Family and Friends (19 page)

B
ETTY SPENDS
a lot of time reflecting on the meanness of people, their selfishness, their lack of humanity. ‘Lack of humanity’ is her rather noble way of putting it; what she really objects to is the fact that she is not having the good time she always promised herself. Sitting beside her swimming pool, in lime-green lounging pyjamas, she ruminates on various grievances in the hot and characterless garden in which she finds herself permanently exiled. To begin with, she never wanted to come to Beverly Hills, which is not at all to her liking. On the boat, a new bride, she had been deliriously happy. Not only had she married a handsome young husband, but the first days of her married life had passed in an endless and intoxicating whirl of cocktails, dances, fancy-dress parties, keep-fit classes and deck games which made of life a prolongation of that childhood she had been so anxious to shed. It seemed to her then, in the slight atmosphere of hysteria engendered by the panic from which they were all escaping, that if life could go on like this she would never grumble again. Her eyes like dark glass after so many cocktails, so many late nights, her hair blown into a halo by the strong Atlantic air, her bangles slipping up and down her thin arms, her flimsy chiffon blouses – in peach, in coffee, in lilac – tossed carelessly all over the cabin, Betty, in the early days of her marriage,
revealed an inventiveness, a love of pleasure, which finally subjugated the obdurate Max who became temporarily enslaved by his wife. What Betty did not know was that Max, who was rather like his uncle in this respect, particularly savoured that wild unstudied side of her nature that could turn, with equally keen appetite, from simple physical greed to the stern and unforgiving appraisal of her appearance before some evening party, when, at her dressing-table, she would moisten her lips, narrow her eyes, take up her mirror and study her reflection from every angle. When she was obsessed with herself in this way Betty would brush Max aside as if he had suddenly become unimportant, as indeed he had, for Betty’s concentration on her desires, her looks, her performance, was unvarying. Both uncle and nephew would delight in ordering some dish for her and watching her, as, dainty as a cat, she would eat her way through it, deaf and blind to what was being said or done in her presence. At moments like these Max would congratulate himself on having snared an original, a little animal who would keep him amused for as long as any woman had ever kept him amused, which was not very long, but, in his view, long enough.

Betty, of course, was building herself up for her future, for her great career on the screen. To this end, she practised those emotions which she did not feel. So that, in between the bouts of frenetic dancing and the late nights and the dressing up, all of which came entirely naturally, Betty would languish and sigh and flirt with anyone who came near. None of this troubled Max, who knew exactly what was going on, but it got her rather a bad name as far as the other passengers were concerned. Betty put this down to sheer jealousy on the part of women whose husbands had become assiduous in their attention to her; little did those husbands know that it was in the interests
of making an entrance that Betty would stroll languorously on to the first-class deck at eleven every morning, and, twisting her key in her hand, would enquire, with the slightest hint of a lisp, ‘Now which of you kind gentlemen is going to find me a nice chair? I feel really lazy today.’ And, the chair having been found, she would stretch out, purr like a cat, and hitch up her white linen skirt, revealing her firmly muscled little legs and her dancer’s feet in tiny white shoes. This was all that she intended. Having made her entrance, she was quite content to let the whole thing lapse until it was time to make another. But various men in blazers were apt to hover around, distracting her and annoying their wives. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ Betty would say, opening her eyes wide, when Mr Markus hinted that she should be more discreet. ‘I can’t help it if they all want to be with me. I didn’t ask them to sit with me, did I?’ And she would have no hesitation in blaming the women, whom she would describe as mean and selfish, the terms that she would later apply to all those who cast a shadow on her progress through life.

