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THE ACTRESSES

Barbara Ewing

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About this Book

About the Author

Table of Contents

About The Actresses

A class reunion at a London drama school in the 1990s reveals the successes and the failures of a group of famous (and not-so-famous) actors and actresses. There’s Juliet, the beautiful star of the stage, desperate for her big screen break; Pauline, an excellent actress overshadowed by her actor husband; and breezy, sexy soap star Molly.

But with the arrival of an old classmate no-one expected to show up, tensions build, and events take unexpected turns. Then an accusation of rape leads to a celebrity court case at the Old Bailey...

Women have always known that its not an equal playing field, and actresses most of all. Barbara Ewing’s perceptive and gripping novel is more timely and more relevant today than ever before.

Contents

Welcome Page

About The Actresses

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About Barbara Ewing

Also by Barbara Ewing

An Invitation from the Publisher

Copyright

Dedication

For Lesley and Dick

Epigraph

‘The important thing in acting is to be able to laugh and cry.

If I have to cry I think of my sex life.

If I have to laugh I think of my sex life.’

Glenda Jackson

1

In the Dorchester Hotel in London, in a suite at the top overlooking the dry parched grass in Hyde Park, a blonde-haired American woman aged fifty-six sat in a low-cut black petticoat expertly putting on make-up at six o’clock in the morning. She wore her glasses, to see clearly what she was doing.

A startling purple dress lay spread out on the bed: she had had it designed and made in New York, especially for this day.

It was already very hot and there was no breeze, no draught, no movement of air at all, just the heavy scent of expensive make-up and expensive perfume hanging there in the dark-panelled room in the early morning. Hardly a sound from Saturday morning traffic in Park Lane reached into the sealed suite.

The woman stared at herself for some time in the ornate mirror. Then she picked up the telephone and dialled the number again. A voice told her that Terence Blue was unavailable at present but perhaps she would like to leave a message after the bleep.

The woman hung up. As she always did.

*

‘I think,’ said Pauline Bonham to her husband, who was putting molasses on his head, ‘that I won’t go today, after all,’ and the morning sunshine streaming in through the open windows of their bedroom caught the blue silk of her dressing gown so that she seemed almost to shimmer, standing there.

‘Won’t go where?’

‘To the reunion.’

‘What?’

Anthony Bonham had recently read in a health magazine that molasses could halt baldness. He came marching crossly out of their bathroom, rubbing the sticky black mess into his hair. But even as he spoke he still stared at his hair in the mirror in the bedroom, turning his head from side to side looking for signs of success.

‘Did you say you’re not going?’

‘Yes.’

‘But this is ridiculous. You sent an RSVP; you said you’d go.’ He sounded indignant, as if Pauline’s manners left something to be desired and it reflected badly on him; she knew of course that he was indignant because he hated going to such things on his own.

‘A great crowd of actors all talking about themselves in a hot stuffy room!’ she said wryly. ‘I shouldn’t really think my absence will be noted.’

‘I thought we were going together. After all it’s where we met.’ Anthony spoke grumpily, stalked back into the bathroom, still massaging. ‘You ought to come. It’ll be interesting to see everyone, see how they’ve done after all these years.’

She looked out to where the River Thames flowed past the bottom of their long garden; it would be another hot day in this endless, endless summer. ‘See who you’ve done better than?’ she asked.

In the bathroom mirror Anthony viewed himself again. ‘There’s that too of course, yes,’ and Pauline Bonham, née O’Brien, once named the Most Promising Newcomer of the Year to the West End stage, gave a slight smile, looking at the river. Anthony Bonham of course was now more successful than almost everyone.

Anthony rubbed particularly hard with the molasses where his hair was disappearing at the front. ‘I wonder who’ll be there,’ he said. And then suddenly thought, but did not say: I wonder if Molly will come.

Pauline regarded the holdall Anthony always brought home from Stratford-upon-Avon full of dirty socks and underpants. She thought, but did not say: I suppose Molly will be there.

‘Do you suppose Terence Blue will come?’ she said.

‘Terence? Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be in Hollywood swanning about.’ Anthony stepped into the shower in irritation but did not turn on the water; he hated getting the taps sticky. He did not like to have to consider Terence Blue. The only actor from the class of ’59 who’s more successful than me, became a bloody film star, lives in bloody Hollywood, the whole bloody lot.

