101 Pieces of Me (7 page)

I did not know how to answer. I stole a look at Aidan, who gave me a bemused smile, half-obscured by cigarette smoke. I decided the smile was insolent and did not return it. I had no wish to smile at him; in fact, I wished the lawyers had
not
been so competent. My life would be a great deal easier if I did not have to contend with Aidan every day! For him to be sacked, how much more “untoward” would his behaviour have to be than what we had witnessed tonight?

David raised his voice. “Very well, everyone,” he announced wearily. “Thank you very much. Seven o’clock start tomorrow, as usual.”

W
e dispersed. I submitted to Maria’s undressing and re-dressing like a doll, my mind busy. I slathered cold cream over my face and neck and removed my make-up, then reapplied foundation, lipstick and eyeliner. I no longer ventured outside my hotel bedroom without what my mam would call my “slap”. An actress had to look like an actress.

Maria handed me my hat and the fox fur I had bought with my first week’s salary. Every society lady had a fox fur, though no one in Haverth had ever worn one, to my knowledge. Mine was very beautiful, the tail sleek and voluminous, the body cosy against my neck, the skull-less head expertly moulded to appear as it had in life. It had a tortoiseshell clip under its tail which, when I wound it round myself, fitted into the open mouth, securing the fur. When I put it on I always felt utterly grown-up, as far removed as possible from the young girl in the second-hand shoes who had waved to the camera on a newsreel only a few months ago.

Once my hat was pinned on and we had checked my stockings for ladders and my shoes for scuffs, Maria opened the dressing-room door for me to pass through. My car would be waiting. “Good evening, Miss Hope,” she said.

I felt unsettled and inexplicably depressed. What if the animosity between Aidan and the rest of us were to appear on screen despite Aidan’s acting skills? What if the money men didn’t like the film, or it didn’t get finished, and everything went wrong? My career as a film actress would be over without anyone even knowing my name. Mam and Da and Frank would be crushingly disappointed, And I would be heartbroken.

The car drew up and the driver opened the door for me. I got in but had barely settled myself when the door on the other side opened and David slid into the seat beside me. “Good God, Clara, I need a drink!” He leaned across me to speak to the driver. “Eddie, the Ritz!”

D
avid took a cigarette from the silver case he always carried with him and felt in his pockets for matches. When he had lit the cigarette he drew on it with satisfaction, then slumped in the seat and let his head loll backwards. “Jesus, what a day! Aidan really is impossible.” He glanced at me. “Oh, I’m so sorry” – he waved the cigarette case – “should I have offered you one?”

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

He put the case in his pocket. “You will. Now, tell me truthfully. Are you happy?”

“Happy?” I was not sure what he meant. “Er … yes, of course.”

“Despite that ridiculous fellow?”

I hesitated. What did he wish me to say? That I would tolerate Aidan’s behaviour for the sake of the actual takes, during which he outacted me, or that I would prefer a different leading man, or perhaps that I cared not a bit one way or another? Before I could speak, David rolled his head sideways and looked at me. “No, I should not have asked you that. You are too professional to criticize him to me.”

I returned his look. My heart thudded a little, thrilled by the ease of his manner. It was delightful to be treated as the grown-up I was beginning to consider myself. I took in once again how handsome he was and felt my colour rise, though in the semi-darkness of the car he probably could not see it. “Do not say that, David,” I told him. “I am not professional at all, you know. I have never had an acting lesson in my life.” Now it had started, the confession I longed to make tumbled out. “I just muddle through, hoping I am doing the right thing and that I will not make too much of a fool of myself.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” David leaned forward and faced me, his knees touching mine. “Do you think I chose you merely because you are young and very beautiful and would look pretty on the screen?”

Very beautiful!
My heart leapt to my throat. I could not speak. But David answered his own question. “Of course not! When I saw that newsreel, I had no idea that I would pick anyone out of it. I was not talent scouting – I was really only half watching it, to tell the truth – but that glimpse of you was enough. I telephoned to Bunniford that very moment.” He began to act it, using his director’s voice. “‘Get me that girl in the unflattering hat who appears about ninety seconds in!’ I told him. ‘I want her for my next picture!’” He moved even closer to me, and spoke in his ordinary voice. “The fact is, Clara, my dear, though you were on the screen for only one hundred and one frames, I went over those one hundred and one frames several times, and each time I grew more convinced you are an actress by nature. All the training in the world cannot better that, you know.”

I had calmed a little, and could breathe. But I was mystified. “Frames?” I asked. “Like a frame round a painting, you mean?”

