Barbara Taylor Bradford
Angel

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Special overseas edition 1993

This paperback edition 1994

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1993

ANGEL. Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1993. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Source ISBN 9780586212841

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007401567

Version: 2017-11-14

Dedication

For my beloved husband Bob,

with whom I have always shared the

many-splendoured thing.

Epigraph

The angels keep their ancient places;—

Turn but a stone, and start a wing!

’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces,

That miss the many-splendoured thing.

Francis Thompson

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One Shining Stars

One

She stood near one of the huge stone pillars, a…

Two

A blast of cold air hit Rosie in the face…

Three

Almost three hundred people had been invited to the wrap…

Four

It was a glittering day.

Five

Nothing much had changed in the apartment since she had…

Six

Kevin Madigan stood leaning with his back against the bar…

Seven

The bar was called Ouzo-Ouzo and it was located on…

Eight

Out on the sidewalk, the two detectives stood talking for…

Nine

The house stood on a high, densely-wooded hillside in Benedict…

Ten

Johnny Fortune did not like Nell’s friend.

Eleven

Rosie was mortified.

Twelve

Long after the two women had left, Johnny was still…

Thirteen

‘So, come on, ’fess up, Rosie mine. What exactly did…

Fourteen

‘I’ve been here for over twenty minutes and you haven’t…

Part Two Sacred Friendships

Fifteen

Although the traffic in Paris was heavy, it moved along…

Sixteen

Rosie looked across at Collie, and said quietly, ‘I was…

Seventeen

‘Mademoiselle Colette looks so much better, n’est-ce pas?’ the housekeeper…

Eighteen

Within the space of a few seconds, Rosie was slamming…

Nineteen

Much later, after she had bathed, redone her make-up and…

Twenty

‘What happened between your father and Kyra? Did they quarrel?’

Twenty-One

Kyra Arnaud came back to the Loire Valley a week…

Twenty-Two

There was something quite majestic about Kyra Arnaud, Rosie decided,…

Twenty-Three

Two pairs of eyes, one set blue, the other green,…

Twenty-Four

Tiredness overwhelmed Collie.

Twenty-Five

The skies of Paris were an etching in grisaille, a…

Twenty-Six

Back at his suite in the Ritz, Gavin ordered a…

Twenty-Seven

‘A man who gives a woman pearls of great value…

Twenty-Eight

Collie was desperately ill and Henri needed her.

Part Three Dangerous Relationships

Twenty-Nine

‘You’re making progress, really doin’ good, Kevin,’ Neil said. ‘You’ve…

Thirty

It was icy weather, and the drizzling rain was rapidly…

Thirty-One

Ever since Collie’s untimely death in the middle of January…

Thirty-Two

Johnny Fortune stood in front of the mirror in his…

Thirty-Three

In a funny sort of way, Johnny was relieved to…

Thirty-Four

It seemed to Rosie that Johnny Fortune had taken possession…

Thirty-Five

Johnny was waiting for her in her suite at the…

Thirty-Six

An hour later Rosie stood to attention in front of…

Thirty-Seven

Morning sunlight streamed in through the huge plate-glass windows. It…

Thirty-Eight

Henri de Montfleurie had never presumed to understand women, finding…

Thirty-Nine

Vito Carmello was so pleased he could not keep the…

Forty

Rosie felt a wave of nausea sweep over her and…

Forty-One

Gavin Ambrose sat on the sofa in the sitting room…

Forty-Two

On Monday morning Rosie and Gavin went straight from JFK…

Forty-Three

Rosie knew that Johnny was in Manhattan.

Forty-Four

Johnny was devastated.

Part Four Truest Loves

Forty-Five

‘When I get out of here, we can go on…

Forty-Six

Rosie did not notice that they had passed Trump Tower…

About the Author

Other Books by the Same Author

About the Publisher

PART ONE

ONE

She stood near one of the huge stone pillars, a little to one side in the shadows, watching the fight.

The woman, whose name was Rosalind Madigan, was taut with nerves. Her hands were clenched at her sides and she held her breath; then her lips parted slightly in anticipation and anxiety surfaced in her eyes.

Metal struck metal as swords clashed.

The warriors battled on. They were fencing to the death; she knew there could be only one winner.

Brilliant light, penetrating the windows set high in the castle walls, glanced off their swift and lethal swords. Gavin, the smaller of the two, was slender, supple and fleet of foot. He went on the offensive, moving with great speed, his rapier thrusting forward dangerously. He drove his opponent back…farther back across the stone floor of the vast Great Hall. Suddenly he had the advantage.

James, the other knight, taller, broader, more cumbersome of body, was now pinioned in a corner, his back pressed close to the wall, a mixture of fury and fear blanching his face.

To the woman, it seemed that the fight would be over sooner than she had anticipated. It was perfectly obvious to her that Gavin was about to triumph. Then, much to her amazement, James managed, somehow, to shift his stance, ever so slightly but just enough to manoeuvre his bulk into a new position. Unexpectedly, he lunged forward purposefully, and she sucked in her breath. He now had the advantage.

