A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  ‘What’s with the call then?’

  ‘I want to move on from this.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘I’m not going to scream at you.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you. What do you want?’

  ‘This Thursday night. Are you free?’

  ‘For what? A hanging?’

  ‘We can be civilized about this, Sal. I thought we’d have dinner.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can think of a lot of reasons. Like you hate me for what I did to you.’

  ‘I told you. I want to move on.’

  ‘Let it be on my dime then.’

  ‘Bloody right it is.’

  ‘I’ll even let you choose.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘The least I can do.’

  ‘I’ll text you the details once I’ve picked a place.’

  The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet street in Notting Hill, relatively new, but Laura had become a regular ever since it had opened. It was Victoria who had originally recommended it, being as it was so close to her new flat. Even though the place was tiny – only twenty covers – the attractive feature was that the high-profile chef didn’t just lend her name to the frontage but actually worked in the kitchen. Laura loved the menu in its lean towards French cuisine, always fresh yet never too fancy.

  ‘I expected something more upmarket,’ Sal said, standing up as she took a seat. She had kept him waiting fifteen minutes, getting the taxi to let her off early for the very purpose. ‘A couple of Michelin stars at least.’

  ‘For revenge?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  ‘I did think about it. But I really like this place. Cosy. The food’s good. And don’t worry, I’ll get my own back with the drinks.’

  As if to prove her point, she picked up the wine list, passed on the first couple of pages.

  ‘How do you want to do this?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s obviously some air that needs to be cleared here. We can get it out of the way early. Or wait until after we’ve eaten.’

  ‘I prefer the latter option. I want to enjoy my food first.’

  Sal sat back in his chair, unbuttoned his jacket, as if to signify the first round was over. He was wearing a black polo neck which set off his white hair and blue eyes very nicely. Was she jealous of Caroline? If she could dispense with her anger with both of them then probably just a little bit. The waiter came over with a jug of iced water, asked about their choice of wine.

  ‘We’ll go with the Saint Julien,’ she said. It was £120 a bottle.

  The problem Laura had about being angry with Sal was that she actually enjoyed his company. He was extremely personable, charming, entertaining, a sympathetic listener but could also make her laugh. She liked the slow ursine way about him, a man in charge of his movements, a quality that any actor would admire. So she was happy to let the evening unfold in a pleasant manner, enjoy the food and wine, and leave her coup de grace until coffee time. Sal seemed glad to do the same. They talked about film mostly, Sal had produced some interesting documentaries, they gossiped about people in the industry. It was only when her dessert arrived – a soufflé of vanilla and fresh fruit – that Sal pre-empted her preferred schedule by bringing up the subject that had been the elephant in the room since the moment she had sat down.

  ‘This is all very nicey nicey,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think it’s time to talk about the play?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, puncturing the soufflé with her spoon, then easing through to the warm strawberries. ‘I’ll let you start.’

  Sal sat back in his chair, folded his arms. ‘Let me say from the outset that it was you I always wanted for Georgie.’

  ‘So you used to tell me.’

  ‘You’re perfect for the part.’

  ‘Did you tell Caroline that as well?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘When did you start fucking her then?’

  Sal visibly shuddered from her question then composed himself, looked at her straight with those clear blue eyes of his. That was the problem with blue eyes, Laura thought, she could never tell the meaning behind them.

  ‘I met her at a special screening at the BFI. Things developed from there.’

  ‘Before or after I met you at her dinner party?”

  ‘Before.’

  ‘Whose idea was it for her to fund the play?”

  ‘Hers. After Lew turned me down.’

  ‘And she came along as part of the package?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting her to ask for that. I thought her little stint in Quentin’s play would be enough to satisfy her acting ambitions. But she made it a condition.’

  ‘An offer you couldn’t refuse?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Especially as you were sleeping with her?’

  ‘I agree that made matters more complicated.’

  ‘And all that stuff about Fredrik Nilssen?’

  ‘I made it up.’

  ‘You were both a liar and a coward then.’

  ‘Yes, I was. I apologize for that.’

  ‘You could have refused to go along with Caroline. I thought the whole idea about wanting to do the play was how much you admired Georgie’s integrity.’

  ‘Sometimes expediency has to trump integrity.’

  ‘I don’t think Georgie would have seen it that way.’

  ‘I imagine you would like to think so.’

  ‘I know so.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Remember how we wondered why she had given up her screen career? Well, back in the nineteen twenties, she had a chance to go off to Hollywood just when the talkies were starting up. There was an audition at the Savoy with Montgomery Studios. The deal was that she got the contract if she slept with old man Montgomery himself.’

  ‘I take it she refused?’

  ‘Of course she did.’

  ‘Wow. That’ll make for some excellent drama.’

  Laura was convinced he was already writing the dialogue for the scene in his head as he went on: ‘I assume there’s material in the archives to back this up?’

  ‘Quentin’s just handed it over.’

  ‘Good. I’ll use it then.’

  ‘You’re missing my point, Sal.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m trying to show you that in Georgie’s case, she let her integrity trump expediency. But you wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘OK. I agree most people would’ve done differently. And become big stars.’

