Stardust

by Charlotte Bingham

  Jerome stepped back, and looked at her, taking his hands from her, staring at her quizzically.

  ‘We don’t?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You can make love to me whenever you want. You can make love to me now. Here.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Yes, Jerome. Yes. I promise you, we can make love without us getting married. You can make love to me here and now if you want to.’

  He continued to stare at her without saying anything, and without expression. Then he suddenly leaned forward and put his hands to her waist.

  ‘What are you doing, Jerome?’ she asked.

  ‘I am doing the buttons up, Pippa Nicholls,’ he replied in a tone people usually reserved for slow children, ‘on your dress.’

  ‘But why?’ she wanted to know. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I am doing the buttons up on your dress, Pippa Nicholls,’ Jerome sighed again, ‘because I am not going to make love to you. And the reason I am not going to make love to you is because you will not agree to marry me. And because you will not agree to marry me, Pippa Nicholls, I shall not agree to make love to you until you do agree. And even then I shall not make love to you – until the night of the day – we are finally married.’

  Having done up the last of her buttons, he smiled at her, kissed her briefly on the lips, and then walked away through the shrubbery, whistling ‘Hello Young Lovers’.

  After a moment Pippa ran after Jerome, determined to punch and pummel him with her tightly clenched fist, only to find that once she caught up with him, she was once more caught up in his arms.

  Pippa’s mother was not the only person who was deeply concerned about her daughter’s involvement with Jerome Didier. There were others, the most prominent of them being Elizabeth Laurence. Try as she may, she simply could not understand quite what attraction the country bumpkin – as Elizabeth had dubbed her – had for Jerome. Besides the fact that Elizabeth considered her to be quite unexceptional looking, with her unkempt head of hair, her absurdly freckled face, her boyish manner and her hand-me-down clothes, the wretched creature wasn’t even one of them. The mouse wasn’t just a bumpkin mouse, as she complained nightly to Muzz, worse – she was a civilian mouse.

  ‘Poor Jerome,’ she would sigh as she made herself up, ‘he simply doesn’t know what he’d be taking on, Muzz darling. Ask anybody. People like us – it’s quite, quite hopeless marrying out of the business.’

  If the irregularity of her own marital status ever occurred to Elizabeth, she never referred to it, nor did Muzz. As far as Elizabeth went, when she left her home in Chelsea each day to journey to the theatre, she ceased to be married, and by the time she had shut herself in her dressing room, Sebastian had ceased to exist. His name was never once mentioned, and after his disastrous appearance on the first night, he was never seen backstage again. He was never even seen in the vicinity of the theatre.

  Elizabeth had managed to arrange this with her usual expert diplomacy. Firstly, as far as the mention of his name went, she let it be known via Muzz that because of the nature of the part she was playing, and the intensity of the relationship she had nightly to recreate on-stage with Jerome, she found the process of getting into her character in the hour before curtain up unusually difficult, a process which she confessed to find well nigh impossible if her preparations were interrupted, particularly by the intrusion of any reality. Such as any mention of a husband, or a marriage.

  ‘I cannot see or think of my darling Sebastian, I must only see Jerome,’ she explained to Muzz, knowing that it would be around the entire company by the first interval. ‘Or more correctly Charles, the character Jerome is playing. If for a moment I remember my darling Sebastian, then I stall, like a car running out of petrol. I become – oh, what is the word? Inhibited – yes! I find I cannot any longer be Emerald Glynn, giving herself to Charles Danby, but instead I become me, myself again, playing the part, not being it. So for the purposes of this wonderful play, I have to be just Elizabeth Laurence. Un-married.’

  She used the same reasoning on her husband, the only difference being in the shading. She told him she had to appear to detach herself from him for the play to succeed, not for herself, but for Jerome.

