The Stand-In (5 page)

What you are is flesh and blood, he thought, now feeling her small hand in his. Even little stars are only flesh and blood, that's what Coral Reid would break up about.

“‘Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.'”

“Like hell ‘up above the world so high,'” he thought. “Not any more, not now.”

“You're hurting my hand!”

“Don't cry! Don't cry! Here,” he said, “I'll carry you.” Alert now, because she would have been bawling in another minute, the last thing he wanted, he noticed that someone was walking behind them. Following? Knew who the kid was? He lifted her into his arms. “Comfy now?” (Old Daph said that, “Comfy now?”) “We're late. Mr. Ossian wants me to take you to Lady St. Justin's party.” For the benefit of the party following.

“And I'm going to sleep there all night.”

“All night. Say the rest of ‘Twinkle, twinkle' now.”

She gulped but then went on with it. “You certainly know that poem, Kitten! Now we must find a taxi.” He stopped as if he were looking for one and glanced behind him, but the man was moving quickly across the street. He was tall, that was all he could see, because a car blocked his view. It looked like Ronnie, but it couldn't be Ronnie. What would Ronnie be doing in front of St. Andrews? Come there to rubberneck Coral Reid? In the pig's ass! Ronnie wouldn't move a muscle of his high-class face to see all of Coral Reid. Unless there was money in it, of course. Even if the tall man remembered them, he wouldn't have anything to tell the cops and he wasn't following.

Now it came to him that the girl with Sophia Loren in the rape picture was supposed to be her daughter. It was the daughter's eyes which had been rolled up, showing the white. That was what Sophia Loren couldn't take, what they had done to her kid, for herself she could take it. She was tough, but not about her kid, and this kid he was carrying was Coral Reid's.

3

Lady St. Justin was a vague woman. She knew that this party had been all laid on by this Mr. Ossian, this film person. She knew that he had laid on the lovely lovely food and drink and this—retinue was the only word to do them justice—this retinue of servants. She knew that her husband, Rupert, had written a guest list and that those of their friends who wished to be extras in the film had been provided with costumes and wigs and had their faces all tarted up and had been part of the commotion outside. The filming had showed Victorians arriving at Ventsmere for a reception.

Their friends who hadn't wanted to be extras (Did the film person also pay wages?) simply wore mufti, entered from the back of the house, and were herded into the billiard room until the shooting was over. (More drinks laid on in there.) Lady St. Justin knew that all she had to do was to be here, and here she was. She knew there had been a crew in to do up the house while she was in London with Clelia. It needed doing up, being distinctly dingy these days. But what
masses
of flowers!

Rupert had told her that first this film person wished to rent Ventsmere. The house was, she quite saw, the acme of triumphant, if dingy, Victorianism, but the offer to rent they had definitely refused. She hadn't wished to move, and Rupert agreed that it would all go to taxes anyhow. Then hadn't Rupert told her the film people had rented another house? Yes. But there was this feeling that somehow, someone (Or was it a charity?) would benefit from this do tonight; perhaps one of the children was implicated? But then they would have been here surely, and Cicely, Andrew, Leander, Edward, Clelia, none of them was, so it couldn't have been one of the children.

Rupert, she was happy to see, seemed to be quite enjoying himself. He'd got himself up in costume and had played one of the guests. Rupert told her he'd been given a landau with a footman and coachman and that Diana Mellet, also in costume, had driven in it with him and he had handed Diana out with the cameras going. Yes, there was Diana looking florid in a purple watered silk dress!

Lady St. Justin stayed with the star Coral Reid and her husband because as she was the hostess it seemed proper. The film star seemed preoccupied and hadn't touched any of the lovely food, and although she was holding a glass of something, Lady St. Justin noticed she wasn't drinking it. Unlike Coral Reid, the husband talked constantly. It was all about films, and unless one was interested in them rather a bore, and Lady St. Justin believed she wasn't the only one who found it boring, because most of the people he talked at appeared to be listening under duress.

