by Clara Benson
‘But why did you tell them that?’
‘Because if one isn’t in the papers then one might as well be dead. And everyone was talking about Augusta Laing getting the part, so I thought it was time I reminded them that she’s nobody, and that I’m far more interesting than she is. And besides,’ she added casually, ‘I was doing you a favour. You’re going to be the new boy in Hollywood, and you need to get off on the right foot.’
‘But it will be in all the papers, won’t it? I already have a girl, and she won’t be too happy when she reads it.’
‘Oh, you have a girl, do you? Well, she won’t last long. I dare say I’ve done her a good turn, too. Better let her down gently now rather than string her along. She can’t last, you know. And this is much more important. The publicity will do us both good. We’re starring in this picture together, and people go wild for two romantic leads who are also in love off the screen.’
‘But we’re not.’
‘Who cares?’ she said. ‘The public believe it, and that’s all that matters.’
Robert Kenrick was dismayed.
‘But I mean to say, Sarah really won’t be happy, as she’s rather the worrying kind. And her mother never approved of me much to start with, because I’m an actor, you know. What if they believe it too? I shall be in the most awful trouble. I think I shall have to call the papers to deny it. No offence meant, Dorothy, but I don’t want them getting the wrong end of the stick.’
Dorothy Dacres pursed her lips in displeasure.
‘Better not, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re in it now, whether you like it or not. You’ll soon see it’s how things work in this business.’
‘But—’
‘Besides,’ she went on, twisting a lock of her beautiful golden hair around her finger and gazing at him with innocent eyes, ‘you don’t want people to think you’re not interested in me, do you? A lot of men would kill to be in your shoes right now. If people get even the tiniest idea that you’re not keen on women then they might start to wonder.’
‘Wonder what?’
‘Oh, you know. You’d be surprised how rumours get around. People will talk, and Hollywood is very sensitive about the morality of its stars. I could tell you stories of people who’ve been black-listed for that kind of thing.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Kenrick, taken aback.
‘Don’t you? Well, never mind. Let’s just say that if you don’t want to find yourself on the first boat home you’d be better off doing as I tell you. It’s only for a little while. And you’ll soon see there are a lot of beautiful girls in America. Far better looking than this Sally of yours, I’ll bet.’
‘Sarah.’
She waved a hand and promptly forgot the subject, leaving Robert Kenrick in a state of some perturbation as he absorbed his first unpleasant lesson in Hollywood politics. He said no more, but wandered back out onto the terrace—although this time the view did not appeal quite as much as it had before.
A young woman who bore some resemblance to Miss Dacres, albeit with darker hair and eyes, came into the living-room, bearing a huge bouquet of flowers.
‘These just came from Mr. Aston,’ she said.
‘Oh, aren’t they just divine?’ said Dorothy, giving them the briefest of glances. ‘Eugene, darling,’ she said, calling to a man who was talking loudly and urgently on the telephone at the other side of the room. ‘Is that Henry? Thank him for the flowers, won’t you?’
The man addressed as Eugene nodded and carried on talking. Eventually he put the telephone down and came across.
‘We’re all set,’ he said.
Dorothy was examining her fingernails idly.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘one of those horrid press-men outside said that Augusta Laing is going to be Helen Harper. He must have been talking to Kenneth Neale. You know he doesn’t want me to have the part. You don’t think he’s going to pull some stunt, do you?’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ he replied. ‘He’s all talk, but he’ll play ball. There’s too much money at stake not to.’
Eugene S. Penk was the man Freddy had seen arriving with Seymour Cosgrove. Despite his rough and pugilistic appearance, he was in fact a rich and powerful man. He had started his career as a professional boxer, then had moved into the film business, first as an extra, then as a stunt-man and bit-part actor, until he had worked his way up to become head of production at one of the biggest Hollywood studios. But working for others did not suit him, and he had warred constantly with the studio executives. At last he had decided to strike out on his own, and had recently formed his own company, Aston-Penk Productions, in partnership with Henry Aston II, the son of the late industrial tycoon, who provided the financial backing. Their first two pictures had not been successes, and it had begun to look as though the venture were destined to fail, for Aston knew little about the film business and was a nervous investor, alternately trying to interfere and threatening to withdraw. However, Penk had made every effort to convince him that For Every Yesterday would be a hit, and hoped that the danger had passed for the moment.
