Continuing to follow him at a distance Elsie made up her mind to see Oliver off, not just at the evening performance, but at the matinée too, which she did, and thoroughly enjoyed doing. But then Oliver saw her off at the evening performance, but only by cheating: upstaging her, coming in too early and too quickly – the whole boiling lot.
Nevertheless, despite being secretly infuriated, Elsie said nothing afterwards, pretending, as she would do with any other actor, that she had not even noticed, while mentally making new plans to get back at him, even as she knew Oliver would be doing the same to her. The truth was that the gloves were well and truly off now, and they both knew it.
As far as the idea for the new agency went it took some time, and many brochures depicting premises that were all far too expensive, before they eventually gave up, and decided that the only way to go about finding a suitable office was for Oliver to send Coco to look for one on their behalf. Coco after all was living in London, so she could whip round to see places as soon as they came on the market, whereas for them, from Tadcaster, it would take for ever.
Despite being home-bound, or perhaps because she was home-bound, Coco set out determinedly to find premises for Oliver and Portly. Happily it was a very flat time for rented property, and within a few weeks a former newsagent’s shop in a back road in Kensington did indeed come on the market.
It was placed most fortuitously bang opposite a pub, with an old-fashioned apothecary shop on the other side of the road, so it appealed to Coco as being the perfect site. It was filthy, of course, and filled with rubbish and circulars and in need of more than a lick of paint, but that did not matter, what mattered was that although it was not Chelsea it was at least in central London. One day, Coco found herself wishing, they would probably become so big they would move up to the West End, but until then it would do very nicely indeed.
Coco telephoned the news of her find to Oliver, and Oliver instructed her to sign the ridiculously cheap six-month lease on their behalf, and the following weekend Oliver, Portly and Elsie hired a car and drove down from Tadcaster to London early on Sunday morning, arriving outside the new premises at precisely the same time as Coco.
‘I say, Coco, where’s the baby?’ Where’s Holly?’
For a second Oliver was ashamed to realise that he felt a huge surge of relief at the possibility that Coco might, after all, have taken his advice and had the baby adopted. It would somehow make so much sense, and free Coco to be herself again, not ground down by motherhood, and all its cares.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve left Holly with Gladys. Gladys is acting as official baby squasher until I get back.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Oliver leaned forward and pecked Coco on the cheek, in vain trying to obscure her from Elsie’s view as he did so.
But it was no good. Elsie had seen Coco, who, seemingly overnight, Oliver now realised, had, outwardly at least, returned to her original self, once more sporting amber bead necklaces and bracelets, beautifully washed and shining dark hair, and a slender shape that did not seem to have had anything to do with childbirth, or long months spent awaiting delivery in a nursing home.
‘By the way, Coco, I don’t think you know Elsie Lancaster, do you? Elsie, this is Coco Hampton, Coco – Elsie.’
The two young women shook hands, and as they did so Oliver found his eyes half closing.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, they hated each other before their hands even touched.
‘Shall we go in?’
Coco being Coco, and all too confident of her decision, Oliver saw that she had already bought the tins of distemper and the brushes and all the other paraphernalia they needed, and so, having approved wholeheartedly of her find, and without more ado, they all four set to cleaning up the one big room, and painting quickly over the pre-war dull cream paint.
As they painted Coco talked to Portly. Portly talked to Elsie. Oliver talked to Coco and Portly. Elsie talked to Oliver, but Coco did not talk to Elsie, and neither did Elsie talk to Coco. They avoided each other’s eyes, and stepped back and around each other for all the world, Oliver thought to himself, as if they were warring duchesses in a ballroom. Every time Elsie turned towards him and their eyes met he was sure that her eyes were saying to him, ‘You have slept with this woman, haven’t you?’ Or ‘You have had an affair with this girl, haven’t you? Why else would she be doing all this for you, even down to signing the lease for us?’ Or ‘Just what is this young woman to you?’
