A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  ‘Who do you think?’

  And then the truth became so obvious to her. ‘Fuck, Caroline. You. You’re putting up the money.’

  Caroline sipped on her drink, drew on her cigarette, then back to her drink again. ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Oh come on, Laura. You can’t always have everything your own way.’

  ‘And you haven’t?’ Laura stretched out her arm to the room and its art work in an indication of some of Caroline’s wealth, causing a slosh of gin and tonic to spill on her hand.

  ‘All this means nothing to me.’ Caroline tried snapping her fingers to illustrate the vacuousness of her existence but failed. ‘I always wanted what you have. Right from the start. When we were back in drama school.’

  ‘I had a bit of luck in the beginning that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to make my own luck now.’

  ‘Even it means screwing over an old friend?’

  ‘You’ve had your glittering career. I just want one last chance. That Maimonides thing reminded me of what really makes me happy.’

  ‘Quentin’s turning Maimonides into a proper production. I suggest you stick with that.’

  ‘Oh, Laura. I’d merely be supporting. Georgie by Georgie, I’ve read Sal’s script… it’s just so wonderful.’

  ‘I’m not letting you do this to me, Caroline. I’m not going to let you bribe Sal into giving you this part.’

  Caroline smirked at her. ‘Sal didn’t need any bribe to do that.’

  Laura stood up quickly, knocking over the little table that supported her drink. She watched as the clear alcohol seeped into the expensive carpet, regretting for a moment that she had not asked for a large glass of red wine. ‘Christ, Caroline. You never change, do you? You’re sleeping with him. That’s what this is all about.’

  ‘So what if it is?’

  ‘You conniving bitch.’

  ‘Jealous? He is rather good-looking.’

  ‘Well, two can play at that game.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it, Laura?’

  ‘I’ll tell Lew.’

  Caroline laughed. ‘Go on. Tell him. Do you think Lew gives a shit who I’m fucking? He’s got a trail of whores lined up from here to Acapulco. Go on, Laura. Give him some dirt on me. You’ll be doing the bastard a favour.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The Hepburn Archives

  Extract from an unpublished memoir

  The period I call ‘the trough’ began after we moved to the States – ‘to be closer to the action’ as Doug decreed it. We rented a beach house out in Malibu, Los Angeles County, California. It was a gorgeous place to live, ocean view, miles and miles of sand, acres of mountains, chaparral and canyons, no wonder so many of the Hollywood rich and famous chose to locate their homes there. But what I loved most was the light. Even when it was sunny in England, everything still seemed so drab and dreary in those post-war years. Here in California, that never-ending bucketload of sunshine dazzled me every day, charged up my batteries, filled me with hope.

  I certainly needed to cling to that feeling of hope. Doug had directed two movies in the wake of the success of Limehouse but they had both bombed at the box office and his calling card at the various studios was gradually losing its sheen. He had always been a bit of a drinker but he took up the alcohol then with a vengeance. Thankfully, he was never a violent drunk. I can say that about him, despite all that he did, he never once raised a hand to me. Alcohol would just make him incredibly maudlin, then boring, then full of self-pity, then he would collapse. I would find him passed out on the beach, floating around inside a rubber ring in the pool, flat out in a puddle of his own vomit on the bathroom floor (several times), head down on the steering wheel in the garage. Drugs crept into his life too, cocaine for sure, marijuana was just coming into its own, I doubt if he injected any of the really hard stuff, Doug was always afraid of needles.

  I helped him to his bed, cleaned up after him, ignored the alcohol on his breath, the smell of another woman’s perfume on his clothes, the semen stains on his underpants, the receipts for flowers and jewellery I never saw. I nursed his ego, nursed him through the script he was writing that would eventually prove to be his resurrection. I treated him more like a naughty little boy with homework to be done rather than as my husband.

  In the meantime I got on with my own life, continued taking my photographs, managed to organize a few exhibitions of my work, obtained several commissions for portraits of wealthy clients. I made enough money not to have to ask Doug for anything for myself. It was Doug though who paid the rent on the beach house and all the associated utilities. I never thought to ask him where the money came from, I assumed funds still remained from the heady Limehouse days.

  I had been commissioned to do some portraits for an oil executive and his family about 100 miles up the coast in Santa Barbara, a place I’d never been to before. Frank Monaghan was the name of the client, he told me he had seen my work in a small gallery exhibition I’d held in Ventura a few months previously where he had even bought some of my photographs. I thought this was rather odd at the time as I didn’t recognise Frank’s name as one of my buyers but then again he might have purchased them through a corporate account. Frank was courteous enough to send a car down to Malibu to pick me up. It was a pleasure to be chauffeured up the coast, the surfers out in the ocean, the cool breezes through the parklands, the eternal sunshine. I had work, I had purpose, I had nothing to do but sit back in leather-ensconced luxury and enjoy the ride.

  Santa Barbara, hemmed in as it was between the mountains and the ocean, had a distinct Mediterranean feel about it. I mentioned this to the driver who looked at me through his sunglasses and his rearview mirror. ‘We call it the American Riviera,’ he said. He went on to tell me that where Frank Monaghan lived was called Mission Canyon. ‘Much cooler up there,’ he said. ‘But plenty wild fires. Especially at this time of year.’

