‘Extraordinary things people put on their heads,’ he murmured. ‘Now – here’s un petit cadeau to mark your half-century.’ He carefully placed the parcel he had sneaked in on the table between them. (Tom had done an excellent job with the wrapping.) The recipient gaped dumbly at it. ‘Well, go on – open the damn thing.’
László did as he was commanded, and drew out from the box a small and worn leather case, slightly larger than a hip flask. Unfastening the clip he folded it out to disclose a dainty-looking pair of opera glasses, their black lacquer dulled with age. Lifting them from their faded velvet moulding he peered through the lens at Jimmy.
‘O vision entrancing!’ He giggled, looking more childlike than ever.
‘I got ’em at Christie’s,’ Jimmy said. He allowed himself a delicious pause before adding, ‘They once belonged to Brahms.’
At that László lowered the glasses, his face frozen in astonishment. Then he stared at them as if his jesting of the moment before were an impertinence. ‘James . . .’ he gasped, shaking his head. ‘This is too much – too much.’
‘I had a tenacious rival in the room. But I felt you must have them – it will lend piquancy to your story about holding the door open for him, where was it –?’
‘Vienna,’ said Lazlo, in a small voice. A tear bulged at the corner of his eye.
Jimmy sighed. ‘Come now, don’t be a booby. It’s just a silly old pair of glasses. You know, if I’d given ’em to one of my young companions he’d most likely have said, “Thanks, Jim, absolute ripper,” then tossed them aside.’
László nodded, blinking through his tears. His voice trembled. ‘I know such lachrymosity embarrasses you, and I apologise. But, James, this is only a wretch’s way of acknowledging an extravagant kindness he can never hope to match.’
Jimmy endured a spasm of unhappiness as he heard this. László was as close to poverty as anyone he had ever known, and yet he always marked Jimmy’s birthday with a gift – a second-hand book, a gramophone record – which, be it ever so modest, he could probably ill afford. Now the wild generosity of the gift he had made felt, in comparison, a little crushing; it was no rhetoric on László’s part to say that he could never hope to match it. Not that Jimmy imagined he ever would – only that he wished it had not been explicitly articulated.
His guilt was muddled with exasperation: if only his friend weren’t so poor! It even seemed to haunt his choice from the menu. Given that Jimmy was paying, why dine on onion soup when you could have oysters, and an omelette when there was half a lobster? But László was plainly enjoying himself, and he decided after a moment to do the same.
‘A shame Peter couldn’t join us. That’s the problem with being a GP – always gets in the way of lunch.’
László glanced up from his soup. ‘The dear man telephoned me this morning. He has not forgotten my birthday in twenty-six years. I gather that you are out together next week.’
‘Yes, the Green Carnation Ball, for Oscar’s anniversary. I expect it’ll be rather louche.’
‘Did you know that The Importance of Being Earnest was first written in four acts, and cut down by George Alexander to three? The original third act contained a scene in which Algernon Moncrieff was arrested for debt. When told that he would be taken to Holloway, Algernon says, “Never. If Society thought I was familiar with so remote a suburb it would decline to know me.”’
Jimmy laughed, though he was puzzled. ‘How did you find that out?’
László smiled shyly. ‘You probably don’t know that before the war I was the official Hungarian translator of Wilde’s plays. My father was friendly with a famous theatre producer in Budapest who asked me to do it.’
Jimmy shook his head, dumbfounded by László’s effortless knack for springing a revelation on him. He didn’t doubt it was true, for he knew it would never occur to him to lie. ‘And how does Wilde play in Hungarian, I wonder?’
‘Funnier than you would think! Though of course a verb such as “to Bunbury” is not easy to construe.’
‘Hmm. No doubt. Y’ know, I remember that whole time around his trial and arrest. The shock of it . . . what I couldn’t understand, and still don’t, was why he never fled the country when he had the chance. I mean, he knew that Queensberry had got him cold, with the blackmailers and rent boys and what have you. Prison was a near certainty. So why did he stay?’
László’s expression was thoughtful. ‘The human capacity for self-delusion is strong. Sometimes we refuse to see what is right in front of us. And Wilde probably did not think a man as chraazy as Queensberry could bring him down.’
