by Sally Koslow
Around the large room, muted light glows like Lyle’s Golden Syrup from lamps topped by tasseled silk shades. My skirt rustling, I catch the muffled twinkle of chin-wagging. I hear “bollocks,” “peckish,” and twice, “rubbish,” but never once “damn,” “dame,” “cute as a bug’s ear,” “shake a leg,” “what’s your story, morning glory?” or “you and me both.” With the exception of a few sylphlike debutante-types squired by handsome beaus, by Hollywood standards the clientele is proper to the edge of fustiness. Dotty, perhaps, but not flouncing in a cloud of Jungle Gardenia.
Scott might love it, or at least want to write about it. I also wonder where, at four o’clock in the afternoon, I would be in California. Just ending the first shift of my workday, perhaps, beginning the drive from Burbank. I’d be rolling down the window in the hope of catching a breeze while longing for an icy drink, a cool shower, and the release from my girdle and hose, tethered by pinching garters.
Depending on his degree of sobriety, I might be dreaming of Scott.
Here in London, am I home? Not exactly. This London was never truly mine, but Johnny was, and there he is in the corner, his smile a floodlight.
So, my former husband, the man who saved me from being forever Lily Shiel. He stands, bends slightly—not quite a bow—and in his sonorous voice, with enunciation as crisp as a hospital corner, says “Sheilah, dear Sheilah, I can’t believe you’re here.” He extends both hands as I hear the soloist on the grand piano croon, I’m no millionaire, but I’m not the type to care, ’cause I’ve got a pocketful of dreams. Did Johnny tip the musician to play what could be his theme song? I don’t recall him having quite that heightened a sense of self-deprecation, but it’s another reason to smile as he kisses my hand. In California such a greeting would be riddled by insincerity, but coming from Major Gillam, the gesture is natural. We embrace for seconds beyond perfunctory.
In my pumps, I stand almost eye-to-eye with Scott. I stretch to look up to John; I had forgotten how tall and reedy he is, the sort of Brit who grows older but no less elegant. In the handful of years since I’ve seen him, his precisely combed hair and flick of a mustache have become as silver as the teapots on each damask-dressed table. His posture remains lance straight, and grin broad but not foolish. I can barely believe this living testimony to England’s propriety was once my husband. For a moment, I think, what if we had stayed together in our cordial but sexless marriage cobbled together by kindness and trips to the theater? Then I’d never have met capricious, stormy Scott, thoroughly sauced, equally lovable, and studded with surprises.
“You must tell me everything you leave out of letters,” John insists when we get past my flight, accommodations, and plans. “Who is your favorite film star?”
“Spencer Tracy, without a doubt.” Knowing he is a Kipling fan and would have seen the movie, I fill Johnny in on the making of Captains Courageous.
“Ah, one of my favorites. Right now, I sorry I speak English ,” my thwarted thespian says, in a fair imitation of Spencer. “That cast sparkled with luminaries.”
I give him a rundown not just on Spencer Tracy, but on Mickey Rooney, Lionel Barrymore, and Melvyn Douglas before we cover John’s sister, with whom he’s had a rapprochement now that he and I are divorced and I’m slumming it thousands of miles away. He does not say, “she told me so,” though I’m sure Mrs. William Ashton did. Then we get to his latest job, selling antiquarian maps and ephemera, as well as news of the Nazis marching into the Rhineland and the Rome-Berlin Axis formed by Hitler and Mussolini.
I did not come here to speak of battles. As I finish the last of a lemon tartlet and my second cup of Darjeeling, Johnny reads my mind and signals for the check with a discreet arch of his eyebrow. “What do you say to some fresh air and a bit of a ramble?”
“Hyde Park? Alfred Hitchcock told me this hotel would be ideal for a murder, given the possibilities for burying bodies across the street there.” I am name-dropping, but John chuckles, seemingly in appreciation.
“Shall we?” He offers his arm and we walk through the lobby and out the grand front door.
“Are you happy in Hollywood?” he asks as we stroll.
