‘I think so,’ said Brendan carefully. A sense of danger had suddenly settled in him.
‘Oh well.’ She looked at him amusedly and then back at the pictures. ‘Obviously you didn’t get to see very much of them. Which is very fortunate.’
It was a statement, not a question. Brendan swallowed.
‘Anyway, let’s not waste valuable time on them. I’m sorry about yesterday. But we had no choice; a fast decision was essential.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sounding almost patient. ‘Really. Now then, I do have a possible part for you. It’s an eastern.’
‘Oh,’ said Brendan. His heart sank. Easterns were films in the Thief of Baghdad genre and meant fooling around in boleros and baggy trousers swinging from the rigging of ships, or off the side of Arab horses, holding cutlasses.
‘Don’t sound so enthusiastic. They’re good box-office. I’d have thought it would beat pumping gas.’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s a nice neat little part. The princess’s childhood sweetheart. Before she meets the thief.’
‘Who turns out to be a good guy?’
‘Of course. How perceptive you are. Well, if it doesn’t interest you, Mr Patrick, I must ask you to excuse me. I have a great deal to do.’
‘No,’ said Brendan, ‘no, I’m sorry. Of course it interests me. Of course I’d like to test.’
‘Oh, I don’t want you to test,’ she said, looking at him amusedly.
‘You don’t?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘I see.’
He sank back into his corner, totally deflated, putting down his glass. Naomi continued to eat her salad. The waiter suddenly appeared with a phone.
‘For you, Miss MacNeice.’
‘Thank you. Hallo. Yes, Janet. Yes of course. No, I’ll be back. About two. I’ve nearly finished. Yes, I’ve spoken to him. Yes, of course I’ll see them. I’m sending Mr Patrick up to wardrobe this afternoon incidentally. Let them know, please. We don’t have much time. Goodbye, Janet.’
She put down the phone and met Brendan’s eyes. She smiled at him for the first time; and for the first time he realized what a beautiful woman she was.
‘I told you,’ she said, ‘some of the phone calls are perfectly genuine. Or did you perhaps think that one was a fake?’
‘No,’ said Brendan, swallowing a very large mouthful of wine. ‘No, I didn’t. I do hope,’ he added, returning her smile a little nervously, ‘that I was right.’
‘Yes, you were,’ she said. ‘Now I must go. The bankers are in town, it seems. Good afternoon, Mr Patrick.’
Brendan sat there for some time, staring after her, and wondering if he had imagined the strong steady pressure of her leg against his during most of the lunch.
He had not. Two days later, after he had been measured endlessly by costume, had his hair cut, been told to grow his sideburns, and to take some riding and fencing lessons, done a tint test (to see how he looked in colour film), been photographed by publicity and even finally been given a script to study, a call came through to make-up from Janet Jones. Would Mr Patrick please come straight up to Miss MacNeice’s office?
Brendan walked through the vast back lot and found his way with some difficulty to Naomi MacNeice’s office; she was sitting in one of the large leather chairs that flanked her fireplace. A tall blond man with an absurdly tanned face sat in the other; he stood up as Brendan came into the room and walked over to him, holding out his hand.
‘Byron!’ he said in a voice that dripped honey, with a smile that revealed two rows of the most perfect teeth Brendan had ever seen. ‘I am so glad to meet you. Miss MacNeice has been telling me about you. I’m Perry Browne, spelt with an “e”’ – he paused and showed a few more teeth – ‘and I’m your press agent. Well, not solely yours, of course, I’m working on this film generally, but I have a special brief as of now to make your name b-i-g.’ More teeth.
Brendan blinked, dazzled.
‘Naomi, can I get Byron a drink? And another for you? What is it to be, Naomi, another pink gin? Byron, what do you like to drink? I think Naomi has just about everything.’
‘Uh – a glass of white wine, please,’ said Brendan.
‘White wine!’ cried Perry, sounding enraptured. ‘White wine, wonderful! Californian Chardonnay, Byron, or let me see, Naomi has a lovely white Bordeaux, or there’s a gorgeous Chablis. Which would you think?’
