Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  Valentina began again and Dame May leaned back in her chair watching her with shrewd eyes. Here was a natural, instinctive, intuitive actress that it was a joy to coach. Her physical magnetism would spellbind theatre audiences just as it had screen audiences.

  Together they researched the role of Hedda. And late at the end of every day, Valentina would return, bone-weary, to her luxurious suite at the Plaza, and kiss the forehead of her sleeping child. He had asked to be there on the night that the play opened. She hoped and prayed for his sake that her performance would be a success.

  ‘Could we have lunch together?’ Denton Brook-Taylor asked on the morning of the dress rehearsal.

  Valentina looked up at him as the morning costume she wore in Act I was re-pinned. ‘I’m sorry. I always lunch with my son.’

  ‘Dinner then?’

  She nodded. Obviously Denton Brook-Taylor had something to say to her that he wanted no one else to overhear. It could only be about the play. Was he thinking of replacing her? Even at this late stage?

  ‘What on earth can he want to see me about?’ she asked Leila that evening as she slipped her feet into shoes of glace kid, a worried frown puckering her brow. ‘I thought everything was going well.’

  ‘It is,’ Leila assured her, bending down and setting Alexander’s train back on to the rails of track that covered the entire floor of the hotel suite. ‘Maybe he wants to talk publicity. Whatever it is, it at least gives me a night of freedom.’

  ‘What do you intend doing with it?’ Valentina asked, looping a row of pearls around her throat so that they fell lushly against the soft drapery of her dress.

  ‘What I always do.’ Leila’s eyes shone wickedly. ‘I’ll slip downtown and see Rory.’

  ‘You can’t two-time a man like Brook-Taylor for long without him finding out,’ Valentina scolded, picking up a leather clutch bag the exact shade of her dress. ‘When he does, it will be goodbye to your use of his Rolls; goodbye to any further furs…’

  ‘… And goodbye to any further parts,’ Leila finished for her. ‘I don’t care, Valentina. I’m really in love this time. I just want one Broadway success. Just one play that I’ll always be able to look back on with pride. When I have achieved that, I shall be quite happy to turn my back on it all and live in happy poverty with Rory.’

  ‘Rory is very talented,’ Valentina said, spraying perfume on her throat. ‘He’s hardly penniless.’

  Leila giggled. ‘He is compared to Denton.’

  ‘Everyone is compared to Denton,’ Valentina said, smiling despite herself.

  The telephone rang and Leila threw a pair of kid gloves across to Valentina. ‘That will be to say that he’s waiting for you. Have a nice time, and if he mentions that he might call in on me after he leaves you, please tell him not to. Tell him I’m having an early night. Tell him I’m having a nervous breakdown. Tell him anything, but make sure he doesn’t find out that I’m not sitting chastely in my apartment pining away with loneliness.’

  Valentina kissed Alexander goodbye, waved to Leila and stepped out into the thickly-carpeted corridor, wondering yet again why Denton Brook-Taylor should have asked to speak to her in private.

  They dined at a French restaurant, so discreet and exclusive that not even one photographer captured the event for the gossip columns. The decoration was formal with pale primrose walls in the style of Louis XVI, chairs and banquettes upholstered in gold velvet and crystal chandeliers that would have done honour to Versailles.

  Denton discussed the menu with the maitre d’in perfect French and when he had ordered, leaned back in his chair, the elegant surroundings complementing his distinguished looks perfectly. She waited for him to speak, to enlighten her as to the reason for his dinner invitation. Instead he said, ‘You look very beautiful.’

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of her aperitif glass. She had seen that look in men’s eyes before. Many, many times. Mr Denton Brook-Taylor had not invited her out to dinner to discuss the play or anything appertaining to the play.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice cold.

  He smiled. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Valentina?’

  ‘Leila is my best friend. I thought you wished to see me tonight to discuss the play. If I had known otherwise, I would not have accepted your invitation.’

  ‘How very prim and proper.’ His gaze on her face never wavered. Her incredible amethyst-coloured eyes held him mesmerized. They were tip-tilted at the corners. He wondered if it was that that gave her face its uniqueness. Or was it the clean, sculptured lines of cheek and jaw? He was a connoisseur of beautiful objects. He collected them. Hoarded them.

