Fear in the Sunlight (5 page)

‘Oh, I just felt sorry for him. It must be terrible to be his age and to know in your heart that you’re not as good as you used to be.’

‘He was never good.’

‘But he’s harmless enough.’

‘Don’t be fooled. He once raped a girl on set.’

Astrid looked shocked. ‘I’m sure that can’t be true,’ she said. ‘Everyone would know about it if it were.’

‘Would they?’ Bella asked cynically. ‘No charges were ever brought, of course. Nobody wanted a fuss, and we work in an industry where everything can be bought, especially a blind eye. But that didn’t help the girl. She tried to kill herself – unsuccessfully, thank God, but it might have been kinder if she’d managed it. She was destroyed in so many other ways.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Her career, her self-respect, her life – they were all ripped out from under her. Not surprisingly, she found that difficult to cope with, so she relied on anything that would help her to forget what had happened: drink, drugs, pills, whichever form of oblivion was closest to hand. Of course, with the way the world works, it was she who acquired the unfortunate reputation, not Turnbull. No one will touch a hysterical actress. It plays havoc with a budget.’ Astrid continued to look disbelieving‚ and Bella added‚ ‘I don’t want to frighten you, Miss Lake, and I certainly don’t want to patronise you, but can I say something?’ The actress nodded. ‘These are dangerous times, and they will only get worse. People can be born with nothing and transformed into gods overnight – that’s the magic and the danger of cinema. Looks are important, talent less so, but ambition is what really counts. Having the taste for it. Marlene Dietrich is rumoured to have signed a deal for eighty thousand pounds for her next picture, so the money alone is incentive enough to lose any capacity to care about other people. But it’s about more than money. It’s about power. When people start to believe that they really
are
gods, nothing can stop them. This might sound like bitterness from a woman nearing the end of her career, Miss Lake, but please believe me when I say it’s not.’

‘It doesn’t sound like bitterness,’ Astrid said. ‘It sounds like disappointment.’ Bella looked at her in surprise. ‘I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but it sounds like advice from a woman who’s been let down by someone she loves.’

The comment was so perceptive that it disarmed Bella completely, and she stood up to go. ‘I think you’ll be more than a match for Hitch, Miss Lake,’ she said admiringly. ‘In fact, I almost feel sorry for him.’

Marta pulled the car over to the side of the road. After views that alternated between a landscape disfigured by mining and small towns packed with dark-walled chapels and tired-looking houses, it was a relief to be out on the moors. ‘What are you doing?’ Lydia asked impatiently. ‘We should get on if we’re going to have time to settle in before dinner.’

‘We’re already late, thanks to that Stratford crowd, so another ten minutes won’t matter.’ Marta reached across her to rummage in the glove compartment. ‘I need a cigarette.’

Lydia sighed. ‘That Stratford crowd is my best chance of work for the autumn. Did you have to be so rude to everybody?’ She took a magazine from the back seat and began to fan herself, but there was no refuge in the open-top car from the late July sun. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly flooded with offers‚ and your Greta Garbo act doesn’t help.’

‘Fine. Next time, leave me at home.’ Marta got out and slammed the door, ignoring Lydia’s glare. The hot metal burnt her skin as she leant against the car, but, as hard as she tried to blame her mood on the heat of the day or Lydia’s endless socialising, she was really only angry with herself: she had spent weeks longing to see Josephine; now the moment had come, she was so nervous that all she wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.

‘Can I have one of those?’ Lydia’s tone was placatory, and Marta knew that she was biting her tongue, wanting to avoid a full-blown row just before they entered company. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but you know how important it is to stay on the right side of people. I can’t live off thin air.’

‘I’ve got money. We don’t have to spend our lives running round with people we don’t like.’

‘That’s not the point. I need to work, Marta.’ She threw the cigarette onto the ground, barely touched. ‘Anyway, things might look up after this weekend. Let’s just enjoy it.’

