‘Quentin at the Adelphi. He’ll be positively beaming.’
‘Like a bloody lighthouse.’
‘There he is now.’
‘What is he wearing?’
Quentin stood outside the steps of the theatre in a long black fur coat with matching Russian ushanka and a bright yellow scarf. His arms were held out wide to greet them. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said, kissing each of them on both cheeks.
‘Quite the showman,’ Laura said, rubbing the lapel of his coat.
‘Don’t worry, none of it’s real,’ he said. ‘I’ve got enough to worry about without animal rights activists boycotting me.’
‘We’re sorry we couldn’t make opening night,’ Victoria said.
‘It’s just as well you weren’t here. I was a nervous wreck. Not worth speaking to. Not worth speaking to at all. Stockport, Sheffield and Oxford I could manage. But London. It just overwhelms me.’
‘First reviews were fabulous,’ Laura chipped in.
‘Who reads reviews?’ he said, although Laura was quite sure Quentin did. He clapped his hands together. ‘Come, come, come. Box seats await.’
Laura was ambivalent about box seats, she didn’t like the angle of the view but enjoyed the privacy, the lack of heads in front. It was just the three of them in this red velvet splendour together with a seat for Quentin’s hat and coat. A bottle of champagne on ice. A toast. To Maimonides.
‘I’m proud of you,’ Laura said.
‘Well, I am grateful to you,’ Quentin said. ‘Had it not been for your well-organized run-through of my little play, I would never have had the courage to go on. I salute you.’ He raised his glass, then downed his champagne in one gulp. ‘I don’t think I can stand all this excitement,’ he said as the curtain was raised.
For Laura, there was something fascinating seeing the transformation of Maimonides from her tiny stage offering in a London pub into a full-blown production in a West End theatre. She looked over the balcony, hardly an empty seat in the house, must be close to 1,500 eager souls. It reminded her of what acting at this level was all about. The initial readings, the tour of the provinces, ironing out the kinks, mollifying the cast, the elation on the discovery that there will be a West End run, extra investment coming in, tarting up the costumes and the set, the dress rehearsals for London, the nerves, the crises of confidence, the flowers, the telegrams (now it’s just a flurry of texts), opening night, the reviews, the magic of it all. She was glad for the friends she’d managed to provide a decent run of work for but she wondered how she would take to seeing Caroline perform again. For after the collapse of Sal’s involvement in Georgie by Georgie, Caroline had persuaded Quentin to let her back into her role in Maimonides. And here she was now, the mother still scarred by her Holocaust past, trying to find it in herself to give love to her ageing husband and their young son.
Three encores, Quentin sitting back in his seat, tears running down his face, Laura up on her feet, Victoria there beside her, both a little tipsy on all the champagne, clapping their hands high in the air along the line of the cast as they took their bows.
‘Let’s go see Caroline,’ Victoria said once the lights had come up.
‘I don’t really want to,’ Laura said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Laura. Show a little generosity of spirit. She’s one of your oldest friends.’
‘She tried to stab me in the back.’
‘But it all worked out in the end,’ Victoria countered. ‘You got Georgie, she got this. Give her a break. She made a mistake. A bad one. But she’d appreciate your support right now. With the divorce and everything.’
‘It’s not like she’ll be left a pauper.’
Victoria wrapped an arm round her shoulder, pulled her in close. ‘Come on. The three of us. For old times sake.’
Laura couldn’t help but be irked to see that Caroline had her own dressing room even though she didn’t have a starring role in the play. She pointed this out to Victoria just as Quentin poked his head through the door to see if Caroline was available for visitors.
‘It’s not her fault,’ Victoria said. ‘The press just love her. A sit-com goddess making a theatrical comeback. Or as yesterday’s Sun put it – Lady Tightly Knit Dazzles in West End Debut.’
‘That’s a bit inappropriate for someone playing a Holocaust survivor.’
‘Who’s she to worry?’
‘Lady Caroline is available,’ Quentin announced, holding wide the dressing room door.
