AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘You never asked,’ said Reuben.

  ‘Sometimes, Reuben, you drive me way up the wall.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Reuben.

  Her irritability and sense of unease spilt over into her work: she found it hard to concentrate, and harder to care. For the first time in her life she found the obsession with who was buying what and why faintly ridiculous, and even her enthusiasm for Bernard Stobbs’s latest list was lukewarm. It was only when Sol Morton told her that if she didn’t get her elegant arse into gear and come up with a new line for his Summer Fantasy he’d look around at other agencies that she was galvanized into any kind of painstaking thought and even then she knew that what she presented him with was not truly first rate. More significant, however, was that she had managed to persuade herself it was good enough.

  She didn’t want to go out; and she got bored and fractious staying in. Reuben irritated her, and she kept making excuses not to see him; she only wanted to see Magnus, and find out what was going on, and then when she did see him, she felt worse, because it was so unsatisfactory and she didn’t find anything out at all. He had become very friendly with Reuben and they went off out on to Long Island on hired motorbikes every Sunday afternoon that Magnus was in New York.

  She had even more trouble than usual sleeping, and she had what seemed to her an almost constant headache.

  Finally Baz Browne took her out to lunch and said he thought she had been overworking and suggested she took a vacation.

  Fleur stared at him in alarm. ‘You don’t mean the old joke about two vacations a year of six months each?’

  ‘No, of course not. Two weeks, just once. Enough to put some life back into you. We need you firing on all cylinders for the autumn campaigns.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about cylinders,’ said Fleur wearily.

  When she got back to the apartment that night there was a letter from Rose.

  Dearest Fleur,

  Would you be terribly sweet and ask your Mr Phillips to stop pestering me. I’m sure it’s not your fault, but I must have had half a dozen letters now and as many phone calls to my secretary. He doesn’t seem able to take no for an answer. I wouldn’t trouble you, but I know initially it was your idea I should talk to him, and you might have more influence over him than I do.

  Best love,

  Rose

  Fleur swore and picked up the phone, dialled the number of the slightly seedy hotel where Magnus was staying on the edge of the Village.

  ‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ she said when she finally got through to him.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Pestering Rose Sharon. She’s actually been driven to write to me, to ask me to call you off.’

  ‘Dear me. What a sensitive little flower she is,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Magnus, what is this?’ said Fleur. She found to her horror she was near tears. ‘Rose Sharon is a friend of mine, she’s been sweet and good to me –’

  ‘In what way exactly?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said in what way exactly?’

  ‘Well – she’s been kind and friendly. Generally.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh, I see. Yes, of course. I wonder, did she get in touch with you after your dad died, write to you, that sort of thing?’

  ‘She couldn’t. She didn’t know where I was. Magnus, do you have any reason for your hostility to Rose?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said and his voice was amused. ‘I just find your loyalty to her rather touching, that’s all. And her sensitivity slightly amusing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘World-class film stars generally have hides that would put oxen to shame. Except of course when their own egos are ever so slightly bruised.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Fleur, exasperated.

  ‘I didn’t start it.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Magnus, of course you did. Hounding Rose like that. Until she had to write to me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Well, I won’t do it again. I’m going back to London tomorrow.’

  ‘For how long?’ said Fleur, hoping her bleakness didn’t sound in her voice.

  ‘I don’t know. Quite a long time probably. It is my home.’

  ‘Yes, but you haven’t finished here, surely.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘You haven’t been to LA or San Francisco.’

  ‘I don’t know that I need to.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Fleur and heard her voice growing heavy, wretched, ‘of course you do.’

  There was a long silence. Then Magnus said, ‘Fleur, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’

  ‘You don’t sound it.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off back to London, leave me alone.’

  She put the phone down, got rather wearily out of her clothes, ran a bath. She ached all over, and her skin felt sore. So did her heart.

  She was just settled in the water, her head resting on the bathpillow, when the intercom bell rang. She decided to ignore it, settled herself deeper. It went again, playing a dum-de-de-dumdum rhythm. Cursing it, she heaved herself out, went to the phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fleur, it’s Magnus. I want to see you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you,’ she said and slammed it down again.

  She had only just got back into the bath when the bell went again. She ignored it. It went on. After twenty minutes she broke.

  ‘Just fuck off, will you?’ she shouted into it.

  ‘After I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, ‘all right. Come on up,’ and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘I’m in the bath,’ she shouted through the door when she heard him come in. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘OK.’

  She realized none of her clothes were in the bathroom, which opened on to the studio, and that she had even shed her bathrobe by the entryphone in her rage. The only towel in the bathroom was small – hardly big enough to cover her. Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. She put it carefully round her, checking her back view – yes, it covered her arse, just; and then the front. It dangled perilously on her nipples, but it was decent. She opened the door: Magnus was sitting facing it, smiling expectantly.

  ‘Nice towel.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Fleur.

