‘I’d love to be in a film with a budget this size,’ she said, changing her already empty glass for a full one.
‘I’d like to write a film with a budget this size,’ Oscar replied. ‘You seen the labels on the bottles? This stuff was canned before Garbo talked.’
‘Odd to think that this is all my fault,’ Oscar announced after the banquet which was served as dinner. Lalla had re-attached herself once again to him, having only just discovered that the one man she fancied in the entire company of the New England Players was carrying a torch for someone else, and it wasn’t a woman. ‘I’m not joking, you know,’ Oscar finished.
‘I know you’re not, Ozzie,’ Lalla agreed. ‘But you’d better not, or I’ll take your glass away.’
‘It’s true though, Lalla,’ Oscar continued blithely. ‘Without me, none of this would have been possible. And I’m not talking here about what I wrote—’
‘I know what you’re talking about,’ Lalla interrupted, leading Oscar away out of anyone’s earshot. ‘And you’re not to, not here. Didn’t anyone tell you what happened to that journalist who asked about her in an interview with Elizabeth? She threw a Waterford glass at him.’
‘That’s because her majesty knows, Lalla.’ Oscar helped himself to yet another glass of the best vintage he had ever drunk. ‘That’s because her majesty knows everyone loved her. Not just Jerome, not just me, everyone who met her and knew her loved her, Lalla—’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure she was terribly sweet, Ozzie darling, but not now.’ Lalla looked over her shoulder, and around her, as if Oscar was unveiling state secrets rather than just getting maudlin.
‘Come on, Lalla Henderson,’ Oscar exhorted her. ‘Let’s talk turkey. Let’s live dangerously.’
‘You’ll have to talk turkey to yourself, Oscar,’ Lalla replied, moving away. ‘I want to go on working.’
‘You think I don’t?’
‘If you do, darling, you’ll pipe that charming American voice down at least ten decibels.’
Just in time Lalla spotted Elizabeth approaching, and left Oscar in order to head her off. In the mood Oscar had got himself in, Lalla sensed there might well be a confrontation.
So did Oscar, who suddenly realized the last thing he wanted was the drink he had just taken, and the first thing he needed was some fresh air. So he put down his still full glass and wandered solo towards an arched door which opened on to the gardens. As he went, he passed Jerome.
‘Are you all right, Oz?’ Jerome called. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
‘You bet your ass I am, Jerry!’ Oscar replied with a wave. ‘There’s damn all else here to enjoy!’
On the crest of a welcome laugh from Jerome and some of his courtiers, Oscar shut himself out in the cool of the night. He found himself in a courtyard garden, the fourth side of which was made up by a row of refurbished stables, four of which were occupied. Oscar wandered over to stroke the horses’ noses, and enjoy the warmth of their breath on his hands and on his cheeks.
‘Jeeze,’ he sighed. ‘They even have beautiful horses. What is it anyway? Why does the devil always have all the best tunes?’
The horses whickered softly at him, and one of them, the big, dark bay behind him, pushed him unceremoniously in the back with his head.
‘Typical actor’s horse,’ Oscar said, turning round to tug the animal’s ears. ‘Me, me, me, me. Oh boy, but OK, sure you’re beautiful. But you see, Dobbin old pal, you’re meant to wait until someone tells you that. You’re not meant to say hey! Look at me! Look I’m gorgeous! But I’m afraid you are. You are simply gorgeous. And do you know who would have loved you? She would. You don’t know who she is? OK so I’ll tell you. She is—’ He leaned forward and standing on tiptoes, whispered into the horse’s ear. ‘Pippa,’ he whispered. ‘The first Mrs Didier. There now, I’ve said it. I’ve said it here at Sainthill, and look-ee. I have not been struck by lightning.’
Oscar turned and leaning his back against the wall between two of the boxes contemplated the courtyard garden, a space carefully and meticulously planted out with a mixture of herbs and oleaginous shrubs whose scent filled the night air, while he thought about her, about Pippa, about the girl who had disappeared totally from view.
