Hangover Square (32 page)

He ought always to have thought of it like that. He ought always to have known he wasn’t in her class. He began to tremble violently, and he ordered another whisky. He caught sight of himself in the glass.

He could hardly blame her for shaking him off. He wouldn’t look well with people like that. Apart from his looks, he couldn’t even talk. The Eddie Carstairs, the Nettas, the Johnnies, were in one level of life – he in another. They were ‘successful’ people, people of the smart world, of the theatre, he was a battered boozer from Earl’s Court – now a lonely eavesdropper, a spy…

And yet Johnnie had been his
friend!
– had known him all his life – had known him in the old Bob Barton days, the wonderful days – had laughed and joked with him – had come to see him when he was ill –
that
was what he couldn’t get over. Why should
Johnnie
leave him out of it? Why should
Johnnie
join the others and go behind his back?

And if he himself had never introduced her to Johnnie, she wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t be in with the great Eddie Carstairs, wouldn’t be going ahead to success. And it was he who had given her the money to come down here! – paid her fare, paid for her hair being done, for Eddie Carstairs to look at!

Oh, well – what did it matter? It was all over now, and the drink had stopped his trembling, and he was going to get a good deal drunker yet, and he didn’t care a damn.

About an hour later he noticed the people were flowing into the pub, and gathered the show was over. He decided to go on somewhere else.

Passing the yard in which the stage door lay he saw a great bloody Rolls, and realized that this belonged to Eddie Carstairs. He had heard of Eddie Carstairs’ Rolls – Netta had talked about it with Johnnie. He had no doubt Netta would be enthroned in it on her way to the birthday party in a little while. They would go on to the Palatial. He had heard they all went there when they were down in Brighton. It was wonderful how the Eddie Carstairs of life got everything, while others got nothing at all. He could hate Eddie Carstairs if he thought about it, but he wasn’t going to think about it because it was all over now.

He had another drink, and bought a half-bottle of Haig, and went down to the sea and walked towards Hove.

He walked the length of the lawns and then turned back again. The sea crashed in a rising wind, and it rained slightly. He began to tremble all over again, and sat down in a shelter, and opened the bottle, and took a pull at the whisky, and then walked on. He had got to keep walking: bed was out of the question and it was early yet, not twelve o’clock. He would walk to Black Rock now.

It was all over now. He didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going tomorrow, but it was all over, and he knew he would never see her or Johnnie again. When he had run down the stairs of the theatre he had run out of their lives. He had run away, though there was nowhere to run to, and no one to whom he could run. Never mind, somehow it would solve itself – tomorrow – black tomorrow would look after itself. He passed the Palatial Hotel.

He saw the great bloody Rolls again, and realized that she was inside. He wondered whether she was staving there, and what time she would get to bed. He had heard about these parties, and knew they went on till three or four. Well, good-bye, Netta. Good-bye, Johnnie. That was that.

Oh, Johnnie,
Johnnie!
– and the old Bob Barton days! – that was what hurt! They had all been such
friends!

He began trembling again, and felt so cold that he thought he
had better turn away from the sea, get out of the wind up a side street.

As he turned the comer, under the white-blue light of a lamp, he bumped straight into Johnnie, who was walking by himself.

He simply stopped and stared at him, and Johnnie stopped and stared back.

‘Good God!’ said Johnnie, affably. ‘What are you doing here, old boy?’

He couldn’t answer, he simply stared.

Johnnie came up to him, a look of concern on his face. ‘What’s the matter, old boy?’ he said. ‘Is anything the matter?’

And Johnnie put out his hands, and touched him, held him. ‘What’s the matter, old boy?’ he said.

He knew at once he was going to cry. It was the firm touch of his old friend’s hand, the sincere, concerned face, the old voice, calling him ‘old boy’ in the old way.

‘Oh, Johnnie,
Johnnie!
’ he said, and began to cry. ‘Johnnie…’

Johnnie held him closer, drew him into the wall, hid him, like a mother with a child, from passers-by. ‘What’s the matter, old boy?’ he said. ‘You’re all worked up. What are you crying about? Take it easy now, and tell me.’

‘I’m sorry…’ he said, ‘I’ll be all right…’

‘But what’s the matter, old boy?’ said Johnnie. ‘What’ve you been doing with yourself?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry… I’ll be all right… I thought she’d got you, you see. I thought she’d got you!…’

Chapter Four

‘Who? What? Who’s got me?’ said Johnnie. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘But you came
away
with her, Johnnie, and didn’t tell me… I thought she’d got you, too.’

