My Life in Black and White (25 page)

I
didn’t unpack. As soon as my father had dropped me off, reassuring me that he’d call if anything changed during the night, and despite my jetlag, I set up the antique typewriter in the great room, facing it towards the mantel and the giant movie poster starring my grandmother. I poured a shot of bourbon and raised the glass at the poster. “Okay, Alicia Steele, you wanted the story to end. I’m going to end it, but in exchange, you’re going to take care of Marjorie. Deal?” My grandmother’s expression remained unchanged. “Good,” I said as though she were in agreement. “And no funny stuff either. You’re going to stick with me, right in the here and now.” I shot back the bourbon and poured another and started to type.

It was dawn by the time the screenplay was finished. I had to admit it felt good. And the world still appeared to be in colour and in the right century. Exhausted, I stumbled away from the typewriter and onto the sofa. It was soft and deep and that was the last thing I remember until my cell phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and dug it out of my handbag. It was my father.

“How is she?” I asked, dispensing with pleasantries.

“Good. She’s much better today. The cardiologist says she’s out of danger.”

Tears of relief flooded down my face and I sniffled. “I’m so happy. I’m going to shower and come down.”

“Take your time,” my father said. “She’s going to be fine.”

I hung up. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. I’d slept away the entire morning. Marjorie would think I’d forgotten about her. I ran into the bathroom and took a shower. I went to the suitcase for clothes but the lock was jammed again. The tiny key that had worked faithfully seemed to stick in the lock yet wouldn’t turn. I tried a dull kitchen knife to gently pry it open, but it was no use. It was exactly as it had been when I first went to London. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be jimmied, and it was far too delicate and too precious to bash open with a hammer. I ran into my old room and, sure enough, a pair of skinny jeans and some T-shirts were stuffed into a drawer. My hair was another story. The past several weeks involved a set of hot rollers. There was no time for that, so I left it straight and drove to the hospital, leaving the screenplay on the small table beside the typewriter.

“You look fabulous!” I said to Marjorie and hugged her gently to avoid tangling up the various tubes. She did look better than yesterday. Her eyes were bright white again and her complexion had life to it and, despite the tube in her nose, she’d managed to apply lipstick. That was my mother through and through.

“Thank you, darling,” she said; her voice had gained strength too. “Sorry I scared everyone so much.”

“Don’t think about that,” I said. “Besides, it brings us closer. Dad’s been hovering around you like a lapdog.”

I’d rarely seen my mother blush before, but there was no other way to explain the rosy glow that materialized on her cheeks.

“I prefer to think of myself as a working dog,” my father said. I turned to see him in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand and the newspaper. “A German shepherd or Rottweiler.”

“You’re more Dalmatian or golden retriever,” I teased, then turned my attention back to my mother. “I was just telling Marjorie that sometimes these moments test us and make us closer, and then you appeared, so I must be right!”

My father coughed. “You want to tell her or should I?” he said cryptically. I felt my stomach fall again.

“What is it?” I asked in a panic. “I thought you were going to be fine!”

“Hush, I am fine,” Marjorie said. “This is what your father means.” She raised her left hand. I could see the ugly IV needle stuck in her blue vein; the gauze had a tiny circle of blood on it.

“You have to wear the IV at home?” I guessed. Then more blushing from Marjorie.

“Are you blind, Clara?” she said and laughed. “Not my hand, my finger. Your father proposed to me again.”

My jaw dropped. Sure enough, my mother had quite the chunk of ice on her ring finger, a platinum setting to boot. Somewhere behind me someone wolf-whistled.

“Geez, that’s quite the rock, Marjorie.” It was my friend Sylvia with a giant vase of roses. “Sorry to muzzle in on intimate family moments, but this thing weighs a ton.”

My father took the flowers and set them on the bedside table. I was thrilled to see my friend and we embraced. Finally, I got it together enough to speak.

“That’s fantastic. It’s crazy but fantastic,” I said. They were the kinds of words you said when you didn’t know what to say. I’d never known my parents married. They split up when I was so young. “And congratulations!”

