My Life in Black and White (11 page)

Y
ou look like Rita Hayworth!” Trinity gasped. Her jaw had dropped when I entered the living room. “When is Frederick picking you up?”

“He isn’t. I’m meeting him,” I said. When he’d called, I’d asked him when and where. He told me when and told me to pick where. I didn’t know London, but that didn’t stop me. There was one place that stuck out in my mind, and I told him without hesitation. Perhaps it was madness to go there, or perverse pleasure and curiosity, I couldn’t tell which.

“All right,” she said, though I could tell she thought I was daft. “I’ll call a taxi. Where to?”

I hesitated, knowing the reaction that was sure to come but finding the confidence to not care all that much. “The Savoy.” I purred.

“The Savoy?” she repeated. “Where Dean and Amber are staying?”

“That’s the one,” I said casually.

“What in the devil are you up to, Clara?”

The devil, as the saying goes, is in the details. The Savoy was smack up against the River Thames. Its name in skinny neon letters glowed above the entrance, which was set back from the road. The building
itself was grand in the way that architecture from the Victorian era tended to be. Nothing subtle about it, it stood as a testament to class and tradition, a bygone exclusivity that time had carved through to make way for vulgar meritocratic new money.

As I stepped out of the cab, The Savoy appeared all the more grand in the high-contrast light and darkness of black and white. I’d never noticed shadows as much before. But they were everywhere. Giant pointy ones, round swirly ones, menacing square-shaped ones. Even the fog had a greater weight to it, as though it had rolled in just for me, like a red carpet at a film premiere. There was also a storm brewing in the sky, and it lent an air of drama to the scene.

“Good evening, miss,” said a uniformed doorman as he opened the door for me.

I paused in the lobby like the scene from the screenplay; only there wasn’t a sea of people, just a few scattered about. But there were enough to take note, and instead of shrinking away, I began to take pleasure in it. I stopped at the concierge and rang the bell. A uniformed man in his fifties showed up fast and efficient.

“I want to send a telegram to America,” I said.

“Yes, miss,” he said and gave me the form to fill out. I stared at the blank form and tapped the pencil on the counter. What did a granddaughter write to the grandmother she never met? Part of me wanted to pour my heart out, but the smart part of me knew better. Clara Bishop didn’t exist to her, and if I was going to save her life, then I needed her to trust me and not have her think I was a crazy person. So I wrote:

Dear Alicia
,

Forgive my error with the name. I meant the invitation to go to you obviously. You can call me a fan. Loved you in
He Gave No Answer.
I’m a
Hollywood screenwriter in London making a film. You might be perfect for a part in it. Will set up screen test soon
.

I hesitated at signing my name. Her character was Clara. Would that seem odd to her? I decided my name wasn’t that uncommon and signed it
Yours truly, Clara Bishop
. I prayed it would be a kernel of hope for her. The concierge told me he’d send it immediately.

We were meeting in the American Bar inside the hotel. It was crowded, mostly with men who looked like they either worked for a bank or wished they did, with a few beatnik types dressed in black speckled among them.

“I’m meeting Frederick Marshall,” I announced to the hostess, a dull brunette with a smile that seemed stuck on with wallpaper paste.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said, and I followed. As I moved through the room, I was aware that dozens of eyes were gawking at me, wondering where I’d been or where I was going. I was the beautiful mystery who distracted them from their Scotch and soda, and what started out as glances turned into a tunnel of hard stares. On the other side was a light that came from the look of satisfaction on Frederick Marshall’s face, like a man who had just eaten filet mignon cooked blue. And he stood up when I got to the table. Dean had never stood up for me.

He looked pressed and polished and untouchable. The fifties suit was cut to perfection. Yet, in black and white, he looked like a stylish ghoul and had a roughness that simmered below the dandyism. His cheekbones were more sunken than I remembered. It didn’t help much that the candle on the table lit his face from below like a campsite ghost storyteller, which did little to erase the image of him as a suspected murderer.

“You look lovely,” he said.

“Not the most original compliment, but it will do for a start,” I found myself saying. The tone of
The Woman Scorned
seemed to have found its way into my attitude as well as my getup. I liked it that way.

