Eureka Page 13

  She tried to make herself agreeable to Ronnie Stiles, who was playing Chas. Most of her scenes would be with him. On set he was cocky and flirtatious, joking – almost capering – in front of every young woman he encountered. He was not at all her idea of Chas. When they shook hands he gave her a saucy little wink.

  ‘Billie. What kinda name’s that for a bird?’

  ‘Oh, my mum was mad about Billie Holiday. It’s funny, though, because I knew a girl at school called Ronnie.’

  Ronnie stared at her, suspicious for a moment. Then his expression cleared. ‘Oh well, at least they didn’t call her Reggie.’

  ‘I thought you were fab in Mafeking,’ said Billie.

  ‘Ta. You know I was hired to play the cockney sergeant? Then the producer had a look at me and decided I should do the major instead. They said it was the fastest promotion the British Army ’ad ever seen.’

  ‘And you had to learn to ride and shoot.’ Billie had read about it in one of the movie magazines.

  ‘Yeah, that bit was easy. I knew horses. The ’ard bit was learning how to speak like an Old Etonian in a weekend. The rain in Spain …’ he began with prissy enunciation.

  ‘Well, you had me fooled. I thought you’d been born to it.’

  Ronnie flicked his straw-coloured hair. ‘Not bad for a kid from Stepney, was it?’

  He yarned on a little more until a tall dark-haired girl in a minidress strolled by, and Ronnie’s gaze followed her hungrily. ‘Blimey,’ he said, whistling under his breath. He winked again at Billie as he rose from his chair and left. ‘See ya later.’

  When Reiner finally called it a day and dismissed them, Billie felt relief surge through her. Someone suggested they go to the studio bar, so she straggled behind a bunch of them, hoping to be included. The room was already packed and smoky when she arrived; they were a gregarious lot, film people, all gabbling away like friends who hadn’t seen one another in months. There was not a single other person who was on their own. Billie sidled over to the bar, trying to reorganise her features into a look of amiable ease, as if she found it natural to go solo, and indeed almost enjoyed it. The truth was that for the last two years her entire social life had centred upon Jeff. He didn’t like her going to places without him. The only time she went anywhere on her own was to her mother’s, whose company he couldn’t abide.

  On being served she wondered if somebody would invite her to join them; just a friendly glance might be all that was required. She took a sip of gin and chewed on a bitter-tasting olive. Across the room she spotted Ronnie, deep in conversation with the tall girl who’d caught his eye earlier; she supposed he wouldn’t welcome an interruption. The bright twitter of the bar room was oblivious to her. Someone must talk to me, she thought, taking a longer swallow of gin. Perhaps I could go outside and pretend to make a call from a payphone. She was considering this option when from a large cluster of folk at the far end of the bar Vere Summerhill emerged. He was clearly on his way out, so she would have to impose herself to stop him. Her wave was sufficiently frantic to attract his notice.

  ‘Miss Cantrip, hello.’ She could tell from his automatic smile that he was reluctant to dally.

  ‘Please, it’s Billie.’

  Vere, seeing that she was alone, paused a moment. ‘How’s your first week been?’

  ‘Oh, you know, everyone’s been friendly …’

  ‘Rather overwhelming, I imagine,’ he said kindly. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Billie, too grateful to speak, smiled her assent. They sat at the bar. Vere, calling to the barman by name, made a little gesture whose meaning became apparent when a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket was set before them. He poured them each a glass.

  ‘So you and I do our scenes next week,’ Vere said. ‘Should be fun.’

  Billie nodded. ‘I hope I won’t let you down. I haven’t covered myself in glory so far.’

  ‘Well, you’re still finding your way. It took me a long time to adapt from stage acting to the screen.’ His gaze was as sad as a spaniel’s, yet it had a smile in it, too. His gentleness with her was almost too much to bear. She took a moment to gather herself.

  ‘There’s such an awful lot of waiting,’ she said presently.

