My Life in Black and White (14 page)

S
affron had been good to her word and called Lawrence Hayward at the end of her shift.

I wore a peplum skirt suit the colour of wet cement, complete with hat and gloves, to meet him the next day, the third day of my life in 1952, at the garden gate entrance to Kensington Palace. I walked through Kensington Gardens along the Broad Walk. It was a sunny day, and it pained me to miss out on what were even in winter elegantly landscaped gardens. Instead, through the prism of black and white, one of London’s most beautiful sites was made to look drab and forlorn.

He was sitting on a bench reading and looked up when I approached. I knew the type—in the future he would be a lonely man with an immense Blu-ray collection who spent Saturday nights watching
Citizen Kane
. In 1952, he was a bookworm. As I got closer, I could see his Adam’s apple move up and down his throat as he swallowed, hoping that the redhead in the suit that hugged her like cellophane was the writer from America. When he stood up, I saw he was much shorter than me and wore scruffy trousers and a faded striped shirt that needed to take a step closer to an iron. He was innocuous, unthreatening and average. The perfect look for a tabloid reporter. Then he smiled, a lopsided toothy smile. I looked at the book he
was reading: Dale Carnegie’s How to
Stop Worrying and Start Living
. Clearly I wasn’t the only one with a crisis.

“I’m Clara Bishop,” I said and held out my hand. He took it, held it longer than I liked, then kissed it longingly.

“I’m Henry Taylor,” he said.

I snatched my hand from his.

“I’m Larry Hayward,” a shrill male voice called out. I turned away from Henry, whoever he was, and saw a tall, wiry young man skipping down the path towards me. He wore a suit that looked too big on him and his hair was greased back with pomade.

“I’m sure it’s my loss, Henry,” I said dismissively and walked towards this bouncing ball of energy.

“You must be Clara,” he said and looked me up and down like he was buying me.

“That’s right,” I said and smiled coolly as we shook hands.

We sat down on a bench, and I wondered whether Henry Taylor might have been a better choice.

“So how do you know my cousin?” he asked me.

“Cousin?”

“Saffron’s my cousin. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t mention that,” I said and wondered why she hadn’t.

“I’m the family embarrassment,” he answered bluntly. “She’s the star of the clan. Always going on and on about making it big one day. She recites Shakespeare and Chekov at Christmas. Used to put on plays for the whole family.”

He snickered, but I thought it was sweet and imagined a little girl Saffron, already a beauty, playing Juliet beneath a Christmas tree in her pyjamas.

“Between you and me, she can’t act her way out of a paper bag,” he continued, clearly enjoying running her down. “She keeps asking me to write about her. Has she asked you?”

I nodded. Saffron had made me promise to get her in the press in exchange for the introduction. I promised to try, even though I knew that selling a story on an unknown actress was next to impossible.

“Thought as much,” he snorted. “She’s a wily one that Saffron. Is she a friend of yours?”

I shook my head. “We only just met, and she knew I was looking to find a writer and said you were …” I hesitated.

“A friend?” he snorted again. “Saffron’s only real friend is Saffron. Let me tell you this. Her only motivation for hooking us up is so I help you with this assignment and then you’ll write about her, because she knows I won’t.”

“I’m sure she’s not that calculating,” I said doubtfully.

“You want to know what she told me about you?” he snorted.

I wasn’t sure I did, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

“She said you were a lonely American who had just been dumped by her husband and I’d have a chance with you if I helped you out.”

“If that’s what you’re expecting, I’d better leave,” I said and stood up. Larry grabbed my wrist to stop me. I didn’t appreciate being touched by a stranger. Hated it in fact. But I didn’t struggle or call out; I simply glared. It must have been enough, as he let go.

“Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t think this was a date,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know the truth. That’s what we journalists do, isn’t it? Tell the truth.”

“Except on occasion,” I pointed out. “So, will you help me?”

“I might do,” he said, then a sly grin crept across his face.

