Not Without You (11 page)

Gilbert tutted in impatience. ‘Here.’ He wound the thread around my shoulder, tugging it tight, pulling the bird back into position again. ‘Damn it, I’m sorry, Eve. Shouldn’t have lost my rag like that, darling. Forgive?’

I smiled at him; he looked flustered and annoyed. ‘Of course, forgive,’ I said.

‘You’re a wonderful girl, you know that.’ He kissed me lightly on the shoulder.

We were unnoticed at the back of the room. I kissed him back on the lips. ‘You are a wonderful, wonderful man,’ I told him softly, relief flooding through me. ‘I can’t quite believe my luck.’

And I couldn’t, really. One part of me knew it was a good idea, this cooked-up romance with Gilbert Travers. Everyone benefited. The other part, the part I hadn’t told anyone at the studio about, was the twelve-year-old me, swooning over Gilbert Travers at the Picturehouse in Stratford, watching his films week after week in the lean years after the war where they showed old thirties fare again and again. He was a schoolgirl fantasy to me. The only crime I had ever committed in my short, boring life was that once I had sneaked into the library and cut a picture of Gilbert Travers arriving at Quaglino’s out of the
Illustrated London News
.
And he was here, by my side – he was mine, and that was worth a hell of a lot of ripped birds, I supposed.

‘I don’t know how you put up with me,’ he said, shifting in his seat, still slightly red. ‘I’m a brute.’ His mouth drooped, his eyes were filmy. ‘A foul-mouthed, boozy, moody, selfish brute. You’d be happier if I let you go and find someone else. I’m more than twice your age, for God’s sake.’

‘You’re forty-eight, and I’m a grown woman, darling,’ I told him. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

In truth, I did dread his moods, which came without warning, throwing a black cloak over a perfectly nice evening. He could sit there and say nothing for hours, with me darting around him like a sparrow –
Would you like another drink? Here’s the paper, darling, I thought you’d like to see this. Oh, by the way, I ran into Vivian at the studio today, and he says you’re marvellous in
Dynasty
. Everyone’s talking about it
– working harder and harder to bring him back into the room. I was too afraid to call his bluff. I didn’t know what happened if you did, in any situation.

I wish I’d learned then that when you call someone’s bluff you usually win: it’s simply not what they’re expecting. And swimming along in the slipstream of another person’s current is no way to live.

It was then that I looked up and saw someone, staring at me from the other side of the room. What would have happened if I hadn’t? What if I’d never seen Don Matthews again? Would Gilbert and I have continued our evening and would it have been lovely? Would everything have worked out differently?

‘Excuse me, darling,’ I said. ‘Let me go and fix my dress. I’ll be straight back.’ I squeezed his hand and stood up, and as I walked out towards the terrace Don turned and saw me. He whispered something to his companion and left the bar.

‘Well, well. Miss Avocado 1956,’ he said, shaking my hand.

‘Don,’ I said, clasping his fingers in mine, tilting my head to meet his dark, warm gaze. ‘It’s good to see you. How are you?’

‘I’m the same, but you’re much better,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Congratulations. You were – well, I thought you wouldn’t make it. I thought you’d crack and go back home to Mum and Dad.’ He said this in a terrible English accent.

I had the most curious feeling we’d last met only days before, not nearly two years ago. ‘I don’t give up,’ I said. ‘I wanted to be a star. I told you.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you did. But you were different back then.’ He stared at me. ‘Gosh. What did they do to you?’

I stared at him. ‘Oh,’ I said, after a moment. ‘It’s probably my hair. Electrolysis. They thought I should have a widow’s peak for Helen. It was painful, but I suppose they were right.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that.’

‘Or the teeth?’ I said, opening my mouth. ‘Five caps – it’s made a world of difference.’ He shook his head. ‘I lost a stone, too, which was terribly hard, but I needed to.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ He gave that sweet, lopsided grin I’d forgotten about. ‘Forget it. I’m looking for something that’s not there, I guess. You’re all grown-up, Rose.’

I’d forgotten he’d called me that.
Rose
. I started and he smiled again.

‘I know all your dirty little secrets, remember,’ he said. I must have looked as worried as I felt, because he added, ‘It’s a joke. Hey, don’t worry. I’m not one of those guys.’

‘I know you’re not,’ I said, and I knew it was true. ‘Anyway,’ I said brightly. ‘How are you? What are you working on at the moment?’

