by Clara Benson
‘I’m afraid we must, my sweet,’ said Kenneth Neale. ‘Penk is going to announce me as director of For Every Yesterday, and Augusta as Helen Harper, and it wouldn’t do to miss it. I expect he also wants to have another shot at talking me into coming to Hollywood.’
‘But I thought you said you had more artistic freedom here in England,’ said Patience.
‘I thought so—perhaps I still do,’ said Neale. ‘But he had a lot to say about the new recording techniques. I admit I used to have my doubts about whether they could work reliably, but that last one we did went down very well—far better than I’d expected, as a matter of fact. They’re doing some marvellous things with sound these days, and the big studios are all investing heavily in it. The Americans are a little bit ahead of us there, and we shouldn’t need to stay more than a year or two if you didn’t like it. Besides, they’re promising great things for Ada, and she’s at that tricky age. A few years more and she’ll be too old for child parts. This is her big chance to conquer America and become a real star, just as she deserves.’
‘Should you like to go to Hollywood, darling?’ said Patience.
This last question was addressed to a child of seven who was sitting next to her mother at the table—a little girl of such exquisite beauty that one could have been forgiven for thinking it impossible that she could be in any way related to Mr. and Mrs. Neale. And yet, by some odd quirk of biology, they had produced this doll of a child, Ada—a spoilt, petted, beloved darling, who was already well known to the British public as Adorable Ada. Her innocent smile and sweet singing voice had won her national fame, and she had already appeared in three comic films and made several gramophone records. Thanks to her early success, this young person was possessed of an almost preternatural degree of assurance and composure. She now put her head on one side and considered.
‘I expect it will be an in-teresting experience,’ she pronounced at last.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Patience Neale. ‘I don’t know that I like the idea. America always sounds so uncivilized to me. Still, you must be sure and do the best you can in this film, Ada. This is to be a serious part—not like your usual ones—and you shall have to talk, too.’
‘I imagine it will be easy enough,’ said Ada. ‘I can do most things, you know.’
And with that little exhibition of self-confidence she went back to eating her buttered toast.
‘Why is this party at Dorothy Dacres’ hotel, if Augusta is to play Helen?’ said Patience to her husband. ‘Dorothy’s been in London a few weeks now, and you know she’s been angling for the part. You don’t suppose you’ve got it all wrong, do you, dear?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Neale. ‘I told Penk in no uncertain terms that she’s no good, and he agreed with me privately, and said he couldn’t stop her from coming here and acting as though it’s in the bag, but he’d see to it that she didn’t get it. There’s a question of squaring things with his backers, though. Dacres is over here because Henry Aston has told her he wants her for the part, and she thinks he has the last word. But Penk says he’s pretty sure he can convince Aston that Augusta will be much better. And she will be, too. Who’d want to see an American play Helen Harper? Why, her character is English through and through, and this is a talkie, so everyone will hear straightaway that her voice is all wrong.’
‘And she’s so rude, too,’ murmured Patience. ‘She was quite horrid to poor Ada. You were dreadfully upset, weren’t you darling?’
‘Perhaps a little,’ said Ada. ‘She wasn’t especially nice, but I expect she was jealous. Older women are always envious when younger girls come along and make them look ugly. I know I’m not a woman yet, but I don’t have any wrinkles like she does, and I imagine it reminds her of how old she is.’
‘Does she have wrinkles?’ said Patience. ‘I can’t say I’d noticed.’
‘Oh, yes. All women over twenty have wrinkles,’ said Ada, with an air of authority. ‘And their ankles get fat, too. I should hate to be twenty. I shall retire at nineteen and go and live by the sea.’
‘Goodness,’ said Patience, glancing involuntarily at her own ankles, of which she had always been rather proud. ‘Anyway,’ she went on to her husband. ‘Augusta is simply nicer, too, and since you’re the one who will have to work with them all, I suggest you see to it that Dorothy doesn’t get her own way and play Helen Harper.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ said Neale. ‘I’ll see to it all right.’
