‘No. No, it isn’t.’ Reluctantly, Alma looked at her watch. ‘I must go and get Hitch for dinner,’ she said, ‘but perhaps we can continue this conversation later. And whatever you decide about working on a screenplay with us, I hope I haven’t put you off a film of your book altogether.’
‘Of course not, but I’ll need some time to think about it.’ Alma nodded‚ and they walked out onto the terrace together. ‘Would you involve Marta in the adaptation?’ Josephine asked, glancing over to where she sat with Lydia.
‘I’m afraid not. She’d never be ruthless enough with your work. You have quite a fan there, but I’m sure you know that already.’ Josephine felt herself blush and looked away. ‘It’s a shame. She’d have made an excellent job of it. But I suppose the benefits of friendship outweigh a decent script. As my husband would say, it’s only a movie.’
‘Aren’t you worried that it will affect your marriage?’ Josephine asked. ‘The fame, I mean, and Hollywood. Do you ever worry that you might be on the receiving end of that ruthlessness one day?’
‘All the time, and I’ve no doubt it will happen sooner rather than later. But we love each other, Miss Tey, and more importantly we understand each other. We were both lonely children, unpopular at school, solitary within our own families. Hitch often says that’s where he gets his imagination from: he was forced to live in it for so long. In a sense, we’ve given each other the life we never thought we’d have, and that’s a very strong bond. I’m confident it can withstand most of the challenges we throw at it.’
What Alma brought to the partnership was obvious to Josephine, but what she received in exchange was less clear. ‘What’s the most important thing about your marriage?’ she asked. ‘The thing that prevents it from being one of you at the expense of the other?’
There was no hesitation about the response. ‘In the ten years we’ve been together, my husband has never once bored me, Miss Tey.’ She smiled and held out her hand. ‘How many wives can say that?’
Branwen had known the journey would be a waste of time even before she set out. As she hurried to her room to change at the end of her afternoon shift, she thought about the miles and hours she had clocked up going to that house only to be greeted by drawn curtains and locked doors, and there was no reason to suppose that today would be any different. But still she had gone, because the victory was hers and she needed Gwyneth Draycott to know that all her secrecy had been in vain. Gwyneth wasn’t the only one who knew what had happened to Branwen’s mother, and Branwen couldn’t care less where the truth came from as long as it was told. She had spent years pretending that it didn’t matter. Only in that second when Bella Hutton had agreed to talk to her could she finally admit to herself that it
did
, that her life so far had been entirely defined by her mother’s absence, a life of half-truths and silence and wondering.
With her message safely delivered, Branwen cycled back to the hotel, grateful that most of the return journey was downhill. Her dress stuck to her skin‚ and she took first one hand and then the other off the handlebars, trying without much success to wipe the sweat off her palms. She was too preoccupied with the heat and the evening ahead to concentrate much on where she was going, and, as she rounded a bend on the wrong side of the road, she had to swerve quickly into a passing place to avoid a car coming the other way. In her panic, she braked far too sharply‚ and the bicycle skidded from under her on some loose stones, sending her crashing to the ground. She lay there for a moment, dazed, until the angry hooting had faded into the distance and all she could hear was her front wheel spinning uselessly in the air, then got gingerly to her feet. Her stockings were torn and her left leg badly grazed below the knee where it had taken the brunt of her fall. No wonder it hurt so much: some idiot had left a broken beer bottle behind‚ and small shards of glass mixed with dirt had embedded themselves in her skin. Wincing, she bent down and removed the worst of it, but was dismayed to find that her bike had fared even worse than she had: the back tyre was completely flat, punctured by the neck of the bottle, and she still had two miles to go. Blinking back tears of frustration, Branwen started to half wheel, half carry the offending machine along the road, but she hadn’t got far before she heard another car coming up behind her, the expensive one that had been parked over near the Draycott house. The driver pulled in to the side when he saw her, and she recognised him as the film star who was staying at the hotel.
‘You look as though you could do with some help,’ he said, getting out.
Branwen smiled. ‘It’s not my lucky day, I don’t reckon. Those nylons cost me a week’s tips.’
‘Never mind the stockings. That looks nasty.’ He took a handkerchief from his top pocket and put it to his mouth to wet it. ‘Here – it needs bathing.’ She thought he was going to pass it to her but he knelt down to do it himself. ‘This might sting a bit. Be brave.’