  ‘For me, darling one,’ she told him, ‘it is nothing but the greatest help having you there, either physically, or in my mind’s eye. How else could I play those love scenes, do you think? If I didn’t have you to think of? Every time I have to tell Jerome – or Charles, should I say – that I love him, I simply think he is you. As indeed when I have to kiss him, or hold him, I just think of kissing and holding you, dearest one. But, of course, for poor Jerome it’s just impossible. He is such a very sweet boy that if he thinks of you, he becomes most dreadfully inhibited! Can you imagine, my darling! But it’s true. The poor boy goes to pieces! He said to me one night, very early in the run, in the first week I think it was, he said he thought he had seen you in the stalls, and he simply froze! I think it’s a little jejeune actually, between you and me, my darling, just a little unprofessional, but then this is the poor lamb’s very first part, and I suppose we must make allowances.’

  And so Sebastian, being the kind and understanding person that he was, made the stipulated allowances, and promised he would never come to the play or visit the theatre again. When he was to meet Elizabeth afterwards, for dinner, or to go on to a party, he promised he would wait for her either at the restaurant or at his club from where she could collect him, the only other stipulation being that any parties which they attended together must be purely civilian ones.

  ‘I hate to see you ignored,’ Elizabeth told him. ‘I cannot stand it, and I will not have it. So for your sake, we will not go to any of those silly sort of parties at all.’

  Naturally Sebastian dismissed such a notion, on the understanding that it was important for Elizabeth to attend such events, since she was now so obviously determined to pursue a theatrical career, so rather than once again act as some sort of inhibitor, and aware of the sudden fame which had been thrust upon her, Sebastian very kindly stayed out of the limelight, and allowed Elizabeth to attend the necessary parties where she might be seen in company with Jerome, but only for the good of the play.

  However, it was not all such plain sailing for the beautiful young woman who had become the toast of the town. Her adoring husband might understand the singularity of her needs, her fast growing army of admirers might worship at the shrine of her beauty, but the one person who really mattered to her, the object of all her desire, seemed impervious to her allure. Jerome Didier treated her as a friend, or even worse, like a sister.

  Night after night he would sit in her dressing room in the interval, talking endlessly about Pippa, and seeking Elizabeth’s advice as to what exactly he should do. For her part, Elizabeth would smile sympathetically, take his hands in hers, pretend to counsel him, sigh at his predicament, and promise to think of a solution, while all the time inwardly burning with a jealous rage. Then after Jerome had gone to prepare for the second act, Elizabeth would let her emotions go, and beg and beseech Muzz to try and explain to her what possible attraction someone such as this lanky, unkempt girl could have for someone as debonair and handsome as Jerome?

  In reply, Muzz would just shake her head and come up with some bromide as there being no accounting for taste, while carefully folding away tiny perfectly ironed bundles of Elizabeth’s handmade crêpe silk underwear into a special monogrammed satin case, initialled E.L.

  ‘I could scream sometimes, Muzz dear, do you know that?’ Elizabeth would tell her dresser nightly, sometimes twice nightly, sometimes even more on matinée days, as she sat staring at the only person who understood her, namely herself.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ Muzz would reply, with little variation. ‘We’re sold out until Christmas.’

  ‘Of course you know why, darling,’ Elizabeth would sigh, leaning closer to her reflected image so that she could stare deeply into her eyes and into herself. ‘And it
has nothing to do with the bookings.’

  Then there would be a knock on the door and the call boy’s call.

  ‘Five minutes, please, Miss Laurence! Five minutes please!’

  Five minutes. And then just another ten before she would be back in Jerome’s arms, which was all Elizabeth really cared about now, even though it was only make-believe. Nothing else mattered. All the adulation, the crowds at the stage door, the autographs, the photographs, the interviews, the fan mail, the flowers, the attention, the applause and the echoing cheers, none of it mattered as much as what was going to happen in the next two hours. Elizabeth was going to have Jerome all to herself, and they were going to be lovers. He was going to tell her he loved her, he was going to hold her, and kiss her, and vow to be hers for ever, which was only right and proper, because if any two people were made for each other, they were. They were each a half of the same seed, and Elizabeth knew Jerome wasn’t just acting, because when he kissed her and then let her go, there was always that look in his eyes, that look a man cannot fake, the look Sebastian had whenever she allowed him to kiss her, the look everyone had ever had who had kissed her, or who had perhaps even just thought about kissing her, the look of astonishment which seems always to accompany true love.

