Distant Music

by Charlotte Bingham

With his feet up on a stool, a freshly arrived play manuscript on his lap, Portly paused in his reading and yet again gazed around his new flat. It might be just a flat to the estate agent, or to the rest of his friends, but to him, newly arrived back in London for the first time for many, many months, with a West End hit supporting three of his people at PLL, it was far from being just a flat – it was a palace. In a converted house just off the lower end of Sloane Street in the heart of London, it had one large room and a small study on the ground floor. From the central room a staircase led to the first floor where there was a bedroom and a bathroom. Naturally with the flat had come Mrs Todd the hall porter’s wife to clean it for Portly, and, equally naturally, after only a few weeks she was already running his life.

  ‘Now then, Mr Portly,’ she was even now calling to him from the kitchen, ‘you can say what you like, but coffee made with added chicory is a a great deal less wasteful.’

  ‘And disgusting to drink, Mrs Todd. Quite disgusting.’

  Thankfully the telephone beside Portly’s newly purchased chair was ringing, which brought a merciful end to a fairly tedious conversation, embarked upon when Mrs Todd had discovered that Portly had thrown out the perfectly awful coffee she had brought in for him the day before.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Because the voice at the other end belonged to Oliver Lowell there was absolutely no need to announce himself.

  ‘I’ve only just begun it, Mr Playwright, sir.’ Portly managed to sound soothing and amused at the same time.

  ‘You’ve had it since yesterday—’

  ‘I know, Ollie, but you know I have had rather a lot of negotiations on my hands these last weeks.’

  ‘You have had it two whole days, Portly, two whole days. I could have written a whole first act in two days.’

  ‘Yes, but you are a genius, Oliver, while I – I am only a mere mortal, and a slow-reading mortal at that. Besides, Bernard Shaw said that anyone could write a first act.’

  Portly smiled into the telephone. It was difficult for Oliver to understand that it took some people, namely Portly, just as long to read a play as it had doubtless taken Oliver to write it, if not longer.

  ‘How much longer, O Lord?’ Oliver was moaning and smoking a cigarette at the same time. Portly could hear him blowing out the smoke less than quietly.

  ‘Give me a couple of days, Ollie, you know how slow I am. As it is, I have to leave here for the office in a couple of minutes. We are snowed under with work over there, you know. Very gratifying, but it does take a bit of time to organise.’

  ‘Oh, all right, I will ring back on Friday morning, but you’d better have a verdict by then, or else.’

  ‘Or else what, Mr Playwright, sir?’

  ‘I will leave you for the fat woman in the cupboard.’

  ‘Not the fat woman in the cupboard? You couldn’t leave me for her!’

  ‘Yes, I could.’

  At his end Oliver put down the telephone and hearing this Elsie called from their bathroom, ‘Well? What did he say?’

  ‘He’s only just begun it!’

  ‘But he’s had it since yesterday!’

  ‘Exactly, but you know old Porters – he’s a very slow reader. Can’t help it, he’s just very slo-ow.’

  ‘Dear old Portly, he would be.’

  Elsie stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was looking more beautiful day by little day, but this, considering the huge success she was scoring in Love To Popeye, was only, surely, to be expected?’

  She was the toast of the West End. The critics had fallen over themselves to praise her. She was a hit, a hit, a palpable hit. And Oliver was still nuts about her, so that was all right. And yet, there was something missing.

  ‘I think we should go shopping, don’t you?’

  Oliver shook his head. He could see that Elsie was feeling fidgety and bored, but he could not bear the idea of going shopping, not while he knew that Portly had his new play, and might be at that moment sitting in his flat, reading it, and not laughing.

  ‘You go, Else. I don’t think I could stand to see the inside of a shop again for quite a while, not at the moment, not with all this on. Worry. All this worry on.’

  Elsie nodded absently, pulling on a high-waisted, black and white redingote coat over a pencil slim skirt and white silk pinch-pleated long-sleeved blouse.

