I look at her now, her freckled face with the coral lipstick smile, her perfectly highlighted ash-blonde hair. Her clothes so neat, her handbag shiny and new. She’d always have tissues in her bag, always have lipstick and a compact to hand. She taught me so much about being on time, not complaining, getting on with it and working hard. She taught me not to need anyone. She was trying to give me what she couldn’t have. She did try, I know that.
She says suddenly, ‘I heard from Deena the other day.’
I look up. Nod. ‘Yes?’
‘She said to say hello. She told me that George director fellow you were seeing turned out to be a nasty piece of work. You never mentioned. I hope he wasn’t nasty to you.’
George. Another lifetime. I shake my head and mumble, ‘Maybe it all worked out for the best.’ She looks pleased.
‘So do you think you might work with Patrick Drew again? Or do something … do something different after this film?’
I shrug. ‘Don’t know,’ I say. ‘Don’t know if they can sort this out yet.’ I point to my face.
Mum looks aghast. ‘Really?’
I nod again and write, My cheek/collarbone/jaw fractures might not heal. Cheek and jaw need ops. Will have scars on face for a while.
She stands back and looks at me. ‘But what will you do?’ she says.
I shrug again. ‘No idea,’ I say, and it doesn’t feel that bad. When she’s gone, I run my hands over the Gap pyjama set, stroking the comforting fleece. Somehow that makes me feel much worse. I cry then, trying not to move my swollen mouth so it’s just fat tears, dropping onto the soft cotton.
I am strong
AFTER I LEFT the hospital, I said goodbye to Patrick. What a nice young man – when you’re my age, you can resort to clichés. He reminds me of Rose. He really doesn’t care what people think of him. I don’t believe he should be a film star at all, though it’s probably why he’s so successful – he can cope with it.
‘May I walk with you a while?’ he asked. He pointed to his feet. ‘I got my sneakers.’
I laughed, put my hand on his arm. ‘You lovely boy. Thank you, but I’ll be all right. I want to go by myself.’ Having been brave once I rather wanted to try carrying on being brave. ‘And I’d like to clear my head.’
‘She’ll be OK, you know,’ he said, though I rather thought he was talking to himself. And I don’t know yet that she will be.
We bid farewell and I walked. I walked and walked for what seemed like a long time, through Mayfair, towards Soho. You see, I hadn’t been to London since I came back home for the Helen of Troy premiere. As I waited for the traffic lights to change I stood still and counted it on my fingers. Fifty-four years. Almost unbelievable and yet, with my life, everything seems to have taken place in the past, a long time ago through a glass darkly, or whatever the saying is. I was nineteen when they came to Central School of Speech and Drama, Mr and Mrs Featherstone, and sat in on our Shakespeare class, and talked afterwards, very seriously, to Hermia Gauntly, my vocal teacher. I remember watching her, the disdain for them writ so large over her expressive face; she couldn’t hide it. Film people. Vulgar, Hollywood types. In the mezzanine above, we stood and watched her.
‘They’re casting for a film, someone said,’ Clarissa, my flatmate, had whispered, pushing her black ballet pumps over her slender feet: ballerina fashion was all the rage that winter. ‘They’re looking for a new star. Someone fresh. Someone who can act.’
‘Someone who can act, in Hollywood?’ I laughed.
It’s funny, I remember that so clearly. I remember Clarissa’s big satchel, borrowed from her brother, a rugby player called Mike. I remember her shoes and the windows and the smell of beeswax polish. All these little details. My disdain matching Miss Gauntly’s. And then they called me over, and Clarissa said she’d wait, but by the time they’d finished with me she’d given up waiting and gone home and I emerged alone, head throbbing with promises, into the evening gloom.
