A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  Quentin swivelled so that he was properly facing her. He moved his arm along the back of the seat, started to pick at the fabric of her blouse, just at the shoulder. It was an odd gesture, something a tailor or a seamstress might do with a loose thread. She didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t feel like his action had any sexual undertones, he just seemed absorbed in his task.

  ‘Not inappropriate at all,’ he said eventually. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t oblige.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she managed to say. Perhaps it was her own secret arrogance but somehow she had convinced herself Quentin would agree to her request. ‘Can I ask why not?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ He pulled away from his touching of her blouse as if he had just noticed his actions for the first time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a look to his offending fingers. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Laura. From what I’ve seen so far, I think you’ll do an absolutely sterling job with the play. But I do not wish to get involved for a couple of reasons.’

  ‘And these are?’

  ‘First of all I just don’t feel comfortable having a financial involvement in this material which I am so close to. It would seem like… I don’t know… like a vanity project. I hope you can respect that. And secondly…’ Quentin was back fingering her blouse. ‘Yes, secondly. Secondly, I’ve decided to invest what spare cash I have in backing my own play.’

  ‘Maimonides?’

  ‘Yes, Maimonides. You did such a wonderful job with the run-through, I thought – why not take a risk on something I really care about? I’ve spoken to some theatre producers and we’re looking at the whole package. Rehearsals, provincial touring with the possibility of staging it somewhere in London if reviews are positive. And that is why I would like to ask you my favour.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I was wondering if you would be kind enough to give me the contact details for your wonderful cast. I’d like to offer them all parts in my new production.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Hepburn Archives

  Extract from an unpublished memoir

  I notice it’s been a while now since I mentioned the film director, Doug Mitchell. Doug who brought me the news that Max had been killed in a bombing raid. Doug who briefly became my wartime lover until we no longer had the time nor the inclination to keep our liaison alive. Ours wasn’t an instant or brutal separation. We simply and slowly starved our relationship to death.

  I was therefore surprised one day to find that on answering the insistent knocking on the door of my mother’s cottage, Doug was standing there with a bunch of flowers in his hand and a wide smile on his still handsome face.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ was all I could say.

  Doug pushed the bouquet at me. ‘A peace offering,’ he said. His hair and moustache were grey and he had filled out a bit, as had most people now that the war was over. Looking back at those years of conflict, I understood how we all had been such pale, thin rations of our real physical selves.

  ‘I didn’t realise you and I had been at war,’ I said, taking his gift.

  ‘A war of attrition.’

  ‘Still the charmer.’ I noticed that almost subconsciously I had placed my hand on my hip to adopt some coquettish pose. ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I’m making a film not far from here. I remembered you came from Five Elms Down, it’s not a name I could easily forget. Drove over on the off-chance. The florist told me where you lived. Are you letting me in?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Please enter.’

  I took him out to the garden. I could feel myself trembling as I walked him through, feeling his gaze on the back of me. It had been a long time since I had entertained male company and here I was behaving like a teenage girl as I rushed to pull out the garden chairs, mumbled lots of things at once about my mother being asleep upstairs, and if he wanted a cup of tea or perhaps something stronger and if he could just give me a minute while I tidied up, put the flowers in a vase. He just stood back and watched me with that stupid smile on his face which just made me twitter on all the more. I got him settled then went into the downstairs bathroom, powdered my cheeks, applied some lipstick, talked to myself in the mirror. ‘For Christ’s sake, Georgie. You’re a forty-six-year-old woman behaving like an adolescent.’ I just prayed my mother wouldn’t wake up for a while.

  I went into the kitchen, made up afternoon tea for two, took the tray through towards the garden. Just as I was approaching, I saw Doug sitting there, smoking a pipe, gazing out across the lawn, and I recalled an image of my father sitting in that very same position smoking his pipe so many years ago. The memory was quite overwhelming and I had to stop for a moment, regain my composure. I thought of my mother upstairs asleep in her room, looked back again at Doug, the present and past images somehow fusing together into one, and I realised I felt immensely happy. No. ‘Happy’ would be the wrong word. I felt content. As if finally this was how my life was supposed to be.

