A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  A Woman of Integrity

  A Woman of Integrity

  By

  J David Simons

  First published 2017 by Freight Books

  This edition published by Saraband 2018

  www.saraband.net

  Copyright © 2017 J David Simons

  The moral right of J David Simons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP.

  J David Simons acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards the writing of this book

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

  eISBN: 9781912235476

  ‘Integrity is what we hope will emerge when our authenticity is put under pressure.’

  Georgina Hepburn

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Dumped!

  Laura felt a horrible lurch in her stomach as she tried to absorb the news. ‘You’re dumping me?’ she countered. ‘After all these years?’

  ‘You put it too cruelly,’ Edy said, her New York drawl spanning the transatlantic telephone connection like some mammoth Brooklyn Bridge.

  Laura could imagine Edy sunk down in her swivel chair, staring out across the Hudson to New Jersey. Her short black boots, tight black leather trousers, matching polo neck, all speckled with cigarette ash. ‘How the hell am I supposed to put it?’ she snapped back. ‘Are you asking me to be grateful?’

  ‘What can I say? I have no choice, I gotta prune my list. Orders from on high. I no longer get absolute choice over my own clients. You can’t blame me, Laura. Everything’s faceless and corporate these days. And global.’

  Laura needed fresh air. She moved out of the bedroom, through the French windows and barefoot into the garden of her ground-floor flat. An area shaded by high walls and tall trees, only the glimpse of sun. But it gave her all the greenery and privacy she needed. Such a luxury for a London property. How was she going to afford all of this? She eased herself down into one of the wrought-iron chairs, heard Edy suck hard on a cigarette. ‘What are you saying? It’s not just New York. London as well?’

  ‘LA, Sydney, Hong Kong. The whole fucking shebang.’

  ‘Jesus, Edy. You’re wiping me off the map.’ Her voice was coming out all whiny now but she couldn’t help herself. ‘I’ve been with you since the beginning. Why me?’

  ‘It’s not just you.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Diane? Surely not Diane. Don’t tell me you’ve axed Diane as well?’

  ‘Top of the list.’

  ‘She’s won a bloody Oscar, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Only for supporting.’

  ‘It wasn’t even that long ago.’

  ‘It was last century, Laura. That’s another millennium already.’

  ‘And Kate?’

  ‘Kate had to go anyway. Have you seen the state she’s in?’

  Laura had seen. Doused in alcohol like some pickled relic. Just the other night on TV, sliding off her chair until the presenter almost had to peel her off the floor. ‘In any other walk of life, there would be a law against this.’

  ‘What law?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ageism. Discrimination. I’m sure there’s something.’

  ‘Come on, Laura. You’ve always known what a fucked-up business we’re in. But it’s not just that. The parts aren’t there anymore. And when they are, Meryl and all your fancy shmanzy dames suck them up.’

  ‘Why can’t I suck them up too?’

  ‘You’re not royalty, darling. High class, maybe. But not royalty.’

  Laura rubbed her palm against her forehead, felt the skin flaky and dry at her hairline. ‘What am I going to do, Edy? What am I going to do?’

  ‘I’m not the only show in town.’

  ‘You know it doesn’t work like that. I might as well hang a sign around my neck. Edy Weinberg’s stock clearance sale. Past sell-by date.’ She heard a New York police car wailing in the background. Then she heard Edy sigh, a rasping breath, it was hard to believe the woman was still alive. Or managing without an oxygen tank by her side. Sixty cigarettes a day ever since she was old enough to light a match. Every gasp of air into her rattling lungs threatened to be her last. It was torture to watch her laugh.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Laura was forced to ask after what could have been a deadly silence.

  ‘Of course, I’m all right. And you should be too.’

  ‘I’m definitely not all right.’

  ‘Financially, I mean.’

  ‘You mean if I forget about the mortgage and my tax bill.’

  ‘What about The Bentleys?’

  Laura could at least thank Edy for the repeat fees on that. An English nanny to two spoiled kids in a rich Afro-American family. The Cosby Show meets Mary Poppins. Two series. An Emmy under her belt. Sold to 52 countries worldwide. She was a big hit in Vietnam. Maybe she could move there.

  ‘Those have just about dried up. And then what?’

  ‘There’s the Disney thing,’ Edy added.

  It was Laura’s turn to sigh. The Disney thing. The voice-over for a crab. For Christ’s
sake, one minute she was hoisting a statuette in the air, the next she was an English accent for a love-struck crustacean. ‘Yeah, the Disney thing.’

