The trouble is I didn’t know who I was any more. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
I breathed in steadily. Keep breathing, just keep breathing, I told myself. I looked at my watch and realised it was nearly six. This time tomorrow, I’d be arriving at the Santa Monica auditorium for the biggest night of my life in my turquoise dress, the jewels glinting in my hair, my hand tightly clasping Gilbert’s, as hundreds of people – fans, press, friends – called our names. Our picture would appear in the newspapers and magazines the next day, and girls from New York City and Boston to Dayton and Dallas would sigh over my photo, wishing they had my husband, my clothes, my job. My wonderful life.
‘your sister, Rose Sallis’
After my visit to Conrad, I couldn’t sleep. Rose’s face was always there when I closed my eyes. And there were other things, too. I wasn’t sure who I was, sometimes. I thought that perhaps it was the pregnancy, but I was becoming more and more sure it couldn’t be. When people called my name, I didn’t hear them. If they called me Rose, I did. Except no one called me Rose any more. I tried to look for the letter they wrote to me about her. But I was too afraid to look for it. I don’t know why. I think I saw it was all too late now.
I was Eve Noel, I was a creation of the studio; my hair, my teeth, my name all Mr Baxter’s, from the night he pulled up my skirt, planted his hairy big hands on me. I’d been passed from the Baxters to Gilbert Travers, and I was his now. I was carrying his child, I was bound to him in every way and all of a sudden, since I’d found out about Conrad cheating Don, I didn’t have anywhere to run. What would I do? Where would I go? Now I would have done everything differently, of course. But it’s too late, now.
Other things had changed, too. I thought about sex constantly. I fantasised about it, I rubbed my hands over my smooth, taut body, I even demanded it from Gilbert, who formerly had repulsed me. He, of course, was delighted, as an extension of his ego I believe, not because he wanted me to feel satisfied. I liked feeling him deep, deep inside me, fucking me, hurting me, when I hated him and myself. I liked thinking about rude, disgusting things while he did it. I became obsessed with cleanliness, having everything just so. After I’d left his dressing room, I’d stay up all night, prowling quietly around the house, looking out of the windows towards the hills, picking up things, rearranging them so they were perfectly in place for the next day.
Outwardly I was the same. I think what scared me the most was that I knew I wouldn’t ever ask for help. I knew that I couldn’t break down and reach out to anyone, admit my weakness, that I felt I was losing a grip on myself, that I didn’t know if it was me, if I was mad, or the baby, that this baby was eating away at me, sucking something out of me. Or that people around me were doing it deliberately, planting things in my way, trying to control me. I was more and more convinced that was the case.
The strangest thing was, when I got home, there was another letter addressed to me like the first one. From England. I hadn’t had any post for a long time, but Victoria was out, and there it was, on the floor, on the champagne-coloured carpet, just sticking out by the bureau, so maybe it had been kicked under there or maybe it had only just arrived. I don’t know, because the date kept changing.
And I read it and reread it, but I didn’t understand it. It didn’t make any sense. ‘Your sister, Rose Sallis’ it said – but I was Rose, wasn’t I? A girl named Rose. I didn’t understand why they were writing to me – Rose was dead, my parents were dead, and I was all alone. Don was gone and I had to help myself, and my brain hurt so very much all the time, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. The letter stayed in my hand, but after that I put it in the back of my wardrobe, in the secret place where I put my valuable things, the possessions I wanted to keep safe. The first letter was in there too; maybe I knew that all along. I don’t know. I put all these secret things away for a time when I could think about them.
the winner is …
THE NEXT DAY I sat in the auditorium in my beautiful dress on an uncomfortable shiny leather chair, and twisted my head to watch the rest of the audience arrive, trying to look as if I knew where I was and what I was doing. But it seemed to be getting harder for me to block out the noises, to stop seeing people when they weren’t there, to try and go back to normal. They had put me and Gilbert on the end of a row at the front. ‘Must mean something,’ Gilbert had whispered, nostrils flaring with barely concealed nerves. I stared at them all. All the men looked like Mr Baxter. Old. White. Black horn-rimmed spectacles. Greying hair, perfectly pressed dinner jackets and immaculate cuffs. Nearly all the women old too, in evening furs, silk boleros, dripping with jewellery. The stars stood out a mile. They were young and good-looking.