‘Quite the hero, aren’t you?’ Branwen said, looking down at him. ‘On screen and off.’ His frown confused her for a moment, then she noticed the lines under his eyes and the grey at his temples and realised that he thought she was making fun of him. ‘When I was a kid, I used to want to be Mae Murray just so I could dance with you,’ she added. ‘Can’t say I’ve grown out of it.’
Her sincerity seemed to convince Turnbull. ‘You obviously have me at a disadvantage,’ he said, and she struggled to associate the voice with the face she knew from the screen. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Branwen.’
‘Well, Branwen – can I give you a lift back to the hotel? If that’s where you were going, of course.’ He looked doubtfully at the bicycle. ‘We can probably fit this in the back.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s my day off tomorrow and I can come and pick it up then. No one’s going to pinch it in that state, are they? Come to think of it, I might just leave the damned thing where it is for all the use it’s been.’ She smiled at him and ran her hand approvingly along the side of the car. ‘I’d be ever so grateful for a lift, though. I can’t afford to be late this evening, and this looks like it’ll get me back in no time. Feel like a real movie star, I will.’
He lifted the bicycle over the hedge where it couldn’t be seen from the road and opened the door for her. ‘What’s so special about tonight?’ he asked, pressing the starter. ‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Bit of both, I suppose. I sing with the band sometimes. Nothing special about that – I’ve been doing it for years – but it’s not every night you get Alfred Hitchcock in the audience.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’
His response was half-hearted, and she put it down to his familiarity with everything she found so exciting; even glamour must fade eventually, she supposed, although he should try doing her job for a few days if he wanted to know what boredom really was. ‘I suppose you can afford to be blasé about it when you’re one of them,’ she teased. ‘The rest of us have to grab our fun when we can.’ She settled back into her seat, enjoying the smell and feel of the leather. ‘So what’s Mr Hitchcock like, then? You must know him well.’
‘Hitch? I’ve known him for years.’ That wasn’t quite the same thing, Branwen thought, but she didn’t interrupt him. ‘I knew from the first time I met him that he was bound for great things: he was always such a talented boy.’ She half listened while he reminisced about his early days in film, mentioning a lot of names she vaguely recognised but telling her very little about Alfred Hitchcock. ‘And I have to say, it’s nice to be working with him again. I’ll introduce you if you like. He’s always pleased to meet a talented young lady.’ He glanced quickly across at her and added‚ ‘Unless Bella Hutton’s already offered? I saw you talking to her earlier.’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’
‘Can’t afford to in my business. And Bella is so rarely nice that one tends to notice when it happens.’
He smiled at her, but there was a bitterness in his voice which made her wary. She hadn’t come this far only to ruin everything by making Bella Hutton think that she couldn’t be trusted. Anyway, having spent years speculating about her mother with anyone who would listen, Branwen found that the prospect of knowing the truth was something so precious that she wanted to keep it to herself; to talk about it before it actually happened would be to tempt fate. ‘No, she didn’t mention Mr Hitchcock,’ she said truthfully. ‘And I’d love to meet him. Thank you.’
She tried to change the subject, but, for someone so self-absorbed, Turnbull was remarkably persistent. ‘So what pearls of wisdom
was
Bella sharing with you?’ he asked.
‘It was nothing like that. She was just talking about how different Portmeirion is now from how she remembers it.’ It was only half a lie: Bella Hutton had made it clear by her attitude that she considered her time there to be a different life altogether, but that had nothing to do with a changing landscape. ‘She’s a bit of a heroine for us local girls. We read about her in the magazines and just for a minute we think her story could be ours. I suppose that sounds daft.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, then added mockingly: ‘Especially if you marry well and divorce in style.’
He slowed the car down as they entered Minffordd village and turned left at the post office. ‘You’re not local as well, are you?’ she asked curiously.
‘Good God, no,’ he said, laughing. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’
‘Just that you seem to know your way round, and I saw your car parked out by the old Draycott house.’ He shrugged; the name seemed to mean nothing to him. ‘It’s that big place by the water, over on the other side.’
‘I didn’t really take much notice of it. Someone told me how magical the village looks from the other side of the estuary and I wanted to see it for myself. They were right: it’s breathtaking. But now you mention it, that house does look like it’s seen better days.’
‘You’re right there. The same woman’s lived there for years and she hardly ever leaves the place. God knows what it’s like inside.’
‘Seems like a big house for one person to rattle around in.’