  ‘I’ve made tea,’ I said, scolding myself quietly for stating the bloody obvious.

  My words seemed to have shaken Doug out of some reverie. ‘I was just thinking…’ His voice drifted away.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted a place like this. Cottage in the country. Quite the English dream, eh? Apple trees and trimmed lawns. Village green. The birds singing. Do birds sing in the city? I’ve never noticed. Do they?’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘And horses. I’d have stables, go riding every day. Do you ride, Georgie?

  ‘I used to when I was young. I suppose we all did round here. What about you?’

  ‘Me too. When I was young. Pony trekking holidays in Scotland. Magnificent memories. But don’t you get lonely out here?’

  ‘There’s my mother, of course. Although she hardly registers who I am these days. I know people in the village. And my aunt and god-daughter live not too far away. What about you? Are you still in that little flat in Shepherd’s Bush?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. My former spouse still has the house. Which is fine for the children, of course. But my hope is that this film I’m working on takes off and it will be goodbye to poverty forever.’

  ‘Not another war film?’

  ‘Absolutely not. And I’m not one for Ealing comedies either. Or Dickens or Shakespeare. You know that film you did? The Woman Walks Free. It’s a bit like that. Dark, gritty, a strong female lead. I’ve got a young actress called Marion MacDonald playing the role. She might not be famous now but this girl is bound for stardom.’

  ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘I did actually. It’s called Limehouse. Most of it takes place in London’s East End. But the young woman moves in from the country. That’s why I’m down here filming.’

  I poured out the tea and listened as Doug talked animatedly about his film. Of course, my own career in that industry had come to a halt twenty years previously but I still took an interest, keeping up-to-date with my monthly dose of Picturegoer magazine. I became quite animated myself when I told Doug about my day out at Royal Ascot with Ivor Novello, my encounter with the great Alfred Hitchcock. The light began to fade and the air cooled but we chatted on and I realised that we had never talked like this before. Our previous encounters had been precious moments of physical pleasure snatched out of the fear and drama of a war. Here we were now actually communicating with each other, sharing our passions. Darkness and the coldness of the night eventually forced us inside. I prepared dinner, my mother came down to join us, hardly seeming to notice there was a male guest at her table. When it finally came for Doug to leave, I walked with him out to the car. We kissed briefly, it had been such a long time, I felt I had forgotten how to. I pulled away and just buried my face in his shoulder and he held me warm and close. He told me he would come back to visit again as soon as there was another break in filming.

  When I returned to the house, I asked my mother what she thought of him.

&nb
sp; ‘You know I’ve always liked Douglas Fairbanks,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised he came for dinner.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  A Benchmark

  Laura didn’t take up Quentin’s offer of a drive in his vintage roadster. It wasn’t that she was angry with him. After all, the man had every right to do what he wanted with his money, even if it meant funding a play she had helped him put on. Or providing work for a cast she had assembled – including bloody Caroline – while leaving her empty-handed. It all just felt like another let-down at a time when everything else was going wrong in her life. She thanked him for introducing her to the wonder of the Chagall windows and drove off a little too fast for these winding country lanes. She noted that Sal had texted her several times wanting to know the outcome of their meeting. She waited until she got back to London before she called him.

  ‘How’s my pal Quentin?’ he asked.

  ‘He took me to a tiny Kent village to see some stained glass windows.’

  ‘Are you guys going on dates now?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. And the windows were by Chagall. Absolutely stunning.’

  ‘I’m sure they were. Did you ask him about funding?’

  ‘He turned us down.’

  ‘Ouch. You couldn’t twist his arm?’

  ‘He wouldn’t budge.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He said he felt too close to the production. Although I’m not sure I understood what he meant by that.’

  ‘That was his reason?’

  ‘He’s also decided to put his money into his own play. That Maimonides production I organized for him.’

