The Rainbow Conspiracy

  THE RAINBOW CONSPIRACY

  STUART HOPPS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my Deal friends for their help

  and encouragement:-

  Frances, Jenny, David, Sylvia and Ryan.

  Court Miller 1952-1986

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  SPOKE ASSOCIATES MONDAY

  Spoke Associates was one of the top five leading theatrical agencies in the UK, and Shirley Morris had worked there for many years. She was familiar with the way her boss, Clive Spoke, liked things done, and had personally reserved a ticket in his name at the National Theatre for that night’s 1984 London premiere of the new musical Marilyn, making sure he had a very good seat in the stalls. Miss Morris had originally worked as a secretary for British Lion, one of England’s most important film companies. However, she soon became disenchanted with sitting behind a desk all day, where there was little opportunity for her to rub shoulders with glamorous film stars, let alone get to know the big names that mattered behind the scenes.

  She had decided therefore, to change tack and get herself a job in a theatrical agency, where she thought she would come into contact with leading actors on a daily basis. But her first job at the Bobbie Kelly Agency proved disappointing, since Shirley was only employed as a secretarial assistant. However, it was there that she first met Clive and, when he broke away from that establishment and formed his own business some five years later, Shirley decided to join Spoke Associates. There, she started off as the receptionist, but she was ambitious and soon worked her way up to becoming Clive’s personal assistant. In a way, they had both looked after each other, had developed more than just a professional relationship, and had finally become close friends. Some thought too close, but there was always bound to be a certain amount of jealousy in ‘the show business’ as Mr Spoke liked to call their line of work.

  Clive fully recognised that Shirley had contributed a great deal to the success of his agency and together they had become a formidable team, their professional life forcing them to spend a good deal of time together, working as well as socialising. True, Shirley was at times overprotective of Clive and although he usually benefited from this form of attention, he was perfectly capable of politely disengaging himself from her maternal clutches when he felt smothered, which of late did appear to happen with somewhat greater regularity.

  Spoke Associates now represented some very big names in the industry and Clive was enjoying the esteem in which he was now held. What infuriated him however, was how long it had taken him to get to where he was and how slow producers, directors and casting directors had been to recognise his ability to spot real acting skills, and be respected for what he had always believed was the obvious quality of the artists in his stable.

  He knew he could smell talent a mile off and liked to think of himself as a good judge of character, and other people in the business had slowly begun to realise that he had a particular nose for sniffing out a potential star. As well as assessing the artistic worth of his actors, he had a genuine flair for measuring the honesty of his clients as human beings, as well as their ability to own up to the pressures of the profession they had chosen.

  Clive loved the excitement of first nights and was particularly looking forward to the one he was off to that Wednesday evening. One of his most talented actors, the young and beautiful Miranda Martin, had landed the lead in the latest musical at the National. Having read the script, Clive openly announced that Marilyn would be a huge flop, although he also believed that Miranda would shine through, confirming her star quality, and demonstrating the calibre of the artists that Spoke Associates now represented.

  He had been on the verge of leaving the office when Michael’s call was switched through to him. Such was his tearing hurry to cross the Waterloo Bridge, take his seat before curtain-up and prove himself right by the end of the opening number, that he very nearly refused to take the call at all, and barely recognised the name Shirley had yelled through to him from her adjoining office. Michael’s news was brief: Dennis was dead. He’d developed AIDS.

  It had been ages since Clive had heard from either of those American friends, and truth to tell, he had simply drifted apart from them and lost touch. However, geographical distance was not the main reason: rather it was Clive’s obsession with Spoke Associates, and what Shirley and others had recognised as his delirious love affair with show business, coupled with the undoubted success of his clients and the growing reputation of his agency. This infatuation had caused him to drop many of his former friends and acquaintances, with whom he now had little in common, and that telephone call, coming from out of the blue, had really knocked him for six.

  In addition, the details of Dennis’s death made Clive feel uneasy about his own state of health. Only a couple of years before, in the early eighties, one or two of his New York friends had died of AIDS, and only last year, when he’d attended the premiere of Night for Day on Broadway, he’d bumped into his old friend, the American actor Morgan Fleming and barely recognised him. Shortly afterwards, he had not been surprised to read that the actor was dead. But an ex-lover was a much closer call and he knew that this relatively newly diagnosed disease was a killer. It made him feel more than a little fearful for his own life, as well as for Michael’s, who had sounded so distressed on the telephone. So after Clive’s diplomatic attempts at consolation, he assured Dennis’s partner that he would leave for Columbus the next morning and be with him as soon as possible.

  Clive replaced the receiver onto its cradle and slowly eased himself back into his chair, his own life of glittering first nights and star-making quickly receding into the background as he was suddenly overcome by an intense sense of loss. He buzzed through to Shirley and asked her to organise his travel arrangements to fly to the States the next day. Shirley was well aware that Columbus, Ohio did not feature anywhere in the Spoke Associates’ diary of engagements but was sensitive to how agitated that call from the USA had made her boss feel, and went straight ahead and did as instructed.

