by Nicola Upson
‘Bridget Foley?’ Ronnie’s eyes widened and she stared at her cousin with a new respect. ‘We know of a Bridget Foley. Does yours live in Cambridge?’
Archie nodded defensively. ‘Yes, but she’s not my . . .’
‘Don’t you remember, Lettice? It was while we were there in the spring, doing the costumes for the Ibsen at the Arts Theatre. Everyone was talking about it.’
‘Yes, of course. Bridget Foley! Fancy your knowing her, Archie.’
Josephine was dying to find out what was so memorable about Archie’s old flame, but it would have been unfair of her to ask in front of him. Instead, she tried to think of something sufficiently interesting to lure Ronnie onto another subject, but she was saved the trouble. Lydia came back from the cloakroom and sat down next to Marta. ‘Why on earth is there a nun at the Hitchcocks’ table?’ she asked.
‘A nun?’ Josephine echoed her astonishment. ‘Are you sure?’
Lydia gave a wry smile. ‘They’re quite hard to mistake.’
‘I didn’t mean are you sure it’s a nun. I meant are you sure it’s their table?’
‘It must be. It’s the only one apart from ours that’s set for more than four people. Unless the Hitchcocks are dining in a private room and we’re sharing the restaurant with a Catholic convention.’
Lettice got up to see for herself, taking an unconvincingly casual stroll across the terrace to peer through the dining-room windows. ‘Well, it’s definitely a nun,’ she confirmed. ‘A Sister of Our Lady of Sorrows, if I’m not mistaken.’ She caught Josephine’s bemused expression and explained: ‘We designed Measure for Measure recently, so I know what their costumes are like – it’s all to do with the wimple. I’ve no idea what she’s doing there. She must have sat down at the wrong table.’
Ronnie smiled. ‘She’s in for a shock, then.’
‘They are Catholics,’ Marta said. ‘Alma converted to marry him.’
‘Even so, you don’t take your religion on holiday, do you? I’m a well-brought-up Church of England girl, but if I took the vicar of St Martin’s off to the South of France with me whenever I fancied it, he’d never have time to deliver a sermon, let alone write one.’
There was a queue to take issue with Ronnie’s claim, but Archie got in first. ‘If you took a vicar to the South of France, he’d be in no position morally to do either,’ he said, smiling sweetly at his cousin. ‘You’re a menace, even to the most spiritually certain among us.’
‘Just because I don’t wait twenty years between romances . . .’
‘Perhaps Hitchcock has insisted on fancy dress,’ Josephine suggested. ‘From what you were saying earlier, that’s just the sort of thing he’d find funny. The next time we look, we’ll probably see a vicar, a tart and someone dressed as Dracula.’
Marta looked over to the next table, where an unattractive middle-aged man was leering at a waitress, delivering a monologue which she seemed professionally obliged to endure. ‘I think one or two of them have arrived already,’ she said. ‘It’s like something out of Nightwood.’
‘What?’
‘It’s an American book that’s just come out. All misfits, lost souls and wretchedness.’
‘Sounds charming‚’ Ronnie grumbled.
‘Talking of America, we had an interesting conversation earlier,’ Lydia said. ‘We were having a drink with Danny Lascelles and Astrid Lake . . .’
‘Obviously her real name,’ muttered Archie.
Lydia smiled. ‘We don’t mention it. Anyway, we met David Franks. He’s Hitchcock’s production designer and assistant director, and he’s organising their weekend. He spent some time in Hollywood in the twenties, and he suggested that Marta should think about going out there to work – she’s been quite a hit with Alma, apparently.’ She looked proudly at Marta, oblivious to the bombshell she had just dropped. ‘I knew you were being too modest. Just think how exciting America would be.’
‘What do they do when they’re working on a screenplay, Marta?’ Archie asked, looking at Josephine’s horrified face. ‘How would Hitchcock go about adapting A Shilling for Candles?’
Marta smiled at him, apparently grateful not to have to pick up Lydia’s thread. ‘Well, first they find a property,’ she said.
‘You make it sound like buying a house.’
