Distant Music Page 33
With its closing, Oliver packed up his things, left Elsie and the flat and headed for the south of France where he spent three months in total inebriation. Elsie, on the other hand, having hated the play, and, worse, hated herself for doing the play, and even for a while hated poor old Portly for not telling her not to do the play, took up the first film offer that came her way, and prepared to leave for Rome.
Their affair was over. The Magic of Love had killed it, as Portly had predicted to himself that it might. No theatrical affair involving a leading lady and her playwright and co-star could survive a fantastic flop, and Oliver’s second play had been just that; a huge flop, the kind of flop of which people speak ever after in hushed tones, and murmur, ‘Oh, you weren’t in that, were you?’
Portly felt sorry for everyone who had been involved in the endless tensions, arguments, and dented egos that a flop involves. Inevitably of course Denholm Heighton had deserted Oliver, quickly finding a new playwright and a new play upon which to concentrate his enthusiasm, and was even now searching for stars to do it. From his point of view of course Denholm could afford to stay calm. Popeye had made him a fortune, on both sides of the Atlantic. Tomorrow had dawned as brightly as ever for Mr Heighton, as Portly had always known that it would.
Even Portly himself did not remain untouched by the disaster that The Magic of Love turned out to be, because Oliver not only left Elsie, he also left Portly.
Before she set off for Rome, Elsie was broken-hearted but scornful, not least of Oliver’s decision.
‘His own agency, and he’s left it. Only Ollie could leave himself! As to the play – well, Portly love, we were asking for trouble, weren’t we? I mean imagine calling a play The Magic of Love and expecting your affair to survive it.’
She gave a short, sarcastic laugh, and then, whistling a far from happy tune, left for Rome and her first filming experience, which only Portly realised that she was actually dreading.
‘He’ll be back,’ Portly told his new, glamorous, and really rather grand secretary, and anyone else who would listen, ‘Oliver will be back. He will bring his plays back to PLL, you’ll see.’
But neither Portly, nor anyone else, really believed it. Probably because Oliver Lowell was, for the time being anyway, finished. He had become increasingly difficult through the provincial tour, so much so that, by the end of it, he had acquired a reputation.
Also, and damningly, Denholm Heighton had informed the whole of the all-powerful Betterton Club that Oliver Lowell was impossible to work with, and that, as he well knew, was quite enough to keep Oliver in the cold for a good few years.
Furthermore, rumour had it that Oliver Lowell, having broken up with Elsie Lancaster on the ill-fated tour of his second comedy, was now having an affair with a famous French actress, a lady not just noted for her insatiable amorous appetites, but infamous for them. Oliver Lowell was her third lover of that year, or was it month? It seemed that between affairs the actress in question was in the habit of retiring to a clinic for the specific purpose of recharging her sexual batteries, before returning to the fray to take up her amorous adventures, and of course filming, once more.
So it was that everyone lunching and dining at the Caprice or the Ivy sighed and shook their heads over poor young Oliver Lowell. Such a bright young talent, and with such potential, but obviously success had come too easily, and too soon. There was very little anyone could do to help such impetuous, headstrong characters. He might go on, of course, or he might not.
Worse than that, he might stay as he was at the moment, and that, everyone was quite agreed, would be fatal. Someone had seen him out of his skull outside the Salisbury, and only the other night – such a terrible, terrible shame. Now, how about asking Mario whether the lobster salad was up to snuff?
Then on to discussing or destroying the next reputation, because that, after all, was what lunching and dining, or being a member of the Betterton Club, was all about. It was all about the shadow of reputation upon which a shallow first success so depended. And Oliver Lowell now had neither reputation nor success. He had quite destroyed both.
Chapter Fourteen
Coco looked across at her small daughter with some pride. Holly was now a healthy three-year-old with beautiful dark blue eyes, straight dark hair, and sturdy limbs, not to mention a mischievous expression. Naturally, since Coco was a single mother, for all the time of Holly’s growing from babyhood to toddler the little girl had been the absolute centre of her mother’s existence.
First thing in the morning Coco would stroll through to Holly’s nursery, knowing that the small arms would already be being held out and Holly would be jumping up and down and waiting for Coco to take her back to her bed, where they would lie together for some time in a contented half-sleep, listening to the growing sounds of life from below the windows of the flat. Buses passing, doors slamming, cars starting. Despite the earliness of the hour, outside London was already awake and bustling, but for half an hour they did not yet have to be part of it. It was a blissful time, full of the particular warmth and peace of the early morning, which, because she knew that it was inevitably doomed to be shattered, was particularly precious to Coco.
Until Holly came into her life Coco had never given motherhood a thought. Mentally and physically, because she was an only child, she herself had been the all-consuming and completely fascinating centre of her own existence, rattling along in fits and starts, always hoping that, contrary to outward indications, her boredom at school, her dissatisfaction with her appearance, she might, one day, make something of herself and her life.
But now that Coco had actually started to make some progress, not with ridiculous and very tedious film acting but with designing for the theatre, now that everyone had started to mark her out – now that she was becoming the Coco Hampton – Coco had found, to her astonishment, that Miss Coco Hampton meant a great deal less to Coco herself than little Miss Holly Hampton.
