by ILIL ARBEL
Mr. Alcott was under the bed, ferreting among some shoes on the floor.
“What is Mr. Alcott looking for, miss?” asked Shymmering. “Perhaps I could be of assistance.”
“He is looking for the disgusting oil that he puts on his hair in Hollywood,” said Maisie.
“Sir,” said Shymmering, “There is no need for you to search any further; I have personally removed the bottle. It was practically empty, so I decided to have it refilled at a hair dressing establishment in Barchester.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Mr. Alcott angrily, emerging from under the bed, his suit covered with a thin layer of dust. Shymmering shook his head ever so slightly, obviously frustrated by the chambermaid’s inattention to details, produced a brush from his pocket, and proceeded to clean his employer.
“I had no idea that you would have a need for it at the moment, sir,” he said, brushing away, “I expected you would only need it in two days, so I made sure to have it refilled. I will put it in the bathroom, sir.”
Maisie realized that Shymmering knew exactly why Mr. Alcott wanted the oil, and for some reason, it angered her. She turned to Mr. Alcott and said fiercely, “You know what, Nes? The only time you are tolerable, these days, is when you are acting. You are very nice as Nestor Chardonay, and do you know why? It is because Nestor Chardonay behaves like a man, not like a spoilt child. Come to think of it, this is probably because I wrote the script and created his character. As soon as the filming session is over, there you go again, foolishly following your new guiding star.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say and you understand me perfectly well. You seem to conveniently forget your crush over Glamora Tudor. You acted like a fool during your infatuation, but at least she was worth it. She is Glamora Tudor and therefore irresistible. But this silly girl, what do you see in her?”
“Why, she is so lovely, so innocent, so child-like…”
“So stupid, you mean. How many times did she tell you about her stunt as the homecoming queen in Peoria? Do you find it interesting? She told me at least three times.” Mr. Alcott did not answer. He just looked at her, deeply offended, and remained silent.
“Well, never mind, Nes, I will not try to help you anymore. Go and break your heart over this mindless creature. It’s your life!” and she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Miss Robinson seems to dislike the oil, I perceive,” said Shymmering tactfully. He was floating around the room, skilfully and effortlessly putting everything to perfect order. Mr. Alcott watched the operation with admiration.
“When is Miss Moonshadow coming, Shymmering?” he suddenly asked. “I did not want to sound too inquisitive when speaking with Mr. Goldwasser.”
“In two days, sir. That is, naturally, why I thought you wanted the oil in two days. We are having quite a full house for Christmas, by the way. Professor Hilliard-Sabre is also coming, and Miss Tudor asked Mr. Clover and Miss Dean to drop in whenever they could, since they will be spending Christmas with the Dean family.”
“Who is he?” asked Mr. Alcott. “The professor you mentioned, I mean.”
“Professor Hilliard-Sabre is a lady, sir. She is a great botanist, an associate of Professor Buckholz-Schuller, who is helping Lady Norton with her Arizona cactus experiment.” Mr. Alcott immediately lost interest.
“Maisie is mad at me, Shymmering,” he said, returning to his own sorrows. “It’s all because I like Estella... I mean, Miss Moonshadow. I can’t imagine why she does not like Miss Moonshadow.”
“Miss Moonshadow is not the type to encourage companionship with another young lady, sir,” said Shymmering. “She is more likely to be friendly to gentlemen. Miss Robinson, on the other hand, is friendly to both, and she does not like to be rebuffed. Besides, Miss Robinson is exceedingly intelligent, and Miss Moonshadow’s immaturity and lack of education does not please her.”
“Perhaps she is rebuffed because Miss Moonshadow feels that Maisie does not like her?” asked Mr. Alcott.
“I highly doubt that this is the case, sir,” said Shymmering. “Miss Moonshadow would not notice whether Miss Robinson likes her or not. She would be oblivious to such nuances. I personally would not have encouraged friendship between Miss Moonshadow and yourself, sir; however, it is your duty to be friendly to her, since Mr. Goldwasser thinks it is essential for business to pretend she is your affianced. You cannot disobey your employer, and I am sure Miss Robinson will come to understand that.”