  The Monaghan house was all timber and glass built on one level, hidden behind palm trees, pink and purple bougainvillea, an array of succulents in giant terracotta pots. There was a natural, cool feel to the place, views over Santa Barbara and out to the ocean. Frank was waiting for me on the steps, a big, florid hunk of a man in a coffee-cream short-sleeve shirt and matching slacks, all ironed into razor-sharp edges. While the driver unloaded my equipment, he guided me into the house.

  It turned out the assignment was not as I thought it to be. There were to be no family shots. Looking around at the open-plan lounge-dining area – all dark wood and leather chairs – I even wondered if there was a family at all. Frank just wanted some corporate photos for his company brochure as well as some more casual portraits that he might have enlarged and framed for his study.

  ‘Arty stuff,’ he said. ‘Like those other ones you did.’

  ‘To be honest, Frank, I’m not sure what you purchased.’

  ‘You’d better come with me then.’

  I followed him through a long wood-panelled corridor adorned with black and white photographs, all of Frank engaged in some sort of sporting activity – golf, hunting, fishing, bowling. Some of his companions were known to me – a couple of actor friends of Doug’s, the Governor of the State. I looked ahead to where he was waiting for me, the door to his study wide open. I entered the room which in turn looked out on to an enormous swimming pool. Frank stood framed against this blue, blue backdrop, his arm held out in presentation pose.

  ‘That’s what I want you to do for me,’ Frank said.

  I looked across the room to the back wall. I was shocked by what I saw. Three of my photographs that I thought were stashed away somewhere in my Malibu basement hanging there on Frank’s wall. A famous triptych. Brando by the pool, Jimmy Dean on the sofa, and in between the two of them, John Wayne in a dinner suit trying with great difficulty to eat a large slice of cake. The Duke was smiling, there was cream all over his chin and fingers. It was one of my favourite p
hotographs, that big hunk of a hero undone by an unwieldy gateau.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean? I bought them.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Your Ventura exhibition. The gallery owner.’

  ‘But these photographs weren’t in the exhibition. I’ve never even mounted or framed them.’

  Frank scratched the side of his neck. ‘That guy…’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘The gallery owner. Schulz, I think he was called.’

  ‘Yes, Mike Schulz.’

  ‘Well, Mike showed them to me. Back of the gallery. Special clients only. I love them, Georgie. Even though they are big shot stars, you’ve captured the humanity in them. The essence of who they really are. That’s what I want you to do with me.’

  ‘How much did you pay for them? If you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Five thousand a pop,’ he said, then back to scratching the side of his neck again. ‘Aren’t they kosher?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Their provenance is good, yeah?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Their provenance is just fine.’

  I don’t know if it was through my anger or my talent, but those photographs I took of Frank Monaghan that day were among the best I’d ever done. (I don’t own them myself but I often came across them years later, Frank lending them out to exhibitions or for albums). After the shoot was over though, I didn’t hang around for any niceties but got the driver to take me straight back to Malibu. I went down to the basement. Out of my whole collection there were only a few photographs left – Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Audrey Hepburn, some other lesser knowns.

  I found Doug asleep by the pool. He was snoring loudly, a half bottle of Jack Daniels by the side of his lounger. I stopped to look at him for a few moments. He had put on quite a bit of weight since we’d moved from ration-stricken England to all-you-can-eat California. His fat belly disgusted me, struggling as it was to fit into the waist band of his tight little trunks. His mouth was half-open, he was snoring away, there was dribble on his chin. I kicked at the leg of the lounger and he lurched awake with a snort.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ I said. I remember that these were my exact words for I hardly ever swear.

  Doug knew that too. His head spun here and there like some kind of mad cock on a weather-vane as he tried to figure out what had happened. ‘Wha?’ was all he could say.

  ‘My photographs. The ones in the basement.’

  He eased himself upright on the lounger, his face red and blotchy from the sun. He never did tan well in the Californian sunshine.

  ‘So that’s what this is about.’

  ‘You had no permission to sell those photographs, Doug.’

  ‘How do you think I’ve been paying for this place the last year?’

  ‘Paying for this place? You mean paying for your drugs and whisky.’

  ‘They’re just photographs, Georgie,’ he said, his voice softening slightly.

  ‘I never wanted them displayed.’

  ‘Why not? What’s the point of letting them rot away in the basement?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Because the subject happens to be more important than the photographer.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You breached my trust. You breached the trust of all these people. You’ve ruined my reputation as a photographer.’

  ‘No-one is going to know. They were all sold to private collectors.’

  ‘You think that makes me feel better.’

  Doug snorted, lifted himself off the lounger, picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels, walked back towards the house. I had to run after him.

  ‘I’m fed up supporting you,’ I shouted.

  Doug spun on his heels, turned to face me, his mouth curled, his expression ugly. ‘You supporting me?’ he said, laughing. ‘Who got you access to all this Hollywood royalty? Who got you that gallery exhibition in the first place? I’m doing you a fucking favour, Georgie. If I want to sell off these photos, then that’s my right. You’re my wife after all.’

