by Kim Izzo
Then just like that he was gone. The shaking got worse and the tears came flowing down my face. If that wasn’t a rotten enough feeling, Niall strode in like a prize bull and plunked himself down in the chair that Dean had vacated.
“You don’t seem happy to see me,” he said sarcastically.
His words irritated me enough that the tears stopped. He gave me a handkerchief, and I made sure to wipe as much mascara on it as possible before blowing my nose. I gave the dirty cloth back to him with a smile.
“You have mascara on your nose,” he said matter-of-factly.
Mortified, I grabbed a napkin and wiped my face but he shook his head.
“Allow me,” he said and pulled another handkerchief from his pocket. He dipped it in my sidecar and proceeded to wipe the makeup from my face. I felt about three.
“What did your husband want?”
I drank the sidecar. It tasted bittersweet, maybe from my mood or the handkerchief. “All he wanted was to thank me for getting Frederick Marshall to meet with him.”
Niall nodded. “Did he get the job?”
“Not if I have any say,” I said darkly. “I could use another of your cigarettes.”
He took out two, one for each of us, and lit mine for me. I took it and inhaled the rotten smoke so deeply I could feel it in my toes.
“Why do I get the feeling you have plenty of say?” he said.
“You know,” I said, remembering Cora in The Postman Always Rings Twice. “I’m not really a hell cat.”
Niall stubbed his cigarette out and leaned towards me. I held my head up; my lips were in perfect alignment to graze his.
“Hell cat enough for me,” he said and kissed me, this time like he meant it. And I didn’t resist. The more I thought of Dean, sitting across from me to thank me, the harder I kissed Niall.
“We could go to your place,” I suggested, the smoke from my cigarette creating a halo over him.
“And leave this dump?” he teased. “Let’s go to yours.”
I frowned. “My flatmate.”
“We’ll be as quiet as mice.”
I smiled, thinking of the eerie typing that I’d blamed on the mouse.
Trinity was probably asleep by now.
“That will do fine,” I nodded.
I lay naked in the fold of Niall’s arm, feeling guilty that I’d succumbed to the moment. I had more serious business to contend with. Getting caught up in passion and desire wasn’t my usual forte, not that waltzing around the foggy streets of London wearing tight-fitting dresses with peekaboo hair and red lipstick was. I wondered if Alice or Marjorie would have done the same. Looking at Niall’s bare, firm chest, I decided they would have. I kissed his arm and ran my fingers through his wavy blond hair. I wanted him to shield me from everything. “Do you like me, Niall?” I asked quietly.
He kissed me some more. “You’re one of a kind.” Then his face screwed up like he had something on his mind, like he was about to ask if I’d ever had an STD. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”
I went numb and withdrew my caresses from him. Staring at the ceiling fan, which was equally annoying in black and white, I said plainly, “I was pregnant once. But I had a miscarriage. To be honest, it was far more devastating for me than for Dean. It’s all I wanted, a baby of my own.”
He held me tight. “Sorry, that was wrong of me to ask.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s part of getting to know someone. Intimacy.”
I could be wrong, but I thought I felt him squirm.
“Enough of that kind of silly talk,” I said, wanting to shake the past loose a little while longer. “What do you like for breakfast?”
“Breakfast? Is it morning already? You can’t tell with the smog.”
“It’s still nighttime. I’m thinking ahead. I’m used to being a wife, remember? Let me take care of you.”
He eased upright. “What about your flatmate?”
I sat up too, and instinctively pulled the covers up to my chin. “We’re grown-ups. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“I can’t, Clara.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got an early day,” he said. I started to protest, but he quickly covered my lips with his hand. He released me and kissed me again. “I’ve got to go.” He got up and dressed in the dark as I lay there watching yet another man leave me alone in bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning was December 7, the day of Alicia Steele’s screen test. The date had been etched in my memory ever since discovering the black and white photograph. The twist of fate that the very screen test in the snapshot was something her granddaughter had arranged was inexplicable, magical, and I hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant. Yet I wasn’t surprised when I opened the closet to see that the green dress had vanished. I knew where it was. It was back in Hollywood getting steamed and pressed for an audition—the one light in a long, dark tunnel smeared with deception and betrayal.
I was disappointed that I’d let Dean and Niall distract me from my mission. Today was going to be the start of settling the score for my grandmother and subsequently my mother and me. The family curse would be broken and we would find happiness.
I scurried as fast as I could to the telegraph office. The bell rang when I entered, and the little old man came out of a back room.
“Let me guess. Another cable to California?” he smiled.
“How did you know?” I smiled back at him.
“Your timing is impeccable. This one came for you late last night,” he said and handed a telegram to me. It was from Alice.
Dear Clara,
I’ve prepared for my screen test. Even have my outfit picked out—a dress that I made for another film but it was never worn. It was designed for the femme fatale role—I’m hoping it will weave its magic on the casting director. I wanted to thank you again. No one has gone out of their way for me before. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Wish me luck. Signed, Alicia Steele.
I could almost hear the excitement in her voice, the optimism and hope. It made everything I’d done up till now worth it. To hell with Amber and Dean, to hell with Frederick and Niall, to hell with anyone who stood in my way.
