Consider Her Ways (13 page)

‘Well,' conceded George, ‘if you can get it done in time, maybe the sight of a couple of hundred Lolos dashing about in a shrieking panic and the near-nude will give the teen-agers a kick –'

‘Not maybe, George. It's got history, like
The Ten Commandments
; and all the rest, too. It's sure-fire.'

‘You could be right this time, Solly – but if you quarry away at Italy much longer you're going to have another
Spotlight
. It's getting to time for a fresh angle.'

Solly de Kopf pondered heavily.

‘What you say to that, Al?'

‘Could be, Chief. It gets like it looks they'll take a line for ever until one day – whammo, it's out,' Al admitted.

‘And we're in the cart again,' added George. ‘Look, Solly, once upon a time we had 'em all, all sizes and ages of 'em, going to the movies twice a week, year in, year out. And now look at the industry.'

‘Yeh. Goddamned television,' said Solly de Kopf, with weary venom.

‘And what did we do about television? Hell, it's not all
that
good. But did we try to save that audience, and keep it in the movie-houses?'

‘We certainly did. Didn't we give 'em wide screens and super-vision?'

‘What we gave 'em was a few gimmicks, and catch-crop corn, Solly. We concentrated on the green teenagers and the arresteds – and that's about all the audience we've got left, except for a few big pictures. We just let the whole of the huge middle-aged audience go, and didn't do a thing to save it.'

‘So what? You're exaggerating, as usual, George, but you've got a bit of something.'

‘So this, Solly. There are still middle-aged people in the world, more in fact, than there were, and nobody's catering for 'em. Everybody's on the same racket, fighting to fleece the kids: us, the record people, the tin-pan alley boys, the mike-moaners, the espresso-bars, the jazz dives, the picture-papers, and I'd not exclude the Proms: even the telly shovels over a high percentage of adolescent drip. And here's this whole later age-group with practically nothing being done about it – and this is the age-group that brought the industry millions by sighing and having a nice weep over
Smilin' Through, Rose of Tralee, Lilly of Killarney, Daddy Long Legs, Comin' Through the Rye
, and the like. That's what's wanted, Solly. The lump in the throat, a wistful tear, the gentle hand on the heart-strings. Give 'em the right stuff, and they'll love it. We'll have 'em back in the movie-houses, sobbing in the aisles. And I think this girl could do it.'

‘Re-makes, huh?' said Solly, thoughtfully.

‘No,' said George, ‘
not
just re-makes. That's the mistake other guys have paid for. It's the same age-group we're after, with the same emotion-factor, but it's a different generation – so the triggers aren't the same – not quite. We've got to figure out what the modern triggers are – or we'll just get corn.'

‘Huh,' said Solly de Kopf again, and non-committally. ‘What do you think, Al?'

‘Could be something in it, Chief,' admitted Al. He looked at
George, keenly. ‘You're saying to make romance romantic instead of sexy? Well, that's quite an angle.'

‘Of course it's an angle. The woman who weeps at weddings is a folk-figure. As I said, we'll not promote a good modern heartache by doing it just the way they went about it in the twenties, but I'm damned sure that if we tackle it right a revival of Celtic nostalgia could go across big.'

‘H'm. You'll not set any box-offices on fire with a name like Margaret MacRafferty, will he, Al?' Solly remarked.

‘That's so, Chief,' Al pondered. ‘What about Connie O'Mara?' he suggested.

‘No,' said George decidedly, ‘that's just the thing to avoid. It's a period name, like Peggy O'Neil, or Gracie Fields, or Kitty O'Shea – too homey. It's got to have glamour, and a fey touch, too, but you needn't worry. I've fixed that.'

‘How?' Al inquired.

‘Deirdre Shilsean,' announced George.

‘Come again?' said Mr de Kopf.

George wrote it down in large capitals, and pushed it across. Solly de Kopf studied it.

‘I don't see how that makes “Shilshawn,” do you?' he inquired of Al who was peering over his shoulder.

‘The Irish do that sort of thing,' George explained.

‘It's got class,' Al admitted, ‘but you can't get away with it. Not a hope. Look what they did with Diane, and that's simple – or Marie, for that matter. One decko at this, and she'll be Dye-dree Shilseen.'