‘Something special,’ he said. ‘I’m polishing it up right now. About a girl from a small town who moves to the big city and gets lost. In fact, I had you in mind for it. I always have done, Rose.’

His eyes never left my face but I avoided his gaze. ‘How exciting. What’s the title?’

He paused. ‘Wait and see.’

‘That’s a great title.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean, Rose, just wait and see. In fact, I’d like to be the one to tell you. Soon.’

‘Really?’ I said. I was embarrassed and I didn’t know why.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s for Monumental, and I think they’re talking about putting you in it after
Mandalay
’s done shooting. I’ll get you a copy.’

Typical that everyone else would know except me what I’d be doing next. My life wasn’t my own to plan; it was the studio’s, Moss Fisher’s in particular, and I knew it and was grateful to them. ‘That’s – great,’ I said. ‘Listen, Don—’

Gilbert appeared at that moment. ‘Darling, what are you doing?’ He stared at Don in that curiously hostile way that upper-class English people have. ‘Oh. Good evening.’

‘Mr Travers, a real pleasure to meet you. Don Matthews.’ Don held out his hand.

‘Don’s a screenwriter, darling,’ I said. ‘He wrote
Too Many Stars
.’

‘Ah.’ Gilbert could barely conceal his apathy. ‘Darling, I see Jack over there. I rather thought I might say hello to him. Excuse me, won’t you.’ He nodded at Don and strode off.

‘I don’t follow the fan magazines, I’m afraid,’ Don said. ‘That’s the guy they’ve set you up with? Gilbert Travers? He’s a little old for you, don’t you think?’

He tapped a cigarette on the side of a worn silver case. I watched him, rubbing my bare arms in the sudden chill of the restaurant. ‘He’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘We—’

‘You going to marry him?’ He rapped out the question, his voice harsh.

A commotion at the other end of the room forestalled my answer; a flurry of white floor-length ermine and flashing diamonds. I looked over to see Benita Medici, my rival at the studio, arriving on the arm of a suave, rake-thin man whom I knew to be Danny Paige, the biggest, wildest bandleader of the moment. ‘Oh, my goodness, Danny Paige!’ I said. ‘I just love him.’

‘I’m more of a Sinatra guy,’ Don said. ‘I like to listen at home. Too old to jive.’

‘Slippers and pipe and a paper by the fire, while your wife soothes your brow and fixes you a drink?’ I said.
You don’t know anything about him. Why would you care if he’s married or not?

‘Something like that,’ he said, and he smiled again. ‘Only it’s hard for her to fix me a drink these days.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Vegas is a long way away,’ he said. ‘Too far to commute.’

‘What does she do in Vegas?’

He waved his hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t do it with me, that’s the main thing. I’m not a great guy to live with. And I was a lousy husband. She made the right decision.’ He tapped the side of his glass. ‘I like to drink alone, so it worked out fine.’

I didn’t know what to say. ‘That’s so sad.’

‘Why?’ He smiled again. ‘Marriages fail all the time.’

‘But they shouldn’t,’ I said.

‘God, you’re young,’ he said. He jangled some change in his pocket. ‘You know, I worry about you, Rose. You’re such a baby. You shouldn’t be here, you know it? You should be back in England fluffing up an Elizabethan ruff and getting ready to go out on stage, not living this – life, like a gilded bird in a cage.’ His eyes scanned me, looking at the beautiful silk birds on my dress, the crooked one on my shoulder.

I laughed. ‘Don’t let’s disagree. Not when it’s so lovely to see you again.’ I looked over to where Gilbert was standing at the bar, a greyish-blue plume of cigar smoke rising straight above his head, like a signal.

‘Fine. Change the subject.’

‘What’s your favourite Sinatra album?’ I asked him.

Don whistled. ‘Gee. That’s hard. You like him too?’

‘Oh, yes, I love him too. More, in fact. He’s my biggest discovery since I came here. I’d never heard him before.’

‘You never heard Sinatra?’ Don’s face was a picture. ‘Rose, c’mon.’

‘We didn’t have jazz and … music like that, when I was growing up.’ My home was a quiet, forbidding house, full to me of the sound of echoing silence and my guilt which filled up the empty rooms, where once there had been shouts of joy, and more often screams of fury, thundering steps on hard tiles. When Rose was around there’d been no need for music.