‘It’s not dissimilar, actually. I’ve known people choose a home with less fuss.’ She glanced quickly at Josephine, and, if she was trying to gauge the effect of Lydia’s words, Archie guessed that she would not be disappointed. ‘When they’ve found what they want to work with, they reduce it to a bare outline and talk about the characters – who they are, how they would behave in a given situation. From that, they produce a more detailed scenario, plotting the action scene by scene.’
‘When does Hitchcock get involved?’
‘From the start. That sort of visual storytelling is what he does best. It’s Hitchcock, Alma, and the flavour of the moment is Charles Bennett. I’m sure he’ll do A Shilling for Candles if Josephine doesn’t want to have anything to do with it.’ She paused, while Lydia lit her cigarette. ‘When they’re happy with what they’ve got, they call in people like me to write the dialogue. We’re the lowest of the low, because Hitchcock doesn’t really think that dialogue is important. He’ll have to change his habits if he does go to America, though. He won’t get that kind of independence in Hollywood.’
‘I dare say America will prove very popular when the war comes,’ Josephine said, finishing her drink.
Lydia glanced sharply at her. ‘Possibly, but people can’t be expected to put their careers on hold for fear of seeming unpatriotic.’
‘Can’t they? What about for fear of being unpatriotic?’
Alfred Hitchcock defused the tension as unwittingly as he had brought it about. The appearance of such a familiar figure on the terrace stopped the conversation at every table, and Lettice was one of many diners whose desire to move through to the restaurant became suddenly more urgent. For once, Archie was relieved to follow suit. Judging by the expression on Marta’s face, he wasn’t the only one.
8
Hitchcock handed the menu back to the waiter. ‘I’ll have the steak-and-oyster pie,’ he said, ‘but kindly remove the oysters.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘And bring some more wine.’
He smiled round at the table, and wondered who, if anyone, would be brave enough to question the purpose of the evening. So far, each of his guests was behaving more or less as he would have expected: Turnbull had drunk too much and was saying very little; Astrid Lake and Daniel Lascelles were both nervous, watchful for an opportunity to impress but too eager to please when it came; Spence was as detached from the conversation as usual, revealing nothing of himself except a wry amusement in the whole charade; and Alma sat by her husband’s side with that air of patient resignation which was as integral to their public relationship as her love and guidance were to their private life. Only David Franks surprised Hitchcock: he seemed preoccupied, his habitual friendliness replaced by a quiet unease, and several times Hitchcock caught him looking nervously at Turnbull. Bella would have livened things up considerably, but, in hindsight‚ it was just as well that she had declined his invitation; she was one of the few people he knew with a personality as dominant as his own, and he wasn’t in the mood to be eclipsed.
Every now and again, someone glanced curiously at the stranger in their midst and then at the rest of the party, but no one dared to say anything. In the end, it was the nun herself who broke the silence. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ she asked, peering across the table at Leyton Turnbull. Hitch frowned at her; he was used to people doing what they were paid to do and no more, but she seemed oblivious to the warning. ‘We’ve met before, surely? I never forget a face.’
Spence shook his head in mock admiration. ‘Started on the convents now, have you, Turnbull? Is no woman safe from your charms?’
Turnbull ignored him. ‘I’m an actor,’ he sa
id to the nun. ‘You probably recognise me from a film.’
Hitchcock was amused to see that he could still manage a note of pride in his voice as he spoke. ‘Don’t be so modest, Mr Turnbull,’ he protested. ‘You’re looking at one of our finest leading men, Sister Venetia. He can rise to anything.’
There was a snigger from down the table, but the nun was either oblivious to the innuendo or chose to ignore it. ‘I don’t watch films,’ she said firmly. ‘Murder, adultery, the worshipping of false idols – I can’t think of anything that manages to break God’s laws quite as effortlessly as the cinema.’ Her eyes remained fixed on Turnbull as she added‚ ‘It corrupts the soul.’
‘I can’t help thinking you might be happier at another table, Sister,’ Franks suggested.
‘You really have made a mistake,’ Turnbull insisted, and Hitchcock noticed that the attention was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He settled back in his seat to enjoy the entertainment, forgetting his irritation; he had no idea where David had found this woman, but he had to admit she was good.
