Stella, page 19
‘What theatre is it going to be at?’ she asked, in a dulcet voice. The club where they were at was renowned for its showbusiness clientele: it was very risky to talk secrets.
Mike looked either side of him then bent forward. ‘The Windmill,’ he whispered.
‘But that’s all nude women,’ she said, and a passing waiter raised and dropped his eyebrows in one motion.
‘Well, don’t ask me. I’m only the agent, remember. I’m sure Henry will tell you all when he feels ready to.’
‘I’ve made you go all secretive, haven’t I?’ she teased. Mike smiled, but he made no further comment.
The following morning they were both called into Henry’s office to be told what they both already knew. ‘I’ve got some grand news for you, Stella. That is, we think it’s good news, don’t we, Mike?’
‘Yes, Henry.’ Mike was standing bolt-upright beside Henry’s chair. He looked like the headmaster’s head prefect – Henry being the headmaster. ‘Go on, Mike. Tell her all about it.’ Henry enjoyed other people explaining his own ideas.
‘We’re putting on a big variety show; one of the biggest this country’s seen,’ he said.
‘Really?’ smiled Stella, and Mike had to smile back.
Henry said, ‘We certainly are, my dear’, unaware that they were sharing a private joke.
‘And anyway,’ continued Mike, pulling himself together, ‘it will be at the Windmill, date unknown, but likely to be around late August, early September. It will just run the week, and the opening night – Buck Palace willing – will be a Royal show.’
‘A Royal show?’ she queried.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, taking over. He loved talking about royalty when it involved him. ‘We’re hoping to have a member of the Royal Family attend the opening show. Apparently, you’re quite a favourite there.’ She was very flattered to hear that.
Henry lined her up along his smooth cigar. What was her reaction going to be? She said, ‘Let me just get this right.’ Henry’s head nodded behind the smoke cloud. ‘You want me to star in this huge show?’
‘Correct,’ confirmed Henry.
‘Well,’ she finally sighed. ‘What can one say to such an offer, other than, do I get any comps?’
Henry roared with laughter, and Mike felt obliged to do the same thing. ‘Only you, Stella Raven, could worry about such a minor point when considering such a major proposition.’ He would have nudged Mike in the ribs if his colleague had been standing nearer. ‘Isn’t that right, Mike?’
‘Yes, Henry.’
Their laughter was infectious, and she found herself joining in, though she didn’t see what was so funny: all she wanted was a handful of comps. That sounded straightforward enough. ‘The show does sound really great,’ she admitted. ‘Other than the nitty-gritty details—’
‘Like comps?’ interjected Henry.
‘Yes, like comps,’ she said. ‘Other than all of that, you can count me in. I’d love to star in your show.’
By standing up, Henry was signifying the meeting was at a close. ‘Very good, my child. Mike will remain here with you and go through the finer points. I, alas, have business elsewhere to contend with.’
Henry kissed her hand and marched out, grabbing his jacket from behind the door as he went. ‘Just how many comps are you wanting?’ asked Mike, after Henry had gone. Stella looked to the floor and delayed answering for a moment.
Then she said, ‘Just four will do. Two for my parents and two for my sister and her Tommy.’
Mike had long known of the disassociation between the two sisters and his face couldn’t conceal his surprise. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, in answer to his looks. ‘I’ve decided I’ve been stupid holding this grudge with Sadie. I was badly hurt by her once, that’s all. I’d like to make up with her now, though, and I’m sure that’s what she wants.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Mike, cheerfully. He wished he and his wife could make up. They hadn’t talked properly to each other for weeks, and all he could see ahead of him was divorce. How he wished he was married to Stella.
‘Sadie saw me last in Manchester,’ she went on. ‘It would be nice if she could see me topping a big West End show. She could even stay on for a few days and meet Bernard, maybe.’
She stood up to leave. She felt it was unfair to prattle on too long to Mike all about her problems. ‘When do you need me next?’ she asked him.