Somehow the three of us managed a group hug, another first, as Sylvia, never without some form of photographic equipment, snapped us with her smart phone.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Sylvia said. “I brought you a welcome-home gift, Clara.”

“You didn’t have to,” I said kindly.

She stuck her head out into the hall for a second. “Actually, it was something you picked up in London but left behind. You’ve got to learn to pack more carefully.”

Before I could react, Niall walked into the room.

“Hello, everyone,” he said and looked respectfully at my parents. “I’m Niall Adamson. Trinity told me which hospital you were in. And Sylvia found me waiting outside the door.”

“I told him not to be so English and polite, and to just follow me,” Sylvia explained cheerfully.

“I hope you’re feeling much better, Mrs. Bishop. And pleased to meet you, Mr. Bishop.” He shook both their hands as they looked at him with a mixture of confusion and friendliness. He was back in his slightly wrinkled, striped button-down and dark jeans. His hair was its normal wavy blond mess. And he was sexy as hell. I felt all sweetness and swooning and knew I was smiling. A reaction not lost on my parents.

“I take it he’s a friend of yours?” my father asked pointedly. Maybe he had some Rottweiler in him after all.

“A friend?” Marjorie scoffed. “From what I see, this young man is in love with Clara and she’s in love with him.”

Now it was my turn to be in full blush mode. I had no choice but to stare at my feet. I expected Niall to be the same shy retiring type that I was, but he didn’t seemed fazed by my parent’s bluntness.

“That is true, Mrs. Bishop,” he admitted with a sort of glee in his voice. “Though I’m not sure she loves me.”

I looked up, unsure what to do. Where was the fictional Clara when I needed her? As if sensing my dilemma, Marjorie shook her head.

“Clara, what’s gotten into you?” she said. “You don’t need those
clothes to make you behave like the woman you are. Just be yourself.”

I locked stares with Marjorie. What did she mean exactly? She gave me a knowing nod. It was enough for me to know to ask more later. I stood up; my hair had dried into long loose waves and now flowed down my shoulders. The clothes were different, but the attitude was the same if I let it be. So I let it. I walked across the small floor space and stood practically on top of him; our noses nearly touched.

“What took you so long?” I practically purred.

He smiled that lopsided, cheeky grin of his. “To tell you I loved you or to arrive from London?” he teased.

“Either. Both,” I said playfully.

“The flights were booked tight so I had to fly standby,” he said.

“And the other thing?” I asked.

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t taking your husband back,” he said and looked at my parents. I checked too. Marjorie was smiling; my father was glaring.

“I won’t be doing any such thing,” I said and grabbed his hand. “You can count on that.”

“This is all very romantic,” my father said after he had cleared his throat. “But your mother needs to rest. Shall we all go to dinner?”

“I’d love that!” Sylvia said. We all looked at her. “That is, unless it’s strictly a family thing.”

“Of course you may join us,” my father said, then looked Niall up and down more carefully. “I take it you’re an Englishman?”

Niall nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And what is it you do?”

“I’m a reporter, like your daughter.”

“Clara is a screenwriter,” Marjorie corrected him.

Niall nodded politely, and he, Sylvia and my father padded out of the room, with me close behind. Marjorie called me back.

“Clara, how is the writing going?” she asked me. I stopped and turned back to her.

“Mom, even from a hospital bed you’re asking?”

“Well?” she asked again. It was like she knew. Only she couldn’t possibly.

“As I matter of fact, I did finish a new script,” I admitted.

“Can I read it?”

I hesitated. Back in film school she was my most severe critic. When I think about it, she was partly to blame for why I stopped writing. After everything I’d gone through to finish
The Woman Scorned
, the last thing I needed was her cutting it to shreds. But this one was as much hers as mine. It was part of the family. It was time she knew what happened to me while I was away, and how I’d done everything in my power to alter fate and had failed. I could have said any of that, but all I said was “Of course. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” she said emphatically. “After dinner go home and get it.”

“But you should rest,” I pointed out, a little alarmed by her intensity.

She shook her head. “I’ve done nothing but rest for three days now.”

