Not Without You (36 page)

We sat in silence, listening to the opening shimmering strings of ‘Secret Love’, and Conrad gave a small, wan smile.

‘I know Don wanted to help Jerry,’ he said. ‘I know he felt he owed him a huge debt, that he had to right that debt. He’s Irish, you know what they’re like.’ He shrugged, as though that was the answer, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘I just – I didn’t realise, when Moss suggested it, how it would … snowball, become this thing way out of my control … That we’d have to can
A Girl Named Rose
, all the crew would lose their jobs … all these things, I don’t know …’ He covered his face with his hands and carried on talking, his voice soft, the words fluent. ‘I’ve been so stupid. I hate myself. I can’t – I wish … When I think what would have happened, if I’d just kept on driving, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I’d been there before, I knew there were always cute boys from the town who’d turn a trick for a few bucks, I was horny as hell, I had to … Jerry didn’t mind, he said I had to get it out of my system … But if I’d just carried on driving back to LA, none of this would have happened.’

I nodded. I couldn’t speak. ‘No.’ My white-hot anger had dampened down. I didn’t know what else to say. Pointless to think about what might have happened, what could have been, where Don and I would be now. The compulsion to move the ashtray out of sight was almost overwhelming; I felt dizzy with the force of something mad, crazy, driving me. I put my hand to my stomach. I couldn’t think like that now, for his or her sake.

‘He’s a great man,’ Conrad said. ‘I’m not.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re not. I wish it wasn’t like this for you, but you shouldn’t have done it.’ I bit my lip; I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t.

He looked at me, his kind face so thin, pale in the blazing sun.

‘Goodbye, Conrad.’ I touched my hand to his shoulder, lightly. ‘I’m going now. Hope Europe works out for you.’

‘Yes,’ Conrad said. He stood up and squinted into the sun. ‘I’m sorry, Eve.’

‘You should be,’ I told him.

He flinched, as though I had slapped him.

‘Don’t say that,’ he said quietly.

I knew I had been too unkind. I left him, tears of impotent anger blurring my vision, and as we drove home I looked out at the houses perched on the hills around me.
More Stars Than There Are in Heaven
is what it said on the gate above the entrance to MGM. I wondered what they were all doing, this huge cluster of stars, in a 5-mile radius around me. Playing tennis? Listening to the radio, having a drink, laughing with their families, their friends? Did they ever feel the way I did, as though their mind were splitting into two, one side totally rational, able to answer questions and sign autographs and remember lines, the other side … oh, like a crazy, terrible jumble, a kaleidoscope of sounds and images and words that kept turning faster and faster until you wished you could drill into your head, release the whirling demon inside your skull, so that you could have some peace, even if only for a few hours? I knew it wasn’t like that for Gilbert: he drank when he was thirsty, ate when hungry, slept when tired, assumed he was the star and took his due, didn’t worry about anything else. Not me.

The trouble is I didn’t know who I was any more.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help
.

I breathed in steadily. Keep breathing, just keep breathing, I told myself. I looked at my watch and realised it was nearly six. This time tomorrow, I’d be arriving at the Santa Monica auditorium for the biggest night of my life in my turquoise dress, the jewels glinting in my hair, my hand tightly clasping Gilbert’s, as hundreds of people – fans, press, friends – called our names. Our picture would appear in the newspapers and magazines the next day, and girls from New York City and Boston to Dayton and Dallas would sigh over my photo, wishing they had my husband, my clothes, my job. My wonderful life.

‘
your sister, Rose Sallis
’

After my visit to Conrad, I couldn’t sleep. Rose’s face was always there when I closed my eyes. And there were other things, too. I wasn’t sure who I was, sometimes. I thought that perhaps it was the pregnancy, but I was becoming more and more sure it couldn’t be. When people called my name, I didn’t hear them. If they called me Rose, I did. Except no one called me Rose any more. I tried to look for the letter they wrote to me about her. But I was too afraid to look for it. I don’t know why. I think I saw it was all too late now.