New York, predictably, enchanted her. She was so gloriously, so outrageously happy when Mr Markus took her for her first walk down Madison Avenue that he was genuinely touched, and, seeing her clasp the collar of her poor little fur jacket to her throat in unthinking rapture, he abandoned his usual mood of fairly gloomy impassivity, took her into a shop, and bought her a proper fur coat. That was probably her happiest time. When Mr Markus took her into Central Park, thinking to amuse her with the zoo and the children, she tugged at his arm, turned her face pleadingly upward, and begged, ‘Couldn’t we just look at the shops?’ When Mr Markus and Max were busy seeing people in the film world, all of whom seemed to Betty to be as gloomy as Mr Markus himself, she
would cheerfully go out alone, and in the crystal light of late autumn, would promenade deliciously up and down Madison Avenue, Park Avenue, or (her favourite) Fifth Avenue, as if there were no more to New York than those three beautiful streets, and as if she had been destined to wear a fine fur coat and idle her days away, buying perhaps a bottle of scent or a pair of gloves or wondering where to get her hair done. Money seemed to be fairly easily available, and Betty spent lavishly. One day, she thought, she must send a little present home to her mother, and possibly her sister. But they had such boringly correct taste that Betty really wondered if they would appreciate what New York had to offer. She would take a look through the big department stores, to see if there were anything plain enough to suit them. She would do that any day now. But in the meantime, that white silk kimono with the pattern of black feathers scattered all over it, that would go beautifully with her own more forceful looks.

Had they been able to stay in New York, Betty might conceivably have gone on being happy. When it became clear that in order to find work Mr Markus and Max would have to move to California, Betty even suggested that they go on ahead, leaving her in New York to await their return. She did not understand that the film industry required their constant presence, particularly as they were so dependent on their contacts and so anxious to work hard. ‘But I shan’t be able to wear my coat there,’ she objected. The delights of Hollywood were briefly described to her, and then, because she was now a Hungarian wife, and no longer allowed to be superior in temperament to her husband, who might just be a genius, she was told to pack her bags and face up to the fact that she must either make friends with the other women in the film colony or be prepared to spend a great deal of time on her own.

She did not make many friends. All the women she knew were adorable to begin with but were apt to turn mean and selfish within a very short space of time. Betty enjoyed a quarrel, but she also enjoyed having the last word, a predilection which she shared with many of the Hollywood wives who, like herself, had little to do with their days. Betty would put down the telephone triumphantly on one of these former friends, only to realize that she had forgotten to ask the name of that new hairdresser that everyone was raving about, and be forced to call back. In this way she had many acquaintances, very few of whom she trusted or who trusted her, and need never lack for company if only she would condescend to ask for it. But her constant stories about these acquaintances, and the grudges she seemed to build up so easily, became wearisome to listen to, and she began to bore her husband.

She bought clothes, dozens of them, in the light bright colours that she favoured, and she would change several times a day. Max usually brought someone home in the evening, so there was a reason to have a long scented bath at about five o’clock and get into something dramatic and floating, but after she had taken all that trouble it was too unkind of them to talk business as if she were simply not there. When Max required her to give a dinner party she came out of it rather splendidly, for most of the male guests adored her English accent and her piquant looks, and if there were enough people she need not bother with the women at all. The women, in any event, could take good care of themselves. When she idled away an afternoon with any of these women, either beside her own pool or somebody else’s, she heard talk of money, of infidelity, of settlements. This bewildered her, and she was still enough of her mother’s daughter to consider it very
mauvais genre
. After one of these afternoons, she
would treat her husband with more care and respect, would be quiet when he wanted to be quiet, and would place a little dish of sweetmeats at his elbow as he worked. All in all, Betty was a good wife. And Max, although occasionally unfaithful, had the good taste to ensure that she never learned of it. Location trips, he explained. Reno. Las Vegas. You wouldn’t enjoy it. All that sand.

One of the mean and selfish things that people do to Betty is not to send her money from England. It seems to her to be lacking in humanity that Alfred, who is, as everybody knows, a rich man, does not make her an allowance. She does not need the money, of course, but she is on the lookout for injustice. Therefore she writes to Alfred, putting in a bid for her share of ‘my father’s money’. He has become, in retrospect, her father and nobody else’s. She is so used to thinking of herself that her brothers and her sister have no reality for her. They exist in her memory, and she is incurious about their present life. In fact they serve only to fuel those anecdotes about her childhood with which she regales her friends or Max’s colleagues or, if there is nobody else immediately available, her maid or the man who comes to clean the pool. When performing this particular number at dinner parties Betty’s eyes widen and her face takes on the look of the spoilt child she has grown into. These anecdotes make an initial impact but generally fall on deaf ears. Childhood is not much valued here in Hollywood. And with so many exiles and refugees in their circle, it is not always entirely tactful to refer to her uneventful early years in such sentimental terms. ‘You never talked about your childhood when we met in Paris,’ Max says to her curiously one evening, as they are undressing for bed. ‘Why go into it now? You are getting older, not younger.’ At which she flounces into the bathroom and does not speak to him until the following day.

