by ILIL ARBEL
“I think the male mind as well,” said Mr. Yukon thoughtfully. “They can aspire to be like that and they love the fantasy. I guess it’s the price we have to pay for fame…”
Suddenly Miss Tudor said, “And here comes Miss Skull.” Emma jumped to her feet involuntarily. There was only one Miss Skull in the world, as far as Emma was concerned. Miss Odette Skull, the legendary designer, the doyenne of clothes, the creative genius behind so many costumes. Could that be her? Yes, it could, and Emma, trembling all over, soon shook hands with her idol, who was very kind to the awe-struck girl and quite happy to tell her the inside stories of Hollywood costumes. Emma forgot everyone else, including her own beloved affianced and the gorgeous Mr. Yukon, and listened with rapt expression, every so often asking a most intelligent question, which Miss Skull answered carefully and in detail.
When a short lull in the conversation between them occurred, though, Rush Yukon turned to Emma and said, “I was listening; you seem to know a great deal about clothes.”
“I am studying fashion in Paris,” said Emma proudly.
“I love clothes,” said Mr. Yukon. “And while I am totally uneducated, this is a subject I know something about.”
“You are very well dressed,” said Emma, looking at his faultless suit and perfect accessories. “But I would have never thought you would be interested in such things.”
“But I am,” said Mr. Yukon, smiling, “and I bet I know a few interesting and out-of-the-way places I could show you, places that even our incomparable Miss Skull never heard about. I must take you to these establishments sometime.”
Emma was a bit taken aback, since she was not sure if it was appropriate for an engaged young lady to run around with a magnificent creature like Mr. Yukon, but Edmond, noticing her hesitation, came to the rescue. “Great idea, Mr. Yukon,” he said. “Emma can learn a lot from you, I am sure.”
Mr. Yukon flashed a smile that would have dazzled Helen of Troy and the lovely Iseult (whose name we refuse to spell Isolde), notwithstanding Paris and Tristan, respectively, and said “But you must call me Rush. I know how formal you Britons are, but here you are in America and we are much quicker to assume a first-name basis. When in Rome, you know…”
“Very well, Rush, then,” said Emma, who felt surprisingly comfortable with this young man despite his fame and fortune. “And thanks for the invitation. I am looking forward to our excursion.”
At that moment, the housemaid, who had not bothered to announce any of the previous guests, entered the winter garden and said formally, “The General and Mrs. Lewis,” and vanished. Mrs. Lewis, the ci-devant Miss Brinton, entered with a gentleman who was so obviously military that his nice civilian suit seemed entirely out of place.
“General Lewis, how elegant you look in your civilians,” remarked Glamora.
“Thank you, Miss Tudor. I feel like a monkey in them, to be quite honest, but what can I do? I must accept retirement in good spirit. Besides, would Meg have married me if I were still in the military and running all over the world, trying to save all these fake new nations from themselves? I am not at all sure about it. So all is well.” And he smiled most affectionately at his wife.
“I have some good news for you, Mr. Goldwasser,” said Mrs. Lewis. “The gentleman from the horticultural society in Arizona has answered my letter. Not only does he have the seeds of this disgusting cactus Lady Norton set her heart on, but he will deliver them in person, since he is going for a full year to England, to teach in Kensington Royal Gardens.”
“How wonderful,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Mrs. Lewis, I am happy to say you have not allowed married life to cause a change in your style and your efficiency. Would you kindly write to Lady Norton?”
“I already have, Mr. Goldwasser. Naturally I had to do so since I knew it would make her very happy. But there was something else I wanted to bring up. Mr. Alcott must think of a good place to live. Mr. Alcott, when the interviews and the rest of the publicity begin, you can’t remain in your small apartment.”
“You mean I need a real house?” asked Mr. Alcott, obviously panicking. “I know nothing about getting houses, or taking care of houses, for that matter.”
“I will help you to look for a house,” said Mrs. Lewis briskly. “You need a small, but elegantly appointed house; you are a star, Mr. Alcott, and you might as well get used to it. And I will also arrange for staff, probably a housemaid, a cook, and a valet.”