My legs are awfully tired, and my brain is gently humming; though the quiet streets of Marylebone are surprisingly empty, when I cross Regent Street and head into Soho I’m terrified again, until I find a quieter route, one that takes me through Georgian townhouses and deserted, dirty back streets that I start to recognise. It’s funny how the city feels the same, underneath it all, but yet it looks so different. Bright awnings and signs everywhere. Black tarmacked roads covered in yellow and white markings, information screaming at you wherever you look: it is overwhelming. Of course, I’ve seen it on the news, on television dramas. I watched the Royal Wedding looking for signs of old London, not the first sight of the bride. But to be here is very different. I’m pleased to see Bar Italia is still standing. It looks exactly the same. The nights we spent there, arguing about the stage, Olivier versus Gielgud, whether the National Theatre was a Good or Bad thing, what Art meant and how it tied into Commerce. Goodness, how repulsive we must have been! I wonder what happened to Clarissa Mackintosh, whom I last saw in the Hampstead flat off Flask Walk, as I hugged her goodbye and promised to be back by Christmas. And Richard, my Central boyfriend, who was big and gentle and fumbling, and with whom I think I would have been perfectly happy. Richard acted for a while; I used to hear his voice on the radio, afternoon plays and all that. But I’ve no idea where he or Clarissa are now. Perhaps I could find out. Perhaps, now I’ve broken out of my own prison, there are many things I could do.
I wish Rose was here. I determine to myself that I’ll bring her back here, soon. I’m not afraid any more. In this huge sea of humanity I see something important – I don’t matter very much.
This morning at about eleven, Melanie had picked me up from Paddington station – Andrea retired years ago now and Melanie is my agent, a curious woman, very keen and excitable, eager to please but oh, my! so young. In my day, agents were fat old men who ate and drank a lot, not eager young girls who wave mobile phones around and wear high heels and carry coffee in paper cups. In the taxi – they’re the same, that’s good to know – trundling the short distance to the Dorchester, she asked me why I was here, why I had to come down and help Sophie. I couldn’t tell her, didn’t feel it was her business yet.
I remember her curious dark eyes, looking to check I hadn’t noticed anything about her. Desperately uncertain, yet her voice was strong and clear. I had shivered as grey buildings scrolled past us, cars moved in thick ribbons alongside us. I jumped at little things, not quite able to believe I was in London again, after all these years. I was beginning to think how awkward this was, maybe a mistake.
‘You know,’ Melanie said nervously, as we approached the hotel. ‘If you ever wanted to work again – I could put the word out. People would fall over themselves. My Second-Best Bed – they still haven’t found anyone to play old Anne. I should say, the senior Anne. The film’s on hiatus till they know what’s happening with Sophie. They’d love to have you. And there’s a Miss Marple just starting, they need a—’
‘Me? No, dear girl,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t act any more.’
‘I know you don’t but I thought I should ask you anyway,’ she said boldly. ‘You see, I might never meet you again, Miss Noel. Don’t you miss it?’
She sounded genuinely curious and so I said, ‘I’ve never really thought about it. I left Hollywood a long time ago. I didn’t ever want to go back.’
‘Just because you’re not there doesn’t mean you can’t act anywhere else.’ Melanie sounded suddenly embarrassed. ‘Forgive me. But you’re – you’re seventy-five. That’s not old.’
‘It is old.’ I can’t help laughing.
‘It’s not, not to an eighty-year-old. Oh, don’t worry. I was told by my boss that I mustn’t pressurise you. Just remember the door’s open if you want it. Upstairs Downstairs, that sort of thing. Lady Bracknell—’ She waved her hands vaguely and I watched her. ‘There’s lots you could do, you know. People remember you. A Girl Named Rose is my mum’s favourite film ever. If she knew you were appearing in something o
n the Beeb, well, she’d cancel all her plans for the next six months just to make sure she didn’t miss you. Here we are.’
I walked north out of Soho towards Bloomsbury, tiring a little. I recalled my farewell to Sophie.
‘You should come back to your old house some day,’ she had said. ‘Come and see me.’
And I had said, ‘Maybe. Maybe I will.’
At Goodge Street I got onto the Tube. That was terrifying, after all these years. Some kind girl gave me her seat, and I sat clutching my handbag on my knees as we swayed in time through the dark tunnels and the near-soporific commuters hung onto handles, scanning their Evening Standards. I looked down at my hands, peered at my face in the glass opposite, as the seats cleared.
I didn’t know what I was doing, or whether I should be doing it, but I knew I had to try.
