Crimson (25 page)

An hour later, Clare was back on the set but this time she was sitting on a canvas director’s chair. The bearlike man the producer, Sam Shapiro was sitting beside her. In contrast to the somewhat tense atmosphere on the set, he projected a careless bonhomie that was very appealing. Clare, who decided he must be around forty years old, noticed how he dominated the set, with both his big physical presence and his strong animal vigour.

“Lucky I came along today,” Sam said.

“I’m not usually on the set during productions.”

“Then how do you know what’s happening?” “I see the dailies every evening, when we pick out the best shots.”

“Then why were you here today?” Clare asked.

The man shrugged.

“Shooting’s always a tense time, but especially in the last week, so the director likes a little p when everyone’s exhausted. Tempers explode, tears !“Oow. my role tends to change from Producer to diploma” time keep everybody off each other’s throats. It’s a tough f or everyone because any A extra shots have to be squeezed into the schedule, which drives everyone crazy. In fact, we’re doing a couple of scenes here tom2ht after dark. I have to see a guy for dinner, then I’ll be back. D’you feel Rke dinner?” “I’m not dressed for dinner.” Who cares? I promise they won’t throw you out.” During the lunch break, when the cast and crew ate in the private room of a nearby pub, Sam Shapiro solved everyone’s problems with his cheerful bonhomie. He clearly loved action, excitement, and to be surrounded by people, all working on his project. Clare noticed that he was warm and generous with praise; his laughter was a roar; his ebullient, quicksilver charm was hard to resist. Behind this front of camaraderie, Sam Shapiro was shrewdly persuasive; he marshalled his arguments logically, presented them skilfully, and” seemed able to rationalize any situation to suit himself, while persuading everyone else that he was acting for the general good. Clare had never met anyone with such vitality and authority.

In spite of his agreeable persuasiveness, Clare could see that Sam had an explosive temper. When the second male lead complained of a headache and asked if he might have the afternoon off, Sam’s tightly controlled patience suddenly evaporated. He thumped the cherry plastic tabletop with his hairy fist and growled, “No. I’m not going to pay for your hangovers, Justin.” The chilling tone of voice revealed the potential violence behind Sam’s affability, which was clearly what helped to preserve discipline on the set.

Clare managed to rush back to Elinor’s flat in Chester Terrace, where she dived into her best Belinda-, Belville. black taffeta and telephoned the CND office to say that she couldn’t manage this evening.

Instead, she dined with Sam Shapiro in the crimson plush and gilt splendour of Les Ambassadeurs Club. Clare, who had never been asked out by an older man, and who barely remembered her father, was fascinated by the strength and power that Sam projected. She felt safe and protected. As he entered the restaurant, people sat up and whispered to each other.

Clare sat on the plush banquette next to Sam’s other dinner companion a small, weary-looking, neat moustached banker, whose business proposals were constantly interrupted by people who came to say hello to Sam Shapiro.

Sam whispered to Clare, “I’ve known this guy for years; he represents Paramount. I work pretty closely with their business and creative staff been under contract for the past ten years, on a per-picture basis.”

“How many films do you make a ye arT Clare asked.

“One picture every two years. That’s fairly slow, but I’m a working producer. I tend to get obsessively involved in every detail. It isn’t the most productive way to work, but it’s the only way for me.”

“Are you only in England for this film?” Sam shook his head.

“Last year I moved my base to London. Right now, Europe especially Italy and England are the cheapest, most efficient places to make movies.”

“Say! Sam Shapiro!” Another beaming dinner jacket thumped Sam on the back and looked down at the empty gilt chair.

“May IT Paramount’s banker sighed, reached across the table, and returned the sheet of figures to Sam.

“I think we’d better discuss this some other time.” He smiled at Clare, to whom he had hardly spoken. He could see what Sam pastel, ladylike look, her eva liked about her-the t charm a class act, very different from what was ble in LA.

As Sam’s navy Rolls-Royce stopped at Cargill’s Wharf, the director jumped inside.

“That bastard Justin’s drunk “He clearly had a hell of a hangover at midday,” Sam growled. 11 thought you’d have had the sense to stick close until were through with him.”

“I’m not his fucking nursemaid, Sam. I’d been going over a scene with Bill and Simone I’d like you to see it, by the way. Next thing, Justin’s lying in his dressing room surrounded by empty vodka bottles, dead to the world.”

