That was the extent of their conversation all the way back to London. For the rest of the journey Jerome had sat in silence holding on to the strap his side and staring out of his window, while Elizabeth had sat in silence holding on to the strap her side and staring out of her window.
Elizabeth had worked on everyone they knew to talk Jerome out of buying Sainthill, most of all their mutual confidant, ‘Booble’ Doulton, the resident set designer for the Didier’s newly formed and London-based theatrical company, as well as their unofficial interior decorator. A single woman with seemingly eternally young features, she was highly talented, blonde, comfortably plump, although with surprisingly shapely and slender legs and arms, and extremely skilled in the art of theatrical diplomacy.
‘It will cost a fortune to rebuild, Booble darling,’ Elizabeth had complained, ‘and another fortune to do up. And neither of those fortunes will be small ones. You are going to have to talk him out of it.’
This was after one of their regular lunches, taken at Elizabeth’s Chelsea home which she had been allowed to keep after Sebastian had divorced her. As usual Elizabeth had eaten nothing, but had just smoked and drunk champagne throughout the beautifully prepared meal, while Booble had eaten everything that had been put in front of her. Now they were sitting in the newly refurnished drawing room, drinking their coffee from tiny Spode cups that Booble had found for Elizabeth on one of her countless jaunts in the countryside, china which matched exactly the faded colours in the French rug which Booble had also found and which now lay in front of the fireplace. Booble liked harmony, she liked everything to tone in and blend with their surroundings. This was one of the many things she so admired in Elizabeth, her sense of correlation. This day, for example, Elizabeth was most exquisitely dressed, in the most delicate of pale blue silk dresses, pale stockings and shoes, with her jewellery, small sapphires and diamonds, carefully chosen to suit not only her clothes, but the room, and even, it seemed, the mood of the day.
‘I had better come and see this place,’ Booble had said, finishing her coffee.
‘I think you had,’ Elizabeth had agreed. ‘Jerome will listen to you because he thinks you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t you, Lizabett?’ Booble was the only other person in the entourage who was allowed to nickname her.
‘You wouldn’t be working for us, darling,’ Elizabeth had laughed, ‘if I didn’t.’
The house had seemingly been full of birds the day they visited. As Elizabeth had unlocked the front door with the largest key either of them could ever remember seeing, a whole flock of small black birds rushed with a clatter of wings out past their heads, forcing the two women instinctively to duck.
‘Don’t faint,’ Elizabeth had said as they had walked into the hall. ‘And don’t say you haven’t been warned.’
Booble stared around her, and above her, and then at her surroundings again. The place was simply magnificent, it was everything and more that Jerome had described to her when he had taken her out to lunch and asked her to try and talk his wife into letting him buy it.
‘You do see now what I mean, Booble darling, don’t you?’ Elizabeth had said, leading her friend through room after room. ‘I mean what can he be thinking? Parties indeed. We’d have to give one twice a week so as not to die with boredom. I mean can you imagine? Can you imagine sitting in a room this size on your own?’
‘It’s one of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen, Lizabett. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place quite like this.’
‘Can you imagine what it would take to do it up, Booble? In time as well as money?’
High above them suddenly, somewhere up in the rafters, a bird had called, a harsh and startling cry, which had echoed bleakly round the vaulted ceilings. Both women had looked up at once, in time to see a huge black bird swooping down towards them, wings flapping in menace, and its beak wide open to shout defiance at them, before gliding with briefly closed wings through a broken window then stretching its wings once more to fly away up in the skies.
‘Good heavens,’ Booble had said, watching the bird with dismay. ‘I think that was a raven.’
‘Well?’ Jerome had asked. ‘Did you talk her round?’
‘She’ll be fine, Jerry,’ Booble had replied, spreading her designs for A Code of Practice on his desk in front of him. ‘It’s only because you found it first. Leave her to me. I’ll get her to help with the interiors, involve her one hundred per cent. Promise, Jerry darling, within a couple of months she’ll be swearing to all and sundry the place was all her idea.’
‘You’re a marvel, Booble. No wonder we all love you.’