When I emerged at Hampstead, the early-evening light was beautiful. High up above the city, the pale blue sky was scudded with creamy, fluffy clouds, like a Hogarth painting, the clean above the dirty. I found the bench I’d agreed, beneath the old black-and-white road signs, smelling the roses from the old houses on the quiet walk above me. I closed my eyes, trying to remember what it had been like all those years ago. What it would be like now. I must have drifted off; I heard a tapping sound, crunching feet on sandy gravel, and then, ‘Rose?’
There was a light tap on my shoulder. I didn’t look round. I stayed still.
‘Don?’ I said. ‘Are you here?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said a voice behind me, warm, smoked with rye, kind, heartbreaking. ‘I’m here.’
I didn’t move, I couldn’t move. I heard a tapping sound again. I looked up.
Don. It was Don. He was standing next to me, feeling for the bench. His eyes were clear but unfocused; he had a stick in his hand. His dear, dear face, still so handsome, only a few lines; his tall, rangy form, remarkably upright; his smile; the neat line of his parting, his hair thick; but his eyes were unseeing. He took my fingers in his, and at his touch I gave a little cry.
‘It’s you,’ he said. ‘After all these years, Rose, it’s you.’
He sat down slowly next to me, I holding his elbow. ‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
‘I see you,’ I told him.
‘And?’ he said. ‘You know I always wanted to come here. Wanted to meet you here.’
‘Don—’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m old, and I’m diabetic, and I drank and smoked too much,’ he said. ‘I could never get up the nerve to tell you. I can see a vague shape, you know, with this eye.’ He pointed to his left eye. ‘I can see that I’m next to someone. And I can hear that it’s you.’
I wanted to cry, with sadness, with happiness. Suddenly I wished, ferociously, that he could see me, could see how the years had taken their toll. How wizened and mean and curious I had become.
But he said, as if he heard my thoughts, ‘You’re still the same. Oh, I don’t know what you look like, and I don’t care. But you’re the same person.’
‘I tell you, I’m not,’ I said.
‘I’ve written you every day for over forty years. Until my sight went a couple of years ago I could read everything you said, and now I have software that can do it for me. I tell you, you are.’
I squeezed his hand instead, and put my head on his shoulder. ‘I can’t believe we’re here.’
‘Darling Rose.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘We’ll always be here. And from now on, we’ll always be together.’ He paused. ‘We will, won’t we?’
I nodded, and said softly, then more loudly, ‘Yes. Yes. Oh, yes.’
‘What about your sister?’ He laughed softly. ‘I sound like a teenage boy at a party. I meant, I’ll have to meet her. I’d love to meet her.’
‘I can’t wait for her to meet you.’ I looked around, the old red brick glowing in the sun, the sky blue and clear. ‘It’s funny, I thought everything had changed. But some things stay the same. The important things.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t ever leave me. Ever again.’
‘Rose, I—’
I interrupted him. ‘No. Eve. Rose is Rose, I’m Eve again. It’s my name. It’s time to stop hiding and come out and say it.’ Suddenly a great thrill of joy rose up within me, bursting out as though I could sing. ‘Oh, Don. Stay here. Let’s stay here. We have some time. We’ll have a little garden flat here. We can walk on the Heath like I used to when I was a student. I can go into town, or anywhere, if I’m needed, if I want to work again.’
He smiled. ‘Yes. I’ll do that.’
‘What, you won’t even think about it?’
‘No. It’s the best way to make decisions. Too much thinking’s bad for a man. Let’s decide it here, right here.’
I kissed him then, unable to believe his darling face was in front of me, unable to trust that he was mine again, that I’d look after him like I’ve looked after Rose all these years, that I could have some happiness, even for a short while, because already I felt as though it had wiped everything out, the years of guilt, then misery, my dead baby, my breakdown, the years of slowly mending, Rose and I clinging to each other in our small house with our small life in the woods, until Sophie decided to track us down. And now I was ready.
‘What about Rose?’ Don said.