Tonight, in my bed, he said, but only to himself. He knew for sure that there was no chance of it ever happening or he’d have said it aloud. ‘There’s a chorus being put together at the Camden Dance Hall,’ he told her. ‘They’re going through the paces there tomorrow morning, if you’d like to pop in and take a look. Then we hope to commence rehearsals in three weeks from now.’
‘Three weeks! That sounds a long way off from August.’
‘The reason for that,’ said Mike, ‘is we intend giving it a trial fortnight at the Alhambra, Bradford. We stand to do well out of it, and it’ll also give us the chance to iron out any unforeseen problems.’
‘Bradford,’ she sighed, miserably. ‘I suppose I couldn’t have expected all good news.’ She didn’t really mind too much. It was more done to let Mike know that in future she’d like to be told these things before they’d been arranged. ‘And when does Bradford happen?’
‘Not long before London, so we can roll into town and straight into the big week.’
Mike held the door open for her as she moved towards it. ‘The producer will be there, tomorrow,’ he smiled, and she didn’t know why.
‘What producer?’
‘Ever heard of Woody Woodville?’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous,’ she said, with genuine delight.
The first person she set eyes on was the evergreen Lester. He was standing by the dance-room entrance, like a dark column supporting that part of the building. ‘Back to work again, Lester,’ she whispered, sneaking up behind him. He squinted at her.
‘Why, Miss Raven,’ he said, finally remembering who she was.
She glanced inside the room. The piano could be heard and she could see a group of girls tapping to the rhythm. ‘Is he in there?’ she asked. Loud, decisive clapping brought the piano to a halt and the girls with it. Woody emerged in front of them.
‘Awful, girls; truly awful. Now, let’s take it from the top, once more. And let’s get it right, huh?’
Lester grinned a toothless grin. ‘I guess you could say he’s in, missy,’ he chuckled.
Five minutes later Woody gave the girls a break and rushed up to greet Stella. ‘Stella, Stella, Stella, honey,’ he droned, and proceeded to give her a facial scrub with his strong, moist lips.
A couple of the chorus recognised who she was and asked her for autographs. Woody walked her away from the hall and into the outer room where they could have a little privacy. ‘I’ll be here all day,’ he explained, ‘but how about a little dinner tonight? We can talk about the show over lobster and some champagne.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said, and with a nod at the chorus, playfully added, ‘if you can manage to tear yourself away.’
He grinned. He had been dying to remind her how perfect his teeth were. ‘Hey, kid, I gave all that kind of thing up. People were having trouble telling me and Lester apart.’ She didn’t believe him for a moment.
‘Now that’s what I call lobster,’ said Woody, pushing the red shell and its remnants to one side. Stella wasn’t as fast an eater. ‘More champagne,’ he ordered a waiter, who, with a short bow, disappeared to carry out the instruction.
Woody always ate at Rogues near Leicester Square when he was dining out in London. It had become his favourite fish restaurant and also the staff treated him very well, as they did all their generous-tipping regulars.
Stella didn’t make any reference to Nola, though she was surprised how unaffected he seemed by the whole trauma. That is, it hadn’t sent him prematurely grey or made him into a nervous person. He was just the same old Woody she had always known. It made her wonder if he’d been in similar dire situations before.
Woody was keen to hear more about Bernard and his business interests in the States. He thought he must have been a great man to have captured the heart of Stella Raven. She wasn’t quite so keen to talk about Bernard, as she was greatly worried about him. Three weeks had gone, and she hadn’t received news of any kind.
‘He’s a good husband, and I know he loves me very much,’ she said. ‘But he’s very weak at times, and it worries me. I feel sure he’s going to get himself into big trouble, if he hasn’t done so already.’
‘Can’t you contact him?’ he asked. She shook her head.
‘He moves around a lot over there. I’d never be able to track him down to one place.’
Woody said, ‘You’re a strong-willed girl, Stella. I’m sure you’ll keep it all together ’til he’s home.’
