A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  ‘Is that what you held back from me?’

  Quentin picked up one of the envelopes. ‘Here,’ he said. The word Savoy was written on the front.

  Inside she found not only Georgie’s notes but the menu too. The paper on the latter was quite yellowish, not surprising considering it was over eighty years old, slightly stained at one corner with what she assumed was red wine. A small crest was printed on the front above the words: The Savoy. Grill Room.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Laura. But I wonder if you would read it out.’

  ‘What’s going on here, Quentin?

  ‘Please. Indulge me.’

  She looked at the words on the page, imagining for a moment that she was the excited yet scared young actress, twenty-seven years old she would have been, ushered before this famous Hollywood producer for an audition that could change her whole career, her whole life. ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mind standing up?’

  She did as she was requested, held out the menu and read: ‘Soups: Petite Marmite. Consomme Julienne. Cream of Tomato. Hare Soup. Fish: Northern Trout in a Shrimp Sauce. Halibut in a Hollandaise Sauce. Oyster Patties. Meats: Roast Sirloin and Ribs of Beef. Roast Turkey and Sausage. Roast Leg of Pork and Apple Sauce. Ox Tongue…’

  Quentin clapped his hands together. ‘Enough, enough,’ he shouted. ‘No more.’

  Laura was beginning to lose her patience. ‘Can we stop with these games, Quentin? And just tell me what happened here.’

  ‘Montgomery was sitting over there in the corner of the room.’ He pointed to the supposed chair which had no doubt been replaced several times during the last eight decades. ‘He must have been nearly seventy by then. He rose on his cane and walked into the bedroom. Hub then suggested that she join him.’ Quentin’s tiny eyes widened with rage. ‘A young woman with a golden future ahead of her. What could she do?’

  ‘What did she do?’

  Quentin looked up at her in disbelief. ‘I imagine most other women at that time would have felt they had no choice.’ He held up his hand, wagged a finger. ‘But no, no, no. Georgie didn’t go into the bedroom. She had too much dignity, too much integrity, for that. And Montgomery destroyed her for it. I never found out what he told people about her, but the studios wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole after that day. She insisted though that she would still come back to this hotel whenever she could, despite what had happened. An act of defiance. Bitter-sweet. So bitter-sweet.’

  Laura sat down beside him. ‘That kind of thing happened a lot in those days,’ she said. ‘It happened in my day too. I’m sure it goes on even now. The casting couch.’

  ‘I know, I know. But she could have been a star.’

  ‘Perhaps it worked out best for her in the end. Look at the fantastic career she made for herself as a photographer.’

  ‘I realise that’s true. But whenever I spoke to her about her film days, I could see the brightness in her eyes. A sudden sparkle as if she were lit up from within, and then that clouding over of regret.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have tea now,’ Laura suggested.

  ‘That might be a good idea.’

  Quentin called down and ordered afternoon tea with a specific request for his Numalighur estate brand. This did not seem to present the slightest problem for soon after Quentin had replaced the receiver there was a knock on the door of the suite. In came a butler who resembled quite closely the Ronald in Caroline’s service – they could have been brothers, Laura thought – followed by a trolley and a waiter. There then proceeded a quasi military-style operation presided over by the butler as the waiter distributed the plates of sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted cream, pastries and cakes along with various pots and jugs.

  A snap of the fingers from the Ronald look-alike indicated that everything was in position.

  ‘Shall I serve, madam?’ the butler asked.

  ‘That will be all,’ Quentin called over from his stance at the window. ‘We can manage the rest ourselves.’

  With the butler and waiter gone, Quentin came over to sit beside her again, began to fill his plate with a selection of sandwiches while she poured out the tea.

  ‘I’d like to think that we have become friends,’ he said.

  Laura reflected for a moment on the truth of this comment and then said: ‘I suppose we have.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad. And that we can trust each other?’

  ‘Oh I’m not so sure about that, Quentin. Today has already been a day of secrets.’

  ‘Well, I trust you,’ he said, picking up one of the other envelopes from the table. ‘I would like you to have this. One more secret to be revealed, I’m afraid, but I promise this is the last.’ He made to hand it over but then held back. ‘First let me explain.’

  ‘I hope this isn’t some kind of game,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, no. Not a game at all.’

  ‘What’s in the envelope then?’

  ‘You have read about Max Rosen in Georgie’s memoirs?’

  ‘One of her former lovers. A screenwriter from her acting days.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you recall that when she first met Doug Mitchell she asked him to deliver a letter to Max?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, you may also recall that Doug was unable to deliver the letter because Max had been killed in a London bombing raid a few days previously. The letter was subsequently returned to Georgie and remained unopened until I found it among her papers.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I’ll let you read it for yourself. But I shall take my tea and sandwiches through to the bedroom while you do so. I don’t think I could stand to watch you read it in my presence.’

