Not Without You (26 page)

not without you

WHEN THE LOCATION shoot was extended for another two weeks, as Jerry decided that it would be cheaper to get the shots of Rose in her small home town up here rather than in the agricultural towns east of San Francisco, no one demurred. I didn’t believe for a moment this was unconnected with his relationship with Conrad, but I was in no position to judge. Indeed, I was gloriously happy for them.

Have you ever been unfaithful? It gives one a curious sensation. All through that short, blissful time, I was so happy with everything, glowing with love for everyone. I needed no sleep; I was as alive as I’ve ever felt. I didn’t mind the wigs that pinched, the hot lights and long hours, the endless questions from Moss about where I was, what I was doing, who needed an autograph, who’d requested an interview. I wrote to Gilbert, recently arrived in Nevada, every day. I told him I loved him and wished him luck, and I meant it all, most fervently. Isn’t it strange?

What seemed extraordinary to me was how commonplace it felt, Don and me, our falling in love. I think I had always loved him, since I’d first met him that night at the party. And he said the same. He was a new man during those days. I said it was the drying out, he said it was me. On set out in the hills above the sea, he’d stand behind Jerry, changing lines here and there, adding in brilliant suggestions, working with the actors, never intruding on our performances, merely giving us confidence. I had always liked slipping into someone else’s shoes, and now I simply loved it. I loved this character, because it was written for me, by him. I felt as if, every time, I became Rose. I became myself, truly myself.

And at night, when the moon was waning but the bright stars were scattered like a million diamonds across the inky sky, Don would come to my room, unlock the door with the key I’d given him (I’d lied to sweet, lovely Katie and said I’d lost mine), and I’d be waiting for him, the fire crackling in the grate, the dark wooden panels glowing with the warmth of the room, the warmth of our love for each other, it seemed.

To hear the key in the lock as I lay in bed reading was the sweetest sensation; ever since then the sound of that movement has, for me, been the most beautiful in the world. To feel his arms around me, to smell him, hear the beating of his heart, and his low, kind voice, ‘Hello, Rose – how’ve you been today?’ in my ear. To know this was our world; no one else knew or could intrude. I will always remember it, but at the time it seemed normal. I knew I’d found what I was looking for. I knew the frightening moments I often experienced, when I had taught my brain to disconnect itself from my body and sometimes I couldn’t quite get back to being me, when Rose haunted my dreams, laughed at me in mirrors, were over. I didn’t need to pretend to be anyone else, anywhere else, when I was with Don.

What did we talk about? Everything. Poetry, books, films. Our respective childhoods, his in a small town in Oklahoma, mine in the English countryside. What we liked, what we didn’t. I had a portable gramophone, and we played Sinatra constantly, especially ‘I’ll Be Around’, though as Don said, we needed to pick a more cheerful song.

He knew every poem under the sun, it seemed, and I admired his schoolteacher father for the passion he’d inspired in him. He loved England, though he’d been only once. We discussed going back to Britain all the time, how he would look up a cousin he’d stayed with near Windsor, how we would walk through Hampstead Heath, visit Keats’s House, and sit in the pub Shakespeare sat in by Borough Market – though he’d promised me he was never drinking again.

‘I won’t start that up again, Rose. The studio knows me too well. They’re done with me, think I’m too much trouble, a relic from another era, and they couldn’t ever pin anything Un-American on me in the dark days but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to try. They want me out of the way. So this is what they do: they send some guy to meet me in a bar, to discuss future projects. I say no, I don’t care for a Martini. He insists. I say no. I ask what work they’ve got coming up for me. He says nothing. He orders one drink, then another. I eye it like a dying man in the desert. He offers me a job writing something new. I leap at the chance. He says, come on, let’s toast this. Just one Martini, what’s wrong with one? And I, like the dumb schmuck I am, accept. But I can’t ever just have one. Three days later, I’m still drinking.’

He was lying on the bed, naked and tangled in the sheets, his head in my lap, one hand reaching up to stroke my breasts from time to time. I smoothed his hair away from his forehead with both my hands, and kissed it. ‘How did you get back on this picture, then?’