I explained to him that the stories he’d write for me would run in
Hollywood Hush
in America after
Talk
had first dibs, and every story about Dean afterwards too. He was anxious to be published in America, so my promise had him practically drooling. He told me his
editors at Talk let him write pretty much what he wanted as long as it was salacious and lurid.

“The show I wanted you to write about is
Daddy’s Girl
,” I finally told him.

He was impressed. “That’s just filming! I’ll be ahead of the curve on that one. What’s your access?”

“The producer is my husband. Dean Lapointe. We’re estranged.”

He rubbed his chin again, trying to decipher the information. I decided to help him along. “He left me for another woman. I want someone to cover his show, so to speak. You get my meaning?”

“I get your meaning. You’re after a wee bit of payback.”

“We understand each other. You’ll have no problems getting on set. Dean will want Talk covering him. He has big plans over here.”

“What sort of big plans?”

“He’s trying to direct a film. Have you heard of Frederick Marshall?” Larry snorted like I was an idiot for asking. “Dean is meeting Marshall about his next picture. You can ask him if you like. He’ll want to talk himself up.”

“I’ll get on it. Sounds like fun.”

At first I’d regretted suggesting to Frederick that he meet with Dean. But the more I thought about it, the more I schemed and dreamed up this plan to ruin him, the more I realized it could be useful if Dean felt he stood a chance. He’d talk himself up to the heavens. Hell, even if he got the job, I’d find a way, somehow, to ensure he lost the job too. The bigger they are …

“Clara?” Larry said and snapped his fingers. “You vanished there.”

“Sorry about that,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “Where were we? Oh, yes. And while you’re at it, see what you can dig up about Amber Ward. She’s an actress. She’s also his mistress.”

“The same girly who stole your husband?”

“You’re a smart man, Lawrence Hayward,” I said and got ready to leave for real this time.

“Has she played any big roles?”

“About the same as Saffron,” I said flatly.

When I got home, there was a telegram waiting. I practically tore it in half opening it.

Dear Miss Bishop
,

I would be lying if I said I remember you. But happy to hear from a fan and thrilled by audition. Looking forward to hearing from you soon. Please let me know when I can expect to fly to London and get the script for my screen test. Kindest regards, Alicia Steele
.

I felt the first wave of happiness in a long time. Of course, I didn’t have a copy of the script for Frederick’s film—yet.

By the end of the day, Larry’s editor had given him the go-ahead. We agreed to meet back at Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after the interview the following morning. I didn’t want to risk phone calls or meeting closer to home. This deception had to be old-school foolproof. Besides, I hadn’t heard from Niall, and considering his disapproval, I couldn’t be too cautious.

It was all going according to plan until Trinity came home that evening from the theatre. I’m not sure what made me tell her what I was up to, but I regretted it as soon as I opened my mouth.

“You’re doing what?” she said, her eyes wide in disbelief. “What in bloody hell has got into you? Get even with Dean?”

“You make it sound so bad. You know he deserves it. And it’s not like he’s never had a bad review,” I said snidely.

“Fine. If a critic watches the show and tears it to shreds that’s one
thing, but you’re actually hiring a writer to bash him for revenge. It’s not what women like us do.”

“Women
like us?
You mean women like you. I’ve grown a backbone, Trinity. And I’m sick and tired of being treated like a doormat by men like Dean.”

She went quiet. “What do you mean ‘men’ like Dean? What other men are you referring to?”

I bristled at her question. In truth, I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know what I meant by “men.” There hadn’t been many men before Dean and certainly none since, not yet. Before I could respond there was an odd clicking sound. It kept up for a few seconds.

“What was that?” I asked.

“What was what?” Trinity asked.

“That clicking sound.”

She shook her head. Then it happened again. It kept on longer this time.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said dismissively. “It’s probably that mouse again.”

“It’s the typewriter,” I gulped as the sound stopped abruptly. I rose from the sofa and tiptoed to the door.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Trinity said, crossing the room with me on her heels. She banged on the door.

“Why are you knocking?” I hissed. She took a step back like I’d frightened her. I flung it open. The room was empty. The typewriter sat where I’d put it, taking up most of the tiny desk.