Gavin, somewhat taken by surprise, was thrown into a defensive position. Surely this was not the way it was meant to be, she thought, and leaned forward, her eyes riveted on the two men.

Gavin moved backward swiftly, and with his usual dexterity, as nimble as a dancer, he parried James’s thrusts with immense skill and strength.

James went on lunging after him, breathing heavily, brandishing his sword with equal expertise, but he was not quite as light on his feet as Gavin.

The two men were moving into the centre of the baronial hall, fencing feverishly. Attack. Parry. Attack. Parry. James had begun to pant excessively, his movements slowing. Gavin was gaining ground once more. He was on the offensive, in superb control, moving in for the kill.

James stumbled and went down, his sword clattering across the stone floor, out of reach.

In a flash Gavin was by his side, standing over James, the point of his sword resting close to the other knight’s throat.

Their eyes locked in an intense and powerful gaze. Neither one could look away.

‘Kill me then, and be done with it!’ James cried out at last.

‘I do not choose to soil my sword with your blood,’ Gavin intoned coldly but in the softest of voices. ‘Suffice it that I have won this last, and final, fight. Now it is truly finished between us. Be gone from these parts, return on fear of death.’

Taking several steps backward, he sheathed his sword in the scabbard that hung from the belt around his waist, walked across the floor and up the wide staircase without a backward glance. Only when he reached the top of the stairs did he briefly look down at James before disappearing into the shadows.

There was a moment of total silence.

Then the director’s voice rang out. ‘Cut! And print!’ he shouted, adding jubilantly, ‘And that’s a wrap, guys!’

The actor called James scrambled to his feet; the director hurried across to confer with the cinematographer; everybody began talking at once, milling around the set, laughing, joking, slapping each other on the back.

Ignoring this sudden hullabaloo, Rosalind picked up her bag, hurried across the floor and up the staircase, seeking Gavin. He still stood in the shadows on the platform where the stairs ended. When she reached him she saw that he held his body rigidly; there was strain in his eyes and, underneath his make-up, gooseflesh speckled his face.

‘You’re hurting,’ she said.

‘A bit. I feel as if a steel hand is gripping the back of my skull. I need the collar, Rosie.’

Instantly, she pulled it out of her bag and helped him to put it around his neck. A week ago, on location in Yorkshire, Gavin had been thrown by his horse. He had sustained muscle and nerve damage to his neck and left shoulder, and had been in pain ever since.

As she fastened the collar he looked down at her gratefully and smiled, visibly relaxing now that the surgical collar was giving him support. He had discovered it helped him more than the pain-killers.

‘I couldn’t help worrying about you during the last scene,’ Rosie said, and shook her head wonderingly. ‘I don’t know how you got through it.’

‘That’s the magic…the magic of the theatre, of acting. Once I started the scene, the adrenaline began to pump like crazy and the pain disappeared. At least, I was no longer aware of the pain. I was swept up in the role of Warwick. I was submerged in him. I’d become him. The role always takes over, I guess, and I’m oblivious to everything when I’m acting.’

‘I know you are. Still, I did worry about you.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘After all these years, you’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? And anyway, I’ve always said your concentration is one of the secrets of your success.’ She took hold of his arm. ‘But come on, let’s go, Charlie’s waiting with James, Aida and the crew.’

As Rosie and Gavin walked down the staircase a cheer went up and the crew began to applaud enthusiastically. They were well aware that the star of their movie had been in agony for days, and they admired Gavin Ambrose, not only for his talent as an actor, but for his stoicism after his injury and for his total dedication to the film. He was a true professional who had been determined to finish the picture on time, and the crew wanted to show their admiration and appreciation.

‘You were great, Gavin, just great,’ Charlie Blake, the director, said, grasping his hand when Gavin and Rosie reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘And I have to tell you, I didn’t think you’d get it in three takes.’

‘Pity it wasn’t in one,’ Gavin replied dryly. ‘But thanks, Charlie, and thanks for letting us keep the fight going the way you did. It worked this last time around, didn’t it?’

‘You bet it did! I’m not going to cut a single second of footage.’

‘You’re a real trouper, Gavin,’ Aida Young, the producer, said, stepping forward, giving him a motherly hug, albeit very carefully because of his neck. ‘They don’t make them any better. You’ve got plenty of what it takes.’

Thanks, Aida, that’s a rare compliment indeed, coming from you.’ Gavin glanced over at James Lane, who had just acted in the fight scene with him, and grinned. ‘Congratulations, Jimbo.’

James grinned back. ‘And congratulations to you, mate.’

‘Thanks for making it easy,’ Gavin went on. ‘Fights are pretty tough to choreograph, and your timing couldn’t have been better. In fact, it was perfect.’