Despite my bravado, my claims that I’d tell everyone the truth, denounce Conrad, praise Don, when I was up on the stage, I knew I wouldn’t win. And I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t. I don’t even think the studio’s best attempts to scupper my chances made much difference either. Elizabeth Taylor had nearly died three months before, what chance did I stand against that? She was dressed all in white – a silk dress with a tulip-shaped skirt, long white gloves – a fairy queen come to life. I watched her walk up to the stage. I watched Bob Hope gurning, the old men clapping and cheering. Next to me, Gilbert put a hand on my thigh, grinning for a film camera, the husband of the gracious loser. I stared at him while he smiled. He had a gap between his front teeth. I’d never really noticed it before. I smiled into the camera, at the people on the other side of the aisle, up at the stage, and then I felt the most curious sensation, as if I were there still, but not there. I flew up high to the ceiling instead, watched the whole thing from the furthest corner of the vast auditorium. I could see me, sitting down below, trying not to touch my head, to stop the noises. Do you know what I mean? No. No, of course not. There were other people up there with me, and we could see the whole room spread out above us, and one of them looked like Conrad, and he nudged me and pointed down to where I was sitting. ‘That’s you,’ he said.
All the time I clapped and clapped. ‘Bad luck, dear,’ said Gilbert, smiling again at the camera. ‘Bad luck.’ Bad luck.
‘The winner is …’ When they called Gilbert’s name out, I was still daydreaming, I didn’t quite understand at first. He jumped up, his big hands clasping the armrests of his chair and lifting himself bodily out, as if he might swing up to the stage in one movement, like an ape in the jungle. He strode up the aisle, shaking hands and smiling at the old men. Many of them were those who’d ignored him when he came back from the war. The beautiful people were watching him and clapping, for they were pleased; they liked Gilbert. He was them, in ten, twenty years’ time. He’d made it back and they could afford to be generous, for one night.
They handed him the statue. Gilbert put his hands on the lectern, leaning forward, scanning the crowd. I felt myself float up again, all the way to the ceiling. Everyone was craned forwards, waiting to hear what he’d say. Everyone was silent.
‘This is for all the good old chaps who’ve had a rotten time of it,’ Gilbert said. ‘For freedom amongst lands, friendship between nations.’
There was a light ripple of applause.
‘I accept this award with deep humility. I should like to thank the men of Forty-fourth Battalion Lancers, who inspired this story. The cast and crew on this wonderful picture. Dare to Win, we bloody did. And I’d like to thank Colin Cowdrey and Fred Trueman of the English cricket team, something you don’t have over here, along with rain and a decent cup of tea.’
They roared with delight – Americans love a gentle ribbing, though not as much as they love an English stereotype. Gilbert was giving them both.
He grinned again, acknowledging the applause. I looked up at him, at the matinee idol, at his hand gripping the golden statuette, at the beautifully cut new dinner jacket I had watched him shrug himself into not three hours ago.
‘Finally I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, Eve. As many of you will
know, we are looking forward to the future with great excitement. We have an exciting year ahead of us. She has asked me to tell you all something. As of today she is retiring from the motion picture industry. She will concentrate on being a wife and mother instead. In this day and age, I can only step back and admire her even more than I do, for she is going against the tide of modern opinion somewhat.’ He gave a delicate cough. Then he stared at me. Not at me, but at me. I can’t explain it. ‘But it’s good to know that some people do still hold onto the old traditions.’
The old men were nodding and clapping, the old women whispering and smiling at me. I sat alone in my hard seat, no one either side of me. I could hear him talking, saying these things. I nodded, because I knew it was right what he was saying. I honestly believed it was right, you see. I thought I shouldn’t be around here any more. I started humming to myself, as the applause grew louder.