The sun emerged from behind a rare cloud, and Marta watched as the stain of light spread across the hills, transforming each shade of green into a sharper, more intense version of itself. There was no point in saying anything more: it was an argument they had had many times before and would no doubt have again, part of the settling of two lives into one, so she finished her cigarette in silence and got back into the car.

They drove for another hour before joining the main road. ‘I’m not sure we were right to book into a village room rather than the hotel,’ Lydia said. ‘We don’t want to miss anything. Where are the Hitchcocks staying?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Look, this is Minffordd – isn’t that where we turn off?’

‘Yes. Left at the post office.’ Marta did as instructed and followed a discreet sign onto a private woodland drive. ‘We can find out when we check in,’ Lydia continued. ‘It’s not too late to change rooms.’

‘I hope you’re not relying on this weekend to solve all your problems,’ Marta said, exasperated. ‘I’ve got no influence with the Hitchcocks.’

‘You seem to know a lot about them.’

‘It’s just gossip, Lydia. They enjoy the notoriety but they keep their privacy intact. No one gets through. And we could all learn a lesson from that,’ she muttered, wishing she had the will power to bring a halt to the bickering.

Lydia didn’t hear the final comment, or simply chose to ignore it. ‘Josephine seems to have managed it,’ she said peevishly. ‘You obviously know Alma Reville well enough to give her a reading list.’

‘That was just lucky,’ Marta insisted, aware of how defensive she must sound. ‘If Alma hadn’t liked the book – or at least seen some potential in it – the fact that I gave it to her wouldn’t have made any difference.’

‘I know that,’ Lydia said, as if she were dealing with an obstinate child. ‘All I’m asking you to do is introduce me. I’ll do the rest. Then perhaps some of that famous Highland luck might come our way for a change.’ She looked impatiently at Marta. ‘Can you manage that?’

Marta nodded, happy to promise anything for a quiet life. The trees cleared for a moment, long enough to reveal an extraordinary castellated building, striking rather than attractive; apart from a heavy covering of ivy, there was something playfully bogus about its Gothic façade. ‘What the hell’s that?’ Marta asked. ‘It looks like a lunatic asylum.’

‘It was once, I think. Now it’s a hotel.’

‘Or something Bertha Mason’s about to burn down. Please tell me that’s not where you want us to stay.’

Lydia laughed. ‘Of course not. The main hotel’s by the estuary and it’s beautiful.’

‘Thank God, but I still think it would be nice to be able to get away from everything.’

‘You make it sound like such an ordeal. What is there in a friend’s birthday party to get away from?’

It was a rhetorical question but Marta could have responded with a list. ‘I just thought it would be nice to spend some time together,’ she said weakly, drawing to a halt by the gate which protected the private peninsula from the outside world.

‘That’s sweet, but we’ll have plenty of time for that at home.’ Lydia jumped out of the car to give their names to the man on duty, and Marta stretched in her seat, consciously avoiding the rear-view mirror; she didn’t need to look at herself to know that her clothes were sticking to her and her face was red from the sun, and she hoped to God that they could get to their room without bumping into anybody. Lydia climbed back in and the man waved them through. ‘We’ve got to check in at the hotel,’ she said, ‘so we might as well see if they’re full. But we can leave the car in one of the garages on the way down.’

The approach to Portmeirion had given Marta no hint of what lay ahead in the village itself; after such dense woodland, she was shocked to emerge into an open space, full of light and colour. Everywhere she looked she found something magical: balconies, arches, terraces, statues and steps, all clustered together in unexpected combinations which both disoriented and delighted her. ‘I knew you’d love it,’ Lydia said. ‘Isn’t it romantic? When Josephine and I first came here, we couldn’t believe what we were seeing.’ Marta bit her tongue at the reminder of Lydia’s long-standing friendship with Josephine and followed the single unfenced road which curved down around the central piazza. ‘We’re supposed to be staying in Neptune,’ Lydia added. ‘It’s on the other side of the square.’

