‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said, his voice calmer now. ‘Forgive me.’
I stared out of the window at the dull streets of London, all the sparkle drained out of my day. ‘Just let me be,’ I said.
That was Max. He pretended everything was political when really it was personal. He was at odds with the world and he was at odds with himself. He complained about what he called “the system”, yet at the same time he craved the success of his scenarios within it.
I remember another instance when our film’s director, Cecil Benson, took us to dinner at Boulestin, the newly opened French restaurant in Covent Garden. I was terrified of the occasion, I had never been in such an expensive and exquisitely designed restaurant before. The place was peopled with socialites, aristocrats and minor royals, the murals were painted by famous artists, the chef was French, the food was French, the menu was written in French. I was also anxious as to how Max would behave but he seemed to be in his element. As French was a language he knew well, he took care of ordering both the food and the wine. The dishes were nothing like I had ever tasted before. Salmon pie, sautéed tomatoes and peppers, woodcock cooked in its own juices, pancakes flavoured with liqueurs. By the time dessert was finished we were quite drunk and Max was in an ebullient mood.
‘What do you have for us next?’ Cecil asked. Our director was one of those upper-class, privileged, languid, horsey-faced toffs Max usually hated.
‘Revolution,’ Max said rather too loudly. ‘With my dear Georgie at the heart of it.’
Cecil laughed uncomfortably. ‘What do you mean? Revolution?’
‘It is time we brought real politics to the screen, Cecil. Instead of all these English classic novels. All this Dickens and Hardy… how do you say?… poppycock. Yes, revolution.’
‘And who do you intend to overthrow with these films?’ Cecil looked over at me with an indulgent smile. ‘People like me?’
Max cleared the table in front of him, leaned in closer to his director. ‘Listen, Cecil. I have just seen the most amazing film. Battleship Potemkin it is called. By a young Russian director, Sergei Eisenstein. You have heard of him?’
‘I know the name,’ Cecil said. ‘But not his work.’
‘Last week I watched a clandestine copy smuggled in from the United States. Magnificent, it is. Truly magnificent. This is what I want to do. Bring the revolution of the proletariat to the screen. In a subtle way, like Eisenstein did. A small rebellion on a battleship by the crew. But in reality a metaphor for the bigger struggle of labour against capital. I could find something similar for this country. A shipyard. A mining village perhaps. Driven by the women. By my Georgie.’
Here he put an arm around my shoulder and in an unusual display of public affection kissed me sloppily on the cheek.
‘I find it amusing to think, dear Max,’ Cecil said, ‘that you talk of revolution of the proletariat in the most expensive restaurant in London.’
‘Hah!’ Max responded, throwing down his napkin like some kind of gauntlet. ‘Come the revolution, and we’ll all be eating in expensive restaurants like this.’
Again that was Max. Full of paradoxes. Which meant he could be generous when he didn’t have the means to be and he could be mean when he should have had the sense to be generous. And why did I put up with his behaviour? For he brought to our relationship a passion that excited me. He made me feel we were players at the forefront of great change. And for a brief moment we were. The world was a blank canvas after the war, the old ways had been defeated, a new generation was taking over. We were revolutionaries. Iconoclastic. It wasn’t just the film world with Eisenstein, Hitchcock, Novello, Chaplin, Keaton, Fritz Lang, Mary Pickford, Lilian Gish and King Vidor. Everything was changing. Art. Music. Literature. Women. There was Picasso, Chagall, DH Lawrence, TS Eliot, Joyce, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Kafka, Stravinsky, Magritte and Virginia Woolf. There was jazz with Duke Ellington, Bessie Smith and Louis Armstrong. Women were throwing away their corsets, cutting their hair short and raising their hemlines. It was a glorious time to be young.
