Excerpt from Sudden Death, chapter of The Tinsel Underneath.
Nobody knew who the father of Kirstie’s baby was. It could have been one of a dozen people. But she told Brendan it was his, and it was certainly possible. Possible enough for him to be unable to ignore her.
Kirstie was gorgeous: fun, pretty, sexually ambivalent – and absolutely ruthless. And she fell in love with Brendan. Brendan wasn’t like most of the men she went around with, men she despised. She admired Brendan; he had a quality she hadn’t known before. He seemed to her to be a gentleman. And Kirstie came as near to falling in love with Brendan as she had ever done in her seventeen years.
She got carried away, in fact, on a tide of romanticism and excitement. Brendan, equally carried away on the same tide, the heady excitement of deceiving Naomi, of disobeying orders, flattered by Kirstie’s attachment to him, grew careless. He saw Kirstie night after night. They made love in his car, on the beach, in parks, in cinemas. It was part of the game. Then Naomi heard of the affair, and called him back to heel. And Kirstie wanted revenge.
Brendan was scared. He’d talked too much. She knew everything about him. She was dangerous.
She had become pregnant quite deliberately; she had known it was the one way she could get him. When she told him, told him she would talk, he panicked, promised to get her a part, to pay for an abortion, if only she would keep quiet.
It wasn’t enough for Kirstie. She wanted blood. She wanted acknowledgement. She wanted Brendan.
Brendan was terrified. He knew she could destroy him. And he couldn’t deliver what she wanted. He failed to get her a part. He refused to leave Naomi. And Kirstie became very angry. She threatened to come to the studio, come on to the set, make a scene. He didn’t know what to do.
He agreed to meet her on Santa Monica Pier, late one evening, to plead with her for one last time. And he asked Piers and Gerard to go with him.
Piers and Gerard were by then an item, in the jargon of the town: lovers – and true and devoted friends. And concerned for their other friend, Brendan. They’d seen Brendan through a lot. They didn’t want to see him go down.
They walked along the pier. It was a very clear night, the moon was full. Kirstie was hysterical: crying, shouting, threatening. She was furious that Brendan had come with his friends; furious he had not been able to help her get a part, furious he was not prepared to leave Naomi and be with her. She told him she was going to tell: everything. Everything she knew about him. Tell Naomi, the studio, the publicity people. Brendan was desperate. He begged her to be reasonable, to understand his position, to let him pay for an abortion for her. She refused. She started yelling at him; he told her to shut up. She ignored him, shouted louder. He turned and tried to walk away back down the pier; Piers and Gerard were at a discreet distance behind them, not knowing what to do.
Kirstie ran after him, shouting, punching his back with her fists. She came at him, pushing him against the railings of the pier. He pushed her off, she came after him again. He raised his arm, to avoid her, and caught her instead; she toppled back, then flew at him. He ducked: she fell sprawled against the railings. Brendan went and picked her up; she was flailing, screaming, biting him. Suddenly she caught him a blow between the eyes; he staggered against the railings, and Kirstie fell over, on to the wrong side.
She went over, just caught the bottom of the railings with her hands; she hung there, screaming, slowly slipping. Brendan, still dazed, watched her hanging there, and Gerard ran forward, climbed over the rail, desperately trying to reach her. He had just touched her hand, was just taking her fingers, when she finally slipped, and fell; he fell too. Down, down, on to the structure beneath the pier, screaming, breaking as he fell. Kirstie was dead, lying there on the beach; Gerard, and it was perhaps his tragedy, was still alive.
October 1972
‘Come and see his room,’ said Michelle quietly. ‘I’d like you to see it. Then you must go to bed. Chloe, you look so tired, dear.’
Chloe shook her head, smiled rather confusedly at her. ‘I’m all right. Really.’
They followed Michelle into Gerard’s room; stood in the doorway.
Chloe gasped aloud.