‘At times I’m not so strong as people think,’ she said, looking distantly into her empty glass.
The champagne was brought to the table. It was Taittinger and, like the restaurant, was one of Woody’s favourites. He filled their long, tulip glasses to the brim, and instantly the level dropped to just above the centre crest that depicted an armed knight astride a stallion.
‘In fact, there are times I get very down and depressed. I suppose I miss being looked after by Bernard. He was always about to run around for me, and now at the moment, he, of course, isn’t.’ She looked up. ‘My sister used to look after me before our big bust-up.’
‘And do you miss your little sister?’ he asked, knowing the answer before it had been delivered.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, with much confidence.
Woody gave a long sigh and adjusted the cuffs on his double-breasted, double-vented blazer that bore the crest of Oxford University. He’d never studied there, but once, when driving through Oxford, had paid a student a large sum of money to have it. He enjoyed the traditional things of England – like Oxford University. ‘Well, honey, I’m your man to lift those blues away.’
‘Thanks, Woody,’ she smiled. For a second, she half-expected him to burst into a musical routine right then and there.
He nearly did, as he added, ‘Just a song, just a smile, can last as long, as a mile.’ He smiled at her, full of self-pride. ‘You like that?’
‘I loved that.’
‘It’s my own composition, you know.’
‘No, really?’
When they stood up to leave she found her legs were quavering. ‘Come back and see my pad,’ he suggested. ‘It’s sensational.’ After being partly responsible for the consumption of two large gin martinis and two bottles of champagne she was agreeable to go back anywhere with almost anyone.
She managed to fall out onto the street without making it too obvious what condition she was in. All she knew was that she’d never felt so unco ordinated in her life. ‘Annie. I must ring Annie,’ she told him, at least six times.
‘No sweat. I’ve a phone in my apartment.’ Woody waved down a cab.
‘Are you all right, Miss Stella?’ asked a concerned Annie down the line. ‘You sound awful happy, like.’
‘Is that such a bad thing, Annie?’ she said, sleepily.
‘Where are you?’
‘At Mr Woodville’s. We’re working on the new show. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t bother waiting up.’
‘Don’t go drinking too much while you’re working,’ warned Annie. ‘It’s the devil’s own water is alchy, alcho, alichy – drink.’
‘Okay, Sadie – I mean, Annie. I’ll see you in the morning. Bye.’
She attempted to hang up, missed, tried again and made it. Annie delayed for a moment before hanging up. Then, with a shake of the head, she finally did so. ‘This is what showbusiness does to you,’ she muttered, and went back to her knitting. She would be glad when Mr Goldman returned to look after his wife.
Calmly, Stella stripped off all her clothes and threw her naked body across Woody’s double bed. Within seconds her breathing was slow and regular. She wouldn’t be waking up for quite some time.
‘I’ve poured you a brandy, honey. You like brandy . . . ?’ Woody had always considered himself to be the unshockable type, but just for a moment he was quite taken aback. He stepped closer and perched himself beside her.
It’s sure as hell tempting, he thought. But he knew there were rules about that sort of thing. He couldn’t resist, though, running a slow hand the length of her prone, slender body, bringing it to rest on her left breast. He knew it was unlikely he would have the opportunity again.
My, I can feel the girl’s heart-beat. He couldn’t see her breast, but he could feel the nipple becoming unconsciously erect. ‘Now there’s the miracle of human nature,’ he said aloud, and with a long, heavy sigh, he pulled back one of the covers and put it over her as far as her shoulders. He kissed her back and said, ‘You rest easy, honey.’
Throwing back her brandy, he knew that, come morning, he’d have as big a headache as she would.
When the lights went out, Lester, who had been watching through a crack in his door, whispered to himself, ‘The man’s improving.’
‘So who do we go for, then?’ said Henry Charles, as he paced his office, with a touch of irritation about him that morning. Mike licked an index finger and wiped away a dirty smear on his left, highly polished brogue.
