by Kim Izzo
“Is that so? You’re nobody, Clara. Don’t get in the way of Dean’s success,” she snapped.
I smiled a moment, savouring the opportunity. “Don’t mess with me,” I warned her calmly. “I could ruin you before you even begin. You need to be taught some respect.”
She flinched. It was a far cry from our first interaction on Dean’s set and I loved it.
“You can tell Dean that Frederick is going to meet with him. I asked him to and he agreed, though I don’t know why I bothered,” I said coolly. “Now hurry along. It’s past your bedtime.”
I stepped away without a backwards glance. But my breathing was rapid, as though I’d run a great distance. After turning a corner, I stopped in front of a hallway mirror. The reflection was of a seductive and powerful woman, a woman who was in control. Yet I knew it was more than an image, beyond what I’d created with makeup and pretty things made of satin and mink and beyond the fog and black and white. It was a sensation, one I felt far below my skin and hair; I felt it in my bones. It was Alicia Steele’s noir underworld swallowing me whole at last. In that moment I knew that both the fictional and the real Clara were one and the same and that she was a hell cat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Frederick insisted on driving me to the flat, which was just as well considering I had the train case to contend with. It sat balanced on my lap in the passenger seat of his curvy convertible Jaguar. The interior was pale, might have been tan, might have been ivory, but that was tough to confirm and wasn’t worth asking. It was an arrogant but classy automobile, and that suited him. We didn’t speak much. An opera singer howled from the car stereo as I watched London whir by in a streak of white lights, when he swerved to miss some drunken revellers who stepped off the curb in front of us. He cursed and the train case landed with a soft thud at my feet.
“Bloody punks!” he yelled. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said and stared down at the train case.
He pulled the car up in front of the townhouse and made like he was going to get out to open the door for me.
“Don’t bother getting the door,” I said with a polite smile and looked up at the warm glow in the windows that belonged to the flat. “Looks like Trinity’s waiting up for me. You know, she should audition for you too.” There, I’d kept my promise and it served two purposes; it would make Trinity happy that I’d tried, and it also made Frederick want to get away as fast as possible.
“I’ll give it some thought. And we will figure out a weekend soon. I have production matters to deal with,” he stated.
“The weekend only happens if Alicia gets a part,” I said smoothly.
He grinned in a way I didn’t like and goosed his engine. “Have a good night. I will ring you.”
“Sure,” I said and got out of the car. That was a benefit of the times: without smart phones and computers it would be much easier to play hard to get.
I waited until his car had disappeared around the corner before heading along the front walkway. Something caught my eye in the hedgerow and I stopped to investigate. It was a leather case the size of a large briefcase that someone had abandoned. It was old and banged up and had that worn quality to it that vintage leather has. It was beautiful. I flipped open the clasps and lifted the lid. To my amazement there was a portable typewriter inside. The body was dark plastic, not quite black, maybe mahogany. The keys were all there and it still had a ribbon in it. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would toss it out. I decided to take it with me. It was heavy, and with the train case, I had my hands full, but I was determined to balance them both. I must have been very focused not to have heard the footsteps.
“You’re the most glamorous thief I’ve ever seen.”
I whirled around and found Niall Adamson standing on the sidewalk a few feet away like a sentry. As with most of the men I’d seen today, he was wearing a fedora, and perhaps because of the chill in the air and the brewing weather, he also had on a trench coat. Any way you looked at him, the clothes classed him up, and that made him more handsome than ever, like an old movie star.
“I’m not stealing exactly. Someone tossed it here because they didn’t want it,” I said self-consciously. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough. What was in the case? Not a lover’s head, I hope.”
“It’s a typewriter.”
He lit a cigarette and walked towards me.
“Stay where you were. I’m not interested in your line,” I said tartly, enjoying how words that I once could only write now slid off my tongue like melted butter. It was as if I’d been talking to strange men in foreign lands my whole life.
He smirked and kept walking. “But I’ve been practising my line all the way over here,” he said dryly.
I gestured to the patch of ground a few feet away where he’d been standing.
“All that way? You must be exhausted,” I said back as fast as a strike on a match. “Say, are those American?”
“How can you tell?”
“The smell.” I had experimented with smoking in high school, but I could never get through a drag without coughing. But now, the scent of Marlboros made me homesick for LA, and I lifted my chin and breathed in the aroma. “Marlboro?”
“You know your fags. Have a go.”
Next he held the cigarette out for me to take a puff—it had touched his lips and then would touch mine—a strange kind of kiss. I took the cigarette and drew in the smoke, expecting to look as glamorous as Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep. But the glamour was short-lived as I coughed up a lung just like in school.
“I take it you don’t smoke much,” he said.
“It’s been a while.”
“If you like, we can go up to your flat and get you a glass of water?”
“I’m fine,” I said, sputtering, but finally able to inhale without gasping. Was that a come-on? Water glass instead of etchings?
He continued to smoke like Humphrey Bogart, and as he looked at me I detected a small wave of recognition in his eyes. “This may seem like another line to you, but haven’t we met?”