It was a shrine to Piers. Every surface, every inch of wall space was covered with photographs of him. In every film; every play; pictures of him with his horses, with his cars, outside Stebbings; pictures of him at premières, at charity parties, at award ceremonies, arriving at airports. Reviews were also framed: endless adulatory reviews. And there were other pictures too: of Piers with Gerard, sitting by his bed, in his wheelchair, in the garden, Piers and Gerard gradually growing older, always smiling, laughing, holding hands, looking happy. The only thing missing was any pictures of Chloe. Chloe and the children.
‘I – I think I am a little tired,’ she said, finally, after walking round and round the room, studying the pictures, the articles, her husband’s extraordinary other marriage, other life. ‘I think I might go to bed. If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ said Michelle. ‘You look just terrible. I’m sorry, it must have been such a strain for you, the whole day. Let me show you to your room. You’re sharing, is that all right?’
‘Of course,’ said Chloe.
‘Chloe, if you don’t mind I’m going to stay up, talk to Michelle a little longer,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ll be along in a while. Is that OK?’
‘Of course,’ said Chloe again.
She walked out of the room after Michelle, very slowly and heavily, looking rather like an old lady.
Fleur settled by the fire with Michelle. Michelle made her a cup of tea. She also looked tired and rather strained.
‘So – my dad wasn’t exactly a hero. It seems.’
Michelle shrugged. ‘Who is? He was a nice guy. And he loved you. Boy, did he love you. The times we all had to sit and look at your pictures, have your letters read to us. “Oh my God,” Gerard would say, when he came in, “he has another letter from Fleur.”’
‘Well,’ said Fleur, briskly bright, ‘he never wrote back. Or hardly ever. The odd postcard.’
‘Life was very difficult for him, Fleur. You have to understand that.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ But she didn’t.
‘And you don’t have to feel badly about what happened with Kirstie. It was an accident. He wanted to report it. They all did. They intended to. But Gerard was – well, Gerard was screaming with agony, they had to get him off the pier, it took ages, and into the car. Piers took him to the hospital, and by then Kirstie was quite quite gone, gone into the sea. It was such an understandable decision. Such a scandal there would have been, if he’d told everyone, and what good would it have done? It was nobody’s fault. She was dead, nothing was going to bring her back.’
‘No. No, I suppose not.’
‘And then he had such a terrible time. With everything. The clouds were stacking up by then, you know. You have to understand that too. It was an impossible situation for him.’
‘He should have come home,’ said Fleur. ‘We’d have looked after him.’
‘Yes, maybe he should. But – well, it was a spider’s web he was in. Really. Growing all the time. He was scared, Fleur. Really scared.’
‘Yes,’ said Fleur absently. She looked at Michelle. ‘Michelle?’
‘Yes, dear? Would you like some more tea, dear? Maybe some cookies?’
‘No. I’m fine.’ She paused, gathering her courage, feeling it almost physically, a great force, pulling it around her, hanging on to it.
‘Michelle, do you know who – who it was who – who –’
‘Sold his story to the paper? Yes, dear, of course I do. It was Rose. Rose Sharon.’
Magnus Phillips had flown into LA the night before and booked into the Beverly Hills Hotel. He had always liked it there; it was so conspicuously, hopelessly vulga
r. Magnus liked vulgarity.
He still wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, chasing Fleur across the globe like a lovesick boy. He just knew he had to see her; to find out why she had cancelled her wedding to Reuben; to find out why she had been so angry with him.
And anyway, he just knew he had to see her.
He slept badly; he was exhausted and his arm hurt. Around three he took a sleeping pill, washed it down with brandy, and finally slept. The cooked English breakfast he had ordered for eight, complete with toast and Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, grew cold. He finally woke after ten with a very thick head, and went out for a swim, before going back to his bungalow and calling the Zwirns.
Michelle answered the phone. Her voice was cool, cautious.
Yes, Fleur was staying there, with Chloe Windsor. She hoped he didn’t want to talk to her any more about the book. She thanked him for his letter and the flowers he had sent for Gerard’s funeral.