He wiped the molasses carefully off his fingers with a flannel and then turned on the water. Automatically he began to exercise his voice: MAHNAHLAH MAYNAYLAY MEENEELEE MAWNAWLAW he sang, and his voice echoed around the bathroom. And just once more the thought came to him: I wonder if Molly will be there.

His wife turned away impatiently at the sound of the voice exercises and went downstairs with the holdall of dirty washing.

Their children Viola and Benedict were still asleep of course; nothing would wake them on a Saturday morning till at least midday. Usually their bedroom doors were shut tight on their secrets but today all the windows and doors were open, trying to catch some other breeze. Benedict lay wrapped in a sheet, surrounded by computers, monitors, printers, and paper all over the floor. Viola’s room was even more untidy, if that were possible: short skirts and jeans and bright dresses and infinitesimally small items of underwear lying everywhere, and every conceivable kind of make-up piled up on the dressing table. She slept on her stomach and her long dark hair spread across the pillows.

Pauline made a pot of coffee and unlocked the French windows that opened all along the house on to the garden. For a moment she drifted out on to the lawn, looking at the trees and the river, catching the fragrant scent of the roses. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons, she murmured conversationally to the bright morning

The telephone rang in the large kitchen.

It was their eldest daughter, Portia, and the voices of the two women crackled with restrained antagonism, as they almost always did.

‘I want Daddy to get me two free tickets to Othello at Stratford on Tuesday night; I want to see it again and bring a friend.’

‘Actors don’t get free tickets Portia,’ said Pauline, ‘you know that.’ Thinking: you’re a well-paid public relations consultant; you can afford to pay for theatre tickets.

‘I bet he gets them at cut price at least, he’s a Star, the reviews say it’s the greatest Iago ever.’

‘Hello, hello, is it for me?’ said Anthony’s voice on the bedroom extension.

‘Oh Daddy darling,’ said Portia.

Pauline left them to it.

There was another mirror in the kitchen. Pauline stared at herself.

Everyone said she was beautiful, even now. Her short, dark hair framed her pale, oval face, her dark eyes gave nothing away, even though she was alone in the empty kitchen. She had long ago perfected the art of presenting her face as a beautiful mask that hid her heart.

The kitchen extension of the phone buzzed and she picked it up.

‘Oh come on, come to the reunion Pauly,’ said Anthony from the bedroom telephone. ‘You know I hate going by myself.’

For a moment Pauline was silent. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the sunny kitchen. And then a swift, abrupt pain of memory, and of loss, caught at her heart so absolutely unexpectedly that she actually gasped.

Anthony, looking at his hair with such concentration in the bedroom mirror, did not notice. ‘Will you come Pauly?’ he said again.

Finally his wife said, ‘It was all so long ago.’

‘It’ll be interesting,’ Anthony insisted.

She stared out again across their long garden. ‘No, I’m not coming, I need to be at the shop for a while and there’s eight for dinner tonight. Try and remember we’ve got guests, don’t get too tired and emotional at the reunion just because you’ve got a Saturday night off for once.’ And then she added placatingly because she knew he really did hate arriving at things by himself, and because he was her husband, and because, of course, she loved him, ‘Come and have your coffee darling.’

Anthony did not deign to answer. Hung up his telephone loudly.

Pauline Bonham stood quite still in the kitchen in her beautiful blue dressing gown. There was something odd about the way her eyes hooded for a moment as she stared at the river. Then she shook herself slightly, as if warding off a dream.

*

On Saturday mornings a street market was held quite near Molly McKenzie’s big old Victorian house in Clapham; often she’d be woken by the sounds of vans unloading flowers or pumpkins or scented candles or cane furniture or mini-skirts. Once, as if she awoke and found herself on some urban farm, there had been the sound of hens and chickens squawking, brought along by a Jamaican with a hatchet; this stall had soon been closed down after complaints about blood and feathers. Molly walked through the Saturday market at her peril: Louise people would shout Hey, hey Louise. At first she had rather enjoyed it; later she could not bear the fact that she couldn’t go anywhere unrecognised. She was not sure that the people who called at her knew she was a real person.

This Saturday morning, hearing the market sounds, Molly extricated herself expertly from Banjo’s tight grasp. It was so hot, the sheets were damp, their bodies were damp. She had got quite adept at pulling herself out of his embrace without waking him, moving to the space on the other side of the bed, stretching her limbs, freeing herself. But she always left a hand or a foot just touching, so that she knew that he was there.

