Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  The crossing on the Queen Mary from Southampton to New York was rough and unpleasant. Given the choice, Valentina would have spent her time sitting in one of the splendid lounges with a book borrowed from the ship’s vast library. That pleasure was denied her. To Alexander, the crossing of the Atlantic was the greatest adventure of his life and he raced round the decks, tweed-coated by Harrods, an English muffler around his neck, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing.

  With the collar of her mink coat pulled high, Valentina followed him, terrified that he would fall and hurt himself. Even more terrified that in his enthusiasm he would do what the steward had assured her was impossible and fall overboard.

  The joy she found in seeing the return of his usual high spirits, spirits which had been utterly quenched when Paulos had died, compensated her for the biting discomfort of the driving wind and piercing cold.

  She did not dine in any of the restaurants, but ate privately with Alexander in her cabin. The ship was full of celebrities, some that she knew personally, some that she knew only by repute. All seemed intent to making her acquaintance and only the complicity of her helpful steward prevented her from being besieged by unwelcome visitors.

  The steward’s protection ceased the minute that the ship docked. A throng of reporters and photographers awaited her, pressing in on her on either side.

  ‘Have you returned to make a movie with Vidal Rakoczi?’

  ‘Are rumours of your reconciliation with Worldwide true?’

  ‘What are your plans, Valentina?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know myself yet,’ she answered, smiling professionally, aware of Alexander’s small hand tightening in hers. What were her plans, for God’s sake? She didn’t even know where they were going to stay the night.

  ‘Why are those men shouting at you, Maman?’ Alexander asked, as she tried to force a way through the mass of bodies and find a cab.

  ‘They’re just asking questions, darling.’

  Flashbulbs popped on either side of them and she realized with despair that her efforts to keep Alexander out of the public eye could not possibly succeed. She only hoped that his heavy coat and muffler would make his likeness to Vidal impossible to detect.

  ‘Could you find me a cab please?’ she asked a porter, cutting across the barrage of questions.

  ‘Valentina! Valentina!’ a familiar voice cried, and with a rush of relief she saw Leila’s tiny figure swathed in fur, waving furiously.

  ‘Am I glad to see you!’ Valentina said fervently, hugging her close as Leila led the way to a chauffeur-driven Rolls. ‘I expected some reaction from the press when I returned, but nothing like this.’

  The porter stowed her bags in the Rolls’capacious boot. The chauffeur opened the rear doors.

  ‘Idiot,’ Leila said affectionately as the car, leaving the docks, moved into the wide straight boulevard of West Fourteenth Street. ‘The Warrior Queen has grossed more than any movie in history. It’s still playing to packed houses all over the country. The Gethsamane Gate picked up more awards than any other movie of its year. If it hadn’t been for the hoo ha over the way you left the country, you would have won an Oscar. The Heiress Helena had its première audience on its feet and clapping. You’re still a big, big star. What everyone wants to know is what you intend doing now that you have returned.’

  ‘One thing I am not doing is returning to Hollywood. I shall stay in New York.’

  ‘And work?’

  ‘If I can.’

  Leila threw back her head, her laughter pealing as delightfully as it had in the far off days when they had worked together on The Warrior Queen.

  ‘Darling, I promise you that by tonight you will be inundated with offers from every producer in the country. Denton has already asked that he dine with us.’

  ‘Denton?’ Valentina asked curiously as Alexander squirmed between them, trying to get a better view of the breathtakingly tall buildings and the incredible stream of vehicles speeding by on either side.

  ‘Denton Brook-Taylor. He’s a Broadway producer, and,’ Leila’s eyes sparked mischieviously, ‘my lover. You didn’t think this Rolls was mine, did you?’

  ‘What’s a lover, Maman?’ Alexander asked, returning his attention to the conversation going on between his mother and the lady who had hugged and kissed him so effusively when he had first scrambled into the rear of the nice-smelling car.

  ‘A lover,’ Valentina said, ‘is someone you are very, very fond of.’

  ‘Is Grandma Khairetis my lover then? And you and Auntie Aristea and Auntie Maria?’

