My Life in Black and White (12 page)

“You act like it’s a matter of life and death,” Frederick said.

“It is.”

His face widened into a large smile that seemed to swallow his face.

“If I do this for you, she’d better be good.”

I finished the sidecar. “She’s great.”

“I want something in return.” He smiled.

I didn’t much care for the sort of grin he wore but knew I had no choice but to make another promise I wouldn’t keep. “I’ll do anything you ask to make it happen,” I said.

“Come away with me for the weekend.”

I gulped. I wasn’t expecting that. “You never asked me what I do,” I said, stalling.

“Okay, what do you do?” he said disinterested.

I waited a beat, then said it loud and clear but with a hint of hoarseness thanks to the lemon juice. “I write for
Hollywood Hush
.”

Frederick glowered at me, and for a second I caught a glimpse of a
man who could do murder. There was no way anyone could convict a man on looks alone, and yet he had an intensity to him that gave the impression he could be capable of anything. He certainly was big enough and strong enough to hold a woman’s head under water until her life slipped away. I tried to shake the mental picture. It must be tough if you were innocent to know that some people wondered if you had murdered your spouse and gotten away with it.

“You never said you were a gossip columnist.”

I swallowed. “I thought I’d write up a lot of stories in the press about you and the film. Drum up interest in America,” I offered.

He swatted at me like I was a fly. “I already get all the press I need professionally. More than I want personally.”

I assumed the death of his wife, Mica, had occurred as before, just decades sooner. “You must be referring to your wife’s unfortunate accident,” I said provocatively.

“I was. And to be clear, you are never to bring her up again.”

He glared at his glass of Scotch as if it might bite.

There was little choice in the matter and I knew it. If I could save Alice’s life, then there was no price too high. “I will come with you,” I said. “If you give Alicia Steele the lead part.”

“I underestimated you, Clara.” He leaned across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’re not such a nice girl after all. Redheads usually aren’t.” He pulled me towards him, and, startled, I knocked our glasses to the floor, where whatever alcohol was left soaked into the plush pale carpet. Frederick didn’t care who was watching; he drew me closer and kissed me on the mouth so hard I felt his teeth grind against mine. When he let me go, I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my wrist where he’d gripped it so tightly. The server with the impeccable sense of timing appeared and cleaned up in silence.

“The lady accidentally spilled our drinks. Bring us two more,”
Frederick ordered, not taking his eyes off me. “Don’t look so surprised, Clara. You needed to be kissed.”

I looked him in the eye and planted a sultry look on my face, the kind that Rita Hayworth held the copyright on, and told him point blank, “You have no idea how much it means to me that you will help my friend Alicia. I would never steer you wrong.”

He leaned over the candle and I wondered if the heat burned his chin, but he seemed impervious to it. “You wouldn’t do that. You’re not that stupid.”

“Here are your drinks.” The server was back, and I was thankful for the timing.

“I need to go to the ladies room. Please excuse me.” Frederick stood for me, and I marched away as quickly as I could. I needed to catch my breath. The night had taken a turn in a direction I hadn’t anticipated. I’d had no time to process seeing Dean, and now I was making a deal to spend the weekend with a man I didn’t like. I was churning it all over in my head when Amber ambushed me from behind a potted plant.

“We need to talk,” she said crossly.

I stopped in my tracks. She was almost luminous in black and white. The high-contrast lighting that had brought out the best in The Savoy’s architecture worked equal magic on her crisp cheekbones and sculpted nose and chin, giving gravity to the paleness of her hair and skin and eyes. Though it wasn’t just her beauty I noticed as we stood face to face; something inside me snapped so hard I was convinced even Amber could hear it.

“Well, if it isn’t the mistress who stole my husband,” I said haughtily.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” she barked. “Trying to win him back? It’s pathetic! Do you think showing up with Frederick Marshall when you know Dean’s trying for a meeting with him will help you?”

“I had no idea Dean was trying to meet Frederick,” I said mildly. “Dean thinks you’re trying to wreck his chances. He doesn’t want you here.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you for someone so young and inexperienced,” I said.

“Is that so? You’re nobody, Clara. Don’t get in the way of Dean’s success,” she snapped.

