“My flat,” he reminded her. “I paid for this place myself, and it’s my name on all the papers. Of course, you can probably afford it now if you wanted to carry a mortgage, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t put in an offer.”
It was lucky for him he’d had the office cleared out. If his letter opener were on his desk, she’d have slit his throat with it.
“You’re really doing this? You’re taking your own daughters’ home?”
“They’ll be fine. I want my business here done. It’s my place and I’m selling. Do you want to buy it from me?”
Hannah loved the flat, their garden, their square. The last thing she wanted was to move. But she wasn’t going to let him humiliate her like this, and she knew she couldn’t stay in the home they’d moved into together when she had thought they were embarking on an exciting new adventure and he, she now realized, was perhaps already well down the long road from resentment to contempt.
“No, you do what you want to do, I’ll find us a new home,” Hannah told him. She searched his face for guilt, but saw only resignation.
“So you will. I’d wish you luck, old girl, but you don’t need it. You never did. You might be one of the few women on earth who doesn’t.”
It wasn’t the worst thing he could have said.
“Good luck to you too,” she said acidly. Paul left without waiting to see the girls. Hannah’s solicitor had told her she could “accrue a rather handsome personal settlement” if she wanted to get vicious. As soon as the door closed, she went to the phone and called the solicitor’s office, authorizing him to get as vicious as he liked.
“Was Daddy here?” Rhoda asked when Gemma brought her back from school. Hannah was surprised—Gemma wouldn’t have told Rhoda anything. Then she realized the smell of his aftershave lingered in the hall. Hannah opened her typewriter on the dining room table, biting her lips.
“He was,” she said, laying down the list of Robin Hood episodes with the fake names attached and rolling paper into the typewriter.
“Why doesn’t he want to play with me?”
Hannah looked at Rhoda. She looked tiny and plaintive. Hannah pulled her into her lap.
“He does, he’s just having a difficult time right now. It’s hard to explain.”
“Oh. May I type?” Rhoda asked, tapping keys before Hannah could stop her.
“No!” Hannah shouted. Two of the keys had gotten entwined. She set Rhoda back on the floor. “Mama has work to do, you know better than to interfere with it.”
“I’m sorry,” Rhoda said, starting to cry. “I just wanted to play.”
Hannah blinked back her own tears. “Darling, I’m sorry I was short with you. Please, go and play with Gemma and Julie. I’ll be in as soon as this is done.”
Rhoda gave her a look that was part reproachful, part sorrowful. Her shoulders slumped as she trudged away.
Hannah dropped her head in her hands. Soon she would have to explain to Rhoda that Daddy had gone away and they weren’t going to see him for a while. It was far easier when they died, Gemma assured her, but that wasn’t much help. Who knew what Rhoda’s classmates would repeat from what they’d heard at home about this unnatural thing: a divorce. She just had to hope that Rhoda was indeed enough of her mother’s daughter to let insults roll off her back, and that they could band together to teach Julie to be the same way. How much more, though, how much more would they all have to suffer before any of this was over?
She rubbed her face hard and rolled in a new sheet of paper.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
* * *
Freddie was dawdling outside, in no great hurry to get to school. He looked at Phoebe in open admiration.
“Cor, you look smart today, miss!”
Phoebe wore a cardigan knitted in the new nip-waist style. It was dark green, which she knew was her best color, edged in burgundy. She wore it over a fitted lilac pullover, which just peeked out from between the lapels and under her light green scarf. She’d brushed her trousers, shined her shoes, and tied her hair back with a green and burgundy bow. Today was an important day, though only she and Hannah knew it. Today began filming on the episode written by Ivy Morrow. Which was to say Phoebe Adler.
The Other Girls cooed over her cardigan and asked for the pattern.
“It really gives you a nice figure,” Dora said in admiration. “I hadn’t realized.”
“You’re lucky, being so curvy,” said another girl wistfully. “It’s very fashionable.”
Phoebe tried to ascertain what they thought of the week’s story, but all her time on the show had taught her that most of the crew paid no real attention to the actual plot or words—everyone focused hard on their own duties, which to their mind was the most important detail.
Filming began, and Phoebe forced herself to concentrate on being a script supervisor, rather than getting caught up in the script. Her words! Her words, being filmed at last, readied for broadcast! She could hardly contain herself, and knew she was smiling as each scene was filmed, as the words—lightly altered in the edits by Beryl, but still Phoebe’s own—were given life by the actors. Bernadette O’Farrell’s Maid Marian gave a line such a particularly smart spin that Phoebe bounced on her toes just like Sidney. Bernadette saw it and smiled at Phoebe when the scene finished.
“You’re in a lively mood, Miss Adler!” she sang in her beautifully trained voice. “Are you in love?”
“Only with our program,” Phoebe said. “That was a super scene.”
“We are special, aren’t we?” Bernadette agreed, and sailed away to be powdered.
Phoebe tried her luck with Tommy. “It’s a good script, isn’t it? We just keep getting better.”
Tommy was watching the director and cameraman argue over the angle for shooting a castle wall. “I suppose,” he said absently. “Though we’re the best already, so we have to stay tops.”