  ‘No darling. A lover is someone special. Someone that you love even though they are not family.’

  ‘Like a friend?’

  ‘Yes, Alexander. A very special and very close friend.’

  ‘I can see that I am going to have to watch what I say,’ Leila said over the top of Alexander’s head as his interest returned to the chrome and glass buildings soaring skywards.

  ‘And I am going to have to find somewhere to stay. Perhaps you could ask the chauffeur to drop my luggage off at the Plaza.’

  ‘Yes, but luggage only. You’re both coming home with me and we’re going to talk and talk and talk.’

  The Rolls turned into Fifth Avenue and they passed the trees of Madison Square, the glittering facade of department stores, the stone lions outside the library on Forty Second Street, the Gothic spires of St Patrick’s Cathedral, before drawing up smoothly in front of the Plaza.

  Liveried bell-boys removed Valentina and Alexander’s white calfskin luggage and as she glided up the steps and into the foyer she was aware of at last stepping irrevocably from one world to another. There would be no more sunlit days laughing and talking with Paulos and Alexander in their flower-drenched sparkling white villa: no more stillness: no more quiet.

  New York held bustle and noise and a completely new way of life. She secured a suite for herself and Alexander with ease, and then returned, Alexander’s hand still in hers, to the waiting Rolls. For the first time it occurred to her that she would have to find a nanny for Alexander. He was too small to follow in her wake around New York. Even now he was rubbing his eyes, tired by the morning’s excitement. She would also have to find somewhere to live. The Plaza could not remain their New York home. Its sumptuous opulence was not the best environment for a healthy child accustomed to making as much noise as he liked, and running free on beaches and mountain slopes.

  They passed Central Park and she gazed at it with relief. At least there was somewhere nearby where she could take Alexander and he could release his natural high spirits.

  Leila’s apartment was large, roomy and untidy and in total contrast to the sleek Rolls Royce Silver Shadow that had deposited them on the kerb.

  ‘I don’t live with Denton,’ Leila said unnecessarily, flinging her fur coat over a chair, pouring an orange juice for Alexander and popping open a bottle of Mumm’s Extra Dry for herself and Valentina. ‘He’s far too proper for such an arrangement.‘

  Alexander, copying Leila, undid his coat and flung it nonchalantly on the nearest chair, crossing to the bookshelves to see if he could find a book with pictures in it. He was, Valentina thought as she watched him, every inch Vidal’s son.

  ‘Tell me about Denton,’ she said as the champagne frothed into her glass and Leila kicked off her shoes and curled up in a comfortable looking chair.

  ‘He’s a millionaire. He’s at least sixty though very handsome. Well,’ she paused and giggled, ‘he’s very distinguished looking and I guess if you’re a millionaire that amounts to the same thing. He’s really a banker but the theatre fascinates him and he’s begun backing shows.’

  ‘And putting you in them?’ Valentina asked with a grin, aware that Alexander had found a book to his satisfaction.

  ‘Of course. Only small parts so far. I’m still having voice production lessons. Broadway, New York, is one hell of a lot different to Worldwide Studios, Hollywood!’

  They laughed and then
fell silent. ‘I guess it was a success,’ Leila asked after a little while, ‘between you and Paulos?’

  ‘Yes.’ Valentina put down her champagne glass. ‘It was very successful, Leila.’

  Vidal’s name hung, unspoken, between them. Alexander continued turning the pages of a large book and Leila, noting the angle that he held his head as he perused the pictures with concentration, the tumble of childish curls falling low over his forehead, the already stubborn lines of jaw and chin, knew at last why Valentina had married Paulos and left Hollywood. And why she was determined never to return.

  The doorbell rang and she sprang to her feet. ‘That will be Denton,’ she said, rushing across to a mirror to check her make-up. ‘Goodness, you’d think he would have given us a little longer together, wouldn’t you?’

  He entered the room and she clung to his arm, puppy-dog fashion. He barely glanced at her. He strode across the room and took Valentina’s hand, grasping it firmly.

