The Man Who Understood Women

by Rosemary Friedman

  I got used to the carpets, the lush foyers, the hotel suites, the celebrities. Not all of them were rich; some bored, some drunk, some crazy. I interviewed them in penthouses and cellars; in trains and ships; even on one occasion in the bath.

  For the most part they saw at a glance that I was wet behind the ears and went out of their way to be kind. They refreshed me, fed me, saw to it that I never left without sufficient copy, even if they had to ask and answer their own questions.

  I suppose their own days on the way up were not too far away and they were considerate.

  With one exception. It was during my trial period on the paper and it almost cost me my job.

  Clint McGowan was quite deliberately insulting and it was like a smack in the face.

  He had just made a name for himself in films. One minute he was unknown and the next plastered on every billboard and in every magazine in the country. One week he had been ‘resting’ and on National Assistance, and the next he’d a mansion in Sussex with umpteen acres, a Bentley without and staff within. That was showbiz.

  He had the good fortune to be around at a time when a ‘Clint McGowan’ was needed and his agent was quicker than quick off the mark.

  It took me three hours to get to Sussex. The train was late; the local taxi had broken down. I thumbed a lift on a truck, laddering my stocking in so doing, hiked half a mile down a muddy road and arrived in a lather at Great Oaks, bad temper overlying my customary apprehension.

  Dogs barked the minute I rang the bell and continued viciously until the door was opened by a manservant who looked at me as if he’d found a piece of old Camembert on the doorstep.

  ‘Mr McGowan is expecting me,’ I said.

  He took from his pocket a gold watch as they did on the movies and raised his eyebrows at it then at me.

  I checked my watch. Twelve noon. That was the time arranged for the interview.

  He opened the door and left me cooling my heels in the hall while he disappeared into the bowels of the house.

  When he returned the manservant motioned me to follow him and I did so through film-set decor – long low sofas, everything white and hi-fi everywhere – out on to the terrace.

  He left me blinded momentarily by the midday sun and for the moment I could see nothing. I blinked, then looked around.

  At the far end of the not inconsiderable terrace Clint McGowan lay spread-eagled, half naked on a sun lounger. A blonde, falling out of a bikini, was spread-eagled almost on top of him.

  He wore dark glasses so I was unable to see whether or not he saw me although his head was turned in my direction.

  I waited, not knowing quite what to do.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, Ginger,’ he said finally. ‘Come closer. I don’t bite. She does.’ He put a finger into the blonde’s mouth.

  I walked the length of the terrace on legs suddenly become fragile and took out my notebook and pencil. There was a trolley of drinks with ice in a flask.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to allow me to interview you for the Echo,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions about your overnight success.’

  ‘I dare say I can tolerate it.’

  ‘How does it feel, Mr McGowan,’ I asked, ‘to jump so suddenly from rags to riches – to wake up and find yourself a star?’

  He stroked the long hair of the blonde, no longer looking at me. ‘Fabulous, doesn’t it, darling?’

  ‘Perhaps you could expand a little. I mean mentally, how has it affected your life, your view of the world, your philosophy?’

  He smiled and raised the blonde’s chin, kissing her long on the lips.

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘What about material things? I understand you have several cars, a yacht, a villa in Sardinia. Do these things mean anything to you, never having had them?’

  He put a hand down the top of her bikini. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Have you found it difficult to adapt yourself to being a star, recognised in the street, followed by fans wherever you go?’

  He gazed into the eyes of the blonde and I’d written it in shorthand before he could get the words out. ‘I like it.’

  I decided to change my tack. ‘Could you tell me a little about your childhood, Mr McGowan, your background?’

  He was stroking her nose. I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard the question.

  ‘I was born very young,’ he said finally and I could feel my redhead’s easy blush envelop me. I was almost in tears, this interview was important. I decided to throw myself upon his mercy.

  ‘Mr McGowan,’ I said, ‘I haven’t had this job very long; actually I’m still on probation. I want to make a success of this social column and you aren’t being terribly cooperative.’

