The Bette Davis Club

by Jane Lotter

  Still gripping her box, Georgia hastens down the mezzanine stairs. She looks young and beautiful and utterly free. She glides past Tully—who ignores her—and hurries out into the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SOHO

  After Georgia leaves, Dottie keeps me company while I slip behind a Chinese screen and get dressed. Then the two of us go downstairs.

  Tully is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and checking e-mail on his phone. He looks up. “I have to see my agent,” he says.

  I must look surprised because Tully adds, “Won’t take long. It’s important.” He grabs his jacket from a chair, but when he reaches the door, he pauses. “When I come back,” he says, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Tell me now, if you like,” I say.

  “Later. It’s kind of a story.”

  “All right,” I say, mystified as to what the story could be.

  Before Tully goes, I make sure to give him a spare key so he can let himself back in. Then he leaves. Soon after that, Dottie departs as well.

  I’m once again alone in the shop. By now it’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry for something other than chocolate biscuits. I pour myself a glass of gin, then get out a pan and a couple of the eggs Tully purchased. I’m about to break an egg into a bowl, when the cell phone rings.

  “Miss Just? Margo?” a voice on the other end says. “Malcolm Belvedere. We met at your sister’s house in Malibu.”

  I remember sitting with Malcolm on that marble bench overlooking the Pacific. I picture his straight back and winning smile. “Hello,” I say.

  “I’m in town for the film festival,” Malcolm says. “And lo and behold, a little bird tells me that not only are you here, but also you have something that might interest me. Something that—well, why don’t you come round and we’ll discuss it?”

  I contemplate this invitation for a moment. Now that Georgia’s eloping with Ricky Wallingford, there’s no way I’ll get my sixty thousand dollars. The most I might hope for is half—thirty thousand. Though I’m not sure I trust Charlotte to come across with even that. Despite what Veronica said last night in her shop—that no one would ever make an Orson Welles movie in today’s market—perhaps I could pitch Malcolm An Innocent Lamb. Perhaps he’d be the one person left in Hollywood who might be interested in a script cowritten by Orson Welles and my father.

  So I tell him, Yes, I’ll come over.

  I down the rest of my drink. I put the eggs back in the refrigerator. I scoop up my leather tote from where I dropped it the night before in the kitchen. I take a taxi to Malcolm’s.

  Malcolm’s loft is in SoHo. It’s on the same street where Tommy had his birthday party, the night I met Finn, all those years ago.

  SoHo has changed greatly from when I first knew it. Back then, it was all raw space and artists’ studios. Now it’s chockablock with expensive boutiques and restaurants. No longer home to impoverished artists, it’s the upscale habitat of wealthy businessmen, bankers, and people like Malcolm Belvedere.

  The taxi lets me out in front of a landmark cast-iron structure built in the 1870s. I go upstairs. Malcolm himself greets me at his front door.

  “How pleasant to see you again!” he says. He takes my hand. “Cocktail?”

  While Malcolm mixes martinis, I put my bag down on a chair and look round his place. It has corner windows and high ceilings supported by white columns. The polished wood floors are so broad you could use them as a bowling alley. The furniture is European modern. Huge contemporary sculptures line the walls. I stop and study one.

  Malcolm brings me a large drink. “Cheers,” he says.

  “Cheers,” I say. We clink our glasses together.

  “You like this?” he asks me about the sculpture. “I look at it for hours sometimes.” His gaze drifts off the artwork and onto me. “You know,” he says, “that day we first met, I was thinking you might have had a film career.”

  I smile. “I think not,” I say.

  “I think yes. You’re a handsome woman. It’s only too bad you and I didn’t chance upon each other years ago. Though perhaps we can still do business.” The light in his eye makes me not altogether certain what type of enterprise he means.

  “Business of what sort?” I say.

  “Ah. I’ll tell you. The day before she was to be married, your niece telephoned me—”

  “She found out you were getting divorced,” I say. “She intended becoming the next Mrs. Malcolm Belvedere.”

