Distant Music Read online

  ‘Well, good luck, Master Ollie, and I hope I see you when you get back.’

  ‘Course you’ll see me, Cliffie, who else?’ Oliver put the phone down, yawned yet again, and wandered off back to his bed. It was only as he lay back, head against the pillows, eyes firmly on the ceiling above him, listening to Coco bathing and singing to Holly, that it suddenly came to him that Cliffie had not sounded quite himself. If he had the energy, which he assuredly did not, he would have hauled himself out of bed and gone back to the telephone, but since he was still tired, and it was Sunday morning, he fell back to sleep again, and only gave Cliffie another thought when he finally arrived in Israel, and for once remembered to send him a postcard.

  With Oliver’s departure Coco was once again free to occupy her own flat with Holly, ask Aeneas round to dinner, pursue her sewing for ‘the palace’, and finally call on Nanny Ali and her charges.

  Once again the doors of every room were opened by uniformed servants, and once again the myriad royal children were presented to her. If Coco had been worried by the unwanted publicity surrounding her marriage of convenience to Oliver Lowell, it had rather the opposite effect on Nanny Ali.

  ‘How exciting to marry an actor, my dear, and take him as husband number two. Such a handsome fellow he looks in his pictures. But, my dear, will he take you away from your sewing? Gentlemen can be strange in that way, very possessive.’

  Coco thought of telling Nanny that her marriage to Oliver was only one of convenience, and what was more she had not had a first husband, but then seeing the excited expression in the other woman’s eyes she decided that discretion was far better. Let her think what she liked. It was immediately obvious that Nanny Ali was convinced that Coco led an exciting life, and could not have cared less about how many husbands she had enjoyed, as why would she not, living as she did in a household with a man who had enjoyed many, many wives? Instead of blurting out the reality of her situation, therefore, Coco took out the first of her commissions, and held it up to the light for Nanny to see.

  Nanny took the first of the seven velvet, smocked coats, with their matching purses, and held it up.

  ‘But it’s exquisite, a work of art.’

  ‘There are six more of them, all different colours.’

  Coco started to unwrap the rest of the coats, keeping a firm eye on Holly who was being given a gentle ride on a rocking horse by one of the many nursery maids.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear, Rose is very careful.’

  Coco, who was unused to having to trust anyone else with Holly, nodded, but her maternal eye remained vigilant. She had never forgotten finding Gladys in a storm of tears the one and only day she had been left to babysit for a couple of hours. Holly may not have been planned but she was totally wanted.

  Perhaps because of this the heartache that she felt when she received a bouquet of flowers and a note from Aeneas, although certainly more than she would have wished, was also less than she would have imagined before Holly had arrived.

  Can’t do Thursday for dinner, will be in touch v.v.soon. Aeneas.

  She expected to hear nothing more from him. She knew how it was with actors, particularly handsome actors. Women were like taxis; there was always another one along in a minute. She therefore put the whole matter out of her mind and went back to her sewing. There was nothing else that a sensible person could do. After all, her security depended on her sewing now; she had not been offered any work in the theatre for some time, therefore her ‘palace’ commissions were more important than ever. Seven taffeta dresses to make, followed by seven tweed dresses and matching coats. All worked in the best materials, fabrics that were a joy to cut and sew, which she would never be allowed to use in the theatre, not with the ever vigilant eye of managements keeping the costs down. Nanny Ali was quite different. She seemed to like the costs going up.

  ‘My dear, just wait until the next birthday party we give. It will put the noses of those snooty Peter Pan nannies right out of joint when they see our little princesses in their beautifully made dresses. They will turn emerald green with envy, and serve them right. And they will never, ever again look down their noses at us for being foreign. No, not ever.’

  She had sighed with contentment, imagining the scene, and Coco had returned home, her feelings momentarily lightened. Hours later Aeneas phoned and those same feelings were not just lightened, but heightened to a point that she would not have thought possible. He was coming round, soon, soonest; there had been yet more delays in filming but he had not stopped thinking about her, not for a minute, not for a second. Moments later Coco was waltzing round the flat with Holly in her arms, Clarence the pug trotting happily behind.