‘She’s got her ghosts, I suppose. Mad as a badger, Gwyneth is – everyone says so. My grandmother always said it ran in the family.’ It wasn’t all her grandmother said: Branwen could have filled a book with what she had heard about the Draycott family while she was growing up, and none of it good. ‘Can’t say I blame the woman, mind. A Gypsy ran off with her kid, so it’s not surprising if she’s not the full shilling, is it?’
‘What?’
He looked at her, astonished, and Branwen basked in the safe attention of someone else’s scandal. ‘They say she thought she couldn’t have kids, then some bastard takes the one she does have. Where’s the justice in that? And they never did find the poor little sod. Vicious lot they were, those gippos. They’d have anything if you took your eye off it long enough.’ Listening to herself, it was like having her dad in the car with them, speaking over her shoulder; she hadn’t realised until now how deeply his prejudices had been absorbed into her own soul, and it shocked her. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d buried the kid up there with the dogs in that cemetery. Here – watch it!’ Turnbull had taken his eyes off the road‚ and she reached over to grab the steering wheel and pull them back on course. ‘You’ll get us both killed if you’re not careful.’
‘When did all this happen?’
Branwen looked at him, surprised by the intensity of his interest and worried that she had already said too much. Her grandmother had always forbidden her to talk about the incident because of the part her dad had played in the Gypsy’s death. ‘Twenty years ago, near as damn it – towards the end of the war,’ she said cautiously. Her dad was dead and gone now‚ and she didn’t see what harm it could do, but her gran still frightened the living daylights out of her. She tried to think of something to change the subject, but Turnbull wouldn’t let it go.
‘Was the child a boy or a girl?’ Branwen shrugged, deciding that ignorance was the safest tack. ‘Come on – you must know.’
‘Look, I was only a kid myself. What’s it to you anyway?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just shocked by what you said.’ He backed off after that, and Branwen was relieved when they arrived at the entrance to the village. The man on the gate let them through‚ and the expression on his face when he recognised her was priceless. She smiled brazenly at him. ‘Shall I drop you at the hotel?’ Turnbull asked, his composure apparently restored.
‘That’d be perfect.’ Branwen was determined to make the most of her entrance; staff were not allowed to fraternise with the guests, but there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it while she wasn’t on duty. She took her lipstick out of her bag and refreshed her make-up, then straightened her stockings as best she could.
Turnbull obliged her by pulling up right outside reception. He hopped out to open the door for her and smiled apologetically as she got out. ‘I’m sorry, Branwen. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. It must be the heat. Please forgive me.’
‘Nothing to forgive. It’s like water off a duck’s back round here, and if it’s not the guests, it’s the boss.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the restaurant manager watching her from the terrace and kissed Leyton Turnbull provocatively on the cheek. His aftershave was musky and expensive, she noticed, and she was surprised to see him blush. ‘See you later, I hope.’
‘Of course. And I look forward to hearing you sing.’
Branwen slipped quickly through reception and headed for the staff quarters. Glancing back over her shoulder, she noticed that Leyton Turnbull was still watching her. The expression on his face was impossible to read.
‘Same again?’ Astrid Lake nodded‚ and Danny walked back across the lawn to the hotel.
Lydia watched him go, trying not to be too cynical about his obvious affection for the young actress. The sliver of envy that reared its ugly head whenever she met someone with her whole career ahead of her had not prevented her from liking Astrid as soon as they were introduced, but she was less sure about Danny’s ability to compete – romantically or professionally – in the future that lay ahead of the girl. From what Lydia had seen on screen, Astrid had the sort of radiance that characterised the young female stars of the silent generation but none of the old-fashioned, rosy-cheeked romanticism; hers was a more sophisticated sexuality, appropriate to a different decade and all the more compelling because it seemed so unselfconscious. Lydia could just about remember what that sort of innocence was like. It made you brave, simply because you were too naive to realise there was anything to be frightened of, and that was a very desirable commodity. ‘Have you known Danny long?’ she asked.
‘Not really. Our paths crossed on a couple of jobs, but I didn’t get to know him properly until a few months ago. We were working together on
Looking for Trouble
when he got the news about his father, and he needed someone to talk to.’
Marta waved a wasp away from her drink. ‘What happened to his father?’
‘He committed suicide, and Danny blamed himself for the fact that they were estranged at the time.’ She must have noticed the question in their eyes, because she added‚ ‘I don’t know what they fell out over – he won’t say – but it must have been serious because they hadn’t spoken for years.’
