Stella, page 16
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Stella. ‘I wouldn’t want to go employing someone who was either promiscuous or an alcoholic – or both.’
‘Well, I always say,’ said Annie, ready to deliver another of her misquotations, ‘people who live in glass houses should keep their clothes on.’ What made Stella smile was Annie’s sincerity. She genuinely seemed to believe that the quotations, from her long and confused repertoire, were all as they should be.
‘I agree with you,’ said Stella, ‘and I’d like you to have the job. When do you think you’d be available to start?’
‘Now,’ she shrugged, in a manner that suggested it was obvious.
Stella was astonished. ‘You mean, now?’ she said. ‘Now, as in right now?’
‘Yes please.’
‘But wouldn’t you like to go home and get your things together and let a few relations, or whoever, know?’
‘My relatives are all dead – or at least, the ones I liked are – and my things are together: they’re outside your flat door.’
Within a few weeks Stella was going to learn that nothing Annie could do would come as a surprise. And after that interview Annie rarely left her side: she wouldn’t let her. Although she’d never have considered it, Annie made a good foil for her, just as Sadie had done in her own way. A young woman amidst the chaos of showbusiness can be a surprisingly lonely experience; even to call it a harrowing experience wouldn’t be an exaggeration. To have someone to share thoughts and emotions with can be the best stabiliser an artiste could wish for.
Annie very quickly went on to become Stella’s cook, and, when she required it, her confidante. Annie was never happier than when she was working for her ‘Miss Stella’. She never wanted any extra money or time off. To please Stella Raven was payment enough.
At first, this embarrassed Stella, who thought Annie more resembled her slave than her help, but as time went by the embarrassment turned to gratitude, and she would often think how lucky she’d been to cross paths with this funny little lady from Blackpool.
At the beginning of December, when Stella and entourage rolled into Leeds for the pantomime season at the Empire Theatre, the latest figures showed that the show was likely to be running as late as April.
Everything had been geared towards Stella’s comfort, from the never-ending teapot to the new beige pile carpet paid for by – indirectly, as it went through on expenses – Moss Empires, who were putting on the show.
Annie made a point of being friendly with everyone, from the callboy up to the stage manager. And it always seemed to work. There wasn’t a person there who wouldn’t do or get anything she wanted, whether for herself or Miss Raven.
The first run-through of the script was a casual affair held on-stage, mid-morning on the first full day. All the local press were there, taking their flash pictures and asking sometimes pertinent questions, other times impertinent ones. Their main purpose was to track down Stella.
She drifted across the stage in a grey outfit – the grey outfit. She did it even more justice than the model had done. Eyes turned on her as she said, ‘Hello, everyone,’ with a bright, cheery, beginning-of-season smile: the sort of smile that evaporates by the end of the first week; sometimes sooner – never later. She chatted with Syd, the stage manager, awhile, asking after his wife and his son’s croup.
News reached the front of house that Stella had arrived and was meeting various people on-stage. This at once brought the front-of-house manager waddling over to her from out of the dark depths of one of the thousand and one recesses in the Empire. Syd saw him coming, quickly smiled a see-you-later to her, and returned to his prompt corner.
‘Stella, Stella, Stella, darling,’ groaned the manager, as if in eternal ecstasy. He grabbed her beautifully manicured hands with the delicacy of a half-starved orang-utan and held them between the two wet flannels at the end of his arms, which he called his hands.
The part she was dreading soon came upon her. The kiss. He pushed his lips forward, soon followed by the rest of his rotund head. She waited until the last possible second before diverting to the right. That way she was only brushed by his moist lips on the cheek. As they slid off her face, like a pair of snow skis off Mount Everest, she said, ‘Bertie, how are you?’
