A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  All Beginnings Are Hard

  Jack left. In the early hours of the morning, she hadn’t heard him go. After the Scotland trip, she had taken him down to see the Chagall windows, she had so enjoyed sharing them with him. They ate out at a country pub, came back to London, made love, she had fallen asleep. And just as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone. She found the note on her computer keyboard. He had written down the contact details of his producer friend, some words of gratitude for her hospitality and the simple sentence – I love you now. She went back to bed, slept the morning through. When she awoke with the sun streaming through the windows, she realised she didn’t feel miserable at all. Surprisingly no sense of loss but rather of gain. She felt light, invigorated, full of energy and purpose. ‘Oh Jack, I love you now.’ She was going to start anew. She was going to start now.

  Marcus Green was doing well, Laura thought, as she sat in the reception area of the new offices of her former accountant. A frosted-green glass desk with the words Marcus Green Associates etched on the front with an emerald swirl dominated the green-carpeted space. Behind this icy fortress sat not one but two equally frosty receptionists citing the name of the firm into the mouthpieces of their headsets before clicking through their callers in rapid succession. Beyond the desk, a wall of leafy plants. Green, green, green everywhere. She wondered if Marcus voted for the Greens just to remain consistent. She actually laughed out loud at the thought, snaring a glance from one of the receptionists. She picked up a magazine, put it down again. One half hour previously she had been told Mr Green would see her in ten minutes. In the past, she hardly had to wait thirty seconds. She guessed she was being punished for her customer disloyalty.

  To his credit, Marcus actually came out himself to collect her from reception. His mammoth arms held out as he approached, she feared he was going to swallow her up into the crush of an embrace. Instead, just as he reached her, he brought his hands together and made a slight bow in front of her as in the Japanese tradition. She wasn’t sure if he was being respectful or ironic.

  ‘Laura, Laura, Laura,’ he boomed. ‘How wonderful to see you again. It has been such a long time.’

  ‘You know how it is. Shooting schedules. America. Japan.’

  ‘Such a glamorous life,’ he said. ‘We boring accountants can only tremble with awe and jealousy. Now, let me guide you to my humble office.’

  Marcus’s office was anything but humble. A wide glassy space with fabulous views of the Thames. A work area with a giant mahogany desk, slick computers and thick silver ornaments; a lounge area with glass table tops, abstract art and dark brown leather sofas. She was heartened to find herself invited to sit on one of these sofas, an informality she hoped was a sign of forgiveness. Marcus sat opposite, his enormous bulk sinking deep into the leather. Victoria had told her that Marcus’s wife had just given birth to a baby girl. Laura tried to imagine what his wife might look like in such a copulation. Would she be of similar mammoth proportions, two giant whales in a blubbery embrace? Or was she some tiny creature perched on top of him like a child on a bouncy castle. Probably stressed out too, with dark circles under her eyes and sick all over her clothes. While Marcus, all fresh-faced and rosy, looked far from being a partner in the parental chores. Although in all fairness to Marcus given his current surroundings, there was probably a whole staff of nannies and maids back at Green mansion.

  Marcus stretched his arms out across the back ledge of the sofa like some giant on a cross. ‘Laura, Laura, Laura,’ he said. ‘You look marvellous.’

  ‘I believe congratulations are in order.’

  Marcus’s face brightened as if a vision of his daughter had just appeared before him. ‘Three months old. A little beauty. You never had children did you?’

  ‘It appears that I forgot to.’

  Marcus gave a condescending chuckle. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘I have to confess to putting my financial affairs on the back-burner for a number of years.’

  ‘Five years, Laura. Five years. I retrieved your file. I thought you had abandoned me.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘So you are.’

  ‘I’d like to engage you again to look into my tax affairs.’

  ‘You know my rules, Laura. Number one, you must…’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been very good with rule number one. I’ve kept all my receipts for the last five years.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It is rule number two that is the problem. I’ve made no provision for any tax.’

  Marcus withdrew his arms from their stretch along the sofa, drew himself into a posture of concern, nodded sagely. A pose that no doubt was costing her several pounds per second. ‘I see.’

  ‘I received a letter from the tax authorities.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  She opened her handbag, passed Marcus the manila envelope from Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. He extracted the payment demand, scanned it until he arrived at his destination. He let out a breathy whistle, looked up at her. ‘Do you have the money for this?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Some of it?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Where has it all gone? To attract this kind of liability, you need to earn the money too.’

  ‘I don’t know, Marcus. It just goes. You know what it’s like in my business. Feast or famine. When it’s feast I tend to spend. Holidays, hotels, clothes, renovations, flights, new car. My father is in a care home. That’s three thousand pounds a month before I even start on myself.’

  ‘Assets?’

  ‘My flat in Highgate.’

  ‘What do you think it’s worth? Ballpark.’

  She reported the price range the estate agent had given her earlier.

  ‘Mortgage?’

  ‘Still quite a bit to pay off.’

  Marcus quickly snapped his fingers at her. ‘Figures, Laura. I need figures.’

  Again she told him.

  ‘What about work? Are those blank Tinsel Town cheque books still opening for you?’