‘The newspapers didn’t help him, of course. “Once they had the rack. Now they have the press.” Talking of which, our man Wyley has been very ill-used.’
‘A scandal,’ said László with feeling. ‘As a matter of fact I wrote a letter to The Times deploring the way he has been treated. And I also mentioned his altercation with that brute at the Carlton – nobody who was there that night would have called him a Fascist sympathiser.’
‘Good for you. I didn’t see the letter, I’m afraid.’
‘That is because they didn’t print it!’
Jimmy winced a little. ‘All the same, he might have exercised a bit more caution. Fancy writing a personal cheque to a man like Carmody . . .’
‘The poor fellow has been deceived,’ said László, growing more heated. ‘He believed he was supporting a theatre charity. Why, you yourself were taken in by the scoundrel.’
Jimmy admitted it with a shrug, and privately thanked his stars he had not been induced to contribute more than the cost of two dinners. He wondered if the damage to the painter’s reputation would also scare away clients. Wyley had fobbed him off that evening by pleading other commitments. But now? He sensed an opportunity to be grasped.
He loosened another oyster from its shell, and said, ‘Of course now would be the time for friends to show support. I could always, well, renew my offer of a commission.’ And if business really had fallen away he might be able to negotiate on the price, too.
‘That would be an honourable gesture,’ agreed László, whose expression brightened suddenly. ‘We both may end up immortalised by his hand!’
‘Both?’
‘Ah! I forgot to tell you. I wrote to thank Wyley for his generosity that evening, hardly expecting a reply. Yet one came, and – the most extraordinary thing – he had enclosed with his letter a small pencil portrait – of me! Quite simple, possibly the work of moments, but still, a delight to behold. I must show it to you once I get it back from the framer’s.’
Jimmy was aghast, though he tried to shape his features into a semblance of enthusiasm. ‘Yes, you must . . .’ That László – frankly, no oil painting – should have wangled a picture from one of the leading portraitists of the day, without even having to ask, was too galling for words. And to think of how he had fairly pestered Wyley that evening for the privilege!
‘And yet I don’t think we can call Wyley absolutely first class,’ he continued, using his Voice of Authority. ‘He’s not on the level of Nicholson, or Gunn. And as for those claiming him to be this nation’s Sargent – well!’
‘Possibly not,’ said László mildly. ‘But I prefer him to all of them.’
Jimmy stared at his companion, hunched over his soup plate. It dimly occurred to him that László had secured this good fortune by virtue of being a kind and deserving person. And that he in contrast would never be thought so, despite his generosity with luncheons and parties and gifts. Unfair, but there it was. He had been in debate with himself as to whether he should invite László to the ball next Monday. It would be a friendly thing to do. But this sudden revelation of his about the sketch had nettled him, and in that moment he decided that the invitation could go hang.
László, unaware of his being passed over, had just excused himself to go to the Gents. His removal had opened a new angle of surveillance across the restaurant, and in turn left Jimmy open to scrutiny – indeed, he could se
e a lady narrowing her gaze on him and whispering to her younger companion, the one in the squashed pagoda hat, who now turned her head. Her face was very familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place it.
He hailed a passing waiter and said, ‘Be so kind as to bring us another of those wines that maketh glad the heart of man.’
The waiter’s expression was impassive. ‘Muscadet, was it, sir?’
Jimmy tilted his head sideways in a gesture of agreement, and the man went off. While his attention had been diverted the squashed-pagoda lady had, with feline stealth, padded up to his table. She was dark, attractive, perhaps thirty. He must have seen her onstage, though in their mufti actors weren’t always easy to recognise.
‘You’re Erskine, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ he said, hearing a combative note.
‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
‘Madam, a whole skeleton, if you wish.’ He invited her to sit, but she continued to stand, arms folded loosely across her chest.
‘You once described me in a review as “ungainly”. You also said I didn’t know how to walk.’
‘On the second count I was evidently mistaken. Perhaps you could –?’
‘Fire in the Hole, four years ago.’
Now the clouds parted, and Jimmy smiled. ‘Why, Nina Land, isn’t it? My dear, you’re a star!’