  They were still gazing at each other. ‘Would you say I wasn’t cooperative?’ he said to her. I waited patiently until they had disentangled themselves.

  ‘Would you tell me something of your tastes in food, drink; have you any hobbies …’

  ‘Hobbies? Sure!’ He patted her behind. ‘Drink, never touch it.’ There was whisky in a glass by his side. ‘Food.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In precisely forty minutes we shall make our leisurely way through shrimp bisque, cold baked ham in champagne, Russian salad, raspberry mousse …’

  My mouth was watering.

  ‘… so if you would be kind enough to excuse us, Ginger, we have to go and prepare ourselves for luncheon.’

  They rolled themselves into an oblivious embrace and I stood wondering what my editor was going to say to a luncheon menu, in which I hadn’t even been invited to join, as the sole outcome of my journey to Sussex and the interview with God’s gift to women, Clint McGowan.

  I cried with humiliation all the way back to London. At the office my editor went berserk and had to take tranquillisers, and it took Mike all night to console me.

  Because of his intervention they gave me another chance on the paper, but the name Clint McGowan and the image of the splendid torso and the insolent voice were etched for all time in my memory.

  Ten years later the memory hadn’t faded, neither had the emotions it evoked.

  In ten years much had happened to both of us. I was Martha Munroe of the ‘Martha Munroe column’, the most sought-after and influential name-dropper in town, and Clint McGowan, after a brief moment of glory, was all but forgotten by most people.

  His stay at the top was good while it lasted, but after a while his type ceased to appeal. He descended to B pictures, then television, then nothing. Not in this country at any rate. I’d heard he was drinking himself into premature middle age in the States, bumming around and living on the past.

  In the powder room of the hotel where he was throwing the party I looked at my mirror image. ‘Ginger!’ My hair was still as red, I hadn’t changed much, just matured, acquired confidence and was at the top of my profession; a very nice spot to be when it had been your life’s ambition. I smoothed my white gown and put on my mental boxing gloves ready for Clint.

  The noise in the Starlight Room hit me. I stood at the door for a moment to adjust. I thought of the first of these stardusted parties I had attended for my paper and how I’d looked with envy on the older columnists who’d thrown their arms round the lion’s neck cooing ‘daaah-ling!’ while I stood nervously hidden behind the canapés.

  He saw me before I saw him. I had made my way to the centre of the room and had been greeted effusively by at least half-a-dozen celebrities, who would open their newspapers anxiously in the morning seeking for my column and their names, when Clint took my hand in both his.

  ‘Darling!’ he said. ‘Long time no see. You simply haven’t aged an inch.’

  It was more than I could say for him. His chin was slack, the sandy hair had thinned and I guessed that the body beneath the frilled shirt would not now be quite so fine.

  He turned to everybody. ‘Ginger!’ he said. He touched my hair. ‘Have you ever seen such a fabulous colour, and it doesn’t come out of a bottle eith
er? Martha and I have known each other for years.’

  ‘Ten,’ I said, knowing my hair, which I wore in a chignon tonight, looked good.

  He gave me a whiskied, double-sided kiss and halted a waiter with a tray of champagne cocktails. ‘See that this lady has everything she wants. It should be your party, darling, not mine.’

  He put a glass in my hand and drew me into a corner.

  ‘This part,’ he said, ‘my agent fixed me a try-out. It’s just a question of convincing Rosensweig. He’s a simple guy, hasn’t heard my name just lately. I’ve been busy, investments, real estate, you know, maybe he never saw my early movies. You knew me then; you know I went down big: I’ve got the know-how. Rosensweig don’t like small people. If he likes you, all right. If he don’t, ruthless.

  ‘He’s got so much money he don’t give you a good morning. I don’t like guys who don’t like you when you’re down on your luck. You know how much this part’s worth? You’ll never get to see that many dollars. I get that part, I’m made. I just need a little build-up, see, public image and all that, a handful of publicity, Martha …’ He was sweating. ‘Name your price.’

