by Peter Rimmer
There had to be more between two people than money and sex. To love a man with the passion she displayed on the screen was the wild first expression of youth. Before reality and life got in the way. In Genevieve’s experience, young love was perfect and lasted for a short while, not happily ever after as depicted in her movies. The minds of men and women met then left each other the same way their bodies followed their separate paths after sex. She wanted to live with Tinus for the rest of her life, accepting his moods, being looked after when she was sick, when the world, like Gillian’s, wasn't going her way. There was never a constant level of happiness. Companionship and love. Love and companionship. Respecting each other. Wishing to be nice to each other. Not wishing to hurt the other’s feelings. Above all, she wanted to be Tinus’s companion on their journey through life.
At a loss for the right words to give Tinus the right picture of what was in her mind, Genevieve had put down her pen and picked up the phone. Over the phone, she sent him a telegram to his last known airfield in France. ‘I love you’ was all she could say without getting into a muddle. Tinus was better at writing letters. She was better at portraying what was inside her mind with the way she looked at a person.
Then she turned on the news to hear of the new German offensive in Europe, the terrible battles still raging in the Pacific, the war going on and on.
“When’s it all going to be over?” she said to her lonely room.
To get out of her dark mood, Genevieve decided she would go and visit with Gillian on the third floor. Despite all Gillian’s nonsense there was always a sympathetic ear for other people’s problems. She was not sure what she would do without Gillian. With luck Nathan Squires would be out as usual, hunting for a part, or, as Genevieve was sure, hunting something a little younger than Gillian Kannberg, a woman with too many selfish wants in her life for her own good.
They were going to make a new film. Gerry Hollingsworth had bought the film rights to a book on the war in the South Pacific. Genevieve had read the book. This time there was a story. More than heroics and soppy love duets that always ended the same. Once again ‘The All American Man’ was going to play opposite Genevieve. In the film, Gregory L’Amour was going to win the war for America.
When she knocked on the door, Gillian answered the knock. She was crying.
“He’s buggered off. Nathan has gone and left me.”
“About time,” said Genevieve smiling. “Go and get dressed in your glad rags, Gillian. We shall dine together at the Oasis. My treat. Likely we’ll both get ourselves a little drunk. When did he go?”
“This morning.”
“Why don’t you move into my flat until the war is over?”
“Will you have me?”
“Without rent. We want you in good shape when Bruno comes out of prison.”
“You’re a darling, Genevieve.”
“I know I am. Back in an hour. Both of us dressed to the nines. Us girls have to stick together.”
“Do you think there will be any single men in the restaurant?”
“There’ll be dozens. All rich and famous.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I hope so. Did they cut off your pension?”
“Yes. I phoned Mr Bumley when nothing appeared in my bank account. He was very polite. Said we should talk of all the overpayment since they gave me my pension that wasn’t due. They’ve deducted Bruno’s salary from what they paid me. I owe them one hundred pounds and some change. Right now I am penniless.”
“They won’t sue you.”
“They won’t send me any money either.”
“Tell the other papers.”
“Bruno’s not dead. He’s not a war hero. No one will care for a penniless girl after she finds out her husband is still alive. People are meant to live on love. Bumley found out about Nathan. One minute so nice when Bruno went missing. The next minute cruel.”
“I’m glad I asked you to move in before you told me this. You know my offer’s genuine.”
“I’ll go and get changed.”
“And I’ll do the same. The war news in Europe is terrible. I feel miserable.”
“My poor darling. One minute I was down in the dumps. Now I’m on top of the world. Do you think he’s lost weight in prison?”
“Most probably, Gillian. The Japanese don’t like prisoners. They think a true warrior should fight to the death or fall on his sword. Now let’s get a move on. I need a drink and I never drink on my own.”
When she phoned François, the owner of the Oasis restaurant, he effused over the phone. He could only charge the exorbitant prices if his place was littered with faces everyone knew. In the world she now lived in, everyone fed off everyone else in more ways than one. It was all part of the game, she told herself smiling at how charming François could be, even over the phone.
