BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

Voice of the Heart

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 1994

5 7 9 8 6

Previously published in paperback by Grafton 1984

Reprinted sixteen times

First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1983

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1983

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

ISBN 0 586 05848 6

Set in Plantin

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Caledonian International Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 ebooks.

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007395583

Version: 2017-11-16

For my husband Robert Bradford with love

‘That voice of the heart, which, Lamartine says, “alone reaches the heart”’

MARCEL PROUST

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Overture 1978

CHAPTER ONE

In the Wings 1979

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

Act One Downstage Right 1956

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

In the Wings 1979

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Act Two Downstage Left 1963-1967

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Act Three Centre Stage 1979

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Finale April 1979

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Overture 1978

‘How like the prodigal doth she return.’

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

CHAPTER ONE

I came back because I wanted to, of my own free will. No one forced me to return. But now that I am here I want to take flight, to hide again in obscurity, to put this vast ocean between myself and this place. It bodes me no good.

As these thoughts finally took shape, assumed troubling proportions and jostled for prominence in her mind, the woman’s fine hands, lying inertly in her lap, came together in a clench so forceful that the knuckles protruded sharply through the transparent skin. But there was no other outward display of emotion. She sat as rigid as stone on the seat. Her face, pale and somewhat drawn in the murky morning light, was impassive as a mask and her gaze was fixed with unwavering intensity on the Pacific.

The sea was implacable and the colour of chalcedony on this bleak and sunless day, one that was unnaturally chilly for Southern California, even though it was December when the weather was so often inclement. The woman shivered. The dampness was beginning to seep through her trench-coat into her bones. She felt icy, and yet there was a light film of moisture on her forehead and neck and between her breasts. On an impulse she rose from the seat, her movements abrupt, and with her head bent against the wind and her hands pushed deep into her pockets she walked the length of the Santa Monica pier, which was now so entirely deserted it looked desolate, even forbidding, in its emptiness.

When she arrived at the farthermost tip where the turbulent waves lashed at the exposed underpinnings, she paused and leaned against the railing. Once again her eyes were riveted on the ocean curling out towards the dim horizon. There, on that far indistinct rim, where sea and sky merged in a smudge of limitless grey, a great liner bobbed along like a child’s toy, had been turned into an object of insignificance by the vastness of nature.

We are all like that ship, the woman said inwardly, so fragile, so inconsequential in the overall scheme of things. Although do any of us truly believe that, blinded as we are by our self-importance? In our arrogance we all think we are unique, invincible, immune to mortality and above the law of nature. But we are not, and that is the only law, inexorable and unchanging.

She blinked, as if to rid herself of these thoughts. The winter sky, curdled and ominous, was uttered with ragged ashy clouds which were slowly turning black and extinguishing the meagre light trickling along their outer edges. A storm was imminent. She ought to return to the waiting limousine and make her way back to the Bel-Air Hotel, before the rain started. But to her amazement she discovered she was unable to move. She did not want to move, for it seemed to her that only out here on this lonely pier was she able to think with a degree of clarity, to pull together her scattered and disturbing thoughts, to make sense out of the chaos in her mind.

The woman sighed with weariness and frustration. She had known, even when she had first made her decision, that to return was foolhardy, maybe even dangerous. She was exposing herself in a manner she had never done before. But at the time – was it only a few weeks ago? – it had seemed to be the only solution, in spite of the obvious hazards it entailed. And so she had made her plans, executed them efficiently and embarked for America with confidence.

I took a voyage towards the unknown. Was it the unknown which was the source of her distress? But the unknown had always tempted and beckoned her, had been the spur because of its inherent excitement and the challenge it invariably offered. But that was in the past, she told herself, and thought: I am a different person now.

Panic rose in her like a swift tide, dragging her into its undertow, and she gripped the railing tighter and drew in her breath harshly as another truth struck at her. If she stayed she would be risking so muck. She would be endangering all that she had gained in the past few years. Far better, perhaps, to go, and if she was going it must be immediately. Today. Before she changed her mind again. In reality it was so easy. All she had to do was make a plane reservation to anywhere in the world that took her fancy, and then go there. Her eyes sought out the liner, so far away now it was a mere speck. Where was it bound for? Yokohama, Sydney, Hong Kong, Casablanca? Where would she go? It did not matter and no one would care; and if she left today, whilst it was still safe, no one would be any the wiser, no harm would have been done, least of all to her.

The idea of disappearing into oblivion, as if she had never set foot in the country, suddenly appealed to some deep-rooted instinct in her, to her innate sense of drama, and yet … Is it not juvenile to run away? she asked herself. For most assuredly that was exactly what she would be doing. You will know you lost your nerve and VOM will live to regret it, a small voice at the back of her mind insisted.

She closed her eyes. Her thoughts raced, as she considered all the possibilities open to her and weighed the consequences of her actions, whatever they would ultimately be. Thunder rattled behind the blackening clouds, which rolled with gathering speed before the force of the gale blowing up. But she was so immersed in her inner conflict, so rapt in her concentration as she strived to reach a final decision, she was oblivious to the hour, the weather, her surroundings. Eventually she came to grips with herself and recognized one fundamental: she could no longer afford to procrastinate. Time was of the essence. Suddenly she made up her mind. She would stay, despite her misgivings and her sense of apprehension. She must, no matter what the cost to herself.

Large drops of rain began to fall, splashing onto her face and her hands. She opened her eyes and glanced down at her fingers still gripping the railing, watching the water trickling over them. Like my tears, she said to herself, and then, quite involuntarily, she laughed out loud, and it was a rich amused laugh. There would be no more tears. She had done all the mourning she was going to do. You’re such a fool, Cait, she murmured softly to herself, remembering Nick’s old nickname for her, borrowed from the Welsh Caitlin because he had said she had a Celtic soul, all poetry and mystery and fire.

She pulled herself up straight and threw back her head with a proud and defiant gesture, and her extraordinary eyes, not blue, not green, but a curious unique turquoise, were no longer opaque and clouded with uncertainty and fear. They sparkled brightly with new determination. Soon, in a few days, when her courage had been completely reinforced, and she had gathered it around her like a protective mantle, she would go to Ravenswood.

That would be her first step into the unknown. The beginning of her new life. And perhaps, finally, the beginning of peace.

In the Wings 1979

‘Look for a long time at what pleases you, and longer still at what pains you …’

COLETTE

CHAPTER TWO

Francesca Avery had long ago ceased to regret her actions, having years before reached the conclusion that since regrets could not undo what had been done, they were generally unproductive.

But as she inserted the key into the front door of her apartment and stepped into the silent and shadowy hall, she experienced such an overwhelming sense of regret at having returned to New York without her husband that she was momentarily startled. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, but she hesitated before moving forward into the apartment, thrown off-balance by this unfamiliar feeling, and one so unprecedented in her that she found it disconcerting. Harrison had not wanted her to leave Virginia ahead of him, and she had done so only out of a sense of duty to the charity committee of which she had recently become chairwoman. Ten days earlier, the secretary of the committee had telephoned her in Virginia, to say that an urgent provisional meeting had been called, because of unforeseen difficulties with their plans for the summer concert to be held at Avery Fischer Hall. Only she had the power and connections to get the benefit back on the track, the secretary had gone on to point out, adding that no one else could rally the support that was necessary. In short, her presence was imperative.

Francesca knew Harrison thought otherwise, although he had not actually come out and said so. Years in the Foreign Service had refined his innate ability to get his point across by subtle implication, in his usual diplomat’s manner. He had gently intimated that he thought the committee members were panicking unnecessarily, and had made a quiet reference to the fact that the telephone service was as efficient in Virginia as it was in Manhattan. Francesca tended to agree that anxiety was prompting the committee to act prematurely, and she was about to decline, but then the matter of the interview had come up and she felt obliged to comply with both of their requests.

Francesca sighed. Duty had been inculcated in her since childhood and to shirk it would be unthinkable, even shoddy, and quite alien to her nature. Nevertheless, she wished she was back at the rambling old house with Harry and his boisterous and unruly grand-daughters, surrounded by the spontaneous love and camaraderie of that special, if somewhat unpredictable and unorthodox, clan. Resolutely she quenched the rising impulse to turn around and go back to La Guardia Airport to catch the next shuttle for Washington.

Francesca groped for the light switch and snapped it down impatiently. She blinked in the sudden brightness. The immense antique French chandelier, with its cascading slivers of crystal prisms and blades and elongated teardrops, flooded the black-and-white marble hall with a blinding blaze. It threw into bold relief the Gobelin tapestry soaring high on the staircase wall, the Rodin busts and Sèvres palace vases in their respective niches and the Louis XV commode, once owned by Madame de Pompadour, upon which reposed a Ming Dynasty vase containing a lovely arrangement of yellow roses, their sweet scent bringing the nostalgic fragrance of a summer garden to the wintry stillness.

Once again her eyes swept over the splendid hall with its priceless objects of art, a setting which never failed to impress with its perfection and timeless beauty, and then, quite involuntarily, she shivered despite the warmth of the hall. Somebody walked over my grave, she thought. How silly she was being, yet there was no denying the fact that she felt curiously alone and lost without Harrison. She was baffled by her reaction. She often came to New York on her own. There was nothing unusual about that, but today she felt decidedly odd, vulnerable, and exposed in the most peculiar way. Oh, it’s just the aftermath of Christmas and I’m tired, she decided.

She walked in determined, measured steps across the hall to the library, the high heels of her boots resounding with a sharp metallic ring against the cold marble, the echo disturbing the silence. She stopped in her tracks abruptly. Perhaps that was it – the quietness after the bustling activity of the house in Virginia, with the continual comings and goings of the servants, Harry’s grandchildren and guests. The apartment seemed so still, so deserted and devoid of life. Of course, that was undoubtedly the explanation. She was simply missing the girls, their whoops of joy and excitement, their running feet and constant laughter. She would call Harrison later and suggest they all come to the city for a few days. This thought gladdened her heart, and her face brightened as she pushed open the door and went into the library. Although this room was, in many respects, just as imposing as the entrance hall, it was much less intimidating. It appeared welcoming and intimate with its ash-panelled walls, English antiques and comfortable sofas and chairs covered in a cheerful floral chintz. A fire burned brightly in the grate and several lamps had been turned on; and the combination of this warming light cast a lovely glow throughout, one that was both cheerful and reassuring.

Francesca sat down at the English Regency desk and read the note from her housekeeper, Val, who had apparently gone shopping and would return within the hour. She glanced at a number of telephone messages received that morning and then turned her attention to the mail, quickly flipping through it, discarding unopened several invitations, her bank statement and bills. The last envelope had a Harrogate postmark and she recognized her brother’s handwriting. Picking up the gold and malachite opener, she slit the envelope and leaned back in the chair, reading Kim’s letter eagerly. It was mainly about his children and their Christmas activities, along with bits of news of their mutual friends. There were a few complaints about the burdens of running the estate, but she knew these to be justified. By nature Kim was not a whiner and, God knows, managing the ancestral Langley lands and making them pay was no mean feat these days. He ended the letter with a reminder that he was expecting to see her now that all the seasonal festivities were out of the way. There was a postscript. Happy New Year, darling. And let’s hope 1979 is going to be better for both of us.

A strand of her blonde hair fell across her face and Francesca pushed it aside quickly, looping it over one ear in her habitual way. Thoughtfully, she perused the letter again, endeavouring to read between the lines, to truly assess Kim’s mood and disposition. She detected a certain wistfulness there – no, it was sadness really – and it bespoke his unhappiness, despite the cheerful tone he had adopted in an obviously conscious effort to reassure her. Francesca put down the letter, which troubled her, and stared into space, frowning deeply. Her hazel eyes, soft and transparent, were suddenly reflective, and they betrayed her concern.

Kim was two years older than she, yet she always thought of him as her baby brother, for she had looked after him and shielded him all through their childhood and youth, after their mother’s death when they were small. These days she was more protective of him than ever, anxious about his well-being and state of mind. He had simply not been the same since Pandora had left him, and Francesca understood the reasons why. She, too, had been completely astounded by Pandora’s extraordinary behaviour, for it had been the perfect marriage, and outwardly the happiest union she had ever encountered. Kim’s stunned shock, his heartbreak and profound hurt had been hers, for she had felt them just as acutely.

Will he never recover from that blow? Francesca asked herself, and she did not like the resounding ‘no’ that reverberated in her head. A proud young woman, and infinitely more pragmatic than her brother, Francesca had long since come to believe that broken hearts were the stuff of romantic dreams and bore no relationship to the true reality of everyday life. You picked up the pieces, glued them together, and went on living as best you could, until the pain receded. That was exactly what she had done years before, and she was fully convinced that no one was irreplaceable. Despite these beliefs, and because she was blessed with considerable intelligence and insight, she realized Kim was different, knew intuitively that he would mourn Pandora, not replace her, as most other men would have done.

She shook her head sadly. He was so isolated in Yorkshire, and lonely with his two elder children away at boarding school. She wished he would spend more time in London with his friends, but then had to admit this was not always feasible. His responsibilities kept him tied to Langley for most of the year. On the other hand, if she were in England she might conceivably be able to exercise some influence over him, persuade him to lead a more active social life than was his custom.

Francesca decided she must go home to England at the end of the month. Harrison would not object, she was certain of that, and perhaps he would accompany her if he was not overburdened with work in Washington. Since his retirement from the Foreign Service a year ago, her husband seemed to be busier than he ever was as an ambassador. He was the country’s foremost elder statesman, and consequently he was constantly being sought out by senators and political bigwigs and members of the cabinet; and then again, his role as an adviser to the President on Foreign Affairs was time-consuming and exceedingly tiring. Although he had fully recovered from his two heart attacks and was enjoying good health, Francesca watched over him like a hawk, for ever stricturing him to slow down and take things at a gentler pace. Harrison always readily concurred, and then did exactly as he pleased, caught up in the complex machinations of politics and thoroughly enjoying every exciting minute of it. A trip to England would be a tonic for Harry, as well as an enforced rest, and she resolved to take him with her, was determined to brook no argument from him.

Francesca took out her engagement book and opened it. The meeting of the charity committee had been arranged for one o’clock, and then at four she had the interview with Estelle Morgan of Now Magazine. She grimaced as she contemplated this. There were so many other more important obligations to be dealt with, but Estelle had pressed hard for it, and Francesca remembered from past experience the woman’s unflagging persistence. It had been far easier on the nerves, and more expedient, to agree immediately.

Also Francesca had wisely acknowledged, when she took on the charity, that she would have to submit to a certain number of interviews. She did not delude herself into thinking the charity needed her solely for her practical turn of mind and her organizing ability. They also wanted her because they felt she had a certain cachet and glamour -how she hated that word – and was, in their minds, the ideal candidate for their publicity purposes. She was dedicated to the charity and took her responsibilities seriously, and refusing to see Estelle would have appeared churlish and even mean-spirited to the committee. Well, it was in a good cause and she had made the date. The simplest thing would be to deal with Estelle quickly, and with the best possible grace. Her thoughts shifted to her engagements for the remainder of the week. She glanced at her book to refresh her memory. Francesca walked across the room to the window, thinking again of her brother. She parted the curtains and looked out across Fifth Avenue to Central Park, an absent-minded expression on her delicately-etched face.

It was a very cold, very January day. Portions of the window had iced up and the frost made funny little patterns composed of diamonds and stars and circles on the surface, so that the glass was opaque in parts, and her view of the park was faintly blurred. The patterns and the opaqueness produced a strange optical illusion, one of dreamlike diffusion. It had apparently snowed hard for the past few days, and huge banks drifted over seats and railings and rambling paths, obscuring the familiar landscape with an unbroken sweep of glistening white, like an ocean of rising waves, their crests frozen into rigid immobility; and the skeletal black trees were festooned with crystalline flakes that transformed the branches into fragile feathered plumes.

Behind them, the skyscrapers on the West Side merged to form an indistinguishable grey mass of granite that rose up like a rugged mountain range into a vaulted sky. Images ran together in her head … the snow-scape of the city became the soaring pristine mountains above Königssee … changed into the high-flung Yorkshire fells which overshadowed her childhood home … those were the familiar places that took shape as she stared through the frosty tracery of the glass. She squinted through half-closed lids, and saw in her mind’s eye the famous oil by Monet, which he had painted on a trip to Norway around 1895. It was called ‘Mount Kolsaas’, and she knew it well, for Harrison had always wanted it. But it was owned by another collector and unlikely ever to be his. This fact did not stop him hankering after it. That which is beyond our reach is always the more desirable because of its very unattainability, she thought. Just as Pandora is out of Kim’s yearning reach.

Francesca touched the icy window with a polished pink fingernail and abstractedly scratched at it, her thoughts returning to her brother. She had not been able to suggest a cure, at the very least an antidote for what ailed him.

Perhaps one doesn’t exist for Kim, she reflected forlornly, unless, quite simply, it is time. The passing of time had worked miracles for her, but she was uncertain of the effect it would have on him. It struck her then that her going to England was hardly a solution to Kim’s problems. Might, it not be infinitely better if he came to New York? The more she thought about this, the more Francesca was convinced it was the most effective and practical solution. She would remove him from his normal environment and propel him into a round of social activities on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca was nothing if not decisive and she hurried to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialled her home in Virginia.

‘Hello, Harrison. It’s me,’ she said when her husband answered.

‘Ah, darling, so there you are. I was just going to call you. Why didn’t you awaken me before you left? You know I like to say goodbye. Creeping off like that was grossly unfair of you. Ruined my day, I don’t mind telling you.’

As he was speaking Francesca was, as always, conscious of the rich timbre of his voice, and touched by the warmth and love it exuded. He was such a dear man. How lucky she was. She smiled into the telephone. ‘You were sleeping so soundly, my darling, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.’

‘Did you have a nice trip? How are things at the apartment?’ he asked.

‘Smooth trip, and everything is fine here.’

‘I forgot to tell you last night, I’d like you to stop by at the gallery and chivy Ledere about the Utrillo, if you don’t mind. I’d really appreciate it, and I think a personal visit would be more effective than a ‘phone call. Any time this week will do, whenever you can fit it in.’

‘Of course, darling. Actually, Harry, I called you for a couple of reasons, apart from wanting to say hello. I wondered if you’d like to come up for a couple of days? Perhaps on Wednesday. You could bring the girls. They would enjoy it, and so would I, and we can all fly back to Virginia together, on Friday.’

‘I’d love to, Francesca, but I can’t. I have some special meetings in Washington, which I must attend, and a Democratic dinner. So sorry. Next week maybe. If you’re going to New York again,’ he said, regret echoing in his voice.

‘Fine,’ she said, suppressing her own disappointment. ‘There’s another matter I must discuss with you, Harry dear. I’ve received a rather disturbing letter from Kim.’ She went on to tell him about its contents and her dismay about Kim’s depressed mood.

‘So I thought it might be a good idea to invite him here to New York, Harry. And then I thought we might all go to the estate in Barbados for a week or so. That would be more beneficial to you than going to England. After all, you’d only get embroiled with your political cronies in the British government, and it wouldn’t be a rest at all.’

Harrison Avery chuckled. How well she knew him. ‘You’re correct there, my sweet girl. And Barbados does appeal to me. Can’t say I fancy London in winter. Too damned cold and damp for these old bones. And I agree with you wholeheartedly about Kim. I think you should invite him here immediately, Francesca. I’ve been a little concerned about him myself. Why don’t you give him a call right now?’ he proposed.

‘It’s so easy to refuse on the telephone, Harry, and he might just do that, without giving it any real thought. I’d prefer to write to him and then telephone him next week when he’s had the letter. To persuade him, if necessary.’

‘You know best, of course, darling. But I hope he comes over at once, if he can get away from Langley. You know I’ve always had a soft spot for that brother of yours, and I think he needs us both right now.’

‘Yes, he does. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive, Harry dear. I’d better go. I must write the letter, and I’ve got rather a busy day. I’ll speak to you later in the week.’

‘Fine, darling. Goodbye.’

Since the plans for Kim’s trip were uppermost in her mind at this moment, that sense of regret Francesca had experienced on entering the apartment earlier was entirely forgotten. Yet only a few weeks later she was to remember it, and with a sudden surge of clarity, wondering if it had been some kind of premonition of impending disaster, and not regret at all. Ridiculous as it was, she even entertained the notion that events would have progressed differently, the consequences been averted, if she had followed her original impulse and returned to Virginia. But hindsight was meaningless. By then it was already too late. Her life and the lives of others had been changed irrevocably, and so profoundly they would never be the same again.

Now, this morning, preoccupied as she was with her brother’s well-being, her speculation about the future revolved solely around him. She picked up her pen and began the letter. When it was finished she sealed it quickly, addressed the envelope and found an airmail stamp in the desk drawer. There, it was done! She leaned back in the chair and regarded the letter propped up against a malachite bookend. It was articulate and persuasive and so lovingly couched, Kim would be unable to reject her invitation, of that she was absolutely convinced. She thought then of the postscript at the end of his letter, and she made a solemn vow to herself: 1979 was going to be a better year for him, no matter what was entailed or what she had to do to ensure this outcome.

Francesca pushed back the chair, filled with a sense of purpose and renewed energy. She smiled happily to herself as she hurried upstairs to change her clothes and refresh her make-up, in readiness for the day’s appointments. Kim would come to New York and she would help him to recover from his hurt and pain and melancholy. She would help to make him whole again. Everything was going to be all right.

CHAPTER THREE

Estelle Morgan was too early for her appointment with Francesca Avery, and as the taxi sped up Madison Avenue she decided to alight a few blocks away from the apartment, and walk the rest of the way. She paid off the cab at Seventy-Fourth Street and Madison and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. It had stopped snowing at lunch time, and a watery sun was trying to penetrate the bloated etiolated clouds with scant success.

As she turned onto Fifth Avenue and approached the palatial and imposing building where the Averys lived, a self-congratulatory smile slipped onto her face, giving her a smug look. How right she had been to wear her mink coat. The doormen of these apartment buildings where the very rich lived were invariably snootier than their privileged inhabitants, and she wasn’t going to have even one of them look her over with disdain and treat her dismissively.

Estelle had hesitated about the coat at first, because it was snowing hard at eight o’clock and she did not want to get it wet. But it looked far better than her raincoat, and so she decided to take a cab to the office. It had been a worthwhile investment. The coat made her feel chic and bolstered her self-confidence. It was her pride and joy really. To complete the outfit Estelle had chosen a red dress, black patent knee-high boots and a large black patent shoulder bag, a copy of a famous Italian design. Earlier that morning as she had surveyed herself in the mirror, she had nodded at her reflection with complete gratification. She thought she was the epitome of a glamorous, successful international journalist. Sadly, Estelle Morgan did not think very deeply about anything, and so it never occurred to her that an outfit could not transform her into all the things she believed herself to be.

She glanced at her watch as she waited for the traffic lights to change at Seventy-Ninth Street. It was a few seconds to four, but she was almost there and would arrive exactly on time. Punctuality was not one of her strong suits, but she recalled that Francesca Avery, the cold bitch, was a stickler about time and, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, she had made a concerted effort not to be late. After giving her name and being announced, she was permitted to enter the grandiose building at Eighty-First Street.

She was greeted at the Avery apartment by a middle-aged woman in black, undoubtedly the housekeeper, who asked for her coat, laid it carefully over a chair, and then ushered her across the hall. Estelle had been to many elegant homes during the course of her career, but she had never seen anything quite as impressive as the Avery entrance hall, particularly in New York City. Jesus, it looks as if it’s been transported lock, stock and barrel from Versailles, she thought as she followed the housekeeper in silence, her eyes popping.

After she had shown Estelle into the library, the housekeeper gave her a small cool smile and said, ‘I’ll tell her Ladyship you’re here.’ Estelle murmured her thanks as the housekeeper departed.

She crossed the room to the fire, her boots sinking into the deep silken pile of the antique Chinese carpet. Her eyes flicked around yet again, curiosity guttering in them. They took in the antiques, and moved on to regard the paintings gracing the panelled walls. She was not particularly well informed about art, but Estelle had acquired a smattering of borrowed knowledge about innumerable subjects. And so she was able to recognize at once that these were not merely good copies, nor hardly likely to be in this apartment. They were originals and quite famous enough to identify, masterpieces from the Post-Impressionist period. That’s undoubtedly a Van Gogh on the far wall, she decided, hurrying over to examine it, delighted with her accurate guesswork when she saw the signature. She scrutinized the others with lightning speed. A Seurat. A Cézanne. A Gauguin.

A moment later the door swung open and Francesca Avery was standing there, her eyes sparkling with vitality, a smile on her tranquil face. ‘Estelle!’ she exclaimed, moving forward with grace and elegance, swaying slightly on the precariously high heels that drew attention to her fine ankles and long slender legs.

As she approached the fireplace, Estelle noted that the English-rose complexion was still quite flawless and the burnished amber-blonde hair as silky and luxuriant as it had ever been. Why, she hasn’t changed at all, Estelle commented to herself in astonishment, and with a stab of annoyance.

‘Do forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ Francesca apologized. ‘But here I am. And it’s so nice to see you again.’ She stretched out her hand.

The journalist arranged a pleasant smile on her face and grabbed Francesca’s long cool fingers clumsily. ‘I’ve only been here a few minutes, my dear. I didn’t mind waiting at all. And especially in this lovely room. What marvellous taste you have.’

Francesca extracted her hand, wincing inside. Estelle had always been something of a sycophant and time had apparently not tempered her obsequiousness. Although this was nauseating, she supposed it was harmless enough. Francesca moved away from the fireplace and murmured, ‘How kind of you to say so. Now I think we might be more comfortable over there.’ She indicated the sofa and chairs grouped against the back wall underneath the Gauguin painting of a Tahitian girl. Estelle followed her hostess’s suggestion and bounced over to the seating arrangement. She took her time settling comfortably and then she looked at Francesca, smiled with a fraudulent sweetness and said, ‘And I must say, my dear, it’s lovely to see you too, after such a long time. It seems like centuries.’

‘Not quite that,’ Francesca responded with a dry laugh. ‘About five years. I think the last time we ran into each other was in Monte Carlo, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, at Grace’s benefit. She’s such a lovely person, and Rainier is quite the charmer. I’m so fond of them both,’ she gushed.

Francesca was astounded at this blatant boasting of friendship with the Grimaldis, knowing it to be utterly false. Estelle was no more on intimate terms with the Prince and Princess of Monaco than she was with the Queen of England. Reluctant to embark on a conversation that could only prove embarrassing to Estelle, she refrained from passing comment, and asked in a brisk tone, ‘Can I offer you something? Tea, coffee or a drink perhaps?’

Disappointment flooded through Estelle, was quickly replaced by aggravation. But she caught herself in time. ‘Tea would be very nice, thank you.’ And then in an effort to conceal her annoyance at being deprived of an opportunity to show off, she went on, ‘With lemon please, and a sweetener if you have it. Must keep my figure, you know.’

‘Of course,’ said Francesca. ‘I’ll go and ask Val to make it, and then we can catch up, and get on with the interview. Please excuse me.’ She hurried to the door, wondering with dismay how she would cope with Estelle for the next hour.

Estelle’s narrowed gaze followed Francesca as she glided out. Why is it she always seems to float not walk? she wondered sourly. And how has she kept her looks? She’s got to be at least forty-two, yet she looks ten years younger.

Francesca returned almost immediately, interrupting Estelle’s thoughts. ‘Val already had the kettle boiling,’ she explained, placing the Georgian silver tray, with its matching tea service, on the coffee table. She sat down on the chair opposite, poured the tea and went on: ‘The last time I saw you I believe you were working for one of the newspapers. How long have you been writing for Now Magazine?’

‘Oh, about three years and I’m the Features Editor actually.’

‘Why that’s marvellous, Estelle. It must be a very important job, although I should imagine it’s rather hectic as well.’

‘It is. But it’s exciting. I lead a very interesting life, you know, jetting all over the world, staying in the best hotels, or with the best people, doing my in-depth interviews with famous personalities.’ Puffing up with self-importance, she continued, ‘I also have quite a large staff working for me. But I make sure I get the best interviews for myself, especially those abroad.’

Francesca thought: Well, at least she’s honest, and said, ‘How very smart of you.’

‘Just one of the many tricks of the trade,’ Estelle said and reached for her handbag. She took out a small tape recorder and placed it on the butler’s tray table between them. ‘You don’t mind if I use this, do you?’

‘No, whatever you prefer. I’d like to tell you something about the charity. I assume you’re going to mention it, since you went through my committee to arrange our meeting, and they’re expecting it, you know. Now – ‘

‘We’ll get to that later,’ Estelle interjected so brusquely Francesca was taken aback. The journalist hurried on without pause, ‘First I want you to talk about you, your life style, your personal life, your career, that kind of thing. After all, you’re the subject of my interview, not the charity. My readers are interested in personalities, and how they live, not organizations or institutions.’ She threw Francesca a look that seemed somehow challenging.

‘Oh. I see,’ Francesca replied softly, wondering what she had so foolishly let herself in for, albeit with the best of intentions. She also found the sharp rebuff rather discourteous and then dismissed it as insensitivity, or perhaps simply enthusiasm for the job. Estelle had always been a graceless person and never intentionally meant to give offence.

Francesca leaned forward and reached for a cigarette in the onyx and gold box on the table. She lit it and sat back in the chair, waiting patiently as Estelle fiddled with the machine, experiencing acute embarrassment for her. Estelle had obviously dressed in a manner she thought appropriate for the occasion, and even smart, but the red wool frock, although expensive, was a most unbecoming choice. The colour was disastrous with her florid complexion and flaming red hair. Francesca was aware this was the natural colour, but Estelle seemed to be resorting to the bottle these days. It was several shades too bright, and harsh.

Drawing on her cigarette, Francesca glanced away quickly, chastising herself for her lack of generosity, and suddenly, being compassionate, she was touched by pity for Estelle. They had first met years ago in London when they were in their twenties, but the intervening years had not been kind to the woman sitting opposite her. Francesca was unexpectedly saddened. Poor Estelle. Her life was probably not half as glamorous as she pretended. It might even be a terrible struggle in so many different ways. Yet Estelle was a clever writer, and had been full of talent and promise in those early years. What had happened to her dreams of becoming a novelist? Quite clearly they had gone by the wayside. And then she thought: But who am I to criticize Estelle? Everyone did what they could in life, and hoped for the best. She had a particular distaste for those who constantly wanted to play God and passed judgment on their peers. She had always chosen not to indulge in that gratuitous pastime.

‘There, I’m all set,’ Estelle exclaimed and settled back comfortably.

And so the interview began. Where did she get her clothes? Did she prefer French or American designers? What kind of entertaining did she like best? Did she give large or small dinner parties? Or cocktail parties? How did she cope with homes in New York, Virginia and Barbados? How many servants did she have? Did she decorate her own homes? Did she have any hobbies? What was it like being the wife of an ambassador? Did Harrison enjoy his new role as a presidential adviser? What was his state of health? Did she go to the White House frequently? Who were the people she entertained? Did she enjoy a good relationship with Harrison’s grandchildren? Did she prefer living in America to England, or other countries? And why? Did Harrison have any hobbies? How did they relax? What were their leisure activities?

It seemed to Francesca that the questions were interminable. She answered honestly and with cordiality, pausing from time to time to freshen their tea or light a cigarette. But as Estelle probed and probed she grew steadily weary and a trifle impatient with this cross-examination of her life, began to see it as an intrusion into her privacy, and certainly not exactly what she had bargained for when she had agreed to the meeting. Furthermore, to Francesca’s growing unease, Estelle had not mentioned the charity once. She was just about to tactfully introduce this subject when the questions changed in character.

‘Do you think Teddy Kennedy will run for the Presidency in 1980?’

Surprise flickered in Francesca’s eyes. ‘I never discuss politics. I leave that to Harrison.’

‘But you must have an opinion, and I’m interviewing you, not your husband. Come on, Francesca, you’re a bright, liberated woman. What do you think? Will he try to run?’

‘You really must respect my wishes, Estelle. I don’t want to discuss politics on any level.’

‘Well then, on to other subjects. Let’s touch on your career. You haven’t written a book lately. Is that because the one about Edward IV and the Wars of the Roses didn’t do very well? I really felt for you when I read the reviews. Personally, I didn’t think it was dull, long-winded or verbose.’

Francesca stifled a gasp. Estelle’s expression was smoothly bland, revealing nothing. Maybe she doesn’t know she is being inflammatory, Francesca thought, and then laughed inwardly at her own naivete. This was the new style of journalism. Being provocative to elicit angry or unthinking responses inevitably made for a better story. She was not going to fall into that trap. Conscious that journalists always had the last word when they sat down at their typewriters, she refused to take offence or to be chivied into losing her composure.

‘The reviews weren’t all bad. In fact, I had some excellent ones,’ she said. ‘And contrary to your impression, Estelle, the book did sell, both in hardcover and paperback. Of course, you’re right in one sense, in that it wasn’t a runaway best seller like my books on Chinese Gordon or Richard III.’ She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You win a few and lose a few, I suppose. Anyway, to answer your question, the real reason I haven’t written another book in the past few years is simply because I haven’t found the right historical figure to focus on, but I expect I will come up with something eventually.’

‘I love your historical biographies, and I happen to think you’re equal to Antonia Fraser any time, even though she is a much bigger name. You know, in my opinion, you really are rather a good writer, my dear.’

Although this was uttered with pleasantness there was a patronizing undertone to the words, which Francesca could not fail to miss. And she thought, with sudden acuity: Hostility is implicit in this woman. She may not be conscious of it, but I know she does not like me at all. Her guard went up.

Estelle, who was so self-involved she was fundamentally oblivious to other people’s feelings, went on unperturbedly, ‘Oh dear, I see the tape’s run out” I’ll have to change it.’ Obviously the session was far from over in Estelle’s mind. It was almost six and it had grown dark outside, and the concert had not yet been broached. Francesca’s good manners were bred in the bone, and to be impolite or inhospitable to a guest in her home would go against the grain. Nevertheless, she felt disinclined to extend herself any further. She tightened her Ups in aggravation and admitted she would have to endure Estelle’s presence until she had talked about the charity, otherwise the whole afternoon would have been a disgraceful waste of time.

Against her better judgment, Francesca now felt obliged to ask: ‘Would you care for a drink, Estelle? I thought I might have a glass of white wine, but there’s plenty to choose from, if you’d prefer something else.’ She waved her hand in the direction of the console table in the far corner. This held a large array of bottles, decanters and crystal glasses.

‘Oooh! What a lovely idea, my dear. I’ll have white wine too, please.’

Francesca nodded, retrieved the tea tray and escaped to the kitchen. Within minutes she was back, carrying a silver bucket containing a bottle of white wine. She took this over to the console, poured two glasses and rejoined Estelle. She felt as thought she was on the verge of screaming.

‘Santé,’ Estelle said. ‘I do appreciate good wines. After all my trotting back and forth to France I guess I’m spoiled. What is this? It’s delicious.’

‘Pouilly Fuissé,’ Francesca replied with a thin smile, marvelling at her considerable patience. But it was dwindling fast.

In the kitchen Francesca had finally resolved to seize control of the situation and bring the interview to its conclusion as rapidly and as diplomatically as possible. Adopting a businesslike tone, she plunged in: ‘I must talk to you about the charity, Estelle. It’s getting late and I have a dinner engagement. I’m sure your time is precious too.’

‘But I have more questions about – ‘

‘Please, Estelle, let’s be fair,’ Francesca interrupted firmly. ‘I have given you two hours already. I only agreed to this interview because I felt your story would be beneficial to a good cause, and help us with the concert, and this was made quite clear to you at the time. Normally I don’t give interviews of this type. I loathe personal publicity.’

Estelle had her glass halfway to her mouth. She put it down and gaped at Francesca. ‘Don’t like publicity! You’re always in the columns.’

‘I can’t help it if I’m constantly being mentioned in the newspapers. It’s none of my doing, I can assure you of that. But don’t let’s digress.’ Francesca glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘I’ll have to bring our visit to a close very shortly, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh sure, that’s all right,’ Estelle responded affably. ‘Please go ahead, Francesca dear. I’d just love to hear about your charity.’

Relieved that she had turned the discussion around to her advantage, Francesca launched into all the salient details of the elaborate star-studded concert she and the committee were planning. She spoke quickly, but articulately, for about fifteen minutes. Finally she concluded, ‘That’s about it. What can I add, but to say again that it is for a truly worthy cause, and naturally we’d appreciate any mention you can give.’

‘There’s no problem. I’ll give the charity a nice fat plug, right up front in the story.’ Estelle cleared her throat and added quickly, ‘I’d like to have a photographer come up next week and take a few candids of you, whenever it’s convenient. Can you give me a date and time, please?’

‘Oh dear!’ Francesca stopped, and began to finger her pearls. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d want to take special photographs,’ she said with a degree of hesitance. ‘Would next Wednesday at two o’clock be suitable? It’s really the only time I have free.’ She was not especially enamoured of this new development, but she knew herself to be trapped.

‘That’s fine. I’ll book our very best photographer.’ Estelle leaned forward and snapped off the tape recorder.

Sitting back in the chair, Francesca permitted herself to relax. She felt exhausted and longed to be alone, but it seemed that Estelle was determined to finish her drink, and at her own leisure.

‘I have something to tell you,’ Estelle began, lifting her glass and regarding Francesca closely over the rim. There was a small pause before she said, ‘Katharine’s coming back to New York.’

Francesca sat up swiftly and threw her an astonished glance, frowning. ‘Katharine?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. Katharine Tempest. The one and only Katharine,’ Estelle smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know who I meant!’

‘Naturally I knew. I was a little surprised, that’s all. Actually, I’d lost track of her. Why are you telling me anyway? It’s of no interest to me.’

‘Katharine wants to see you.’

Francesca tensed. She felt her face stiffening and her eyes, opening very widely, brimmed with shock. She did not believe Estelle, but as she studied the other woman’s face in silence she knew from her gloating expression that it was indeed true. She was momentarily speechless. She managed to say, ‘Whatever for? Why would she want to see me?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Estelle replied sardonically. ‘But she wanted me to request a meeting. Lunch, dinner, tea, drinks, whichever you prefer. Just give me a date. She’ll be arriving in about a week or ten days, and she expects me to have arranged it by then. When can you see her?’

Anger was fulminating in Francesca. And she, who was never rude, said with unusual vehemence, her voice rising, ‘I cannot see her! I will not see her! I think you have – ‘

‘I know you two became drawn enemies,’ Estelle exclaimed peremptorily. ‘That’s why I can’t understand Katharine. She’s being very foolish, in my opinion. I don’t

‘I was about to say, when you interrupted me, that I think you have behaved in the most despicable manner!’ Francesca cried. ‘How dare you wangle your way into my home, on the pretext of doing an interview, when it’s patently obvious the real reason you’re here is to carry messages for Katharine Tempest.’ Francesca’s anger now spiralled into cold fury. ‘How devious and underhanded of you! You’re a disgrace to your profession. But then I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better behaviour from you, Estelle. You always were her lackey. I think you had better leave.’

Estelle did not budge. She was enjoying Francesca’s discomfort. She gave her a slow derisive smile, and triumph flicked into the small brown eyes. ‘My, my, I never thought I’d see the day when you would display so much emotion.’

Dismay had lodged like a stone in the pit of Francesca’s stomach, but she took firm control of herself. Recovering some of her self-possession, she said, in a steadier voice, ‘You may tell Katharine Tempest I have no wish to see her. Ever again. I have nothing to say to her.’

‘It’s no skin off my nose either way, and although I don’t understand Katharine’s motives, I did agree to help.’ Estelle crossed her legs and lolled back in the chair, regarding Francesca with quizzical eyes. She shook her head wonderingly. ‘I’m surprised at you, Francesca. Why don’t you give a little, for once in your life, and get down off your pedestal. Let bygones be bygones. We’re all a bit older and more mature. I think Katharine expected you, of all people, to be more understanding.’

‘More understanding!’ Francesca gasped. ‘After what she did to me! You must be as demented as she apparently is. I absolutely refuse to continue this ridiculous discussion. I would appreciate it if you would leave my house. I think you have not only outstayed your welcome, but abused my hospitality.’

Estelle lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resignation, picked up the tape recorder and dropped it into her handbag. She could not resist a final attempt at effecting a reconciliation. ‘She only wants to be friends again. With everyone. That’s why she asked me to contact all of you. Come on, be generous, change your mind.’

‘I will not. Never. The others can do as they wish, but I will not see her.’ Francesca’s face had paled and her eyes blazed. ‘I don’t want anything to do with her. There’s nothing to be gained by a … a … reunion.’ Francesca drew a quick intake of breath. ‘And I’m surprised at you, Estelle. Why do you permit her to use you in this way?’

‘Use me! Good God, that’s a laugh. If ever she’s used anyone, it’s been you!’ Estelle regretted this remark the instant it left her mouth. Katharine had warned her not to let her antagonism towards Francesca get in the way, and she had done just that in the heat of the moment.

A bone-chilling coldness had settled over Francesca. She nodded her head slowly and with deliberation. ‘You are quite correct, Estelle. And I do not propose to be used again. Ever,’ she intoned with such icy finality that the journalist shrank back in her chair.

