My Life in Black and White (20 page)

I
t was nearly midnight when I heard Trinity come home. She rummaged through the fridge; finding nothing to eat, she poured a Scotch.

“How did it go?” I asked.

“I’m healthy as a horse.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“That doctor is a cad. Wouldn’t tell me a bloody thing, not even when my report gets filed with the production company. You can tell whose payroll he’s on.”

“You were gone a long time,” I said.

“Had to do wardrobe fittings.”

That reminded me. “Say, where was that? Some tailor off The

Strand?”

She looked puzzled and shook her head. “No, up near Notting Hill. Why?”

“No reason,” I said. The mystery of where Amber went continued. The phone rang, cutting through the air like a foghorn.

“It’s bloody late for a phone call,” Trinity whined.

“I’ll get it,” I said and picked up the receiver. It was Saffron and she was in a state. “We’ll be right there,” I told her.

“Who was it? Where are we going? It’s nearly midnight!” Trinity demanded.

“It was Saffron. We’re going to the hospital. They found her cousin Larry. Someone beat him nearly to death.”

“Oh my God! How awful!” she said and put her coat and hat on. “Who could have done that and why?”

As we ran down the stairs and out the door, I kept thinking I knew who did and why.

The hospital was only two blocks away and we were there quickly. Saffron was in the hallway outside Larry’s room when she saw us and came running towards us.

“He’s in bad shape,” she explained tearfully as we followed her into his room. We slowly approached his bed. Larry lay there, his eyes swollen shut. His whole face was covered in bandages; his swollen and bloody lip protruded from the gauze as if he were pouting. One arm was set in a plaster cast. His body looked battered and lifeless. If I didn’t know he’d been beaten, I would have guessed he’d been in a car accident.

“The doctor says he’s concussed and three ribs are broken and an arm,” Saffron sobbed. “He could be such a rat. But he didn’t deserve this.”

“There, there,” Trinity said soothingly. “Have the police come?”

She nodded and blew her nose. “But he’s been sedated so they couldn’t do much. If he wakes up, they hope to get a statement.”

“He’ll wake up,” I said, wishing it to be true more than knowing it was true.

“Course in this bloody smog, chances are he didn’t even see anyone coming. Couldn’t defend himself. The police said there’s been a rash of muggings and such since the smog. But I don’t know, in his line of work, he angered a lot of people.”

“No one would target poor Larry,” Trinity said. I kept my mouth shut.

“I’m just so grateful you both came. I didn’t know who else to call. He doesn’t have many friends, though he mentioned how excited he was working with Clara to get his name in the Hollywood press.”

“Would you like a tea?” I offered Saffron, wishing she’d quit saying I worked with Larry. I wanted to forget all about it. “Or want us to walk you home?”

“I’d like tea,” she said. “My mum and auntie are on their way, so I’m going to wait for them.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Trinity said.

I made my way down the sparse hallway, which looked identical to
Call the Midwife
and every other BBC period medical drama, where I’d noticed a sign for a commissary. I felt lousy about Larry. It also occurred to me that he might spill our little arrangement to the cops, and then I’d be dragged into the police station for questioning. I didn’t think I’d broken any laws, but then again I wasn’t up on my British justice system circa 1952. I was deep in thought, churning every possible scenario over and over in my head, when I turned a corner and ran smack into Niall.

“What on earth?” he exclaimed.

“It’s you,” I said coldly. He was the last person I wanted to speak to. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to fetch tea for a friend.”

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said calmly. At that moment I despised his calmness. “It’s that way.” He pointed down another hall. “Go through those double doors and make the next right. But first tell me, why are you here?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I hissed.

“That’s true. But tell me anyway. Is it your suicidal friend?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or mocking.

“She’s in Hollywood,” I said.

“Right, yes, you did mention that.”

“If you must know, it’s Larry Hayward. Someone beat him half to death.”

He expression went grave. “Did he tell you who did it?”

“He’s out cold,” I shook my head. “You told me Frederick was dangerous. Do you think he did this?”

Niall raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

I started to shake and tremble so much I didn’t object when Niall put his arms around me. “Frederick must have thought Larry had the photographs. I never said who had them, but I told him I knew Larry. I may have exaggerated how closely we worked together,” I admitted reluctantly. “And I also hinted to Larry that I had something on Frederick. That’s probably what happened. They must have put two and two together and got five.”

“This is quite the dilemma you’ve got yourself mixed up in,” he said. “And potentially poor Larry.”

“It’s all my fault,” I said, on the verge of tears.