  Months into the West End as they were, she found, unsurprisingly, that she liked going shopping more than ever now. Not just because she could afford to buy so much more than she had ever been able to before, but because she liked to see people nudging each other as she passed them, supremely elegant and entirely recognisable.

  The hiss of the ‘Did you see who that was?’ as she passed was beautifully satisfying.

  If it was not for the success of the play, shopping in London might have become boring after Tadcaster, where she had always been recognised, but the truth was it was not boring, because, if anything, Elsie was far more famous in London than she had been even in Tadcaster. Everywhere she went shop assistants tried not to notice who she was, as did rich customers in the more exclusive stores. Just stepping out on to the pavement from a taxi cab, as she was now doing, had become something of a hurdle, since the moment she stood paying it off she would instantly become surrounded by a crowd of autograph hunters.

  It was all Portly’s fault, of course. Following the entirely successful provincial tour, Portly, the naughty thing, had insisted that Denholm Heighton put Elsie’s face on all the theatre posters, on all the buses, and all the trains, all over London, the result of which was that strange thing called ‘overnight fame’. And that was before the West End opening night, when contrary to all the gloomy predictions from the cast and the management, the play elicited just as many hurrahs, as much applause, and as many ecstatic reviews as the provincial tour. One famous critic even swore that he would give everything he had to have dinner alone with Miss Elsie Lancaster. But best of all, and most of all, the advance business at the box office was stupendous – so good that it even had that old shark, Denholm Heighton, quietly purring. Elsie could have sworn that she once or twice even saw Denholm actually smiling – his lips parting, his teeth showing – which for a powerful impresario was quite something, really.

  ‘Miss Lancaster, may I help you?’

  The black costume and sparkling lapel brooch of the woman with the blue rinse now confronting Elsie told them both that she was the vendeuse of the couture fashion department, and as such made it her duty to know all about success. And boy, was Elsie successful at that moment!

  ‘Certainly you can help me. I want some couture clothes, of the kind that will not date, if you see what I mean?’

  Of course the vendeuse saw what Elsie meant. Indeed, as she turned towards the cupboards in which beautifully made confections of the most alluring kind were hiding, their sleeves stuffed with tissue paper, their gorgeous materials covered so that not even an inch of light could destroy their radiance, Elsie could have sworn that she could hear the woman purring with inner delight.

  The thing about Elsie was that she had been very strictly brought up, never allowed to spend anything on herself unless it was completely necessary. She had been at great pains to point out to both Oliver and Portly that, this being so, she knew where she wanted to spend her money now – on herself – and for no better reason than that she could.

  Nothing had ever been wasted in Dottie’s household, and so Elsie, with an alarming perversity that astonished both Oliver and Portly, was now setting about determinedly spending money, as if it was indeed water dripping through her fingers.

  And of course she could, because thanks to Portly’s late night dinner with Denholm Heighton she was not only on as big a salary as any of the biggest stars in the West End, but she also had a percentage of the box. That was just how confident Portly had been that he and Mr Stephens had their hands on a hit, and that was how determined Portly was that no one should ever again do to him what Donald B
ourton had done.

  ‘Take it or leave it, Mr Heighton,’ he had said, not once or twice, but many times, as the clock in the old oak-panelled back sitting room of the White Hart Hotel in Tadcaster had ticked on, and on, and on, and Heighton had become more and more hunched, like a poker player with a good hand who knows that, good though his hand might be, it is not really going to be quite good enough. He had winced at Portly’s outward confidence, at his expressed determination to find a new management the very next morning should Heighton not clinch a deal before the end of the evening. And yet, successful and rich though he was, he had been finally unable to command his feet to take him to the door marked exit. He liked the sweet smell of success. He enjoyed its seaside aroma too much to be able to walk away from Love To Popeye.

  ‘This is ridiculous – you are asking too much, and you know it.’

  ‘Of course, but then I also know that I have at this golden moment a rip-roaring hit, and at least one fantastic new star, if not two, not to mention a playwright of extraordinary promise. If you were me you would be demanding quite the same terms, and you know it.’

