Curtain Call (37 page)

‘And
you
are a little shit,' Nina replied crisply. At that moment László was returning to the table, just in time to overhear this disobliging epithet. He slunk into his seat, glancing up nervously at the interloper. Jimmy, meanwhile, was looking around, his face a picture of injured innocence.

‘My dear lady, the review to which you refer was an
hommage
! I distinctly recall my asserting that your performance outshone all else, and that you were destined for great things. Pray tell, how have I offended?'

‘You've got some nerve, I must say. What critic in his right mind would describe an actress as “horse-faced” and then call it
hommage
?'

Jimmy slapped his hand on the table. ‘I would! You are assuming I use “horse-faced” as a term of insult.'

Nina returned an incredulous look. ‘Likening a woman's face to a horse's
is
generally understood as an insult.'

With portentous solemnity Jimmy held up his forefinger, as though preparing an announcement. ‘In which case I must take recourse to my trusted companion here. László, this lady believes I have affronted her. Would you do me the service of propounding my theory of the female physiognomy?'

Nina looked at the critic's fidgeting friend and sensed his uncertainty, which made her only more curious to hear the defence. With some fluster László began: ‘I do assure you, miss, um, that James – Mr Erskine – intended no offence. His taxonomy is perhaps eccentric, but not without foundation, I think . . .' She listened as he proceeded to explain the rudiments of ‘bird-bun-horse', to which final category her own face apparently belonged. László's precise, accented English, and the courtesy with which he spoke, had a disarming effect. Nina found herself mollified, if not quite persuaded. When he had concluded (‘
C'est tout
'), she replied with a gracious nod and turned to Jimmy.

‘Hmm. I can't tell if it's twaddle or –'

‘Twuth?' suggested Jimmy, and she giggled.

‘I think a test is in order. I shall call on my second, as you have,' she said, beckoning the companion she had left at the table. A lady in her fifties, short, wiry, beady-eyed, sidled up. She gave Jimmy and László the once-over, unimpressed. ‘This is Dolly Langdon, my dresser. Dolly, dear, these gentlemen have a theory I want to test. So listen, if every woman's face has one of three shapes – a horse, a bun, or a bird – which, d'you think, is mine?'

Dolly pulled a face of her own. ‘I shouldn't like to say.'

Nina stooped to Dolly's height. ‘Just be honest. Bird, bun, horse?'

With a reluctant air, she squinted at Nina. ‘Horse.'

Jimmy clapped his hands, triumphant. ‘There! Mrs Langdon, without prompting, has vindicated me.'

‘The horse is indeed a noble-faced creature,' added László quietly.

‘Don't push your luck,' said Nina with a half-laugh. She gave Jimmy a sidelong look. ‘There may be something in it. I'm sorry for calling you a –'

‘Quite forgotten,' said Jimmy, becoming expansive. ‘Now, I propose we celebrate our truce by you and Mrs Langdon joining us for pudding. László, be a good fellow and pull up that chair.'

Nina glanced at Dolly, who indicated her compliance with a little moue. She supposed that Dolly's face, small and pointed, would be ‘bird' according to the Erskine theory, but wisely resisted mentioning it. They settled around the table and Jimmy, needing no excuse, called for a pint of champagne with the pudding menus. Just then Nina recalled Stephen telling her about the evening of the Marquess dinner, and his being seated next to ‘that Erskine fellow'. He hadn't much liked him, either, though he had found his friend strangely charming. Could it possibly be . . .? She caught László's eye across the table and smiled.

‘I've an idea you know a friend of mine,' she said. ‘Stephen Wyley?'

László's eyes brightened. ‘Indeed! James and I were lately discussing him. It has grieved us both to see his name so besmirched. Do please tell, have you seen him since his . . . troubles?'

‘Yes, last week. He's bearing up.'

‘A shocking business,' said Jimmy. ‘We met him the night of that ghastly dinner at the Carlton. László here even wrote a letter to
The Times
defending him.'

‘Not printed, alas,' muttered László.

‘I know he'll appreciate it, all the same,' said Nina kindly. ‘The gallery is standing by him, thank goodness, but he's had some commissions cancelled. Even the mural he was painting at the Nines has been abandoned.'