  “You’re joking!” Malcolm says. “I wondered what she was up to!” He puts his index finger to his lips, thinking. “When you and I were chatting the morning of the wedding—remember? There was an odd feeling to the day. I was wondering even then if Georgia had jilted poor Tully. Still, me marry that intellectual dot? I make movies for girls like her; I don’t wed them.”

  “Georgia seemed to think you might,” I say.

  He laughs. “I’m no saint, it’s true. I’ve had women in my day. But dearest Margo, dear girl, when it comes to matrimony, when it comes to relationships, credit me with some discernment.” He gestures at the expensive sculptures surrounding us, as if their presence proves his high standards in women as well as in art. “As I say, Georgia Illworth called to tell me she was writing a screenplay. Out of respect for my business dealings with her mother, I said I’d take a look. But I was headed to Europe for a few days, so we agreed to rendezvous here in New York, during the film festival.”

  “And did you?” I say. “Rendezvous, I mean?”

  “No, because not one hour ago, she telephoned again. Today, in what I gather is a soul-cleansing confession coupled with the joys of young love—”

  “Baby, come to London?”

  “Precisely. Today, she gives me to understand said screenplay was actually penned by her grandfather, Arthur Just. Which, I confess, piques my interest enormously. She also says this long-lost text is now in your possession.”

  I sip my drink, which is strong. On an empty stomach, it feels even stronger. “I have two scripts by my father,” I say. “One of them he cowrote with Orson Welles.”

  “Orson Welles!” Malcolm laughs heartily. “Now you’re going back! That would be—what would that be? An artifact, a museum piece!” He laughs again. “I was acquainted with Welles. Immensely entertaining at parties, but a quirky and unreliable man in business. No, I’m not interested in anything by him, even if your father coauthored it. I’m interested in something your dad came up with all on his own.”

  “Spy Team,” I say.

  “That’s the one,” he says.

  “Trouble is, I’m rather tired of Spy Team.”

  Malcolm smiles. “All the more reason for me to take it off your hands.”

  “So tired,” I say, “that in the last few days, I’ve considered tearing it up.”

  Malcolm lowers his drink. “Dear me. In my opinion, that would be a mistake.”

  “It’s what my father would have wanted.”

  “Interesting you say that. Because by my way of thinking, if Arthur Just had wanted his work destroyed, he would have done so himself. But he didn’t. He left it behind.”

  “That was unintentional,” I say. “Spy Team meant only one thing to him: a paycheck.”

  “That’s what you believe, is it?” Malcolm says. “Myself, I knew a writer—not your father—who once told me his worst day writing was better than his best day not writing. You follow my train of thought?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m merely pointing out that perhaps your old man took more pride in Spy Team than you credit. He created that series, after all. Years later, it still has a great many fans.”

  Why do people insist on telling me about my own father? What can they possibly know or recollect about him that I don’t already know?

  “Spy Team’s fans don’t matter to me,” I say. “What matters is that my father was made miserable by the demands of Hollywood. And by the demands of his estranged wife, Irene.
Writing that ludicrous television series was the last straw. It killed him.”

  Malcolm gazes into his glass, frowning. “When I was a young man, I knew your father slightly. From what I saw at the time, I’d say it was drink that killed him.”

  I shake my head. “He drank because Hollywood drove him to it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm says, “I disagree. Arthur Just drank because he was an alcoholic. Everyone in the entire industry knew that about him.”

  I move to a window and look across at the building where Tommy used to live, the building where he threw his thirtieth birthday party. Admittedly, I never actually met Tommy. But I’m aware that people like him were driven out of SoHo by people like Malcolm. I take a last swallow of my martini.

  “A fondness for drink runs in the family, doesn’t it?” Malcolm says. “They say your mum—” He stops himself.

  My glass is empty. I set it on a table. I reach for my tote bag and pull out the Spy Team script. I take out my cigarette lighter as well. I stand there, script in one hand, cigarette lighter in the other. I begin flicking the lighter on and off, off and on.

  “Careful there,” Malcolm says. He puts down his drink and spreads his hands, as if attempting to keep his equilibrium. “Miss Just . . . Margo. Just Margo. Be reasonable.”