  ‘I don’t seem to be able to say anything right tonight.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Look, I didn’t ask you to come. Don’t expect sweetness and light.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ he said, grinning cheerfully. ‘Not from you. Not sweetness anyway.’

  Tears, treacherously hot, stung at Fleur’s eyes. Magnus saw them.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what’s this? Don’t tell me you have a heart after all. Tears from the iron maiden.’

  ‘I am not crying,’ said Fleur and put up her hand without thinking to dash the tears away. The towel promptly dropped off. ‘Oh shit!’ she said and stooped to pick it up. ‘Fuck, Magnus, why don’t you just go away?’

  ‘Bad language!’ he said. ‘Excitement. Good sign. This could be my lucky day.’

  ‘Oh please!’ she said, and suddenly she couldn’t stand any of it any longer and burst into tears.

  Magnus moved very slowly towards her. He picked up the towel and wrapped it round her, carefully, tenderly, as if she was a baby, tucking in the end just above her left breast, put his arm round her gently, held a handkerchief to her nose.

  ‘Blow,’ he said. ‘That’s right. That’s better. You smell lovely,’ he added, almost casually. ‘Quite lovely. Now go and get something slightly more respectable on, although I have no objection to the
present outfit, and then come back in here, and I’ll have a hot drink ready for you. And you can tell me what the matter is.’

  When she came out from the bedroom, wearing a large sweater of Reuben’s and a pair of jeans, he was waiting for her with a mug of coffee.

  ‘I shouldn’t drink that,’ she said, ‘I have enough trouble sleeping as it is.’

  ‘You do?’ he said. ‘Me too. Imagine neither of us knowing that about the other. I go for rides on my bike. What do you do?’

  ‘Get up and work,’ said Fleur. She felt cross with him again, as if her insomnia was his fault as well as everything else.

  ‘That’s really bad for you,’ he said, ‘your brain never gets a chance. You should dance or listen to music or something like that. Rest your eyes.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I have to wear glasses,’ said Fleur.

  ‘Probably is. How about sex?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said how about sex? I mean as a way of getting to sleep.’

  She laughed, slightly unwillingly. ‘Yeah. That works.’

  ‘Works for me too. But I’m told it’s not so good for your half.’

  ‘My half of what?’

  ‘The human race.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and was silent, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of her mother’s presence in Magnus’s past, in his bed.

  ‘Now then, what exactly is the matter?’

  ‘You should know,’ said Fleur, her anger surfacing again, that he should ask, ‘and I’m sure you do. Actually.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t. Actually.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘take a look at it my way. I hear you’re writing a book about – well, about things that concern me. Deeply, desperately concern me. I trust you enough, God knows why, to tell you lots of things, personal, private, precious things, some of them. And what do you do? Say, hey, that’s great, I’ll use that, thanks, see you around.’

  ‘Fleur, I –’

  ‘It may be just another book to you, about just another set of unsavoury people, like your politicians and your dancers. To me it’s my one chance to set the record straight about the one person I really truly cared about, loved more than I ever loved anyone. Don’t you understand that, Magnus? Don’t you see? And can’t you see how frightened I am, how concerned that it won’t work for me and for him, won’t put things right? You just go off, seeing people, God knows who, God knows where, making them talk, making them tell you things, and then you say fine, that’s it, time to finish, and never mind about anything else. Well, I wish, I wish to God I hadn’t ever met you, seen you, talked to you. I’m so scared, so scared of what you’re going to do. Don’t you understand?’

  She was really crying now, tears pouring down her face, her voice jerky, rich with pain. She got up and went over to the window, looked down over at the park, wondering when, if, how this was ever going to end, this hurt, this awful hurt of hers; and then she suddenly heard behind her Magnus Phillips’s voice, gentle, quiet as she had never imagined it could be.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’ She turned and he was looking at her, his eyes genuinely full of remorse, of distress. ‘I’m so sorry, Fleur. I just – well, I suppose I just didn’t think.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t suppose you did.’

  There was a long silence.

  Then she said, ‘What have you learnt, Magnus? What are you going to write about him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘honestly, I don’t know. Yet. You have to believe that. When I know, I’ll tell you. I’m learning, all the time; things are changing. Don’t make me tell you too soon. There isn’t any point.’

  Fleur sighed. Then she said, ‘All right. All right, Magnus. I guess I have to trust you. But is it going to be all right?’

  Magnus Phillips looked at her and there was something near to tenderness in his almost black eyes.

  ‘I hope so, Fleur,’ he said, and sighed. ‘I do so very much hope so. Now I think I should go. Before I upset you any further. And can I just say one thing. You said you wished you’d never met me, seen me. I cannot tell you how infinitely glad I am that you did. Goodnight, Fleur.’

  And he bent and kissed her, very gently, on the mouth.

  Interview with Lindsay Lancaster, re Lost Years chapter of The Tinsel Underneath.

  I don’t remember Piers Windsor at all. I don’t think I ever met him. He was certainly around at the time, but he never got anywhere. Yeah, sure, I always thought it was him talked to those scandal sheets about Byron; that was just because of something Byron said. It seemed to add up. I told Rose about that. Years ago.

