It was seven-thirty when the phone rang. I had got into bed at four; it felt like five minutes ago.
‘Ginger?’
I said nothing.
‘Ginger?’
It was ten years since I had heard the voice, the nickname. Only the tone had changed, lost its note of patronage.
‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘This is Clint, remember?’
Remember; engraved like a scar on the tissue of my memory.
‘Sorry to wake you, honey. Just touched down from the States. I have to see Rosensweig. He’s casting this fourth-century epic, two thousand extras, greatest thing to hit motion pictures since …’
‘I heard about it.’
‘You did? Who told you?’
‘Did he mention Clint McGowan for the male lead?’
‘No.’
‘Listen, honey, I’m in a callbox and my car is waiting. I’m throwing a party. I want you to come.’
I made an unsteady grab for my diary.
‘OK.’ I had been waiting ten years for this.
‘Tonight. Eight thirty on. The Starlight room.’
‘Tonight!’
‘I know you’re a pretty busy woman …’
Busy! June the first. Four fifteen: the Bardsley wedding at St Peter’s Eaton Square; five thirty: cocktails with the Beckforth Smiths en route from New York to Paris; simultaneous drinks with the Cromer Waddells to celebrate their daughter’s engagement; the Savoy at seven thirty to interview David Glover on his latest production; dinner and dance at eight thirty in aid of the Children’s Winter Holiday Scheme. I had promised the viscountess …
‘I read your column every week. It’s just great. You really go all those places, know all those people, or are you a syndicate?’
‘Just little me.’
‘I always knew you’d make it. Brother, I said, that ball of fire will go right to the top. You still ginger, Ginger?’
I took a pencil and queried the viscountess, hoping I could escape after the dinner. ‘I may be a little late.’
‘Bless you, and forgive me for waking you at this hour. What time’s the deadline?’
I played dumb. ‘Deadline?’
‘Deadline for the Martha Munroe column.’
‘Three thirty a.m.’
I thought I heard a sigh of relief. ‘Don’t worry, honey. I won’t detain you.’
‘I’ve never missed a deadline.’
It was too late to go back to sleep. Susan was coming to do my hair and I had ordered breakfast for eight. I lay back on the eau-de-nil pillow with its white lace over-slip, stretched like a cat, fine for the circulation, then relaxed, enjoying as always the space, the warmth, the outrageous luxury of my bedroom and allowed my thoughts to regress.
Clint McGowan. I had grown up immune to ‘copperknob’, ‘rusty’, ‘carrots’, in my schooldays, but shaking like a leaf with humiliation on Clint McGowan’s terrace ten years ago was the first and last time until just now I had answered to Ginger.
Since I was nine years old I had wanted to be a newspaper reporter. We lived in a flat in South London, two rooms and six kids over my father’s greengrocer’s shop. Shop, well, it was tiny really, most of the stuff outside on the pavement: grapes ‘sweet as sugar’, plums ‘pick of the crop’, tomatoes ‘don’t squeeze me till I’m yours’.
He got up at four to go to the market, Dad did, and it was always after six when the shutters went up. He never made a decent living. Too honest; not believing that the quickness of the hand deceived the eye and palming nobody off with rotten apples or overripe bananas.
My mother scrubbed the floors at the town hall, recognising the dignitaries by their shoes as they muddied the steps she had just carefully washed, with never a word of apology.
I only ever saw two newspapers. The evening for the racing results, and the local rag, because my parents were both cinema fans and liked to know exactly what was on and where and who was playing in good time for Saturday night. I always waited with excitement for Wednesdays when the paper came but turned immediately to the ‘weddings’ page.
I would glance briefly at the photographs of the demure brides on the arms of their apprehensive grooms, then turn to the copy whose phrases read like poetry to my ears. ‘The bride wore a dress of criss-cross taffeta, her bouquet was of tulips and freesias … bridesmaids were her twin sister Janet and her cousin Linda Groves, charming in lemon tulle … the bride was given away by her father and wore a wild silk dress, a train falling from her waist … the Matron-of-Honour’s lilac moiré full-skirted gown was sashed with green … the bridesmaids wore Dutch bonnets … dresses were made by the bride’s mother …’
At school I got Cs for my compositions. Miss Baxter, who took us for English and had, I was convinced, a heart of stone, said I allowed myself to be carried away by words, the meanings of which I had not the slightest idea, and neither, I am willing to swear now, had Miss Baxter.