She opened her eyes now and, to her surprise, saw a ray of blazing sunlight falling through a gap in the curtains and across the brightly coloured duvet on the big double bed. She leant across to the clock on the bedside table and looked at the time. God it was nearly ten o’clock. Not that she really wanted to go to a bloody class reunion after all this time, what unemployed actress in her right mind would want to go anywhere where there’d be a lot of other actors whose first question was invariably, casually: Working darling? Still the same old question after thirty-six years. Thirty-six years since she’d arrived at Euston Station with two suitcases, carrying her life carefully in her hands.

There was a black and white photograph of her from that time: her brown, shining hair pulled back into a jaunty, bouncing ponytail; full skirts and flat ballerina shoes and lipstick. And a face that looked so hopefully out at the world, so eager and so interested, that Banjo sometimes, looking at her old photographs as he loved doing, used to kiss it. Look at you in those funny clothes, he would say. I can see energy coming out of your ears. Of course you were going to be an actress. She knew Banjo loved the old photographs because it was the only way he could share her past.

He had turned away from her now in the bed. Even though it was so hot, she leant into his strong, long back for a moment and he moved slightly in his sleep to fit into her embrace. His body was so comfortable, she wanted to stay here; she didn’t want to go and meet a lot of other actors. Maybe they’d all have jobs. She moved closer against Banjo, she didn’t want to think about this.

I made a mistake.

I was quite mad to ask to be written out of a crap telly soap where I was playing a well-paid glamorous part, thinking I’d get more serious work. What is ‘serious’ work? In my profession all work is serious. There is almost no work for women of my age. Men in their fifties are in their prime, women are old: end of story.

I made a mistake.

Banjo stirred. ‘What time is it Moll?’

‘After ten. I should get up, I’ve got this drama school reunion, what a bloody bore, I can’t think why I agreed to go, it makes me feel quite nervous. I think I’ll have a large vodka before I go.’ She knew Banjo’s body so well she could feel it smiling, it moved slightly as if a smile moved through it slowly.

‘Be brave,’ he said, ‘you’re probably the most well-known of them all – you’ve been a soap star, they’ll all call out: Louise, Louise.’

‘Thanks,’ said Molly, ‘an out-of-work soap star who no one knows is a real person, I’ll make it a treble vodka.’

‘Meet me back here this afternoon and we’ll go to Leicester for that concert, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Is the sun shining again?’

‘Yeah.’

He yawned, stretched and settled himself more comfortably. ‘Will this summer ever end?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘never never never.’ And for a moment she lay her arm across his body. Across his warm, twenty-year-younger body, stroking his skin. ‘And will I never work again?’ she added wistfully after a moment.

But Banjo was asleep.

Reluctantly Molly left the comfort of their bed, nearly tripped over his saxophone in the corner, retrieved it as it slid slowly down the wall. She bounced down the long hall and down the stairs the way she always did, fifty jumps before she cleaned her teeth, she’d been doing that since she left drama school because she’d been told it started her body going at the beginning of a day better than any other activity, except sex. She put on some coffee, turned on the radio, threw open the kitchen windows that they always locked at night just to be on the safe side. The big house was filled with music, and with sunshine.

Who will be there? Will they all be working? Will I be the only one out of work? But she knew how unlikely that was. Most of them would be out of work probably, that’s how it was for actors, the latest figures said eighty-one per cent of the members of her profession weren’t working. Oh shit what an awful profession it is.

Under the shower she washed her now short blonde hair. Her firm body looked like that of someone much younger but Molly was not thinking about her body, she was thinking about the people she’d been a student with so many years ago.

Anthony and Pauline would be there perhaps. She turned her mind away from them deliberately, she did not want to think about Anthony and Pauline. Terence Blue? Oh God poor Terence. I wonder if I’m the only person who’s ever seen a Hollywood sex symbol cry? Frances? Emmy Lou? Harry? And then her heart sank. Would Juliet Lyall deign to go to a drama school reunion? The one person she really dreaded meeting at theatrical gatherings was Juliet Lyall, because once they had been equals.

In 1962, in a big article in the Evening Standard, Molly McKenzie and Juliet Lyall had been singled out as two of ten young promising actresses expected to become the stars of the new generation. But Juliet Lyall’s father was a film producer. Juliet Lyall had had such luck in the sixties: a leading role in a famous English film, The Red Dress, meant she had never from that moment looked back. Juliet Lyall was now starring in an award-winning stage production of The Seagull in the West End, and Molly McKenzie ex-TV-soap-star was out of work.