  ‘I’m very, very glad to meet you at long last,’ he said.

  Everything about Denton Brook-Taylor was grey. Not a dull, drab grey but a silver as glittering as that of his Rolls. He was tall and thin and carried himself with the air of an aristocrat, yet despite Leila’s assertion to the contrary, he could never have been called a handsome man. But he was a man with presence. No one could possibly doubt that he had wealth and power and that he relished the possession of both.

  ‘Did you have a pleasant voyage?’

  ‘Yes, though it was rough. March isn’t the best month to cross the Atlantic.’

  ‘You should have crossed on the Normandie. It rolls far less in heavy seas.’

  ‘I’ll remember in future,’ Valentina said, aware that she was under close scrutiny.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  It was almost as if Leila was not in the room. He removed a cigar from behind the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and a few minutes later the aroma of good quality Havana filled the room.

  ‘Leila has told you that I am a producer?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alexander had returned to her side and was regarding Denton Book-Taylor with open hostility. Denton Brook-Taylor ignored him as he did Leila, and Valentina thought that he would ignore with ease anyone or anything that was not engaging his immediate attention.

  ‘I intend to put Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler on to Broadway. Will you accept the part of Hedda?’

  Valentina stared at him as if he was mad. ‘I can’t possibly accept. I’ve only acted before the camera, never on stage.’

  ‘No, but as Hedda, burning with suppressed sexuality, you’re going to be a sensation.’

  ‘Leila, explain to him. The idea is preposterous.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Leila said, perching on the arm of Denton’s chair. ‘As soon as we heard that you were aboard the Queen Mary on your way to New York, Denton said that he must have you for the part. I’m to play Thea Elvsted. It’s the most marvellously challenging part that I’ve ever been given. Oh, you must say yes, Valentina. You must!’

  Valentina stared at them. Only a stage actress could portray Ibsen’s tortured heroine as she deserved to be played.

  ‘Would you like to do it?’ His eyes impaled her.

  If she succeeded, she would have proved to herself beyond all doubt that her talent was not something that depended solely upon a camera and lighting. But if she failed… She shrugged her shoulders. She would not fail.

  ‘I’d love to do it,’ she said to a delighted Denton Brook-Taylor. ‘When do we start rehearsals?’

  It meant a nanny for Alexander. It meant voice production lessons. It meant coaching every hour of the day and most hours of the night. It meant a return to life as a public figure. Interviews. Photographs. Ridiculous rumours printed in the gossip columns as truth. It meant the learning of a new craft: stagecraft. It meant hard, unrelenting work, and it meant exhilaration as she slipped with pain and ecstasy into the multi-faceted character of Hedda Gabler.

  Stan Kennaway was the director. His string of credits included The Cherry Orchard, Romeo and Juliet, and Chekhov’s The Three Sisters. He had been appalled when Denton had told him who was to play the part of Hedda.

  ‘This play needs an actress, Denton! Not a lightweight glamour queen.’

  ‘Have you seen her movies? She is an actress.’

  ‘F’Christ’s sake, Denton! Every scene she appeared in was probably shot a hundred times! Out there, on stage, she only has one chance.’

  ‘She only needs one chance,’ Denton Brook-Taylor said tersely. ‘Trust Stan. We’re going to have the biggest Broadway success of the year on our hands.’

  Stan had considered stepping down as director and then had decided that nothing would be lost by at least seeing how the star of The Warrior Queen performed on stage.

  She had arrived at rehearsals with none of the artifacts of the Hollywood star. There had been no coterie of hangers-on, no pretensions. She wore trousers and a cashmere sweater. Her hair was held back from her face by a headband, falling free to her shoulders, her skin devoid of make-up. She had listened to him with unnerving intensity and from the moment that she did her first read-through, he knew that Denton Brook-Taylor’s judgement had been sound.

  ‘You’re going to be just fine,’ he said to her when they broke for coffee. ‘This is just the sort of play Rakoczi would have loved to direct. When he hears the news he’s going to be wild that he didn’t get to you first.’

