by Maggie Ford
“Hope you didn’t mind my barging in. Saturday morning and all.”
“Not at all. I don’t get many visitors. My dad once a week, and your Aunt Victoria came with her husband and Sheila to look at the house when we moved in.”
“She would,” he remarked as Helen led him to what was the drawing-room on one side of the wide hall, from which she’d emerged to greet him. “She must inspect everything, as if without her approval you’d drop all you’re doing and start again. She’s like my grandmother in that way, so I hear.”
Helen’s chuckle of conspiracy heartened him. He was welcome. Maybe now he’d get a foot in the door, so to speak. He desperately needed to.
Life wasn’t treating him so well these days. What had started off rosy was wilting fast – his career, his marriage, and he was broke.
Yesterday he had stormed out in a rage from the Royal Court Theatre, where they’d been rehearsing for a new, somewhat controversial play. It had been a bloody good part but he knew now that he’d blown it and had cursed himself as ten sorts of fool for having lost his temper like that. The producer had been the biggest idiot, unable to make up his mind what he wanted, setting Hugh on edge over and over again until he’d exploded.
That had been the culmination of weeks of conflict. He’d been reprimanded in front of the whole cast for turning up late, even though the leading lady had turned up even later on several occasions and she hadn’t been shown up in front of everyone. Turning on the tearful face, she’d had them flocking round her, giving her their sympathy over something that struck him as downright trivial. It just showed what a pretty face could do.
Even Glenda got away with it. He and Glenda had attended the audition together. She had been picked out first then, after a bit of pleading on her part, he had been too. But from the very start he’d been picked on, accused of having tantrums, of being late, of disrupting things by continually forgetting his lines. Everyone did one of those things at some time or another. Why had he been the scapegoat? It was Glenda who always redeemed him, the producer having fallen for her pretty pout and her superb figure, making Hugh squirm with jealousy.
Had it not been for the leading lady being so well known, Hugh was sure Glenda would have had her part. Glenda was such an excellent actress. She would go far, he knew, and again he was filled with jealousy that she could make it. Sometimes he wondered if he ever would.
It had caused rows. Their marriage wasn’t going well. He loved Glenda, but sometimes she acted as though he meant nothing to her at all, and he was sure she was playing fast and loose with someone, maybe even the producer. Sometimes he felt like bloody well going after him, having it out and half throttling him, but what good would that do? And he couldn’t be sure if it was him.
A good idea would have been to hire a private dick but he didn’t have the money. The small parts he was getting didn’t allow for such luxuries, what with giving Glenda little presents so as to keep her interested in him. That was why he gambled, always hoping to hit the jackpot. So he drank a bit more than he should. So it upset his concentration and he did forget his lines, occasionally. But he was a worried man. He could see himself losing Glenda. If he had money, it would make all the difference.
Edwin had money. Edwin owed it to him to bail him out, if only temporarily. It was Edwin who’d bought his shares, leaving him with just enough to remain a member in the family business but not enough to give him much out of any profits it made, and lately it was making a bloody good profit. He’d been a fool to let his shares go. Edwin had known he’d been on to a good thing when he’d bought them, the crafty bugger. Well, now Edwin owed him. And this was why he was here. This was the only way he could see of keeping Glenda. Money.
“So where’s Edwin, then?” he asked jovially, seating himself on one of the two sofas that faced each other in front of the plain but expensive-looking marble fireplace with its huge display of cherry blossom screening the empty hearth.
He thought he saw Helen frown, but it was only a moment before she smiled back at him.
“Oh, he’s not usually here on Saturdays. He has to stay up in town. He comes home on Sunday just after breakfast.”
Damn! thought Hugh. If he’d gone straight to the restaurant it would have been so much simpler. He’d leave here as soon as socially possible.
“Tea?” asked Helen.
He pursed his lips. “That’d be very nice. But you wouldn’t have a drop of brandy around, would you?”
“Brandy? Yes, there is some. But you wouldn’t fancy tea?”