  ‘I know. But you get used to it. And you learn to develop what the French call maîtrise de soi: self-control. It’s what makes you ready for the moments when you’re on, the tension involved in them. If you don’t have it in preparation you arrive at those moments distracted, or irritated. One needs to be collected.’

  ‘Oh God,’ murmured Billie.

  ‘Don’t be disheartened. Everyone’s terribly pleased with you.’

  ‘Everyone? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Reiner just told me you look wonderful in the rushes.’

  Billie couldn’t tell if he was making this up, but she listened as Vere explained a few tricks he’d learned over the years: how to keep your concentration, how to address the camera, how to project yourself without seeming to. Underact, he advised her, that was the key; if you forced yourself to keep still and use your eyes, the camera would look after the rest. This is better than having a tutor, thought Billie. Whenever Vere posed a question, he wasn’t trying to catch her out or score a point off her; it felt more like he wanted to lead her, by suggestion and illustration, to her own small share of the truth.

  They were still deep in conversation when Nat breezed by, looking pleased with himself. He was carrying a sheaf of printed pages in a loose folder – the latest draft of the script, he explained, which he and Reiner had been revising.

  ‘I’ve just written some outstanding scenes for you two,’ he declared, lighting a cigarette and blowing a jet of smoke over them.

  ‘That merits confirmation,’ said Vere drily. ‘We’ve just been discussing the art of screen-acting. A shame if our efforts were wasted for the lack of an actual script.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ smiled Nat, his mood on an upswing. ‘Some things are worth the wait. Think of Eureka as a rare orchid, lovingly tended in the hothouse of creative endeavour, and unique once it blooms.’

  ‘My mum loves orchids,’ said Billie. ‘They’re one of her favourite things to paint.’

  Vere rose from his stool, and turned to Nat. ‘At this point I’d make do with a bunch of daffs. Don’t spend too long in the hothouse, darling – there’s a danger you may wilt.’ He had to turn in for the night, he said. Billie rose too, and leaning in to kiss him mumbled a few words. Vere patted her arm, then gave Nat a friendly nod in parting. When he had gone Nat took his place on the stool.

  ‘Dear old Vere. Such a worrier.’

  ‘You seem very good friends.’

  ‘Of course. What you were whispering in his ear?’

  Billie thought this rather nosy of him, but said, ‘I just wanted to thank him. He saw me on my own and stopped to chat. He gave me some tips about acting on film.’

  ‘Then use them. Vere’s a master of underplaying – half the time he doesn’t appear to be acting at all.’

  Bille felt a sudden wave of exhaustion engulf her – the trials of the week were catching up – and told Nat that she ought to be on her way. He asked her how she was getting home.

  ‘Train to Waterloo and then a bus to King’s Cross.’

  ‘I’m going east. Let me drive you.’

  She politely demurred, but he brushed aside her no, honestly and insisted: she gave in. In the Twickenham Studios car park she did a double take on realising that the blue-black Silver Cloud, massively imposing, was his. Was she ever glad he had insisted! By the time they were coasting along the Cromwell Road the street lamps were muzzy orange lollipops against the gloaming. Nat, at the wheel, asked prying questions about her domestic arrangements: she told him a bit about her history with Jeff, careful not to sound grumpy or disaffected.

  As they reached King’s Cross she was mulling over a way to thank him, not just for the lift – for everything. But there seemed so very little you could give a man who drove a Ro
lls-Royce.

  On the spur of the moment she said, ‘I wonder if you’d like to, um …’ But her nerve had failed her. She couldn’t do it.

  Nat glanced at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, forget it …’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what?’

  ‘Would you like to, perhaps – if you’re not busy – come for dinner one night?’

  Nat’s face broke into a grin. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  He had dropped her right outside the flat. The lights were on as she descended the steps, and she wondered if Jeff had heard her saying goodnight.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked her as she let herself in.

  Billie made a little grimacing smile. ‘Nat Fane – you know, the writer. The one who got me the job.’