It’s a question no one raises, not even one I ask myself, because the answer has become bound up with Scott.
“My work is a challenge, the sleuthing more than the writing, and not nearly as featherbrained as it might appear. I do like it, especially when I one-up my rivals.”
“Are there many?”
“First there was only one cunning old cow, but I now have a second even more obstreperous archenemy, and we’ve formed the unholy trinity from hell.”
“Good lord, is there enough gossip to go around?”
“If there isn’t, we stir the pot and practice the fine art of innuendo.”
“Clever girl,” Johnny says, swooping down to place a kiss on my cheek. “Do you imagine you might tire of this Americana and practice your dark art here? Plenty of scandal to monger on the West End alone.”
The midday rain has stopped, but fog hovers like a secret over the city, rendered in shades of charcoal as reserved as the populace. I’m surprised to realize I miss the jagged Technicolor glare of Los Angeles, its buildings so new and low they look half-finished, as well as the breezy ocean scent. In London car exhaust makes my nose twitch, and history freights every building, as if to say, wait a few years and you, too, will pass. Even though Scott is as mismatched to Hollywood as a goat is to a petticoat, it’s also the only place where I’ve known him, another point in the city’s favor.
“I try not to plan too far ahead, John.”
“If you’ll forgive my curiosity, whatever became of the Marquess of Donegall?”
I turn to him and shake a finger while I laugh. “Shame on you. You know better than anyone that our match was doomed.” Though I have been debating whether I will let Don know I am in town.
“No dashing actor or well-heeled director proposing marriage? I’d hoped that if we weren’t together, you’d find a man worthy of you who would give you children, love.”
Silence is my answer. John knows my true age—thirty-four—and that if childbearing was my goal, I’d best get a move on.
“As I said, I try not to plan too far ahead,” I answer. “Let’s talk about tonight—and the next few days.” We have lined up several plays. John will be my escort.
I have missed live theater. Johnny suggested Operette, Noël Coward’s latest, which to my ear falls flat. Noël has done better. The Fleet’s Lit Up is more to my liking, with a fast pace, brassy music, lavish costumes, eye-popping sets, and broad comedy, topped by a ballet in a newspaper office that I might have to perform for John Wheeler. Under Your Hat turns out to be the show I write about, because I know my readers will admire a drama about film stars called upon to track down spies who’ve stolen some sort of thingamabob of great consequence to the British Air Force. The female lead waltzes across the stage while suffering the hiccups, and, in the guise of a waitress, serves a drink garnished with a goldfish. Pure idiocy, but the antics keep me laughing—and for several hours, my mind off Scott. The point of this trip.
For two afternoons I play tourist at the usual haunts—Big Ben and Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, and the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, which I admit to Johnny I’d never seen. But on my third day, rather than tackle the V & A Museum, I set off early for Stepney Green, where the singsong patter of Yinglisch— oy gevalt, zhat is vun fershtinkene fish—surrounds me along with the German of somber, well-tailored people I take for refugees.
I wind through crooked lanes: Mile End Road. Frying Pan Alley. Princelet Street, with fine old houses chopped into tiny, airless flats. The streets are as crowded, malodorous, and littered as I recall. Behind every door, I imagine my father. But he will not be found in the Great Zionist Synagogue on the incongruously named Jubilee Street. Tatte davened in one of the humble shtiebels—I have no idea which one—that hide behind mezuzahs on every other blo
ck. Nor is a doppelganger of little Lily in any of the kosher restaurants on what passes for a high street. The Shiels did not dine out.
I must look lost—I am, in the smoke of memory—when a kindly woman about five or ten years older than I am taps me on the arm as I stand at an intersection, trying to decide whether to turn right or left.
“Help you, Miss?”
I blink and search the face, with its apple cheeks and dark eyes fringed with long lashes. Names swim from the past. What became of my friend Freda and the other bald girls from the Asylum? Could they be walking these streets, pushing prams while older children tug at their long, modest skirts or trail like ducklings? “Freda Rothenfeldt? Is that you?”