He laughed delightedly and puffed on his cigarette. As he exhaled, the smoke went up my nose and I coughed. “My dear child,” said David, waving the cloud of smoke away, “has no one explained? Then allow me!”

H
e rested his cigarette on the ashtray so that he could use his hands to demonstrate. “A film is a long strip of pictures taken by the camera. You see the camera operator winding the reel of film through as he films, do you not?”

I nodded. David held up the palm of his left hand and made rolling movements over it with his right. “Well, when the film is shown, it is passed over a light at the correct speed, and the pictures seem to move.” He picked up his cigarette and flicked the ash off the end. “Each second, twenty-four frames pass over the light, which is the speed that gives the most natural-looking movement we can achieve.”

I considered this. “So the one hundred and one frames during which I was on the newsreel took … about four seconds to show?”

“Roughly, yes. Good God, Eddie!” he admonished the driver, “are you driving a car or a
horse
? Faster, man!”

“Four seconds?”
I was amazed. I counted four seconds to myself as I sat there, trying to digest the information that such a tiny space of time had transformed my existence. The newsreel had been filmed on May Day, the first of May. Now, as I looked out of the window at the hazy August sky and the thick foliage of the hedgerows, I was filled with disbelief. How could so much have happened so quickly? Less than four months ago I had been a farmer’s daughter whose only connection with films was the Pier Pavilion Café – and my imagination. Now, I was travelling in a smart car with a fur around my neck, sitting beside a director. I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball.

“Believe me, Clara, that four seconds was enough,” said David. “You see, I had a strong suspicion that you would be good, and when I saw your screen test I knew I was right.” He straightened up in the seat and looked absently out of the window, his chin resting on his hand. In profile, intermittently lit by the slanting sunlight, his good looks took on a different aspect; I could see the muscles in his cheeks and jaw, and note how perfectly formed his ears were, and how delicate the shape of his nose. He was without doubt the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had ever tried his own hand at acting.

“I felt such an idiot,” I told him. “I was sure I would get a letter saying ‘thank you for attending, but we do not wish to see you again’.”

“You did not
look
an idiot. You looked as I had predicted: graceful in movement and expression, and able to convey emotions. You know, because the audience cannot hear their words, I always look for actors and actresses who can act ‘big’, though not so big that it becomes over-theatrical.”

The only theatrical productions I had seen were amateur ones in Aberaeron Church Hall, which had not impressed me much. “Like acting in the theatre, you mean?”

David pondered, still gazing out. The buildings had become taller and the traffic had increased; we were nearing the centre of London. “Like
some
acting in the theatre,” he said. “I have seen wonderful, realistic acting on the stage, and I have seen execrable overacting too. In films, we have to strike a balance. And you are very good at it indeed.” He turned away from the window and smiled, his thoughtful expression transforming into tenderness as I watched. “For which I shall be eternally grateful. Good actresses, who are as exquisitely formed as you in face and figure, are very difficult to find. Now, Eddie has at last got a move on. We shall be at the hotel in good time for cocktails.” He squeezed my arm. “What will you have? A gin sling?”

W
hen I described the Ritz Hotel to Mam and Da in my next letter home, I concentrated on the vastness and opulence of the building, the uniformed bell boys, the fashionable clothes I saw and the deliciousness of the dinner David and I ate there. I did not tell them that the gin sling David ordered for me tasted like medicine, so he drank it himself while I got through three much sweeter champagne cocktails before we even sat down at the table and half a bottle of wine while I was eating. Neither did I mention that as the evening went on, the crowd around us became louder and more abandoned, the waiters busier, the music faster and the atmosphere increasingly like an enormous party.

It was as if everyone there was celebrating something, though it was not a special occasion. I saw gentlemen lay ten-shilling and even pound notes down on the tables without so much as blinking. I saw ladies with silk stockings, feathered headbands and permanently waved hair smoking cigarettes in ebony holders. I saw laughing and chattering and, later on, hand-holding and kissing across tables. But most important, I was with a charming man, who, I realized with heart-stopping excitement, was himself charmed. By
me
.

It was the most enjoyable evening I had ever experienced. David was at ease with the wealth surrounding him. He was known to the hotel staff and exchanged pleasantries with them and with several groups of people who greeted him as we passed. Most delightful of all, every woman who entered the dining room noticed David. Some allowed their gaze to alight on him after a few seconds, some only after they were seated and had begun to look around. They whispered to their escorts, who would then turn as unobtrusively as they could and look at David too. He took no notice, but I allowed my imagination to race away. What must they be saying?
“Look, there is David Penn, the film director. And who is that lovely girl with him? What an exquisite fur she’s wearing!”