  She ordered a black cab to collect him from his home at ninefifteen the following morning, at least thirty minutes earlier than was really necessary. Clive’s views on punctuality were so engrained in her that she made premature arrangements as a matter of course. That way she knew he would arrive at Heathrow in good time to catch his plane, have some airport fruit juice if he liked, and make any last-minute phone calls before his flight was announced. Gone were the penny-pinching days when, in order to save on expenses, Clive would have carried his own bags down to the end of Ladbroke Terrace and picked up a cab at the corner of Holland Park Avenue. Taxis were relatively frequent along that stretch of the main road, so it was easy to hail one there and, living in the west side of London, his journey out to Heathrow Airport could be achieved in no time at all.

  But that was then and, let’s face it, Shirley knew all about the early days of Spoke Associates. Things were different now, and she had
the authority to deal with what she feared might be her boss’s current crisis in a manner more appropriate to his present status. She was very well tuned in to Clive’s mood swings and had become a dab hand at smoothing the waters when the going got rough. Her sharp antennae had become expert in registering the least change of pitch in his voice and at moments such as these, Shirley had only one tactic. She would allow fifteen minutes for fallout, then would move in and commence the rescue operation.

  So, having made the necessary plane reservations for the following day – first class of course – she set about putting the coffee on and let the dust settle for a while before finally entering Clive’s inner sanctum. She checked herself in the mirror, applied a little more lipstick, straightened her pleated skirt and put her navy blue jacket back on.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it, Clive?’

  ‘No! Not really.’

  ‘And are you going to sit there all night in your overcoat?’

  ‘Shirley, I’d like some coffee.’

  That signalled the end of round one, but Shirley was by no means certain that round two would reveal the reason behind his sudden need to go to Columbus. Although they were close, Clive was curiously uncommunicative about the life he had led pre-Spoke Associates and had related absolutely nothing about his university days. Likewise, Shirley, although once married, had decided to use her maiden name professionally and had volunteered little information concerning her private life or upbringing, and Clive, discretion personified, had duly respected her need for privacy.

  When Shirley returned with the coffee, Clive had removed his bulky outer garment and was deep in thought and drawing on a Balkan Sobranie, something he only did when under stress. Shirley placed a small tray on his desk, poured a cup for Clive, adding milk and one sugar, then crossed to the drinks cabinet and helped herself to a large Scotch. She held out the bottle towards him, knowing full well he would take a shot in his coffee.

  ‘Not having seen them in ages, Shirley, makes it all seem somehow less real. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Of course it does,’ she replied, still not knowing who the ‘them’ were.

  ‘Dennis is dead, and I’m sure Michael could do with some moral support.’

  ‘It’s all taken care of, connecting flights and a taxi out to Heathrow.’

  ‘Shirley, darling, thank you. What more can I say?’

  That phrase usually heralded another silence, and Shirley consequently sat herself down opposite him, quietly nursing her drink. She wasn’t at all sure who Dennis and Michael actually were but understood Clive well enough to know that he would take advantage of the pause and come round to filling her in about them in his own good time. After a while, Clive stood up and stretched. ‘I don’t think I can face tonight.’

  ‘For goodness sake, don’t even think about it. I’ll stop by at the National and hang around till the show comes down. Miranda will understand when I explain that there’s been a death in the family. I am right, aren’t I? That is what’s happened?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Dennis, Michael’s lover. He’s dead. He had AIDS.’

  ‘Clive, I’m so very sorry. No wonder you’re so upset.’

  ‘Shirley, you can’t imagine how fit and strong he was. But I’ve seen this happen before. You remember the actor Morgan Fleming? Well, I saw what became of him last year when I was in New York. That young man had aged so much I hardly recognised him. He looked so ill, had to walk with a stick, and had enormous trouble breathing.’

  ‘Yes I remember you telling me. I suppose I know so little about AIDS.’

  ‘It seems to be getting closer and appears to be targeted just at gay males. In fact my very dear friend Susan Carlsberg told me last year, when I was staying with her in New York, that two of her closest hairdresser friends, Simon and Mike, were infected with it. She didn’t understand why it was attacking so many young gay men in America, causing so much suffering and so many deaths. Susan felt that there was something sinister about the whole business and when I pressed her further she said she’d heard a rumour that her government might be involved.’

  ‘Is that so? You haven’t mentioned that before, although I do remember how upset you were about Morgan Fleming.’

  ‘I was shocked!’

  ‘But it hasn’t really hit us over here yet, has it?’

  ‘Yes it has, but not to the same degree,’ Clive continued. And what about Alan Humphrey? He died of it this year following his season on Broadway … and Shirley … I’m scared for myself: it’s a killer and Dennis and I were an item long before he met Michael, you know.’