“A coffee, if that’s OK? And I wouldn’t mind a glass of brandy to go with it.”
Helen glanced at the push bell, hesitated, then got up and went to the door where he heard her call out softly, “Muriel, can you ask your mother to make us some coffee, please?”
Hugh smiled and thought of the days he’d spent as a boy at Swift House before the war, servants hurrying to orders issued in confident tones. Times changed. Edwin was trying to ape his ancestors, but it no longer worked. Poor Helen, thrust into that kind of life just so her husband could show off.
Hugh felt sudden admiration for her that instantly burgeoned into desire. Pregnant though she was, she still had that certain something that had once turned him on.
Eleven
It was midday. Letts was buzzing. People were coming to London to see the sights now the weather was getting warmer. He’d forgotten that. If he hadn’t stayed with Helen so long he might have got here before lunchtime and found the place quieter.
He had made the mistake of asking after Helen’s little girl, mainly to control the sensation Helen’s nearness had produced between his legs in spite of her present condition. His mind had conjured up images of lying with her in her bed, making love to her, hearing her excited sighs. He saw her as lonely with Edwin hardly here, and as a consequence he imagined with relish her hunger for love as he took her.
Pulling himself together, he’d asked after the child, the only thing he could think of to calm down the feelings he was having.
Her reaction had been immediate, her whole face lighting up. “She’s in the kitchen with Mrs Cotterell. Mrs Cotterell shows her how to make dough and she loves messing about there. I’ll go and call her so you can see her. You haven’t yet, have you? You’ll like her. She’s a real beauty.” Helen had given a self-conscious laugh. “At least I think so.”
He had been faced with the child, he who had never been at ease with children, trying to make small talk, mostly to please her mother. The kid had stared back at him as though he was some sort of unfunny clown. He was aware of consternation on her mother’s face and the way she raised her voice to talk to her daughter. It was then that he recalled being told that the child had been born partially deaf. She didn’t look idiotic, but her face was blank. A pretty face, rather elfin but she would grow up to be a beauty, he could see that, like her mother. Helen, for all her pregnant state, was still exquisite.
He had excused himself as soon as he could, mostly to get away from the woman who was disturbing him so. Now he stood in Letts’ entrance, a young receptionist indicating for him to make his way down the marble steps to the restaurant below that echoed to the clash of plates, the clink of cutlery on good china and the babble of almost a hundred voices.
“Mr Edwin Lett around?” he asked her.
She looked puzzled. “Shall I say who’s calling?”
“I’m his cousin,” he supplied a little tersely. “Hugh Lett. Where is he?”
“Oh, he’s in his office, sir. He won’t be down here until this evening.”
“Right!” Taking no further notice of her, Hugh hurried down the steps, across the lower restaurant and up the carpeted staircase to the mezzanine level. The dance floor at this time of day was empty apart from waiters traversing it. The bar, however, was busy, people sitting at the small tables, chatting, having sandwiches, coffees, lunchtime drinks. Ignoring them, Hugh made toward a door near the bar and went to open it.
&
nbsp; “Excuse me, sir! You can’t go up there. It’s private.”
Hugh turned irritably towards the young barman who had attempted to stop this trespasser.
“I’m Mr Lett’s cousin. I understand he’s in his office.”
The young man was looking uncertain. “D’you want proof?” Hugh snapped.
The young man wilted and stood back, leaving Hugh to continue on his way without giving him a further glance, shutting the door behind him with an ill-humoured click.
The passage was dimly lit. It led to a single flight of stairs, at the top of which was the glass-panelled door to the office. It would be empty of staff this Saturday lunchtime, they having gone home after their morning’s work.
He tried the door anyway. It was locked. Turning away, he carried on up a second staircase to another door. This one, far more elaborate, led to Edwin’s penthouse. Hugh rapped on it.
“Hugh,” he called to the voice that challenged him after quite a long pause. Seconds later the door was yanked open and Edwin’s surprised face confronted him, the man in shirtsleeves, the collar undone.