I was Eve Noel, I was a creation of the studio; my hair, my teeth, my name all Mr Baxter’s, from the night he pulled up my skirt, planted his hairy big hands on me. I’d been passed from the Baxters to Gilbert Travers, and I was his now. I was carrying his child, I was bound to him in every way and all of a sudden, since I’d found out about Conrad cheating Don, I didn’t have anywhere to run. What would I do? Where would I go? Now I would have done everything differently, of course. But it’s too late, now.

Other things had changed, too. I thought about sex constantly. I fantasised about it, I rubbed my hands over my smooth, taut body, I even demanded it from Gilbert, who formerly had repulsed me. He, of course, was delighted, as an extension of his ego I believe, not because he wanted me to feel satisfied. I liked feeling him deep, deep inside me, fucking me, hurting me, when I hated him and myself. I liked thinking about rude, disgusting things while he did it. I became obsessed with cleanliness, having everything just so. After I’d left his dressing room, I’d stay up all night, prowling quietly around the house, looking out of the windows towards the hills, picking up things, rearranging them so they were perfectly in place for the next day.

Outwardly I was the same. I think what scared me the most was that I knew I wouldn’t ever ask for help. I knew that I couldn’t break down and reach out to anyone, admit my weakness, that I felt I was losing a grip on myself, that I didn’t know if it was me, if I was mad, or the baby, that this baby was eating away at me, sucking something out of me. Or that people around me were doing it deliberately, planting things in my way, trying to control me. I was more and more convinced that was the case.

The strangest thing was, when I got home, there was another letter addressed to me like the first one. From England. I hadn’t had any post for a long time, but Victoria was out, and there it was, on the floor, on the champagne-coloured carpet, just sticking out by the bureau, so maybe it had been kicked under there or maybe it had only just arrived. I don’t know, because the date kept changing.

And I read it and reread it, but I didn’t understand it. It didn’t make any sense. ‘
Your sister, Rose Sallis
’ it said – but I was Rose, wasn’t I? A girl named Rose. I didn’t understand why they were writing to me – Rose was dead, my parents were dead, and I was all alone. Don was gone and I had to help myself, and my brain hurt so very much all the time, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. The letter stayed in my hand, but after that I put it in the back of my wardrobe, in the secret place where I put my valuable things, the possessions I wanted to keep safe. The first letter was in there too; maybe I knew that all along. I don’t know. I put all these secret things away for a time when I could think about them.

the winner is …

THE NEXT DAY I sat in the auditorium in my beautiful dress on an uncomfortable shiny leather chair, and twisted my head to watch the rest of the audience arrive, trying to look as if I knew where I was and what I was doing. But it seemed to be getting harder for me to block out the noises, to stop seeing people when they weren’t there, to try and go back to normal. They had put me and Gilbert on the end of a row at the front. ‘Must mean something,’ Gilbert had whispered, nostrils flaring with barely concealed nerves. I stared at them all. All the men looked like Mr Baxter. Old. White. Black horn-rimmed spectacles. Greying hair, perfectly pressed dinner jackets and immaculate cuffs. Nearly all the women old too, in evening furs, silk boleros, dripping with jewellery. The stars stood out a mile. They were young and good-looking.

Despite my bravado, my claims that I’d tell everyone the truth, denounce Conrad, praise Don, when I was up on the stage, I knew I wouldn’t win. And I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t. I don’t even think the studio’s best attempts to scupper my chances made much difference either. Elizabeth Taylor had nearly died three months before, what chance did I stand against that? She was dressed all in white – a silk dress with a tulip-shaped skirt, long white gloves – a fairy queen come to life. I watched her walk up to the stage. I watched Bob Hope gurning, the old men clapping and cheering. Next to me, Gilbert put a hand on my thigh, grinning for a film camera, the husband of the gracious loser. I stared at him while he smiled. He had a gap between his front teeth. I’d never really noticed it before. I smiled into the camera, at the people on the other side of the aisle, up at the stage, and then I felt the most curious sensation, as if I were there still, but not there. I flew up high to the ceiling instead, watched the whole thing from the furthest corner of the vast auditorium. I could see me, sitting down below, trying not to touch my head, to stop the noises. Do you know what I mean? No. No, of course not. There were other people up there with me, and we could see the whole room spread out above us, and one of them looked like Conrad, and he nudged me and pointed down to where I was sitting. ‘That’s you,’ he said.

