Stardust Read online

  And yet, the wheels of the train rattled out rhythmically, and yet and yet and yet and yet. Yet all this was surmise, Pippa thought, as she stared out into the darkness, because she would never ever know the truth, because the only person who could tell her the truth was lying dead and buried.

  She was in bed with all the lights out when Jerome finally got home from filming, in bed but still wide awake. So far she had done her best to minimize her grief, and to hide it from Jerome, because after all it was not his loss, and because after all he’d had to put up with a great deal of fairly implacable resistance early on from her mother. Not only that, but Pippa knew this was an important time in Jerome’s life, whether he liked to admit it or not, the latter seeming to be the case. It was fairly obvious that the film he was making, The Eve of Night, or as Jerome had nicknamed it disparagingly, The Crock of Shite, dismissing it as nothing more than a schoolgirl’s view of history, was going to do for him what Emerald Glynn had done for Elizabeth. It was going to make him into a star.

  Cecil had told her. He had taken every opportunity to tell her, in the hope of helping to raise her spirits, and reported more or less daily to Pippa on the progress of the film so that she would have something else to think about other than her own remorse. Jerome was deeply grateful to his agent for his concern, as was Pippa, not for herself, but because it helped her see, even at a distance, how important this film could turn out to be.

  Jerome, however, back in tandem with Elizabeth, was as doomy as ever about his prospects.

  ‘You know what’s going to happen, Pip, don’t you?’ he kept asking. ‘The Crock isn’t going to be a crock after all. It’s going to be the most enormous hit. It’s bound to be, with its simplistic view of history, and its heart-on-the-sleeve patriotism.’

  ‘And you in that wonderful costume,’ Pippa used to tease.

  ‘And Elizabeth looking even better than Garbo,’ Jerome would correct her, and then sigh hopelessly, ‘Yes – it’s going to be the most tremendous smash hit and you know what that means, don’t you? “They” – are going to do everything in their power to keep Elizabeth and I together, for the sake of their pig-skin wallets! And I for one – will not have it!’

  Pippa would add nothing to this because she knew as an actor, Jerome was a cat. He walked alone, and liked to arrive at things by himself, and unsolicited advice ruffled his fur and put his back up. Instead she listened to his moans, and paid attention to his groans, and as far as his career went, only ever expressed an opinion once it was obvious Jerome had already made up his mind.

  And so since the loss of her mother, she had tried to keep her grief as private as she could, in case Jerome should carry a part of her despair with him on to the studio floor. Even though they were now agreed that Pippa’s absence on the first night of the play had not been the root cause of Jerome coming in second to Elizabeth, Pippa had recognized that such a thing could have been possible, and now that they were married and so deeply in love, she feared in case her misery might affect him.

  But this night she had to talk, although Jerome still had to prompt her into it. And when finally she did, he sat at the other end of the bed facing her, under the cover of the eiderdown, with a pillow at his back against the footrail, and Bobby lying on his back beside him. Pippa told him everything, from what she called her absurd fantasies in the taxi, to her deeply disturbing find among the debris in the old grocery box. Jerome listened intently, sipping his cocoa, and rubbing Bobby’s upturned chest. He listened until Pippa had talked herself out, and fallen silent, staring down into her empty cocoa mug, and then taking the mug from her and putting it aside, he climbed into bed beside her.

  ‘Well now, Mrs Didier,’ he said, ‘this won’t do at all.’

  ‘I know,’ Pippa agreed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s exactly what won’t do, Mrs D,’ Jerome chided. ‘You being sorry. Not for yourself, because you never are. But sorry because in some way you think you’re to blame. How long are you going to do this, Pip? No, that’s a damn fool question, because you couldn’t possibly answer that. Let me put it to you directly. You cannot go on for ever like this, you know. You cannot hold yourself responsible for your mother’s death.’

  ‘But why not, Jerome?’ Pippa answered. ‘I am. Who else is to blame?’

  ‘You don’t even know it was suicide, Pip.’

  ‘I do. So do you. My mother was altogether too – too careful to have done something like that accidentally.’

  ‘In your opinion.’

  ‘In my opinion, yes.’