‘I will show you out,’ Francesca continued in the same glacial voice. She rose and, without giving Estelle another glance, walked to the door. She opened it and stood aside. ‘Please leave.’

Estelle cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you next Wednesday then, with the photographer.’

‘I hardly think the photographs will be necessary, since you are not going to write the story. You might as well admit it, Estelle, the interview was just a ruse to see me,’ she snapped in an accusatory tone. ‘You could have told me this on the telephone, instead of wasting hours of my time doing a bogus interview.’

Estelle’s florid face filled with darker colour. ‘I am going to write the story, so you see, I will need the photographs.’

‘Obviously I must refuse.’

Even a woman as intrinsically obtuse as Estelle could not fail to understand that she had destroyed herself irrevocably in Francesca’s eyes and, knowing she had nothing to lose, she now exclaimed heatedly, ‘Seemingly your precious charity is not that important to you after all.’ She pushed herself out into the hall, grabbed her coat from the chair and flung it over her arm. She then swung around to face Francesca, who was watching her from the doorway of the library, a look of distaste flickering in her eyes.

The jealousy and envy at the root of Estelle’s antipathy for Francesca surfaced. Self-control and all rationality left her. ‘You always were a stuck-up, rotten snob!’ she almost screamed. ‘Whatever Katharine did to you is not half as bad as the things you did to her, and when she needed you the most. It’s because of you she has been isolated from everyone all this time. You’ve added to her suffering. The least you could do is see her. You cold unfeeling bitch!’

The mask of affability had been ripped off to reveal a face that was malevolent with hatred. Estelle headed for the front door. When she reached it she flung herself around and laughed an inane laugh. ‘I do believe you are afraid to see Katharine!’

With this final strident statement Estelle flounced out and slammed the door so ferociously behind her, Francesca flinched. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming and a sick feeling of dismay lingered. Vaguely she heard Val’s step in the corridor and with some effort she pulled herself together, moving towards the staircase.

‘My goodness, whatever was that?’ Val asked.

‘Miss Morgan. Leaving in a huff,’ said Francesca, turning around on the stairs.

‘I thought the roof was falling in,’ Val exclaimed, glancing about, suspecting damage to the more fragile art treasures. She shook her head, and her tightened lips signalled her immense disapproval of such undignified goings on. ‘Dear, dear, all that yelling and screaming like a fishwife. So common, M’lady.’ Val, who was the youngest sister of Melly, Francesca’s old nanny, and had known her since she was a child, was motherly and protective. Now she peered closely at Francesca and said, ‘I hope she hasn’t upset you unduly, M’lady. You look a bit peaked.’

‘No, Val, she hasn’t. I’m all right, really I am. I’m also late for Mr Nelson’s dinner party.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’d better go upstairs and get ready.’

‘I’ll come and help you, M’lady.’

‘No, you don’t have to, Val,’ Francesca murmured, desperately wanting to be by herself. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’ She smiled again and retreated up the stairs.

CHAPTER FOUR

The bedroom of the Avery duplex overlooked Fifth Avenue and the park. It was large, airy and light, an oasis of pale green highlighted with white. Cool and restful, the room was accented with touches of yellow, pink and blue, all fresh bright colours that might have been plucked from a bouquet of English flowers.

Apple-green watered silk covered the walls, and framed the two windows with long tied-back draperies and handsome matching valances. There were several Louis XVI bergères and a small Louis XVI sofa grouped in a semi-circle in front of the white marble fireplace.

It was a cheerful, happy room, one that reflected Francesca’s naturally sunny, outgoing personality and her serene disposition, as well as her good taste. But her demeanour was less tranquil than normal as she closed the door firmly behind her and hurried across the floor. She sank gratefully into one of the chairs near the fireplace and leaned back, waiting for the trembling of her limbs to subside. She was unaccustomed to such flagrant displays of emotion, whether by herself or others, had an abhorrence of turbulent scenes, which she found uncivilized and distressing. She was not only horrified by Estelle’s duplicity and her virulent tirade, but aghast at her own loss of control, finding this to be immature, and also demeaning. She closed her eyes, attempting to gather her disordered senses, to restore her equilibrium and calm herself in readiness for the evening. No sooner had she begun to relax when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring, making her start. Reluctantly, she roused herself from her reverie, and went to answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Francesca darling, Nelson here. It’s a very bad night. Snowing like the devil. I’ve sent a car for you. Dayson just left.’

‘Oh, Nelson, that’s so thoughtful of you.’ Her hand flew to her pearls and she played with them nervously. ‘I’m afraid I’m running terribly late. I haven’t changed yet. I was awfully delayed by an appointment. I’m so sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can – ‘

‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ he interrupted. They had been friends for a number of years before she had married his elder brother, and he knew and understood her with a precision and insight that was rare.

‘Nothing. Truly, Nelson. Just a rather troublesome afternoon with a difficult journalist who came to interview me.’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, flexing her toes.

‘Oh! From which publication?’

‘Now Magazine. She was a little hostile, but I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Honestly, it’s all right.’

‘That’s owned by Everett Communications. Tommy Everett is one of my oldest friends. Spent all of our summers together in Bar Harbor when we were boys. Tommy is also a client of the bank. And it just so happens I’m a major stockholder of Everett Communications.’ He chuckled and, taking control in his usual masterful manner, continued: ‘So you see, there’s no problem. I’ll talk to Tommy right now. Call him at home, in fact. I’ll have the story killed and the journalist fired immediately. I’m not going to have you hounded by that particular magazine and disturbed in this way. It’s perfectly outrageous. What’s the name of the journalist?’

Francesca hesitated and, ignoring the question, said, ‘No, don’t do anything, Nelson. Please. At least not at the moment. I’m not really worried about the story. I’ll discuss it with you this evening, and then we can decide.’

Nelson sighed, knowing better than to press the point with her. ‘Just as you wish, darling. But I don’t like you to be so perturbed. And don’t deny it either, because I can tell from your voice that you are.’

‘Nelson, there’s something else – ‘ She took a deep breath and said, ‘Katharine Tempest wants to see me.’ As she spoke Francesca acknowledged to herself that this was the real reason for her distress.

A prolonged silence at the other end of the telephone. And then, ‘I knew she would turn up again one day, like the damned bad penny she is. She’s a troublemaker, Francesca. I sincerely hope you are not going to see her.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘The right decision, darling. Now, if you hurry, you’ll arrive before the other guests and we can have a quiet chat about all this. Dayson should be there in about twenty minutes to half an hour, depending on the traffic. It was bad earlier, when I came up from Wall Street. See you shortly.’ As an afterthought, he added quietìy, ‘And don’t dwell on Katharine Tempest. She’s not worth it. Dismiss her from your mind.’

‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Nelson.’

There was no time to waste if she was to be ready when the car arrived and Francesca did as Nelson suggested, turning her thoughts away from Katharine Tempest as she went into her dressing room. She undressed quickly, supped into a towelling robe and sat down at the dressing table to attend to her face and hair, working with concentration on her appearance.

At one moment she did pause to think about Estelle, and discovered, much to her amazement, that her anger had abated considerably. Her mind strayed back to the interview, and she ruminated on the outcome. Estelle had protested her innocence of any deviousness, arguing that she fully intended to write the story. But Francesca was not entirely convinced of the veracity of this statement, still believing the journalist had connived, and had entered her home under false pretences. On the other hand, she might be genuinely sincere about doing the piece. It struck Francesca then, and with an uneasy jolt, that it would be relatively easy for Estelle to do a vicious hatchet job on her, simply by making her appear to be the spoiled, pampered and indolent wife of a very rich and powerful man, who took up charities out of perpetual boredom. Estelle could make her look ridiculous, and there was no more devastating weapon than ridicule, especially in print. All those questions about her clothes, her home, her servants and her life in general, apparently so meaningless on the surface, now gained greater significance.

Worry clouded Francesca’s eyes. Undoubtedly Estelle was not very bright in certain areas, and she was obviously living in a world of fantasy. Yet she was also a clever journalist with a flair for words, and there was no denying her fervid hostility. She might be motivated by sheer maliciousness to dip her pen in venom, and that could prove to be embarrassing to Harrison, not to mention the charity. She bit her lip, attempting to outguess Estelle, and then gave up, knowing it to be a fruitless task. And, of course, there was always Nelson, ready to interfere.

Over the years Francesca had acquired a sense of irony about life, and now she thought: Poor pathetic Estelle, playing out of her league again. How little she knows about the power brokers in this town, the most influential of whom is Nelson. Not only in New York, but from coast to coast. He could demolish Estelle with one telephone call. But Francesca was too big a woman to be vindictive, and she had no wish to deprive anyone of a livelihood, particularly an unfortunate creature like Estelle. And so, for these reasons, she now decided she must exercise prudence, speak with the utmost caution to Nelson when he questioned her about the interview later. Otherwise he would act with lightning speed, out of fierce protection and love for her, wielding his immense power to Estelle’s detriment. Perhaps she was being foolish and soft-hearted in view of Estelle’s reprehensible behaviour, but for the moment she thought it wiser to keep her own counsel. She wanted to analyse the situation before making any moves and enlisting Nelson’s help. And if she did resort to the latter, it would be with the understanding that the only action to be taken was the suppression of the story.

Francesca brought her gaze back to the selection of cosmetics in front of her. She picked up a pot of silver eyeshadow and smoothed the merest trace of it on her lids, added several layers of brown mascara to her lashes, and then outlined her mouth with soft peach lipstick. She sat back, looking in the mirror with a critical eye and decided Val was right; she did seem peaked. Rectifying her pallor with a light stroking of rouge on her high cheekbones, she then lifted the silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair several times, and finally completed her toilet with a few sprays of Joy perfume. As she rose the intercom buzzed. It was Val, announcing the arrival of the car.

‘Thank you, Val. Tell Dayson I’ll be down shortly. I’m not quite ready.’

Having selected her clothes for the evening earlier in the day, Francesca was dressed within seconds, and she added the two strands of opera-length pearls she invariably wore, along with the other jewellery she had taken out of the safe that morning. As with the necklace, none of these pieces was ostentatious or elaborate, just plain pearl studs for her ears, a simple pearl bracelet with a coral clasp, and a coral-and-pearl ring she slipped on next to her platinum wedding band. A peach silk evening bag, identically matched to her high-heeled silk pumps, lay on the dressing table. She put in her keys and a few items she required for the evening, picked it up and moved towards the door.

On an impulse she turned, and walked back to the far end of the dressing room. Here it widened into a more spacious area and became a deep, relatively large alcove. This was fined with closets running from the floor to the ceiling on all three walls, and they were entirely sheathed with mirrors that created a glittering cocoon of shimmering light and reflections, this effect intensified by hidden spots in the ceiling.

Francesca paused in the centre of the alcove to view herself full length. After a moment’s consideration she frowned and shook her head, suddenly dissatisfied with the way she looked, although she was not quite certain why. Unless it was the dress which was new and had never been worn before. Like all her clothes this was understated and simple, a rippling column of peach-coloured panne velvet, cut like a Roman tunic and falling to the floor in straight fluid lines. The long wide sleeves helped to soften its basic severity, the square-shaped neckline beautifully emphasized her slender stem-like neck, and the off-centre slit in the skirt revealed enough of her right leg to lend a dash of sophistication. There was no question in her mind that the dress was elegant, and perfectly suitable for Nelson’s intimate dinner party. And yet there was something she was not sure about, something which troubled her, and she wondered whether to change into another gown, even though she was running late.

She turned from side to side, looking at herself appraisingly from all angles, and finally made a long slow turn. It was then that Francesca saw her reflection doubled, tripled and quadrupled. An infinity of images in an infinity of mirrors assaulted her eyes, and she was confronted by a dizzying number of Francescas encased in a sliver of supple peach velvet. Peach from head to toe. Peach. She caught her breath and drew closer to the central mirror, staring intently, and a look of surprise mixed with dawning comprehension spread across her face. It was not the style of the dress that disturbed her, but the colour. Of course that was it. She had not worn peach for years, over twenty years to be exact.

And as she continued to gaze at herself, mesmerized by the peach dress, up from the inner recesses of her mind there was dredged a memory, a memory so carefully, so deliberately and so deeply buried it had lain dormant for years.

A scene enacted two decades before leapt out of her mind, was projected onto the mirror with such blinding accuracy and clarity that Francesca was propelled instantly backwards into the past. And she saw herself from a long distance, as she had once been.

A night sky. Smooth. Still. Flashed with brilliant stars. A perfect Mediterranean sky. A balmy breeze. The brinish smell of the sea mingling with the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus. Candlelight glowing. Francesca sitting on the long white marble terrace of the Villa Zamir, on the promontory at Cap Martin. Francesca weeping. Katharine hovering solicitously. Katharine apologizing over and over again for being clumsy. Katharine doing nothing to help, but hovering, always hovering. Francesca barely listening. Francesca gazing in stupefied horror at the wine Katharine had spilled on her. Watching the stain seep down from the bodice on to the skirt, a red and violent stain, like fresh blood on the peach organza evening frock. A floating, romantic, dreamlike frock her father could scarcely afford. Ruined before the dance had even begun. Kim, handsome in his dinner jacket, hurrying to her with salt and soda water. And Nick Latimer arriving. Nicky mopping up Francesca’s tears, trying to be jocular and making a bad joke about tragic heroines. Her father. Sweet, consoling, concerned, but quite helpless. Doris Asternan. Her face cold with anger. Doris camouflaging the damage with a trailing spray of honeysuckle entwined with roses quickly picked from the garden. The flowers. Hardly covering the stain and wilting too soon. Francesca’s tears. Dripping on to the dress to mingle with the stain. Francesca weeping inconsolably because she had wanted to be beautiful for Victor. Francesca waiting. Waiting for Vic, who did not come. Francesca’s heart breaking …

Francesca snapped her eyes tightly shut to block out the scene, not wanting to remember any more about the past. The past was irrelevant, it no longer mattered to her. An instant later she opened her eyes and stepped swiftly away from the mirror, and she saw again a woman of forty-two, the woman she had become in the intervening years. Attractive, elegant and coolly poised. And infinitely wiser than she had been then.

She turned on her heel and left for Nelson’s dinner party.

Sleep eluded her.

Since her return from Nelson’s house several hours ago she had restlessly tossed around in the bed, unable to find repose, her eyes wide open and staring into the filtered greyness of the room. Finally, in exasperation, she sat up, turned on the light and got out of bed. Slipping into her robe, she went downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot milk and carried it back upstairs to the bedroom, where she sat drinking it, huddled in a chair near the fireplace, enveloped in introspection, unaware of the time or the chill in the air.

Slowly, and with some deliberation, Francesca reviewed the events of the afternoon, carefully weighing and analysing all that had happened, all that had been said. And inevitably her mind came to rest on Katharine Tempest, for she had begun to realize, during these long dawn hours, that she had over-reacted to the news of the woman’s impending return to New York and request for a meeting.

She did not want anything to disrupt or threaten her orderly and contented life. The life she had so painstakingly created with Harrison and his family. A life she enjoyed, and was comfortable living, and one she was determined to protect at all cost. Nelson was correct in his assessment of her former friend. Wherever Katharine Tempest went she dragged trouble in her wake. No, Katharine could not be permitted to enter her life again.

A sigh of deep sadness broke the heavy silence in the shadow-filled room. She and Katharine had been so very close once, inseparable for years, until that ugly denouement when everything had erupted so explosively and the loving friendship had ended abruptly, and with acrimony. They had not seen each other since that day, over ten years ago, and during this time Francesca had schooled herself not to think of Katharine, and eventually, as the years passed, she had succeeded in achieving her goal. And she had forgiven Katharine long ago, forgiven her for so many things, in the wisdom of her own growing maturity. But seemingly she had not forgotten. She understood that now.

Memories began to assail her. Memories of other times, other places, other people. She endeavoured to push them aside, clearly recognizing that memories were ineluctably treacherous. Particularly memories of Katharine, for they were shrouded in a web of turbulent emotions and raw feelings, and they evoked pain, the pain of Katharine’s own treachery and betrayal of her. But Katharine had not always been like that. Not in the beginning. She had been different then. They had all been different at that point in time.

At that point in time. Francesca repeated the phrase to herself, and she thought: There is no past, no present, no future. Time is not circumscribed. Albert Einstein proved that time is a dimension. The fourth dimension. Therefore all time exists now.

The decades dissolved. It was a gradual dissolve, like a film running in slow motion before her eyes, and everyone was in perfect focus, and brilliantly captured on the film of her memory – the way they were then. And the year 1956 was as real to Francesca as it had been twenty-three years ago.

It was now.

Act One Downstage Right 1956

‘The most decisive actions of our life … are most often unconsidered actions.’

ANDRE GIDE

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,’ Kim said with a genial smile, lolling nonchalantly against the door frame. ‘You just said you don’t have a date this evening. Come on, Francesca, be a good sport.’

Francesca was seated behind the large cluttered desk in the upstairs study of their father’s London house. She put down the pen she was holding and leaned back in the chair, regarding her brother with affection. She was amazed to discover that for once in her life she did not feel like being a good sport, not even for her adored Kim. She had been working all day, and now, in the late afternoon, she was exhausted yet determined to finish what she had set out to do that morning. Her brother’s unexpected arrival had surprised her, so absorbed was she in her papers.

Conscious he was waiting for a response, she shook her head, and said in a weary voice that was also surprisingly firm, ‘I’d like to help you, Kim, but I simply can’t. I have to finish this research. I really do. I’m sorry.’

‘You and your mouldy old books!’ Kim exclaimed in goodnatured exasperation. ‘Whenever I see you these days you’re peering into them as if your life depended on it. Who cares about Chinese Gordon anyway? If the old geezer hadn’t been dead for hundreds of years I’d say you had some sort of girlish crush on him. I don’t see the point – ‘

‘Gordon hasn’t been dead for hundreds of years,’ Francesca interrupted mildly enough, but her eyes were intense. ‘Seventy-one years, to be precise,’ she went on, ‘and anyway, you know very well I am going to write a biography about him one day.’

‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. Nobody will buy it.’

‘Yes they will!’ Francesca retorted fiercely, her weariness instantly dissipating. ‘There are a lot of people who are interested in British history, and a great soldier and hero like Chinese Gordon. I intend to take a fresh approach, to delve into the psychology of the man. It will be a modern study, and I’m going to write it in such a way it will make very popular reading. Father agrees with me. He thinks it will work, and that it might even be commercial. So there, Kim Cunningham! Shoo! Go away and leave me in peace.’

Kim was taken aback by her vehemence, and he realized, for the first time, that she was in earnest about the book, a project she had talked about for some months. Inwardly he reproached himself for his remark, which had been made in an off-hand manner, and thoughtlessly so. He had not only given offence, but hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Apart from being his sister and very dear to him, Francesca was his best friend and confidante, and they had always been inseparable.

He tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca darling. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. Father is undoubtedly right.’ He flashed her a wide smile tinged with self-mockery. ‘What do I know about books? I’m not blessed with intellectual capacities, like you and the old man. You’ve got all the brains in the family, my love. What’s a dull farmer like me to do?’ He grimaced and went on, ‘My only excuse is that I didn’t quite understand how serious you were about the book. I will be supportive, I promise. Truce?’

Francesca managed a watery smile and a nod, not trusting herself to speak. She buried her head in the papers, so that he would not see her incipient tears.

Aware of her discomfiture, Kim wisely remained silent. He positioned himself in front of the fireplace, warming his back, his long legs spread wide apart, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tweed jacket. Made of fine cloth and tailored in the best Savile Row tradition, this had long since seen better days, was worn and out of shape. But Kim had such an air of distinction about him, wore the jacket with such panache, its shabbiness was hardly noticeable.

Adrian Charles ‘Kim’ Cunningham, the 14th Viscount Ingleton, who would one day become the 12th Earl of Langley, was not handsome in the given sense of that word; however, a number of unusual qualities combined to lift him out of the ordinary. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with a fair complexion, light brown hair that was soft and straight, and a sensitively-wrought face whose chief characteristic was one of gentleness. His personality was most apparent in his generous mouth, always touched with laughter, and in his liquid grey eyes, which were, for the most part, illuminated by kindness, humour and goodwill. They rarely flashed with anger or temperament, for Kim was easy-going and placid by nature.

He had inherited the tall, lean build of his ancestors, but his slender-looking frame was deceptive. Blessed with a grace and elegance unusual in a man, he carried himself with extraordinary self-assurance that bespoke his breeding and his centuries-old lineage. All in all, at twenty-one, he was so prepossessing, so sincere, and so good natured, everyone, and most especially young women, found him to be an engaging friend and companion.

As he stood reflectively gazing at the tips of his shoes, waiting for his sister to compose herself, Kim was thinking of one young woman in particular, and wondering how to persuade Francesca to agree to his plans for that evening. After a moment he said, ‘Well, if you feel you must work, I suppose you must. But it is Saturday night, and to tell you the truth, I thought it would be fun for you to meet this girl. You’re always telling me that you love cooking and find it relaxing.’

Francesca, who had been making a show of sifting through the papers scattered across the desk, lifted her head quickly. ‘You mean you want me to cook dinner, as well as act as your hostess for drinks! Gosh, you do have a cheek,’ she spluttered, her eyes widening. ‘And what would I cook? We’re on a tight budget this month! I only bought enough groceries for the two of us for the weekend, and I skimped at that. I thought you had accepted Aunt Mabel’s invitation to go to Gloucestershire tonight, and were not coming back until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

Kim groaned and rolled his eyes upwards, ‘I don’t know who gave you that idea. About Gloucestershire, I mean. Not I. Dotty old Aunt Mabel indeed. No, I am staying in town, my sweet.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘Come on, please say yes. It’s ages since you’ve had any fun. It’ll do you good, Frankie.’

‘Don’t think you can worm your way into my good graces by calling me Frankie. I don’t like that nickname anymore.’

‘That’s a sudden change of heart. You used to insist I call you Frankie.’

‘When I was small and wanted to be a boy like you. Because I worshipped you, misguided child that I was. It may interest you to know I don’t worship you in the way I used to, and certainly not today.’

Kim grinned. ‘Oh yes you do. Just as I adore you and always will.’ He strode over to the desk and perched on the edge, looking down at her, tenderness flooding his eyes. It occurred to him that Francesca appeared more delicate than ever, and her classical English face, with its finely-drawn features, seemed smaller and slightly pinched and pale. After studying her for a few seconds he decided it was the bulky navy blue fisherman’s sweater she was wearing and her hair style that gave her such an air of attenuated fragility. She had swept her blonde tresses on top of her head and fastened them with antique tortoiseshell combs into a loose kind of pompadour, and this seemed far too heavy for her slender column of a neck. It was an old-fashioned hairdo, harking back to the Victorian era, yet it was oddly becoming on her. A strand of hair had fallen over one of her eyes and he leaned forward and gently tucked it into place.

‘There, that’s better,’ he said and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve also got ink on your neck.’ He tweaked her ear fondly, and continued, ‘I wonder, how can I bribe you, Frankie?’

‘You can’t,’ she answered, adopting a brisk tone. She picked up her pen purposefully. ‘I must finish this research today, Kim, and I am absolutely not going to do any cooking. So stop being a perfect pest.’

Kim decided he must persevere. ‘Look here, Francesca, if this girl weren’t so special I wouldn’t ask you to do this, honestly I wouldn’t. But she is a super girl. You will love her. So will Father – I hope. I’m going to take her to Yorkshire soon. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to meet her first. Tonight.’

Francesca was startled by this statement and her face changed. She gazed at her brother with interest, her eyes searching his. This was the first time he had ever suggested taking one of his innumerable girl friends to Langley. Such an exception to his own rigid rule changed everything. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re serious about her?’ she asked, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘I’m not sure that’s the right word,’ Kim said, returning her unblinking stare. He rubbed his chin, reflecting, and finished, ‘But I am keen. Very keen, in fact, and I think I could get serious about her, yes.’

In these few seconds Kim had succeeded in gaining his sister’s undivided attention. Being overly-protective of him, she was about to pronounce him too young to be serious about any girl, and quickly changed her mind. It might alienate him, or even worse, push him farther into the girl’s arms. Kim had a tendency to be impetuous at times, and she did not want to unwittingly trigger a situation that might easily get out of hand. Instead she asked, ‘Who is she? What’s her name?’

A beatific smile settled on Kim’s bright young face, and he coloured slightly. ‘Katharine. Katharine Tempest,’ he said, and waited expectantly. When he observed Francesca’s blank expression, he added with a knowing look, ‘The Katharine Tempest.’

Francesca frowned. ‘Sorry, Kim, but I’m afraid I don’t know her. You sound as if I should. Oh, wait a tick, is she related to the Tempest Stewarts? I used to go to dancing class with Lady Anne. You know, the school in Eaton Square with the crazy Russian ballet mistress.’

Kim threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, she isn’t related to Lord Londonderry. Far from it. I don’t suppose I should expect you to know who she is. You’ve always got your face pushed into a history book, living in the past. God, what am I going to do with you, Frankie?’ he asked. ‘Katharine Tempest is a fabulous young actress who is literally wowing them every night in one of the biggest hits in the West End. She is young, beautiful, talented, charming, intelligent, warm and witty. In short, she is absolutely – ‘

‘Too good to be true, by the sound of it,’ Francesca suggested dryly, smothering a small amused smile.

Kim grinned at her in a sheepish fashion. ‘I know I sound like a babbling idiot, but if only you would meet her, you’d find out for yourself. She really is very special.’

‘I believe you. But I’m not so sure Father will welcome her with open arms. An actress. Gosh! You know how stuffy he can be at times – ‘ Her voice trailed off and she thought for a minute. ‘Perhaps you had better pass her off as a Tempest Stewart, at least in the beginning, until the ice is broken. But let’s get back to the point. If she is starring in a play, how can you invite her to dinner?’

‘She’ll come after the play.’

‘That means we’ll be having dinner at eleven o’clock, or even later! Oh, Kim, you are incorrigible.’

‘When we go to the theatre with the old man we always dine afterwards. There’s nothing strange about that.’

Francesca groaned. ‘Look, I’m very tired. I don’t think I could make the effort tonight. But I’ll compromise, since I would like to meet her. I’ll make something light for you, and have a drink with you when she arrives. Then I’ll disappear to my room. You would enjoy that much better anyway. You can have a lovely romantic supper à deux.’

‘It’ll be a romantic supper à trois, I’m afraid,’ Kim responded glumly. ‘She’s bringing some chap with her. That’s another reason I wanted you to join us, to make it a foursome.’

‘How can I rustle up dinner for four! I’ve only got enough for one. Me,’ Francesca wailed. ‘And anyway, who’s the spare bod she wants to drag along? Who am I supposed to charm in the early hours of the morning? And why does she have to bring him at all?’

‘Because he doesn’t know many people in London, and she’s kind of taken him under her wing.’ Kim gave her a careful look, and then smiled. ‘And when I tell you who he is, I don’t want you to faint. Promise,’ he demanded, his eyes twinkling.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous.’ Francesca airily dismissed such a preposterous idea. ‘And why should I faint, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Most women would. The spare bod, as you call him, is Victor Mason. And I know that even You know who he is.’

Francesca was not unduly impressed. ‘Of course I do. The whole world knows him, or rather, of him. I must say, this is a bit of a departure for you, isn’t it, an actress and a film star from – ‘ Francesca stopped abruptly and stared at Kim as another thought occurred to her. ‘You haven’t invited them already, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have.’

‘Oh Kim!’ She considered the meagre supplies in the kitchen with dismay.

Kim put his arms around her and hugged her to him. ‘Hey, come on, you silly goose. Don’t get upset. It’s not that important. I just didn’t stop to think, that’s all. I asked Katharine to dinner tonight because I wanted you to meet her very badly. She suggested inviting Victor, not only because he’s at a loose end, but to even it out. We both thought you’d like to meet him, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I can see it was a mistake. We’ll do it another evening. Look, I’ll put them off.’

‘You can’t do that. It’s so rude, and especially at this hour.’ Francesca pulled away gently, and sat back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry to sound like a spoil-sport, Kim dear. I know I must get on your nerves, always nagging about money. But everything is so, so … well, such a struggle at times. Daddy doesn’t have a clue about anything except Langley. The amount he allocates for running this house is next to nothing. I usually have to use the bit of money from Mummy’s Trust for food and some of the bills, and that’s still not – ‘

‘You’re not supposed to do that!’ Kim interjected fiercely. ‘The Trust money is for your personal use. Pin money. And I realize it’s just a pittance. Does the old man know what you’re doing?’

‘No, and you mustn’t tell him! He has enough to worry about, what with running the estate and everything. And if he knew he might just close up the house here for economical reasons. Then I’d have to move to Langley with you and Daddy. It’s not that I don’t love you both,’ she went on rapidly, ‘I do. But I don’t want to be buried in the wilds of Yorkshire all year round, and besides, I have to be near the British Museum for my research. Anyway, I don’t mind using my money, really I don’t. I only mentioned it to you so you would understand the situation.’

‘I do understand. And as far as the dinner is concerned, well, let’s forget it.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll take them to a restaurant. We could go to Le Matelot in Elizabeth Street.’

‘Even that would be far too expensive. Let me think a minute.’

Kim walked over to the sofa and flopped down on it, all the gaiety washed off his face. ‘So much for the bloody British aristocracy,’ he said disconsolately. ‘At least the impoverished side of it.’ He ran his hand through his hair, and muttered, ‘It’s a hell of a thing when a chap can’t afford to take a couple of chums to dinner.’ And then his face instantly brightened. ‘Perhaps with a bit of luck Victor Mason will pick up the bill.’

‘Kim, that’s positively awful. We may be impoverished, but we’re not spongers. Remember, you invited them.’

‘I have the money I was saving for a pair of new riding boots.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I could blow that.’

‘I won’t let you! You know, I could make a rather splendid breakfast. After all, we are going to be eating late. I could prepare omlettes fines herbes, or maybe a kedgeree. How does that sound to you? Do you fancy either?’ Kim pulled a face and Francesca nodded in agreement. ‘You’re right. That’s out then.’

‘Do you think Father would object if I nipped out to Fortnum’s and charged a few goodies to his account?’

‘He might not, but I certainly would, especially when the bill came in.’ Quite unexpectedly, a broad smile spread across her face and she straightened up in the chair. ‘I’ve just thought of something!’ She jumped up, rushed out of the room and plunged down the staircase at breakneck speed.

‘What is it? You sound as if you’ve had a brainstorm,’ Kim called, racing after her. Francesca halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look up at him. ‘I have indeed. Follow me, Macbeth, down into the dark, dark dungeons. And thank God for Doris!’ She beckoned histrionically and disappeared. Still mystified, Kim followed her into the cellars underneath the house. He found her in the large pantry next to the wine cellar, rummaging through a wicker hamper.

‘What have you got there, Frankie?’

Francesca went on rummaging. ‘A Fortnum and Mason hamper. You just jogged my memory about it. Doris sent it to us at Christmas. Don’t you remember? There are still a few things left. Father gave it to me to bring back here after the holidays. I also raided the larder at Langley and put in some of Melly’s bottled fruits. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘Good old Doris. She never does anything by halves.’

‘Look what I’ve found,’ Francesca cried excitedly, her eyes shining. ‘Caviar! Only a small pot, I’m afraid, but it is Beluga. There’s a tin of pâté de foie gras Strasbourg, a crock of aged Stilton cheese with port, and three tins of turtle soup.’ She examined the label. ‘I say, quite a posh brand too. It’s got sherry in it.’ Francesca flipped down the lid of the hamper and patted it possessively. ‘I’m taking this up to the kitchen. It’s certainly part of the dinner. Why don’t you poke around in the wine cellar. I’m sure there are some bottles of champagne left from your twenty-first, and it would be nice to have it with the caviar.’

A few minutes later Kim joined her in the kitchen, a smile of triumph on his face, a bottle of champagne in each hand. ‘You were right. Moët & Chandon.’ He displayed them gleefully and then sat down at the table and eyed the items Francesca had removed from the hamper and arranged in front of her. ‘Is there going to be enough, do you think?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘It’s a beginning at least. I thought we could have the champagne before supper. I can stretch the caviar with chopped eggs and chopped onions, and lots of Melba toast, and serve the pâté as well. The turtle soup will do very well for starters, and I can make a green salad to go with the Stilton. We can finish with the bottled fruit and cream.’

‘And what do we eat after the soup and before the pudding?’ Kim teased. ‘You’ve forgotten the main course. Or is that all you intend to serve?’

‘No, of course it isn’t, silly,’ Francesca said with a smile. ‘I have some minced beef in the refrigerator. I was going to make a cottage pie with it, for my supper tonight. If I buy some more beef I can make a larger pie for all of us. Do you think Victor Mason ever had so lowly a dish as cottage pie?’ She grinned at her brother. ‘I suppose there’s always a first time for everything. He’ll probably think it quaint and very English.’

‘I’m sure Victor Mason will be more impressed with the cottage pie than with the caviar. Isn’t that what movie stars eat for breakfast every day? Tell you what though, I’ll bring up some really good wine later. The Ninth might have been a spendthrift, but he did leave us one of the best cellars in London. What about a Mouton Rothschild?’

‘That will be lovely, Kim. In the meantime, would you mind going to Shepherd Market for me, before the shops close?’

‘Of course not, and I’ll pay for whatever we need. I have a few quid.’ Observing her expression he laughed and shook his head. ‘No, it’s not from the riding boots money.’

Francesca busied herself with a shopping list and Kim’s gaze returned to the items spread on the table, his eyes reflective. He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly he said, ‘Has Father mentioned Doris to you lately?’

‘No, why do you ask?’ Francesca spoke without looking up.

‘She’s been noticeably absent from Langley of late. I wondered if they’d had a row, or even a parting of the ways.’

His sister raised her head, her brows drawing together. ‘Not that I know of; in fact, I spoke to Doris only last week. She’s gone to the South of France.’

‘Good God, in February. Whatever for?’

‘To look for a villa for the summer. She wants to rent a large one, she told me, so that we can all go and stay with her. So I’m quite certain everything is perfectly all right.’

‘I wonder if Father will marry her?’

Francesca did not respond immediately. She herself had ruminated on this possibility from time to time, for it seemed to her that Doris Asternan had become a permanent fixture in her father’s life. Her mind turned to Doris, the nice American widow whom she and Kim liked so much. She wondered if Doris did have expectations, and then smiled to herself at such an old-fashioned word. It was more than likely. Her father was attractive, charming and good natured like Kim, and the title was tempting to most women, but particularly so to an American. He was quite a catch really. And what of her father? He had grieved for their mother for a number of years after her death, and then quite suddenly there had been a steady flow of women, whom he seemed to quickly lose interest in – until Doris. She wondered.

‘What do you think, Frankie? Will the old man make a trip down the aisle with Doris?’ Kim pressed.

Francesca shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know. Daddy hasn’t made me his confidante, and neither has Doris, for that matter.’

‘She’s certainly preferable to some of the others he’s had in tow. And at least Doris has pots and pots of money. Millions of lovely dollars.’

Francesca could not help laughing. ‘As if that would influence our father. He’s too romantic by far. He’s looking for true love.’

‘Christ! At his age! Well, I suppose there’s life in the old dog yet.’

‘Kim, he’s only forty-seven. You make him sound ancient.’ She thrust the shopping list at him. ‘Come on, you lazy old thing. Do the shopping for me, and leave Doris to Daddy. I have better fish to fry than to sit here gossiping with you.’ She glanced at the battered alarm clock on top of the refrigerator. ‘It’s almost five. The butcher will be closed if you don’t hurry. And I’d better prepare the dining room table and start on some chores. Now that you’ve so cleverly managed to manoeuvre me into giving this dinner, I might as well push the boat out for you.’

Kim stuffed the shopping list into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for going to all this trouble for me, Frankie. I really appreciate it.’ He headed for the door. When he reached it he turned around and grinned at her. ‘And you know, with Doris’s goodies and a few bottles of the Ninth’s vintage wine, we’re not going to seem so poverty-stricken after all.’

The house in Chesterfield Street, where Francesca lived most of the year, had been the London residence of the Earls of Langley for some sixty-six years, having been purchased in 1890 by Francesca’s great-grandfather, the Ninth Earl. It was a typical Mayfair town house, situated in a row of almost identical houses, tall and narrow with a relatively simple architectural façade. The exterior appearance belied the interior: graceful charming rooms, considerably larger and more generously proportioned than the narrowness of the house suggested. In particular, the reception rooms on the main floor were singularly elegant, with high ceilings, wide windows and handsome Adam fireplaces of carved oak or marble. The rooms on the second, third and fourth floors grew increasingly smaller the closer they came to the roof, but even these had a special charm of their own.

The spacious drawing room, a handsome book-lined library, and the dining room opened off a small square entrance hall, where a lovely old staircase with a carved oak banister rose to the upper floors. Beyond the dining room there was a large family kitchen, somewhat old-fashioned in design, but relatively efficient since Francesca had partially modernized it with a new Aga stove and a refrigerator. ‘They look a bit incongruous. Out of place, wouldn’t you say,’ her father had ventured cautiously on first viewing the shiny new objects. Francesca had glanced proudly at her innovations, raised an eyebrow and pronounced, ‘But they work, Daddy.’ Recognizing that her tone discouraged further discussion, the Earl had murmured, ‘Quite so, my dear,’ and retreated to the safety of the library. He had fled, the next day, to Yorkshire. The additions to the kitchen were only part of the refurbishing of the house, which Francesca had plunged into, flouting her father’s wishes. He was, for the most part, opposed to her plans, considering them far too elaborate, and far too costly.

For all of his adult life, Francesca’s father, David Cunningham, the Eleventh Earl of Langley, had been striving to make ends meet. At an early age he had wisely come to the conclusion that he could not recoup the considerable fortune his grandfather, the Ninth Earl, had frittered away on mistresses and merrymaking and the high-stepping living that was obligatory for that charmed circle who were members of the Marlborough House Set of the Edwardian era. Keeping pace with, and in step with, Edward Albert, the Prince of Wales, had brought ruin to more than one noble house of England. If the Ninth Earl had not exactly ruined the Langley family with his extravagant living, he had certainly made considerable inroads into their immense wealth, before he had died at the age of fifty-five in the delectable arms of his twenty-year-old mistress, literally in flagrante delicto.

The task of replenishing the almost-denuded family coffers was one that David’s father, the Tenth Earl, had undertaken with enormous relish and only a fair amount of success. Whilst he had not decreased their worth, neither had he made them newly prosperous. He had merely plugged the dam, so to speak. And then, towards the end of his life, he had plunged into a financial venture, one highly speculative in nature, which he was convinced would enable him to restore the fortune his own father had so carelessly squandered. The failure of the scheme brought him up short and doused his enthusiasm for any type of further business activity that might endanger his family’s future. He had enjoined David, the present Earl, not to follow his example. ‘Preserve what we have,’ he had implored. His son, who had never harboured any desire to indulge in the tricky game of financial wheeling and dealing, considering it too risky by far, had willingly acquiesced at once, since he was simply adhering to the decision of his youth.

Death duties, the running of the vast estate in Yorkshire, the education of Kim and Francesca, and maintaining the style of living his position dictated continually stretched his resources to the limit. However, although David Cunningham was cash poor, he was land rich. The Yorkshire estate covered hundreds of miles of fertile farming acres, forests and parklands. In more than one sense the situation was ludicrous, but even if he had wanted to, David could not have sold off any of the land. Or, for that matter, any of the family’s other properties, comprised of Langley Castle, the Home Farm, the tenant farms, or the valuable antique furniture, Georgian silver and paintings, many by some of the great English masters. Although the Langley Collection included bucolic landscapes by Constable and Turner, that unsurpassed water-colourist being also represented by several of his marine paintings, the collection was most especially renowned for its superb examples of the work of such inimitable and celebrated portraitists as Sir Peter Lely, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Gainsborough and George Romney. In the main these were full length, life-size depictions of the Langley ancestors, presented with grace and charm in all of their elegance and finery. However, the Langley Collection, other properties and possessions and the land were either entailed or in trust. Furthermore, the Earl’s own natural instincts and inclinations would have prevented him from plundering the estate; also, he took his promise to his father seriously and he wanted to keep the holdings intact for new generations of Cunninghams.

In consequence, from an early age, Kim and Francesca had been brought up to understand and accept their responsibilities to their great family name and their ancient heritage. Scrimping, saving and making do whenever possible had become a way of life; thrift was the byword of then-youth; and keeping up the proper front on virtually next to nothing was so ingrained in them it was now second nature.

The maintenance of the Yorkshire estate, the castle, the Home Farm and the tenant farms were the first priorities, took precedence before anything else. There was rarely, if ever, any spare money available for luxuries, and one luxury the Earl deemed totally unnecessary was the redecoration of the Chesterfield Street house, despite Francesca’s arguments to the contrary: arguments which had increased as she had become ever more conscious of such things. And so the house had deteriorated into shabbiness over the years, and by 1955 it was in such a sorry state it was almost beyond redemption.