“Has he been stomach-pumped?”

“Of course. The doctor’s still with him, but he’s not fit to work.”

“Get his agent. Check his contract. First thing tomorrow, I want details of the time he’s cost us.” Sam jumped out of the Rolls and walked fast towards the trailer dressing rooms.

Just before he reached Justin Walton’s trailer, the door was flung open: silhouetted against a yellow rectangle of light was the thin figure of the actor. He saw Sam and staggered towards him.

“Fucking big shot! Fucking stupid script! Fucking lousy money. Fucking waste of my time.” Sam did not move out of his way.

“You’re the one who’s wasting time, you stupid bastard.” Justin pulled back his right fist and punched at Sam. For a heavy man, Sam dodged nimbly. He grabbed the actor by the collar and called to the director.

“For Chrissake, don’t let anyone hit him! If his face is marked, it’ll cost us more lost time. Get the handcuffs and hose him down until he’s fit to work.”

“Okay, okay.” 2o6 “No, wait!” Sam shouted.

“I’ve got a better idea!” With one swift move, he pinned the drunken actor’s arms behind his back, then frOg marched him-to the edge of the wharf and shoved him into the cold black water.

Then Sam said, “Someone dive in and haul him out. it he drowns, we’ll be even more over budget., By one o’clock in the morning the scheduled scenes were, miraculously, in the can, and Sam remembered Clare. He walked over to the edge of the set, where she sat, wrapped in a topaz velvet cloak, U’m sorry. This wasn’t the sort of evening I had in mind, Clare. But we’re finished here now, so what would you like to do? Dancing? The Orchid Room? The Four Hundred?, Clare, who wanted to seem like a sophisticated woman of twenty-six, said, “How about a gambling ga meT “Whatever you want. Where?” Clare swiftly telephoned the only other older man she knew: Adam agreed to take Clare and her chap to Mike’s gambling game, one of the most popular in London. It had been over a year since a court had ruled in favour of a man who had been charged for keeping a common gambling house at a London flat. Since then, the police had turned a blind eye to smart gambling parties, which, it was thought, would shortly be legalized. Sam who enjoyed an occasional gamble, took some time to lose, a hundred pounds at chemin defer at which point he stopped playing. He and Clare wandered to the roulette table.

Adam looked up.

“I don’t know what’s got into this wheel tonight. I’ve lost a packet. I’d better see Mike.” Mike reluctantly agreed to a further loan.

“But watch it, Adam,” he warned.

“You’re near your credit limit and they won’t extend it.”

“Rubbish! They know I bring well-heeled punters to their And they’re making a fortune from me!” As Adam larger sums, the interest on the money he borrowed been increased to one per cent a week. Mike didn’t hide his worried look.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” “I hear you’ve been to see Dad,” Adam said.

Mike followed his train of thought.

“Yes, yesterday. But lies not going to kick the bucket yet.” The previous month, lot Grant, now over sixty, had fractured his breastbone when his Mercedes rammed a bus. The fracture was relatively unimportant, but, beneath it, the damage to heart and lungs was serious.

“I’m going home again this weekend. Like to comeT Mike offered.

“I’m trying out a new bike.” Mike still kept every bike he had ever owned. No longer housed in a potting shed, the elderly bikes were sumptuously stabled in an immaculate garage at the end of Eaton Terrace, alongside Mike’s Manx Norton single-cylinder racer; his Norton Inter, with its high-torque overhead cam engine; and the quick but noisy BSA Gold Star, Mike’s cross-country bike, used for weekend scrambling with the boys.

“You and your bikes,” Adam said, half indulgent, half contemptuous. He was more impressed by Mike’s success than he cared to admit. Adam felt astonished, irritated, and humiliated by his younger brother’s prosperity and his house in Eaton Terrace. At the age of twenty-eight, Adam still earned a pittance in his dark and stuffy lawyer’s office, where he was only just being trusted to handle important clients. In contrast, Mike effortlessly earned a fortune, and seemed to live at a permanent luxurious party, surrounded by beautiful people.

“How was Mother when you were ho meT Adam changed the subject.

“She hasn’t missed one bridge game since Dad’s accident,” Mike said.

“She’s reached the Surrey County semifinal.”