A father in the business was a huge bonus. Even a father was a bonus. Molly McKenzie didn’t even know who her father was. Nor did her mother.

She stepped out of the shower, not noticing her body in the long mirror. She wrapped a big green towel around herself and went back to the kitchen, got herself a long glass of orange juice. Cheerful jazz piano filled the kitchen and bright sunshine poured in through the open windows on to the wooden table where a jug of sweet-peas and a bowl of peaches stood by the coffee. It was a beautiful day.

But oh I would love to be working again thought Molly McKenzie.

*

At 10.30 am Juliet Lyall’s personal assistant knocked gently on the bedroom door, entered the room and quietly opened the curtains of the big windows that looked out on to a private Chelsea garden in the sunshine. She carried a tray which she put beside the bed. On the tray was a long glass of hot lemon and water, some fizzing vitamin C in another glass, a multi-vitamin pill, an oestrogen pill and a copy of The Times. And a flower from the garden, this morning a pink and white geranium flower from a plant that never stopped blooming no matter how long the summer went on. Juliet Lyall always insisted on a flower.

The personal assistant put on a CD of the Brahms violin concerto, not too loud, and left the room.

Juliet heard the opening bars of the concerto, opened her eyes. Sunshine again, she closed them quickly, when would this summer be over? She preferred a more gentle light. She felt for the telephone, punched in her agent’s home number.

She noticed her body always felt stiff now when she first woke, something new, some further sign of age. Where was Horton? Why wasn’t he answering his phone at once? She stretched carefully, holding the telephone. Saturday: the girl would be here to give her a massage before the matinée of The Seagull. But then she suddenly remembered: today was the day of the reunion and she’d promised to put in an appearance before the matinée, however brief, because, as one of its most illustrious graduates, she was on the London Academy of Drama’s Council and it would look odd if she wasn’t there.

Damn. The last thing she wanted was to mingle with a lot of ageing out-of-work actors. But it was part of the business, a necessity, it needn’t take long.

‘Hello?’ Horton was eating his breakfast but Juliet didn’t notice.

‘Have you sent it?’ Juliet wasted time on neither introductions nor preliminaries.

‘Yes Juliet, it went last night, it’ll be on his desk by now, his office is in his fabulous house up in the Hollywood Hills where I once had a martini and met Julia Roberts lucky me and I know he’s flying back there tonight.’

‘Horton I want that film, I want that part, you should’ve been able to arrange for me to see him today before he left.’

‘I told you darling, Bud Martin’s been incommunicado for two days. Even his secretary couldn’t get him, she says he’s on a boat somewhere, that he does this, disappears. But we’ve done everything we can, the filming we did is marvellous, I saw it myself at five o’clock last night as soon as it came out of the lab, and the courier was waiting. Believe me, he’ll see that piece of film and he’ll want you. My LA partners will deal with it from that end, they’ve got instructions to contact Bud Martin later tomorrow. Just relax darling and we’ll talk as soon as I hear.’

Juliet felt her whole body twanging with frustration. ‘I want that film so badly,’ she repeated tightly, wanting to scream at his leisurely tone. But she said only, ‘Call me the minute you hear,’ and put down the receiver. He’s my agent, he makes ten per cent of everything I earn, the least he could do is show a bit of initiative. Why doesn’t he find the fucking boat?

The concerto rose to a crescendo.

She sat up in her big bed, sipped the hot lemon juice to cleanse her system, took the vitamins to strengthen her stamina. And swallowed the oestrogen for – for what? Juliet frowned. For youth perhaps, that’s what they said. She reached out for the magnifying mirror in the drawer beside the bed, put on her spectacles, stared at her face. Sometimes it seemed as if lines appeared overnight. She looked very carefully, very critically, at her eyes and at her mouth and at her skin. No, she still looked good, at least she would when she’d showered and let water run on her face for a while and done some exercises and had a massage. She knew very well that she still looked fantastic, that some actresses would give years of their life for cheekbones like hers, high bones that carved her face, that caught the light in the right way, that looked wonderful both on the stage and in front of a camera. She was lucky: one’s bone structure was luck, after all.

And when other luck had come her way she had seized it with both hands. In an embrace of iron.

As long as Terence Blue isn’t at the reunion. But that’s so unlikely, he’s in Hollywood surely, of course he won’t be there. The only thing in the world I simply could not bear would be to see his face.

*

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