She never made a film, of course. The early rising, the harsh lights, the heavy make-up, would not have suited her. In any event she was never really given the choice. Mr Markus fixed up a screen test for her but oddly enough, or perhaps not, she came across as impossibly mannered, and her sultry expression merely made her look bad-tempered. Conferring with Max, Mr Markus tried to salvage Betty’s honour by offering her a very small part (‘A cameo,’ they explained to her) as a waitress in a French
estaminet
frequented by international criminals. She refused it with a certain amount of shouting and screaming and it took several days to calm her down. She had expected the lead, and to this day blames the meanness and selfishness of the director who, she is convinced, wanted the part for his mistress. She still refers to this incident with some acrimony although it took place a very long time ago. Since then she has formed the habit of reading novels and proposing themes to Max on the basis of what she has read. Betty is the only member of the family to whom reading does not present itself as a silent activity. These scenarios would involve huge budgets, expensive adaptations, and of course a prominent part for Betty. ‘I see myself as Madeleine,’ she says to Max as they eat dinner. (Or Dolores. Or Andrea.) ‘I could really bring something to a part like that. And perhaps they could work in a dance routine. A ballroom scene. Or you could do it in costume.’ Max knows how to deal with all this. ‘I am at the mercy of the finance department,’ he says. What really annoys him is her insistence on telling him the plot of anything she happens to be reading, which makes for some very dull evenings.

Max, in any event, is working in different directions, a fact which Betty manages to overlook. Max is doing very well. He was one of the first to respond to the possibilities of television and an audience so captive that
it does not have to stir from its favourite chair. Within the restrictive boundaries of the small black and white screen Max is a perceptive and a creative cineaste. He specializes in police dramas, with the sympathy very clearly bestowed on the outlaw, the fugitive, the man on the run. This format has the added advantage of permitting any number of settings. Max has had men on the run in sunlit Paris, in foggy London, in rainy New York. What he is good at is not the thrill of the chase, or the escape, which is entirely predictable, but the life of the streets in which the outlaw or fugitive spends much of his time trying to assume a new identity. No doubt Max has a personal feeling for such a predicament, although he would laugh at the suggestion, not being a man who cares to share that part of his life with anyone. In this he is unlike Betty who can summon up instant rapture or instant despair when referring to an incident in her own past. Some of Max’s most haunting images come from a certain area of his carefully stored memory bank. Thus the American public has come to know and to appreciate that shot of the concierge with her cat, or the little boy carrying home the long stick of bread, or the cobbles of a street in Montmartre glistening faintly after a summer shower. Max’s films are interesting because they concentrate on emptiness, on the time before things happen, the time when the outlaw might just get away with it. He also has a deep nostalgia for the world and the time he left behind. His men tend to wear rather long leather coats, his women fox furs and little tilted hats. Max is making quite a name for himself. As time goes on it could be said that he lives for his work.

Betty did not expect to be left alone quite so much. This is another grievance to be added to the rapidly mounting pile. ‘I’m sure you could find a place for me at the studios,’ she tells Max. ‘I’m very sympathetic and I
know how artists behave.’ Or, ‘I really ought to have a seat on the board. After all, I’ve been in show business myself. I know all about it.’ Max is quite capable of dealing with this. In his experience all wives are discontented and can be placated with gifts of jewellery. And Betty, who is now voluptuously plump, is still a very attractive woman. Although permanently complaining about something or other, she has acquired sultry clinging ways which sustain his interest in her. She is one of those naturally unfair women who rule by bouts of ill-humour and whose sudden unpredictable changes of mood bring about relief, gratitude, and a general lightening of the atmosphere. Max is used to dealing with women and their changing moods, and indeed would not know what to do with the sort of wife who tries to please. If he had a wife like that, a wife who waited on him, laundered his shirts and scented them with lavender and vetiver, cooked him his favourite dishes, and enquired sympathetically whether he had had a hard day, he would be far more unfaithful than he actually is. Max requires diversion and contention from a woman, and either by luck or by judgment Betty supplies him with both.