“I’m with the most beautiful woman in the room,” he offered up instead.

“That’s more like it,” I said.

“I’ve brought your train case,” he said.

“Train case?” I asked, confused. He lifted a train case off the floor that perfectly matched my grandmother’s suitcase. It had to be hers: the very one that had been destroyed in the car accident. I stared at it, which seemed to annoy Frederick.

“What’s wrong? You afraid something is missing? Go on, open it.”

I did as I was told, knowing that there would be nothing inside that belonged to me. Sure enough, there was everything that a girl in 1952 needed: lipstick, mascara, bobby pins, extra silk stockings and, perhaps unsurprisingly, a package of cigarettes. But there was no passport or cell phone.

“Thank you,” I said and shoved it beneath the table, out of view.

“Did you want bourbon?” he asked.

“I’ll have a sidecar,” I said. “That is, if this dump can make one.” I began to remove my gloves, meticulously, one finger at a time, as I searched the bar for Dean. He was nowhere to be seen. I had to admit my heart sank a little, which annoyed me.

“We shall see,” Frederick said gravely as he studied the drinks list. I studied him.

“The lady will have a sidecar, please,” Frederick told the waiter. “That is, if the bartender at this ‘dump’ can make one?” He winked at me.

“I will check with the kitchen. Lemons are still rationed, but we may be good for tonight,” the waiter explained and scurried away.

“Rationed?” I asked. Why was there rationing in 1952? “The war is long over,” I pointed out.

“The government still rations certain items. We have a huge debt to pay your country for its help in the war,” he said and seemed none too pleased about it. “Lemons don’t grow on trees in London like they do in your native California. We’re still recovering, you know. Despite what your fellow American said about us.”

“What American?” I asked.

“I thought England was broke, but the whole damn city is crawling in Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Daimlers and expensive blondes,” Frederick quoted.

“Who said that?” I asked, wishing it had been me.

“Raymond Chandler,” he answered.

The server returned with my sidecar, containing the precious lemon juice.

“I’ll have a Scotch over ice,” Frederick ordered. “Make it a double.”

When the server raced off, Frederick arched an eyebrow at me. “You seem to be in a bad mood.”

“A friend of mine is in trouble,” I said and ran my fingers through my hair in a blatant act of flirtation that any film heroine would be proud of. “But you don’t want to hear about it.”

“Try me,” he said as his drink arrived on a silver tray. “To making troubles disappear.”

We clinked glasses. “If only it were as simple as that,” I said furtively.

“I can’t make you tell me, but maybe it would make you feel better. Maybe I can even help.”

“That’s the sticky part,” I said and held his gaze. “You can help me very much. But I don’t feel right asking.”

I was comforted by how he looked intrigued by, not wary of, what I’d said.

“Go on. I’m used to people asking me for favours.”

I bristled at this, but it was now or never.

“My friend’s an actress. She needs a job badly. I think she’d be terrific in your movie,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bore me,” he sighed. “If you’re trying to get me to give the lead to your friend Trinity …”

I shook my head and kept going. “No, not her,” I said, very aware that I was betraying my friend, but I’d worry about that later. “The actress I’m talking about is an American. Her name is Alicia Steele.”

“Never heard of her,” he said dismissively.

“She starred in a film noir a few years ago—
He Gave No Answer
,” I said and waited for a sign he’d seen it. No sign came. “You should watch it. She’s terrific in it.”

“I suppose I can see if there’s a print lying around town,” he said and started to scan the room for livelier conversation.

I wasn’t going to give up that easily. “All I ask is for you to let her audition.” I paused, knowing what I really wanted would seem outrageous, but I had to say it. “And give her the starring role, of course.”

“That’s all, is it?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Let her play the leading lady just like that?” He paused. “What’s in it for me?”

I didn’t know how to respond. And if that wasn’t awkward enough, at that precise moment, Dean and Amber strolled past our table. Deep down I knew they had joined me on this crazy journey. So I shouldn’t have been shocked to see them wearing period clothes, yet I flinched a little. Dean wore a suit and fedora like it was routine, and Amber was downright demure in a cocktail-length dress with cap sleeves. The hostess seated them on the other side of the bar. But they saw me. They saw Frederick. And Frederick saw them and saw me watching them.

