by Kim Izzo
She looked like she wanted to disappear into the smog, which amused me. “I’m … I’m …” she stuttered.
“Desperate to get yourself in the press?” I finished the sentence for her. She nodded.
“It was wrong of me,” she said contritely. “But you must understand, I need all the help I can get. It’s tough trying to get noticed.”
The last problem a girl with Saffron’s looks had was getting noticed. But I took her point.
“Well, I would have done the story on you. But now that Larry didn’t uphold his end of the bargain, I’m afraid I just can’t.” This was, of course, a lie, but I didn’t care. I wanted Larry to pay for his mistake, even if the worst thing that would happen was tension at the family dinner table at Christmas.
Satisfied, I swivelled on my bar stool and saw Niall sitting at “our table” alone. I sauntered over and tossed the newspaper down in front of him.
“Have you seen Talk this morning?” I asked, not even trying to hide my irritation.
“I did,” he said. “You should be happy. Or do you always react to getting what you want by throwing newspaper about?”
“What Larry wrote about Dean was fine. It’s the other piece. The one that’s coming out tomorrow that I’m upset about. All about Amber. Like the world needs to know all about Amber!”
He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, twirled it in his hands a moment, then lit it up.
“How can you smoke when the entire city is covered in the filthy stuff?” I asked, recalling the pack of cigarettes that remained in my train case at the flat.
“You think this one cigarette will make a difference?” he asked, perplexed.
“Haven’t you heard that smoking can kill?”
“No,” he said sharply and inhaled a long deep drag. “Do you want to try one again?”
After that first attempt I wasn’t so sure. Still, I took one from the packet and held it in my fingers like I knew you were supposed to. Niall struck a match and held it up for me. I had no choice but to try to smoke again. I would make an excuse that the fog was getting to me to explain the coughing fit that was sure to follow. I inhaled and watched the paper burn away. Then a funny thing happened. I didn’t choke, sputter or cough. Instead, I blew the smoke out of my parted lips just like any femme fatale worth her salt could do. Just like Lauren Bacall. I wondered if I looked half as good as she did.
“You seem agitated yourself,” I said after we’d sat in smoky silence longer than was comfortable.
“I spoke to my editor. They won’t let me cover the smog story.”
“Why not?”
“That little matter of my being accused of wiretapping a cabinet minister, remember?”
“I remember,” I said sympathetically, and got the point that even in 1952 Niall Adamson was a shamed journalist.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, clearly not wanting to talk about it. “But they only want the puff stuff from me. The real news is for less controversial chaps, apparently.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“People will die from this smog,” he said earnestly. “I’m not sure the NHS will keep up with the demand in heart and lung trouble that will come. It needs to be investigated and reported by decent writers.”
“I’ve never seen you this serious,” I said.
He shrugged. “The Great Depression, the Great War, the Great Smog. None of it seems great to me.”
“Maybe it will blow over by morning,” I suggested hopefully and for reasons of my own, still holding out faint hope of flying Alice here before December 10.
“Don’t wager on it,” he said, sounding as gloomy as the fog.
Then a second shot of bourbon arrived courtesy of Saffron.
“It’s on me,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied. When she scurried away, Niall gave me a look. “That’s an expression I don’t much care for,” I said.
“Tell me, what are you doing getting messed up with Frederick Marshall?”
I tried not to flinch. “What gives you that idea?”
“I saw him drop you off the other night. Before you stole the typewriter,” he teased.
“I didn’t steal it,” I reminded him, holding the cigarette aloft. “Are you spying on me?”
I was torn between wanting to tell him everything and telling him off. I chose somewhere in between.
“If you must know, I need Frederick’s help.”
He snorted. “With what? Don’t tell me you’ve got acting aspirations too?”
“A friend of mine is in real danger,” I said, and my tone was serious enough that Niall wiped the sarcasm from his voice.
“What kind of danger?”
“I can’t get into it.” I shook my head. “But Frederick has the power to change things for her.”
He sat back and flicked his cigarette into the ashtray. “I didn’t know you were so noble,” he said, and this time he did sound sarcastic.
“I’m not some tramp with a grudge. I’m a wronged woman.”
“Out for revenge!” he chastised me. “How petty.”
“Is that so?” I felt my voice shake and I fought it. “Tell me, Mr. Adamson, when does revenge become something noble? When avenging the death of a loved one, perhaps?”
He sat up. “Perhaps. But there’s nothing noble in going after some poor sap with bad taste in women.” I bristled and he smiled and said, “Present company excluded, of course.”
“If you must know, I am avenging the death of a loved one. But I can’t say more than that. You just have to trust me.”
I could tell from his expression he didn’t. But it was the truth, in a manner of speaking. Getting even with Dean was in some way getting even with Lyle. And punishing Amber was like punishing Lillian. My revenge was Alicia Steele’s—just like in the screenplay. As I turned my head and blew the pale smoke into the air, I watched it form soft patterns like paintbrush strokes against the darkness of the room. I shivered a little as though I could sense the spectre of the fictional Clara circling. It all made sense to me.