Actually, did one give this sort of party these days? To her, it had a curiously old-fashioned air. (No, decidedly not the children!) One of the rented servants appeared and called the little film star to the telephone to speak with her child's nurse. When she said, “Well, it's about time!” it was her first full sentence and, positively leaping up, she displayed the only animation she had shown except that put on for the photographers.

The husband, Mr. Reid, was being apologetic because his wife had not excused herself, explaining that they were having difficulty with the nurse for their small daughter; had brought her all the way from California, paid her air passage First Class (Dear, dear!) and now she seemed to think she had come to sight-see and complained because she couldn't go about. Did Lady St. Justin happen to know of a good English nanny?

She said, “As a matter of fact I do, Mr. Reid. You buy a book. It costs twelve shillings sixpence, called
Happy Families
, by a Moira something. My daughter Clelia said it's most extraordinarily helpful—even how much to pay the nanny and exactly what one may expect her to do—so very difficult nowadays! It tells about
au pair
girls, too, should you require one, Mr. Reid.”

He had turned quite pale. What
had
she said? “Or you might try the Nanny College, Mr. Reid.” He didn't even thank her, and she heard a distinct titter from a thin girl now sitting on the arm of the sofa.
What had she said?
She hoped that the girl would stop wriggling, because that arm was loose. Unless it had been repaired. Perhaps repaired, because it did seem to be holding. Was repairing the furniture part of the bargain?

And now she saw that Coral Reid was returning. Mr. Reid immediately leaped to his feet and put a smile where his offended expression had been. Surely the young were more casual than that? The star didn't reseat herself and ignored the lot of them.

“Bran, I have to talk to you.”

Then she turned and, her great skirt humping, rushed off again.

Although he wanted to spit in Lady What's-her-name's eye (Coral's expression, she had no breeding), Bran excused himself and with one look put down the bitch on the arm of the sofa who had had hysterics when the old bat called him Mr. Reid, and left. Bran reminded himself that until his picture made him Branton Collier again he
was
Mr. Reid. The old bat had only said what everybody else thought.

“What the
hell
?” he asked Coral when he caught up with her. Even Elizabeth Taylor would excuse herself, but Coral just scrammed. His mother had taught him a long time ago how you never knew who could do you dirt, and with
Wind
coming up he didn't need any new enemies. With Nube leading the pack they were all against him anyhow. They hated to admit he wasn't through. When someone was down it made them feel bigger, but he'd show them. He'd show Coral, too. She made a big deal of how going along with
Wind
was showing her faith in him, but he was sure Richard Harris would have signed for the part of Peter if she had really tried to get him.

Outside the big room there was a bench with a red velvet cushion and gold tassels, and Coral dropped onto it like a sack of potatoes. (No discipline.) At first she couldn't get any words out and just hung on to his hand until the iciness of hers got to him. Nube had managed to screw up
Wind
and she was scared to tell him! “Coral! Give!”

But this wasn't the Coral Reid expression which she used to project fear. She looked almost ugly, looked really ugly, and suddenly he could smell her.

She whispered, “Cornie's kidnapped. They want fifty thousand pounds.” She pulled her hand out of his. “Don't talk! Don't talk! That wasn't Cornie's nurse on the telephone. It was a man. He said she was safe, but if we called in the police they would know, and then—Close your mouth, Bran! They might be watching us right now, how do we know? Bran, I'm going crazy. I think I'm going crazy!” She put the big knuckle of her second finger between her upper and lower teeth and bit as hard as she could so she wouldn't yell. For all she knew, they had spies here and if she screamed and anyone noticed and the kidnappers got the idea that the cops were going to be called in—She took her knuckle out of her mouth because since her teeth had been capped biting didn't hurt enough. “The man—he was English—he said we should go back to the hotel and they'd contact us there.”

Nothing had gone sour with the deal. It was Cornie. Cornie had been kidnapped. Bran smiled the smile which used to get all the mothers. “It's just some nut! It's some nut called you for kicks.” He smiled again. “Ask mom about when I was kidnapped off the Paramount lot. We'll call her in Paris. Mom will tell you.”

