The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [35]
The discourse lasted for a quarter of an hour; then the chiefs of staff nodded sagely; Simon was taken into another room and given a contract to sign by which he received £50 a week retaining fee and £250 advance.
“You had better fix up with Miss Grits the times of work most suitable to you. I shall expect your first treatment by the end of the week. I should go and get some dinner if I were you. Must eat.”
Slightly dizzy, Simon hurried to the canteen where two languorous blondes were packing up for the night.
“We’ve been on since four o’clock this morning,” they said, “and the supers have eaten everything except the nougat. Sorry.”
Sucking a bar of nougat Simon emerged into the now deserted studio. On three sides of him, to the height of twelve feet, rose in appalling completeness the marble walls of the scene-restaurant; at his elbow a bottle of imitation champagne still stood in its pail of melted ice; above and beyond extended the vast gloom of rafters and ceiling.
“Fact,” said Simon to himself, “the world of action . . . the pulse of life . . . Money, hunger . . . Reality.”
Next morning he was called with the words, “Two young ladies waiting to see you.”
“Two?”
Simon put on his dressing gown and, orange juice in hand, entered his sitting room. Miss Grits nodded pleasantly.
“We arranged to start at ten,” she said. “But it doesn’t really matter. I shall not require you very much in the early stages. This is Miss Dawkins. She is one of the staff stenographers. Sir James thought you would need one. Miss Dawkins will be attached to you until further notice. He also sent two copies of Hamlet. When you’ve had your bath, I’ll read you my notes for our first treatment.”
But this was not to be; before Simon was dressed Miss Grits had been recalled to the studio on urgent business.
“I’ll ring up and tell you when I am free,” she said.
Simon spent the morning dictating letters to everyone he could think of; they began—“Please forgive me for dictating this, but I am so busy just now that I have little time for personal correspondence . . .” Miss Dawkins sat deferentially over her pad. He gave her Sylvia’s number.
“Will you get on to this number and present my compliments to Miss Lennox and ask her to luncheon at Espinoza’s . . . And book a table for two there at one forty-five.”
“Darling,” said Sylvia, when they met, “why were you out all yesterday and who was that voice this morning?”
“Oh, that was Miss Dawkins, my stenographer.”
“Simon, what can you mean?”
“You see, I’ve joined the film industry.”
“Darling. Do give me a job.”
“Well, I’m not paying much attention to casting at the moment—but I’ll bear you in mind.”
“Goodness. How you’ve changed in two days!”
“Yes!” said Simon, with great complacency. “Yes, I think I have. You see, for the first time in my life I have come into contact with Real Life. I’m going to give up writing novels. It was a mug’s game anyway. The written word is dead—first the papyrus, then the printed book, now the film. The artist must no longer work alone. He is part of the age in which he lives; he must share (only of course, my dear Sylvia, in very different proportions) the weekly wage envelope of the proletarian. Vital art implies a corresponding set of social relationships. Co-operation . . . co-ordination . . . the hive endeavour of the community directed to a single end . . .”
Simon continued in this strain at some length, eating meantime a luncheon of Dickensian dimensions, until, in a small, miserable voice, Sylvia said: “It seems to me that you’ve fallen for some ghastly film star.”
“O God,” said Simon, “only a virgin could be as vulgar as that.”
They were about to start one of their old, interminable quarrels when the telephone boy brought a message that Miss Grits wished to resume work instantly.