Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Tonight she felt useless, despairing almost; hot, dirty, tired. They had spent the whole day shooting a three minute scene with one page of dialogue.

  The action called for her lover, played by Richard Royal, an actor as phoney as his name, and herself to visit Hidalgo (Henry Frensham, one of the old school). The setting was a disused hacienda, the living area of which had been designed to look exactly like a Californian split-level dwelling done up by a faggy designer whose obsession was late nineteenth century Mexican.

  Henry was on one of his burbling days. Doing line five when line four was called for. The director was difficult, searching for chi-chi camera angles among the bric-a-brac, and Richard found it quite beyond his talent to get a move combined correctly with dialogue.

  ‘You’ve got to be real patient with him, ‘cos he’s so good out in the great big spaces surrounded by nothing but horses and a pop gun,’ an assistant cameraman said, a shade too loudly and with a sidelong glance at Jen. There followed a full shouting match which nearly turned into a brawl.

  Should have known better, she thought, leaning back against the padding of the studio car. Should have known better. She had few real friends in L.A. any more. Who had in this business? Oh, they should tell all young star-struck girls of the hazards and commitments, the mental rape of the star: obscene outdated word. But then, she supposed, young girls were constantly being told in the headlines. Only they still kept coming.

  Jennifer closed her eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, and longed for some mental and physical stimulation: longings which boiled down to needing Douglas. Perhaps he would call tonight. She laughed out loud. That must be a line from some woman’s magazine story. Perhaps he would call tonight. Perhaps...he...would...call...

  The noise of the engine, the rush of traffic outside. Outside in the heat and cloud. She began to feel detached: the pictures flashing at her in bright colour from far away.

  Jennifer Frost, leggy schoolgirl walking through Esher, the end of the suburban world, where daddies took off each morning and rattled into the city to earn their daily bread and rattled back again in the evening to read the Standard or the News, watch television and tiptoe to bed. Cornflakes and bacon or kippers for breakfast; the boy called Gavin at the tennis club dance; dark hair and a darker sports car and a NO said firmly because she believed all that Mummy told her.

  Jennifer Frost, long sexy legs, striding through the woods, caught smiling and healthy in the lens for every glossy magazine, selling clothes vicariously to middle-aged mums who all thought the clothes would transform them into Jennifer Frost, model girl, beautiful, untouchable.

  Jennifer Frost, tear-streaked from the screen in technicolor because a director had been genuine when he said ‘I could use you in my next movie’ and was not put off when she declined a polite invitation to visit his apartment.

  Jennifer Frost, instant success after several years and a lot of bloody hard work. And then Chichester. ‘This is Douglas Silver. Jennifer Frost. Miss Jennifer Frost. Miss Frost...Miss Frost...Miss Frost…’

  ‘Miss Frost, we’re here.’ She felt the warm blast of air hit the inside of the car as the chauffeur opened the door. It would take ten minutes for the air conditioning to right itself after he had closed it.

  There, in all its glory, God help her, was the Beverly Hills Hilton.

  The senior desk clerk became alert as she approached, leaning forward to speak in a low voice.

  ‘I don’t want to worry you, Miss Frost, but there’s a man over there, came in a couple of hours ago. Claims he’s your husband.’

  ‘Does he now.’ She turned to look in the direction indicated. About twenty yards across the lobby Douglas sprawled in a deep leather chair, a battered suitcase beside him He looked unkempt and was fast asleep. The desk clerk obviously regarded him as an affront to the Hilton.

  Jennifer’s impulse was to dash across the lobby and grab him. Her tired depression fell away as she turned back to the clerk with a half smile.

  ‘Do you think he’s dangerous?’ she asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Look I’ll get him out, don’t worry.’ He signalled to one of the doormen who came over and joined them.

  ‘The guy asleep over there, Mike. Get him out nice and quietly.’

  The doorman was large and looked very fit.

  ‘No,’ said Jennifer, wondering now if it had really gone too far. ‘I’ll come over with you. I want to find out what he thinks he’s doing, posing as my husband.’

