Stardust Read online

  ‘I believe you’re just off to lunch,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘So we mustn’t detain you. It’s just—’

  Then she stopped, and smiled, as if she thought better of it than to continue.

  ‘Please,’ Cecil said, finally remembering to relinquish her hand. ‘I’m in no great hurry. Come in.’

  He stood aside and ushered both the girls into his office. Oscar backed off and stood in the corner by the hatstand, preferring to observe rather than be seen.

  ‘This is terribly sweet of you,’ Elizabeth said, sitting in the proffered chair, and as she did, Oscar suddenly realized who it was he was staring at with such intensity. He was staring at the heroine of his yet unwritten new play.

  ‘I know you’re frightfully busy. Lalla told me you’re always frightfully busy. So this is really very sweet of you,’ his heroine was saying.

  Cecil went back and sat behind his desk again. As he did so Lalla drew up another chair, and sat unprompted beside Elizabeth. So far she hadn’t said a word, nor had a single word been addressed to her. But Lalla didn’t mind one bit, because like the two men in the room, Lalla knew she was riding the wake of a star.

  ‘It’s just that I need an agent,’ Elizabeth sighed, deciding it was time to remove her little hat and allow Cecil full sight of her shiny dark hair. ‘Dmitri, Dmitri . . .’ She petered out and looked helplessly at Lalla.

  ‘Boska,’ Lalla prompted with a smile. ‘Dmitri Boska.’

  ‘Thank you, Lalla darling,’ Elizabeth said, before returning to look Cecil right in the eyes.

  ‘Dmitri Boska wants to put me under contract,’ she continued. ‘Apparently he saw this scene I did—’

  ‘Elizabeth has a small part in this film,’ Lalla interrupted helpfully, ‘and Boska saw the rushes. And, well, you know Boska.’

  ‘What I don’t know is what all the fuss is about.’ Elizabeth sighed.

  ‘May I ask what the film is?’ Cecil enquired, unable to take his eyes off Elizabeth.

  ‘Made In Heaven,’ Lalla told him. ‘Known on the floor as Made In A Hurry – of course.’

  ‘Lalla’s right,’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Even from the little I know, it’s obviously really not very good. So I honestly don’t know – well, why all the fuss.’

  ‘Dmitri Boska only calls the fire brigade once he’s quite certain there’s a fire,’ Cecil said, leaning across the desk and offering Elizabeth a cigarette from a modern engraved silver box.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke my own?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Anything else makes me cough.’

  While Cecil rose with alacrity to cross in front of his desk and light Elizabeth’s cigarette for her, Lalla continued the story.

  ‘We were at RADA together, Cecil,’ she told him. ‘And everyone thought Elizabeth was brilliant. But then she got engaged in her last term, and married shortly after we left.’

  ‘You’re married?’ Cecil asked, his face falling slightly, but he carefully replaced his Ronson desk lighter in the exact position which it had just occupied.

  ‘Shhh!’ Elizabeth laughed, ‘you’re not meant to know.’

  ‘I thought if Boska was going to put her under contract—’ Lalla continued, before Elizabeth interrupted her.

  ‘I haven’t agreed about the contract, Lalla,’ she said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Even so, Cecil,’ Lalla said. ‘I told her she’d need an agent. And that you were the best in town.’

  Cecil smiled, but still didn’t bother to look at Lalla. And still Lalla didn’t mind. The more Cecil looked at Elizabeth, the better it would be for her, while half hidden behind a wall of coats and hats, Oscar Greene wished that they would all get the hell out so that he could start writing his play.

  ‘I should be delighted to represent you, Miss Laurence,’ Cecil said. ‘As from today, you shall be under my exclusive management.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Manners,’ Elizabeth replied, with a sudden smile which literally took Cecil’s breath away. ‘I know I shall be in good hands. Lalla has spoken so highly of you.’

  She held his eyes with hers, while expertly rebuttoning one tiny pearly button on her glove, pulling the suede even tighter round her slender wrists, and smoothing the material up her forearms.

  ‘How about some lunch?’ Cecil asked, having refound his voice. ‘I’m meeting Jimmy Locke at the Ivy. He’s a very important management. And I know he would be delighted if you joined us.’