I used phrases such as ‘co-opted on to the local council’, ‘the growing threat to old people’ and ‘a warm welcome was extended to the Lady Mayoress’ culled from the local paper and without exception in the wrong context.
I told her I wanted to be a newspaper woman, Miss Baxter I mean. At first she thought I meant deliver them, but when the message finally got through she looked at me pityingly. I don’t know whether because of my essays or because my poor little overworked dad dropped down dead one morning early, in the market, just as I was in my final term and about to leave school.
The only newspaper we saw now came with the chips for tea. The racing results were no longer of any interest and Mum had no heart for the cinema. I still brooded on the brides in guipure lace, however, carrying a simple hymn book.
I took a job in a shoe shop. The money was good but my mind was not on that but ‘the honeymoon was in Jersey’ or ‘the happy couple left for St Mawes where the bridegroom’s uncle is lending them a cottage’.
They suffered me for almost a year then fired me. I called at the local newspaper office. In a weak moment they said I could run errands, make tea, in exchange for a pittance. My mother created; scrubbing her fingers to the bone and all that while I … I loved her, but I loved ambition more.
I emptied waste-paper baskets, carried copy form desk to desk, inhaling the heady smell of newsprint and absorbing through every pore the jargon of the trade. There was no knowing how long I might have persisted in my monotonous ritual if something had not happened, resulting, for me, in an almost meteoric rise in my career.
I was waiting after work, in the bus queue, first on one foot then on the other, for both were aching, when a lorry which had been cruising steadily down the high street changed course quite suddenly and headed with determination for the very paving stones on which I stood.
Miraculously, like the waters of the Red Sea, the long line of waiting commuters parted, leaving alone, and directly in the path of the vehicle gone crazy, an oblivious and heavily pregnant woman with a child in a pushchair.
In the bedlam that followed it was impossible to see exactly what happened. A hand, I think, had pulled the pregnant lady free, she had lost her grip on the pushchair and, with the child in it, it was pinned against the wall.
I learned the hard way the meaning of pandemonium but this was the whisper of leaves against the primitive shrieks of the mother calling for her child.
The ambulance came, and the fire brigade with special tackle, and the police. When it was over, the ring of bells no more than an echo, and only the lorry lay drunkenly still on the pavement, I asked a remaining constable, my heart thumping, to which hospital they had taken the child. He told me and for the first time in my life I hailed a taxi.
Next morning I appeared at the office with red-rimmed eyes. Dana Luck who did the Woman’s Page asked if I’d been crying. I said no, only hadn’t been to bed.
The waste-paper baskets no longer of any interest, I made for the News Editor’s office and knocked upon the glass with more confidence than I felt. Mike Munroe, unwed and everybody’s heart-throb, had never looked anywhere but through me. I wasn’t sure, in fact, if he knew I existed.
He said, ‘Yes?’ as if he too had had a rough night, and waited.
I laid thirteen sheets of blue-lined, handwritten paper from Mum’s writing pad on his desk.
‘What’s this?’
‘There was an accident. I was on the spot.’ He waited.
‘I wrote it up for the paper. You’ll use it, won’t you?’
He glanced at the top sheet and let me roast in hell on the uncarpeted floor until he threw back his head and started to laugh.
‘What’s wrong?’ I could see nothing funny; its composition had after all occupied me the whole long night.
He stopped laughing and watched my tired eyes fill with hurt tears.
‘There is something wrong?’
He nodded and looked at me, serious now.
‘The first thing you must learn if you’re going to be a reporter is never to use purple ink!’
Mike did use the paragraph, although by the time the thirteen sheets were cut to nine lines and the spelling improved upon, scarcely a word remained that was my own.
