Distant Music Page 38

  ‘Read all abaht it,’ she went on, purposefully, ‘read all abaht Juliet Tatami having an affair with the Messiah!’

  ‘What?’

  Oliver shook out the newspaper and started to read the appropriate paragraphs, after which there was a long and deathly silence before he croaked, ‘But I didn’t have an affair with Juliet, I promise you, Coco. How could I, how could I when I had just married you?’

  ‘Oh, pull the other one, it has got Big Ben on it, Ollie. Of course you had an affair with Tatami. Who else would you have had an affair with – the man playing Joseph? Geoffrey Blumenthal? Or Dame Sarah Codrington? Besides, you’re not married to me, that is just a joke gone through for the Kass Organisation, and you know it, so why on earth would you not knock off Tatami, please tell me? There is no possible reason why you would not knock her off, is there?’

  Oliver threw the newspaper across the room.

  ‘The truth is, Coco, I always intended to respect my marriage to you, until this week when we decided to divorce. I always said I should be faithful to you, and that is one truth. And the second truth is that much as I don’t expect you to believe me, I did not fancy and do not fancy Juliet, and what is more, she made a pass at me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I turned her down.’

  ‘You turned her down?’

  ‘Yup.’ Oliver flung aside the bedclothes and grabbing his dressing gown he started to walk up and down the room. ‘Which is obviously why she has done this to me. She has tried to scupper me with tittle-tattle to the press, to upset my position with the Kass Organisation. Kass will go crazy with this. It will affect the sales worldwide, it will affect the Americans, you know. The Americans like their Messiahs clean-cut and above-board – they don’t want them having affairs. God, this is terrible, just terrible.’

  And it was, because of course the press had a field day with Lover Lowell’s rumoured affair, following on his marriage, with the actress playing Mary Magdalene.

  Portly at once suspected that his rival Patrick Bates was somehow responsible, because agents always suspect other agents as a matter of course. Juliet Tatami could not of course be contacted, and promptly went into hiding before re-emerging to play another fallen woman, this time in a film set in ancient Greece, which was immensely convenient because the press, being too lazy to follow her out to the remote Greek island where the preliminary filming was taking place, were able to continue the story without fear of contradiction. Useless for Oliver Lowell to contradict the rumour, because, as they all knew, contradictions simply furthered the story. So, all in all, no one except the press was happy, least of all the Kass Organisation who promptly claimed that Oliver Lowell had contravened his contract with them, and put all payments to him on hold.

  ‘Not much new there,’ Portly told Elsie, who was still having a lousy time in Tadcaster, ‘since, in my experience, all payments from the Kass Organisation are always on hold. However. Nasty for Oliver, poor old chap. And for Patrick Bates,’ he could not help adding a little gleefully.

  ‘Poor old chap, my foot,’ Elsie murmured, as she put down the telephone.

  She at least was in a good mood.The television series was at last scheduled to go forward. Pretty soon she would be free of a cast that loathed her, and back in what she had now come to think of as proper work.

  The same could not be said for Oliver. Following the back-stabbing delivered to him by Miss Juliet Tatami, he found himself so much in the wilderness that even he became frightened. As far as he could gather his father and brothers had put him in Coventry for marrying Coco without telling them. Coco was fed up with him, and quite obviously hated him living in her flat, and not even his agent wanted anything to do with him. In fact, since the undesirability of one client at the centre of a scandal tended to rub off on the others, Patrick Bates had, very politely and firmly, asked Oliver to leave.

  And to cap it all, as if it needed capping, The Messiah was now being recut for the American market with the emphasis on Joseph rather than the Messiah, so, as his now ex-agent remarked before giving him the boot, ‘Oh, and they’re probably going to retitle it Joseph and Mary.’

  Oliver realised that the possibility of Portly’s taking him back on his books as a playwright was so remote as to be laughable, particularly since Elsie was still very much with PLL. Yet, remembering just how affable Portly’s essential nature was, Oliver did eventually telephone him and ask himself round to the office in the King’s Road, if only after downing a couple of very strong beers.