Magnus said that was OK; that he hoped she was feeling better, and that he didn’t want to talk to her about the book, the book was anyway not going to be published for a long time. If ever. Could he speak with Fleur?
Fleur was out. She’d gone out in the car. Michelle didn’t know where. Could Chloe help?
Magnus said he didn’t think Chloe would talk to him but could she ask.
Chloe came to the phone surprisingly quickly.
‘Magnus, please go away. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I can assure you we don’t want to see you. Either of us.’
‘I can understand that. So you finally found the truth about Piers?’ His voice was gentle.
‘Yes, I did. I suppose you had all that in your book?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You are disgusting, Magnus. Absolutely disgusting.’
‘Chloe, I’m not disgusting. If you ever read the book, you’ll find out. It was a very sympathetic picture of Piers. More sympathetic, I might add, than he deserved. Given the way he treated you.’
‘Magnus, just . . .’ She hesitated, and then said, rather quickly, like a child saying something it knew it shouldn’t, ‘Just fuck off. Please.’
He laughed. ‘You sound just like your sister. She’s obviously having a bad influence on you. I need to find her. When will she be back?’
‘I really don’t know. I think she’ll be quite a while. She’s driven down to LA.’
‘What for?’ He could hear the fear in his voice, making it sharp, urgent.
‘Magnus, does it matter?’
‘Yes, it bloody well does matter.’
‘Magnus, she doesn’t want to see you.’
‘Chloe, please, for the love of God tell me where she is. She could be in danger.’
‘In danger? Oh, Magnus, really! She’s gone to see a friend, that’s all. A friend in LA.’
‘A friend? Who?’
‘Rose. Rose Sharon. She –’
‘Good God Almighty, Chloe, when did she go?’
‘Oh – hours ago. She’ll be there by now. She –’
‘Where was she meeting her? At the house? Chloe, for the love of God you have to tell me. It’s terribly important.’
‘Yes, at her house. But why, Magnus, why? I don’t understand. Why is it so important? You’d better not just turn up there. She’ll –’
‘Chloe, Brendan FitzPatrick wasn’t just run down by a passing car. Don’t you understand? He was murdered.’
Rose Sharon passed Fleur a glass of champagne.
She smiled at her, her sweetest, saddest smile. They were sitting by the pool; she was wearing a white towelling robe, and very large dark glasses that blanked out any expression from her face.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I did it. I am more ashamed of it than anything I have ever done. I’ve spent my life trying to get away from it, get away from the memory.’ She sighed. ‘I failed.’
Fleur took the champagne, sipped at it. She felt very sick and she thought it might help.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. Her voice, even to her, sounded harsh, bitter. ‘It was a terrible thing to do. It killed him. Really. You killed him.’
‘Fleur, don’t!’ Rose put down her glass, put her head in her hands. ‘Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think that thought haunts me, every day of my life?’
‘Good,’ said Fleur. ‘It should.’
‘Fleur, you sound so bitter, so angry. Still.’
‘I am bitter, I am angry. I loved my father so much, and you – you took him away from me. For ever. And you didn’t just take him away, you ended his life. So he died in dreadful circumstances.’
‘I loved him too,’ said Rose. She took the glasses off and the eyes looking at Fleur were very wide, almost pleading. ‘Try to think how I felt. How I suffered. I loved him more than I could have believed possible. And I thought he loved me. He told me he did. He told me he wanted to marry me, did you know that? No of course not. He wouldn’t have told you. We were all the world to each other, Fleur. I gave up a lot for him. I even gave up my first part, because it meant going away filming in Mexico for three months. I couldn’t bear to leave him. Can you imagine that? I gave up the first chance I got of a future. For him. And then, then Naomi MacNeice came along, just snapped her fingers and he went. Gave me up, just like that. Oh, he said he was sorry. Of course. He said he would come back for me. When he’d made it, made his name. But he said he had to go. He moved out, and hardly ever spoke to me again. Until he was finished. Then he did, of course. Then he couldn’t say enough. How he’d loved me so desperately, how he’d only meant to go for a short while. Think of the hurt of that, Fleur. Just think.’