For still nobody knew where she was, no-one had ever heard of her or from her again. Oscar had tried. He had tried various routes, through Miss Toothe, Dr Weaver, through friends of hers in that odd little Sussex village, through anybody he could find who had known her, but none of them had known a thing. Nobody knew anything. All Jerome had been able to find out, according to Jerome when he and Oscar had got drunk together on the last date before Tatty came into London, was that his then wife had withdrawn all her money from the bank, before quite simply vanishing.
‘The lady vanishes, old chum,’ Jerome had said, pouring another brandy on top of the one he had hardly begun. ‘But not I think to—’ He had drunk some brandy then, at that moment, and fallen into a long silence. ‘No,’ he had finally continued, ‘No, I really don’t think anyone contemplating anything . . . anything other than just vanishing would have taken her belongings, her money, her maid. And Bobby.’
How they had finally fought that night, Oscar remembered, not with their fists, fortunately for Oscar, but with words, unfortunately for Jerome. Jerome had begun it, accusing Oscar of being whimsical, of turning life and people into a shape and substance acceptable to him, and worst – of betraying Pippa by taking her and using her as his model for Tatty Gray. He tried to make Oscar responsible for it all, for his own folly and conceit, for his own treachery and adultery, and Oscar finally just wouldn’t take it. He had spoken to Jerome very quietly, after Jerome had calmed down, he had spoken quietly and calmly, but he had torn him apart, bit by bit, inch by conceited inch, until he had reduced Jerome to tears, whereupon he upped and left and hadn’t spoken to Jerome for another six months, all the way through the triumphant opening of Tatty Gray in the West End, throughout the superlative success of the first part of the run, they had never exchanged one let alone two words.
Until the day Jerome had called him, right out of the blue.
‘She’s alive,’ he’d said. No hello, no who it was, no apology, no prologue. Just Jerome’s voice in his ear saying that Pippa was alive. ‘At least we think that she is.’
‘Who’s we, Jerry?’
‘Toby. You know Toby? Toby Thompson?’
‘Of course I know Toby for Chrissake. He was Henry in Glitters.’
‘Toby was on holiday in France. He’s sure he saw her on a train. Or rather get off one. He swore he saw her get off the train at Tours.’
‘So what are you going to do, Jerry?’
‘What am I going to do?’ Jerome had sounded puzzled, not angry, but bemused. ‘What can I do, chum? Except get down on my bended knees and thank God – she’s alive!’
He could have gone after her, Oscar had thought at the time, but then at the time he hadn’t known the hold Elizabeth had over Jerome, he knew nothing of Jerome’s enthralment. No-one knew. No-one knew till much, much later the extent of Jerome’s bondage. From the day he first got into his co-star’s bed, until the day he agreed to marry her, Jerome was enslaved, and rather than freeing him, on the contrary the news of Pippa’s survival had only allowed him to enjoy his captivity the more.
How strange it was, Oscar thought as he continued to stand between the heads of the horses either side of him, listening to the sounds of the party, the wine induced laughter, the power induced gaiety, how odd that Jerome had never seemed to mind being fooled by Elizabeth, by her deceit, by the deception she had played on him by making herself appear through Tatty and through the way she had approached Tatty as someone quite different from the person she really was. Or is rather, Oscar corrected himself, because the person Jerome had fallen so absurdly in love with was simply a facsimile of Pippa, while the person to whom Jerome was now married bore not even the slightest resemblance to the girl both the men had loved.
Ye
t the thought had seemingly never occurred to Jerome. It couldn’t have done, Oscar reasoned, otherwise he would never have married Elizabeth, or at the very least would not still be married to her. Perhaps if he met Pippa again, Oscar wondered, perhaps he would then regain his senses, but then in the next breath Oscar prayed that Jerome never would. He wanted Pippa to be happy, and if she were by some cruel twist of fate to be reunited with Jerome, Oscar knew she would never know another moment’s happiness, which was why finally he was so glad Pippa had disappeared.
‘In fact it’s good all round, horses, believe me,’ Oscar suddenly announced out loud, although the reason the horses quickly backed away from him, stomping their hooves and snorting with displeasure was not because he had spoken, but because he had chosen to light a cigarette. ‘Seriously, you guys,’ Oscar continued, oblivious of the animals’ displeasure, ‘The best thing that wonderful girl did was get the hell out. Because what’s everyone done ever since? You’re right. All they’ve done is talk about her, and wonder about her. And they’ll never, ever know. Particularly – her majesty.’
