My Life in Black and White (17 page)

T
he next morning was December 7, the day of Alicia Steele’s screen test. The date had been etched in my memory ever since discovering the black and white photograph. The twist of fate that the very screen test in the snapshot was something her granddaughter had arranged was inexplicable, magical, and I hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant. Yet I wasn’t surprised when I opened the closet to see that the green dress had vanished. I knew where it was. It was back in Hollywood getting steamed and pressed for an audition—the one light in a long, dark tunnel smeared with deception and betrayal.

I was disappointed that I’d let Dean and Niall distract me from my mission. Today was going to be the start of settling the score for my grandmother and subsequently my mother and me. The family curse would be broken and we would find happiness.

I scurried as fast as I could to the telegraph office. The bell rang when I entered, and the little old man came out of a back room.

“Let me guess. Another cable to California?” he smiled.

“How did you know?” I smiled back at him.

“Your timing is impeccable. This one came for you late last night,” he said and handed a telegram to me. It was from Alice.

Dear Clara
,

I’ve prepared for my screen test. Even have my outfit picked out—a dress that I made for another film but it was never worn. It was designed for the femme fatale role—I’m hoping it will weave its magic on the casting director. I wanted to thank you again. No one has gone out of their way for me before. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Wish me luck. Signed, Alicia Steele
.

I could almost hear the excitement in her voice, the optimism and hope. It made everything I’d done up till now worth it. To hell with Amber and Dean, to hell with Frederick and Niall, to hell with anyone who stood in my way.

“Any reply?” the old man asked patiently. I nodded and he handed me the form. I didn’t hesitate.

Dear Alicia
,

The dress sounds perfect. You don’t need luck. This part was written for you! I have a good feeling. So all I will say is break a leg. Love, Clara
.

I quickly scratched out “love” and replaced it with “signed” and gave it to the man and paid him for it.

Trinity was up early reading the morning paper when I returned and padded into the kitchen to pour myself some black coffee.

“I don’t think you’re going to like the story in the paper,” she said mysteriously.

“Why?” I asked and crossed to the sofa to sit beside her.

“I told you that Frederick cast the female lead.”

She held up Talk. A giant photo of Amber took up almost an entire page, with an equal-sized story beside it. “I would kill for press like this,” she sighed.

I snatched it away and read the headline.
Ward of the States: Starlet Amber Ward Lands Lead Role in New Screwball Comedy. By Lawrence Hayward
.

“That rat Larry!” I seethed, but in my head another name cried out to be condemned. How dare Frederick betray me!

“How could she have landed this part?” I asked, but it was all there in black and white for the world to read. She had tagged along with her “boyfriend,” the director Dean Lapointe, for a meeting with the producer of the film, Frederick Marshall, who was so charmed by her that he asked her to read.

“Apparently the camera loves her and she’s got great comedic timing. I called my agent, who heard all about it, and she said Amber was the next Carole Lombard,” Trinity explained. Her words felt disloyal to me. I wanted to scream.

“She prefers to think of herself as the next Marilyn Monroe,” I said sarcastically. I stared at the photo; there was no doubt that the camera adored her. It was a Hollywood-style portrait that would have made George Hurrell proud; the kind of perfectly executed old-school glamour shot, like Dietrich and Garbo posed for. Amber’s blonde hair and ivory skin gave her an angelic quality that certainly wasn’t present in the 3D version. Her blue eyes cast a pale intensity over the image. Her lips looked soft and dewy, and I imagined they were painted blood red. Red was the only colour I could see. How had my plan backfired like this? Of course I knew how—good-girl Clara encouraging the meeting—well, good girls finished last. I needed to see Frederick immediately. But I was too furious to speak. The tension rippled through my body and I began to crunch the paper in my fist.

“Hey, I was reading that!” Trinity said.

I released the paper. Then out of nowhere came the clicking sound from my room that I’d heard the other night. The typewriter was
summoning me again. I looked at Trinity, but she was calmly buried in the newspaper. She hadn’t heard it. I went to the door and listened. It stopped. I went inside. As before, the machine was alone, untouched and silent. I sat down, my fingers poised over the keys.

I stopped typing. I didn’t want to write the rest of it, not yet. In my grandmother’s notes, Rod would stop Clara from committing murder because he loved her. Then Clara would drive off in her convertible, and she would speed along up through the zigzagging hills to the Hollywood sign and that would be where it ended, just like it had ended for Alicia. I didn’t like it, not one bit. It was too close to home. Sitting here, reeling from the news that Amber Ward not only stole my husband but also the role that may have saved my grandmother’s life, I felt the level of despair that Alice must have felt, the hopelessness and the realization that all is lost, and for the first time I was afraid of what might happen. I didn’t want to end up where Alice ended up. I didn’t like how my life was imitating her art.