‘My darling,’ he said, putting his hands firmly around her tiny waist. ‘I am fine, but we must get you together in the circle bar with the press.’ He grinned, showing her his teeth, which reminded her of a badly kept set of dominoes. ‘Please follow me.’ Bertie could find his way to the bar even in his sleep. He led her up the steps that bisected the stalls. ‘Business is fantastic,’ he said, unprompted. ‘We’re not at final rehearsals yet and already we’ve broken all existing box-office records. We’re sold out for a definite ten weeks, and there’s a fight to get to the box office for shows thereafter.’
Even in the dimmed light of the circle corridor she could see he was beaming. ‘It’s got to run until April, don’t you think?’ He turned his head quickly to see her reaction and sent a spray of perspiration from his forehead, face, and chins. She didn’t respond. ‘We’re here,’ he announced, and pushed open two swing-doors.
The reporters and camera-men were huddled in a large group in a corner by a dusty window, contentedly drinking the free booze. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ began Bertie, very formally. ‘May I present to you the star of our show, Miss Stella Raven.’
He applauded with unnecessary exaggeration, and the press made a token effort to put their hands together – but they made sure they didn’t have to move too far from their free booze to do it.
One of them smiled; one lit up a cigarette; two finished their drinks; and one went to a door marked ‘Gentlemen’, perhaps to bring back his drink. The door was locked. He tried to use force on it but it wouldn’t give.
Stella shouted to him with a smile, ‘What paper are you with?’ He turned, a little red in the face by now, and prodded his own chest with a finger. ‘That’s right; you.’
‘Telegraph and Argus,’ he replied, gruffly.
‘Well, you’ll find plenty of those inside, once you get in.’
All the other papers laughed at the Telegraph and Argus man’s understandable embarrassment. It was a start towards breaking the ice. ‘Well, gentlemen and lady’ – there was just one – ‘who’s to be the bravest and ask me a question?’
Bertie, standing and dripping just behind her, echoed with, ‘Yes, now. Who is going to ask Miss Raven the first question?’ She turned and stared at him for a second and he was immediately withered in an eye-to-eye confrontation. He backed away, leaving the ‘stage’ to his star.
‘You,’ she said, pointing to a man with a half-smoked cigar in his mouth. ‘What paper are you with?’ He was so taken aback by her picking on him that he inhaled midway through an exhale and consequently had a coughing fit, sending tears of discomfort running down his cheeks.
Another man said, ‘I’m with the Yorkshire Post. What do you think of Leeds?’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ she replied, nodding to the window where the rain was teaming down onto the main thoroughfare of Briggate. ‘It was a hard decision, choosing either Leeds or the south of France; but Leeds won.’
A flash-bulb inadvertently went off, and there came a muted apology. ‘This is a right waste of time,’ said Stella, but not angrily so: more because she felt pity for them being there. ‘Look, let’s cut out the formality bit,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll sit with you and have a beer, and answer your questions in a nice ’n relaxed way.’
The ones who’d remained seated from the beginning sat up to make room for her as she strode over to join them. It made an incongruous sight to behold: the beautiful, almost diminutive, star, surrounded by a mixture of very ordinary-looking men, most of whom supported large beer-guts. ‘Half a pint of best,’ she shouted across to the bar.
The drink arrived; cameras flashed and a race started to see who could ask the most questions. Bertie glowed as he heard their laughter to her replies.
Forty minutes later they’d taken their pictures, asked their questions, and were now leaving. They told her what a good sport she was. The one female reporter remained behind. She went up to Stella and sat down beside her. Bertie tried to disguise a belch as he downed a neat Scotch that, in minutes, would be oozing out through his overworked pores. He bade a temporary farewell to Stella and the reporter, saying he had to meet up with the rest of the company. The two women were now alone; there was the barman; but, being a professional, he managed to blend in with the background furnishings. ‘My name is Mary Holt, Miss Raven.’
‘Oh, a double-barrelled name: “Mary Holt-Missraven.”’
Mary Holt ignored the humour. ‘I’m a freelance writer, and mostly use magazines as an outlet for my work. Would you answer a few more questions – the sort more suitable for the magazine reader?’
