Tony stands up very straight and holds out the bouquet, like a child being inspected. He rings the plastic bell that just clings to the wall with one bent wire. I look down.
‘Why did you bring her those?’ I say sharply.
He glances down. ‘White roses? They’re her favourite flowers. She’s famous for it.’
I feel slightly dizzy. A sweet, strange taste comes into the back of my mouth as I stare at the flowers, peering out from the paper. I know this is a mistake, I just don’t know why.
There’s no sound inside the house or out, only the whispering of the breeze in the yew. I wonder if we should press the bell again. But if we don’t, we could just go … back away from this dark, unhappy place.
I don’t know Tony, I realise. I stare at the mildewy wall, then at the white roses. It’s white roses, I tell myself. It’s got nothing to do with you. Everyone likes them. It’s a coincidence.
‘Perhaps we—’ I begin, and then I intake my breath. There’s a soft, soft rustling sound, scratching, and something scrabbling at the other side of the door.
‘Miss Noel?’ Tony says clearly. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Noel? It’s Tony Lees-Miller. From the studio. We agreed—’
The door opens, very slowly. A piece of ivy, caught in the hinge, springs out towards us and I jump, then look ahead.
A woman is standing there. She is rail thin, her skin papery, but she is beautiful. Her eyes are dark, black as night, but vacant, clouded with some sort of film. She smells musty, or perhaps it’s the house behind her.
She shakes her head at the two of us, blankly, her hands clutching onto the door. ‘Good afternoon. How may I help you?’
‘We were looking for Eve Noel,’ says Tony politely. ‘We were told she lived here.’
He holds out the white roses and she looks down, then breathes in sharply, a terrified little hiss.
‘She’s not here.’ She shakes her head. ‘Go away.’
‘Miss Noel,’ I say. She turns to me, her eyes huge.
‘Go away. They shouldn’t have sent you. I’m Rose. Eve’s been dead for fifty years.’
For a brief second the film clears and the liquid black eyes flash silvery fire, and she stares right at me, and it’s her, I could swear it is. Then the cloud descends again and she turns. I catch a glimpse inside, of boxes stacked high against the walls and a black-and-white cat running down a corridor behind her, and then the door is closed in our faces.
a huge bite of the apple
April 1961
‘LUCILLE HERE WAS just saying it’s in the bag for you, honey.’ Dilly smiled up at me and pinned the last section of hem into place.
I smiled politely. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Aren’t you excited?’ Lucille, the seamstress beside her, asked curiously.
‘I’m tired,’ I said truthfully. ‘I’m honestly thrilled just to be nominated. It’s a wonderful year for the movies.’
‘Well,’ said Dilly, my dresser, her mouth full of pins, kneeling beside Lucille. ‘If you want my opinion, it’ll be incredible if you don’t win. Just incredible. That movie, I don’t know what it is about that movie but it’s … special.’ She clasped her hands together, pushing her large bosoms up between her elbows as she did. ‘Oh, my. I’ve seen it seven times. Seven times, and I still cry like a baby at that ending. My husband won’t let me go no more. When are they gonna show it on the TV, Miss Noel? I read it someplace, they’ll be showing movies on TV soon.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, and I couldn’t help but smile at her dreamy expression, the thrill in her voice.
‘“You’ll be fine, Rose,”’ Dilly recited, looking up to the ceiling, her voice tremulous. ‘“You’re always fine. Just think of me occasionally, will ya?”
‘Oh, my,’ said Lucille, her curly hair bobbing around her face. ‘“My thoughts are yours already, Peter darling,”’ she told Dilly, gazing at her intensely. ‘“You know that. I’ll never love anyone else. Never.”’
Lucille sniffed, and they turned to face me as if expecting applause. I clapped feebly, a couple of times. It didn’t hurt me to hear them any more. Every woman in America, it seemed, had seen that film by then, every woman wanted to recite those lines to me.
‘Stand up and walk around,’ said Dilly suddenly, switching focus. ‘Let’s see the length.’
