Quentin didn’t, but he nodded just the same.
‘Professionally, though, I never lost my admiration for Roy. He could see what television was doing to the studios and he fought it, threw money at it – they all did – but finally television won. People worship the one-eyed idol.’
‘They’re still making movies,’ he observed.
‘Yes, but the golden age is behind us – and ahead of us! I’ve got a lot of good scripts on hand, but my main challenge now is to convince someone to care about a couple of Midwest bank robbers in the thirties.’
‘If anyone can, you can.’
‘Well, you might not be so complimentary when I tell you that the studio that was so excited about producing September Street has entirely let the thing lapse. They’re not picking up the option again. It’s a no go.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. It would have made a fine film. There are other possibilities surely.’
‘Of course. A good agent never gives up. I’ll continue to look for a film option. However, I’ve brought you a consolation prize. A gift. Two gifts.’ She picked up her alligator briefcase, and drew out a fat, folio-sized envelope, and then another, a good deal thicker. She stacked them on the tea table. ‘These are for you. Hand delivered. A gift from Roy in a manner of speaking.’
The envelopes both had the Regent Film logo boldly stamped on them. Quentin frowned.
‘When Roy died, Aaron and the Lotus were on safari in Africa – I’m sure they went there to teach the lions how to maul their prey – but they were far away. Doris was distraught, this time for real, a serious mess, and she kept saying there were things we had to do to protect Roy. I said, sure. So I spent days, weeks, really going through Roy’s things. I saved a lot of stuff Aaron would have destroyed. Like this.’ Gigi put her hand out on one of the envelopes, her polished nails and ruby ring gleaming red. ‘Frank Carson’s script for Some of These Days. The one he actually wrote. After what you went through for him, I thought you deserved to have it. There’s a few letters to Roy in there too, some where Frank is ripping Roy a new sphincter, calling him a philistine, and worse, and then the next page, sometimes the next paragraph, snivelling, slathering on the praise, hoping to get Roy to … well, it’s all pretty abject stuff. Nauseating, really.’
‘Writers often debase themselves on behalf of their work. The writer who says he won’t is lying. The agent’s job is to see that they don’t have to.’
‘Yes, well, Frank didn’t have an agent there, did he? He was on his own. He lost this battle, as you know. Poor bastard. Don’t even think of trying to publish it.’
Quentin suppressed a laugh to think how swiftly she had read his mind. ‘And why not?’
‘It isn’t his. Or his wife’s or yours. It belongs to Regent Films. It says so on the first page.’
‘But they no longer exist.’
‘True, but they have heirs and assignees and all the rest of it, and though Regent’s finished, Aaron has landed on his feet, and he hasn’t changed one bit. Dealing with him will cost you more money than you ever dreamed of. So, you can perish that thought.’ She drank her tea, and placed the cup in the saucer with an affirmative plink. ‘This is a gift, but you have to promise me you won’t use it to tarnish Roy’s name.’
‘Tarnish? That phrase sounds like something from a Victorian novel, not Gigi Fischer.’
‘You Brits aren’t the only ones with respect. He wasn’t a saint, but I’m still loyal to Roy. It’s the past, Quentin.’
‘You have my word I won’t tarnish Roy’s name. Did you read Frank’s script?’
‘I did. Not half bad. Really, quite good, I think. Honestly, if they’d stuck with what he wrote, Some of These Days might have been an OK picture. Certainly better than that farce they ended up with. A big, blowsy Hollywood musical about the 1906 earthquake. Whose goddamned idea was that?’
‘Whose was it?’
‘Whoever it was never fessed up. Everyone tried to walk away from Some of These Days but the stink stuck to everyone associated with it. Some of These Days was the beginning of the end for Roy and Regent. For everyone. The last I heard Gilbert Vernon was in Vegas booking acts for one of the hotels. Linda finally divorced him, but by then even Louella Parsons didn’t care. Linda only did a couple of pictures after Some of These Days. She’s actually a competent actress, but she’ll never work again. Fifteen years past her heyday, and she’s a tub of lard compared to what’s considered beautiful now. Look at these London girls with their short skirts and clingy sweaters and skinny legs and their big eyes! All madcap runabouts, like extras from A Hard Day’s Night, or The Knack.’