Stella gave an it-would-be-a-pleasure-to smile and said, ‘It would be a pleasure to.’
‘Lovely,’ said Mary Holt, in a voice that didn’t suppress her surprise. For some reason she had doubted Stella Raven was going to be so obliging. ‘The sort of things these readers like to know about are the more intimate details of a star like yourself.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stella, warily. ‘How intimate?’
‘I’ll begin asking, and we’ll see how we get along.’
That sounded fair enough to Stella. ‘Okay, then.’ Mary cleared her throat.
‘Are you married?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Would you like to get married?’
‘Yes. I love men – especially those of about thirty.’
‘Would you mind telling me your age?’
‘I’ll tell you half of it, if you like. No, love, I’m twenty-three.’
‘And how long have you been twenty-three, Miss Raven?’
Stella laughed. The girl had a sense of humour after all.
‘Not long yet, but I hope to get another five years out of it.’
Mary wrote this out in long-hand, no doubt intending to use it as a complete and direct quote. Then she looked unashamedly at Stella’s fur coat that she’d draped across a chair. ‘It’s beautiful. It’s ermine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Stella ruffled it with delicate fingers.
‘Expensive, was it?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied, truthfully. ‘You see, it was a present.’
‘From an admirer?’ pressed the journalist.
‘From someone who I represent ten per cent to,’ she replied, spoiling Mary’s next major quote.
‘So there isn’t a man in your life, currently?’
‘No. There’s no time. I’m too busy.’
‘And what do you think of the men of Yorkshire?’
She hoped she’d trapped Stella into making a derogatory comment about the male species in this area. ‘Rich,’ she replied, thoughtfully.
‘Eh?’
‘When I think of the men from Yorkshire, I think of the rich ones.’
‘Do you think you could marry one?’ she asked.
‘He’d have to be English, first.’
One of Mary’s shoes fell off but she deftly turned it over with the other one and put it back on without once looking down. ‘But they are English.’
‘No, a Yorkshireman is a Yorkshireman, first, then he’s English, then he’s British. You see, you never ask a York-shireman if he’s from Yorkshire. If he isn’t, he won’t mention it. If he is, he can’t wait to tell you.’
Mary scratched her head with the blunt end of her pencil. It was a good moment to change the subject, she thought. ‘How do you keep your skin looking so glorious?’
‘Oh, thank you. It’s Pears’ soap that does it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I never use the stuff.’
‘You’re teasing me, Miss Raven,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
Bertie wobbled in looking like he’d just stepped out of a Turkish bath. ‘Oh, sorry, folks. I thought all the press bit was over.’ However, he didn’t then leave the room, but merely settled himself at the bar and had a large Scotch. He downed it before it had had a chance to become acquainted with the glass and then left without a further word.
‘Thank you, Miss Raven,’ said Mary, standing up and drawing the interview to an end. ‘You’ve been most co-operative.’
‘That’s quite all right. If you could send me a printed copy, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Of the finished product when it appears?’ she verified.
‘That’s right.’
‘Certainly.’
Stella bumped into Bertie on the way out. He was loitering in the corridor with a self-satisfied grin stretched across his face. ‘I’ve had a call from Cranbourn Mansions,’ he gargled. ‘They’re thrilled with the advance, and—’
‘So they bloody well should be,’ snapped Stella. ‘Look, Bertie, I’m not a front-of-house person. I never turn to complain to them if things go a bit wrong. I have no interest in them, just as they have no real personal interest in me. I’m glad the figures are good, just as I’m glad I’m getting paid, but after that I really wouldn’t care if they all hung ’emselves.’
Bertie didn’t know what to say. He slipped a soaking hand around her waist and it made her wince. He’d never before met such a no-messing female. ‘So don’t tell me every time they go making a phone call about the business,’ she continued. ‘Just tell me if they ring with a good idea for the panto, or that the advance is so good they can give the chorus girls an extra pound a week each.’