“You’ll have it tonight,” I said and kissed her on the forehead.

T
he next week passed without either Marjorie or me mentioning
A Woman Scorned
. She remained in the hospital, and I kept busy trying to adjust to life as I knew it. I wanted to hold on to my new-found confidence and ensure I didn’t slip into old ways and old insecurities now that I was home. It turned out not to be such a difficult task to accomplish after all.

For starters, uninspired by my beloved jeans and T-shirts, I went shopping. I’d grown accustomed to the traditional fabrics and precise tailoring of Alice’s clothes. You could say I’d discovered my feminine side, and I wasn’t going to give it up. Since I couldn’t open my grandmother’s suitcase, I scoured local vintage shops on Melrose Avenue. When I couldn’t find what I wanted, I splurged on new dresses and pencil skirts and retro shoes and bags. Sylvia wondered what had come over me, and I could never tell her the truth, but she appreciated the clothes nonetheless and even bought herself a few things. And I also managed to pick up some perfect retro pieces for Niall, who kept busy trying to drum up freelance work, which was a good thing because he’d given up smoking, as much to please me as from seeing my mother’s ill health.

I also wrote handwritten letters to Trinity, Frederick and Saffron. I
felt that I owed them an apology for some of my behaviour. I admitted and regretted the worst of my single-mindedness in my quest to save Alicia Steele. A noble and acceptable cause, but not one I could reveal. I never told any of them about the journey we’d been on together. I didn’t understand myself what had happened; that there had been some version of a parallel universe was the best I could come up with. Try explaining that. No one would believe it.

I also sent Frederick the completed script, which I had no choice but to retype into Final Draft and send via email. Before I left London, he restated that he was interested in optioning and producing it, but only if the ending worked.

Trinity and Saffron wrote me back. Each of them not only forgave me, they thanked me. Apparently, both had benefited from riding the crest of my self-absorption. Frederick kept Trinity as the second lead in the new movie, and as for Saffron, well, someone had to replace Amber. It appeared that my stab at altering Alicia’s fate had in fact altered many others’ fate instead.

Some nights, there would be dreams where I was back in London in 1952 and, to be honest, I didn’t always want to wake up. There was something about that Clara I missed. In my waking hours, I would try to capture some of the mood and tone but wasn’t always successful.

“You want to come to the school with me on Saturday? See the kids? It’s the start of the new session,” Sylvia had asked me when she was helping me clean my mother’s house.

“That would be swell,” I said, then wiped my brow. “What a dirty rotten job this is! Let’s quit for a sidecar at the Formosa. I happen to know that dump pours a good one.”

Sylvia just stared a moment, then burst out laughing. “Clara, you’re right out of Old Hollywood.”

“What’s funny?”

“The way you just spoke,” she giggled. “Like you’re a character in an old movie. A really bad old B movie!”

She kept giggling and I grew annoyed. “That’s how we all spoke in London,” I explained sulkily.

Not every element of the femme fatale Clara could be kept.

We went to the school and the kids seemed thrilled to see us. It was a whole new group, with one exception.

“Clara!” Pilar ran over and grabbed my hips and hugged me tight. “We missed you!”

“I missed you too,” I said and knelt down so we were eye to eye. “You’re taking the class again?”

She nodded. “I want to make more movies!” she gushed.

“Then welcome back.” I said it as much for me as for her. I was back, this time without the vengeance.

“I brought you a present,” she said and handed me a small paper bag. Inside was a dog-eared, second-hand copy of
The Postman Always Rings Twice
.

“Is this your father’s?” I asked, worried she’d taken his copy without his knowledge.

She shook her head. “He found another one and said you should have it for inspiration.”

“Tell him thank you, and thank
you
,” I said. She ran off to where the equipment was being laid out. Sylvia leaned over my shoulder and wolf-whistled.

“Maybe you need to explain to Pilar that women shouldn’t be hell cats?” She was teasing me.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” I grinned slyly.

“Because she needs to know that a woman won’t get anywhere in life with that attitude,” Sylvia explained carefully, as though I didn’t understand what was at stake. “Femme fatales are only for the movies, not the real world.”

