The Brave (11 page)

"Hey, Ray! How're you doing?"

"Okay. How about you?"

"Not bad."

They shook hands. The man nodded at Diane and Tommy and gave them a nice smile but Ray didn't seem to want to introduce them.

"Heard they let you do that picture down in Mexico after all," Ray said. "How'd it go?"

"Oh, you know. Got a little edgy now and then."

"When are they releasing it?"

"Pretty soon. I haven't seen it yet but Sturges seems happy, so..." He shrugged. "How're things going with you? More Sliprock?"

"Uh-huh. Couple of movies coming up too."

"No rest for the wicked."

"Guess so."

There was an awkward pause. The man looked at Diane again and smiled.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"Well, we gotta be going," Ray said.

"Me too. Just getting some smokes. See you around."

"You bet."

The man tilted his head to peer over his sunglasses at Tommy. His eyes were even bluer than Ray's. He grinned and winked then went off into the store.

"Asshole," Ray muttered.

As they walked to the Cadillac, Diane asked who the man was and Ray said his name was Steve McQueen. He was in a TV show called Wanted: Dead or Alive which Tommy had heard about but never seen. Ray said it was a crock of shit and Diane told him off for using those words in front of Tommy. Ray said sorry but it was true because the guy couldn't act his way out of a wet paper bag. The movie he'd just done was sure to be another crock of shit.

"It's just a remake of some two-bit Japanese picture," he said. "They offered it to me, but I turned it down."

Tommy asked what it was called and Ray said the script was so bad he'd forgotten. All he could remember was that it was about seven gunslingers rescuing a Mexican village from some corny bunch of bandits.

Tommy had already noticed that Ray didn't seem to like many other westerns or the actors who were in them—apart from a few, like John Wayne and James Stewart and, of course, Gary Cooper. Tommy had asked him early on whether he'd ever met Robert Horton, the actor who played Flint McCullough, and Ray said he hadn't but that, for a wagon train scout, Flint always seemed kind of faggoty, which Tommy didn't understand except that it probably wasn't a compliment.

They'd already seen the famous Hollywood sign from a distance, but on the way back to the house, Ray took them up a winding canyon where they parked and walked along a trail to get a better look. The letters were enormous. Ray said they were fifty feet tall and that the sign used to say HOLLYWOODLAND until someone decided to take away the last four letters. Somehow, up close, there was something sad about it. The paint was peeling from the letters and the props behind them were all overgrown and rusty. Ray said that a few years ago a young British actress called Peg Entwistle, who nobody wanted in their movies anymore, had climbed to the top of the letter H and jumped off and killed herself.

"Well, Ray, thanks a lot for sharing that with us," Diane said.

Ray laughed and put his arm around her.

"Sugar, I told you. The whole world's gonna want you."

Lunch on the terrace was almost over now. Tommy had finished all the potato salad and was on his second helping of chocolate ice cream. Ray and Diane were sitting on the other side of the table smoking their cigarettes and smiling at him.

"Didn't they ever feed you back in England?" Ray said.

"Not like this."

As usual, after lunch, Diane and Ray disappeared off to Ray's bedroom for what they called a siesta and even though he wasn't tired, Tommy was expected to go to his room and have one as well. It was too hot outside to do anything else, so he didn't mind. He lay on his bed and tried to read some more of his book. It was called White Fang and it was good but for some reason he couldn't get into it. It had been like that ever since they arrived. His head was always fizzing with too many new things.

The past two weeks had been wonderful, just hanging out with Ray and Diane, having fun. But everything was about to change. Tomorrow was going to be Tommy's first day at Carl Curtis and even though the school had seemed perfectly friendly when he and Diane visited it, he couldn't help feeling nervous. He knew it was silly. He hadn't wet the bed in a long time and, in any case, he wasn't going to be boarding. But he was still afraid that somehow somebody would find out and start calling him Bedwetter again.

That night Diane and Ray were going out to a party being thrown by Herb Kanter, the producer of Remorseless. Tommy asked if he could go too but Diane said it wouldn't be starting until after his bedtime and was only for grown-ups. Dolores would be at home to look after him, she said. Tommy liked Dolores. She was little and very pretty and had big dark brown eyes. To begin with, Tommy had assumed she was married to Miguel, but she wasn't. She had a tiny room along the corridor that went between the garage and the kitchen with a lovely picture of Mary and the baby Jesus on her wall, along with photos of her own little son who, oddly, was called Jesus too. Dolores said he lived with his grandparents in Mexico City. Tommy told her that's what he used to do too, only in England.

