Miss Glamora Tudor!: The New Chronicles of Barset: Book One Page 9

  “Cut!” said Mr. Goldwasser.

  “Is this it?” asked Lady Pomfret in disbelief. “You put up this huge display of cutlery, china, flowers, people, and food, for a two-minute conversation?”

  “Yes, Lady Pomfret, you have just captured the essence of the Cinema. When you watch the film, you will not want a long scene at a dining table. It will be boring, you have already grasped the idea of what was going on, and you will want to quickly follow the couple’s romantic conversation on the shores of the Danube. But the food is not wasted. All these extras, and possibly Glam and Keith, if they feel like it, will devour this very nice meal. And as for us, we will go to the temporary canteen, Hollywood style, that I have set up here and have a wonderful lunch. A little later, we can film the scene by the water.”

  About two hours later they were at the area that represented the shores of the Danube, watching Glamora and Edmond at work.

  “Well, Mr. Chardonay,” said Lady Fitz-Gardner. “There was something you wished to tell me.” Her long sea-green, incredibly expensive lace gown trailed casually on the muddy ground, to Lady Pomfret’s horror, and her satin, emerald-green shoes, while not very suitable for a stroll on the shores of the Danube, were stunning.

  “I hesitate, Lady Fitz-Gardner,” said Mr. Chardonay. “But I can no longer resist. I love you more than life itself, and I want you to be my wife.”

  “Mr. Chardonay!” exclaimed the magnificent creature, obviously much surprised by his declaration, which she would not, in her purity, have ever expected despite all the time they had spent looking into each other’s eyes throughout the film. “This has never occurred to me… I am a married woman…”

  “I know, to my chagrin,” said Mr. Chardonay, covering his eyes with his hand for a moment of private agony. “I cannot bear the thought of someone else having the right to love and cherish you… but we both know that your marriage no longer holds the love you so richly deserve. Your husband is too busy to devote his entire life to you, even though this is what someone like you should expect…. This is what I want to do. I want to devote every minute of my life to your happiness. Leave your husband, Lady Fitz-Gardner, and we will go somewhere far away, where we will never be found.”

  Lady Fitz-Gardner pulled out her lace handkerchief from her emerald green satin bag that matched her shoes perfectly and touched her eyes. The close-up would show that this time the eyes were shadowed in delicate green, and every girl in England, the U.S., and Australia will rush to the local stores to buy it, which is why the cosmetic giant who had manufactured it and named it “Mermaid’s Glow” had invested millions in this film. Incidentally, this was not the same cosmetic firm that had sponsored the interesting lipstick, “Hibiscus Frenzy,” already worn all over the known world, but another one, equally large, and we are divagating again to mention this because it shows so clearly what a great star Glamora Tudor, whom we have grown to like very much as we tell this story despite her obvious silliness, really was, and how much she could influence people’s decisions when purchasing either clothes or maquillage. But let’s return to our star-crossed and unhappy couple.

  “But Mr. Chardonay, we both have duties,” she whispered softly. “We cannot give in to our hearts…”

  “Oh, my darling Aurora,” exclaimed Mr. Chardonay, grasping her hand. “Have I heard correctly? Have you really said ‘Our Hearts?’ Is your heart mine?”

  Assuming that we may refer to Lady Fitz-Gardner as “Aurora” from now on, since it an easier name to either type or write, well, Aurora turned away her beautifully coiffed head and whispered, “Yes, Nestor, my heart is yours. But we cannot, we cannot continue with this madness… our lives belong to other people…”

  “No, Aurora. Love is more important than anything in this world. I will yet convince you to learn it and to obey the commands of your heart and soul.”