  I really liked Byron. He had manners, you know. More than I can say for Naomi MacNeice. She was a real, numero uno, ace bitch. You know the kind of thing? Jewish princess from Manhattan, Seven Sisters school, always fucking someone up. She was ruder than anyone I ever met. She made rudeness an art form. She was also very clever and very powerful. Byron was no match for her. Just no match at all. I don’t really know why she liked him. I suppose he could deliver the goods. And he looked good, on her arm. Or rather walking three steps behind her, which is what she made him do. Everywhere, into parties, at premières, award ceremonies. Funny thing is, he never really bad-mouthed her. He said she was honest. Byron liked honesty. It was honesty that did it for him. In every way.

  I really don’t remember all that stuff about Kirstie Fairfax. There are a lot of tragedies in this town. B-movies tragedies. Byron never mentioned her, but then why should he? He must have known dozens and dozens of those girls. All trying to make it; trying to make him too, I guess. I certainly don’t think he had anything to do with her. Certainly wouldn’t have knocked her up. Listen, he never got near enough any girl to hold her hand without Naomi getting up his arse. And he knew not to risk it. But he would have tried to get her a test, sure, get her a part, if he’d known her. He was like that. He was kind. Really kind. A gentleman, like I said.

  Autumn 1971

  ‘Think of me as a priest,’ said Nicholas Marshall encouragingly. ‘In the confessional.’

  He often used this analogy, to soothe nervous clients, and generally it worked beautifully. It didn’t now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Piers Windsor. ‘I really would rather not go into any kind of detail.’

  ‘Look, Mr Windsor,’ said Marshall patiently, ‘this is a potentially very – difficult business. As I understand it, this book is being written, you feel it could be seriously defamatory of you, and you want it stopped. Now it would help me greatly if you were to tell me in what way you feel it could be defamatory, and how sound you think the author’s sources might be. If it contains a libel or a series of libels then there are several courses of action we can consider; but we do need to be fairly sure of our ground. We need to know, in other words, what the book contains. Otherwise, we shall all be wasting a great deal of time, and you of course’ – he paused, smiled carefully – ‘you will be wasting a great deal of money.’

  ‘It’s – extremely difficult to say,’ said Piers.

  ‘What is difficult, Mr Windsor?’ Christ, this guy was trouble. He must remember to do Ludovic Ingram a disfavour in return.

  ‘There are several things which the book might be saying which would be libellous or defamatory. It is very hard for me to assess what and how many of them there might be.’ He smiled suddenly: a rather haunted smile.

  He didn’t look well, Marshall thought: he was very thin, very pale. Well, it was hardly surprising. ‘And you don’t feel you can tell me about them?’ he said.

  ‘Let me say I would rather not. At this stage. Would you like to tell me what the various courses of action might be?’

  ‘Very well. You are fortunate, Mr Windsor, I might say, in living in the libel capital of the world. You might not fare
so well in America. Over there you have to prove malice before you are able to sue for libel. Not impossible, obviously, but more difficult.’

  ‘Well, at least I have something in my favour,’ said Piers. He smiled with obvious difficulty.

  ‘Indeed. Well now, the first thing would be for you to talk to the author direct. As I understand it, he is – or rather was – a friend of yours. It might be possible to appeal to his better nature. Persuade him not to write the book. Or at least to tell you what he intends to write in it. That would be a start.’ He paused. ‘I need hardly tell you that unless you can exert some very powerful pressure on him, that is a little unlikely. As I understand it, he has been paid a huge advance by his publishers. And no doubt is very keen to write the book.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Piers. ‘Er – would you accompany me on such a mission? Or would I go and see him alone?’

  ‘Oh, I would have thought you should go alone. If I were to come with you, then no doubt Mr Phillips would bring his solicitor. It would be more formal, harder to get any sense of personal appeal into the occasion.’

  ‘I see. And then what might or might not happen?’

  ‘Well, the next step, presuming you are unsuccessful, would be for us to ask to see copies of the book. They will almost certainly refuse. The point is, you see, Mr Windsor, that if the publishers are confident that what the book contains is the truth, and they will have had the author’s sources most painstakingly checked out, then they are not going to be too worried by any threat of ours.’

  ‘Can we not take out an injunction, to prevent it being published altogether? That is what I was hoping for,’ said Piers. He fiddled with his tie: the Garrick Club pink and green stripes. He was paler than ever; there was a light sweat on his forehead.

  This is a seriously worried man, thought Marshall. He felt a pang of sympathy, wished he was getting more cooperation. ‘An injunction does indeed prevent publication. But, Mr Windsor, I would advise you most strongly against such an action. The point about an injunction is that it is extremely difficult to get if the defendant – that is to say the author – insists that what the book contains is true. It is also a requisite basis for such an action that what the book contains cannot be compensated for by damages – however great.’