“Let’s wait and hear what Larry has to say first,” he said soothingly.

I sniffled a bit and he gave me his handkerchief, which I blew into loudly. I gave it back to him, and he took it, hesitating a moment before stuffing the soggy mess into his pocket. I smirked a little.

“What are you doing here?” I asked when I came up for air. “Chasing ambulances?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’ve been following up on some smog deaths here and interviewing doctors and family members,” he said. “Come along, let’s get that tea and I’ll walk you home.”

I
t was four days into the Great Smog, and only two days before my grandmother’s official date of death. Niall had escorted us home from the hospital, and Trinity and I had gone straight to bed. I was surprised at how deeply I’d slept; sheer exhaustion, I suppose. Trinity was already sipping tea and studying her lines when I came into the room.

“Any news about Larry?” I asked.

“It made the papers. Well, it made
Talk
.” she showed me the article. It was, of course, sensationalized, and they blamed it on a random act of violence and warned all citizens to be on their guard against such “smog monsters.” I had my doubts.

“Oh, I almost forgot. When I bought the paper there was a telegram for you from Hollywood,” she said and handed it to me. “Must be your friend.”

I tore it open.

Dear Clara
,

Once again I must tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity. The audition went well enough, but the casting director told me for certain that the part had already been cast in England. I am, of course, devastated but appreciated the opportunity immensely. I will go back to trying to
finish a screenplay of my own. It’s probably easier if I write myself a role! Best of luck with the production. Warm regards, Alicia Steele
.

I read it over and over. How could this be? Frederick must know by now that Amber was pregnant.

“Your friend after you to finish the script?”

“Something like that,” I said.

I went back to my room and stared at the walls. I’d failed my grandmother. Maybe I’d even made matters worse. She said she was devastated. Instead of helping, maybe my interference would push her over the edge.

I will go back to trying to finish a screenplay of my own. It’s probably easier if I write myself a role!
They were her words and my Plan B. If I finished the script and got Frederick to buy it and produce it, then that would work. Of course, realistically, he couldn’t produce it in two days, but he sure could read it and buy it. That is, if there was a finished script. It was still early morning and that gave me some time.

After I finished the scene, I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. I wasn’t sure how much I liked fictional Clara sleeping with Edgar. It made my sleeping with Frederick seem predestined. I cringed at the thought. But it was the right thing to do for the script, and it might be the only thing to do for me. It was chilling how much the script
mirrored my own life right down to the last detail. Which brought up the matter of the ending. Alice’s notes were clear:
Clara has lost everything … she gets into her car and drives into the hills to end things once and for all. She can no longer control what happens in her life, but she can control her death …
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to write such a scene. Not knowing what I knew, not feeling what I felt, and certainly not wanting to end up in the same place myself. I took a break and sat beside Trinity who was studying her script and barely looked up when I came in.

“I’m nearly finished The
Woman Scorned
,” I said. “I just don’t know quite how to end it.”

“Oh, that. Good for you. That will please your writing partner,” she said, though I sensed she was too preoccupied to really listen. “How do you think it should end?”

“Alicia, my co-writer, wants the femme fatale to kill herself by driving off a cliff,” I said, trying to sound professional and not like the granddaughter of a dead woman. “But I’m thinking she should just kill her husband’s mistress and get away with it. Start a new life or something.”

Trinity scrunched up her face as if concentrating so hard pained her. “Femme fatales always die, though, don’t they? You shouldn’t fiddle with audience expectation.”

I hesitated. Her comment irritated me, even though she was only echoing what most every producer would say if they read an altered ending. I wondered what sort of producer Frederick was. “I’ll think about it,” I said. Though I knew the ending must change. My femme fatale would survive. Exactly how she ended up, punished or recalcitrant or remorseful, remained to be seen. Her fate was in my hands. It was more than just a resolution to a film noir saga. It was the finale to my film noir life.

I
spent the remainder of the day unable to commit to an ending. I wrote several and tore up every last one of them. The story wasn’t playing out. But by the late afternoon it wasn’t the only thing that plagued me. I had yet to hear from Frederick. His silence disturbed me. Maybe after having Larry roughed up, he’d realized I was bluffing about the photos. He’d already made it clear that sleeping with me wasn’t enough motivation to cast Alicia. Yet I sensed something nasty was afoot; the sensation hung over me like the smog.

Trinity had gone to the hospital with Saffron. The inside of the flat was as dreary as outside, so I switched a lamp on and was pouring myself a drink when there was an urgent knocking on the door to the townhouse. Whoever it was wanted their presence known and then some.