  Portly was furious with himself. He had made certain rules when he took up the reins at the agency, and one of them was that, whatever happened, he would not, ever, have an affair with anyone whom he was representing. Throwing caution to the wind he had finally broken one of his own golden rules and succumbed to the charms of Miss Juliet Tatami, and as a result, it seemed to him, he had now lost both a potential star and a beautiful girlfriend. For this reason alone he could have kicked himself good and hard.

  How it had come about was fairly bewildering. One minute she had been only too keen to do television, seemed very taken with the first script of the Edwardian series – as was Elsie Lancaster – and the next minute she had turned on it, and him for even suggesting it. As actresses were wont to do, she had then decided that her agent was entirely to blame for putting her up for television rather than film, and had left the agency for an altogether more powerful organisation whose leading partner had been only too happy not just to poach her, but to have an affair with her too, following which he had done a deal with the Kass Organisation and had Juliet cast as Mary Magdalene in the new film The Messiah which was being shot in Israel, and starred Portly’s ex-friend and writer, Oliver Lowell.

  It was altogether horribly humiliating, and made Portly realise, as always, that there was no one else to blame but himself, and he had as usual mismanaged everything to a degree which was – well – humiliating was the only word for it.

  The fact that Oliver had suddenly upped and married Coco Hampton did at least mean that Oliver would not be able to take the usual ruthless advantage that star actors took on location, and have an affair with Juliet himself. But this was small comfort compared to the discomfort of knowing that both Oliver and Juliet were now lost to the agency, probably for ever. Not to mention Coco. Because Coco, now married to Oliver, would surely drop Portly?

  ‘What a mess of potage,’ Portly told Art, his new Irish wolfhound puppy. ‘Worse than a mess of potage, it is a cauldron of potage, and I hate myself more than ever, Art, because I just don’t seem able to learn from past mistakes. What sort of person am I? I mean to say – what?’

  At that moment the telephone on his desk rang and Portly, reluctantly, picked it up. It was only when he was at home with Art that he found he could have really intelligent conversations, man to wolfhound conversations that covered the whole territory, so refreshing after the kinds of business conversations that he had, by rote, at the office.

  ‘Portly, it’s Coco Hampton.’

  They both paused at that announcement.

  ‘Don’t you mean Coco Lowell?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘No, I do not mean Coco Lowell, Portly, and I must come round and see you, if you don’t mind, just to straighten a few things out.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather I came to you – you know, because of the baby?’

  ‘No, no, really, I would rather come to you. Besides, I really need to be somewhere neutral to say the things I have to say, I don’t know why.’

  ‘All right, pop in a taxi and come round. I have just finished putting the finishing touches to a rather splendid bread and butter pudding, which I think you will enjoy, unless of course you’ve passed the pudding stage?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  Coco fairly bounded through the door,
and like all nice people she did not bother to push the over-friendly Art off her beautiful hand-made silk skirt, but sat down in one of Portly’s large squashy chairs and stroked Art’s majestic if puppyish muzzle with every display of enjoyment.

  ‘New person?’

  ‘Very new person.’

  ‘We have a new person too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Coco took hold of the drink that Portly was offering her. ‘Yes, a pug.’

  ‘Name of?’ ‘Clarence. Pugs have to have pompous names, because they are so full of themselves. They all think they are mastiffs, really they do. I bought him for Holly, really.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And to annoy Oliver. He doesn’t know which end he hates most, the back or the front.’

  ‘How is Ollie?’

  ‘Delicious drink, Porters old thing.’ Coco smiled happily, ignoring the question. ‘Goodness, it is nectar. Don’t tell me what you put in it. It is nectar, the drink of the gods, and I am in heaven.’

