The Price of Fame Read online

  The Price of Fame

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Acknowledgements

  The Alison Plantaine Sagas

  Copyright

  For my granddaughters in order of appearance:

  Miranda Selby

  Jane Mosco

  Claire Mosco

  Zoe Selby

  Charlotte Blau

  Part One

  O what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practise to deceive!

  Sir Walter Scott

  Chapter One

  He found the photograph while he was rummaging in the attic, where he had gone to fetch some books for which there was no space on the shelves in his room. The fascination of relics from the past caused him to linger amid the cobwebs longer than he had intended, and his eye fell upon his mother’s old trunk.

  It had travelled with her when her parents were touring players. Labels bearing the names of provincial railway stations were plastered upon it, like a map of her transient childhood. And on the lid, printed boldly in white, was her name: ALISON PLANTAINE.

  He had often wondered what she kept in it, and was not surprised to find among its contents masses of theatre programmes. Some, yellowed with age, were from the days when she worked with her family company. Before she became the star she now was, her son thought.

  Why did he mind her being famous? Because she belonged to her public, not to him. He swallowed down his resentment, as he had long since learned to do, and returned his attention to the trunk.

  There was a blue georgette scarf in it, and a white glove with tiny pearl buttons. Two baby boots, tied together by their laces, lay tangled with a pair of dark-lensed spectacles. The baby boots must have been his, and it was nice to know she was so sentimental about him. But why had she kept the spectacles with her mementoes? He espied the little round cap she had probably worn when she made her stage debut playing Juliet, in 1916, and had the feeling that everything in this trunk could tell a story about his mother and her life.

  He picked up an embroidered silk shawl he could remember covering the grand piano in the living room when he was small, and was wrinkling his nose because it reeked of mothballs, when the photograph and a German theatre programme slipped from its folds to the floor.

  He retrieved them and tossed the programme back into the trunk, recalling his mother once mentioning that she had appeared at a theatre festival in Berlin, in the Thirties. It must have been before Hitler came to power, he reflected, or a half-Jewish actress would not have been welcome there.

  The winter afternoon was darkening to twilight. How long had he been in the attic, browsing through his mother’s private treasures? And without her permission. A stab of guilt assailed him. But the deed was done now. He might as well remove the photograph from its tissue-paper wrapping and peep at it before he closed the trunk.

  Inscribed on the cardboard frame, in Alison Plantaine’s handwriting, was: ‘My dear papa, on his Bar Mitzvah day’.

  To her son, though he was two years older than her father was then, it was like looking at a picture of himself. Yet she had told him he was her adopted child.

  * * *

  Alison returned from a wearying rehearsal to a cold and empty house.

  ‘Richard!’ she called when she opened the living-room door and was greeted by dead cinders in the hearth, and a gust of February chill. ‘Where are you? Why have you let the fire go out?’

  Not until she had been in every room, looking for him, could she believe he was not there. Her son was a considerate boy, more inclined to have a cup of soup waiting for her when she arrived home than to this kind of behaviour. There was not even a note saying where he was.

  This was his half-term holiday from school. Had he mentioned going somewhere today, without it registering with her? And what sort of mother was she, if that was the case? One who wasn’t cut out to be a mother, as her cousin Emma had once bluntly told her.

  What would Emma, if she were here, do now? Ring up some of Richard’s friends. But when Alison did so, none of them had seen him that day.

  If there was ever a time when Alison was aware of her inability to cope alone, it was now. Why did something like this have to happen when Emma was up north visiting her mother? And when Maxwell Morton, who was not just Alison’s manager but her dear friend, was abroad on business? He and Emma had been her support for more years than she cared to remember. Seen her through every crisis. Helped her raise her child. Shared with her the anxieties to which parents are subjected.

  Richard, though he was fatherless, was blessed with the love of two people to whom he had become a surrogate son. And they would not forgive Alison if some harm had befallen him in their absence, she thought with alarm. Supposing he had slipped out to buy a bar of chocolate and been run over by a bus? Was he lying in hospital, unconscious, unable to tell anyone who he was?

  She was about to telephone the police when Richard came home.

  ‘How dare you do this to me!’ Alison flared to him. But relief expressed in anger is not uncommon in a parent.

  He gave her a sullen glance, then went to the kitchen to pour himself some milk.

  Alison followed him, still beside herself. ‘Where have you been?’

  He did not reply to the question. ‘When is Auntie Emma coming back?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure. She said she’d let us know.’

  Richard drank his milk and put down his glass. ‘Well, I hope it’s soon. I’d rather not be here alone with you.’

  Alison was bewildered. When she left for rehearsal this morning everything was fine. He had kissed her goodbye. What could possibly have happened between then and now, to turn him against her? ‘What have I done?’ she asked.