‘I’ll call her right now. I can’t wait to tell her. She’ll live next door. Or around the corner. It doesn’t matter. She’ll be nearby.’ I took his hand again. ‘Don, if I’ve got you it doesn’t matter if I have one more day or a year, or ten, twenty more years. This, us sitting here, now, it’s a lifetime of happiness.’
‘It may only be a year, darling. Do you really want to take me on?’ He moves away a little. ‘I’m not even sure I should move. What if—’
‘Life’s full of what-ifs. What if you’d said no to Jerry. What if we’d gone home together from Big Sur. What if I’d won the Oscar, what if I hadn’t lost the baby, what if Rose hadn’t fallen in the stream, what if Sophie hadn’t moved into my house, what if. You can live your life with what-ifs.’ My fingers squeeze his hand so tightly he smiles. I kiss his dear face. ‘I’ll look after you. We can go to New York, visit your friends, we can spend a few months here, a few months there, we don’t have to make any decisions about this or that. Just live, Don, live for today. Oh darling, we can do what we want.’ The world is opening up to me, peeling off layer upon layer. ‘When I had to, for Sophie, I ran up to town, got on a Tube, walked through Soho, strolled into a hotel and then a hospital bold as brass, didn’t I? All in one day. After years of … of nothing. A weekly trip to the shops, to the library maybe. Well, if I can do all those things … I can pretty much do anything. And I won’t go on without you. If I’ve got you, and Rose, and you’ve got us, and she’s got us, that’s more than most people have.’
He is very still, then he feels for my fingers and takes them in his. I love him, I love him so much. ‘What about this movie they want you for?’ Don says. ‘Will you do it?’
I put my hand on my chin. ‘Just maybe,’ I say. I give a little smile and turn to him. I don’t know how much he can see at all, but Don smiles too. And I feel the years drop away from me, the sun on my hair. His warm hand in mine. We sit in silence on the bench. He puts his head on my shoulder. I am strong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I FLY INTO LA, two days later. I’d forgotten how funny the city looks from the air. The mountains, the ringed ocean, and draped over the land a sprawl of humanity, arranged with no thought or planning. As we land, I gaze across the ocean to the horizon. I’m back.
It’s strange, but when they announce they have to disembark a passenger with medical needs first, everyone applauds.
‘Why are they clapping?’ I say, as one of the medical attendants, impassive-faced, lays me back on a stretcher.
Tina says solemnly, ‘I think they’re glad you’re OK.’
As I’m carried out of the plane (I’m sure I could walk, but Tina has way overstated my medical
needs to the insurance company, clearly) people appear from further down the plane, calling out to me. I’m still the number one celebrity news story. No one’s got a picture yet, but they certainly are trying.
‘There she is.’ ‘Don’t crowd her.’ ‘Hey, Sophie.’ ‘You look great.’ ‘Feel better, Sophie!’
Some guy has a phone out, and takes some photos. A woman in her thirties admonishes him. ‘Put that away!’ she shouts, as I descend the steps. I look up, and there are faces at every oval window, waving, clapping, and I can hear stamping of feet too. A little girl right up at the front blows me a kiss.
T.J. is waiting in a blacked-out jeep for me on the tarmac. He and one of the nurses help me into the car. I watch the people at the window of the plane, still confused.
‘That’s so weird,’ I say. ‘Why are they doing that?’
From the front of the car T.J. shakes his head and says, ‘You’re crazy. They’re doing it ’cause they like you, Sophie.’ He shrugs and then reaches back and pats my hand. ‘Hey. It’s good to see you. Let’s get you back home.’
As I stand in the hall, looking around my house, the jasmine climbing up the clapboard outside, the old pool clear turquoise, everything pristine and beautiful, I can’t help but think of Eve. On the flight home I reread the pages she gave me, the day I found her and Rose. Her letters to Don, his to her. Her essays about her time in Hollywood. How she came back here once more, only to leave, and never return. Now I am back, and everything has changed, and she’s the person who would understand.
Two helicopters throb constantly overhead and even though all the doors are shut the sound is penetrating, a constant whirr drilling into my head. I limp slowly into the den, to make sure the doors onto the terrace are closed against the noise. And I stop, and stare.
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