Early in January of that year, three months before Kim’s twenty-first birthday, their father had announced he planned to give a birthday party for Kim at Langley Castle in March. He also explained that he fully intended to do more entertaining in London than was his usual habit, during this important and significant year when his only son and hen-came of age. In essence, the Earl made it perfectly clear, he was determined to launch Kim into London society in the manner only fitting for a man of his standing. Francesca had once again viewed the London house with concern, worried about its dilapidated condition and disreputable appearance, in view of her father’s plans for Kim. She had immediately launched another highly voluble campaign for its refurbishing, but to her surprise her father had been coldly adamant in his refusal to accede to her wishes. She had told him angrily, and in no uncertain terms, that he was not only being cavalier in his attitude, but downright unfair to Kim. He had shrugged, uninterested in her opinion and unmoved by her words, and he told her, with unusual firmness, never to broach the subject again. It was then she decided to take the matter into her own hands, and risk the consequences of her father’s disapproval.

Francesca owned a diamond ring, an heirloom passed down through generations of women on the maternal side of the family. She had inherited it upon her mother’s death, and for years it had reposed in their bank vault in London, along with other pieces of jewellery and a seventeenth-century diamond tiara which had been worn by successive Countesses of Langley on State occasions in Westminster Abbey, all part of the family trust. Francesca had taken her ring to a leading dealer in antique jewellery, who had promptly offered to purchase it for a thousand pounds.

When he heard about this decisive and unprecedented action on the part of his daughter, who was then only eighteen, the Earl had been outraged. However, since the ring belonged to Francesca, and was not part of the Langley Trust, he could merely voice his objections not act upon them. Finally, Francesca’s logical reasoning and persuasiveness, not inconsiderable, had brought him round, if only to a degree. Realizing she had engaged in an enterprise that threatened his authority, and knowing she had acted presumptuously, Francesca had been astute enough to ask her father’s permission to use the money for the redecoration of the house, it being his property.

The Earl had given his blessing, albeit reluctantly, believing it to be a ridiculous extravagance. Later he did confess he thought her gesture was admirable and touching. Kim had been overwhelmed by her unselfishness, but, understanding her obstinate nature, he had not wasted time protesting, and by then it was already too late. He had thanked her profusely and then shown his appreciation by plunging into the transformation of the house as energetically and enthusiastically as she.

There was barely enough money to do everything required, and Francesca portioned it out in the most practical way, stretching the thousand pounds as far as she could. She had the roof and the exterior walls repaired, the interior walls replastered wherever this was necessary, and she put in new pipes and electrical wiring. The remainder of the money from the ring was used for what she termed ‘my cosmetic job’, and it was exactly that. The scuffed parquet floors in the dining room, the library and the drawing room were refinished and polished; the wall-to-wall carpets in the bedrooms and the upstairs study were shampooed; and the draperies and slipcovers still in good repair were dry-cleaned. Francesca threw away the worn Oriental carpet which had lain on the dining room floor since ‘spendthrift Teddy’s’ day, and the slipcovers on the furniture in the drawing room quickly followed suit. The Aubusson carpet in this room was sent to a restorer of old tapestries and rugs, where it was hand-cleaned and painstakingly repaired. To Francesca’s delight it came back looking like the lovely museum piece it was. The Hepplewhite and Sheraton furniture in the two reception rooms, family heirlooms and valuable, were also repaired and refinished to their original beauty.

To save money, Francesca and Kim undertook the painting themselves. Wearing old clothes, surrounded by ladders and buckets, and amidst peals of laughter, the two of them happily set about the task, splashing as much paint on each other as on the walls. But they succeeded in doing a relatively professional job, working down from the upper floors to the drawing and dining rooms. Francesca selected fir green for the dining room, repeating the colour of the leather upholstery on the Hepplewhite chairs, and used pristine white paint for the doors, chair rail, and mouldings to offset the dark green walls. The drawing room, which she and Kim had always thought looked barren and cold, acquired a wholly new appearance when the grubby ivory walls were washed with a dark coral paint that was almost terra cotta in tone. Her only purchases, other than the paint, were yards and yards of moss green velvet for new curtains and slipcovers in the drawing room, white damask for the dining room curtains, various pieces of coloured silk for cushions, and new shades for the lamps.

Francesca’s father had a great sense of fair play, and when he at last viewed the finished results he was quick to congratulate her on the miracle she had performed, and his pride in her knew no bounds. The family heirlooms were shown to advantage for the first time in years, and he also had to admit that her improvements had given the house a new graciousness, whilst enhancing its actual value as well. The Earl conceded it was more valuable than ever before, and could readily be turned into cash, being neither entailed nor part of the trust. It struck him that Francesca had shown great foresight, and he determined to repay the thousand pounds as soon as possible. That May, on her nineteenth birthday, he presented her with the gold filigree and topaz necklace which had been made for the Sixth Countess of Langley in 1760. However, this was only on loan to her until his death, when it would pass to Kim, since it was part of the trust.

Now, as she stood in the doorway of the drawing room on this Saturday evening in February, a year later, Francesca smiled with pleasure. The room looked truly beautiful. Kim had lighted the fire an hour earlier and the logs were crackling brightly in the huge carved oak fireplace, the sparks flying merrily up the chimney. He had also drawn the curtains to shut out the depressing drizzle and dampness of the cold evening, and turned on the leaf-green Chinese jade lamps shaded in cream silk.

The atmosphere was inviting and the lovely old furniture gleamed in the refracted fight. The coral-tinted walls made the perfect backdrop for the classical Hepplewhite Pembroke tables, a large Sheraton bookcase with glass doors, made of mahogany inlaid with fruitwoods, and for those bucolic English landscapes brushstroked in variegated greens and blues. These were now most effectively set off by their newly-gilded wood frames, enterprisingly touched up by Kim with a pot of gold-leaf paint. Rafts of the new moss-green velvet rippled at the three stately windows, and covered two large sofas and four armchairs, and this verdant colour added to the richness of the scheme. The green sofas were enlivened with cream, coral and blue cushions, which Francesca had made from the remnants of silk, whilst her great-grandmother’s collection of Meissen and Wedgwood ornaments introduced additional fragile colour accents on the wood surfaces.

After another admiring glance, Francesca moved briskly across the Aubusson carpet, heaped more logs on the fire, plumped up the cushions, checked the cigarette boxes and then hurried back to the dining room to finish the table she had started earlier that evening. She took four white linen napkins from the Hepplewhite sideboard and placed one at each setting, put out several silver ashtrays and a silver condiment set, and added wine and water glasses, moving rapidly around the long oval table. When she stood back to regard her handiwork she suddenly wished she had some flowers for a centrepiece. But they were so expensive at this time of year and quickly died, and the two four-arm silver candelabra were certainly elegant with their tall white candles. She decided the table looked quite beautiful as it was and did not need any further embellishment.

Francesca turned to go into the kitchen just as Kim walked in, humming under his breath. He stopped, let out a long low whistle of surprise, grabbed her hand and twirled her around, continuing to whistle in a wolfish tone.

‘You look positively ravishing, old thing,’ he said, stepping away from her, his eyes bright with approval.

‘Thank you. But are you sure I’m not a bit too dressy?’ she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, and I’m certain Katharine will be dressed up.’ He scrutinized her, his head on one side, an appraising expression on his face.

Francesca smiled at him tentatively and twirled around again on her elegantly shod feet. She was wearing her favourite shoes, a pair of black silk evening pumps, in the smartest new Italian style, with the thinnest, highest heels and extremely pointed toes. Doris had bought them in Rome for her as a Christmas present, and Francesca knew they were exactly right with the outfit she had chosen – a long-sleeved grey wool top with a boat neckline and a silvery-grey taffeta skirt she had sewn herself. The skirt puffed out like a bell flower over the buckram-and-tulle crinoline petticoat Melly had made for her, another Christmas gift. This type of stiff petticoat was all the rage, and Francesca loved the bouffant effect it created because it was flattering to her legs, which she considered to be too thin.

Coming to a standstill after a final twirl, Francesca peered at her brother. ‘You’re frowning, Kim. Is there something you don’t like about my outfit after all?’

‘It’s fine, and you do look lovely, but you know, with your hair piled up in that pompadour thing your neck seems longer than ever. Don’t you have some beads, or something?’

Her hand went to her neck. ‘Not really. At least, not anything suitable. Unless I wear the antique necklace. What do you think?’

‘That’s a super idea. I’m sure it’ll do the trick.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Gosh, I’d better be going for Katharine.’

They went out into the hall together, where Kim grabbed his old raincoat from the cupboard and strode to the front door. He opened it and then slammed it shut immediately. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs all of a sudden. I was going to walk to the theatre, but I’d better take the car. And a brolly.’ He lifted an umbrella out of the stand, gave her a quick kiss, grinned and left, whistling jauntily between his teeth.

Francesca ran upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked the bottom drawer of her dressing table and took out the worn and rubbed black leather case containing her great-great-great-great-grandmother’s necklace. It was fragile and she lifted it out carefully, gazing at it with admiration. The intricate web of slender gold chains was inset with topazes that gleamed with mellow colour and threw off myriads of golden prisms in the lamp-light. How beautiful it was. But to her it was so much more than a lovely piece of jewellery. It represented an unbroken line of generations of Cunninghams and her own heritage, and as always she was assailed by an almost awesome sense of history. After fastening it around her neck she glanced in the mirror. Kim had been correct. The necklace did do the trick, adding the perfect finishing touch to her outfit. She tucked a stray curl into place and hurried back to the kitchen to finish her chores.

At one moment Francesca paused in her tasks, staring out of the small window, trying to visualize Katharine Tempest without success. Knowing her brother as well as one could ever truly know another person, Francesca was convinced Kim was already deeply involved with Katharine, perhaps more than he himself comprehended. She thought of their father, and her heart sank. Although he could be vague and absentminded, and was easy-going and good-natured, he was, at all times, conscious of class, background and breeding. He had always made it absolutely clear that he expected Kim to marry a girl who was properly endowed with all of the suitable qualities required in the future 12th Countess of Langley. Although her father was not a snob per se, he did believe Kim should select a wife from their echelon of society, one who had a similar family background and upbringing, who understood her duties and responsibilities as keenly as Kim did. Francesca sighed. An actress hardly seemed a likely candidate for this particular real-life role, and she knew instinctively that her father would be disapproving. If Kim was indeed as serious about the girl as she felt he was, then he was exposing himself to a great deal of heartache, not to mention their father’s anger. Again she wondered what Katharine Tempest was like, riddled with curiosity about her, and concerned for Kim. She found she could not even hazard a guess.

CHAPTER SIX

The curtain came down on the kind of applause every actor hopes and prays for and is ineluctably sustained and nourished by. Thunderous. Slowly, it rose again and the performers returned to the stage one by one, the bit players first, then the character actors, the second male lead, and the leading man. The clapping spiralled markedly upwards for him, but became a tumultuous crescendo that was deafening when finally Katharine Tempest swept on to join the two male stars in the centre of the stage. The entire cast linked hands and bowed and smiled and bowed again.

As the heavy gold-trimmed red velvet curtain fell and rose for a second time, Katharine stepped forward to ringing cheers, and ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ reverberated throughout the proscenium. Her face was radiant, wreathed in smiles and she bowed low and blew kisses from her fingertips and mouthed, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

Against the backdrop of the giant-sized scenery, depicting ancient Greece in all its glory, she seemed such a small, frail figure as she stood alone before the audience at the edge of the stage, graciously accepting their adulation. Yet she did not feel alone or lonely but, rather, more like the favourite member of a large and adoring family. Her family. Her only family. She belonged to them, and they to her, and nothing could ever change this fact.

Katharine’s heart crested with joy, and euphoria swarmed through her as she felt the waves of love washing over her from beyond the glittering footlights. And mingled with the joy was a marvellous sense of fulfilment, and the reaffirmation of her talent. And then it came, as it always did, the surge of relief that she had succeeded yet again. All of the dedication and discipline, hard work and straining for perfection was worth it just for this intoxicating and uplifting feeling. It was the ultimate reward.

She longed to stand there indefinitely, savouring the triumph of her victory, basking in the fervour of their approbation, but Katharine was conscious of her stage manners, and considerate of the rest of the cast, and she knew she had to give way, to permit the other stars of the play to take their individual bows. To receive their hard-won dues.

With a grand theatrical flourish she proffered a last handful of heartfelt kisses to the audience and bestowed a final luminous smile on them, before she turned to Terrence Ogden, her leading man, and stretched out her hand. He took it and moved closer to her, bowing first to Katharine and next to the audience, who were wildly ecstatic. Katharine half turned once more, this time to her left, and John Layton, the second male lead, came forward to complete the magnetic trio, who seemingly this night had surpassed themselves. There were four more rousing curtain calls before the red velvet finally rose and fell for the last time, and the cast slowly dispersed.

Katharine hurried off stage without exchanging a few words with her fellow actors as she usually did, anxious to return to her dressing room without delay. She felt uncomfortably hot, her costume was soaked and clinging to her clammy body, and the flowing red wig was heavier and more constricting than ever; it had begun to make her head itch to such an extent that it was an unbearable irritation.

In the last act she had perspired profusely and somewhat unnaturally for her, and she wondered dismally if she was coming down with a cold. Certainly her throat ached and felt scratchy, but she was fully aware she had overworked it, both at the matinee and this last performance. The effort to project her voice effectively into the cavernous depths of the St James’s Theatre had apparently taken its toll for once. This bothered her not a little, and she resolved to increase her lessons with Sonia Modelle, London’s foremost vocal coach. She would also make a point of doing her breathing exercises more regularly and diligently, since breathing correctly was the key to a good voice, as Sonia had instilled in her. For the past four years Katharine had worked extremely hard in the cultivation of voice technique. Through assiduousness and single-minded concentration she had developed tone, pitch, pace, range and rhythm to a remarkable degree, and had most effectively obliterated the American Midwest inflection so easily distinguishable in her speech patterns when she had first arrived in England. Sonia was amazed and gratified by her exceptional progress, and although the respected coach was usually scant with her praise, she had told Katharine only a few weeks before that there was now a peerless musicality to her voice, a quality few actresses ever attained. Nonetheless, Katharine recognized she must continue to work on her voice to strengthen it. Only absolute perfection would satisfy her.

Terry Ogden caught up with her in the wings. ‘Hey, Puss, you’re in a tearing hurry tonight, aren’t you?’

Katharine paused and swung around quickly. She half smiled, half grimaced. ‘I feel pretty done in, Terry. Giving two entirely different performances in one day doesn’t usually disturb me at all, but for some reason I’m exhausted this evening.’

Terry nodded sympathetically. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But they were great performances, darling,’ he exclaimed. ‘And you do adjust to the mood of the audience quite instinctively, and quicker and more expertly than anyone I know. That’s a rare talent indeed, Puss, and especially in one so young.’

‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Katharine said. ‘You’re also very adept yourself.’ She looked up at him and smiled.

It was a smile of such genuine sweetness, and her eyes reflected such wonderment and innocence, Terry felt his heart clenching. He always experienced this feeling when she regarded him in this particular way, for the gaze held an indefinable quality unique to her. There was also a curious vulnerability about Katharine that touched him, a frailty mixed in with the tenacity he suspected lurked beneath the surface, and he often found himself wanting to shield and protect her, as one would a defenceless child.

Becoming aware of her eyes concentrated on his face, he said, ‘I’m pretty agile most of the time, Puss, but I was certainly a bit off my mark tonight. Thanks for coming to my rescue. I can’t believe I almost fluffed that line in the second act. And such a crucial line!’

Neither could Katharine. Terrence Ogden was one of England’s greatest stage actors, comparable only to Laurence Olivier in his youth, according to the critics, who judged Terry to be an impressive and gifted performer. Matchless in declamation, he had immense depth and range, these qualities strengthened by enormous intelligence and insight. Another prince among players, he was an idol to the public, being blessed with a boyish charm and rather striking blond good looks; and his singular flair for romantic entanglements of a decidedly flamboyant nature had done nothing to diminish his professional reputation. If anything, this penchant had enhanced it to a formidable degree, endowing him with the image of the great lover. His private life aside, everyone predicted that one day he, too, would be knighted by the Queen, as Olivier had been. In essence, he was the heir apparent to the reigning king of the English-speaking theatre, and Larry himself fondly regarded him as such, was his mentor, benefactor and close friend. At the age of thirty, Terrence Ogden, the coal miner’s son from Sheffield, was, as he liked to pronounce in his native North Country dialect, ‘Cock of t’heap, by gum!’ having relentlessly nudged aside most of his rivals, the famed Richard Burton included.

Katharine leaned against a piece of scenery and her eyes narrowed, rested on him thoughtfully as she remembered how he had unaccountably dried up on stage, and had flashed her a look that bespoke his horror and his panic. ‘What did happen?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s not like you, Terry.’

He frowned and shook his head and his irritation with himself flared, brought an irate gleam to his eyes. ‘I’m damned if I know, Puss darling. It’s not occurred since I was a kid in rep, and I can assure you it will never happen again. Anyway, you saved the old bacon with that swift and inspired prompt. I shall be eternally grateful. I must tell you, Katharine my love, you’re one of the most unselfish actresses it’s ever been my pleasure to work with. Really, I mean that.’

Katharine glowed and murmured her thanks, but nevertheless she began to edge slowly towards the fire door that led off stage. They were standing in an awkward spot, were being jostled by the other actors leaving the stage and straggling back to their dressing rooms, and by the numerous stage hands who were milling around, busily shifting scenery and joking amongst themselves. The noise, the bustle and the heat were enervating, and that peculiar fusty smell, so indigenous to every back stage, seemed suddenly malodorous and suffocating. It was a strange odour compounded of dry dust and damp, the resinous vapours emanating from the varnished sets, the grease paint, the hair spray, the mingled stale perfumes and the effluvium of the actors and the stage hands. Usually it sent a thrill tingling through Katharine’s veins, as it always had since the first day she had stepped on to a stage as a child. But at this precise moment she was filled with an immense aversion to it. And then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cough.

Terry, who was now talking about one of the other actresses in the play, stopped in the middle of his sentence. He looked down at her in alarm as she spluttered and choked and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Hey, Puss, are you all right?’ he asked worriedly.

Katharine was quite unable to utter a word. The coughing and the gasping for breath continued. She shook her head, motioned to the fire door and moved with swiftness out of the wings. Terry helped her down the stone steps to the corridor where the dressing rooms were located. When they reached his, which was one of the first, he flung open the door unceremoniously and called to his dresser, ‘Quick, Norman, get a glass of water for Katharine, please.’ The dresser ran to the basin with a glass, and Terry pressed Katharine down on to the sofa, worry and concern flooding his face. The paroxysms eventually subsided and she leaned back and gratefully took the water, sipping it slowly, breathing deeply between sips. Terry handed her a tissue to wipe her watering eyes.

Continuing to regard her with anxiety, he said, ‘My God, I thought you were choking, Puss. Whatever brought that on? Are you sure you’re all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Terry. And I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was the dust, and my throat was very dry. The combination of the two might explain it, but it was strange.’ Katharine stood up purposefully. ‘I know I’ll feel much better when I get out of my costume, and this rotten wig.’

He nodded, and stared hard at her, as if to satisfy himself she was completely recovered, and then said, ‘What are you doing tonight? I’ve invited a few chums to the Buxton Club for supper. Care to join us, Puss?’

Katharine declined, choosing her words with care, not wanting to offend him. An invitation from Terry was rare, and was something in the nature of a royal command when it was extended. ‘But it’s sweet of you to include me,’ she added. ‘Unfortunately, I have a long-standing supper date with Kim Cunningham and his sister.’

‘And Victor Mason perhaps?’ The look he focused on her was full of speculation.

Although she was rather taken aback by this comment, Katharine chose not to show it. She merely nodded. ‘Yes, Victor’s coming along. But why do you assume he would be? I don’t know him all that well.’

Terry shrugged and half turned away. ‘I heard he was paying court. You know what this business is like. You can’t keep anything quiet.’

Katharine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘There’s nothing to keep quiet. We’re just friends, that’s all, ‘ she said lightly. She moved nearer to the door and smiled at Terry’s dresser. ‘Thanks for helping the maiden in distress, love.’

‘Any time, Katharine.’ Norman grinned, and picked up Terry’s towelling robe. ‘Sorry it was only London corporation champagne, and not the genuine thing.’

Terry said, ‘Well, have a good time tonight.’ He sat down on the sofa, adjusted the short Grecian tunic over his knees and started to remove his sandals. His tone had been coolly dismissive and now Katharine thought he appeared to be angry for some reason, although she could not imagine why. ‘Thanks. You too, Terry,’ she replied in a low voice, and slipped out.

It was with a great sense of relief that Katharine entered her own dressing room and closed the door firmly behind her. She exhaled deeply and rested against the closed door for a moment. Unlike the cluttered and untidy quarters she had just left, here absolute order reigned supreme. Everything was meticulously in its given place. The costumes hung side by side on a metal clothes rack Katharine herself had purchased, considering the regulation wardrobe to be undersized. The collection of sandals was lined up neatly on the floor underneath it, the red wigs reposed on their wig stands on a small card table, and the theatrical make-up and creams and lotions, powders and a variety of other toilet articles were arranged with a military-like precision on the dressing table.

There was a paucity of clutter in the room: indeed it was sterile in appearance, being devoid of the usual theatrical mementos and memorabilia. Even the mandatory congratulatory telegrams, notes and cards from family and friends, which were always taped to a performer’s mirror in fluttering profusion, were noticeably missing. Actually, Katharine had received only three telegrams on opening night, from Terry, Sonia and her agent. She had no one else to wish her luck.

The dressing room not only reflected Katharine’s neat, spruce little flat in Lennox Gardens, but was yet another manifestation of her personal fastidiousness. This excessive neatness was becoming a fetish. Her drawers at the theatre, and at the flat, were laden with piles of beautiful underwear, and without exception she changed her under garments at least three times a day during her working week. One set was donned in the morning, was replaced by another for the performance, and this was discarded for a third, fresh set to wear after the theatre. On matinee days she used up four sets, much to the continued amazement of her dresser, Maggie. Other drawers, both at home and at the theatre, contained innumerable pairs of newly laundered stockings, folded and stacked in neat piles alongside clean handkerchiefs, dozens of pairs of white kid gloves of varying lengths, and a staggering selection of silk and chiffon scarves as pristine as the day they left the store. Every pair of shoes she owned boasted shoe trees; her hats were kept on the proper stands; her handbags were stuffed with tissue paper; sweaters were folded into plastic bags; and almost every garment in her wardrobe, from day dresses to evening frocks, hung in a dust-proof bag. Every time an outfit had been worn it was given to Maggie to be sponged and pressed, or was sent out to the dry cleaners.

Katharine was equally immaculate about herself, and was heavily addicted to perfumes and deodorants as if she was afraid that her own very natural and feminine body odours might possibly give offence, and she used breath sprays, mouth wash and toothpaste lavishly. Not surprisingly, she had an enormous distaste for anyone or any place that was dirty, grubby or unkempt.

The tranquillity, orderliness and coolness of the dressing room was like a balm to Katharine after the intensity of the lights and the heat of the stage, and particularly so tonight. Maggie had asked to leave an hour earlier than usual to attend a special family gathering, and Katharine had agreed at once. Maggie’s absence was welcome, and she was glad to be alone to collect herself. She struggled out of the Grecian costume, laid it on the small sofa.

Seating herself at the dressing table Katharine removed the tiresome wig. As she did she experienced a lovely sense of freedom. She unpinned her own hair and shook it loose. After brushing it vigorously until it gleamed, she tied it back with a white cotton bandana, and then creamed off the heavy stage make-up until there was not the merest trace of it left. A folding screen camouflaged a wash basin in the corner of the room, and now Katharine stepped behind this, where she gave herself a thorough body sponging. She then washed her face, cleaned her teeth, gargled, dusted herself with talcum powder, sprayed on deodorant, perfumed herself with Ma Griffe scent and so finished her evening toilette, which was invariably something of a ritual with her.

Whilst she dressed Katharine contemplated the evening ahead and suddenly she wished she had arranged the supper for tomorrow night instead. The two performances had vitiated her energy, and she, who was normally so full of vigour at this hour, felt ready to curl up and go to sleep. But she knew she had to pull herself together, strike a pose of sparkling gaiety and be entertaining for a few more hours. Certainly it was impossibly late to cancel the evening, and undoubtedly Kim was already patiently waiting at the stage door as arranged. And of course there was Victor, who was going directly to the house in Chesterfield Street. She sighed. Having paid punctilious attention to every detail and carefully contrived this entire situation, she was now hoist by her own petard. If only my throat weren’t so sore, she said to herself, sliding the pure-silk-and-lace slip over her head. God, I hope I’m not really getting a chest cold.

This thought was so alarming it propelled her across the room to the dressing table. She pulled open a drawer and took out the bottle of cough medicine she kept there. She was sparing with the mixture because it had a high alcohol content, and on several occasions it had made her a trifle whoozy. She gulped down the medicine and grimaced.

Lowering herself into the chair, Katharine leaned forward and examined her face in the mirror. At least she looked in perfect health, and she recognized she must do everything in her power to ensure this state of well being. Under no circumstances could she permit herself to become sick. The next few weeks were going to be the most important weeks of her life. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with her plans, so diligently and painstakingly formulated. Nothing and nobody.

How hard she had strived to arrange everything to her advantage, to manipulate events, to make her dreams come true. They had to come true. They just had to! Her face, so tender and young, tightened with intensity and her heart raced as she envisioned her triumph if she succeeded in all that she planned. Not if but when, she chastised herself firmly. She was not even going to acknowledge the possibility of failure.

Still preoccupied with her rapidly moving thoughts, Katharine brushed out her hair, carelessly stuck two combs at each side, pulling it away from her face, and filled in her mouth with lipstick. Without even a cursory second glance at herself she rose and went to the wardrobe. She slipped on the black dress, stepped into the black suede pumps and added the turquoise silk scarf at her neck before pulling on the black wool coat. She took a pair of white gloves from the drawer, picked up the black suede handbag and glided to the door.

For a moment her hand rested on the knob. She let her body go slack, and took several deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling for a few seconds. And then drawing on all of her inner resources and every ounce of energy she could muster, she straightened up, stiffened her back and threw back her head. Consummate actress that she was, Katharine was able to summon any facial expression and mood at will, and she assumed a demeanour that was carefree and vital before stepping out into the corridor. And her step was remarkably determined as she mounted the stone stairs.

Kim, who was hovering near the stage door chatting to Charlie, the doorman, excused himself and rushed forward when he saw her approaching. ‘Katharine darling, you look absolutely ravishing!’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ Katharine said, giving him a glowing smile. She squeezed his arm affectionately and looked up at him through sparkling eyes. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting.’

‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Kim replied quickly. ‘And at least it’s stopped raining. It was coming down in torrents when I arrived.’

‘Good night, Charlie,’ Katharine called as Kim bustled her out of the door.

“Night, Miss. And ‘ave a nice evening.’ Charlie nodded in Kim’s direction. ‘And you too, yer lordship.’

‘Good night, Charlie. And thanks so much for entertaining me.’

The door slammed behind them and Kim took hold of Katharine’s arm, hurrying her down the narrow alley adjoining the theatre. ‘Let’s get to the car before it starts pouring again.’

‘Tell me, Kim, how was old Charlie managing to entertain you?’

Kim chuckled. ‘He was regaling me with marvellous stories about the “stage-door Johnnies” he has known in his time. He was frightfully funny, and even a bit risqué.’

‘Oh, and does he think you’re one?’ Katharine asked. ‘Are you his idea of a modern “stage-door Johnny”?’

‘Most probably!’ He glanced down at her. ‘I must say, old Charlie is very devoted to you, Katharine.’ He hesitated before adding. ‘And so is Terrence Ogden. He stopped to exchange a few words with me when he was leaving, and he positively raved about you. He also seemed a bit curious about this evening and our plans. He said he had wanted us to join him at the Buxton, that he had invited us.’

Katharine experienced a small jab of astonishment, and thought: invited us indeed. She said slowly, ‘Yes, he’s having a few chums to supper.’

‘Well, you do agree, don’t you?’

‘Agree about what, Kim?’

‘That Terry is devoted to you.’ Kim coughed behind his hand, and his voice was gruff as he ventured, ‘Actually, I think he has a crush on you.’

Laughter bubbled up in Katharine at the absurdity of this idea, and she was unable to suppress it. She looked up at Kim, her eyes crinkling with merriment. In the faint light from the street lamp she noticed the look of gloomy consternation on his face, and knew she must reassure him instantly.

‘Of course he doesn’t! He was only raving about me tonight because I helped him out in the second act. He almost blew his lines. And as for the invitation, well, he was just trying to be sociable, that’s all.’ Katharine was not sure she believed her own words. Perhaps Kim was correct in his assumption. If so it would explain Terry’s churlish attitude after she had refused the invitation, and his comment about Victor also. But she had no intention of confirming Kim’s suspicions. Rather, she had to allay them, and immediately. ‘Anyway, Terry is in love with Alexa Garrett. They are having a wild and highly-publicized romance, don’t you know?’

‘I see,’ Kim said, sounding less than convinced, even though he knew she was being truthful. He had seen items about Terry and Alexa in the newspapers. On the other hand, Terry had spoken very possessively about Katharine, and in a manner which disturbed Kim. ‘Why does he always call you Puss?’ Kim asked, striving for an off-handed tone without much success. ‘It seems awfully familiar to me.’

This comment momentarily floored Katharine, and she was about to point out that the theatre, by its very nature, bred familiarity, but changed her mind. She was aware of Kim’s tenseness, and sensing the question sprang from a spark of jealousy rather than any oblique criticism of her, she explained, ‘Because when I was a student at RADA, Terry saw me play Cleopatra in Caesar and Cleopatra. He thought I was decidedly feline, and has called me Puss ever since.’

‘Oh,’ Kim murmured, at a loss for words. He looked at her through the corner of his eye and said, ‘I didn’t know you had been friends with Terry for that long. I thought you met him for the first time when you went into the play.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean by that long, Kim. I’ve only been out of the Royal Academy a couple of years. Anybody would think I’m a decrepit old woman, the way you talk,’ she laughed.

They had arrived at the car. Kim released her arm and went to unlock it. He returned and helped her in, then slid into his seat, and he was oddly silent as he drove up the Haymarket and into Piccadilly, heading in the direction of Mayfair. After a while Katharine touched his arm lightly and there was a soft expression on her face. ‘Terry’s not interested in me, at least not romantically, Kim. Honestly.’

‘If you say so,’ Kim replied grudgingly. It was not Katharine’s fault that Ogden had behaved like an ass earlier, and here he was being surly with her.

The last thing Katharine wanted was for Kim to be in a jealous frame of mind this evening because of its extreme importance to her. She needed his goodwill; furthermore she did not want him to be prickly or difficult with Victor present. She said carefully, ‘Even if he were attracted to me in that way, it wouldn’t matter to me. For the simple reason that I’m not interested in Terrence Ogden. Not the least little bit.’ She laughed disdainfully. ‘I know too much about actors and their monumental egos to get entangled with them, my love. Besides, you know I’m not fickle. How could I possibly care for Terry when I’m so involved with you.’

Kim visibly relaxed, and his wide smile virtually illuminated the little car. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Katharine darling,’ was about all he could manage at this moment. Kim knew that he had been leading Katharine along until she made some sort of verbal commitment to him. This was the strongest statement he had heard in the few months he had known her, but for the time being it sufficed. Within seconds his warm, easygoing manner was completely restored, and he eventually launched into a long story about the planting of new trees at Langley. Katharine settled back to listen, although this was only with half an ear.

She was engrossed in her own thoughts. Victor Mason was most prominent in them. She wondered if he had been to the play tonight, but more importantly, whether he had kept his promise to her. Quite unexpectedly, Katharine’s heart missed a beat and she caught her breath. For the first time she was struck by the precarious nature of her immediate plans. They hinged on one man – Victor Mason. If Victor let her down then she had wasted weeks of precious time, and everything would have been in vain. My God, if she had misjudged him the setback would be enormous. She clasped her handbag more tightly, and admitted, with a sinking feeling, that despite her meticulous planning, she had not allowed for one vital contingency: the possibility that Victor Mason might change his mind.

Katharine was a peculiar amalgam of naïveté and sophistication. Whilst she was inexperienced in some aspects of life, she nonetheless had an innate shrewdness and was perceptive about people, often displaying amazing insight. Her understanding of human nature was astonishing in one so young, and she rarely made mistakes in her judgment. She took solace in this now, deciding she had no alternative but to trust her instincts. They confirmed her original assessment of Victor as being wholly correct. She relaxed her grip on the handbag, absolutely convinced he had kept the promise he had made to her several weeks ago. Perhaps not out of friendship, or generosity of spirit towards her, but for one other very simple reason, and it was the most compelling reason of all. Self-interest. Victor Mason needed her, and she had astutely recognized this the first time she had met him.

Cynical as this thought was, it did happen to be the truth, and recalling that Katharine cheered up. Also, to her relief, she discovered she was feeling much better physically. The exhaustion which had been so debilitating at the end of the evening performance had miraculously disappeared. The quick walk from the theatre to the car had been invigorating, and the fresh air, damp though it was, had filled her lungs with oxygen.

‘Anyway, those trees do make all the difference at the far end of the Long Pasture, and Father is really pleased I thought of starting the small copse. It’s going to be invaluable in years to come,’ Kim was saying.

‘That’s wonderful. I’m glad it worked out so well,’ Katharine answered automatically. Kim was given to waxing eloquent about the land, and even though she had heard it all before, more or less, she always endeavoured to show real interest. She had come to understand, very early in their relationship, that Kim’s love of the land reached deep into his soul. He was a dedicated farmer, and would be for the rest of his life. Langley, and all it encompassed, was his life.

‘Well, here we are,’ Kim announced briskly, bringing the car to a standstill in Chesterfield Street.

Katharine said, ‘You know, you haven’t told me much about your sister, except that she’s pretty, Kim. Don’t you think- ‘

‘And I haven’t told her much about you either,’ Kim interrupted laughingly. ‘It’s better that way. Neither of you has any preconceived ideas about the other.’

‘But she must know I’m an actress.’

‘She does.’

‘Does she work? Does she do anything special?’ Although Katharine was neither nervous nor apprehensive about meeting Kim’s sister, she did harbour a few reservations, even doubts, about the chances of their becoming close friends. Lady Francesca Cunningham, titled in her own right as the daughter of an earl, might easily be one of those cold, snobbish debutantes so typical of the British aristocracy. The fact that Kim was the exception to the rule in this class-conscious society did not guarantee that his sister was cut from the same cloth. And if this was the case they would have little in common, and there would be no real basis upon which to build a friendship. Of course it wasn’t absolutely necessary for them to become bosom chums, Katharine acknowledged. As long as there was a cordiality between them everything would work out, and certainly it would make the situation much easier to control.

‘From your silence, I gather she’s a lady of leisure,’ Katharine went on lightly. Her fingers curled around the door handle and she made to alight.

Kim reached out and restrained her gently. ‘She doesn’t go to work but she does work hard,’ he explained. ‘She’s a writer. At the moment she’s doing research for an historical biography. She’s always poking around in history books and she’s practically moved into the British Museum. Anyway, she’s kind of artistic, so I know you’ll have lots in common. Don’t worry.’

‘Oh, I’m not in the least bit worried,’ Katharine assured him with a bright self-confident smile, and she meant every word, for few things ever fazed her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The moment Katharine Tempest entered the drawing room Francesca’s eyes were riveted on her. She found herself staring in astonishment and she thought: This girl is too improbable to be real. Everything about her is improbable. Only Francesca’s good manners prevented her from displaying her startled reaction as she rose from the chair near the fireplace to welcome her guest.

The girl who walked with an easy swinging grace across the floor was obviously in her early twenties, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. She wore an extremely sophisticated dress, and in consequence, to Francesca, she looked like a little girl dressed up in mother’s clothes. Made of fine black wool crepe, the dress was of mid-calf length, with a draped neckline, a straight skirt and dolman sleeves, and it was unrelieved by any touches of accent colour or jewellery. It struck Francesca that it was the perfect foil for the girl’s looks, and she decided it was exactly right on her after all.

Kim followed closely on Katharine’s heels, smiling broadly, and when they neared the fireplace he stepped forward to introduce the two girls to each other.

As Francesca stretched out her hand she found herself looking into the most extraordinary face she had ever seen. Katharine Tempest was lovely, and breathtakingly so. Her eyes, not blue, not green, but a unique turquoise, made the initial impact, and they were startling in their vividness of colour. They were large and set wide apart, fringed with silky black lashes, and they appeared to swamp her face with radiance.

Francesca thought the girl’s features could not have been more exquisite if they had been chiselled by a sculptor. They were harmoniously distributed in an oval face that was perfectly balanced: a smooth brow, a small straight nose, high cheekbones above hollow cheeks, and a rounded chin. The symmetrical brows matched the rich dark-chestnut hair. This was parted in the centre and cascaded in glossy waves to her shoulders. Her white skin, which was exceptionally fine, was totally devoid of colour, which was why her full mouth, painted with the brightest of red lipstick, seemed all the more striking. Yet it was a child-like mouth, and now, as she smiled, it turned up at the corners to give her a look of innocence. There was also an unusual sweetness in her face that was both poignant and touching. In those first few moments, Francesca could only stand and stare speechlessly at this slender young woman who was accompanying her brother.

It was Katharine who broke the silence.

‘Thank you for inviting me.’ She spoke softly and her gaze was open and friendly as she regarded Francesca with not inconsiderable interest. Aware though she was of her own startling beauty and the impact it made, vanity was not one of Katharine’s chief characteristics. In some ways she was even self-effacing at times, and she strove always to find something special in others, especially those she wanted to like. She said to herself: Kim didn’t do his sister justice. She’s really lovely. The perfect English rose.

‘And I’m so glad you could come,’ Francesca said, returning the smile. ‘Please make yourself comfortable, Katharine. And Kim, why don’t you open the champagne. It’s over there on the chest.’

‘Splendid idea,’ Kim said. He beamed at them both and hurried across the room, rattling the bottle in the silver bucket as he attacked the cork. ‘I think I need a cloth to grip this better,’ he said and went out to the kitchen.

Apart from her physical beauty and unquestionable talent, Katharine possessed that most essential and desirable of all human ingredients, the quality of natural charm, and it was a charm so powerful it was at once dangerous and devastating in its potency. Seating herself on the sofa, Katharine looked across at Francesca and the full force of that charm was now levelled with great concentration in her direction. Katharine smiled. It was her most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, ensnare and enchant.

She said: ‘It’s very nice of you to make supper for us, especially at this late hour. That’s the only problem with being an actress, my world is topsy turvy, and my social life begins when everyone is going to bed.’ She laughed her spiralling laugh. ‘It’s a terrible imposition on my non-theatrical friends, I’m afraid, having to entertain me in the wee small hours. If they want to see me, that is. Sometimes they don’t, and I can’t say I blame them. Not everyone wants to be carousing at midnight, sometimes even later than that!’

‘Oh, I don’t mind, really I don’t,’ Francesca was quick to say. ‘And at least it’s Sunday tomorrow. We can all sleep late.’

Katharine turned and glanced around the room. She was conscious of the beauty of the setting, with its gleaming antiques, the objects of art and the fine paintings. The coral walls gave it a roseate cast, this ambience further enhanced by the lamplight and the fire glowing in the grate. Katharine thought of her little birdcage of a flat, in comparison so sparse and utilitarian. But there was not a shred of envy in her. She was reminded instead of another room, from the happy time of her childhood, before her mother had fallen ill, when her life had been joyous, filled with love and tenderness. It was so very long ago now it might have been a lovely dream, yet Katharine knew otherwise. And it seemed to her that this elegant drawing room in London was just as safe as that other room had been, for it gave her a similar sense of permanence and security. She felt protected from the harsh world that existed beyond these walls. Unexpectedly, she experienced a feeling of longing she did not fully comprehend.

‘How beautiful this room is, Francesca. It’s so gracious, and I love a fire on a nasty wintry night.’ A wistful expression flickered briefly on her face, and there was a small silence before she added quietly, ‘It’s so friendly and inviting.’

‘And comforting too,’ Francesca suggested in a tone that was full of understanding.

Their eyes met and inwardly they assessed each other. Neither Katharine nor Francesca knew it but something very special was beginning between them. A bond was being forged, and it would prove to be a bond so strong and enduring it would resist all outside forces and influences for well over a decade. And when it was finally broken, both of them would be devastated.

But now, this night, they simply knew they liked each other, although they did not, as yet, reveal this. The prolonged silence continued to drift between them, but there were no feelings of awkwardness and they went on appraising each other quite overtly.

Finally a sweet smile floated on to Katharine’s face. ‘And do you know something, Francesca? I even like a fire in summer,’ she began. ‘It’s – ‘

‘Absolutely necessary in this bloody awful climate,’ cried Kim, as he strode into the room. ‘And especially at Langley. No wonder the ancestors trudged around in that ghastly armour. It was undoubtedly the only way they could keep warm.’

The mood of quiet introspection was broken, and Francesca and Katharine glanced at each other in amusement. Then Katharine said, ‘By the way, it’s very good of you to include Victor Mason, Francesca. I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s not a bit like one would expect. He’s … he’s … ‘ She stopped, sought the appropriate word and finished, ‘Well, he’s certainly very different.’