As I crossed the floor there was an admiring gasp from the ladies, and from Walter, the costume designer, and his shy assistant Janet, both watching from the doorway. An Academy Award dress was like a bridal gown according to the modern-day myth: every woman dreamed of stepping into one.
‘You’re still so tiny,’ Dilly said. ‘Six months gone. You’d hardly notice there was a baby in there.’
‘You look wonderful, dear,’ Lucille told me, darting forward to adjust a fold. ‘What a dress. Though I say it myself! It’s just darn beautiful. Take that, Elizabeth!’
I shivered and she said, ‘What’s wrong? I’m sorry. You like Elizabeth Taylor?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I do,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing. The baby’s kicking.’ I looked at my reflection, ignoring the thoughts in my head as I touched my stomach. ‘It’s a gorgeous dress. You’re very clever. I love it.’
Sometimes I wonder what happened to that dress. It was beautiful: turquoise, draped heavy fabric, decorated all over with golden stitching and metallic patterning.
Walter pushed himself off the door frame and came towards me. ‘Divine, darling,’ he said. ‘Darnell will do the finishing touches with the hair, and you’ll look like a queen.’
My hair was long now, and pregnancy had made it glossy and heavy. Darnell, an amber-eyed beauty with a lean body and a shy smile, was the studio’s top stylist. He was coming to the house tomorrow afternoon especially for me, just to pile it up into ringlets, then cover it with diamond-studded gold pins. This alone, they’d told me, was evidence of my high standing at Monumental. I had to believe them, though everything else lately had been to the contrary – my last film, out a couple of months ago, Triumph and Tragedy, had been a big disappointment, and I hadn’t worked since finishing the picture. I wouldn’t accept any of the scripts they sent over. They were terrible, and I knew it was their punishment. I’d get so desperate that I’d do what they wanted, that was how they worked. And after Triumph and Tragedy, they seemed to care less and less. Ironically now, were it not for Rose, I’d be sent packing, whereas Gilbert’s star climbed higher and higher every day. ‘Thanks, Walter,’ I said politely. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘It’s a great movie, and you deserve to win, darling, and I don’t usually think that,’ he said. He glanced at Darnell, then winked at me. ‘Darnell and I have seen it five times, you know.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ I said. ‘That’s just terrific to hear.’
Yes, there was an awful lot riding on me and this picture, that year. This movie had bucked the trend, you see. The studios were on the way out, actors and directors and producers were making their own films now – even Gilbert was putting together his latest project, another World War Two action movie, and he was producing it too, for a slice of the profits. He could do what he wanted these days. After the success of Dare To Win, who’d turn down a Gilbert Travers picture? He’d be fifty-two next year, but like Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, age was no impediment if you were a man. I was only twenty-five, and already people assumed I was old. An aged relic. Rose and I had overheard Cook saying that about our grandmother once, and we used to whisper it to one another over and over again, the strange words singing on our tongues.
Rose. They’d written to me about Rose, after my parents died. Father first, a heart attack, then Mother a few months later, the influenza, one after the other. The letter told me where to find her, but it didn’t make sense because I was Rose now, wasn’t I. I’d put the letter in the hiding place in my wardrobe, where I kept secrets, for this was a secret, one I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t ask anyone about it, because they’d either find out I was mad
, or they’d tell me I was making it up. I didn’t know if it was a trick, you see. I’d never seen where she was buried. Perhaps they’d buried her again.
I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t think about it. I had to keep pretending. See me in the costume department, laughing and having fun, and I seem fine, don’t I? No one knew what I knew, which is that my head buzzed all day with thoughts that made me exhausted, with voices that taunted me to the edge of madness. That since Don had gone to prison, the thread that kept me tightly bound to the outside world had been cut, and I had retreated into – well, I don’t know what it was. My parents were dead, and the news had not even made me cry.
The letter about Rose – that was why I needed to get well again, to be strong and brave. One day, I told myself, I will go back home, with my baby. One day soon. We will visit our old home, then we will walk towards Rose’s grave, and I will put wild flowers on the stones, her favourites, forget-me-nots and daisies. No roses for Rose. Then it will make sense. Then it will.