Solly de Kopf, however, continued to regard the name.

‘I like it,' he said. ‘It
looks
good.'

‘But, Chief –'

‘I know, Al. Ease off. If the customers like to call Diane, Dye-ann, and this one Dye-dree, what the hell! They pay to call 'em what they like, don't they? But it still
looks
good.'

‘Well, you're the chief, Chief. But there's more to it than a name,' Al told him.

‘She's willing to go to Marinstein,' said George.

‘Huh. Aren't they all?' said Mr de Kopf.

‘And she's ready to pay for the course,' added George.

‘That's better,' admitted Solly.

‘But she can't run to living expenses as well.'

‘Pity,' said Solly de Kopf.

‘However, Pop. Amal. Telly would be willing to advance her that, as an investment,' said George.

Solly de Kopf's eyebrows lowered, and approached one another.

‘What the hell business is it of theirs?' he demanded.

‘Well, they discovered her, on one of their quiz things,' George explained.

Solly went on frowning.

‘So now they're out to grab our stars even before they are stars, are they?' he growled. ‘The hell they are! Al, see this girl gets a contract – an option contract, contingent on her getting a Marinstein certificate, and us being satisfied – don't commit us. We stake her for living exes – and see it's a
good
hotel – not one of the lousy ones that telly lot'd choose. Fix it so she does it with class, and tell the publicity boys they got to get working on her fast. And don't forget to let Marinstein know we'll be looking for a ten-per-cent rebate. Got that?'

‘Sure, Chief. Right away,' said Al, making for the door.

Solly de Kopf turned back to George.

‘Well, there's your star,' he said. ‘Now what's the story you've got for her?'

‘It'll have to be written yet,' George acknowledged. ‘But that'll be easy. It's her I want. She'll be a pretty colleen with the simplicity of a child, heart of gold, etcetera; in a background of the emerald fields and the purple mists on the mountains and the blue smoke rising from the cabins. She's vulnerable and unsophisticated, and she sings plaintive airs as she milks the cow, but she has a touch of innate ancestral wisdom over the ways of life and death, and a disposition to love lambs and believe in leprechauns. She could have a
brother, a wild boy, who gets into trouble running bombs over the border, and she goes, pale, innocent, and heartrending, to plead for him. And when she meets this officer –'

‘What officer?' inquired Solly de Kopf.

‘The officer who arrested him, of course. When she meets him, a kind of primeval spark ignites between them …'

‘There it is,' said the girl beside Peggy. ‘That's Marinstein.'

Peggy looked out. Under the tilt of the aircraft's wing lay a town of white houses with pink roofs clustered on the bank of a wide, winding river. Somewhat back from the river rose an abrupt mass of rock, and, perched upon the rock, a building with towers and turrets and crenellations and banners floating in the breeze – the Castle of Marinstein guarding, as it had guarded these twelve hundred years and more, its town, and the ten square miles of the principality.

‘Isn't it
thrilling
! Marinstein!' said the girl, in a gush of breath.

The aircraft touched-down, ran along the concrete, and taxied to a stop in front of the airport building. There was a great deal of chattering and collecting of belongings, then the passengers descended. At the foot of the steps Peggy stopped to look round.

It was a magic scene, lit by bright, warm sunshine. In the background rose the dark bulk of the rock and its castle, dominating everything. In the foreground, gleaming coral white, almost to hurt the eyes, stood the airport building, its central tower surmounted by a huge, but somewhat slendered, version of the Venus of Milo. In front of it, on a tall flagstaff wafted the Ducal Standard, and across the dazzling façade of the building itself ran the inscription:

The baggage-hall was a concatenation of her travelling companions. The only men in sight were a few white-coated porters.
One of these noticed the bright labels upon Peggy's bags, pounced upon them, and led her to the exit.

‘La voiture de Ma'mselle Shilsène,' he bawled impressively.

Half the place stopped its chattering to look at Peggy, with awe, or envy, or thoughtful calculation. Publicity had been busy over Plantagenet Films' new find, with a wide circulation of photographs. There had been reports of Peggy's contract that looked considerably firmer in newsprint than they did on the form of Agreement. So already the name Deirdre Shilsean was not unknown to those who keep a close eye on these things.