‘The Chardonnay, please,’ said Brendan, who would have preferred beer, but didn’t think he could possibly drink beer in Naomi’s office.
‘The Chardonnay!’ cried Perry in triumphant tones. ‘Of course! Here we are, then, a glass of very delicious Chardonnay. I think I might join you, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, Perry, of course he doesn’t mind,’ said Naomi impatiently. ‘Now then, Byron, what we’ve got you here for is to discuss basic publicity strategy.’
‘Yes,’ said Perry, ‘background, training, all that sort of thing. Interests, ambitions, special skills and talents. You know, Byron, as well as I do, of course you do.’
‘OK,’ said Brendan, disliking Perry more with every moment, ‘how much do you want to know?’
‘Oh, everything, every little tiny thing. Then we can work out a really nice story.’
‘Born in New York. Grew up in Brooklyn –’
‘The Heights?’ said Perry hopefully.
‘No, Sheepshead Bay.’
‘Sheepshead Bay! Charming!’
‘Majored in drama at high school. Summer school at Juillard. Off Broadway in Tennessee Williams.’
‘Off Broadway! Wonderful! Byron, you’re a publicist’s dream –’
‘Then went to England in the war. USAF. Flew bombers. Shot down. Eighteen months in German hospital and prison-of-war camp –’
‘Oh my!’ said Perry. ‘A war hero! Go on, Byron.’
‘Back to New York, back to Sheepshead Bay with my daughter.’
There was a silence so intense it almost hurt. Brendan looked from one to another; they were staring at him, Perry looking almost frightened, Naomi colder than ever.
‘The dream becomes a nightmare,’ she said distantly. ‘Are we to understand then that you’re married? Or have been?’
‘No,’ said Brendan cheerfully, feeling in command of the situation for the first time since he had met Naomi. ‘No, I’m not and I haven’t been. The mother of my child is an English girl. She’s now married to someone else. She – couldn’t keep Fleur.’ He watched Perry and Naomi visibly relax.
‘Ah!’ said Perry. ‘Just a little wartime romance. A bit of war effort. And Fleur! What a lovely name. I’m sure she’s a very lovely child too, Byron. But I think perhaps we shouldn’t mention her in your release. We are billing you as a new young romantic lead after all. A child would be – well, not ideal. Would she, Naomi?’
‘Not ideal,’ said Naomi.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have wanted her mentioned anyway,’ said Brendan. ‘And she wouldn’t want it either,’ he added firmly, lest they should think Fleur was merely an adjunct to him, not a force in her own right. ‘I think she’s best left out of all this.’
‘Of course! How wise you are, Byron. Nothing worse than the Hollywood brat, is there, Naomi? Who cares for her, Byron? A nurse?’
‘No,’ said Brendan, ‘my mother.’
‘You have a mother?’ cried Perry. ‘How wonderful!’ He spoke as if a mother was an esoteric rarity, a prize orchid or a fine piece of sculpture.
‘Most people have a mother,’ said Brendan.
‘Yes, but not when they are your age, devoted, supportive mothers. That would be a great story – but then we would have to mention the little girl perhaps. So no, maybe not. Now, Byron, how did you come to Hollywood?’
‘Via Kevin Clint and Hilton Berelman,’ said Naomi. She sounded almost rattled.
‘Uh-uh,’ said Perry, ‘least said soonest mended there. I don’t see why that has to come out, Naomi. I mean Byron hasn’t been exactly making waves up till now.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Naomi.
‘Well now, perhaps, Byron, you might have come anyway? Maybe your wonderful mother suggested it? Saved up the fare herself perhaps? I mean if Clint and Berelman hadn’t sent you? What do you think?’
‘Whatever you think,’ said Brendan wearily. He was beginning to feel sick. Tyrone was looking like a regular guy compared with this creep.
‘Well, we can work on that one. Now, what are your hobbies? Do you ride, or play baseball or surf, or play the piano? What can we find there?’