‘I’ve never met a film star before, so I don’t know what to expect,’ Francesca admitted with a shy smile. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen many of his films. Maybe two or three at the most, and certainly nothing lately. How terrible. I do feel at such a disadvantage.’

‘Oh, heavens, you don’t have to worry about that!’ Katharine exclaimed. ‘I think Victor is relieved when he doesn’t have to discuss his movies or his career. And he’s one of the few actors I know who doesn’t want to talk about himself endlessly. Thank goodness he’s not having a love affair with himself, like some performers I know. We can be a pretty boring narcissistic breed at times.’ She twisted the gold signet ring on her little finger absently, wondering what had happened to Victor. He should have been here by now.

‘Have you known him long?’ Francesca asked.

Katharine crossed her legs and smoothed her dress. ‘No, only a few months. Sometimes I think he’s rather a lonely man.’ Her face became still and contemplative and she stared into the blazing fire, lost for a moment in her wandering thoughts.

Francesca could not help noticing this change and it disturbed her. At some time in her life she has been touched by a terrible sadness, she thought. It runs deep in her. This notion at once seemed so ridiculous, so farfetched, Francesca immediately pushed it away. But she did consider Katharine’s remark about Victor Mason rather odd, in view of his fame. She was wondering how best to respond to it, when Kim saved her the trouble.

‘Champagne!’ he proclaimed, handing them each a crystal flute. He retrieved his own glass from the chest, proposed a toast and hovered over Katharine. His eyes hardly left her face, and Francesca well knew the reason why. She was finding it difficult to tear her own gaze away, was in danger of staring as rudely as she had done initially. Suddenly more than conscious of this, she focused her attention on Kim, who was now standing behind the sofa, intent on Katharine.

Meeting his sister’s direct look, he said, ‘I’ve decided to stay in town next week. I can drive back to Langley with the old man at the weekend. I’ll leave you the Mini, old thing.’

‘Is Father coming up to London? He didn’t mention it to me, when we spoke yesterday. How odd,’ Francesca said.

Kim chorded. ‘You know how vague he is. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s forgotten about it himself. But he has to come up to see Marcus, something about the trust, I believe. Anyway, he’s supposed to arrive late tomorrow evening.’

‘In that case you’d better ring him up first thing in the morning and remind him,’ Francesca instructed. ‘And thanks for offering the Mini. I can use it.’ She shook her head in mock bewilderment, and looked at Katharine. ‘Kim saying Daddy is vague is like the pot calling the kettle black. He’s equally bad at times. He’s been here since Thursday and he didn’t even bother to tell me of Daddy’s plans. Men are so thoughtless.’

‘It’s congenital,’ Katharine declared. She had been listening carefully and, never one to miss an opportunity which would work to her advantage, she seized the one which had just presented itself. She leaned forward eagerly, her face lighting up, her wistfulness completely dispelled. ‘I would love you to come to the play with your father, while he’s in town, Francesca. In fact, I’d like you all to be my guests.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Kim. ‘I’ll get house seats for you. Oh, do come! Please! I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Kim told me you’re interested in history.’

‘Why, yes, I am. And how very generous of you to invite us,’ said Francesca, touched by Katharine’s thoughtfulness. ‘I would adore to see it.’ Her eyes shone with warmth, but a note of caution crept into her voice as she added, ‘I’m sure Daddy would too. I’ll certainly ask him.’ She halted, contemplating her father’s reaction to Katharine. He could not fail to like her. She had a natural sweetness and lovely manners, and was so obviously a properly brought up young woman, as well as being such a beauty. But liking her did not necessarily guarantee his full approbation, or his acceptance of her as a wife for Kim. Daddy is out of date, Francesca thought with a spurt of exasperation. Katharine might very well be perfect for Kim, just what he needs. She became aware of Katharine’s eyes focused on her, and she remarked quickly, ‘I’ve always found Greek mythology fascinating. The play’s about Helen and Paris and the Trojan War, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ Katharine’s face filled with animation, and she explained, with a kind of shining earnestness, ‘It’s very dramatic and moving, really wonderful entertainment. We’re playing to a packed house every night, standing room only. And we’re sold out for weeks in advance. Naturally we’re all happy about that. Knowing we’re going to be working for some time is very reassuring, apart from the stunning reception the play is getting.’

Kim interjected, ‘The critics raved about Katharine. Actually, they were ecstatic. As well they should be. She gives a super performance, and steals everybody’s thunder.’

‘How thrilling for you to have such a big hit!’ Francesca exclaimed. As she spoke she decided Katharine made the perfect Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships. How very apt. ‘You must be a very talented actress to have this kind of success in your first West End play. Gosh, to have become a star overnight is simply marvellous. What an extraordinary achievement at your age.’

Had this breathless exultation of her success been uttered by anyone else, it might have sounded gushing, even meretricious to Katharine. But she knew Francesca meant every word. Not unnaturally, Katharine was filled with delight at the obviously genuine accolades. ‘Yes, it is exciting. And thank you, Francesca,’ she said. ‘Having a smash hit is gratifying to all of the cast. We worked hard in rehearsals and wanted the play to succeed.’ A smile played around her mouth. ‘But obviously that doesn’t ensure anything. There are a lot of other elements involved, so many other considerations, and there’s always a kind of nervous uncertainty until we’re actually playing to the public. We need the feedback, the reactions of the audience.’

‘I’m sure you must,’ Francesca remarked, somewhat diffidently. ‘Most people think being an actress is so easy, and the theatrical life very glamorous as well. But I suspect acting must be a particularly difficult art to master.’

She became more confident. ‘Interpreting the playwright’s intentions, and expressing emotions and thoughts and feelings must be highly complex. I’m sure it requires a great deal of intelligence and insight to handle everything.’ She grimaced. ‘I know I couldn’t do it. Not in a thousand years.’

Katharine gave Kim’s sister a seraphic smile. ‘How beautifully you express it! And you’re absolutely right. In reality there is very little glamour or glitter to the theatre, despite what everyone thinks. The public see only the most obvious things, the outer trappings. Acting is the most gruelling work, the salt mines really. It’s demanding, exhausting, frustrating, nerve-racking and challenging. But I find it very satisfying. And of course I don’t deny that it does have its moments of excitement.’ There was a sparkle about her, a lovely glow. The last remnants of her tiredness evaporated in the friendly atmosphere, induced by Francesca’s warmth and sympathetic demeanour. ‘But heavens, we’re boring poor Kim with our chatter.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Kim said. He was relieved that Francesca and Katharine had taken to each other and with such spontaneity. His expression was loving as he added, ‘It’s very entertaining. Actually, I’m glad I’ve hardly been able to get a word in edgewise. Imagine how ghastly I would have felt if you two hadn’t had anything to say to each other.’ He lit a cigarette and thought: this augurs well for the meeting with Father. Francesca will help to smooth the way.

Katharine herself was patently aware of Francesca’s readiness to be friends, and she smiled inwardly, remembering her faint misgivings. How wrong she had been. Francesca was a delight, and she felt completely relaxed in her company, conscious as she was of the other girl’s approval. And approval, above all else, was essential to Katharine Tempest.

‘Why don’t you come to the theatre on Monday evening?’ Katharine asked, wanting to pin Francesca down, her mind teeming with elaborate plans for dinner afterwards. ‘We’re always in good form after our weekend break, and it’s generally a great performance.’ She broke into laughter. ‘Having made that sweeping statement, it’s bound to be the worst show of the week!’

Francesca said, ‘I know it will be quite wonderful, and I would like to come on Monday evening, providing Father can make it. What about you, Kim?’

‘I’m definitely on! I’d love to see it again. Now, how about another glass of champagne, girls?’

‘Than you.’ Katharine handed him her empty glass.

Francesca declined. ‘I’m all right for the moment, and I don’t want to get tiddly. I have the supper to serve, you know.’ She turned back to Katharine. ‘It must be an extraordinary experience working with Terrence Ogden. I’ve always thought he was a brilliant actor. He’s also quite the ladies’ man, isn’t he? All my girl friends have a crush on him. Is he really as divine as he looks?’

Katharine groaned to herself. She did not want to embark on a discussion of Terry’s merits as a great lover, in view of Kim’s jealous display earlier. But there was a look of such eager expectancy on Francesca’s face she did not want to disappoint or offend her by brushing the question aside in a peremptory manner. She drew nearer and dropped her voice. ‘I suppose he does have a bit of a reputation, but it’s rather exaggerated. Terry himself encourages that though. He seems to think it’s good publicity, being linked with lots of lovely ladies in the press, although I’m not so sure myself. Actually, he is very dedicated to his work. I enjoy acting with him. He’s very generous as a performer, and I’ve learned a lot from him.’

If Francesca found Katharine’s answer unrewarding, she did not show it. Her eyes rested briefly but thoughtfully on Kim, who was standing by the chest pouring the champagne, and then shifted to Katharine again. She nodded her head, as if she intuitively understood it was unwise to pursue this line of conversation. ‘Kim told me you’re an American, Katharine. Have you lived in England for a long time?’

Francesca had changed the subject, much to Katharine’s considerable relief. ‘A few years.’ There was an almost imperceptible hesitation before she volunteered, ‘I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for a couple of years, before doing repertory in the provinces.’

Kim handed Katharine her glass. She looked up at him and those glorious eyes were full of tenderness as they met his. She patted the sofa. ‘Sit down, Kim darling, and let’s talk about something else. I feel as if I’ve been dominating the conversation, and I’m also getting bored with all this chit-chat about the theatre, even if you’re not.’

‘Listening to your lovely voice is music to my ears, my sweet. You could read Debrett’s Peerage to me, and I would still be entranced,’ he teased, seating himself next to her.

‘Oh phooey!’ Katharine winked at Francesca, who simply smiled with benevolence, understanding perfectly Kim’s infatuation. She knew that she herself was also rapidly falling under the girl’s spell. Let’s hope that Father will too, she mused, and discovered she wanted him to approve of Katharine just as much as Kim wanted it.

Katharine, who was intrigued by Francesca, now focused her complete attention on her. ‘I hear you’re doing research for a book, that you’re a writer. Now that is fascinating and I’m sure it’s just as difficult as being an actress, if not more so.’

Surprise flicked on to Francesca’s face and she shot a questioning look at Kim, who simply grinned like a Cheshire cat and then shrugged off-handedly. After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘Yes, I’m researching, and I hope to write my book on Chinese Gordon one day, but I wouldn’t call myself a writer. At least not yet. Ernest Hemingway said a person is not a writer until he or she has readers. So I feel I can’t possibly make that claim until I’m actually a published author.’ She took a small sip of her champagne. Wishing to avert a discussion about herself, for she was both reticent and modest about her talents, she said casually, ‘Do you think Victor Mason is still coming?’

Kim, who had entirely forgotten about Victor, immediately straightened up on the sofa and frowned. ‘I telephoned him earlier this evening to confirm, before I went to pick up Katharine. He said he would be arriving when we did.’ He stared at the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and shook his head in disbelief. ‘But we’ve been here almost an hour already. Perhaps I had better give him another buzz at the hotel.’

‘I don’t think you need bother. I’m afraid he’s notorious for being late,’ Katharine fibbed. ‘I know he’ll be here any minute.’ This last remark was said with a degree of assurance Katharine did not truly feel. Victor’s absence had been weighing heavily for some time, and she had been hoping it was merely tardiness on his part. Now she was no longer sure this was the case. She would be mortified if he did not come to supper; this could only have one meaning: He was unable to face her because he had not kept his promise to her.

She felt her throat tightening as the tension took hold of her, and although she rarely smoked, she reached for a cigarette in the silver box on the table in front of her.

Kim gave her a light and took a cigarette himself. He blew a smoke ring, peered at his sister, and said, ‘I say, I hope you haven’t got anything spoiling in the kitchen.’

‘No, I haven’t. Everything is under control, Kim. Don’t fuss so. All I have to do is light the oven when Victor gets here. Are you getting hungry, Katharine?’

‘Not really. Thank you, anyway. It always takes me a while to unwind after the performance. Shedding the part.’

‘But I’m ravenous,’ Kim announced. ‘I wouldn’t mind sampling some of that caviar, and the pâté, which you have so conveniently forgotten, Francesca.’

Laughing, Francesca rose. She, who was so beautifully mannered, had indeed forgotten the food she had intended to serve with the drinks. It was a rare lapse. She had been so fascinated by Katharine and engrossed with her, everything else had been swept out of her mind. ‘How awful of me. Please excuse me. I won’t be a minute.’ She flew out of the drawing room, her taffeta skirt crackling as she moved.

The minute they were alone, Katharine turned to Kim and, quenching her rising anxiety about Victor, she said, ‘I think your sister is really lovely.’

‘She likes you, too, I’m sure,’ Kim murmured. He moved closer to Katharine and put his arms around her, kissing her neck and her hair. ‘And that goes for me too,’ he whispered. He felt the warmth of her enveloping him, the delicate perfume of her silky skin intoxicating him, and as always when he held her like this his excitement surged in him.

‘Oh, Katharine, Katharine, I do adore you so,’ and he buried his face against her neck.

Katharine stroked the back of his fair head and returned his embrace, but she said nothing. At this moment Victor filled her mind and one thought turned endlessly against itself: How could he have let her down? She never broke her promises. Men. They were all the same. Untrustworthy. Just like her father, the bastard. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, endeavouring to obliterate the image of him.

After a moment, Kim drew away from her; as he looked down at her nestled in his arms he was overcome by his longing for her. He slowly lowered his mouth to hers, wanting to devour those warm lips. Katharine pushed him back, but with gentleness.

Somehow she managed to find her voice. ‘Please, Kim darling, don’t start this now. Francesca will be back any moment, and how would it look if she catches us necking on the sofa.’ She extracted herself from his tight embrace and stood up, tugging at her skirt and smoothing her hair. ‘I’m surprised at you,’ she pronounced sternly, but the tone was soft.

Kim fell back against the cushions helplessly, groaning out loud. ‘It’s all your fault. You’re a temptress, don’t you know. And the most maddening it’s ever been my great good luck to encounter. What am I going to do with you?’

‘Nothing at the moment,’ she said. ‘But you can get me another glass of champagne.’

He grinned at her good naturedly, pushed himself up off the sofa and brought the bottle. He filled the Waterford flutes, and then eyed the empty bottle, shaking it. ‘Well, this one’s a dead soldier. I’d better put another one on ice. We’ll need it when Victor gets here.’ As he reached the door, he swung around and said, ‘If he ever turns up, that is, which I seriously doubt now. Back in a jiffy, my sweet one.’

Katharine nodded, not trusting herself to respond coherently. Kim had voiced the one fear nagging at her. She turned and rested her hand on the mantelpiece and gazed down into the fire miserably. She had been in control of her own destiny since the age of twelve. She had never relied on anyone for anything, for mistrust was paramount in her nature, and especially so when it came to men. Yet she had broken her own stringent rule and trusted Victor Mason. Damn, damn, damn, she muttered under her breath.

Francesca came in carrying a large silver tray. ‘I hope you’ll try a little of this, Katharine,’ she said. ‘I think I will.’

‘I’m not really hungry, thank you,’ Katharine answered and returned to her place on the sofa.

Francesca seated herself in the chair, and picked up a pearl-handled silver knife. She plunged it into the mound of sturgeon’s roe, so glistening and moist in the crystal dish, spread a portion on a piece of Melba toast and squeezed lemon over it. Smiling, she offered it to Katharine, who shook her head, and then handed it to Kim, who had joined them again.

‘I say, this is superb!’ Kim exclaimed, after devouring it. ‘You don’t have to bother with the cottage pie. This will do just nicely for me.’

Francesca said, ‘Try the pâté too. It’s – ‘ The shrilling of the door bell caused her to stop. She glanced from Kim to Katharine, arching her blonde brows. ‘Could that be our missing guest at long last?’

Katharine rose with unusual swiftness. ‘Perhaps I’d better answer the door, Kim. After all, you’ve never met Victor.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Katharine hissed, her eyes blazing as she confronted Victor Mason on the door step.

‘Charming welcome,’ he said, adding with a huge grin, ‘am I allowed in, or shall I be on my merry way?’

‘Of course you’re allowed in,’ Katharine cried, and fearing he was about to depart she quickly snatched at the sleeve of the trenchcoat thrown casually over his shoulders, and drew him towards her possessively.

Victor turned to his driver, who hovered on the step next to him, holding a large black umbrella over them both. ‘I guess I’ll be a couple of hours or so, Gus. That is if I don’t get thrown out on my rear end before then. You can mosey off for a while. I’ll see you later. Have fun.’ His mouth twitched. ‘But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

‘Right you are, Mr Mason,’ Gus responded, and retreated to the car as Victor stepped inside the house.

‘Well, at least he’s stopped calling you Guv, thank heavens,’ Katharine remarked.

Victor threw her a swift, amused look, chuckled softly and said, ‘Only in front of people. When we’re alone he still calls me Guvnor. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it.’ He thrust a package at her, winked theatrically and declared ‘Beware of Italians bearing dubious gifts.’

Katharine accepted the package in grudging silence. She was not so easily placated and the tension was still flaring within her. In consequence, she was a little on edge and her patience had worn thin. There was a cold silence, during which she continued to glare at him, and then she said, ‘I thought you weren’t coming. You’re very late. Abominably late. You’ve heard of the telephone haven’t you? It’s a small instrument that enables you to communicate between two points – ‘

He cut in with a throaty laugh, ‘Save me the sarcasm, honey.’ Shrugging off the trenchcoat he glanced around. “Where shall I put this?’

Katharine nodded in the direction of the hall cupboard. ‘In there.’ She looked down at the package she was holding. ‘What is this, anyway?’

‘A peace offering. Champagne. Pink champagne.’

‘Pink! Now I know what you mean by dubious,’ she retorted.

‘My, my, we are being gracious tonight,’ Victor said. But he did not seem in the least put out by her scathing words or her frosty manner. In fact, he appeared sanguine, and his voice was even as he said, ‘Look, honey, I’m sorry, I really am. The delay was unavoidable. I had to wait for a call from the Coast. An important business call. Come on, Katharine, give a guy a break.’

His smile was so sincere, and he sounded so genuinely apologetic that Katharine found herself smiling back at him. She was also shrewdly aware that it would be foolish to antagonize Victor, and by so doing put her assiduously-made plans into certain jeopardy. Need her he well might, but his goodwill was absolutely crucial to her, and since he had finally made an appearance her troubling doubts about him were subsiding, were replaced by the optimistic belief that he had not reneged on his promise to her. And so she softened her manner and her chameleon-like ability to present a different visage went into immediate play. The smile became infinitely more luminous and beguiling and the turquoise eyes were instantaneously veiled with affectionate fights.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but the English are very peculiar about time and the proper form and all that, as I’ve mentioned to you before.’ She returned the package to him. ‘And it was very sweet of you to bring this. Truly. But I think it would be more appropriate if you gave it to your hostess. I know she’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness. Now, come on, my darling, we’re wasting time. Let’s go in.’

Victor tucked the bottle under his arm with a jaunty flourish, glanced at himself in the Georgian mirror, adjusted his de, and said, ‘I’m all yours, honey. Lead the way.’

Kim and Francesca stopped talking when Victor and Katharine walked into the drawing room, and Victor saw two pairs of eyes focused on him intently and with enormous interest. Considering he was a world-famous film star, and had been for a number of years, he was not unaccustomed to this kind of fixed and curious scrutiny, for everyone had their own vision of him, which was not always compatible with the man he truly was.

But what brought him up short and filled him with amazement was his consciousness of the girl in grey, seated near the fireplace, who was now slowly rising. Like a brilliant lodestar she drew him magnetically towards her, and he felt a need, indeed a compulsion, to rush over to her, was filled with an urgency not only to meet her, but to know every facet of her. He had no desire to appear foolish, even immature, and he realized, too, that this kind of behaviour would be incorrect and a rank display of that ‘bad form’ the British, and Katharine, were always muttering about. Nor did he have any intention of giving Katharine the opportunity to lecture him about his manners. Before he could take another step, the young man next to her, obviously Katharine’s boyfriend, Kim, was hurrying forward, smiling broadly.

Kim grasped Victor’s hand. ‘I’m Kim Cunningham. Delighted you could come.’

‘So am I,’ Victor replied, shaking Kim’s hand vigorously. And he apologized and again explained his reason for being late.

‘Oh, please don’t give it another thought,’ Kim exclaimed. He grinned. ‘We’ve been very cosy here, guzzling champagne and chatting. Now, do come and meet my sister, and then I’ll get you a drink. What do you prefer? Champagne, or something else, perhaps?’

‘I’d like Scotch-on-the-rocks with a splash of soda, please.’

Kim took hold of Victor’s arm and propelled him across the room to the fireplace. ‘This is Francesca,’ he said, and, after bestowing a bright smile on them, he disappeared in the direction of the drinks chest to pour a Scotch for Victor.

‘How nice to meet you, Mr Mason,’ Francesca said.

Their hands met and held and their eyes locked, and simultaneously they exchanged a startled glance. Looking down into the delicate face upturned to him, Victor saw the shining amber-flecked eyes widen and fill with the astonishment he himself was feeling. A tremulous smile touched her mouth briefly, and was gone. I’ve never met her before, but I recognize her, he thought with incredulity. I know her. I’ve always known her, somewhere deep in my heart and soul. This strange and surprising knowledge shook him, and momentarily he was thrown off balance.

Being adroit, he swiftly pulled himself together. ‘I’m pleased to meet you too, Lady Francesca,’ he said with a slow lazy smile, but his black eyes were serious and searching, and his gaze remained unswervingly on her face.

‘Oh please, do call me Francesca.’ Two faint spots of colour stained her ivory cheeks.

‘I’ll be glad to, if you’ll call me Victor.’

She nodded and gently extracted her hand, which he was still holding tightly, and stepping back, she lowered herself into the chair. Victor remembered the package under his arm, bent forward and handed it to her, instantly wishing it were something more personal, more appropriate like – like an armful of fragile white May lilac, fragrant after a drenching of spring rain. Yes, lilac was the ideal flower for her. It suited her delicacy and freshness. He said, ‘I almost forgot. This is for you.’

Francesca looked up at him, surprised. ‘Why thank you. How very kind.’ She began to unwrap it, her head bent, her fingers moving slowly, and she wondered why she was suddenly trembling internally, not recognizing the dynamic chemistry interacting between them. However, Victor, who was wise in the ways of the world and of men and women, knew it. At least, he knew she had affected him strongly, and that he had responded to her on a variety of levels, not the least of which was sexual. He looked at her sharply, a keenness in his eyes. She appeared serene and unperturbed. Cool as a cucumber, he thought. He remembered that look of astonishment they had shared a moment ago, the startled glance exchanged. Had he imagined them? He was not sure. Perhaps the attraction had not been mutual, but merely one-sided. His side. He smiled faintly to himself.

Victor had no way of knowing that Francesca had a natural poise that belied her years, and a great measure of that special self-confidence so endemic to the English aristocracy. She rarely lost her composure. And so, despite her equally strong reaction to Victor, one she found extraordinary and baffling, she let no emotion show on her face. But she was disturbed, and understandably so. To begin with, she had had little or no experience of men, and certainly she had never encountered one of Victor Mason’s ilk. Then again, her boyfriends had been, for the most part, chums of Kim’s and the same age, and she had never taken any of them seriously. At nineteen she was sexually inexperienced, and, in comparison to her girl friends, who were much more worldly, unusually innocent for a young woman who mixed in smart London society.

In all truth, Victor Mason had unnerved Francesca. Gradually this, realization began to formulate in her mind. How absurd she was being, allowing herself to become rattled by this man. Yet, she had to admit he was devastatingly attractive; she thought: If Katharine Tempest seems improbable, with her stunning beauty and allure and vivacious personality, then he is undoubtedly larger than life. And very disconcerting.

Abruptly, Victor left his position in front of the fire, and without glancing at her or addressing another word to her, he moved over to the chest. He stood talking to Kim as if they were old friends, and not total strangers from worlds so wide apart it was debatable whether they had any common ground upon which to meet. Francesca observed him through the corner of her eye, her head still bent in concentration on the package. It struck her that he looked unconcerned, as if she no longer existed, as if he had not given her those fierce stares. It was then that she wondered whether he always behaved in this manner, when first meeting women, in view of who and what he was, believing, perhaps, that it was expected of him. Although she was not the typical film fan, she was sufficiently well-informed to know that Victor Mason was idolized by women all over the world. Few men had ever been the recipients of the kind of female adulation which was showered on him. There was no doubt in her mind that he could pick and choose at will from a galaxy of women infinitely more beautiful and interesting than her, and so she concluded she had not been singled out for any special treatment. And why should she be?

Francesca swung her eyes away from Victor when Katharine’s clear laughter echoed across the room; then she could not resist focusing her attention on the three of them. Victor turned slightly, also laughing, and leaned towards Katharine, teasing her. Katharine looked up at him as she returned his banter.

Clutching the crumpled wrapping paper and the bottle of Pommery and Greno, Francesca got up and went to the door. Without looking at Victor, she exclaimed, ‘Thank you for the champagne. It’s lovely. Look, Katharine. Kim. Victor brought this.’ She held out the bottle and went on, ‘I’ll go and put it in the refrigerator. And turn the oven on, otherwise we’ll never get supper tonight.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.

When Francesca returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Victor standing at the far end of the drawing room, quite obviously admiring the paintings that graced the walls. He and Katharine were listening attentively to Kim, who was giving them a long dissertation on the Constables and Turners in the room. Francesca chose not to join them. She went to the fireplace, picked up the brass fire tongs, plopped a couple of logs on the diminished embers, sat down in the chair and picked up her glass. She peered at Victor over the rim. A faint image of him from his films had apparently lingered at the back of her mind, for it surfaced suddenly. It was the image of an excessively handsome man, glossy and too sleek, who looked as if he had been patted and pummelled and polished, and then varnished into smooth and characterless perfection. She sneaked another look at him, and saw how utterly false this image now proved to be.

He was handsome, there was no quarrelling with that, yet in reality he was rough-hewn and rugged. His face was more craggy and raw-boned than she had remembered and, far from lacking character, it had a virility and strength, and was webbed around the eyes with those faint tell-tale lines of experience which are the real evidence of a life well-lived, and to the fullest. His skin had a leathery, almost weather-beaten texture, and she knew that his deep sunburn was the type acquired only by a man who is always out of doors. His features were more sharply denned than she had recalled, from the strong Roman nose and the prominent black brows above those black and forceful eyes, to the wide humorous mouth and the large white teeth. Even the thick black hair, brushed smoothly back from the furrowed brow, seemed to have a vitality and life of its own. He was powerfully built, broad-shouldered and massive across the chest and back.

In all truthfulness, the only sleek things about Victor Mason were his clothes. They were of the finest quality and appeared to have been assembled with unerring precision. And they’re just a little too perfect, Francesca thought. She noted the excellent cut of the black cashmere jacket, the grey flannel slacks with their knife-edge creases, the pale blue cotton-voile shirt, the darker blue silk tie, the grey silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket, the velvet-soft brown suede loafers on his feet. He lifted his hand at this moment and put a cigarette in his mouth and fit it, and she caught the gleam of sapphires in the French cuff, the flash of gold on the wrist. Poor Kim, he looks positively shabby in comparison, she said to herself, even though he is wearing his new suit. Unaccountably, this had a crumpled and well-lived-in appearance. Francesca had to smile. Victor Mason’s clothes would never look crumpled, of that she was quite positive.

Watching them, or more precisely, watching Victor, Francesca was struck by a sudden and unsettling thought. There was something about Victor which disturbed her, something she could not put her finger on. It came to her. She felt curiously threatened by him. But why? She did not have to do much analysing to define the reasons. Because he is extraordinarily good looking, a famous celebrity, and very, very rich, she said to herself. And all of these so-called assets add up to one thing – power. Yes, he had immense power, albeit of a somewhat special nature, and powerful men, whatever the roots of their power, were eminently dangerous to know. He is also arrogant and so … so … sure of himself, and filled with a conceit that is quite insufferable. She shivered involuntarily and goose-flesh ran up her arms. He also frightens me, she thought, and she resolved, at once, to be on her guard with him.

Francesca Cunningham was not really afraid of Victor Mason. She was afraid of herself in relationship to him. And her judgment of Victor was flawed. She was accurate in her assumption that he was a man who wielded power, and a great deal of it, but mistaken in her belief that he was arrogant and conceited. He was neither. What he did possess, though, was great presence, that rare and curious combination of authority and savoir-faire, mingled with a vital charisma. In essence, these ingredients created in him an animal magnetism that was quite magical, and it was this which came across on the screen with such force. It had made him one of the biggest box-office names in the world. Victor was the first to admit this, since he did not believe himself to be a great actor in the grand tradition of the theatre. In this he did himself something of an injustice, for he was a well-rounded, well-seasoned and disciplined performer, a real professional whom few of his peers in Hollywood ever underestimated. Especially those who had worked with him. Having seen him on the set, they were aware of how brilliantly and skilfully he used the camera to his own enormous advantage, thereby diminishing any other actor or actress who happened to be on the screen with him at the same time.

Victor was also a man of sensitivity and understanding. Now he was very much aware of Francesca seated at the opposite end of the room, and he knew she had carefully and minutely appraised him from head to toe. Although he could not see her face, intuitively he sensed that somehow he had not fared well in her estimation, that he had received bad marks, and this made him smile. He stood and sipped his Scotch, chatting to Kim and Katharine about art for a few seconds longer, and then he excused himself and headed back to the fireplace.

When she saw him approaching, Francesca leapt up. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude, but I do have to attend to the food. Excuse me for a few minutes.’

He did not miss the crisp tone. He seated himself in the chair she had vacated, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. Settling back, he smiled and with a vast and secret amusement, although he was not truly certain who amused him the most – himself or Francesca. She had just bolted like a frightened filly, obviously to avoid him. On the other hand, he had behaved like a dumbstruck schoolboy on first meeting her. And now that the initial impact had dissipated, he was damned if he knew why. Francesca was lovely in a fresh, girlish way, but not exactly his type. And in any event, beautiful women were the norm of his life, not the exception and, as his friend Nicky Latimer was always saying, were a dime a dozen for a man of his calibre and looks and unquestionable fame. And money. He sighed. Two new wives and countless other less legal liaisons in the past few years had left him immune to beauty, and these days he felt jaded and weary of the emotional turmoil women invariably created in his life, once they became entangled with him. He had sworn off ‘les girls’, as he laughingly called them, six months ago, and when he had come to England he had determined to concentrate on his career. He had no intention of breaking this rule. Not even for Francesca Cunningham. Victor was not given to self-delusion, and he was always brutally honest with himself, and so he readily admitted the attraction had been powerful, that he had momentarily been bowled over by her. But apparently she had not responded in the same way. He shrugged. He was not in the mood to pursue.

Another thought struck him and he nearly laughed out loud. He was thirty-nine years old, almost forty, and Francesca could not be more than eighteen. A baby. Was it possible he had suddenly become susceptible to young girls? Was he afflicted with the nymphet syndrome? Not long ago, dear old Nicky, the soothsayer, had told him he was suffering from a terminal Don Juan complex. This had made him roar with laughter, considering the lustful mouth from which this caustic little comment had issued forth, even though it was based in truth. After his first wife’s tragic death Victor had gone haywire with grief. And then, in the intervening years, he had become something of a womanizer, and he didn’t mind who knew it. Conversely, he did not relish the idea of being dubbed a dirty old man.

Katharine sat down on the sofa, struck an elegant pose and said, ‘What are you doing on Monday night?’

Victor threw her a questioning look. ‘Nothing. You should know that, considering you’ve completely taken charge of my social life. Do I ever make a move without you? But why do you ask?’

‘Because I’ve invited Francesca, Kim and their father to be my guests at the play. I’m sure you don’t want to see it again, but I thought it would be nice if you took us all to dinner afterwards, to reciprocate this evening.’

‘Sure, why not,’ he said amiably. He took out a packet of mentholated cigarettes and lit one, drawing on it deeply.

Kim, who had seated himself next to Katharine, looked at her askance. ‘Oh, I say, darling, that’s not necessary. Victor doesn’t have to reciprocate,’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t want to be saddled with our tribe – ‘

‘Sure I do,’ Victor interrupted. ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. I’d love to take you all to dinner. Now, where do you want to go, Katharine? Ziegi’s Club, the Caprice, Les Ambassadeurs, the Casanova or the River Club?’

‘Why, Victor, I wasn’t thinking of such ritzy places,’ cried Katharine, who had indeed had one of them in mind, considering it essential for her career to be seen in smart restaurants. She looked across at him, her eyes wide with innocence, and smiled winningly. ‘But since you did ask my preference, I think it would be super if you took us to Les A. I haven’t been there for ages, and it’s one of my favourite places. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Kim?’

Kim, who had never set foot in Les Ambassadeurs, but frequently read about it in the columns, nodded slowly. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you, Victor,’ he said. He lifted his glass, wondering what his father would think, whether he would approve of such goings-on with show-business folk in a fancy supper club. But then, why not? After all, the old man was squiring Doris around, and she was a leading light in international café society. It also struck him that Victor’s presence might make the evening less tense. This cheered him up and helped to dispel his mild irritation with Katharine for placing Victor in such an awkward position. Perhaps she, too, had considered this point.

Katharine said, ‘Should I get a ticket for you, Victor darling?’

‘No. Thanks anyway, honey. I’m afraid I have to do some work on Monday night. I have a number of calls to make to the Coast and New York, and because of the time differences I can’t really start until five or six o’clock. I’ll make a reservation for around eleven and meet you there.’

Francesca poked her head around the door. ‘Supper’s ready, if you’d like to come in,’ she said.

Katharine joined Francesca, and the two girls crossed the hall to the dining room. In a confiding voice she told Francesca about the newly-made plans. ‘I do hope your father is going to be free. I just know we’ll have lots of fun.’

Francesca drew in her breath sharply. After a short pause, she said, ‘I’m sure he will be.’ And then, hearing the echo of Victor’s voice behind her, she hoped her father had another engagement. She had been looking forward to seeing Katharine in the play, but unexpectedly the whole idea of the evening had now lost its appeal.

CHAPTER NINE

The dining room was impressive, both in its dimensions and its decoration. Tonight the room was dimly lit, but attractively so. Tall white candles flickered in the heavy, chased-silver candelabra placed at each end of the sideboard and in the centre of the dining table. In this warm and golden light the mahogany table gleamed with dark, ripe colour, and its highly polished surface had the glassy sheen of mirror. Reflected against it was the gutter of Georgian silver and hand-cut lead crystal wine goblets, the sparkle of white bone china plates, rimmed in gold and bearing the Langley family crest, also in gold.

The fir green walls, as cool and dark as a bosky forest, gave the room its restful tranquillity, made a superb muted backdrop for the incomparable oil paintings. Each one was mounted in an ornately carved and gilded-wood frame, and effectively illuminated by a small picture light attached to the top of the frame. The fluttering candles and the picture lights, the only illumination in the room, infused the ambience with a mellowness that was quite lovely, gave it an intimacy that was at once both charming and inviting.

Francesca showed Katharine and Victor to their places, and then went to the sideboard to serve the turtle soup, spooning it into green-and-gold Royal Worcester bowls from a large silver tureen. Victor observed her closely, struck by her elegance. His eyes roved around the room, and with interest. He admired its beauty and style. Background was the message it telegraphed to him, and that, he thought, is something no amount of money can buy. As he absorbed his surroundings his attention was caught by the painting on the end wall. It was a full-length, life-size portrait of a woman in an elaborate blue taffeta gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled high in an intricate pompadour surmounted by several plumes of blue feathers. Topaz earrings gleamed at her ears, and a topaz necklace fell down from her slender neck to fill out the décolletage. Of course, it was Francesca, and it was an exquisite portrait, beautifully executed and with explicit attention to every minute detail. Victor had the feeling that if he reached out and touched the dress his fingers would encounter silk, so realistically was the texture of the fabric depicted by the peerless brushstrokes.

After distributing the bowls of soup, Francesca sat down at the foot of the table, opposite Kim, who was seated at the head. Victor turned to her immediately, and said with some admiration, ‘That’s a remarkable portrait of you. And it’s very beautiful.’

She stared at him uncomprehending for a second, and then followed his gaze. ‘Oh, that one. But it’s not of me,’ she said, and picked up her soup spoon. ‘It’s of my great-great-great-great-grandmother, the Sixth Countess of Langley. Traditional and classical portraits of that nature are not in vogue any more. Furthermore, they are rarely painted these days, except by Annigoni occasionally. He did the Queen, you know.’

‘Oh,’ Victor said. Rebuffed, he dropped his eyes. She’s certainly put you in your place, he thought. Only the English have the knack of making everyone else look stupid and ignorant in an insidious way, and without really appearing to be rude. As he reached for his spoon he repressed a smile. It was a long time since he had been slapped in the face, figuratively speaking, by a woman. If it was a bit demeaning, it was also something of a novelty.

Katharine, who missed nothing, was dismayed at Francesca’s tone and nonplussed by the snub to Victor. She exclaimed swiftly, ‘Well, Francesca, it does bear a striking resemblance to you. It would have fooled me. Who painted it?’

‘Thomas Gainsborough,’ Kim volunteered. ‘Around 1770. And I agree with both of you. It does look like Francesca. There is another portrait of the Sixth, as we call her, at Langley. By George Romney. The likeness is most apparent in that one, too.’ He paused, and on the spur of the moment, said, ‘I hope you will both come to Langley soon, for a weekend, and then you’ll see it for yourselves. We must make plans for a visit. I know Father would enjoy having you. Wouldn’t he, Francesca?’

Stiffening, Francesca straightened up in the chair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low, and she did not elaborate. She was flabbergasted. Kim was incorrigible, issuing an invitation like that. He presumed too much. If their father didn’t like Katharine, the invitation would have to be rescinded. Then Katharine would be hurt, and with good reason.

‘Kim, that would be wonderful!’ Katharine cried with genuine delight. Her face fell. ‘But, gosh, I don’t know how I could manage it, with the two Saturday performances. Unless – ‘ Her face lit up again, and she looked across the table at Victor. ‘Unless Gus drove us to Yorkshire late one Saturday night, after the play, and brought us back on Monday afternoon. That would work. Could we do it one weekend, Victor? Please.’

Victor nodded, and concentrated on his soup, not wishing to make another faux pas. Although Francesca’s disdainful attitude had amused him somewhat, he was experiencing a sense of discomfort. Since these feelings were unparalleled in him they were therefore all the more confusing and troubling. He tried to shake them off, and then he thought: But I’ve got to hand it to Katharine. She’s got guts, and a cool assurance, that is enviable. And she certainly seems in her natural element whenever she mixes in this upper echelon of English society. He wondered again about her background, as he had so often in the three months he had known her. Funny how she never mentioned it. The only facts he had been able to pry out of her told him virtually nothing. She had been born in Chicago. She had lived in England for almost six years. And she was an orphan. Well, she acquired her inimitable style somewhere, he commented dryly to himself. She’s to the manner born, to be sure.

It was true that Katharine was perfectly at ease. Victor’s presence had alleviated her anxiety; and his ready acceptance of her suggestion about dinner on Monday had further dispelled the notion that he was untrustworthy. There was a residue of tension lingering in her, but this was most skilfully veiled by the smiling façade she presented, the irrepressible gaiety which so readily materialized to delight and enchant them.

And as the dinner progressed Katharine took over. She was the true star. And she gave a stunning performance. She glittered. She dazzled. She captivated. She entertained. Without really seeming to do so, she dominated the conversation, discussing everything from the theatre and the movie business, to British politics and blood sports, and she did so with charm, élan, grace and intelligence. She also managed to successfully bridge the brief but acute sense of awkwardness which had prevailed at the outset of the meal, and she created an atmosphere that was light yet stimulating.

Slowly Victor found himself being drawn into the conversation quite naturally. He sipped the excellent Mouton Rothschild Kim had poured, savouring its smooth velvety texture, and he began to relax again. He discovered in Kim an unusual warmth and empathy, and a genuinely sympathetic and interested listener. Almost against his own volition, he opened up and spoke about his ranch in Southern California, his horses and his land, and the latter proved to be of common interest to the two men. Yet, withal, he was conscious of Francesca’s thoughtful manner, her silences, unbroken except when she served the various dishes and attended to their needs. She did not even both to participate in the general small talk, and he thought this decidedly odd.

Francesca knew that she was being remiss as a hostess, that the burden of the conversation had fallen on Katharine. She had not purposely set out to behave this way, nor was her coolness and reticence specifically directed at Victor. Very simply, she felt she had nothing of importance to contribute, and she had withdrawn into herself. Also, serving the meal had preoccupied her. Yet whilst she had not been rude, neither had she been very gracious, and she chided herself for this lapse in etiquette. It was inexcusable.

With an effort she turned to Victor and said, ‘Are you going to be making a film here?’

He was so startled to hear her voice he temporarily lost his own. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ She was regarding him with keen interest and her expression was friendly, and so he was encouraged to continue. ‘I’m not only starring in it, but producing it as well. It’s my first time out in charge, so to speak, and I’m looking forward to it. Obviously it’s quite a challenge.’

Katharine, whose eyes had flown to his face when he started to speak, held her breath, not daring to say a word, waiting for him to go on. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest.