“What’re you doing here?” It was almost a challenge and he could see from Edwin’s eyes that he’d been dozing, no doubt after a late night.
“I need to have a word with you, Edwin,” he began. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ve been at your house and had a coffee with Helen. She told me you’d be here. Said you usually stay in town on Saturdays – sometimes Friday nights too. You must be damned busy.”
Edwin had recovered his composure. “Well, come on in. This is a rare treat. Don’t see much of you.”
“I’ve been rehearsing for a new play,” said Hugh as he followed Edwin into the cosy lounge. From the window, with its drapes pulled right back, he caught a glimpse across London. A fine view, but no longer across the rooftops of London, high-rise buildings going up everywhere.
“Managed to get a few hours off,” he excused, taking the armchair Edwin offered him.
Edwin came and sat opposite him. “So you’re doing OK, then. And how’s married life treating you? Haven’t seen you since you got married, except to see you in that play – can’t think what it was called now.”
When Hugh failed to enlighten him, he repeated ineffectually, “So, you’re doing OK, then? Getting some good work, good parts?”
Hugh found himself pulling a face. No sense putting on an act. That would ruin his initial purpose in being here. He took a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair.
“Truth is, old man, I’m not doing so well.”
Edwin’s expression was one of surprise and commiseration. “Why not? What’s eating you, Hugh? You look thoroughly downhearted.”
Again Hugh allowed himself a deep sigh, leaned even further forward. “I need to come clean, Edwin. I’m at rock bottom at the moment. And my marriage looks like it’ll come to an end before the year’s out. Truth is, I think Glenda’s carrying on with someone.”
“Oh, no…”
“I can’t give her what she’s looking for,” he hurried on, brushing aside Edwin’s token sympathy. “I don’t mean a family. She’s not interested in that – says it’ll interfere with her career. She’s going to go far, that I know. She’s a wonderful actress and she’s had some really good offers. Me, I’m just her shadow, dragging my feet, in her way, holding her back. So far she’s kept me afloat, put up with me, but I can’t see that lasting. She’s beginning to make it plain that she’s getting tired of me – wants out, though she’s not said as much yet. Thing is, it’s getting to me. I don’t know what to do and the only thing that gets me going is having a drink or two and… By the way, you don’t happen to have a whisky, do you? I know it’s early in the day, but this is taking a lot out of me, coming here telling you my troubles.”
Edwin got up and, going to a decanter on a small side table, poured a shot, bringing it back to hand it to him. Hugh sat for a while rolling the tumbler between his palms. He must not show himself up by tossing the drink back. Let Edwin see he wasn’t that desperate.
“I’m not a drunkard, Edwin. I can take my liquor all right, but it does tend to make me irritable I suppose, more perhaps than normal. But I have cause. I watch her getting on, using her looks, making up to that bloody director fellow. They don’t call them producers any more. It’s the American way – they’re directors now. He can get her places and she knows it. I know there’s something going on between them, the way he looks at her and she at him – sometimes right in front of me. She goes out without me, says it’s to see friends. When I put my foot down it starts up a blazing row and she flounces off anyway. What can I do? I know she’s seeing him – it’ll have started as the old casting couch lark, though I think it’s more than that now. But of course I’ve no proof. She’s tired of me, that I do know, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know how I can help you,” Edwin was saying, but again Hugh brushed the sympathy aside.
“If I had a bit more money, I could take her places, show her a good time, like he’s no doubt doing. I’m desperate to raise a bit of cash. I have a flutter on the horses. Well, it’s more than that. Your father used to do well, casinos and things, and I know of a few places. But I don’t have his luck. Sometimes I win, but most of the time…”
He broke off to take a long swig of the whisky, then sat staring into it. Finally he looked up at Edwin, his expression abject.