Jimmy, unable to resist, said, ‘So the club will have to hire an
extra
mural painter, as it were.'

‘That's rather good,' said Nina. For all the resentment he had stirred in her as a critic she had to admit he was jolly company. Generous, too; when the champagne arrived he made a toast to his little friend, who turned out to be celebrating his fiftieth birthday. It was worth being there just to see the childishly wide grin that transformed László's countenance. ‘We're celebrating, too, as a matter of fact,' she added. ‘Our run ended last week. So I'd like to propose a toast to my dresser, with me through thick and thin – to Dolly!'

As her name rang in echo Dolly tried to pooh-pooh the fuss, and was shouted down. Jimmy, lighting a cigar, said to Nina, ‘My God, you carried
The Second Arrangement
. I don't think anyone else could have found such wit in the thing.'

He's flattering me now, she thought, though it was not unpleasant to hear. ‘I could wish some others were as appreciative,' she replied with a rueful smile. ‘My agent has written to say that Marlborough Studios don't want me for their next picture after all.'

‘Fie on the dolts! Cinema's loss is our gain, my dear. There will always be a welcome for you in the theatre.'

She had made light of it, but the news, coming on the day of the last performance, had deflated her just when she needed a boost. She had thought of telephoning Stephen to have a good moan, then decided not to: he had troubles enough to occupy him. And maybe it was for the best anyway. She was making a name for herself as a stage actress; to take a plunge into film might stall the momentum she had gathered.

Across the table László was enthusing over a pair of opera glasses – a birthday gift, it seemed – which he passed to Dolly for her inspection.

‘Just to think these glasses once rested on the eyes of the man who composed
A German Requiem
!'

Dolly made a polite face. ‘Fancy,' she said, handing them back.

László beamed at Nina. ‘Who knows, in years to come perhaps something of Miss Land's will be fought over at auction.'

‘Mm, anything but that hat, I imagine,' said Dolly, eyeing the squashed pagoda. Jimmy's laughter was uproarious, but Nina didn't mind. The mood had grown convivial. Anyone happening to pass their table might have supposed that the quartet of diners had all known one another for years.

They were just finishing off pudding when László sat up in his chair excitedly and cried, ‘Look who's come to join us! Ladies, allow me to introduce our dear friend Thomas.'

Jimmy, who'd been in the middle of an anecdote about Sarah Bernhardt, raised his eyes heavenwards. Really! From the expression on László's face you'd have thought Brahms himself had just walked in. Tom, greeting them, accepted the chair László had eagerly wedged beside his own. It took him a moment to recognise the lady in the architectural hat.

‘The last time I saw you was at the Strand for
The Second Arrangement
. Actually I went to see it twice.'

‘It's true,' said Jimmy. ‘He couldn't believe it the first time.'

‘You were terribly good in it,' said Tom, ignoring him.

‘That's very sweet of you,' smiled Nina. ‘You know, this restaurant serves a better class of critic. I must come here more often.'

‘Well, Jimmy's the critic,' said Tom, ‘I'm just his secretary. And driver.'

Nina was astounded. ‘Driver? Goodness, I didn't know newspapers paid their writers so well.'

‘They don't,' said Tom. ‘But he spends as if they do.' With a barely perceptible look he indicated to Jimmy that it was time to leave.

‘Our carriage awaits! Ladies, consider it at your disposal. Thomas here will drive you wherever you wish.' This was less than welcome news to Tom. As he might have guessed, the car had quickly become a millstone, one more thing for which Jimmy expected him to be at his beck and call. In spite of its opulence he found he did not much enjoy driving it, and of course the vehicle was already tainted for him by its previous owner.

Charlotte Street was under lamplight as they emerged from L'Etoile. In spite of Jimmy's offer Dolly insisted that she would go home on the Tube, and László would accompany her to Tottenham Court Road station. It took no more than five minutes for Jimmy to be deposited at Princess Louise Mansions, which left Tom in charge of Nina.

‘Honestly, just drop me at the bus stop,' she said.