Francesca spoke again. ‘Can you tell us about it? Or is it a big secret?’

‘Why sure I can. I’m about to remake the greatest love story ever written in the English language. And I hope it will be as good as the original, which has become something of a classic. I’m doing a remake of Wuthering Heights. We start shooting in two months.’ Victor relaxed in his chair. Now that he was on his own ground he felt more comfortable.

‘Love story!’ Francesca spluttered, staring at Victor in astonishment. ‘But Wuthering Heights isn’t a love story, for God’s sake! It’s a death-obsessed novel about hatred, revenge, brutality and violence. But mostly it’s about revenge. How on earth can you think it’s a love story? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’

Francesca had spoken with such extraordinary vehemence everyone was startled. Kim looked discomfited. Victor seemed stunned. Katharine’s face had turned the colour of bleached-out bone, and she was seething. Victor might easily be influenced by these comments, especially since they emanated from Francesca. Like so many Americans, he thought anything English was classy and superior, even a little intimidating. And Francesca had sounded so authoritative. Supposing he decided to abandon the project? Damn, she thought, and not trusting herself to utter a civil word, she stared at her plate – and prayed.

Kim found his voice first. ‘Really, Francesca, you’re being a bit strong, aren’t you? And frightfully rude, if you ask me!’ Whenever she had occasion to speak about English literature, her pet subject, she became impossibly opinionated, almost overbearing, as he and his father knew only too well. Kim glared at her, hoping to convey his annoyance.

Francesca swung to face Victor. ‘I do apologize. I really didn’t mean to be rude. Truly I didn’t,’ she said, but a faint hint of defiance flickered in her eyes. ‘However, I’m afraid I can’t apologize for my opinions, particularly since I believe my concept of the book to be correct. And by the way, it is a concept shared by many scholars of English literature, and a number of well-known critics. Of course, there is no denying it is a book of great genius, but nevertheless, it is a paean to death. Emily Brontë was obsessed with death all her life, you know. Anyway, if you don’t want to take my word for it, I will be happy to lend you some books about Emily Brontë and her work, and also some critical studies of Wuthering Heights. Then perhaps you’ll understand it’s not a love story after all. Honestly, it really isn’t. You see, I read English literature, and did a thesis on the Brontë sisters, so I do know what I’m talking about.’

Katharine could not believe her ears, and she desperately wished Francesca would shut up. She could cheerfully strangle her. Didn’t the girl know she was being tactless and inflammatory? For once in her life Katharine was speechless. Her agile, inventive mind raced as she sought a way to smooth the situation over again, to break the deafening silence at the table. Yet unaccountably, she remained at a loss to know what to do or say, and so she picked up her glass and sipped the wine, staring fixedly at the wall opposite, her face stony. Kim fiddled with his fork, poking at the fruit on his plate. Victor continued to frown, musing thoughtfully, and only Francesca appeared tranquil, apparently oblivious to the impact she had made.

However, although Victor was frowning, he was not angry or upset. Oh, the terrible arrogance of the young, he thought. They are so sure. So absolute. So certain they have the answers to everything. He was astute enough to recognize Francesca had not intended to be rude, or to offend. Quite simply, she was too straightforward and too honest a girl not to speak her mind about a subject seemingly of great importance to her. She had been in earnest and had meant every word in all sincerity, without realizing she was being provocative. And she was so very young. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, and I respect your opinion. In fact, you could be right about the book. But the original movie of Wuthering Heights was made as a love story, and that is the way I aim to film it. I would be foolish not to do so. I just hope I can make as good a picture as Sam Goldwyn did in 1939. He spoke with an assurance that absolutely forbade argument.

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Francesca said hurriedly. In the last few seconds she had noticed Katharine’s stricken face, the panic in her eyes, and Kim’s glowering expression had also registered, and most forcefully. Somehow, and quite unintentionally, she had upset them both, although she was not sure why. Curiously enough, Victor seemed unconcerned.

Francesca lifted her glass. ‘I’d like to make amends for my hasty comments by proposing a toast.’ She smiled weakly at Katharine and Kim, who lifted their glasses silently, still put out with her. ‘To the remaking of Wuthering Heights, and to your success, Victor.’

‘Thank you,’ Victor said and touched his glass to hers.

Wishing to be even more friendly Francesca rushed on, ‘And who is going to play Catherine Earnshaw to your Heathcliff, Victor?’

‘The role hasn’t been cast yet. Naturally every actress worth her salt wants it. But – ‘ He stopped mid-sentence and chuckled. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be the young lady sitting right here.’ His eyes rested fondly on Katharine. ‘I’ve arranged a screen test for you. And in colour. You’re getting the whole enchilada, honey. And if it’s good I know my partner” will go along with me, and give you the part.’

Katharine was not sure whether she was going to laugh or burst out crying. For a split second she was unable to say anything. She felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She pushed them back, said in a quavering voice, ‘Oh, Victor! Thank you! Thank you!’ Radiance flooded her face and those matchless eyes shone with excitement. She was thrilled, almost beside herself with happiness. ‘How can I ever repay you?’

‘By making a terrific test, honey.’

Francesca, who was now beginning to understand everything, was again dismayed by her thoughtless remarks. Poor Katharine. No wonder she had been so distressed. She said, ‘You’ll be marvellous in the part, Katharine! You’re absolutely perfect for it. Why it’s made for you, isn’t it, Kim?’

‘Indeed it is.’ Kim’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Congratulations!’

Katharine thought she would explode from sheer excitement, and her laughter filled the dining room. ‘Don’t congratulate me yet. I’ve got to do the test first, before I even have a chance of getting the part.’

‘You’ll be perfectly bloody marvellous!’ Kim’s eyes shone with pride in her. ‘This news calls for a toast. Let’s go into the drawing room and have some brandy with our coffee. Come on all of you!’ He pushed back his chair purposefully, stood up and ushered everyone out.

Walking across the hall, Katharine thought: Victor kept his promise after all. He did it. As only he could do it. No one else would have been able to arrange a screen test for me so easily. She was filled with a feeling of great buoyancy, a buoyancy not only of the spirit but of the body as well. She felt as light as a feather, as though she was floating three feet above the ground on balmy air, and the anxiousness and worry which had burdened her for the past few weeks had been vanquished. She paused to wait for Victor at the door of the drawing room. They walked in together, and she took hold of his arm and squeezed it, gazing up at him. ‘I meant it, Victor. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

He returned her gaze unflickeringly. The humorous smile still played around his mouth, but his black eyes were alert and the look he gave her pierced through her. ‘You know how, Katharine,’ he said, sotto voce.

There was a silence. ‘Yes.’ Her tone was as soft as his, and her heart missed a beat.

‘It was nice of you to stay and help me with the dishes,’ Francesca said, swirling the water over the last remaining glasses in the sink. ‘You really didn’t have to, you know. I could have managed.’

‘It was the only way I could get Katharine to go home. She was so insistent about helping you,’ Victor replied. ‘But I saw she was bone tired and falling apart. Two performances in one day are taxing. She suddenly looked done in to me.’

‘Yes, I noticed, and it is very late.’ Francesca handed him another wine goblet to dry. ‘Still, I doubt that she’ll sleep. She’s too worked up about the screen test.’

‘That’s true, and I hope it goes well, that none of us is in for a big disappointment when we see the footage.’

‘What do you mean? Why shouldn’t it go well? After all, Katharine is so beautiful, and from what I understand she is a good actress.’

‘You’re right on both counts. But – ‘ Victor hesitated. He was sorry he had made the remark. He had spoken without thinking, had left himself wide open to innumerable questions, none of which he felt like answering. He also wondered, suddenly, what the hell he was doing standing in this kitchen in London, in the early hours of the morning, washing dishes with a teenager. Well, she was hardly that.

‘Please tell me what you meant,’ Francesca persisted stubbornly. ‘You sounded so pessimistic’

Victor sighed. ‘Look, forget I said it, okay? I’m sure she’ll make a terrific test. Was that the last of the glasses?’ Francesca nodded. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and slowly fastened the sapphire cufflinks. ‘I’d better be shoving off,’ he added, and went out of the kitchen.

Francesca followed him slowly, frowning. ‘I don’t mean to be a pest, but I wish you’d explain. It was a strange remark to make. Why are you testing her, and considering her for the part, if you think she won’t be any good?’

Victor halted in the hall and spun around to face Francesca. ‘I didn’t say that!’ he snapped. ‘And I’m not going to embark on a long discussion about movie acting with you, particularly at this hour. It’s far too late, and I’m not sure you’d understand what I’m talking about anyway.’

Concern had settled on her face and her eyes held a plea. He felt a stab of remorse for his brusqueness and impatience. ‘Oh, what the hell! Come on, give me one for the road, and I’ll try to explain as best as I can, in simple terms.’

‘And I’ll endeavour to understand,’ Francesca retorted. She walked ahead into the drawing room, bristling with irritation. Earlier, over coffee and liqueurs, her reservations about him had started to crumble, and she had even begun to like him. He had been warm and understanding, and a marvellous raconteur, keeping them entertained with hilarious anecdotes, and had shown a lovely sense of humour. But once again he had brushed her the wrong way. Her back was up.

Victor poured Remy Martin into two large brandy snifters and carried them over to the fireplace, where Francesca had seated herself, her body rigid in the chair. Her face was closed and her pretty mouth had narrowed into a thin sût of obduracy. Victor’s glance swept over her and unexpectedly a corner of his mouth twitched, but he swallowed his amusement and handed her a snifter silently. He sat down opposite her, picked up his brandy and contemplated for a few moments. Then, without looking at her, he started slowly, ‘Katharine Tempest knows more about acting in her little finger than I do in my whole body, and I’ve been at this game much longer. She’s instinctive, the consummate actress. She’s quite brilliant, in fact. On a stage. But great stage actresses don’t always make great movie stars.’

‘Why not?’ He had fully captured Francesca’s interest and she leaned forward, her irritation forgotten.

‘Because on a stage everything is more pronounced, slightly exaggerated. By that I mean mannerisms, movements, voice projection. It must be just the opposite on film. Understated. Underplayed, if you like. It’s the camera, of course. A movie camera is lethal.’ He laid great emphasis on the last word. ‘Really lethal. And for one very simple reason. The movie camera photographs your thoughts, and sometimes it even appears to photograph your very soul. You see, movie acting has to do with thinking and intelligence, much more than histrionics and an expression of excessive emotion. And actors who have been trained for the stage don’t always grasp that properly.’

He took another swallow of the brandy, and continued, ‘Let me give you an example. Clarence Brown was a wonderful director who made many of Garbo’s pictures, including Anna Karenina. When he was making that particular film, he kept thinking she wasn’t giving him what he wanted, and he would shoot a scene over and over again. But later, when he saw the takes of the scene on the screen, he realized she had had what he was after all the time, from the very first take. You see, Garbo did something not visible to the human eye, but very visible to the camera’s eye. She projected her innermost thoughts to it, and yes, her soul, and all this was beautifully captured on film. When that happens, it’s extraordinary, and quite magical. Another director, Fred Zinnemann, always says, “The camera’s got to love you.” And he’s absolutely right. If it doesn’t, if that chemistry isn’t there, then you’re dead. Do you follow me?’

‘Yes, you explain it very well. What you’re saying is that you’re not sure Katharine will have this … this chemistry with the camera.’

‘Exactly. Oh, I know she has talent, great ability, a wonderful speaking voice, and that she’ll photograph magnificently in colour, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Acting in front of a camera is a very special technique. I’m lucky, in that I have always had great rapport with the camera, and yet I’m not so sure I would be as good as Katharine on a stage. I might fail miserably, as many other movie stars have in that medium. It’s funny, but you simply can’t he to the camera. If you do, the lies are there on film.’

‘But surely Katharine must understand about this special technique. She is a professional – ‘

‘I don’t know whether she does or not. To be honest I’ve never discussed movie acting with her. I should have done, I suppose, but I wanted to fix the test for her first.’

‘But you will help her, talk to her, won’t you?’

‘Sure. I plan to do it some time next week. I can give her a few hints, and the director I’ve chosen to make the test will take her through her paces first.’

‘I should jolly well hope so!’

Victor looked at her with some amusement. ‘And tell me, Francesca, why are you so interested in Katharine’s career?’

‘Because I like her, and I know how tremendously important the test is to her. It was easy to see that, after the way she reacted at the dinner table. That’s why I feel so ghastly about the awful things I said. About the book, I mean. It was none of my business, and you didn’t ask my opinion. I’m not a bit surprised she was so upset. And I’m sure you wanted to kill me, too.’

‘Not at all.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But I’ll have to keep you away from my screenwriter. I don’t want you planting any radical ideas in his head.’

‘Gosh, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that!’

‘I’m kidding. Knowing Nicky, I’m sure he’s more than well acquainted with the intrinsic truths in the novel.’

‘Nicky?’

‘Nicholas Latimer.’

‘Do you mean the novelist?’

‘That’s right. America’s boy wonder of literature. I can see, by the look on your face, that you’re wondering why I’m using an American to adapt an English classic for the screen. And that you disapprove.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Francesca protested.

He grinned. ‘Nick Latimer does happen to be a Rhodes Scholar, as well as a hell of a fine writer.’

‘I’m a great admirer of his.’

‘Then you have good taste.’ Victor tossed down the last of his cognac, and rose. ‘Well, now that I’ve enlightened you a bit about movie acting, I’m going to let you go to bed.’ He picked up his jacket and put it on, and together the two of them went out into the hall.

Victor took his trenchcoat from the cupboard and threw it over his arm. He turned to say goodnight, and as he looked at Francesca he experienced that same curious shock of récognition which had so startled him at the beginning of the evening. She hovered near the drawing room door, shrouded in shadows. In the diffused light her face was partially obscured, the pristine features blurred, and she seemed, at that moment, terribly familiar to him, although he knew tonight was the first time he had ever set eyes on her. And yet … an evanescent memory stirred in some remote corner of his mind, and was gone before he could grasp it. He stepped closer to her, in order to see her more clearly, and an unanticipated surge of desire rushed through him; he had the spontaneous urge to take her in his arms and crush her to him. For one awful moment he thought he was going to be stupid enough to do so.

Instead, he found himself saying, somewhat hoarsely, ‘How old are you, Francesca?’

She lifted her face and looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous. ‘Nineteen,’ she said.

‘I thought as much.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Thanks for a swell evening. Good night.’

‘Good night, Victor.’

He turned and left. She stared at the door for several seconds, frowning, and then she went to switch off the lights. As she moved from room to room, she wondered why she felt strangely let down and disappointed.

CHAPTER TEN

Victor Mason sat at the desk in the sitting room of his suite at Claridge’s Hotel, studying the budget for his intended remake of Wuthering Heights.

With his usual punctiliousness, he examined the columns of figures, analysed each projected expenditure with objectivity, endeavouring to ascertain whether, and how, it could be trimmed. Painstakingly, he began to make headway, jotting notes on a yellow legal pad as he found ways to reduce the costs, and eventually at the end of two hours, through scrupulous cutting, he had saved four hundred thousand dollars.

He put down his pen and stared at the figures, and a smile of satisfaction settled on his face. It still wasn’t enough, but it was a start. The last thing he wanted to do was diminish the quality of the production, but he had always felt the budget was far too high, and when Jake Watson, his line producer, had called from Hollywood last night his qualms had been confirmed. Jake had pointed out, and in rather colourful language, that the estimated budget of three million dollars was simply not feasible for a film of this nature.

‘I’ve always felt it wouldn’t fly,’ Victor had told him, ‘even though it was prepared by one of the top production guys in Hollywood, as you know. Maybe that’s the essence of the problem. Since the picture is being made entirely in England, there are probably many ways I can save, which he didn’t consider, perhaps wasn’t even aware of, to be really fair. I’ll try and find a way to bring it in at two million five.’

Jake, whom Victor had just signed for the project, had retorted gloomily, ‘That’s still too high. Try to cut as much of the fat off as you can. I’ll work on it over the weekend. By Tuesday I should have some new figures.’

Jake is right, of course, Victor commented to himself. Two million is nearer the mark. But how do I cut another six hundred thousand dollars? He reached for the telephone to call Jerry Massingham, the English production manager he had engaged last week, and then his hand fell away. Why disturb the man on Sunday. They were scheduled to meet tomorrow and could discuss all the relevant details at that time. There was no real emergency for the next couple of days, and between Jake, Jerry and himself, they ought to be able to pull together a more realistic set of figures. Victor wanted every detail of the project settled and as quickly as possible. With all the facts and figures at his fingertips he could move ahead at once, and negotiate from strength.

Victor took off his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, and then stood up and walked across the room, stretching his legs. He had been at the desk for three hours already and although his progress had been slow, the decisions both trying and difficult, the effort had been worth it. But now he wanted a break. He suddenly wished he was back in Southern California and could take a canter around his ranch. Being essentially a physical man, accustomed to spending a great deal of time outdoors, he always found desk work constraining, despite the fact that budgets and figures intrigued him.

Oddly enough, and unlike most other actors, Victor Mason had acquired a trenchant understanding of the financial and business side of picture making, was aware of its countless ramifications, conversant with the myriad complexities not always comprehended by other artists. He had started his movie career as an extra in Hollywood at the age of twenty, and as he had embarked on the gruelling, rung-by-rung climb up the steep and slippery ladder to stardom, he had diligently made it a point to learn every aspect of movie making. This was for his own protection, with an eye to the future as well as his present work. If there ever came a time when he no longer wanted to be an actor, he would have a second career as a producer to fall back on.

Victor was not stupid. On the contrary, he had a keen intelligence, the ability to assess people and situations accurately, and he was a tough negotiator. Apart from being shrewd and calculating, he was ambitious and driven, and he was the complete realist with his eyes perpetually scanning the profit line. Most importantly, he was blesssed with an unusual amount of foresight.

Long before any of his colleagues had seen it coming, he had predicted a radical change in the motion picture industry. He had proved to be right. Just as he had envisaged late in 1949, the old studio system had begun to disintegrate rapidly and was still plunging on its downward journey into total extinction. More and more stars were breaking free of the restrictions imposed upon them by the long-term contracts that tied them to such studios as Warner Brothers, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Twentieth Century-Fox and Columbia. Not only the stars but all the other talent as well, such as producers, directors and writers, wanted their independence, control of their own careers and total approval of the projects they were involved with. And as far as the stars were concerned, a bigger chunk of the money, a percentage of the profits, to which they were undoubtedly entitled.

Victor had been one of the first to buck the studio system, and he had left the studio which had built him into a big name as soon as his long-term contract had expired. When the president had wanted to sign him up for another seven years he had demurred, and in 1952 he had started his own production company. Until now he had always engaged an outside independent producer to make the films he starred in, and which his company, Bellissima Productions, partially financed. With this remake of the old classic he would not only be on the screen but at the helm.

My first real freedom, he thought. But freedom does bring its own responsibilities.

The telephone rang. He turned around and stared at it in irritation, realizing he had forgotten to ask the hotel switchboard operator to monitor his calls. It shrilled again, insistently, and cursing himself for being so remiss earlier, he went to answer it.

‘Hello,’ he said in a gravely, muffled tone, attempting to disguise his voice.

‘You sound as if you were out on the tiles again last night, you old reprobate. I hope I’m not disturbing you, that this is not an inopportune moment. You sound half asleep for God’s sake. Disgusting at this hour. Are you not alone, perchance?’

Victor chuckled, recognizing Nicholas Latimer’s voice. This was standard dialogue between them, an old joke. They were both early risers, no matter what time they had gone to bed, or with whom. ‘Nicky, you son-of-a-gun, it’s great to hear from you. And of course I’m alone. What else. How’s Paris? How’s it going?’

‘Paris! You must be kidding. All I’ve seen of Paris are the walls of a hotel suite. And it’s not going badly. Quite the opposite, I’d say.’

‘That’s swell. When are you coming in?’

‘Soon,’ Nick replied laconically.

‘What the hell does that mean? Come on, give me a date, Nicky. I want to see you, to talk to you. It’s not the same when you’re not around. I miss my sparring partner.’

Nick said, ‘You all right? I detect a hint of – dejection maybe?’

‘I’m fine, not a bit dejected,’ Victor answered. ‘When can I expect you?’

‘I told you. Soon. When I’ve finished the second draft. It’s rolling pretty well. I’ve licked all the problems, and I think you’ll like the changes. Minor ones, really, but I believe they bring additional drama and effectiveness to the last few scenes.’

‘I’m certain I’ll like the new draft, Nick. There wasn’t much wrong with the first one, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I know you were fairly well satisfied, Vic, but I felt it didn’t move quickly enough, that the pace was slow at the end. Anyway, I’ve sharpened it up in parts, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track now. Incidentally, have you heard from Mike Lazarus?’

Victor caught the subde change in Nick’s tone, the worried intonation. ‘No, not for a few days. Why?’ he asked, instinctively alerted.

‘No real reason. I just wondered, that’s all. He’s a difficult bastard, and I know he’s been on your back for the second draft.’

‘Don’t worry about Lazarus, Nicky. I’m not. I can deal with him. And take all the time you need with the screenplay. We can’t start shooting for at least two months, you know.’

‘Points well taken, Victor. Listen, I’ve got to run, I have an appointment. It was nice talking to you, and I’ll be seeing you soon. Sooner than you think, kid.’

‘I can’t wait,’ Victor replied with a laugh, and they both hung up. He immediately lifted the receiver, told the operator to screen his calls and asked for room service. He ordered coffee, and then turned his attention to the production sheets again, wanting to make a final check of the new figures in readiness for the meeting with the production manager the next day. But his concentration had fled. He found himself thinking instead of Nicholas Latimer, and with not a little affection. He missed Nick and would be glad when he returned from Paris, where he had insisted on going, ‘To hole up and do the rewrite in peace and quiet, with no distractions,’ Nick had explained. Victor missed the younger man, for he had come to rely on his friendship, his companionship, his sharp wit and his incisive mind.

They had first met six years ago, when the writer, then only twenty-three, was being acclaimed as the bright new star on the American literary scene, after publication of his first novel. They had been at a chic party in Bel Air, and had taken to each other immediately. Discovering their mutual boredom with the other guests and the banal movie industry chit-chat, they had made their escape to a bar in Malibu, where they had quickly exchanged confidences and laughed a lot, slowly and diligently getting roaring drunk in the process. Within the space of the next few days, most of which were spent roistering and drinking, they had become firm friends. There were some of their intimates who thought the relationship between the glamorous macho Hollywood movie star and the East Coast intellectual novelist a trifle improbable, even ludicrous, in view of the many diversities in their personalities and backgrounds. Victor and Nicky cocked a snook at these gratuitous opinions.

They knew the reason for their friendship, the foundation for their growing closeness. Quite simply, they understood each other on a fundamental level, and they recognized, too, that this closeness actually sprang from those very disparities in their characters, backgrounds, upbringing and careers. ‘And let’s face it, we do share one common denominator. Neither of us is a wasp. But then I happen to think a wop and a yid make an unbeatable team,’ Nick had said sardonically at the time. Victor had roared. Nicky’s irreverence and his ability to laugh at himself were traits the actor appreciated. Nicholas Latimer and Victor Mason might have been tipped out from the same mould, for both were mavericks at heart.

Nick had rapidly become a permanent fixture in Victor’s life. He was a constant visitor at the ranch near Santa Barbara, he often travelled with Victor to the foreign locations of his movies, and he wrote two original screenplays for him, one of which turned out to be a smashing critical and commercial hit, and earned the two men an Oscar each. Nick also advised Victor on which movie properties to buy, and became a partner in Bellissima Productions. When they were not working, they took trips together. They went up to Oregon, to shoot duck, or fish for salmon at the mouth of the Rogue River; they went skiing in Klosters; they drank and womanized their way from Paris down to the French Riviera and on to Rome, leaving behind a trail of empty champagne bottles and a string of broken hearts. They had fun, they laughed a lot, and, in short, they became inseparable. As the years had passed they had grown to care for each other deeply, in that special way two completely heterosexual men can.

Nick is the best friend I’ve ever had, Victor said to himself, as he sat reflecting. The only real friend I’ve ever had. He instantly corrected himself. Except for Ellie. Yes, Ellie had been his truest and dearest friend, as well as his devoted wife, and he still missed her after all these years.

The numbing ache, which had dwelt in him since her death, flared savagely, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Would he never be free of that terrible sense of loss, this perpetual ache in his gut? He doubted it. Ellie had been the one real miracle of his life, the one thing of true value, and she had possessed that rarest of all human qualities – absolute goodness. There never would be another woman like Ellie, not for him at least. No man was ever fortunate enough to have two such perfect relationships in a lifetime. It just wasn’t in the cards.

Ellie was the only one who deserved to share his fame, the comfort and privilege which came with his wealth, for she had worked luce a dog to help him achieve it. But she had not lived to see him make it into the big time, to enjoy her well-earned rewards. There were times when it seemed to him that his fame was hollow without her beside him. In a sense, he thought of his success as an anomaly. Once the initial euphoria wore off, it had little real meaning, because there was no one to enjoy it with him, no one special who had been there at the beginning, who truly knew the heartache, the sacrifice, the struggle and the immense work it had taken to grasp it. And later, the effort expanded to hold onto it firmly with tenacious hands. That was perhaps the hardest part of all – holding onto the success. In reality it was so ephemeral. And it was lonely at the top. Hellish lonely.

Years ago, when he had been Victor Massonetti, construction worker, the simple Italian-American kid from Cincinnati, Ohio, he had laughed disbelievingly when he had heard someone mouth that cliché. Now he knew it to be true.

Victor realized for the thousandth time how empty his life was without Ellie, and in so many different ways. His other two wives did not count at all, except for the aggravation they had managed to cause him, and neither had ever been able to expunge the memory of his lovely Ellie, or even remotely take her place. But, at least he had the twins. He thought of Jamie and Steve, back home in the States, and instantly the pain lessened, as it always did. And wherever Ellie was now, if there was such a thing as an afterlife, then she knew their boys were loved and safe and protected, and would be for all the days of his life. His mind lingered on his sons and then he made an effort to rouse himself, attempting to push aside the despondent mood which had descended on him so inexplicably.

After a while he felt more composed, and he started to check the figures in front of him, but he had no sooner begun on the second column than a loud knocking on the door disrupted the silence. Surprised, he looked up and frowned. That’s the fastest room service I’ve ever had in this hotel, he thought, striding to the door. He jerked it open, and his jaw dropped.

Nicholas Latimer was standing there, propped up against the door frame, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Sooner than I think indeed!’ Victor exclaimed huffily, glaring at Nick. But his mouth began to twitch with laughter.

‘I know, don’t say it! I’m a bastard and a childish one at that, pulling this assinine trick on you,’ Nick declared. They grasped hands and embraced roughly, and Victor said, ‘Well, don’t stand there, you clown. Come on in.’

‘I took the first plane from Paris this morning. I just checked in a while ago,’ Nick said, his wide grin intact. ‘When I called you I was already in the suite down the hall, as you’ve probably guessed. Couldn’t resist it, kid.’ He ambled into the sitting room and glanced around. ‘Mmmm. Not bad. I like this better than the other suite you had, it’s more your style.’ Nick lowered his long, lanky frame into the nearest chair, slumped down into it, and threw a manilla envelope onto the coffee table with casual grace. ‘I tried to call you last night, but you were out. So – ‘ He shrugged. ‘Well, I decided to fly in. I thought I’d surprise you.’

‘You succeeded. And I’m glad you’re here. I just ordered coffee. Do you want some? How about breakfast?’

‘Just coffee. Thanks, Vic’

Victor went to the telephone and Nick stood up and took off his sports jacket. He draped it over the back of a chair and sat down again. His icy-blue eyes, usually twinkling and full of mischief, were contemplative, and the grin that gave his boyish face a puckish quality, was missing. He looked across at Victor, and his face softened with fondness. He had been right to pack up in Paris and come to London. This was too important to discuss on the telephone. And two heads are infinitely better than one in this kind of situation, he thought. He lit a cigarette and stared at the burning tip, wondering how Victor would receive the news he was about to impart. With equanimity? Or would his Latin temperament get the better of him, as it sometimes did when he was thwarted. Of course, Victor would be angry, and with good reason, but he had a reservoir of self-control and the ability to sheath his emotions when he so wished. Nick decided it could go either way.

Victor sat down opposite Nick, his eyes focused on the envelope. ‘Is that the second draft of the screenplay?’ he asked.

‘It sure is, kid. It’s more or less finished. I have a few changes to make on the last six pages, but I can do that tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s all yours. You can read it later.’ He fell silent, drawing on his cigarette. ‘I came in a couple of days earlier than I’d planned because I wanted to talk to you,’ he said finally.

Recalling Katharine’s words on the previous evening, Victor said, ‘You’ve heard of the telephone, haven’t you?’ He smiled at Nick. ‘Don’t answer that. Obviously you have something important to say, or you wouldn’t be here. Not with Natalie stashed in Paris. Or did you bring her with you?’

‘No. She’s not in Paris either. She had to go back to the Coast to start her new picture. She left in the middle of this past week.’ Nick eyed the rolling cart holding bottles of liquor and soft drinks. ‘I don’t think I want coffee after all. I’d prefer a drink. How about you?’

Victor peered at his watch. ‘Why not. The pubs are now officially open, so I might as well start pouring. What do you want? Scotch or vodka?’

‘Vodka with some tomato juice. And fix yourself a stiff drink. I believe you’re going to need it.’

Victor, who was half-way to the bar, swivelled, staring hard at Nick. He said carefully, ‘Oh. Why?’

‘I’ve given you the good news about the screenplay.’ Nick attempted a smile, but it faltered instantly. ‘But we’ve got a problem. A really serious problem.’

‘Let’s have it.’ Victor picked up the bottle of vodka and proceeded to make Nick’s drink.

‘Mike Lazarus is in Paris – ‘

‘Lazarus! But I spoke to him only last Wednesday and he was in New York,’ Victor cried. He carried the drinks back to the seating arrangement in front of the fireplace, and sat down.

‘Maybe so. But right now he’s well ensconced in the Plaza-Athénée.’ Noting the surprise registering on Victor’s face, Nick exclaimed heatedly: ‘You should know what he’s like by now, Vic! When you’re the president of a multinational corporation, as he is, you’re ubiquitous. And he thinks nothing of hopping onto that private plane of his and hitting the sky as casually as though he’s driving down the Los Angeles freeway.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Down the hatch.’ Victor fixed his eyes tightly on Nick. ‘I have the oddest feeling you’re about to tell me Lazarus is on the war-path. About the picture. So what? I’m ready for him. And I’ve told you before, I can deal with him. Believe me, I really can. ‘

Nick raised his hand. ‘Wait, Vic. Just hear me out, please. You’re right. Lazarus is on a rampage. He’s also heading for London – ‘

‘How come you’re so well informed about Lazarus? And what he’s up to? How do you know so much?’

Nick said slowly, choosing his words with care, ‘You know, life is full of surprises, and it can be awfully ironic. Do you remember Hélène Vernaud, the Dior model I used to date?’

‘Sure. The tall brunette with the stunning figure and the great legs.’

Nick could not resist laughing. Trust Victor to remember a beautiful girl. ‘Let’s forget about her figure. She happens to be a graduate of the Sorbonne and the London School of Economics, and she is extremely astute. In fact, she’s a hell of a lot smarter than most people I know. Anyway, as you know, we remained friends after we split up, and I called her when I got to Paris three weeks ago. We had lunch, a few laughs remembering old times, and all that jazz. Halfway through lunch she asked me what I was writing. I told her I was doing the screenplay of Wuthering Heights. For you. She immediately became tense and strained, even a little agitated, much to my amazement. She then blurted out that she knew something about the picture because she was involved with its main backer, Mike Lazarus. To tell you the truth, I was floored. But, not to digress. Hélène begged me not to mention our lunch. Apparently Lazarus is very jealous and keeps her on a tight rein.’ Nick stood up. ‘I need another Bloody Mary. Can I fix you a Scotch?’

Victor declined, then asked, ‘What’s a beautiful, bright, high-class girl like Hélène doing with that slimy snake-in-the-grass Lazarus?’

‘God knows.’ Nick returned to his chair. ‘In any event, I promised her she could rely on my absolute discretion, should I have the misfortune to be in Mike Lazarus’s company in the near future. We finished lunch in a more relaxed manner, and that was that. Natahe flew in from Hollywood for a few days, and I forgot all about Hélène and her involvement with Lazarus. Until yesterday morning. She called me from her mother’s apartment, sounding very secretive and nervous, and asked me to meet her there within the hour. I didn’t know what it was all about. Obviously. But I think enough of Hélène to trust her judgment. I’m glad I do. Last Friday she was having dinner with Lazarus in his suite at the Plaza-Athénée, when he received a call. It was either from New York, or the Coast, Hélène wasn’t sure – ‘

‘And she heard something of importance about the picture, is that it?’ Victor interrupted.

‘Yep.’

‘Look, I don’t want to throw aspersions on Hélène’s veracity, or whatever, but I hardly think a man like Mike Lazarus is going to discuss important business in front of a girl friend. He’s secretive and paranoid, among other things.’

‘I agree with you. And perhaps someone less bright than Hélène would not have been able to put two and two together and make six. It was all pretty cryptic. However, a number of things he said led her to believe he was referring to us, and our picture, although he didn’t actually mention any names.’

‘Then how can she be so sure?’ Victor demanded, giving Nick a doubtful stare, one brow lifting.

‘Because he had some scathing things to say about a screenplay by an esoteric novelist who is also a Rhodes Scholar, to quote Hélène quoting him. He was also extremely disparaging about a movie star who thought he was a producer, who was suffering from la folie des grandeurs. Again, that’s a direct quote. It has to be us, Vic’

Straightening up in the chair, Victor said, ‘O.K. I’ll grant you that. Now shoot. Give it to me straight.’

Nick took a deep breath. ‘He wants a new script by another writer. He won’t approve of an unknown actress playing the female lead. He thinks the budget is astronomically high. He discussed that at great length, by the way, with whoever was on the other end of the line. Hélène distinctly heard him say he thought it was padded, that three million dollars couldn’t be justified, couldn’t possibly show up on the screen. He seemed to think, from the tenor of his conversation, that he was about to be bled dry and robbed blind. Finally, he said he was going to remove the producer if he didn’t toe the line, and make him do what he did best. Acting.’

‘The son of a bitch!’ Victor exclaimed quietly, and his black eyes flashed dangerously. ‘What makes him think he can take over my film without so much as a by your leave! A project I’ve worked on for almost a year!’

Nick said evenly, ‘Because he has unmitigated chutzpah and also because he’s holding the cheque book. That’s why he thinks he can take over. And you know it.’

Victor gazed at Nick silently. Then he nodded, and after a long moment, he said, ‘Lazarus is correct about the budget, Nicky. It is too high. Mind you, it’s not padded. Merely erroneous.’ He glanced at the desk. ‘I’ve been sitting there all morning, cutting production costs.’ He related the conversation he had had with Jake Watson the previous evening, and went on, ‘I’m trying to bring the picture in at two million dollars.’

‘That ought to more than satisfy Lazarus,’ Nick said. ‘But there’s still the question of the script, and your position as producer – ‘

Cutting in, Victor said, with unusual sharpness, ‘Lazarus knows he cannot, and I repeat cannot, remove me as producer under any circumstances, however much screaming he does. He’s obviously trying to pull one on. And as the producer I have the final word on the script, and Lazarus knows that too.’

‘Even so, I honestly think he’ll give you trouble about casting an unknown in the Catherine Earnshaw role.’ Nick stopped, wondering uncertainly whether or not he should go on, and then he plunged in: ‘Listen, Vic, perhaps that is a bad idea. I know you can carry the picture yourself, that you don’t need any other big-name stars backing you up, but maybe Lazarus does have a point. Why even bother to test Katharine Tempest? Why don’t you give the part to an established movie actress, and save yourself additional problems with Lazarus?’

Victor shook his head. ‘No, Nicky. I’m testing Katharine.’

Nick observed him closely, and noting the adamant set of his jawline, he refrained from comment. He wondered to himself if Victor and Katharine were romantically involved, and quickly dismissed the idea as highly unlikely. But even if they were, the days of the casting couch were long since gone. Besides which, Victor was too shrewd, too tough and too much of the businessman to fall into that dangerous trap. He wouldn’t take any chances with his career, or his money, for a quick fling with a passing fancy. Notwithstanding, Nick was curious. ‘Why are you so keen on testing her?’

‘Because I gave her my promise, and because in a way she has earned it. Of course, there’s another reason, the most important reason of all. I just happen to believe she would be perfect in the part. There’s a kind of wildness in her, a fire, that reminds me very much of Cathy in Wuthering Heights. I think she would be as good as Merle Oberon in the role, perhaps even better. It strikes me Katharine Tempest has a lot more vivacity and spirit. If she tests the way I hope she will, I’m going to put her in the picture, and to hell with my backers, whoever they are.’ Victor’s mood changed abruptly, and he gave Nick a smile that hinted at his satisfaction. ‘I’m also going to sign her to a contract with Bellissima Productions. You see, I have a sneaking feeling Katharine Tempest is going to be a big star one day, although I wouldn’t say that to anyone else but you until after I’ve seen the test. Look, trust me. I know what I’m doing. From the very first moment I met Katharine I have felt that she has that – that indescribable thing, that IT. Charisma. Star quality. Whatever you want to call it. If she can project this quality to the camera, and I hope she can, then she’s home free. She’ll be very, very big. If she can’t – ‘ He pursed his lips regretfully. ‘Well, she’ll go on being a brilliant actress. On the stage.’ Now he chuckled, his eyes merry. ‘I don’t know why you haven’t spotted this quality in her yourself.’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. But – ‘ Nick’s voice trailed off and he lifted his shoulders in a weary gesture. ‘Look, Vic, I have to repeat that Lazarus will never go for the idea of an unknown actress in this role, however good she is. He seems hell bent on getting a big female movie star to play opposite you. You know something else? I have a strong suspicion he’s going to arrive in London before you can blink. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’s here already.’

Victor rose and poured himself another Scotch. ‘I might as well tell you, I’ve been seriously thinking of dumping Lazarus.’ This was uttered with casualness, indifference even, and he looked unconcerned. ‘In fact, the thought’s been hovering at the back of my mind for a couple of weeks. He’s an autocratic, interfering bastard. A megalomaniac. And just because he runs a giant multinational corporation doesn’t mean he knows how to produce a movie, although he undoubtedly believes he does. But he’s a rank amateur in our business. It has struck me innumerable times lately, and quite forcibly, that I’m letting myself in for a lot of headaches if I take him into Bellissima Productions. Or rather, let him invest in the picture. I’m sorry I ever got involved with him, to tell you the truth. And what I’ve just heard from you makes me more wary than ever. I think I have to lose him, and quickly.’

‘Jesus, Vic! That would be great. But how are you going to get rid of him? I thought you had a contract.’

‘A contract was drawn between Bellissima Productions and Lazarus, but I haven’t signed it yet. There were a couple of clauses in it that bothered me, and I sent it over to my solicitor here. A copy has also gone to my lawyer in Beverly Hills. I’m waiting for their opinions before I sign. So you see, I can dump him any time I want, without fear of repercussions. As yet, Mike Lazarus hasn’t invested a nickel, you know. So basically, he has no claims whatsoever. I’m still in the driver’s seat.’ He settled back, looking smug.

‘But how will you finance the picture without him?’ Nick asked worriedly.

‘Ah, and therein lies the rub, to quote good old Will Shakespeare. To be honest, I don’t know right now. I hadn’t wanted to go to one of the majors for financing as well as distribution, but I might have to in the end. Anything is better than Lazarus. Metro might be interested. What do you think?’

Nick frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. They might not be too excited by a remake of Wuthering Heights. Did you see that story in Variety a couple of weeks back? The exhibitors were sounding off about remakes, and in very strong terms. They think they are box office poison, that people aren’t interested in them.’

‘Oh come on, sport, forget it, and let me worry about the timeliness of the picture, the money, and all that jazz. I think Hélène’s information about Lazarus has spooked you a bit. For God’s sake, don’t let’s get depressed about that joker. I’ll find a way to pull the deal together. Now, why don’t we get out of here? I’d like some fresh air and a brisk walk. Shall we mosey on up to the Connaught Hotel for lunch? It’s the whole enchilada on Sunday.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ Nick said, trying to sound cheerful.

‘Give me five minutes to get dressed. And help yourself to another drink while you’re waiting.’

‘Thanks, I will.’ Nick stood up and walked over to the bar cart, deep in thought. He turned. ‘I say, Vic, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’ Victor paused at the bedroom door, his hand resting on the knob, conscious of the gravity in Nick’s tone.

Nick’s face was unusually solemn. ‘Assuming you definitely decide not to go ahead with Mike Lazarus as your main backer, what will you do if you can’t get financing from one of the majors, such as Metro, Twentieth or Warners?’

A thoughtful look drifted across Victor’s face, and he cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have to abort the production. Cancel the picture. I’ll have no alternative,’ he said with some deliberation, having already confronted this possibility and made his decision. ‘The pre-production money will go down the drain unfortunately, but there’s not much I can do about that. And thank God it won’t cripple Bellissima Productions. It can be written off as a tax loss.’ He sighed lightly. ‘C’est la guerre, old buddy.’ He gave Nick a lopsided grin and went through into the bedroom.