“See? All good,” Trinity pointed out.

I approached the machine; it was just as I’d left it. There was the sheet of paper in the carriage. I expected to find a cryptic message, but it was white as snow. I yanked it out, startling Trinity.

“You’re making me jumpy now!” she gasped.

I cast my eyes about the room, searching for a clue. The window was open, the curtains billowing in from a strong breeze.

She frowned. “I think you need to rest, either that or a good stiff drink,” she suggested. “You’ve been a complete wreck, and I know you have reason to be, but I’m worried about you.”

When she’d gone from the room I moved to close the window and my arm knocked the script off the desk. It fell like a cascading deck of cards. As I bent down to gather the scattered pages, I saw that the outline lay on top of the pile. I reread the first note:
Clara vows to get even for what her husband and his mistress did to her
. I thought of what Larry was set to do tomorrow. It was a start.

The typewriter sat in silence. Had I imagined hearing its keys? The more I stared at it, the more it beckoned me. I inserted a fresh page into the typewriter and a new character came to me … he would be a rich man, but a dangerous one, not unlike a certain film producer …

I stopped when Trinity knocked on my door. “It’s flipping past midnight, Clara! Quit your typing.”

“Sorry!” I called out and heard her pad back to her room. I reread what I had typed. That made it two scenes I’d completed. It had been far too long since I’d written something worthwhile and not some snarky article about celebrity weight loss or baby bumps. It helped that
The Woman Scorned
was already half written. It could be my transition back into the business I’d regretted leaving behind. But it was much more than that: it was also an heirloom from the grandmother I never knew and a far more desirable family legacy than unfaithful husbands. If it was the new millennium, there was little demand for an old-school film noir script, unless it had superheroes or vampires in it. But here in 1952, it would be an easy sell, and that’s what I was counting on. I would write all day tomorrow and the next until the script was finished and Frederick could read it.

T
he next morning brought me five days closer to Alice’s car crash and one article closer to the start of my revenge on Dean. Trinity was still asleep when I woke up. I got dressed and stepped outside to buy a newspaper. The air was thick with fog. I found it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of me. If I didn’t know it was morning, I would have thought it was after dark, for there was no real daylight. A man passed by, and he held a handkerchief over his mouth. A woman dashed around a corner and into a store, her eyes squinting in the mist. I entered the local newsstand and bought the
Daily Mirror
for December 5, 1952. The front-page headline told me that for once it wasn’t all in my head:
Great Smog Blankets London
. I quickly scanned the article: apparently, a cold snap had caused Londoners to use more coal to keep warm, and there was some atmospheric phenomenon called an inversion that trapped the air so that it hung low and deep across the city.

“They’re thinking of cancelling buses,” the newsagent told me when he saw me studying the page. “The airports are all closed.”

“Closed?”

“Can’t fly in this! Worst pea-souper I’ve seen and I’m nearly sixty,” he said.

I looked out the window of the shop and saw people scurrying indoors, their faces covered. One couple were nattily dressed save for the surgical masks they wore. If this smog lasted more than a few days, there would be no way for Alice to fly here in time.

“This is awful,” I said, feeling panic grip my insides. I wondered if what had been happening to me was in any way responsible for this. “How long will it last?”

The newsagent shrugged. “No one knows.”

I would have to think of another way. I remembered Frederick’s suggestion that Alice do her screen test in Hollywood and he’d get the footage sent. It would have to do. I was to meet Larry in half an hour—his interview with Dean would be over by now.

The cab dropped me off, and I raced to the meeting place. It was hard to breathe, but I pressed on, covering my mouth with my hand. As I grew closer, there stood Larry, holding a battered umbrella, wearing a grey flannel suit and long black trench coat, his hair slicked back.

“This bloody smog will be the death of me,” he said and spat into a handkerchief. I tried to hide my disgust.

“Well, what happened with your assignment?” I asked.