Sam and Clare approached to say goodnight. After they left, Mike commented, “He seems a bit old for Clare.” 11 “She’s unlikely to meet a teenage film producer,” Adam said.

“Shapiro produced Windjammer and Whaler.”

“Those Humphrey Bogart film sT Mike was intrigued.

Sam was not so. intrigued by the two brothers.

Clare was disappointed.

“I could see you didn’t like them. But why not?” she asked, settling into the soft pigskin comfort of the Rolls.

“Adam seems too terribly, terribly British to be true,” Sam said.

Clare laughed.

“You mean too handsome!” Men were frequently jealous of Adam’s lean good looks, his big dark eyes and almost blue-black hair that still flopped boyishly over his forehead.

Sam shook his head.

“Good-looking guys are a dime a dozen in LA,” he said.

“There’s something odd about Adam. And his brother. Mike’s the type who gets a charge from taking risks.” In the shadowy privacy of the limousine, he put his arm firmly around . Clare’s topaz velvet shoulders.

INo, it’s Adam who takes risks. Mike never gambles,” Clare said.

“I didn’t mean that sort of risk.” Gently he tilted Clare’s chin up towards his mouth.

FRIDAY, 30 MAY 1958 “I’d like to come home for tea just once and not find the house full of strangers!” Miranda fumed, after the departure of Elinor’s last guest.

“I only have tea parties on weekdays.”

“Gran, you have tea parties every weekday!”

Elinor shut the heavy front door and turned to look at who stood, scowling, beneath the portrait of the sisters painted the year before by Pietro Annigoni. or wished that Miranda more resembled her demure painted likeness.

Elinor turned away from the triple portrait and snidled at Miranda.

“Surely I can invite my friends to my own home? Be reasonable. They only come for an hour or two.”

“Friends? Publishers, journalists, fans, strangers!” Mirsaid crossly.

“Sometimes I can’t decide whether I’m living in my home or your publicity centre.” I “My visitors sell and buy my books, so they help pay for your home,” Elinor reproved.

“And it doesn’t take up much time.” Elinor entertained from four o’clock to half past five: this did not interfere with her writing and was a relatively inexpensive way to play hostess to many people every year.

Delighted visitors were met at the station by a chauffeur in a claret-coloured uniform at the wheel of her white Rolls. Over tea served in the oldfashioned way, on a big mahogany table in the dining room, Elinor effortlessly kept in touchw’ith her publishers, most of whom were now accustomed to making this pilgrimage to Wiltshire whenever business took them to Britain. She listened carefully to their opinions because she knew that to achieve the star status of a best-seller writer, it took the right book published by the right publisher, at the right price, at the right time and the right, expensive promotion: Elinor’s contractual conditions had taken years to establish, and now before she signed their contracts her publishers were requested to outline their promotional plans over the tea table.

Elinor’s tea parties also provided her with useful feedback. She particularly liked to check the response of her visitors to the jacket design of her next book. Elinor had spent a lot of time observing

bookshop customers, trying to learn what attracted them to a book and the jacket wA,slvrucial.

So, no matter how it bothered Miranda, Elinor couldn’t give up her tea parties. Looking at her granddaughter now, she said without conviction, “You know you love parties, Miranda. All girls do!”

“Not me!” Miranda shook her head.

“You’d like to think that, Gran, but I hate your literary tea parties almost as much as I hate the smart London ones. As a matter of fact, I hate being a debl”

“How can you say that, you ungrateful child? The season’s only just started!”

“I’ve had enough of it to know that I’m bored by an endless round of parties at which the same people say the same things.”

“Most girls” Elinor began.

“Would give the eyes out of their head for a chance to be a debutante! I know, I know! But not me!” Miranda preferred to sneak off to the jazz club at i oo Oxford Street, or the socially unacceptable and totally forbidden Hammersmith Palais, where she could dance to rock and roll.

“After all the trouble I’ve taken.. Elinor fumed.

-And all the money you’ve spend” Miranda nodded. 11 don’t want you to waste any more time or money on me, Gran.”

“You haven’t been a debutante long enough to decide whether you like it or not! Once you get to know the people better.

“I’ll be yawning more!” Miranda said firmly.

“If I asked one of those deb’s delights what he thought of Harold Pinter’s dialogue, or how much MJQ was influenced by Bach, he’d look at me as if I’d tried to bite him!”