  ‘I’m working on a smaller project over here.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I see, I see.’

  Marcus stood up, casting a frightening shadow over her. He then walked over to the window, surveyed the aspect of his domain as he continued speaking, his words bouncing off the glass back at her. ‘Fortunately, Laura, there are things we can do here. But first of all, I would like you to describe your ideal scenario.’ He turned back round to face her. ‘What would you like to happen here?’

  ‘I’m going to have to sell the flat, I realise that.’

  ‘Downsizing would be helpful.’

  ‘I’d need a deposit for something new. Say a hundred and fifty thousand.’

  ‘For a broom cupboard in Peckham perhaps.’

  ‘I’d move out of the city.’

  ‘Let’s call it two hundred and fifty thousand for starters with stamp duty, fees and so on. What else?’

  ‘I need about forty thousand to fund my play – set design, production, sound and lighting, venue, insurance. Maybe another thirty to keep me going for a year, same again to pay for my father’s care. Your fees, of course. Anything else above that would be a bonus.’

  ‘Hmmmm. So basically you would like to emerge from your sale and this tax fiasco with a minimum of say around four hundred thousand to kickstart this new life of yours for the next year or so.’

  ‘If that’s how the figures add up.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I’m going to work on the assumption my play is going to be a huge success.’

  ‘Is that a reasonable assumption?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Marcus walked over from the window, this time to sit down beside her. She felt the cushion on which she sat rise slightly beneath her to counterbalance his weight. Again he crouched forward in a worried pose. ‘Can I ask you so
mething personal?’ he said.

  Having just disclosed to him the whole of her financial affairs, she wondered how much more personal he could get. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘You have been a very successful actress, Laura. My wife absolutely adores you as I’m sure many millions of fans around the world do also. I have seen some of the fees you commanded in the past. What has happened? Is the work no longer out there for you?’

  She was genuinely moved by his concern, so out of character for a man only usually interested in the certainty of numbers. The birth of his baby daughter must have softened him. ‘It’s certainly getting harder for a woman of my vintage,’ she said. ‘But yes, I could take a part in a big blockbuster movie if I wanted to.’

  ‘So why don’t you? It would solve so many of your problems.’

  ‘What can I tell you, Marcus? I’ve made up my mind about doing this play. It means a lot to me. And I am willing to make the necessary sacrifices. Can you help me?’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Since you are a member of a creative profession whose earnings are generally erratic, I can propose an amortization of your debt.’

  Amortization. She didn’t like the sound of a word that seemed to imply death. Mortal. Mortuary. Mortician. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I can defray payment by spreading your income, expenses and allowances over a period of several years. In this way, we can reduce the amount of liability. This should give you the amount of equity you need to fund your new project and reduced lifestyle. It would also buy you a little more time.’

  ‘That sounds excellent,’ she said, although she only had a vague idea what he meant.

  Marcus turned to face her and smiled. ‘What is excellent is that you have followed rule number one and kept your receipts.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The Hepburn Archives

  Transcript from BBC Radio 4 interview

  Broadcasting House, London

  16th May 1982

  Interviewer: Sir Peter Delamere

  Interviewee: Georgie Hepburn

  PD: Before we wind down, Georgie, I wonder if we could talk for a few moments about the scandal that occurred when you turned down your MBE.

  GH: Oh, Peter. I wouldn’t call it a scandal. A slight faux pas perhaps on my part.

  PD: Even so. It caused a bit of an uproar at the time. I’ve pulled some of the newspaper articles commenting on the issue. If you don’t mind I’ll read them out for the benefit of our listeners. Is that all right?

  GH: It’s all water under the bridge now.

  PD: Well, the Sun had the headline Sorry Ma’am – but I don’t accept gifts from strangers. The Daily Mail led with Surly Snapper Snubs Her Maj while the News of the World didn’t hold back with Going, Going, Gong then underneath MBE not good enough for Hepburn (and we don’t mean Audrey or Katharine)

  GH: I wasn’t the first person to do it. Far more important men and women than myself have refused honours.

  PD: As you know yourself, that is only hearsay. John Lennon is the only person I am aware of officially who sent his back. And I don’t believe he was ever vilified for doing so in the same way you were.

  GH: I just think it was a quiet day in the London press offices.

  PD: What happened exactly?

  GH: Well, the Prime Minister’s office asked me if I would be prepared to accept an honour for my services to the art world as well as with the ATA. Only two other female pilots in the ATA have been awarded MBEs – Joan Hughes and Pauline Gower. And quite rightly so. Far more deserving than I was. They were awarded theirs right after the war. I believe the ATA connection was only cited for me in order to bolster up my photography work.

  PD: Is that why you turned it down?

  GH: Not at all. I just wanted to get on with my life away from the public eye. I wanted my photographs to be known for themselves and not because of who was behind the lens. Accepting an honour would have changed that.

  PD: Unfortunately, the press saw it differently. Can you tell us how that all occurred?