‘They are, rather. Over here they call them birds.’ He smiled.
‘Did you ever see Some of These Days?’
Now Quentin had to stand. He walked to the window and opened it and the smell and noise of the street below blew in. ‘I was bloody speechless. I could barely sit through it. I didn’t think anything could be that bad. Poor Frank. They did that to his book, and he had to die?’
‘Listen, baby.’ Gigi smashed out her cigarette for emphasis. ‘Frank Carson was his own force of nature, all of it destructive. Everyone whose life he touched, at least in Hollywood, got burnt up, or was destroyed. He left rubble behind him, Quentin, ruination and everlasting regret. Frank Carson only did one good thing in his entire life, and that was introduce me to you.’
Quentin laughed out loud. ‘His wife and daughters might disagree.’
She placed her hand on the second envelope. ‘These are the wife’s letters. Why or how these letters got saved when they cleaned out Frank’s villa, I don’t know. I think Aaron cleaned it out, went through the place with his own fair lawyerly hands, but that’s just a guess.’
‘The bastard lied to me.’
‘Why are you surprised? Aaron is a snake.’
‘And the second suitcase? Where is that?’
‘There is no second suitcase. Maybe there never was. You only have the wife’s word on that, after all.’
‘Yes.’
She rested her jewelled hand atop the envelope. ‘I assume you’ll give these to the wife.’
‘They’re hers by rights.’
‘She also needs to understand that I don’t want all that old shit about Frank dredged up. Roy’s not around to defend himself—’
‘He didn’t defend himself then! Of course,’ Quentin added, still stung after all these years at their high-handed, lying disdain, ‘he didn’t need to. He was Roy Rosenbaum, and he could do what he liked.’
‘And now he’s dead and I don’t want Doris upset over something so paltry as the past.’
‘If you really thought the past was paltry, you wouldn’t care at all.’
‘Well, touché, baby, but I mean it. I don’t want dirt stirred up on Roy.’
‘I will see to it that Mrs Carson respects your wishes, Gigi.’
‘She must have no shame.’
‘Who?’
‘Frank Carson’s wife.’
‘That’s a rather cruel thing to say about someone you don’t know.’
‘If I knew her, I might have phrased it differently, but it doesn’t change the truth. All that humiliation she endured? All that …’ Gigi’s voice trailed off. ‘Reading those letters was painful, I mean that, viscerally painful. My God, she must have really loved him! Those letters are desperate and ardent and angry, and heartbreaking crazy.’
‘You read them? Really, Gigi? I find that …’
‘I’m Nosy-Nell, sue me. She’s a hell of a writer, but I’d never want to love anyone like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like she loved Frank Carson. To give someone that much power over you? To risk everything like she did? This woman abdicated everything there was to give up, gnashed and threatened and splattered herself, heart and soul, guts and pride, all splayed across these pages, and Frank didn’t give a shiny shit. Some of her letters weren’t even open, if you must know.’
‘You opened
them?’ Quentin heard his own intake of breath. ‘Isn’t that …’
‘Like I said, sue me. Sure, I opened them. Who’s to care?’
‘Well, Claire Carson for one!’
‘Who’s to know? Unless you tell her.’ She lit up again, her silver lighter filling the air with the scent of flammable daring. He did not reply, and she shut the lighter with a snap. She inhaled and repeated, ‘Frank Carson didn’t give a damn about her any more. These letters are An Inconvenient Wife all over again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not likely to forget a phrase like lightning to someone else’s thunder. Wasn’t that one of the chapters in An Inconvenient Wife?’
‘So?’
‘It’s just odd to me, Quentin, that a book that Frank wrote would sound so much like the letters his wife wrote. I told you, some of them weren’t even open.’
‘It’s just a phrase. He probably said it.’