All the time I clapped and clapped. ‘Bad luck, dear,’ said Gilbert, smiling again at the camera. ‘Bad luck.’ Bad luck.

‘The winner is …’
When they called Gilbert’s name out, I was still daydreaming, I didn’t quite understand at first. He jumped up, his big hands clasping the armrests of his chair and lifting himself bodily out, as if he might swing up to the stage in one movement, like an ape in the jungle. He strode up the aisle, shaking hands and smiling at the old men. Many of them were those who’d ignored him when he came back from the war. The beautiful people were watching him and clapping, for they were pleased; they liked Gilbert. He was them, in ten, twenty years’ time. He’d made it back and they could afford to be generous, for one night.

They handed him the statue. Gilbert put his hands on the lectern, leaning forward, scanning the crowd. I felt myself float up again, all the way to the ceiling. Everyone was craned forwards, waiting to hear what he’d say. Everyone was silent.

‘This is for all the good old chaps who’ve had a rotten time of it,’ Gilbert said. ‘For freedom amongst lands, friendship between nations.’

There was a light ripple of applause.

‘I accept this award with deep humility. I should like to thank the men of Forty-fourth Battalion Lancers, who inspired this story. The cast and crew on this wonderful picture.
Dare to Win,
we bloody did. And I’d like to thank Colin Cowdrey and Fred Trueman of the English cricket team, something you don’t have over here, along with rain and a decent cup of tea.’

They roared with delight – Americans love a gentle ribbing, though not as much as they love an English stereotype. Gilbert was giving them both.

He grinned again, acknowledging the applause. I looked up at him, at the matinee idol, at his hand gripping the golden statuette, at the beautifully cut new dinner jacket I had watched him shrug himself into not three hours ago.

‘Finally I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, Eve. As many of you will know, we are looking forward to the future with great excitement. We have an exciting year ahead of us. She has asked me to tell you all something. As of today she is retiring from the motion picture industry. She will concentrate on being a wife and mother instead. In this day and age, I can only step back and admire her even more than I do, for she is going against the tide of modern opinion somewhat.’ He gave a delicate cough. Then he stared at me. Not at me, but at me. I can’t explain it. ‘But it’s good to know that some people do still hold onto the old traditions.’

The old men were nodding and clapping, the old women whispering and smiling at me. I sat alone in my hard seat, no one either side of me. I could hear him talking, saying these things. I nodded, because I knew it was right what he was saying. I honestly believed it was right, you see. I thought I shouldn’t be around here any more. I started humming to myself, as the applause grew louder.

One of the ladies in the row in front of me turned in her seat. She had horn-rimmed spectacles on, long gloves, a bright ginger stole. Emeralds glittered in her ears, on her neck, on the stole itself, so huge and plentiful I thought of the lair of the Great Wizard of Oz – green stalactites flashing everywhere. ‘Well done, dear,’ she said. ‘Good for you. What a wonderful thing to do.’ I hummed some more, nodding furiously at her.

‘Eve, dear, this is for you, for us,’ Gilbert called out, with a flourish, and the applause was louder than ever. Someone stood up. They all stood up. I couldn’t. I was afraid I might fly away if I did. There were faces staring at me, standing up, turning around and staring. I saw the Baxters, whispering to each other: Joe adjusting his cufflinks and smiling at me, nodding indulgently; Lenny, chewing gum, nodding at his brother. Next to Joe Baxter’s corseted, respectable wife stood Moss Fisher. He clapped and clapped, smiling his crocodile smile.

There were white roses all over the house when we arrived home. Gilbert clutched his statuette as though it might fly away like I wanted to. It was ten o’clock, not late, but Gilbert wanted to change his shirt before we went out to celebrate at the Cocoanut Grove.

‘Congratulations, Mr Travers!’ Victoria said, almost shyly. ‘You deserve that statue, everyone says so. May I hold it?’ Gilbert handed it to her, indulgently, his lips making a moue of enjoyment. She held it, her hands sagging slightly under its unexpected heft, then curtseyed to each of us. ‘Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Mamma! I wanna say—’ Her eyes swept over me. ‘Oh, you look tired, Miss Eve. Do you want a glass of milk? I’ll get you a glass of milk.’