‘Right. Well done, everyone. Now there is only the brass plate to get engraved, and a plumber to be called to get the loo working, and a desk and a telephone to put in. After that, Portly, old chap, the world, as my old—’ Oliver was just about to say ‘nanny’ but remembering his story, he quickly replaced ‘nanny’ with ‘mum’ and smiled his usual brilliant smile. ‘As my old mum used to say, after that the world’s your lobster.’
Portly smiled. He could not believe his luck in finding such a bunch of friends, all willing to help him to get back on his feet.
‘I say, can I buy you all lunch at the pub opposite out of my dole money?’
‘Course you can, Portly, love.’
They all trooped across the street and sat down at one of the pub tables. It was early summer, the trees were out, life was suddenly very good. After a few drinks they each chose a plate of food at the counter and sat back down at their table, keeping a clear view of their new premises, of which they already all felt inordinately, and quite ridiculously, proud.
‘Coco can join the agency too, can’t she, Portly?’ Oliver nodded at Portly and towards Coco, a portion of scotch egg poised on his fork.
‘Course she can. I need as many people as possible. I would be honoured to include her.’
‘That’s very kind of you—’
‘What work have you done?’ Elsie interrupted, addressing Coco for the first time, her voice oddly clipped, the look in her eyes that of a cowboy who had just seen a line of Red Indians on the far horizon. More than anything in the world she hated any whiff of amateurism, and the fact that Portly had readily accepted Coco just because, Elsie was sure, she was Oliver’s friend, or ex-girlfriend, or something of that nature, was just so amateur.
‘Coco was at the Royal with me—’
Just one look cut Oliver down as effectively as if Elsie had been wielding a broad sword.
‘What work have I done? Well, Oliver knows that.’ Coco looked towards Oliver and smiled that particularly intimate smile that comes from having been friends since they were small. So small that in order for either of them to see the stage properly from the stalls, Gladys had been forced to bring cushions for them to sit on. ‘Ollie thinks I have done too little acting and too much filming and he doesn’t think that’s acting. He despises it, in fact, don’t you, Ollie?’
‘She’s done two films, and would have gone on but for the arrival of a small person,’ Oliver finally put in, and he smiled towards Coco, making sure that she knew that he at least was not embarrassed by the fact that she now had a baby in her life, although she was quite evidently not married.
But at that moment Elsie was less than interested in Coco’s baby, although she was, of a sudden, silenced by the fact that Coco had already been cast in two films, which was more than Elsie had ever been. It was a fact. Portly could not turn down an actress who had been in two films, and they all knew it. Elsie nodded, assuming a nonchalance she did not feel.
‘Sure. Of course. Two films. Great for the agency, to have someone of your experience on the books—’
‘But I don’t want to go on acting.’
This time not just Elsie but Oliver too stared at Coco.
‘You don’t want to go on acting?’
If they had not been plum in the middle of eating both their mouths would have dropped wide open, such was their astonishment.
‘No, I don’t want to go on acting. That’s why I left my previous agent. I don’t want to be on tour all the time, or on location, or any of that nonsense, not now
I have a baby. I want to be with Holly. I want to design. That is what I have always wanted to do. Acting was just a lark, and you know it, Oliver, just a lark.’
Elsie’s eyes lowered themselves, the point finally getting home. This girl had a baby, a real baby, and no wedding ring. Of a sudden Elsie’s plate of food seemed to be really so interesting that it might well have been the first time she had ever seen a ham salad.
Meanwhile Oliver was quite sure that he could actually see Elsie’s thoughts, so convinced was he of how she would be thinking.
The baby would, by now – following the passionate affair Elsie would deeply suspect Oliver of having had with Coco – the baby would be Oliver’s baby. In Elsie’s imagination, he would have made Coco pregnant. Even so he said nothing, thinking, in his innocence, that he could explain everything later.
‘What was it you said you wanted to do?’ Portly looked both interested and disinterested, judging the mother of a young baby to be naturally sensitive on this point.