  ‘Pippa, my darling,’ Jerome said, taking her in his arms. ‘What you’re feeling, darling girl, is only par for the course.’

  ‘Does that make any difference, Jerome?’ she asked, looking up at him. ‘If people always feel like this at times like this, it doesn’t make it any easier.’

  ‘I know,’ Jerome said, holder her closer, ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Jerome,’ she began again, after a long silence. ‘Jerome, do you think people ever recover from things like this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Pip,’ Jerome said truthfully. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘What happens if I don’t, Jerome?’ Pippa whispered. ‘What happens then?’

  He said nothing, because he didn’t know what more there was to say. Instead he just held her, as tight as he dared, tighter than he’d ever held her before, as a sudden sob shook the whole of her body. He closed his arms around her, trying to stifle the grief in her, trying to kill the hurt, but despite the strength of his embrace, there was nothing he could do to stop her terrible sobs.

  Finally she stopped crying, but didn’t move from him, remaining with her head against his chest, both of them soaked with her tears.

  ‘Perhaps the Ancients were right,’ he said, slowly and rhythmically stroking her hair. ‘Terry thought they were. Terry Vaughan. He thought the Greeks and the Romans were much more sensible about suicide, the Greeks arguing that to save a man against his will was as good as murdering him, and the Romans maintaining that amidst the suffering that is life, suicide was the gods’ best gift to man. So just suppose, for whatever reason, suppose your mother had decided to end her life, perhaps it was a wise decision bravely made.’

  Pippa lay in silence, and thought for a long time before she replied, and when she did, she did so without moving her head. She just curled one arm around Jerome and hugged herself to him.

  ‘But why did she tear up our postcard, Jerome?’ she asked, face turned sideways on his chest. ‘If she was doing something wise and brave, why did she tear up and throw away my card?’

  ‘I don’t know, Pip,’ Jerome answered slowly. ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘No, Jerome,’ Pippa replied. ‘That’s the trouble, you see. Who can?’

  The person who could, the person who was in fact going to answer that very question, arrived in England six months later quite by chance on the same plane that brought Oscar Greene back from America, where he had gone as soon as his play had opened in triumph in the West End. The moment all the notices were out, he had taken Cecil Manners’s advice and the first plane to New York, where within three months of his arrival and much to his delight and astonishment, he had another overnight success.

  This person who was to change the course of Pippa’s life was unknown to Oscar, and would always remain so, yet all the way across the Atlantic they sat no more than four feet from each other. Oscar, however, never very sociable at the best of times, was even more unsociable when flying, which for Oscar was the very worst of times. He either read or slept for the entire journey, and the few words he addressed en transit were reserved for the airline staff.

  Consequently, when the plane landed and the passengers had cleared customs and immigration, the two people who were to play such vital roles in Pippa Didier’s life soon went their separate ways, even though they walked almost alongside each other to the cab rank where each took a cab which in turn took each of them on towards their separat
e, although curiously interconnected destinies.

  ‘Will Success Spoil Oscar Greene?’ Cecil wondered aloud over lunch at the Connaught.

  ‘I’m very Chinese about success, Cecil,’ Oscar replied. ‘You know what they say. The laundry only takes your custom as long as you’ve got the shirts to send them.’

  ‘Even so,’ Cecil told him, ‘you have had, and in a very short space of time, a quite remarkable spate of success.’

  ‘Sure,’ Oscar said, munching his freshly baked roll, ‘but the way I look at life, it’s like a boxing ring. When you’re the champ, everyone wants to see you knocked down. And then when you’re knocked down, the ring’s suddenly full of people wanting to help you up.’

  Cecil smiled. He was delighted to see Oscar again, and delighted to see that despite having had a hit on Broadway as well as Shaftesbury Avenue, Oscar hadn’t changed a bit. In fact, looking at Oscar’s crumpled jacket, shirt and trousers, it didn’t look as if Oscar had changed in any way.

  ‘So what gives here, Cecil?’ Oscar wondered, wiping a little of the soup he had spilled from his chin with one finger. ‘How is the eternally gorgeous Elizabeth? And the super-lustrous Mr Didier?’