‘Probably. Anyway, their marriage was over. That much is clear. All marriages come to that. No matter if you stay together or not. They’re over.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Gigi finished her tea, and dabbled her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘Phil is my third husband, so I’m something of an expert on—’
The door flung open, and a young woman burst in, her voice ringing. ‘I promise you, Miss Marr, Quentin won’t care!’ Short skirt, clingy sweater, long legs and enormous blue eyes, her fair hair caught in two pigtails framing her face. ‘Oh! I didn’t know you had company.’
‘That is a lie! Liar!’ Miss Marr screamed, standing in the doorway, her cane upraised, waving wildly, her eyes burning with rage. ‘I told her! I forbade her to—’
The girl kicked the door shut in her face.
‘Really, Mary!’ Quentin remonstrated, rising, dismayed by Miss Marr’s strident fury, so unlike the mousy, taciturn woman he knew. ‘You’re so rude to poor Miss Marr! You must apologize.’
‘She can be such a sour old cow.’
‘Nonetheless!’
‘Oh, very well, I will. I promise. But I can’t just now. I have an audition! It’s in—’
‘Mary, meet Georgina Fischer. Gigi is a friend of mine from California, a film agent. Gigi, meet Miss Mary Carson.’
‘Frank Carson’s daughter?’ asked Gigi, the question more to Quentin than to the girl.
‘I am,’ Mary retorted, bristling slightly. ‘One of them.’
‘Mary and her sister Catherine are both students at RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts,’ said Quentin before Gigi could respond. Gigi’s candour could be dangerous, and he so hoped she wouldn’t say something coarse about Frank to a girl who could hardly remember him.
Mary flung her massive handbag on his desk. ‘I’ve an audition, Quentin! Catherine too! They need twins. We’re not twins, but we’re sisters. Can I change here in the office? I don’t mean to chase you out, but you know I can’t put my make-up on in the office loo. The light in there is just bloody awful, and someone’s always eating their bloody lunch in the staffroom. Please, Quentin, can I have your office for just a bit? To change for the audition? It’s for a Richard Lester picture!’
‘Really? We were just talking about Richard Lester. A Hard Day’s Night.’
‘Catherine was in that,’ she proudly advised Gigi. ‘She was one of the girls in the train station, chasing the Beatles before they scooted into the car. She didn’t get a credit, of course, but she’s there, and she’s in another scene too. A crowd scene.’
‘That must have been a lot of fun,’ Gigi remarked.
‘Oh, it was. But these, these are real roles, concubines for the orgies and dancers for the funeral. This film’s from a play, a musical, A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the Way to the Forum. Buster Keaton is in it! I could actually meet Buster Keaton! Can you imagine, Quentin?’
He laughed to hear her use Claire’s favourite expression. Mary and Catherine had their mother’s bright presence, her energy and enthusiasm, though neither had quite inherited her beauty. ‘I can indeed imagine.’
‘They start filming in autumn in Spain, and they’re casting now for twins, sisters.’
‘It’s a great opportunity for you both,’ he said.
Mary grew suddenly serious. ‘Of course, it’s not Ophelia.’
‘It will be much more fun than Ophelia.’
‘I can’t go looking like this! Can I change here?’
‘Of course. Gigi and I were just going to lunch.’
‘As soon as I use the loo,’ said Gigi, stubbing out her cigarette, and gathering her handbag. She turned to Mary, and said with perfect sincerity, ‘I met your father several times at my stepfather’s house. Frank Carson was brilliant and everyone adored him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was a pleasure to be in his company.’ Gigi gave Quentin a look that forewarned him she would question him mercilessly at lunch. ‘Back in a flash,’ she added on her way out the door.
Quentin took the two envelopes Gigi had brought and put them in a drawer. ‘The place is yours, Mary. When are you and Catherine and I going to tea again? It’s been a week at least.’
‘We’ll celebrate when we get the parts.’
‘The Ritz,’ he promised. ‘Concubines at the orgy, dancers at the funeral. Best of luck, ducky.’
Her face lit, pleased. ‘Oh, by the way, Quentin, word to the wise, Mum’s got her knickers in a knot because you never answered her letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘She wrote she didn’t want to do any more editing, and she’s been waiting for you to reply, or call, or something.’
‘I never got any such letter.’
‘Well, tell her that. She thinks you’re sulking. She hates sulking.’