‘It will come to me eventually,’ she said, and there was a barbed promise in the words which belied the smile they were delivered with. ‘You’ve changed, but I definitely know you.’
‘He hasn’t changed that much,’ Spence said. ‘I saw you dropping that girl off earlier, Turnbull. Old habits die hard.’
‘I was only giving her a lift back. She’d had an accident and her bicycle was damaged. What was I supposed to do? Drive past and let her walk?’
‘Mr Turnbull has quite an eye for the ladies, Sister,’ Spence explained conspiratorially. ‘That’s his latest, over there.’ He pointed to a dark-haired girl who had just joined the band on stage. Everyone turned to look at her‚ and Hitchcock noticed a flicker of recognition cross Lascelles’ face.
‘Ignore my colleague,’ Turnbull said. ‘His imagination runs away with him. It’s a casualty of the industry we work in. And we really haven’t met,’ he added firmly, trying to close the conversation once and for all. ‘I’d remember if we had. Anyway, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’
Hitchcock cut in before the nun could answer. ‘Sister Venetia takes care of my daughter’s education,’ he explained. ‘Alma and I wanted to bring her up as a good Catholic girl, and the sister runs an excellent school in Cavendish Square.’ He paused. ‘The only trouble is, she drinks.’
All eyes turned to the nun in astonishment. Her hand hovered over the glass she had been about to pick up, but she withdrew it and lowered her head. There was an uncomfortable silence as her shame touched everyone but the director. Eventually, Astrid made an effort to change the subject. ‘Are you making plans to go to Hollywood, Mr Hitchcock?’
Hitchcock looked at her and smiled. ‘You’ll have to ask the Madame,’ he said, winking at Alma. ‘She does continuity.’
‘If I had my way, Miss Lake, we’d be leaving for the plane in about ten minutes.’
Everyone laughed. Although Hitchcock knew that his wife’s comment was a subtle warning rather than a joke, he chose to ignore it. The waiter arrived with the wine‚ and, as the nun leant to one side to allow him to fill her glass, Hitchcock held up his hand. ‘Nothing more for her.’ He glared at her, and tried to keep any telltale trace of amusement out of his voice. ‘You know what happens when you drink. Don’t you remember St Moritz? You were lucky no one pressed charges. Now show some respect.’
‘Please . . .’
‘Absolutely not. You’re embarrassing everybody. Just be quiet.’
Hitchcock smiled apologetically at the other guests, and saw to his satisfaction that embarrassment was an understatement; no one knew where to look. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that tears were now falling quietly down the nun’s face, and he marvelled again at her performance. She continued to cry softly as the waiters served dinner, and eventually it became too much for Astrid Lake. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked gently.
Sister Venetia looked at her gratefully. ‘If I could just have a drop of . . .’
Hitchcock slammed his hand down hard on the table, knocking over a glass of wine in the process. ‘That’s enough,’ he shouted. ‘You’re ruining our whole evening and I won’t have you taking advantage of my guests. I should never have invited you. Go to your room.’
The nun stood and left the restaurant without another word. David got up to follow her, but Hitchcock put a hand on his arm. By this time, the embarrassment had spread to the rest of the diners‚ and the band’s cheerful rendition of ‘No One Can Like the Drummer Man’ was an incongruous backdrop to the tension. With all eyes on him, Hitchcock summoned a waitress to clear up the mess and calmly carried on eating. He knew without looking that Alma was staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and weariness; one day she would hit him for a stunt like this, if someone didn’t beat her to it. As the other diners tried to gauge if they could safely resume their conversations without missing anything, Jack Spence began to applaud. ‘It’s a gag,’ he said, and a ripple of nervous laughter ran through the restaurant, although several of the guests seated at Hitchcock’s table seemed unconvinced. ‘You’re a gag, too,’ Spence continued, pointing at Turnbull. ‘Always have been, always will be. One of these days, you’ll meet a woman who gives as good as she gets.’
‘I’m not sure what gives you the right to lecture me on how to treat a woman,’ Turnbull snapped. ‘It’s hardly your area of expertise.’ He drained his glass and looked defiantly at the other guests. ‘Women are there to take direction. Don’t you think so, Hitch?’