When it was time for Ray and Diane to leave, he was already in his pajamas and bathrobe, eating his supper from a tray and watching I Love Lucy on the huge TV in the living room. He'd seen the show in England and had never found it as funny as the people in the audience obviously did. They screamed with laughter at everything anyone said.

There was a noise in the hallway and through the big double doors he saw Diane and Ray coming down the wide, curving staircase. They looked wonderful. Ray was wearing a black suit with a long jacket and a tie like Bret Maverick's except that it had a silver steer's skull at the knot. His hair was all slicked back. He gave Tommy a little wave and waited in the hallway while Diane came into the living room to say goodbye. She was wearing a strapless silver dress that shimmered as she moved. Her hair was pinned up and her lips were painted bright red. She put her hands on Tommy's shoulders and bent to kiss him.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. Be a good boy."

"Will there be lots of film stars there?"

"I imagine so."

"But you'll be the most beautiful."

Diane laughed and kissed him again.

"You're so sweet. Oh dear, I've put lipstick on you."

"I don't mind. Have a nice time."

"Goodnight, darling. Love you to bits."

"Love you to bits too."

After the front door had clunked shut, Tommy went to the window. A long black sedan stood waiting for them beside the statue of the rearing horse, a uniformed chauffeur holding the back door open. Diane glanced back at the house as if she knew Tommy was watching and she blew him a kiss and then climbed in. The chauffeur shut the door and got into the front and the car pulled slowly away. Its windows were darkened so he couldn't see them anymore but in case they were still looking he waved again and stood watching until the car had disappeared.

DIANE HAD ALWAYS BEEN ambivalent about the effect she had on men. She had long ago discovered that if she looked at a man in a certain way, met his eyes at a particular moment with a kind of knowing intensity, she could walk inside his head and usually, in no time at all, reduce him to a state of quivering and malleable infancy. This wasn't among the tricks of the trade that she had learned at drama school in London or, after that, in repertory where she'd leapfrogged the customary starter parts, those nameless and lineless ladies-in-waiting and girls-in-the-crowd, to be cast, from the outset, in speaking roles. The talent to attract was most likely innate, from some remote ancestor, for she had trouble imagining that it had ever been anything other than latent in her parents.

It took her some years to understand the other side of the contract, namely that heterosexual men, however much they protested that all they desired was friendship, inevitably had sex in mind. And Diane's pleasure in the power this invested in her was tinged only by a weary disappointment that it appeared to be the way of things, that men should be so tragically and predictably primitive.

She was aware that those who thought they knew her, even some of her closest friends in London, believed that because she liked to flirt and to relish the effect she had on men, she must therefore be promiscuous. It wasn't so, however. In the five years that followed Tommy's birth, the very thought of repeating with someone else what she had done with David Willis in the musky Malvern bracken had repelled her. This wasn't because the act had proved less than rapturous or because it had become too entwined in her memory with all the consequent trauma. It was more because of a sense of obligation to Tommy, a feeling that, despite the charade that she and her parents had chosen to play for fear of scandal, to allow another man to know her so intimately again would be a betrayal of her responsibilities as a mother. The fact that, to all practical purposes, she had ceded these to her own mother in no way diminished this.

During these years, the men who pursued her—mostly actors, directors and producers but also a few who had no connection with her work—frequently ended up bemused and disgruntled. They found it impossible to fathom how, having seemed so eager for their attentions, when it came to the final act, Diane Reed wasn't prepared to perform. On many occasions these poor, injured creatures (men's pride in these matters, she soon discovered, was quite hilariously fragile), having invested time and emotion and probably several expensive dinners, would accuse her of being frigid or heartless or—what to them was clearly the most damning insult—a cock teaser.

When, finally, she did allow herself to go the whole way once more with a man, it was more from a casually rekindled curiosity about sex than from passion. She was pleased to discover that disillusion wasn't inevitably part of the package. But neither, it seemed, was love. Perhaps love, she thought, of whatever complexion, was finite, each of us allotted just a certain amount to spend on what or whom we chose.

If so, in Diane's case, all of it was spent on Tommy. She would travel home to see him whenever she could, talk to him on the phone even before he had uttered his first words. When she was on tour, in some far-flung provincial town, she would hurry to the station after the Saturday night performance and catch the last train so that she might spend even just a day with him.