  I flick the lighter on and leave it on. The orange flame glows like a tiny candle. My hands tremble a little.

  “Steady,” Malcolm says. “That’s a worldwide box-office potential of half a billion dollars you’re holding there.”

  I move the lighter closer to the script. The paper is old and thin.

  “Dear girl,” Malcolm says, a note of command in his voice, “I’m serious. I couldn’t be more serious. Stop and think what you’re doing.”

  “I have thought,” I say. “I’m happy with my decision.”

  “Well, I’m not!”

  The truth is, I’m not sure what my decision is. I don’t know what I want to do with Spy Team. All I know is I’m tired of people with money, people with power. I’m tired of being pushed around. And I’m tired of being told what’s of value in my life and what’s not.

  “Domestic ticket sales alone of two hundred and fifty million dollars,” Malcolm says. “That’s more money than your father—”

  “Don’t say one more word about my father!” I cry.

  Whether panicked by the emotion in my voice, panicked by the flame I’m holding, or simply unhinged by the prospect of all those domestic ticket sales, Malcolm lunges at me, grabbing for the script. But when he does that, it throws me off-balance. In a blur, all I can think is to keep Malcolm from getting the script. Instinctively, I jerk both hands to my chest. The next thing I know, Malcolm backs off, an odd look on his face. I’ve won! I’ve got the script and the lighter!

  Only thing is, I’m holding them next to each other.

  For a nanosecond, I clutch a ball of flame. Then I feel the heat and drop everything to the floor. A throw hangs from an armchair. The ball of flame skitters under it. The throw catches fire.

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” Malcolm says. “You’ll burn the place down!”

  He tears off his suit jacket and steps forward, beating at the flames. Ash and smoke fly about. I watch, immobile, as Malcolm hits at the fire. It’s not a large blaze and he soon succeeds in smothering it with his jacket. When the fire is out, when all danger is past, he stomps on the few remaining embers.

  “You all right, dear girl?” he says. He glances my way. “Not burned or anything?”

  I tell him I’m all right.

  The two of us stand there, looking at the damage: the charred armchair, the pile of ashes on the floor beside it. The Spy Team script is destroyed. There’s nothing left but cinders.

  “Well, that’s done it,” Malcolm says. He’s out of breath. “That chair’s wrecked. I’ve ruined my jacket. Hand-sewn, don’t you know, in Milan.” He stares at the blackened coat in his hand, then drops it onto the ashes. “On top of everything else, did you notice? The bleeding smoke alarm didn’t go off. What am I paying that monitoring service for?”

  He rests one hand against a column and bends over, trying to catch his breath. His breathing is labored, and an odd sound comes out of him. It’s a sort of gasp, like he’s breathing hard. But it’s also a sob, like he’s crying. The next thing you know, he’s choking with it. I’m about to call for help when I realize Malcolm’s not choking. Not gasping. Not crying.

  He’s laughing. His shoulders are shaking and he’s holding his sides. He’s laughing so hard, he’s near tears. He takes off his black-rimmed glasses and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Christ, what a cock up!” he says, getting his laughter under control. “I’ve known women in my life. Innumerable women. But never, ever, one like you.” He puts his glasses back on. “Never one who incinerated the potential for half a billion dollars in worldwide box-office receipts. Lord love a duck, you must have been a willful child! No wonder the nuns gave you a hard time at that school you went to!”

  He looks at the pile of ashes. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

  “I’m not sure I did do it,” I say.

  “Well, it’s done now.”

  “I know I should apologize,” I say. “But I can’t. At the moment, I don’t know what I feel.”

  In a little gesture of resignation, Malcolm puts out both his hands, palms up. “A psychiatrist would tell us we’re both in a state of shock,” he says. “Though each of us for entirely different reasons.”

  Malcolm motions for me to sit down on the sofa. He seats himself on a wooden chair opposite. “I’m being sacked, you know,” he says.

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “Let go, from my own studio. I have fallen from grace. Forty-eight years in the business, twelve as studio head, and they’re handing me my marching papers.”