  ‘He drives a Rolls,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Jesus. I thought writers were meant to be poor.’

  ‘He was just telling me how expensive it is to run: more than the rent on his flat! I think he’s an exception. Most writers are poor.’

  While Jeff considered this, Billie collapsed into the armchair and kicked off her shoes. She began to massage her tired feet. He went off to the kitchen. It was stupid of her to have asked Nat to dinner; she knew she couldn’t bring him here: there wasn’t room, there weren’t enough chairs. She also felt pretty certain that he wouldn’t be Jeff’s cup of tea; he would think Nat affected and full of himself, which, to a degree, he was. Yet for all that he was wonderful company; a one-off, really. She could take him to a restaurant somewhere … though she couldn’t possibly afford the sort of places Nat frequented. He’d been telling her about a place he’d eaten at in Islington, which made her think he was more democratic in his tastes than he’d let on. Then it emerged that this restaurant charged 70/- for a set menu and that Ava Gardner had been at the next table, so she could forget about going there.

  Jeff returned carrying a tray. He put down the plates and cutlery with an unceremonious clatter, opened a large bottle of pale ale and poured it into a glass.

  ‘You want some of this?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. Whenever she made dinner she put out napkins and place mats and sometimes lit a candle, to make it cosy. Jeff didn’t hold with that kind of thing – he thought it bourgeois and ‘poncey’. At least the baked beans were good and hot. She watched him setting about his food. She had hardly seen him this week; a studio car picked her up each morning at six thirty, and she didn’t get back from Twickenham until nine or ten.

  ‘What have you been up to today?’ she asked.

  Jeff slowly shook his head. ‘Called in at the gallery. They’ve put both of the collages on the wall downstairs.’

  ‘That’s good!’ Billie said hopefully.

  ‘There hasn’t been a single enquiry about them.’

  ‘But it’s early days, Jeff. You can’t expect instant success.’

  He only scowled, head over his plate, spooning beans into his mouth. A silence followed: she wondered if she could tell him about her day, though he hadn’t asked. When she had got the part she assumed he would be pleased, because it meant an end to their money worries, at least for the time being. He had congratulated her, and barely mentioned it since. She couldn’t tell if this was due to a lack of curiosity, or to something more troubling. Now he looked at her suddenly.

  ‘So, this Fane character. Is he married? Single?’

  ‘Er, I don’t know. Divorced, I think.’

  ‘I suppose he’s got you in his sights.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He must be after you. Why else did he seek you out for this film?’

  Billie stared at him. ‘Oh, thanks. Is it that unlikely I got the part because he thought I was good?’

  ‘You told me he’d never seen you act before.’

  ‘I still had to do an audition – they wouldn’t have hired me just on his say-so. Anyway, he’s much too old for me.’

  ‘You like an older man,’ he persisted.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s like, forty, or something.’

  Jeff, who was thirty-five, took a long swig of his beer. ‘Well, there’ll be loads of younger blokes sniffing around. It’s a film set.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll have to fight them off,’ she said with a half-laugh. ‘God, if you could have seen me in the studio bar this evening. I was there on my own for ten minutes – not a single person came up to talk to me. In the end I had to waylay Vere Summerhill. And he only stopped cos he felt sorry for me.’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s Alec Madden, and the ratty-looking one, what’s-his-name – Ronnie Stiles. I notice you’ve got quite a few scenes with him of a romantic nature.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘I looked at that script you left lying around.’

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You read the script? Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

  ‘So you’re not denying it.’

  ‘Denying what? Jeff, you’re being paranoid. I’ve no interest in Ronnie Stiles, or Nat Fane, or anyone. The only thing I’m interested in is the job I was hired to do. I don’t regard it as a lonely-hearts service.’