Cancel the picture, Nick thought, staring after him, staggered, disbelieving. After all the hard work they had put into it. Jesus Christ! Not only the pre-production money would go down the drain, but a year of their lives as well. Yet Nick knew Victor meant every word. Things were always carefully evaluated and well thought out before he made a judgment. His decisions were nothing if not judicious and pragmatic.

Nick felt his own sharp disappointment as he considered the screenplay he had laboured on so diligently and with such love these past endless months. He knew it to be one of his best pieces of writing, and he suddenly felt sick at heart at the idea of its never seeing the light of day.

You’re being selfish. You’re only thinking about yourself, he muttered, carrying his drink over to the window. He parted the curtains and looked out, but saw nothing except a dim blur of grimy buildings washed in wintry sunlight. But a lot of other people will be disappointed too, thought Nick sadly, not the least Victor, who had dreamed of making Wuthering Heights for the longest time, was aching to play Heathcliff for the sheer challenge the role offered to him. Nick knew Victor wanted to stretch his talent, was weary of being thought of simply as an immense presence on the screen.

He and Victor would recover from their disappointment relatively quickly, as would the production team, and move on to other projects. Victor had several offers for future films lined up, and he himself had a new novel fermenting in his head, and was anxious to start working on it as soon as possible. Yes, he and Victor were lucky in that respect. They would cut their losses, lick their wounds and walk away reasonably unscarred. But what of Katharine Tempest? She was staking everything on the screen test and the role in the film. It was a rare chance for her to catapult herself into the big time with unusual speed. Without Victor and this film it could be years before she was offered another such incredible break. If ever. Undoubtedly Katharine had put all her chips on this roll of the dice. She could win big. Or lose hard. And if she lost she would be devastated. Nick knew all of this although he had never been the recipient of any confidences from her. He simply knew it through intuition.

Nick let his thoughts dwell on Katharine. He understood why Victor saw great potential in her as a movie actress. Nick was not blind to Katharine’s attributes, which were manifold. However, conversely, his personal reaction to her was quite different from everyone else’s. Her extraordinary beauty had not beguiled him, nor had her enormous charm captivated him. In essence, she had failed to touch him as a man, and very simply he was not sure of her as a woman. Nick had detected an inherent coldness in her personality. It was a frigidity really, and, to him, this seemed all the more peculiar in view of her apparent sensuality. Except that instinctively he felt this was a façade she presented to the world, was bound up with her looks and had nothing to do with her true nature. The sensuality was on the surface. It did not run deep in her. On the few occasions he had been in her company, he had become increasingly aware of other traits which disturbed him. It struck him, unexpectedly, that there was a dichotomy in Katharine’s makeup. There was no denying her warmth and gaiety. Yet at other times she appeared strangely removed, to him, as if she had the ability to stand away from herself, as though she viewed everthing with cool indifference. No, immense detachment. He thought now: She is isolated and uninvolved with anyone on a human level.

He shook his head in bewilderment. Oh, Christ, I’m being over imaginative, he decided. There’s nothing wrong with the girl really. She’s excessively ambitious perhaps, but then who isn’t in this business. With a small shock Nick admitted he did not particularly like her, and this revelation astonished him. There was no real basis for his active dislike, and yet dislike her he did.

As he stood, sipping his drink and staring out of the window, striving to analyse his feelings, Nicholas Latimer did not know that it would take him years to fully comprehend his complex emotions in regard to Katharine Tempest.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Katharine stood in the tiny kitchen of her flat in Lennox Gardens, waiting for the kettle to boil for her morning tea. She put a piece of bread in the toaster, and then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up into the cupboard, taking out a cup and saucer, and a plate. She opened the refrigerator door, removed the butter dish and a stone jar of Dundee marmalade, and placed them on a tray with the other china, her movements swift yet graceful.

The kitchen was so small that there was only enough space for one person in it, but because it was so sparklingly fresh and neat and free of the unnecessary clutter Katharine detested, it seemed much less claustrophobic than it actually was. When Katharine had taken the flat two years earlier, she had had the walls and the cabinets painted a pale duck-egg blue, and this delicate colour helped to open up the confined dimensions, as did the matching marbleized linoleum on the floor. Blue cotton curtains, gauzy and weightless, framed the small window, and on the windowsill itself there was a selection of red geraniums in clay pots, and these introduced a spark of vivid colour and springlike greenery.

Katharine stepped to the window and glanced out. The flat was on the top floor and had once been the attics of the house, before it had been converted into flats. Consequently, she had a charming bird’s eye view from her little eyrie, and one which faced onto the enclosed gardens situated in the centre of the semi-circular terrace of imposing Victorian mansions. In the summer months she looked down onto great leafy domes and cupolas shimmering with iridescent green light as the sunshine filtered through the lacy texture of the interwoven branches weighted with verdant leaves. On this February morning, the gardens were bereft, the trees stripped of beauty and life. But their black and bony branches did reach up into the prettiest sky she had seen in a long time. The dark and tumescent clouds which had shrouded London in perpetual greyness for weeks had miraculously been blown away. For once it was not raining.

It’s almost like an April morning, Katharine thought with a happy smile, and she decided there and then that she would walk to the restaurant for her luncheon appointment at one o’clock. She debated what to wear and settled on the new outfit her dressmaker had delivered last week. She was mentally reviewing the accessories which would best go with it, when the kettle’s piercing whistle cut into her musings, and she turned off the gas, filled the teapot, put the toast on the plate and carried the breakfast tray into the living room.

Despite the sunlight flooding in through the windows, this room had an air of overwhelming coldness. Essentially, this was induced by the colour scheme and the overall style of the decoration, which was austere. Everything in the room was of the purest white. Gleaming white-lacquered walls flowed down to meet a thick white carpet covering the entire floor. White silk draperies rippled icily at the windows, and white wool sheathed the long sofa and several armchairs. The latter were sleek and modern in design, as was all of the furniture in the room, including two end tables flanking the sofa, a large square coffee table and an étagère set against one wall. These pieces were made of chrome and glass, and they introduced a hard and glittering aspect that further emphasized an atmosphere excessively glacial in its overtones.

There were few accent colours in this setting, so evocative of a frozen landscape, and these were dark and muted tones of steel grey and black, and did little to counteract the chilly monotony that prevailed. Tall pewter lamps on the glass end tables were topped with steel grey linen shades, and the same metallic grey was repeated in the velvet cushions on the sofa and chairs. Black and white etchings of knights in armour, framed in chrome, marched along one wall, while a huge cylindrical glass vase containing spidery black branches stood sentinel in one corner. The étagère displayed a pair of black-lacquered candlesticks sprouting white candles and a black-lacquered Japanese bowl. There were no photographs of family or friends, none of the usual intimate objects that provide evidence of past, treasured memories, or a personal life. The room, in all truth, had the sterility of a nun’s barren and virginal cell, and it echoed the adjoining bedroom, also washed completely in pure white and unrelieved by any contrasting colours whatsoever. Katharine had furnished and decorated the flat herself, and if anyone had told her it was icy and lifeless and intimidating, she would have gaped at them askance. She loved the pristine effect she had so carefully created, considered it to be elegant and sophisticated, saw only beauty in its purity and cleanliness, elements so necessary to her well being.

Hurrying across the room, she put the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. There was a dreamy faraway expression on her face, and as she sipped her tea she allowed herself to drift with her meandering thoughts. Katharine was feeling marvellous. Euphoria and excitement had carried her through the week and now, on this Thursday morning, it seemed to her that every day that had passed since Saturday night had been a huge success.

Both Francesca and the Earl had loved her performance as Helen of Troy, and the dinner at Les Ambassadeurs, with Victor acting as the host, had been memorable. Most important to Katharine, the Earl had taken to her immediately, and she knew he had been charmed, and therefore she did not envision him creating any problems or interfering in her relationship with Kim.

Katharine was not wrong in her belief that the Earl of Langley had liked her. In fact, they had been impressed with each other, the conservative English peer of the realm and the young American beauty, and their easy accord had created a warm and friendly atmosphere, had made for a relaxed evening. Everyone had enjoyed themselves to such a degree that Victor had extended the party into the early hours, and had taken them upstairs to the Milroy to dance to Paul Adams and his orchestra. Katharine, the actress incarnate, had surpassed herself, intuitively striking the perfect balance between reticence and gaiety.

The following day, Victor had taken her to lunch at Claridge’s, the sole purpose being to discuss more fully the screen test, and to enumerate the many differences between acting on a stage and before a camera. He had held forth at great length, offering her many helpful and instructive guidelines. Katharine had been touched by this thoughtful-ness on his part, and grateful to him for his sound advice. He had arranged to meet with her again, for another session before the test itself, which had been confirmed for Friday of the coming week, eight days away. Tomorrow evening the Earl was taking her to dinner with Kim and Francesca, before returning to Yorkshire with Kim at the weekend.

Katharine smiled to herself, and it was a smile of self-congratulation and jubilance. Events were moving with the precision of clockwork; all the plans she had so painstakingly made were coming to fruition. She would marry Kim and become Viscountess Ingleton, and she would be a big international movie star. She settled back contentedly, cuddling down into her woollen dressing gown, hugging herself with joy. Her dreams would soon be realized. There would be no more pain and heartache and grief. Her life was going to be wonderful from now on.

As she sat daydreaming on the sofa, it never occurred to Katharine Tempest that things might be just a little too good to be true, or that something beyond her control might happen to mar these halcyon days. And if such a thought had crossed her mind she would have dismissed it at once, and with a degree of scorn. For unfortunately, Katharine was afflicted with a character flaw that was almost Hellenic in its proportions. She was crippled by hubris, that defect the Greeks defined as the temerity to tempt the Gods, in essence, an excess of overweening pride and the unwavering conviction of personal invulnerability. Being blindly unaware of this blemish in herself, she had no qualms about anything she did, and so she was also quite confident about the result of the screen test. She would be marvellous and Victor would give her the part in the film.

Victor Mason had told Katharine he intended to start principal photography in April, and this starting date suited Katharine admirably. Her contract with the theatrical producers of Trojan Interlude had an ‘out-of-the-play’ clause, and this came into effect after she had been in the play for one year. The year would be up at the end of March and so she could invoke the clause and leave the production to do the film. The shooting schedule was for twelve weeks, with exteriors to be shot in Yorkshire, interiors at one of the major studios in London. Victor had also told Katharine that he planned to have the footage edited quickly, since he wanted the answer print by September. From this master print he intended to strike two more prints, he had gone on to explain. The film could thus be shown in cinemas in New York and Los Angeles, for one week before the end of the year, thereby making the picture eligible, under the rules, for the Academy Awards of 1956. Although Victor would not be putting the film into general distribution until the spring of 1957, he had confided he did not want to miss a chance at the Oscar nominations.

What if she won an Oscar! This prospect was at once so stunning, so electrifying, so dazzling, Katharine felt momentarily dizzy. And because she had that most unique of all talents, the talent for believing in herself, the idea that she had a chance of winning was not at all beyond the realms of possibility in her mind. But even if she did not win an Oscar, Katharine did not doubt that she would be a star when the picture was released. And her success would not only bring her fame on a grand scale, but money, lots of money, a very special kind of power.

A faint white shadow glanced across Katharine’s face, tinging it with unfamiliar bitterness and dislodging the joy which had previously rested there.

Soon, very soon, she would be able to make her moves, put her final plan into operation, and execute it with the sure knowledge that she would be triumphant. A tiny fluttering sigh escaped Katharine’s lips. It was too late to save her mother, but not too late to save her brother, Ryan. Her dearest Ryan. Lost to her for so long. This desire had been one of the prime motivations behind many of Katharine’s actions for the past few years, and just as she was unremittingly driven to succeed in her career, so too was she driven to rescue Ryan from their father’s domination, from his contaminating influence. Sometimes, when she thought of Ryan, panic moved through Katharine and she quivered with fear for him. Ryan was nearly nineteen, and she often wondered to what degree his soul had been poisoned by that man. Had Ryan inevitably become their father’s creature, partially if not wholly? This idea was so repugnant to her, so unacceptable, and so terrifying, she pushed it away fiercely, denying it with silent vehemence; but her resolution to get her brother away from Chicago and to keep him with her wherever she was living, was reinforced more strongly than ever.

Katharine thought about Ryan, and the daunting expression slowly lifted from her face; her features grew soft, the hardness tempered by love and tenderness. But as always when she contemplated him, other images intruded. Her hands tightened in her lap and she sat staring into space fixedly, without moving, her body as immobile as a statue. Surrounding Ryan like a fateful nimbus was that brooding grotesque house where they had grown up, and where Ryan still lived, that awful mausoleum of a place, that dubious tribute to her father’s wealth and position and his terrible power. She had always loathed that house with its dusky hallways and winding staircases and dolorous rooms stuffed to overflowing with expensive ugly antiques, all manner of bric-a-brac and undistinguished paintings. It was a masterpiece of ostentation, reeking of bad taste, new money and suffocating unhappiness. To Katharine it was also a house of deprivation. Oh, they had had expensive clothes and the best food and cars and servants, for their father was a millionaire many times over. But it was, to Katharine, still a deprived house, for there had been so little genuine love in it. She shuddered involuntarily. She had not set foot in that house for six years, and on the day she had left it she had vowed she would never darken its doors again.

Katharine’s thoughts rushed to her father, and although she consistently obliterated his image in her mind’s eye, today she did not even attempt to extinguish it. She saw him quite vividly, as if he stood before her, Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke, with his handsome saturnine face and ebony-black hair, eyes as blue as sapphires and as hard as that stone they so closely resembled. He was a dreadful man, and she realized suddenly that she had always understood this, even when she had been a very small child. She had simply not known the words to properly describe him then. Today she had them at the tip of her tongue. He was exigent, rapacious and ruthless, a venal man who had made money his mistress and power his God. The world did not know Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke as she knew him. He was a monumental anachronism: the charming, laughing, entertaining, silver-tongued Irishman in public, the stern, glowering and dictatorial tyrant in his own home. Katharine hated him. Just as he hated her. Gooseflesh speckled her arms and she pulled her robe closer around her. She recalled, with the most sharp and awful clarity, the day she had first recognized her father’s virulent hatred for her. It had been in August 1947. She had been twelve years old.

On that day, nearly nine years ago, Katharine had been her happiest in many months, this state engendered by her mother’s unexpected presence at lunch. Rosalie O’Rourke was feeling so much better she had decided to join her children at their noonday meal. Katharine had been singularly overjoyed to see her mother looking practically like her old self; and if Rosalie was not brimming with the vitality which had once been such an essential and natural part of her personality, she seemed lighthearted, almost carefree. Her eyes, widely set and a clear tourmaline green, sparkled with laughter, and her abundant red hair, crackling with life, was a burnished bronze helmet above her heart-shaped face, which was free of pain today, and had lost some of its waxen pallor. She was wearing a pale green silk-shantung dress with long sleeves and a full skirt, and its style disguised her thin body, so tragically wasted by illness. A choker of lustrous pearls encircled her neck, and there were matching pearl studs in her ears; her tapering fingers glittered with beautiful rings set with diamonds and emeralds.

Mrs O’Rourke had instructed Annie, the housekeeper, to serve luncheon in the breakfast room, one of the few cheerful spots in the dim and shadowy house, and which Rosalie herself had personally decorated. It had a lovely aura of airy lightness, was brushstroked throughout in a pretty mélange of crisp white and sharp lemon yellow, rafts of these refreshing colours appearing everywhere. It was furnished, in the main, with white wicker furniture, unusual handsome pieces from the Victorian era, and there were colourful prints of exotic birds and rare orchids on the walls and an abundance of tall green plants. Decorated in the same charming manner as Rosalie’s suite of rooms on the second floor, it was refined and gracious, yet without being at all stylized in appearance.

As she had sat gazing adoringly at her mother across the table, Katharine had thought how distinguished and elegant she looked, perfectly groomed and smelling faintly of lilies of the valley as she invariably did. To Katharine her mother was, and always would be, the epitome of beauty and feminine grace, and she idolized her. Katharine, at this moment, was filled with renewed hope for her mother, who seemed to be on the way to recovering from the mysterious illness which had afflicted her for the past two years, an illness no one really discussed, except in whispers.

Since it was a weekday, Patrick O’Rourke had not been present, and in consequence, the tension which generally accompanied their meals was fortunately missing. Ryan had chattered like a magpie, had kept them entertained, and they had laughed a lot and enjoyed themselves. Katharine had felt secure, basking in her mother’s love. It was a love given unstintingly and with all of Rosalie’s tender and caring heart.

Only one thing marred this joyful occasion for Katharine, and this was her mother’s poor appetite, and she had watched with growing dismay as Rosalie had picked at her food desultorily, leaving untouched most of the delicious and tempting dishes their housekeeper Annie had prepared. After lunch, Ryan had disappeared, intent on some boyish escapade. When her mother had asked Katharine to spend another hour with her, she had delightedly accepted. Nothing pleased the twelve-year-old girl more than to be alone with her mother in the cool secluded suite she occupied. Katharine loved the comfortable rooms with their pastel colour schemes and delicate fabrics, French Provincial furniture and lovely paintings, so unlike the rest of the house which bore her father’s vulgar stamp. The sitting room, in particular, was Katharine’s favourite, and most especially on cold days. Then the fire blazed and crackled in the hearth and they sat before its roaring flames in that special twilight hour, toasting their toes and chatting cosily about books and music and the theatre, or relaxing in silence, always in perfect harmony, for there was a deep understanding and abiding love between them. That afternoon they had seated themselves by the window overlooking Lake Michigan, not talking very much, content to be sharing this time. It had been a long while since they had had an opportunity to spend an afternoon with each other because of Rosalie’s precarious health.

At thirty-two Rosalie O’Rourke had made her peace with herself and her God, and this new-found tranquillity showed in her face, which, despite her illness, was still lovely. Today it had an ethereal quality lightly overshadowed by a faint wistfulness, and her eyes were soft and filled with the tenderest of lights as she sat gazing out over the lake, endeavouring to gather her strength. The lunch had vitiated her energies, but she did not wish this to show, wanted Katharine to be reassured about her condition. Rosalie had not experienced much joy in her life after her marriage, except through her children, mostly Katharine, whom she adored. She had quickly discovered she was no match for Patrick, with his rampant virility and quick Irish temper, his lust for life in all its aspects, and his hunger for money and power, which was insatiable. Her refinement and delicacy, her fragility and artistic nature had inevitably isolated her from her husband, and her gentle soul continually shrank from his blatant masculinity and voracious appetites. Despite her love for him, curiously undiminished, she had come to regret the union, recognizing the unsuitability of their temperaments. Few knew the real Patrick, for he was adept at concealment, cloaking his true nature behind an austere and dignified façade; and he was a past master at the art of dissimulation, adroit, and persuasive of tongue.

‘That one’s kissed the Blarney stone, by God he has, and not once but many times over,’ her father had said to her early in the whirlwind courtship. Her father had continued to be ambivalent about Patrick long after their marriage, never truly sure the relationship would work. In certain ways it had been successful, in others it had not, and there had been times when Rosalie had contemplated leaving Patrick. But divorce was unthinkable. She was a Catholic, as was he, and there were the children, whom she knew he would never relinquish. And she still had deep feelings for him, regardless of his faults.

Although Rosalie hardly ever acknowledged it as a fact, or dwelt upon it morbidly, she knew that she was dying. The spurts of vigour and renewed energy and remissions were quite meaningless, and they were growing increasingly infrequent. Now, as she sat with her daughter, she thought sadly: I have so little time left on this good earth, so little time to give to Katharine and Ryan, God help them.

Every day Rosalie, who was devout, gave thankful prayers to the Almighty that her daughter and her son were more like her in their basic characters, and had not inherited many of their father’s dismaying traits, at least so far as she could ascertain. She glanced at Katharine, sitting sedately in the chair, obedient and well mannered, and she marvelled at her yet again. The child looked so young and demure in her yellow cotton dress and white socks and black patent-leather strap shoes. And yet there was something oddly grownup in her demeanour, as though she had seen much of life, had encountered its pain and pitfalls and was wise and knowing. Rosalie realized this was an idiotic idea, since the girl was over-protected, had never been exposed to anything but luxury and the safety of her family and her home. But one thing which could not be denied was Katharine’s extraordinary physical appearance. She was a great beauty, even at this tender age, with her lovely features and rich chestnut hair and those liquid eyes with their curious turquoise hue. Katharine had a sweet and loving personality which echoed the sweetness in her face, but Rosalie knew this disguised a streak of wilful stubbornness. She also suspected that her daughter might have a touch of Patrick’s ruthlessness in her as well, but perhaps this was all to the good. Rosalie instinctively felt Katharine was capable of looking after herself, protecting herself against Patrick and the world at large, for she had the spirit of a fighter, and she would survive against all odds. And for this Rosalie was suddenly thankful.

Of her two children, it was Ryan whom she worried about the most. He was far too timid to effectively defend himself against Patrick, who doted on him in the most alarming way, seeing in Ryan the heir apparent who would glorify the name O’Rourke, and who was the malleable tool for Patrick’s own terrifying ambition. How Pat had longed for this son; how disappointed he had been when he had first set eyes on Katharine, a mere girl. Ryan’s birth had been perhaps the single most important occasion in Patrick’s life, and he had had his plans worked out for the boy that very day. Possibly they had been formulated years before, those high-flown grandiose plans that sickened Rosalie. Her efforts to dissuade her husband had been futile, her entreaties had fallen on stony ground, and to the sound of laughter and angry, condemning words. She was helpless. She could not prevent Patrick from putting those plans into eventual motion. She would not be alive when that day finally arrived. She could only pray that Ryan would have the strength and the willpower to stand up to his father, the inner resources to walk away from Patrick, with his integrity intact, when the time came. If he did do this, Patrick would immediately disinherit and disown him, of that she had no doubt. Ryan would be penniless. A poor young man. But he would be safe, and ultimately rich in that he would be free of his father’s domination and control. He would be his own man, not a puppet manipulated by Patrick O’Rourke.

Rosalie sighed, thinking of Patrick, and she wondered why she still had such overpowering emotions for him, when she knew him to be quite monstrous. How strange and perverse women are, she thought.

‘Is anything wrong, Mother?’ Katharine asked in a small worried voice, cutting into Rosalie’s thoughts.

Rosalie managed to force a smile onto her face, and she replied quickly, lightly, ‘No, darling, of course not. I was just thinking how neglectful I’ve been of you lately, but you know I haven’t had much strength or energy. I wish we could spend more time together, especially now that you have school vacation.’

‘Oh, so do I, Mother,’ Katharine exclaimed. ‘But you mustn’t worry about me. All I want is for you to get better.’ Katharine jumped down off the chair and joined Rosalie on the sofa. She took hold of her mother’s fine hand and gazed up into her face, and unexpectedly she saw something in the green eyes that frightened her. She was not sure what it was. A look of immense sadness perhaps. Or was it resignation? The girl was unable to pinpoint it accurately, but her heart clenched and her own eyes filled with sudden bright tears. ‘You will get better, won’t you, Momma?’ Katharine hesitated and her lip quivered as she whispered, ‘You’re not going to die, are you?’

Rosalie laughed and shook her burnished copper curls. ‘Of course not, you silly child! I’m going to be fine, and very soon I’ll be my old self.’ The smile widened and she continued bravely, ‘After all, I have to be around when you star in your first play. I have to see your name in lights on the marquee, and be there on opening night. You do still want to be an actress, don’t you, honey?’

Rosalie spoke with such assurance, Katharine’s fears were allayed. She blinked back her tears and instantly brightened. ‘Oh, yes, I do, Momma. I really do.’ Although her smile was watery, there was extraordinary determination in her child’s voice. Then she asked, ‘You don’t think he’ll object, do you?’

A frown touched Rosahe’s pale face and was gone. ‘Your father? I’m sure he won’t. And why should he?’ Rosalie shifted slightly on the sofa and eased herself back against the cushions, experiencing a twinge of pain. ‘You know what fathers are like. They don’t pay much attention to such things. They think their daughters should get married the moment they leave college, and then have lots of babies. I suppose he’ll simply think it’s a nice way for you to pass your time until you do get married.’

‘But I’ve no intention of getting married,’ said Katharine with unprecedented fierceness, and her eyes flared with the sharpest of blue flame. ‘I want to be a famous actress like Sarah Bernhardt and Eleanora Duse and Katharine Cornell. I intend to devote my life to the theatre. I won’t have any time for a foolishness like marriage,’ she scoffed.

Rosalie bit back a smile of amusement. ‘Well, darling, you might change your mind one day, especially when you fall in love.’

‘Oh, I know I won’t!’

Rosalie made no comment to this last remark, but continued to smile lovingly at her daughter. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t go for our usual summer visit to Aunt Lucy’s in Barrington. It would have been such a pleasant change from Chicago. It’s so hot here right now. But your father thought the trip would overtire me. You don’t mind being in the city too much, do you, Katharine?’

‘No, Momma. I like going to Barrington, but not without you. I just want to stay here and keep you company.’

That’s sweet of you.’ Rosalie pondered for a moment and then asked softly, ‘You do like your aunt, don’t you, dear?’

Katharine was surprised by this question. “Course I do, Momma. I love Aunt Lucy.’

Rosalie squeezed Katharine’s small hand. ‘She has been a great source of strength for me as long as I can remember, and my dearest friend, as well as my sister.’ Rosalie stopped. There was something else which she needed to say, but she did not want to alarm Katharine, and so she sought her words with great care. ‘Aunt Lucy loves you dearly, Katharine. You’re like the daughter she never had. And she will always be there for you, my darling. Don’t ever forget that, will you?’

Straightening up on the sofa, Katharine drew away from her mother and stared at her, her wide eyes searching that gentle face intently. But it was peaceful and her mother appeared to be untroubled. Nevertheless, Katharine murmured tensely, ‘What a funny thing to say, Momma. Why should I ever need Aunt Lucy, when I have you?’

‘We all need friends, my darling. That’s all I meant. Now, would you like to read to me for a while. A little poetry. I think something by Elizabeth Barrett Browning would be nice.’

Katharine took out the leather-bound book of poetry and seated herself in the chair; she turned the pages to the sonnets, and scanned them carefully until she came across the one she liked the most, and which she knew her mother preferred to all of them.

Her voice, as light and as clear as a crystal bell, rang out in the quiet room:

‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the end of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, – I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.’

Katharine lifted her head and looked at her mother for approval, a smile on her face. But it slipped, and she put the book down instantly, and flew to the sofa. Tears shimmered on Rosahe’s translucent cheeks and the hand that was lifted to wipe them away shook.

‘Momma, Momma, what is it?’ Katharine cried, embracing her mother. ‘Why are you crying? I didn’t mean to pick a sonnet that was sad or would upset you. I thought you loved that particular one.’

‘I do, darling,’ Rosalie said, thinking sorrowfully of Patrick, but smiling through her tears. ‘I’m not sad, really I’m not. The sonnet is beautiful, and I was very moved by your voice, and the way you read it with so much meaning and emotion, Katharine. I know you’re going to be a marvellous actress.’

Katherine kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Shall I read you another one? Something more cheerful?’

Rosalie shook her head. ‘I think I’m going to he down for a while, Katharine. I’m feeling a hide tired after all.’ She leaned closer and touched Katharine’s cheek lightly with the tip of her finger. ‘You’re very special, my beautiful Katharine. And I do love you so very much.’

‘I love you too, Momma.’

Rosalie stood up, holding onto the arm of the sofa to steady herself, making a tremendous effort to hide the sudden trembling which had seized her from her daughter. ‘Will you come and see me later, dear?’

‘Yes, Momma,’ Katharine said.

Rosalie nodded, too exhausted to respond, and moved towards the bedroom.

Katharine went in search of Ryan, scouring the house for him. As she mounted the stairs to the third floor she noticed it had grown stifling hot. The air was heavy with humidity, and the house was airless and more suffocating than usual. She had grown hot on her long climb up to her old nursery, and by the time she reached the door her cotton frock was damp and clinging to her body.

She found Ryan sitting at the table, just as she had expected, and as usual he was painting. His head, with its mop of reddish-golden curls, was bent in concentration. He looked up when she came in. He was smiling.

‘Can I see?’ Katharine asked, crossing the floor to join him.

Ryan nodded. ‘Sure. I’ve just finished it. Don’t pick it up though. It’s still a bit damp.’

Katharine had been astonished by the watercolour. It was not merely good but outstanding, a landscape awash with tender spring greens and ashy pinks, faded chrome yellow and melting blues, and the misty colours and exquisite configurations gave it a dreamlike quality that was perfectly magical. It was the best painting he had ever done, and Katharine was awed, recognizing what an extraordinary talent he had. It did not seem possible that a boy of only ten years had painted this piece of art.

‘Did you copy it from a book?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Ryan cried indignantly. His deep green eyes, so like their mother’s, flickered with hurt, and then he grinned. ‘Don’t you recognize it, Dopey?’

Katharine shook her head. Ryan searched around the table and produced a snapshot. ‘See. It’s Aunt Lucy’s garden at Barrington,’ he announced, pushing the photograph under her nose. ‘But you’ve made it look so much more beautiful,’ Katharine exclaimed, further impressed with his astonishing ability. ‘Why, Ryan, you’re a true artist. You’ll be famous one day, I bet, and I’ll be so proud of you.’

He grinned again, the freckles dancing around like a sprinkling of brown sugar across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. ‘Do you really think I’ll be a real artist one day, Katie? Tell me the truth and say honest injun.’

‘Honest injun, Ryan, and cross my heart and hope to die,’ she smiled.

At this moment the door flew open with such swiftness and force, both children jumped and stared at each other with startled eyes. Patrick O’Rourke was standing on the threshold. It was an unexpected and unprecedented appearance, especially at this hour of the day, and he entered the room like a hurricane. ‘So here you both are! What the hell are you doing up here, when I’ve built a perfectly good playroom downstairs? Have I wasted my money?’

Katharine felt Ryan’s thin shoulders tensing under her hand resting on them. She said slowly, ‘No, Father, you haven’t wasted your money.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We use the playroom most of the time,’ she lied quickly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Patrick said, and seated himself in the rocking chair. He was a tall, well-built man, and the chair was a fraction too small for him, but he did not seem to notice, or care about this. He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes acute. Finally, he fixed his narrowed gaze on Ryan. ‘Have you had a nice day, son?’

‘Yes, Da,’ Ryan said softly, as always intimidated by his father’s presence.

‘Good. Good.’ Patrick settled back and began to rock gently, musing to himself. Suddenly he fined his dark leonine head and said, ‘Were your ears burning today, Ryan?’

‘No, Da.’ Ryan appeared baffled by this question and he wrinkled his nose nervously, looking confused.

‘Well, they should have been, my boy. I was talking about you, and at great length, with some of my political friends at lunch today. Ward bosses. I was downtown to make my usual, and considerable, contribution to the Democratic Party. We have the best damn political machine in the country, you know. Magnificent.’ He beamed at Ryan. ‘And the Irish control it, I might add. Don’t you ever let that slip your mind, my boy. Anyway, I told my friends that my son is going to be the greatest politician Chicago has ever seen. Yes, I told them how you’re going to be a congressman and then a senator, and I was delighted by their reactions.’

Patrick was quite oblivious to the dismay washing across Ryan’s little face, and the look of astonishment quickening on Katharine’s, as he went on: ‘I also made them a promise, and it’s a promise I fully intend to keep. I – ‘ Patrick bit off the rest of his sentence abruptly, and he paused dramatically as if to give additional weight and importance to his next statement.

He took a deep breath, stared hard at his children, and said with immense conviction and pride, ‘I promised them that my son is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of the United States!’ Patrick folded his hands across his vast chest, well pleased with himself, and he leaned back in the rocking chair, scrutinizing both of them, waiting.

When neither spoke, Patrick said, ‘Well, Ryan, don’t gape at me like a ninny! Haven’t you anything to say for yourself? How do you like the idea of being a politician? And then the President of this great country of ours, the greatest country in the world?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ryan whispered at last, his voice quavering. His face was as white as death, and the freckles stood out like disfiguring stains.

Patrick chuckled. ‘I don’t blame you, my boy. It’s all a bit overwhelming to comprehend immediately, I’ll grant you that. But I have great ambitions for you, son. Great ambitions. And what’s wrong with having ambitions?’ He did not wait for a response but hurried on compulsively, ‘If I hadn’t had ambitions, I wouldn’t be the multi-millionaire I am today. With a son who is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of America. And there’s nothing for you to worry your head about, Ryan. Nothing at all. I’ll do your thinking for you at all times. I’ll mastermind your career, and my money and my clout and my friends will propel you right into the Oval Office of the White House, you wait and see. You’ll make my dreams come true, Ryan, I have no doubts. And I’m going to make you the most powerful politician this century has known and will ever know. Just you leave it all to me, son.’

Ryan gulped and opened his mouth but no words came. He glanced up at Katharine, his eyes filled with mute appeal.

Katharine was flabbergasted at her father’s words. If they had been uttered by anyone else she would have dismissed them as boastful idle talk, and to be taken with a grain of salt. But she knew her father meant every word, and she trembled inwardly for Ryan. Her brother was terrified, and with good reason; she tightened her embrace, drew the boy closer to her.

She said, ‘But Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician, Father.’ She could never bring herself to call him the more affectionate Da, as Ryan did.

Patrick glowered. ‘What?’ he demanded in a low tone that was ominous, even threatening. ‘What did you say?’

‘Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician. He wants to be a painter,’ Katharine replied in a quiet but resolute voice. Her father might strike terror in Ryan’s heart, but not in hers. She was not one bit afraid of him.

‘How dare you tell me what my son wants, Katie Mary O’Rourke!’ Patrick shouted, leaping to his feet. His face was brimming with dark colour and there was a dangerous glint in his steely blue eyes.

‘But Ryan is so gifted. Look at this watercolour,’ she cried, undeterred by his displeasure.

‘I don’t want to look at it! I’ll have no more of this sissy stuff in my house. You and his mother! Filling his head with artistic nonsense. It’s going to stop, and right now.’ He strode to the table, struggling with his anger, and snatched up the watercolour. Without glancing at it, he tore it in half, and threw it to the floor.

Ryan stifled a tiny cry, like a small animal in pain, and brought his fist up to his trembling lips. Katharine flinched, and gazed at their father in fascinated horror. With one furious gesture of his large hand, Patrick swept the paint box, the brushes, the jar of water and the sketching pad off the table. He stamped on them, crushing them under his heavy feet. Katharine’s face reflected her disgust, and she thought: He’s a dreadful man. Vulgar and uncouth. He thinks he’s a gentleman with his custom-tailored gabardine suits and hand-made shoes and soft silk shirts, but he’s not. He’ll never be anything but an ignorant peasant. Shanty Irish.

Patrick pointed a long bony finger at Ryan and exclaimed excitedly, ‘Now listen to me, son. There’s going to be no more of this painting. I forbid it, do you hear me. It’s not for a great lad like you. It’s not masculine enough. You’re going to be a politician, Ryan O’Rourke, even if it kills me in the process. And the President of these United States one day. Furthermore, you’re going to start training for it immediately, with dedication and discipline and single-mindedness of purpose. Just like a boxer trains. Do you understand me, son? Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, Da,’ said Ryan meekly, still quivering with a mixture of fear and shock, and swamped with unhappiness.

Patrick turned to face Katharine, glaring at her. ‘As for you, young lady, I want no more interference. I’ve had quite enough of you lately. You’re a real troublemaker, not to mention a little liar, Katie Mary O’Rourke. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the unspeakable things you said about your Uncle George. Scurrilous. Disgusting. I never thought a daughter of mine would have such filth in her mind!’

Katharine felt as if the blood was draining out of her, and her legs wobbled. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, and her large eyes became larger in her face. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and she had to clench her fists to control herself. How could her father be so cruel and mean, embarrassing her by saying such frightful things in front of little Ryan. She took a deep breath to control herself and said, in a voice that was surprisingly steady, ‘George Gregson is not my uncle. He’s only your business partner. And I didn’t tell you any lies!’ ‘Go to your room immediately!’ Patrick thundered, harshness and fury bringing a rasp to his voice. ‘How dare you answer me back. You’re impertinent as well as a liar, it seems. And don’t venture downstairs for dinner, my girl. I don’t want to look at your face tonight. Annie will bring a tray to your room later.’

Katharine was rooted to the spot, and automatically, with a sense of protectiveness, she tightened her hand on Ryan’s shoulders. Her father observed this gesture, and commanded imperiously, ‘Stand away from your brother! Stand away! You’re always slobbering over him. It strikes me as you’re turning him into a girl like yourself. Now, go to your room.’

‘I will,’ Katharine retorted with some spirit, walking rapidly across the floor. ‘But not before I’ve looked in on Mother, to see if she wants anything.’

Patrick seemed about to explode, but he said nothing. When she reached the door of the nursery, Katharine stopped and turned her head. She looked directly at her father, and said with cold deliberation,’ I took a message for you earlier. It’s on the desk in the library. It’s from a Miss McGreatly. She said you can call her at the usual restaurant. In the Loop.’

Patrick’s jaw went slack and he stared at her, momentarily stupefied. His mouth tightened into a slit and his eyes hardened, and it was then that she saw the naked hatred on his face. Katharine recoiled, aghast. But she recovered herself at once and stared back at him defiantly, her eyes challenging, and she knew that he knew that she knew exactly what kind of man he was. Something rose up in Katharine like bile, gagging her, and with the child’s wisdom that springs from instinct and blind perception she understood that she was confronting evil. Her blood ran cold, and it was then that the first seeds of bitter purpose were sown in her. She vowed to herself that she would fight her father for Ryan, and for Ryan’s soul, if it took all the days of her life. She did not know that her own hatred blazed out from her young face with such intensity and force that Patrick was staggered by it.

That night Katharine lay in her bed, listening to Ryan’s sobs through the wall. They had started almost immediately, when he had returned from dinner, and they had continued unabated. Her heart ached for him and she longed to go and comfort him. The only thing which prevented her from doing so was the thought of her father’s wrath if he caught her. It was not that she was afraid for herself, for, in all truth, she was not afraid of anything. Her concern was for Ryan. Instinctively, she knew that if she attempted to protect her little brother, her father would take drastic measures, would remove him from her care. With a prescience rare in a girl of her age she understood that things would never be the same in this house ever again. She would have to watch her step, for Ryan’s sake.

But in the end she could not bear to listen to the racking sobs any longer, and she got out of bed and crept to the door, opening it quietly. She peered out. The corridor was dark and silent, and no light filtered out from her father’s room, to her enormous relief. He was either downstairs or he had gone out. To meet Miss McGreatly perhaps. Holding her breath, she ventured forth into Ryan’s room and tiptoed over to the bed. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered, sitting down on the edge. She took him in her arms, and stroked his hair and made gentle hushing sounds. Eventually he calmed a little, and nestled against her, his small arms clamped tightly around her neck.

‘I’m scared, Katie,’ he whispered in the darkness, his body still heaving with dry sobs. ‘I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be an artist. What will I do? I’m so scared of Da.’

‘Hush, honey, don’t get upset again. We’ll think of something.’

‘Why did Da tear up my beautiful painting? I was going to give it to Momma.’

‘I don’t know. Well, perhaps he was angry with me. But you’ll do another for Momma, Ryan, real soon.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he wailed. ‘Da has forbidden it. I’ll never be able to paint again, Katie.’

‘Please, honey, don’t talk so loud,’ Katharine cautioned, and went on with some assurance, ‘And you will paint, we’ll find a way, I promise. Everything is going to be all right.’

‘Are you sure, Katie?’

‘Yes, trust me, honey. Now try to sleep.’ She loosened his arms gently, and made him nestle down in the bed, tucking him in. She sat stroking his hair for a while, murmuring softly to him, until he began to doze. As she stood up, he suddenly roused himself, and clutched her arm, ‘Katie, what did Da mean when he said you’d told him lies about Uncle George?’

‘Shush, honey,’ Katharine whispered, ‘it’s nothing. Now go to sleep.’

‘Yes, Katie,’ he said with his usual obedience. He closed his eyes and curled up into a small ball, and Katharine slipped out.

Long after she had returned to her own room, Katharine was still wide awake, her mind filled with the hateful memory of that day when George Gregson had come to the house. It had been a Sunday. All the servants were off, except for Annie, the housekeeper, who was taking her afternoon nap. Ryan was out with Aunt Lucy, her father was playing golf, and her mother was in the hospital. She had been alone in the house, except for the sleeping woman upstairs. Katharine tried to block out the disgusting details, but they came flooding back, were relentless and distressing, and she lay, mute and shaking, covered in a cold sweat. She saw his ugly congested face. It was drawing closer to hers. She felt his hand on her small breast and the other one sliding up her dress, probing and pinching between her legs.

Katharine now experienced the same revulsion which engulfed her when George Gregson had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed her face down into his lap. She leapt out of bed and flew to the bathroom, staggering to the washbasin, filled with nausea. She leaned over it retching, and she threw up again and again, just as she had vomited on that terrible Sunday, all over George Gregson’s trousers.