“I’m not so sure,” I answered. “I’ve never met one I didn’t like. Besides, in the right hands, a hell cat can be domesticated.”

Niall stayed with me at the house while Marjorie recuperated in the hospital. In between romantic dinners and moonlit strolls, I finally told him about my grandmother, how she died, how it may or may not have been a suicide and how her death haunted my mother and me. I explained to him about the script that I’d finished, and how much my mother thought I’d failed her and Alice. He listened carefully and sympathetically but said little. Not that I’d expected much. What mattered to me was that I told him everything. Including all the intimate and gritty details that informed my life, stuff that even Dean never knew.

A few days later, when I came home loaded down with shopping bags, he was waiting with an envelope.

“I brought you something,” he said. “Before you open it, I want you to know that I really took a chance.”

I was curious and ripped open the envelope like it was Christmas morning. Inside was a single paper. It was a hard copy of a PDF from
The Los Angeles Times
. “What is this?” I asked, even though I somehow knew. It was the story I’d heard about my whole life, but I’d never seen the actual newspaper copy. I sat down and read it. The police report was the same. The witness, an aspiring actress named Betty, described how the convertible flipped over and over before coming to its final resting place.

“It still doesn’t prove whether my grandmother killed herself,” I said grimly.

“There was an eyewitness,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, some actress named Betty who’s probably long dead by now.” I sighed. “But it means a lot that you found it for me. Thank you.”
The other event that occurred during this time was my giving up the apartment. Dean wanted it after all. Early cuts of
Come to Daddy
had been screened by all the American networks, so he was already gearing up a stateside version. I went with Sylvia and Niall and cleaned out my things. The clothes I’d probably never wear again were stuffed into bags for Goodwill. The collection of DVDs was packed in boxes along with books and other items I wanted to keep. All in all, I left more than I took. I guess I wanted my past to stay where it was and start fresh.

That afternoon Niall got a phone call and disappeared for a while. I didn’t think much of it until he returned, excited. I assumed he’d gotten a job offer.

“I need you to come with me tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“You have to trust me.”

That’s how I found myself in the passenger seat of a car parked outside a home for aging actors. “What on earth are we doing here?” I asked. He was about to answer when I cut him off. “I know, I have to trust you.”

He led me through the low-rise building to an outdoor courtyard where half a dozen men and women in their seventies and eighties sat poolside. Niall made for an elderly lady sunning herself in a chaise lounge. She looked up when she saw us coming. Niall pulled up an empty chaise beside her and sat down, and gestured for me to do the same. I did.

The old woman removed her oversized sunglasses. She had soft wrinkled skin with loads of sun damage, but her eyes were bright and lively. She smiled at me. “Is this her?” she asked Niall.

I looked at him for a clue. “Clara Bishop, I’d like to introduce you to Betty Simpson. Betty, this is Clara.” I shook hands with Betty, and the reason he’d brought me became crystal clear.

“You’re the same Betty who witnessed my grandmother’s accident all those years ago, aren’t you?” I felt my voice shake.

Betty nodded and wouldn’t let go of my hand. “That’s me, dear. Your boyfriend here tracked me down, I have no idea how, but he explained to me how upset you are about Alicia Steele. How you wanted to know how and why she died.”