  They moved across the lobby in a procession, Jennifer holding back the laughter as the doorman shook Douglas’s shoulder.

  ‘Come on bud. Wake up. Come on. This isn’t the International Airport.’

  Douglas came out of the sleep slowly and uncomfortably. ‘Jen. God, how long have I been asleep?’

  ‘The lady wants to know why you’re posing as her husband.’

  ‘Posing? Jen. You tell them.’

  She managed to keep a straight face. ‘I’m waiting for an explanation.’

  ‘Tell them, Jen. What is this?’ He was on his feet, six inches from her.

  ‘Come on, Mister.’

  She could not keep it up any longer. With a giggle she threw her arms round his neck and fell forward.

  The doorman grinned when she said she had been playing a joke. The desk clerk did not seem to find it funny.

  ‘You idiot.’ Douglas wrapped an arm round her. ‘I ought to spank you.’

  ‘Might be worth it at that. But why are you here? How long have we got? Did you ring Mummy?...’ She took his hand and they headed for the elevators with a boy in tow carrying Douglas’s suitcase.

  After a shower, shave and two hellish Martinis, Douglas began to see life at its correct tilt again.

  The time change had caught up with him on the aircraft from Vegas that morning.

  Joe Thomas had been quieter on the trip down, but Douglas, in his state of fragility, found it an effort to remain sharp enough to cope with the silky lawyers during the short breaks that Joe could find in the midst of the frenetic recording session.

  Eventually, when the whole business had been settled, fatigue, coupled with the drinks, which had started coming early, caught him at the Hilton. When they refused him entrance to Jen’s room, he had all but passed out in the chair in the lobby.

  ‘Now come and tell me what you’re doing here. It’s super. Oh Douglas it’s...it was really so unexpected.’

  He had refused to talk or tell her anything until he was clean. Now, clad in a towelling robe, he sat on her balcony, holding her hand, swamped with the realization of his true feelings for her. Carol paid a quick visit to his thoughts. Sitting here he felt guilty; very guilty. Sometime before the opening of the festival he would have to tell Jen. He also had to break the Desdemona thing to her. That must come first.

  Quietly he complied with her wishes and filled in the gaps about the Shireston Festival. He told her about Catellier and Kapstein and, finally, Joe Thomas. Her attitude was one of bewildered disbelief.

  ‘You’ve got Thomas to play Othello? Douglas you’re mad. Look, I’ve worked out here among these people. I could tell you stories that—’

  ‘Would make my hair curl. I know. I’ve heard. Everybody says so and I’ve seen a little for myself; I’ve been with Joe Thomas since late last night. I’ve spent almost the whole day with him. And, right or wrong, I’m stuck with him.’

  ‘I mean, I think the Romeo and Juliet idea’s fabulous, but Joe Thomas as Othello. Yuck. Who the hell are you going to get to play Desdemona?’

  ‘You want to go inside?’ he asked quickly. Now, when she was so strong against Thomas, was the wrong moment to tell her what he planned.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ She rose. ‘I’ve been needing old Long John Douglas all day and every day.’

  They stripped and began to make love. Then the telephone rang. Before showering, Douglas had put through a call to Ronnie Gregor in London.

  ‘Now the call has come,’ h
e whispered.

  Ronnie sounded bright. ‘You all right Douglas? You seem short of breath.’

  ‘I’m fine. Had to come running from the bathroom that’s all.’ Jennifer stifled a giggle.

  Douglas gave Ronnie the news about Joe Thomas and then listened to Ronnie’s report. He hung on to the instrument with some impatience as his stage director relayed a whole pile of messages. Revill Sutcliffe wanted him to call urgently; both Catellier and Kapstein had been bothering the office, demanding to know the date of his return. Kapstein had signed his contract, but, Catellier, while in agreement, was holding back until he talked with Douglas.

  They already had a schedule for most of the important casting: it only needed Douglas’s okay.