‘Now listen, Dorothy,’ Penk went on. ‘That’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve got to switch that famous charm of yours on and start talking nice to Kenneth Neale. I promised Henry I’d get him over to Hollywood, and I’ve got to do it. But I can’t do it with you getting his wife all riled up every time you see her.’
‘Why should I be nice to him when he doesn’t want me in his picture?’ said Dorothy, pouting a little.
‘Because he’s the best director in Europe and I want to hire him,’ said Penk impatiently. ‘And Henry wants him too. We’ve got to make a success of this one, or we’re all going to be on the skids.’
‘Oh, nonsense. One director is just like another. And who’s heard of him back in the States? What’s he done that anyone cares about? Nothing that I recall. I’m the one they’re paying to see, and I think people ought to remember that a little more often when they tell me I can’t have what I want.’
‘Now, you’re not going to start being difficult, are you?’ said Penk. ‘If he pulls out then we have to begin all over again, and Henry will get the heebie-jeebies, and you might find yourself without a part.’
‘Well, all right, then,’ said Dorothy with a sulky toss of her immaculate head. ‘I’ll play nice. Anyway, I didn’t mean to upset Patience. But that ghastly child of theirs really is the limit. Do we have to have her in the movie?’
‘Yes we do. She’s a big hit over here with the British. They adore her, and she’s the surest way of getting them to come and see it. And the surest way of getting Neale to come to Hollywood, too,’ he added. ‘We hire his little girl, we make him happy and he does whatever we want.’
‘Ugh,’ said Dorothy, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. ‘So we have to have this Adorable Ada, or whatever she’s called, and I guess Augusta Laing will be hanging around wanting a supporting rôle too, now that I’ve been given the plum one. I can’t think why Kenneth wants Augusta so badly,’ she went on petulantly. ‘It’s not even as though she’s all that pretty. That hair of hers! It quite blinds one. And her acting is so insipid. Of course, with a little more experience she mightn’t be too bad one day, but I don’t think she’s cut out for leading rôles—and she most certainly can’t carry the part of Helen.’
‘You have to admit she’s closer to the right age,’ said the young woman who had brought the flowers. ‘It’s a long time since you saw twenty-five.’
Dorothy sat up suddenly and glared at her.
‘At least I can still pass for twenty-five,’ she said. She looked the other woman up and down. ‘Such a pity the camera never loved you as much as it did me, isn’t it, darling? It always made you look so old and haggard. Why, no-one would ever have guessed that I’m seven years older than you. Do you know, Seymour,’ she went on, addressing the phot
ographer, ‘there was more than one occasion when we were younger that Cora and I were mistaken for twins—by age, I mean. Not by resemblance.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ said Cora sweetly. ‘As I recall, most people commented on how mature you looked for your age. And most of your parts lately have been characters much older than you. What was that last one you did two years ago? I can’t quite remember the name—but then I guess no-one else can either. It’s such a shame how one can go from being the latest thing to nobody at all in just a few months. It can’t be because of your age that you’re not getting the parts any more, though, can it? I mean, after all, you just told me you can still pass for twenty-five.’
‘Yes I can,’ said Dorothy. ‘And that’s why I’m going to play Helen Harper.’ She returned her sister’s sweet smile. ‘This is a hard business, and only the very best make it. I think you made a wise decision when you retired. Stars come and go, but Hollywood will always need secretaries and assistants like you.’
Cora flushed, but said nothing more, as Seymour Cosgrove, who had ignored—or perhaps not heard—the exchange, broke in and said:
‘I think we’re ready now. Dorothy, I want you over here by the piano.’