It was true. It was the worst of all possible revenges. Elizabeth had no rival, no-one to fight, no-one who by looking less than Elizabeth in beauty, could – in the eyes of the star’s adoring public – explain Jerome’s monstrous infidelity. Not even Elizabeth Laurence, considered by now and by most good judges to be possibly the most beautiful woman in the whole world, not even she could box a shadow, or be more beautiful than a memory.
What was even worse for Elizabeth, was that from the moment Pippa disappeared she remained as she had been in everyone’s minds. She remained the age she was when she vanished. She stayed fixed as young, exuberant, hopeful and innocent, while in contrast Elizabeth began to change, imperceptibly at first but still inevitably. Elizabeth aged, she got older, she changed, while Pippa stayed still, treading the waters of time. To everyone who thought about her, and there were so many who did, since so many of Jerome’s and Elizabeth’s mutual acquaintances had met Pippa and had adored her, Pippa would never change. She would always be that lovely, beguiling, freckle-faced, sweet girl who was once married to Jerome.
While Elizabeth would always be the other woman, the one who broke up Jerome’s marriage to that lovely, beguiling, freckle-faced, and sweet girl. Elizabeth would always be the wrecker, and Pippa would always be the one you really should have met.
Maybe that was the day you got your first crow’s feet, honey, Oscar thought as he looked over to the house and saw Elizabeth staring back idly out into the darkness, while some man, not Jerome, came up behind and whispered something in her ear. Maybe the day Jerome came across, maybe that day it all began to fade a little. A part of me can’t help hoping that’s so, he added as he saw Elizabeth laugh, and without turning put an arm up to curl it round the young man’s neck. And then he saw the young man lean forward, brought forward probably by Elizabeth’s arm, and Elizabeth tilt her head back for the young man to kiss her as near to her mouth as he could. I sure do hope so, he concluded. Otherwise it just ain’t fair.
He stayed a little while longer, smoking his cigarette and watching the shadow play within the magnificent house. Then he carefully stubbed out his smoke, and dropped it just as carefully down a drain.
‘One last thought, you guys,’ he said over his shoulder to the horses, ‘before I say good night. If the first Mrs Didier had wanted to choose the best way to torment the second Mrs Didier, she got it. She couldn’t have chosen a better way than to disappear. While age gets to withering and custom to destroying that beauty and infinite variety over there, I tell you, fellas, they’re not going to be able to do one single thing to the first Mrs Didier. I mean it, guys. To disappear was inspired.’
15
Pippa had disappeared. Nancy couldn’t find her anywhere. Neither could Jenny whose real name was Jane. They both thought Bobby knew, they thought he must know from the way he was wagging his old tail, and barking every now and then. But his mistress had told him no, she had told him to stay, and so stay he had, sitting by the open farmhouse door, panting happily in the hot hazy evening sun.
‘We give up!’ Nancy called. ‘We give up!’
‘No we do not,’ Jenny said very seriously, tugging the maid’s hand, although of course Jenny didn’t know Nancy as a maid. Nancy was her friend. ‘We don’t give up at all, Mummy!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘We’re going to find you!’
From the top of the tree where she had climbed, Pippa could see them, but they couldn’t see her. She had to stuff her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself from laughing, and giving away her hiding place, as down right below her now her little raven-haired daughter was picking her way barefoot across the farmyard, one small hand holding up the front of her faded red frock, the other held to her beautiful little freckled face, thumb firmly stuck in mouth. Some of the chickens followed them curiously, probably wondering whether it was time for their corn, as Nancy, barefoot too and brown as a berry, opened the stable door behind Jenny to peer inside.
‘No,’ Jenny said. ‘She isn’t in there. We’ve looked in there, Nancy!’
An apple fell from the tree, a foot or so in front of the child, who at once looked up into the thick branches of the tree.
‘I can see you!’ she cried in delight. ‘I can see you! I can see you!’
Nancy lifted the child up and Pippa pulled her up, and for a while they both sat on a lower branch hugging each other and laughing about the game, while Nancy threw the chickens their feed, and Bobby yawned and rolled over on the stoop for another sunny snooze.
