Lovers and Liars Trilogy (163 page)
Read Lovers and Liars Trilogy Online
Authors: Sally Beauman
“Yes, I do. I’ve always liked the unexpected. Things coming at you, out of left field…” Lindsay, catching his eye, suddenly remembered her role. She gave a small sigh and folded her hands together. “Even when”—she went on, aiming at a pensive tone of voice, dignified but bravely sad—“even when the surprises are painful. Yes, even then. After all, in life, there’re always lessons to be learned.”
There was a silence; a long silence. Lindsay did not dare to look at Rowland. She felt almost sure she had overdone that last remark. Unconvincing, she thought,
and
fatuous. She rose.
“I was just wondering…” Rowland, who looked vastly amused by something, also rose. “I gather Tom and his girlfriend aren’t going back to London with you tomorrow?”
“No. They’re going on to friends.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be possible for you to give me a lift back, would it? I came down with Max, you see…”
“You won’t criticize my driving?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Fine, then. Very well.”
Two hours, Lindsay was thinking as she made this crisp reply. Three if she drove slowly, if the traffic was bad. Why had she never noticed how glorious Max’s garden was? It looked like Eden. She began to walk back toward the voices, and the fluttering pink and white draperies of Max’s rented marquee. Rowland appeared to be intent on escorting her this short distance. Lindsay began to pray for traffic jams, for a ten-mile tie-up, for a punctured tire, a broken fan belt. In the distance she could just glimpse Markov, half concealed behind a bush, much the worse for drink, making faces at her. She began to pray that Rowland would not notice this odd behavior, and this prayer seemed to be answered. Giving a violent gesture, Markov toppled over into the bush with a crashing of branches. Lindsay stole a glance at Rowland; but no—God was merciful—he was looking the other way.
As they reached the French doors that led into Max’s drawing room, the telephone began ringing. Rowland excused himself, went inside, and presumably took the call, for the ringing stopped and a long silence ensued.
Lindsay lifted her face to the sun contentedly.
A few minutes later, his features expressionless, Rowland emerged.
“Did they want Max?” Lindsay asked. “He’s still up by the marquee, I think.”
“No. The call was for me. I’ve been expecting it, I suppose.”
“Good news? Bad news?” Lindsay looked at him curiously. “Are you all right, Rowland?”
“I’m fine. Shall we join the others?”
He guided her around to the terrace. As they reached the steps, he sighed, then smiled and took her arm.
Sally Beauman
For Alexander Mackinnon
fear ioúl gasda, caraid
gasda, agus duine gasda.
There are terrible spirits, ghosts, in the air of America.
D. H. Lawrence,
Edgar Allan Poe
, 1924
Hippolyta: ’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
Theseus: More strange than true: I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys,
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends…
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear.
INTERVIEWShakespeare,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Chapter 1
W
AS SHE AFRAID OR
not afraid? The interview was drawing to a close; from outside the theatre dressing-room, where it was taking place, came the murmur of traffic and the wash of rain; it was early afternoon, yet the light was already beginning to fade.
Across the room from her interviewer, both women seated on hard upright chairs, the actress Natasha Lawrence was positioned with her back to her dressing-table and its mirrors, which reflected her in triplicate. She was leaning forward a little, hands clasped in her lap, answering a question about her work. She did so in a low, somewhat hesitant voice, which, mingling with the sound of rain and the faint purr of a humidifier, had a lulling effect. Was she afraid? This question, and most of the other questions her interviewer, Gini Hunter, would have liked to ask, had not been, and apparently could not be, voiced.
This interview, like many Gini had conducted in the past, had been hedged around with restrictions from the first. For the past year, Natasha Lawrence had been playing the title role in
Estella
, a musical by a celebrated English composer which had been a
succès fou
in London, and was now a
succès fou
in New York. The musical was based on Dickens’s
Great Expectations
, and adjustments had been made to the novel. The part of Estella, that lovely poisonous child, trained up by mad Miss Havisham to break men’s hearts, was given greater prominence in the musical than in the book. There had been surprise when Natasha Lawrence took this role—her first singing role—for her fame was as a movie actress. Confounding the critics, however, she had proved to have a powerful, true, sweet singing voice. This, combined with her acting ability, never in doubt, had helped to turn
Estella
into a triumph. Gini Hunter, an agnostic where musicals were concerned, admired Lawrence’s performance, but retained a strong preference for the original novel; this preference, obviously, she had been careful not to express.
Now, after nearly a year of eight performances a week at the Minskoff theatre, an exhausting and demanding schedule, Natasha Lawrence was leaving the show. She was being replaced by a slightly less famous name, and the rumour was that bookings were beginning to fall off. Natasha Lawrence was returning to film work, specifically to a movie directed by her former husband, Tomas Court; this movie, Gini gathered, was to be shot in England—and beyond that would not be discussed. She was here, for
The New York Times
, at the behest of an editor friend there. She would interview Natasha Lawrence as she prepared to leave the cast of
Estella
. That, at least, was the reason for the interview, or its peg, given to the collection of press agents, PR representatives, secretaries and aides who stood between Natasha Lawrence and the outside world; the true reason behind the decision to run the piece was rather different—as, in Gini’s experience, was usually the case.