I move a few inches closer and the woman tenses so fast you’d think I was Charles Lindbergh Jr.’s kidnapper. She holds tight to her young son, his curly sidelocks bouncing in the wind.
“Ah, pardon me,” I say. “I thought you might be a friend of meine schvester. I am mistaken.” The woman stares. “I lived here as a child,” I offer by way of explanation.
“Nu?” she says, still suspicious of a gibbering blonde with an alligator handbag and burgundy-red suit tailored to show off her waist and legs.
There’s no way to explain why I am here or what I am looking for, because I do not know myself. A connection? A ghost? An acquittal? I thank the woman and walk on until I find a small café wedged between a wig store and a photographer—Boris Someone—whose window display features wedding couples fancied up for the camera. The faces look happy, or at least not unhappy, as do most of those who stride with purpose up and down the streets.
I sip hot tea in a tall glass and nibble a biscuit, wondering how my life would have turned out had I never broken loose from Stepney Green. Perhaps I would have married someone decent and upstanding from the neighborhood—a taxi driver, let’s say, or a butcher with his own shop. By now I’d be as round as a tea cozy, surrounded by an armada of children. Every Friday I’d braid a challah and light candles for a Sabbath table. I never would have heard of Louella or Hedda, signed my name to a column, driven a car, flown in an airplane, or traveled to Paris, Munich, or Berlin. I’d never have concocted Sheilah Graham or had reason to lie. I’d never have known Sir John Gillam, Randolph Churchill, or Tom Mitford, fallen in love with Scott, or become engaged to the Marquess of Donegall, nor would I have broken off with this good man via a curt letter.
It’s the last thought that prompts me to pay my bill, leave a bountiful tip, and return to the Dorchester to wire Don. I don’t expect a response. But he phones, immediately, asking if we can meet for a cocktail in two hours’ time.
Now I’ve done it. I get to the lounge early, the least I can do, and consider how, without saying anything overly dramatic, I will be able to channel a woman able to put Don at ease. I do not care to be hated.
Because Scott has become the standard by which I measure males, the first thing I notice when Don walks to my table is how young he looks. The second is his deep suntan.
“Sheilah,” he says, kissing me on both cheeks. “Lovely as ever.”
“Don, you’re the color of a bronze statue.” I expect him to say he’s been on a seaside vacation. Fiji, perhaps.
“I’ve been covering the war in Spain.”
I know Don to report on wherever his mind meanders—to Dixieland jazz, the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary, vintage cars, Sherlock Holmes, aviation, and the alpine world ski competition in Switzerland. Never politics. “Good Lord, whatever made you put yourself in harm’s way?”
Do I see a grimace?
“When the woman you love gives you the old heave-ho, you figure nothing will take your mind off heartbreak faster than a little war. A clash between democracy and fascism is a fine distraction, especially in a warm climate. And, of course, I’ve long outlived my usefulness as a marquess.”
I try to hide that I’m utterly flummoxed. “Where were you?”
“Spain’s northern coast, for about five months, filing stories for British newspapers while I hoped I didn’t get my legs blown off.”
“What you must have seen . . .”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather not talk about it, actually. Or think about it.”
“I’m glad you’re safely back,” I say, though I resist placing my hand on his. I do not feel I have the right.
“I plan to return.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Why not, Sheilah?” His tone is strident. Not the Don I remember.
“Because I care about you.”
“That’s rich.” Don laughs. “Shall we order?” He catches the eye of a waiter. “For the lady?”
“A martini, please. Dry.” Today I need it.
“And for me, my good man, a Thunderstorm.”
“Whatever might that be?” I ask when the server steps away, grateful for a benign topic.
“Whiskey, Benedictine, and bitters. My new poison.”
I have the feeling this will be the first of several cocktails. He takes a sip, sits back, smiles, and says, “I’m being glib and harsh. That’s not fair. You were kind enough to get in touch.” He takes another sip. “May I ask why?”
I regain my equanimity, force a smile, and try to find words that aren’t threadbare aphorisms. Are there any?