  ‘Yet the choice she made back then won out in the end. After all, here we are still talking about her… after what… eighty years? How many silent screen stars do we know from that era?’

  ‘True. But I need Caroline’s money, Laura. Simple as that. And she’ll do a good job. I know you dismiss her because of her TV fame. But you know it yourself, she did a lot of theatre before that. Caroline can do this. Not as well as you. But she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘I must admit though that I find your composure in this whole matter to be… very mature.’

  ‘That’s very patronising of you to say so.’

  ‘Sorry. Heartening then.’

  ‘That’s because your play’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Oh, I think it will. Fabulous script. Investment in place. Production ready to go.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She leaned back, retrieved her handbag from its hang on her chair, extracted the envelope. ‘This is for you,’ she said, making to hand it over, then pulling back. It wasn’t just Quentin who could play the envelope game.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter from my solicitor.’

  ‘Stating?’

  ‘A demand for the return of any material you may hold in connection with the play Georgie by Georgie.’


  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds that you do not have any authority to exploit Georgie’s papers either now or in the future.’

  ‘Quentin signed the consent form. That’s an irrevocable agreement. He can’t just go back on it because you want the part. I’d sue his butt off.’

  ‘The consent only gave me access to the archive, Sal. Your name was never mentioned.’

  He snatched the envelope away from her, extracted the letter, fumbled away for his glasses in an inside pocket. While he scanned the pages, she poured herself out the rest of the wine. At £120 a bottle, it would be a shame to waste.

  ‘If you want to play hardball, Laura, I can lawyer up too. We’re partners after all.’

  She stood up with a certain amount of reluctance as the wine and the soufflé were delicious. ‘There is absolutely nothing in writing to that effect,’ she said, reiterating the phrase her solicitor had told her to say about any implied partnership with Sal. ‘The only document we have about this project is the one you are holding.’

  And with that remark she stepped away from the table only to turn back for one last flourish. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘My solicitor also requests payment of the six hundred and fifty pounds you owe me for the film crew on Quentin’s play. You might want to lawyer up for that too.’

  Chapter Fifty

  The Hepburn Archives

  Extract from an unpublished memoir

  I returned to England and the cottage at Five Elms Down. It was not a happy place for me with its memories of my mother and my relationship with Doug but I had nowhere else to go. Aunt Ginny who had always been my saviour at such times was ailing. Susan had married a rich banker while I was away in America and was living up in Oxfordshire in the throes of early marital bliss. I occasionally visited the nursing home where my mother had stayed to take photographs of some of the residents but otherwise I pottered aimlessly around the village, tended the cottage garden, read a lot of biographies with the radio as my constant companion (our little village was not yet tuned in to the early days of black and white television reception). These were my limbo years where I felt that I had nothing much left to do except wait for death. I was still only in my mid-fifties yet I felt ancient.

  I went to see Aunt Ginny. She was dying of cancer. Although in those days no-one ever mentioned the ‘C’ word outright. She was sat up in bed, her face done up with a bit of powder and rouge but she was all bone and stretched skin by then, her gown struggling to remain on her shoulders, eyes large in their sockets, trying to put on a brave smile for me. Uncle Richard was there too, a sad and stoic witness in the background, reading magazines, never saying much, but he was there for her all the time nevertheless.

  I sat quietly at her bedside, Aunt Ginny drifting in and out of some morphine-induced haze, as I thought of how I would like to remember her. If I could just fix one image in my mind that would flash up before my eyes whenever I thought about her, what would it be?

  The vision came to me very quickly. That day not long after the war when I took the country bus over to the farm and Aunt Ginny was waiting to collect me at the bus stop in that gorgeous royal-blue open-top motor car she had. Her hair was tied up inside a light-blue headscarf (had she chosen the colour especially to match the car?). She was wearing sunglasses – very fashionable for the time – and white gloves. What age would she have been then? Probably close to what I am now yet she still seemed so young. She was laughing, and driving terribly, and I was trying to make sure she kept her eyes on the road, and her head was thrown back slightly and somehow if I could just capture that moment, capture all that joy and zest and vigour and warmth and openness in her face, the fun in her eyes and in her expression. I clicked my own eyes closed on the light of that image just like a camera lens. There it was. My eternal memory of Aunt Ginny.

  Then it became clear to me that this is what we all did. We distilled the memory of a person down to this one portrait on an index card in our minds by which we would forever remember them by. That was why photographs were important. That was why my photographs were important.

  Aunt Ginny’s weak voice interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘Susan is not happy,’ she said.

  I drew my chair in closer. ‘What do you mean?”

  Aunt Ginny moved her hand nearer to mine. I grasped it. It was like clutching a nest of winter twigs. ‘Go to her,’ was all she said.

  These were her last words to me. She drifted back into sleep after that, passed away the next day. It was as if my mother had died all over again.

  After the funeral service, Uncle Richard cornered me back at the reception in the farmhouse. I could see that he had been drinking, his cheeks more flushed than usual, slightly unsteady on his feet as his whisky sloshed around in its glass. His pale blue eyes shone watery.