Later, after their meeting, when Booble had returned to her own office high under the eaves of the Princes Theatre, the home of the Didiers’ New England Players, she had thought with relish as to how much work the restoration of Sainthill would bring her, and had sighed contentedly as she had put away the stage designs. Fabrics would have to be specially woven, furniture bought (masses of it, the place was so vast), the right materials found, paints expressly mixed, window glasses correctly replaced, stone masons hired, and builders of the highest quality engaged, all through and by her. Jerome had given her a free hand. The job would be worth a fortune.
Not only that, Sainthill would secure her reputation. The restoration of such an historic property would immortalize her. She would be known for ever and always as that brilliant woman who designed Sainthill, the place the Dazzling Didiers had lived.
She stared out of her window across the roofs of London and thought, had lived? How odd, she wondered, they hadn’t even bought Sainthill, and yet already she had consigned it to the past tense, as if looking forward to a time in the foreseeable future when there would be no such couple as The Dazzling Didiers. And then she had put the thought right out of her head, because such a thought was, when she thought about it, quite unthinkable.
14
This was Oscar’s first visit to Sainthill, as it was everyone else’s in the car, and in the car behind and, miles behind, in all the other cars making the pilgrimage west. He’d seen photographs of it of course, they all had, all Jerome’s and Elizabeth’s courtiers, they had all been shown photographs of the great house from the moment Jerome had bought it, they had been shown photographs of every single stage of the conversion, and they had been shown photographs of Sainthill on the completion of works. But this was the first visit paid by the court, this was to be the great and the grand unveiling.
The car in which Oscar was travelling (all the cars had been laid on by their hosts, no-one was required to drive down in their own humble vehicles, or worse – by train) contained besides himself and the driver four members of the New England Players, including Elizabeth’s court jester, the actor Robert Dunster, and her still good friend Lalla Henderson. Oscar liked Lalla. Not only had she matured into quite a reasonable actress (she was particularly good in bitchy parts), but she was always excellent company, and a mine of gossip.
But not even Lalla had been allowed a preview of Sainthill.
‘Of course I tried, darling!’ Lalla laughed, in answer to Oscar’s enquiry. ‘I even thought of disguising myself as a prospective domestic—’
‘Listen—’ Oscar interrupted. ‘That’s not a bad title. The Prospective Domestic. I might well use that.’
‘It wouldn’t do for the New England Company though, darling,’ Lalla continued. ‘It’s a shade too light, I think. Don’t you? Not quite worthy of serious attention. Anyway – I actually did think of disguising myself as a domestic—’
Lalla prattled on while Oscar retreated into himself and thought of the truth behind Lalla’s joke. Oscar’s work was considered by the management of the New England Players as too lightweight for their repertoire. Oscar was still their number one writer for the Didiers’ films, or rather, he thought with a sigh, their number one re-writer, but for their seasons at the Princes Theatre, the Didiers wanted real writers, which meant serious writers, writers
who had something important to say. Elizabeth had said as much to Oscar’s face. She had said no more powder-puff theatre, darling, no more charming little comedies. The public, it seemed, wanted to see great acting, and Jerome and Elizabeth could only oblige their public if they now played only the Great Roles.
At first Oscar had felt bitter. It was difficult not to when he had remembered all their early days, the days when he had sat up through the night to finish All That Glitters for the young woman whose beauty had so inspired him, the times when he then had watched them both triumph in his work, the time when they had literally carried all before them in The Tale of Tatty Gray, a play which had won every West End award not only for the acting, but also for the writing, and even Oscar’s direction. The memory of those golden days, which so far were certainly Oscar’s most golden ones, always stirred up that old feeling of resentment in him, because he knew the Didiers’ triumph had been built on his back. And now he was their rewrite man, the hack they only called when their films needed customizing, dear old Oscar, good old Oscar, the man with the golden pen. So yes, he thought to himself as the car headed deeper into Wiltshire, sure he’d felt pretty bitter about it, but now he just felt ambivalent. He liked the Didiers. He couldn’t help liking them, liking them both, although he was one of the very few people who actively did. Most preferred one or the other, and most of the most preferred Jerome. The camp camp-followers loved her, of course, they loved Elizabeth’s sweet mockery, her delicate bitchery, her charming malice, they thought she was a scream, and Oscar liked her too, though not for the same reasons. What Oscar liked was not the person, in fact he could barely tolerate Elizabeth as a human being, what Oscar loved was the brilliance of her talent, the singularity of her genius. Elizabeth Laurence was without any doubt the most uniquely gifted actress he had ever seen (and this was not just his opinion, this was the general one). But then Oscar had always been a talent snob.