I’ll be around
No matter how you treat me now
I’ll be around when he’s gone
One of the ladies in the row in front of me turned in her seat. She had horn-rimmed spectacles on, long gloves, a bright ginger stole. Emeralds glittered in her ears, on her neck, on the stole itself, so huge and plentiful I thought of the lair of the Great Wizard of Oz – green stalactites flashing everywhere. ‘Well done, dear,’ she said. ‘Good for you. What a wonderful thing to do.’ I hummed some more, nodding furiously at her.
‘Eve, dear, this is for you, for us,’ Gilbert called out, with a flourish, and the applause was louder than ever. Someone stood up. They all stood up. I couldn’t. I was afraid I might fly away if I did. There were faces staring at me, standing up, turning around and staring. I saw the Baxters, whispering to each other: Joe adjusting his cufflinks and smiling at me, nodding indulgently; Lenny, chewing gum, nodding at his brother. Next to Joe Baxter’s corseted, respectable wife stood Moss Fisher. He clapped and clapped, smiling his crocodile smile.
There were white roses all over the house when we arrived home. Gilbert clutched his statuette as though it might fly away like I wanted to. It was ten o’clock, not late, but Gilbert wanted to change his shirt before we went out to celebrate at the Cocoanut Grove.
‘Congratulations, Mr Travers!’ Victoria said, almost shyly. ‘You deserve that statue, everyone says so. May I hold it?’ Gilbert handed it to her, indulgently, his lips making a moue of enjoyment. She held it, her hands sagging slightly under its unexpected heft, then curtseyed to each of us. ‘Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Mamma! I wanna say—’ Her eyes swept over me. ‘Oh, you look tired, Miss Eve. Do you want a glass of milk? I’ll get you a glass of milk.’
I sank into an armchair. Gilbert stayed standing, pacing up and down. I saw him look at his reflection in the dark window.
‘You’ll stay here, then,’ he said flatly. ‘You must be tired.’
‘I—’ I didn’t know what I was. I didn’t want to be alone, I knew that. But to be with other people seemed unbearable, too. To smile and make chit-chat, be congratulated and admired, this farce, this stupid farce. I shivered, I was very cold. ‘Maybe I’ll come for a little while.’
‘Eve.’ Gilbert came over towards me. He crouched on his haunches, his hands on either side of the chair, so I was trapped. He smiled, one black brow raised. He was so alive, so virile, so bursting with confidence and vigour. ‘Eve, you need to consider your future now, dear.’
‘You’ve considered it for me,’ I said, fighting to get the words out.
He leaned forward so our faces were almost touching. I could smell stale cigarettes and whisky on his breath. One stray eyebrow hair curled out onto his shiny, tanned, porous forehead. It was grey, the others were black. ‘I’m doing what’s best. You don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been tired. Things are … hard.’
‘Mmm.’ He grunted, and adjusted his position so he was kneeling. ‘I’m worried about you. The studio is, too. Your friends, your family. We know you’re not yourself at the moment. So you need someone to take care of it for you.’
I tried to keep my breathing steady. I faced him down, staring into his black eyes. ‘Take care of what? Of me?’
His lips twitched. ‘Of it all, the whole damn thing. Now, my dear. You’ve had your time in the sun, but now you’re going to be a mother. I can provide everything we need. You don’t need to act any more. You don’t like the studio, do you?’ I shook my head. He was right. Maybe he was right. ‘So you don’t go there. You stay at home and bring up our son.’ He said softly, ‘It’s my time now. Got that?’
Victoria came bustling back into the room. ‘Nice glass of milk and I found you some cookies, here we are, Miss Eve—’
He flung one arm out behind him. ‘Go away, please, Victoria.’ His voice was calm, cold. ‘Leave us be. Mrs Travers isn’t feeling well. Go.’
‘Victoria—’ I called out.
‘Shut up. Just go,’ Gilbert said again, more loudly.