  Left on her own, Laura stared at the envelope. Her first instinct was to smell it. Silly really, she thought, as if Georgie’s scent would have lingered after all these years but she did so nevertheless. She then extracted the contents, nothing more than a folded sheet of paper, not even lined for writing but criss-crossed with empty squares, probably torn from an arithmetic jotter or from some notebook Georgie used to log her flight details. She unfolded the sheet, immediately recognised the distinctive slope and curl of Georgie’s handwriting and read:

  My dear Max

  I realise this letter must come as something of a shock to you. It is nearly seventeen years since we last saw each other. I have often thought of you during those years. Many times I used to wait for the credits at the end of a picture just to see if you were the scenarist. If you were, I would be so proud of you. Until now, I have had no way of contacting you. Douglas Mitchell has given me that opportunity but he is in a hurry to go so I need to be quick and concise.

  I know that you are married but I don’t know if you have any children. Neither do I know how what I have to say will impact on your life but I feel I have to tell you. We have a child, Max. A beautiful daughter.

  I was at my lowest ebb when you left me, cutting me off with hardly a word when that whole business with Montgomery had ruined my career and shattered my dreams. I only discovered after you left that I was pregnant. I didn’t know what to do. My nerves were in such a state, I was at such a low point, it seemed impossible to look after an infant. So I gave her away, Max. I gave her away to someone who was better able to look after her, to give her a good home. Not to any stranger, Max. To my Aunt Ginny. Do you remember her? So vibrant and gay. A good choice, Max. I couldn’t have looked after her myself. Her name is Susan. She is sixteen years old. She looks so much like you.

  I don’t know how you will react to what I have told you but I felt I needed to let you know. We are living in such terrible times never knowing whether death is around the corner that I felt it best you know the truth. I have no idea how you will take this news. If you want to see me to talk about it, Doug can tell you where I am. If you want to bury this information and never want to see me, I will understand that too.

  Please forgive me, Max.

  With remembered love and affection,
r />   Georgie

  ‘Laura.’

  She looked up. Quentin was standing in front of her, cup and saucer in hand. So entrenched had she been in the letter that she was unaware of his return from the bedroom. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a very long time.

  ‘Your mother was really Georgie’s daughter,’ she said, stating the obvious but she was so shocked by the information she didn’t know what else to say. ‘And you’re her grandson.’

  He nodded.

  ‘When did you find out about this?’

  ‘A couple of years ago. The letter was hidden among her papers.’

  ‘You never suspected anything before?’

  ‘There were some vague references to what happened in other parts of her biographical notes. But this letter is definite proof.’

  ‘Did your mother know?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘She never mentioned it?’

  ‘Grandma Ginny was always her mother. Georgie her godmother. Never a hint of anything different.’

  ‘I’m trying to think how Georgie managed to pass Susan off like this in the first place. Someone must have known.’

  ‘Well, there would have been Grandma Ginny, of course.

  And Grandpa Richard would have had to agree to it as well. But the two boys, Oliver and Percy, they were off in boarding school most of the time, they were probably never told. Ginny and Richard lived on quite an isolated farm so it wouldn’t have been difficult to keep a pretend pregnancy quiet for a few months. A few cushions up the dress if need be, Ginny would have no qualms about doing that. And bingo! A brand new daughter to go along with the two boys. No-one ever knew. Anyone else who might have been in on the act long dead by now.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘I remember exactly the moment I came across this letter. It was like uncovering the missing piece of a jigsaw. This great secret revealed. Somehow everything seemed to make sense. As if all the fragments of our lives – mine, my mother’s, Georgie’s – finally fitted properly together. So in many ways I feel quite blessed.’

  ‘And you’re sure your mother didn’t know about Georgie?’

  ‘I doubt it would have mattered. The two of them behaved just like mother and daughter anyway.’

  He sat down beside her, placed his cup and saucer on the table, she noticed his hand shaking as he did so. He took out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiped his lips. ‘Sal called me,’ he said. ‘He explained what’s happening with the play.’

  ‘Did he tell you he’s replaced me with his lover?’

  ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this.’ He leaned over, picked up the last of the envelopes from the table. ‘This might perk you up.’

  She looked at the envelope. The words ‘Letter of Consent’ were written on the front. She took out the document contained inside.

  ‘Well?’ Quentin said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  ‘I know what it says, Quentin. My own lawyer wrote it on my instructions. Signed and dated by you. It grants access to all of Georgie’s papers in exchange for me organising a run-through of your play.’

  ‘Look again.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Quentin. Why didn’t I think of this?’

  ‘I imagine you have been too upset.’

  ‘Have you told Sal?’

  ‘Oh, I thought you might like to do that yourself.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Hepburn Archives

  Transcript from BBC Radio 4 interview

  Broadcasting House, London

  16th May 1982

  Interviewer: Sir Peter Delamere

  Interviewee: Georgie Hepburn

  PD: I was wondering if we could talk a little about your marriage to Doug Mitchell. As you are probably aware, I interviewed Doug several times throughout his career and got to know him quite well. You were never divorced. Is that right?