On Wednesday evening Freddy and two friends of his betook themselves to a new restaurant near Brook Street that was meant to be quite the latest thing. The dinner was something of a disappointment, but the crowd was a fashionable one, and afforded plenty of opportunity to observe the goings-on of certain people who ought to have known better—a good thing, too, for it turned out that Freddy’s friends had decided that very day to get engaged to one another, and he was finding himself uncomfortably de trop, and glad of any excuse to look away from them. Eventually he spotted someone he knew, and excused himself, leaving the love-birds to bill and coo as much as they liked. He spent some time in conversation, then made up his mind to return to his table and tell his friends he was going home. Threading his way among the closely-packed tables he bumped into a young woman with flaming red hair going the other way, who started and peered more closely at him.
‘Why, if it isn’t Freddy Pilkington-Soames!’ she exclaimed, then, as he looked uncertain, ‘It’s Gussie, you ass.’
‘Gussie Lippincott!’ he said in sudden recognition. ‘Good Lord! Why, I haven’t seen you since—when was it?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But I expect it’s been aeons. You’re looking well, I must say.’
‘Not as well as you,’ he said. ‘You’re positively blooming. How’s the Bishop?’
‘Oh, Pops is getting pretty doddery now—although he’ll deny it. The poor dear could never cope with three daughters even in his younger days. But Pam looks after him nicely, and doesn’t mind a bit. I’ve run away to London, as you can see.’
Gussie Lippincott was the youngest daughter of the Bishop of Pilborough. As a child she had been plain and awkward, and had wanted nothing more than for her bright orange hair to turn golden like that of her two sisters. Now, at twenty-two, her beauty was nothing less than breathtaking, for the red hair had become a gleaming copper halo, below which a pair of green eyes glinted wickedly, promising only mischief. Her smile was dazzling, and she bestowed it generously on all-comers, for she had always been a good-natured sort, and it seemed as though she had not changed in that respect. She and Freddy now beamed at one another as two old friends who have not met for some years, until called to attention by an irritated cough from the man by whose chair they were standing, preventing him from easily reaching his glass of wine.
‘Bother,’ said Gussie as they moved hurriedly out of the way. ‘This place is the limit. Where can we go and talk? I suppose you want to get back to your friends?’
‘Not at all,’ said Freddy, and explained.
‘Oh, splendid. My lot are being a dreadful bore, and they won’t miss me at all either. Listen, I’m supposed to be going to a party later. I was meant to be going with someone, but we’ve had a little disagreement. You wouldn’t mind standing in, would you?’
Freddy was only too happy, and shortly afterwards the two of them emerged into the London night. The weather had continued dry, but there was still a sharp nip in the air, and Gussie Lippincott huddled into her thick fur coat and grasped Freddy’s arm tightly as they walked through the streets of Mayfair.
‘You must tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself,’ she said. ‘I heard you’d gone into the reporting business.’
‘I have,’ said Freddy. ‘I work for the Clarion.’
‘Is that so?’ she said, eyeing him speculatively. ‘That’s rather handy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like seeing my name in the papers,’ she said. ‘I’m an actress now, you see.’
‘Really? I hadn’t heard about that. I don’t recall reading your name anywhere.’
‘You wouldn’t. Of course I don’t call myself Gussie Lippincott. Professionally I’m known as Augusta Laing.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Freddy again, coming to a sudden halt. ‘Augusta Laing! Why, of course I’ve heard of you. I saw you in that film—what was it? The one with the train and the dead man. Was that really you? I should never have recognized you. I say, you’re very good, aren’t you?’
‘Thank you,’ she said modestly. ‘One does one’s best. And it really is the most enormous fun.’
‘I expect it is. Oh—but aren’t you supposed to be in this new picture that everybody’s talking about?’
She grimaced.