“Any reply?” the old man asked patiently. I nodded and he handed me the form. I didn’t hesitate.
Dear Alicia,
The dress sounds perfect. You don’t need luck. This part was written for you! I have a good feeling. So all I will say is break a leg. Love, Clara.
I quickly scratched out “love” and replaced it with “signed” and gave it to the man and paid him for it.
Trinity was up early reading the morning paper when I returned and padded into the kitchen to pour myself some black coffee.
“I don’t think you’re going to like the story in the paper,” she said mysteriously.
“Why?” I asked and crossed to the sofa to sit beside her.
“I told you that Frederick cast the female lead.”
She held up Talk. A giant photo of Amber took up almost an entire page, with an equal-sized story beside it. “I would kill for press like this,” she sighed.
I snatched it away and read the headline. Ward of the States: Starlet Amber Ward Lands Lead Role in New Screwball Comedy. By Lawrence Hayward.
“That rat Larry!” I seethed, but in my head another name cried out to be condemned. How dare Frederick betray me!
“How could she have landed this part?” I asked, but it was all there in black and white for the world to read. She had tagged along with her “boyfriend,” the director Dean Lapointe, for a meeting with the producer of the film, Frederick Marshall, who was so charmed by her that he asked her to read.
“Apparently the camera loves her and she’s got great comedic timing. I called my agent, who heard all about it, and she said Amber was the next Carole Lombard,” Trinity explained. Her words felt disloyal to me. I wanted to scream.
“She prefers to think of herself as the next Marilyn Monroe,” I said sarc
astically. I stared at the photo; there was no doubt that the camera adored her. It was a Hollywood-style portrait that would have made George Hurrell proud; the kind of perfectly executed old-school glamour shot, like Dietrich and Garbo posed for. Amber’s blonde hair and ivory skin gave her an angelic quality that certainly wasn’t present in the 3D version. Her blue eyes cast a pale intensity over the image. Her lips looked soft and dewy, and I imagined they were painted blood red. Red was the only colour I could see. How had my plan backfired like this? Of course I knew how—good-girl Clara encouraging the meeting—well, good girls finished last. I needed to see Frederick immediately. But I was too furious to speak. The tension rippled through my body and I began to crunch the paper in my fist.
“Hey, I was reading that!” Trinity said.
I released the paper. Then out of nowhere came the clicking sound from my room that I’d heard the other night. The typewriter was summoning me again. I looked at Trinity, but she was calmly buried in the newspaper. She hadn’t heard it. I went to the door and listened. It stopped. I went inside. As before, the machine was alone, untouched and silent. I sat down, my fingers poised over the keys.
EXT. HIGH TOWER ELEVATOR–NIGHT
Rod waits for Clara to show. Instead, he hears her HUSBAND and his MISTRESS walking below from their garage to the elevator. Then the elevator begins to CHUG AND CHURN as the chains pull it up from the ground floor. Rod ducks behind some brush and waits. The door opens.
HUSBAND
You need to pack for Hawaii, sweetheart.
The mistress laughs like a little girl. Rod hears a scream but doesn’t move.
MISTRESS
What is she doing here?
Rod peers through the brush and sees Clara blocking their path to the house.
CLARA
Get away from my husband!
HUSBAND
(to his mistress)
Go into the house. I’ll take care of her.
CLARA
You’re not going anywhere until I tell you.
HUSBAND
What are you doing with a gun?
At these words Rod jumps out into view. Clara is startled and the husband tries to grab the gun. There’s a struggle. Rod grabs a rock lying nearby and smacks him on the head with it. The husband crashes to the ground and doesn’t move. The mistress screams, then faints, falling hard onto the cement walkway.
CLARA
Is she dead?
Rod squats by the body and feels for a pulse. He does the same with her husband. He looks up at her and shakes his head.
ROD
Not yet. They’re both alive.
Clara races to the elevator and shoves the rock in the door to prop it open. She presses the button and the elevator chugs and churns down to the bottom, leaving the shaft empty.
ROD
What are you doing?
CLARA
This is what we planned. We shove her down. Let her fall. She won’t feel a thing.
ROD
Are you crazy? We can’t do that now. He saw you. He’ll call the police. You’ll get the death penalty.
Clara smiles and stands over the mistress’s unconscious body.
CLARA
After what she did to me, I already have a death penalty.
ROD
You’re not talking sense.
CLARA
Nothing about this makes sense. Are you going to help me? If you won’t, then turn around and walk down those stairs and drive away and don’t look back.
ROD
(swallowing hard)
I’ll help you.
Clara nods solemnly.
CLARA
You do love me? Like you said you did?
Rod nods. They pick up the body and drag it to the empty elevator shaft.
I stopped typing. I didn’t want to write the rest of it, not yet. In my grandmother’s notes, Rod would stop Clara from committing murder because he loved her. Then Clara would drive off in her convertible, and she would speed along up through the zigzagging hills to the Hollywood sign and that would be where it ended, just like it had ended for Alicia. I didn’t like it, not one bit. It was too close to home. Sitting here, reeling from the news that Amber Ward not only stole my husband but also the role that may have saved my grandmother’s life, I felt the level of despair that Alice must have felt, the hopelessness and the realization that all is lost, and for the first time I was afraid of what might happen. I didn’t want to end up where Alice ended up. I didn’t like how my life was imitating her art.