‘I can’t ride,’ said Brendan, ‘not properly. Although I have to have some lessons for this film. I hate the sea. I’m bad at baseball. I’m tone-deaf. I can’t think what you can say.’
‘Wine!’ said Perry suddenly. ‘Wine! I have a wonderful idea, Naomi. Byron obviously knows about wine. He can win an award. Or be elected to a fellowship of wine buffs. So civilized, so urbane. So right for his looks. What do you think?’
‘Nice idea,’ said Naomi. ‘I like it.’
‘Good. Byron, you’re looking puzzled. It’s really very simple. We arrange for you to be photographed receiving a crate of wine – something a little bit special – at your door, and announce that you’ve been elected a golden vintage member of the fellowship of the Californian Vine. Something like that.’
‘I couldn’t be,’ said Brendan, ‘I hardly know red from white.’
‘Oh, that won’t matter. Not one bit. Not at first and you can mug up very quickly. Of course it won’t be a real award. But, in no time, you’ll be known as the star who knows about wine. You can give little tastings, maybe even have your own vineyard somewhere, oh, it will be charming. Charming.’
‘OK,’ said Brendan, trying to sound authoritative, and hearing himself failing, ‘if you think so.’
‘Now, what about clothes and things? Do you have some really nice clothes?’
‘Not any more,’ said Brendan, thinking of the bulging suitcase Hilton had taken back to New York.
‘That’s no problem,’ said Naomi. ‘We can get him some clothes.’
‘Of course. Where do you live, Byron?’
‘On La Brea at third.’
‘Oh, dear. On your own or do you share with some other young actors?’
‘One actress.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Naomi. Her voice was colder than ever.
‘Her name is Rose Sharon.’
‘Indeed! What an interesting name.’ Perry’s teeth were widely bared again. ‘Does she have a lot of work?’
‘Enough.’
‘Oh, good. But you see, Byron, you really can’t go on living there. Or with her. The fans won’t like it. You’re a bachelor. A young lead. Incidentally, Byron, how old are you?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Too old,’ said Perry. ‘What do you think, Naomi? Twenty-seven?’
‘Twenty-six,’ said Naomi.
‘Twenty-six it is. Well, you’ve given me lots to think about, Byron.’
‘Good,’ said Naomi. ‘I think that’s all for now, Perry. Come back to me with your proposals, will you?’
‘Of course! Tout de suite. Byron, it’s been lovely meeting you. I just know we’re going to enjoy working together. I’ll call you in a day or so.’
‘Fine. Thanks,’ said Brendan.
Perry withdrew, almost genuflecting at Naomi. She smiled a trifle less coldly and poured Brendan another glass of wine.
‘He’s a little excessive,’ she said, ‘but very good at his job.’
She drove him up to her house herself in her car, a silver-blue Pontiac.
‘No driver?’ said Brendan, surprised.
‘I like driving,’ said Naomi. ‘My driver has a very easy life.’
The house was vast, with an elaborately tiled roof and high Moorish windows, set above the obligatory well-sprinkled lawns; great banks of azaleas and bougainvillaeas lined the drive, and led to a vast vaulted front door. Naomi parked the car and the redundant driver appeared as if from nowhere to take it away again; the door swung open as they approached and the butler saw them in with an almost-bow. He was English and tail-coated: ‘Good evening, madam, sir.’
‘Good evening, Crossman. Drinks by the pool, please.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Brendan, fascinated, followed Naomi through a dark panelled hall, a vaulted library, walls lined with enough books to service a small university, and out the other side on to a terrace by the pool. Naomi led the way to some chairs and a table and waved Crossman towards them. He carried an ice bucket and some glasses in his white-gloved hands; his expression as he looked briefly in Brendan’s direction was blank.
‘Thank you, Crossman.’
‘Will you be dining here, madam?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Very good, madam.’
Another almost-bow; a gracious withdrawal.
‘He’s – uh – very nice,’ said Brendan. Crossman reminded him of the Moat House and Caroline; the knowledge that he had seen the real thing in operation gave him an odd confidence.