  Elizabeth saw it nightly in Jerome’s eyes, and twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It didn’t matter to her that the look vanished the moment the scene was over, or when the act was over, or when the final curtain fell. Jerome might think he had been play-acting, but Elizabeth knew otherwise. Neither did it matter who he was going to meet after the show, or where he went at the weekends. Elizabeth had seen the look, and she knew, she just knew that by all rights Jerome Didier was hers.

  All that needed to be done, therefore, was to think of some way to get that wretched country bumpkin out of his luscious hair.

  Cecil Manners also strongly opposed the notion of Jerome marrying Pippa, his resistance being based on the fact that he wanted Pippa for himself. The notion had always been there, ever since the day of the famous gymkhana, but until Jerome had appeared on the scene, it had been a comfortably vague notion, a Romance rather than a romance. Cecil had been in love with the idea of Pippa, and with the idea of being in love with Pippa, rather than seriously in love with Pippa as a person. Cecil had been too busy furthering his career to give Pippa any really serious thought, but once he learned from her mother how serious Jerome’s intentions were, Cecil thought it high time to reconsider the position. To Cecil’s way of thinking Jerome marrying Pippa would constitute a disaster.

  He found Dmitri Boska of the same complexion when they lunched together, although for quite different motives.

  ‘We don’t want him married to some hick,’ Boska announced. ‘A peasant with straws in her hair! This is not the image we want for this boy!’

  Cecil stifled his own feelings, and said nothing to correct Boska about how wrongly he was representing his beloved Pippa, as he knew it would not be good business. Besides, Boska was so powerful that if he had decided he didn’t want Jerome to marry Pippa, it was eminently possible that Boska could arrange that he didn’t.

  ‘Jerome Didier is style,’ Boska continued, ‘Jerome Didier is class. Jerome Didier everyone wants to screw. So my feelings, Cecil? If Jerome Didier wants to get his leg over something, then she too has to be style, she has to be class. She too has to be someone everyone wants to screw. Yes? You see my thinking?’

  Indeed Cecil did, he thought, as he adjusted the knot in his Garrick Club tie. He got Boska’s drift all right. Everyone always did, Boska made sure of that. It was just he sometimes wished as he was wishing now in the subdued hush of The Mirabelle that Boska was not quite so professionally foreign. And that he wouldn’t mispronounce his name as Sissel.

  ‘OK, Cecil,’ Boska said, tapping the table with one finger. ‘So you tell me what I was thinking.’

  ‘What you’re saying, dear boy,’ Cecil replied, brushing some invisible crumbs off the crisp linen tablecloth, ‘is that if Joan Public can’t get into bed with Jerome Didier, then she wants whoever it is in his bed to be particularly glamorous.’

  ‘Good,’ Boska laughed. ‘And why is this so? Because then she can fantasize! Yes? She can think in her head when she is imagining such things, that she is that beautiful woman. A beautiful woman. Not a hick. A beautiful woman. Such as Elizabeth Laurence.’

  Now Cecil really was genuinely surprised, and the expression on his face as he looked up quickly must have said so, since Boska clapped his hands in delight.

  ‘You got it!’ he cried. ‘This is who Jerome Didier should be screwing! He should be getting his legs around little Miss Laurence!’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ Cecil frowned warningly, looking over his shoulder to see who else had taken note of Boska’s public pronouncement. ‘Keep the old voice down, dear boy.’

  ‘Nuts,’ Boska scoffed, signalling the waiter for more cognac. ‘We get Didier bunking Eliza Dolittle, and everyone’s life gets easier. Not only easier, better! Richer! Think of the story! The public will lap it up! Two beautiful young people such as them? Devouring each other off-screen as well as on? You listen, Cecil, we could retire early tomorrow. Two stars like them bunking? You can’t get it bigger.’

  ‘I take your point,’ Cecil replied, carefully and keeping his voice down. ‘But aren’t you forgetting something? Such as Elizabeth Laurence’s husband?’

  ‘You never hear of divorces?’

  ‘I’ve heard of divorces, dear boy, but have you never heard of the scandal they create?’

  Boska looked at him bug-eyed as the waiter carefully placed before them two large cognacs, and then he suddenly roared with laughter. Cecil felt most offended.