  Of course Portly had been right, and of course Heighton, finally, did know it. He also knew that at any moment he chose Portly could now waltz into the door of any West End management and demand the same terms, so desperate were they all for something entertaining, cheap to put on and easy to take out on tour – not to mention the very real possibility that a good comedy with a small cast could possibly transfer to Broadway for American production.

  So Portly had his wicked way with the negotiations, which meant that Elsie could now stand in front of a wall of mirrors and revel in the sight of herself turning this way and that in a dress from the Dior Young Collection, a pale frost-blue poult-de-soie dinner dress with ribbon streamers, and a flowered bow.

  ‘Madame looks sensational in this, it is truly, truly a dress for madame. Her skin tones so perfect with the colour, and her figure, just perfect too!’

  Elsie smiled at the vendeuse. She was quite right. She was perfect for it. She widened her now famous ‘popeyes’ at the smiling woman. They both knew that Elsie would not ask the price; that would be too vulgar for words.

  Besides, Elsie already knew that the sky was practically the limit as far as her wardrobe was concerned, because Denholm Heighton had agreed to pay for at least one outfit in return for the pages of interviews that Elsie had given when the play opened. The resulting publicity had been enormous, not to mention the attention given to Coco Hampton’s designs – some of which were quickly taken up by the glossy magazines, and some of which were even now being copied by the cheaper clothing manufacturers.

  Because that was what a success in the theatre brought – it did not just bring money, and fame, it brought everyone to your door, all wanting to touch your hem, share the dazzling light that your success had brought you. In effect success meant that Society adopted you, for however long, and you bathed in its golden glow, hoping against hope that the light would not dim, or move off you on to someone else.

  ‘Now what I really do quite desperately need is a coat and skirt for spring, perhaps something from Chanel?’

  ‘I have just the thing.’

  As the vendeuse and her assistant bustled away to the outer room Elsie pulled a little face at herself in the mirror. She could hardly remember a better moment than this, and it was all the more sweet in so many ways for not having Oliver with her. By now he would be becoming impatient for her to choose something, not really caring what she looked like in any outfit, his mind only on his new play, and what Portly might think of it. Whether or not Portly would find the wretched thing amusing. Whether or not Portly would consider that Oliver had lived up to the promise he showed in Love To Popeye.

  ‘This will I think please madame as much as it does us, I believe. It is quite exquisite, you will agree.’

  The vendeuse draped a coat and skirt over the willing arms of her assistant, her long fingers with their deep red nail varnish lovingly demonstrating to Elsie the perfection of the cut of the two-piece.

  ‘Here you will see that the coat and skirt are made of the lightest of tweeds – Madame Chanel does not like working with heavy tweeds – and the collar has a delicious detail here – a crochet edging – then we have gauntlet cuffs, here, and of course this season’s detail – flap pockets.’

  Elsie thought it might be time to look a little choosy, so she put her head on one side and nodded, less than enthusiastically.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And …’ The vendeuse nodded sharply to her assistant. ‘And – next we have Dior again. A natural shantung two-piece, belted, flared at the hips, giving a beautifully lean look to the skirt.’

  Naturally Elsie tried on both, and ended up buying both. She also bought a black wool dress for, as the vendeuse put it, ‘late afternoon’. It had a wonderfully nipped in waist, and the moulded torso did, Elsie had to admit, show off her slender shoulders to perfection.

  ‘Send them, would you, please?’

  ‘Of course, madame. And madame, may I say, on behalf of myself and my assistant, what a pleasure it has been to serve you? To be able to fit someone young and beautiful is, believe me, a great, great pleasure, for such is not always our lot, alas!’

  Elsie smiled genuinely for the first time, signed a cheque for a staggering amount, and walked slowly and deliberately towards the lift.