  Hearing this latest confessional made Shirley feel more than a little uncomfortable, to say the least, but she tried to hide her anxiety with: ‘You’ve not mentioned these American friends of yours much before.’

  ‘I met them a hell of a long time ago, Shirley.’

  ‘When, exactly?’

  ‘Actually, I met Dennis on my first trip to the USA, after I had completed my first year at university.’

  ‘How was that, then?’

  ‘I was hitchhiking around the States like a lot of English students back in the sixties; I set off for Chicago, then travelled around a bit, and finally ended up on Cape Cod in a resort called Provincetown.’

  Clive had found Chicago in total chaos. Thousands of young Americans were converging on the Windy City determined to disrupt the Democratic Convention which the city was hosting. Student solidarity encouraged him to join the protestors, but what had started off peacefully ended up in bloodshed. Mayor Daley’s thugs had tried to disperse the crowds and set upon the students who, of course, had retaliated. Clive got caught up in the rioting and witnessed at first hand the brutal beatings, which resulted in many casualties and even some fatalities. In all his twenty-two years he’d never been so scared, and it made him aware of his own impotence in the face of physical violence. However the summer of ‘68 was to present many new experiences, not least his visit to Provincetown, which was to provide him with a life- changing one.

  ‘So tell me … Provincetown is on Cape Cod?’ Shirley asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s the New England equivalent of Key West.’

  ‘Oh, I remember. The one claimed Sean O’Casey, the other Tennessee Williams,’ Shirley beamed back.

  Shirley certainly knew her playwrights, which was hardly surprising, since she came from quite a theatrical background herself. Most of her family had been in the film industry: her father Alfred had been a props master and had met her mother Mimi on a film set. Mimi had worked her way up to becoming a very successful continuity girl, while Shirley’s Auntie Flo, her mother’s sister, had been a Gainsborough Lady and a real beauty. The Morris family lived in Grange Road, opposite Ealing Studios, and very handy for work. Mimi’s mum and dad lived only two doors away, which made Grandma Lucie an ideal childminder and surrogate mum. It was Lucie who took great pleasure in parading her granddaughter Shirley around Ealing Studios from a very early age, much to the admiration of casts and crews alike. Shirley had started doing extra work when only five years old and so you could also say that ‘the show business’ ran through her veins too.

  Clive hadn’t a clue that Shirley had grown up surrounded by a family who worked at Ealing Studios home to the famous Ealing Comedies and the Carry on Films. Shirley had not felt the need to volunteer any such information, and was most certainly not in the habit of bragging about her own life in the movies. She sat patiently as Clive continued to reminisce about Provincetown, explaining that as well as playwrights, it also attracted actors and directors, and stressed that it was a really beautiful seaside town, particularly after Labor Day, when all the crowds had gone back to work, leaving the sandy beaches almost deserted in the warm September sunshine.

  ‘It all sounds too perfect and rather romantic.’

  ‘Shirley, it absolutely was, but a lifetime ago, and my memory plays tricks and then I get rather confused about dates.’

  Shirley knew Clive well enough to realise th
at there was nothing wrong with his memory and allowed another silence to descend. Then he started up again.

  ‘You know, Shirley darling, I had no idea how old Provincetown was.’

  ‘Really?’ she replied, pouring herself another Scotch and checking her watch: it was only half past six, and she knew she had masses of time before the curtain came down on Marilyn.

  ‘Yes,’ Clive continued, ‘the American Indians used to summer there, long before the white man came. It got so hot inland that they moved out to the coast with their wigwams and cattle so as to enjoy the cooler air and sea breezes. They found the dunes tree-lined and that provided them with adequate fuel and shelter.’

  ‘Didn’t the Pilgrim Fathers land there too?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right … and the Vikings before them. I remember visiting the Viking Wall, at the west end of town, a sort of monument to the explorer Leif Erikson. But all those foreign invaders chopped the trees down to build shelters and soon the dunes began shifting and that changed the entire nature of the place.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what drove the Indians out?’

  ‘Yes, eventually, but what is fascinating is that the Pilgrims didn’t stay there long either. They went south and founded the settlement of Plymouth, but they continued their association with Provincetown by shipping their “deviants” back there. It became a refuge for criminals and pirates and anyone else who didn’t quite obey their rules or fit in with their ways … if you know what I mean?’

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me there has been a gay community there for centuries.’

  ‘Yes, in a way that is probably the case. I was told that by 1680, two settlements had been established, and there were probably “deviants” living in both of them. One was at Long Point and the other was out at Herring Cove, where the gay beach is now located. That settlement was then known as Hell Town, and it’s certainly turned into one hell of a gay paradise now. It was in the thirties that the artistic set started to move in. In those days it was relatively inexpensive to live there, and the sort of place struggling creative folk could well afford. Nowadays, the holiday crowd tend to hang out at the rather posh, and I think somewhat overrated, Atlantic House.’