‘Miss Lake? Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say hello and make sure you have everything you need?’ The man at Astrid’s side was tall and broad-shouldered, but it was his smile that was most noticeable. Lydia guessed that he was around thirty, but he had a combination of earnestness and boyish charm which could have placed him five years either side. ‘I’m David Franks,’ he said. ‘I work with Mr Hitchcock.’ Had Hitchcock himself been present, ‘with’ would almost certainly have been changed to ‘for’, Lydia thought to herself, but she admired Franks’s confidence. ‘Are you the Marta Fox who’s been working with Miss Reville?’ he asked, when Astrid introduced them. Marta nodded. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. She’s mentioned you often, but I didn’t know you were going to be here.’
He looked Marta approvingly up and down as they shook hands, and Lydia mentally revised her use of the word ‘boyish’. God help Danny if Astrid was Franks’s type. Marta, on the other hand, was more resistant to charm than anyone else she knew. ‘It’s a coincidence,’ she said. ‘We’re here for a friend’s birthday party.’
Lydia looked at her with a mixture of pride and irritation. She knew that Marta was being modest about the impression she had made with her first attempt at screenwriting, but why did she have to be so casual about everything? If she could only bring herself to be a little more ambitious, life might be easier for them both. Fortunately, Franks didn’t seem to have noticed any coolness. ‘With a boss like mine, it’s always best to double-check the arrangements,’ he said. ‘He has a talent for surprises.’
‘What is it you do for Mr Hitchcock?’ Astrid asked.
‘Depends what the film is – all-purpose dogsbody, special effects, production design, even a bit of direction. I’ve had more titles than I can remember, but I suppose the word “assistant” is the common theme.’ He grinned, and accepted the invitation to sit down. ‘At the moment, I’m just trying to make sure his weekend runs smoothly.’
‘You must have your work cut out.’
‘Oh?’ He feigned an expression of anxiety. ‘Don’t tell me there’s trouble already. I hoped we might at least get as far as dinner.’
Astrid laughed. ‘I only meant that it’s a lot to organise. Although‚ now you mention it, Leyton Turnbull and Bella Hutton obviously aren’t the best of friends.’
‘Those two go back a long way. It’s a love-hate relationship.’
‘I didn’t see much of the love.’ She opened her mouth to add something but seemed to think better of it.
‘Believe me, the time to worry is when they’re
not
squabbling. I know Bella very well. I have her to thank for just about every stroke of luck I’ve ever had.’
‘One Dry Martini.’ Danny set the drink down and nodded to Franks.
‘Have you two met?’ Astrid asked.
‘Yes, at the top of the Bell Tower.’ He grinned. ‘I was having a look round and I didn’t realise that David was already up there. He made me jump out of my skin.’
‘I think we’re quits,’ Franks said. ‘It’s not the most comfortable feeling to be at the top with nowhere to go and suddenly hear footsteps you’re not expecting.’
‘You were just telling us how you know Bella Hutton,’ Lydia reminded him. It wasn’t strictly true, but she was intrigued by the relationship between the film star and Hitchcock’s protégé, and Franks didn’t seem to mind being nudged into an explanation.
‘My parents died when I was young and I got into some trouble. Bella hauled me off to Hollywood with her, out of harm’s way, and showed me there was more to life than being a difficult teenager.’ Lydia suspected she was not the only one who was dying to ask what sort of trouble, but nobody said anything. ‘The film set was a safe place to be dangerous, I suppose – a fantasy world with no risks. Bella knew I loved it, so, when she came back here to work, she pulled more strings and got me a job on
The Lodger
. That’s when I met the Hitchcocks.’
‘What’s he like to work with?’ Lydia asked.
‘Brilliant. I worked on a few films for the studios, his and other people’s, mostly on models and miniatures and the kind of stuff I’d learnt in the States. I didn’t even know that Hitchcock had noticed me until he invited me down to his cottage for the weekend. They were so kind to me, both he and Alma. In hindsight, it was the most subtle job interview I’ve ever had. Before we went back to London, he handed me the script of a play and asked me what I thought of it as a movie idea. They must have liked what I said, because the next thing I knew I was working on
Blackmail
.’
‘So what’s the most important thing you’ve learnt from him?’ Astrid made her question sound like a challenge‚ but Lydia suspected that she was wisely doing her own research, gleaning all she could from an insider in the Hitchcock camp.
‘That you have to be able to do everything if you want to direct – camera, lighting, design, script, even promotion,’ Franks said without hesitation. ‘And to be brave. I see in Hitchcock what I love about America and admire in the German directors – that sense of freedom and imagination, the courage to try things out.’