  ‘How terribly sweet of you,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I can’t imagine anything nicer, can you, Lalla darling?’

  She turned to look at Lalla who smiled back broadly.

  ‘No, I don’t think I can,’ said Lalla.

  ‘Excellent,’ Cecil replied, trying his best to sound pleased at Lalla Henderson’s inclusion, which had not been intended, since he had all but forgotten she was even present.

  Cecil had also forgotten all about Oscar, who was still in place behind the hatstand.

  ‘I hope I’m not included,’ Oscar said, from behind one of Cecil’s overcoats. ‘I have work to do.’

  Elizabeth wheeled round in surprise in time to see the dishevelled playwright emerge from his hiding place.

  ‘Hi,’ he said to her. ‘I’m Oscar Greene. Otherwise known as Cecil’s Shame.’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Laurence,’ Cecil said hastily as he came across to glare at Oscar. ‘I’m sorry, I should have introduced you.’

  ‘You never introduce me to pretty girls, Cecil,’ Oscar complained, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth. ‘He doesn’t introduce me to pretty girls, because I’m a playwright. And Cecil is one of these fellows who think that playwrights should be heard and not seen.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Elizabeth asked, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Elizabeth Laurence.’

  ‘No, you’re not Miss Laurence,’ Oscar told her, taking her gloved hand and holding it. ‘You – are our Emerald Glynn.’

  Oscar had been carrying the idea for the play around in his head for some time now, but he had constantly put off writing it, because nowhere could he find an actress even remotely suitable for his needs.

  Until today. Now that he had met Miss Elizabeth Laurence, he knew he could begin. Doing his best to contain his excitement he carefully typed the title page, and then printed: ‘Act One, scene one. The deck of a transatlantic liner’, before picking up the telephone to speak to the ever miserable cold-ridden Miss Jeans.

  ‘Miss Jeans,’ said Oscar. ‘I shall be working here in Mr Manners’s side office, and I’m not to be disturbed, OK? Not for anything, got me? I’m going to sleep on the couch in here, and so I’ll need a blanket, a toothbrush and some paste, and four packets of cigarettes. And an endless supply of that stuff you dare to call coffee.’

  ‘Is there some reason you can’t fetch these things yourself?’ Miss Jeans sniffed wearily in his ear.

  ‘There most certainly is, Miss Jeans,’ Oscar replied with certainty. ‘I’m going to be far too busy writing a smash hit.’

  By the time Cecil Manners had returned from lunch, Oscar was well into the first scene of the play.

  ‘Well?’ Cecil asked. ‘And what do you think about our Miss Laurence?’

  ‘Just shut the door, will you?’ Oscar growled staring myopically at what he had just typed. ‘And preferably with you on the other side of it.’

  ‘I have to say,’ Cecil continued blithely, carefully hanging his overcoat up, ‘that without a doubt she is the loveliest girl I have ever seen.’

  ‘The loveliest girl,’ Oscar muttered, exxing over a typo with a resounding and monotonous clatter. ‘I thought she was more like a whole new light up in the goddam sky. Now if you don’t mind Cecil, old boy—’

  ‘Well, yes, I do mind, as a matter of fact, dear boy,’ Cecil said, peering over his shoulder. ‘What exactly do you think you’re doing, hammering away in here?’

  ‘I thought you’d learned to recognize this activity by now,’ Oscar told him. ‘It’s called Creative Writing. And this particular bit of Creative Writing is especia
lly for Miss Laurence. And in it, she is going to be not just beautiful, but witty, and intelligent. She is going to say astonishing and memorable things, things which will imprint themselves on her audience’s minds even more than Gladys Arden’s ridiculously expensive costumes.’

  ‘Should I book Gladys Arden?’ Cecil asked ingenuously.

  ‘Why not?’ Oscar replied. ‘You invariably do. Now come on, Cecil. Run along and leave a genius in peace.’

  Oscar drew on his cigarette and wound a fresh sheet of paper into the Remington, as Cecil made as if to pick up the pages Oscar had already written. But Oscar beat him to it, slapping a hand down smartly on the small pile of paper.

  ‘Uh huh,’ he said warningly. ‘I’ll call you when it’s finished.’