Dorothy swung herself up from the sofa with languorous grace and did as she was bid.
‘Just lean against it like that,’ said Seymour, and peered through the view-finder. A shade of doubt passed over his face.
‘That dress—the colour’s no good,’ he said finally. ‘It won’t show up. You’ll have to put a paler one on.’
‘I have something in eau de nil,’ said Dorothy. ‘Mildred, bring it out—and the white silk too.’
A silent maid duly brought out several frocks and submitted them to the judgment of the photographer, who held them up one by one against Miss Dacres and squinted at her dispassionately. At last, he selected an evening-dress in pale blue.
‘How does this one drape?’ he said, then, without waiting for an answer: ‘Go and put it on.’
At last she was dressed to his satisfaction, and the session began. Everybody watched as Dorothy Dacres struck a range of artistic and occasionally outlandish poses according to Cosgrove’s instructions, while he took pictures from several different angles.
‘Now you,’ he said at last to Robert Kenrick. ‘Come and stand next to her.’
‘You’re so dreadfully blunt and rude,’ said Dorothy to Cosgrove. ‘But I don’t mind it. You always take such beautiful photos. Did Eugene tell you you’re going to be working with me for the rest of this movie?’
‘No can do,’ said the photographer as he worked. ‘Didn’t I mention it? I’m off to America next week. Out Of Town have come across with the contract at last. I’m to be exclusive with them for five years. If there hadn’t been a little delay I shouldn’t even be here today. That’s right—gaze into his eyes. Now turn to the camera and give a sidelong glance as though you knew something he didn’t.’
‘Silly,’ said Dorothy. ‘That’s all off now.’
‘What do you mean, it’s all off now?’
‘Why, I told them you wouldn’t be coming,’ she said, opening her eyes wide as though it were obvious.
‘You told them what?’ said Seymour Cosgrove. For the first time he looked up from his equipment and at Miss Dacres.
‘I said you weren’t coming. I need you here,’ she explained. ‘You don’t mind, do you? There’s no-one else can capture Dorothy Dacres like you do, and since this movie is to be my come-back, in a manner of speaking—not that I ever went away, of course—I’m going to need all the help I can get. This rôle is going to be a triumph for me, I can feel it, and I want you to be a part of it.’
‘But I don’t want to be a part of it,’ said Cosgrove. He pulled at his hair, and seemed stunned. ‘I want to go to the States and take pictures for magazines. Out Of Town are paying me a ridiculous amount of money to go over there, and they’re going to let me do whatever I want. I’ll have full artistic control. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for ever since I started in this business.’
‘Oh, well, as to the money, I’m sure Eugene will match that,’ said Dorothy. ‘You will, won’t you, Eugene?’
‘What?’ said Eugene Penk, to whom this was all evidently news.
‘Well, that’s settled, then,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’ll pay you whatever you want. You can go to the States any time, but this is my big chance to show that I can do talkies just as well as regular pictures, so you see how important it is that you stay here and photograph me whenever I need you.’
Seymour looked as though he were building up to an explosion. He began to stride up and down.
‘But I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve been negotiating this for months now, and it was all settled at last. They’re looking forward to my arrival—they said so. They have lots of things ready for me to do.’
‘Don’t worry, they didn’t mind at all,’ said Dorothy. ‘Harry Adams is an old friend of mine, and he said they’ll get Dickie Sanders across instead.’
‘What?’ said Seymour, coming to a sudden halt. His hair was standing on end from all the pulling. ‘Dickie Sanders? Dickie Sanders? That—why—he couldn’t—idiot—what—’
His rage had rendered him temporarily incoherent. Cora and Penk exchanged glances, while Dorothy looked wholly unconcerned, and even slightly surprised at his reaction. Her surprise was all the greater when Seymour strode up to her and gripped her by the arms.
‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ she said.