‘Let’s face it, we’re a couple of regular Errol Flynns,’ James answered, winking at Gavin. ‘It’s a pity Kevin Costner just did that remake of Robin Hood, or we might have had a stab at it ourselves.’

Gavin laughed and nodded, and then noticing Aida’s expression he exclaimed, ‘Hey, don’t look so worried, honey. My neck’s okay, honest it is. I’m even going to make the wrap party later.’

‘I’m glad, and that’s lovely,’ the producer said, then cautioned, ‘but only if you’re up to it.’

Gavin’s eyes swept over the crew. ‘Thanks,’ he said with genuine sincerity. ‘Thanks for everything, you’ve all been terrific, and we’re gonna have a real celebration later today.’

‘You bet we are, Gavin,’ the gaffer answered, and the crew surged around him, to tell him what a great guy he was, the best in the business, and to shake his hand.

A short while later, Rosie and Gavin left the huge sound stage where the Great Hall of Middleham Castle had been re-created, and went out into the corridor behind the set.

Here it was a jumble of cables, and scaffolding rising to the ceiling, the latter built to hold the Klieg lights used to provide simulated sunshine outside the castle walls. Carefully, they picked their way through the maze of wires and equipment; for different reasons, they were both relieved the last scene had been shot, that the film was in the can. Silently, lost in their own thoughts, they headed for Gavin’s quarters on the back lot.

‘Are you really going to New York at the end of the week?’ Gavin asked, hovering in the doorway of the bathroom which adjoined his dressing room, tightening the belt of his white terrycloth robe while staring at her intently.

Rosie looked up from her notebook, returning his long stare.

‘Yes,’ she said after a moment, and put the notebook back into her bag. ‘I have a meeting with some Broadway producers. About a new musical. And I have to see Jan Sutton as well. She’s thinking of putting on a revival of My Fair Lady.’

Gavin began to laugh. ‘That wouldn’t be very rewarding for you, would it?’ he asked, moving swiftly across the floor as he spoke. ‘After all, Cecil Beaton made an unforgettable statement with the costumes he designed for the original production. Everybody remembers them.’

‘That’s true, yes,’ Rosie agreed. ‘But, you know what, it could be very challenging. I wouldn’t mind tackling it…we’ll see what happens.’ She shrugged, and went on quickly, ‘I’m going to LA from New York. To see Garry Marshall. He wants me to do the clothes for his new movie –’

‘Instead of the Broadway shows, or as well as?’ Gavin interrupted.

‘As well as.’

‘Rosie, you’re crazy! ‘It’s too much! You’re killing yourself with work these days. Why, this year alone you’ve done two West End plays and my film, and let’s face it, this one hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been very demanding, to say the least. Is it going to be the same again next year? Three or four projects? Enough’s enough, for God’s sake.’

‘I need the money.’

‘I’ll give you as much as you want. Haven’t I always told you, anything I have is yours.’

‘Yes, and thank you, Gavin, you know how much I appreciate that. But it’s not the same – what I mean is, money from you is not the same as the money I earn myself. Besides, it’s not really for me. I need the extra money for my family.’

‘They’re not your family!’ he shot back with uncharacteristic vehemence, and a look of irritation crossed his face.

Rosie gaped at him, taken by surprise, and bit back the words that had instanly sprung to her lips. She remained silent, baffled by the flash of anger, so transparent, the strong reaction, so unexpected.

Swinging around abruptly, Gavin seated himself in the chair facing the dressing table, reached for a jar of cold cream and a box of tissues, obviously intent on taking off his theatrical make-up.

‘They are my family,’ she said finally.

‘No. We’re your family. Me and Nell and Kevin!’ he exclaimed, pushing the tissues and cream away with a sudden harsh movement of his hand.

Ignoring his impatience, she thought: And Mikey. He is family too, wherever he is. And Sunny. A faint shadow fell across her heart, and she sighed under her breath, thinking of them, concern surfacing.

A split-second later, pushing herself up from the sofa, Rosie walked over to Gavin and stood behind him, resting her hands on the back of his chair. Her burnished chestnut head hovered above his darker one, and her green gaze was questioning as it met and held his grey-blue eyes reflected in the mirror.

As if in answer to her unspoken question, he murmured in a gentler voice, ‘We said we were a family, remember?’ and then he lowered his eyes and focused on the photograph on the dressing table.

Rosie followed the direction of his glance, her own settling on the images in the silver frame. There they all were. She and Nell, Gavin, Kevin, Mikey and Sunny, arms looped, shining faces smiling, eyes bright with expectation and hope. It had been taken such a long time ago. They had been so young…and orphans, each one of them.

‘We promised we’d always be there for one another, no matter what, Rosie. We said we were a family,’ Gavin persisted. ‘And we were. We are.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘a family, Gavin.’ She pushed back a sudden rush of sadness that threatened to overwhelm her…the tragedy was that they had all broken their promises to each other…

Gavin lifted his head, caught her eye in the mirror again, and his familiar crooked, and now famous, smile flashed endearingly, lighting up his face. ‘If you’re so hell-bent on killing yourself, then it had better be on one of my movies, where I can at least pick up the pieces, if needs be. How about it, will you do my next picture?’