‘And you are a little shit,’ Nina replied crisply. At that moment László was returning to the table, just in time to overhear this disobliging epithet. He slunk into his seat, glancing up nervously at the interloper. Jimmy, meanwhile, was looking around, his face a picture of injured innocence.
‘My dear lady, the review to which you refer was an hommage! I distinctly recall my asserting that your performance outshone all else, and that you were destined for great things. Pray tell, how have I offended?’
‘You’ve got some nerve, I must say. What critic in his right mind would describe an actress as “horse-faced” and then call it hommage?’
Jimmy slapped his hand on the table. ‘I would! You are assuming I use “horse-faced” as a term of insult.’
Nina returned an incredulous look. ‘Likening a woman’s face to a horse’s is generally understood as an insult.’
With portentous solemnity Jimmy held up his forefinger, as though preparing an announcement. ‘In which case I must take recourse to my trusted companion here. László, this lady believes I have affronted her. Would you do me the service of propounding my theory of the female physiognomy?’
Nina looked at the critic’s fidgeting friend and sensed his uncertainty, which made her only more curious to hear the defence. With some fluster László began: ‘I do assure you, miss, um, that James – Mr Erskine – intended no offence. His taxonomy is perhaps eccentric, but not without foundation, I think . . .’ She listened as he proceeded to explain the rudiments of ‘bird-bun-horse’, to which final category her own face apparently belonged. László’s precise, accented English, and the courtesy with which he spoke, had a disarming effect. Nina found herself mollified, if not quite persuaded. When he had concluded (‘C’est tout’), she replied with a gracious nod and turned to Jimmy.
‘Hmm. I can’t tell if it’s twaddle or –’
‘Twuth?’ suggested Jimmy, and she giggled.
‘I think a test is in order. I shall call on my second, as you have,’ she said, beckoning the companion she had left at the table. A lady in her fifties, short, wiry, beady-eyed, sidled up. She gave Jimmy and László the once-over, unimpressed. ‘This is Dolly Langdon, my dresser. Dolly, dear, these gentlemen have a theory I want to test. So listen, if every woman’s face has one of three shapes – a horse, a bun, or a bird – which, d’you think, is mine?’
Dolly pulled a face of her own. ‘I shouldn’t like to say.’
Nina stooped to Dolly’s height. ‘Just be honest. Bird, bun, horse?’
With a reluctant air, she squinted at Nina. ‘Horse.’
Jimmy clapped his hands, triumphant. ‘There! Mrs Langdon, without prompting, has vindicated me.’
‘The horse is indeed a noble-faced creature,’ added László quietly.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ said Nina with a half-laugh. She gave Jimmy a sidelong look. ‘There may be something in it. I’m sorry for calling you a –’
‘Quite forgotten,’ said Jimmy, becoming expansive. ‘Now, I propose we celebrate our truce by you and Mrs Langdon joining us for pudding. László, be a good fellow and pull up that chair.’
Nina glanced at Dolly, who indicated her compliance with a little moue. She supposed that Dolly’s face, small and pointed, would be ‘bird’ according to the Erskine theory, but wisely resisted mentioning it. They settled around the table and Jimmy, needing no excuse, called for a pint of champagne with the pudding menus. Just then Nina recalled Stephen telling her about the evening of the Marquess dinner, and his being seated next to ‘that Erskine fellow’. He hadn’t much liked him, either, though he had found his friend strangely charming. Could it possibly be . . .? She caught László’s eye across the table and smiled.
‘I’ve an idea you know a friend of mine,’ she said. ‘Stephen Wyley?’
László’s eyes brightened. ‘Indeed! James and I were lately discussing him. It has grieved us both to see his name so besmirched. Do please tell, have you seen him since his . . . troubles?’
‘Yes, last week. He’s bearing up.’
‘A shocking business,’ said Jimmy. ‘We met him the night of that ghastly dinner at the Carlton. László here even wrote a letter to The Times defending him.’
‘Not printed, alas,’ muttered László.