‘I hear
talk
,’ said Gini’s editor friend, a young man who was rising fast; so fast was he rising that he had attention span difficulties; one of his eyes, Gini always felt, was permanently fixed on what he was going to do and be next. He was playing with rubber bands, a quirk of his.
‘Talk, talk, talk,’ he amplified, flicking a band and catching it. ‘Talk about the ex-husband, for a start, white hope of American movies et cetera et cetera—but a strange man, by all accounts. Why the divorce? They still work together. I find that weird. Don’t you find that weird? I can tell you, I wouldn’t get on the same
airplane
as my ex-wife.’
He paused; he toyed with deflecting to the subject of his own marital sufferings—a favoured topic—eyed Gini and changed his mind.
‘Talk about the
bodyguards
,’ he continued, putting a bracelet of rubber bands about his wrist. ‘Never moves a step without them, I hear. Why? Your common or garden Hollywood paranoia, d’you think, or more than that? Is she afraid? If so, of whom? Of what?’
Gini sighed. ‘I’ll ask,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect an answer. Do you?’
‘You never know.’ The rising young man gave her an evasive look. He was already losing interest, Gini felt; his attention was returning to the man he would be tomorrow, or the day after that. ‘The
Conrad
,’ he said, surprising Gini. ‘
I
hear she’s after an apartment in the Conrad building. Why? Prestige? Security? She won’t get it, of course. She has about as much chance of moving in there as I have of moving into the White House…’ He paused. ‘Less.’
Gini agreed with this. The Conrad building, once described as the East Side’s answer to the Dakota—a description that applied to its architecture, not its residents—was well known as one of the most desirable, conservative strongholds in New York. Gini could not pass it without imagining fortifications: castellated walls, a drawbridge. The Conrad, a bastion, was not the kind of building that admitted actresses, particularly beautiful, still-young, divorced actresses with a child—Natasha Lawrence had a boy, aged six or seven, she would have to check, from her marriage to Tomas Court.
‘You want me to ask her about the Conrad?’ Gini said. ‘She’s even
less
likely to discuss that. Anything else?’
‘A little glimpse of her soul.’ The rising young man was not without wit or charm; he smiled. ‘Come on, Gini, you know. Insights. Insights. Who she truly is. What makes her tick…’
Gini gave him a look. She rose. ‘How many words?’ she said.
‘Fifteen hundred.’ The young man removed the rubber wristbands, tossed them up and caught them—a neat trick.
‘How many words?’ Gini repeated.
‘Oh, all right. Thirteen hundred. Thirteen-fifty max.’
‘Fine. You want the glimpse of soul in my lead paragraph, or can I save it for the close? Thirteen hundred words gives me a whole lot of choice.’
‘Now, Gini, don’t be humorous,’ the young man said.
‘Why not? This is a farce.’
‘True. True. How long have you got with her?’
‘One hour. In her dressing-room.’
‘Ah, well.’ The editor shrugged. ‘Maybe she’ll open her heart to you even so…’
‘And if she doesn’t? Which she won’t.’
‘Then we run the picture bigger,’ he replied with a yawn. ‘What else?’
In the quiet of the dressing-room now, the actress was continuing to speak in that low, lulling voice. The humidifier purred; every so often, its machinery underwent some minor galvanic disturbance; it would whirr and click, send out a sudden puff of water vapour, then revert to its steady background steaming. The actress was answering a question Gini had asked her about the most famous of the movies she had made with her husband,
Dead Heat
. That movie had been controversial, to say the least; Natasha Lawrence spoke of it in a measured, intelligent but impersonal way, as if it had been directed by a stranger and the leading part had been played, not by herself, but by someone else. Gini glanced towards her tape recorder, which was patiently recording this answer; most of the answer was unusable for journalistic purposes, and Gini suspected Natasha Lawrence knew that. She glanced at her watch; she had less than ten minutes left. It occurred to her that Lawrence, who had controlled the circumstances of this interview from the first, was still controlling it.
‘No personal questions,’ the press agent handling all publicity for
Estella
had said. That stricture had been repeated by the others who formed a protective shield between Lawrence and the outside world, as, over the weeks leading up to the interview, its date, time and location had constantly been unpicked and restitched. It had been reiterated finally, the previous day, by a deep-voiced and heavily accented woman named Angelica, the dragon-woman who was Natasha Lawrence’s chief guardian—or so other journalists said.
Angelica’s role was part domestic, part managerial, part protective, said these sources, advising Gini to stay well out of her way. Angelica, officially, was nanny and caretaker to the actress’s son; unofficially, she was caretaker also to the actress herself.