‘Oh, nothing pleases me more than to knock the ladylikeness out of chorus girls,’ Hitchcock said cheerfully, knowing that Turnbull was too far gone to notice the irony in his voice, or to realise that he was being encouraged to hang himself. Astrid Lake frowned; it was only a matter of time before she joined in, and he raised his glass to her with a wink. Across the table, David Franks smiled and shook his head in admiration.
‘Beautiful women think they’re too clever,’ Turnbull continued. ‘People will overlook lack of talent for a pretty face, but only for a while. After that, they have to think of other ways to get themselves noticed.’ He leant across Lascelles and put his hand on Astrid’s leg. ‘You’ve got a very pretty face, Miss Lake. What sort of films do you have a mind to star in?’
Danny stood up, his fists clenched, and for a moment Hitchcock thought he was going to use them, but Astrid put a hand on his arm and shook her head. ‘Watch your mouth, Turnbull,’ Lascelles warned as he sat down. ‘One more crack like that and she won’t be able to stop me.’
‘Is it true that you take what you can’t get, Mr Turnbull?’ Astrid’s voice was low and even, but she was obviously livid. ‘I hear you like to continue the action long after the director shouts cut.’
‘No prizes for guessing who’s been pouring poison in your ear.’
‘Is she lying?’
‘Bella would say anything to slur my reputation,’ he insisted, and looked to Franks for support. ‘Tell them, David. She’s always been out to get me.’
‘Just leave it, Turnbull. You’ve caused enough trouble with Bella tonight.’
‘Why do you always take that bitch’s side?’
‘I’m not taking her side, but I won’t side against her. She’s been too good to me.’
‘And will continue to be, no doubt, unless you step out of line.’ Even Hitchcock was surprised by the hatred in Turnbull’s eyes as he talked about Bella Hutton, and it occurred to him that if the actor had been capable of showing such pure emotion on screen, his career might have been very different. ‘She’s no fucking saint, David, so grow up and find yourself another idol to worship. Bella looks out for herself, just like we all do, and she doesn’t care who she hurts in the process. One of these days, you’ll wish I hadn’t stopped myself tonight.’
Hitchcock caught Franks’s eye. ‘Don’t forget our wager, David,’ he said, but his assistant scarcely seemed to care whether he won or lost.
&n
bsp; ‘And what sort of role model would you have been, I wonder?’ Franks asked, smiling innocently at Turnbull. ‘Perhaps things turn out for the best after all.’
9
‘Well, this has been considerably more engrossing than any of his films,’ Ronnie said.
The hotel’s beautiful curved dining room, which added a bold modernist touch to the original Victorian architecture, was as elegant on the inside as it was distinctive on the out: rich walnut walls blended effortlessly with a blush-rose ceiling and a floor of light polished oak, whilst the glazed, open frontage ensured that the restaurant was flooded with light for most of the day. Tonight, though, the surroundings paled into insignificance. All eyes were fixed on the Hitchcocks’ table, and Josephine pitied the musicians who had been booked to provide the official entertainment: their set – no matter how good – was bound to seem bland by comparison. She had watched on and off, intrigued more by the subtle dynamic between the Hitchcocks than by the histrionic reactions of their guests; Alma seemed smaller than ever next to her husband, but Josephine noticed how often he looked to her for a reaction to something he had said and was genuinely touched by the way his face lit up whenever she spoke. She had read somewhere that the director was shy, but to her he seemed watchful and quietly self-confident, able to express himself with ease and humour when he wished but just as content to stand back from the conversation and observe. As he drained his glass and stood up to leave the table, Alma whispered something in his ear‚ and he glanced in their direction and nodded. ‘Oh God, he’s coming over,’ she said, nudging Archie. ‘Just when I thought we’d got away with it.’
‘Shouldn’t that be “God is coming over”?’ Archie said acidly. ‘It’s how they’ve been behaving all night. No wonder the nun had to leave. It must have been quite confusing for her.’
Lettice frowned at him. ‘Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s so exciting.’
‘How do I look?’ Lydia asked, fumbling in her bag for a mirror.