  ‘I hear you married him.’ Portly poured another cocktail from the mixer, this time for himself. He sipped it thoughtfully, having never tried this particular combination before, and then nodded happily. Coco was right, it was nectar, quite definitely. ‘Yes, I heard you married Oliver. Quite sudden it was, I heard.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But it is only a marriage of convenience, you know? I owed Ollie, you see, Portly. When I found I was preggers with Holly I did not know which way to turn so I went to Oliver and he was very good and found this nursing home filled with gentle nuns, and so I owed him.’

  ‘Which was why you decided you should marry him?’

  ‘Yes, but not to please Oliver, to please the Kass Organisation. It was touch and go, you see, for Ollie, whether or not he would get the part of the Messiah. And when his agent— what’s his name, the one who took him on when he walked out on you and Tad Protheroe after The Magic of Love …’

  ‘Patrick Bates,’ Portly prompted, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yes, him. He found out and rang suggesting that Oliver should get married, and that would put an end to all the problems. And he couldn’t really ask anyone else, could he? I mean, could he? After all, first of all, I owed him, and second of all, well, there was no one else he could trust, not after he broke up with Elsie. By the way do you know what has happened to poor old Elsie Lancaster?’

  Portly nodded. Yes, he did know what had happened to poor old Elsie Lancaster. She had been cast in a new television series and just about to start work when the whole thing had been postponed for another three months because the company was unhappy with the scripts. Portly explained this to Coco in as short a way as was perfectly possible, making quite clear, as he always did with all his actors and actresses, that a postponement was not a cancellation.

  ‘So what’s she doing until the series starts?’

  Coco’s voice had taken on the pleasant tone of a young woman who, although not wishing any harm to come to the individual being discussed, was nevertheless not wholly displeased at the idea that she might be having a tough time.

  ‘Elsie’s in Tadcaster, acting her socks off. I am going up to see her next week. She will be giving us her Blanche Dubois, very interesting too, I should have thought, particularly since she is about twenty years too young for it.’

  ‘Back in Tadcaster? That’s a bit of a come-down, isn’t it, after films?’

  ‘She wanted to get back to the theatre.’

  ‘Yes, but Tadcaster, bit genteel for our Elsie, isn’t it?’

  ‘We owe Tadcaster a great deal, all of us. After all, if it had not been for Tadcaster we would never have had our first hit. No, we owe them a lot, Coco.’

  ‘You bet, but I mean – Tadcaster.’

  * * *

  Although Elsie could not have known it, Coco was quite right about Tadcaster. Elsie had returned to it expecting to find it the same, which it was, the only problem being that although it indeed was exactly the same, she was not. She had changed. She was no longer the same Elsie Lancaster, straight out of working in a café, she was Elsie Lancaster straight out of filming in Rome, not to mention a long West End run in Love To Popeye.

  And although she rented the same flat, because Oliver was no longer there, and Portly was no longer there, her feelings of isolation increased even before she went back to work with a new company, all of whom deeply resented a West End and film actress’s returning to Tadcaster when, in their quite audible opinions, she could be working anywhere.

  It was tiring, and it was tedious, and it made her feel that they might be right. Not even dressing down and leaving all her chic clothes behind in her London wardrobe disguised the fact that Elsie Lancaster was, to them, a star, and as such had no business coming back and playing about on a stage which, in their openly held opinions, should be reserved for people of lesser fortune.

  ‘Portly!’

  Elsie had been terrible in the play, but of course Portly could not tell her. As he surmised, she was yards too young for the part, and worse than that, those very qualities that made Elsie a star were completely obscured in the part of a neurotic woman obsessed by her past. Not even a brilliant make-up or the most professional acting could ever get over the fact that if a part did not fit an actress it was as calamitous as a badly fitting suit. The part of Blanche Dubois hung off Elsie, the hem trailing, the waistline sagging, the whole making up the sum of a total disaster which nothing could save.

  Naturally Portly was far too discreet to tell Elsie this at the time of visiting her dressing room. The critics might tell her; he would not. Instead he took her out to dinner, and then they went back to the dear old Tadcaster flat of so many, many memories for a nightcap.

  ‘Down memory lane, as my old nanny used to say.’