“I wanted to apologize for my abrupt behavior. I am the one who, for no reason, was glib and harsh. I should have treated you differently. I couldn’t marry you, but . . .”
He signals for a second drink, while my martini remains untouched. “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?”
“I simply couldn’t see us married.” I cross my ankles and will myself not to squirm in discomfort.
“Because you’d met your Mr. Fitzgerald, a man, I might point out, who was and is already married.”
Is it Don’s wartime experience that has hardened him? I down the rest of my drink in three gulps. “Scott had nothing to do with my decision,” I lie.
He takes my hand and softly strokes my empty ring finger. “In that case, could you see reversing it? Because I’m hoping you’ll come to your senses and return to me. I miss you, Sheilah. Why let an engagement ring gather dust in a vault?”
“Don, it’s been years.”
“My feelings haven’t changed.”
Nor have mine. I regret that I am an intractable romantic rather than a pragmatist. “I can’t see it working, Don.”
“Even if I fly you to Paris tomorrow in my plane?”
I am happy to see Don smiling. “Tempting as both offers are, tomorrow is when I return to the States. But I thank you.”
“And so our story ends,” he announces, as if he were narrating an Agatha Christie novel.
“Oh, you never know,” I say, and we kiss. I feel . . . nothing but a profound ache for Scott and home.
Chapter 30
1938
The day after I return, Scott calls while traveling West. He will be home tomorrow. I respond coolly. “No, I can’t have dinner. Terribly busy.” Then there is more.
“Sheilo, we can marry.”
“Excuse me?” I shudder.
“You’re going to be a beautiful bride, and you will make me happier than I deserve to be. I love you. I want you to be my wife. We belong together . . .” and more, as if there weren’t enough ordinary words to capture his joy. “We’ll make a baby together, Presh. I want a son, a better version of me. No, I want another daughter, one who looks just like you. Tomorrow I’ll take you in my arms and we’ll begin the next Fitzgerald.”
“Oh, Scott.” My heart is a hummingbird, beating its wings. I never imagined a proposal or a baby together—or let myself hope for either. It’s unexpected, terrifying, and thrilling. I may melt into the rug.
“Truly?” I ask Scott.
“Yes, my Presh. You are the heart and hope of freshness. I will see you soon and show you how I feel.”
I hang up and with ticklish glee, push aside the typewriter on my desk, pick up a fountain pen, and like a schoolgirl, b
egin writing over and over, Mrs. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Sheilah Fitzgerald. Sheilah Graham Fitzgerald. Sheilah Graham Gillam Fitzgerald.
And a baby? A child offers the promise of unconditional love and being loved in return. I admit to myself that the prospect of motherhood was the best part of marrying Don, better even than his title. I thought he would be a devoted papa. Judging from the concern Scott shows for Scottie through his constant letters, he, too, will be a fine father. I feel a silvery skyscraper of warmth and desire for Scott, whom I sometimes believe reads me better than I read myself. He has asked me to marry him because he realizes I want to create the family I never had.
After a night when I sail on crests of joy, confiding in my pillow, and surely do not sleep at all, I fill my flat with tulips and daisies, and buy juicy sirloins and the greengrocer’s freshest artichokes, each like a rose in full bloom. It is when I remind myself that I cannot serve Champagne that I slam into the truth. Scott may be my beshert. My destiny. But do I dare marry him? Whatever am I thinking? I have never cared for anyone this deeply, but he is not a man I can wholly trust.
Rubbish, I tell myself. It’s your nerves talking. But like mold on fruit, the worry spreads.
At seven o’clock, he calls from the airport, elated. “Be there in a half hour, Sheilo.” Thirty minutes pass. I have set the table in the spot on my terrace that catches a refreshing twilight breeze. Fifteen more minutes tick by. An hour. Could Scott have been in an accident? I picture him hurt or worse. Finally, with profound relief, I hear his car grind up my hill. I run to the door.
He spills onto the sidewalk, unkempt. When he gets closer I see his eyes are bloodshot.
“Sheilo, how I’ve missed you.” He literally falls into my arms, all stubble and alcoholic kisses.