I smiled a moment, savouring the opportunity. “Don’t mess with me,” I warned her calmly. “I could ruin you before you even begin. You need to be taught some respect.”

She flinched. It was a far cry from our first interaction on Dean’s set and I loved it.

“You can tell Dean that Frederick is going to meet with him. I asked him to and he agreed, though I don’t know why I bothered,” I said coolly. “Now hurry along. It’s past your bedtime.”

I stepped away without a backwards glance. But my breathing was rapid, as though I’d run a great distance. After turning a corner, I stopped in front of a hallway mirror. The reflection was of a seductive and powerful woman, a woman who was in control. Yet I knew it was more than an image, beyond what I’d created with makeup and pretty things made of satin and mink and beyond the fog and black and white. It was a sensation, one I felt far below my skin and hair; I felt it in my bones. It was Alicia Steele’s noir underworld swallowing me whole at last. In that moment I knew that both the fictional and the real Clara were one and the same and that she was a hell cat.

F
rederick insisted on driving me to the flat, which was just as well considering I had the train case to contend with. It sat balanced on my lap in the passenger seat of his curvy convertible Jaguar. The interior was pale, might have been tan, might have been ivory, but that was tough to confirm and wasn’t worth asking. It was an arrogant but classy automobile, and that suited him. We didn’t speak much. An opera singer howled from the car stereo as I watched London whir by in a streak of white lights, when he swerved to miss some drunken revellers who stepped off the curb in front of us. He cursed and the train case landed with a soft thud at my feet.

“Bloody punks!” he yelled. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said and stared down at the train case.

He pulled the car up in front of the townhouse and made like he was going to get out to open the door for me.

“Don’t bother getting the door,” I said with a polite smile and looked up at the warm glow in the windows that belonged to the flat. “Looks like Trinity’s waiting up for me. You know, she should audition for you too.” There, I’d kept my promise and it served two purposes; it would make Trinity happy that I’d tried, and it also made Frederick want to get away as fast as possible.

“I’ll give it some thought. And we will figure out a weekend soon. I have production matters to deal with,” he stated.

“The weekend only happens if Alicia gets a part,” I said smoothly.

He grinned in a way I didn’t like and goosed his engine. “Have a good night. I will ring you.”

“Sure,” I said and got out of the car. That was a benefit of the times: without smart phones and computers it would be much easier to play hard to get.

I waited until his car had disappeared around the corner before heading along the front walkway. Something caught my eye in the hedgerow and I stopped to investigate. It was a leather case the size of a large briefcase that someone had abandoned. It was old and banged up and had that worn quality to it that vintage leather has. It was beautiful. I flipped open the clasps and lifted the lid. To my amazement there was a portable typewriter inside. The body was dark plastic, not quite black, maybe mahogany. The keys were all there and it still had a ribbon in it. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would toss it out. I decided to take it with me. It was heavy, and with the train case, I had my hands full, but I was determined to balance them both. I must have been very focused not to have heard the footsteps.

“You’re the most glamorous thief I’ve ever seen.”

I whirled around and found Niall Adamson standing on the sidewalk a few feet away like a sentry. As with most of the men I’d seen today, he was wearing a fedora, and perhaps because of the chill in the air and the brewing weather, he also had on a trench coat. Any way you looked at him, the clothes classed him up, and that made him more handsome than ever, like an old movie star.

“I’m not stealing exactly. Someone tossed it here because they didn’t want it,” I said self-consciously. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough. What was in the case? Not a lover’s head, I hope.”

“It’s a typewriter.”

He lit a cigarette and walked towards me.

“Stay where you were. I’m not interested in your line,” I said tartly, enjoying how words that I once could only write now slid off my tongue like melted butter. It was as if I’d been talking to strange men in foreign lands my whole life.

He smirked and kept walking. “But I’ve been practising my line all the way over here,” he said dryly.

I gestured to the patch of ground a few feet away where he’d been standing.

“All that way? You must be exhausted,” I said back as fast as a strike on a match. “Say, are those American?”

“How can you tell?”

“The smell.” I had experimented with smoking in high school, but I could never get through a drag without coughing. But now, the scent of Marlboros made me homesick for LA, and I lifted my chin and breathed in the aroma. “Marlboro?”