I lunched in the studio canteen that day, as part of the publicity build-up. I hadn’t eaten there for years; I wasn’t hungry, I felt sick a lot of the time. Pregnancy didn’t agree with me; I wanted it over, to hold him or her in my arms, to see the face of my child, to see what they’d be like. The baby moved a lot, twisting inside me, kicking my ribs. They told me I’d feel better, and I didn’t. They gave me pills to calm me down, but I still didn’t sleep. I felt heavier, more tired, with every passing day, and even smiling for some photographs was a physical effort.
And things were starting to be different too, and it scared me. Every time I looked in a mirror, I saw Rose, not me. Inside my head, thoughts multiplied and split into tiny fragments, buzzing around in my brain sometimes so loudly I couldn’t hear what people said to me.
While I ate my burger and chips, or pretended to eat them, the photographers snapped away: I smiled and talked to a couple of young secretaries from the accounts department at the studio, who had loved the film and just had to say hello. I wanted to believe they, at least, were real, but I felt so nauseous I thought I might vomit and had to simply concentrate on them. ‘Great stuff,’ said one of the photographers, as he replaced his lens cap. ‘Run this tomorrow, in the Examiner. Thanks, fellas. Thank you, Miss Noel.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I’ll send you a copy, with some white roses, when you win tomorrow night, miss!’ one of them called out.
I raised my hand, trying to smile, and as I looked around me to see if I could make my escape and take myself home there was a light clearing of the throat, and someone slid into the seat beside me.
‘Very well done, Eve,’ said Moss Fisher. He was eating a half-finished apple. ‘Wonderful. Now you should go home and get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow.’
I knew Moss was behind it all. I knew he’d sacrificed Don on the altar of his damn studio. And I knew he’d told Gilbert what was going on. Moss was one of those people who operated on a purely strategic, not human, level. He saw a problem, identified a solution, and then put it into action, no matter what the cost. I’d heard a rumour that he’d been first on the scene when Clark Gable had killed a pedestrian driving while drunk, and that he’d gone to the house before the police when Jean Harlow died.
Moss took a huge bite of the apple, right into the core. I watched him, trying to suppress my nausea, then I looked around at the almost-empty canteen. There were a couple of maids chattering and banging dishes in the kitchen behind us but otherwise it was very quiet. My head started to hum with its own noises again. I knew I had to take my chance then.
‘How is he?’ I said quickly, desperately. ‘How’s Don?’
Moss didn’t react. He bit on the apple and crunched loudly. ‘That fag? He’s fine. Prison suits him, so I hear. There’s a load of other pansies in there for him to pal around with.’
‘He’s not a – a fag,’ I said. ‘You know he’s not.’
‘You ought to forget about him,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on your marriage. You’re a lucky girl. There’s millions of women who’d kill to be where you are right now.’
I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop myself. It came bubbling out of me, hysteria mixed with anger. Moss didn’t react at first, then after a while he looked around, annoyed, put his hand on my wrist. ‘Stop that, Eve. You sound mad. You don’t want them to think you’re mad, do you?’
That shut me up.
‘I’m not mad,’ I said. I could hear my voice, far away, above the babbling voices that talked only to me. ‘I’m not.’
He nodded, his face twisted into an expression of concern. ‘Of course you’re not, Eve. But it’s an important time for you. And Gilbert. He needs your support. And you need his, of course.’ I looked at him suspiciously. He slid the apple core across the table, leaving a wet trail. ‘I did wonder if you should get away from Hollywood for a while. A vacation. Maybe go to Miami for a couple of months until the baby’s born. How would you like that?’
I gave a small laugh again, but this time I was in control. ‘That is terribly amusing, Moss.’ His brow puckered; he didn’t understand. ‘That you think I’m so easily pushed around,’ I said, but I bit my lip: I had been easy to push around, been gullible and naive and docile. Not any more. Not while this baby grew inside me. I didn’t care any more. ‘I know you want me out of the way.’