Light dawned on Johnnie. ‘Oh, Lord –
that
bitch…’ he said, ‘I begin to see…’

Yes, she
is
a bitch, Johnnie, too. That’s the truth… If you only knew… And then I thought she’d got you, too…’

He was staring miserably in front of him, and Johnnie still held him.

‘Listen, George, my boy,’ said Johnnie, ‘I didn’t come away with her. She rang me up last night and suggested coming, and said you didn’t want to come. And she rang me up again today, and said if I was coming she was, and that she’d meet me at the theatre. I had to be polite to your friend, and that’s all there is to it, George. She’s not after me, you know. She’s after someone else…’

‘Yes, I know,’ said George. ‘She’s after Eddie Carstairs, isn’t she?’

‘Oh,’ said Johnnie, smiling, ‘you know that, do you?’ And George smiled faintly back.

‘Oh, yes. I know that. I’m sorry, Johnnie. I thought she’d got you. I’m so happy she hasn’t.’

‘You believe me, don’t you, George?’

‘Of course I do, Johnnie. I’ve been a fool.’

And he looked at Johnnie and believed him utterly, and saw what a fool he’d been.

‘You’ve got all worked up, George, my boy,’ said Johnnie. You’ve got into a state. You musn’t let a woman get you down, you know. There are plenty of others, and
she’s
not worth it.’

‘No, I know she isn’t. I’m afraid she’s got me down.’

All at once he began to shake and tremble again and to breathe in a hissing way between his teeth.

‘Come on,’ said Johnnie, ‘what you want is a drink.’

‘But I’ve had a lot to drink,’ he said.

‘Never mind. You come and have another. I’ll look after you now.’

‘But how can we have a drink? All the pubs are closed.’

‘Oh, we’ll get a drink,’ said Johnnie, and taking his arm, led him back along the front in the direction from which he had come.

‘Oh, by the way,’ said Johnnie, as they walked along, ‘there’s one thing, while I remember it.’

‘Yes?’

‘She asked me tonight not to tell you she had been down here. She said you’d had a sort of row and you’d be hurt. Does that fit in?’

‘Yes. I suppose she was afraid you’d tell me. Yes. That fits in.’

‘Good. Here we are,’ said Johnnie, and led him up the steps of the Palatial.

‘But we can’t go here,’ he said. ‘Isn’t she in here? Isn’t she in here?’

‘No,’ said Johnnie. ‘She’s not. You’ll be surprised.’

Chapter Five

As he entered into the bright lights, he had an awful feeling of faintness, and his trembling simply would not stop. ‘All right, old boy,’ said Johnnie, ‘you’ll be all right. Take it easy.’

He took him through the huge lounge, and along to the left through corridors into a large smoking-room, and put him down at a table. He was aware that, in one corner of this room, a lot of men were making a lot of noise, but he was so faint and giddy that that was all he knew. ‘Are you all right?’ said Johnnie. ‘I’m going to hunt up the waiter. Are you all right?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m all right.’ And Johnnie vanished.

There was a great roar of laughter, and he looked up at the men in the comer. He at once saw Eddie Carstairs, and a moment later, Albert Drexel and Cornford Hobbs. He had never seen a famous filmstar close to in a room before, and he was so surprised, intrigued and pleased to do so now, that he forgot about his faintness, and stared at them. Then Johnnie came back with the waiter, and there was a large brandy in front of him.

‘Come on, drink up,’ said Johnnie. ‘You’ll soon be better.’

He drank, and began to feel better, and the trembling became less uncontrolled.

‘That’s Cornford Hobbs, isn’t it?’ he said, ‘over there?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Johnnie. ‘Go on, drink up.’

Suddenly he heard a quiet voice which he knew.

‘Well, Johnnie,’ he said. ‘What are you up to?’

And he looked up and saw Eddie Carstairs standing over them.

‘Oh, hullo Eddie,’ said Johnnie. ‘Can I introduce Mr Bone (Mr Carstairs – Mr Bone)?…’

‘Hullo,’ said Eddie Carstairs, smiling and shaking hands. ‘How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’ he said, and smiled back.

‘Mr Bone’s a very old friend of mine, Eddie,’ said Johnnie. ‘And he’s having a fainting attack or something. So I brought him in for a stiff brandy.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Eddie. ‘Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?’

He looked up at his rival, the almost legendary Eddie Carstairs, the terrible man, the owner of the great bloody Rolls, Netta’s ambition, the manager and maker of stars about whom he had heard so much, and he saw the friendly face of a slim, brown-eyed man of about forty, and he smiled back.