Her serious expression dissolved, the solemnity in her eyes vanished, and she started to laugh. Then she exclaimed, ‘It’s a deal, Mr Ambrose. You’ve got yourself a deal!’

There was a sudden knocking on the door, and Will Brent came in. Will was from Wardrobe, and he said quickly, ‘I came to help you get out of your costume, Gavin, but I see you’ve already done so. Sorry to be late.’

‘No problem, Will, I’ve only taken off my doublet. Perhaps you’ll help me with the rest of my stuff, especially these boots.’ Gavin grinned at Will and stuck out a leg.

‘Right away,’ Will said, loping across the room.

‘I’ll see you at the wrap party,’ Rosie murmured, kissed Gavin lightly on top of his head, and went over to the sofa to retrieve her bag.

‘Remember what I said, Angel Face. You’re on for my next picture,’ Gavin called out before turning his attention to the surgical collar. Gingerly, he adjusted it on his neck, grimacing as he did.

TWO

A blast of cold air hit Rosie in the face as she stepped outside. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer around her and looked up.

Above her the sky was bleak and unremitting, filled with clouds the colour of lead. Even though it was still afternoon it was already gloomy and growing darker, the kind of English winter’s day to which she had grown accustomed of late.

There was a hint of drizzle in the wind, and she could not help wondering what the children of England would do if it rained after all.

Today was November the fifth. Bonfire Night, they called it. Aida had told her this over lunch last week, and the producer had recited the ancient verse, passed down over the centuries, which she had learned as a child: ‘Please to remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot.’ Bonfires would blaze throughout the British Isles tonight, effigies of Guy Fawkes would be tossed into the flames, fireworks exploded, and potatoes and chestnuts roasted in the fire, as was the tradition – providing it didn’t rain, of course.

‘All being well, we’ll be wrapping the picture on the fifth,’ Aida had said to her, over their snack in the studio restaurant last Tuesday. ‘But I’m afraid we won’t be allowed to have a bonfire. For security reasons, obviously. However, maybe we can come up with something appropriate – to celebrate Bonfire Night as well as the end of the film.’

She had not been able to determine exactly what Aida had meant by appropriate, but she and everyone else would soon know. The wrap party was scheduled to take place in a few hours.

Rosie glanced around as she hurried across the deserted back lot of Shepperton Studios, walking in the direction of her office in the production building.

She had been based here for the past nine months, and the territory had grown so familiar to her it now felt like home. Also, she had enjoyed working with Aida and the crew, who were all British, and with whom she had felt comfortable and at ease from the start.

Quite unexpectedly, it hit her how much she was going to miss Shepperton and everyone connected with the movie. That was not always the case; sometimes she was relieved and thankful when a film was finally in the can, so that she could make a fast escape, fleeing without looking back. But an enormous camaraderie between the cast, crew and production people had built up on Kingmaker, and over the long months of working together the feelings of closeness and intimacy had become more pronounced than ever. Perhaps that was because this particular production had been troubled right from the outset, and in consequence everyone had hung together to fight for it, determined to make it succeed. She was sure it would. In the picture business it was something of a given that a difficult film frequently turned out to be the best, once it was cut, edited and scored, and up there on the screen.

They had all worked incredibly hard, extending themselves beyond the call of duty, even when they were almost too exhausted to continue. Yet somehow they had. And Gavin, who had put his heart and soul into the role of Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, had given a stellar performance, an Oscar-winning performance. At least that was her opinion, but, no doubt about it, she was prejudiced.

Pushing open the double glass doors of the production building, Rosie went down the narrow corridor and into her office. After closing the door behind her she leaned against it for a moment, her eyes sweeping around the room, taking everything in: the drawings lining the walls, the racks of costumes, the huge table covered with research and the many and varied accessories she had designed.

During the nine months she had been camped here she had accumulated innumerable possessions, and it struck her that she was facing a great deal of packing in the next few days. It was a relief to know she had her two assistants, Val Horner and Fanny Leyland, to help catalogue her drawings, pack them along with the costumes she wanted to keep for her archive, and box up the books and photographs which had been used for research.

Her main sketches of the costumes for Gavin were pinned on the long wall of the office, and now she walked over and stood looking at them, for a moment studying the designs intently, her head to one side. Then she nodded to herself.

Gavin was right, Kingmaker had been a very demanding film, not only because of its size, elaborateness and huge cast, but also because of the pomp and ceremony and other historical elements in the script, which she had had to take into consideration, and which had naturally influenced her designs. It had been quite a challenge. Nevertheless, she responded well to challenges; they seemed to bring out the best in her. And difficult and backbreaking though the work had been, she was gratified that she had had the opportunity to be part of a picture of such sweep, scope and magnitude.