I opened the window and called down. A figure stepped out onto the sidewalk but the mist concealed him, then a once-yearned for voice cut through the fog like a swift stroke from an executioner’s sword.

“It’s Dean.”

He stood on the street below me like a ghoulish Romeo. Through the grey haze, I could make out an outline. He was wearing a long
black trench coat that flapped open in the wind as he held tight to the black fedora on his head.

“Clara, please let me in. I need to talk to you.”

Something in his voice was off. It was imploring and sombre. I swallowed hard and felt the knot in my stomach twist tighter.

“I’ll come down,” I said.

Once inside the flat, he removed his hat and flashed me a brief smile that was the type to make teenage girls swoon. I remember when it had the same effect on me.

“Have a seat,” I said and made a sweeping gesture towards the sofa. I hung up his coat and hat and took up residence in the pale slipper chair by the window. Despite the window being closed, the draft was palpable.

Dean clutched his shirt collar tightly around his neck. “Don’t you find it cold?”

“Not especially,” I shrugged and waited. The thing with awkward set-ups like this is that no one wants to be the first to spill. I could make it easy on him and tell him I knew all about the pregnancy, but I could see how nervous he was, upset even, and I can’t lie, I enjoyed it. If leaving me didn’t make him uncomfortable, then this certainly did. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them like he was starting a campfire.

“Want marshmallows to go with that?” I teased without smiling.

“Funny,” he said.

I could sense myself fidgeting, and there was one way to stop it. I finally had a reason to open the pack of cigarettes that were hiding in the train case. I went and got one and lit it.

“Since when do you smoke?” he asked me. He seemed disappointed. I liked that.

“Since you walked out on me,” I said bluntly. “Next.”

More rubbing of hands. I rolled my eyes. It was too painful to take.

“What do you want, Dean?” I asked and blew smoke above his head. We watched as it circled and swayed between us before dissipating into invisible particles. Kind of like our marriage.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” he stammered.

“What’s the matter? You and Amber fighting over baby names?” I said cruelly. By the look on his face, I could tell he didn’t think I knew. “Yes, Dean. I know all about it.”

I expected a vitriolic attack at worst or an apology for the delayed announcement at best. Instead, he hesitated, though it was obvious he had something important to say. At last he spoke.

“There is no baby,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, not expecting him to say that. “Did she miscarry?”

“She had an abortion,” he said matter-of-factly.

I didn’t know where to look or what to say. I wasn’t one to judge, but to give up a baby … She must be torn up about it. Then I thought back to yesterday afternoon near The Savoy, my following Amber down that dead-end road. She must have gone to some backroom quack. The poor, fool kid. Maybe if I’d spoken to her …

“She got the lead part in Frederick Marshall’s movie. She was so excited, but then she found out she was pregnant,” he stopped talking and looked at me. I raised an eyebrow like it was attached to a crane and said nothing. He continued. “I tried to tell her that Marshall could schedule the film shoot to accommodate her changing figure. You know the drill. But she said she needed to be free to work on her career. That a baby would be in the way.”

He stood up and began to pace. “Turns out she never loved me. She was using me to get her career going. You should have seen her flirting with Frederick Marshall. It sickened me. I only put up with it because, well …”

“Because you wanted him to hire you too,” I said. I knew him so
very well. “You need a drink? We have some bourbon that might pass the test.” He nodded. I got up and crossed to the kitchen cupboard and took down two old-fashioned glasses and opened the bottle. My mind started to target Frederick. He must have convinced her to do it. He was a dangerous and powerful man, just like Niall had said. Putting Larry into the hospital and now this. I poured the bourbon out neat and went back into the living room, carrying the bottle under my arm. Dean took the glass from my hand and shot it back.

“Good thing I brought the bottle,” I said coolly and poured him another. This time he sipped.

“I’m sorry” was all I could think to say.

“I knew you would be. Despite all the bad things I did. How I hurt you. I knew you’d have sympathy.”

“You knew I still loved you, you mean?” I said.

He nodded. “Do you?”

I let the bourbon burn a trench down the inside of my throat.

“Clara, I’m so sorry for what I did to you. You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, and he put his arms around me, burying his face in my shoulder, his voice muffled by my hair. “I know the pain I caused. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Yes,” I choked a little. He sensed he was squeezing me too hard and he let me go. We stood there eye to eye. Then he kissed me. Gently at first, like a brother kisses a sister, but then it went on too long to be chaste, to be a note of affection between old friends. The kiss quickly became passionate, and I felt the comfortable rhythm of his tongue lashing against mine. It was like a dream. A colourful dream come true set against the background of a black and white nightmare. Then we were apart again and his eyes seemed alive once more. That smile that could make teen girls faint was let loose, only I didn’t feel a swooning sensation run up my spine.

