Get a Load of This

     They are not your fun [he wrote], nor are they mine, but Myra wants them to come. It will be better at Key West. I received a bad shaking the other day when my bus overturned. I feel now that that was my last race. Myra doesn't know yet.

     His handwriting revealed that he was in a very bad state of nerves, and the allusion to his last race struck me as significant. I hoped the change by the Mexican Bay would do him good, but I must confess the trip had lost a lot of its savour for me now that I knew why he was marrying the girl.

     However, Saturday came round after a busy week clearing up and, to save time, I did the journey by air.

     I went immediately to the very beautiful house near the beach that George had rented. As my car swung into the short circular drive I was conscious of a considerable amount of noise and laughter drifting through the large open windows. It seemed that George and noise were inevitably linked together.

     George came running out. He was wearing white trousers, a dark red shirt and sandals. I had to admit that he looked extraordinarily handsome as he stood on the steps with a smile on his face. “What a grand sight,” he said, shaking my hand. “How are you? They are all longing to meet a real live author. Come on in.”

     He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol' man, but we've been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an' get tight. I warn you, you've got to get tight an' stay tight if you're staying in this dump.”

     He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.

     George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.

     Myra Luckton's name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don't remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.

     It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.

     I'm afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I've shocked him already.”

     George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she's as tight as a tick.”

     She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They've all read your books and they think they're too marvellous.”

     Later, when I escaped to my room, I was very thankful to sit by the window and look across at the beautiful bay. I had quite made up my mind that I could not stay in this house long.

     I proceeded to change for dinner. As I wandered around the large airy room, shedding my clothes about the floor, I turned over in my mind the tragedy of George's wedding.

     It was quite obvious to me that he detested Myra. She was obviously thrilled to have married someone so famous, but there was no question of her having any true affection for him. It was a thoroughly unpleasant marriage.

     A tap sounded on the door, and George came in. He sat on the bed. I saw that he was still rather high, but his face was very serious and lined as he stared at me. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.

     That was the one question I never thought he would ask me. It annoyed me to think that he was forcing me into a lie, as I could not tell him the truth.

     He saw my hesitation. “Say it. Speak your mind. You're the one guy I've met who has been on the level with me. So tell me.”

     “I'm afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I'm sorry, George.”

     “My God! You don't want to be sorry for me. I've brought it on myself, haven't I? I knew what I was doing. No, I'm a heel. I've sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she's got. You know that, don't you?”

     I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”