“You know your fags. Have a go.”

Next he held the cigarette out for me to take a puff—it had touched his lips and then would touch mine—a strange kind of kiss. I took the cigarette and drew in the smoke, expecting to look as glamorous as Lauren Bacall in
The Big Sleep
. But the glamour was short-lived as I coughed up a lung just like in school.

“I take it you don’t smoke much,” he said.

“It’s been a while.”

“If you like, we can go up to your flat and get you a glass of water?”

“I’m fine,” I said, sputtering, but finally able to inhale without gasping. Was that a come-on? Water glass instead of etchings?

He continued to smoke like Humphrey Bogart, and as he looked at
me I detected a small wave of recognition in his eyes. “This may seem like another line to you, but haven’t we met?”

I felt an immense sense of relief that the man remembered me. I wondered if he also remembered how we knew each other and, more importantly, when.

“We have,” I admitted. “At The White Stallion. I was at the bar. You probably didn’t get a good look at me.”

He ran his blue eyes over my face like I was a lost lover he’d been reunited with after a war. “I’ve seen you somewhere else.” Then he snapped his fingers, grinned and pointed at me. “The Beverly Hills Hotel. You’re Clara Bishop! I was in Hollywood to interview Jane Russell.”

“That must be it,” I said flatly. It was official: I was the only person who travelled back through time with their memory intact. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go to bed.”

But he kept talking …

“Tell me something. Do you always act like you’re in a film noir?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback that anyone besides me would spot it.

He chuckled. “Your dialogue, how you look and your attitude are straight out of central casting. If you’re the femme fatale, who are you going to double-cross?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said nonchalantly.

“There’s always a double-cross. I hope you’ve got yourself a worthy target.”

“I don’t have a target,” I denied, thinking of Amber.

He contemplated this a moment before saying, “Then you’re a fake femme fatale. How disappointing.”

I wasn’t sure if I liked him or hated him. If he hadn’t helped me out with the You-Know-Who interview, I’d tell him to shove off. He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned
cigarette case. Marjorie had one that belonged to my grandmother. She kept it on the mantel beneath the movie poster. I’d not seen another, except in movies, until now.

“I didn’t think they still made those,” I said, gesturing to it.

“They don’t,” he said.

“My grandmother had one,” I said.

He nodded. “My father gave me this.” He smoked and I just stood there, the typewriter at my feet. “I should get going. It’s late.”

“Allow me to carry the cases upstairs for you. They look rather cumbersome.” He bent down and picked up the typewriter.

“Please don’t bother,” I said. “I’m perfectly able.”

He placed it on the walkway and he spoke again. “You don’t fool me, Clara.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said, mildly irritated.

“You act like a tough dame, but in truth you’re nothing but a damsel in distress,” he said. I was about to object when he put his finger on my lips to hush me. I felt my face flush. “I happen to like rescuing damsels.”

“What gives you the idea I need rescuing?” I asked, again taken aback, but allowing myself to give a little. “But you’re not wrong. I’ve had it rough lately.”

He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth in that way smokers have, thinking they can somehow prevent it from landing in someone’s face. It never works, and I felt the smoke sting my nostrils. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you.” He spoke earnestly. “Is there something I can do to help?”

I pulled the mink tighter around my shoulders. “I wish there were.”

He continued to hover like there was something he wanted to get off his chest. “I’d like to buy you a drink sometime,” he said. “That is, if you need someone to talk to about things …”

“I’d like that very much,” I said, surprised to discover it was true.

“What’s your telephone exchange?”

For some reason that made me giggle. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea? This isn’t my flat. I’m only visiting. Why don’t you write down yours?”

“How about we agree to meet tomorrow night at The White Stallion? About eight?”

“That would be swell,” I said and immediately covered my mouth with my hand. Had I uttered the word
swell?
Next I’d be saying Jiminy Cricket.

“Until tomorrow night,” Niall said and touched the brim of his hat like a salute and disappeared into the fog.

Walking up the steep flight of stairs to the flat dressed in heels and an evening gown, while carrying a heavy typewriter and train case, wasn’t so easy, and I regretted not taking Niall up on his offer. But I would see him again tomorrow night. If only I had spent the last ten years acting like I had tonight. Tonight I’d discovered the pleasure of making a man do whatever I wanted. Frederick and Niall would be fun to play with.