For a moment, Seymour seemed as though he were about to shake her, then he thought better of it and stepped back, breathing heavily.
‘You—you—stupid woman!’ he exclaimed, and with that, stormed out.
‘Now you’ve gone and done it,’ said Cora. ‘Let’s just hope he comes back.’
‘Sure he’ll come back,’ said Dorothy, disconcerted. ‘He’ll have to, to get his things.’
‘But what did you have to do that to him for?’
‘Why, because I needed him. I never thought he would be so upset about it, though.’
‘You don’t say,’ said her sister dryly.
‘He’ll be fine when he’s calmed down,’ said Dorothy. ‘He does this all the time. We have fights but they don’t mean anything.’
‘Well, you’d better hope he’s gotten over it by tomorrow,’ said Penk. ‘We need him here for the big party.’
‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed Dorothy in sudden excitement, clapping her hands together. We are all set for tomorrow, aren’t we, Eugene? I mean, you’re going to announce that I’ve got the part?’
‘I guess so,’ said Penk. ‘We can’t keep it a secret forever, and half the world seems to know about it already.’
‘Oh, good! I can’t wait to see the look on Augusta’s face when she hears. Maybe I’ll go apologize to Seymour, and get him to take a photo of her just after she finds out. Wouldn’t I just love to see that picture!’
‘You can try,’ said Cora. ‘But I doubt you’ll get far. Didn’t you know he’s sweet on her?’
‘Really?’ said Dorothy in surprise. ‘I can’t think why.’
She immediately forgot about Seymour and her unfortunate rival Augusta Laing, and struck a dramatic pose that any of her fans would have recognized from the publicity posters for her last film.
‘I can’t wait for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘This is going to be such a triumph for me!’
In a terraced house in an unfashionable part of London which one might as well call Highbury, the film director Kenneth Neale was talking to Augusta Laing on the telephone.
‘I think you’re sure of the part,’ he was saying. ‘Penk told me so in confidence, but I expect we’ll find out for certain at this party tonight.’
He paused to listen.
‘Well, one never knows with Ameri
cans,’ he said. ‘But I should say you were a dead cert. If they’ve got an ounce of sense they’ll see that the Dacres woman is all wrong for Helen. She’s got the wrong face—and that voice of hers! No, don’t give it another thought. Put on your best frock, and we’ll show them all that we British can put on every bit as good a display as they can.’
He put down the receiver and turned to his wife. Kenneth Neale was short and wide, with a face which was nondescript when at rest, but extraordinarily expressive when he chose to make it so. He was the son of a well-off fishmonger, and, through hard work and great natural talent, had ascended from these relatively humble beginnings to become one of the most respected film directors in Europe. Not for him the privileges of public school and the best universities; no, everything he had attained—and this was not inconsiderable—had been through his own efforts entirely, for in the breast of this son of a tradesman there burned the soul of an artist. He had seen his first moving picture as a child around the turn of the century, and had been instantly enraptured by it. From then on he had rejected all attempts to interest him in the business of wholesale fish trading—even though there was a good living and a family concern waiting for him should he have chosen to take it up—but had left all that to his younger brother, devoting himself instead to this brave new world. Now he was fêted all over Europe for his artistry, and Hollywood was beckoning. He was indifferent to look at, his accent was not the thing at all, and he required constant reminding about his table manners when dining in public—and yet he must have had something about him, for he had managed first to woo and then to marry a Cabinet Secretary’s daughter, who had had two successful seasons in London and might have picked and chosen from the best of the country’s young men. Uncharitable types might have whispered that her looks tended towards the equine and her teeth were unfortunate, but the Neales were quite oblivious to what other people thought, and had fallen in love and married without its occurring to them to ask for anybody else’s approval.
‘Must we go to this party?’ said Patience Neale, who was sitting at the breakfast-table, drinking tea. She exuded exquisite good breeding. ‘It’s such a bore, having to talk to all these people who have nothing to say unless it’s about themselves and how marvellous they are.’