‘That’s a sticky question,’ she said. ‘I’ve been dying to play Helen Harper. It’s a part any serious actress would kill for, and I know Kenneth Neale wants me to do it—he’s going to direct it, you know—but there’s an American actress who wants the part, too.’
‘Dorothy Dacres?’ said Freddy.
‘Oh, you’ve heard all about it, then?’
‘In passing.’
‘Well, I think she’d make an awful fist of it, and so does Ken, but there’s no denying she’s a huge star, whereas I’m pretty much a nobody at present. Helen would be my first really big leading rôle, and it would give my career the most tremendous leg-up—if I did it well, I mean—but I don’t think I dare hope for it, even though Ken keeps telling me the part’s mine.’
‘You really want it, don’t you?’ said Freddy, looking at her.
‘More than anything,’ she said fiercely. Then her face relaxed into its usual smile. ‘But don’t listen to me maundering. Come along to this do with me. I have the feeling there’s going to be a bit of excitement one way or another for you to put in your newspaper.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘Because Dorothy Dacres is throwing it. A lot of the people from the film are going to be there, including Eugene Penk, the producer, and I suspect they’re going to make some announcement about it.’
‘You mean that you’ve got the rôle?’
‘I hope so, so terribly much. But I daren’t bank on it,’ she said. ‘I’m rather worried Dorothy has something up her sleeve. I can’t think why she’s doing this otherwise.’
They now arrived at the Abingdon, and were ushered in and up to the sixth floor. Inside Dorothy Dacres’ suite they found the party already in full swing, with crowds of people standing in groups, laughing and talking, while waiters darted about, serving drinks on trays. A man sat at the piano, playing a tune that Freddy recognized as one of the latest ‘hits’, while a woman stood next to him and sang.
‘Why, isn’t that the Kibbles?’ he said.
‘Basil and Birdie, yes,’ said Gussie. ‘I know Birdie is supposed to be playing the part of the maid in For Every Yesterday, so I expect that’s why they’re here. And that’s Bob Kenrick over there. He’s a terribly nice chap, and quite innocent—although I don’t know how long that will last once Hollywood gets its hooks into him.’
Robert Kenrick was standing by the terrace door with a young woman who looked awkward and out of place. He seemed to be pointing out various well-known people to her, and she smiled wanly. As Freddy watched, Dorothy Dacres swept across, resplendent in a creation of pale pink chiffon and silver beading that must have cost fifty guineas at least. She looked Robert Kenrick’s companion up and down with an air of chilly politeness and murmured something. The girl half-looked as though she were wondering whether to curtsey, but Dorothy turned away from her immediately and proceeded to direct the full force of her personality at Robert Kenrick. She brushed a speck of something from his jacket and smiled at him coyly from under her eyelashes. Then she pointed at someone across the room and led him away before he could say anything. Kenrick glanced back apologetically at his companion, who gazed at the floor for a minute and then went to sit on a chair by the wall, where she fidgeted with her bracelet and occasionally put a hand to her eye as though to stop a tear.
Freddy helped Gussie to a drink and took one for himself, then spotted a man with a large moustache standing at the other side of the room in among a group of people.
‘I say,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s Sir Aldridge Featherstone.’
‘Who?’
‘He owns the Clarion. I wonder why he’s here. Perhaps it’s to do with business. I’ve heard he’s been thinking of getting into films.’
‘Chap with the bristles?’ said Gussie in sudden interest. ‘He owns the Clarion, you say? That’s Kenneth and Patience Neale he’s talking to. They’re terribly nice people and have been very good to me. I’m rather a protégée of Ken’s, you know. Come and say hallo.’
Introductions were made. Sir Aldridge eyed Gussie appreciatively, and Freddy with distant recognition.
‘Ah, Pilkington-Soames, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you chaps were coming. Bickerstaffe send you?’
‘No, sir. I’m here with Miss Laing in a purely private capacity.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Sir Aldridge, and looked admiringly at Gussie again. Gussie recognized an opportunity to court the press, and proceeded to enter into conversation with Sir Aldridge, with a view to charming him into printing favourable pieces about her. The Neales were talking to Lady Featherstone, and Freddy was about to join in with some remark when he heard a voice at his elbow.