I felt an immense sense of relief that the man remembered me. I wondered if he also remembered how we knew each other and, more importantly, when.
“We have,” I admitted. “At The White Stallion. I was at the bar. You probably didn’t get a good look at me.”
He ran his blue eyes over my face like I was a lost lover he’d been reunited with after a war. “I’ve seen you somewhere else.” Then he snapped his fingers, grinned and pointed at me. “The Beverly Hills Hotel. You’re Clara Bishop! I was in Hollywood to interview Jane Russell.”
“That must be it,” I said flatly. It was official: I was the only person who travelled back through time with their memory intact. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go to bed.”
But he kept talking …
“Tell me something. Do you always act like you’re in a film noir?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback that anyone besides me would spot it.
He chuckled. “Your dialogue, how you look and your attitude are straight out of central casting. If you’re the femme fatale, who are you going to double-cross?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said nonchalantly.
“There’s always a double-cross. I hope you’ve got yourself a worthy target.”
“I don’t have a target,” I denied, thinking of Amber.
He contemplated this a moment before saying, “Then you’re a fake femme fatale. How disappointing.”
I wasn’t sure if I liked him or hated him. If he hadn’t helped me out with the You-Know-Who interview, I’d tell him to shove off. He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned cigarette case. Marjorie had one that belonged to my grandmother. She kept it on the mantel beneath the movie poster. I’d not seen another, except in movies, until now.
“I didn’t think they still made those,” I said, gesturing to it.
“They don�
��t,” he said.
“My grandmother had one,” I said.
He nodded. “My father gave me this.” He smoked and I just stood there, the typewriter at my feet. “I should get going. It’s late.”
“Allow me to carry the cases upstairs for you. They look rather cumbersome.” He bent down and picked up the typewriter.
“Please don’t bother,” I said. “I’m perfectly able.”
He placed it on the walkway and he spoke again. “You don’t fool me, Clara.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said, mildly irritated.
“You act like a tough dame, but in truth you’re nothing but a damsel in distress,” he said. I was about to object when he put his finger on my lips to hush me. I felt my face flush. “I happen to like rescuing damsels.”
“What gives you the idea I need rescuing?” I asked, again taken aback, but allowing myself to give a little. “But you’re not wrong. I’ve had it rough lately.”
He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth in that way smokers have, thinking they can somehow prevent it from landing in someone’s face. It never works, and I felt the smoke sting my nostrils. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you.” He spoke earnestly. “Is there something I can do to help?”
I pulled the mink tighter around my shoulders. “I wish there were.”
He continued to hover like there was something he wanted to get off his chest. “I’d like to buy you a drink sometime,” he said. “That is, if you need someone to talk to about things …”
“I’d like that very much,” I said, surprised to discover it was true.
“What’s your telephone exchange?”
For some reason that made me giggle. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea? This isn’t my flat. I’m only visiting. Why don’t you write down yours?”
“How about we agree to meet tomorrow night at The White Stallion? About eight?”
“That would be swell,” I said and immediately covered my mouth with my hand. Had I uttered the word swell? Next I’d be saying Jiminy Cricket.
“Until tomorrow night,” Niall said and touched the brim of his hat like a salute and disappeared into the fog.
Walking up the steep flight of stairs to the flat dressed in heels and an evening gown, while carrying a heavy typewriter and train case, wasn’t so easy, and I regretted not taking Niall up on his offer. But I would see him again tomorrow night. If only I had spent the last ten years acting like I had tonight. Tonight I’d discovered the pleasure of making a man do whatever I wanted. Frederick and Niall would be fun to play with.
When I entered the flat, I found Trinity asleep on the sofa. I would have left her there if I hadn’t noticed her reading material. Piled neatly beside her on the floor with a few loose pages clutched in her hand was the screenplay from my room.
Maybe it was the time of night, the sidecars or the new-found steely attitude, but I snatched the papers from her grasp and she awoke with a start.
“What are you doing reading this?” I snapped.
“You scared me to death!” Trinity sat up and snapped back.
“Well, what of it?” I asked, aware that I was overreacting.
“Calm down, Clara. I didn’t think you’d mind, really. I went into your room to give you an extra blanket and it was there. At first I thought it was for Frederick’s movie, only it wasn’t. But I kept reading it anyway. I couldn’t help myself. I’m an actress you know. Sorry.”
I felt like a fool and slumped down onto the sofa beside her.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It’s been a strange night.” I forced a smile. “What did you think of it?”
Trinity pursed her lips. “Alicia Steele is a fine writer.”
I paused, unsure what to reveal. “Don’t you remember what I told you about her?” I studied Trinity’s face for any ounce of recognition, but none came.
“Not really. Is she a famous screenwriter? What’s she done?”
No matter what the era, that was always the first question anyone ever asked. “It’s her first script. She’s a friend of mine in Hollywood.” I thought retelling the truth about her being my grandmother would be too much for Trinity to bear. Thankfully, my explanation was enough.
“I figured you two know each other very well. It’s like she was writing about you. There are a lot of similarities.”
“I suppose there are,” I said vaguely, tired and not wanting to drudge it all up again.