A magnificent car swept to the kerb. The porter handed Peggy into it, and presently she was whirled up to the Grand Hotel Narcisse which perched on a shoulder of the rock, just below the castle itself. There, she was ushered to an exquisite room, with a beflowered balcony that looked out over the town, and across the river and the plain beyond. There was a petal-pink bathroom, too, with big bottles of coloured salts, flasks of essences, bowls of powder, gleaming fittings, and enormous warmed towels, that surpassed anything Peggy had ever dreamed of. A maid turned on the water. Peggy shed her clothes, and stretched out with luxurious bliss in the bath that was like the nacred pink interior of a shell.

The sound of a gong caused her eventually to leave it. Back in the bedroom she put on the long white dress that she had worn for the television spot, and went down to dinner.

It was rather odd being in a sumptuous dining-room where the only men were the waiters, and all the ladies spent their time studying one another more or less covertly, and a bit boring, too. So when the waiter suggested she should have her coffee on the terrace she took his advice.

The sun had set an hour since. A half-moon was up, and the river caught its gleam. On an island in the river stood a delicate little open temple where concealed lighting illuminated a snowy figure standing meditatively, with an apple in her hand. Peggy assumed it to be Eve, but though the sculptor had had Atalanta in mind, the error was not significant.

The town itself was a-spangle with little lights; and small neon signs, too far off to be read, blinked intermittently. Further away the floodlit Venus on the airport tower hovered like a ghost. Behind was the black bulk of the rock, with the turret lights of the castle seeming to hang in the sky. Peggy sighed.

‘ 'Tis all like magic – so it is,' she said.

A solitary, somewhat older, woman at the next table glanced at her.

‘You're new here?' she inquired.

Peggy admitted that she had just arrived.

‘I wish I had – or, maybe, I wish I never had,' said the lady. ‘This is my seventh time, and more than enough.'

‘I think it's lovely,' said Peggy, ‘but if you don't like it, why would you be coming here, at all?'

‘Because my friends come here – for the annual refit. Maybe you'll have heard of the Joneses?'

‘I don't know any Joneses,' said Peggy. ‘Would they be your friends?'

‘They're the people I have to live with,' said the woman. She looked at Peggy again. ‘You're still very young, my dear, so they'd likely not interest you a lot right now, but you'll be meeting them socially later on.'

Peggy perceived no reply to that, so she passed it.

‘You're American, are you not?' she asked. ‘That must be wonderful. I've a lot of relatives there I've never seen. But I hope I'll be going there myself before too long, now.'

‘You can have it,' the lady told her. ‘Me, I'll take Paris, France.'

Abruptly the light changed, and, looking up, Peggy saw that the castle was now floodlit with a peach-coloured glow.

‘Oh, 'tis beautiful – like a fairy palace, it is,' she exclaimed.

‘Sure,' said the lady, without enthusiasm. ‘That's the idea.'

‘But romantic, it all is,' said Peggy. ‘The moon – and the river – and the lights – and the wonderful smell of all the flowers …'

‘Friday night it's Chany's “Number Seven”,' said the lady. ‘Tomorrow it'll be Revigant's “Fury” – a little vulgar that, I think,
but then everything everywhere is downgraded a bit on Saturday nights, isn't it? Co-adjustment to the increased consumer-potential of the lower-income-brackets, I guess. Sundays are better – Cotinson's “Devotée”, kind of cleaner. They puff it out from the castle turrets,' she explained, ‘except when the wind's the other way; then they puff it from the airport tower.'

‘This great profession of ours,' Madame Letitia Chaline once memorably said, at a lunch-time address to the International Association of Practising Beauticians, ‘this calling of ours is a very great deal more than an industry. Indeed, one might call it a spiritual force that gives women faith. Tearfully, tearfully, from beyond the dawn of history unhappy women have sent up their prayers for beauty, all too seldom answered – but now, and to us, has been granted the power to give these prayers results, to bring comfort to unhappy millions of our sisters. This, my friends, is a solemn reflection …'