Chapter Eleven
Sleepless in Highgate
Laura couldn’t sleep. Georgie Hepburn. Perhaps she had been too tipsy to remember the conversation correctly. Georgie Hepburn. She had only drunk two glasses of wine. Although they were quite large ones and possibly a glass of Cristal on entering, then there had been the half bottle with Victoria in the afternoon. Georgie Hepburn. She had adored her, had been obsessed by her, had even sent her a fan letter once, she must have been about sixteen at the time. Nobody really knew that much about her then, so overshadowed had she been by that egotistical bastard of a husband. Georgie Hepburn. She was her secret heroine when everyone else was going for Plath. When all her girlfriends (and some men too) preferred a beautiful brooding poet who’d stuck her head in the oven to a strong and brave woman who hadn’t.
She turned to one side, then the other until she ended up in a strangle of duvet and sheets, her legs moving restlessly. She switched on to her back, stared up at the ceiling, tried to recall the conversation with Sal.
‘Yes, of course, I know Georgie Hepburn,’ she had told him. Sal was staring out towards the lit-up garden with the occasional draw on his cigar, the aroma making her giddy with memories of not just her father, but other men too. ‘I had a teenage crush on her,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to be her.’
‘What did you like about her?’
‘Her courage. Her willingness to be different. Her authenticity.’
‘Ah yes, her authenticity. The line that goes straight from one’s heart to one’s art. Her words, of course.’
‘And her integrity,’ Laura added. ‘Or as Georgie would call it à la. Hemingway: authenticity under pressure.’ She had spoken somewhat wistfully, this talk of Georgie reminding her how far she had strayed recently from her own teenage ambitions.
‘What makes you think she had integrity?’ Sal asked.
‘You can see it in her work, the way she led her life.’
‘But you don’t really know, do you?’
‘What does anyone really know about anyone else?’
‘I’m a documentary film maker. It’s my job to find out.’
‘But how do you know they are telling the truth? Maybe someone is fabricating a diary in the hope some day it will be used for posterity.’ She had raised her coffee cup to him then in a mock toast and delivered the words: ‘I’m not going to write about my life as I’ve lived it, I’m going to go out there and live the damn thing as I mean to write about it.’
‘Did Georgie say that?’
‘No. It was a line in one of my movies. I believe it comes from a quote by the writer, André Gide.’
‘It obviously resonated if you still remember it.’
‘I was just showing off. That’s what we actors do, Sal, pluck memorised lines out of thin air to make an impression.’
‘Well, you’ve succeeded,’ Sal chuckled, blew another breath of cigar smoke into the night. ‘It seems we’re on the same page with Georgie, Laura. I didn’t write her any fan letters but I did get to meet her once.’
‘Oh, please tell.’
‘It must have been over thirty years ago now, not long before she died, I was just fresh out of film school. My mentor, a guy called Philip Oswald, wanted to make a documentary about her, so we came over to London to meet her. We thought we’d have to drive up to some little village in Oxfordshire – by that time Georgie had moved in with her god-daughter – but she absolutely insisted she would come down to meet us in London. As long as we treated her to afternoon tea at The Savoy. I always thought it was slightly odd for her to do that. After all, she was about eighty and had to take the train all that way to London in the middle of winter, but she said it was a private gesture to herself. “What is life without these little gestures?” she told us. So afternoon tea at The Savoy it was. Phil did all the talking, I just sat to the side, sipping my tea, stuffing myself with cakes, listening in awe. She’d been a bit of a recluse for most of her
later life but was beginning to come out of her shell by the time we met her. She gave us a tentative nod to go ahead with the project but by the time we got any sniff of proper finance, she’d passed away.’
‘But you’re back doing research on her now?’
‘Yeah. I’ve decided I’d like to produce a one-woman play of her life. Then I’d film it in such a way so that I can present it as a documentary as well.’
‘It’s long overdue, I’d say.’
Sal ceased his contemplation of the garden, turned to face her, looked at her straight. His eyes were turquoise like Navajo stones. ‘I’d like you to play Georgie,’ he said.
‘Me? Georgie Hepburn?’
‘Yeah. I’ve had you in mind from the beginning. Apart from your obvious competence as an actor, I’ve always thought you looked a bit like her. I’m sure we can age you up and down to cover her whole adult life from the silent movie days onwards.’