‘I want to do what I have always wanted to do – Ollie knows this – I want to design costumes for the stage.’
‘I see.’
Now even Oliver could see the gap widening and a vast emotional hole in the road opening up in front of him. Why did Coco have to go and be such a damn fool as to mention the fact that Ollie knows, not once but twice? Why should he be the only person to know? Why not – say – the father of her child? Why not the nuns who had looked after her so well? Why him especially?
‘You want to design costumes? Well then you won’t clash with Elsie, so I can quite easily represent you, can’t I? That is if you would like me to?’
Portly smiled his usual affable smile at everyone, relieved. Knowing Elsie, he had been all too aware of what she must be feeling, having to suddenly tolerate the presence of another young woman, someone of her own age, someone who had previous knowledge of her lover, someone who was, if not as arresting as Elsie, at least very pretty, if only in a dark sort of gamine way.
‘Yes, of course I would like you to represent me,’ Coco agreed, after a quick look for confirmation to Oliver. ‘I would like that very much, of course I would.’
‘No clash,’ Portly repeated out loud, looking from one young woman to the other, as if to reassure both himself and them.
No clash?
Oliver looked away, at the same time lighting a cigarette. He was dreading the return journey. No, worse than that, he was dreading getting back to Tadcaster. There would be all hell let loose, and nothing, least of all the look in Elsie’s eyes, could dissuade him from this notion. Elsie was going to be mad with rage and jealousy over Coco, whom she was bound to suspect of having been Oliver’s mistress. She would be mad with the kind of jealous rage that only comes from having enjoyed the first passionate affair, both on and off stage, she had ever had.
Still, he had no doubt at all that he would be able to convince her of his innocence. After all if he could not prove his innocence, who could? He loved Coco, of course he did, as much as he loved anyone, perhaps more, but as a brother, that was all, just as a brother. And she loved him as a sister, and nothing more, that was for sure.
In saying goodbye Coco quickly bent down to peck him on the cheek, as if to reassure Oliver of her lack of interest in anything but his friendship. She herself could not wait to hurry back to her flat and Gladys.
Naturally, the moment she had met Elsie Lancaster it had been quite clear to Coco that Oliver’s girlfriend was ready and willing to scratch her eyes out, and frankly she herself could not have cared less. All she cared about was getting back to the baby and making sure that Gladys had not literally squashed her, in some way or other, because Gladys had never had a baby, and had certainly never looked after one as small as Holly, Coco having come to her, as Gladys said endlessly and often quite pointlessly, ready made.
It seemed to take for ever to drive back to Chelsea, although of course, it being Sunday, and the streets being quite empty, it actually could not have taken longer than quarter of an hour. Nevertheless Coco found that her heart was in her mouth as she leapt up the stairs towards her first floor flat, her pulse racing as the full idiocy of having left Holly with Gladys of all people dawned on her.
She tried not to burst in the door, because to look as she felt, almost, although probably quite unreasonably, frantic with worry, would be so insulting to Gladys. So, carefully putting her key in the lock, and equally carefully shutting the front door of her flat, she sauntered as casually as she could into the sitting room to be confronted by a sight from her worst nightmare – Gladys rocking to and fro, clutching a cushion to her stomach, tears streaming down her face.
‘Well, now you have three people on your books. Me, Elsie and Coco.’
Oliver smiled as brightly as he did not feel at the other two, while Elsie stared moodily across the road at the front door of the new agency.
‘Time to get back to the painting.’
As Elsie painted, and it was once more just the three of them, just like in Tadcaster, her good mood returned, and she seemed to forget all about Coco and her baby. As they worked they made excited plans. It was natural. Great plans for the future are only made by those who do not yet have one.
First, they realised, they had to name the agency. Portly, Lowell and Lancaster, or PLL, seemed the easiest and best, because, naturally, Portly did not want any mention of Cosgrove in the name. It would bring back bad memories not only for him, but for other people too.