He started to walk and I followed him. We turned up to the duck pond, where we were alone. I felt like a spy in a Cold War novel. The ducks were barely visible but for a faint outline of them skimming the surface, searching for food. They looked cold. Then again, in a world without colour, everything appeared frozen and bleak like the Arctic.

Larry told me he had been on Dean’s set early in the morning and welcomed with open arms. As predicted, Dean had talked his ear off and spoken endlessly of wanting to direct feature films and, more specifically, of working with England’s powerful producer, Frederick Marshall.

“Apparently, it’s a screwball comedy,” Larry explained.

“Of course it is,” I said, thinking how appropriate given the way my life usually went.

“David Niven is the lead. Blimey, he’s suave.”

“So I hear,” I said impatiently.

“I met the girl, Amber Ward,” he said at last. “She’s a knockout!”

I glared at him. He coughed. “I mean, she’s okay looking. If you like blondes with big assets …”

“Did you get anything interesting on her?” I asked.

“I spoke with her a bit. She said she was going to audition around town. Trying for meetings with producers and the like,” he continued. I didn’t like the sound of that, but in a city with as much acting talent as London, a girl like Amber didn’t stand a chance. “What is she auditioning for? Did she say?” I pressed.

“I would have gotten more except another reporter came around and chatted her up,” he said. “And he had her monopolized the whole time.”

“Who was he?” I asked, trying to come across like I didn’t care all that much, that I was merely curious.

“I was surprised to see him. I mean, Amber has as much experience as Saffron, so why the interest? Maybe she’s a bigger deal than you think? And it wasn’t the usual tabloid hack either but a famous, or should I say infamous, writer. You probably haven’t heard of him, he was in jail for a bit …”

“Niall Adamson.” I spoke his name like shooting bullets. Larry nodded like a fool.

“Yeah! Him!” He was pleased until puzzlement took over. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” I lied.

Larry shrugged and continued, “I have a great headline for the story on her. ‘Ward of the States,’ America’s Latest Blonde Bombshell Becomes Britain’s Newest It-Girl!”

“That’s very witty,” I said, but I’d already stopped listening. Niall hadn’t been in touch since our talk at The White Stallion. Yet he obviously decided to help me, at least I hoped that was why he’d bothered to show an interest. I wondered how long I’d have to wait before he reached out. Or would I just read about it in the paper?

“So what about it, then?” Larry said and looked at me expectantly. I hadn’t heard anything he’d said.

“About what again?” I asked. He looked annoyed.

“I want to get some decent photos of Amber for the story.”

“I don’t want you doing a story on Amber Ward,” I said tersely.

“I’m going to write about Dean like you want,” he objected. “But she’s pretty. I could get an article or two out of her if, like she says, she’s auditioning. I can follow her around. ‘A Day in the Life of an Almost Starlet.’ Has a lovely ring to it, don’t you think? My paper loves a profile and photo of a pretty girl,” he explained unnecessarily.

“No,” I said even more bluntly. “She’s not to get any press from you or me.”

“You’re insane, Clara. If she gets a part in something over here, there will be loads of press itching to find out who she is. You can’t hide her, not a girl with her looks. Like I said, Adamson was already on the job!”

“She’ll never get a part!” I said defensively. I intended to add, “She’s a slutty server destined to work in strip bars,” but instead what came out of my mouth was “She’s a soda-shop waitress and that’s that. She’ll hoof it back to America and disappear.” In the meantime, all I could think of was Niall and what he was up to.

“I’m going to get proper photographs done, real classy stuff in a studio,” he continued. “Amber Ward may be a star one day! I can say I discovered her …”

I no longer cared what Larry was saying. Amber had about as much chance of becoming a movie star as I did. I said goodbye with some
promise of his to meet me at the flat in a day or two. Right now I didn’t care if I ever saw or spoke to Larry Hayward again. I hailed a cab immediately and fell into the back seat. I needed to reach Niall, but I had no idea how. He wasn’t on staff, so that left ringing the editor’s desk. Then there was Frederick Marshall. This fog might stop Alice from flying here, but I couldn’t let it stop him from casting her.