It appeared on the front page, though, and I was launched. My ascent, as ascents go, was swift. I liked to think it was because I was dedicated, but know it was because I married Mike. I had the talent, I suppose, and he taught me, with infinite patience, the technique.
Within two years I had achieved my ambition and my description of local weddings – she wore a red velvet dress and carried a basket posy – brought tears to the eyes. Within three I had thoroughly learned my craft. I was fed to the teeth, in fact, with such items as ‘Shoplifting pair fined’, ‘Vegetarian movement spreads’, ‘Public ignores warning’, ‘Apathetic? Not us, traders tell Chamber’ and similar snippets of news. Saying nothing to Mike I applied for, and to my amazement was offered, for a trial period, a job on a national evening newspaper.
I thought Mike would be angry, but he wasn’t. There was a new tea girl with a forty-inch bust and false eyelashes, so I think he was quite pleased in a way.
On my first assignment for the new paper I thought I’d die. Clarice Leighton, the second-richest woman in the world, was at Claridge’s, they said. Bring back a story, but quick.
I was still very much the local girl, unused to pile carpets, commissionaires and lifts.
Clarice Leighton was a doll; a sad, rich doll.
‘You’re shaking like a jelly,’ she said and made me drink a vodka and tomato juice at mid-morning.
She rattled through the copy for me, walking barefoot in a black negligée across the white carpet, until I had more than enough to keep even the strictest editor quite happy.
When I’d put my pen away she took me over to her dressing table, pushed me on to the stool and put a cape round my shoulders. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘with a face like yours you could launch a million ships, but not the way you treat it.’
I got used to the carpets, the lush foyers, the hotel suites, the celebrities. Not all of them were rich; some bored, some drunk, some crazy. I interviewed them in penthouses and cellars; in trains and ships; even on one occasion in the bath.
For the most part they saw at a glance that I was wet behind the ears and went out of their way to be kind. They refreshed me, fed me, saw to it that I never left without sufficient copy, even if they had to ask and answer their own questions.
I suppose their own days on the way up were not too far away and they were considerate.
With one exception. It was during my trial period on the paper and it almost cost me my job.
Clint McGowan was quite deliberately insulting and it was like a smack in the face.
He had just made a name for himself in films. One minute he was unknown and the next plastered on every billboard and in every magazine in the country. One week he had been ‘resting’ and on National Assistance, and the next he’d a mansion in Sussex with umpteen acres, a Bentley without and staff within. That was showbiz.
He had the good fortune to be around at a time when a ‘Clint McGowan’ was needed and his agent was quicker than quick off the mark.
It took me three hours to get to Sussex. The train was late; the local taxi had broken down. I thumbed a lift on a truck, laddering my stocking in so doing, hiked half a mile down a muddy road and arrived in a lather at Great Oaks, bad temper overlying my customary apprehension.
Dogs barked the minute I rang the bell and continued viciously until the door was opened by a manservant who looked at me as if he’d found a piece of old Camembert on the doorstep.
‘Mr McGowan is expecting me,’ I said.
He took from his pocket a gold watch as they did on the movies and raised his eyebrows at it then at me.
I checked my watch. Twelve noon. That was the time arranged for the interview.
He opened the door and left me cooling my heels in the hall while he disappeared into the bowels of the house.
When he returned the manservant motioned me to follow him and I did so through film-set decor – long low sofas, everything white and hi-fi everywhere – out on to the terrace.
He left me blinded momentarily by the midday sun and for the moment I could see nothing. I blinked, then looked around.
At the far end of the not inconsiderable terrace Clint McGowan lay spread-eagled, half naked on a sun lounger. A blonde, falling out of a bikini, was spread-eagled almost on top of him.
He wore dark glasses so I was unable to see whether or not he saw me although his head was turned in my direction.
I waited, not knowing quite what to do.
‘Don’t be frightened, Ginger,’ he said finally. ‘Come closer. I don’t bite. She does.’ He put a finger into the blonde’s mouth.