“Can I come back home?” he asked, and a boyish grin spread across
his face. “I’ve been wrong. I took you for granted, how much you loved me. No one will ever love me like you do.”

My eyes widened. I had fantasized about this moment once, what seemed like a long time ago, and now here it was and it was all wrong. He was still the selfish man I married. It was all about him. I turned away from him and buried my face in my hands, even though no tears came.

“Clara, I’m sorry if what I said repulses you,” he said and grabbed my shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said it. Not after everything. But you need to know I’ve changed. I can finally appreciate you.”

I couldn’t face him. I thought of the typewriter sitting on the desk, waiting for my fingers to touch it, to finish the script and end this torment.

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him. At least that was true.

“You don’t have to answer me now,” Dean continued, but another loud rapping on the front door interrupted us.

“Busy night,” I remarked. I flew down the staircase to the door and opened it only to find Niall shivering in the doorstep.

“Niall!” I whispered and stepped outside. I balanced on the step so that if Dean happened to look out the window he couldn’t see either of us. “What are you doing here?”

“I found out something, about Amber,” he said.

I closed my eyes and spoke slowly. “She had an abortion.”

“Why am I always the last to know about Amber?” he asked flatly.

“The real question is how do you know?” I asked.

“She called me. Trouble with her boyfriend, apparently,
your
husband. I’m the only other person she knows.” He smirked and lit a cigarette. “Discounting Larry, of course. And he’s in no condition to offer advice to the lovelorn.” He took one drag, then offered it to me. I shook my head.

“You need to go away,” I said urgently. “Dean is here.”

He looked taken aback. Then he crinkled his eyes so tightly they nearly disappeared. “I guess this makes things pretty neat for you.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” I said and lifted my chin to the sky in defiance.

“You’ll like this,” he said and grabbed me tight and kissed me. Despite how furious he made me, I found myself kissing him back. He shoved me away from him with the same vengeance he’d grabbed me with.

“Are you sure you’re finished?” I asked sarcastically. It was a dumb thing to say, for he grabbed me and kissed me a second time and tossed me back against the door even more harshly than the first time.

“Now I’m sure,” he said with a glint in his eye that deserved another slap to get rid of it. “So let me guess? Dean wants to come home to mother?”

I stamped my foot in indignation. “I’m not his mother.”

“You aren’t his lover either,” he said rudely.

“Don’t you have to go back to your wife and son?” I snapped.

“Oh, that’s the other thing. Seems she preferred her lover to me. She hightailed it out of our place this morning. Sam’s moved in with a bandmate.”

I was dumbstruck. He was so cold about it all. He might as well have been discussing his library dues.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” I said, softening my tone.

Before he could answer, Dean called down from the top of the stairs.

“Clara?” he said. “I have to get back to the hotel. Amber doesn’t know I came here.

Niall smirked at me. “Good work, Clara, you got him lying to the mistress.”

“Go stand in the next doorway,” I pleaded. “He can’t see you.”

Niall did as I asked, and when he was safely out of sight, I opened the door.

“It was neighbourhood kids selling papers,” I explained. Dean walked down towards me with his coat and hat on. He grasped my chin in his hand and kissed me again. My mouth felt cold against his. I could still taste Niall.

“You don’t have to answer me tonight,” he repeated. “But I’m going to end things with Amber and move into my own room at The Savoy.”

He lifted his head and stroked my face with his right hand.

“Goodnight, Clara.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

I watched him slump away into the fog. From behind me came the scraping of Niall’s shoes on the damp pavement. He popped his head over my shoulder.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he repeated and waved at the fog.

“Oh, shut up,” I said and went upstairs. He followed. I didn’t stop him, but I didn’t want to encourage anything either.

“I’m in no mood for romance,” I said sharply. “If you think we’re sleeping together again.”

“Hush,” he cut me off. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Before I could answer, there came another loud bang on the door.

“Again? What is this? A flophouse for cheating husbands?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Says you,” I answered. “Stay here. Maybe Dean forgot something.”

I went downstairs for the third time that night and without hesitation swung open the door. He stood there grinning like he was giving me a cheque for a million bucks. From where I stood, it felt like someone had tied a noose around my neck and cinched it tight.

“Good evening, Clara. It’s time for our getaway. I’ve been longing to show you my country place.”

It was Frederick Marshall.