‘I know he’ll appreciate it, all the same,’ said Nina kindly. ‘The gallery is standing by him, thank goodness, but he’s had some commissions cancelled. Even the mural he was painting at the Nines has been abandoned.’
Jimmy, unable to resist, said, ‘So the club will have to hire an extra mural painter, as it were.’
‘That’s rather good,’ said Nina. For all the resentment he had stirred in her as a critic she had to admit he was jolly company. Generous, too; when the champagne arrived he made a toast to his little friend, who turned out to be celebrating his fiftieth birthday. It was worth being there just to see the childishly wide grin that transformed László’s countenance. ‘We’re celebrating, too, as a matter of fact,’ she added. ‘Our run ended last week. So I’d like to propose a toast to my dresser, with me through thick and thin – to Dolly!’
As her name rang in echo Dolly tried to pooh-pooh the fuss, and was shouted down. Jimmy, lighting a cigar, said to Nina, ‘My God, you carried The Second Arrangement. I don’t think anyone else could have found such wit in the thing.’
He’s flattering me now, she thought, though it was not unpleasant to hear. ‘I could wish some others were as appreciative,’ she replied with a rueful smile. ‘My agent has written to say that Marlborough Studios don’t want me for their next picture after all.’
‘Fie on the dolts! Cinema’s loss is our gain, my dear. There will always be a welcome for you in the theatre.’
She had made light of it, but the news, coming on the day of the last performance, had deflated her just when she needed a boost. She had thought of telephoning Stephen to have a good moan, then decided not to: he had troubles enough to occupy him. And maybe it was for the best anyway. She was making a name for herself as a stage actress; to take a plunge into film might stall the momentum she had gathered.
Across the table László was enthusing over a pair of opera glasses – a birthday gift, it seemed – which he passed to Dolly for her inspection.
‘Just to think these glasses once rested on the eyes of the man who composed A German Requiem!’
Dolly made a polite face. ‘Fancy,’ she said, handing them back.
László beamed at Nina. ‘Who knows, in years to come perhaps something of Miss Land’s will be fought over at auction.’
‘Mm, anything but that hat, I imagine,’ said Dolly
, eyeing the squashed pagoda. Jimmy’s laughter was uproarious, but Nina didn’t mind. The mood had grown convivial. Anyone happening to pass their table might have supposed that the quartet of diners had all known one another for years.
They were just finishing off pudding when László sat up in his chair excitedly and cried, ‘Look who’s come to join us! Ladies, allow me to introduce our dear friend Thomas.’
Jimmy, who’d been in the middle of an anecdote about Sarah Bernhardt, raised his eyes heavenwards. Really! From the expression on László’s face you’d have thought Brahms himself had just walked in. Tom, greeting them, accepted the chair László had eagerly wedged beside his own. It took him a moment to recognise the lady in the architectural hat.
‘The last time I saw you was at the Strand for The Second Arrangement. Actually I went to see it twice.’
‘It’s true,’ said Jimmy. ‘He couldn’t believe it the first time.’
‘You were terribly good in it,’ said Tom, ignoring him.
‘That’s very sweet of you,’ smiled Nina. ‘You know, this restaurant serves a better class of critic. I must come here more often.’
‘Well, Jimmy’s the critic,’ said Tom, ‘I’m just his secretary. And driver.’
Nina was astounded. ‘Driver? Goodness, I didn’t know newspapers paid their writers so well.’
‘They don’t,’ said Tom. ‘But he spends as if they do.’ With a barely perceptible look he indicated to Jimmy that it was time to leave.
‘Our carriage awaits! Ladies, consider it at your disposal. Thomas here will drive you wherever you wish.’ This was less than welcome news to Tom. As he might have guessed, the car had quickly become a millstone, one more thing for which Jimmy expected him to be at his beck and call. In spite of its opulence he found he did not much enjoy driving it, and of course the vehicle was already tainted for him by its previous owner.
Charlotte Street was under lamplight as they emerged from L’Etoile. In spite of Jimmy’s offer Dolly insisted that she would go home on the Tube, and László would accompany her to Tottenham Court Road station. It took no more than five minutes for Jimmy to be deposited at Princess Louise Mansions, which left Tom in charge of Nina.
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