Pretending that she was simply his loving older sister became harder with the passing of each year. And watching the weary way her mother treated the boy, as if everything she had to do for him was a burden, made Diane feel ever more guilty and wretched. If she dared voice so much as a minor criticism, her mother would point out that the charade had been of Diane's own making. And this would usually be garnished with some snide reference to the carefree, hedonistic, even decadent life that their arrangement had liberated her to lead.

The fact that Tommy was turning out to be what even a doting, albeit clandestine, mother had to admit was an unusual, if not slightly odd, child only served to deepen the guilt. His every foible—the bed-wetting, the tireless obsession with cowboys and Indians, the way he whimpered in his sleep and woke up screaming and often talked out loud to himself and to his pictures of Flint McCullough, the bullying at Ashlawn—all this and more she attributed to her absence and to the face-saving lie in which she had conspired. And, gradually, this had come to cast a shadow on her success.

She loved the adulation, of course, the standing ovations, the glowing reviews, the stage door scuttle and bustle and pop of the flashbulbs. But part of her stood to one side, watching it with what almost amounted to derision. And this tendency to disengage worried her because sometimes it happened on stage. When Fortune's Fool was the hottest show in London and the whole world seemed to be talking about it, she would find herself, even in the play's most dramatic moments, thinking how ridiculous it all was. All these grown-up human beings pretending.

Oddly, this never seemed to affect her performance. Or rather, nobody ever seemed to notice. And, of course, she never dared mention it to anyone because nowadays real acting was about being, not pretending. The Old School of Fakery was closing down, the grand thespians—Gielgud, Redgrave, even Olivier—with their knighthoods and mannerisms and tremulous intonations mocked as ailing dinosaurs. All the young directors and actors were talking about Stanislavsky and Lee Strasberg and the Method and about how the only route to real, honest, meaningful acting was through tapping into some deep and personal emotional memory and reconjuring it in the heart and head of whatever character you had been called upon to inhabit.

Diane had always been as good as any of her peers at doing this. And the emotional memories she tapped into, be they joyful or traumatic, had invariably been connected with Tommy. While many of her peers needed eyedrops or menthol puffed into their eyes, Diane could summon tears at a moment's notice, simply by thinking of her lost son. In the early days of Fortune's Fool she had even exploited his unhappiness at Ashlawn, kept his most wretched and despairing letter in her pocket to read in the wings before her final tragic scene. Now, however, just as she was finding fame, the idea of using him as a resource for her own ends made her feel ashamed. The irony was almost laughable. She had succeeded in what she had always wanted: to have a child as well as a career. And yet it now seemed impossible fully to enjoy either.

That the solution to this conundrum might be the love of a good man was not a sudden revelation, for the lack of logic would then have been too blatant. It was more of a slow coalescence of ideas, a sort of sprawling resolve, that if she were to meet a man she could love, who might be ready to share the responsibility, she would then be in a strong enough position to do the right thing: to reclaim her son and thereby, at a stroke, eradicate her guilt and his unhappiness.

Whether there had been something about Ray Montane, when she'd first laid eyes on him, that suggested the moment might be at hand, Diane would never be sure.

They had met in June, on her first trip to Hollywood, after Fortune's Fool closed its six-month run in London. Herb Kanter had organized a screen test in London. It was just a formality, he said. The suits at Paramount and, just as important, Gary Cooper needed to get an idea of what she was like.

The test, as far as Diane was concerned, was a disaster. She wasn't a complete novice in front of the camera. She'd been in a couple of small, very British, films and some TV plays and knew a little about the difference between stage and screen acting, how intimate the camera was, how much your eyes mattered, how less was invariably more. But on the day of the screen test, all of this seemed to fly from her head.

In a shabby corner of Elstree Studios, where Herb (who in his shiny black jacket that day looked even more like a sea lion) sat watching from behind his glasses, Diane acted out a scene from the screenplay of Remorseless with a young actor—clearly hired more for his price than his talent—playing Gary Cooper's part. They did it seven or eight times, each one worse than the last, as Diane got angrier and angrier with herself. When it was over, she managed to laugh about it and stayed for a while to chat and smoke a cigarette. But as soon as she was in the taxi, heading home, she burst into tears and cried all the way back to Paddington. It had been her big break and she'd blown it.