  ‘Very good,’ Cecil said. ‘Well, if you want anything—’

  ‘I won’t,’ Oscar interrupted. ‘I have everything I want. I have Miss Elizabeth Laurence.’

  That was at a quarter to three on Wednesday afternoon. By nine o’clock the following Sunday evening the play was finished.

  2

  Once again they watched what she did, but this time they needed no prompting. In fact, for the first view of the rough cut, there wasn’t an empty seat in the viewing theatre. Word was already out.

  Word had got out during the first day of the re-shoot, when those who had been on Soundstage 2 had witnessed Elizabeth Laurence’s first dialogue scene on camera. No-one doubted she was beautiful when they saw her that day in her navy blue dress with a white fichu collar which showed off to perfection her dramatic colouring and her exquisite figure. But everyone who had seen it all before refused to pass final judgement until they had heard Boska’s latest discovery speak, knowing as they did how certain mouths once they opened could cruelly distort what had only one happy silent moment ago been a lovely face.

  Now there was an almost audible sigh of relief, because when Elizabeth spoke it was in a voice of infinite charm. And she spoke with her eyes too, eyes that reflected not only what she was saying, but seemingly even what she was thinking. Even when she laughed she was without fault. Laughs can all too easily spoil good looks, by their sounds, or again by the way they can distort the face. Elizabeth Laurence’s laugh was as perfect as the rest of her. It was music, it was light, a sound with a sublime cadence, and an infectious quality that made everyone want to laugh with her. She seemed therefore to be flawless. She had the looks of an angel, the grace of a dancer, and a voice to beguile the listener.

  Even so, all this would have been meaningless had she been unable to act. Dancing angels who sound like musical instruments may be delightful, but they will not have the power to suspend the audience’s disbelief if they cannot convincingly deceive their audience. Happily from the first moment she spoke she proved she had the power. Boska was right. Elizabeth Laurence was going to be a star.

  The viewing over, the screen flickered to a bright white and then a barely visible blank as the projectionist shut off his machine. For once no-one called for the lights. Instead everyone sat in silence, waiting for Boska’s pronouncement, watching the end of his Passing Cloud glow bright as he drew on it, and then dull as he exhaled. Finally the cigarette was extinguished and the verdict for which they had all been waiting was passed.

  ‘So, OK,’ Boska said. ‘Now all our shooting star needs is a leading man.’

  3

  Dmitri Boska was only one of the many luminaries in the audience that had jam-packed the Marie Leborne theatre to see the final year’s production of Romeo and Juliet. The graduating drama students’ last and most major production was a fixture in the diaries of every important producer, director, casting agent, and personal representative in town, although more often than not it turned out to be something which they had to endure rather than enjoy. But this year it was different. This year there was a buzz going round before the curtain rose. This year the word was that there was a Discovery.

  But as usual, Dmitri Boska had stolen a march on his rivals, his spies having informed him well in advance. Which was how the tall, elegant, exiled Pole came to be waiting in the wings for Romeo to come off-stage long before the actor had wished his Juliet that sleep should dwell upon her eyes, and peace in her breast. A few other impresarios had the same intention as the wily Boska, but being British they observed the proprieties and waited until the house lights came up for the interval, by which time Boska had beaten them all to it, having whisked the young actor off to lock him in his dressing room, where, by the time the call boy was calling Act Three beginners, Boska had Jerome Didier signed to a five-year exclusive contract.

  ‘It’s wonderful, yes?’ he mused, as his chauffeur drove him and his young and beautiful fashion model companion on to dine at the Savoy, just as the Curtain was rising on Act Three. ‘It’s always the same, you know,’ he continued, lighting a fresh cigar. ‘Spotting talent is something even you could do, my dear. And will I tell you why? Of course I will. Because talent stinks. And when you smell this, you sign it up.’

  But that, for a while, was all Dmitri Boska was to do for Jerome Didier, just sign him up. Undoubtedly it was a stroke of incredible fortune for the young actor to be put under contract by the most powerful film impresario in the country before he had even finished his last performance at drama school, but after six months of solid unemployment, Jerome Didier was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the move.