Laura gripped the patio rail. She was actually finding it hard to breathe. ‘I’m flattered,’ was all she could manage.
‘Well, why don’t you think about it?’ He handed her his card. ‘It would be good to hear from you or your agent in the next few days. If it’s something you might contemplate in principle, then we can talk details.’
Sal disappeared back into the house after that, having remarked it was becoming a bit chilly for his Californian bones. She said she would remain for a few minutes, it was such a beautiful night. She stared at the stars, waited until she had calmed then left the party as quickly as she could.
Georgie Hepburn. It was too good to be true. After her TV cameos and the crab voice-over, after the acceptance of all the other parts she shouldn’t have been accepting, here was a chance to regain her self-respect. Her authenticity. That straight line from heart to art.
She raised herself from her bed, put on her robe, picked up a lipstick from the dresser, walked along to the kitchen where she circled yesterday’s date on the calendar in thick red. The day her life changed. Dumped by her agent in the morning, offered dream role by nightfall. ‘Eat your heart out, Edy Weinberg – I’m going to revive my career without you.’ She made herself a cup of strong coffee, went to her study, powered up her computer, sat down to Google Sal Yerksaw.
There was a short Wikipedia entry. Born Bakersfield, California, three years older than she, father worked in an ice cream plant, mother a nurse, graduated USC School of Cinematic Arts, documentary film maker, theatre producer, married to Dominique Beaumont (Damn! It wasn’t as if she was particularly interested in him but the potential would have been nice), two children, film credits:
Children of the Exile (1992): documentary short (directed) – nominated – California Critics Award
The Wind Chasers (1998): documentary (directed and produced) – won – Frankfurt Film Festival
Solly, Molly and Me (2005): documentary (directed and produced) – nominated – Montreal Film Critics Association; nominated – BAFTA
No Profit Under the Sun (2009): play (produced for Sal Yerksaw Productions) – won – Paul Washington Award for Best Emerging Production Company
No Talking Please, We’re British (in production): documentary (directed and produced).
She went back into the kitchen to find her evening bag, to retrieve his business card. Sal Yerksaw Productions. She would send him an email. Not right now. Christ, it was four in the morning. She would just compose it, then save the draft for later, just so she could get all the excitement out of her system, get back to sleep. After a few attempts, she managed.
Dear Sal
It was great to meet you last night. I always enjoy these evenings at Caroline’s – she is such a warm and generous host. It was also wonderful to connect with a fellow Georgie Hepburn fan.
I very quickly wanted to come back to you about your suggestion that I should play her in a film/play about her life. I’m sure you know what it is like in this business but were we just having a casual after-dinner conversation or does your proposal still stand? If it does, I would most definitely like to chat some more. Are you still in London? Perhaps we could meet for coffee. Laura
She re-read it, then satisfied with its tone and content, without thinking she pressed ‘Send’. She was half-way along the corridor to her bedroom, still cursing herself for her stupid error when she heard the ‘ping’ announcing she had mail.
Chapter Twelve
The Hepburn Archives
Extract from an unpublished memoir
The day after my trip to Royal Ascot I received a telegram from Hubert Hoffstetter, a big-time Hollywood producer at Montgomery Studios, requesting a meeting the following day at the Savoy Hotel. Max wanted to come with me but I chose to go on my own. I was still feeling raw from our fight in the limousine.
I arrived at the Savoy just before three o’clock, posed for the usual snapshots at the entrance, it seemed the various London newspapers have photographers stationed there solely for the purpose. I expected we would be having afternoon tea in the Thames Foyer or perhaps a cocktail in the American Bar but there was a message waiting for me to attend Mr Hoffstetter in his suite. I took the electric lift to the third floor and knocked on the door.