He shook his head. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’
‘I know the studio’s furious at how well Rose has done, when you tried to shut it down.’ My mailbag still ran into hundreds every week, letters saying, That was me and I’ve seen this film so many times and cried every time and, most often of all, What were you thinking, when you said goodbye to Peter at the end? Were you thinking about someone yourself? ‘You’ve had it in for Don for years because he wouldn’t dance to your tune, and you’re terrified of anyone dismantling your precious system. And Jerry, too.’ Moss flinched, and looked around. I hissed in his ear, ‘Have you heard from him lately, by the way?’
He looked impatient. ‘Jerry’s fine. It was his decision to go to Europe. There’s a lot of interesting work going on there.’
‘Jerry’s not fine – he hasn’t worked for two years, no one’s heard from him. Don’s still in jail – he’s not fine,’ I said. I felt so tired, I almost didn’t feel like fighting any more, but I had to. I hugged my stomach, the warm, hard mound a comforting buffer between me and the rest of the world. The baby moved, softly – a hand, the head, a knee? I couldn’t tell what. I rubbed the side of my bump, and Moss looked alarmed. ‘You hounded Jerry out of town.’ My voice was low. ‘You’re an evil man, Moss, you do know that, don’t you?’ I shivered, because it was a terrible thing to say. ‘You think I don’t have anywhere to go. You think I have to stay with Gilbert, because of the baby. You think you can hold the scripts over me, control my career. Well, you can’t. I’m going to win tomorrow night. You know I am. I’ll thank Don, I’ll tell them all what’s going on, what you’ve done, and I’ll say how disgusting it is that in this day and age people can’t be free to sit where they want in a diner or on a bus, love who they want, no matter who they are, without being sent to prison.’
The buzzing in my head was very loud, but just above it I could hear Moss, breathing rapidly, as he picked some apple out of his back teeth. Then he stared at me, surmising. ‘OK. What do you want?’ he said.
This was the moment, the chink of light for which I had been searching, stumbling through the darkness, these endless months. I balled my hands into fists under the table, feeling the stretched roundness of my stomach.
‘Tell me the truth,’ I said quietly. ‘I want to know what happened. Why did Don take the fall for Jerry?’
He opened his mouth and then closed it again, and ground his teeth. The muscles in his cheeks moved. He nodded. ‘OK. Jerry’s pretty boy, he’s the one responsible.’
‘What?’ I didn’t understand.
‘That fag Conrad Joyce. Your little frien
d. You thought he was your friend, didn’t ya?’ He was smiling. ‘So, that last night in Big Sur, remember?’ I nodded. Of course I remembered. ‘Conrad leaves that night, takes Jerry’s car. On the way back, gets horny, drives to some queer spot to get some action, but the cops, they’re staking the place out and he’s caught with his cock in some guy’s mouth. He panics and manages to drive off, but the cops get his licence-plate, see? They track him down to Jerry’s.’
Two pairs of legs went by in the window above us: fawn strapped heels, clicking rapidly to keep up with a striding man’s grey-checked suit. My eyes flicked over them, then back to Moss, and I nodded, without saying anything; I wanted him to keep talking.
‘Jerry gets hold of me and Don in a panic, asks what he should do.’ Moss licked his lips. He’s enjoying this, I thought, trying to focus. ‘He doesn’t tell Don what Conrad’s really been up to, see? Just tells him he’s taken the car, got into some trouble and the press can’t find out, it’d ruin his career. And he asks Don to take the fall for him. Gives him the real sob story. Begs him, says it’s his only chance at happiness, that he loves Conrad, that he’s helped Don out over the years, Don promised him a favour.’
‘But why the hell—’ I started to say, but I knew the answer.
Moss Fisher looked up at me, surprised. ‘Why would Don agree to help him? He owes Jerry everything, you know it, Eve. He brought him to Hollywood out of New York, all those years ago, he’s given him all his biggest jobs, he’d be nothing without him. Jerry’s poured him into more taxis than anyone, paid off people, all ’cause he believed in the guy. And now it’s time for Don to pay him back. It’s true,’ Moss said. ‘Don Matthews has hit the bottom more times than the hammer bell at the fair-ground. And Jerry was always there to pick him up.
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