Oscar had also always been a practical man, the more so as he had matured into an experienced and highly skilled writer, and he realized as he had grown older that the style of his earlier plays was now old-fashioned, and not any more at all à la mode. Films, happily, when it came to the writing of them, were less fashion conscious, and Oscar’s skills were welcomed in that field. Moreover, films paid well, they paid exceptionally well compared to the theatre, which was something not only Oscar had discovered, but so had the Didiers. Hence his and their continuing relationship.
The Didiers needed the cinema. It was a fact of their professional and private lives. If they did not make their quota of films, they could not possibly afford their life style, and this, Oscar reminded himself, had been the case even before the purchase of Sainthill. The Didiers lived like royalty, which they had every right to do, since everywhere they went they were treated like royalty. Wherever they went, whatever they did, wherever they ate, whatever they ate, wherever they shopped, whatever they bought, whoever they met, whatever they saw, whatever they liked, whatever they loathed, whatever they wore, whenever they wore it, every detail of their lives was reported in the minutest detail. Elizabeth gave advice to everyone, even to cat lovers, and not just nationally, internationally. How Best to Understand Your Cat appeared on the covers of women’s magazines around the world, starting a craze in America and France for Burmese cats, which were now Elizabeth’s favoured breed, while all the major journals carried her syndicated advice on diet, skin care, hair care, fashion (Elizabeth Laurence Reveals Secrets of her Wardrobe) and even regular counsel on marital problems (How The Stars Keep Their Men – Elizabeth Laurence Reveals Jerome Didier’s Tender Spots selling a record amount of copies internationally of Woman’s Home Journal). No-one before them in the British theatre and for a very long time afterwards, in fact not even until the present day, no couple had ever afforded such an extravagant and inordinate life style, particularly once they moved court to Sainthill. It was California in England.
The house could now be seen, as the cavalcade turned off a small country road and swung up a flawlessly regravelled drive lined with very old cypress trees. The sight silenced everyone in the car, even Lalla Henderson.
‘Good God. My God,’ was all she could manage.
It had only taken eighteen months, albeit eighteen months with everyone flat to the boards, and the result was magnificence, not in size, because despite Elizabeth’s original fears, the building was extremely manageable (given the staff), but in aspect. Sainthill was truly superb. Set in newly landscaped gardens, against a background of fields planted out with wheat and hay now waving gently in the breeze, the priory could never have looked finer or more perfect. Every pane of glass had been correctly replaced, the plain and the coloured, all the damaged stonework recut and restored, all the joinery rebuilt and returned, and the entire roof stripped, rebuilt and precisely retiled.
‘Is it too good to be true?’ Lalla wondered as they got out of the limousine. ‘Or too true to be good?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ Oscar said. ‘All I know is that perfect people and perfect places annoy the hell out of me. There’s no way of taking advantage of them.’
‘I wonder,’ Lalla continued, staring up at the faultless façade. ‘Maybe the Bard was right as usual. Maybe striving to better, we do oft mar what’s well.’
‘Now there’s a part you could aim at,’ Oscar said, wondering what to do with his cigarette.
‘Yes, I’ve always wanted to play Cordelia,’ Lalla said.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of Goneril,’ Oscar replied.