‘It’s a big show,’ he replied. ‘We could use a big name. That would help give it a little glamour. It’s all looking a little too English at the moment, I think.’
‘What name?’
‘An American, perhaps? Audiences love well-known Americans.’
‘It’s an idea,’ said Henry, as though that was just about all it was. ‘My own philosophy is to give the star what they want. If the star’s happy, then the show is invariably right. In other words, we need to give Stella a name she would enjoy working with.’
Their dilemma was that the male singer – James Maitland – had had to withdraw from both the Bradford and London performances due to sudden unavailability: he was dead.
Henry gazed across the grey blur that was London as seen from his office window. ‘How about that Shipton character?’
‘Shipton? You mean, Milton Keens. That’s who he became.’
‘Can we get hold of him? Is he available?’
Mike stalled in answering. He had reservations. Keens was no big deal.
‘Do you mean, you want me to get hold of him?’
‘Yes, why not?’ said Henry, with a loose flick of the hand. ‘She likes him, and he does a fair act, as I recall.’
‘But there’s bigger fish who’d give their lives to be in the show,’ he argued.
‘I know all that, Mike,’ he said, using the soft tone he always used when wanting to humour his junior partner. ‘Thing is, though, we have quite a selection of names, so let’s just watch the budget for a change, eh?’
‘If you say so,’ said Mike, with clear disagreement in his voice.
‘I say so.’
Henry wheezed on his cigar as the smoke filtered down the wrong way. ‘Jesus, these things are killing me. I’ve got to give it up.’ Mike smiled.
‘Sure, Henry.’
‘And now, other business,’ said Henry, as he picked up a blue folder off his desk. ‘What’s the latest on the Laurel and Hardy dates, then?’
‘They’re looking good,’ said Mike. ‘I think Stan and Ollie underestimate their own popularity. The fans will be swarming when the ship comes into Southampton, let alone outside the hotel and theatres.’
‘You’d better organise something, then,’ suggested Henry. ‘You know the kind of thing – a decoy or something equally melodramatic. Maybe even a hotel-change.’
Mike gave a weak smile as he wondered how it was he always got landed with the worst jobs. ‘Leave it with me, Henry.’
Before Henry Charles had even left the land of dreams that morning the assumed realisation of the night just gone was dawning on Stella. Her throat was as dry as a sack of coke, and her head thumped like it had a heart of its own. She squinted as a bar of light caught her puffy face through a crack in the curtains. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was.
Am I in Hollywood? she thought.
She turned painfully on her side and leapt back when discovering a black, naked body beside her. ‘Bernard?’ she whispered, then told herself not to be so stupid.
Sitting up, she found her evening clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor and an empty brandy glass wedged into one of her shoes. Apprehensively, she raised the sheet that covered her. It was as she had dreaded: she was naked. ‘What have I been doing?’ she cried aloud, and Woody grunted in his ‘hungover’ sleep.
Memories continued to flood back, and with each one she felt a little more sickened with herself. You stupid, stupid girl. You’ve ruined everything: the show, your working relationship with Woody – and poor Bernard. My darling Bernard, I’m so, so sorry.
She dressed with silent control and, giving Woody a last, and slightly reproachful, look, slipped out of the apartment and into the quiet morning street.
I can remember when I had morals, she told herself. When Sadie and me were working together, nothing like this would ever have happened. We hardly even talked to people in the show outside of working hours. What have I become?
Eventually finding a cab near Charing Cross Station, she told herself that she was no better than a prostitute. She was sure the driver thought the same thing, as his gaze lingered on her suspiciously dishevelled state.
When reaching her flat she found she hadn’t got a key. It meant waking Annie up, who, in any case, had been awake half the night worrying about her.
‘You’re back, at last,’ she said.
‘Sorry, Annie. It was a long party and I got held up in heavy conversations.’
Why am I making excuses? It must be guilt.
She went to her bathroom. She hoped a long bath would cleanse her mind as well as her body. ‘I’ll make us a nice cuppa,’ yawned Annie, still half-asleep.