But I didn’t have long to obsess over it because the telephone rang. I could hear Trinity speaking like a fool, so I knew it was Frederick.

“She’s right here, Mr. Marshall. Goodbye and thanks again.” She held out the receiver.

“Hello, Frederick,” I said with enough ice in my throat to freeze the smog into solid blocks. “Yes, I have some things to tell you too.”

I rang off. He wanted me to come to his house as soon as I was able. I was able.

I stamped my feet hard as I marched up the hill through the heaving mass of smog to the Tufnell Park tube. I shoved and got shoved by other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Up ahead I saw the faint roof light
of what might have been the only black cab on the road. I was about make a dash towards it when a hand grabbed me through the fog and pulled me into a shop doorway. It was Larry.

“You son of a bitch!” I snapped. He shoved his paw over my mouth and wouldn’t let go until I stopped fidgeting. I calmed down and he removed his hand. I wanted to bite it.

“Look here, I checked with a buddy in New York, and he said my story on your husband didn’t run.”

I raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “So? We had a deal and you broke it.”

“Our deal was I’d write a negative profile of Dean Lapointe, and I did that. You were going to get me published in America. You broke the deal. I told you I was going to write about Amber and I did. And good thing too. Just like I said, she’s going to be a star.”

It took all the willpower I had not to spit in his face. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. Your story on Dean wasn’t up to par. You’re not good enough for American papers.” It wasn’t true but it would do.

“You’re a bloody American tart is what you are,” he said nastily. “I have a mind to write about you. The scorned wife out to get her husband.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I hissed.

“Try me, Clara Bishop,” he jeered back. “Amber told me you were out with Frederick Marshall.”

I went cold. “It’s a lie.”

“She told me you were at The Savoy with him. What’s that about then?”

“Stay out of my way, Larry. You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” I threatened and felt a fiery rawness whip around me despite the shelter of the doorway, as though I could conjure the fictional Clara at will.

“Amber told me that Dean didn’t get the directing job. Marshall’s hired an Englishman. Maybe you had something to do with that, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The only reason Frederick met with Dean was because of me.”

“Is that so? I bet Dean won’t see it that way. Maybe I’ll ask Frederick Marshall myself.”

“I’d stay away from Frederick if I were you,” I warned. “He’s a man prone to violence.”

“You haven’t fallen for those idiotic rumours, have you? He didn’t kill his wife. She drowned.”

I shrugged, wanting to be vague, hoping that if nothing else, pointing out how getting outside Frederick’s good graces would be bad for his career. “If you say so.”

Larry rubbed his chin. “You know something the rest of us don’t?”

“Maybe,” I lied.

“If you have info on that case, then I’m all ears.”

“Like I said, leave him alone. Don’t stick your nose into his business, or else he won’t let you near Amber or any of his stars.”

Larry kept rubbing his chin like it was itchy. “Don’t be messing with me. Remember, I’m as expert at digging up dirt as you are,” he said warily. “I’d say we’re equals.”

I saw the black cab sitting there in the haze like an apparition. I turned back to scraggly Larry. “That is one thing we are not.”

Then I made a run for it and, grasping the handle of the cab door, I dove into the back seat.

“Primrose Hill, please.”

I
hadn’t been to Frederick’s house since I’d wandered in off the street. That day, standing in the rain being dressed down by Amber, seemed another world. Today the house loomed through the mist like a fortress etched from clay; its grey mass appeared to undulate with the waves of murk. I asked the driver to wait for me, and he agreed for a princely sum.

The front door was slightly ajar, so I let myself in. Seeing the interior through my lens of black and white gave every object and angle a severity it didn’t have in colour. Gone was the air of femininity. Instead, the corners of the walls soared sharply above me, while the mantelpiece and the slew of picture frames appeared razor-edged. The furniture and objects were lighted from the chandelier and sconces like a Caravaggio painting. A decorative oriental screen was backlit and cast a series of stripes at canted angles across one wall. It was into this pattern of shadows that Frederick materialized. He was drinking from a fine bone china teacup.

“Lovely of you to arrive so promptly,” he said politely. “Have a seat.”

I sat down on a pale chaise that looked like a fainting couch. Judging by its worn fabric, it had been well used for that purpose.

“I hear you’ve been busy casting your movie,” I said.