‘As she always has been,’ Laura whispered to a chuckling Victoria as they stepped through.
The room was filled with flowers in vases, fruit in their baskets, cards of congratulation perched here and there. Laura held back as Caroline stood up from her dressing table, pecked Quentin with a light kiss to each cheek then a big hug for Victoria. Caroline hesitated then, Laura sensed the feelings of uncertainty and embarrassment pass between them for a few moments before the shared history of an old friendship erased all that and they embraced.
‘I’m sorry,’ Caroline whispered to her.
‘I’m fine with it,’ Laura said. ‘After all, you’ve done far worse to me in the past.’
Caroline laughed, a big throaty laugh that dissipated any final traces of tension between them. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still pissed off about Marco…’
‘…Marco? Who the hell’s Marco?’
‘That waiter in Venice. Who were you thinking of?’
‘That time when we were in Crete… Paleachora’
‘…now, now, ladies,’ Quentin said. ‘This is a time for celebrating the present. Not excavating the past.’
Caroline sat back down at her mirror, pulled out some tissues from a box, started to clean the make-up from her face. Victoria moved in behind her, massaged her shoulders. ‘You were great,’ she said. ‘A powerful performance.’
‘You really were good,’ Laura conceded. ‘I’d forgotten what a presence you had on stage.’
‘Some actresses just have it,’ Quentin added. ‘Magnetic. Absolutely magnetic.’
‘I was sorry to hear about you and Lew,’ Laura said.
Caroline ceased the dabbing away at her cheeks. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘Twenty-five years together. It still must be hard for you.’
‘I consider myself lucky. I’ll be left very comfortably off. A lot of women stay in marriages for fear of poverty.’
‘And does Sal still fit into the equation?’
‘Oh, that little stray. Just a passing phase really.’ Caroline waved a hand in dismissal although Laura detected a slight waver of insecurity in her voice as she went on to ask: ‘And you?’
‘He’s disappeared off the map as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Good. Good for both of us then.’ Caroline moved right up close to the mirror as she wiped the makeup from around her eyes. ‘I hear you’ve moved down to Brighton.’
‘London has become so expensive, don’t you think?’ Laura replied, although she found it hard to imagine Caroline thinking anywhere was too expensive.
‘I loved your place in Highgate,’ Caroline went on. ‘It must have been a wrench to sell.’
‘I like where I am now. Regency terrace. View of the sea.’
‘Permanent?’
‘We’ll see. I’m renting for now.’
Caroline scrunched up her lips. ‘It’s funny how things work out. Me doing this and… you must be so excited about your play?’
‘She’s all a-tremble,’ said Victoria, still massaging Caroline’s shoulders.
‘It’s been tough,’ Laura added. ‘Don’t know what I’d have done without dear Victoria here.’
‘Lots of wine and ego boosting involved,’ Victoria said. ‘Who’s producing?’ Caroline asked.
‘I’ve had some help from a friend of Jack’s. But mostly it’s just me.’
‘And the script?’
‘Also me.’
‘Well done, darling. That’s very brave of you. No wonder you look so
… so anxious.’
Laura sneaked a glance at Caroline’s mirror. ‘Just opening night nerves.’
‘Which is when?’
‘Next week. In Brighton.’
‘The Theatre Royal. How lovely.’
‘Nothing so grand. Just the Studio Theatre at the Dome.’