  ‘See. That’s your problem right there. You shouldn’t be all sniffy about those kind of jobs. Most people love doing the cartoon stuff. It’s like a paid vacation to them.’

  Laura had to admit it had been fun. But it wasn’t exactly where she envisaged her place in the acting world to be on the wrong side of fifty. ‘If I wanted a vacation I’d go to Hawaii…’

  ‘…It opened real well too. The weekend box-office was over forty mil already. That’s Shrek territory.’

  ‘It was a salary job, Edy. It’s not as if you got me a back-end deal.’

  ‘There might be a sequel with that kind of opening.’

  Laura stood up, walked over to the small pond. The water was covered in a green slime but a couple of orange-bodied carp still slinked below the surface. How they survived in there she never knew. She never fed them or cleaned the water. She lifted her bare foot to the stone edge of the pool, let her toes dip into the cool water. Her neck cocked to cradle the phone against her shoulder, Edy’s voice still croaking away:

  ‘…a chance to pick up all those projects you were always too busy for. I know it sounds clichéd, but this could be a fresh start for you.’

  ‘You’re right, Edy. My life is falling apart… and you do sound fucking clichéd.’ Laura held her breath. Edy might dish out the ‘fuck’ word like she handed out cigarettes but she didn’t like hearing it back at her. She waited. The wail of another siren.

  ‘Well, if it’s the truth you want,’ Edy said eventually. ‘I’ll give it to you straight.’ A pause. Edy always had a penchant for the dramatic, no doubt picked up from her clients. ‘You wanna hear?’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘There comes a point when the world ain’t interested in you anymore. Simple as that. It don’t matter if you’re Laura Scott, Julia fucking Roberts, a rock star or a hooker. You can either move on from that. Or you can sit at home in the dark, knock back a bottle of gin, watch re-runs of your best bits. Just like our friend Kate.’

  Laura knelt down, trailed her hand in the pond slime. ‘I’m going to go now,’ she said quietly, letting the algae slide softly between her fingers.

  ‘Yeah. I gotta go too. I gotta call Naomi next. Love ya.’

  Laura lifted her neck, watched as the handset slipped from her shoulder, bounced off the stone wall and into the water.

  Chapter Two

  The Hepburn Archives

  Extract from an unpublished memoir by Georgina Hepburn

  Born in 1900, I am as old as the century itself, an only child who grew up in the tiny village of Five Elms Down in Sussex where nothing very much ever happened. Contrary to the stereotype of an infant raised without siblings, I was not spoiled nor did I have any imaginary friends. But did I turn out to be selfish and narcissistic? Well, I shall leave the answer to that question for others to decide.

  I often wondered what a different turn my life might have taken if my English teacher, Mr Bemrose, had not selected me to play the role of the Indian princess Pocahontas in the school pageant to celebrate the Festival of Empire. Up until that point I had not displayed any talent or desire for amateur dramatics. I doubt even that Mr Bemrose’s choice was based on any latent acting ability he might have perceived in me. Rather my dark hair and slightly olive complexion (my mother boasted some minor Italian aristocrat in her distant heritage) might have swayed my teacher’s selection above those of my female classmates who generally were as fair as an English rose. I didn’t have a choice in the matter anyway as the casting was his superior male prerogative, a privilege I was to confront later in my life with devastating consequences.

  I still possess the newspaper account from that glorious day on 12th May 1911, cut out from the front page of the Sussex Herald. Even now as I write this, I can recall the sensation of my childish fingers struggling with the rings of the scissors, the heat of excitement searing my young body as I carefully trimmed the edges of the article containing the details of my acting debut. According to the paper, several hundred people had lined the streets to cheer a series of bedecked floats drawn through our village by finely dressed horses from the West Dene stables, each float representing a famous scene in celebration of our great Empire. One was of Captain Cook’s landing in Botany Bay, another depicted Dr David Livingston’s discovery of the Victoria Falls.