  Again she received no answer. But the look her son gave her was more eloquent than words. As though he hated her. It was all she could do to remain standing where she was. Not to recoil. By the time she had recovered, Richard had gone.

  She heard him walk upstairs to his room and slam the door. If she went after him, it might make things worse. A painful feeling of rejection assailed her. And a sudden déjà vu. When had he made her feel this way before? When he was a little boy and overheard Alison and Emma talking about sending him away, because of the impending war. Richard had thrown a tantrum, kicking and screaming at her. When he calmed down he would not l
et her near him. He had wanted only Emma – as he had made clear was the case now.

  It occurred to Alison that whenever her son was deeply hurt about something, she was the one against whom he hit out in return. Never Emma, or Maxwell, though they disciplined him when necessary, which Alison had never done. But what had hurt him today? If she asked him, he would not tell her. She would have to wait until Emma returned.

  In the interim, Alison and Richard lived under the same roof like strangers. Her initial attempts to behave normally with him were rebuffed, and she retired into her shell.

  During his years as a wartime evacuee with an American family, Richard had helped with the household chores and learned how to cook simple meals. Usually, when Emma was away, he stepped into the breach and Alison had looked forward, ruefully, to several more days of dining on sausage and mash, or egg and chips. But Richard pointedly cooked only for himself, leaving her to make herself a sandwich when she came home from work. Alison could not cook.

  As she was at present between plays, they were at home together in the evenings, which served to emphasise their estrangement – Alison sat in the living room, and Richard sequestered himself in his bedroom.

  The day came when Alison could bear it no longer, and almost called Emma to ask her to hurry back. She stopped herself from doing so. Emma had enough on her plate at the moment. She had been summoned north by her sister Clara, when their mother tumbled from a stool while cleaning her kitchen cupboards. No bones were broken, but Clara would not be losing the opportunity to try to bulldoze Emma into returning to Oldham to live with the widowed old lady – a term which conjured up quite the wrong picture of Alison’s Aunt Lottie, she reflected with a wry smile. A more ebullient matriarch than Lottie Stein had never lived.

  Nevertheless, thought Alison, Emma was probably having a hard time at Clara’s hands. Though Emma had come to London to live with Alison in 1930, and it was now 1948, Clara had still not forgiven her for deserting the parental home. But in Clara’s book, an unmarried woman was not entitled to a life of her own.

  It did not enter Alison’s mind for a moment that Clara’s current campaign to get Emma to return north would succeed. Alison knew that Emma had fought and won the battle with her conscience and conditioning long ago. And by now, her life was too enmeshed with Alison’s for her to extricate herself. Nor did she wish to, or she would have said yes to the American officer who had proposed to her during the war.

  Perhaps the proposal itself had been enough for Emma, Alison mused now. Just knowing that a man had wanted her – for no other man had. Alison mused, too, on what a perfect wife and mother her cousin would have made. As Emma’s late father had once said, beneath her plain exterior was a seam of pure gold.

  Me, I’m just the opposite, Alison thought, eyeing her reflection in the hall mirror; after deciding not to call Emma she had remained beside the telephone, lost in her thoughts. You’re still a glamorous lady, she silently assessed herself, though you’ll be fifty in two years from now. Talented, too. But what kind of person are you? Hopeless and helpless, that’s what. You can’t even cope with your own son.

  Chapter Two

  Emma had never received such a rapturous welcome. She was kissed and hugged by Alison and Richard in turn as though she had just returned from a long and hazardous trip to the North Pole. It did not take her long to divine that both were not just pleased to have her back, but relieved, too.

  ‘What’s been going on while I was away?’ she enquired after she had taken off her hat and coat.

  ‘Nothing,’ Richard replied.

  ‘Except,’ said Alison, who could contain herself no longer, ‘that our boy is, for some reason, not speaking to me.’

  They followed Emma to the kitchen, where she immediately donned a pinafore without which she was rarely seen.

  ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, and Richard can tell me all about it,’ she said.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve now forgiven me for whatever it is that I don’t know I’ve done?’ Alison asked him.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Auntie Emma,’ Richard said, and left the room.

  ‘He has been walking out on me like that all week!’ Alison exclaimed. And added, after putting Emma in the picture, ‘What could I possibly have done to upset him that day, when I wasn’t here?’

  ‘Where do you keep his birth certificate?’ Emma enquired, after a thoughtful silence.

  Alison felt the blood drain from her face. ‘It’s in the safe. But what makes you think his behaviour has anything to do with that?’

