Chapter 8
The final scene was going to be filmed outdoors at a studio outside of the city, and Maggie spent the entire trip with her head practically hanging out of the window. Bea and Pam had tagged along, glad for the ride and the opportunity to avoid the snarls of traffic that they would otherwise have to endure. Reminiscences of Carnaby Street and the swinging sixties filled the time, as they slipped into a long talk about fashions and the best places to shop in London.
Pam recruited Maggie to help her tack on buttons and make a few repairs to the costumes, since Maggie had learned how to sew from her British aunt. Only Bea noticed that Ciaran picked at the threads of his sleeve hem until it came down, and then he ran to Maggie and asked her to fix it. While she stitched up the errant fabric, Ciaran brushed the hair away from her eyes as the gentle breeze blew some strands around.
“Watch out for him,” Bea warned her as they stood off to one side of the set.
“Who, Ciaran? Oh, he’s harmless,” Maggie said with a sweet smile.
“He’ll use you like he uses any woman who strikes his fancy,” Bea explained.
“But it might be me who uses him. A little fun, and then I go back home, never to see him again,” Maggie replied.
“I haven’t known you for very long, but I don’t believe that you would be capable of a meaningless affair. You’re as tightly laced as Trevor.”
“But Trevor hasn’t asked me to spend the night with him, and Ciaran has. It’s silly of me, I know, but after being married for so long, and then to have a man actually look at me like I was special.” Maggie could not put it into words, but Bea understood. It was the heady feeling of being desirable, of being wanted, that made Maggie think so recklessly. Bea had gone through it herself after Nigel had broken her heart, and Trevor had been the one to talk to her and save her from more heartache.
“Give old Trevor a bit more time, Maggie,” she suggested. “Don’t forget, he’s very British. Stuffy and reserved, like a character out of Jane Austen, but if he can be alone with you he’ll be himself. We English do have sex, despite the rumors.”
Bob Hurleburt shouted for quiet, making a point to glare at the two women as they giggled like fools within range of the microphones. Trevor was waiting to begin, standing just outside of the camera shot, and he caught Maggie’s eye as she looked over at the set. One brief glance was all that he needed to help him slip into his character, and his face gradually melted into the features of a soldier. Wrapped up in his character, he became Karl Hofmeier in this flashback to the war during the blitz.
The scene that led into this one, in which Hofmeier returned to England in the early 1950’s to see his son, melted into this horrible night in 1942, when Karl’s nightmare came screaming back to haunt him. Only Maggie understood the complete picture, and she studied Trevor’s every move to determine if he had sensed it, if he understood his character as fully as Maggie understood Karl Hofmeier. Harwood and Hurleburt walked through the scene and worked out the movements. With every turn of his head or tormented arching of his back, Maggie observed Trevor as he worked.
It only needed one take to get the scene filmed; Harwood could never do it any better. He fixed his mind on the pain that he was going to feel soon, when Maggie went home and he would never see her again. It was as if she would be dead too, as dead as Allison, and he had never even told her that he loved her because he was too afraid to show her how weak he was. He was too proud to tell her how much he needed her, and his misery spoke through his footsteps.
There was anger in his movements as his character tried to uncover his fiancée’s body, the anger that he felt at himself and at Ciaran. Doyle was going to have Maggie, since he was an expert at seducing women and Maggie was vulnerable. It was more than Ciaran’s smooth, silky voice that had fueled Harwood’s rage. There was the conversation the two men had earlier in the day, with Ciaran’s probing questions about marriage and children, and was it confining to be tied down to one woman. If Maggie did marry that hulking Manchester gorilla, Trevor would see her all the time, at parties or at work. She would become an endless reminder of what he wanted but could not have.
The camera came in close for a tight shot of Harwood’s face as his character uncovered the body of his lover, a moment of horror when he realized that she was killed in the bombing. Maggie was so very aware of the crushing pain that Hofmeier experienced at that moment in his life; she knew how deeply he was affected by the woman’s death to this day. Trevor began to cry, a real tear ran down his cheek, and with the agony that arose from a broken heart he began to wail. Maggie had never seen someone with such an awe-inspiring talent, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Trevor had conveyed precisely the horrible anguish that Karl Hofmeier had endured so many years ago.