“Are you Alicia Steele?” she asked pointedly.
The question caught me off guard. In some ways I supposed I was Alicia, but there was still plenty of Clara Bishop to go around, just a new and improved version. “No, I’m not,” I said and yawned. “She’s back in LA.”
“So you gave her your story?”
“Not exactly. I’d say she gave me hers too.”
“So you’re co-writing?”
“You could say that.”
“What’s in the case?” she said, noticing it for the first time.
“It’s a portable typewriter I found.”
She nodded and looked at her watch.
“Bloody hell. It’s that late? Time to go to bed.” She held out the script to me and I clutched it to my chest.
“I’m sorry I acted so intensely tonight,” I said.
“Don’t think twice about it,” she said and smiled. “How was your night with Mr. Marshall?”
“It was good. I told him he should hire you.”
“You didn’t!” she beamed.
“I did. Now the rest is up to you.” I smiled back. “By the way, you didn’t tell me how thick the fog got around here at night. It was almost impossible to find the house!”
Trinity gave me a very odd look that penetrated me to the bone.
“What?” I asked.
“You must be tired,” she said softly. “It was a gorgeous clear night with a full moon. Not a stitch of fog in sight.”
Police Station—Cirencester
I stopped talking and waited. Sergeant Hooper cleared his throat a couple of times as though trying to delay saying something, delay making a conclusion. I decided to say it for him.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But I’m telling the truth.” I stood up and moved around to the back of his chair and leaned forward so when I spoke he’d feel my warm breath on his neck. “Everything was upside down. I was frightened and alone.”
He trembled a little, and I returned to my chair and gave him a searching look.
“I can’t even write that part down,” he said at last and tossed his pencil on the table. “The whole police department will think I’ve come unhinged.”
“I know the feeling,” I admitted.
“So you’re trying to tell me that you became someone else after you started wearing your granny’s clothes and reading her screenplay? And that you saw only in black and white and went back in time? And what about the others?” he asked. “Were they ‘in’ on this act of yours?”
I bristled at the accusation. “Like I just told you, it was as if my life and the people in it were transported back to 1952. But I was the only one who knew it. They carried on as if they were meant to be there, in that time, in that place. As for seeing things in black and white, that seemed to only happen to me.”
“Did your plan to save Alice work, then?” he asked and cleared his throat like he meant to clear his head. I knew what he really wanted to know: Was Alice alive and living out her final days at some old-age home for actors in California? I wasn’t about to tell him. He needed to hear the whole thing or none of it would make sense. He continued, “That is, assuming any of what you’re telling me is true.”
I smiled. “The truth is stranger …”
“Than fiction. Yes, I know that one,” he said impatiently.
The smile fell from my face.
He took a deep breath and rocked slowly in the chair, his foot against the table leg for leverage. I had a feeling I knew wh
at he was thinking.
“And I didn’t become someone else exactly. I just started to act differently, but I’m not going to lie …”
Hooper removed his foot from the table leg so that the chair smashed hard on the floor. He leaned forward and pointed his finger at me. “No. You are not going to lie to me.”
I parted my lips into a tiny smile. A smile that could be read a dozen ways, and I wanted Hooper to take his pick.
“What I was about to say was that I liked it. Whatever ‘it’ was, it felt good.”
“To be in control, perhaps?” he suggested.
“That’s part of it,” I said.
“To be what, then?”
“To be less predictable.”
We looked at each other, and for a moment nothing was said, neither of us made a move. Then he shuffled through the yellow papers looking for something and skimmed his handwriting. When he found what he wanted he glared at me suspiciously.
“Do you still only see in black and white, then?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Complicated how?”
“I’m getting to that part.”
“I want to believe you, Clara …”
I raised an eyebrow.
He coughed, “Miss Bishop. But it isn’t sounding good.”
I tossed my head back and the trench coat fell onto the chair behind me, leaving my shoulders and décolletage bare. I took my time retrieving the trench and covering up again. Hooper looked like he was starting to perspire.
“Go on,” he said. “I want to hear your side …”
“I went to bed just like I said. I figured it was all a dream and I’d wake up with a hangover …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The morning of the second day of my life in black and white, I dressed in a dove-grey tea dress, though I was fairly sure it was pale pink. I set the typewriter up in my room on the tiny desk and fed a sheet of paper into the carriage. I hadn’t tried to write a movie in years; I wasn’t sure if I knew how anymore. The machine sat there like an objet d’art, daring me to bring it to life and give it purpose. It wasn’t difficult to empathize with the fictional Clara’s emotional state. All I had to do was replay the events of the past few days. Dean and Amber making a fool of me on his set. Dean’s note telling me he never loved me. Dean and Amber parading through The Savoy. Amber’s attempt to intimidate me in the hallway of the hotel. Like the husband and mistress in the screenplay, Dean and Amber shouldn’t be allowed to escape unscathed either. I would come up with something. In the meantime, a little make-believe revenge would be cathartic. My fingers hovered over the keys as though they were burning coals until a scene formed in my mind, and then I let it unfold on the page.