be different from women’s,” I said. I put some chicken in my mouth and chewed while Aidan watched me, the amused look still in his eyes. “She is certainly
glamorous
,” I added, “but that is not the same thing.”
Aidan turned his attention once more to his plate. I noticed that his hair had too much oil in it and that he had not removed all of his make-up: a pale line of it ran round his hairline and chin like the beach at the edge of the land. For an actor, he took little care of his appearance. “She is one of David’s set. They are always at his parties, drinking and dancing and making fools of themselves. You know he has a house on an island in the river, not far from here?”
I did not know this. And to my knowledge, David had not given any parties since I had been working on the film. If he had, I had not been invited. My heartbeat stuttered.
“Marjorie’s been in America trying to get a part in a picture,” continued Aidan. “I think she has been in a play on Broadway or something. In any case, she must have failed to get into ‘the movies’, as they call them there, or she would not be back here in Old England.”
An unwelcome thought came to me. “Do you think she is hoping for a part in our film?”
He laughed loudly. The waiter looked round again. “
Our
film? Oh, Clara, you are sweet! Marjorie has not come to David for a
part
! And this film is not ours at all. It belongs to that band of scroungers David is in thrall to. His so-called backers. A worse pack of villains you could not wish to find. Now eat up your food like a good girl and let’s not talk about Marjorie any more.”
W e did not mention Marjorie again, but she remained in my thoughts. When the waiter offered pudding and coffee I refused, thanked Aidan for dinner and bade him good night. He stood politely when I rose from the table. As I left the dining room I could feel him looking at me. Once in my room I threw my fur onto the bed, took off my hat and studied my reflection.
Striking. What did Aidan mean by the word? And when he used it to describe Marjorie, did he mean that I was
not
striking? I had called her glamorous, which I was sure I was not. So what
was
I?
David had said I was beautiful, though neither Aidan nor I had used this word to describe Marjorie. Was being beautiful different from being striking or glamorous? Marjorie and I were both young women – I estimated her age at twenty-three or -four – who took care of our appearance. We had both abandoned the long hair of our childhood for the “bob”, though Marjorie’s was a sleeker, shorter cut than mine and heavily bleached. I turned my head from side to side. Did
glamour
lie in bleached hair? She and I both wore cosmetics on our faces, though I had not gone as far as to pluck my eyebrows and paint them on in a more fashionable position, as I had noticed she had done. Did that make her
striking
?
I leaned on the dressing-table, cupping my chin in my hands. My hair could perhaps do with a tidy-up: as it was curlier than Marjorie’s and more liable to unruliness. But I could not see any further improvement I could make to my appearance. I could not change the colour of my eyes or the darkness of my lashes and brows, or the shape of my lips. My nose, which I now considered more carefully than I had ever done before, was exactly like Mam’s: short and unobtrusive, with small nostrils. It looked all right on her. Did it look all right on me? And would it look all right on a big screen, high above the audience’s heads?
Exposure, ridicule, censure. I looked away from the mirror.
All actresses must feel like this, I reasoned. Marjorie Cunningham must feel like this. Even Lilian Hall-Davis must feel like this. I put my hand over my heart, feeling it beating under my breast. The thought of Marjorie’s heart beating under
her
breast made me feel uncertain. She might be striking and glamorous, and maybe even beautiful, but she did not seem
real
. She was like
glamorous
,” I added, “but that is not the same thing.”
Aidan turned his attention once more to his plate. I noticed that his hair had too much oil in it and that he had not removed all of his make-up: a pale line of it ran round his hairline and chin like the beach at the edge of the land. For an actor, he took little care of his appearance. “She is one of David’s set. They are always at his parties, drinking and dancing and making fools of themselves. You know he has a house on an island in the river, not far from here?”
I did not know this. And to my knowledge, David had not given any parties since I had been working on the film. If he had, I had not been invited. My heartbeat stuttered.
“Marjorie’s been in America trying to get a part in a picture,” continued Aidan. “I think she has been in a play on Broadway or something. In any case, she must have failed to get into ‘the movies’, as they call them there, or she would not be back here in Old England.”
An unwelcome thought came to me. “Do you think she is hoping for a part in our film?”
He laughed loudly. The waiter looked round again. “
Our
film? Oh, Clara, you are sweet! Marjorie has not come to David for a
part
! And this film is not ours at all. It belongs to that band of scroungers David is in thrall to. His so-called backers. A worse pack of villains you could not wish to find. Now eat up your food like a good girl and let’s not talk about Marjorie any more.”
W e did not mention Marjorie again, but she remained in my thoughts. When the waiter offered pudding and coffee I refused, thanked Aidan for dinner and bade him good night. He stood politely when I rose from the table. As I left the dining room I could feel him looking at me. Once in my room I threw my fur onto the bed, took off my hat and studied my reflection.
Striking. What did Aidan mean by the word? And when he used it to describe Marjorie, did he mean that I was
not
striking? I had called her glamorous, which I was sure I was not. So what
was
I?
David had said I was beautiful, though neither Aidan nor I had used this word to describe Marjorie. Was being beautiful different from being striking or glamorous? Marjorie and I were both young women – I estimated her age at twenty-three or -four – who took care of our appearance. We had both abandoned the long hair of our childhood for the “bob”, though Marjorie’s was a sleeker, shorter cut than mine and heavily bleached. I turned my head from side to side. Did
glamour
lie in bleached hair? She and I both wore cosmetics on our faces, though I had not gone as far as to pluck my eyebrows and paint them on in a more fashionable position, as I had noticed she had done. Did that make her
striking
?
I leaned on the dressing-table, cupping my chin in my hands. My hair could perhaps do with a tidy-up: as it was curlier than Marjorie’s and more liable to unruliness. But I could not see any further improvement I could make to my appearance. I could not change the colour of my eyes or the darkness of my lashes and brows, or the shape of my lips. My nose, which I now considered more carefully than I had ever done before, was exactly like Mam’s: short and unobtrusive, with small nostrils. It looked all right on her. Did it look all right on me? And would it look all right on a big screen, high above the audience’s heads?
Exposure, ridicule, censure. I looked away from the mirror.
All actresses must feel like this, I reasoned. Marjorie Cunningham must feel like this. Even Lilian Hall-Davis must feel like this. I put my hand over my heart, feeling it beating under my breast. The thought of Marjorie’s heart beating under
her
breast made me feel uncertain. She might be striking and glamorous, and maybe even beautiful, but she did not seem
real
. She was like
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