  He was unsurprised to find that Portly was now successful enough to be able to afford a personal assistant. Tall, blond, and really rather grand – and probably, if Oliver only knew it, as tough as Portly was not – Constantia was perfect assistant material.

  She eyed Oliver with a serenely indifferent expression, smiling politely. They both knew who he was, but nevertheless she asked his name, and he, having given it, was told, not asked, to sit down, while she went to see if Mr Cosgrove was free to see Mr Lowell.

  For Oliver the wait was long and hard, and inevitably, as he waited, his past sins, as well they should, came up before his eyes.

  He had been arrogant and selfish, he had been cold and ambitious, he had made the wrong choices about everything and everyone. He would not be at all surprised if Portly refused to see him.

  ‘Mr Cosgrove will see you now, Mr Lowell.’

  In a way it would have been comforting to find that Portly had not altered at all, but Oliver saw at once that his old friend and partner had changed. He had grown tougher-looking, and the expression in his eyes was not that of a man prepared to take Oliver back into the fold without a fight.

  ‘Portly.’

  ‘Oliver.’

  Because he was an actor Oliver realised straight away that Portly was not even prepared to shake his hand. He did not ask him to sit down, forcing Oliver to ask him, in a humble voice, if he minded if he did.

  ‘No, do.’ Portly’s eyes shifted towards both his smart white telephones, and then back to Oliver. ‘In a bit of trouble, are we, Oliver?’

  ‘More than a bit. I am in a lot of trouble, as you probably heard.’

  ‘I did, Oliver, I did. Been kicked out by the man with the receding hairline?’

  This was the nearest that Portly could bring himself to naming his arch rival, Patrick Bates.

  ‘Well, yes and no, Portly. I mean, it’s not that much of a blow. He was doing nothing much for me before, and even less now – in fact, nothing at all. I might as well be dead, quite frankly. As a matter of fact I feel as though I am dead. Every morning I wake up feeling surprised that I am still alive.’

  Oliver stared at a space just behind Portly’s head. He was as near to tears as he had ever been, fighting back the humiliation, and feeling as wretched as he had ever done, even when Cliffie left him at his first boarding school all that time ago.

  ‘What do you want to happen?’

  ‘What do I want to happen? I just want to get my confidence back, Portly. I don’t care where, or how, I just want a job, acting preferably, because my muse has deserted me ever since The Magic of Love. Coco’s going mad with me in the flat. You know how Coco is, doesn’t like clutter – and boy – am I clutter! My family won’t speak to me because I married her without telling them, and they won’t listen to Clifton, you know – well, forget it.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Suffice it to say I am vermin, to everyone, really I am.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ Portly told him, sounding quite affable.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What sort of acting do you want, Oliver?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Classical?’

  ‘Could do with it. Anything, a cough and a spit, even a toga part, although I do rather hate them, but never mind, I would do a Roman, if pushed.’

  ‘How about tights? Hamlet? Black tights?’ There was a long silence. They both knew that Oliver hated the idea of wearing tights, but he had little choice, which was another thing
that they both knew.

  ‘Our Clifton has always said that I would make a good Hamlet.’

  ‘Your Clifton has impeccable taste. And you are the right age too, Oliver.’

  ‘Very well. But who would want me? East Marchand Repertory?’

  ‘No, London. The newly based, altogether in need of star names Royal Company, no less.’

  ‘I thought they were only going for ensembles, as in the Berliner Ensemble?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Oliver, you know the Royal – always giving out to no good effect what they definitely do not mean to practise. Now that you are not simply famous, but just a mite scandalous too, the Royal will jump at you, I am sure.’

  ‘Will you put me up for it?’

  ‘Of course. But I happen to know they will be thrilled to have you, no doubt of it. Thrilled. They need a name to kick off the London Season, really. The part is yours for the asking.’

  No more to be said. The old friends stood up. The past was behind them. Oliver’s throwing over Elsie, and leaving the agency, blaming everyone but himself for a play that he should never have written, let alone allowed to be put on, could not of course be forgotten, yet the miserable experience could be built upon.

  ‘Thank you, Portly.’

  ‘That’s all right, dear boy.’