  GH: If I remember correctly I was coming out of a restaurant in Covent Garden when someone from the papers confronted me. We heard you’ve turned down an honour, he shouted at me. How does it feel to snub Her Majesty? Something like that. Well, first of all, I don’t recall telling anyone but my nearest and dearest I’d been offered an honour in the first place. You’re not supposed to say anything publicly about these things until the official list is published. And secondly, how they found out I had turned down the damn thing was a mystery to me too.

  PD: Any ideas?

  GH: I can only think it was some clerk somewhere who saw my very polite and gracious note of refusal to the Prime Minister, then passed on the content to some contact in Fleet Street for a few bob.

  PD: So what happened after that? With the reporter?

  GH: Well, I was a bit put off by his question and mumbled something like: Well, Her Majesty probably doesn’t know me and I certainly don’t know her, so I decided to save her any awkwardness. It was meant as a silly, throw-away remark and it was blown out of all proportions. All those headlines that you mentioned.

  PD: That wasn’t all, was it?

  GH: I got quite a lot of hate mail. You’d think people had better things to do with their time.

  PD: Matters got a lot worse than that.

  GH: Well, there was that incident when someone spray-painted Traitor over several of my photos at one of my exhibitions. He also cut up a few of the others with a Stanley knife.

  PD: That was all over the papers too. It must have been hurtful. For someone who flew Spitfires during the war to be called a traitor. Do you regret it?

  GH: The remark? I could have phrased it better.

  PD: I meant not accepting the honour.

  GH: Look, it was very nice of Prime Minister Wilson to consider me. Of course, anyone would be flattered by such a gesture. I remember my father was awarded a DSO for shooting down enemy aircraft over the battlefields of France in the Great War. That was a medal for extraordinary bravery. I’d done very little compared to that.

  PD: Are you really saying you turned down an MBE because you felt you didn’t deserve it?

  GH: No, as I mentioned earlier, I felt it would end up being an intrusion into my private life. Ironically, turning it down caused far more of an intrusion than if I had accepted it.

  PD: I’ve been trying to get you on this programme for years yet you have always turned me down. I suspect for the same reason – that you felt it was an intrusion.

  GH: Yes, that’s true.

  PD: So what made you change your mind this time?

  GH: It’s a good question, Peter. I suppose I’m old enough now not to care much about protecting my private life. I have tried writing a memoir because I did live through some interesting times. But I would never dream about trying to get it published. There have been a few approaches from people wanting to do biographies, once even for a documentary, but I have always refused. As for this interview? I think you just wore me down.

  PD: [LAUGHING] I don’t believe that for a moment.

  GH: I suppose it was vanity that got to me in the end. The idea that I could leave a record of this conversation for my daughter was appealing.

  PD: Your daughter?

  GH: I’m sorry?

  PD: You said daughter.

  GH: I meant my god-daughter. Susan. I’m sorry, Peter. I’m beginning to tire here.

  PD: Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that in the final edit. And just to finish off on this topic, do you think if you were offered another honour, you would accept one, now that you appear to have become less protective about your private life?

  GH: [CHUCKLES] Oh, I don’t think so. I just couldn’t be bothered now with all the dressing up.

  PD: OK. Georgie, let me just wind this up for the producers… five, four, three, two, one… Well, I’m really glad that you finally succumbed to coming on to this programme whatever the reason. It has been su
ch a pleasure talking to you. If our listeners would like to catch some of your work there is currently a retrospective running at the National Portrait Gallery in London. If you can’t get to London, a fine album of the collection is also available from your nearest bookstore. Georgie Hepburn, star of the silent screen, wartime ferry pilot and renowned photographer, I thank you for being with us this evening.

  GH: Thank you, Peter.

  PD: OK. We’re off-air now. I’m sorry for bringing up all that MBE stuff. Orders from above. They think it makes for good listening. Don’t agree, of course.

  GH: I’m too old to worry about these things these days. It’s just that it’s a story that’s hounded me for the last few years. I suppose it’s a pity if all that people remember is that I turned down a silly medal.

  PD: I’m sure that won’t be the case. Especially now that the retrospective seems to be doing so well. Now are you positive, you don’t want to stay and let me take you out for dinner?

  GH: Not this time, Peter. I’m meeting Susan in… oh, is it that time already? Well, thank you so much for having me. I hope you have everything you need.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  A Night Out at the Theatre

  ‘Theatreland,’ Laura half-sang. ‘Walking hand in hand. Along the Strand. Oh, Theatreland.’

  ‘Nice rhyme, darling,’ Victoria said. ‘But we’re arm in arm, not hand in hand.’

  Laura ignored the correction. ‘Hand in hand, along the Strand, in Theatreland.’

  ‘How about round the bend in the West End?’

  Laura laughed at that, they both did, spirits were high, after a fine early supper in Covent Garden that included two gin and tonics. ‘I love the West End in winter. At night, all bundled up like we are now. The frosty air, the lit-up buildings, chestnuts roasting on a pavement grill, skating in the courtyard of Somerset House, things like that. I don’t mind the cold as long as it’s dry.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Victoria said, huddling in closer.

  ‘Round the bend in the West End,’ Laura sang again. ‘Off to see a play. By a friend. Such is the trend.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it? Quentin Holloway. Name in lights.’