‘Why doesn’t she want to do any more editing?’
Mary shrugged. ‘How should I know? Oh and … Catherine and I … we’d rather you didn’t say anything to Mum about the auditions today. We don’t want her to know unless we get the parts. She expects a lot of us. Too much, Catherine says.’
‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘As always.’
‘But really, Mary, you two should share more of your lives with your mother. I’m sure she’d like to cheer you on whether you get the parts or not.’
‘You like to cheer us on, Quentin. Mum likes it when we win.’
‘Well, my lips are sealed.’ He started for the door. ‘Oh, and be nice to Miss Marr on your way out, will you? Apologize?’
‘Yes. Promise. Sorry.’
But by the time Mary Carson had changed her clothes, undone the pigtails and shaken her fair hair free, teased it up, and sprayed it, applied her make-up, pressed on her false eyelashes, and made her lovely exit into what was certainly going to be a role as the concubine at the orgy, the dancer at the funeral and the glorious future she imagined, Miss Marr was not at her desk.
Miss Marr was in the staffroom next to the loo where there was a hotplate, a sink for washing up, a shelf for tea things, a single deep chair, and a tiny table. She was eating her egg salad sandwich. She was alone. Her bread was streaked with blue from the carbon paper stains on her fingers. Her piece of fruit and digestive biscuits were on a saucer. Beside her on the hotplate, the kettle prepared to boil.
Gigi had such an enlivening effect on him that had he been more musical, Quentin himself might have burst into a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan as he climbed the stairs after lunch. He was still basking in being the envy of every man at The Gay Hussar, from the busboys to the peers of the realm, to have on his arm a woman so chic, so clearly unique, smart and savvy as well. His jovial mood evaporated immediately upon seeing Miss Marr, who glared at him. He instantly feared the worst. ‘I hope Mary Carson made her apologies, Miss Marr.’
‘She did not.’
‘Well then, I apologize on her behalf. She behaved very badly indeed. She can be a bit of a hoyden.’
‘Is that what you call it, Mr Castle? You a
re always excusing her. Excusing both of them. They are not little girls any more. They are women.’
‘She was unpardonably rude.’
‘It’s not the first time. She and her sister, both, her mother too, they all treat me as though I am invisible.’ Her lower lip trembled slightly.
‘You should always be accorded respect,’ he offered, but to avoid further exchange on this touchy subject, Quentin moved quickly to his own office and closed the door.
He retrieved the two Regent Films envelopes Gigi had brought, pushed his other obligations aside and set them on the desk. Now his mood soured. He played with the seal on the envelope, opened it, closed it again. Gigi had had no qualms about reading these letters, even – the cheek! – opening ones that Frank had left unread. Quentin had qualms, but they were not of a moral sort. His, he told himself, were more complex. Did these letters threaten the equilibrium of his life?
Five years ago the manuscript of Sybil Dane’s Woodland War Years had threatened a storm. Quentin and Claire had weathered it. Not without tears, but weathered it nonetheless. He never told her he had kept the manuscript from her. Indeed, he only gave it to her when Enid alerted him that she had found a publisher. Claire’s reaction to the manuscript was much as he had feared, passionate, unbounded, devastating. The treachery of her own son! The hideousness of that stinking bitch, Sybil! Quentin offered up a tidy lie to cover his tracks so he could go and stay with her in Oxford for a week. But really, the following year, when Woodland War Years was actually published, it was not nearly as incendiary as the manuscript. The truly libellous stuff had been expunged, though the tone remained overwrought, and full of hyperbole for Hay Days, for Francis Carson and his muse, Sybil Dane. Some merciful editor had prevailed upon Sybil to take out passages suggesting she might be more than a mentor to her ami de mon coeur, Michael Carson. Publication created a flurry of gossip and a handful of mostly dismissive reviews, though the juicier ones noted that Francis Carson had not married his wife till after their son was born. Claire refused to comment, and her response came exclusively through Castle Literary Ltd. Quentin suppressed the urge to remark publicly that he’d always known Michael Carson was a bastard.
Three Strange Angels Page 31