  ‘It’s only me left,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now that Ginny’s gone.’

  ‘Left here on the farm?’

  ‘No, no. It’s only me left that knows. About Susan.’

  We had never ever talked about this before. We had hardly ever talked about anything before. Sometimes I even wondered whether Aunt Ginny had even told Richard about Susan at all. Given his disinterest in anything that wasn’t to do with the farm, the sudden arrival of a baby daughter might not have surprised him in the slightest. ‘What are you trying to say, Uncle Richard?’

  ‘I don’t want you to tell her. Please. I want her to still think of me as her father while I’m still here.’ His eyes teared up as he spoke and I started to get all emotional myself.

  ‘It’s all right. I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘After I’m dead would be fine. It won’t be long now until I join her.’ He tipped his head up to the sky where I imagine he thought Aunt Ginny’s spirit was lingering. His glass tilted over slightly, the whisky dribbling on to his fingers then on to his mustard corduroy trousers. I put out my hand, steadied his arm.

  ‘I know I’m a quiet one,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘But I really loved her. Susan too.’

  After the days had closed back around the hole in life that a death can bring, I did go to see Susan. She lived in an Oxfordshire manor house that seemed to upset the taxi driver’s sensibilities as he quietly cursed the grind of the tyres on the gravelly drive. Susan came out to greet me. She was holding her baby son, Quentin. It was a name I hated, I had no idea where she had unearthed it from, I assumed it must have been her husband Kenneth’s idea. I wasn’t fond of that name either, always wanted to call him ‘Ken’ or ‘Kenny’ but Susan insisted he didn’t like any abbreviation at all. Fortunately for Quentin it was only his name I despised – he was a gorgeous little boy whom I would come to adore. After all, he was my grandson.

  Susan deposited Quentin in a pram and we strolled with him out into the garden into the shade of the apple trees. Susan had arranged for a picnic spread out on a blanket on the grass. A maid came out with a pitcher of lemonade and glasses on a tray.

  Susan poured out the drinks and we chatted quietly about Ginny. I noticed how wan and drawn Susan looked but I soon realised that her distraught appearance had nothing to do with her recent bereavement.

  ‘It’s all over,’ Susan said once the maid had gone. ‘Kenneth has left me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said, immediately regretting the harshness of my remark. ‘You’ve just had a child together.’

  ‘I think Quentin has just made things worse.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She subsided into tears at this point and it was difficult to get an answer about anything but finally she confided in me. Apart from the obvious intercourse that had taken place to create the child, there had been no further intimacy between them. She later discovered that Kenneth had been having an affair – with an American, Elspeth was her name – before the marriage and it had continued afterwards as well. He told her that it was Elspeth whom he really loved, the marriage had been
an awful mistake and he wanted out. She could keep the child in whom he had no interest at all and this house in the grounds of which they now sat. He would stay at the apartment in London, Elspeth had her own place in New York. He would make sure she and Quentin never wanted for money but he wanted a divorce as quickly and as quietly as possible.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’ Susan asked me.

  ‘You did nothing wrong,’ I responded severely. ‘Please don’t blame yourself for the failings of men. Women have been doing that for centuries and it has got to stop.’

  With her story told, Susan calmed. She got up and went over to the pram where she checked on Quentin. She was twenty-seven years old, the same age as I had been when Max left me. Did history just repeat itself, from generation to generation? She was still an attractive woman, she had lost all the tomboyishness of her youth, the wealth that Kenneth had brought into their marriage allowing her to be decked out in the finest and most fashionable of clothes which she wore with a quiet elegance. She had an art history degree which she had parlayed into a career in the mysterious world of galleries and auction houses and curatorships. She came back to sit beside me on the blanket, sorting out her long limbs gracefully, her fingers plucking at daisies.

  ‘I’ve a big favour to ask,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want you to come live with me.’

  Before I had time to respond she went on quickly. ‘I mean you are all alone down there in that little cottage. And I have this huge house. You could help me with Quentin. Of course, I have a nanny for him and everything but you could help me bring him up, educate him, you have so much experience and knowledge to give. It would be company for me and you can keep taking all your photographs. There is plenty of room for you to have a studio in the house. Oh, please, Georgie. Please.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  A Break in Proceedings

  Laura got the taxi driver to drop her off about half a mile from her home. She knew most Londoners would shirk from walking these quiet streets at night but she had always felt safe in this part of the city. She had been born in Muswell Hill, moved across to Highgate when she had started to earn decent money. She was a north London girl in her heart and bones and if she couldn’t stroll these avenues in the dark what was the point of living here. She loved this ancient village where Coleridge, Dickens and Marx once took their daily constitutionals, the self-satisfaction of the Georgian architecture, the old-style pubs, the lack of litter and high-rise buildings, homes hidden safe and settled behind stout walls and ivy shrouds. Barristers, authors, TV personalities and retired comedians. It was all very comfortably middle-class, sometimes a bit too smug for her liking, but it suited her just fine. As Georgie would say, it properly defined her.