  Oliver walked towards the door. Dear boy! They had both used to laugh about agents and producers dear boying each other, but then they had both used to laugh a great deal about the people it seemed they had now become.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, Ollie. Sorry about Clifton.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes, you know, sorry that he is not well.’

  ‘I didn’t know he wasn’t well. He was perfectly fine when I last saw him.’

  ‘Oh? I heard at the Betterton – you know your brother Newell is a member now? We meet quite often.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. The Betterton would suit Newell down to the ground, I should have thought.’

  ‘I heard from him that Clifton was not at all the thing. Thought you at least would know about it?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t know. We talked on the phone the other day, but he didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too good, according to Newell.’

  Oliver fled down the stairs. It was always the same, in his view. Life took with one hand and gave back with the other. Portly had taken him back, which meant that life must be on the up. On the other hand, Clifton was not well. Could there never be a time when it all evened out into a sunny day with nothing to do but be busy doing nothing the whole day through, as Elsie and he used to sing, walking hand in hand through the streets of Tadcaster?

  Elsie. He stopped to think about her for a minute as he passed her photograph in the foyer. God, how he had loved her, and so passionately. He never thought he would love anyone as he had loved Elsie, but then she had seemed to turn on him, and side with everyone else, during the tour of The Magic of Love – she had seemed to become someone else, not his darling old Else, someone quite different, someone intent on hating him, blaming him for the embarrassment of the tour, for the empty auditoriums, for the lack of laughter, for the cast turning on her, for everything.

  He walked quickly down the King’s Road. None of that mattered now. Now he was going to play Hamlet. The part that Clifton had always wanted him to play, the only trouble being that, judging from Portly’s expression, Clifton might not be there to see him.

  Back in the agency Portly nodded at the beautifully grand Constantia, who gave him her best Giaconda smile.

  ‘I knew he’d do it. I told Antony Mansion last night at dinner that he would – before he’d even walked up the stairs to see me this morning.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am something of a genius. Admit it, I am.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Constantia swayed out of the door, throwing a casual but beautifully tailored smile over her shoulder at Portly. She had a fine figure, a tall, slender young woman with a great deal of savoir faire, Portly thought with sudden emotion. She was a great choice for the agency, and perhaps not just for the agency.

  ‘Cliffie.’

  Oliver hugged Clifton quite unselfconsciously, and started to give the performance of his career, because even his untutored eye could see that Clifton was deathly pale.

  ‘Good news, Cliffie. Portly has heard from the Royal. They want me.’

  ‘Good news, indeed, Master Oliver.’ Clifton looked bravely happy.

  ‘I am now officially signed to do Hamlet, if I have read the runes right.’

  ‘Master Oliver, just what I always thought. You will be perfect. Which company did you say – the Royal?’

  ‘The Royal.’

  Clifton breathed out and for a minute or two he did not have to act. His whole life had been spent in trying to hone Master Oliver to become the sort of actor Clifton knew he could be, and now, at last, it seemed he was coming within reach of just that.

  ‘No more shoddy films then, Master Oliver?’

  Clifton did not approve of film acting. To him it was not acting at all. He only approved of the theatre. The theatre was what mattered.

  ‘No more shoddy films, Cliffie. Just theatre, theatre, theatre, from now on. One thing, though – thanks to you, I don’t have to bone up on Hamlet. I don’t only know Hamlet, I know all the other parts. Remember me playing the ghost – my first stab at it – how old was I?’

  Clifton’s eyes now seemed to brighten as he looked back to the golden years of the past.

  ‘Oh, you must have been all of six years of age. Very good, too. You were very spooky.’

  ‘You were a brilliant Hamlet too, Cliffie, You looked great in tights, which is more than I will!’

  They both laughed, and Clifton sipped his whisky. With the impact of the alcohol he seemed to acquire a little more colour.

  ‘Your legs are not your best asset, I will agree, Master Oliver, but neither are they anything to be ashamed of. How is young Miss Coco, by the way? Happy to be married?’

  They both laughed again.