  ‘That’s not how I work.’ I sipped the champagne. ‘Nobody buys space in my column. It just depends how I feel.’

  He put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘drink that little drink, there’s another where it came from and another after that. By the time you leave this room you’ll feel like a million dollars. I’ll see you home myself.’

  There were plenty of people I knew and even more who wanted to know me. I circulated, making idle talk. Clint was never far away. Watching me like a lynx.

  At eleven-thirty he put a hand beneath my elbow. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said into my ear. ‘I know you have your column to write. Say goodnight to all these lovely people.’

  The lovely people who had come to eat Clint’s food and drink his drink – who was paying, I wondered? – said goodnight.

  I collected my coat and he led me to a waiting Rolls, hired, I assumed, for the evening.

  As we skimmed down Park Lane through the night-lit traffic he explained, desperately and at speed, sitting on the edge of the seat and talking right at me, how exactly right he was for the part he was after and all he needed was a little public acclaim.

  He handed me a list of all the well-known names at the party, aware, as I was, that nothing appears to succeed like success.

  As we drew near my beautiful house in its beautiful square he signalled the chauffeur who slid back the glass partition.

  ‘Number seventeen for Mrs Munroe,’ he said. The tone slipped back ten years to when tired, and hungry, I had stood nervously on the Sussex terrace.

  ‘Not Mrs Munroe,’ I said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Mike and I were divorced four years ago. I just use the name for the column.’

  The car purred to a halt.

  ‘You’re not married then?’ I saw a calculating look in his eye.

  ‘I married again.’

  His face fell but only for a moment as he snapped, his fingers. ‘Pipped at the post again!’

  The chauffeur held open the car door. We stood on the pavement.

  ‘You kept it all very quiet.’

  ‘There was nothing to make a noise about.’

  I smiled charmingly and thanked him for a lovely evening.

  ‘I’ll stay up till the paper comes out,’ he said. He kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’ll give me a break, won’t you?’

  I looked him directly in the eyes. ‘A very even one.’

  ‘I knew I could rely on you, Ginger,’ he said.

  He kissed me once more and climbed back into the car. ‘Take it easy,’ he said, as the chauffeur was about to close the door. ‘We don’t want to waken the lady’s husband, do we? Who’s the lucky guy by the way?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Surprised, my key remained half-turned in the lock.

  ‘Nobody told me.’

  All at once I felt sorry for him, then I remembered Sussex, the blonde, my laddered stocking, the hot sun and the tray with the ice-cold drinks. I looked at him, handsome still I had to admit, across ten years and the wide London pavement.

  He had grown small but had I grown big?

  ‘Is it a name I should know?’

  I turned the key fully and firmly in the lock.

  ‘Rosensweig!’ I said from the doorway. ‘Goodnight.’

  The Inner Resources of Mrs Prendergast

  1967

  The moment Mrs Prendergast opened her eyes she knew it had arrived. They had warned her about it, pestered her with it, cajoled and pleaded, all to no avail. The day with all its incipient and disturbing innuendoes was upon her. She had already glanced at the front page of the daily newspaper and noted that there had been no air disaster reported. That was one worry off her mind.

  Warmed by the spring sun, she decided before rising to allow herself a little wallow in the events of yesterday. Not that there would not be days in which to wallow; days, weeks, months, years, in fact. She would probably spend her time in the past, and that was exactly what they did not want her to do.

  She was not interested, however, in what they wanted her to do. Thirty years had been spent at their beck and call. Today belonged to Laura Prendergast.

  They had predicted she would cry and she had indulged, it was true, in a little weep. They had assured her that her feet would ache. In this too, they had been correct. Her feet felt like two balloons at the end of her legs.

  ‘Wonder what it’s like in Majorca?’ Mr Prendergast called from the bathroom where he was shaving.

  ‘I doubt if they’ve seen much of it yet.’

  ‘Wassat?’