Right from the beginning, when they had first gone into preproduction, she had been exhilarated about it, brimming with excitement and energy.

Her main focus had been on Gavin, who was cast in the leading role of Warwick. The Earl had been the most powerful man in England during the middle two decades of the fifteenth century. A Yorkshireman of Royal blood, descended from King Edward III, he was the premier Earl of England in his time, and one of the greatest magnates and warrior knights who had ever lived – truly the stuff of legend. It was Warwick who had put his cousin Edward Plantagenet on the throne of England during the civil war between the Royal Houses of York and Lancaster. Commonly known as the War of the Roses, so named because of the emblems of the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster, Warwick had been a major player in that war. He had, in the end, been responsible for defeating the Lancastrians in several bloody battles, and had handed the realm to Edward of York, the legitimate heir.

Because Warwick was the power behind the throne and the chief adviser to his nineteen-year-old protégé, King Edward IV, his contemporaries had dubbed him the Kingmaker. This name had stuck over five centuries, hence the title of their movie. The screenplay, by Oscar-winning screenwriter Vivienne Citrine, focused on Warwick in 1461, when he was in his thirty-third year and at the height of his powers, the action continuing for two more years, with the film ending in 1463.

Rosie’s main concern had been to create costumes for Gavin that were medieval in style, but which also suited him, flattered him, looked good on film, were comfortable to wear and move about in.

As always, her aim was to give the clothes genuine historical accuracy. It was her belief that costuming, like sets, must bring a period vividly to life on celluloid, and thus help to make the movie realistic and wholly believable. She was as renowned for her skill at doing this as she was for her immense talent, and it was one of the many secrets of her success as a theatrical designer. Rosalind Madigan’s costumes had long been noted for their unique sense of period, whether it was a period from the past or of the present, and she also made certain they delineated the rank, class and nationality of the characters in a film or a play.

Her research for Kingmaker had been so extensive she realized at one point that she had done far more than she usually did, and than was necessary. But this was because of Gavin. The film was his idea, and his own personal project. He was one of the executive producers, and had even raised the money to finance it. Hollywood had wanted no part of it, despite the fact that Gavin was as big a star as Costner, Stallone and Schwarzenegger, and at the top of the box-office charts. In fact, Gavin had faced the same kind of situation Kevin Costner had when that actor had tried to get the Hollywood studios interested in Dances with Wolves. None of them had wanted to commit to it, and Costner had gone out and done it all himself, had raised the money required with the help of Jake Ebert, an independent producer based in Europe.

The actual concept for Kingmaker had been entirely Gavin’s – his vision – and he had believed in it with such a fervour he had ignited everyone around him, filled them with his own brand of enthusiasm.

A history buff, and long intrigued by Warwick, he had been seized once more by the drama, excitement, achievement, glory and ultimate tragedy of the Earl’s life when reading yet another biography of him. His imagination fired, and filled with inspiration, he had selected a few key years, when Warwick’s star had been at its apex, and had developed his own story outline for the film. He had then hired Vivienne Citrine to write the screenplay. Together they had worked on it for over a year, until Gavin was satisfied it was as perfect as it could ever be, that it truly was a fine shooting script.

Rosie herself had been very taken with the project from its inception. Gavin had first discussed it with her when she had seen him in Beverly Hills late in 1988, and not unnaturally her excitement had known no bounds when he had finally managed to glue it all together last year.

Long before they had started preproduction in England, she had begun her research for the costumes, reading biographies of Warwick and Edward IV, as well as history books about England and France in the Middle Ages. She had studied the art and architecture of the period in order to have a total visual picture of the times, and once she was in London she had spent long hours in the historical costume departments of various museums.

When the assistant director, production designer, production manager, several other members of the unit and Gavin had left the studios to go scouting locations, she had gone with them.

They had first visited Middleham Castle on the Yorkshire moors, once the great Northern stronghold of Warwick, which still stood but had long been a desolated ruin, its broken towers and shattered chambers windswept and open to the elements. But Gavin had felt it was important to see the castle and the terrain where Warwick had grown up and had lived out a large portion of his life.

Together she and Gavin had walked through the vast empty space that had once been the Great Hall. It was roofless now, its walls crumbling into further decay. Under a sky of piercing blue, they had stepped across a stone-flagged floor partially grown-over with grass and with tiny spring wildflowers sprouting up between the cracks. Despite its tumbledown appearance it had been impressive and had captured her imagination, and Gavin’s also. Later they had driven over the sombre implacable moors where Warwick had fought some of his most decisive battles.

At the end of their trip they had travelled farther afield, had pushed on towards the East Coast. Gavin had wanted to visit York Minster, the magnificent Gothic cathedral in the ancient walled city of York. It was here that Warwick and Edward IV had once marched in soaring triumph and glory, moving across the plain of York on their caparisoned horses, at the head of their great armies, their silken armorial banners blowing in the wind, the two of them heroes to all of England – the valiant young King and the Kingmaker. To Rosie, this was one of the most colourful and effective ceremonial scenes in the script, and she had been excited about designing the costumes for it.