“Well, I sure hope so,” said Mr. Alcott. “I don’t like it when Maisie is mad at me.”
“No, of course not,” said Shymmering. “Miss Robinson’s opinion matters to you a great deal, I perceive; it always has. Your room is now in perfect order, sir. Would you be going to lunch?”
“I suppose I should,” said Mr. Alcott hesitantly. Both business and inclination made him wish to see Miss Moonshadow very much, but seeing the anger in Maisie’s eyes made him uncomfortable.
Maisie went to the winter garden. The warm air, redolent of earth and tropical plants, proved soothing to her strained nerves, and she decided to sit on one of the benches and compose herself. To her surprise, she found Lady Pomfret and Mrs. Morland, accompanied by Miss Merriman, strolling toward the same bench from the opposite direction.
“How nice to see you,” said Maisie, genuinely delighted. “I had no idea you were coming today.”
“It was more or less on the spur of the moment,” said Lady Pomfret. “Merry knew Mrs. Morland was coming to visit me, so she telephoned and invited us to lunch at your delightful commissary, and also take a tour around the filming premises. She said that new rooms were prepared for various scenes, and the conservatories were at their best. We could not resist.”
“You should also come to see some of the shooting after Christmas,” said Maisie. Mrs. Morland, who remembered Maisie as a cheerful, spirited young woman, wondered why she looked so subdued.
“Will you join us on our tour?” asked Miss Merriman, whose sharp eye also noted Maisie’s state of mind.
“Certainly, I’ll be happy to,” said Maisie, and followed them around the winter garden. In a rather natural manner, Miss Merriman and Lady Pomfret went ahead to talk about joint interests as they were admiring the magnificent greenery, and Maisie walked with Mrs. Morland.
“You look a little tired,” said Mrs. Morland. “I hope we are not imposing on you.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Morland, you are not imposing at all. I am very pleased to see you,” said Maisie. She was quiet for a minute, and then, doing what most people did when encountering Mrs. Morland, burst out with her real trouble.“It’s just that I had a bit of an argument with Mr. Alcott, and was rather annoyed with him.”
“What happened?” asked Mrs. Morland kindly, always willing to be a good listener.
“He wanted to put some repulsive oil on his hair, to impress the new lady in his life,” said Maisie bitterly. “I told him the oil is only necessary in Hollywood, where he is creating the image of Valentino, but he would not listen. Wardrobe would not be happy with the idea, either, I am sure of that. The oil is vile and hard to remove.”
Mrs. Morland, who knew human nature very well, realized at once that the oil was secondary to the fact that there was a new lady in Mr. Alcott’s life, but she knew better than to allow Maisie to see that. For a moment she wondered if Maisie knew her own heart, and decided that she did not. “I remember when my youngest son, Tony, and many of his friends at school, insisted on putting some revolting oil on their hair, and Matron was very upset because it stained all the fresh pillow cases,” she said, musing about the past.
Maisie laughed. “They were children, so one can forgive such behaviour, but Mr. Alcott told me that he stained his own pillowcase in Hollywood, and was so embarrassed that he hid it under the bed, and his housekeeper could not find it and made a terrible fuss.”
Mrs. Morland smiled. “Men never grow up,” she said.
; “I know,” said Maisie. “And Mr. Alcott, in particular, is so childish. He does not have a strong mind, really, and he keeps falling in love with the most unsuitable women. The results of his infatuations can be catastrophic. I thought that if he became famous he would develop some backbone, some arrogance, perhaps think that every woman should worship him, but he just goes on falling in love as usual. He is not breaking any hearts, which is his job to do. I think eventually Mr. Goldwasser would be mad about his inability to act like a star.”
“He will get over his infatuations,” said Mrs. Morland in her most sibilant manner. “Men like him usually do. It suddenly dawns on them where their heart really is, and it’s just a matter of time and patience.” Maisie looked at her sharply, but Mrs. Morland seemed perfectly at ease and did not give the slightest sign of intending the remark to be significant to Maisie in any way.