  Over the rest of lunch, Cecil brought him up to date with the latest show business gossip and developments.

  ‘Jerome married?’ Oscar marvelled in point blank amazement through a mouthful of pastry. ‘How can you marry yourself?’

  ‘Come now,’ Cecil chided him, although secretly delighted with Oscar’s outrageous remark. ‘Jerome isn’t that much of a Narcissus.’

  ‘Cecil, old fruit,’ Oscar sighed. ‘Show me an actor who isn’t, and I’ll give all my royalties to that famous dogs’ home of yours. Don’t misunderstand me. I like Jerome. Jerome Didier is fun. He’s great company. He’s a truly wonderful actor. I love the guy. But he’s an actor. And not only that, Cecil, he’s a star actor. Oh Jesus – heaven help the poor kid who married him. Unless, of course, she’s an actress.’

  Oscar looked up at Cecil, faintly hopeful that Jerome’s chosen partner would at least be out of the same stable as her husband, but Cecil, who was doing his very best not to show Oscar just what music to his ears the words he had just spoken were, shook his head seriously in rebuttal.

  ‘She’s a very nice girl, O.G.,’ he replied. ‘A very nice girl indeed. She has nothing to do with the business. She’s a simple country girl, who loves her animals, and painting, and the outdoor life. You couldn’t meet a sweeter, nicer natured girl anywhere.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Oscar groaned again, ‘Jesus, Cecil, she is cooked.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Cecil said, managing somehow to stop himself smiling from ear to ear, ‘dear me, I do hope not. She’s such a sweet girl.’

  ‘Do you know something?’ Oscar asked, draining the last of his Vosne-Romanée, ‘I love actors, but they do have their limits. They’re great to drink with, or to party with, but they shouldn’t be allowed near your plays, or your women.’

  ‘Talking of which, O.G.,’ Cecil said, selecting some cheese, ‘are we about to hear the pitter-patter of tiny keys again soon?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Oscar said, dropping the handle of his cheese knife in the butter. ‘Ever since they told me I could write, I don’t seem to be able to any more.’

  ‘There must be something you want to write about,’ Cecil sighed, barely able to conceal the exasperation he felt whenever writers tried to make out that writing was difficult. ‘Good Heavens, with everything that’s going on in the world at the moment—’

  ‘Listen, Cecil, old fruit,’ Oscar interrupted, having cleaned off the handle on his knife, ‘you may or you may not have noticed the sort of plays I write, and they aren’t precisely what you would describe as topical. Right? I like to write about people, and women in particular. And at the moment, I’m right out of women.’

  ‘Then we must find you some at once,’ Cecil beamed, happy to find such an easy solution. ‘That’s no problem.’

  ‘Sure,’ Oscar agreed, eating some Stilton with his fingers. ‘Have Harrods send me a selection on appro.’

  Cecil did what he considered the next best thing, and that was to take Oscar that night to see the Command Performance of the film which had been nominated as that year’s offering, The Eve of Night. Even Oscar was impressed, as he mingled in the foyer watching the stars arrive.

  ‘This is big potatoes, Cecil,’ he said, blinking as the flash bulbs popped at the arrival of the latest glitterati. ‘Maybe now you’ll be able to put some heating in that office of yours.’

  Besides the royal party, the people the crowd were really waiting to see were the young couple who, according to the popular press, had captured the imagination and hearts of the nation, Elizabeth Laurence and Jerome Didier. The film had already opened to ecstatic notices, copies of which were reproduced all around the foyer, and which Oscar passed the time reading.

  Without a doubt, the most distinguished British picture for a decade.

  A beautiful picture, passionate and patriotic. The sort of film that makes you proud to be British, and proud of our British actors, particularly two who unquestionably must be the discoveries of the generation, Jerome Didier and Elizabeth Laurence. A team made in heaven, if ever there was one. Two stars from the firmament come to earth to light up our lives. The memory of these two young people’s tragic love story on the eve of one of this nation’s greatest battles, Waterloo, will haunt you for evermore.

  A superlative effort, deserving to rank among the British cinema’s finest achievements. Miss Laurence lights up the screen.