  ‘And who picks you up off the floor when you’re drowning in your own vomit? You’re a mess, Doug. Can’t you see that? A fat, drugged-up, drunken mess.’

  Doug pulled in his stomach, straightened himself to his full height. ‘You’d be nothing without me,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s how it’s going to be from now on, Doug. Life without me.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, as he turned back towards the house. ‘Nothing, Georgie. You’ll be fucking nothing.’

  I watched him go, his sandaled feet flopping away on the wet tiles, his elbow cocked back as he took a few gulps of whisky straight from the bottle. I flew back to England two days later.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Three Envelopes

  When Laura returned home from her run-in with Caroline, there was a note pinned to her front door. At first, she thought it was a writ from the bailiffs for the non-payment of her tax bill. It turned out to be from Quentin.

  Dropped by but you weren’t in. Tried your mobile. No answer. Give me a call. Q

  ‘To hell with you, Quentin,’ she said to herself as she pulled a bottle of sparkling mineral water from the fridge. ‘To hell with the lot of you.’

  She unscrewed the top, drank straight from the bottle until all the water started bubbling up against her lips, spilling down her chin, onto her shirt, between her breasts, she didn’t care. She went through to her bedroom, unlocked the French windows, stepped out into the garden. There had been a heavy rain, now eased down to a drizzle but it was still warm. The surfaces of her garden furniture were pooled up wet so she went over to sit on the wall by the pond, trailed her fingers across the slime, caught a glimpse of her mobile phone still resting below among the rocks and the silt. She could have rolled up her shirt sleeve and fished it out but preferred to leave it there, a souvenir of her call from Edy and the end of her career. Her new phone buzzed inside the pocket of her jeans. She dragged it out, squinted at the name and number. Quentin.

  ‘You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been dumped from Georgie by Georgie. Did you know that?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that now. I’m here in London.’

  ‘I guessed that from your note.’

  ‘Come over for tea tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m in no mood for company.’

  ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘It’s too late, Quentin. The play’s finished as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need your money.’

  ‘I still think we should talk. Come on, Laura. Tea for two.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Savoy.’

  ‘Just like Georgie.’

  ‘Yes. Just like Georgie.’

  She had expected the reception clerk to point her in the direction of the Thames Foyer but instead she was told that Mr Quentin Holloway would see her in his suite. Apart from the annoyance at not being able to have tea in one of her favourite salons in the whole of London, it irked her that Quentin was quite happy to take a suite in one of the best hotels yet had not been prepared to fund the play. Quentin, however, showed no such remorse when he opened the door.

  ‘Ah, my dear Laura,’ he squealed. ‘I am so glad you could come.’

  He wore a white shirt with a broad blue pinstripe and a pair of pale yellow trousers, the combination reminding Laura of the colours of Caroline’s front room. He guided her into the sitting area all laid out in the Art Deco style. ‘If you don’t mind I thought we might chat first, have tea later,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine with me.’

  ‘Good.’ Quentin beckoned her over to the window where there was an oblique view across the river to the south bank. ‘It’s hard to recognise the old city these days.’

  ‘I guess we have to move with the times.’

&
nbsp; ‘Paris has managed to retain its identity. But London… London is becoming something else altogether. Some of it I quite like. The Tate Modern, of course, where we had lunch. But sometimes I look across the skyline at say the London Eye over there and I think… where am I? Blackpool?’

  ‘I’m a London girl born and bred but I actually prefer the new London. The old London is just so full of tourists.’

  Quentin turned away from the window to survey the room. ‘Georgie always used to stay here whenever she was in the city. Unfortunately, she had a love-hate relationship with the place.’

  ‘Why would she hate it?’

  ‘Memories, memories,’ he said wistfully. ‘Perhaps we should sit down.’

  Laura chose an armchair while Quentin sat on the nearby sofa. Arranged across the table between them was a magnificent bowl of fruit still in its cellophane wrapping, several luxury travel magazines and three envelopes.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said, not looking in any way contrite. He paused, waited, forcing her to intervene for the sake of her curiosity.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  He dipped his head as if she had just given him permission to repent. He cleared his throat and continued. ‘In exchange for putting on my play, I granted you full access to Georgie’s papers. I’m afraid I was not entirely forthcoming in that respect.’ Another pause. ‘There were certain items I withheld.’

  ‘Such as.’

  ‘You asked me once why Georgie abandoned her acting career. I told you I didn’t know when in fact I do.’ Quentin folded his hands in his lap and sighed. ‘It would have been around nineteen twenty-seven. Georgie was quite a star at the time what with the success of The Woman Walks Free. But her rise to fame came at an important transition point in the film industry as it moved from silent movies to the talkies. She was asked to come here to this very hotel, in fact to this very suite, for an interview with the highly prestigious, now defunct, Montgomery Studios, to find out if her voice – not just her face – would be pleasing to an American audience in this new era. Mister Montgomery, the studio head, was in attendance as was his producer, Hubert Hoffstetter or Hub as he preferred to be called. To check out her voice they asked her to read from the Savoy Grill menu. I found Georgie’s written account of the incident among her papers.’