  His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. The magnetism that set her apart had nothing to do with her beauty. It came from inside. There was something unreachable about her. He smiled. Nothing was unattainable to a man of his wealth.

  His rooms were hung with Rembrandts and Van Goghs; his library was full of leather-bound first editions. His collection of eighteenth century porcelain figures was the largest in private ownership. He signed his cheques at a Louis Phillippe walnut bureau mounted with Sevres panels and ormulu mounts, and he sat on a seventeenth century Venetian Baroque giltwood chair to do so. Whatever he wanted, he got, and he wanted the dream of a million men. He wanted Valentina.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about Leila. No doubt she will now be in the arms of the man she loves. A Bohemian Irish painter by the name of Rory O’Connor.’

  Valentina looked up at him sharply. He knew. Leila’s days of chauffeurs and furs were numbered. It made no difference. She was not romantically interested in Mr Brook-Taylor.

  ‘I don’t date, Mr Brook-Taylor,’ she said icily. ‘I haven’t dated since my husband died.’

  ‘I know.’ He knew everything about her. What she ate for breakfast, where she took her child at lunchtime. What size dresses she wore; what size shoe she took. That she preferred pearls to diamonds; simply draped chiffons and silks to extravaganzas encrusted with sequins and beads. That she read widely, enjoyed English and Russian authors as well as American. That she drank very little apart from wine and that she didn’t smoke.

  He smiled. He had no intention of rushing her; of deepening her hostility. ‘You misunderstand my intentions, Valentina. They are perfectly honourable. Have some caviar. It’s the best in New York.’

  She could hardly excuse herself and say she would rather be in her hotel suite with her sleeping child. The evening would just have to be endured.

  ‘Why do you think such a strong character as Hedda Gabler lacked the courage of the milk-and-water Thea Elvsted?’ he asked as the wine waiter poured a 1929 Chateau d’Yquem into his glass.

  Despite herself, her attention was caught. ‘I don’t know. That is what makes the play so fascinating.’

  They discussed the complexities of Hedda Gabler’s longings and frustrations. They discussed the dilemma facing England as Hitler grew more and more aggressive. They argued as to whether the isolationist statements made by Mr Joseph Kennedy and Mr Charles Linbergh were wise or unwise. They enthused together over Homer’s Iliad and agreed James Joyce’s Ulysses was unreadable.

  When the evening came to an end Valentina was surprised to find that she had enjoyed herself. He did not attempt to seduce her and did not even kiss her goodnight.

  As the Plaza’s gilded lift bore her upwards towards her suite, she decided that Denton Brook-Taylor was a far more interesting companion than Leila had ever intimated. And she also decided that it would be wise to inform Leila that he was well aware of her extra-curricular activities downtown.

  Leila was on the telephone next morning, even before the maid had delivered her breakfast.

  ‘How did it go? What did he want?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure,’ Valentina replied cheerily. ‘We discussed Hedda Gabler, and Hitler, and Greek literature, and then he dropped me off at the Plaza and wished me goodnight.’

  ‘No hand squeeze or a kiss?’ Leila asked m
ischievously, without the least jealousy.

  ‘None at all, but he knew very well where you were last night. Be warned.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Leila said feelingly. ‘I knew it couldn’t go on for much longer. Never mind. At least I’ll be free of pretending to be intelligent. Hitler and Greek literature would have sent me up the wall. I’ll see you at rehearsals.’

  ‘With vine leaves in your hair?’ Valentina asked laughing, taking a recurring line from the play.

  ‘Hell no, with a hip flask in my pocket! Bye.’

  There was only a week to opening night. Rehearsals were now being held in the theatre and Valentina was existing on little more than nervous energy. She ignored her breakfast when it was brought to her room and dressed hurriedly, drinking cup after cup of black coffee. The New York Times lay crisply on her breakfast tray, and she shook it open, wanting to see if the Broadway critic, Brooks Atkinson, was still predicting disaster for the play and an untimely end to her stage career.