But I didn’t have long to obsess over it because the telephone rang. I could hear Trinity speaking like a fool, so I knew it was Frederick.
“She’s right here, Mr. Marshall. Goodbye and thanks again.” She held out the receiver.
“Hello, Frederick,” I said with enough ice in my throat to freeze the smog into solid blocks. “Yes, I have some things to tell you too.”
I rang off. He wanted me to come to his house as soon as I was able. I was able.
I stamped my feet hard as I marched up the hill through the heaving mass of smog to the Tufnell Park tube. I shoved and got shoved by other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Up ahead I saw the faint roof light of what might have been the only black cab on the road. I was about make a dash towards it when a hand grabbed me through the fog and pulled me into a shop doorway. It was Larry.
“You son of a bitch!” I snapped. He shoved his paw over my mouth and wouldn’t let go until I stopped fidgeting. I calmed down and he removed his hand. I wanted to bite it.
“Look here, I checked with a buddy in New York, and he said my story on your husband didn’t run.”
I raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “So? We had a deal and you broke it.”
“Our deal was I’d write a negative profile of Dean Lapointe, and I did that. You were going to get me published in America. You broke the deal. I told you I was going to write about Amber and I did. And good thing too. Just like I said, she’s going to be a star.”
It took all the willpower I had not to spit in his face. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Your story on Dean wasn’t up to par. You’re not good enough for American papers.” It wasn’t true but it would do.
“You’re a bloody American tart is what you are,” he said nastily. “I have a mind to write about you. The scorned wife out to get her husband.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I hissed.
“Try me, Clara Bishop,” he jeered back. “Amber told me you were out with Frederick Marshall.”
I went cold. “It’s a lie.”
“She told me you were at The Savoy with him. What’s that about then?”
“Stay out of my way, Larry. You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” I threatened and felt a fiery rawness whip around me despite the shelter of the doorway, as though I could conjure the fictional Clara at will.
“Amber told me that Dean didn’t get the directing job. Marshall’s hired an Englishman. Maybe you had something to do with that, then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The only reason Frederick met with Dean was because of me.”
“Is that so? I bet Dean won’t see it that way. Maybe I’ll ask Frederick Marshall myself.”
“I’d stay away from Frederick if I were you,” I warned. “He’s a man prone to violence.”
“You haven’t fallen for those idiotic rumours, have you? He didn’t kill his wife. She drowned.”
I shrugged, wanting to be vague, hoping that if nothing else, pointing out how getting outside Frederick’s good graces would be bad for his career. “If you say so.”
Larry rubbed his chin. “You know something the rest of us don’t?”
“Maybe,” I lied.
“If you have info on that case, then I’m all ears.”
“Like I said, leave him alone. Don’t stick your nose into his business, or else he won’t let you near Amber or any of his stars.”
Larry kept rubbing his chin like it was itchy. “Don’t be messing with
me. Remember, I’m as expert at digging up dirt as you are,” he said warily. “I’d say we’re equals.”
I saw the black cab sitting there in the haze like an apparition. I turned back to scraggly Larry. “That is one thing we are not.”
Then I made a run for it and, grasping the handle of the cab door, I dove into the back seat.
“Primrose Hill, please.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I hadn’t been to Frederick’s house since I’d wandered in off the street. That day, standing in the rain being dressed down by Amber, seemed another world. Today the house loomed through the mist like a fortress etched from clay; its grey mass appeared to undulate with the waves of murk. I asked the driver to wait for me, and he agreed for a princely sum.
The front door was slightly ajar, so I let myself in. Seeing the interior through my lens of black and white gave every object and angle a severity it didn’t have in colour. Gone was the air of femininity. Instead, the corners of the walls soared sharply above me, while the mantelpiece and the slew of picture frames appeared razor-edged. The furniture and objects were lighted from the chandelier and sconces like a Caravaggio painting. A decorative oriental screen was backlit and cast a series of stripes at canted angles across one wall. It was into this pattern of shadows that Frederick materialized. He was drinking from a fine bone china teacup.
“Lovely of you to arrive so promptly,” he said politely. “Have a seat.”
I sat down on a pale chaise that looked like a fainting couch. Judging by its worn fabric, it had been well used for that purpose.
“I hear you’ve been busy casting your movie,” I said.
He grinned. “Your friend Trinity read well enough. I’m not sure she’s best for the role, but I wanted to make you happy.”
I snorted my disgust. “Happy? You double-crossed me.”
He sighed and sat on a Queen Anne chair. Its delicate curves made him appear giant and utterly ridiculous, like a grown man taking tea at the kiddie table. “You saw the article in Talk?” he asked and I nodded firmly. “I was afraid of that. Larry Hayward is a no-good hack. I’ve never trusted him. You know he wrote the most scathing things about me when I was under investigation for Mica’s death.” He shook his head.