When I entered the flat, I found Trinity asleep on the sofa. I would have left her there if I hadn’t noticed her reading material. Piled neatly beside her on the floor with a few loose pages clutched in her hand was the screenplay from my room.

Maybe it was the time of night, the sidecars or the new-found steely attitude, but I snatched the papers from her grasp and she awoke with a start.

“What are you doing reading this?” I snapped.

“You scared me to death!” Trinity sat up and snapped back.

“Well, what of it?” I asked, aware that I was overreacting.

“Calm down, Clara. I didn’t think you’d mind, really. I went into your room to give you an extra blanket and it was there. At first I
thought it was for Frederick’s movie, only it wasn’t. But I kept reading it anyway. I couldn’t help myself. I’m an
actress
you know. Sorry.”

I felt like a fool and slumped down onto the sofa beside her.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It’s been a strange night.” I forced a smile. “What did you think of it?”

Trinity pursed her lips. “Alicia Steele is a fine writer.”

I paused, unsure what to reveal. “Don’t you remember what I told you about her?” I studied Trinity’s face for any ounce of recognition, but none came.

“Not really. Is she a famous screenwriter? What’s she done?”

No matter what the era, that was always the first question anyone ever asked. “It’s her first script. She’s a friend of mine in Hollywood.” I thought retelling the truth about her being my grandmother would be too much for Trinity to bear. Thankfully, my explanation was enough.

“I figured you two know each other very well. It’s like she was writing about you. There are a lot of similarities.”

“I suppose there are,” I said vaguely, tired and not wanting to drudge it all up again.

“Are you Alicia Steele?” she asked pointedly.

The question caught me off guard. In some ways I supposed I was Alicia, but there was still plenty of Clara Bishop to go around, just a new and improved version. “No, I’m not,” I said and yawned. “She’s back in LA.”

“So you gave her your story?”

“Not exactly. I’d say she gave me hers too.”

“So you’re co-writing?”

“You could say that.”

“What’s in the case?” she said, noticing it for the first time.

“It’s a portable typewriter I found.”

She nodded and looked at her watch.

“Bloody hell. It’s that late? Time to go to bed.” She held out the script to me and I clutched it to my chest.

“I’m sorry I acted so intensely tonight,” I said.

“Don’t think twice about it,” she said and smiled. “How was your night with Mr. Marshall?”

“It was good. I told him he should hire you.”

“You didn’t!” she beamed.

“I did. Now the rest is up to you.” I smiled back. “By the way, you didn’t tell me how thick the fog got around here at night. It was almost impossible to find the house!”

Trinity gave me a very odd look that penetrated me to the bone.

“What?” I asked.

“You must be tired,” she said softly. “It was a gorgeous clear night with a full moon. Not a stitch of fog in sight.”

I stopped talking and waited. Sergeant Hooper cleared his throat a couple of times as though trying to delay saying something, delay making a conclusion. I decided to say it for him
.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But I’m telling the truth.” I stood up and moved around to the back of his chair and leaned forward so when I spoke he’d feel my warm breath on his neck. “Everything was upside down. I was frightened and alone.”

He trembled a little, and I returned to my chair and gave him a searching look
.

“I can’t even write that part down,” he said at last and tossed his pencil on the table. “The whole police department will think I’ve come unhinged.”

“I know the feeling,” I admitted
.

“So you’re trying to tell me that you became someone else after you started wearing your granny’s clothes and reading her screenplay? And that you saw only in black and white and went back in time? And what about the others?” he asked. “Were they ‘in’ on this act of yours?”

I bristled at the accusation. “Like I just told you, it was as if my life and the people in it were transported back to 1952. But I was the only one who knew it. They carried on as if they were meant to be there, in that time, in that place. As for seeing things in black and white, that seemed to only happen to me.”

“Did your plan to save Alice work, then?” he asked and cleared his throat like he meant to clear his head. I knew what he really wanted to know: Was Alice alive and living out her final days at some old-age home for actors in California? I wasn’t about to tell him. He needed to hear the whole thing or none of it would make sense. He continued, “That is, assuming any of what you’re telling me is true.”