My Life in Black and White (13 page)

I smiled. “The truth is stranger …”

“Than fiction. Yes, I know that one,” he said impatiently
.

The smile fell from my face
.

He took a deep breath and rocked slowly in the chair, his foot against the table leg for leverage. I had a feeling I knew what he was thinking
.

“And I didn’t become someone else exactly. I just started to act differently, but I’m not going to lie …”

Hooper removed his foot from the table leg so that the chair smashed hard on the floor. He leaned forward and pointed his finger at me. “No. You are not going to lie to me.”

I parted my lips into a tiny smile. A smile that could be read a dozen ways, and I wanted Hooper to take his pick
.

“What I was about to say was that I liked it. Whatever ‘it’ was, it felt good.”

“To be in control, perhaps?” he suggested
.

“That’s part of it,” I said
.

“To be what, then?”

“To be less predictable.”

We looked at each other, and for a moment nothing was said, neither of us made a move. Then he shuffled through the yellow papers looking for something and skimmed his handwriting. When he found what he wanted he glared at me suspiciously
.

“Do you still only see in black and white, then?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Complicated how?”

“I’m getting to that part.”

“I want to believe you, Clara …”

I raised an eyebrow
.

He coughed, “Miss Bishop. But it isn’t sounding good.”

I tossed my head back and the trench coat fell onto the chair behind me, leaving my shoulders and décolletage bare. I took my time retrieving the trench and covering up again. Hooper looked like he was starting to perspire
.

“Go on,” he said. “I want to hear your side …”

“I went to bed just like I said. I figured it was all a dream and I’d wake up with a hangover …”

T
he morning of the second day of my life in black and white, I dressed in a dove-grey tea dress, though I was fairly sure it was pale pink. I set the typewriter up in my room on the tiny desk and fed a sheet of paper into the carriage. I hadn’t tried to write a movie in years; I wasn’t sure if I knew how anymore. The machine sat there like an
objet d’art
, daring me to bring it to life and give it purpose. It wasn’t difficult to empathize with the fictional Clara’s emotional state. All I had to do was replay the events of the past few days. Dean and Amber making a fool of me on his set. Dean’s note telling me he never loved me. Dean and Amber parading through The Savoy. Amber’s attempt to intimidate me in the hallway of the hotel. Like the husband and mistress in the screenplay, Dean and Amber shouldn’t be allowed to escape unscathed either. I would come up with something. In the meantime, a little make-believe revenge would be cathartic. My fingers hovered over the keys as though they were burning coals until a scene formed in my mind, and then I let it unfold on the page.

There. My first scene was complete. I smiled and bopped up and down in my chair with excitement. I yanked the page out of the typewriter. I was holding in my hands a piece of fiction created by my mind but also by my body. The physical act of typing made me feel like an artist, this white sheet my blank canvas. A computer does
the job, but it’s too easy to make mistakes disappear. I’d learned the hard way that mistakes in judgment don’t go away at the touch of a keystroke. From now on in life and in writing, my decisions would be made with precision.

I spent the rest of the day carefully hanging, folding and pressing the garments until every item from my grandmother’s wardrobe was ready for its close-up. It felt like I was preparing for something, like an army officer getting ready to go to battle. Which was fitting, because after writing and thinking about the script, and my own situation, I had enough anger smoldering inside me to start a war. I had Plan A, land Alicia Steele a starring role in Frederick’s new movie, and Plan B, finish the script and get him to buy it. But there was also Plan C. The more I thought of Dean and Amber, the more I despised the two of them. Where I’d been distraught and depressed before, I was now seething and ready to boil over at any moment. I had come up with something special for them. And like the screenplay, I’d need some help. It would involve Niall. Even though he wasn’t a detective like Rod in the script, he was an investigative reporter, at one time anyway, and that was close enough to be useful for what I had in mind.

Yet, like in the scene I’d written, I wasn’t sure if I could trust Niall. But I did know there was only one red dress in Alice’s collection. I remembered what it looked like when I could see colour. It was a dark red, almost burgundy, with three-quarter sleeves and a lace overlay. The hem was scalloped and reached just below my knees. It was demure on the hanger, almost schoolmarm, but once on it morphed into a sexy, clingy thing, the sort of dress a woman wore when she couldn’t risk a man saying no. Or, as in the script, it was a garment to be worn “to full effect.” It would do nicely for my eight o’clock drinks at The White Stallion.

When it was time, I dressed in the red dress and did my own hair. Turned out that hot rollers weren’t anything to be afraid of. I used the makeup that was in the train case, and when I was done, I spun around for Trinity’s approval. She wolf-whistled, but I could sense she didn’t entirely approve.

“I don’t see why you’re going to meet that Niall fellow. Not when Frederick seems so taken with you. He’s a much better catch,” Trinity said.

“I’m not interested in catching anyone. And you’re just saying that because you want to star in the film.”

She grinned. “Not star; I’d be happy with the second lead.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” I grinned back. “How do I look?”