“Cut,” Hurleburt yelled, his joy evident in his ebullient tone. “Perfect, Harwood, brilliant.”
Trevor was dazed for a moment, lost in his character with his mind in another time. He looked for Maggie, wanting her to hold him in her arms and wipe away the pain and comfort him with her presence. Every thought was directed to her, as if he could will her to come to him. The power of his desire was channeled, aimed towards her heart. A towel fell across his shoulders, but it was only his assistant who had hurried over with a bottle of water, to help Trevor to his feet and back to reality. Filming had ended for the day, and Trevor was worn out, leaning on Roger as he stumbled back to his dressing room.
“Well, Mrs. Angiolini, do you think that your client will be satisfied?” Bob asked as he walked past Maggie.
“I am simply amazed,” was all she could think to say. “It was as if he probed Hofmeier’s mind and replayed his thoughts.”
“First caravan on the right,” Bob pointed to Trevor’s dressing room, the door still hanging open. “Go tell him, it will mean a great deal to him if he could hear it from you.”
“If he had any sense, he would lock the door and have it off with her right now,” Bea said as she watched Maggie walk away.
“He’d have to send his assistant scurrying to an all-night chemist for a box of condoms,” Bob snorted. “Unless she carries her own supply.”
“Bob, how do you manage to always think the worst about people?”
“It’s not the worst, Bea. I assume that she doesn’t intend to bring home any strange diseases to share with her husband.”
Bea looked at Bob and laughed as she sat in a chair, waiting for Maggie. She could only shake her head at the man’s blindness and his lack of interest in finding anything good about someone associated with Karl Hofmeier. Knowing something that he did not was somehow delightful, and she decided then and there to keep Maggie’s marital state to herself. When the time was right, she would spring the news on him and she was going to savor his stunned reaction, his embarrassment and his doltish stuttering.
“What’s the joke?” Pam asked as she met up with Bea. “Where’s our Maggie?”
“Congratulating Trevor on his brilliant performance,” Bea said. “Did you know that Bob thinks she carries condoms to protect her husband from sexually transmitted diseases that she might pick up in England?”
“Her husband?” Pam roared with glee. “He doesn’t know?”
“Apparently, I don’t know anything,” Bob huffed, annoyed by the heartless attitude of embittered, divorced women. For all he knew, Maggie disliked her husband and wanted to infect him with something, in a final parting gesture before flinging him out on the street. That was her business, but she was certainly not catching anything from Trevor Harwood; that man had been cautious his entire life. Grinning with mischief, Pam and Bea heartily agreed with Bob’s parting remarks. As he stormed off, they could barely contain their snickers.
Maggie was almost afraid to disturb the actor, since he had seemed all out when he finally walked back to his dressing room. Nigel was there, with a make-up man and one of Pam’s assistants, and everyone was bubbling over with praise for Harwood, but he only had eyes for Maggie when she peeked in the door.
“It was perfect, Trevor, more than I can explain,” she said with a shy smile. “Mr. Hofmeier picked you for this role, but please don’t tell him I told you that. I can understand his choice now, you were so incredible, honestly, you were sensational. Today you made your performance in Chateau Thierry look like amateur hour, and that was an amazing portrayal.”
Hundreds of words tumbled through Trevor’s brain, none of which he dared to say, not in front of so many people. He wanted to empty the room, to throw Maggie on the sofa and make love to her before Ciaran Doyle had a chance to touch her. That would never happen, though, not with dull as dishwater Trevor Harwood. In the end, he only mumbled his thanks before Maggie said goodbye, her warm smile and sparkling eyes fading from his view like the Cheshire cat.
“Steady on, Trevor,” Nigel patted his friend’s back. “Bea is keeping your little blossom under wraps tonight.”
“It’s hopeless, I haven’t done this for so long I don’t even know what to say,” Trevor moaned in sorrow. He peeled off his costume and slipped into a ratty dressing gown, plopping down in the chair to have the make-up removed.
“The one man who could give you some decent advice is the one man who is after the same thing. I’m no good at this either, Trevor, all I know is ‘fancy a tumble’ but even that doesn’t make Bea smile anymore.”