And Victoria bowed her head so I couldn’t catch her eye. She turned slowly and left, shutting the door behind us, and I knew then that help was gone. Gilbert put his hands on my neck, gripping me firmly, so my head wobbled above his wrists, as if totally separate from my body. ‘You are sick. Your mind is confused. You’ve done some things that I’ve never asked you about. And I won’t. But you have to understand, my wife must be like Caesar’s: above reproach. My dear, I think it’s best if you remove yourself a little. You’re – well, you’re a danger to yourself.’
Then he took one of the white roses that stood in a vase on the sideboard beside us. He pulled it across my chest, so the thorns caught on my skin, snagging and tearing, beading blood. I pushed his hand away, and he gripped my fingers around the stem of the rose, so the scent caught my nose, as the thorns pressed into the pads of my fingers, and I screamed.
‘No!’ I said, pushing away from him. He wrapped his fingers around my neck again, his grip like iron, and I knew I couldn’t break free.
‘Oh, you are. You’re mad,’ he said, hissing at me. ‘Well, let’s be polite and call it unstable, darling, everyone knows it.’
‘I’m not,’ I said, struggling to breathe. ‘Just – I can’t see things clearly. I want to—’ His hands tightened around my throat and I cried out. ‘Stop it, Gilbert! Please … please stop.’
‘I won’t hurt you, Eve,’ Gilbert said. He loosened his hands, slid them onto my shoulders, shook me slightly, chuckling as if it was all a joke. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I only want to help you. We’re seeing a doctor on Monday, you and I. And he’ll help you.’
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ I said. But I knew I did. I knew I needed rescuing in some way, just not by Gilbert.
‘Well, I think you do.’ Gilbert looked down at his nails. ‘The studio does. Your friends do. People are starting to talk. He’s a very good doctor. You’ll start to see everything clearly again, afterwards.’
‘I’m not going to a doctor,’ I said, sitting upright and struggling out of my chair. ‘I want my life back, I can decide what I—’
He pushed me back dismissively, as if I were a cardboard cut-out, and I fell heavily into the low-sprung seat with a howl of weary, impotent rage.
‘Shut up,’ Gilbert said. ‘Shut the hell up. Now I’m going to change my shirt, and I’m going out tonight, and you know, Eve, dear? I’m going to be the most popular person in the room, for once, for once, and you won’t be there. Who knows what my reward will be?’ He looked down at me with an ugly expression. ‘Not a pregnant bag of bones with a lopsided hairline who’s like a feral cat in heat. You’re disgusting, my darling. Only a blind man would want you now, do you realise that? And one more thing.’ He snapped off his cufflinks, started unbuttoning his shirt, as he walked towards the door. ‘I’m afraid there’s bad news about that fag Conrad Joyce. Another of your fag friends, got himself into trouble.’
My blood ran cold. I rubbed my bruised neck and then said, quietly, ‘What do you mean?’
&n
bsp; ‘Moss told me as we arrived this evening. He shot himself. Last night.’
I breathed in, gasping for air, as if I’d just jumped into an icy sea. ‘Conrad? He’s dead?’
‘Oh, he’s dead all right.’ Gilbert gave a little whistle. ‘Shot clean through the head. He left a note, but it’s the saddest thing, it’s gone missing. Something about how he couldn’t stand being a queer any longer and it was the best thing for him.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I agree. I’m sure you don’t, but then you love fags, you filthy whore. You’re my wife full-time now, no more Eve Noel the star, so perhaps now you’ll realise what decorous behaviour is and isn’t.’ His hand was on the door. He was drumming his fingers on the brass fingerplate, leaving smears. I would have to wipe those smears off. ‘Goodnight, dear,’ he said, his voice like honey. ‘Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything will be different, tomorrow.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SUMMER HAS FINALLY come, almost too late, to the waterlogged, lush fields around us. Suddenly it is beautifully warm, and we bask like cats in the unaccustomed heat. Since Tony arrived on set two weeks ago, the shoot has been transformed. Things are on time; people know what they should be doing. T.T. still stands around looking confused and pulling his hair out, but now it feels like part of the creative process rather than something costing us all thousands of dollars. I honestly believe Tony had a hand in that as well. And here in this green, lush valley, it feels like there really is nowhere lovelier.
Not Without You Page 29