  Ronnie kept the best news until last. Briefly he detailed his meeting, and feelings about, Asher Grey. The young actor had called confirming that he wanted the role and that he would come down to London any Sunday. He had even fixed it with his director.

  ‘Hold everything then Ronnie. I’ll see the boy next Sunday. Tell Catellier and Kapstein I’ll be back in a couple of days and the first item on my schedule is to lunch with them. I’ll call Revill from here. Okay?...Then, see you.’ He cradled the telephone at last.

  ‘You’re drooping again.’ Jennifer put on a sad look.

  ‘Not for long.’

  He took her slowly and with a build of passion that surprised both of them. They bathed in each other: beautifully and miraculously wallowing.

  Sex with Jennifer, from the first moment, had been more than the physical need, enjoyment and the act of love. Though it had been all of those things, when they were together, naked and alone, everything between them was stripped clean. It was a time for true contact. A meeting point as well as a great romp.

  So it was this time, except for the pinpoint worry in the back of Douglas’s very secret mind. The guilt he felt over Carol Evans. He would have to talk to her as well, when he got back. Be honest with her as well as Jennifer.

  Later, ‘So what about your movie?’ he asked.

  She laughed, stretching her body out on the bed, breasts lolling beautifully. ‘Hidalgo is without doubt the worst movie that has ever been made.’ She told him of the fights the director had been having with Richard Royal, and of the actor’s incompetence.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ she said. ‘Get Richard to play Romeo.’

  ‘I think we got lucky with Romeo.’ He grinned. ‘Ronnie just told me. I need a good Mercutio though.’

  Jen doubled up at the thought of Royal playing Mercutio. ‘O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.’ She mimicked Royal’s thick Texan drawl. Then, suddenly, amidst all the laughter she caught up with the fact that Douglas had not answered her about Desdemona before they came in.

  ‘Desdemona, Doug?’ It was one of those freak tricks of the mind which happen to two people very close to one another.

  He could read her face. ‘Yes. What about Desdemona?’

  ‘It’s me isn’t it? You want me to play Desdemona opposite Joe the schmoe.’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She took his wrist and started to twist it like a child. He pulled back and gave her bottom a playful slap. They fell back laughing.

  ‘When will I learn how to fool you, Jen?’

  ‘You bastard. Who shall we get to play Desdemona? Let’s get Jen. She’s a sucker for anything. You clever, Machiavellian bastard.’

  ‘When you think about it logically who else is there left to play Desdemona?’

  ‘You really want me?’

  He stretched out a hand to her thigh.

  ‘No you fool.’ She was serious now. ‘Want me to play Desdemona?’

  ‘I can think of nobody better. It could be quite something.’

  ‘I’d be working with you. But Joe Thomas.’

  ‘Jen, I mean this, I think he could be quite something as well.’

  ‘I’ll demand a clause in my contract promising that at no time am I to be left alone with the leery Joe Thomas.’

  ‘Done. You will play it Jen? You will?’

  They stayed naked on the bed until ten that evening. Douglas booked a call to Revill which came through just as they were getting dressed.

  Adrian Rolfe had been non-committal but certainly ready to meet Douglas for lunch at any time.

  They finished dressing, took the elevator down to the main lobby and went out to Trader Vic’s.

  Douglas insisted that they start with a drink called Rangoon Ruby. ‘Because it sounds more like a whore than an aperitif.’

  He took a jubilant delight in the complicated and fulsome menu.

  ‘We will begin with Lomi Lomi.’ Then, in a confident way to Jen, ‘That’s raw salmon marinated in lime juice and served with a coconut cream sauce.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It says so here.’ Tapping the menu.

  They ordered the Indonesian Lamb roast to follow, with Chinese pea pods, sliced waterchestnuts and Papeete rice, completing their needed meal with a Flaming Tahitian ice cream.

  ‘It’s better than a flaming Howard Johnson ice cream,’ said Douglas. ‘You know this menu has a certain rustic charm.’ Jennifer laughed. She had almost forgotten how good it was to relax with Douglas.