Niall furrowed his brow and pummelled his cigarette out. “I’m just wondering what’s next for Clara Bishop? Now that she’s gotten even with her husband.”
“You’ll just have to watch me.” I smiled at him innocently. He wasn’t buying it.
“For the record, Amber Ward is not in love with your husband,” he said and pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket, plopping it down in front of me.
My ears pricked up. “What makes you so sure?”
“She’s after a career upgrade. He’s her first stepping stone. She’ll leave him at the first sign of a better offer. She’s a Bette Davis fan, which tells you something, although she apparently relates more to Marilyn Monroe.”
I was outraged. “She couldn’t touch Marilyn Monroe. Who does she think she is?”
“She’s a nobody and she knows it. But she’s ambitious.”
“She seems to have charmed you,” I said, irritated. “So you would have done the same. Walked out on me to start a new life with Amber.”
He studied my face again, and this time I made sure there were no clues for him to find. I wanted to be a blank slate—no past to regret and no future to predict—just a redhead playing dress-up in her grandmother’s dress.
“If you were my wife, I’d never let you out of my sight long enough to notice a meaningless blonde.”
I gazed at him, surprised by what he said.
Niall stood up and stepped beside me. Then he took my chin in his hand and wrenched my neck up none too gently until I had no choice but to look up at him. It was rough and invasive and, what’s more, I enjoyed it.
“You going to kiss me again?” I taunted him, knowing I wanted it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said coldly, releasing me.
Then he put on his fedora. “Good luck getting your friend out of her jam,” he said. “Remember, I’m an investigative journalist. It may come in handy if your friend is t
ruly in danger.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Then he walked away. I rubbed my neck and ground my cigarette into the ashtray.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time I got back to the flat, Trinity had popped open a bottle of champagne.
“We celebrating something again?” I asked innocently.
“You are the best friend ever!” Trinity screamed in delight and ran over and threw her arms around me.
“Thank you, but what happened?” I asked, hugging her back.
“I got the part!” Trinity shouted.
I let her bounce up and down as she poured two glasses of bubbly. “I can’t tell you how difficult it was to get champagne.”
“Let me guess, it’s rationed.”
“It is! But I have connections,” she said with a wink. “We movie stars have to be resourceful!”
“To you landing the part of a lifetime!” I said cheerfully, thinking how fast the casting process was. Usually directors and producers deliberate for days if not weeks. “They must have loved you to make such a quick decision.”
“They did. Frederick Marshall took one look at me and knew I was right. Although I did remind him we were friends, hope you don’t mind,” she said sheepishly. “I just wish David Niven had been there to read with me.”
I wondered if I was the reason she got the part so quickly. Frederick had dreams of a dirty weekend with a redhead, and I was that redhead. But Trinity wasn’t part of the deal.
“Of course I don’t mind,” I said and felt that now she was cast I could tell her about Alice. “Another friend of mine is reading for the lead in the next day or two.”
She frowned at this. “That’s odd. I thought he said he’d found his star already.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean? Who?”
“I’m not sure. Some unknown girl.”
My heart was thumping in my chest. Was Frederick really going to double-cross me? Or was the unknown girl Alicia Steele? That had to be it. We had a deal. For an instant, I shuddered at the thought of his hands all over me.
“Is the girl local?” I pressed her for more details.
She scowled. “Actually that much I do know. She’s from America. Can you imagine casting a foreigner like that and her not being a big star already?” she said, sounding offended on behalf of all English girls. But for me it was glorious news. It would make sense that Frederick would be preparing the other cast members and his crew that he’d found some unknown American actress. No one but me knew she hadn’t read for the part yet. I had complete confidence in her talent. Once Frederick saw her read, he’d be so taken with her. The audition was just a technicality.
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said to be conciliatory.
“Not when there are loads of great actresses in England!” she continued. “You know, I feel like going out. Despite this smog business, let’s gussy ourselves up and head to The White Stallion for some delicious pub fare,” she said. I smiled; gastro pubs were a long way off, so simple plain food would have to do. “I’ll buy!” Trinity joked. “A movie actress needs to be seen, you know.”
The decade I’d spent chasing after celebrities dining out at restaurants in order to get a lame story came flashing back. “Oh, I know all about that,” I said and smiled.
We left the flat and entered the street cloaked in total darkness. The glow from the street lamps barely lifted the gloom, but we used them to guide us towards the pub. The townhouses lining the street appeared to close in on us like a canyon, and our footsteps echoed on the concrete. Up ahead, a shadow crossed our path and we heard talking. But as we grew nearer, one voice was familiar. Then the figure stepped out of the shadow into the sparse light up ahead.
It was Niall, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was leaning up against a street lamp, talking to a group of teenaged boys. What I noticed was how the boys were dressed, long Edwardian overcoats with patterned waistcoats and suede shoes. Each had his hair slicked into a quiff at the front like a pompadour. It was a look that I’d call rockabilly and was in stark contrast to Niall.