  For once her own name was not headlined. It was Vidal’s name that sprang from the page. ‘Rakoczi’s Eugenie Grandet, the most daring innovative movie to have emerged from Hollywood…’ the critics eulogized.

  Valentina tried to tear her eyes away from the accompanying photograph of Vidal, his brows pulled together, the lines of his mouth harsh, and read the accompanying newsprint:

  ‘In Eugenie Grandet there is a depth and subtlety rarely, if ever, encountered on the screen. Sutton Hyde as the miser Grandet gives a masterly performance and Rakoczi’s new protegée, Helen Kratzman, brings disturbing nuances and an underlying eroticism to the main part.’

  Valentina did not read on. Her eyes were drawn again to the photograph. So he had found a new protegée. She wondered if they were lovers; if he was happy.

  ‘Maman, Ruby is taking me to the zoo today,’ Alexander cried, entering the room with a rush, his eyes bright.

  He never referred to his nanny by anything but her Christian name. An eight-year-old English boy at the Savoy had told him that to have a nanny was to be a baby. Alexander had no intention of being thought a baby. Ruby cared for him because his mother worked long hours at the theatre. But in Alexander’s mind, she was not his nanny. She was just someone whom he liked, who looked after him and took him to nice places.

  Valentina caught hold of him as he rushed towards her, hugging him tight. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? Seeing lions and tigers while I have to declare yet again that Eljert Lovborg will return – with vine leaves in his hair!’

  ‘Why is it so important to Mr Kennaway that you say that line properly, Maman?’

  ‘Because it means far more than it seems to mean, and the audience have to know that by the way I say the words. They have to know all I’m feeling, but not expressing. What is going on in my head and in my heart.’

  Alexander nodded. He didn’t really understand, but he was determined that he would some day. He liked watching his mother and Leila rehearse. He liked listening to Mr Kennaway and the way he could change things simply by asking people to move differently and to speak differently. He would have liked to spend the day at the theatre, but the lure of lions and tigers had been too strong. Tomorrow he would make up for it. He would persuade Ruby to forgo their daily walk in Central Park, and to spend every single minute of the day at the theatre. Valentina kissed him.

  ‘Enjoy yourself, darling. I must go now. Give my love to the bears.’

  ‘Silly,’ Alexander said, giggling. ‘They wouldn’t understand.’

  As she stepped from the Plaza’s foyer, there was the usual phalanx of reporters and photographers. She smiled, wished them all good-day, answered none of their questions, and stepped into the rear of the chauffeur driven car she had quickly realized was a necessity in New York

  ‘I think they must camp on the sidewalk,’ Ted, her chauffeur, said as the limousine drew away from the kerb and entered the main stream of traffic.

  ‘It will be worse after opening night,’ she said drily, hoping that Ruby and Alexander would be able to leave at their usual side door unmolested.

  Ted grinned. Opening night was going to be magnificent, and so was the fuss and clamour that would follow it. Already the reporters were treating him as if he were a celebrity. He began to whistle cheerfully to himself as he drove towards the theatre.

  ‘Hi,’ Stan said, kissing her affectionately on the cheek. ‘I see Rakoczi has been hitting the headlines again. Only he could have taken a subject as apparently uncommercial as Balzac, and made a hit of it.’

  ‘Vidal could make a masterpiece of a telephone directory,’ Valentina said, sitting beside him and passing an appraising eye over the set.

  Everyone knew of her previous close working relationship with Vidal. It had been one of the first major obstacles that she had had to overcome. The ability to say his name lightly and carelessly, talk about him with the same ease as she might Theodore Gambetta or Wally Baron.

  There came the sound of a firm footfall behind them. Both turned their heads. ‘Good morning,’ Denton Brook-Taylor said, ‘What is it today? A straight run through of all four acts?’

  Stan nodded. ‘When Leila arrives.’

  ‘She’s here now,’ Denton said, smiling pleasantly. ‘It’s my fault she’s late. We had a little matter to discuss.’

  Valentina looked away from him and surveyed the stage once more, certain that his discussion with Leila had centred on her relationship with Rory O’Connor.

  Denton left them, mounting the stage and examining the set closely. ‘He’ll want to direct soon,’ Stan said, his eyes narrowing as Denton Brook-Taylor fingered the heavy velvet cloth covering the oval table centre stage.

