My Life in Black and White

by Kim Izzo

“You once insinuated there was more about the case than ever got published. At least, I took it that way.”

  “I didn’t think you would take me seriously. I was just sounding off. There are no pictures. Never were any pictures,” he said and practically shook me.

  “You mean you only tap phones?” I taunted him.

  “Don’t try to be provocative, Clara, it doesn’t suit you. And it won’t work. I’m long past being tormented by my mistakes.”

  I shoved him away. “Is that so? Are you saying Frederick is an innocent man?”

  “The jury thought so. Listen, I just never got a good feeling from him. The day she died, the servants said they had a huge row over a role for her in his next movie. He didn’t want her to do it. Sure he could of killed her, but did he? Only he, his wife and God know for sure.”

  “But a reporter of your stature has finely honed instincts, and you still sound like you suspect him.” I was getting more and more worked up. “That’s good enough for me. Good enough to put doubts in his mind of what I might have on him. Even if he didn’t do it, he knows how manipulative reporters are with editing. We could reopen all those doubts.”

  He grabbed me again by the elbow. “Look, Clara, you don’t know who you’re messing with. Frederick Marshall is a powerful man, and powerful men can be dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be going with him to the country for a midnight swim,” I laughed, repeating Niall’s sarcastic comment to that effect. “Now, let me go!”

  He dropped my elbow and pulled out another cigarette.

  “There has to be another way to cheer up your friend,” he said calmly.

  “Cheer up!” I repeated. “Cheering up is for a child who has dropped an ice cream cone. Alicia Steele doesn’t need cheering up. She needs to be saved.”

  “Calm down, Clara. There has to be another way.”

  I wasn’t calming down; if anything the hysteria was increasing. “There isn’t, Niall …” Then, despite myself, I leaned into his chest. After a moment, he reached up and stroked my hair. We stood that way for a few moments, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt reassured and safe and not alone—until there came more clicking sounds from my room.

  “Do you hear that?” I asked him. But the clicking had stopped.

  “I don’t hear a thing,” he said.

  I pushed free of his arms and walked to the door of my room. “You didn’t hear the typing?”

  He came and opened the door. The window was wide open and the curtains were billowing frantically. He shut it quickly and stopped at the typewriter.

  “You writing an article?”

  “No,” I said and cautiously moved to the desk. “A screenplay. I’m co-writing a screenplay.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a film noir,” I said. “Lust, betrayal, the usual.”

  I forced a smile, then I saw it. On the floor below the typewriter was a small grey lifeless piece of fur. It was a dead mouse. I screamed like a schoolgirl.

  Niall calmly took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked it up by its tail.

  “Maybe this was your mystery typist,” he said and took it away. Wait until Trinity found out. To think, after my inventing a mouse, there really was one.

  When he came back, he found me still staring at the floor where the mouse had been.

  “I feel sad that it died. Poor thing,” I said. “And in my room.”

  “With this smog, I’m not surprised. People are dying too. The hospitals are full of respiratory cases.”

  “Are you working on a story about it after all?”

  “I am. I don’t care if they publish it or not, but I’m going to write about it. The government has let coal burn like there’s no tomorrow, until now there may be no tomorrow. It’s corrupt and it must stop, or I’m afraid we’ll have many more days like this.”

  I thought for a moment. “You know, if you can’t sell it here, I might be able to get someone in New York or LA to buy it. If it is an in-depth environmental report, and you get officials on the record.” I felt like a broken record, promising more than perhaps I could deliver to Larry and now Niall. With all this time-travel nonsense, I wasn’t even sure who, if anyone, I would know in the media circus of 1952.

  He smiled boyishly, like I’d given him a new baseball mitt and the afternoon off school. “You’d do that?”

  “Sure, why not? You’re one of the few who haven’t betrayed me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A half-hour later we were back lying naked in each other’s arms, crammed tight into my tiny twin bed. I felt less guilty about the second time. Maybe because I felt more in control of fate, or I was getting used to succumbing to desire, or it could have been that I liked Niall more than was good for me. He was one giant step away from Dean and that couldn’t be bad.

  “I might fall asleep,” Niall yawned. I could see why. The smog turned day into night, and surrounded by such gloomy darkness, bed seemed the only reasonable place to be. I was about to tell him so when I heard Trinity run into the flat like she was being chased.

  “Clara!” she yelled. I leapt out of bed and grabbed a robe, but I wasn’t fast enough. She whipped open my door and saw us there, the robe clutched in front of my naked body, Niall’s bare chest on full display, his modesty protected by the sheet. He folded his arms behind his head and grinned.

  “Hello, Trinity,” he said.

  “Hello to you too,” she answered; whatever she had on her mind seemed momentarily forgotten. “I’m sorry for blasting in like this. I wasn’t expecting …”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry. Give us a second and we’ll be right out.”

  She turned away, and I noticed she held a file folder in her hand.

  Dressed now, Niall and I walked into the living room, where Trinity was pouring three shots of Scotch.

  “We’ll all need a drink,” she said and gestured to Niall. “At least the ladies will, but I poured one for you anyway.”