It was better, really, that no one would be drawn into a discussion. It made her look less suspicious. At lunch, she was called to the phone. She thought it must be Hannah, with some pleasant thing to say. Instead she was greeted by the florid tones of Beryl.
“Ye’d best be able to manage that script without making any sort of spectacle of yourself. I’ll nae have you giving Miss Wolfson anything to fret over this week of all weeks, else you’ll answer good and proper, is that clear?”
Beryl might not always be comprehensible, but she was certainly clear. It didn’t stop Phoebe’s feeling excellent, so good that by the end of the day, she changed course on the way home and went to the next road—where Reg lived. She rang the bell of number eleven.
A woman in an apron and curlers answered and gestured Phoebe to the top floor. The smell of cooking wafted out—something Italian—and suddenly Phoebe was back on Bleecker Street outside John’s Pizzeria, where she and Anne were prepared to feel worldly as they devoured an entire pie between them, with a bottle of red wine, so exotic in its straw-bottom holder. She closed her eyes, remembering the bliss of the melted cheese and tomato sauce singeing the roof of her mouth.
“Phoebe?” Reg was standing in an open door, staring at her.
“Let’s get a pizza. The best one you know of.”
“Is this your way of saying you’re sorry?” he asked, but he looked amused.
“Pax, pax,” Phoebe said. “There, that’s your way. Let’s go. My script started filming today, we have to celebrate.”
He took her to Brusa’s, in St. Martin’s Lane, and the pizza was better than John’s. Or perhaps she didn’t remember. Or perhaps, as she finished her second slice, wiped her mouth, then leaned across the table to kiss Reg in full view of astonished diners, it was just that she was in love.
“Must be actual Italians,” someone muttered.
“Isn’t there some way I can come visit you on the set?” Reg begged. “I’d love to see your work bei
ng made immortal.”
“I wish you could,” Phoebe said mournfully. “But we’re not allowed.”
He walked her home.
“So. All the crises are averted?” He looked at her hopefully.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not in the slightest. But I’m having a terrific week and you’re the person I wanted to share it with.”
He kissed her, right below what had been Joan’s window. Phoebe wanted so much to tell Mona about this. And she wanted to give some of this joy to Hannah, the woman who was her benefactor, and now also her friend. The woman whose life was coming to pieces. It was unfair for Phoebe to be so happy when Hannah was so sad. Had Hannah really meant it, when she told Phoebe to choose Reg if she wanted him? Wasn’t Hannah proving, however unintentionally, that a woman who wanted a career mustn’t also try to have love in her life? Then Reg’s hand ran down her back, and Phoebe made up her mind. She took his hand and led him upstairs.
* * *
• • •
“Still bouncy and bright, I see,” Dora commented to Phoebe the next day. “All right for some, I suppose.”
Phoebe only smiled. This week marked her life’s beginning again. She was well on her way back to being that curious creature—the career girl, the gal writer, whatever they might call her. Once she could reclaim her name, nothing would stop her.
She was also officially, without question, head over heels in love. She’d whispered it into Reg’s hair at one point, and they’d spent half the night saying it back and forth.
“I can’t sleep,” he’d murmured. “I keep looking over and it’s like there’s a present for me under the Christmas tree.”
“Should I go put on a bow?” Phoebe had asked.
“I say,” Dora gasped, cutting across Phoebe’s reverie, “that’s never who I think it is.”
“It’s Hannah,” Phoebe said, nonplussed but pleased to see her.
“Beside her, you plonker,” Dora snapped.
“I’ll be damned,” Phoebe breathed, following Dora’s gaze.
It was Nigel Elliott.
* * *
• • •
He stayed most of the day and was a very flattering audience. A lot of the cast and crew recognized him from society photos, and Phoebe had the curious experience of watching the actors, who were no great strangers to the papers themselves, being deferential and even fawning to someone who was only famous because of his family connections. Phoebe tended to forget he had a title, and in her own little life in London, further forgot that nobility still traveled in a rarefied air, and were considered special people, to be treated as such. She noticed not everyone did so, especially Bernadette O’Farrell.
“That’s because she’s Irish, rightly not impressed with the crumbling classes,” Tommy confided to her. “More and more like that now. The old days are done. We’re not going to bow and scrape and jump for the aristocracy as though they’re somebody.”
But Nigel Elliott was somebody, at least to Phoebe, and she couldn’t help but be pleased when, doing the rounds, he shook her hand warmly. She was impressed with his slyness—no one would have guessed they already knew each other.
“What a fine job you seem to be doing here, very fine indeed,” he said, much as he’d said to everyone else. But he pressed her hand and winked.
It wasn’t until near the end of the afternoon tea break, when Nigel was ready to leave, that Hannah had a few seconds to speak to Phoebe.
“It’s a treat for him, he made that clear, though it might have been a command. Anyway, it was an easy enough thing to do and why not? We’re in his debt and this is barely repayment as it is.” Her face softened as she watched him asking the cameraman to explain his work, paying close and fascinated attention. “He’s a bit much, but I think at heart he’s all right.”