This short explosion was doing her good. She’d been feeling tense since arriving in Leeds. She’d needed to let off some steam, and the awful Bertie was the ideal target to let it off on. ‘I’ve no need to know that business is good, because if it wasn’t I would be out before you could say – before you could say I don’t know what.’
Bertie felt as if he’d drown in his own perspiration. He stood hunched and immobile beside her, wearing a set grin that made him look as if he had lockjaw. He knew that he mustn’t offend the star. If he did, then he knew that Moss Empires would crucify him. If her getting explosive with him maintained the smooth running of the show, who was he to take offence?
The advance was all that mattered, and that was the best it had ever been. ‘And another thing,’ she said, in summing up. ‘If you carry on getting fresh with me I’ll give you a firm kick between your legs, and I’ll make sure that you get your job here shoved up your arse.’ He quickly released his grip on her waist. ‘Is that plain enough speaking for you?’
He wiped his face as he watched her drift away. ‘Wow, what a girl,’ he told the empty corridor. He fell into the circle bar again. He needed another drink more than he’d ever needed another drink.
Still inside was Mary Holt. She was sitting by a window, rereading her notes. ‘Hi, Mary. Still working?’
‘So it seems, Bertie. So it seems.’
‘Want one for the road?’ He tossed a glance at the bar. ‘Not for me, thanks, Bertie,’ she smiled. She held up her pad. ‘I’ve deadlines to meet.’ It didn’t stop Bertie having one.
‘And how did you get on with Lady Muck?’
Mary had met Bertie on several occasions, most of them in this very bar, and she’d always found him lacking in subtlety. ‘Not bad,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure I understood all she said. I believe she was pulling my leg for much of the time.’
‘Bloody hard lady, that,’ he said, from new-found experience. ‘Anyway, the advance is good, and that’s all I have to worry about, Mary.’
‘Yes, I know, Bertie, I know.’
Slowly he rose from his chair, leaving a damp patch where he’d been sitting. Then quickly he poured another nip down his throat with about as much grace as a nervous sword-swallower. They left the room together.
Before making her entrance on-stage on the opening night Stella peered through a hole in the manager’s prompt-corner. It was a small peep-hole that enabled artistes to view the audience without the audience knowing it. It was statutory in most theatres.
The view spanned all of the stalls and the boxes that flanked the left side of the auditorium. It was a packed house. Even every box was full – all, that is, except for one. Inside this particular box sat a very still figure. In the dimness she could make out he was extraordinarily well dressed and very dignified-looking. ‘How come there’s only one bloke up there?’ she asked Bertie in a low voice.
‘No idea, my love. We’re sold out and the box is fully paid for.’
He turned to the electrician. ‘Stand by, Fred.’ He turned back to Stella, who was now concentrating on the stage. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
How odd that one man should take over a complete box, she kept thinking.
‘Good luck.’
‘Ooh, don’t. It’s bad luck to say good luck.’
She licked her lips as her entrance music started and, for the umpteenth time, straightened her tights. The midget, who was playing Tommy the cat, ran onto the stage ahead of her, rolled over onto his back, and, with his paw, waved Stella – the star of the show – on to greet her first audience.
She looked fantastic as Whittington, with her blonde hair cut extremely short to give her the appearance of being male. But it had a paradoxical effect: it accentuated her beauty – the perfect oval shape of her face; the long, slender gracefulness of her swan-like neck. Though diminutive in stature, she was woman personified.
Her ovation was tremendous. Two of the three circle lights hit her. She gave herself to the audience – the ever-demanding audience – through a radiant, professional smile. She knew they’d be walking back through the rain to the glum reality of their tiny, basic homes, which is why she’d conditioned herself to shine the best she could, every time she was on-stage. They’d paid to see her – to escape that reality for however brief a moment in time – and it was her duty, therefore, to send them home feeling they’d been entertained. It was no more than what she would have expected.