  Portly looked round the magnolia-painted room with its comfortable pre-war chintz furniture and its prints of bunny rabbits at play. The coffee table made from an old chest, the tiny kitchen with the red and white formica cupboards, were all perfectly the same.

  ‘We were all so happy here, weren’t we, Elsie?’

  Elsie nodded and turned away. ‘Very.’

  ‘I spent my whole life cooking for you two, while as far as I remember you two spent your spare time looking for the perfect pen, or nose scissors. Never been so relaxed, and never will be again, I don’t suppose. No worries, except where to find garlic, or a bottle of good red wine. No money worries – not really – no telephones ringing, just the performance in the evening, and waiting up for you two with the hot chocolate and the ginger dunkers.’

  ‘Not like that now, is it, Portly darling? Now we all have money, and worries. We are dancing faster and faster to the tune played by others. Remember that line in Popeye? And how true it has turned out to be.’

  Perhaps it was one brandy too many, or perhaps it was just that she must have known, in a way, what a disastrous choice a return to Tadcaster had turned out to be, but halfway through her second brandy Elsie looked at Portly with eyes now bossed with the effects of alcohol and moaned. ‘How could Oliver have married Coco Hampton, and not at least warn me? Bad enough she already had his baby, but then to go and marry her, and not tell me.’

  Portly shook his head, holding up a hand to stop her. ‘No, no, you’ve got that all wrong, Elsie. Coco’s baby is not Oliver’s baby. Coco’s baby is someone else’s baby. He must have told you that, surely?’

  ‘Oh yes. He lied to me about that, yes. So if it was not his, why did he go and marry her, then?’ Elsie’s lipstick was smudged, and she swayed to the side of her chair before straightening.

  ‘No, really. It is not Oliver’s baby. It’s someone she met filming, and has never seen since. His baby. Not Oliver’s. Really. The baby is not Oliver’s baby, that I do know. No, Coco and Oliver are only friends, that is all, just friends.’

  ‘Oh really, so that is why he ups and marries Coco, is it?’

  ‘No, really. Besides, Oliver hasn’t married Coco because he loves her.
’

  ‘Oh, no, of course not, he’s married her because he likes her costumes.’

  ‘No, really, Elsie, they really are just friends. No, it is only a marriage of convenience, because of the Kass Organisation. They didn’t like his bad press – you know, “Lover Lowell” and all that. They wanted him married before he began filming The Messiah.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Portly?’

  ‘Because Coco came round and told me. They’re getting annulled or divorced as soon as filming is finished.’

  ‘A marriage of convenience, you say?’ Elsie knocked back her brandy and attempted to pour out another, but Portly quickly removed the bottle, so she lit up a cigarette instead.

  ‘Imagine Oliver doing anything convenient. It must be a first, the first time Oliver Lowell ever did anything convenient in his whole life, the very first time.’

  Elsie started to laugh, but hearing the quality of her laughter, and seeing her eyes filled with tears, Portly’s heart sank. Like it or lump it, for better or for worse, Elsie was still in love with Oliver.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Coco threw down the newspaper, but not on Oliver’s bed, on his head.

  ‘Well done! Just so many congratulations are in order, aren’t they, Ollie?’

  ‘Please, Coco, I haven’t even woken up yet, please!’

  ‘You certainly have not woken up, you have not woken up to the fact that you are a crass idiot, that is what you have not woken up to, Oliver Plunkett! My God, isn’t it enough that you have made me marry you, and now look!’

  ‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Read, Ollie, just read about yourself, you great banana, see what you have been up to with your life – in the newspaper.’ Coco changed her voice to that of a newsvendor crying his wares. ‘Read all abaht it, in today’s Daily Vomit, read all abaht it!’

  Oliver switched on his bedside light, just as Coco threw open the curtains of the spare bedroom in her flat. She had sewn and smocked those curtains with her own hands, and they did not at all suit Oliver’s occupancy of the room, seeing that they were flowered. He looked pretty silly in the room. A great brown-skinned six foot three hulk spread about the place, as if he owned it, which he jolly well did not.