I could only nod. The moment felt unreal, more than any second I’d spent in that black and white world of 1952. Betty kept talking. “You see, back then things were different. It was tough for a single girl in Hollywood, tougher than now. I came here when I was seventeen, from Iowa, believing I was going to be a star. But in the beginning, I never got a break, only rejection. Men expected everything and gave nothing. Eventually, I’d had enough with struggling. I didn’t think I could go back to Iowa a failure; it would have been so humiliating for me. So I drove to the Hollywood sign prepared to jump. I stood at the foot of the ‘H’ scared witless but determined to end things. But then your grandmother’s car came up the mountain. I was high up on the hill and could see for miles. Including another car that was coming around a blind corner towards her; that car was going very fast, out of control, you might say. Your grandmother slammed on her brakes to try to swerve out of the way, but it was impossible. The other car gobbled up the road and Alicia didn’t stand a chance. I can still hear the sound of the crash, and of the metal crunching down the mountainside. It was horrible. The other driver just kept going; maybe he didn’t see what happened. The police came and I was too afraid to tell them why I was there. I didn’t want trouble. I told them I was out for a hike, but they kept questioning me about why I was so close to the sign. Other starlets had leapt to their death, and they threatened to take me to a psychiatric ward. I insisted I was fine and diverted them by inventing a bigger story about Alicia’s accident. I never told them about the other car. I let them think, made them
think, that she had driven off the mountain intentionally. But it was a lie. Her death was an accident.” Betty’s voice trailed off. “Her death haunted me all these years. I never thought of the consequences of my lies to her family …” Betty looked at me, forcing a weak smile. I couldn’t return the gesture. “I want you to know that after watching her perish, I decided I wanted to live. And live I did. I never became a big star but I got parts, tiny ones. Eventually, I joined a touring stage company and did some singing and dancing for the next thirty years. It may not sound like much, but I was happy, happy to be alive. That’s what your boyfriend found out yesterday. I hope it gives you some closure.”

Not sure how to react, or what to say, I hugged Betty and thanked her for being honest now. Niall drove me home, allowing silence between us. It was a beautiful gift he’d given me; I wasn’t sure he knew how special it was. Part of me was furious with Betty for nearly taking the truth to her grave, but she was an old woman, and it happened so long ago. Besides, her story didn’t change anything. My grandmother was gone. What mattered was that there was enough time for me and Marjorie to make peace with the facts.

“You okay?” Niall asked me when we got to Camrose.

“Thank you. I’m very grateful for this, truly I am.”

“I told you sleeping with an investigative journalist would pay off,” he teased.

“You never told me that.”

“I should have. It’s my best line!” he laughed.

I kept the news about Betty to myself until Marjorie got healthy enough to come home. When she did, we threw a small welcome-home party for her. There were the usual tacky balloons and streamers, a shiny “welcome home” sign taped over the door. The food was top-notch though, sushi, salads, loads of healthy things. But
red wine was also on the menu, and we all had a glass to celebrate with her.

The only downside was that now that my mother was back, Niall was returning to London. Like me, he had a divorce to contend with, and he wanted to see Sam, who had signed a small record deal with his punk rock band. The long-distance thing was going to have to do for a while. So as happy as I was for my mother and father, I was melancholy knowing Niall was leaving.

On Niall’s last night, my father and he were cleaning up in the kitchen and I was sitting with Marjorie.

“Nice dress,” she observed. “Is it new?”

“It is,” I answered. It was one of the many new things I’d picked up. “It’s my signature look, don’t you know. I sound like I write for a fashion magazine.”

We both laughed.

“I think you should stick to screenwriting,” she said and winked at me.

I raised my eyebrow. “So you did read it?”

“The night you gave it to me,” she said.

“You haven’t said anything.”

“I was waiting for you to ask me my opinion,” she said and swirled the wine in her glass.

“Did you really think that would happen?” I asked defensively.

“Now, now, I’m recovering,” she teased.

“Sorry.” I hesitated. “What did you think?”

“I liked the ending,” she said. “Quite a lot.”

“Really? It’s not the usual film noir,” I admitted. “Not sure Alice or Alicia Steele would approve. Hell, I’m shocked you would approve. It’s not like you, Mother.”

She tilted her head. “Where did that come from?”

“I’m sorry, forget what I said.” But in that moment I couldn’t forget
any of it. I gathered my courage and continued. “A lot happened while I was away. I guess I’m standing up for myself more.”

She nodded like she understood. “I suppose I have been hard on you. But it was only because I wanted you to avoid the pain I had and the bitter disappointments.”

“I don’t think anyone is safe from those.” We sat awhile, but I knew it was time to tell Marjorie the truth about everything. We went into her giant walk-in closet and sat down.

“You should know I didn’t write the script by myself. I had help.”

“Anyone I know?” she asked.

Then I explained about finding the screenplay and the photograph.