“But all this would cost a great deal,” said Mr. Alcott timidly, as usual looking at Maisie for support. “What if I fail miserably and then be stuck with all these expenses?” The whole group started laughing.
“The likelihood of failing is very low right now,” said Rush. “Once the ball is rolling. Judging from experience and observation, you have at least ten years to be a successful heart-throb, and make a great deal of money. You must put some money aside, and then, if and when you fade, you will have enough to start a business. Many actors invest in restaurants, things like that, so when the time comes, they are ready to resume normal life, away from this madhouse. Believe me, there is life after Hollywood, and I, for one, won’t regret it at all.”
“Why not stay in my house for the time being, Nes?” asked Glamora. “It is the perfect size for a single man, it is elegant and well furnished, and it is free of charge. Just look after the house until we decide what to do with it.”
“Miss Tudor, er, Mrs. Goldwasser, what an honour…” stammered Mr. Alcott. “I will consider it a sacred duty and a pleasure and…” realizing that he was getting entangled in his own speech, he added, “Thank you so much.”
“Excellent idea, Glam,” said Mr. Goldwasser, looking benevolently at his new star who seemed to be cowering under the pressure. “As soon as Alcott is settled, which should not take long, we will arrange for a photo interview. And yes, Mrs. Lewis, he will need staff right away.”
“Indeed. I will take care of everything,” said Mrs. Lewis, with her usual tone of authority that had to be obeyed.
A little later, a man appeared at the door of the winter garden. He was extremely tall and quite thin, and his face had a strong resemblance to a rather sad monkey.
“Denis!” said Glamora. “I am so glad you could make it. I almost gave up on you.”
“I am sorry, I was held up at rehearsal,” said the gentleman. “These dancers can be trying at times.”
“Never mind, allow me to introduce you. Mrs. Rivers, this is the one and only Denis Stonor. And these are Miss Robinson and Mr. Alcott. Of course, you know everyone else.”
“I have heard so much about you from Lord Bond,” said Mr. Rivers. “I am from Barsetshire, too.”
Mr. Stonor looked at her oddly. “You are from Barsetshire, and your name is Mrs. Rivers…” he said pensively, his sad monkey-like face very thoughtful and serious. “Could I hope to find out that you are Mrs. Hermione Rivers, the authoress?”
“Indeed I am,” said Mrs. Rivers, surprised. Deep in her heart, despite all her delusions and pretensions, she knew perfectly well that her readers were mostly women of the not-quite-upper-classes, and she did not expect this famous composer, cosmopolitan, educated, and well-bred, to even know her books existed.
“I read every single book you have ever written,” said Mr. Stonor. Mrs. Rivers was so shocked by this statement that for a few seconds she was speechless, and then all she could say was, “Why?”
“Because they are psychologically penetrating and fascinating,” said Mr. Stonor with great candour. “Some day, if you will allow me, I will go further into it, and perhaps you will do me the honour of explaining some points on which I require clarification. But for the moment, I must say that the way you grasp and describe the tension between a mature, elegant woman of the world, and a younger man who cannot help being attracted to her, all the while knowing it is a hopeless quest, is masterful. You know the human heart, Mrs. Rivers.” He said that in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if he wanted no one else to hear him. Mrs. Rivers s
uspected that Mr. Stonor was talking about his own experience, but good manners forbade her to ask any questions. She was burning with curiosity, though, and knew she wanted to pursue this conversation very much.
“Of course, Mr. Stonor,” she said amiably, “I will be happy to discuss my books with you, and do my best to clarify any obscure point.”
“Where are you staying, Mrs. Rivers? May I call on you next week?”
“I am staying right here, with Mr. and Mrs. Goldwasser,” said Mrs. Rivers. “I am sure they will give us permission to use their library one afternoon for our literary discussion, and then undoubtedly invite you to tea.” She turned to Miss Tudor for her consent, but Miss Tudor had not heard their conversation, nor had anyone else. Perhaps it was for the best this way. We certainly think so.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rivers,” said Mr. Stonor, and his face was momentarily illuminated by one of his rare and beautiful smiles, transforming the monkey-like face and making it extremely attractive. “And if I bring a few of your books, would you autograph them for me?”