Hubert was a skinny man with a skinny moustache, wearing a double-breasted jacket that dwarfed his thin frame. His hair was sparse too and his face shone with sweat. He introduced himself, asked me to call him Hub which I thought was a ridiculous name, then led me through to an ornate sitting room. Hub was not alone. To the rear of the room sat another gentleman, perhaps in his late sixties, tanned, bald, smooth-faced, dressed in a light suit, hands clasped atop his cane. I was not introduced to this person who merely dipped his head graciously at my entrance. I discovered later that he was Mr Montgomery himself. Hub asked me to sit down, offered coffee, tea, sandwiches and cakes from a trolley, all of which I declined. I was too nervous to eat or drink anything and I was getting more nervous by the second. Hub passed me a sheet of paper.
‘I wonder if you could read from this,’ he said. ‘Please project your voice as you do so.’
The words were swimming in front of me at this point but I did what I had been trained to do, breathed into the pit of my abdomen, forced myself not to rush, focused on the text in front of me. It was a menu from the Savoy Grill.
‘Go on,’ said Hub.
I looked over to Mr Montgomery but he was just sitting there, resting on his cane with his eyes closed.
I did as I was told.
‘Soups: Petite Marmite. Consomme Julienne. Cream of Tomato. Hare Soup.
Fish: Northern Trout in a Shrimp Sauce. Halibut in a Hollandaise Sauce. Oyster Patties.
Meats: Roast Sirloin and Ribs of Beef. Roast Turkey and Sausage. Roast Leg of Pork and Apple Sauce. Ox Tongue.
Vegetables: Brussel Sprouts. Potatoes au Gratin. Mashed Potatoes. French Beans…’
Hub put up a hand to stop me, glanced back at Mr Montgomery who nodded.
‘Miss Hepburn,’ Hub said quite loudly. Considering I was seated only a few feet in front of him, I assumed the raised voice was for Mr Montgomery’s benefit. ‘Great changes are on the horizon for the movie business. You have probably heard the rumours about “the talkies” over here in Great Britain and I can confirm that the rumours are true. The first feature-length talking motion picture is about to grace our screens in the form of a musical called The Jazz Singer. It has been produced by one of our great rivals, Warner Brothers. Congratulations to them for heralding in this new era. In a few years, the silent movie industry will cease to exist. But Montgomery Studios are not to be left behind, will not be left behind. Do you understand, Miss Hepburn?’
Although the question had been addressed to me, Hub had turned to Mr Montgomery who again nodded from his far corner. Hub seemed pleased, returned his attention back to me.
‘Montgomery Studios has been very impressed by your performance in The Woman Walks Free. However, as you can imagine, actors and actresses will no longer be able to rely solely on their
good looks and facial gestures for their success. Fortunately, we are glad to hear that your voice comes across as very pleasant to our American ears. At Montgomery Studios we believe that a British accent could make a very distinct contribution towards gaining the attention of American audiences. For these reasons, we would therefore like to offer you a three year contract with Montgomery Studios over in Hollywood.’ Hub produced a briefcase from beside his armchair and extracted what I assumed was the contract. ‘As you will see, our terms are most generous.’
I was not able to see as he did not hand over the papers. Instead, he held them back and added: ‘However, there are a number of conditions we have not entered specifically into the contract.’
I asked what they were.
‘We would like you to use the first name “Georgie” instead of “Georgina”.’
I told him that would not be a problem. ‘My family and friends call me “Georgie” anyway.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t like the surname “Hepburn” either. This combination of the “p” and “b”, it works as a kind of stumbling block, it doesn’t run off the tongue.’ Hub licked his lips with said tongue, then pronounced my name, enunciating it as two very strong and separate syllables. “Hep… Burn. We need something classy but snappy as well.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘We have made a list. You can let us know which you prefer. We would have the final say, of course.’
At this point, Mr Montgomery rose on his cane and both Hub and I watched as the elderly gentleman slowly removed himself into an adjoining room. Hub did not seem any more relaxed for the departure although I certainly was.
‘What do you say, Miss Hepburn? About the name change?’
‘I am not particularly happy about it. But I suppose I could take a look at the list.’
‘There is one final matter.’
‘And what might that be?’
Hub’s moustache twitched as he sucked in a breath through his yellowish teeth. ‘My employer would like you to join him in the bedroom.’
A Woman of Integrity Page 5