It seemed, to Coco’s astonishment, that this was what motherhood was all about. It was about the centre of your existence shifting and becoming wrapped around that other small being, so that whenever you were away from your baby, even for a few hours, your mind stretched back to him or her, envying whoever was looking after them for that short time, resenting the fact that the chubby arms would be held out to anyone else.
And too, Coco whose whole life, until Holly was born, had been concerned with her appearance, now found that she stared only into baby shops, saved up only to make Holly a new dress or coat, did not care how many times she was forced to remodel her own clothes to make them seem what they were not and never could be now – new and fashionable.
Of course when it came to designing her small daughter’s clothes, Coco could not put aside her own strong preferences, nor could she make up clothes in any other way than how she would design for some star such as Elsie Lancaster, or Margaret Seymour. So, while Holly rested in the afternoons before their walks to the Park, Coco would toil on the small creations that she delighted in making for her daughter.
Without her realising or even intending it, Holly’s clothes, sewn with such love and attention to detail, became miniature works of art. Tiny coats with hand-made crochet collars and cuffs and matching tam-o’-shanters and gloves. Silk dresses in Kate Greenaway styles with matching parasols. Small Chanel-style jackets and skirts in navy blue, with piqué collars and mock white gardenias pinned to the tiny lapels.
Naturally Coco pushed Holly proudly out into the Park wearing these tiny examples of her own designing. Equally naturally all the Hyde Park nannies stared at Holly, not really approving of her, since not only was she being pushed by her mother, but she patently looked so different from the other little girls in their Hayford coats with their muslin collars, and bonnets with bunches of flowers pinned to the side. All, that is, except for one nanny, who stopped and asked Coco the single question none of the other nannies could bring themselves to ask – where was it exactly that Coco bought Holly her clot
hes?
‘I don’t buy them, I make them.’
The nanny, tall, dark-haired and very correctly dressed in a brown and cream uniform, nodded, her expression serious.
‘You should patent your designs, my dear, you could make a fortune. I would buy them for our nurseries, because as you know, the Prince – whom you might well have read about in your newspapers – the Prince adores to dress his children in original designs.’
She stooped to look more closely at Holly, who was immaculately presented in a pale yellowy mustard dress, pinch-pleated, round-sleeved, with small brightly coloured butterflies decorating the shoulders and the tip of her tiny parasol.
Coco did not know exactly to which prince the nanny with her chic pram was referring, and since this must have been obvious to Nanny Ali, she leaned forward and whispered in Coco’s ear.
Coco, despite her preoccupation with the theatre and its ways, registered the name immediately. Prince Ali was a famous man, not just for his immense wealth but also for his love of beautiful women, not to mention his taste. His fabulous homes in London, Paris and Geneva were admired by everyone. He had recently become a most popular figure in England by dint of his buying a world-famous painting, and presenting it to the nation.
‘Here’s my card, my dear. Write to me at this address, and I will invite you to lunch or tea. I have to seek permission from the Prince’s secretary first.’
After that Nanny Ali walked her beautiful charges off towards Kensington Gardens and Peter Pan, leaving Coco to contemplate what they both knew might be a whole new career.
It was difficult to know what she should write to Nanny Ali. Coco tried several times, and finally wrote, Thank you very much for your invitation to lunch or tea. I should be delighted to come at any time. Yours sincerely, Coco Hampton.
The reply came very soon after she had posted her letter.
We should be pleased if you would take luncheon with us at twelve thirty on Wednesday.
There followed the same address as on Nanny Ali’s card, an address which Coco, with her London upbringing, knew to be the cream of all addresses – namely, a road so filled with large, exclusive, detached houses that it was only really affordable to ambassadors, or foreign dignitaries, and princes.
Perhaps because she had made what she herself considered to be a great deal of money from Love To Popeye and was now on the list of designers employed by Denholm Heighton and other West End managements, Coco did not feel nervous about her lunch with Nanny Ali. But neither did she not feel nervous. Theatre design was very much a fashion. If she was in now, she could as easily be out next week, which poor Oliver apparently was at that moment. And although she had designed and costumed The Magic of Love, and so could have been fatally associated with that tremendous flop, that was the one element, the only element of the whole production, which, everyone was agreed, had been successful in the whole sorry mess. Coco now had a definite stamp to her designs. No one could look at her work and mistake it for something that someone else had done. She had always drawn beautifully. Now what she drew could make her money. To that extent she could not have been happier.
And yet Nanny Ali’s interest in Holly’s clothes had awakened in Coco the realisation that she could, if she was lucky, become successful at something which would give her, and Holly, far greater security than theatre design. Children grew and grew, so there was necessarily a never-ending demand for new clothes for them, and, like children’s books, and prints for nurseries – like everything made with children in mind – successful clothes would not just be part of their lives, but would become as much a part of their children’s children’s lives as being taken to the pantomime, or being read to from Beatrix Potter or Alice in Wonderland.