‘It's no trouble, really. Marylebone isn't far.' Tom's initial exasperation at being appointed cab driver had evaporated. There was something rather glamorous about driving an attractive young woman through town in an open-topped motor. He leaned into the back seat and grabbed Jimmy's car blanket. ‘Here, that should keep the chill off.'

They turned into New Oxford Street, heading west. ‘Quite a character, your Mr Erskine – entertaining,' said Nina.

‘You could say,' replied Tom.

‘And rather selfish?'

‘Entertaining people generally are.' He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I gather he treated you to “bird-bun-horse”.'

‘Yes. He all but threw a saddle on me.'

‘I once told him off for trying out the theory on a lady he'd just met. Actually, I think you might know her. I saw you together at Edie Greenlaw's party.'

‘Oh?'

‘Madeleine Farewell.'

Nina heard this with a flinch of surprise, then recovered herself. ‘I don't know her at all well.'

A beat passed, and he said, ‘Nor do I.' She glanced at him, expecting something more, but having brought up her name he seemed reluctant to enlarge. They talked instead of Edie and what a scream she was. Nina noticed that in profile he looked more handsome than he did face-on. Unaccountable, really.

‘You must be quite sociable, doing what you do,' she mused.

‘In a way, yes,' said Tom, who had never felt as lonely in his life. ‘I don't have Jimmy's knack for it, though. He walks into a room, starts talking and assumes people will hang on his every word. Which they usually do.'

They had reached the busy junction of Oxford Circus and Regent Street. Nina took out her cigarettes, offering him one. He reached for the packet, distracted between his hand and the wheel, and she saw the difficulty. ‘Here, let me light it for you.' She did so, passing it from her mouth to his. As her hand hovered he caught a noseful of her scent, and was jolted.

‘That perfume – what is it?'

‘Jicky. D'you know it?'

He nodded. ‘It reminds me of someone. I suppose that's what a scent is for.'

Nina felt sure then that Madeleine was on his mind. And judging by the set of his mouth he was very downcast about it. She gazed out at the shop windows of Marylebone sliding by, and wondered what to say. But Tom saved her the trouble. ‘What will you do next – I mean, now the play's finished?'

‘I'm not sure. As I was saying to your friends, I had hoped to get a part in a film –
Fortune's Cap
– but the studio doesn't want me.'

‘
On Fortune's cap we are not the very button
,' Tom quoted.

She gave a shrug. ‘That would appear to be the case.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it. If I were a film producer I'd sign you up in a shot.'

She laughed with self-conscious bravery. ‘Then it's a pity you're not, because I need the work. Ah, here we are,' she said, indicating Chiltern Street on their right. Tom pulled the car over outside her boarding house. By unspoken agreement they would finish their cigarettes before parting.

‘Awfully nice of you to drive me,' she said, trying to set a friendly tone in preparation for her next remark. Tom gave a quick smile, and after a moment she continued. ‘When you mentioned Madeleine just before, I wasn't quite sure what to say. You see, I only know her by chance, really, through some odd circumstances that brought us together – it's hard to explain. From the little I do know she's a good sort, and brave, too. But I have this feeling that her life is in – disarray.' She had meant to say ‘danger', and corrected herself at the last moment: it sounded melodramatic, and she didn't want to mislead him.

With palpable effort Tom said, ‘The last time we spoke – I'm afraid I offended her, gravely. I was too – I hadn't realised she was . . .'

‘An escort?'

He gave a slow nod, lost in thought. ‘Perhaps I should have guessed. You see, she never . . .' He tailed off, unwilling to confide further. He tossed the butt of his cigarette and turned his face sadly to her. ‘It was nice to meet you.'

She offered him her hand and a smile. On stepping out she lingered on the pavement, and watched as Tom drove away up the street.

Stephen, rising late, came down to breakfast as Cora was brooding on the morning's post, scattered over the table. Something had irked her. The letter knife was poised in her long pale hand like an assassin's dagger. He decided to wait rather than provoke her with an enquiry; in the event the suspense was not drawn out.

‘As I thought. No invitation to the Inchcombs' this year,' she said, pursing her mouth. She referred to the annual Christmas party thrown by their wealthiest neighbours in Chelsea.

‘It might still be on its way,' he said, playing the optimist.