‘It’s Jerry,’ Don said. ‘He’s a true friend, that guy. He brought me in to do the whole rewrite, paid me out of his own pocket, then when the Baxters were pleased with the new draft he told them the truth, that it was me and I should carry on.’

‘He loves you.’

‘He’s the best. I’ve told him I owe him now. Whatever he wants, I’ll do it. No matter how big or small. He brought me to you, didn’t he?’ He kissed me. ‘Jerry got me back on the project. Told ’em I was cheap and available and knew the script – well, I wrote the damn thing, of course I know it.’ His face was angry. I stroked his chest, his shoulders, feeling his heart pounding under his skin. ‘But they’ll get me in the end. They wrecked things with Bella, you know. Moss told her I was cheating on her before anyone else did. That’s why she ran off to Vegas, got herself a rich new playboy.’

‘Were you, though?’

‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘I wasn’t. That’s the irony. Hell,’ he said, sitting up. ‘She was better off without me, though. I was drinking too much. I was unhappy.’ He caught my hands in his. ‘Rose, you realise what you’re taking on with me, don’t you? You’ll be a pariah. Moss, Lenny, those guys at the studio. You think they’re going to make it hard for you to leave Gilbert – well, wait till they hear who you’re leaving him for.’

I shook my head, smiling. ‘I don’t care,’ I said.

‘Your film career will be over.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said again. ‘Honestly. I don’t like it that much. I never did. I’ll act somewhere else. I just want to be with you.’

I pulled him against my breasts, tracing his dark hairline, the scroll of his ear, his jaw, with one finger. He stroked my back, and I hugged him tighter with the other arm. ‘We’ll move to London,’ I said. ‘We can rent a place in Hampstead – it’s cheap there. At least it was. I’ll easily get work there, on the stage, in television, maybe even in films. And they’ll love you, darling. You’ll be rolling in offers. We’ll be so happy. We will.’ I looked around the small, warm room. ‘Even if it doesn’t work out, we have everything we need, right here,’ I told him. ‘We don’t need anything else.’

On our last night in Big Sur, Jerry took over the whole restaurant for cast and crew. He sat next to Conrad, and whispered in his ear all night, and though Conrad seemed more embarrassed than he by it, I wondered if perhaps, perhaps, something might change. I wished I could talk to Conrad, confide in him myself. Tell him I knew what I’d seen and I didn’t care. We’d never discussed it once. I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. But it would be such a scandal if it came out, and it was their secret to keep, not mine.

I wish now, more than any other of the many regrets I have in my life, that I’d spoken to Conrad. Pulled him aside and talked to him like the friend I thought I was. He left after dinner, drove straight back home to Los Angeles. Or at least I thought he did. If only he had.

Before he left Jerry made a speech. ‘We are making a very special film,’ he said. ‘And this has been a very special time.’ He looked at Conrad, then at me, then briefly at Don, and I knew he knew, and I smiled at him.

That night, after the meal, Don and I made love for the last time in our little room. It was fast, furious, passionate, as if we wanted it over, wanted the next stage of our lives to begin. I remember the weight of him on top of me as we lay afterwards. Like a shield, covering me. We had a plan; we discussed it every night, went over every stage so both of us were clear. He was going straight from LA to Vegas to see Bella, to set in motion the quickest possible divorce. I would meet him back in Los Angeles. Gilbert had a week off from shooting, and was due back at our house. I’d tell him I was moving out, and check into the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I’d first stayed all those years ago. I would finish filming
A Girl Named Rose
, then Don and I would leave for Europe. Hollywood was currently scandalised by Elizabeth Taylor’s upcoming marriage to Eddie Fisher. And it was not so long ago that Ingrid Bergman had returned from Europe in triumph, years after being cast out for running off with Roberto Rossellini. No one would care two hoots about my marriage breaking up, I told myself. It was nearly 1960. Times were changing, and Gilbert didn’t love me; I knew he didn’t. If I could find a way to minimise the shame he’d feel, that would go a long way to smoothing things over. I owed him that much.

The morning we left, my car arrived early. Katie sent a message through to say it was here. I stood just inside our lodge, and kissed Don lightly on the lips. We were dressed for the outside world once again, he in his tweeds and sharp slacks, I in my little Yves Saint Laurent travelling suit, and I felt curiously shy with him. He took my hand.