‘Yes,’ said Naomi shortly, dismissing Crossman from their consciousnesses. ‘Champagne, Byron?’
‘I’d rather have a beer,’ said Brendan.
Naomi looked at him coldly. ‘Byron, if you are to be the Hollywood wine buff, you will have to stop drinking beer. I’m sorry.’
Brendan held out his hand for the glass. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘if you say so.’
‘I think you’ll like it,’ said Naomi. ‘You probably haven’t had a great deal of good champagne.’ Her expression was patronizing, almost contemptuous.
Brendan felt anger rising in his throat like bile, physical, sour-tasting. He sipped the champagne, hoping it would help; it didn’t.
‘Now, then,’ said Naomi, ‘your domestic life. We have to take a look at it.’
‘I don’t think,’ said Brendan, very slowly and carefully, ‘I don’t think I want to look at it. Not in that way.’
‘Then,’ said Naomi, ‘I’m afraid this part will almost certainly be your last. Incidentally, has anyone talked to you about money?’
‘No,’ said Brendan, ‘no, they all said you would take care of that. As I don’t have an agent, I thought I’d wait.’
‘Quite correct,’ said Naomi, ‘and I have said two hundred and fifty dollars a week.’
Brendan was silent. It sounded OK to him. It sounded fine, in fact, but he wasn’t going to say so; the fact that Naomi had not seen fit to discuss it with him in any way increased his anger.
‘You don’t have any comment on that?’ She sounded amused again, over-confident.
‘You haven’t asked for any.’
‘I didn’t imagine we’d have a discussion about it.’
‘Why not? Was I supposed to be so grateful there would be no more to be said?’
‘Frankly, yes.’
‘I realize,’ said Brendan, speaking with difficulty, ‘that I don’t have a great deal of influence in all this. But it might have been a courtesy.’
‘My dear Byron,’ said Naomi, ‘this is not a very courteous business. However –’
‘So I am discovering.’
‘However, we can certainly renegotiate your next picture. If there is a next picture, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Brendan, ‘yes, I think we should.’
‘Right. Now then, your domestic life. First of all, I have to stress that you must move out of your little love-nest. Straight away. You can see this girl, if you must. But you a
re not to continue living with her. It would do your image no good at all.’
‘I see.’
‘And then the child. Your daughter. I think the best thing there –’
‘Miss MacNeice, I really will not discuss my daughter with you. She is my business.’
‘Byron, if you are to work for me, everything to do with you is my business. I appreciate that you feel protective about your daughter, but I have to be the judge of whether or not we talk about her, and how we handle her existence.’
Brendan stood up suddenly. ‘Miss MacNeice,’ he said, ‘I really have had enough of this. My daughter is mine, and I shall decide exactly what happens to her. She will not become some promotional toy for you and Mr Browne to play with. And if anything about her finds its way into a press release I shall personally break your neck, and wind Mr Browne’s balls very tightly round his cock and stuff the lot up his own well-licked arse. Do I make myself clear?’
Naomi sat looking up at him, her face blank. ‘Perfectly,’ she said. She put down her glass of champagne, and stood up suddenly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘now I know where I stand, let us get on with other matters. Please come with me.’
She turned and walked round the pool towards the pink poolhouse; as she walked she kicked off her high-heeled shoes. Brendan followed her.
She walked into the house, waited until he was inside with her and then shut the door. Brendan watched her mesmerized as she undid her pale blue shirt and slid it off her shoulders; her breasts were tiny, but very brown, the nipples large and dark. She undid her skirt and let it fall to the floor; she wore a pair of very diminutive black panties and nothing else. Then she reached up and undid the tightly bound pleat of her hair; a great fall of silver blonde cascaded round her shoulders, making her look suddenly ten, even fifteen years younger. Slowly, casually, as if she was simply walking across her office, she went over to the corner of the room and pressed a button; a large bed descended from the wall, covered in white linen and a heap of pale blue cushions. Naomi lay down on it, and with her eyes fixed still on Brendan’s face, removed her panties and lay back on the cushions, her legs slightly spreadeagled.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 14