  “Good God, what happened?” I exclaimed. “Are you all right?” Given she’d just returned from her physical exam, I thought the worst.

  Her eyes looked to the file folder on the counter, the one I’d seen in her hand a moment ago. She thrust it at me. I opened it cautiously. My first instinct was that Trinity was dying of some awful mid-twentieth-century disease, but as I scanned the report, my throat constricted. I tried to swallow, but there was no saliva in my mouth, just a dry sensation as though the life had been sucked out of me.

  “Amber is pregnant,” I announced, not making eye contact with either of them.

  “How did you get her medical chart?” demanded Niall, always the reporter.

  “The entire cast went to the same doctor,” Trinity said, then went on to explain how she had been left alone in the exam room and got bored waiting so she nosed around and caught sight of a pile of folders. She snuck a peek and saw that they were for all members of the cast. She poked through them and then she found Amber’s file. She couldn’t help but look more closely—after all, it was Amber—and there it was: pregnant. She didn’t wait for her exam but stuffed the folder into her purse and got dressed, telling the nurse she’d forgotten an urgent meeting and would return tomorrow. Then she hoofed it home.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said, still in shock.

  “That makes two of us,” Trinity agreed. “Better drink this.” She handed me the Scotch and I shot it down in one gulp. She poured me another. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I know how much you wanted Dean’s baby. How long you tried.”

  “There’s no turning back the clock,” I said, knowing the irony was lost on them. “He will marry her now.”

  “You don’t know that,” Trinity said.

  I nodded. “Oh, I do. He married me when I was pregnant, only because I was pregnant. He’ll do the same. He’ll want to do the so-called right thing.”

  I wanted to cry. If any occasion called for tears, surely it was this, but none c
ame. The thought of that woman carrying my husband’s child was too much. I’d longed to have Dean’s baby, mourned the one that was almost mine, and now this.

  Niall cleared his throat like he had an important announcement to make, and when he spoke, he was all business.

  “This may prove to be in your favour,” he said and grinned in that slightly wicked way he had. “Frederick won’t make a movie with a pregnant woman.”

  Slowly, the same wicked smile unfurled across my face. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. My blackmail was unnecessary. A pregnant leading lady wouldn’t do. He would have to fire her now if he wanted to keep on schedule.

  “She can do the film, you know. They can hide her stomach with costumes,” Trinity said as though what she said helped.

  I shook my head. “Frederick won’t want a pregnant ingénue. He wouldn’t stand for it. It’s not like she’s a big star already and they’ll wait another year for her. He’d have to recast.” And recast with Alicia Steele, I thought gleefully, relieved that at last my plan was taking hold. “I wonder if he knows she’s pregnant.”

  “The medical report is supposed to be confidential,” Trinity added.

  “The doctor would have to tell the production company,” Niall pointed out. “Anything that could affect the film being made on time and on budget would be disclosed.”

  He was right. And given it was 1952 and women’s rights weren’t up to snuff yet, there would be no penalty for firing a woman because she was pregnant. Niall checked his watch.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said and grabbed his coat, kissing me softly on the forehead. “Be good.”

  “I won’t make any promises I can’t keep,” I said and watched him walk out the door.

  “So I take it you’re over Dean?” Trinity said and pointed to the door. “Niall Adamson is your new lover?”

  “Lover?” I repeated. “I like the sound of that. Yes, I suppose he is. As for Dean, what choice do I have? He’s going to be a father to another woman’s child.”

  There was a knock at the door. To our surprise, it was Saffron.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Trinity said. “Do come in.”

  She barely smiled.

  “Have a seat,” I offered. She sat down demurely with her legs folded and her handbag on her lap.

  “What brings you by, Saffron?” I asked. “We run up a tab at The White Stallion?”

  She shook her head. “I was on my way home and wanted to know if you’ve heard from Larry.”

  I raised an eyebrow, recalling the altercation in the doorway and how he’d threatened me, but when I spoke my tone was polite. “Not a peep. Why?”

  “He’s not returned my calls. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind.”

  “That could be why he’s not calling back,” Trinity pointed out.

  “I asked his mum, my auntie, and she said he was supposed to come home last night but she hasn’t heard from him.”

  “He lives with his mother?” I asked. She nodded. Oh brother.

  “Maybe he got lost in the fog.”

  She dropped it then and asked Trinity more details about the film, and I let my mind drift away. Perhaps Larry was doing another photo-op with Amber. That is, assuming Frederick hadn’t found out about her pregnancy yet. I wished I could see his face when he found out. I crossed to the window and saw a tough-looking kid dressed head to toe in the Teddy Boy uniform standing below. I wouldn’t have thought much about it until Niall showed up and the two began to argue.

  “Guys, come take a look,” I said, and Trinity and Saffron came and peered at the scene unfolding on the sidewalk.

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  The window was open just a crack, but we didn’t dare make it wider in case they heard us. A few words wafted up to us.

  “I will tell her if you don’t!” the teenager said angrily.

  “Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Niall snapped.

  I didn’t like how quiet Saffron was.

  “Saffron, do you know who that boy is?”