“I don’t have a separate table, Miss Genevieve but I can place you with a party.”
“Who’s coming tonight, François? We wanted to be on our own. I’m bringing a guest.”
“Of course. How indiscreet.”
“It’s a woman, François, and you know my reputation from before I was engaged so don’t get any wild ideas.”
“How is the pilot?”
“Alive, I hope. I just sent him a telegram.”
“Your producer is here as usual. With a guest from New York. His wife is not coming. I don’t think his wife likes our food.”
“I’m sure Carmel likes your food. It’s Mr Hollingsworth’s friends she likes to avoid. Especially the pretty ones.”
“A woman of great culture, Mrs Hollingsworth. Can I put you at his table? I’m sure he will be delighted. I’ve often heard him say how fond he is of Genevieve.”
“Probably because I’m the only one he never laid.”
“Oh, my goodness. I would never have allowed that thought to enter my mind.”
“Two of us, François, if that’s how it is. You are most accommodating.”
“Always a pleasure for someone so beautiful.”
“You old flatterer. Her name is Mrs Kannberg.”
“But it is true.”
“How many so far in Mr Hollingsworth’s party?”
“Eight, it will be, with you and Mrs Kannberg. The table is booked for eight o’clock.”
Soaking in the bath, knowing Gillian took her time to get dressed, Genevieve smiled at the thought of Gerry Hollingsworth. Mr Hollingsworth, as she liked to call him to his face, especially in company. It must be over ten years, she thought, since they had met at Elstree Studios when he was running Drake Films. So much time and trying and still he had failed to lay a hand on her.
“You’re the only one that got away,” he had said to her again only the previous week when she signed her new contract.
“Doesn’t Carmel mind your philandering, Gerry?” They were alone in his office.
“A sensible wife lets her husband do what he wants provided he doesn’t embarrass her. One day we’ll sit in rocking chairs opposite each other. Just the two of us. When all this nonsense is over. We have the children. We both miss David unbearably. We have a lot of history together. If I have a little on the quiet to prove to myself I’m not getting old it’s all part of our strangely working marriage. It’s how we humans are made. None of us can change our make-up. You have to accept the good and the bad. The man goes off because he can. The woman, mostly, doesn’t because she can’t. Some take a king’s ransom in alimony and live the end of their life alone. Sir Jacob Rosenzweig’s wife is more sensible. We understand each other. Sir Jacob is finding his Hannah quite therapeutic. Says he’s over Miss Vida Wagner. Says he’s more tranquil. Mostly they eat at home on their own, Hannah doing the cooking. Talking of the times when they were young together. You can never make conversation about your past without someone who knows your experiences. If you do talk about your life to a semi-stranger you’re a bore, Genevieve. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Terrible cliché but true. Now, when are we two going to m
ake love?”
“Get out of here, Mr Hollingsworth.”
“Oh, Genevieve. You don’t know what you’re missing. I see you are still not wearing his ring.”
“You don’t have to flash diamonds to show you are loved by someone.”
“What do you do with all your money in that minute little flat? You should show off. You never seem to spend any money.”
Soaping the top of her body, Genevieve slid deeper into the bath, just the warm water coming up to her chin. She had picked up the new contract from Gerry Hollingsworth’s desk, vetted by her Uncle Barnaby, and gone home to her small flat. The new airmail between America and England made it possible for her uncle to control her financial affairs from London. Despite his past reputation she trusted him implicitly. There was a lot of herself in the life of her Uncle Barnaby. He too had had one love, he had told her. Drunk. The truth so often coming from the mouths of drunks.
“I’m the real bastard, Genevieve. Not you. Tina and I were part of each other from the time we were children. From before I became a snob. You see, we are snobs, the St Clairs. Ask your father. Could you ever imagine your father, the Eighteenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck, being married to your mother, the barmaid from the Running Horses at Mickleham? Of course not. A bit of nooky and here you are. Both people had their fun without any commitment.”