I walked the length of the terrace on legs suddenly become fragile and took out my notebook and pencil. There was a trolley of drinks with ice in a flask.
‘It’s very kind of you to allow me to interview you for the Echo,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions about your overnight success.’
‘I dare say I can tolerate it.’
‘How does it feel, Mr McGowan,’ I asked, ‘to jump so suddenly from rags to riches – to wake up and find yourself a star?’
He stroked the long hair of the blonde, no longer looking at me. ‘Fabulous, doesn’t it, darling?’
‘Perhaps you could expand a little. I mean mentally, how has it affected your life, your view of the world, your philosophy?’
He smiled and raised the blonde’s chin, kissing her long on the lips.
‘I like it.’
‘What about material things? I understand you have several cars, a yacht, a villa in Sardinia. Do these things mean anything to you, never having had them?’
He put a hand down the top of her bikini. ‘I like it.’
‘Have you found it difficult to adapt yourself to being a star, recognised in the street, followed by fans wherever you go?’
He gazed into the eyes of the blonde and I’d written it in shorthand before he could get the words out. ‘I like it.’
I decided to change my tack. ‘Could you tell me a little about your childhood, Mr McGowan, your background?’
He was stroking her nose. I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard the question.
‘I was born very young,’ he said finally and I could feel my redhead’s easy blush envelop me. I was almost in tears, this interview was important. I decided to throw myself upon his mercy.
‘Mr McGowan,’ I said, ‘I haven’t had this job very long; actually I’m still on probation. I want to make a success of this social column and you aren’t being terribly cooperative.’
They were still gazing at each other. ‘Would you say I wasn’t cooperative?’ he said to her. I waited patiently until they had disentangled themselves.
‘Would you tell me something of your tastes in food, drink; have you any hobbies …’
‘Hobbies? Sure!’ He patted her behind. ‘Drink, never touch it.’ There was whisky in a glass by his side. ‘Food.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In precisely forty minutes we shall make our leisurely way through shrimp bisque, cold baked ham in champagne, Russian salad, raspberry mousse …’
My mouth was watering.
‘… so if you would be kind enough to excuse us, Ginger, we have to go and prepare ourselves for luncheon.’
They rolled themselves into an oblivious embrace and I stood wondering what my editor was going to say to a luncheon menu, in which I hadn’t even been invited to join, as the sole outcome of my journey to Sussex and the interview with God’s gift to women, Clint McGowan.
I cried with humiliation all the way back to London. At the office my editor went berserk and had to take tranquillisers, and it took Mike all night to console me.
Because of his intervention they gave me another chance on the paper, but the name Clint McGowan and the image of the splendid torso and the insolent voice were etched for all time in my memory.
Ten years later the memory hadn’t faded, neither had the emotions it evoked.
In ten years much had happened to both of us. I was Martha Munroe of the ‘Martha Munroe column’, the most sought-after and influential name-dropper in town, and Clint McGowan, after a brief moment of glory, was all but forgotten by most people.
His stay at the top was good while it lasted, but after a while his type ceased to appeal. He descended to B pictures, then television, then nothing. Not in this country at any rate. I’d heard he was drinking himself into premature middle age in the States, bumming around and living on the past.
In the powder room of the hotel where he was throwing the party I looked at my mirror image. ‘Ginger!’ My hair was still as red, I hadn’t changed much, just matured, acquired confidence and was at the top of my profession; a very nice spot to be when it had been your life’s ambition. I smoothed my white gown and put on my mental boxing gloves ready for Clint.
The noise in the Starlight Room hit me. I stood at the door for a moment to adjust. I thought of the first of these stardusted parties I had attended for my paper and how I’d looked with envy on the older columnists who’d thrown their arms round the lion’s neck cooing ‘daaah-ling!’ while I stood nervously hidden behind the canapés.
He saw me before I saw him. I had made my way to the centre of the room and had been greeted effusively by at least half-a-dozen celebrities, who would open their newspapers anxiously in the morning seeking for my column and their names, when Clint took my hand in both his.