“Who are those boys?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Trinity said. “They’re just a bunch of Teddy Boys. Not sure what you call them in America.”
I knew the term. Teddy Boys were youthful gangs that listened to American rock ‘n’ roll and played in bands and otherwise caused trouble for English society. “We call them teenagers,” I said plainly.
They were far enough away not to notice us, and I watched Niall point his finger at one of the boys angrily. He was always so intense. I wondered what had happened.
The group dispersed and the boys scrammed around the corner, and Niall disappeared in the opposite direction. We carried on to the pub.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Our celebration at the pub was in full swing, and for the first time in a long time, I’d forgotten that anything was wrong in my life. Cocktails and laughter had that effect on me, I guess. But the good time was cut short by the arrival of a lanky man in a dark grey suit. I froze. It couldn’t be … He removed his hat and my jaw fell open. It was.
“What is it, Clara?” Trinity asked, worried.
I pointed to the man in the doorway and whispered, “Dean.”
She looked up. “So it is.”
“How did he know where to find me?”
Trinity’s guilty expression gave me the answer.
“He rang while you were out, looking for you. He begged me. I told him you’d be here. Please don’t be angry.”
Before I could object, she stood to leave and put her hand on my arm. “Besides, you two have a lot to discuss.” Then she was gone.
I watched Saffron approach him like a jaguar stalking an antelope. His lips moved and her eyes darted in my direction. Dean started to walk over, but I looked the other way, like I hadn’t a care in the world. That drinking cocktails alone in a pub in London was precisely the sort of thing I did.
“Clara?”
I looked up, refusing to give him anything but a blank stare. I wondered why he’d come. Was it to discuss the divorce? Or was he coming back to me, as I had wanted so badly before the world turned upside down?
“May I join you?”
“It’s a free country,” I said and sat quietly, wanting him to do the talking.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Saffron asked, arriving at our table with her bosom heaving for effect.
“I’ll have a sidecar too,” he said, pointing to my drink. He still was my husband, after all. I waited for him to ogle Saffron, but he didn’t give her a second glance, and that irritated me. Saffron was far prettier than Amber, but it was as though she was a mouse in his eyes.
“She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?” I said, my voice cool. He shrugged. “I didn’t really notice,” he said.
“Why not? You’re still a man, aren’t you?” He didn’t flinch.
“Pretty girls are routine in my line of work. You know that. I didn’t come to argue with you.”
I breathed deeply. Let him talk, I told myself over and over, but myself wouldn’t listen to reason, so out it came. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to thank you,” he said.
It wasn’t the answer I was expecting, not in any of the scenarios I’d thought up. “Thank me for what?”
“Frederick Marshall called me, and we met to discuss his new picture,” he said with a smile. “He watched Daddy’s Girls and said I have an eye.”
“How wonderful,” I said half-heartedly.
Saffron appeared with our drinks, but she didn’t leave right away.
“You must be Dean Lapointe,” she said and painted on her best smile. “Yes, this is Dean,” I said. “This is Saffron. She’s an actress.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Good luck with your career.” I always could tell when Dean was unimpressed. He never liked wannabes hitting him up for work—until Amber, that is.
S
affron flared her nostrils and hoofed it away.
“Did you see the piece in Talk this morning?” I taunted him.
“I did,” he shrugged. “But it’s nonsense. You know as much as I do that kind of rot doesn’t last beyond the day. And besides, I got lucky. The only thing people care about right now is this damn smog.”
He had a point, which was disappointing considering the lengths I went to to get the story to run.
“Look, I don’t want to take up too much of your evening,” he said. I bristled at this.
“You can take all the time you need,” I said sarcastically. “I’m your wife.”
He sipped his sidecar and pursed his lips from the sour taste of the lemon.
“I wanted to thank you because I know Frederick Marshall had no intention of meeting me before we ran into you at The Savoy. Amber said you would ask him to, and while I didn’t believe it at first, I appreciate it. Given all that happened between us, well, you’re a first-class lady, that’s all.” He sucked back his drink.
I sat there trying to settle the shaking that had taken over my body; I prayed he couldn’t see it.
“You didn’t have to hunt me down to tell me that,” I ground out. “You could have just sent me a text.”
He looked confused, like he hadn’t heard me right. “A what?”
I rolled my eyes. “A telegram,” I snapped. “You could have sent a telegram or a thank-you note, like that other note you sent.”
He recoiled. “I wanted to thank you in person. We’re friends, aren’t we?” he asked stupidly.
“Like the wolf and the lamb,” I said.
“If that’s how you feel, then why did you help me out?” he asked like I’d offended him.
“Frederick asked me what I thought of your work. So I told him the truth. I said he would be crazy not to meet with you.”
“Well, he won’t be sorry.”
I laughed. “No, you’re right about that,” I said. “He won’t be the one who’s sorry.”
Dean pulled some cash from his wallet. “Let me get these.”
“I won’t stop you,” I said.