  Though they had heard Richard go upstairs, and were speaking quietly, Emma shut the kitchen door. ‘I feel like a conspirator, Alison. And I don’t like the feeling. When I think of the lengths we went to – even embroiling the family up north – to protect you from scandal—’

  ‘It was my career, not me personally, that had to be protected,’ Alison cut in. ‘I would never have lent myself to the deceit had I not been who I am. Do you really think I’d have willingly let my son grow up thinking I’m not his real mother?’

  She tried to steady her trembling voice and found that she could not. A blast of anger shot through her. ‘And you failed to mention who masterminded the conspiracy, Emma. Our friend Maxwell – who makes a packet out of every production I appear in for him and wanted to go on doing so – dreamed it all up!’

  ‘You’ve had your share of flops, but Max never minded,’ Emma answered. ‘And it wasn’t his pocket he was thinking of. He knows as well as you and I do that Alison Plantaine would fall apart if anything happened to her career.’

  Emma had put the kettle on to boil, and brewed some tea. ‘What’s to be gained by apportioning blame, Alison? I’ve always felt in my bones that one day the lies we told Richard would come home to roost.’

  ‘When he’s old enough to understand, I shall tell him the truth.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s possible that, somehow or other, he has found out?’

  ‘How could he have done?’

  Emma poured the tea and toyed absently with the sugar-spoon. ‘I believe in God – whom you call Destiny, Alison. And I’ve had time to learn – as you have – that if He intends something to happen, He has His ways.’

  Alison smiled bitterly. ‘If it’s retribution you’re talking about, Emma, I have already paid in full. Wasn’t losing my son’s father – the only man I’ve ever loved – punishment enough?’

  Chapter Three

  Maxwell Morton returned from his business trip to two anxious women and an uncharacteristically subdued boy.

  Alison had moved from her West End apartment shortly after the war, and now had further to travel when she was appearing in a play. Morton, too, was inconvenienced by the move; he had to drive to North London when he dropped in on them. But he and Alison had agreed with Emma that a house with a back garden was a more suitable home for a growing lad. As always, Richard’s welfare came first with them all.

  The house was unnecessarily large for three people, but it was situated in a leafy lane close to Highgate Ponds, on the borders of the Heath, and Emma did not mind the extra housework. Here, the air was fresher, devoid of the city-centre petrol fumes she had never thought healthy for a child. And Richard was able to have a bedroom with plenty of space for a desk. He was a studious boy and they had lined the walls with bookshelves for him, but the books had overflowed to the floor – he spent all his pocket money on buying more.

  Emma was also happier in the house on her own account. Where she came from, flats were a rarity and she had never felt comfortable living in one. Now she had a kitchen with a hearth in it, which had quickly become the heart of the home, as her mother’s kitchen was up north.

  Morton, who had no relatives, visited the three who had become for him his family immediately he arrived back in London. Though he was not part of their ménage, he spent more time at Alison’s house than in his Mayfair bachelor flat. To the others – though the b
oy was not his son, nor either of the women his wife – it was as though the head of the family had come home. They loved and respected him. But he would never know that Emma’s love for him was that of a woman for a man.

  Would she ever stop loving Max that way? Emma thought, surveying his travel-weary appearance that evening. Or cease to be plagued by twinges of jealousy because he had always adored Alison, who did not want him? Max probably thought that she herself had said no to the only proposal she had ever had because marrying an American would have meant uprooting herself in middle age, she wryly reflected. But, had he asked her, she would have followed Maxwell Morton to the ends of the earth.

  She had not dismissed Al Wiseman’s proposal lightly. All Emma had ever wanted was to be cherished in the way her father had cherished her mother. But accepting Al would not have been fair to him if she could not return his devotion, and she had finally decided that her place was with those who already depended upon her. Without her, Alison’s and Richard’s stable home life would cease to exist.

  She took Morton’s hat and coat and hung them on the gleaming mahogany hallstand.

  ‘I’m capable of doing that myself,’ he said after she had whisked them from his hands.

  ‘Nobody would think so – as you usually just dump them on a chair!’

  Such verbal exchanges between them were common, and a source of amusement to Alison and Richard. This evening, neither so much as smiled.

  ‘So how were things on Broadway, Max?’ Emma asked, though she was not interested in either the theatre or his business machinations – as he well knew. But she could not bear the tension emanating from Alison and Richard. A fine homecoming for Max, she thought.

  Morton, too, was affected by the atmosphere, and replied caustically, ‘As I’ve been to Canada, not the States, I wouldn’t know, Emma. Now will someone please tell me what’s wrong with you all tonight?’

  ‘You had better ask Richard,’ said Alison.

  Emma held her tongue.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Uncle Maxwell,’ Richard said, departing upstairs.