  I saw none of this, too busy was I in preparation for my starring part in the pageant portraying the reception of Pocahontas and her husband, the colonist John Rolfe, at the court of King James. Eddie Shaw played the king with a certain lack of discipline that even then offended my thespian aspirations. Freddy Cranfield took the role of my husband Rolfe with slightly more seriousness while my other classmates played the parts of members of the royal court with varying degrees of competence. While Mr Bemrose recited the narrative describing Pocahontas’s visit to England, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it must have been like for this young woman (she would only have been twenty-one at the time) to be presented before royalty. Even in my immature mind, I seemed to understand the demands, the complexity of the situation imposed on my nascent acting ability. Being the daughter of a great tribal chieftain, Pocahontas would have possessed a certain dignity and inner sense of her own importance. Yet at the same time she was being treated as some kind of noble savage to be paraded before the leader of this great nation. I believe that through my bearing and the manner in which I answered the king’s questions regarding my impressions of the English way of life, I managed to capture these conflicting emotions. Certainly the audience seemed to think so given their enthusiastic applause as I made my bows. As did my mother who congratulated me with her usual restrained enthusiasm. I don’t remember my father being present at all. I still have the new sixpence I received as a mark of my participation in the event.

  It was the absolute joy I experienced from this brief acting role that persuaded me this was the vocation for me. I also happened to be fortunate that my ambition should coincide with one of the most significant advances of my century – the advent of cinema. Until then, only a life on stage – and particularly in musical theatre – would have been available to an aspiring actress. Now I could dream of the silver and silent screen.

  If Mr Bemrose had looked over my shoulder as I was writing my class essay and said: ‘That is an exceptionally coherent and complex sentence,’ would I have decided to become a writer? If he had swung by the art room where I was painting a still life of fruit in a bowl and commented: ‘I like the way you have captured the light on the skin of those apples’, would I have run off to Paris to become a painter? There are some of us whose immediate talent shines through almost from the moment they exit the womb. But for those mere mortals like myself who lie in wait for an encouraging word, that encouraging word can take them places they never could have imagined. All for the sake of having one’s self-worth appreciated.

  In my later years, I happened to become friends with an American gentleman, Kipling Jones his name was, a well-known astrologer to the stars of Hollywood as well as of the stars of the firmament. Not for Kip the generalised predictions of the daily newspapers. He dealt with precise times and places of birth, major and minor aspects, this house opposite that house, eclipses and orbits in retrograde, equinoctial points and the return of Saturn. He would produce elaborate and beautiful charts along with eloquent texts explaining his subject’s personality and proclivities – all for a substantial fee. I never really gave any serious thought to Kip’s profession, if I can even call it that. However, there was one comment he made to me that has often given me cause for consideration. After I had confided to him my musings as to how my life might have been different if Mr Bemrose had not chosen me to play the part of Pocahontas, Kip laughed that hearty laugh of his, slapped his knee and said in a Southern drawl as smooth and sweet as syrup:

  ‘Oh, Georgie. It woul
d have made no damn difference at all. You think these turning points are important in your life but they are not worth a dime in the grand scheme of things. Destiny is destiny. You’d have ended up in exactly the same place as you’ve ended up now. Whether Mister Bemrose chose you to play that part or not.’

  Chapter Three

  Over the Primrose Hill

  It was one of those wonderful London summer afternoons. Not too hot, not too humid, Laura in her summer dress, loving the feel of the breeze and sun on her naked legs as she hastened past the pavement cafes. She didn’t think Primrose Hill was the same since the Russian tea rooms had closed but Victoria still insisted they meet there.

  She was late. With all the traffic, she had paid off the taxi driver at the top of Regent’s Park Road, was walking the rest of the way. She would have liked to have upped her pace a little but her heels, her upbringing and her reputation restrained her. If it had been anyone else but Victoria she would have cancelled, stayed at home, cried into her pillow. But Victoria was the best person to see in these moments of crisis, an angel perched on her shoulder giving her the best advice. Although she didn’t always take it. For on her other shoulder, she had a whole epaulette of demons begging her to do the opposite.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Victoria asked, looking up from her phone. She was wearing an off-white peasant blouse, a floral skirt and very little make-up. Victoria hadn’t changed her look since her hippy days thirty years ago, although thankfully she no longer exuded the constant scent of patchouli.

  ‘There’s been a crisis.’

  ‘I tried texting you.’

  Laura sat down. She would have preferred to have been inside but the place was packed. ‘Mobile’s not working.’

  ‘There certainly has been a crisis then,’ Victoria said as she slipped her own phone into her bag. ‘A cappuccino’s coming. I ordered when I saw you trying not to run up the street. Now will you take off those stupid sunglasses. You look like a giant ladybug.’

  ‘I’m keeping them on.’

  ‘No need to act the diva with me.’

  Laura tipped her head down so Victoria could see over the rim of her glasses.