  He grinned. It felt good to be one up on the brilliant Hungarian.

  Valentina’s smile was stiff and forced. Despite the April sunshine streaming through the windows being pleasurably warm, the rehearsal hall felt suddenly cold. Denton Brook-Taylor was speaking to her but she didn’t hear him. She wasn’t even aware of his presence. Her thoughts were elsewhere. On Vidal, and what his reaction would be when he learned of her return to America.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The rehearsals were strenuous, and there was Alexander to take care of as well. The nanny she had hired was young, cheerful and loving and Alexander quickly adjusted to his new way of life. Every morning, after a walk through Central Park, his nanny would take him to sit at the back of the draughty rehearsal hall and he would watch as his mother and Leila polished and repolished their lines. He never fidgeted or chattered. He would sit with his sturdy legs dangling from the seat of his chair, watching the various scenes being acted, and re-enacted, with rapt attention.

  Lunchtimes were always a special time of day, for then he had his mother all to himself. It was the first rule that Valentina had made. She would not socialize at lunchtimes; she would not give interviews. She would not join in the heated discussions regarding the progress of the play with her fellow actors. Lunchtimes were for Alexander, and were sacred.

  Sometimes they would go for hamburgers; sometimes they would picnic in Central Park. But whatever they did, or wherever they went, it was fun. They would walk along, their clasped hands swinging, chattering, laughing; reciting poetry, relishing each other’s company. The relationship between them was special: they knew it and so did everyone who saw them together.

  ‘Why the hell don’t I have that kind of relationship with my kid?’ Stan Kennaway asked Leila one day, as Valentina and Alexander left the rehearsal hall laughing at a private joke.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t love him enough,’ Leila answered drily.

  ‘Hell, that kid of mine gets everything he asks for,’ Stan said indignantly. ‘He goes to the best school in town. The fees leave me permanently broke.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ Leila said, pouring herself a coffee. ‘When was the last time you spent time together? Took him out on his own? Played ball with him?’

  ‘I’ve a living to make,’ Stan protested. ‘Besides, he’s only six years old. How can you have a conversation with a six-year-old?’

  ‘Alexander is four and no one has a problem having a conversation with him.’

  ‘Maybe it’s b
ecause the kid is advanced for his age.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because his mother treats him like a friend and talks to him, not just at him.’

  As a producer, Denton Brook-Taylor rarely graced his rehearsal halls. Hedda Gabler was an exception. At ten every morning the faint aroma of a Havana cigar would pervade the hall, and the cast and director would be aware that they were under close scrutiny. No one relished his presence. Stan preferred to work without the financier of the production breathing down his neck. His lack of praise or comment unnerved the cast, and even Leila’s spirits dropped to zero whenever he appeared.

  ‘I wish to goodness he’d go away,’ she whispered to Valentina. ‘I’m nervous enough as it is. Stan says my voice still isn’t projecting sufficiently.’

  Only Valentina was uncaring of his presence. Her whole future career depended on her performance as Hedda Gabler. The news that she was to appear in the play and not return to Hollywood, had, as she had expected, hit the headlines. The general concensus of press opinion was that Hedda Gabler was too ambitious a project for an actress who had never before acted on stage, and who had not acted at all for four years.

  The New York Times predicted that her performance as the neurotic, sexually suppressed Hedda Gabler would be a disaster. The Herald Tribune commented that her return to America should have been crowned by her return to Hollywood and by the making of a movie to rival the much-talked-about Gone with the Wind.

  Each day after rehearsals ended she visited the celebrated English actress, Dame May Whitty, for further coaching in her part. The ageing Dame May alternately bullied and coaxed her, drawing from her a performance which she knew would stun the critics and have the première audience on its feet, roaring with admiration. She kept the knowledge to herself. There was nothing more detrimental to an actor’s performance than over-confidence.

  ‘Take it from the beginning of Act II,’ she said relentlessly. ‘Your movements on stage have to be more definite, more purposeful than the movements you make for the camera. Your gestures must be subtle, but telling. Vocal intonation is everything.’