  We must note here that this line was another one used verbatim from Mrs. Rivers’s book. The head screen writer was a not-so-young girl from New York named Maisie, who had just recently got engaged on top of the Ferris Wheel in Coney Island to her young man, a salesman from the great store Macy’s, which they both thought was a very funny coincidence, just as if it were meant. Maisie thought this was the most wonderful sentiment she had ever encountered in any book. And yes, we hope that another one of our favourite authors, Mr. William Sydney Porter, better known as O. Henry, would be pleased or at least would not mind that we are introducing this character since he had placed so many girls named Maisie in Coney Island, New York and Macy’s; but our Maisie never read about them, preferring a more romantic style of fiction. Of course she was quite susceptible to romance at that special time of her life, but we must realize that Maisie was selected to work on this important script in the first place because it was assumed that she would reflect, or perhaps represent, the taste of the Great Public on both sides of the ocean. We feel quite sorry for her because of her disappointment at the end of the book, since unlike our readers, she had no idea that all of Mrs. Rivers’s middle-aged heroines always went back to their husbands, after preserving their purity throughout the whole affair in the most tiresome way. Maisie had gone so far as to ask Mrs. Rivers if the end could be changed so as to have Aurora and Nestor go away on a slow boat to Tahiti, but we refrain from describing the violent response she got from Mrs. Rivers. We are happy to report that Maisie bore no grudges and enjoyed the romance just the same, crying during much of the writing time, and hoping against hope for a sequel that would correct this situation, possibly after the death of Aurora’s husband. Maisie could just see Glamora Tudor wearing a black silk suit and a wide-brimmed black hat, meeting Mr. Chardonay after a memorial service to her husband, exactly a year after his death. The inevitable would happen then, Maisie hoped, and so she mentioned the idea to Mr. Alcott as they were having a quick glass of beer after work. The idea was very well received and Mr. Alcott said he would mention it to Mr. Goldwasser at the earliest opportunity, and promised, should this work out, to make sure Maisie would be chosen again as the head writer.

  We ask our readers’ forgiveness for these divagations, but we simply can’t help ourselves as we feel that we and the readers walk together on the road taken by this modest work, and so we must tell all we know as we go along and have no secrets. At this moment Nestor took Aurora’s hand reverently and kissed it. “I shall wait forever,” he said. “Time has no meaning for a love as great as mine. Just promise me to try to understand…”

  “I will, Nestor. Whatever happens to us, I will cherish this moment for the rest of my life… I do understand.” And the camera followed them as they walked toward something or other on the pretend shore, and eventually it will be toward a beautifully superimposed Viennese Medieval Palace, an image supplied by the studios for just this purpose.

  Mr. Choyce was not happy. The whole thing felt a little risqué, and while he possessed what he was sure was an open mind, he did not like the idea of an illicit affair, however platonic. More importantly, he did not like to see Miss Merriman, who was the soul of decorum, involved in a situation that exposed her to these mildly immoral doings. Of course he did not feel like interfering; he had no right, but he was hoping that all that would end soon and everyone would go back to their normal lives.

  “Mr. Choyce,” he heard someone say and turned to see Miss Merriman by his side. “Have you enjoyed our little excursion into Hollywood?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Choyce. “I did. Most amusing. It’s just that… I don’t know how to explain it… it is not part of our lives, is it?”

  “Not in the least,” said Miss Merriman calmly. “No, it is merely a happy little interlude.”

  “So you would not consider working for the films on a permanent basis, Miss Merriman?” and having uttered his great fear he felt better.

  “Permanent basis has never been mentioned, Mr. Choyce. This is simply a temporary assignment.”

  Mr. Choyce felt much happier after this response, until it suddenly o
ccurred to him that his question was not really answered. All she really said was that a position of permanence had not been offered, but she said nothing about her own feelings. Did Miss Merriman want to work in the films on a permanent basis, and was just waiting for the opportunity to arise? Would she go to Hollywood if she were offered a position? And how friendly was she really with Mr. Goldwasser? Mr. Choyce had to admit that Mr. Goldwasser was an agreeable and intelligent man, and that it would not be too surprising if Miss Merriman liked him. He was no villain, no greedy tycoon, no vulgar nouveau riche. He seemed to admire Miss Merriman a great deal, in the most respectful manner of course. But how did Miss Merriman feel about Mr. Goldwasser? Or for that matter, how did she feel about Mr. Choyce?