  It was one of his more irritating habits. He would ask you something against the noisy buzzing of the electric shaver and expect to hear the answer.

  Mrs Prendergast raised her voice. ‘I said I doubt if they’ve seen much of it yet!’

  She was just able to see him, slightly pot-bellied, through the open door of the bathroom. He was concentrating on the hard-to-reach part beneath his chin and was not listening. The sight of him carried her back to her own honeymoon, spent in Brighton, a not un-smart place at the time, where she had watched fascinated as he deftly wielded a cut-throat razor at the old-fashioned washstand.

  She had returned to this scene – the carpet had roses on, she remembered – on each occasion. When Michael got married, very correctly, choral and floral, to Lydia, so perfect in every aspect that Laura felt secretly that if she fell down a drain she would emerge smelling of violets; when Richard had appeared one unexpected weekend from Cambridge with an ever-so-slightly pregnant sandal-footed Olivia and confessed shiftily to a register office ‘quickie’; when Diana, all golden and dumb, had plighted her troth to Glint and flown away to California, which was a wonderful place, so they said, for the golden and dumb; when Nicky, creeping his way steadily up the medical ladder, had predictably married the theatre sister whose task it was to hand him scalpel and retractor while making love to him with her beautiful green eyes over the top of her mask; when Elizabeth (was it only yesterday?) had finally emptied the nest and given herself – for what Mrs Prendergast suspected was not the first time – to something that called itself Nigel and wore mauve button-down crepon shirts and yachting caps, whom she had privately christened Goldilocks (his hair was longer than Lizzie’s) and who was said to be an up-and-coming Society photographer, a member of the new elite who, together with the up-and-coming, or already up-and-come, hairdressers, filled the discothèques by night and the Mayfair salons by day.

  They were now, Mrs Prendergast assumed, safely in Majorca where later Lizzie, she guessed, would rub her spouse’s delicate skin with suntan oil.

  It was a long way from Brighton, in every respect. Geographically it was a fair distance; in terms of change it was a million miles. When she had sat on the beach with Jack, rugs cosily round their knees, holding hands demurely and no
w and again throwing pebbles into the Brighton waves, neither of them had heard of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Korea or Vietnam.

  Neither of them guessed that in years to come terms such as atom bomb, napalm, escalation, mescalin, psychedelic, astronaut, computer, inter-uterine coils, the Pill, Oxfam and Billy Graham would become everyday coinage. In those days, people were neither square nor switched on, gear nor camp, grotty nor fantastic, and neither one of them had been to an all-night rave-up. Times, Mrs Prendergast observed, had changed.

  She was fully aware that in the palmy Brighton era those women who found themselves, after a varying number of years, with their families married and gone, settled happily into middle-aged atrophy or preoccupied themselves with their roles as grandmothers. At this last thought she allowed herself a smile. It was a role she neither wanted nor was prepared to play.

  The nursery at Lowndes Square was rigidly and admirably administered at all times by Nannie Prendergast with whom the good Lord in his mercy had seen fit to endow Michael and Lydia in the early days of their marriage; in Cambridge – where Richard was now a don – Goneril, Regan and Cordelia born, Laura swore, with less than nine months between each, romped happily, grubbily and usually knickerless around a household whose vocabulary did not contain such philistine words as nursery and where Olivia, again merrily pregnant, knew nothing of nannies, nylon-trimmed cradles (the babies went straight into the bottom drawer of the chest in their bedroom), nor of the necessity, now and again at least, of wiping noses.

  In California – according to the photographs usually taken round the pool – Joanna was growing as beautiful and as goldenly dumb as her mother, and Hank as broad, razor-cropped and all-American as his father.

  From the deepest wilds of Chislehurst, from which he commuted to his hospitals daily, Nicky had produced so far nothing but articles for various eminent medical journals, and his green-eyed goddess, who always for one reason or another made Laura feel terribly inferior, was still as far as she knew sterilely handing over scalpels and retractors to augment the family budget.