Katharine had not told anyone Gregson had molested her, for she was too ashamed and embarrassed, and also curiously afraid. But when he had attempted to waylay her on several succeeding occasions, she had endeavoured to communicate some of her mounting fears to her father. She could not confide in her mother, who was far too sick. Haltingly, choosing her words carefully, Katharine had informed her father about the incident as delicately as possible. To the girl’s amazement, and immense shock and distress, her father had not believed her. He had called her a damned liar. As he had done that very afternoon in the nursery.

Katharine shuddered, wiped her face and drank a glass of water. She ran a bath, pouring in great quantities of the bubble bath her Aunt Lucy had given her. She lay in the water for a long time, and afterwards, when she had dried herself, she covered her entire body with talcum powder and cleaned her teeth three times. Only after this long ritual of cleansing was she able to return to her bed, and finally, as dawn was breaking, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Contrary to what Katharine had expected, her father made no reference to their altercation at breakfast the next day. Nor did he bring it up in the days which followed. Slowly, things drifted back to normal, and although Ryan was not given new paints, the two children were allowed to spend their days together, and Katharine found herself breathing a little easier. But at the end of the summer vacation their father moved with efficiency and speed, and, to Katharine, with an awful finality. Ryan was packed off to a military academy on the East Coast, and she herself was enrolled as a boarder in the convent where she had previously been a day pupil. One year later Rosalie was dead and buried. Katharine was devastated by grief, and inconsolable; there were times when she so yearned and fretted for her mother that she made herself violently ill physically. It was her Aunt Lucy who eventually brought the thirteen-year-old girl a measure of peace and a semblance of security, through her understanding, compassion and love. The two drew closer together as the next few years passed, and when Katharine was sixteen it was Lucy who prevailed upon Patrick to send the girl to school in England, as Katharine wished. Patrick had readily agreed, as Katharine had known he would. She was well aware that he could not stand the sight of her, or bear her silent accusations, or face her condemning gaze.

After Katharine left the English boarding school, she had gone to study at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, again through Lucy’s intervention with Patrick. In all this time she had rarely heard from her father, or from Ryan. She attributed her brother’s silence to fear of reprisals from their father if he communicated with her, convinced that he was under Patrick O’Rourke’s thumb. But her Aunt Lucy was a diligent and regular correspondent, and kept her well informed about their activities, and a cheque from her father arrived promptly every month.

Katharine blinked, and straightened up on the white sofa. It was patently obvious her father was paying her to stay away from Chicago. He was glad to be rid of her. Apart from the fact that she knew too much, he was afraid of her influence over Ryan. He would not let anything, or anyone, obstruct his schemes for Ryan, schemes which she had never once been foolish enough to discount, even when she was a child. Her father fully intended to carry them through no matter what the cost, for he craved power, and he believed that Ryan was the key to the greatest power in the land, the Presidency of the United States.

Katharine’s mouth twisted contemptuously. Well, she thought grimly, I’ll show him yet. And when I’m a star and have enough money of my own to support Ryan, I’ll send him to study art in Paris, or wherever he wants to go. This thought galvanized her. She had much to accomplish before that day came, and she could not afford to waste a single moment dwelling on Patrick Michael Sean O’Rourke. The bastard. As far as she was concerned, the die had been cast years before. And she herself had been set upon a course from which she could never deviate, even if she so wished. Saving Ryan and thwarting her father had been intricately interwoven into the fabric of her destiny, had become integral threads in her excessive ambition for herself.

Katharine now picked up the breakfast tray and took it into the kitchen. Automatically, her thoughts turned to the impending screen test, upon which so much depended, and for which she had one week to prepare. She was not especially worried about her performance. What concerned her more was the material she would use. She knew exactly what this should be, but it must be adapted and written out as dialogue, and for this task she needed a professional writer. Her mind began to work with its usual avidity and an illuminating smile spread itself across her face. Why, she could surely solve that little problem over lunch. Providing she was persuasive enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

At the other side of London, on this same lovely February morning, David Cunningham, the Earl of Langley, sat at his desk in the library of his Mayfair town house, drinking a cup of tea. The Times, and various other daily newspapers, lay unopened, since he had neither the inclination nor interest to peruse any of them. A variety of matters occupied his mind, not the least of which was the large and ominous-looking pile of bills stacked on the leather-bound blotter.

Hell, he thought, I might as well tackle these blasted things first. I certainly can’t deal with any of my other problems just now. Sighing, he began to sort through the pile, pulling out the most critical and pressing. He wrote a number of cheques, made a few calculations and returned the remainder of the bills to the drawer. Most of these were also urgent, but he felt they could safely wait until next month. They would have to wait. ‘I’m always robbing Peter to pay Paul,’ he muttered out loud. A gloomy expression dulled his fine intelligent eyes, and there was an unfamiliar droop to his mouth.

David Cunningham scrimped and scraped and economized in every conceivable way, and yet he was always beset by the most acute financial worries. Income from the estate and farming, as well as other holdings, was continually swallowed up by general overheads, maintenance of the castle and the estate and new farming equipment. He was gradually replacing the old and outdated machinery with more modern pieces, but this was a slow and increasingly costly process. Certainly the new equipment had introduced greater efficiency and improved his farming methods; even so, his latest projections indicated he would not be out of the red and into the black for almost another two years. Until then the cash flow would continue to be an excruciating problem, and what he sorely needed was a little ready cash to put everything on an even keel, but there was scant possibility of getting it. Unless … He could sell the two prize heifers to Giles Martin, a neighbouring farmer who had been pressing him to let them go for almost a year. He had been somewhat reluctant to resort to this measure, since he did not want to deplete the herd, and yet the sale would partially ease his current burdens. Perhaps it was the easiest solution, and one he should not be so ready to dismiss.

David made the decision he had been baulking at for the longest time. By God, he would sell the heifers, and the moment he returned to Yorkshire. In fact, he would telephone Giles later in the day and so inform him. David smiled to himself. And he had better make that call, before he changed his mind again.

He immediately felt a sense of relief, and the heavy constricting feeling in his chest, which he had been experiencing for several hours, now lifted. In general, the Earl was a relaxed, even-tempered man, who had a positive outlook on life, a rare good humour and was unaffected by his daily worries.

He flipped through the morning mail. Not very interesting, except for a letter from Doris Asternan, who was still in Monte Carlo. He read it eagerly. Doris had written to tell him that she was returning to London early next week, having finally found an appropriate, and apparently beautiful, villa on the promontory at Cap Martin. It was near Roquebrune, on the way to the Italian border, and according to the preponderance of adjectives she had used to describe it, the house was nothing short of a palace, set in spacious and exquisite grounds which she said were out of this world. It overlooked the Mediterranean, had its own private beach, a swimming pool and a tennis court. She had already signed the lease and was staying on to interview the present staff, who were available if she wished to engage them for the summer. Doris had rented the villa from a French industrialist for four months, from June through September, and she ended the letter with a reiteration of the generous invitation she had extended previously to himself and his children. They were welcome to spend as much of the summer at the villa as they wished.

David put the letter down and stood up, walking over to the fireplace in long, easy strides. Tall, ramrod straight and elegant, he was proud of his bearing and, at forty-seven, was amazingly youthful looking. His features, typically Anglo-Saxon, were sensitive and refined, his grey eyes eloquent, his complexion fair, as was his hair. He was a handsome man, and he held great appeal for women, who thought his appearance not only romantic but dashing as well. Consequently, he was in constant demand socially, and had he been less moral and discriminating he could easily have been a Lothario of no mean proportions. As it was, his fastidious nature prevented him from taking advantage of the opportunities which were for ever presenting themselves, and he never indulged in random love affairs.

He stood in front of the fireplace, absently staring at the wall of books opposite, thinking about Doris. She had wrought many changes in his life, all for the better, as he was the first to acknowledge. She had given him a rare type of companionship he had not experienced with any other woman since his wife’s death, and a great deal of understanding, devotion, love, and physical pleasure as well. He had come to rely on her constant presence. In fact, he had to admit Doris was now quite indispensable to him. He was not naïve enough to think this circumstance had developed by accident, knowing perfectly well that Doris had diligently set out to make herself wanted and needed. But he did not consider it devious. Every woman strove to weave a web around the man she loved, in an effort to bind him to her irrevocably.

David knew he should marry Doris. He would be a fool not to, and, in fact, he wanted to marry her. Yet he continued to procrastinate, and he was not exactly certain why he did so. She had all the right qualifies, at least those he thought were important in a woman, and she would make a superb wife for him. His own feelings aside, his children approved and had a genuine fondness for her. And, of course, there was her money, which would solve his financial difficulties once and for all. Doris, the thirty-five-year-old widow of an American meat-packing tycoon, was childless, and she made it abundantly clear to him that her immense fortune would be at his disposal if they married. But David Cunningham was not the kind of man who could be influenced by money when it came to the serious business of marriage. In his lexicon this was the least of all considerations. Love and compatibility took precedence with him. Well, he did love Doris, and they were inordinately compatible. But…

The door of the book-lined library was open, and David heard Francesca’s quick light step in the hall. He hurried to the door and looked out. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ There was a lilt in his voice and his eyes instantly brightened.

‘Good morning, Daddy darling,’ she responded and, smiling, reached up to kiss his cheek.

The Earl hugged her to him, and then he stood back. ‘Feeling patriotic today, are you, Frankie?’

Francesca looked at her father nonplussed. He was regarding her with fondness, his eyes twinkling. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked with a slight frown.

‘The colour scheme you’ve adopted this morning.’ His glance swept over her again. ‘Borrowed from the Union Jack, wouldn’t you say?’

Francesca laughed, and swinging around she looked at herself in the mirror, her head on one side. She was wearing a new white cotton shirt, her best navy-blue Jaeger skirt and a navy-blue melton-cloth reefer jacket. ‘I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ she retorted mildly, but nevertheless she unfastened the red-white-and-blue silk scarf tied around her neck and pushed it into her jacket pocket. She turned back to her father. ‘Is that better?’ she asked. Her father’s taste in women’s clothes ran to the subdued, even the dowdy at times, and she knew it was the vivid scarf to which he objected. ‘I just thought the dash of colour would cheer up my outfit,’ she said.

‘You don’t need anything to cheer up your clothes. Your face inevitably does that.’ His smile was tender as he went on, ‘And where are you off to at this hour?’

‘The British Museum.’

‘Ah, yes indeed. Gordon beckons, I’ve no doubt.’ The Earl half turned and stepped into the library. He said, ‘I’d like to talk to you, Frankie, if you can spare me a few minutes.’

‘Why yes, of course I can, Daddy.’

‘Then come in and close the door behind you. I think a little privacy is in order.’

Francesca did as he asked, her gaze resting on him, her face sobering. The seriousness of his tone alarmed her, and she thought: Oh God, there’s trouble brewing. Being extremely close to her father and attuned to his moods, she invariably anticipated him, and she was positive he could only want to talk to her about one of two things: Kim or money. Probably the latter, she said to herself, eyeing the bills and the chequebook on the desk. Suddenly she felt selfish and guilty. Here she was, probably wasting her time researching a book that might never get written, when she could be earning money. Maybe she ought to get a job to help out. But deciding this was not the time to suggest it, she said, ‘You seem awfully worried, Daddy. Is there something wrong? Is it money?’

‘That’s always a problem, my dear. But somehow we always seem to manage, don’t we?’ He did not wait for her response. ‘However, I didn’t bring you in here to talk about the monthly accounts. Actually, I wanted to discuss this new development with you.’

Francesca tensed and her eyes were watchful. ‘New development?’ she echoed. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘Come, come, Frankie, don’t hedge. You’re talking to me. You know perfectly well I’m referring to Kim and Katharine.’

She accepted the gentle reprimand in silence, playing for time. The silence grew, hung between them. The Earl studied his daughter keenly. Finally, he said, ‘I presume your lack of response is an acknowledgement of the facts. I also presume you know Kim is very serious about this girl.’

Realizing she could not remain mute indefinitely, Francesca thought the safest thing would be to repeat Kim’s words to her. ‘Well, Daddy, I’m not sure serious is the right word, but I do think he’s quite keen.’

The Earl laughed knowingly. ‘That’s undoubtedly the understatement of the year! Your brother is madly in love. Even a blind man would know that.’ He leaned forward over the desk. His cool grey eyes, which had narrowed perceptibly, were fixed unblinkingly on his daughter. He asked quietly, ‘And what is your opinion of Katharine, Frankie?’

Francesca’s face lit up at once. ‘I like her enormously! In fact, I took to her the instant I met her. I think she’s a super girl. And to tell you the truth, I thought you did, Daddy. On Monday evening you seemed … well, enchanted, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ Her words held a challenge, as did her gaze.

‘You’re absolutely correct, I was,’ the Earl conceded evenly. ‘Katharine has a variety of assets, all of them most apparent, so I won’t waste time enumerating them. And she is quite the lady – ‘

‘Well, then,’ Francesca interrupted swiftly, her brows lifting expressively, ‘why are you so perturbed?’

David ignored this pointed question by saying, ‘What do you actually know about her, my dear?’

Francesca was startled. ‘Haven’t you talked to Kim about Katharine? I think it’s his place to tell you about his new girl friend, not mine, don’t you?’

‘Indeed I do, darling. And I have spoken to him. Unfortunately he was extremely vague, even a little evasive. To be frank, I decided not to press him for the time being. I felt it would be wiser not to make too much of a fuss, since that would only give the matter tremendous importance in his mind. On the other hand, because I believe he has serious intentions, I do think I should know more about the girl he is apparently thinking of marrying. I intend to have a heart-to-heart talk with Kim when we get back to Langley, but, in the meantime, I thought you might be able to give me a few more facts.’ He waited, and then observing the expression on her face, he added gently, ‘You think I’m putting you in an awkward position, I know, but I’m not really. It was I who brought you up to have a sense of honour, to be loyal, so I would certainly never ask you to betray a confidence. Still, under the circumstances, I don’t think it would be disloyal to Kim if you repeat what he’s told you, or what Katharine has said about herself. I’m hardly asking you to divulge state secrets,’ he finished with a soft chuckle.

Francesca stared down at her hands. Everything her father said made sense. Surely there was no harm in telling him what she knew. It was then she realized, and with a little stab of dismay, that there was hardly anything to repeat. ‘Kim hasn’t confided in me, and neither has Katharine,’ she answered. ‘To tell you the truth, now that I think about it, she hasn’t said much about her life. Here or in America.’

‘I see,’ said David, masking his surprise. He looked at her clear and lovely face, the candid gaze, and he knew she was being her usual truthful self. Until this moment he had been convinced his daughter would be able to enlighten him. She and Kim were extremely close. Obviously she had been kept in the dark. Very curious indeed. Then he wondered why.

Francesca volunteered, ‘I understand from Kim that Katharine comes from Chicago, and that she’s an orphan, poor girl.’

‘Yes, he told me that too. He also mentioned she went to school here and afterwards attended RADA.’ The Earl shook his head in bemusement. ‘Not much to go on, is it?’

‘No,’ Francesca agreed. It struck her how foolish Kim had been. He should have adopted a more direct approach with their father, instead of being close-mouthed, secretive. His posture, so silly and unnecessary, had precipitated an unfortunate situation, one which could only end up being troublesome.

‘Do you think she has any family at all?’ the Earl asked.

‘I don’t think so – ‘ Francesca bit off her sentence and shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t say that, because actually I don’t really know,’ she corrected herself.

David Cunningham stared across the room, his eyes focused on an antique hunting print, a preoccupied expression on his face. After a few seconds, he swung his head to face Francesca. ‘Look here, dear, I’m not passing any judgments on Katharine, nor am I out to create undue problems for Kim. God knows, I have his well being and happiness at heart. And believe me, as of this moment, I don’t have strong objections to the girl. I’m sure she is most admirable, and she might be ideal for him. But, as Kim’s father, I feel I am entitled to some information about Katharine’s background. It’s not much to ask, is it?’

‘No, Daddy,’ Francesca said, understanding his concern. He was being much more reasonable than she had originally anticipated. Voicing the one thing which had chiefly worried her, she ventured tentatively, ‘Then you don’t mind that she’s an actress?’

‘I’m not that old fashioned, my dear,’ David exclaimed with a faint chuckle. ‘And times have changed. Naturally, I would have preferred Kim to have fallen in love with a girl from his own world, but I can’t control his emotions, now can I?’

‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’

‘And anyway, if she and Kim do marry, she would automatically give up her acting career. She would have to, and I hope Kim has made that clear to her.’ David rested his elbows on the desk and brought the tips of his fingers together to form a steeple. He peered over them, and asked, ‘Do you think Tempest is Katharine’s real name, or one she adopted for the stage? I must say, it struck me as being rather theatrical.’

‘Theatrical! How can you say that, Dad? What about your old friend, Lord Londonderry? His family name is Tempest. Well, anyway, Tempest Stewart.’

‘Hmmm. Quite so. However, you haven’t answered my question. Do you think it’s her real name?’

‘I’ve no way of knowing. Why?’

‘Doris comes from Chicago – ‘

‘I thought she came from Oklahoma.’

‘She does, but after her marriage to Edgar Asternan she moved to Chicago, his home town, and lived there for many years. If Katharine’s family was a prominent one, I’m sure Doris would have been acquainted with them. Certainly she would have heard of them, since she was very social and involved in numerous civic activities. It occurred to me she might be able to give me a few salient facts.’

‘Yes, she might.’ Francesca stood up and walked to the window. She glanced out, her mind on Kim. He really was impossible at times. And so thoughtless. Her father had enough worries without this problem to add to his burdens. Poor Dad, he really is troubled, she thought. She turned and said impulsively, ‘Perhaps you ought to ‘phone Doris right now. You never know, Daddy, she might be able to put your mind at rest immediately. After all, it is a small world.’

‘No, darling, I don’t think I will. ‘I’ll wait until Doris gets back next week, and discuss it with her then. I don’t believe there’s that much of a panic’

‘You know best, Dad. And please don’t worry. I’m sure Doris can check out Katharine for you, just like that.’ She snapped her fingers, and her smile was reassuring.

‘Good Lord, Frankie, I don’t want to check the girl out, as you seem to infer! Turn her inside out and upside down! That would be perfectly reprehensible.’ The Earl was genuinely shocked at the suggestion, and went on, ‘As I said, I merely want to know more about her, and her family. Background. That sort of thing. Just the usual sort of information a father likes to have, before he sanctions a serious relationship. Actually, I’m willing to give them my blessing, you know, providing I’m satisfied Katharine is everything she appears to be.’

Francesca went to her father. Impulsively, she threw her arms around him, and said, her cheek against his, ‘Kim and I are lucky to have you as a father.’

‘And I’m lucky to have the two of you,’ David said warmly. ‘Certainly neither of you has ever caused me any trouble. ‘ He looked up at her and grinned boyishly. ‘But then I haven’t given you any either. I’ve never curtailed your activities or poked around in your lives. In fact, I think I’ve always given you a lot of rope. Because I trust you both implicitly. That’s why I can’t understand Kim’s attitude at all.’ He half-smiled at Francesca. ‘I’ve brought you and Kim up to take people at face value, to accept them for their worth on a human level, and not to be influenced by money or power or more worldly things, and I know I was right to do that. At the same time, I expect you both to have common sense, exercise judgment and discretion, and select friends who are at least appropriate – ‘

‘Don’t you think Katharine is appropriate?’ Francesca interrupted, her eyes clouding over.

‘How can I possibly know that, Frankie? On the surface, yes, I would say she appears to be appropriate. But no adult ever comes to us like a newborn babe, without a history, a past. And since I have no knowledge of Katharine’s upbringing, I can hardly make a proper assessment of her, decide whether or not she is suitable for Kim. As a wife that is. I don’t have to remind you of his responsibilities, I know that. On the other hand, have you thought of what Katharine’s life would be like if she married Kim? She would be buried in the country most of the year; a farmer’s wife, albeit a farmer’s wife with a tide, and country living is hardly the most exciting existence, my darling, as well you know. It’s never been your cup of tea. And then again, there are all the duties and responsibilities she would have to take on, with the estate workers, the villagers, the Women’s Voluntary Service, not to mention our rather demanding vicar. Think of the church activities alone – garden fêtes, bazaars, jumble sales, the Harvest Festival, the Christmas festivities, and so many more endless tasks. More importantly, perhaps, does Katharine know what marriage to Kim really entails?’ David shook his head and did not wait for her reply. ‘I doubt it. I’m sure Kim hasn’t bothered to explain the ramifications of his life, just as he hasn’t sought to find out more about her. Personally, I think he’s so damned infatuated he hasn’t given a passing thought to these things. Probably thinks they’re irrelevant and far too mundane. But they’re not. They’re an integral part of his life, as my son and heir. They’re his duty,’ he concluded with a sigh. As an after-thought, he added, ‘You know, he’s been bowled over by Katharine’s looks, and his head is in the clouds. You saw how he behaved at Les Ambassadeurs the other night. He’s quite hypnotized by her. You do agree with that, at least, don’t you, Frankie dear?’

‘I … I … suppose you’re right.’

David adopted a milder tone. ‘I had hoped we were close enough, that you and Kim both trusted me enough, to be open with me, to seek my guidance on important matters in your lives. I thought you knew I would always be fair, and certainly most understanding.’

‘I do know that, Daddy, and so does Kim. Really and truly we do!’ she protested.

David looked at his daughter closely. ‘I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Frankie. I’m not trying to play God in your lives. It’s hardly a role I relish, and it invariably creates havoc. However, although I’m not infallible, I have had some experience of life, and I want you both to have the benefit of the bit of wisdom I’ve acquired, for what it’s worth.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell you something else. Years ago I vowed I would never make the same mistake my father did.’

Francesca’s eyes strayed to the photograph of her father’s older sister. ‘You’re thinking of Aunt Arabella, aren’t you, Dad?’

David followed her gaze, directed at the photograph of his sister, taken when she had been presented at court. He nodded. ‘Yes, I am. As you know, your grandfather objected to Kurt von Wittingen most strongly, even though he was a prince and wealthy, because he was a German. Yet Arabella married him anyway. Father lived to regret his decision, even though he never came out and actually said so. I believe it broke his heart, never seeing her again.’ Yes, it truly did, he added to himself. If only the old man had been less obdurate, more reasonable, I know she would not have acted so rashly. That’s a family trait, rashness in the face of opposition, he thought. And Kim’s inherited Arabella’s impetuousness. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie, I missed what you just said. Wool gathering, I’m afraid,’ he apologized.

‘I said it was a very tragic story … Arabella’s and Kurt’s. But still, because of them we do have Diana and Christian, don’t we?’

‘We certainly do, my darling. And that reminds me, I had a letter from Diana just last week. From Königssee. Christian and she want to come over and spend a few weeks with us this summer. I hope you’ll make it a point to be at Langley when they’re there.’

‘Gosh, Daddy, you know I wouldn’t miss their visit for anything,’ she cried. Francesca had always been especially close to her German cousins, who made frequent trips to England and spent many holidays at Langley. She squeezed her father’s arm affectionately. ‘It will be lovely to see them.’ Her face became intent. ‘I know I haven’t really been very helpful about Katharine. But I’m absolutely certain everything’s going to be fine. I know it is.’

‘I hope so, my dear.’

Francesca looked at her watch. ‘Oh, it’s getting late. I must get to the Museum. You don’t mind if I scoot off, do you?’

‘No, my dear, you run along. Incidentally, any instructions for Mrs Moggs?’

Francesca laughed at his pained expression. ‘No, I left a note for her in the kitchen. I’m sorry you have to cope with her this morning. She’s a holy terror, but she does mean well. If I were you, I’d do a disappearing act as soon as you can, then she won’t be able to boss you around.’ Francesca leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Have a nice day, and I’ll see you tonight for dinner.’

‘I’m looking forward to it, darling.’

After Francesca had left for the British Museum, David sat debating with himself about the best course of action to take. Being a man of integrity and decency, he was reluctant to make pointed inquiries about Katharine Tempest. It was abhorrent to him. It smacked of prying, the worst type of spying and infringement of personal privacy. It also snowed lack of trust in Kim’s judgment, and anyway, he would much prefer to hear the facts about Katharine from his son, and not indirectly. And yet … David shook his head in aggravation. It was precisely Kim’s behaviour which was causing him to view the situation with a degree of alarm. Until his talk with Francesca, he had believed Kim’s vagueness to be evasiveness, a defence mechanism induced by the resentment he felt because he thought he was being treated like a child. Sadly, David now acknowledged, Kim had been vague because he knew next to nothing about the girl with whom he was so infatuated. It was most apparent to David that Kim had no information because the girl herself had not been forthcoming.

People in love invariably confided in each other, and talked about their past, didn’t they? Unless … Unless they had something to hide. Did Katharine have something to hide? He told himself this was a stupid, even insane, idea, and hardly worthy of protracted consideration. After all, he had been impressed with Katharine. He understood the reasons for his son’s enthralment, and so he had not given much thought to her background until last night, after his frustrating talk with Kim. The boy had been unable to answer the simplest and most innocent of questions, to David’s utter amazement. Since then he had been looking for flaws in her. The trouble was he had found none. Katharine Tempest seemed to be perfect in every way.

Unexpectedly, as he was pondering her attributes, a thought hit him. That was it. She was far too perfect. Obviously the girl could not help her staggering beauty, that was nature’s doing, and her undeniable talent for acting was another of God’s generous gifts. But what about her personality, her immense charm and her exquisite manners? Had they perhaps been consciously distilled over the years? he wondered. Another disturbing thought crept into his mind: Katharine was uncommonly smooth for her age. She had none of the rough edges of youth. His own children had pleasant personalities, self-confidence and lovely manners, but occasionally they displayed a naïveté, and yes, even a certain gaucheness at times, traits quite natural in view of their youth. She is awfully smooth, he decided, and also a shade too mysterious.

Damnation! he cursed inwardly. I wish there was someone I could talk to about this, someone a little more mature than my darling Frankie, who’s obviously prejudiced about Katharine anyhow. Doris. Of course, Doris. There was no one better equipped to listen than she, and she was sincere and wise and down-to-earth, amongst other things. David picked up the telephone. He dialled the operator, gave her the number of the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, and waited.

‘Madame Asteman, s’il vous plaît,’ he said, when the hotel finally answered.

A moment later Doris’s sleepy voice was murmuring hello.

‘Good morning, Doris. It’s David. I hope I didn’t awaken you, my dear.’

‘Yes, you did,’ she laughed. ‘But that’s all right. I can’t think of a nicer way to be awakened. How are you, darling?’

‘I’m fine. I had your letter this morning, and I’m delighted about the house.’

‘Oh David, the Villa Zamir is perfectly divine! You’re going to love it, and so are Francesca and Kim.’

‘I’m sure we will.’ He smiled to himself. Doris might be a millionairess, but she was the least jaded person he knew. Her enthusiasm and gaiety and zest for life invariably lifted his spirits. ‘I can’t wait to see it. In the meantime, I also called to ask you something, so I’ll get straight to the point. Have you heard of a family in Chicago called Tempest?’

‘No, no, I don’t think I have,’ Doris said hesitantly. After a brief pause, whilst she obviously pondered on it, she said more positively, ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I would have remembered the name. It’s quite unusual. Anyway, why do you want to know, darling?’

‘Apparently Kim has been seeing a girl for a number of months. She’s from Chicago and her name is Tempest.’ He then proceeded to tell her about his concern, and the reasons for it.

Doris listened carefully. When he had finished, she asked, ‘Do you really believe Kim wants to marry her, David?’ her tone alert.

‘Yes, I do. And since he’s almost twenty-two he doesn’t need my permission. Whilst I don’t want to play the heavy Victorian father, I don’t want him to make a mistake either. A mistake he’ll regret.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but I find it damned peculiar he knows so little about the girl and – ‘

‘So do I,’ Doris broke in. ‘You knew my entire life story within a week of meeting me.’

‘Yes, and you knew mine,’ he answered, gratified that she confirmed his own opinion.

‘Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you talk to the girl herself?’ Doris suggested. ‘Ask her to fill you in about her background.’

David drew in his breath sharply. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, Doris. At least not yet. I’ve only just met her. It would be frightfully bad form, poor taste, and besides – ‘

‘Good heavens, David, you English never cease to astound me. Here you are worried to death, or at least you sound as if you are, and you talk to me about bad form. To hell with bad form! If the girl is intelligent she’ll understand your reasons.’

‘Yes, there’s some truth in what you say, but to be honest, I don’t want to precipitate anything at this moment, and I certainly don’t want to give the relationship too much importance in their eyes.’

‘But, David darling, it’s obviously important in your mind.’

‘Well, yes it is. But I don’t want Kim to know I take the relationship seriously. Oh, hell, Doris, I’m not making any sense at all, am I?’

‘Yes, you are. To me at any rate. You think that by simply ignoring the romance it might easily fizzle out. Whereas if you start asking too many questions, giving it credence, they’ll start to view it in a different light themselves. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, darling?’

‘Yes, Doris. As usual, you’re right on target. Parental interference and pressure often cause two people to draw closer together than they otherwise might. Fighting the world, so to speak.’ He rubbed his chin and exclaimed impatiently, ‘Oh, Christ, Doris, maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion!’

‘Yes, you could be, darling,’ she said. ‘And you know what young people are like. They’re madly in love one day, and can’t stand the sight of each other the next. They blow hot and cold with comparative ease. I realize you believe Kim has serious intentions, but he hasn’t actually announced them to you, has he?’

‘No,’ David admitted. But he’s going to, he thought.

‘Then in my opinion I think you should play it cool. Ignore the whole thing for the time being. Let it run its course. Kim might change his mind. Or the girl might,’ Doris soothed. Then she asked curiously, ‘By the way, what’s she like, the mysterious young lady from Chicago.’

‘Rather lovely, to be truthful. It’s easy to see why the boy’s smitten. Francesca also seems very sold on her, and I was quite impressed with Katharine myself. She’s certainly an unusual girl, I’ll say that.’

There was a silence at the other end of the telephone and then Doris said slowly, ‘Wait a minute, David, you’re not talking about Katharine Tempest, the young actress, are you? The girl in the Greek play in the West End?’

‘Yes, I am. I say, do you know her after all, Doris?’ His hopes soared.

‘No, afraid not, darling. But she was pointed out to me in the Mirabelle last summer. Stunning girl, I must agree with you there. I didn’t know she was an American, and from Chicago no less … ‘ Doris hesitated, and then said, with a laugh, ‘I can tell you one thing, darling, she’s as Irish as Paddy’s pig.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘The dark hair, the white skin, the bluer-than-blue eyes. She’s very Irish looking, David. I remember thinking that last summer in the restaurant.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘I’ve met enough of the Irish in Chicago to recognize that look of theirs. The women in particular are often extraordinary beauties.’ She chuckled. ‘The men aren’t that bad either.’

‘Then she’s probably a Roman Catholic’

‘Does that matter, David?’ There was a startled echo in her voice.

‘No, I don’t suppose it does, although we’ve always been a Protestant family – ‘ His voice trailed off lamely. He regretted the comment. He found religious and racial prejudice intolerable in others. He hoped Doris did not misunderstand him.

Before he got a chance to clarify himself, Doris exclaimed, ‘Look here, cheer up, darling. I’ll be back in a couple of days and we can discuss this further. In the meantime – ‘ She stopped and, after a moment, went on carefully, ‘I almost hesitate to suggest this, because I know prying is not your style, but if you want me to, I’ll make a couple of calls to Chicago. I might be able to find out something about the Tempest family. Discreetly of course, without mentioning your name, or involving you.’

‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Doris. Thanks anyway. If Kim ever discovered we’d done such a thing, he’d be hurt and furious, and understandably so. And you’re right, it’s not to my taste at all. However I will take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Kim and I will be at Langley together for several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get an opportunity to go over this with him.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then dashed on, ‘Actually, if anyone asks any questions about the Tempest family, it should be Kim. And of Katharine, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do, darling, and please don’t worry so much.’

‘No, I won’t. I feel better now that I’ve talked to you. Thanks for listening, Doris.’ His voice dropped, became more intimate and tender. ‘Incidentally, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, my darling.’

‘That’s worth a lot to me, you silly man!’

They talked for a few minutes longer, said fond goodbyes, and hung up. The smile she had brought to his eyes lingered there for a moment. Doris had the marvellous ability to allay his anxieties, whatever they might be. Perhaps she was right, too, about Kim and Katharine. Maybe it was merely a youthful infatuation which would soon cool off. Not only that, he was taking Katharine and the children to dinner tomorrow evening. With a bit of luck he might glean more information, especially if he formulated his questions skilfully.

‘Good morning, your grace.’

David looked up quickly, startled to see Mrs Moggs, their daily, hovering in the doorway. He had not heard her come into the house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Moggs,’ he said wondering where on earth she had found her extraordinary hat. It was an exotic creation trimmed with poppies and cornflowers. He then remembered it had been a Christmas present from Francesca, one of her more exuberant flights of fancy into millinery design. He had made unflattering remarks about it at the time, but apparently Mrs Moggs adored it.

‘Now, your grace, ‘ow about a nice steaming ‘ot pot of tea?’ Mrs Moggs suggested, still loitering in the doorway.

‘No, thank you. I’ve had my morning tea, Mrs Moggs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er … er … Mrs Moggs, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this again, but one only addresses a duke as your grace.’

‘Dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, lords, barons, they’re all the same to me, your grace, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she beamed. ‘Fair makes your blinking head swim, it does, having to call ‘em all by different things, as I was saying to my Albert the other day. An’ my Albert says – ‘

‘Quite so, Mrs Moggs,’ David murmured hurriedly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.’

She beamed at him again, hitched her shopping bag onto her arm, and then did a little pirouette and disappeared. He shook his head in exasperation, but nevertheless a smile of amusement flew across his face. Mrs Moggs was impossible, and an infernal nuisance, always ‘popping in’ as she called it, when he was deep in work. But Francesca thought she was marvellous and continually refused to get rid of her. How fortunate he was in having Francesca. She had turned out very well, that girl, and he had no doubts about her.

He pulled his address book towards him, found Giles Martin’s number in Yorkshire and dialled it, ready to start haggling about the price of the two prize heifers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.

Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wood in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.

Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.

Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.

‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.

‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’

Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’

‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’

‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’

Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who were propping up the bar, and then tucked her gloves in her bag to keep them clean, as she always did. She was glad she had chosen the Arlington Club, commonly known as ‘Joe’s’ after the bartender, who was something of a character and had a large following. It was an intimate and congenial spot, patronized by well-known newspapermen, writers and film people. Also, being located in Arlington Street, directly opposite the Caprice, it was a popular watering hole for stars, directors and producers, who dropped in for a drink either before or after lunch at the Caprice. For all these reasons, Katharine thought it was an excellent place to be seen, and also to observe.

‘Here you are, Miss Tempest,’ said Joe, placing the mimosa before her. ‘And thanks again for the tickets. I loved you in the play. You were right smashing.’

‘Why thank you, Joe. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Katharine said.

Joe went to take orders from two new arrivals, whom Katharine knew to be the editor of the Sunday Express and the paper’s show business columnist, John Logan. The latter had interviewed her and written a glowing story, and he was something of a fan, both professionally and personally. She returned their friendly waves and smiles, and then shifted her position slightly on the stool and took a sip of her drink. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and immediately changed her mind, thinking of her throat.

Katharine worried a great deal about her health, since she had a somewhat delicate constitution, and was particularly prone to chest colds and bronchial attacks. Her throat was no longer sore, but she did not want the condition to recur, especially with the screen test imminent; smoking was hardly conducive to the crystal-clear tones she had perfected so assiduously.

At the age of twenty-one Katharine was already a highly complex young woman, and there was a curious duality in her personality, as Nicholas Latimer suspected. Talented to a point of true brilliance, she nonetheless strove endlessly to perfect her craft in ways not always necessary, and despite her immense belief in herself there were times when she was in need of reassurance about her acting ability. Sweet of nature, she had an understanding heart and great generosity of spirit, and would go to extraordinary lengths to help a friend or colleague. She was loyal, devoted and considerate almost to a fault, and nothing was ever too much trouble for her. Yet cold calculation, self-interest, and a ruthless determination to get her own way at all costs, stamped the reverse side of this otherwise glittering medallion, and she had no qualms about using anyone to suit her own ends.

And now, as she sat at the bar, toying with her drink, her mind turned once again to the material she would use for the test, the words she would say. She knew she had to compel and convince in a way she never had before. Everything depended on that. Damn, she thought, if only Nicholas Latimer hadn’t been so difficult and indifferent, I wouldn’t be facing this problem today. She was wondering what stratagem to use, to get the material adapted, when a voice behind her said, ‘You’re Katharine Tempest, aren’t you?’

Katharine swung her head swiftly, and found herself staring at a heavy-set girl with a florid complexion and the brightest of carrot-red hair. She was a vision, if a somewhat eccentric one, in a suit of violent purple and a small emerald felt hat with a long purple feather. What a strange outfit, Katharine thought, but said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ A crease puckered her brow. For a moment she was at a loss, and unable to identify the girl. Then she exclaimed. ‘And of course, you’re Estelle Morgan! How are you?’ Katharine extended her hand, smiling warmly. Adept at self-promotion, she was never one to slight a journalist. Even those she considered to be insignificant were treated to a very large and compelling dose of the inimitable Tempest charm, since they might be important one day and therefore useful.

The carrot-haired girl took hold of Katharine’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grinning with delight. ‘I’m feeling pretty dandy. And how lovely of you to remember me, a famous actress like you.’

How could anyone possibly forget you, Katharine thought to herself. But she wisely bit this back, and murmured sweetly, ‘You’re very striking, you know.’

Estelle positively glowed. ‘Didn’t we meet at Lady Winner’s bash, or was it at the Duke’s? Bedford, that is.’

Katharine laughed, inwardly tickled at the unabashed name-dropping, and shook her head, still laughing, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I think we were introduced at the party John Standisti gave for Terry Ogden a few months ago.’

‘That’s right! And you looked absolutely ravishing in a little black number and lots of pearls. In fact, I said so to Hilary Pierce, and she agreed you were the chicest, most beautiful woman there. I like Hilary, she’s a lovely girl, although I thought she was behaving in a dippy way that night, didn’t you?’

Katharine’s eyes widened, and she stared back at Estelle, a blank expression on her face. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

Estelle volunteered, with considerable glee, ‘Oh, but I saw it all! Why, Hilary spent the entire evening drooling over Terry. Mind you, I can’t say I blame her. He’s something to drool over. But I thought, at the time, it was a good thing Mark was off shooting a film somewhere in darkest Africa or India. I think he would have been pretty jealous if he’d witnessed their performance.’

Katharine’s ears had pricked up at the mention of Hilary Pierce in connection with Terry Ogden. An unlikely combination, she said to herself. She was riddled with curiosity about the incident, but she thought it wiser to curb her inquisitiveness and not probe Estelle for further details. Instead she tucked the information away at the back of her mind, for future reference, and said, ‘I’m afraid I missed that particular scene. Still, I do remember one thing. If I’m correct, you’re a columnist for an American magazine, aren’t you?’

‘What a fabulous memory you do have! Yes I write for several American magazines. I’m the roving European correspondent for them, on a freelance basis. I’m mainly covering café society, the beau monde, you know, and show business as well.’

It had become apparent to Katharine that Estelle Morgan was intent on hovering and not about to budge, and so she said pleasantly, ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Oooh! How super-duper of you. Yes, thanks.’ She heaved herself on to the next stool and, pointing an emerald-gloved hand at Katharine’s drink, cried, ‘What’s that?’

Katharine winced inside at her gaucherie, and said, ‘It’s a mimosa. Mainly champagne and orange juice. Why don’t you try it. It’s delicious.’

‘That’s a fab idea. I think I will.’

Katharine motioned to Joe for two more of the same, and then she focused all her attention on Estelle, radiating charm. She gave her the benefit of that most glittering of smiles, and said, ‘Your job must be lots of fun. Do you find plenty to write about in London?’

‘Sure. But although this is my base for the moment, I do a lot, of flitting around.’ She giggled. ‘Gay Paree. Monte. Biarritz. Rome. Venice. I hit all the high spots, in the appropriate season of course. Chasing the beau monde, Katharine.’ She emitted another high-pitched giggle, and asked, ‘I can call you Katharine, can’t I?’

‘Naturally, Estelle,’ Katharine replied quickly, deciding it would be smart to cater to the journalist’s most patent desire to be chummy.

‘I thought you were divine in Trojan Interlude. Absolutely divine!’ Estelle exclaimed. Her manner was fawning, and she kept giving Katharine admiring glances. ‘I expect you’re going to have a long run in the play, but I must tell you, when I saw you on stage it occurred to me you ought to be in pictures.’ She peered myopically at Katharine, and asked, ‘Any films coming up in the near future?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But then one never knows in this business, does one?’ Katharine murmured. Inwardly she cautioned herself to be cagey with Estelle.

‘No, one doesn’t.’ And unexpectedly Estelle winked in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘I saw you dining with Victor Mason at the River Club a few weeks ago. I wondered at the time if you might be going to make a picture with him. Are you his next co-star? Or is this relationship strictly personal?’

Katharine stiffened slightly, irritated by this last remark, but she kept her voice pleasant and neutral. ‘We’re just good friends,’ she answered with a small off-handed smile.