  “Oh,” I say. “No, I didn’t know that. Can’t you fight back?”

  “Dear girl, for the last hour I’ve been hoping to—with Spy Team! Not sure I want to anymore. Feeling my age, I suppose. Anyway, my number was bound to come up sometime.”

  He takes a cigar from a box on a table and lights it with a match. “Cleaning lady’s going to throw a fit when she sees this,” he says, indicating the pile of ashes. “She’s not a young woman.” He tosses the spent match onto the rubble.

  “What will you do?” I ask. “I mean, if you have to leave the studio?”

  “Oh, I’ll keep busy.” He tips back in his chair. “No less than five different publishing houses have asked me to pen my memoirs. They say it could even become a film—one of my life’s many ironies, I’m sure. Still, for the immediate future, I shall go on holiday. If I’m to be forced into retirement, then my only ambition for the next few months will be to travel, read, and perfect my knowledge of Italian cooking.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I say.

  “Could be. With the right companion.” Gently, Malcolm lets his chair legs drop back onto the floor. He gives me a look of great tenderness. “Miss Just—that is, Just Margo—would you like to come with me?”

  “Oh!” I say. “I really, I don’t—”

  He holds up his hands. “I know. Sudden and all that. But you must admit we’re simpatico. I felt it the moment we met.”

  “Yes, yes,” I say, blushing. “I won’t deny I found you attractive.”

  “All right then. Fact is, Georgia was right about one thing. My wife has left me. Gone off with the fellow who’s taking my job. ‘There’s glory for you,’ as wrote Lewis Carroll. So I’m a free agent. And I would never say you owe me, although . . .” He glances again at the ashes. “My sainted aunt. Half a billion dollars.”

  “I agree that’s a lot of money,” I say.

  Malcolm grins. “Then agree on something else—agree to come with me! I give you my word I’m capable of behaving like a gentleman. I wouldn’t bother you. Unless you wanted to be bothered. Do you enjoy—”

  “Being bothered?” I say. “Yes, like ev
eryone. I do. It’s only . . .”

  “Someone else?” Malcolm says. “Someone since Malibu? But you haven’t had time to—”

  I bite my lip.

  “Wait a moment,” Malcolm says. “Not the boy? Not Tully?”

  He leans forward, holding his cigar between his thumb and two fingers. “It is!” he says, looking at me closely. “There you see, once again. One of life’s many jokes. Do you know, I loved his mother in a way that . . . well, when she died, something of my own self went with her. Suppose that’s why I’ve a soft spot for her son. Course my time with Elizabeth was years ago. Never found anyone to break that particular spell. For a moment there, thought you might take a shot at it, dear girl.”

  “Malcolm, I—”

  “Ah. Well. Not to worry.” He makes a vague, accepting gesture. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  The room grows silent. The only sounds are the rumble of traffic down in the street and the wail of a distant siren.

  There’s nothing more to say.

  I get up from the sofa. I say good-bye to Malcolm and leave him sitting there beside the ashes, dreaming about his lost love. Dreaming about the lost millions of Spy Team.

  I go downstairs to the street. It’s afternoon. I stand outside the building, unsure what to do, unsure about what I just did. The fire didn’t touch me, but certain words of Malcolm’s had scorched me down to my soul: “Arthur Just drank because he was an alcoholic. Everyone in the entire industry knew that about him.”

  Haven’t I been saying I need money? Don’t I want to save Finn’s shop? If I want those things, then why was I so careless with the Spy Team script? What is it about my father, about my family—about me—that makes me feel so adrift? What is it that makes me destroy things, makes me destroy myself?

  Office workers on break, shoppers, tourists, all crowd the sidewalk. I make my way through the people and over to a trash can near the edge of the curb. I reach into my bag for my cigarettes and lighter. I stand there a moment, looking at them in my hand. Then I chuck them in the garbage.

  I walk on. I walk for quite a while, until it’s dark. Eventually, I figure out where it is I’m going. I dropped in once, years ago, but it didn’t take. It’s time to give it another shot.