  “Don’t you?” she asked, surprised.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, feeling suspicious all of a sudden.

  “I thought you knew,” she said as though reading my mind. “I tried to tell you, but you said you knew about him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That’s his son. Niall is married.”

  I felt the floor sway beneath me. How had I become a mistress? Why had he lied? Not that I ever asked him if he was married. I hadn’t. But he knew what I’d gone through with Dean. Were there no decent men left in the world? I knew Trinity and Saffron were watching me, waiting for me to speak, scream or otherwise react. But I just stood staring out the window and wondering what type of wife she was—the type to turn a blind eye, or was she biding her time, waiting for proof or the courage to confront him. Or perhaps she was a wife like me, someone who never saw it coming, but believed that because she loved him he must love her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I’d managed several hours of fitful sleep when the phone rang. Trinity was already out, gone to her rescheduled physical and to return Amber’s file. She was going to ask as subtly as she could when the doctor reported the cast’s results to the insurance company and the producer. I crawled to the phone feeling like hell. It was Frederick Marshall at the other end. He wanted to talk to me about my proposition and gave me an address to a pub in the east end. He told me to be there in an hour and not to keep him waiting. I didn’t like his tone; gone was the flirty lilt, his voice drained of even rudimentary friendliness, but then again, I had threatened him. I didn’t know whether Frederick knew about the pregnancy or not, and I decided it was best if I kept my mouth shut on the topic to see how it played out.

  I took my time getting ready. I chose a snug-fitting dark dress with lace sleeves and a lace panel that covered my décolletage but provided ample cleavage viewing. I knew it was necessary to come to this meeting fully armed.

  Once outside, I heard my name and Saffron came through the mist at me.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said. I could tell she was worried. Her face was devoid of makeup, and her normally perfectly coiffed hair was dishevelled and, more to the point, she was in flats.

  “I’m off to an important meeting,” I began, then thought about it. I was the one in charge, not him. Frederick could wait. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Larry again,” she said. “I know you don’t like him much, but he’s disappeared. His mum said he still hasn’t turned up.”

  “Have you tried his editor at Talk?” I asked. I didn’t like Larry and wasn’t sure why Saffron thought I would know anything of his whereabouts.

  “We rang him and Larry hasn’t filed a story or checked in since day before yesterday,” she said.

  “Maybe he’s with a girl,” I suggested, biting my tongue rather than suggest she check a brothel.

  “That’s unlikely. You’ve met him,” she said and smiled faintly. “I know he was working for you …”

  I waved her off. “No, he wasn’t. He did one story, but after that Amber feature we broke off our agreement. I can’t help you. Sorry. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  I watched her walk away and disappear, her face covered in a pale silk scarf. I started to make my way to the tube station. But I hadn’t gotten far when I saw the faint glow of a black cab.

  “Why, it’s you again,” I said as I stepped into the cab. The same driver was behind the wheel. “You’re always here when I need you.”

  “It just works out that way, love,” he said and smiled. “Where to?”

  I looked down at the scrawl I’d made on a piece of paper. “Some place in the east end, Whitechapel? In a pub called The Ten Bells?” I said.

  He looked concerned. “That’s not a nice part of town, miss. Are you sure?”

  “It’s what he told me,” I explained, a wave of foreboding washing over me.

  “Wel
l, if you’re meeting a gentleman, then I feel better taking you,” he said.

  I smiled and settled into the back seat.

  “It’s quite far, will take us some time in this fog,” he explained cheerfully.

  “So be it,” I said.

  It did take ages to get there, and the closer we got the worse the landscape looked. Still recovering from being bombed out in the war, there was much rubble where buildings had stood and had yet to be rebuilt. Shop windows were boarded up too. I remembered studying how the King and Queen had toured this area after the Blitz, visiting homeless families. There didn’t seem to be many homes now either. Even the trees and shrubs looked forlorn and neglected. The people we passed wore depressed expressions to match the surroundings.

  When we pulled up outside The Ten Bells, the cabbie whistled. “This is the place,” he said. “Strange spot for a date.”

  “It’s not a date,” I explained and stepped to the curb, but his remark got my attention. “What makes it strange?” I asked as I looked up at the pub; it looked like every other pub in London.

  “This is the neighbourhood where Jack the Ripper murdered his victims,” he said ominously. “The Ten Bells was where two of the women drank their last ales before he stabbed them to death.”

  Without another word, he drove away, leaving me alone in the street. I wrapped my scarf around my head and shivered. Was Frederick meeting me here intended as a macabre joke, or was he trying to frighten me? My fingers were clasped around the door handle when I hesitated; it felt as though someone was watching me. I looked slowly side to side, but in the fog you couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. Taking a deep breath, I went in.

  He was waiting at a back table. I removed my coat and scarf at the door so that I could display my figure to full advantage as I walked towards him. His eyes never left me, but he definitely wasn’t pleased to see me. His manner was cold, but it was the menace I sensed the most as I sat down. I wasn’t accustomed to making people angry with me; I had always wanted people to like me. Though my behaviour of late belied that trait. Besides, if he despised me, our fledgling friendship was a sacrifice I was willing to make.