  ‘I’m quite serious, dear boy,’ Cecil said, toying with his glass. ‘If what you said earlier is true, and you really are considering building my two clients up into a starring partnership, if – and I doubt the ‘if’ very much – but even so if they did ever . . . well – have a liaison, if you will, the ensuing scandal could be ruinous. Particularly internationally.’

  Boska looked bewildered, laughed some more, and then slapped the table with both his hands. Cecil only just caught his glass in time.

  ‘No, this I cannot take seriously, Cecil!’ Boska announced. ‘These people, your clients, my dear Cecil they are actors! Not nuns!’

  ‘Of course they’re not nuns, or monks, or whatever the case may be, dear boy,’ Cecil replied, ‘but you cannot forget the women’s lobby. It’s still very strong, you know. Most of all, in the States.’

  ‘Oh nuts, Cecil! Such nuts!’ Boska grinned. ‘Plain women – they always forgive the beautiful ones. Everybody, they worship beauty. This is why they go to the movies – where else do they see such beauty? Yes? Movie stars? They are the modern saints, Cecil. They are sanctified. My mother – she would pray before a picture of Blessed Elizabeth of Gizycko. My daughter? She worship Yvonne de Carlo. We put Elizabeth to Jerome Didier, they’ll be lighting candles to them everywhere.’

  Cecil extinguished his cigarette and nodded slowly. He didn’t necessarily agree with Boska’s prognosis, but he couldn’t help feeling that Jerome was far better suited to Elizabeth Laurence than he was to his beloved next door neighbour. And even leaving his own feelings aside for a moment, if Jerome went ahead and did manage to marry Pippa, it could well be disastrous in another way, for there really was no saying exactly how badly Elizabeth would take it, which would indeed bode ill for them all. At this very moment, Elizabeth was the hottest young property in the business, but she was still so young, and seemingly insecure, and as a result so easily upset, that a disappointment such as this might even lead her to abandon her career.

  ‘Hell hasn’t such a fury, Cecil,’ Boska said, almost reading his mind.

  ‘I know, dear boy,’ Cecil replied. ‘I’m just considering every eventuality.’

  ‘Good,’ Boska said, draining his cognac, ‘we don’t want our divine Miss Laurence getting herself to a nunnery, yes?’

/>   ‘No,’ said Cecil, ‘most certainly not. But an idea’s one thing, dear boy. An idea is all very well. But.’

  ‘Which is why I suggest you take another of your clients out to lunch, Cecil,’ Boska advised, looking round for the head waiter. ‘That pretty blonde. That friend of Elizabeth’s. The one she insisted to being also in the play.’

  ‘Lalla Henderson?’

  ‘Lalla Henderson. She’s quite a lady.’

  Boska had summoned the waiter over and ordered him to bring the bill.

  ‘Yes, Cecil,’ he said, reaching inside his jacket for his wallet. ‘You take Miss Henderson out to lunch. She’s a lady with quite a lot of surprises in her store.’

  Cecil took Lalla to the Trocadero, which he thought a more suitable venue for their luncheon rather than any of his regular and more conventional restaurants. As she walked in on Cecil’s arm, Lalla turned quite a few heads, a tall, leggy and well-proportioned blonde dressed up to the minute in a new suit by John Cavanagh.

  ‘It’s called, would you believe?’ Lalla said as a waiter sat her at their table. ‘It’s called a Claridge’s suit, isn’t that fun? Apparently the designer intended this should only be worn when lunching at Claridge’s.’

  ‘You should have told me, Lalla dear,’ Cecil said, offering her a cigarette. ‘I could just as easily have taken you there.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Cecil darling,’ Lalla said, accepting a light and then looking round at the velvet and gold of the restaurant. ‘This is much more us, don’t you think?’

  For most of the lunch they discussed the play, and gossiped about nothing of any great note, at least not according to Lalla’s book. But Lalla had been long enough in the theatre to know that important agents do not take their less important clients out to lunch without a purpose, so she ate her food, drank her wine, told a few tales, laughed at Cecil’s unfunny jokes, and waited for the point to be reached.