  She felt as though she had just devoured a whole Fullers chocolate cake, not just a slice. She felt surfeited, satisfied. She had in one short hour spent a fortune, and in that same hour, in her mind, she had defeated Dottie. When she was young Dottie would have a fit if she bought so much as a pair of nylons with her earnings. Yet Elsie had just spent enough on clothes to supply the whole of Tadcaster with nylons, not to mention head scarves and perhaps even belts. She should feel guilt, but she did not. She felt only exuberant euphoria. She had earned every little nip and tuck of those couture clothes. She had earned them for standing backstage in draughty wings watching other performers, trying to learn from them. She had earned them for dancing endlessly, and often pointlessly, in front of bored theatre managers, without so much as a cup of hot milk to fortify her young body. She had earned them for every time she had been given the thumbs down by yet another producer. She had earned them for being ‘too old’ or ‘too young’ or ‘all wrong’. She had earned them by learning her lines, by heart, every time, before every first rehearsal. She had earned them with her hair, so tightly curled and put in papers that, all through her childhood, she had only ever been able to sleep on her front. She had earned them by not growing too tall, or staying too small. She had earned them with her beautiful ‘popeyes’, and her perfectly shaped mouth, and her pearly white teeth. So, most happily, she felt not a shred of guilt nor a thread of remorse about buying those clothes. They were hers, because, damn it, she had earned them!

  But more than that, and in a way even better, she knew that whatever she spent on clothes darling Portly would only agree most wholeheartedly. In fact he would urge her on to buy more and more.

  ‘You must not go around looking ordinary. When you are older, and respectably retired, you can look ordinary. But now, now you must always and everywhere look, and be, a star, or you will let down your public – Elsie Lancaster’s public.’

  With this in mind Portly would never ever countenance Elsie’s taking public transport, and anyone making use of Miss Lancaster’s services for whatever reason would be required to send a car for her. Miss Lancaster was not expected to put her nose out of doors unless she was accompanied by a chauffeur of some kind, or hidden from the view of her adoring public by a taxicab at the very least.

  At first, hearing Portly playing the powerful agent, throwing his weight about on her behalf, Elsie had been a little inclined to feel embarrassed, but after a while she had come to see the sense in his attitudes. If you were treated as a star, you stayed a star; if you were treated as a nobody, that was how you felt. Conversely, if
you felt yourself to be a nobody, that was exactly how people would treat you. It was essential for Elsie, for the play, for all future plays in which she might appear, that she maintain an outward display of stardom.

  ‘People only respect you if you insist that they do,’ was how Portly put it.

  On his side Portly had decided to keep their relationship to that of avuncular agent and beautiful star. It was better for business. So it was that, out of the office and business hours, their relationship grew into something more intimate, and more relaxed, than anything either of them could or would enjoy with anyone else.

  Elsie put her key in the lock of the door and turned it. In some ways she loved her new, fully furnished, and really very pretty Chelsea house, but in other ways she felt uneasy in it, and not because of the grandeur of the furnishings, the inclination to small chandeliers and shiny chintz. It was because of Oliver.

  Sharing a flat with an actor had not been easy in Tadcaster, but in Tadcaster she had also shared her life with Portly, who was always, by cooking and generally being his usual benign self, lightening the atmosphere. Now, in London, there was no Portly, only Oliver, and Ollie, as writer rather than actor, was a gloomy so-and-so at the best of times, always staring into the middle distance and moaning about the focal point of some scene that was currently eluding him.

  Elsie began to creep up the stairs to her bedroom. They had separate bedrooms, to allow Oliver to work in his in the mornings and afternoons, and when they returned from the theatre, without disturbing Elsie.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Portly Cosgrove, really I don’t. I mean, I gave it to Tad to cast an eye over, you know, in case there is anything in it for anyone on his list, and he loves it. He hooted. He said as much to me, “I hooted”. He said that. Actually, now I remember it, he also said, “I found it killing, Oliver”. Those were his actual words. He found it killingly funny.’

  Overhearing this Elsie closed her eyes. Judging from the defensive tone Oliver was taking on the phone, Portly had not found Ollie’s new play at all funny, which meant that there would be murder, at home and at the theatre, for weeks, and weeks, and weeks.