“Who did he fall for this time, by the way?” she asked. “Anyone I know?”
“Well, at first it was Miss Tudor. Can you imagine? He irritated her so much by his constant devotion that she almost refused to work with him. And now it is a new starlet, very beautiful I must admit, but so very silly... ah, well. I hope you are right, because if he goes on like that he will ruin his own career. A Hollywood star must orchestrate his life as carefully as he orchestrates his career.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders in mock despair.
They entered a room that was made to look like Lady Fitz-Gardner’s intimate sanctuary, a small sitting room decorated with sombre elegance and relieved only by a large bouquet of white flowers. Miss Merriman and Lady Pomfret were already there, admiring the design.
“The next scene will be filmed here,” said Miss Merriman. “Lady Fitz-Gardner will be sitting alone, reading a note that has come to her from London. It will be made clear that a year has passed since Lord Arthur’s untimely death, and she will be wearing the appropriate half-mourning, black and white with touches of lavender. She will ring for her maid, and instruct her to pack her bags, since she has been informed that Lord Arthur’s colleagues are about to give a memorial service in his honour, and would like to have Lady Fitz-Gardner attend it. The little golden-haired child, who has become as attached to her as if he were her own child, will burst into the room, laughing and playing with a ball, and she will take him on her knees and tell him that she must attend an important event in London. He will cry a little and then be reconciled to her trip by the promise of nice presents for everyone when she comes back home.”
“Is this the child that cost Lord Arthur his life?” asked Lady Pomfret in her forthright manner. “Why does she like him so much? It seems to me I would have hated the cause of my husband’s death, and so would most sensible women.”
Maisie laughed. “Indeed, in real life it would be like that, at least in most cases. But in sentimental films, Lady Pomfret, it’s my job to create these ridiculous emotional situations. We are trying to make Lady Fitz-Gardner as saint-like as possible, at least until she meets Nestor Chardonay again, and then all hell breaks loose, as the saying goes, and she will be a saint no more… wait until you see them dance the famous tango...”
Lady Pomfret, always literal, did not quite understand the implications, but Mrs. Morland laughed. “I thoroughly enjoyed Send Me No Lilies,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the sequel.”
“We finally came up with a name for it,” said Maisie proudly. “It will be called My Love, Far Away.”
“Very nice,” said Mrs. Morland with professional appreciation, “Highly evocative.” Maisie was so pleased with the praise from such a famous authoress that she almost recovered her cheerful spirits.
***
Two days later, Mrs. Rivers was in her room, attempting to start packing a few things for her trip home for the holidays. Her daughter Phoebe and her family were expected, which would be very nice, but Julian was also coming, and that was not a pleasant thought, since Mrs. Rivers was sure he would remember the way Denis humiliated him, and would probably take it out on her. She was determined not to allow it this time, and decided that if Julian misbehaved, she would demand that her husband, George, would master his courage and do something about it, since she knew full well that defying Julian herself without Denis by her side would not be possible. She simply could not do it.
She stopped her half-hearted packing, sat on the bed and thought about Denis, something that she did every day, perhaps every hour. It was a ridiculous situation, she thought. As silly as the plots of her own books, and secretly she knew that the plots were very silly indeed. How could she care so much for a man so much younger than herself? A man so young he could be her son? And yet, every day that passed, and every letter exchanged, made him dearer to her and more important. She anticipated each letter with the kind of emotions she had never before experienced and devoted much time, usually late at night so as not to be disturbed, to answering them. The letters were difficult to write. She tried to write cheerfully, tell him fun little anecdotes about the filming, and appear to be just friendly. Some of the time, being a professional writer, she succeeded in writing such a letter. Other times, she could not, and her letters were full of her real emotions, though she never openly confessed them. Denis did not comment on either style; his letters were honest and true to himself and to her, and he was always unwavering in his affection. What was she to do? She got up and started her packing, determined to put all such things out of her mind until after the holidays. Then, she thought, she would make a decision, once and for all.