“Well, you found that out back when you had him checked out, didn’t you?”
Hannah looked at Phoebe unsmilingly.
“All I knew then was that he seemed to not be a danger to you. And to us. Now I know his intent is to be a good man. It improves him.”
“He’s very firmly on our side,” Phoebe said.
“Which improves him even more.”
* * *
• • •
Though Nigel was an easy and even enjoyable guest at the set, Hannah was exhausted when she returned to the Sapphire offices. She wouldn’t have come back except she and Sidney were preparing the final presentation for their new show: The Adventures of Sir Lancelot.
As soon as she saw Beryl’s face, she knew something was wrong. Her mind raced, trying to remember if Paul’s name was still on the lease for the premises. Then she saw him.
He was posed in the window, smoking, watching the city below. He turned and nudged his green hat upward, a gesture straight out of a Western film. Hannah wanted to laugh.
“The skinny malinky longlegs is nae welcome,” Beryl exploded. “I’d gie him a skelpit lug, only he seems to be connected with the coppers.”
Hannah could only assume the man understood as little of that as she did. She turned to Sidney, whose face was thunderous.
“I did say we don’t allow visitors to wait unless they have an appointment.”
“It’s all right,” Hannah said, looking the man straight in his bright blue eyes. “I’ll see him now.”
“Good idea,” the man said in a lazy twang she placed somewhere in Brooklyn. She waved him into her office. May as well pretend there was nothing to hide. She exchanged one quick glance with Sidney and Beryl before she stepped in and closed the door. She could at least feel confident they were readying weapons.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr . . . ?”
“Oh, you can just call me Mr. G.” He winked, twirling his hat on his finger.
“If I didn’t know better,” Hannah said, eyeing him carefully, “I’d say you were a very misguided actor attempting an audition.”
“Heh. No, no pansy work for me, thanks. All right, so Agent Glynn if you want it that way, Miss Wolfson.”
“Glynn,” Hannah said conversationally. “Your people were Welsh.”
“Some time ago. We’re true-blue Americans now.”
“That must be gratifying.”
He looked at her steadily and she looked back, refusing to break gaze first. She realized she recognized him. He was the one she’d seen outside the window, looking up. He might even be the one she’d seen in the park that day, the day she discovered her marriage was over. He certainly was having quite an extended stay at the taxpayers’ expense.
“There’s some mighty funny stories told about this little show of yours,” he said, grinning. “Some folks say it’s being written by men on the blacklist. Now that’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Because everyone knows that someone on the blacklist isn’t fit to write stuff for American audiences, especially kids.”
“I’ve heard that said, certainly,” Hannah said.
“I bet you have. So the folks at CBS have a list of names of all the writers, and they all check out. Nice and clean.”
“Clean? You obviously haven’t met too many writers.”
“Joke. That’s cute. But there’s other stories I’ve heard. I hear some Red writers give themselves a fake name and go on writing.”
“How very shocking.”
“Ain’t it? Some people can’t help themselves, gotta keep trying to turn the kids Commie.”
“Fortunately, America has an excellent educational system that should help inoculate young minds against anything so untoward,” Hannah said, enjoying his moment of confusion. He’d probably not heard the word “inoculate” before.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he said in a colder voice. “It’s my job to protect the public. Don’t think we don’t know what you were like as a reporter. Maybe some Reds change as they get older, but you don’t look
the type.”
“I changed from a reporter into a producer,” she pointed out.
“Still being cute, huh? But I know what I know. For example, I know you’ve got a gal named Phoebe Adler working for you on your little show. Sure, just as a script girl, but should she be near scripts?”
Hannah put her head to one side. “I wish I understood you, Agent Glynn.”
“Sure you do. Or maybe you didn’t know she ducked a subpoena.”
“What I do know is that she’s officially an employee of a Sapphire production, and Sapphire is a British company, so it’s of little concern to the FBI, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think the folks at CBS would like knowing there’s a known Red anywhere near the Robin Hood set, would they?”
“Is she a proven Communist, then? That might be a different matter.”
He didn’t answer, and Hannah studied him without pleasure. Sharply dressed. A better suit than he could likely afford on an FBI Hound’s salary, though it might be his only suit. Did he know Phoebe, or someone she knew? Or was he one of those Hounds who couldn’t stand it when prey got away? Those were legendary, and everyone in the exile community said they were the most dangerous Hounds of all. They couldn’t rest until they’d caught their quarry again, and broken its neck.
He helped himself to one of her cigarettes and lit a match on her desk.
“I’ve heard lotsa stories. I wonder what I’d find if I had a look at the addresses some of your writers’ checks get sent to? Might make for some interesting reading.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help you prove a point, but that’s the sort of confidential information I’m not at liberty to share,” she informed him.
“Maybe you’d prefer I come back with a warrant.”
“I think you’ll find it has to be the British authorities who would handle that. The police are Scotland Yard, if that’s useful.”
“British authority, there’s a joke. Listen, sweetheart, you think anyone in America will be impressed you didn’t play ball when asked nicely?”
Red Letter Days Page 31