  Of course Boska paid him. He gave the young actor an allowance, just enough money to finance the purchase of a second-hand red MG sports car, some new clothes, including a much-needed dinner jacket, and to ensure that once or twice a week Jerome Didier could afford to be seen in the right kind of places with the right kind of people. Boska saw to the young actor’s social arrangements personally, as well as his professional ones, which included an introduction to and inevitably a subsequent contract with the man most people considered the most up and coming young agent in town, Cecil Manners, whom Boska knew was honest enough to look after the best interests of the actor without jeopardizing Boska’s own.

  Jerome chafed at the restrictions his contract with Boska imposed, which was exactly what his new employer wanted. Once he had signed them up, Dmitri Boska liked to keep his actors waiting, believing that an appetite for success was born out of want. And Boska knew that what Jerome Didier wanted, like every other promising young actor Boska had signed before, was to get up there and act. And so he made absolutely sure that no offer was made until the young actor was on the verge of artistic starvation.

  But Boska was acting from the best, not from the worst of motives. Although he loved to play the sadistic, heartless employer, he was really nothing of the kind, for he loved both his profession and the members of it, and when it came to producing good films on impossibly low budgets he was infinitely more skilled at doing so than his English rivals. Dmitri Boska loved film, and was determined to produce films which finally would be every bit as good as those produced transatlantic, believing that his adopted country had both the artistic and technical ability to match the Americans.

  Which was one of the reasons he was so excited by Jerome Didier. He had put many young and promising players under contract over the years, but none of them had ever really fulfilled their promise. But Didier, he felt, was different. Jerome Didier would become a star, he just knew it. And not only that, Jerome Didier would become his first truly international star.

  Cecil Manners thought so, too, but worried over Boska’s tactics.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Boska laughed, pinching one of Cecil’s rather pink cheeks. ‘The waiting bit makes them humble!’

  ‘I’m not so sure about Jerome,’ Cecil replied. ‘He’s a little short on patience, and he indicated to me the other day that he’s not sure he can stand being idle a moment longer.’

  ‘Good!’ Boska squeezed Cecil’s other cheek, making it also burn red. ‘For if he is a star – this is how we want him. Ready to burst, no? You know those stars up there? The ones above us?’ Boska gestured in
a wide circle above his head. ‘So how are they made? I tell you. After centuries of silence. Light years of nothing doing. And then suddenly! All that energy! Whoooff! It explodes! And another bright and brand new star he is born!’

  Of course Boska was right, and Cecil Manners knew it. Nobody, however brilliant they might be, or might be going to be, nobody ever shone bright in a bad film or play. So Boska was right to wait for the ideal conditions. Because when the moment came, which it surely would, all that pent-up frustration and unused energy would positively rocket Jerome Didier into orbit.

  ‘And not only that,’ Boska would invariably add as his final word, ‘the waiting bit makes them humble!’

  Jerome didn’t know that he was meant to be learning humility. All Jerome knew was that he was suffering, and not just from frustration, he was also suffering from loneliness. Since leaving drama school he had lived in a rented, one-bedroomed flat in a converted Victorian house which smelt of stale cabbage and was situated down the wrong end of the Bayswater Road, and because by now most of the friends with whom he had graduated had started working, he felt worse and worse the longer he remained unemployed. He had even stopped going out, preferring to stay in and read, and save his unearned income just in case he was still unemployed by the time his contract with Boska came to an end.

  Happily, Cecil Manners was more than just a good agent. Cecil Manners was also a compassionate human being, and he took pity on his latest client.

  ‘You’re looking pale, dear boy,’ he said one day when he was lunching Jerome. ‘Why not come down to Sussex for the weekend? Mother’s having one of her house-parties. But we live on the edge of the Downs, so one can easily slip off for a good ramble. Get some colour into your cheeks.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Cecil,’ Jerome replied. ‘If I’m free, I’d enjoy that very much.’

  Jerome was, of course, free, and from the moment he arrived at Mrs Ursula Manners’s large Edwardian house in West Sussex, he enjoyed himself enormously. It was like stepping into the set of a West End play, pure theatre, Jerome decided, from the impeccably costumed maid and sonorously voiced manservant, to the game of croquet which he could spot being played on the manicured lawns outside.