Between several more trips to Yorkshire, and many more hours spent cloistered in libraries and museums, she had eventually acquired enough knowledge to start all of her designs, confident that she knew more about medieval England than most people.

As it turned out, the only real problem Rosie encountered was the designing of the armour. Recalling the worry and anxiety of that now, she eyed the suit of armour standing in one corner of the room, and winced. She would never forget the terrible struggle she had had in creating the prototype.

There was one big battle scene in the script, which, despite the difficulty of shooting it and the costs involved, Gavin was determined to keep. And so she had had no alternative but to make a stab at designing the medieval armour plate.

In the end she had been able to overcome her many problems with it, but only because of Brian Ackland-Snow. Brian was their immensely talented production designer, another Oscar-winner – for the movie A Room with a View – who at the time had been in the process of bringing fifteenth-century England to life on the sound stages of Shepperton.

As far as Rosie was concerned, Brian was a genius, and she was well aware that she would be eternally in his debt. He had introduced her to a manufacturer of underwater diving suits who was able to copy her design for the suit of armour using a strong and rigid neoprene with a silver coating which cleverly simulated the iron used for armour in the Middle Ages. This synthetic rubber was light in weight and comfortable for the actors to wear, yet on film it looked exactly like the real thing.

Swinging around, Rosie walked over to the large table at the other end of the room, knowing she must assess the massive piles of research stacked there.

Immediately, she realized she would need as many as six large tea chests in which to pack everything. Apart from the books, sketches and photographs, there were swatches of specially-dyed fabrics, such as tweeds, wools and broadcloths; samples of suede and leather for boots, trousers, jerkins and doublets; pieces of fur, plus a vast array of velvets and silks. Baskets and trays held a fantasy collection of brilliant, glittering costume jewellery – brooches, rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, fancy buttons, belts, scabbards and gilded-metal crowns. All the stuff of pomp and ceremony and majesty needed for an historical movie of this nature.

What a production it has been, she thought almost wonderingly – costly, elaborate and complicated beyond anything they had ever imagined at the outset. And it had been so fraught at times. Tempers had flared, angry words had been exchanged, and there had been a few temperamental scenes, quite apart from the genuinely serious problems they had had to contend with: bad weather and illnesses, to mention only two, which had caused delays and spiralling costs. On the other hand, filming had never been anything but thrilling, that really was the only word to use, and it had turned out to be the most splendid production, the likes of which she had never before worked on. And perhaps never would again.

Whenever she had been able to, she had gone with Gavin to see the rushes – the footage shot the day before and processed overnight in the lab. Every scene she had watched in the studio screening room had taken her breath away. The ‘look’ was there, vivid and visually arresting; the unfolding drama was spellbinding; the acting superb.

Gavin was forever worried about the film; they all were, in one way or another. But just a short while ago, as the last scene was shot and the movie wrapped, she had known deep in her bones that they really did have a winner. A sure thing. She was convinced that Gavin had made a movie that was of the same quality, calibre and importance as The Lion in Winter, and that it would win a clutch of Oscars.

Eventually, she roused herself from her meanderings about her work and the film, realizing how much she had to accomplish in the next three days.

And so she went and sat down at her desk in front of the window and, pulling the phone towards her, she dialled. The number rang and rang until finally it was picked up, and a familiar girlish voice said, ‘Hello, Rosalind, sorry I took so long to answer. I was up on the ladder, putting your boxed files on the top shelf.’

‘How did you know it was me?’ Rosie asked, laughter echoing in her voice.

‘Don’t be so silly, Rosalind, nobody else phones me on this number, you know that.’

‘Only too true. I’d forgotten for a minute. Anyway, Yvonne, how are you?’

‘Fine, and so is everyone else. Collie and Lisette are out, though. Did you wish to speak to Collie?’

‘Well, yes, I did, but it’s okay, really it is. I was just touching base, and I wanted to tell you that I mailed two cheques last night. One each for you and Collie.’

‘Thanks, Rosalind.’

‘Listen, honey, I’m leaving for New York on Saturday and I –’

‘You told me you were flying on Friday when we spoke the other day!’ Yvonne exclaimed, her tone rising ever so slightly.

‘I’d planned to, but there’s a lot to pack up here, and so I’ve decided to take the plane on Saturday morning. Incidentally, I’ll be sending quite a few boxes over to you, so just pile them up there in a corner of my studio when they come. I’ll deal with them when I arrive.’

‘When will that be?’

Recognizing the sudden plaintive note in the young woman’s voice, and wishing to reassure her, Rosie said quickly, ‘December. I’ll be there in December. That’s not so far away.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘It’s not the same here when you’re away. And I miss you.’

‘I know, and I miss you, too. But I’ll be there soon.’ There was a moment’s hesitation on Rosie’s part, and then she said, ‘By the way, did Guy come back?’