Standing in front of the address to which she had been directed, however, Coco could not help feeling overawed. It was a vast house, painted white with black railings and black double front doors, themselves decorated with large, highly polished brass knockers. Large green curved awnings covered all the downstairs windows, and an immaculate green sward of grass fronted the narrow stone terrace from which rose the flight of steps that led up to the front doors.
Within seconds of Coco and Holly’s arriving at those same doors, as if they had been watched by unseen eyes, one of the doors opened slowly and quietly to admit them.
Coco did not have to tell Holly that she was in a very luxurious place. The small, beautifully dressed child seemed to sense it at once, staring round the huge hall with its indoor fountain and marble statues, and finally up at her mother as if to say, ‘Is this really where we are meant to come today?’
‘I’ve left Holly’s pram outside. I hope that is all right?’
‘Madam.’
The dark-faced butler bowed, and without a word he preceded Coco and Holly up the main staircase to a door which opened on to a long corridor leading to another door, and so up to what must eventually have been the third floor of the house.
Here the corridor widened, and the thickly woven wool carpet turned from an elegant maroon to a deep blue. The butler pushed open yet another pair of double doors, beyond which Coco guessed, before she even saw into the large, high-ceilinged room, lay the nursery.
It was another world. Here, although there was only one nanny, there must have been at least six nursery maids, all uniformed, and all wearing suitably humble expressions, because, it did not have to be said, here Nanny Ali ruled. Here also was not just one rocking horse, but two or three, and not only one doll’s house but many, not to mention dozens of dolls, and a cluster of fawn-coloured pug dogs with black masks weaving in and out of both the humans and the toys, their curled tails stretching out in greeting to the former, the bells on their collars singing out their happy familiarity with nursery life.
Just as Coco was swiftly coming to the conclusion that this really might be too much of a display of wealth, another door opened, and into the room trooped Prince Ali’s children – all seven of them.
‘I am very glad you could come,’ Nanny Ali announced to Coco and Holly, and then she said to the nursemaids, ‘This is the little girl I told you all about. Look at her beautiful dress and matching parasol, do.’
The nursemaids, all English, and all looking very much as though they must be country girls with their rounded cheeks and shy manners, now did as Nanny Ali had commanded and crowded round a smiling Holly, turning her this way and that, gasping, cooing, and generally making noises of such approval that even Coco, who was very critical of her own work, could not help glowing with pride.
‘We,’ said Nanny Ali, speaking for either herself or the Prince, Coco was not sure, ‘should very much like it if you could be kind enough to design clothes for the Prince’s children. We would like it very much. They are all very different; the children are not at all alike, as you can see.’
Coco was unsure to what religion and state Prince Ali, the darling of the Continental magazines and newspapers, belonged, but certainly his offspring’s looks varied as much as, perhaps, his taste in wives. Some were dark-haired and blue-eyed, some were red-haired and brown-eyed, all were girls.
‘I know, I know,’ said Nanny Ali, as she saw Coco eyeing their very different looks with some interest. ‘Prince Ali, like a certain famous English king, has had rather a difficult time of it as far as his wives are concerned. He has not, as you can see, for some reason, yet produced a son. Not that he does not love all his children,’ she added graciously, ‘but we think he would enjoy a change, some time soon. However, you can now see, Mrs Hampton, why it is that I was interested in your designs. We long to dress their Serene Highnesses in different clothes, but different designs are difficult to come by, even on the Continent. After all, since their father is a prince, we do not want them looking like everyone else, do we? It is normal, since there are seven of us, to want the princesses to stand out from other people’s charges. Nor do we want seven little girls looking precisely the same, do we?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Could you design for us, as you have for your own daughter, Mrs Hampton?’
‘Yes, I could.’
‘Would you like to design for us, Mrs Hampton?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘We would want the designs to be completely exclusive. We would not want anyone else to be seen wearing whatever it is you have in mind for the princesses.’
‘Of course.’
They both knew that what Nanny Ali meant, put more plainly, was that she did not want to see Holly wearing the same designs as the princesses.
‘No, I do understand, of course I do,’ Coco added.
‘Very well. Shall we take lunch, and then – well, we can talk more?’
Nanny Ali liked Coco. She liked any young woman who said little and looked a lot. She knew, instinctively, that here was a young woman after her own heart. She did not need everything spelled out. Shortly afterwards they went in to luncheon in the nursery dining room, which, from the look of it, was rather more than just a room in which children, nanny and maids ate their meals.
This room too had a high ceiling, and once again the staff in attendance seemed to outnumber the children and their nursemaids, with Coco and Holly a new and for once comparatively ordinary addition in what was, after all, an Aladdin’s cave of nurseryland.
The nursery china alone would have graced a normal household table only on the greatest occasions, with brightly feathered peacocks and jungle animals depicted in glowing colours, the whole decorated with so much gold that it caught the sunlight shining through the long windows with an effortless display of wealth. Indeed, there was so much gold everywhere – on the footmen’s uniforms, on the pug dogs’ collars, in the decorations on the salts and peppers, on everything that was in everyday use – that the house might well have been built above a gold mine, so much had the precious metal made itself felt.