“I will be honoured,” said Mrs. Rivers. “Do you really have them?”
“Oh, yes, I have been buying them regularly for years, ever since I was in Barchester, staying with my relatives, Mr. and Mrs. Middleton,” said Mr. Stonor. “Someone gave me one of them, and I was entranced. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Rivers, the reason I was so attracted to your books is because they described my own state of mind. But we should not discuss it here. Some day, if you like, I will tell you some more; I am sure I could trust you with my story.”
“I will consider it a sacred trust,” said Mrs. Rivers, who was beginning to feel as if she was placed inside one of her own novels, a most pleasant sensation.
***
Even though we are now spending some of our time away from our natural milieu, namely Barsetshire, that does not mean we have forgotten our friends there. We must leave the glittering society of our friends in Hollywood for a while, and go to Norton Hall, which, I suspect, may be a great relief for some of our readers. If we may be allowed to divagate for a minute, we would like to thank our loyal readers for putting up with our extravagant trips. We know, of course, that most thinking people would much rather spend time in Barsetshire than in the artificial splendour of Hollywood, or as Palmer would put it, Sodom and Gomorrah, but since we are following the fortunes of such old friends as Mr. Goldwasser, Miss Tudor, Maisie, and Mr. Alcott, we must. After all, that is their natural milieu, and we will never know them very well unless we visit them there. And let us not forget that Emma and Edmond also have great hopes hanging on Hollywood, and we would not like to disappoint them. But we promise not to stay there for too long. So let us see what was taking place in Norton Hall.
Lady Norton was at her private sitting room, but even though she was surrounded by all the reassuring and restful bric-a-brac, pillows, lace doilies, and everything else, and even though the room was very comfortable and had a roaring fire built in the fireplace, she was not relaxing. She sat at her elegant desk, which was piled with blueprints depicting various elevations of the cactus house, which were sent to her by the noted architect, Mr. Middleton, who was going to build it for her. Lady Norton felt rather overwhelmed by these designs, but she knew that if she asked Mr. Middleton to explain them, all she could hear would be a barrage of verbiage that no one could check, let alone understand. Perhaps, she thought, she could find his partner, Mr. Alister Cameron, but even he, though certainly much easier to get along with, was not who she wanted at that moment. Her thoughts wandered into the past.
Our readers may think that no one could possibly miss the toady, the sycophant, the unbearable Mr. Holt, whom we had met so many years ago when he visited Rushwater with such unhappy results during Martin’s seventeenth birthday party. Possibly, no one even remembered him. But at that moment, Lady Norton would have been very happy to see him. Yes, he was an awful little man, but he shared her great love of horticulture, and he would have been so helpful with the cactus house, not to mention taking care of the cactus itself, the wonderful Echinocactus horizonthalonius var. nicholii which might turn out to be an extremely temperamental plant. Even his worst enemies, and there were plenty of those, could not deny Mr. Holt’s knowledge and deep love of gardening. Well, thought Lady Norton, you cannot bring back the past. How sad.
At this moment the housemaid walked in with a few letters on a silver tray. “Thank you, Carla,” said Lady Norton absent-mindedly, and took the letters. Two of them were from America, and as Lady Norton opened the first one, her troubled countenance changed into a smile. It was from Mrs. Lewis, she who was Miss Brinton and who had always met with Lady Norton’s approval because of her efficiency and imperious manner, as long as she did not use it against Lady Norton herself. It contained the wonderful news, which we already told our readers, about the availability of the seeds of Echinocactus horizonthalonius var. nicholii and the visit from the expert. This news cheered Lady Norton considerably, but the second letter was even better. It was from the horticulture expert himself, and it was everything Lady Norton could wish for, just the right blend of deference to a titled English Lady, combined with the evidence of deep knowledge of his subject. And not only was he looking forward to meeting her, but even had read her books! And he was at her disposal for starting the precious seeds! Lady Norton, in the state of euphoria of one who was about to have a wish magically granted, namely the seeds of the grotesque cactus with help on the way, immediately took out some writing paper and pen and invited Professor Erich Buckholz-Schuller to stay with her for as long as he wished.