Only later did she find out that Herb had cunningly told the cameraman to keep rolling and that what had clinched it for the suits was her natural, riotous, self-deprecating performance after she thought the test had ended. When Gary Cooper saw it, he apparently declared her a knockout. Everyone was eager to meet her and as soon as she was free from the play, she was flown out, first class, to Hollywood.

It was a two-week whirlwind of meetings and parties, lunches and dinners. She met managers and agents, publicity people and studio executives. Just about the only person she didn't meet was Coop, as everybody seemed to call him. Their planned lunch at the Paramount commissary was canceled because of what Herb said were unexpected and unavoidable family matters. Coop sent his apologies in a sweet handwritten note saying how much he was looking forward to working with her.

Diane was offered a three-picture deal, starting at eight hundred dollars a week which her newly acquired LA agent, Harry Zucker—an elegant little man who wore bow ties and a trademark white gardenia in his buttonhole—managed to hoist to a thousand. Diane would happily have worked for nothing. In celebration, at the end of her first week in Hollywood, Harry held a party for her at the agency offices on Sunset. And in walked Ray Montane.

He hadn't been invited. He just happened that same evening to be visiting his own agent who had brought him along. Diane noticed him as soon as he entered the room. Had he been wearing a cowboy hat, she might have recognized him, for she tried to keep up with Tommy's TV westerns and knew most of his heroes, including Red McGraw, from the pictures on his walls. Tonight, however, Red was out of uniform. All Diane saw was a tall man, lean and tanned, dressed in an open black leather jacket, a white snap-buttoned shirt and black jeans (she couldn't yet see the hand-tooled cowboy boots). His dark hair was cropped short, with long sideburns, and he had the kind of craggy good looks that made his age hard to pinpoint. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed. What was clear, even across the room, was that he had presence, the kind of easy confidence that Diane had always found attractive.

Harry made a little speech, funny and sweet, saying how thrilled and proud he and everybody at the agency were to be representing England's new and bright young star, Miss Knockout (the nickname had already been in the trades), Diane Reed. He toasted her and everyone clapped and Diane said a few suitably modest but charming words—just the way Audrey Hepburn would have done it—and, as she wound up, found herself smiling at the man standing by the door, giving him that knowing look that had launched a thousand ships of frustration back home. Ray Montane returned the smile and raised his glass in an intimate toast of his own and Diane shocked herself by blushing, something she hadn't done since she was twelve years old.

By the end of the following week, after a series of long, late dinners at Ciro's and Romanoff's, walks along the beach, dancing at the Mocambo, her room at the Beverly Wilshire so full of Ray Montane's flowers that it looked like a greenhouse, England's newest and brightest young star found herself, for the first time in her life, in love.

He had a sort of old-fashioned and irresistible cowboy charm and at the same time was hip enough to know about the latest rock-and-roll bands. In fact he knew and hung out with some of them. He even knew Jack Kerouac. And he was kind and attentive and interesting and, most important of all, he made her laugh. He was also the most confident and accomplished lover she had known. In their lovemaking there was sometimes a frisson of danger that Diane, to her surprise, found herself excited by.

On her last evening in Hollywood, on the terrace of his sumptuous house in the hills, under a tree of fairy lights, Ray Montane asked her to marry him. And she said no.

"Is that no as in never?"

"No. Just no as in now."

They were sitting side by side and she took his hand and held it in both of hers and said she had something important to say. And she told him about Tommy. He listened without once taking his eyes off her. And as she finished—by now, naturally, in tears—saying it was her dream that one day, one day soon, she could be a proper mother to the boy, be openly his mother, for all the world to see, and do for him what she should have been doing all these years, Ray held her face in his big brown hands and kissed her tears and looked her in the eyes and said simply: "What's stopping you? Let's do it. Do it right now."

He told her that he had been married once before but was now divorced. His wife, an actress called Cheryl, had suffered from acute depression. He had longed for kids, he said, but she hadn't wanted them. She'd remarried, found a good psychiatrist and now lived, more or less happily, in Oregon.

In the two and a half months that followed Diane's revelation to Tommy that she was his mother, Ray had been calm and strong. He flew back from LA and they rented a cottage in the countryside near Pinewood Studios. The three of them lived there in a kind of limbo between bliss and pain while all the arrangements were made for their move to California. Diane's mother made everything as difficult and acrimonious as possible. But with the help of some expensive London lawyers and Ray's dogged diplomacy, they managed. Signed statements were made so that Tommy's birth certificate could be officially altered. They got him a passport and organized an American visa. Ray insisted on paying all the bills.