‘Oh well,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to attend. What with this little thing on every night.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Quentin said. ‘Georgie by Georgie. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Hepburn Archive
Handwritten notes by Georgie Hepburn, on guest stationery of The Savoy hotel, Strand, London. Date: 16th May 1982
The interview with Peter Delamere at the Beeb was gruelling but I’m glad I did it. And Peter knows me so well, he is able to tease things out of me I promised I would never talk about in public. I can’t believe he had me happily regaling Radio 4 listeners with the news that I went out and burnt everything Doug left me. They must think I am crazy. How did he get me to admit that? Susan and I had an enormous bonfire in the garden. We needed to make one anyway with all the autumn leaves swept, trees and bushes pruned for the winter. There we were like a couple of mad Banshees chucking all of Doug’s posters and reels of film on to the fire. We didn’t anticipate all the black smoke from the celluloid though, a police helicopter diverted from its traffic patrol flying over to have a look. As we were dancing there around the pyre, I did reflect for a moment that perhaps this is exactly what Doug had hoped for – that I would want to burn away his memory, leaving nothing but that self-aggrandising autobiography of his – as well as his two Oscar-winning films, of course – as the only testament to his life and career. Perhaps, he won out over me after all.
I was exhausted after I left the BBC and really would liked to have come back here for a nap, but there was Susan waiting to take me for dinner. How could I resist? We went to a charming French restaurant in Notting Hill where she was so full of news about the exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, sales of the book, interviews, press coverage. I am so pleased for her. I wouldn’t want to tell her that for myself I don’t care a hoot. My work is done. Some of these photographs I took so long ago I don’t even remember the slightest thing about them. Of course, I am glad that people have responded in the way that they have. But as long as my work gives Susan a sense of purpose I am happy. To be honest, my photographs of plants and flowers are the ones that give me the most pleasure now.
I watched her as we ate. All I can see in her face is Max, nothing that resembles me at all – which is probably a good thing. Sometimes when I look at the faces of children of friends, I can see a kind of morphing effect where the features of the father transform into the face of the mother and vice versa. But I don’t experience that with Susan. All I see is Max. Those deep brown eyes belonging to some ancient soul, that dark unruly hair Susan has always cursed, never knowing where it came from, confounded by the straight locks of her so-called parents. ‘Sometimes I feel as though I’m adopted,’ she’d often complain. She possesses that same restless intensity as Max. If Max were to walk into this restaurant right now, I’m sure Susan would know immediately who he was. And sometimes the temptation to confess is almost too great.
Many a viewer or critic of my work has congratulated me for my authenticity, my integrity, the truth in my work. Yet, here I am, not speaking the greatest truth of my life. And with both Ginny and Richard gone now, there is only me left with this truth to tell. But what good would it do? What is wrong with creating these myths and false narratives if they only bring happiness to people. Would Susan be any better for growing up with me when I was at the deepest and darkest and most despairing point of my life? Would I have been a pilot? Would I have met Rollo? Would I have flown to Palestine? Lived in Hollywood? Would Susan still be the beautiful, well-rounded and well-grounded woman that she is now thanks to Aunt Ginny and Uncle Richard taking her in? Or would she instead have emerged as a troubled soul whose mother was too distraught and insecure and self-obsessed to provide her with a loving and stable childhood? Would we even be sitting at this very table, talking about my photographic exhibition?
I recall when I first set out to write my memoirs, I mentioned the thoughts of an astrologer friend of mine, Kipling Jones. He once told me that while we think we make these significant decisions in our lives – about marriage, relationships, careers – in astrological terms these huge turning points mean absolutely nothing at all. If you believe your life to be ordained by the stars, it will always end up being exactly as it is now – here, in this pleasant little restaurant, with my lovely Susan, waving her hands about with the same flamboyance as her father used to do. Do I believe what Kip told me? I don’t think I believe in anything these days, I have become an agnostic like my father. But I suppose there would be something reassuring in knowing that this intimate conversation I am having now would be the exact same conversation that would have taken place whatever good or bad decisions I made in my life.
‘Georgie, you’re not listening to me,’ Susan said.
‘I was hanging on your every word.’
‘Liar,’ she said laughing, squashing out her cigarette in the ashtray with the same vehemence as her father. ‘I want you to pay attention. It’s important. We need to continue while we have the momentum.’
‘What momentum?’
‘The exhibition, the book, all this media coverage. That interview with Peter. Fabulous.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want. Just remember that I am an old woman.’