“Do you know that couple?” Frederick said. His expression was unreadable.

“Yes.” I cringed at the word “couple.” “You could say that.”

“He’s here making a new show,
Daddy’s Girls
.”

“You mean
Come to Daddy
?” I asked.

“I mean
Daddy’s Girls
. It’s a new talent show. Young girls sing their hearts out in front of a live audience each week. The audience picks the winner. You seemed overly interested when he walked by.”

“Did I?”

I considered lying. But it was easier to tell the truth.

“Dean is my husband, and he left me for that blonde.”

It was Frederick’s turn to recoil. And it pleased me that he seemed surprised.

“That’s awful,” he said. Then he laughed. That didn’t please me so much.

“I’m glad you find it amusing,” I said and finished my sidecar. The great thing about luxury-hotel bars is that the servers anticipate your needs, and my glass was no sooner drained empty than our man was back with a refill.

“I’m not laughing that Dean Lapointe left you,” he said and leaned in once more. Only this time I chose to remain ramrod straight in my chair.

“You know his name?” I asked, shocked. Maybe Dean
was
making an impression in London.

“I’m laughing because Dean Lapointe has been trying for the past week to meet with me about directing my next film,” he said scornfully. “By the look on your face, Clara, you share my sense of the ironic. Had he treated you with respect, he would have been able to come by our table and say hello. But because he’s been a complete cad, he knows he can’t approach me. He’ll wonder if I’ll even take his calls, let alone hire him.”

I was stunned by this strange twist of events.

“That’s, that’s …” I didn’t know what to say, but the situation began to amuse me, especially after the second sidecar flowed through my veins. “That is … actually … very funny.”

And we both laughed, perhaps too loudly, but loud enough that Dean and Amber could be in no doubt we were having a good time. It was up to them to decide if it was at their expense. They must have guessed correctly, for within minutes Dean and Amber left the bar, choosing to walk the long way around so as not to pass by us again.

“We frightened them off,” I said, still amused. It was the first time I felt in control since Dean had left me. And at last I understood the rush of revenge that the fictional Clara had coveted so badly. It felt good. Too good. Yet what I said next felt like the real Clara, coming out from under all the glamour.

“You should meet with him,” I said to Frederick. “He is a great director. Very underappreciated.”

Frederick studied me a moment, trying to decide if I was joking. “If you think I should, I will meet with him. There is a talent show element to the movie script, which was the only reason I was considering Dean.”

“You should,” I said again.

He raised his glass to me. “You are a gracious woman, Clara Bishop from Hollywood.”

I raised mine and drank. I was many things that night but gracious wasn’t one of them. He watched me closely and ran his tongue over his lips.

“Your hair is exquisite, Clara. The colour is so alive, your skin so pure and fair, you’re like a Raphael painting.” He drank some more. It unnerved me that he could speak such romantic flattery and not sound like a geek with a college crush. Then his expression changed and went dark like the night sky. “On second thought, you’re the perfect vision of a dangerous woman. A Rita Hayworth, able to twist a man’s affection like a lock of hair.” He reached over and stroked the hair trailing over my shoulder. “You wouldn’t try that with me, would you, Clara? I wouldn’t dare if I were you.”

He was dead serious. I swallowed hard and brought the conversation back to what mattered.

“Alicia Steele is a redhead too. I know how much you like them.”

He stopped. “You don’t say?”

“But she’s in Hollywood.”

He sighed loudly. “I am not. I’m in London.”

“Yes, but Hollywood actresses do screen tests all the time for foreign producers. Surely you can fly her over here to audition. She’ll have to come once filming begins, anyway.”

“That’s very expensive for an unknown entity,” he said. “A casting director friend of mine is over at Paramount doing screen tests for another British film. Maybe this Miss Steele can read there.”

“But flying here would be better. You can meet her,” I pleaded, knowing it was me who wanted to meet her, knowing somehow that if Alice came to London she would be safe.