‘I love you, Rose.’ He pushed a lock of my hair away from my face.

‘I love you too,’ I said.

‘Will you marry me?’ His expression was deadly serious.

‘Yes,’ I whispered, putting my head on his chest one last time. ‘Yes, of course I will.’

They knocked on the door again. ‘Then go,’ he said, kissing my hair. ‘I’ll see you in three, four days. Soon, so soon, we’ll be together. And the past, it won’t matter any more. It’s the future. I can face the future, but not without you.’

‘Not without you,’ I repeated, and we stared at each other.

When I opened the door, morning light flooded the dark room, and I blinked as I came out onto the porch.

Jerry was standing just outside, waiting for us. He smiled at me, but I noticed his face was pale.

‘Don, I need a word.’ He touched his friend on the shoulder.

‘Anything for you, Jerry,’ Don said cheerfully, putting his arm around him. ‘You know that.’

Jerry smiled mechanically, then kissed me. I wondered if he was all right. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow, the day after, for ever. Back in the real world.’

That’s not the real world
, I wanted to say. This is, this right here, standing with Don, so close I can reach out and touch him, knowing in these last few seconds that he is mine, that we love each other, that everything is clear and simple.

They stood together and Don waved as the car drove slowly down the drive. We turned onto the highway and he disappeared out of sight.

I never saw him again.

THE YELLOWING OLD clock radio alarm wakes me with a start at 6 a.m.

I sit upright, as I do every morning, my heart racing, and turn it off. Then I blink at the heavy patterned chintz curtains, the old green silk upholstered chair, the wooden beams.
Where the hell am I?
I look through the gap in the moth-eaten curtains at the rain drumming on the windows, hear the faint
thud-thud-thud
of ancient hot-water pipes. I see my battered old Eve Noel biography, a jumper and my trainers, a script, smell the faint old smell of cleaning fluid and dust, mingling together. Yes. I’m here. And it’s still raining.

It’s July, and I’ve been in England for three weeks. Everyone around me made it clear I was risking everything to come here and make this movie. And they were right. We actually started shooting
My Second-Best Bed
a fortnight ago, and it’s about to fall apart. The last piece of funding that means we can actually finish the film hasn’t appeared, the weather keeps holding us up and T.T. the director is crazy. Plus last night, we found out that Cara Hamilton, the actress playing the older Anne Hathaway, is quite seriously ill and might have to drop out, in which case we are probably screwed. There’s three good things, though. One, Sara is here, and it’s a lot of fun having her around. She’s the kind of person you can look at and know she’s thinking the same thing as you. Two, this film could be so,
so great
. The script is fantastic, the set is happy and fun, and the people are brilliant. I have to keep reminding myself of this when I’m standing outside in the rain for two hours on the stretch. What was the other good thing? Oh, yeah! I’m not in LA any more, waiting for some psycho to murder me while I’m asleep or something. Which of the three is probably the biggest plus, wouldn’t you say?

I close my eyes for a second, and I’m back in my bedroom that night, looking at the torn curtains, the ripped clothes, the stuff this psycho had scribbled all over the walls. In those first few minutes, I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t upset. That came later, not then. I was completely calm, knowing something would change, and it was up to me to make it something good. I wasn’t going to make
The Bachelorette Party
. I was going to listen to myself for once, and do what the hell I wanted. The next day I called up Alec Mitford and asked to have a meeting with him and the director, T.T. Tohens. Then I told Artie what was happening.

Turns out Artie hadn’t been quite honest with me, anyway. There
was
an actress from
Downton Abbey
lined up to play Anne, but at the same time, the package – the fact that Alec Mitford was attached and that the revised script was so great – meant the project was getting heat and a couple of big-name stars had shown interest. Emily Blunt had even met with Alec and T.T. The movie had a buzz. You can’t buy buzz. So once it was confirmed the insurers would pay out for my exit from
The Bachelorette Party
(security reasons; the LAPD agreed with me it was best I left LA for a while), Artie changed his tune. But I know he thinks it’s the wrong direction for me, and it makes me nervous: the guy knows how to put together a hit, for all that we don’t always agree. I am still annoyed with him, though I need to get my head down, prove to him he can take me seriously.