As Mrs. Rivers was going down to tea, she heard a cheerful sort of commotion, and entering the living room, saw Mrs. Lewis and Miss Moonshadow, who had just arrived, being welcomed by everyone. Mrs. Rivers thought that Miss Moonshadow was even more beautiful against the soft English background than she was in Hollywood. Her well-cut, simple suit of black and white houndstooth pattern, was cinched with a black belt with a silver buckle. Her high-heeled shoes, also made of black leather, matched her belt and small handbag, and she had not as yet removed her white hat, set with a medium brim and decorated with a floppy black rose. As she was taking off her short white gloves, she looked simply perfect. She did not seem to be happy, though. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Rivers, she did not want to come? But why would she not? Everything was done to help her develop a magnificent career, and very likely this would be the first time she left the United States and travelled to a new and interesting place. What could be the problem?
Unfortunately for Mr. Alcott, Miss Moonshadow arrived just as the shooting ended for that day, and he had no time to go to his room and slick his hair down with the oil before greeting his new guiding light. Maisie looked at their meeting with apprehension. Mr. Alcott had told her that he had brought a few of his velvet at-home jackets with him, and she was afraid he would put one on and make a complete fool of himself, but fortunately he still had on a normal and elegant suit, one that was worn by his character in the film during the shooting. He looked at Miss Moonshadow with dumb admiration, and Maisie was thoroughly annoyed. Why didn’t Nes remember that he was a movie star, someone who should represent a superior being to this stupid child? He was incredibly handsome, too; didn’t he know it? Well, Nes never had any backbone, so why should he develop it now? Maisie decided to ignore the romance as best she could.
However, to her surprise, Maisie saw that his apprehension was justified. One look at him and Miss Moonshadow asked, in her annoyingly artless little-girl manner, “Whatever happened to your hair, Mr. Alcott? It’s different; you look funny this way.”
“I am supposed to look like Nestor Chardonay,” said Mr. Alcott miserably. “He does not wear oil in his hair, I am afraid.”
“Fancy that,” said Miss Moonshadow. “I thought it was your natural look. I liked it better. What is the word I am looking for? Sofis... sofs...”
“Sophisticated,” said Maisie, but she might as well have said nothing, as she was totally ignored by both Mr. Alcott and Miss Moonshadow.
“I can put it on befo
re dinner,” said Mr. Alcott.
“You will not touch that oil, Mr. Alcott,” said a man from Wardrobe, who came to reclaim Nestor Chardonay’s suit from Mr. Alcott. “Not until we finish this film. It is murder to take it off, we have no time to do it when we start filming each morning, and we have such trouble keeping your hair in perfect condition anyway. You can get back to the oil when we return to Hollywood, and you become Valentino again.”
“Oh, it’s not important,” said Mr. Alcott pettishly. He was looking at Miss Moonshadow, who had already left him to talk with Mrs. Rivers.
“Is your son back in England, Mrs. Rivers?” she asked with an air of innocence that worried Mrs. Rivers very much. “I have not seen him again in Hollywood after we met at the show. I wondered how the exhibition turned out to be.”
“Yes, he is in London,” said Mrs. Rivers. She looked at Mrs. Lewis, who shook her head in despair. Obviously, the girl did not forget Julian, which was what they were vainly hoping for.
“So will he be visiting us at Christmas?” asked Miss Moonshadow.
“No, I will not be here for Christmas. I am leaving in a few days,” said Mrs. Rivers. “He will be joining me at home for Christmas, the whole family is coming.”
“Oh, bother,” said Miss Moonshadow. “I wanted to see more pictures. I liked his pictures.”
“I had no idea that you were interested in art, Estella,” said Mrs. Lewis. “It’s a pity I did not know, since we had some very good opportunities to see exhibitions by various good artists.”
“Oh, I am not an art connaisor, or is it a connsur? I am not sure how to pronounce it,” said Miss Moonshadow, giggling. “I just liked Mr. Rivers’ pictures; they were so funny, with everything out of place, eyes in the middle of the face, and triangles and circles. I never saw anything like that in Peoria. He must be a genius. He told me he was one, so I guess he is.”