‘Hallo,’ the voice said.
He turned and saw a child standing next to him. She was dressed in a white, frilled dress with a yellow sash which had been washed and pressed to perfection, and had not a spot on it. Her dark, curly hair was brushed and shiny, and a yellow bow was perched centrally on top of it, in seeming defiance of all the laws of childhood. Most children of Freddy’s acquaintance tended to be covered in mud and other unmentionable substances, and as a rule had twigs in their hair, bleeding knees and socks around their ankles. This one looked as though it had been brought out of a box for the occasion.
‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘I’m Freddy,’ said Freddy.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you in films?’
‘No, I’m a newspaper reporter.’
‘I’m in films,’ said the child complacently. ‘I expect you’ve heard of me. I’m Ada Neale, but I’m more commonly known as Adorable Ada.’
‘Are you, indeed? Adorable, eh? But I’ll bet you get up to enough mischief when nobody’s looking, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Ada, regarding him pityingly. ‘I’m adorable.’ And to his astonishment she jumped and gave a twirl, then came to rest with her head on one side and hands under her chin, gazing up at him with a pretty smile that was full of bright-eyed humour.
‘Of course,’ he said.
In an instant the smile disappeared and she resumed her solemn demeanour as though nothing had happened.
‘They say I’m very talented,’ she said.
‘I should say you are.’
She gazed around.
‘Everyone is here for Dorothy Dacres,’ she said. ‘Do you like her?’
‘Why, I couldn’t say. I’ve never met her.’
‘I don’t like her. She’s horrid and spiteful. She called me a brat.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Freddy.
‘Mummy hates her too,’ said Ada. ‘Mummy hates anyone who is unkind to me.’
‘And quite right, too.’
‘I love Mummy,’ she said, fixing him with a stare that seemed to defy him to contradict her. ‘And I love Daddy too. He doesn’t like Dorothy either. He’ll be very cross if she gets the part of Helen Harper.’
‘Come and speak to Mr. Penk, darling,’ sa
id Mrs. Neale. ‘He wants to talk to you about the film.’
And with that the Neales went off. Sir Aldridge and Lady Featherstone had fallen into conversation with someone else, and Gussie and Freddy were left alone.
‘I see you’ve met Ada,’ she said.
‘Is she a real child, or a mechanical doll?’ said Freddy. ‘She doesn’t seem altogether human, somehow.’
‘No, she doesn’t, does she?’ agreed Gussie. She was about to say something else when a young man suddenly presented himself before them.
‘Hallo, Gussie,’ he said, fixing her with a look of great concentration.
Gussie immediately became very cool and stiff.
‘Hallo, Seymour,’ she said distantly.
‘You decided to come after all, then.’
‘So you see.’
He turned to Freddy and held out a hand.
‘Seymour Cosgrove,’ was what he said, although to judge from the way his eyebrows were at that moment attempting to crawl down his nose, it was quite obvious that what he wanted to say was, ‘And who the devil are you?’
‘Freddy Pilkington-Soames,’ said Freddy, and shook the hand.
‘Freddy is a very old friend of mine,’ said Gussie sweetly. ‘We’ve known one another for years, haven’t we, Freddy? Why, we practically grew up together.’
‘I see,’ said Seymour.
There was an uncomfortable silence as he and Gussie attempted to stare one another down.
‘Hadn’t you better go and mingle?’ she said at last.
‘All right, then,’ he said, and without another word turned away and stalked off, defeated.
Gussie took Freddy’s arm proprietorially.
‘Come and meet people,’ she said, and began chattering non-stop. Freddy noticed that her manner had suddenly become more flirtatious, and connected this, correctly, with the encounter with Seymour Cosgrove, for she kept glancing over at the part of the room to which Seymour had retired, as though to make sure he was watching.