“Brilliant. Fancy a tumble, Maggie? Can you overlook my faults long enough to give me a go?”
“That’s actually rather good.” Nigel was thinking intently, trying to help out this bumbling, quivering wreck. “When we were talking the other day, she mentioned something about British English being more charming or something. What was it, she talked about tumble compared to, compared to. Oh, I remember now. She said a tumble sounded so much more playful and fun than the term getting laid. Bea has her mobile with her, ring Maggie now and ask her if she fancies a tumble.”
“Get out, Nigel,” Trevor said coldly, throwing make-up sodden tissues at him. “I don’t need to give her another reason to sleep with Doyle.”
“Fine, ignore my wise advice. And when she goes back to Chicago, don’t expect me to give you any sympathy.”
The room had cleared out, with only the make-up man left behind to finish up. “What do you think, Hal?” Trevor asked.
Hal wiped his hands on a towel and reached into his back pocket. From his wallet, he extracted his emergency condom, the wrapper glistening and unbroken. “You won’t get any these days unless you’re wearing this.”
“Is that how it’s done now?” Trevor asked. Hal was close to his daughter Callista’s age, a single man who knew more about pick-up lines than Harwood ever had. He felt that he had no choice but to turn to this young man for help. “No dinner, no dancing, just straight to bed?”
“After all, if the lady is willing, Mr. Harwood, why wait?” Hal said suggestively. “Now, if you want to leave a good impression, you take her to dinner afterwards, and over drinks you tell her how aroused you are by her smile, because she has that look that tells you she’s been satisfied. I’ve had tremendous success with that line, but that’s only if you're trying for a long relationship, when you want her to come back for more.”
“No man of my age would ever ring up a woman and ask for sex. Maggie would no doubt laugh me into impotency.”
“Then try a little romance. Bribe the desk clerk, get into her room and wait for her there, and give her a single rose. If you give her a dozen, she’ll thank you, but give her one and she’ll melt. Chances are you wouldn’t have to ask for anything.”
“But wouldn’t that scare her half to death? I mean, she comes into her room, switches on the light and finds a strange man lying in wait. She’d probably start screaming in terror.”
“Sometimes a man has to be bold to attract a lady’s attention. I heard that Ciaran Doyle sent a car to pick up some actress, I don’t even remember who it was. It was all done very mysteriously, he called her and told her to go for a drive, just get in the car without knowing where she was going. Anyway, she ended up at Strand House, and he was in bed waiting for her.”
“Screw Ciaran Doyle,” Trevor hissed, growing irate. For all he knew, that damned wanker was in Maggie’s bed already, just waiting for her to come strolling in. And he definitely would have a whole case of condoms at the ready, all set for two weeks of work.
“The talk on the set, Mr. Harwood,” Hal said with hesitation, “is that he’s seriously thinking about getting married. I’m not one to spread gossip, but, you know how it is, things get said.”
“I’ve heard a few things myself. What other rumors are floating around? I can keep a secret, Hal.”
Hal’s eyes lit up with delight, since there was nothing he liked better than sharing the backstage blabber, with those glimpses of humanity behind the actor’s façade. “He was talking about starting right in, to get her pregnant as quick as possible so they could have a couple of kids before she got too old. I was in the room when he told his assistant to find out about public schools in London for her son, and that’s pretty serious talk. That kind of thing, well, normally I wouldn’t pay any attention, but you’ve been honest with me, Mr. Harwood, and there are some things that I think you should know about.”
“Thank you, Hal, for the warning. Look, do me a favor, and don’t say a word to anyone about our little discussion. I am about to make a complete ass of myself, but there’s no getting around it.”
Friday night in London was more like an enormous party, with crowds of wildly dressed young professionals swarming the clubs. Bea had selected a very traditional British restaurant in Dockside, with a wonderful view of the Tower and the Thames. The party of four arrived very late, and very hungry. They were late because Mrs. Angiolini was still an employee of Quinlan and Associates, and she had to stop at her hotel after the filming to make her business calls.
First on the list was Mr. Hofmeier, who would have to be informed that everything had been done his way. Maggie could barely wait to tell him, knowing that he would be very pleased with this adaptation of his novel. “Harwood was excellent, Mr. Hofmeier, he really became you even though he has no idea that it was you.”