‘Yes. But he’s not here. He went out with Collie and Lisette. And his father.’

This was so surprising to her, Rosie exclaimed, ‘Where have they gone?’

‘They went to see Kyra. It’s her birthday.’

‘Oh.’ Rosie paused momentarily, then clearing her throat she continued, ‘Give them my love, and lots of love to you, Yvonne. Thanks for looking after everything for me, I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘It’s nothing. I enjoy it, Rosalind.’

They said their goodbyes, and Rosie put the receiver back in the cradle, sat staring into the distance, her mind focused on Guy. How curious it was that he had gone with the others to see Kyra. It was so out of character. But then rarely, if ever, did she understand his motivations. He was a mystery to her; she supposed he always had been, really. There was one thing she was certain of, though. His scrupulous politeness to Kyra was merely a mask he donned in order to conceal his bitter loathing of her. He was jealous, of course. She had detected that unfortunate emotion in him long ago. Jealous of Kyra, and of his father’s friendship with the Russian woman and his deep affection for her.

Rosie sat back in her chair, glancing at the photograph of Guy, Lisette and Collie resting on the corner of the desk. She had taken it herself last summer, and there had been something so carefree and happy about that snap she had had it enlarged and framed. But their insouciant smiles hid turmoil and pain and unhappiness – at least these were the feelings lurking in Guy and Collie, she knew that far too well. Lisette was still too young, at the age of five, to have any knowledge of such painful things. Guy was a problem, there was no longer much doubt left in her mind about that. Not only to his father, but to everyone else, most especially her and Collie, whom he blamed, unreasonably, for most of his troubles.

‘Out of sync,’ was how Gavin described him. He had never liked Guy, and was fond of saying that he should have lived in the 1960s in Haight-Ashbury. ‘That bum’s an ageing hippie, out of place, and way out of his time frame,’ he had said to her only the other day, an acerbic edge to his voice. There was a grain of truth in Gavin’s remark; more than a grain, actually. But there was nothing she could do to change Guy; sometimes she thought he was on the road to self-destruction.

However, whatever Gavin said about Guy and the others, they were her family, and she was very involved with them, cared about them. She even cared about Guy to a certain extent, even though he did not deserve it.

A sigh of dismay ran through her. He was not very good at reading character, had no insight into people, otherwise he would know better how to deal with his father and Collie and her. His irresponsibility had seemed only to grow as he himself had grown older; she had always known he was weak, but lately she had come to believe he was the most selfish human being she had ever met.

Now her eyes strayed to the other photograph on the desk. It was identical to the one which sat on Gavin’s dressing table; even the Tiffany frame was the same. Nell had given each of them one for Christmas years ago and had kept one for herself.

Leaning forward, she peered at Nell’s face. How fragile she looked with those finely-chiselled features, shining hair the colour of silver-gilt, and dreamy eyes as blue as a perfect summer sky. Petite, small-boned and delicately made though Nell was, she was strong. The strongest of all of them is how it seemed to her sometimes. Guts of steel and an iron will, that’s how she characterized her Little Nell these days.

Smiling out of the picture was their beautiful Sunny, their Golden Girl. She was as fair-haired as Nell, but hers was a golden blonde, and she was taller and more solid in build, very good-looking in a Slavic kind of way: slanted, almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones, a square jawline. Sunny was robust and healthy, her pink and white skin fresh and dewy, the unique amber-coloured eyes flecked with gold - and full of life. Her appearance signalled that she probably came from peasant stock, and this was true, she did; her parents were first-generation Americans of Polish extraction. Poor Sunny. She had turned out to be made of spun glass and just as fragile and as easily shattered. Yes, poor Sunny indeed. Living out her days in that awful place, her mind gone somewhere far away, far away from all of them, and from reality.

Kevin stood next to Gavin. Darkly handsome, black Irish eyes brimming with laughter and mischief. In his own way he was lost to them too, living his life in the belly of the beast, living on the edge, forever running from danger zone to danger zone, caught up in a horrific netherworld that one day might cost him his life.

And there was Mikey, towering over Kevin and Sunny in the picture, another victim of the era they had grown up in, another one they had lost. In this photograph his sandy hair looked almost golden, was like a shining halo around his face; she had always thought Mikey had the nicest of faces, pleasant and friendly. He was handsome in a reserved, quiet way, and he dwarfed them all with his height and broad shoulders.

They did not know where Mikey was. He had disappeared, literally vanished, and try though he might, Gavin had been unable to come up with any valid information about him, or a hint of his whereabouts. Neither had the private detectives Gavin had hired.

She and Nell and Gavin were the three who had turned out all right, who had made it to the top, had fulfilled their youthful dreams: although her brother Kevin might disagree that they were the only ones who had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Kevin Madigan had also made it – in his own way. Certainly he was doing what he wanted, and was doing it well, she supposed.