After giving the letter to the butler to take to the post office as early in the morning as possible, she telephoned Mr. Cameron at his home. His wife, the wonderful lady who we all know as Lilian Stonor, née Middleton, answered the call.
“Lady Norton, an unexpected pleasure,” she said. “I imagine you are calling Alister about the greenhouse?”
“Yes,” admitted Lady Norton. “I am sorry to say that about your brother, but you probably know that asking Mr. Middleton for an explanation of the blueprints would be futile.”
“Indeed I do, Lady Norton,” said Mrs. Cameron. “Even I can never understand him. I do wonder what makes him talk so much… but then again, it might be a family curse. I talk too much myself, but I hope in a less overbearing manner.”
“You are never overbearing,” said Lady Norton politely. And she, as an expert on the subject of acting in the most overbearing manner imaginable, probably knew what she was talking about.
“I will call Alister,” said Mrs. Cameron. “And Lady Norton, both Mrs. Middleton and myself are dedicated gardeners. We look forward to seeing the completed greenhouse. Alister tells me it is going to be done on a grand scale, and much of the equipment is coming from America. I do like cacti, you know.”
“As soon as it is up I will invite you to visit it,” said Lady Norton with sudden enthusiasm. “It will not be finished before Mr. Goldwasser and his crew come back to film the sequel to the film, but it should not signify. They are not going to be near it, unless they particularly want to look at it, even though they filmed quite a bit in the greenhouses and plan to do some more. You see, Mrs. Cameron, I am putting the new greenhouse further away, in an area that would take as much advantage of the sun as possible, if this can be said in England. Of course we shall have plenty of artificial light.”
“That will be delightful,” said Mrs. Cameron. “I will tell Mrs. Middleton about your kind offer, she will be very pleased. And now I will go and call Alister.”
“Lady Norton,” said Mr. Cameron pleasantly. “What can I do for you”
“I would very much like to have the blueprints explained to me, Mr. Cameron,” said Lady Norton. “I would rather talk to you than to your partner, if this is possible.”
“Of course, I will be happy to come over at your convenience,” said Mr. Cameron. “Mr. Middleton does not explain things very well, no matter how long he talks, so it will b
e best.”
They settled the day of his visit, and Lady Norton, well pleased with her evening’s work, took out an obscure Who’s Who in American Horticulture and looked up professor Erich Buckholz-Schuller. She gasped at his credentials. The position he held in Austria until the war, when he was obliged to escape to America, was only equalled by his current position, which was extremely high. And he had published a dozen books and many articles… The gentleman was a star in the horticultural heaven. What an opportunity, thought Lady Norton, and went downstairs to see to the houseplants in the drawing room, her usual evening chore which she would not yield to any servant. Her mind was full of images of the cactus that soon was to grow into monstrous proportions in the new cactus house. And Mr. Holt was sadly forgotten one more time – but he will be remembered again some day.
Chapter Four
Mr. Alcott got out of his car and opened the gate. A stunningly handsome young man, evidently an aspiring actor like most of Hollywood’s denizens, no matter what they did to earn a living, was engaged in trimming the hedges, and another one who looked very much like him was mowing the lawn. A truck that stood by made it clear that they were hired by a professional gardening service that was kept after Glamora moved into Mr. Goldwasser’s house. The two waved at Mr. Alcott in the friendliest manner, and he waved back and entered the house.
Mr. Alcott put his bags down by the entrance, and walked gingerly into Miss Tudor’s empty drawing room. True, he was no longer in love with Miss Tudor, but the feeling of awe remained. To live in the house of one who once was his Goddess was intimidating. He thought he should look around, see where his bedroom was to be, where the kitchen was located, but his nervousness kept him fidgeting in the drawing room. He longed for fresh orange juice, and was annoyed at himself for not stopping on his way to buy some, but it was too late. Obviously, there would not be any fresh foods in a house that was unoccupied, so there was no sense in searching for it in the kitchen. He stood in the middle of the room, trying to muster the courage to explore the house, when suddenly the doorbell rang loudly, startling Mr. Alcott considerably. He went to answer the door, wondering who could be visiting him so soon; Maisie, the most likely visitor, was busy that evening with long meetings, and not too many people knew about his move.