As the road descended, the Piazza disappeared from view behind a high stone wall which seemed to be left over from a kitchen garden. On their right, an old stable block had been colourfully converted into a shop and café. They watched for a few moments as an attractive, dark-haired woman worked on a mural above the arched windows overlooking the courtyard, then drove on to find their accommodation.

Neptune – lots of the buildings had a vaguely nautical name, Marta noticed – was a pretty yellow and white house whose leaded windows and uneven slate roof gave it an exaggerated feeling of age. Situated on the edge of the Piazza, it had good views over the heart of the village and, to the rear, of the wild, overgrown woodland which lay on the other side of the road. The ground floor was given over to garages, and Marta’s temper was not improved by the three attempts it took her to squeeze the Morris into the narrow space allocated to them. ‘The hotel’s just down here,’ Lydia said, snapping her compact shut and putting her lipstick away. ‘Let’s go and find everyone.’

Marta caught her arm. ‘Why are we always surrounded by people?’

‘We’re not. But this is a party, and they do tend to involve groups of people.’

‘I’m not just talking about now. It’s always the same, even at the cottage: we plan a quiet weekend and you turn up with half the cast.’

Lydia shook her off. ‘I’m not the one who laid down the rules on our relationship, Marta,’ she said angrily. ‘Surely I don’t need to remind you of that? Anyway, what’s wrong with having friends? I would have thought you’d had enough of isolation after your little spell at His Majesty’s pleasure.’

Marta could see by the look of horror on Lydia’s face that the remark was regretted as soon as it came out, but she didn’t wait for the apology. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said, hauling a suitcase out of the car. ‘You do as you like.’

Alma Reville sat under the loggia roof outside the Watch House, shading her eyes against the glare of sun on white stone and absent-mindedly stroking the dog on her lap. Caught on the cliff between the village and the sea, the building was part of a small enclave clustered around the ornamental Bell Tower and the houses nearby were occupied by Hitch’s guests – actors he was interested in trying out, or trusted colleagues, carefully chosen because of their loyalty or technical skill and vital to the success of every film. The cottage, though small and simply furnished, more than lived up to its name: in front of her, glistening and mirage-like in the heat of the day, the Dwyryd Estuary stretched out to the sea; and below to her right, an uninterrupted view of the hotel and terraces had entertained her since lunchtime with a steady stream of new arrivals.

She heard her husband walk up behind her and waited for the familiar touch of his hand on her shoulder. ‘David chose well,’ he said, smiling as he took in the view. ‘We can keep an eye on everything – from a distance.’

Alma took the crime novel from his other hand and looked at him questioningly. ‘Well? Have you changed your mind?’

‘No. I still think it’s very, very bad.’

‘How much have you actually read, Hitch?’

‘The first fifty pages and the end.’ He sat down heavily next to her‚ and their other dog – an elderly cocker spaniel – idled lazily out from the bedroom and collapsed on his feet. ‘I have no idea what happens in the middle,’ he said, a little defensive against her stare, ‘but the ending’s completely wrong. Not what I’d have chosen at all.’

Alma poured him a glass of orange juice and added a dash of gin, just the way he liked it. ‘But you see it has potential?’

‘Once you’ve finished with it, perhaps.’ He sipped his drink appreciatively and looked at her. ‘Why are you so keen on it?’

‘I like the victim,’ she said, without hesitating. ‘She’s already dead when the book opens and she never says a word, but I know exactly who she is and I understand her completely. That’s quite an achievement, for any writer.’

He looked doubtfully at her. ‘Victims don’t make films, though.
Villains
make films, and Miss Tey’s villain isn’t very realistic. Fine for a whodunnit, I suppose – they’re only glorified crossword puzzles. But not remotely connected to real life.’

