Chapter Text
VIII.
Mary wasn't sure whether she'd been saved by fate from the temptation to compromise her artistic integrity or robbed of the chance to do something new with maddening yet interesting people. She wasn't sure how she felt about a lot of things. In any event, the HItchcocks decided this turn of events required something other than Claridge's and invited her to a pub for what was unmistakably a farewell drink. The Paradine Case, she learned, was about a lawyer defending a murderess at the Old Bailey, believing her to be innocent, and ruining his marriage and career for her.
"With Gregory Peck as the lawyer," Hitchcock said gloomily. "I told David from the start this was a terrible idea. Nobody is ever going to believe Gregory Peck as a lawyer, let alone the type to take up a quixotic cause. But no, he insisted. That's David Selznick for you. But not for me, not for much longer."
The irony of him complaining about his producer interfering in his creative decisions when he and his wife had been planning to completely change her novel, which he'd just almost convinced her to see as something that would somehow provide an emotional release. And yet she did not feel up for a cuttingly sarcastic remark pointing this out. Maybe it was that odd, lingering sense of fellowship he'd somehow managed to conjure in the British Museum, or maybe it was the ale, which reminded her of Oxford. Her mother would die at the thought of her daughter drinking beer. But she'd say it was only to be expected that a counter jumper from Leytonstone and his wife did.
"Sidney will be pleased", Mrs. Hitchcock said soothingly. "Because it means you're free to start the first picture for Transatlantic that much sooner." She turned to Mary. "Which, I'm afraid , will not be Return to Night. We can't afford to pay MGM for the rights."
Mary nodded, then found herself asking whether her book would be given to someone else to work on and direct. Mrs. Hitchcock tilted her head.
"Possibly. Although I have to warn you. It's far more likely that it will make the rounds in a few production offices and then be discreetly forgotten. That is what happens to most novels in Hollywood. Unless, of course, your next book will be such a spectacular bestseller that everyone suddenly remembers they still have the rights to your previous one.'"
"Unlikely," Mary replied tartly, because she still felt the woman behaved patronizingly towards her. "As my plans do not involve any type of grand guignol. In fact," she took a deep breath, "the idea I have in mind is inspired by Plato's Phaedrus. A modern take on the parable of the Charioteer and the two horses."
The two Hitchcocks stared at her with identical nonplussed expressions. Too late, it occurred to her that neither of them was likely to be familiar with Plato, and that she probably had just come across as flaunting her education in a snobbish way.
"The hero will be confronted by his love for two different men", she elucidated, and felt a bit giddy, because she'd never spoken of this plan to outsiders before, only to Julie. Neither of the Hitchcocks looked shocked; on the contrary, Mr. Hitchcock had that slightly prurient gleam in his eyes which she'd noticed the first time when she explained about her original ideas for Julian's inclinations.
"Well, that could be a bestseller," Mrs. Hitchcock declared to her surprise. "Not one for the pictures, of course, but my dear, I still remember all the fuss about the Well of Loneliness. The moment it was declared obscene by the court everyone just had to get a copy. Maybe yours will be targeted by the Sunday Express as well. That would certainly do it."
Mary, who'd gotten her own pirated copy of The Well of Loneliness from Julie, felt that protesting her artistic intentions aimed higher than simply making a sensation would be pointless and took another sip of ale.
"This reminds me," Mr. Hitchcock said, addressing both her and his wife. "I think I have decided what our first project at Transatlantic is going to be. Miss Renault, you have been most inspiring."
She couldn't help herself; she was genuinely curious.
"It will about a triangle of three poofs as well," he continued cheerfully.
Mary blinked. The sense of offense at the word came and went as her imagination tried to encompass Mr. Hitchcock directing a tale of Greek love. It failed and left her stranded in marvel and confusion. Mrs. Hitchcock seemed surprised as well, but then said, with an undertone of dawning comprehension and delight: "You don't mean..."
"Yes indeed," he returned, beaming at her, then turned to Mary again. "Miss Renault, do you remember the Leopold and Loeb murder in Chicago? I certainly do, but then I collect interesting murders. There was even a play about it which Alma and I saw here in London in 29, 30, around that time. The Rope. Those boys had been killing another student just because they could, and the play has their professor finding out. Alma at least was convinced he was buggering one of them as well, weren't you, darling?"
"It was fairly obvious," Mrs. Hitchock said. "But darling, are you sure? There is just the one location, after all."
"That's just it," he exclaimed. "Cheap sets! Sidney will love it. And I always wanted to try something worth the one single take challenge. Nobody's done it before. One long uninterrupted take in one location. Two murderous buggers, the hidden corpse and the mentor who starts to figure it out. " He smiled at Mary, like a gleeful, bouncing ball someone had painted teeth on, and raised his glass of beer to her.
"To buggery tales, and the people who create them", he said. "May we all profit!"
She knew then with a rock solid certainty she would never allow any of her novels to be filmed, ever, if she was going to have any say in it. But she raised her glass to him, nonetheless.