  Chapter Eight

  Mr. Choyce sat in his library, thinking very hard about a subject he did not want to think about at all. He pretended to himself that he was writing a sermon, but his cat knew better. “There he goes again,” thought the cat, whose name, even though it has never been mentioned in these chronicles, was Charlemagne, and could not have been any other name, a fact with which I am sure every sensible reader would agree, and perhaps even feel, as we do, that it was the original intention of Someone Else, and perhaps She had just omitted mentioning it by accident. He jumped on Mr. Choyce’s lap, and the vicar petted him, a little too absent-mindedly to suit an ordinary cat’s finer sensibility and complete self-absorption, but Charlemagne, who was not an ordinary cat by any means, understood and bore no grudges. He settled himself on Mr. Choyce’s knees for a short but refreshing nap, much needed before heading to the Tile Club, where only the better sort of the Barsetshire cats were allowed as members. Charlemagne purred, to show his appreciation and emotional support, slept for a few minutes, then jumped off Mr. Choyce’s lap and stretched.

  “I am off to the club, Mr. C.,” he expressed himself in the way cats and humans who are strongly bonded communicate with each other, and which cannot be explained to those who don’t have such a close relationship. “Don’t sit up for me, I’ll be late.”

  “I never do,” responded Mr. Choyce in the same manner. “I have too much respect for you to do that, Charlemagne. You always have the freedom of your cat-flap door, anyway. Have a nice time at the club.”

  Many of the members were already there, and Charlemagne noticed with some disgust that a few of the new members were not quite all that they ought to be. A sign of the times, he thought, resignedly. What with Them giving every Tom, Dick and Harry good government jobs and even a knighthood, well, naturally cat clubs would follow suit… and a little sadly he turned to talk to his old friend, Miss Katrina, a great lady of high intellect and sophistication. And in case the reader wonders, we must mention that female cats are always allowed at the more respectable cat clubs.

  “A woman’s name is sacred, and all that,” said Charlemagne, who was a gentleman of the old school, “so I will mention none. But I do want your advice, Miss Katrina. My human, Mr. Choyce, has liked a lady for years, and neither of them is getting any younger, but he would not act. I have devoted some thought to the matter. Knowing her story as I do, from the Towers kitty, I would say that the-lady-who-shall-remain-nameless might be happier and more comfortable in a home of her own. Besides, I like sitting on a lap with a skirt on it, it is much more comfortable than trousers, as you know, and I think he should consider my feelings in addition to his own, since I am The Cat of the House.”

  “There is something you are not taking into consideration, despite your high intelligence and knowledge of the world, Mr. Charlemagne,” said Miss Katrina, “I am talking about the issue of money.”

  “But I do understand money, Miss Katrina. I was not born yesterday. In this case, there is little to worry about. We cats believe in comfort above all, we always seek the good life, and trust me, Mr. C’s home is extremely comfortable for both man and beast. No reason to think it won’t be comfortable for a lady. And he does earn his living as a vicar.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Choyce thinks he is comparatively poor, since he has only that income and no private means,” said Miss Katrina.

  “His prospects are good,” said Charlemagne. “He is the sole nephew of a well-to-do, unmarried lady of advanced years. True, she is quite healthy and happy, and Mr. Choyce, who is very fond of his aunt, certainly does not wish for her death which will very likely not happen for some years. But still, there you are, he will inherit eventually.”

  “I believe his means are sufficient for his needs, and more important, for yours, Mr. Charlemagne,” said Miss Katrina, “but his income is small. Therefore, he does not dare to admit to himself fully how much he likes and esteems the lady we are respectfully discussing. She has a good position, and she is well liked by her employers who are also her friends, and until he can offer her a better situation, he won’t act.”

  “Well, I think this is a very silly way to look at things. His own happiness and comfort depend on it, and I see no virtue in trying to be unselfish,” said Charlemagne.