Alma smiled. She had heard the arguments many times before and knew that the qualities she most admired about
A Shilling for Candles
were the very things that would never make it to the screen: success had placed obvious limitations on her husband’s work, and already there were clear boundaries to what the public would or would not accept as part of a Hitchcock film. But she also knew that her approval would be enough to convince him, regardless of what it was based on; her instincts were good, and they both acknowledged that. ‘You know as well as I do that you’ll decide who the villain is,’ she said affectionately. ‘Just take the good bits and make the rest your own. It’s what you do best.’

She had meant it reassuringly but the comment seemed to have the opposite effect on her husband. ‘What? A bit of romantic interest, the car chase and a gag or two along the way?’ He turned away, avoiding the sun and her concern in the same movement, but the frustration in his voice was more difficult to hide. ‘You’re right, of course. We all know how it goes by now.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ She took his hand and made him look at her again. ‘You know it isn’t. It’s not what goes into the film that matters, it’s the magic you work with it – and no one could predict that. There’s been something new and surprising in every single movie you’ve made.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘All right, except
Waltzes from Vienna
. And
Champagne
. And perhaps . . .’

‘Don’t push your luck, Mrs Hitchcock.’ He interrupted her, feigning offence, and she sensed the crisis had passed, for now at least. ‘I need some new blood, Alma,’ he added quietly, ‘and I can’t keep getting it out of the same old stone.’

‘I know you can’t, but you don’t have to. It’s there for you whenever you want it.’

He nodded reluctantly. ‘America will mean a big change, though. A different life for the three of us.’ The dog at his feet stretched and yawned, and he reached down to stroke it. ‘All right, Edward – for the five of us.’

‘I could certainly get used to this weather.’ Alma smiled, hoping that the apprehension didn’t show on her face. Her husband had been deluged with offers from Hollywood since the success of
Blackmail
– Britain’s first talkie – eight years ago, but he’d always said that he wasn’t ready to move, that there were still things he could do at home; now, he was outgrowing everything the British film industry had to offer and she realised that their move to America was inevitable: the only question was when. She wasn’t worried for herself or even for their daughter – they were a close family, and they could, she thought, adapt to anything as long as they stuck together – but in private she feared for Hitch: making the films he wanted to make would take courage, and she wondered how he would handle the criticism when it came. Outwardly, he relished celebrity and all it brought with it, but Alfred Hitchcock was a very different man in private – sensitive, vulnerable and full of self-doubt. She would never forget his despair when
The Lodger
was rejected at first by the studios, or the minor failures and nervous moments that had hovered over their marriage as well as their professional relationship, and she wondered how her husband’s famous calm demeanour would cope with the pressures of Hollywood. In truth, any criticism of his work hurt her as much as it did him, but she had to put on a brave front for them both. ‘You’ll know when it’s right,’ she insisted, ‘and in the meantime, you’ve got everything you need in this book to make your most exciting movie yet. Surely you found the young girl interesting?’

‘Of course I did – the girl
is
the story,’ he said, suddenly more enthusiastic. ‘You really think it will work, don’t you?’ Alma nodded. ‘Then that’s good enough for me. You’ll talk to the Tey woman? Her publisher says she’s a law unto herself and we don’t need her to be difficult about it.’

‘Leave it to me. I’ll get Marta Fox to introduce us.’ She lowered the terrier gently onto the floor and stood up. ‘Why don’t you have a nap while I take the dogs for a walk? I want to see what the other guests are doing before they realise who I am and start acting.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘We’re not paying them for that yet.’

He walked her over to the steps that led down to the Piazza. ‘Perhaps I will have a lie down,’ he said, and Alma was relieved to see that the twinkle she loved was back in his eyes. ‘I’ll need to be on top form later. It promises to be an interesting couple of days.’

‘What have you got planned, Hitch?’ she asked nervously. ‘Nothing too outrageous, I hope.’

‘Oh, you know me, Alma,’ he said, and then added more seriously‚ ‘Let’s face it – you’re the only person who does.’