‘What about Coco?’ Elsie looked round from finishing her wall and stared innocently at the other two. ‘Won’t Coco want to have herself included in the name of the agency? I mean, she did at least sign the lease for us.’
‘That’s just temporary, in case we lost it, after all this looking. No, we’re rearranging everything as soon as perfectly possible. Coco gets sent money, you see, at the start of every quarter, by her guilty parents, so she didn’t mind at all, but we’re paying her back, tomorrow, if not yesterday. So, no, in answer to your question she’s definitely not part of the agency, and she wouldn’t want to be.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, because she’s Coco, I suppose,’ Oliver said, frowning. ‘And, well,’ he continued after struggling for a logical reason which Elsie might understand, ‘well, Coco does not like that kind of thing. Knowing Coco, I’m sure she would prefer to grumble about us in the acknowledged manner of every artist who does not represent themselves. Besides, she has done nothing to deserve it—’
‘Except find this place.’
‘Oh, she enjoyed that—’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know Coco. She likes finding things, that is what she likes best. Old materials, pieces of lace, beads, agencies, doesn’t really matter, it is the search that she enjoys most. I know this because I have known her since she was a very small person,’ said Oliver, and his eyes took on a mosaic look as if the eyes themselves had made up their own minds, deciding to turn their backs on the subject, drop the blinds on the whole matter.
‘None of us is particularly interested in how well you know dear little Coco, or for how long, are we, Portly?’
Portly, sensing danger, nodded and at the same time shook his head.
‘Yes, no, maybe,’ came his diplomatic reply.
‘Typical Portly.’ Elsie snorted lightly and rolled her eyes, flinging back her mane of curly hair. She did not say so, because she was far too fond of him, but the truth was that the reason why Portly had been cheated out of everything by Donald Bourton was that he was too nice and too trusting, and they all knew it.
Elsie lit a cigarette and gazed ahead of her at the now quite beautifully white walls of what was to be their very own agency. Portly would not have been so soft if he had been dragged up by Dottie, and that was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the blooming truth.
‘You think I’m soft, don’t you, Elsie?’
‘I know you are, Portly,’ Elsie told him, repairing
her lips with her newest and favourite pale pink lipstick. ‘It’s all going to have to change once you’re behind the magnificent desk we are going to buy you. PLL is going to have to get a reputation for being as tough as my grandmother’s Friday night steak.’
Elsie’s thoughts returned once more to Dottie, and despite the brightness of the day, and the fact that they had now put the finishing touches to the one room of their sparkling new agency, she felt her heart sinking. It was always the same. If she thought about Dottie for too long, even the mention of her name would bring about a feeling that Elsie had, somehow, been cursed by her, and that it would only be a matter of time before Dottie would somehow catch up with her, and Elsie would start to know just how real bad luck could be. But until then, she just had to do what people always told those who had been cursed to do – she would just refuse to believe it. She would not believe in Dottie’s curse, and that was that.
Even so, for a second, her thoughts stretched back to the tall house filled with resting, out of work actors, to Dottie and her ironing board, to the occasional knock at the front door when a manuscript was sent back to an aspiring playwright, or a script from BBC Radio was delivered.
How would they all think of her, she wondered to herself, as she stared in the little mirror of her powder compact at her perfectly shaped mouth. At best with indifference, or in Dottie’s case with scorn, which would doubtless, by now, have turned to venom. Elsie Lancaster, her own granddaughter, would have joined the ‘black hats brigade’. Dottie would have her knife in Elsie Lancaster, all right. She never did not have her knife in someone. Curse or no curse, Elsie knew very well that Medea’s murder of her babies would be nothing to what Dottie would be imagining about Elsie. Boiling her granddaughter in oil would be merciful compared to some of the other things Dottie would be prepared to do to Elsie, if Elsie ever had the misfortune to see her again.
Distant Music Page 27