“They didn’t even love each other. For my mother it was the best way to go and never have to work. Father still pays her bills diligently without some lawyer telling him what to do. I respect them both for their own reasons. It was my luck or I wouldn't be here.”
“But I was a fool. I loved her. Never found anyone to love after Tina. Harry’s lucky. He grew up in Rhodesia where if you are white that’s all that matters. There’s no class distinction among the whites in Rhodesia whatever their social position back in England. I followed her out to Africa when she went to live with her brother Bert in Johannesburg. Bert had an elocutionist teach her to speak English with an upper-class accent. She was all right so long as she stuck to the colonials. Ever since she married Harry I’ve jumped from one girl to the next. None of them last. I get bored too quickly. Lucky for you we found out you were my niece. I’d have had a go at you.”
“What a terrible thought.”
“Don’t laugh at it. I’m a full-blown lecher. I even make money out of the singers and musicians that join my label for God’s sake. A lot of them have done well out of a roll in the hay with Barnaby St Clair.”
Thinking back on that conversation, Genevieve was glad she had kept her trap shut. For a moment she thought her uncle was going to spill the beans and admit he was Frank Brigandshaw’s father. A nasty piece of work in the making if ever she’d seen one. Turning on the hot tap with her toe, she let the bath warm up, swishing the water around with her hands. She liked her Uncle Barnaby. Of all the members of the St Clair family, except for her father, she liked him best. He was honest. He did what he wanted, never hiding his intent. Apart from the fifty quid gossip said he had swindled in the army during the First World War, no one said anything bad about him in business. An opportunist, but never a crook. A womaniser but with single women.
“She was mine first. I didn’t even borrow her from Harry. He borrowed her from me.”
So often their conversation was either about money, her money and what to do with it, or about Tina. Looking from the distance of her warm bath it was all quite sad. The poor man had everything and nothing at all. If Gerry Hollingsworth knew how much money she had he would be utterly amazed. Gerry was both good at making money and spending it. Except for building her assets to pay for a large, well-educated family, Genevieve had little interest in money. For a moment it made her laugh out loud in the bath. It had not been her intention when she asked Gillian to the Oasis but it wasn’t going to cost her a penny. Once again, a man would pick up the bill. This time Gerry Hollingsworth or whoever else was sitting at the table trying to make a point.
All the money she earned flowed into her bank account with very little coming out, except to pay Uncle Barnaby in London when he made her investments. They had a trust fund together. Genevieve owned ninety-five per cent for putting in the money, Uncle Barnaby the rest for making the investment on their fund’s behalf. It seemed coming from an ancient family that had held onto its money for centuries had more benefits than blood.
“Any fool can make money if he’s lucky, Genevieve. Keeping hold of it for your kids is another thing.”
Her uncle’s latest plan with the proceeds of her new film contract was to buy up bomb sites in London where the owner wanted money while the rent stopped coming in. Not only were they buying land cheap, they would be compensated after the war for the bomb damage. Genevieve had a portfolio of investments she had not shown Tinus in case he changed his mind about marrying. They both knew her fame would dwindle and not get in their way. What he would find out once they were safely married was the increasing accumulation of her wealth. There had been investment mistakes but very few. Tinus, with his degree in economics, would be just right for guarding her money for their children.
When Gillian rang her front door bell, it was she who was not ready. They both had a laugh at the boot being on the other foot.
“Come on, Gillian. Let’s go and have some fun. Dressed to the nines. Only way for two girls to go out on the town.”
There were four men, all over fifty, sitting at the table. The two pretty girls looked to Genevieve as if they had left school the day before. The dew was still wet behind their ears. Max Pearl, her publisher, was at the table and the first to stand up.