Fleur was silent: tears were rolling down Rose’s face.
‘And do you know why he kept telling me he had to go, Fleur? For you. “I’m only doing it for my little girl, Rose,” he said, “That’s the only reason I’m here at all. When I’ve made it, we can all live together, the three of us.”’ She looked at Fleur, and her face was distorted, ugly. ‘Unless you’ve felt pain like that, Fleur, lost someone you loved so much you’d have died for them, you couldn’t begin to understand.’
‘I did,’ said Fleur. ‘Actually.’
She finished her champagne, held out her glass for more. Rose filled the glass, filled her own. She looked at her.
‘And the humiliation. Everyone was so sorry for me. That was almost the worst thing. Terrible humiliation. As well as the pain.’
‘I see,’ said Fleur.
‘And, Fleur, when I heard he’d – died, been run over like that, I wanted to die. I was so unhappy, so ashamed. It was like a terrible cross I was going to have to bear for the rest of my life. Brendan had died, and it was my fault. You’re right. I did, I killed him. I accept that. It haunts me, Fleur, haunts my dreams.’
Fleur was silent. Rose looked at her.
‘I know you can’t ever, ever forgive me. But you could try, just try to understand. I did it because I loved him. I loved him too much.’
Fleur stared at her. Then she said, ‘No. I don’t think I could ever understand. Putting lies, filthy lies out about someone. Just for revenge.’
Rose laughed, gently. ‘Not lies, Fleur. Not lies at all. He did have a homosexual relationship. I think he probably had several. Trying to get contracts, to get parts. They all did it, you know. Even Clark Gable, so they say. I didn’t really care about that. I understood. In the end, I was so angry, so hurt, it was more than I could stand. All right, it was foolish, it was a foolish and terrible thing to do. Haven’t you ever done something foolish, Fleur? If not terrible?’
Fleur looked at her. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘very foolish and fairly terrible.’
‘Well, then. You will understand. One day. I know you will. And forgive me. Fleur, I did it because I loved him. That was the only reason
. I loved him and I was jealous and angry and hurt. And I can only keep on and on telling you, I’m so ashamed.’
Fleur finished the champagne. It was helping somehow. Easing the pain. Rose gave her some more; there was only half a glassful.
‘I’ll get you some more. It’s Sue’s day off. Wait there.’
Fleur sat in the hot sun, her head swimming slightly with the champagne, trying to sort out her feelings, trying to put herself in Rose’s place, to imagine doing what she had done. She felt very confused, very shocked: shocked at the new information about her father as well, about Kirstie, about her death. And tired. She was terribly tired.
Rose reappeared, smiling, with a second bottle of champagne. She opened it, filled Fleur’s glass to the top.
‘Will you stay for lunch?’ she said suddenly.
Fleur stared at her. Here was this woman, who had done this terrible thing to her father, asking her to stay for lunch as if they had had some trifling disagreement and now were friends again.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh Fleur, please.’ Rose sat down again; there was a sob in her voice. ‘There’s something else. Something I haven’t told you. I – was pregnant. I wanted to have that baby so much. So very much. I was so happy about it. And your father said – he said – “Rose, you’ll just have to get rid of it. I’m sorry.” I can hear his voice now. As if he was talking about a car or a piece of jewellery. Our baby, Fleur. Can you imagine that? I thought, because he loved you so much, he’d understand. But he didn’t.’
Fleur felt more sick than ever. She stood up. The whole garden seemed to sway, the ground rocked beneath her. She stared at Rose. Somewhere inside the house the phone was ringing. It rang, on and on; Rose ignored it for a while, then she said, ‘Excuse me, I’d better go. Ricardo and Marcie are out as well. I sent them to do some marketing.’
She came back. She had put the glasses back on.
‘It was nothing. Nobody. Fleur, do you feel all right, darling? You look terrible. Sit down for a little while, put your head between your knees.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 95