  Over coffee he began talking about the season at Shireston. She had never seen, or heard him as enthusiastic over anything before.

  ‘Come home soon, Jen,’ he said as they left the table. ‘I really need you.’

  His voice had been backed by urgency. For some reason he really did need her close. It was disturbing to her and she found herself worrying a little.

  ‘Let’s see what The Late Show has to offer.’ Douglas switched on the built-in television and they plonked themselves on the bed, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘Phew, I’m so full. I must have put on pounds. I’m a pig.’ Jennifer blew out her cheeks.

  ‘Oink-oink.’

  The picture came on. They had picked up a late newscast. Douglas leaned over to kiss her, then something caught his attention on the newscast. Joe Thomas’s name.

  There was Joe on the screen, waving and doing little hops as he walked out to the Lear Jet in which they had flown down to L.A. that morning.

  The newscaster was speaking. ‘The surprising news that Joe Thomas announced was that next year he is giving up all club and movie engagements to take a few months off being a Shakespearean actor. Mr. Thomas has signed an agreement with Douglas Silver, long haired British director of the Shires-ton Festival Company in Hampshire, England. Joe Thomas says he will spend most of next year with the Shireston Festival and is to play Othello.’

  ‘Jesus God.’ Douglas sat bolt upright and grabbed the telephone. ‘The stupid, self-interested bloody, sodding amateur.’ Amateur was about the worst thing Douglas could call anybody.

  He tried to get through to Joe in Las Vegas but Mr. Thomas was not receiving any calls.

  For a second he thought about trying Tommy Carr, but Carr was far from being on his side about Joe coming to the Shireston.

  ‘For God’s sake, Doug. Is it so bad?’ Jen came and knelt at his feet.

  ‘Yes it is so bad, Jen. You’ve just agreed to do Desdemona, right? Well, think about it, if you were going to be a lead with any other company but mine.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Christ, do I have to spell it out? The whole thing’s supposed to be under wraps anyway. My appointment, though it’s common knowledge, hasn’t even been announced. It was going to be a big piece of package publicity. My directorship, the plays, the company, the big names. How do you think Kapstein and Catellier will feel now Thomas’s jumped the gun? The board could easily blow up in my face. To start with they’re scared of any personality cult. Then there’s my chance of getting Adrian Rolfe. He’s not going to be keen on a publicity situation that’s already gone off at half-cock.’

  He stabbed at the telephone dial, calling reception. Out loud he said, ‘Jen, I’m sorry, I’ll have to get bac
k.’

  ‘Joe Thomas,’ said Jennifer, making the two words sound more obscene than any other in the English language.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was Wednesday evening before Douglas got back into London to a pile of messages waiting at the flat; there were more, like a paper Pisa tower, on his desk at the office in Rupert Street. Would he call Ronnie Gregor, Sir Basil, Revill: a dozen more.

  There were also press cuttings. Douglas had taken care to cable all interested parties, making certain that a ‘no comment’ attitude was preserved, but the London press had been astute in picking up the items from America. The stories were printed exactly as Joe Thomas told them and the British papers only added single lines indicating that Douglas Silver was out of the country and that the Shireston Festival Organization was, as yet, making no statement on Mr. Thomas’s revelations.

  Also, before leaving Los Angeles Douglas had been sharply in touch with Thomas’s lawyers, asking them to use whatever pressure was available to stop Joe talking to the press about the Shireston deal. Now there was a cable waiting for him at the office.

  SORRY I BLEW MY COOL BABY STOP LIPS SEALED YOU ARE THE BOSS MAN STOP JOE STOP

  At least that would make it easier to explain to Daley. Douglas called him first. It seemed the most sensible action in the circumstances.

  ‘I see you’ve got Joe Thomas.’ You could almost see the thin smile on Sir Basil’s lips.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Douglas took a long drag at his cigarette. ‘It happened very quickly: right out of my hands. But I think I’ve killed it now. Thomas won’t say anything else until we’ve done a release.’