  ‘He’d probably make quite a good job of it.’

  Stan looked at her sharply. He had thought her immune to Denton’s chill charm.

  Leila arrived as merry-faced as ever. ‘Sorry I’m late, Stan. What is it? A straight run through? I’ll be ready in five minutes.’

  As she and Valentina changed, she shrugged her shoulders philosophically. ‘It’s all over. Denton was quite pleasant about it. He said if I loved someone else, it would be better if our relationship ended.’ She fastened the wrist buttons of her dark calling costume. ‘He didn’t react at all as I had expected. No vindictiveness. No ice-cold fury. He said that I could keep all the presents he had given me, and that until the play ended I could still have the use of the Rolls.’

  Valentina was aware of a feeling of relief. She had expected Denton Brook-Taylor’s reaction at the knowledge that he had been cuckolded to be less than gracious.

  ‘So what is it now? Wedding bells?’

  ‘I think so. I’m never going to be a great movie star. I’m never going to be a formidable actress. But Rory is going to be a great painter. If I marry him, I can live in reflected glory. Come on. Once more unto the breach.’

  Valentina smoothed down the heavy silk of her morning dress, grateful for the miracle that would take place when she stepped on to the stage. Her pain at the loss of Paulos would be forgotten. Vidal’s face would no longer burn in the forefront of her mind. She heard her cue line and stepped forward, no longer Valentina but Hedda Gabler. Her eyes lost their warmth. They were cold, clear and calm. She was a woman married to a man she found physically repugnant. A woman of sexual passion who had not the courage to flout convention in her pursuit of it. A woman whose burning jealousy would drive her to destroy Eljert Lovberg. A woman who found herself so trapped by her actions that her only release was in suicide.

  Stan Kennaway sat crouched in the front of the auditorium not moving, not speaking. Act I flowed into Act II, into Act III and Act IV. No one, he observed, as Leila’s blue eyes filled with genuine tears when news of Eljert Lovberg’s suicide was brought to her, would be able to say that Leila Crane could not act, and no one who saw Valentina’s performance as Hedda Gabler would ever forget it.

  The play ended. For a long moment there was silence, and then Stan stood up and moved forward. Six weeks ago h
e had seriously considered stepping down as director. Now he knew that this play would be the high spot of his career.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ he said respectfully, ‘I congratulate you, and now let’s get back to work. The beginning of Act II again please. Hedda and Judge Brock.’

  Valentina had not prayed since the day she had left the convent. On opening night, alone in her flower-decked dressing room, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and said, ‘Oh God, please let me be a success. For Paulos and for Alexander,’ she paused, and then added softly, ‘and for Vidal as well.’

  She had specifically requested she be left alone before her curtain call, declining even Leila’s company. It was going to be the most testing night of her career. The theatre was packed. Every critic in town was out in the front stalls, just waiting to see a one-dimensional, frivolous performance. For an agonizing second she doubted her own ability. Stan Kennaway was a brilliant director, but he was not Vidal. In the past it had been Vidal who had drawn from her the performances which had made her famous. Now she was trying something completely new to her. If she failed, she would not do so quietly; the whole world would know.

  The bell rang to indicate that the first act had begun. She rose to her feet steadily. She could rely on no one else’s strength but her own. Paulos was dead, and Vidal was lost to her.

  There was a tap on her door and she was given her last curtain call. She tilted her chin defiantly upwards. She was Valentina. She could become anyone she wanted to be and tonight she was going to be Hedda Gabler. She swept from her dressing room, her head high, and for a few seconds later she heard her voice loud and clear as she spoke her opening lines.

  The fevered frustrations, the jealousy, the bitterness that consumed Hedda Gabler, consumed her.

  Stan Kennaway was aware of the army of hostile critics listening in amazement. Of exchanged looks. Raised brows. And then compelling attention to the stage and the central figure of Valentina. She burned with suppressed sexuality. Like a magnet, every eye in the house was drawn towards her. She held the audience in the palm of her hand and her performance was so powerful, so subtle, that even Stan wondered from what depths she was drawing on.