‘I suppose you’ll go with him if he moves to America?’ Danny asked. ‘It’ll be easier for you, as you know the place already. Less of an upheaval.’
‘Oh, I’m used to upheaval. My family travelled around a lot when I was a kid.’
‘So did mine. That’s why I hate upheaval.’
Franks laughed. ‘I can understand that, but opportunities like moving to Hollywood with Alfred Hitchcock don’t come along very often.’
‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’ Danny smiled and finished his drink. ‘In the unlikely event that it’s a decision I’d have to make, it would probably take all of ten seconds.’
‘From what you say, it’ll be a shame for the Brits if we lose him,’ Lydia said.
‘Yes, but it’s going to happen sooner or later. The most exciting opportunities are in America at the moment.’ He looked at Marta. ‘And not just for directors. Lots of the best British screenwriters are thinking about moving or have already gone.’
Lydia didn’t trust Marta not to break her silence by making it clear how she felt about receiving career advice from a stranger, so she said quickly‚ ‘It’s better now, surely? I remember a time when we only made the terrible second features that you had to sit through to get to the Hollywood film, but it’s not like that any more.’
‘No, it’s not.’ He smiled. ‘Not all the time, anyway. Have you ever been interested in films, or are you happy with the stage?’
Feeling faintly patronised, like someone who misguidedly prefers cheap wine to champagne, Lydia said‚ ‘I’ve considered it, but I’m not sure it’s an easy transition to make.’ She was going to say ‘at my age’, but thought better of it. ‘A friend of mine was in
Secret Agent
. I suppose everybody’s experience of working with Hitchcock is different, but it wasn’t the happiest job he’s ever had.’
‘You mean John Terry?’ Lydia nodded. ‘He made it too obvious that he thought film was beneath his dignity as a stage legend,’ Franks explained‚ ‘and that’s never the way to go with Hitch. He cares deeply about what he does, and a film director doesn’t want to feel like a poor relation any more than a stage actress does.’ She was treated to the smile again, irresistible because it came from his eyes. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It was a clumsy way to ask the question.’
‘I read an interview in
Film Weekly
where Hitchcock said that women didn’t act as well as men,’ Astrid said. ‘Was that exploiting publicity or does he actually mean it?’
Franks laughed. ‘A bit of both, probably. Some people have a hard time with him, some adore him, but there are men and women in both camps.’
‘So he doesn’t exploit women? I was talking to Bella Hutton earlier. She didn’t mention Hitchcock – she obviously likes him – but she seemed to think that film in general favoured men and allowed them to get away with too much.’
‘How does that make film different to most other professions?’ Franks asked, turning to Lydia. ‘Is the stage any better, Miss Beaumont? Have you never had to play up to a male producer to get a part you want?’ Lydia felt Marta’s eyes on her and gave what she hoped was a non-committal smile. ‘It depends what you mean by exploitation. All film is voyeuristic to some extent. It’s an excuse for people to sit in the dark and live out their dreams – privately, with the person on the screen. And that’s not a male prerogative. The women in the audience are just as possessive over their matinee idols.’
‘I don’t think that’s quite what Miss Hutton meant,’ Astrid said, a little impatiently. ‘She was talking about what happens when the lines between reality and fantasy get blurred.’
‘What do you mean?’
She hesitated when faced with a direct question, and Lydia wondered what Bella Hutton had said to her that she was reluctant to repeat. ‘That some people are powerful enough to get away with anything, no matter who gets hurt.’
Franks nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s probably true. But in the States, one of the most powerful people in film is a woman who runs a mobile unit for dirty films in Chicago – all completely illegal, of course, but she’s worth a fortune. And she asks things of her female stars that Hitch would never dare mention, even if he wanted to.’ He smiled and continued more diplomatically. ‘Bella’s quite influential herself. I doubt she’s ever been exploited in her life – it would be a stupid man who tried it. But don’t listen to gossip where Hitch is concerned. Keep an open mind and decide for yourself.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to check that everything’s in place for dinner.’
Lydia watched as he walked away. ‘Why does good advice always sound so damned condescending?’ she asked with a wink at Astrid. ‘He meant well, I suppose.’
‘There’s Josephine,’ Marta said, looking over to the hotel entrance. ‘She’s with Alma – I wonder how she got on?’
‘Which one’s Mrs Hitchcock?’ Danny asked, and Marta pointed her out. Against her better judgement, Lydia glanced at Marta’s face as she watched Josephine, and wondered how little of her heart she would be willing to settle for.