‘Ah, oui,’ Pippa whispered to her daughter. ‘Mais c’est parfait, n’est ce pas?’
‘Ah oui, Maman,’ Jenny sighed back, hugging Pippa tightly round her neck. ‘C’est absolument parfait.’
16
Artistically, America was a triumph. Personally it was a disaster and the beginning of the end. This had nothing to do with the country, for both Jerome and Elizabeth had already visited it frequently as actors and privately as a couple when they took a two week vacation in California after Jerome had finished shooting The Smile with George Wilier. They had enjoyed their transatlantic visits, although Elizabeth later confessed she was only really happy in America when accompanied by her husband. Oddly enough she had been at her most miserable when filming her greatest triumph, which was when she was creating the immortal role of Katie Molloy in The Forsaken Land, the role which was to consolidate Elizabeth’s reputation internationally and win the actress her first Oscar. She had been miserable because Jerome had been forced to leave her alone in Hollywood in order to fly back to England and prepare for the opening of the new Stratford season in which he was to play a memorable (although not his very best) Mark Antony, and a Hotspur which the critics unanimously hailed as a definitive performance.
Now they were to return to the land which had made them rich, although this time it wasn’t in order to bale themselves out financially by making what they described while giving mock yawns to their courtiers as yet another film, but to star on Broadway with their own company in the highly acclaimed productions of Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. They sailed into New York on board the SS America to receive a welcome usually reserved for the country’s own and home-grown stars, and were followed by a cavalcade consisting in the main of press photographers and cheering fans all the way to the Plaza. Such was the size of the operation that when the Didiers had announced their plans to bring their two productions States-side, they meant it literally, and so when the great ocean liner docked it contained not only the New England Players company but also the entire London stage sets, props and costumes.
Publicly, all seemed well, deliriously so in fact. Seventy-five per cent of the productions mounted by the Didiers’ company in the Princes Theatre, London, had been outstandingly successful, and even the flops were only failures critically. The box office had been besieged since the company had opened its inaugural season with a glittering and star-studded productio
n of The Rivals, with HOUSE FULL signs up almost every night for the runaway successes, and healthy enough attendances even for those plays the critics had adjudged as failures. The only three total failures were the plays in which Elizabeth Laurence had not appeared, even though all three plays had been greeted with highly enthusiastic notices. All three productions lasted barely two weeks.
With Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet, however, for those who had not booked well in advance it had been a case of either returns or scandalously over-priced black market tickets. Cecil Manners had teased Jerome unmercifully about his decision to play Romeo again, now that the actor was well into his thirties, but Jerome, to Cecil’s delight, had defended his decision vigorously without once managing to see the humorous side. He had even gone so far as to inform his agent very solemnly that the part was too difficult to be played by an actor who was the same age as the tragic hero.
‘Actors need a long apprenticeship, you see Cecil,’ he had said, unconsciously misquoting Pippa. ‘Acting is mechanical, dear boy, as well as intellectual. This is why there never have really been nor ever will be any genuine great child actors.’
The statement was a nonsense, of course, which Cecil would have known even had he not been familiar with the original Constable quote, but Jerome had, as usual, like most actors been swayed by his own rhetoric and convinced by his meaningless argument. Neither had it mattered, since it might just as well have been true, for Jerome and Elizabeth made an utterly wondrous pair of stage lovers, totally plausible, and finally completely heartbreaking.
The New York critics thought so too, extolling both the Didiers’ performances as the finest and most tragic acting ever seen on Broadway. ‘I wept,’ Mort Lehmann of the New York Times wrote. ‘The audience around me wept. America, when it sees them, as surely all of America should, as a nation America would weep for these star cross’d lovers, a Romeo and his Juliet so beautifully realized by Jerome Didier and Elizabeth Laurence that you will need to leave the control of your emotions checked in with your hat and your coat. For come the interval even, I will wager you will be already heartbroken at the prospect of what there is to come. This is everything this great play should be. It is true youth, it is true love and it is true tragedy. You will never want to see this play again afterwards, never, not once, in case your cherished memories of these star cross’d actors be dimmed.’
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