  “Humans think differently from cats, as you know, Mr. Charlemagne. They pretend to such ridiculous virtues all the time,” said Miss Katrina wisely. “But we must join the others, they are calling us.” And so they both joined the choir that had started a new song, and the discussion stopped as they concentrated on proper howling. The honour of the Tile Club depended on keeping the neighbourhood awake as long as possible, and cats know how to focus their attention on one subject at a time.

  But Mr. Choyce could not stop thinking. In the past, while resigned to keeping away from Miss Merriman, at least he knew she was settled and happy, working for and with her friends and living in a comfortable home, even if not her own, and what’s more, he could enjoy her company very often. But here came this whirlwind of change in the guise of a man who had everything to offer – wealth, position, and an interesting and exciting new life – and in addition was intelligent, charming, and extremely likable. Mr. Choyce had to admit to himself that even if he had the temerity to approach Miss Merriman with his own feelings, he had not a chance in the world to win his suit, not while Mr. Goldwasser was in the background. For a moment he toyed with the thought that he, Mr. Choyce, was better looking than Mr. Goldwasser, but he quickly dismissed the idea as unworthy. So he tried to comfort himself that Miss Merriman’s happiness was more important than his own, without any success at all. Let’s face it, cats may have a point when they criticize us and say that the virtue of selflessness is highly overrated.

  The next morning, Miss Tudor and Mr. Goldwasser were sitting in the commissary, having breakfast. Glamora, the consummate professional, never ate her breakfast in bed during production, and was always punctual to a degree, thus disproving the myth that the divas of the cinema were always late. They were going to shoot an important scene that morning, an encounter between Aurora and her husband, which would take place at his grand office in London, represented by the Norton library, a room of elegant proportions and beautiful furniture. Aurora would burst into a board meeting, and demand to speak to her husband, who would be, of course, quite outraged, but nevertheless dismiss all the important people, some of whom travelled all the way from the Netherlands to discuss a lily deal at great trouble and expense, so that he could speak privately to his rather tiresome wife. Sitting far away from each other at the conference table, Aurora would tell her husband that she planned to leave him. Of course we know she would not do so, but the shocked husband, never having read any of Mrs. Rivers’s books, would believe her and be horrified and humiliated at the prospect.

  “You look marvellous this morning, Glam,” said Mr. Goldwasser.

  “Thank you, Jake. Do you really like this bright red hair? Isn’t it a bit too harsh?”

  “For this film, for Aurora, Lady Fitz-Gardner, it is the perfect colour. The red hair is a metaphor for her flamboyant though suppressed character and the central inner storm of her emotions.”

  “Hah?” said Glamora and sipped her coffee.

  “Sorry
, Glam, I always forget to adapt my philosophical musings to your practical mind. I meant that red hair is appropriate for passionate and exciting women.”

  “So you think I am dumb, Jake?” asked Glamora without heat, and bit into a delicious scone.

  “Dumb? That may be what you want people to believe, but I know better. You are sharper and shrewder than anyone I ever had to struggle with on the boards or to do my crazy deals with. I was amazed by your intelligence when I first met you during your audition with me in London. But to answer your original question, for real life, I have another favourite hair colour for you.”

  “Which one, Jake? I had so many!”

  “Dark auburn, love.”

  “Oh, the Irish heroine, our first film together, Jake. Is it just this, nostalgia, or do you really think it suited me best?”

  “Yes, with these dark violet eyes of yours and the creamy fair skin… they go very well with the auburn.”

  “My so-called creamy skin is beginning to show a whole lot of tiny wrinkles, Jake,” said Glamora with a strange lack of concern or regret, an attitude hardly to be expected of the famous film-star, whose success depended to a large extent on her youthful, or at least ageless, appearance and glowing beauty.

  “You are just as beautiful as in those days, when we filmed The Irish Narcissus,” said Mr. Goldwasser chivalrously.

  “Perhaps, since I have learned so much about makeup and self-care since those days, but it is getting harder and harder to maintain the look,” said Glamora. “It was much easier to be pretty when we were filming The Irish Narcissus, but Heavens, how I struggled in the London studios until you showed up in my life, Jake; the good looks did not help much.”