  GH: It was just out of laziness more than anything else, Peter. He was in LA, I was in England. I wasn’t seeing him anyway, there were no financial issues between us so an extra piece of paper to confirm legally what was going on in reality hardly seemed worth the bother, time or money.

  PD: I noticed he barely mentioned you in his autobiography…

  GH: …just over one thousand words. I counted them myself. He wrote more about his horses.

  PD: Yet you were together for eight years. That strikes me as rather odd, don’t you think?

  GH: [LAUGHING] I would say that is typical Doug. He was such a vain man. He wouldn’t want to give too much space to anyone else in his life.

  PD: I’ve just re-read his book where he claims he played a pivotal part in your early career. Is that true?

  GH: If you call stealing my photographs, peddling them to art dealers to pay for his drug habit, then yes he helped launch my career.

  PD: When was this?

  GH: We were living in California at the time, a beach house in Malibu. You know, everyone tip-toes around Doug’s memory. Especially in this country. What a great British film-maker he was with his three Oscars. Well, he wasn’t that great to me. I’m over eighty now, Peter. Too old not to tell things how they were.

  PD: And how were they?

  GH: They were pretty awful actually. Doug had made two terrible movies, his career was in free fall. He was drinking a lot, taking drugs. His life and our marriage were in a mess. It was me who helped him through that. I used to have to pick him off the floor as he lay there in a pool of his own sick. And as you know, Doug was not exactly a lightweight. If it wasn’t for me, he would never have written the screenplay for To Rise Again. And even to this day, it irks me that he wants to take so much credit for my career yet never gave me one ounce of credit for helping him with his.

  PD: I appreciate your frankness.

  GH: Frankness? I’m just being truthful, that’s all.

  PD: Despite these… how can I say… these acrimonies between you, there is a sense that for many years after you split up, in the public eye at least, he overshadowed you. I mean, for a long time you were forgotten about and it is only in these last few years with these hugely successful exhibitions you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.

  GH: I never resented Doug his fame. There’s no doubt that Limehouse and To Rise Again were great films. I don’t deny that. Doug was one of those larger-than-life personalities. The public adored him. And he was quick to seek their adoration as well. I never courted that kind of existence. I just wanted to get on with my work. If the public responded to what I was doing, that was all good and well. And if they didn’t… well, it didn’t really matter.

  PD: If you don’t mind me asking, how did you feel when he died?

  GH: Oh, it was such a stupid, stupid death.

  PD: I wonder if you could remind us what happened.

  GH: Doug loved horses. He went out and bought a ranch somewhere up in northern California after the success of To Rise Again. He was out riding with his daughter, Kathleen, I guess he wasn’t paying attention and he struck his head on an overhanging branch. Died instantly, I believe.

  PD: Did you go out to the funeral?

  GH: What was the point? Doug and I never kept in touch. I wasn’t close to his children.

  PD: Yet you were still married to him?

  GH: I suppose I was. Technically speaking, I’m his widow. Although I never think of myself in that way.

  PD: And you never stayed in touch throughout the years after your break-up?

  GH: No need to really. Although I did bump into him once in London, not that long before he died, he was over here seeing his family. I remember it was in Covent Garden, he was buying presents for his grandchildren. The great Doug Mitchell out shopping by himself, that alone showed me he had changed. We ended up having afternoon tea back at The Savoy. He was quite sweet then. All the bitterness of our marriage forgotten. He even told me he was going to leave me something in his will. A special
bequest.

  PD: And did he?

  GH: Oh yes. He left me all his memorabilia. Reels of films, stills, contact sheets, posters, scripts. I was quite shocked as you can imagine. But he said – or at least his will said – that I would know what to do with it all.

  PD: And what was that?

  GH: I think he was hoping I would get my god-daughter Susan to catalogue and exhibit his work the same way as she did mine.

  PD: And did you?

  GH: [LAUGHING] Not at all. I burnt everything.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  An Evening Out with Sal

  After tea with Quentin at the Savoy, Laura went for a walk along the Embankment. It was a grey, misty, Turner-painting of a late London afternoon, the cold, weak light of an autumn sun struggling for attention behind a low blanket of clouds. The river ran murky and sluggish and only the most stubborn of leaves remained on the trees. It was that time of year when the first grasp of winter was about to take hold and she might as well forget about long days and warm sunshine for the next few months unless she flew off to more southern climes. Which was highly unlikely given her current financial predicament. Christmas lights were strung up but unlit between the lamp-posts, the festive reds and greens of holly, Santas, crackers and pine had already been unwrapped for shop-front display. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered the clocks had to be set back an hour at the weekend. But at the forefront of her thoughts were all these new revelations about Georgie. Discoveries that not only made her want to rewrite the screenplay to Georgie’s life but also to her own. She reached into her coat pocket for her mobile.

  She was actually shaking as she pressed her finger on Sal’s contact number. She wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anger. But she managed to keep her voice calm, years of acting experience had taught her that.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect to hear from you.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘You spoke to Caroline?’

  ‘You know I did.’