Rosalind reached for the picture and held it up in front of her eyes, studying their faces intently for the longest moment. They had all been so close once, loving and caring, their lives intertwined.

After a while her gaze settled on Gavin’s image. How famous it was these days – that bony face, all planes and angles, with its high, sharp cheekbones and deeply clefted chin. His eyes, of a clear grey-blue the colour of slate, were wide apart but deeply set. Cool eyes, that was how she thought of them. Long-lashed, they gazed out from under black brows that matched his hair. Appraising, honest and unflinching, they were the kind of eyes the crafty did not care to meet. His mouth was sensitive, tender almost, and the curious, crooked smile she knew so well was now as famous as his face: his trademark, in a sense.

Women the world over had fallen in love with that face, possibly because it was a poetic face, one which seemed touched by heartbreak and suffering, a romantic face. And medieval, perhaps? She pondered that, asked herself if she was getting the actor confused with his most recent role, and she knew she was not. Gavin did have the type of face so often depicted in fifteenth-century paintings – old-world, European. That was no wonder, since he was Scottish on his mother’s side, hence his first name, and Italian on his father’s, his surname having been Ambrosino until he had altered it ever so slightly for the stage.

Despite his fame, fortune and success, Gavin Ambrose had not changed much deep down inside, that she knew. In countless ways he was still the same young man he had been when they had first met in 1977. She had been seventeen and so had her friend Nell; Gavin had been nineteen, Kevin and Mikey both twenty, and Sunny had been the youngest at sixteen. They had come together as a group for the first time one balmy September evening during the Feast of San Genarro, the Italian festival that took place on Mulberry Street in Little Italy in lower Manhattan.

So very long ago, she thought. Fourteen years, to be exact. In the intervening years so much had happened to them all…

Loud knocking startled Rosie, brought her up straighter in the chair, and before she could say a word the door flew open to admit one of her assistants, Fanny Leyland.

‘My apologies for not being here when we wrapped!’ Fanny exclaimed breezily, flying up to the desk in a flurry of rustling skirts. Small, slender and neat as a new pin, she was smart, talented, a bundle of nervous energy and a genuine workaholic.

Fanny was devoted to Rosalind, and with an apologetic smile she continued, ‘I’m afraid I got delayed by a difficult actress. You haven’t needed me for anything, have you?’ She hovered in front of the desk looking slightly worried.

‘No, not really, although tomorrow I will,’ Rosie answered. ‘We’re going to have to buckle down and get my research into boxes.’

‘No problem. Val and I will pitch in like the devoted slaves we are, and we’ll have you all packed up by the end of the day.’

I’m not so sure about that,’ Rosie responded, and began to laugh. ‘I’m certainly going to miss your smiling face, your boundless energy and cheerfulness, Fanny. Not to mention that efficiency of yours. I’ve grown very used to you, and let’s face it, you’ve spoiled me.’

‘No, I haven’t, and I’ll miss you, too. Think of me, Rosalind, please, when you do another movie or a play. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail…wherever it is you are. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to work with you again!’

Rosie smiled at the younger woman, and nodded her assent. ‘Of course you can work on another project with me, Fanny. And Val as well. I’d love that. You two are the best assistants I’ve ever had.’

‘Oh gosh, thanks, that’s wonderful to know! Just super! By the way, the reason why I was not loitering around here, waiting to be of service to you when you came back from the set, was Margaret Ellsworth.’ Fanny pulled a face and continued, ‘She’s absolutely determined to get that gown, the one she wore for the Coronation scene in Westminster Abbey. She’s ready to kill for it.’

Puzzled, Rosie frowned. ‘Why would anyone want a medieval dress, for God’s sake? It’s not even all that beautiful…certainly it was never a particular favourite of mine, even if I did design it.’

‘Actresses are actresses, a breed apart. Well, at least the difficult ones are,’ Fanny muttered, and then she flashed Rosie a bright smile. ‘But of course there are those who are very special, and they far outnumber the miserable ones like the Maggie Ellsworths of this world.’

‘They do indeed,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Anyway, you’d better take this matter up with Aida. If Production wants to sell the dress, or give it to Maggie, it’s fine with me. I mean, I don’t own it, you know, nor do I want it for my archive. Why don’t you go and see Aida now? Sort the matter out with her, and then come back as quickly as possible. I’d like to start cataloguing the sketches this afternoon.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back in a minute, and Val’s on her way here from Wardrobe right now, so don’t worry, the three of us will make light work of all this.’ So saying, Fanny swung around and darted out, carelessly slamming the door behind her so hard the light fixture rattled.

Smiling to herself, Rosie reached for the phone, shaking her head as she did. Fanny was such a character; she really was going to miss her and Val. Opening her address book, she found the number of the Broadway producers who had contacted her about their new musical, and then glanced at her watch.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon here in England. With the five-hour time difference that made it ten-thirty in the morning in New York. The perfect time exactly to make this call.

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