Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

“Don’t you know yet?”

She told him about the new comedy by the author of her recent big success; she would read it as soon as she got to New York, it was partly for this she was returning. “I suppose it won’t come on till the fall, so there’ll be plenty of time for rehearsing and polishing up—rewriting this scene and that and the usual mood of wondering whether it’s a masterpiece or a piece of junk.”

“Somehow you don’t sound as if you were looking forward to all that.”

“Oh, I’m used to it.”

“But not looking forward to it this time?”

He had a very quiet, persistent, but kindly way of refusing an answer that evaded.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, and wondered why she was doing it, “I’m too tired right now to be looking forward to anything.”

“You’ll feel better on dry land.” The drinks arrived, which made him add: “Too bad it IS a dry land.”

So they had the usual exchange of views about Prohibition, and that led to general chatter about American affairs, including inevitably the stock market. She told him she had lost money and gave a light-hearted account of her husband’s action in selling at the top in order to finance a film-making enterprise in Germany. “He’ll probably lose it that way too, but how much more worth while.”

“Why should you think he’ll lose it?”

And she had to ask herself the same question. She answered, honestly, after a pause: “I expect it’s my own conceit. You see, this is the first time he made a deal on his own without asking my advice.”

“Would your advice have been against it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the deal is. And what right have I to pose as business adviser anyway—I haven’t proved myself so smart lately.”

“Nor have a great many business people… Would you like another drink here or at the table?”

She smiled and he asked her why. She said: “It reminded me of what they teach waitresses. Years ago, when we were hard up, I was one for a while, and whenever anyone ordered pie we were told to ask whether they wanted whipped cream or ice-cream with it. The customer who didn’t want either had to make a stand.”

“I hope you won’t make a stand now.”

“No, I haven’t the strength. Four customers out of five hadn’t. It was good psychology.”

“That’s very interesting.” He gave the order to the waiter, then said: “So you’ve had your hard times?”

“Oh, nothing very dreadful. Before we made our first hit we went through a few bad patches, that’s all.”

“In New York?”

“Yes—and other places. It was in California that I was a waitress. Only for a short time—till Paul found a play.”

“You’ve worked together as a sort of team?”

“Not deliberately—but I suppose it has been, more or less.”

“Until this German enterprise?”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t expect to be in that. I’ve had no picture experience.”

From his silence she knew he realized how stupid the remark was, except as a revelation of things it did not say. Presently she went on: “Don’t let me bore you with all this talk of my own affairs.”

“How could I be bored when I’ve been asking all the questions?”

That was so. She replied: “Yes, but theatre shop can be pretty dull to those outside the business, and I rather imagine you are.”

He nodded. “Yes, my own profession is far less romantic—and popular… I’m in a broker’s office.” The second drinks arrived and he raised his glass. “Well, here’s to the new play. Whatever it turns out to be I shall make a point of seeing you in it.”

“I’ll send you tickets for the first night.”

“That would be very kind of you.”

It would indeed, she reflected, considering they were so much sought after and he was someone she had met for the first time that day. She added: “If you promise to laugh at all the jokes, no matter how hard it is.”

“I promise. But why should it be hard?”

“Well, for one thing, they may not be such good jokes. And then, too, it must be pretty hard for a broker to see a joke in anything nowadays. My own broker’s having a nervous breakdown… Andy Reeves… I wonder if you happen to know him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“He’s much older than you, I should imagine.”

“Now how old would you imagine I am?”

“I guessed fifty-five when I first saw you but you’ve been growing younger ever since.”

He seemed amused by that and she felt the beginnings of a mood she sometimes got into when she was emerging out of fatigue—a sort of impishness, making her say things that were quite helplessly silly and only funny to others if she found them funny enough herself.

Then suddenly she keeled over and would have slipped to the floor had he not held her. It could hardly have been the drink, for she had had only one; the bar was rather stuffy, perhaps that was the reason. People made way for an emergency that had happened many times before on ocean liners, except that in this case it wasn’t that particular emergency at all. As soon as he had helped her to the fresh air on deck she fully recovered, but he led her to her cabin and summoned the stewardess. He was very gracious and attentive and took his leave when the stewardess arrived. She didn’t feel ill, or quite well either, so she swallowed some aspirin, undressed, and went to sleep. The next morning the seas were rough again, so she stayed in bed all day. He sent flowers.

The morning after that the Berengaria arrived at New York. Amidst the last-minute scurry of packing and formalities she half wondered if she would see him again, but she did not look for him, and when the ship docked she followed her usual habit of waiting till nearly all the passengers were off before making her own way down the gangway to the customs. She soon found her luggage, among the last of the “S” group, but as she approached it an elderly stranger touched his hat, evidently recognizing her. “Mrs. Saffron? Mr. Bond asked me to help you through.”

“Well, that’s very kind of him, but I haven’t anything dutiable, so —”

“It’ll be easy then. Your car’s meeting you?”

“No, I’ll take a taxi; but please don’t bother—”

The man had already stepped to the customs officer and was saying something in his ear, with a result quite astonishing—the immediate passage of all her bags without inspection. Normally she disliked being singled out for special favour, but this time the act was performed so simply and quickly as to give her no time for embarrassment, and she was grateful besides, for she had had experience of customs men who seemed to have a special distrust of actresses.

While the man was giving further instructions to a porter she said half jokingly: “That’s one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen. Thank you, and please thank Mr. Bond. He really must know the right people.”

“Well, Mrs. Saffron, I dare say he does… He also asked me to give you this letter.”

She couldn’t figure quite what the man was—a servant, an employee? He hadn’t introduced himself by name and he was dressed as nondescriptly as an hotel detective. She thanked him again and read the letter on the way to her apartment. It said merely: “I’m sure you consider we owe each other at least one dinner. Will you let me know an evening that suits you after you get settled? Yours sincerely, Austen Bond (aged forty-six).”

Not till several days later did she happen to mention Mr. Bond to a friend as “the only man I spoke to during the entire trip—tall and rather handsome—something in a broker’s office, he said.”

“My goodness, not AUSTEN Bond, by any chance?”