He grinned. “Your friend Trinity read well enough. I’m not sure she’s best for the role, but I wanted to make you happy.”

I snorted my disgust. “Happy? You double-crossed me.”

He sighed and sat on a Queen Anne chair. Its delicate curves made him appear giant and utterly ridiculous, like a grown man taking tea at the kiddie table. “You saw the article in
Talk?
” he asked and I nodded firmly. “I was afraid of that. Larry Hayward is a no-good hack. I’ve never trusted him. You know he wrote the most scathing things about me when I was under investigation for Mica’s death.” He shook his head.

“From what I know, he wasn’t the only one,” I said, silently referring to Niall.

“True. I had more than a few reporters chasing me, trying to prove my guilt and, thankfully, my innocence. A few of them paid for it, though, in the end.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the couch at the cloaked reference to Niall’s time in prison, and wondered whom else Frederick got even with. “Then you got lucky,” I said, provoking him.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. Innocence prevailed. Good triumphs over evil,” he said flatly.

“Does it? Well, I know Larry; he’s good at what he does.” Again I was goading him.

He eyed me suspiciously. “You
know
Larry? Is he a friend?”

“We’ve worked together. You know how it is with us tabloid reporters; we talk to each other, look out for each other. Get it?”

“I’m sure that I don’t.” He eyed me suspiciously. “But I had hoped to see you before you read it, so we could chat.”

“Well, I didn’t, and I’m here, so cut to the chase,” I said. “You can’t cast Amber. We had a deal.”

He laughed like I had said something highly amusing. It annoyed me. He took two long sips from the teacup and placed it down on
a side table with the carefulness of a jeweller returning priceless diamonds to their glass case.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But I’m a successful producer for a reason. Amber was right for the part, better than right, she knocked my socks off. And to top it off, she’s a sweetheart of a charmer. She knows how to play the game, if you know what I mean.”

I did and recoiled. I knew enough about Frederick to know being irate wasn’t going to work, so I softened my tone. “But you haven’t even seen Alicia Steele’s screen test yet,” I pleaded. “What if she’s better than Amber?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“That’s not fair. You could at least watch it before signing Amber’s contract.”

“I’ll watch it, but it won’t change things. You know, I did screen
He Gave No Answer
.”

My heart lifted a little. “And? She’s great, isn’t she?”

“She’s good. I’ll give you that. But I didn’t see her comedic side. If anything, she’s a dramatic actress. Maybe in my next film …”

“But there’s not time for that!” I shouted, then took a deep breath when I saw his displeasure at my outburst.

He picked up his teacup and drank again. “As you are aware, her screen test is today. That much I will do for you.”

I felt a surge of hope return. “Will you promise not to sign Amber’s contract until then?”

“Too late, I’m afraid. I signed it this morning. She’s the star. Another discovery by Frederick Marshall. David is thrilled to act opposite her.”

“David Niven?” I asked.

“Who else?”

“I heard you didn’t hire Dean?”

“He’s not up for the job. So no,” he said plainly. “How did you find out?”

“Larry, who else?” I said it to provoke him. “He’s quite tight with Amber.”

“That won’t continue. I can assure you.”

I stood and moved to a sideboard where an array of framed photos was displayed. One in particular caught my attention. It was Frederick with Marilyn Monroe. The actress was wearing a white fur coat and a high-wattage smile no other actress could match. Certainly not Amber. Even with Marilyn’s troubled life and rotten work ethic, she was heads and tails above Amber. Few actresses around could survive such rumour and innuendo, which got me thinking. Amber may worship Marilyn, but the world didn’t need two.

“You met Marilyn Monroe,” I said.

“Yes, in Hollywood last summer. She’s extremely smart and witty. Now that’s a talented actress.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said and smiled, regaining my composure. “I thought of a way for you to make this up to me.”

He laughed out loud but I ignored him. “I’ll get my contacts in the press to write all about Amber during rehearsals and also after filming begins. The adoring public will know where she shops, what she likes to eat, even who she dates,” I gulped, thinking of Dean. “I can make her a household name. Not a bad thing for publicity, no matter how successful the producer is.”

I looked at Frederick. I could tell I had his attention. “Go on.”

“Only once filming begins, the stories start to change. They’ll focus only on her diva behaviour: not showing up on time, if at all, arriving drunk or on drugs, how the director and cast hate her. How she thinks she can get away with what Monroe does. The public will turn on her. It will be such a fall from grace that you’ll have no choice but to fire her. She’ll flee to LA with her tail between her legs. The only acting role she’ll ever get again will be in porn. You’ll still benefit. You know what they say, there’s no such thing as bad press.”