She stared a moment, then said with the tiniest note of suspicion, “Like a woman on a mission.” She stuck out her lower lip. “My agent still hasn’t heard if I got the audition.”

I recognized the pleading in her voice and knew what she was getting at.

“Don’t worry about that. Believe me, I will be seeing plenty of Frederick Marshall, more than enough to constantly badger him about you.”

She perked up. “Brilliant!”

I shivered at the thought of the getaway weekend. I would find a way to ensure it never happened. I was in control now, not Frederick.

I
walked through the door of The White Stallion and was struck by the transformation of the place. The décor was completely different. The spiky ironwork and gauzy ceiling canopy were no more; instead, it had the well-worn feel of a stable but without the stench. This pub was warmer, more welcoming, and wasn’t trying too hard to be so-hip-it-hurts and was the better for it. But that wasn’t all. A visible haze hung in the air from cigarette smoke. There were no anti-smoking campaigns in 1952; on the contrary.

Then I saw Saffron. She looked like a cigarette girl without the tray of bad habits around her neck. She breezed by with a quick smile of acknowledgment. Niall was at his usual table in the back and stood up as I approached just as Frederick Marshall had done.

“A girl could get used to good manners,” I said as he pulled the chair out for me to sit down.

When Saffron fluttered to our table, for once I wasn’t resentful of her beauty. I hardly noticed it at all.

“Don’t you two look cute.” She smiled at me.

“Two bourbons please,” Niall ordered.

Saffron looked to me and turned on her charm. “Is it true you write for
Hollywood Hush?
” she asked boldly.

“I used to,” I said. I was purposefully evasive. Now wasn’t the time
to discuss my favourite interview or weirdest celebrity story or whatever question readers of tabloids, even 1950s tabloids, usually wanted to know. Her face fell a little.

“You know I’m an actress …” she began. Perhaps it was my disdainful expression, or maybe it was Niall’s timely cough, but she stopped talking and changed tactics. “Nice dress,” she nodded approvingly, like that was what she had intended to say all along, and turned on her heels.

“Was I rude?” I asked. Niall shook his head.

“I suppose you get that a lot?”

“I get my fair share of actresses wanting me to get them press,” I admitted sourly.

Niall leaned in conspiratorially. “Saffron is right, though. That is a killer dress.”

I looked up at him through my false lashes and smiled. “This old thing?”

The drinks arrived and Niall raised his glass like he was going to make a toast, but his hand hovered over the table hesitantly.

“You going to make a toast?” I asked.

“That would seem like the thing to do. I’m just not sure to what!” he said.

I thought a moment, then raised my glass. “Allow me. Here’s to better days.” I closed my eyes and sipped the bourbon like it was honey.

“Why better days?” he asked. I could hear the concern in his voice. “You hinted at rough times last night, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” He bristled a little, like he was revealing more than he should.

“You did call me a damsel in distress,” I reminded him with a smile.

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he said.

“Can I trust you?” I asked, repeating the line I’d written. It was time to lay on the sad, lonely and in-need-of-being-saved-by-a-man act, and lay it on thick.

It took exactly two and a half shots of bourbon for me to pour out my story to him. I tried to tell him in a tone of cool detachment, like it didn’t matter all that much, it was just something that happened. I didn’t want him to think I was a hysteric. The whole sordid mess with Dean and Amber was served up like a plate of cold scrambled eggs. I’d left out that Dean confessed he only married me because I was pregnant. I didn’t tell Niall about the pregnancy or the miscarriage. I told him about Amber and the confrontation last night. I skipped the part about my grandmother. That was none of his business and was too far-fetched for anyone to believe. When I was done talking, he polished off his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he was trying to forget how it tasted.

“Husbands leave wives all the time,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “Sometimes not soon enough.”

It wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for, and I said as much. “I guess you only want to rescue damsels who are carrying heavy typewriters or broke a nail on the way to tea?”

He snickered. “I’m just not sure you need rescuing. I get that you’re upset. But if you want my opinion, your husband seems like a first-class jerk. You’re better off without him. And, well, the girl’s name is Amber. Isn’t that enough revenge?”

I grinned my approval of his joke. “Who said anything about revenge?” I asked.

He leaned forward. “Women always want to retaliate. They just can’t let go.”

I bristled and took a swig of bourbon to douse the smoldering inside. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t want either of them to get away with it. Toss me aside like I’m yesterday’s news.”

“Or last week’s
Hollywood Hush
,” he interjected with a wry grin.

“Clever,” I admitted, then continued. “Men should never lie to women about loving them, about wanting to spend their lives with them. He’s a coward. And I hate women who sleep with other women’s husbands. It isn’t nice. It’s not ladylike.”

He whistled, long and low. “Ladylike? From where I sit, women have been screwing each other over for centuries. You can’t stop it. As for men lying to their wives, you can’t stop that either.”

“That’s what I admire about you, Niall Adamson, your faith in the goodness of humankind.”

