Lysander felt something of a fool. ‘I’ve been very caught up in rehearsals,’ he said, feebly.
‘Everything is moving incredibly fast,’ Munro said. ‘Even I can’t keep up.’
‘Cab’s here, sir,’ the boy said and Lysander searched his pocket for some pennies to tip him. He was aware, out of the corner of his eye, that Gilda was coming slowly down the stairs. He’d better jump into the cab quickly – it wouldn’t do for them to be seen leaving together.
‘Must dash,’ he said to Munro, touching him apologetically on the elbow. ‘Good luck with your war.’
Gilda’s body was quite extraordinary, Lysander thought. Like nothing he’d seen or experienced before – not that he was any kind of expert on women’s naked bodies, having only studied half a dozen or so, in his time. But Gilda seemed to him almost as if she were another species of woman, so incredibly pale was she with a rash of freckles over her chest and between her small, uptilted breasts, the nipples the palest rose, almost invisible. Freckles dusted her back and shoulders and here and there – on her ribs, on her upper arms, on her thighs – were small flat moles, pinheads, constellations of them, like flicked brown paint. Just the body’s pigmentation gone a bit awry, he supposed, the freckles like tiny faded tattoos. He had wondered, when she began to undress, how he would react to her translucent pallor but he found her whiteness and her stippling of pale brown very alluring.
He had insisted on wearing a preservative so she had insisted on rolling it on. This set the tone of genial amusement for the rest of the night – ‘Fits you like a one-fingered glove, sir,’ she said in her Cockney accent – and they continued to talk banteringly throughout.
‘I love your markings,’ Lysander said as she eased her legs wide to receive him. ‘You’re like a banana that’s been too long in the fruitbowl, you know – sort of sea-creature.’
‘Thanks a lot. I don’t.’
‘I feel I should be able to read you like tea-leaves.’
‘Ha-ha. I’m thinking of getting them removed.’
‘Don’t you dare. You’re unique. Like a quail’s egg.’
‘What lovely compliments. Sea-creature, quail’s egg. Quite the charmer, Mr Rief, oh yes . . .’
His orgasm duly came – to his intense pleasure – but they didn’t try for a second time. It was late and they were both tired, they admitted, what with the first night and the party. Maybe in the morning.
And now she was sleeping in his bed as he dressed, one long white haunch revealed, the rumpled sheet just failing to cover the clean edge of her golden triangle of hair. Miss Julie . . . Well, well, well. He knotted a cravat at his throat and pulled on a jacket. He had no milk or tea, no coffee, sugar or bread and butter in the flat – just a pot of marmalade. He thought he would run out for some provisions. They could have breakfast in bed and see what led on from there. Rutherford didn’t want them back at the theatre until the afternoon.
He stepped over the tangled pile of her clothes – skirt, blouse, shift, corset, camisole, knickers, hosiery, shoes – and let himself quietly out of the room. He trotted down the stairs in a fine mood. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a disaster, after all, to start a brief affair with Gilda, he thought. Might make Blanche jealous if people gossiped and whispered about it.
He stepped out on to Chandos Place. He’d run up to Covent Garden, that would be quickest – buy her a bunch of flowers.
Jack Fyfe-Miller, in naval uniform, was crossing the street towards him.
‘Rief! Good morning! I was just going to slip this through your letter-box. Munro wanted you to have it as soon as possible.’ He handed him a stiff brown envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘A surprise . . . You’re looking very well. Your play had an extremely bad review in the Mail this morning. “Shocking,” it said. A grotesque insult to the Bard.’
‘We were rather hoping for that.’
Fyfe-Miller seemed to be looking at him intently.
‘Is everything all right?’ Lysander asked.
‘I was just thinking – I last saw you on the quayside at Trieste. Somehow I knew we’d meet again.’
‘And now we have. You and Munro, both, in under twelve hours. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘You taking up a life on the ocean wave again?’
‘No, no. All British fleets have been ordered back to war bases. I’m off down to Portsmouth.’
‘War bases? Really? Does that mean –’
‘Yes. It’s looking rather serious.’ He smiled and gave him a salute. ‘See you again soon, no doubt,’ he said, and headed back towards Trafalgar Square.
Lysander put the envelope in his pocket and hurried up to Covent Garden to do his shopping. He didn’t want Gilda to wake before he came back.
6. Autobiographical Investigations
I couldn’t believe what was in the envelope that Fyfe-Miller handed to me. I opened it after Gilda had gone (around ten o’clock – second time, very satisfactory) to find a formal invoice from the War Office detailing the amount I owed to His Majesty’s Government. The 10,000 crowns of forfeited bail came to £475. Herr Feuerstein’s legal fees and expenses were totalled at an exorbitant £350 and food, drink and laundry were estimated at an equally preposterous £35. No rent charged for the summerhouse, I noted, gratefully. Grand totaclass="underline" £860. I laughed. ‘Full remittance would be appreciated at your earliest convenience.’ I am earning £8 10 shillings a week in the International Players’ Company. My savings are virtually exhausted because of my lengthy stay in Vienna. I owe my mother over £100. The expenses of my daily life (rent, clothing, food, etcetera) are considerable. Roughly calculating, I reckon that if I could stay working fifty-two weeks of the year (and name me an actor who can or does) I might be able to pay off this debt in five years – in 1919. Compound interest, moreover, is being added at 5 per cent per annum. I tore the invoice up.
I’m deeply grateful to Munro and Fyfe-Miller – they were crucially instrumental in my escape from Vienna but, from one jaundiced angle – mine, I admit – the whole ploy looks like a clever money-making scheme for the Foreign Office. I could spend most of my life paying this off.
Rehearsal for Miss Julie this morning. I must say I’m having no problems learning the lines, unlike Gilda. I find the two idioms – Shakespeare and Strindberg – ideally distinct, the lines learned seeming to occupy different cubbyholes of my brain. Not so Gilda, who is still reading from the script, much to Rutherford’s annoyance. His exasperation this morning almost made her cry. I consoled her and we stole a kiss – as much as we’ve managed to achieve since that first night (and morning) of the First Night party. If anything she seems to have cooled somewhat, as if regretting giving herself to me. She’s perfectly friendly but she always seems busy after the show. Sick mother, friends in town – there’s always a good excuse.
Rutherford wants us both to re-enter after the ballet with our clothes in disarray and with wisps of straw in our hair. He actually suggested I come on stage buttoning my flies. Gilda is advocating more decorum but I can see how adamant Rutherford is – there will be battles ahead. He is determined to have us banned within twenty-four hours.
Strange dream about Hettie. I was drawing her – she was naked – in the barn. There was a banging at the door and we both cowered down, expecting it to be Hoff. But instead my father walked in.
I overheard this conversation at Leicester Square Tube station as I waited for a train. It was between two women (working class, poor), one in her twenties, one younger, sixteen or so.
WOMAN: I saw her up Haymarket, then in Burlington Arcade.
GIRL: She told me she had a job hat-binding in Mayfair.
WOMAN: She’s not hat-binding, all painted like that.