  Jeff pushed his plate aside and lowered his head into his hands. In a quiet disconsolate voice he said, ‘You’re so naive. Surrounded all day by creeps who’ve got nothing else to do but ogle girls. I bet they can’t wait for the scenes with you in your swimming costume –’

  ‘For Christ’s sakes, Jeff!’ said Billie, rising from the table. ‘What’s got into you? You talk like these people have never seen a woman before. They’re just blokes, professionals, doing their job. If there’s anyone giving me the creeps at the moment it’s you.’

  ‘The fact you’re getting so shrill about it only confirms what I’m thinking,’ said Jeff. His self-righteousness had taken on a martyred note. Billie briefly considered firing a barb, and stopped herself; it would be better not to say anything at all. Jeff had turned his face away. She lingered for a few moments, then left the room.

  In the bedroom Monty stared at her with round-eyed disapproval. He had obviously been earwigging all this time. She put Beatles for Sale on the Dansette, the volume turned low. It was her favourite album of theirs, and her favourite cover, the four of them in a line against a blurred autumnal backdrop; something sombre – or soulful – in those dark northern gazes. She slowly undressed and got into bed. She picked up the pages of script for the following Monday and switched on her bedside light. A long dinner-party scene was scheduled in which she would be the centre of attention; she began to read through her lines, trying out different tones of voice under her breath. She thought about her conversation with Vere in the bar, how gentle and considerate he had been. Oh, if she could only acquire a little of his self-assurance, his air of command before the camera …

  She could hear Jeff moving around, probably having another ale and a joint. Well, let him stew. She read on till her eyelids began to droop. Monty lay curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring quietly.

  A sharp noise woke her, and she groggily checked the illuminated dial on her alarm clock. Twenty past one. She turned, expecting to find Jeff next to her, but she was alone. A narrow band of light peeped from under the bedroom door. Her inclination was to turn over and go back to sleep. It was too late and she was too tired to have another row. But she dragged herself out of bed and put on her dressing gown.

  The living room was in darkness but for the shy illumination of a floor lamp. The air was sour with beer and smoke. Jeff was slumped on the sofa, an arm slung across his face. He’d finished off two bottles of pale ale and moved on to vodka; it was this bottle that had fallen on the low table and made the sudden noise. He showed no sign of having heard her come in. She tiptoed towards him.

  ‘Jeff?’

  He started on hearing her voice. His arm dropped from his face, which was bleary with drink and – could it be? – tears. Reflexively he turned away. But she could see his shoulders trembling piteously. She sat down next to him.

  ‘What
’s the matter?’

  He shook his head. When she reached for his hand he gave way to a wrenching sob. ‘I know you’re going to leave me,’ he said in a choked voice.

  ‘What? Don’t be silly.’

  ‘You will. I can tell.’ It began to pour out of him. He’d been so low these last few weeks, what with the gallery messing him about over the collages, nibbling away at his confidence. The one thing that had kept him going through these lean times was Billie. He knew he could be difficult – ‘a bit moody’ – but she had always been there to support him: ‘a rock’, he called her. Only now it felt like his rock was under threat. The new job was taking her away from him. She had been so distracted these last weeks she hardly seemed to notice him. If it was just about the work he’d understand, but being in the company of men all day long …

  ‘Don’t. Don’t start that again.’ She leaned into him and caressed his cheek. ‘I’m not going anywhere. If I’ve been distracted then I’m sorry. I’m new to this and it takes a lot out of you. It’s intense. But it’ll be over by August.’

  Jeff sighed heavily. ‘I wish you didn’t have to.’

  ‘But I want to do it. Making a go of this is important to me, just like your work’s important to you.’ She saw him bridle at this proposed equivalence, but she let it go. They talked on, going over it again, until Billie, fatigued by her iterations of assurance, insisted they turn in for the night. She was about to get up when Jeff grabbed her wrist and fixed her with a pleading expression.

  ‘Look, I won’t ask this again, but you have to tell me,’ he said, shushing her weary protest. ‘You won’t go off with Nat Fane, will you?’

  Billie felt her shoulders slump. She composed herself for one last effort. ‘No, Jeff. I won’t.’