Inside, they all at once fell to whispering, as if they had entered a church, which in a way was appropriate for there were candles everywhere, not ordinary household candles, but grand candles, enormous candles in huge wrought-iron sticks, big, thick, fat candles made of old-fashioned yellowy wax. There were flowers too, just like in Church, not ordinary arrangements, but vast and extravagant compositions, works of art created from blossoms, petals and leaves of exactly toning hues, matchless assemblies of blooms realized into visions and placed to their maximum effect in the great stone hall with its vaulted ceiling, and in the rooms glimpsed beyond, historic stone chambers also lit only by candle and firelight.
‘I feel all wrong,’ Oscar muttered to Lalla. ‘I feel I should be dressed in a habit.’
‘Knowing you, Oscar darling,’ Lalla whispered back, ‘it certainly wouldn’t be a clean one.’
‘Is it true rather than gonging him they’re giving Jerry a bishopric?’ Robert (Roberty to his intimates) Dunster sighed as he joined them. ‘Or was that just naughty me mishearing things as usual?’
‘No, it was just you going miaow, Roberty dear,’ Lalla whispered. ‘You’re jealous because Jerry didn’t cast you as Titania.’
‘Oooh,’ Roberty smiled with pained delight. ‘And who have we been eating for breakfast?’
Oscar still hadn’t found what to do with his cigarette which was now all but just a red hot stub. The fireplace was a little too distant for a flick, so Oscar began to make his way surreptitiously towards it, just at the moment when Elizabeth and Jerome stepped down the last tread of the stone spiral staircase and into a pool of light. Oscar stopped and stared, just like everyone else who had now arrived was doing. The sight arrested everyone.
Jerome and Elizabeth were dressed totally in keeping with their surroundings, which was the brief they had given Booble. Elizabeth wore a full-length red and gold embroidered gown with long medieval sleeves, which was pushed up high at the bosom, where it was cut to reveal the tops of her milk white breasts, and which had at the back a full train with an inset panel of gold. To her own famous hair she had added extra pieces of an absolute match, and someone had brilliantly fashioned it all into a complicated arrangement of plaits, which was finally held in place by an extremely expensive looking burnished gold ornament.
‘That thing in her hair?’ Lalla whispered behind Oscar. ‘Booble designed it. It’s specially made. Want to know the cost? Two thousand quid. And Cecil
still can’t get my five pound raise.’
They were all falling into line behind and in front of each other, as if they were at a première, waiting to be introduced to royalty.
‘I do like Jerry’s choice of frock,’ Roberty murmured. ‘Absolutely perfect for the young O. Wilde.’
As usual and in his own way, Roberty Dunster was right. Booble had designed Jerome a beautiful dull-red velvet jacket to match Elizabeth’s gown, a double-breasted and braided smoker, which fitted and flattered Jerome’s marvellous figure absolutely. Even the trousers were especially tailored, cut in what looked like a heavy, dark silk with insets of the dull-red velvet down the sides, and at his neck he wore an extravagant white silk scarf loosely knotted, an outfit which as soon as the pictures of the couple in costume were released, at once became the new men’s fashion for evening wear.
The queue was making its way inexorably up and past their hosts, and just in time Oscar managed to chuck the red hot stub of his cigarette towards the fire. But as he feared it fell woefully short and landed on what looked to Oscar like a very expensive piece of matting. He at once made a move to retrieve the smouldering cigarette end, but Elizabeth had already seen it and despatching one of her soberly dressed footmen to repair the damage, pointed a long fingernailed finger at the culprit.
‘Oscar’s here, everyone!’ she laughed. ‘Man the pumps!’
She then kissed him warmly on both cheeks before passing him on to Jerome, who hugged and kissed him Italian style. If Oscar had not been a theatrical, if he’d been a mere civilian, he would have been more than a little surprised at the effusiveness of the greeting, since he had seen them both only the day before in London.
‘Hey!’ he said as Jerome held him away by the hands at arm’s length. ‘This place! Wow. I guess this is what the Pope would have done with it, if he’d had the money.’
Jerome laughed and releasing Oscar with a naughty-boy pinch to his cheeks, moved on to welcome his next guest. Oscar moved on too, taking a fluted glass of champagne from one of the footmen while looking around for suitable company. Someone took his hand and he looked round to see it was Lalla.
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