‘Darling!’ he said. ‘Long time no see. You simply haven’t aged an inch.’
It was more than I could say for him. His chin was slack, the sandy hair had thinned and I guessed that the body beneath the frilled shirt would not now be quite so fine.
He turned to everybody. ‘Ginger!’ he said. He touched my hair. ‘Have you ever seen such a fabulous colour, and it doesn’t come out of a bottle either? Martha and I have known each other for years.’
‘Ten,’ I said, knowing my hair, which I wore in a chignon tonight, looked good.
He gave me a whiskied, double-sided kiss and halted a waiter with a tray of champagne cocktails. ‘See that this lady has everything she wants. It should be your party, darling, not mine.’
He put a glass in my hand and drew me into a corner.
‘This part,’ he said, ‘my agent fixed me a try-out. It’s just a question of convincing Rosensweig. He’s a simple guy, hasn’t heard my name just lately. I’ve been busy, investments, real estate, you know, maybe he never saw my early movies. You knew me then; you know I went down big: I’ve got the know-how. Rosensweig don’t like small people. If he likes you, all right. If he don’t, ruthless.
‘He’s got so much money he don’t give you a good morning. I don’t like guys who don’t like you when you’re down on your luck. You know how much this part’s worth? You’ll never get to see that many dollars. I get that part, I’m made. I just need a little build-up, see, public image and all that, a handful of publicity, Martha …’ He was sweating. ‘Name your price.’
‘That’s not how I work.’ I sipped the champagne. ‘Nobody buys space in my column. It just depends how I feel.’
He put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘drink that little drink, there’s another where it came from and another after that. By the time you leave this room you’ll feel like a million dollars. I’ll see you home myself.’
There were plenty of people I knew and even more who wanted to know me. I circulated, making idle talk. Clint was never far away. Watching me like a lynx.
At eleven-thirty he put a hand beneath my elbow. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said into my ear. ‘I know you have your column to write. Say goodnight to all these lovely people.’
The lovely people who had come to eat Clint’s food and drink his drink – who was paying, I wondered? – said goodnight.
I collected my coat and he led me to a waiting Rolls, hired, I assumed, for the evening.
As we skimmed down Park Lane through the night-lit traffic he explained, desperately and at speed, sitting on the edge of the seat and talking right at me, how exactly right he was for the part he was after and all he needed was a little public acclaim.
He handed me a list of all the well-known names at the party, aware, as I was, that nothing appears to succeed like success.
As we drew near my beautiful house in its beautiful square he signalled the chauffeur who slid back the glass partition.
‘Number seventeen for Mrs Munroe,’ he said. The tone slipped back ten years to when tired, and hungry, I had stood nervously on the Sussex terrace.
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Mike and I were divorced four years ago. I just use the name for the column.’
The car purred to a halt.
‘You’re not married then?’ I saw a calculating look in his eye.
‘I married again.’
His face fell but only for a moment as he snapped, his fingers. ‘Pipped at the post again!’
The chauffeur held open the car door. We stood on the pavement.
‘You kept it all very quiet.’
‘There was nothing to make a noise about.’
I smiled charmingly and thanked him for a lovely evening.
‘I’ll stay up till the paper comes out,’ he said. He kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’ll give me a break, won’t you?’
I looked him directly in the eyes. ‘A very even one.’
‘I knew I could rely on you, Ginger,’ he said.
He kissed me once more and climbed back into the car. ‘Take it easy,’ he said, as the chauffeur was about to close the door. ‘We don’t want to waken the lady’s husband, do we? Who’s the lucky guy by the way?’
‘You don’t know?’ Surprised, my key remained half-turned in the lock.
‘Nobody told me.’
All at once I felt sorry for him, then I remembered Sussex, the blonde, my laddered stocking, the hot sun and the tray with the ice-cold drinks. I looked at him, handsome still I had to admit, across ten years and the wide London pavement.
He had grown small but had I grown big?
‘Is it a name I should know?’
I turned the key fully and firmly in the lock.
‘Rosensweig!’ I said from the doorway. ‘Goodnight.’