“Your mom can't tell me a thing about when you were kidnapped off the Paramount lot. I know it by heart. Bran, this isn't your mom's baby, this is
my
baby. This isn't the Paramount lot, it's London.”

He distinctly felt her spittle hit his face. No discipline. “All I meant was this is some English nut getting his kicks. They have them here, too, darling. I meant Cornie is safely tucked up in bed.”

“A nut? You think a nut? Then you call,
you
call.” She humped off the bench but couldn't remember where the phone was. They had better call from the same phone, because it was in a little room like a closet where nobody could hear. Coral stopped a waiter with a tray to ask about that phone but changed it to
a
phone because if a spy were around, it was better that he heard the call and realized that they were only making sure Cornie was really gone.

It took Bran forever to get the number. Was it slower, the system here, or was it Bran using his goddamned Oxford accent? She stuck her knuckle between her upper and lower teeth again. Finally he got through.

“Mr. Collier here.”

Oh, for Christ's sake,
Mr. Collier here!

“What do you mean they're not there? It's—” He held out his wrist so he could see his watch, “seven-forty.”

As Bran listened she saw the vein beating in his forehead.

“I see. I see. Okay.”

“I told you! She's not there, she's not there!” She had screamed, but she mustn't scream.

“Withers said Miss Brandt and Cornie went out at three, after her nap, and they haven't come back.”

“Now they tell us!”

“This isn't the first time she's been late, Withers said. He thinks there's some man involved.” British accent again. “The Witherses didn't feel it their place to tell us.”

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I mustn't cry. If someone notices, they'll try to make us call the cops. Don't let me cry, Bran!”

“You're an actress, Coral. Cool it.”

“Yes, yes. We've got to get back to the St. Georges. We've got to be there when they call again.”

It wasn't the
Wind
deal. It was Cornie. It was his child. He remembered how his mother had felt when he was kidnapped, and the tears came into his throat. What had his mother said she'd done? Passed out. Fainted. But she was just a mother, and Coral was a star so Coral mustn't faint. They'd be all over Coral if she fainted. There must be some reporters around still and all the papers would carry it.

“I won't cry. I won't cry,” she said.

“Attagirl.”
“My husband was marvelous,”
she would tell the reporters when it was over.
“I was about to climb the walls, but he calmed me down. Mastroianni said, ‘When I work with Fellini I'm like a sponge.' That's how it was with me. With Bran directing, I was like a sponge. And if he could direct me at a time like that!”
“That's the stuff, darling! Now we go back in, and this time we mind our manners. Yes, we do, Coral. You can do it. Five minutes because, look, we don't want anyone here to connect our leaving with a phone call from Cornie's nurse. Yes, I know what I'm doing. I tell you we have to make five minutes' conversation about anything but Cornie's nurse and then we can leave. Reason? We movie actors have to be up crack of dawn, that bit. And that's just what we give Nube, too.”

“Fuck Nube.”

“You're always telling me he doesn't miss a trick. You want
him
sticking his nose in?” If Nube got into it he, Bran, would be out. O-u-t.

She nodded. “Nube might say the cops. He might.”

“Then you better do some acting.” For a change. “Did you have a drink? When we get back to Lady Whosit, pick it up. Drink it. You could use a drink, anyhow. Don't gulp. Sip. I'll do the talking and you be the star who's out on her feet. I want a glazed look in your eyes that means you're trying not to yawn in their faces. You know exactly what I want.” He took her arm.

“You bastard, you're directing! This is my baby!” But she smiled in a tired way, her lip-lifting smile, barely sustained. “You give me one more direction I'll spit in your eye.”

“Later,” he said grandly, “now give me the pooped-out star, darling.” She could only hold her glass up; anyone watching could see nothing was going down. He was the real actor. He ad-libbed to Lady St. Shit and the others, and all Coral could do was go along as a supporting player, doing very little supporting at that.

Then they excused themselves. Now for Nube. Nube was talking to a tall man in military costume but stopped when they approached. Bran gave Nube the Coral-dead-on-her-feet story. Nube, he saw, listened to him but watched Coral.