am I?”
“Not at all.” David swept his arm around the room in a theatrical gesture. “All right, everyone, we’re finished for today.
Au revoir
, till seven tomorrow!”
I was intrigued by the sudden appearance of this woman and by the effect she had on David.
He did not usually say things like “delicious” and
“au revoir”
, or allow anyone to sit in his chair, or pretend visitors were not interrupting. His normal reaction was to shout at them to get out, and what did they think this was, Piccadilly Circus?
No filming had been in progress when she arrived or she would not have been allowed into the studio. We had been preparing for tomorrow’s work. David had been discussing the scene we were to do first thing the following morning, which would include a fight between Aidan and two men called “stuntmen”. They were playing ruffians who set upon the Comte in a back street. I had to show horror, hit one of them with the pistol Aidan had dropped, and, when the villains had run off, sink to my knees “gracefully, Clara, not like a sack of potatoes!” and go to his aid as he lay on the floor.
It would need quite a few takes. We would do it several times, then the best would be edited together afterwards. It was always very tedious waiting about in full costume under hot lights while David decided whether or not to do another take. Maria was forever powdering my face, as perspiration was only allowed to appear on screen when demanded for the drama. And if David wasn’t quite satisfied, we would have to set the whole scene up another day and do it yet again.
People began to leave. I noticed Jeanette give David a look as she pushed the studio doors, but I did not understand its meaning. Aidan nodded carelessly to Marjorie but did not speak to her. Instead, he turned to me. “Well, David seems occupied this evening. Shall you and I have dinner together?”
I could not think of an excuse quickly enough, so I found myself sitting opposite Aidan in the almost deserted dining room of my hotel. I pushed pieces of chicken around my plate while Aidan lounged in his chair, smoking, his other hand around a tumbler of whisky, his dinner cooling on the table.
It was not like being with David. I did not feel elated or even tipsy, though I had ordered wine in the hope that alcohol would anaesthetise me. I felt disappointed that David had ignored me and curious about the woman, and resentful of Aidan’s ability to needle me. Eventually, as Aidan at last picked up his knife and fork, I could no longer restrain myself. “So who is she?”
“Who?”
“You know perfectly well.”
He put his head on one side and considered his Dover sole and potatoes. “Jealous?”
“Why on earth would I be jealous?” I replied steadily. “I am merely asking for information, since no one introduced her to me.”
“Her name is Marjorie Cunningham.”
“I did not ask her name. I asked who she is.”
“She is Marjorie Cunningham.”
“Aidan!”
I had spoken louder than I intended. A waiter looked up from folding napkins in the corner, gave me a sour look and resumed his work. “Aidan,” I hissed. “You know what I mean, so please stop being so tiresome. Is she … well, is she David’s…”
“Lover?”
“I was going to say ‘lady friend’.”
He grinned. “How quaint!”
I strove for patience. “Can you not just give me the information without this performance?”
Setting down his cutlery, he sipped his drink and look at me with amusement. “Very well. She is an actress, like you.” He put down his glass and held it between his hands, his gaze still on my face. “Though not very like you, actually. She is unscrupulous, vain and grasping.” He mused for a moment. “But striking, I’m sure you will agree.”
I did not consider Marjorie Cunningham particularly striking. I had seen only a fashionably willowy frame, artificially gilded hair and a pricey fur. “Men’s appreciation of what is striking must
“Not at all.” David swept his arm around the room in a theatrical gesture. “All right, everyone, we’re finished for today.
Au revoir
, till seven tomorrow!”
I was intrigued by the sudden appearance of this woman and by the effect she had on David.
He did not usually say things like “delicious” and
“au revoir”
, or allow anyone to sit in his chair, or pretend visitors were not interrupting. His normal reaction was to shout at them to get out, and what did they think this was, Piccadilly Circus?
No filming had been in progress when she arrived or she would not have been allowed into the studio. We had been preparing for tomorrow’s work. David had been discussing the scene we were to do first thing the following morning, which would include a fight between Aidan and two men called “stuntmen”. They were playing ruffians who set upon the Comte in a back street. I had to show horror, hit one of them with the pistol Aidan had dropped, and, when the villains had run off, sink to my knees “gracefully, Clara, not like a sack of potatoes!” and go to his aid as he lay on the floor.
It would need quite a few takes. We would do it several times, then the best would be edited together afterwards. It was always very tedious waiting about in full costume under hot lights while David decided whether or not to do another take. Maria was forever powdering my face, as perspiration was only allowed to appear on screen when demanded for the drama. And if David wasn’t quite satisfied, we would have to set the whole scene up another day and do it yet again.
People began to leave. I noticed Jeanette give David a look as she pushed the studio doors, but I did not understand its meaning. Aidan nodded carelessly to Marjorie but did not speak to her. Instead, he turned to me. “Well, David seems occupied this evening. Shall you and I have dinner together?”
I could not think of an excuse quickly enough, so I found myself sitting opposite Aidan in the almost deserted dining room of my hotel. I pushed pieces of chicken around my plate while Aidan lounged in his chair, smoking, his other hand around a tumbler of whisky, his dinner cooling on the table.
It was not like being with David. I did not feel elated or even tipsy, though I had ordered wine in the hope that alcohol would anaesthetise me. I felt disappointed that David had ignored me and curious about the woman, and resentful of Aidan’s ability to needle me. Eventually, as Aidan at last picked up his knife and fork, I could no longer restrain myself. “So who is she?”
“Who?”
“You know perfectly well.”
He put his head on one side and considered his Dover sole and potatoes. “Jealous?”
“Why on earth would I be jealous?” I replied steadily. “I am merely asking for information, since no one introduced her to me.”
“Her name is Marjorie Cunningham.”
“I did not ask her name. I asked who she is.”
“She is Marjorie Cunningham.”
“Aidan!”
I had spoken louder than I intended. A waiter looked up from folding napkins in the corner, gave me a sour look and resumed his work. “Aidan,” I hissed. “You know what I mean, so please stop being so tiresome. Is she … well, is she David’s…”
“Lover?”
“I was going to say ‘lady friend’.”
He grinned. “How quaint!”
I strove for patience. “Can you not just give me the information without this performance?”
Setting down his cutlery, he sipped his drink and look at me with amusement. “Very well. She is an actress, like you.” He put down his glass and held it between his hands, his gaze still on my face. “Though not very like you, actually. She is unscrupulous, vain and grasping.” He mused for a moment. “But striking, I’m sure you will agree.”
I did not consider Marjorie Cunningham particularly striking. I had seen only a fashionably willowy frame, artificially gilded hair and a pricey fur. “Men’s appreciation of what is striking must
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