  ‘I thought you said it was crap.’

  ‘I told you it wasn’t as bad as I first thought. Although my opinion doesn’t matter here. Quentin intends to put together a full-blown production. And he wants to use my cast.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Laura. You don’t have to help him with that. We’ve already come up with our side of the bargain.’

  ‘We? You mean I’ve come up with our side of the bargain, Sal. I’d be interested to know what you’ve done.’

  ‘OK, I get you’re annoyed with Quentin. But no need to take it out on me. We’re partners, remember. Which is just as well. Since I got your back covered.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I had a meeting with Sir Lew.’

  ‘I’m impressed. And?’

  ‘He said investing in the arts wasn’t really his thing.’

  ‘I could have told you that.’

  ‘He didn’t dismiss me out of hand though. He said he’d run it by one of his advisers. Remember that guy you sat beside at Caroline’s dinner party?’

  ‘The Swede. Fredrik something.’

  ‘Fredrik Nilssen.’

  ‘The one who predicts the age of your death.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

  ‘I thought he just worked out risk for insurance companies, banks, things like that.’

  ‘And for all kinds of Lew’s potential investments. Like our play.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense. We must be small-fry compared to his other projects.’

  ‘You underestimate my powers of presentation, Laura. I told him that if we can get our little play to the West End, then to Broadway, license the rights overseas, we could be raking in the dollars. Andrew Lloyd Webber territory.’

  ‘You told him that?’

  ‘Maybe not the Andrew Lloyd Webber line. Anyway, you seemed to get on well with Fredrik that night.’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘I thought he had the hots for you.’

  ‘How would you know? You had your back to me all through dinner.’

  ‘I was playing hard to get.’

  Laura ignored the comment. ‘When will we know?’

  ‘A couple of days. Tops.’

  It had been a boozy lunch as usual with Victoria in Hampstead. Afterwards, the two of them strolled through Highgate Wood, Laura taking her friend’s arm more for support than out of affection. Too much wine in the afternoon? So what? She had nothing else to do for the rest of the day although Victoria had an appointment with a client at three. She snatched in a couple of deep breaths, hoping the oxygen would clear her head, moved in a little closer to her friend. She loved these woods with their clusters of oaks, hornbeams and holly. She loved the word ‘wood’. There was something comforting and magical about it, better than the word ‘forest’ which always seemed to contain an element of darkness and fear. Although Highgate Wood was probably a forest at one time before Muswell Hill and Finchley and Highgate itself crept in.

  ‘When I die,’ she announced with a grand flourish of her free arm. ‘I’m going to leave money for a bench to be placed here in my memory.’

  ‘No star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame?’

  ‘Those days are over.’

  ‘A blue plaque from English Heritage?’

  ‘Just a bench. And I’d like you, Victoria, my dear bestest friend, to deal with it.’

  ‘Only if I get to choose the inscription.’

  ‘Something simple then. Name. Year of birth and death. And then a short sentence like: She loved this place.’

  ‘Oh, I was thinking more along the lines of: Laura Scott. Died in denial about her tax bill.’

  ‘Are you still going on about that?’

  ‘Laura, you’ve got to do something about it. Go and see Marcus. Please.’

  ‘He’ll just scold me like I was some naughty schoolgirl.’

  ‘Better that than ending up in prison. Swallow your pride and call him.’

  Laura pulled her friend to a stop. ‘I’d like you to place the bench up there.’ She pointed towards a rise in the woodlands. ‘That’s my favourite spot.’

  Victoria stamped her feet. ‘You’re not listening to me.’

  ‘I always listen to you and your wonderful words of wisdom.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Some of your advice has stayed with me all my life.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I am being serious. Remember when we were in Greece together, you, me and Caroline? Somewhere on Crete.’

  ‘Paleochora.’

  ‘That was it. It was in your more “hippy dippy” days.’

  ‘I don’t know why you keep saying that. You were as much a dippy hippy as I was.’

