to you for being so … so …’ She was treading cautiously, floundering.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like my wonderful brother …’

  ‘Brother?’ He released a hollow laugh. Tears sprang into his eyes.

  ‘Charlie, don’t say it like that, as though I was insulting you. I loved Bertrand more than anyone else in the world. It’s a compliment.’

  ‘I see.’ He made no move to leave, though her gestures, her fidgety manner, picking up a lipstick, a brush from the dressing-table, running her fingers agitatedly through its bristles, tossing it down again, suggested that she wanted him gone. He wanted to be angry with her, to make her realize that he was offering her a good life. He would work hard for them, build a business from the land. He had plans. They could have children. He loved children. He missed family life. He missed the security of sharing with others around him. He wanted to grab that back, but it had to be here in France. Never again England, however much he mourned the Kent countryside. And he wanted all this to be with Marguerite. The scrawny, unsophisticated girl who had crept inside him, begging for shelter, and driven him mad with longing. Did he want her so much because she was so disregarding of him? No. He didn’t want to be her brother. He wanted to be her sidekick, her husband, and he wanted her to want him and yearn for him with the same hunger, the craving that kept him tossing and turning at night. She inhabited his dreams and taunted his insomnia.