“I’ve got to find a bit of cash from somewhere, Edwin. And because I can’t concentrate for the worry of everything, my career’s going downhill. I need to come clean with you, Edwin. I’ve not managed to get a few hours off from rehearsals, I’ve walked out. Couldn’t stand the way I was being spoken to. You can’t tell me it wasn’t designed to make me feel small in front of the whole cast – everyone smirking at me, knowing what’s going on. I told him I’d had enough and he could stick his part. He leered at me and said if I walked out I needn’t come back. And her, she just stood there and watched me go. She looked a bit taken aback, but she didn’t bother to stand up for me. So I’m out, and I don’t even know if she’s coming back. Without her I’m all washed up. I’m lost without her. All I can think of doing is topping myself.”
Edwin was looking horrified. “Don’t be silly, Hugh! She’ll come back, I’m sure. Don’t give up. And you’ll get another part. Things are never as bad as they seem at first.”
“Oh, yeah!” Hugh turned on his cousin, his heart full of wrath. All full of trite cliches and bloody empty air, this man wasn’t going to help him.
“Easy for you to say – someone like you, with everything. When did you ever have it hard? Everything has dropped into your bloody lap, hasn’t it? You got the girl, you got the restaurant, you’ve money coming out of your fucking ears! And all you can say in that damned patronising tone is that it’s never as bad as it seems. What do you know about bad? What d’you know about rock bottom? I’ve not got a bean right now and I don’t know where to turn, so what’s the point of it all?”
He was beginning to break down. He hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of himself, his voice cracking, the muscles of his face contorting, his vision blurring with tears. But he was at his wits’ end and all he was getting out of this man was that nothing was ever as bad as it seemed. Giving up to his misery, he slumped forward, his head in his hands, while Edwin looked on, at a loss what to do.
Edwin’s mind was in turmoil. Was his cousin asking for money or help? He could give no advice, and if he offered cash, would Hugh take it as an insult?
“Something’ll turn up,” was all he could think to say, then, on a surer note, “Can I do anything?”
Hugh lifted his head, his expression filling with new hope.
“If I had something to tide me over,” he said unevenly. “Until I get another part somewhere.”
So it was money he was after. Dim recollections of what he’d been told about his father’s incessant borrowing from his brother assailed Edwin. But that had usually been to settle gambl
ing debts. This was different. This was Hugh’s career on the line. Even so, some instinct made him stall. He wanted to say that drinking and gambling wasn’t the answer, but thought better of it.
Instead he said, “You’ve got shares in Letts still. You get a regular income from them.”
It couldn’t be much, he knew. Hugh had been ready to sell every last share he had in the business, just as his stepmother had, their heads turned by all that cash. It was only because Edwin had persuaded him to hang on at least to a few that he still had some.
“The way the restaurant’s going,” he said, “profits up, you’re getting good returns. You must have saved something. Can’t it tide you over for the time being, that and what you make with acting?”
Hugh’s answer was to glare at him. “What do you think acting brings in, for Christ’s sake? I’m not one of your famous celebrities earning a fortune.” In his anger, he got up and began pacing, waving his hands as theatrically as though he were indeed acting. “I play bit parts, supporting, I get peanuts. One day I might make it, make thousands. But that’s not now, at this moment. At this moment I’m bloody stony broke. And what shares you didn’t take hardly keeps up with paying for food.”
“If it wasn’t for my insisting you didn’t sell them all to me,” Edwin reminded, watching him and trying to keep his own feelings under control, “you’d have got rid of them too. You are at least still part of this business.”
“What bloody good that ever does me.”
He looked so woebegone that Edwin knew he had to do something. “Look, if I give you something to tide you over, how would that be?” He could see immediately from the other’s expression that this was what Hugh had been waiting for. “How much do you need? To tide you over until you get settled again.”
Already he could see shades of his father and uncle. This must not become the thin end of the wedge. But before he knew it he was writing a cheque for five hundred pounds with the uncomfortable feeling that this was indeed setting a precedent. A year, perhaps only a few months from now, Hugh would be at his door again, shamefaced and imploring, saying he was in dire straits yet again.