“What a lovely surprise. The beautiful Genevieve with the beautiful Mrs Kannberg. Gillian, you have no idea how happy I was to hear about Bruno. I want to make him a famous author. I hope he’s been writing in prison. This is a lovely surprise. We only found out from François when we walked in the door. Your young pilot still well, I hope?”
“Yes, Max. We both had the blues and wanted a night out to get over our sad moods. They didn’t have a table. Hope you don’t mind, Mr Hollingsworth.”
When they sat down, with François fluttering at their elbows easing them into their chairs, only the two young girls were not smiling. The other two men Genevieve had not seen before and quickly forgot their names. The girls were only introduced by the oldest of the men by their Christian names. Genevieve gave them both her best smile of sympathy, breaking the ice. To be confronted by four old men and a famous actress in one night was an ordeal by the look of the girls’ expressions. Even Gillian looking at the four men immediately lost interest and gazed round the room. Gillian looked good, Genevieve thought, with her carefully applied make-up in the soft, flattering light of the restaurant.
The old man who seemed in charge of the party had his eyes glued to Gillian’s cleavage. All men were the same whatever their age, she thought, giving him a wink when he looked up into her knowing face, the old boy for a fraction of a second looking guilty at being caught in the act of a voyeur.
“Mrs Kannberg’s husband has just been found in a Japanese prison,” she said sweetly. “This is our night out to celebrate. They are so in love with each other you have no idea.”
Gillian, still checking the rest of the field in the restaurant, didn’t seem to hear what Genevieve had said. Something was going on under the table as the old man suddenly swung his lecherous gaze to the young girl on his left.
“Mr Hirschman is financing the film,” said Gerry Hollingsworth. “Jacob Rosenzweig is out of the movie business for some reason.”
“His wife, Gerry,” said Max Pearl. “After the German girl, Hannah Rosenzweig is being very careful. He doesn’t go out at all. They never throw dinner parties. New York will never be the same without Vida Wagner. She’s now quite well off. Living somewhere about, I believe. Lucky girl. Lucky Jacob. A sunset romance. Hope it happens to me, I should be so lucky.”
“It will be my pleasure financing a movie that stars the famous Genevieve,” said the old
man, switching his gaze to Genevieve’s cleavage.
Carefully, deliberately, Genevieve placed a table napkin between her breasts. The man was making her feel unclean, soliciting a look of ‘be careful’ from Gerry Hollingsworth whose main job in life was raising money to make his movies. Having got across her message of ‘don’t touch’, Genevieve gave the old man one of her famous looks that hit men straight in the crotch, leaving the poor old boy bewildered. Then the wine came and the evening began, the conversation staying top surface and trivial. Genevieve felt sorry for the two young girls until the youngest told her the truth in the loo.
“We’re whores, darling. The old man has to be amused. Mr Hollingsworth hired us. There were going to be two more.”
“So Gerry knew I had phoned François?”
“Must have done.”
“Play your cards right and you might get into the film. You’re pretty enough. Both of you.”
“Is that how you started?”
“Not quite. The trick was to keep them on the hook without giving it away.”
“We all have to start somewhere. Working the cash register in the shop down our road in Kansas City was not my idea of fun. So here we are. What’s Hollingsworth like?”
“A nice man under all the talk. We’ve known each other for many years.”
“I liked your films.”
“Thank you. I’ll ask Gerry for you.”
“Will you?”
“I can only try. My best advice is not to sleep with him until after you’ve got the part.”
“I’m a whore, darling.”
When they came back from the loo, the look Mr Hirschman gave Genevieve said he now expected more than just sexual suggestive smiles. Gerry Hollingsworth must have spoken to him. Many times she and Gerry had played the same game to keep the customers happy. With the conversation going back and forth over the table she began to enjoy the evening. The two young girls had ordered the most expensive items on the menu. Gillian had done the same. François was particularly attentive to Mr Hirschman now he knew who was going to pay and add the tip to the bill. The two waiters did the same. For a moment Genevieve tried to mentally count how many restaurant owners she knew were called Francis or François.