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much. I think I’ll be all right.’

‘Mr Bone,’ said Johnnie, ‘is yet
another
acquaintance of Miss Netta Longdon’s, Eddie.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Eddie, suddenly taking a chair and sitting down beside them. ‘
That
bitch… is he?’

Then, having looked at George again he said to George, ‘I’m terribly sorry. Is she a friend of yours?…’

‘No,’ he said, and smiled again. ‘She’s no friend of mine.’

‘No!’ said Eddie, protestingly and looking and talking at them both. ‘She really is a bitch. She absolutely chases
me
– doesn’t she, Johnnie?’

‘She certainly does.’

‘No. It’s true,’ said Eddie. ‘Wherever I go she turns up. The bloody woman absolutely haunts me. I only escaped tonight by the skin of my teeth. I said the play wasn’t any good, and we’d got to have a script conference! They’re having a lovely script conference,’ he added, nodding over his shoulder at the men in the corner. ‘Aren’t they?’

Johnnie laughed, Eddie laughed, he laughed.

‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘I don’t know what it is but there’s something absolutely sinister about that woman. She’s sort of scheming. Don’t you agree?… Well, I’m going to the bathroom.’ He rose. ‘Why don’t you come and join us?’

‘Thanks, Eddie,’ said Johnnie, ‘we will.’

‘How are you feeling, George, old boy?’ murmured Johnnie. ‘You see what
he
feels about her – don’t you?’

‘Oh, Johnnie,’ he said, ‘what a fool I’ve been. I’ve got all worked up about nothing.’

His terrible trouble was that he was afraid that he was going to cry. To have got Johnnie back, the old Bob Barton Johnnie, to realize that he had never really lost him – that Johnnie valued their friendship as he did – it was all too much.

‘I think you’d better leave Earl’s Court for good, old boy,’ said Johnnie, ‘hadn’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll never go back now.’

‘A thoroughly bad lot if you ask me,’ said Johnnie, ‘though it’s not my business.’

‘No, you’re right. She is a bad lot.’

‘Feeling better? You’re looking better.’

‘Yes, much.’ He had stopped trembling now. It was only that he wanted to cry.

A few moments later Eddie Carstairs came back, said, in passing, ‘Come along you two,’ and joined the others.

‘Come on,’ said Johnnie, ‘let’s go over.’

‘But I can’t, can I! I don’t know them,’ he said. ‘They won’t want me.’

‘Come on,’ said Johnnie, and they rose.

They were all hooting with laughter about something (he was strangely sober now, and he could see, actually, that they had had quite a lot to drink) and there was a gusty welcome for Johnnie. ‘Well, if it’s not our little Johnnie!…’ Then ‘Mr Drexel – Mr Bone; Mr Bone – Mr Hobbs.’ ‘How do you do, Mr Bone?’ ‘How do you do?’ There were six of them altogether: he didn’t catch the names of the others, but they were friendly men who looked him in the face and smiled, and made him feel at home. He was put next to Mr Hobbs, and the question of drinks arose at once.

‘And what’s yours, Mr Bone?’ asked Mr Hobbs, having asked the others.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t really think I want any more.’

‘Now then, now then, none of this,’ said Mr Hobbs, in the rich, inimitable voice, which brought houses down with laughter. ‘This is a birthday party, you know. You can’t start that sort of thing here.’

‘I know what he wants,’ said Eddie Carstairs, who was lying back in his chair. ‘He wants an
extremely
large,
extremely
expensive brandy, because he’s been feeling faint, and don’t let him do you out of it,’ he added, looking at George. ‘He’ll twist you if he can.’

There was more laughter at this, as it was evidently a follow-up of some other joke. ‘Very well,’ said Mr Hobbs to the waiter, who had now appeared. ‘A beaker of brandy for Mr Bone, and the same again all round.’

‘A beaker of your most
expensive
brandy,’ said Eddie Carstairs, and they all laughed again.

It was like a dream. It was too good to be true. This was where
she
had wanted to be tonight – cheating him and leaving him out in the cold – but it was he who was inside, who had come to the wonderful birthday party instead! It was fairy-like. A battered failure, a stray Earl’s Court boozer, but he was good enough for Johnnie, and it seemed he was good enough for them. They made him welcome, these strong and powerful ones with whom she had schemed to insinuate herself: they made him welcome, and gave him brandy and liked him, and thought she was a bitch!