‘Well, in London … of course. In the coffee bars, and at dances. Not before then.’ I shook my head, trying to remove the image of Rose singing, shouting, along to some song on the radio, her mouth wide open, eyes full of joy, with that intensity that sometimes scared me. She would have loved Sinatra. She loved music. I pushed the image away, closing my eyes briefly, then opening them.
There. Gone
. ‘I’m dying to meet him. Imagine if I did. Mr Baxter says he’ll fix it. We were in here once and he and Ava Gardner came in – I nearly died. I must have listened to
Songs for Swingin’ Lovers
around a thousand times. The record is worn thin. Dilly’s my dresser, and she says she’s going to confiscate it if she has to listen to it again.’

‘Well.
In the Wee Small Hours
is my favourite, since you ask. “I’ll Be Around”.’

‘Oh.’ I was disappointed. ‘But it’s so depressing. All those sad songs.’

‘I like sad songs,’ Don said. He looked over at Gilbert, then back at me.

My shoes were tight, and I rubbed my eyes, suddenly tired. It had been a long day, filming a gruelling scene in which Diana the nun hides out in a villager’s hut as the Japanese kill scores of people and retreat, setting fire to the village. My back ached from crouching for hours in the same position, and the tips of my fingers were raw and bloody from scrabbling at the gravelly, sandy earth (Burbank’s finest, shipped in from the edge of the Mojave Desert). ‘You OK?’ Don asked.

‘Just tired,’ I answered.

‘I’ll let you go. Just one thing, though. That white roses thing – why don’t you like them? I was watching you earlier. I saw your face when that reporter asked you about them.’

I stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The publicity guys made it up, didn’t they?’

‘Don’t let the fans hear you say that,’ I said, keeping my voice light. ‘I get about fifty a day.’ Mr Baxter’s publicity department put it out that Eve Noel the English rose missed her rose bush at home in England so much that she insisted on having white roses flown in from England for her dressing room, since when every day, to my home, to the Beverly Hills Hotel where I stayed on and off, to the studio, white roses arrived by the dozen. It was a sign I’d arrived, they kept telling me, as Dilly put armfuls in the trash or handed them out to girls on the set.

But I hated the things. Loathed them. They would always be linked for me with Mr Baxter in his car, hurting me, puffing over me, the feeling of his vile hands on me. The cloying sweet scent and the surrender I made that night; it was all linked. I tried never to think about that night, never. I assigned it a colour, cream, and if I ever was forced to think about it, like the time Mr Baxter tried it again, in my dressing room on set, or the time he and I rode in the same car after the premiere of
Helen of Troy
, I just thought about the colour cream all the way. I knew I’d done the right thing. I’d passed his test, and mine too, hadn’t I? Wasn’t I a star, wasn’t I adored and feted by millions around the world? So what if the sight of a few roses made me want to throw up.

Unfortunately for me, like all good publicity, sooner or later even those responsible for the myth in the first place started to believe it. Gilbert hated it too, because people were always trying to give me white roses, at premieres, at parties, wherever we went. Hostesses at dinners would thoughtfully always put white roses on the table and laugh a tinkling laugh when I murmured my thanks:
‘Oh, we know how you love them, dear!’

I shook my head, and said ‘Cream’ softly to myself. Don Matthews watched me.

‘Whose idea was it? The rose thing?’

I answered honestly, ‘Joe Baxter’s. I actually don’t like them.’

‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘He did the same with another girl he was trying to launch. Dana something.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Don. ‘He was obsessed with her.’ His voice was casual, as if he were giving me a piece of gossip from the studio, but something, something made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

‘What happened to her?’ I asked, my heart beating at the base of my throat.

‘Oh, she was Southern, and he put it out that she missed the camellias from home. But camellias only last a day or two and they’re a real pain in the ass to get out here. And then the big picture he’d put her in flopped – do you remember
Sir Lancelot
?’ I shook my head. ‘Exactly. She was poison after that. They put her on suspension for something, then she made B-movies when her contract expired, then she disappeared. Last I heard she was addicted to the pills and making ends meet in titty movies out in San Fernando. Poor kid.’

I knew all about suspension. People kept saying the studios were on their last legs, but the truth was my contract with them was still rigid tight. They owned me. I’d heard about the actors and actresses who stopped being favourites. Too old, too expensive, too demanding. They’d be sent scripts that the studio knew they’d never agree to do – playing a camp comedy part, or an eighty-year-old aunt. When they turned them down, the studio put them on suspension, which meant they couldn’t work for anyone. And they could only watch as someone cheaper and younger, with better teeth and smoother skin, took their parts from under them.