  Laura stood back from her friend, looked her up and down from her white lace headband, past her Indian kurti top to her tie-dye baggy yoga pants. ‘I really don’t think so.’

  Victoria shrugged. ‘You were saying about Paleochora.’

  Laura hooked herself back into Victoria’s arm and they continued walking. ‘We were sitting around a fire on the beach with some others, I don’t remember any of them, young men, Greeks, one was playing a guitar, good-looking he was, Caroline all over him like a rash as usual. Do you remember that?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Full moon, canopy of stars, warm night. We were all drunk or stoned, singing something about not saying goodbye to the summer. Still with me?’

  ‘I kind of remember.’

  ‘I was feeling immensely happy and content, probably haven’t ever felt better since if I were to be truthful. And then you turned to me and said, completely out of the blue, in a sort of far-off voice as if you had just experienced some kind of an epiphany: The most important thing, Laura, is to follow your dream.’

  ‘That would be my Martin Luther King moment.’

  ‘Will you let me finish. And then you said: If you do that, the universe will take care of you. And all the pieces will fall into place.’

  Victoria laughed. ‘That was very profound of my younger self.’

  ‘You are very profound.’

  ‘And you’re a little bit drunk.’

  ‘Seriously, that’s what you said to me. And the intensity of the way you spoke then was frightening.’

  ‘You just felt that way because you were stoned.’

  ‘Perhaps. But your words sta
yed with me even after all these years.’ Laura tried to imitate Victoria’s otherworldly tone. ‘Follow your dream and the universe will take care of you. And that’s what I’m doing now.’

  ‘By not going to see Marcus?’

  ‘No, by believing in myself. I’m convinced that by committing myself to this project about Georgie, everything will work out just fine. Sal will come up with the finance, the play will be a huge success, I will pay off my tax bill and Marcus Green can go fuck himself with his rules number one, two and whatever. After all, that’s what happened to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you persisted with all your feng shui stuff when everyone else thought you were mad.’

  ‘You never told me you thought I was mad.’

  ‘So I lied to support you. And just look at you now. Designer to the rich and famous.’

  ‘You’re missing out the part about the unfaithful husband and the broken marriage.’

  ‘That’s another aspect altogether. That involves the vagaries of another person. I’m talking about individual choice.’

  ‘Well, my individual choice is that I have to see a client at three. Do you want to stay or shall we share a taxi?’

  ‘I’d like to stay for a while. At my favourite place. Where you shall put my bench.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home and sleep off lunch?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  With Victoria gone, Laura wandered off among the trees, away from the pathways to find her own private spot. She still felt a bit light-headed and it took a while for her to locate her destination. When she found it, she took off her suede jacket, folded it up to serve as a cushion and sat down on it with her back against her favourite oak. The sun had just begun to slant through the branches sending out fingers of light everywhere. It was that gorgeous time of year when the last of the summer lingered but autumn was most definitely in the air, the temperature cooling, the colours changing, the faint whiff of mulch from the damp earth and the early fallen leaves.

  Her phone started thrumming away on mute from somewhere inside her satchel but she had neither the desire nor the energy to go foraging to find it. What she really needed to do was pee. She surveyed her location. She was out of sight from any of the paths, it was hardly likely that anyone else would be stumbling around in this part of the woods. She had some tissues in her pocket. So after another quick look around, she pulled down her jeans and her knickers, squatted down close at the earth. She could feel the draft on her bum. Was this how other middle-aged women behaved after a few glasses of wine and with a full bladder? She actually found herself smirking at the thought of some rogue paparazzo snapping away at her white arse and the flapping tails of her shirt. What a headline – or bottom line – that would make. She wiped herself off, zipped herself up, sat back down on her jacket, closed her eyes. Peeing in the woods had made her feel so…? So liberated. Like the pot-smoking rebellious youth she once was. She thought again about Victoria’s ancient advice. Could she seriously believe that the universe would take care of her if she followed her true destiny? Well, all it needed was for Sir Lew to come up with the money and she could find out.