  ‘Oh, you know Coco, nothing but angst and drang, if not sturm, too. She hates me being at the flat. I drive her dotty. Nothing must do, but she wants me to move out and go and find a place of my own, but I can’t, not while we’re meant to be married, I mean to say.’

  ‘I’m having tea with Miss Coco tomorrow, before I go back to Yorkshire.’

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘Oh, you know, we have tea from time to time, or drinks or lunch, always have done. She’s my type of girl, you know, Master Oliver. Spirited. I like a spirited woman. Nothing of the doormat about her, and that is the truth. And she makes me laugh, always has done.’

  ‘She never told me that you two met – for these lunches and teas and things.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She just wouldn’t.’ Clifton smiled. ‘Looking forward to your Hamlet, though, Master Oliver, truly I am. I shall keep going until then.’

  Oliver ignored this direct reference to Clifton’s shortened future and leaping up went and ordered them both another drink.

  ‘Rehearsals start tomorrow.’ The expression in Oliver’s eyes became opaque. Hamlet was one of what the older generation of actors called ‘the big ones’, his first big one.

  Over tea the following afternoon Clifton met Coco.

  ‘I just don’t want Master Oliver to give up on his acting. He’s a better actor than he is a writer, Miss Coco. His writing is fine, if he will only stop being so lightweight, but his acting, at its best, is sublime. Truly it is. I know that he will be the Hamlet of his generation.’

  ‘Come and see Holly, Cliffie. She has grown so, so much.’

  They walked off towards Coco’s flat, arm in arm.

  The following morning, before leaving early for rehearsal, Oliver seemed to spring at Coco from behind her own front door.

  ‘I didn’t know that you were seeing Clif
ton – that you have been seeing Cliffie?’

  ‘Of course. Cliffie and I have been friends ever since I was – oh, I don’t know. But whenever he brought you down to London and you had to go to the dentist, or like when you were having your tonsils out, Cliffie took me out to tea, usually at Fortnums. He used to buy me strawberry milkshakes and chocolate cake, and then I used to go home and be sick all over Gladys. It was a perfect arrangement. Actually, you did know, you know, Ollie, because I always used to tell you. I think you just forgot.’

  ‘You know he’s not well?’

  ‘Really? He seemed quite well to me.’ Coco turned away, starting to tidy Holly’s toys.

  ‘No, apparently Newell told Portly at the Betterton that Cliffie is not at all well. God, supposing something happens to him? I mean, I don’t know how I shall get through Hamlet without Cliffie, Coco?’

  Oliver walked towards the door, grabbing his duffel coat which he had flung across a sofa.

  ‘You will get through Hamlet for Cliffie, Oliver, because you are an actor because of Cliffie.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can get through Hamlet if something happens to Cliffie during rehearsals, Coco. Will I get through it? If something happens to him? He looked at death’s door when I saw him.’

  ‘Of course you will, Ollie. Gracious heavens, Hamlet is all about death.’

  Elsie was facing the television director with all the courage that she did not feel. There was no way that anyone at that moment could have told that they were about to embark on the most successful television series ever put out by a British company. The only thing that anyone in the studio that day could have said with complete certainty was that no one, but no one, knew anything about the medium into which they had just flung themselves. Everyone was hazarding the most enormous guess.

  Did close-ups work? Was it better to avoid trick shots, mirror shots, long shots, shots shot through earrings? Was a straightforward attitude to the scripts the best? Should they just tell the story, or should the camera work embellish it? It was all a monstrous adventure, and as the cables flicked and spun across the studio floor, and the wheels on the cameras creaked, in her state of supreme uncertainty Elsie found herself wondering if anyone at home would be able to hear what she said. She had never feared ‘drying’ in the theatre, but now she feared drying as she had known older actresses and actors to fear it. She trembled, not just on the outside, but on the inside, at the very idea of it. Supposing she dried in front of perhaps fifteen or sixteen million people? Supposing she fell down the stairs? Supposing the door stuck as it had during rehearsal? Supposing old Arthur Mayne, playing the night porter – supposing he dried completely, as he had just done? It was all a nightmare, but not a nightmare from which she could expect to wake up for another thirteen episodes.