He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. It was now or never, and I chose now.

“You said you wanted to help me,” I began. “And I have an idea how.”

“Go on,” he said cautiously.

“I want to hire you to write some scathing articles on Dean’s show, maybe even write a scathing article on Amber.”

Niall sat back and took it in. I continued, “You could go on set and interview him and then write about how bad the show is, how mean and manipulative he is to the contestants and how he yells and bosses everyone around. It’s all true; you should see the stuff I’ve seen. We could create a scandal that sends him packing back to LA. Maybe you find something only someone with your special
skills
could.”

I saw immediately that Niall’s face had hardened like cement.

“I see where this is going. You’ve got the wrong guy,” he shot at me.

“C’mon, Niall. Are you saying you wouldn’t dig around, maybe exaggerate a little for a big story?”

He was silent. I knew when to shut up, so I shut up. Took a deep breath and tried again.

“I’ve got the right guy,” I said, trying to sound as soft and helpless as I could. “I looked you up.”

“I went to prison, as I’m sure you know. I was a fall guy. Plain and simple. The cops know it. Scotland Yard knows it. That doesn’t make me some two-bit criminal for hire. Do your own dirty work.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I don’t mean to say you’re not honest. You’re impressive, that’s all I meant.”

“You get impressed by strange things,” he said. “And no offence, but until this wiretapping scandal erupted, I was a serious reporter. This movie star beat is all I can get these days.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I know. You once covered crime and politics …”

“And the war. I was on the front for the BBC. Real news,” he said.

And I was a screenwriter, I wanted to say, but thought better of it. “All I’m asking is for you to do what I can’t,” I said. Then I remembered what he’d said to me back in LA about wanting to work for American magazines. We all want something. I pulled the ace out of my deck of cards. “I’ve got all the contacts you need to start over. I can make you the most sought-after freelancer in London. Every editor in America will beg you to write for them.”

“Just what I want. To write about movie stars for the rest of my life.”

“It’s an honest living.”

“Like I said, you got the wrong guy.”

Then Saffron was back with her tray, standing over us like some Victoria Secret overlord.

“Another round, kids?” she asked.

“Just the bill,” I said.

“Not a problem. I brought it with me just in case.” She smacked the bill on the table. “I can always tell when a couple is finished.”

“You don’t say,” I retorted, but she had twirled away. Niall and I both went for the bill.

“It’s on me,” he said.

“I should object,” I said slyly, but I was pleased. My mother always
said when a man offered it was a good sign he would do anything you asked.

He got up to leave. But there was one more thing I wanted to know.

“Niall?”

“Yup.”

“How well do you know Frederick Marshall?”

“Why do you ask? Did he invite you to his country place for a midnight swim?”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“I was curious. Wondering what sort of character he is.”

“You mean, do I think he killed his wife?” Niall stood looming over me. His expression was tough to read.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“He was never charged and was cleared after the investigation. It was in all the papers, so he must be innocent,” he said tersely.

“I read what I read, but that doesn’t mean it was true. You reported on it extensively. Was there ever anything truly incriminating? Did you ever get any photos or anything on tape?”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” He tipped his fedora to me. “Let’s just say that Frederick Marshall is one man who was content to see my reputation destroyed and me serve time. You could say we don’t see eye to eye. It’s been lovely getting to know you better. You’re quite the girl.”

“Just a damsel in distress,” I said gently. “Please, think about what I’m asking you to do? It’s not unheard of for a gossip columnist to get back at someone through a story.”

He smirked and walked away, slowly and deliberately, but as I expected, he took one final glance at me over his shoulders before walking through the door.

Saffron whirled by and hovered at the table. I sensed she wanted to tell me something. “Typical,” she sighed. “If you ask me, you should find a date with more manners. Leaving you here like that.”

“He’s not really a date.”

“That’s good.”

I looked at her and raised my brow. “Why? What’s wrong with him? I know he spent time in jail. He maintains he’s innocent.”

“Then I guess you know all there is to know. If it’s not a date, then none of it matters anyway.” But she still didn’t budge. Instead, she sat down where Niall had been.

“I can’t help it, but I overheard some of what you were saying,” she confessed. I narrowed my eyes at her. I had no idea how much she’d heard, but I didn’t like it.

“Go on,” I said.

“I have a friend. He’s a journalist like you. Writes for
Talk
,” she said.

Talk
was a tabloid broadsheet like
Hollywood Hush
only even more trashy. I tapped my fingernails on the table. “What exactly did you hear?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “Hardly anything. Just that you wanted to write about a new television show and you couldn’t. I assume because you’re busy?”

“That’s right,” I agreed quietly.

“If Niall won’t help you, my friend might.” She sat there looking like there was more to the story, but I wasn’t about to find out.

I bit my lower lip. If I couldn’t count on Niall to help me, then I needed a backup plan.

“What’s his name?”

Saffron beamed. “Lawrence Hayward. But everyone calls him Larry.”