‘Oh, Georgie. You’re the youngest old woman I have ever met.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that to me.’
‘I didn’t want to tell you this until it’s for sure but it seems your exhibition is going to the States. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami.’
‘I don’t need to go with it, do I?’
‘It would be good if you were in New York to start it off. After that, it’s up to you. I thought you might like to take in some Californian sun.’
‘You know, I’ve never been back there since I left Doug.’
‘Long overdue then. Some tea?’
‘Not this late. I’d be running to the loo all night.’
‘Well, I’m going to be up all night with these calls to the States. You don’t mind if I have a coffee, do you?’
‘I’m happy to wait.’
‘You’re always happy.’
‘Such an illusion you have about me.’
‘Oh, come on. I can’t remember the last time I saw you being miserable. I always wondered – what is your secret?’
‘There is no secret, Susan. I’m just fortunate that I’ve ended up doing exactly what I want to be doing.’
‘Without the comfort of men. That is perhaps your secret.’
‘I did have my great love. It’s still not too late for you to have yours.’
‘Oh, I think those days are over.’ She reached out and placed her hand over mine. ‘I’ve always got you, Georgie. You’ve been like a mother to me.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Apple Tree
The day before Georgie by Georgie was due to open, Laura drove up from Brighton to Quentin’s house in the country. It should have been a two-hour drive but the traffic around London had been awful due to an accident. She had passed the scene of the crash, the front of a large truck embedded in the steel rims of the central barrier, a white car with its roof shorn off resting on the hard shoulder. Ambulances already leaving the scene, blue and red lights flashing, traffic slowing to ease through the cones, police officers guiding her passed, she tried to ignore the debris, the burned up rubber, shattered glass, the blood on the tarmac, telling herself not to take the incident as an omen. She must erase the dark superstitions – whistling in the theatre, uttering the name of that Scottish play, wearing peacock feathers on stage, visitors entering the dressing room left foot first, the number 13. And
look, there she was, just as she was having these thoughts, passing Junction 13 for London (West), Hounslow and Staines. Unlucky for some. Not for her, but for those poor people in the car with no roof, the lorry driver. Of course, how could she be so self-centred, so… what was the word?… solipsistic. She drummed away on the steering wheel, turned up the radio, hummed away to herself, tried to calm her agitated mind.
It had been years since she had done any theatre, she had become so used to the film world with the luxury of only having to learn blocks of lines at a time, the possibilities of countless takes, the absence of a live audience, and yet in just over twenty-four hours she was going to step back on stage. All by herself. Alone in the spotlight. A two-hour performance. Vulnerable. Exposed. Naked. Yes, that was how she was beginning to feel. Now that she had stripped herself of her ego, her relationship with Jack, her lovely house in North London, and the remnants of her film stardom. Naked. And all being filmed for a documentary.
For yes, everything was going to be properly digitally recorded. As from earlier this morning, when she had been sitting alone in the theatre dressing room and there had been a knock on the door. Without turning away from her mirror, she had called out to whoever it was to enter. She saw in the reflection of the open doorway, a well-built young man standing there.
‘And you are?’ she asked.
‘Andy,’ he said. ‘Remember me?’
She turned round to look at him. ‘You do seem familiar.’
‘One of the crew that filmed your play in the London pub.’
‘Oh God, yes. The Australians. Don’t tell me you still haven’t been paid?’
‘That’s all been sorted. We’ve been sent to film this one too.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Sal.’
‘Sal bloody Yerksaw. Sorry, but I don’t have money to pay for a film crew.’
‘Here.’ The young man passed over his mobile. There was an email highlighted on the screen, part of which directed Andy to show Laura the message:
Hey Laura – I’m sending you down the guys to film your opening night if you’ll have them. Don’t worry, I’ve paid them up front. And you get to own the rights to everything they record. Happy to do the edit on my dime if you still trust me. It would be a shame not to get Georgie by Georgie down for posterity. After all, I’m still a fan. And I owe you. Least I can do. Sal.
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