“You really hate this girl that much?” he asked.

“I want Alicia Steele to get the part that much,” I said sternly.

He shifted in his chair. “Need I remind you that to fire a star once filming begins is expensive. The British film industry isn’t Hollywood, Miss Bishop. We’re not made of money.”

“No? Too bad,” I said. “Then you should do the right thing and fire Amber now and cast Alicia.”

He sighed impatiently. “No.”

As I turned to face him, I knocked one of the framed pictures to the floor. It was a silver filigree frame, and the glass shattered into a few large pieces on the hardwood.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. I kneeled down and carefully picked the pieces up. Frederick rushed to the sideboard and stood over me like I was a scullery maid. I cautiously turned the frame over, wary of the glass shards poking out, and saw that it was a photo of his dead wife, Mica. He held out his hand and I gave him the photograph.

“Your wife was very beautiful,” I said.

“She was on the outside,” he said coolly. “Mica was troubled. She was also trouble. But most women are.”

“Still, it must have been awful seeing her lying in that pool,” I said, wanting to see his reaction, anything that would allude to guilt or innocence.

He didn’t satisfy me. Instead, he turned the photo over on its face and stared at the backing. “You know there are people out there who still think I killed her?” He stared straight through me until I took a step back.

“I may have read something like that,” I admitted cautiously. I didn’t like how the power between us had shifted. He was like a mobster in that way; no matter how tough a dame I was, he was tougher.

He took up residence again in the armchair, with the oriental screen drawing its perfect stripes across him. This time I skipped the chaise
and sat in a wingback chair opposite him, allowing the light to cast its canted slats across me too.

“So, my dear Clara. As I was saying, Amber will star and that is that.”

“That’s your final decision?”

“It is.”

“Then our deal is over.”

Then he smiled and held it there. It unsettled me.

“I give up,” he said at last.

I sighed deeply, relieved. “So you’ll do it?”

“I give up,” he repeated. “On this little game of ours. It was amusing for a while. I admit, I adore the chase, but now you’re too much trouble.”

“What do you mean?” I asked anxiously.

“What I mean simply is that London is full of gorgeous redheads. You’re a dime a dozen, and I no longer covet you as a lover. It’s too bad, really. We would have had such fun.”

I didn’t know what to do or what to say. There was no doubt that I had become embroiled in a mess, a dirty rotten revenge of my own making. But what of it? My grandmother’s life mattered more than anything else. Even if I was in over my head, there was only one way to go, and that was all the way. I had to take a chance and use the one piece of information that Niall had let slip and that I’d filed away for safekeeping; it was now or never.

“I think you will change your mind,” I said and rose to leave. “Because if you don’t, then I’ll give the photographs to the press.”

“What photographs?” he scoffed.

“Only the photographs a certain journalist secretly took at your country house. It’s quite scandalous stuff. Enough to reopen those rumours about Mica and how she died. Enough to make people despise you and boycott your films. You’ll be back to making cheap slasher films.”

His eyes went dead. “I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you?” I walked to the door with him on my heels. I opened it and saw the reassuring sight of the black cab. Frederick saw it too. “Do you really want to take that chance?”

“There are no photos. This is absurd!”

“Suit yourself. But I’d think good and hard about it, especially once you see how amazing Alicia Steele is.”

Without waiting for an answer, I stepped into the street, the air thick with charcoal smoke, and got into the cab.

Sergeant Hooper was sucking on his pen
.

“Are you saying Frederick Marshall did in fact murder his wife? If you have proof, you must tell me; otherwise, it’s obstruction of justice!”

“I’m just getting started. Now, if you’d let me finish.”

Hooper was practically tearing the pen in half with his teeth, like a wolf with fresh-killed meat
.

“You know that you can get thrown in jail for blackmail?”

“You know what sort of man Frederick Marshall is. He had it coming to him.”

He threw the pen on the desk with a force that was intended to startle me, only the pen wasn’t cooperating and rolled off the desk onto the floor. Hooper fumbled about to catch it, but he missed and resorted to crawling under the table to retrieve it. I took the opportunity to uncross and cross my legs, knowing the slit on the side of my gown would provide ample viewing pleasure of my upper thighs. He took his time, and when he reemerged, his face was beet red, from embarrassment or exertion or both
.

“Find your pen?” I asked
.

“Tricky bugger,” he said and sat back down. “Where were we?”

“I got into the cab …”