“I knew he was a good actor,” Mr. Hofmeier agreed. “But is he a decent human being, a good person?”
“Sure, I guess so, I mean, I don’t know him all that well. We’ve talked some, and he’s very witty and really interesting. In general, these London film stars are so much more down to earth than our American version.”
“So, you seem to be enjoying this trip so far,” he noticed. “Seen any landmarks yet? You aren’t cooped up in that damned hotel all day, are you?”
“I’ve seen a little, but I’ve been working, Mr. Hofmeier. I found a book for you, you’ll enjoy it but I won’t tell you about it so that you’ll be surprised when I give it to you.”
“One more thing,” he added before hanging up. “If you need to stay longer for some reason, if your situation changes, don’t worry about the expense.”
“Mr. Hofmeier, really, I would never extend my trip and then expect you to pick up the tab.”
“God damn it, girl, that’s an order. Don’t be so damned insubordinate.”
Theresa was on hold, listening to the hotel’s sleep-inducing canned music. She had sent three manuscripts via an overnight courier, and as soon as Maggie picked up the phone her cousin began to rattle off the authors, the plots, and the key problems that needed to be dealt with. “I’ll keep you out of mischief during the day, and you do what you can at night,” Theresa had said. Before leaving for dinner, Maggie called home to talk to Kay, but she had probably left for school pick-up already. All she could do was to leave a message on the machine to report that things were running very smoothly.
Tim the bellhop delivered a package when she was about to walk out the door. It came from Mr. Doyle, who was waiting for a reply at the delivery entrance behind the hotel. Ciaran had cleverly taken a guide map, the type that were routinely handed out to tourists, and used it to wrap a small box that contained a delicate red rosebud. His note was equally simple and direct, telling Maggie that the private tour of London left from Strand House on Saturday at eleven, and it was complimentary to the prettiest guest of the hotel.
“Will you tell him that I will be taking the tour of London tomorrow?” Maggie gave as her reply. The single rose and the charming note made her feel as if she was the luckiest woman in England at that moment. There was no time to dwell on her thoughts, no time to savor the warmth that swept over her. Bea, Pam and Cindy were waiting downstairs in the car, ready to succumb to starvation if she did not hurry.
Out of gratitude for her new friends’ generosity, Maggie paid for dinner. They had to laugh at the way she examined the currency, with its pretty and colorful pictures. She insisted that American greenbacks were practically puritanical compared to the ten pound note that she was waving in the air. For some reason, the flapping bill reminded Cindy of male strippers, and that led them to a dance club in Leicester Square, which was populated by gyrating bodies of varied ages.
“So the bastard tries to get me back in bed,” Bea was fuming over Nigel’s latest irritating actions. She could tell that he wanted to fix their marriage, but some things were simply unforgivable.
“He still loves you, you know,” Maggie said, shouting to be heard over the loud music.
“If he had loved me two years ago, we would still be married,” Bea noted. “And look at you, Trevor loves you and you think about having an affair with Ciaran.”
“He does not, he thinks I’m Hofmeier’s hired gun. Ciaran couldn’t care less about me, but what’s wrong with trying on something new?” Maggie replied.
“Because you’ll feel like a piece of garbage the next day,” Cindy put in, unable to forget the humiliation.
“At least old Trevor would make you a cup of coffee in the morning,” Pam added, and her companions’ raised eyebrows forced her to defend her honor. “And I am not speaking from past experience, I swear. I like Trevor, he’s one of those nice gentleman that your mother always wanted you to bring home for tea.”
“Can he make good coffee, Pam?” Maggie asked with a sly wink. “Maybe I should let him grind my coffee.”
“Now that’s what we all need, some young coffee grinders. Where are all the available men, anyway?” Pam complained, watching balding old men trying to look sophisticated while dancing with very young shop girls.
“Looking for unavailable women,” Bea said bitterly.
“They’re out there,” Maggie said with confidence. “Hiding, to be sure, but out there. Bars are the worst place to find men, unless you’re looking for an alcoholic.”
“Let’s try the coffee houses,” Pam suggested.
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