  Not for a long time have I seen a film so satisfying, so memorable, or so poignant. And in Jerome Didier we have not just a new star, but a star to shine with the best.

  A star studded cast, and brightest of all, shine two brand new stars, Didier and Laurence – names which must become soon as familiar to us all as Huntley and Palmer, Crosse and Blackwell, Peak and Frean – names in other words destined to become household names.

  ‘I give in,’ Oscar said, staring myopically at the last enlarged press quote. ‘Huntley and Palmer? Crosse and Blackwell? I never caught one of their movies.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, dear boy,’ Cecil said, taking him to watch the arrival of the stars. ‘They make food.’

  ‘Even so, Cecil, old fruit,’ Oscar sighed, ‘next trip, I’m expecting radiators.’

  They stood on the top of the first row of steps inside the cinema foyer, a good position from where to watch the arrivals. Within minutes of them taking their place, a black Daimler limousine drew up, off whose highly polished paintwork, within seconds, bounced the brilliantly flickering blinks of a hundred and one flash bulbs. The crowd pressed forward as one, a sudden heaving sea of humanity, all anxious to catch just a glimpse of the stars, who had arrived together and were now stepping out of the luxuriously appointed car, and on to the red carpet which had been laid to stretch from gutter to foyer. A uniformed usher stepped forward with military precision to hold open the car door for Elizabeth, and as she stepped out wearing what the fashion writers later reported as a white mousseline-de-soie sheath bordered with mink, first the crowd gasped, and then cheered, cheers which rang all the way round Leicester Square and its environs, cheers which grew even more in volume as after a very slight pause, Jerome then stepped out of the limousine after his co-star, turning as he did so like a ballet dancer turns, pivoting gracefully round to wave and blow one kiss at the crowd in one seamless movement. Then with one last wave from them both, he and Elizabeth disappeared inside to another battery of flashbulbs and the whirl of the world’s newsreel cameras.

  ‘Oh boy,’ Oscar said thoughtfully after he had witnessed the arrival. ‘You mean the Queen and her Duke have to follow that?’

  The Command Performance was a triumph, and at the lavish party Boska threw afterwards, the toast was Didier and Laurence, who were radiant with excitement and rarely out of each other’s company for even a moment.

  ‘Design or intent?’ Osca
r asked Cecil as they mingled in the stars’ court. ‘Is Jerome’s wife here for instance? Or at times like this do we have to stay at home?’

  ‘Not at all, dear boy,’ Cecil assured him, while trying to catch Jerome’s eye. ‘I doubt very much if she felt like coming, Jerome’s wife that is. You see, something rather awful happened just after they’d got married. Her mother killed herself.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Oscar said, looking over at Jerome, who was laughing gaily with Elizabeth. ‘Just how long after?’

  ‘The day they got back from their honeymoon,’ Cecil said.

  About an hour later, Oscar was finally granted an audience.

  ‘I guess it would have been easier to get to talk with your lovely young Queen!’ Oscar shouted behind Jerome’s back over the increasing din of the party. ‘Or have you given up on writers now you’ve licked Napoleon?’

  Jerome was already laughing joyously as he turned to embrace Oscar.

  ‘Bethy!’ he called at the same time. ‘For God’s sake will you look who it is?’

  The three of them were reunited deliriously, at least that was the mood of Elizabeth and Jerome, because when it came to fond embraces, Oscar once more got overcome with his usual diffidence. Elizabeth immediately wanted to know what Oscar was writing at the moment, to which Oscar replied mostly cheques, while Jerome’s questions were centered around what Oscar thought of the film.

  ‘Or rather movie, as you Yanks will have it!’ he shouted, giving his best Douglas Fairbanks grin.

  Unfortunately for his friends, besides suffering from acute diffidence, and antisociability, Oscar was also a terminal claustrophobic, and as the size of the crowd began to grow out of all proportions, he began to suffer the usual symptoms, which he described as needing to get the hell out.

  ‘Listen!’ he yelled at Jerome, ‘if such a thing is possible in here! I really have to go before I liquefy! Let’s have lunch, OK!’