‘That’s the stock remark everyone makes,’ Estelle chortled. ‘I can’t help being nosey, I’m afraid. Occupational hazard. However, I don’t work for Confidential, so you don’t have to worry about little old me.’

‘I’m not,’ Katharine replied, a frosty note edging into her voice. ‘And Victor and I really are only good friends, that’s all. Oh, thanks, Joe,’ she added as the drinks materialized in front of them.

Joe moved away, and Estelle picked up her mimosa. ‘Skol!’

Katharine said, ‘Cheers, Estelle.’ She took a small swallow and gave the journalist a long look that was quizzical. After a short pause, she asked cautiously, ‘What made you mention Confidential} That’s an awful magazine, devoted to exposés of movie stars and celebrities. There’s nothing to expose about me. Or Victor for that matter. Or the two of us together, I might add.’ The second this last sentence left her mouth, Katharine silently chastised herself. I’ve said too much, she thought.

Estelle had detected a mixture of concern and genuine puzzlement in Katharine’s manner, and she said in a confiding whisper, ‘I guess you didn’t know, but Arlene Mason is suing Victor for a divorce. I understand she’s the bitch of all time. Anyway, she seems out to make trouble and is demanding a fortune. And I mean a fortune. Under California law she might just get it too. Community property and all that. It seems she has a lot of juicy things to say about Victor’s extra-marital love affairs with a number of delectable ladies, and I do mean juicy! She’s babbling away to all and sundry who will listen, particularly journalists. As I said, most of us think she’s a bitch on wheels, and that she’s out to embarrass Victor by creating a public scandal. But he does happen to have a lot of loyal friends in the press, so she won’t get to first base. But you might warn him that Confidential seems to be paying attention to her. In fact, I heard on the grapevine that they’re looking for a journalist to do a piece on him and his romantic activities in merry old England.’

Although Katharine knew Victor was having trouble with his divorce, she was both taken aback and troubled by this additional information. However, uncertain of Estelle’s motives, she concealed her reaction behind a bland façade, and said, after a slight hesitation, ‘I knew about his divorce, but not the details. And I must say, it’s very nice of you to pass on the information about the magazine. I will warn Victor. I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative.’

‘My pleasure,’ Estelle said, lifting her drink and glancing about, looking star struck, as indeed she was.

There was a soft disarming smile on Katharine’s lovely face as she regarded Estelle, but her mind was working with icy precision. She was considering the journalist with great objectivity at this moment. Was Estelle sincere in wanting to warn Victor? Or was she dissembling to cover her own tracks? Estelle might very well be working for Confidential herself. Suddenly, instinct and her well-honed perception, told Katharine otherwise. She had already discerned that Estelle was a flatterer, and unctuous, and, very transparently, a sycophant who preferred to make the famous her friends rather than her enemies. She was also a bit dim. Without deliberating further, Katharine made a snap judgment and decided to take a chance on Estelle. It also struck her that if possible she ought to find a way to totally neutralize her, whilst making use of her if she could. Girls like Estelle, who fed off their associations with the famous, were often invaluable, and they never really minded being used. The flatterers feel flattered, Katharine thought sardonically. It appeals to their diminished egos. Makes them feel important.

Shifting her position on the bar stool, and crossing her legs, Katharine drew closer, pinning the other girl with her hypnotic gaze. She said, in a voice as sweet as honey, ‘You know, Estelle, I’ve been thinking about the things you’ve just told me, and perhaps you ought to talk to Victor yourself.’ She paused, and improvising quickly, went on, ‘He’s giving a small supper this coming Sunday. I know he would be delighted if you came with me. Also, you might meet some interesting people you can write about.’ Katharine did not know who these would be, since she had only just thought up the idea of the supper, but she would worry about the guest list later.

Estelle positively glowed. ‘I say, that’s really great of you, Katharine. I’d love it.’ Her dark and avid little eyes glittered like chips of jet. ‘Actually, I think I should write a story about you. I heard somewhere that you’re an American. Is that true? You don’t sound as if you are.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ Katharine assured her. ‘It’s nice of you to want to write about me, but I have a lot of other commitments just now. Perhaps in a few weeks.’ Seeing the crushed look on Estelle’s face and deeming it necessary to appease, she suggested hurriedly, ‘But listen, why don’t you interview Victor? He’s about to remake Wuthering Heights. I could arrange an exclusive for you, if you want, Estelle. Since Victor hasn’t made any announcements about the film as yet, it could be quite a coup for you. A scoop,’ she finished with a gay laugh.

‘Hey, that’s a terrific idea!’ Estelle fished around in her bag and brought out a card. ‘Here’s my number. Do let me know about the dinner party. What time is it, and where, and all the other details – ‘ She stopped, staring at the entrance to the club, and then said, ‘I think your lunch date has just arrived. At least, the girl standing over there is looking this way.’

Katharine turned and spotted Francesca near the door. She waved, slipped off the stool and went to meet her. Francesca stepped forward, smiling broadly.

‘There you are, Francesca dear!’ Katharine cried, her face lighting up with pleasure. They clasped hands warmly.

Francesca said, ‘Hello, Katharine. I’m sorry I’m late.’ She was out of breath and flushed.

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’ve not been here very long anyway. Now do come and meet Estelle Morgan, a very dear journalist friend of mine. Estelle, this is Lady Francesca Cunningham.’

Estelle, who was preening at being termed a dear friend, grabbed hold of Francesca’s outstretched hand and pumped it. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she purred. ‘Well, I see my own date has arrived at long last, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the drink, Katharine. See you Sunday.’

Katharine guided Francesca to the stool Estelle had vacated. ‘I’m having a mimosa. It’s very refreshing. Would you like one?’

Francesca said, ‘Yes, thank you. It sounds very festive and just what I need.’ She perched on the stool and looked across at Katharine, smiling, and then she caught her breath, startled yet again by Katharine’s extraordinary loveliness. She thought: Hers is exactly the kind of unforgettable beauty that has inspired great poets and artists for centuries. It’s romantic and mysterious and heart-stopping in its poignancy. No one could remain unmoved by it for very long, she decided. And once again Francesca found herself entirely captivated by her new friend.

After Katharine had ordered from Joe, she touched Francesca’s arm lightly, affectionately, and her face was happy and radiant as she told her, ‘I’m so glad you could make lunch today. I was dying to see you again, and talk to you.’

‘Yes, so was I,’ Francesca responded with warmth and the same eager enthusiasm. Now her eyes roamed around the club, taking in the elegant décor. She grinned and said, ‘This looks like a rather nice place. I usually go to a grotty greasy spoon for a revolting sandwich when I’m at the BM. Obviously it’s hardly as smart as this.’

Katharine asked with some curiosity, ‘What’s the BM?’

‘The British Museum. My home away from home, as Kim calls it.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Were you there this morning?’

‘Yes. I was doing some digging into the background of Gordon’s siege at Khartoum this morning, when I suddenly bogged down in the worst way.’ She sighed. ‘The more research I do the more I realize what a monumental task I have ahead of me. Hundreds of documents to sift through and read, masses of material to analyse and evaluate.’

‘But Kim told me you have been researching for almost eight months already, and every day!’ Katharine exclaimed, an eyebrow lifting in amazement.

‘Yes, I have.’ Francesca grimaced. ‘And I still have a long way to go before I’m finished. Sometimes I think the book will never get written,’ she wailed. She retreated into silence as Joe arrived with the drinks. Actually she was surprised she had so readily voiced this troubling thought, one that had nagged at her for days, and which she had diligently pushed away in an effort to deny it.

‘Of course you’ll write it!’ Katharine said emphatically, and moved the glass towards Francesca. ‘Try your mimosa. It’ll do you good. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Francesca attempted a smile without much success and picked up her glass.

Katharine looked at her closely, wondering how to cheer her up. She was about to say something suitably encouraging when the maître d’hôtel hurried over, apologized for interrupting and handed Katharine a note. She thanked him, gave Francesca a puzzled smile and opened it. She saw at once that it was from Estelle. It was brief and to the point. Quickly she read: I have some important info, about that magazine and V.M. During lunch go to the ladies room and I’ll follow you to give you the dope. E.’

Alarm stabbed at Katharine but she repressed it, screwed the note into a ball and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. She explained, with a dismissive laugh, ‘Estelle wants me to arrange an interview with Victor. She would like to write a feature about him for one of the American magazines she represents here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Francesca mumured with the most obvious lack of interest.

Katharine was quiet for a few minutes, a stillness settling over her. She sipped her drink thoughtfully, her mind focused on Victor. All at once she pigeon-holed her worry about him, deciding she must concentrate on Francesca for the moment. She said in a voice full of understanding, ‘I know you’re disturbed about the book, Francesca. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca replied, uncertainty apparent in her tone and manner. But in point of fact, Francesca did feel like unburdening herself. Kim’s derogatory remark about the book not selling, whilst jocular in intent, had unfortunately had an adverse effect on her, one which had intensified rather than diminished since Saturday. She was filled with grave doubts about its ultimate success, and, in all truth, she had not only become intimidated by the massive job ahead of her, but unsure of her ability to write the biography. These factors, plus her increasing worry about earning money to help out at home, had combined to dampen her original enthusiasm. She had thought of talking to her father about her work, but he was far too preoccupied at the moment, and she knew none of her girl friends would be interested. The majority of them whiled away the days doing nothing, or worked in inconsequential jobs, marking time until they found the right young man to marry. What she needed was an intelligent person who would listen with a sympathetic ear. And Katharine seemed the most appropriate candidate. Apart from the fact that she seemed genuinely interested, and caring, she was also a creative artist and had a proper career. Katharine would therefore comprehend her predicament and her feelings far better than anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Francesca now found herself confiding, ‘To tell you the truth, Katharine, I was thinking of abandoning the book this morning. I really am disheartened, and for two pins I would chuck it in.’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Katharine cried with unusual sharpness. She stared at Francesca aghast, and then she leaned forward and adopted her most solicitous manner and convincing tone. ‘Look, you mustn’t lose heart. You’ve got to keep going, you really do.’

Francesca shook her head, the miserable expression intensifying on her young face. ‘I don’t even know if it will ever get published. What if I can’t sell it? Then I’ll have wasted my time. Years probably.’

‘I know you’ll sell it!’ Katharine pronounced airily and asserted with great certainty, ‘I bet there’ll be dozens of publishers beating your door down. Fighting to get the book.’

‘I doubt that,’ Francesca laughed, but there was no humour in the laughter. ‘Actually, I think I’m deluding myself in believing I can have a career as a writer. It would be much more practical if I got myself a job in a shop, selling undies or something. At least I’d be earning some money and helping out at home.’

This remark so startled Katharine, she gaped at her. She was about to ask Francesca what she meant, but she checked herself and said, ‘Kim told me you have a natural talent for writing, and – ‘

‘He’s just being loyal,’ Francesca retorted.

Katharine squeezed Francesca’s arm, wanting to both reassure and comfort her. ‘I’ll concede that, up to a point. Still, he’s no fool, and I value his opinion. He also told me that you’d sold several magazine articles, so that must prove something to you.’ When Francesca did not answer, she added spiritedly, ‘Well, it does to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a professional writer.’

‘Not really, Katharine,’ Francesca murmured in a negative voice. ‘Magazine articles don’t mean that much, and anyway a book is an entirely different kettle of fish, especially an historical biography of this nature. I know it’s going to take me years, and I’m not sure it’s worth all the time and effort I’ll have to put into it.’ Her frustration rose to the surface, and she finished, ‘I’m awfully down in the mouth about it today, and perhaps I shouldn’t be boring you with it, after all. It’s not very fair, dumping my depression on you.’

‘Don’t be silly, I want to help,’ Katharine said. ‘I think we should discuss it a bit more, and then perhaps we’ll get to the root of the problem. Come on, Francesca, try and tell me.’

Francesca forced a smile onto her face, and she laughed thinly. ‘That’s just it, I don’t know what I feel. Ambivalent, I suppose, about the book’s chance of getting published and of it being a success if it ever does. And uncertain of myself, my capabilities as a writer … ‘ She faltered, seemed on the verge of tears.

Katharine identified with Francesca’s problems and empathized. There was a brief silence, and then she hazarded slowly, ‘I think I know what’s wrong with you.’ She waited a moment before continuing, and her tone was gentle as she added, ‘You’re suddenly afraid. You’ve lost your nerve. But you mustn’t lose it, Francesca. I know you can write the book. I also feel sure it will be a great success. A smash hit. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. Truly.’ Katharine cleared her throat, and volunteered, ‘Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re going through, because I’ve been exactly where you are at different times. Unsure of myself in a role, worried I might fail, even crippled by stage fright. I suppose it’s a kind of self-doubt, but if you keep going it passes, truly it does.’

Katharine saw that the other girl was plunged into despair. Francesca’s golden-amber eyes had darkened, she bit her lip nervously, and fiddled with the stem of the glass, her face slightly averted. After a few seconds Katharine decided to take another approach. ‘You know, Francesca, I think it’s important for us all to try and master something we’re afraid of, for that great sense of accomplishment we feel when we’ve actually done it. Of course, it takes a lot of strength and determination. And courage. But it’s worth it in the end. You mustn’t give up now, Francesca darling.’ Being single-minded of purpose, dedicated, disciplined and ambitious, Katharine was always a little puzzled when she sensed these essential drives were missing in others. Now she wanted to fire Francesca on, to imbue in her that same intense desire to succeed which had so motivated her own career as an actress. To Katharine, personal gratification, as well as fame and money, was the spur that goaded her on.

She scrutinized Francesca and exclaimed with enormous conviction, ‘You must pursue your dreams, because without our dreams we have nothing. And then life isn’t worth living.’

Francesca, who had been listening closely, shook her head dismally. ‘I know what you’re trying to say, Katharine, but perhaps I just don’t believe in myself enough.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘And it’s a bit arrogant, isn’t it, thinking I can tackle an historical biography of this magnitude, and get it published to boot?’

‘No, it isn’t!’ Katharine declared. ‘You have talent and you’re very intelligent, and hard working and – ‘ She left her sentence dangling in mid-air and broke into laughter. ‘I suppose a lot of people thought I was arrogant, believing I could get the part of Helen in Trojan Interlude. But whatever they thought, and even said to me, I ignored them. And I did get it.’ Her manner became more persuasive than ever. ‘Listen to me, Francesca! If you abandon this project now you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. You’ll never have the nerve or the self-confidence to attempt another book. And you’ll be wasting your talent, just throwing it down the drain, and that would be a terrible crime. You’ll end up feeling bitter about the “might-have-beens” and all you’ve missed. And think of the research you’ve already done. All those months will have been wasted too.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Francesca agreed. She was surprised at the extent of Katharine’s concern, her supportiveness and her genuine desire to be helpful. She was also grateful, and she admitted finally, ‘And I believe you hit the nail on the head. I think I have lost my nerve. And the immensity of the work I still have to do frightens me. I keep thinking I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.’

‘And you mustn’t be negative.’ Katharine’s smile was consoling. ‘You know, you’re probably just a bit tired and out-faced by it all. I think you ought to step away from the book, and take a few days off. Spend your time doing something totally removed from the biography. You’ll feel refreshed and raring to go again after a rest.’ Another thought occurred to Katharine. She said quickly, ‘Look, is there anything I can do to help you? Maybe some research. I’d be glad to, honestly I would, if it would make things easier.’

Francesca straightened up on the bar stool and stared at Katharine. She was temporarily at a loss. Unexpectedly, her father’s concern, which he had voiced earlier that morning, popped into her mind. But he had no reason to worry. She was convinced of that now. Katharine was everything she appeared to be, and so much more besides. She was sweet and loving and so unselfish. All the troubling thoughts Francesca herself had had were immediately dispelled, and she was tremendously relieved she had not asked Katharine those leading questions about her life in Chicago, as she had planned to do. Questions she had even rehearsed on the bus on the way from the British Museum. How rude and suspicious and unkind I would have seemed, Francesca thought to herself. Out loud she said, ‘That’s so sweet of you, Katharine. But I’m afraid I’m the only one who can do the research, because I’m the only one who knows what I’m looking for.’ The laughter flickering on her mouth was real as she said, as an afterthought, ‘At least I think I know. Thank you, anyway, for offering. It was a super gesture.’

‘Just give me a yell, if you do need some help,’ Katharine responded with a jaunty grin. ‘Promise me you won’t abandon the book, and that if you do get down in the dumps again you’ll talk to me about it. Promise!’

‘I promise.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. Now perhaps we’d better go in for lunch.’

After they were comfortably seated, Katharine gave the menu a cursory glance, and asked, ‘What would you like?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Francesca answered, her eyes scanning the list of delicious dishes. She was horrified at the prices, and decided to take her cue from Katharine. ‘What are you having?’

‘I’ll most probably have the grilled Dover sole and a green salad.’

Francesca nodded. ‘I think I’ll have that too. It sounds good.’

‘Would you like some wine?’

‘Gosh no! It makes me sleepy during the day.’

Katharine laughed her spiralling girlish laugh. ‘Me too. I’d better refrain as well, otherwise my performance might be off tonight.’ The waiter came to their table and Katharine ordered, and then she turned to Francesca and said, ‘Will you excuse me for a minute, I’ve got to go to the powder room.’

‘Of course.’

Katharine pushed back her chair, stood up and floated through the restaurant, her eyes focused on the arched doorway ahead, quite oblivious of the admiring glances and heads that turned as she weaved through the maze of tables. When she reached the powder room she took a lipstick out of her bag and redid her mouth. She had only been there a few seconds, standing in front of the mirror, when the door burst open and Estelle flew in, looking as if she could hardly contain herself.

Katharine swung around to face her, but before she could open her mouth, Estelle cried excitedly, ‘Katharine, guess what! I’ve stumbled on something terribly important. Pay dirt. The man I’m lunching with told me there is definitely a writer in London who is filing material back to Confidential:

‘My God!’ Katharine stared at Estelle. ‘Is he sure?’

‘Yes, he’s pretty certain.’

‘How does he know?’

‘Peter, that’s the guy I’m with, runs the London office of a top Hollywood publicity company, who handle a number of big stars and some of the top movies. His Los Angeles office alerted him about the Confidential reporter. Right now some of his company’s biggest clients are filming here in London, or in Europe, and Peter’s been told to warn them to watch their step, and keep their feet dry.’ Estelle giggled and rolled her eyes upwards, then proceeded, ‘He’s also been instructed to scrupulously check out every freelance journalist who requests an interview, just to be sure they’re really accredited to the publications they claim they represent.’

‘Are you trying to say he doesn’t actually know who the reporter is from Confidential?’

‘You don’t think writers who work for that magazine would be foolish enough to announce it, do you? Every door would be slammed in their faces! And anyway, they usually use a phony by-line, so they are hard to check out properly.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Katharine acknowledged quietly. Then she asked, ‘Does your friend know whether it’s a man or a woman?’

‘He thinks it’s a man. Peter’s been racking his brains to narrow it down, but he’s not been able to pinpoint anyone. Actually, that’s why he mentioned it to me. He thought I might have heard who it was on the grapevine, but I haven’t. I didn’t even know they had someone based in London. Anyway, I think you’d better mention it to Victor immediately. Put him on his guard. It’s more than likely he’s one of the current targets, because of his bitchy wife’s big mouth.’

‘I will. Thank you, Estelle. You’ve been really terrific, alerting me to all this. I won’t forget it, and neither will Victor. Look, I’ve got to get back to the table. I’ll call you tomorrow, and let you know about Sunday. Thanks again, Estelle darling.’

‘Any time, Katharine,’ Estelle beamed, suffused with self-satisfaction about the way she was so cleverly cementing the relationship. ‘I’m only too glad to help if I can.’

When she returned to the table, Katharine sat down and said with an apologetic laugh, ‘Sorry I was so long, but I ran slap-bang into Estelle, and I’m afraid she can be awfully garrulous at times. But she’s quite a good sport, and I didn’t want to offend her.’

‘Oh, that’s perfectly all right,’ Francesca replied. ‘I do understand. Thank you for listening, Katharine. And for the marvellous pep talk. You helped me a lot, and I’m going to take your advice. I’ve decided to take a few days off, and make a new start on the book next week.’

Katharine was delighted. ‘I’m so glad, Francesca. And listen, any time you need a sounding board, I’m here. Incidentally, when I was in the ladies room it struck me you ought to have a literary agent. I assume you don’t have one. Or do you?’

‘No. And to be honest I wouldn’t know where to get one either. Anyway, I don’t have a manuscript to show at this moment.’

‘I realize that. On the other hand, it might be a good idea to talk to a few agents, and see what they say. Later, when you’ve finished the book, you’d be better off using a literary agent, rather than trying to sell it yourself. At least I know that much.’ She paused and then excitement animated her. ‘I know what we can do. We can ask Victor to get you one.’

‘No!’ Francesca cried, and flushed with embarrassment, realizing she had snapped at Katharine, and without good reason.

Katharine gave her a peculiar look, but merely shrugged. ‘Then I suppose I could ask Nicholas Latimer. He’d never do anything for me, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping you.’

‘Why wouldn’t he do anything for you?’ Francesca asked with a confused frown. ‘He was very charming at Les Ambassadeurs on Monday night. I thought he liked you enormously. He certainly behaved as if he did.’

‘Oh but he doesn’t,’ Katharine said with a cool and knowing smile. ‘He is pleasant, and he teases me a lot, and behaves as if he’s my best buddy. But haven’t you noticed his flat blues when he’s talking to me?’

‘Flat blues? What do you mean?’

‘His eyes. Flat and blue and hard. His mouth might be smiling, but his eyes drip ice. I know he hates my guts.’

Francesca was flabbergasted. ‘Oh but surely you’re wrong, Katharine! I would have noticed. Anyway, I can’t imagine anyone hating your guts,’ she pronounced with certainty. ‘And please don’t ask him for any favours for me. I don’t want you putting yourself in an awkward position. And as I said, I don’t need an agent at the moment.’

‘No, I suppose you don’t,’ Katharine answered. ‘Anyway, we can always hold Nicholas Latimer in reserve, I guess. Incidentally, talking of favours, I was going to ask one of you – ‘

‘Would you like the fish off the bone, madame?’ the waiter interrupted, displaying the sole with a splendid flourish.

‘Yes, thank you very much. Would you, Francesca?’

Francesca nodded, and when the waiter was out of earshot, she said eagerly, ‘What kind of favour, Katharine?’

Katharine leaned across the table and explained. ‘I need someone to write the material I want to use for the screen test, and I was wondering if you would do it for me.’

Francesca looked at her in amazement. ‘Gosh, Katharine, I wouldn’t know how! I mean, dialogue and that kind of thing is way beyond me. Good Lord, I wouldn’t know where to begin!’

Katharine said, ‘Oh,’ in a very small voice. Crushed, she dropped her eyes and stared at the tablecloth.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to help you,’ Francesca exclaimed anxiously, her voice rising. ‘I’d do anything for you, Katharine, I really would. I just don’t know how to write something like that. Honestly, I don’t,’ she persisted, feeling downright mean for refusing. Then she was filled with chagrin. Katharine had shown her extraordinary understanding, and kindness, had been so patient and encouraging. She felt she was somehow letting her new friend down by refusing to accede to this request. She said, ‘Please don’t be upset. I couldn’t bear it. Let’s talk about it at least.’

Katharine lifted her head sharply and smiled beguilingly. ‘I know you can do it! I really do, especially since it’s a long passage from Wuthering Heights. You said on Saturday that you knew the book extremely well.’

‘Yes, that’s true, I do … ‘ Francesca’s brows went up in a quirk. ‘But why do you need me to write something for you? I thought Victor Mason had a finished screenplay.’

‘When I asked Victor for the particular pages I need, he said that I could have them. At first. Later he called me back and told me that Nicholas Latimer was rewriting that whole section of the script, and therefore I couldn’t have them after all.’ Katharine bent her head closer to Francesca’s, and lowered her voice. ‘But I don’t believe Nick is rewriting. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not Victor being difficult. It’s Nick. I don’t think he wants me to have those pages.’

‘How rotten of him! But surely Victor can – ‘ ‘Nicholas Latimer has a great deal of influence over Victor. It seems to me that anything Nick says goes. They’re as thick as thieves. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear to God they were a couple of fags.’ She burst out laughing when she saw Francesca’s face. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Anyway, they’re not. As I was going to say, their reputations as studs precede them. Nick, in particular, thinks every woman he meets is going to fall flat on her back for him.’ She laughed again, and went on, ‘In any event, Nick probably lied to Victor when he told him he was working on the screenplay, and did it just to thwart me. Victor suggested I do something from Trojan Interlude.’ Katharine shrugged. ‘What could I say. When I told him I preferred to use something that was fresher to me, he said I could select anything I wanted that ran about thirty minutes. I went through Wuthering Heights again, and I really studied the scene I like. And to be honest, it wouldn’t be difficult to adapt.’

‘Which scene is it?’ Francesca asked, her interest aroused.

‘It’s the one where – ‘ Katharine stopped when the waiter approached the table with the food, and then said, ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

Once lunch had been served, Katharine took a few mouthfuls and then put down her knife and fork, suddenly unable to eat. ‘You know something, Francesca, every time I think about that scene I get excited. I know it’s exactly right for the screen test. And I do want Victor to see me playing Cathy, not Helen of Troy. It’s that very moving and dramatic scene, where Cathy comes back from Thrushcross Grange and tells Nelly Dean that Edgar Linton wants to marry her. They get into a long discussion about her feelings for Linton, as opposed to her feelings for Heath-cliff. Nelly tries to stop Cathy, who is being very outspoken. She knows Heathcliff is listening outside the door. But Cathy presses on, and says something about how it would degrade her to marry Heathcliff, because her brother has brought him so low – ‘

‘And then Cathy starts talking about her love for Heathcliff,’ Francesca cut in, her face alive with excitement, her eyes shining. ‘And there are those marvellous lines about their souls. I can almost quote it to you verbatim. Cathy says, “He shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as moonbeam from lightning, as frost from fire.” Of course I know it, and very well, Katharine. And you’re right. It is dramatic and emotional.’

Katharine had observed Francesca’s enthusiasm, her growing interest, and now she seized the moment. She said, ‘If you look at that particular chapter in the book again, and study it, you’ll see there’s enough dialogue between Nelly and Cathy to create a good thirty-minute scene, which is all I need for the screen test. Listen, Francesca, I know you can do it, and in a very short time. I also thought it would be a change of pace for you, and would get you away from your research for a day or two. Oh please, do say yes,’ she cajoled. She gazed at Francesca, her expression pleading, then finished, ‘I need you, I really do. Please, won’t you give it a stab? The test is so important to me.’ Katharine’s eyes did not leave Francesca’s face.

Francesca bit her lip, unsure of herself. But she did want to help Katharine, to please her, and so she swallowed her uncertainty. ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘If. you think I can do it, then I’ll give it a try.’

‘Oh, thank you, Francesca darling! Thank you. I’m so grateful,’ Katharine cried.

‘It might not be right, you know, not exactly what you want, but I promise I’ll do my very best. And you’ll have to tell me how many pages you need, where I should begin and end the scene. I will need a little guidance.’

‘I’ll help you. In fact, I can explain some things over lunch. You won’t find it difficult, because it is all there in the book,’ Katharine assured her.

Francesca nodded and stared at her plate. When she lifted her head she looked slightly perplexed. ‘You seem to have a lot of confidence in me, Katharine. Why?’

Katharine thought for a second, and then she smiled. ‘Instinct,’ she replied.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As Katharine approached the St James’s Theatre, she felt a quickening inside, and her heart beat a little faster, excitement tingling through her in short sharp waves. She always experienced these feelings when she went to work, and never once had they diminished or lessened. The thrill, the anticipation and the expectation mingled to bring a spring to her step, a blithe smile of eagerness to her face, and she increased her pace, hurrying down the alley to the stage door.

For as long as she could remember, the theatre for her had been a place of refuge and her happiest moments had been spent on a stage. When she was ten years old she had appeared in a nativity play at the convent in Chicago, and ever since that time she had known she would become an actress, for her destiny had been truly sealed that day. It was the only life she could bear to live, the only one which had any real meaning, and purpose, to her. In a sense, the magical unreality of the stage was her only reality. She found escape in her roles, bringing to them such belief and intensity, she literally became the characters she played. And it was this extraordinary commitment, total and unwavering, that gave her portrayals the absolute ring of dramatic truth, and was perhaps one of her greatest strengths as an actress. She never failed to touch, to move, and perhaps, more importantly, to convince. Even as a student, her interpretations of classical parts, in particular Shakespearean heroines, were innovative and individualistic, and she brought to them wholly new dimensions which staggered with their brilliance.

Charlie, the stage-door attendant, gave her a cheery greeting, and after exchanging a few friendly words with him, she went down the stone staircase to her dressing room. She sighed with relief as she closed the door and snapped on the light. She was home again. Safe and secure. Here nothing could harm her.

Katharine always went to the threatre several hours before first curtain call. She needed this time to relax, to empty her head of extraneous matters, to repose, to concentrate and to psyche herself into the part of Helen of Troy. This afternoon she was earlier than usual, but she welcomed the chance to be alone, to think and plan her strategy for the next few days. She still had a lot to achieve before the screen test. After her lunch with Francesca, she had debated whether to go back to her flat, and then decided against it, realizing it was a waste of energy to return to Lennox Gardens for only an hour at the most. Instead, she had strolled down Piccadilly, stopped at Hatchards to buy several books, and then made her way to the Haymarket. She had attempted to call Victor Mason from a telephone booth, to give him Estelle’s information about Confidential. To her frustration he was not at the hotel, and so she had left a cryptic message, adding that she would call again later.

Now, as she took off her cape, her skirt and her sweater, she concentrated on the supper she had dreamed up on the spur of the moment at the Arlington Club. She was quite positive Victor would not object, since he relied on her for much of his social life, and he had already intimated he wanted to take her to dinner with Francesca on Sunday night. So he’ll give a small party instead, she thought, slipping into her towelling robe and sitting down on the couch to pull off her boots. After she had carefully put all her clothes away in the wardrobe, she found a small note pad and pencil, and moved to the dressing table to make a tentative guest list. There would be Victor. And Nicholas Latimer. Naturally, she thought with a small caustic smile. And Francesca, Estelle and herself. She needed at least three more people, perhaps even five, to make up an entertaining group. Well, Kim and the Earl were out, as they were returning to Yorkshire on Sunday afternoon. She paused, the pencil poised in mid-air, considering various friends who would be suitable to include. The Shand-Elliots were possibilities if…

There was a light tapping on the dressing room door, and she looked at it in surprise. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘It’s me, Katharine. Norman,’ Terry’s dresser said.

‘Oh, come in, love,’ she exclaimed, smiling broadly as Norman’s head appeared around the door. But the smile fled when she saw his face. Norman, usually breezy, jovial and as bright-eyed as a chirpy Cockney sparrow, wore a dour expression and distress was mirrored in his light brown eyes. Katharine saw immediately that he was agitated. He entered the dressing room with unusual swiftness and closed the door almost furtively. He leaned against it, his body taut, his nervousness spilling out of him.

‘Norman, whatever’s wrong?’ Katharine cried, straightening up in the chair, her eyes fixed on him. ‘You look terribly upset.’

He nodded, his movements jerky. ‘I am. And thank God I’ve found you. I’ve been ‘phoning your flat for ages. I even ran over there and pushed a note through your letter box. Then I decided to come to the theatre, just on the off-chance you might be here.’

‘But Norman, tell me what’s wrong!’ Katharine demanded impatiently, her voice more high pitched than usual. She tensed, and unexpectedly felt a rush of real fear as she observed his anxiety increasing.

‘Ssssh! Not so loud,’ Norman warned. ‘It’s Terry. He’s in real trouble, and I need your help, Katharine. Now.’

‘Trouble,’ Katharine repeated, keeping her voice low. ‘What kind of trouble?’ Her eyes were wide with apprehension, for Norman’s acute distress was being transmitted more forcibly than ever.

‘Well, for one thing, he’s dead bloody drunk. Three sheets to the wind,’ he told her in a voice that was practically inaudible. ‘Can you get dressed and come with me to Albany? I’ll fill you in on the way there.’

‘Yes, love,’ Katharine said, rising at once. She wrenched her clothes out of the wardrobe, dashed behind the screen and was dressed within a few seconds. She emerged and said, ‘I just have to get my boots, then I’m ready.’ Seating herself on the couch she began to pull them on.

Looking up, her eyes questioning, she stated: ‘Terry’s insisting on going on tonight, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. The bloody fool,’ Norman responded with a tight grimace. ‘And he mustn’t. At least not in his present condition.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost four o’clock. We’ve got three hours to sober him up. If we can’t, then I’ll have to try and restrain him somehow, and his understudy will have to play tonight.’ Norman’s eyes remained on her face and he regarded her carefully. After a second, he said with a worried frown, ‘If Terry does go on, it’ll be quite a burden for you, Katharine. I’m afraid the whole play will be on your shoulders. And Terry’s going to need every bit of help you can give him. You’ll have to cue him, lead him, cover up for him, and literally carry him through his performance.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It won’t be easy, Katharine. It’s going to take all your strength and ability and ingenuity to camouflage his disabilities from the audience.’

Katharine’s heart sank but she returned Norman’s steady gaze with one equally level. Although her face was grave, the tone she adopted was light and cheerful. ‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Norman. But we’ll think about that eventuality later. Come on,’ she cried. ‘Let’s go!’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nicholas Latimer, being the consummate novelist, often elected to play the spectator. He sat back, enveloped in silence, and listened and watched and stored everything away in the computer that was his mind, for future reference and use in his work. Once, a few years ago, a female acquaintance had said she hated having writers as friends, because, as she stringently pointed out, ‘They steal everything about you, and recycle it in their books.’ He had exploded with laughter at the time, but now he suddenly recalled her comments, and he said to himself: she was right.

At this moment he was once again the spectator, and he knew he was going to revel in the scene which was on the verge of being enacted before him. And naturally he would hoard it away, and push it into the typewriter when he needed it. The protagonists were fascinating opposites, which added to the drama – Victor Mason and Mike Lazarus. And they were poised like gladiators about to do battle, to fight to the death. Nick smiled at his own rather melodramatic analogy. On the other hand, much was at stake, and if the daggers were not exactly drawn, they were sheathed and waiting, figuratively speaking, of course.

Instinctively, he knew Victor would emerge the … victor. He smiled again at his childish game but he couldn’t help himself. Words were his drug, and old habits were hard to break. Victor had had the upper hand before they had met Lazarus. Not that Lazarus realized this, being ignorant of the meeting with Helene Vernaud and thus unaware that she had passed on a certain amount of crucial information. Lazarus most probably thought he had the upper hand, especially since it was the hand which held the chequebook.

Nick had been taken aback when Victor had told him they were meeting Lazarus in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. For tea. Good God, for tea! When he had questioned Victor about this somewhat weird location, Victor had laughed dryly and remarked: ‘Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that when he was about to do battle with the enemy, he liked to select the location and the time for his preference? He believed it gave him the advantage. So do I.’

Nick had nodded, constantly amazed at Victor’s esoteric knowledge, and said, ‘Yes, it was Napoleon. But why a public place, kid?’ Another dry chuckle from Victor, who had gone on to explain, ‘When we reach an impasse, as we undoubtedly will, I don’t want to have to kick him out of my hotel suite, or have him eject me from his offices. Also, on neutral territory, such as the Ritz, he’ll have to curb his temper. He’s hardly likely to throw one of his famous tantrums in the middle of the hotel.’ Nicholas had nodded and said nothing, but he had thought: Well, you’re wrong there, because he just might. Lazarus is unpredictable, according to what I’ve heard.

So here they were, the three of them, at four o’clock in the afternoon, sitting in a secluded corner of the Ritz, amidst gilded period furniture, potted palms and elegant, behatted ladies. All very genteel and civilized, Nick commented to himself, and swallowed a laugh of wry amusement. There was nothing very genteel or civilized about Mike Lazarus, despite his impeccable linen and well-tailored suit and his façade of genial containment. Nick had never met Lazarus before, but he knew of him by reputation. It was common knowledge that he would go for the jugular at the least provocation, if it suited his purposes to do so. He was cold and ruthless.

As Nick observed them both, his best friend and his best friend’s adversary, he had to admit there was something unusual about Lazarus. For a moment he was not quite sure what this was. He was stocky and muscular, had angular features and dark hair slightly tinged with grey. Nondescript was perhaps the best word to describe him. As he studied Mike Lazarus Nick suddenly reversed this opinion. Lazarus was not really nondescript at all, he just seemed curiously diminished in comparison to Victor. But then what man isn’t, Nick said to himself. Victor’s immense presence was as potent off the screen as on it, probably even more so.

Nick moved his head slightly, and his cool blue eyes swept over Victor, regarded him objectively, took in the dark grey pin-striped suit, the stark white shirt, the silver grey silk de. Elegant. Immaculate. Conservative. In contrast, the handsome face and dark arresting looks and raw masculinity acquired a greater vibrancy, stunned with their startling impact. And there was a very special aura surrounding Victor, one that set him apart from other men. Success, fame, wealth, Nick thought. Yet it was more elemental than that. Is it his sexuality? Nick wondered. Partially, he answered himself. It’s also his adventurous spirit. Soldier of fortune. Buccaneer. Riverboat gambler, he characterized, and then smiled inwardly and said to himself: Maybe I’ve seen too many of his movies.

Nick’s eyes rested briefly on Mike Lazarus now, and he was conscious yet again of a quality in the other man. It was something not immediately definable, or initially apparent, yet it grew on one, slowly and most forcefully. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning striking, Nick knew what it was. Mike Lazarus had the effluvium of power. Enormous power. He exuded it, reeked of it, and it was distinguishable in the way he held himself in the chair, his body tautly controlled like a panther ready to spring, and in his very pale blue eyes, as cold as a dead fish’s, yet strangely magnetic and compelling. They seemed to penetrate with their keen intelligence, and Nick unexpectedly had the unpleasant feeling that those eyes were like lasers, beaming into his brain to pierce his thoughts. He looked away quickly, and reached for a cigarette, filled with discomfort.

From all the things he had read and heard about Lazarus, he knew the man had an austere discipline, an abrasive energy and a restless ambition. Nick, who on his Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University had read history, was addicted to the sixteenth-century period. He thought: If Lazarus had lived at the time of Catherine de Medici he would undoubtedly have been a Prince of the Blood, one of those dark and sinister figures stalking across the complex and elaborate tapestry that was France in the 1500s. A Bourbon Prince, such as a Condé, perhaps. Or possibly a due from the notorious House of Guise. Yes, the latter most assuredly, for there was something decidedly Guisardian about Lazarus, with his scheming Machiavellian mind, his stealth, his penchant for plotting, his unquestionable aptitude for dissimulation, his avarice, and his absolute fearlessness. But he wasn’t French. Nick had read somewhere that Lazarus was of German-Jewish extraction, like himself. Or had his family been Russian-Jewish émigrés? Now he was not sure. Notwithstanding, the man was brilliant. He had to be, to have created a multinational conglomerate of the magnitude of Global-Centurion, whose claws were embedded in the surface of the entire world. More or less. And he was only forty-five or thereabouts. Funny, Nick mused, despite the millions of words written about him, I’ve never read much about his personal life, or his early beginnings. They are shrouded in mystery. He wondered, absently, how much Hélène Vernaud knew about Lazarus’s past. He must ask her some time.

The two men facing each other across the small tea table had not begun to skirmish yet, but were skirting each other warily, and with great adeptness, using verbal thrusts and parries, testing each other. He smelled the tension between them. It hung in the air like a curtain of gauze. He knew that Victor detested Lazarus. But it was difficult to ascertain Lazarus’s feelings for Victor. The man had adopted a posture of geniality. A constant benign smile played around his mouth. But the eyes were alert and watchful and chilling in their deadliness.

The two men droned on about the stock market, and Nick turned away, stifling a yawn.

Lazarus made a remark about trouble brewing in the Middle East, and spoke for a few minutes about oil, and the attitude of the Arab states eventually changing; and then unexpectedly, and abruptly, he switched from this topic.

Suddenly, Lazarus said, ‘Well, Victor, you’ve procrastinated for days about this meeting, presumably because you were having the contract dissected by your battery of lawyers. Since you’re sitting here, I assume all is in order. And I trust you brought the contract with you. Signed. I can’t delay my return to New York any longer. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I want to wind things up with you before doing so.’

‘Yes, I’ve brought it,’ Victor responded in a pleasant, easy tone. He moved in his chair, crossed his long and elegant legs, and leaned back, on the surface relaxed. Observing him quietly, Nick knew he was as taut as Lazarus.

‘Ah. Good,’ Lazarus said. ‘Seemingly we are making progress at last. I’d like to give you my ideas, and my conditions, now that we’re partners. Or at least about to be, after I’ve signed the contract. First of all, I cannot sanction the budget of this movie. It’s excessive. Three million dollars is, in my estimation, exactly one million dollars too much.’

‘Agreed,’ Victor said with a small cool smile.

If Lazarus was surprised at this ready acquiescence, he did not display it. Not an eyelash flickered. ‘How do you propose to cut production costs, might I ask?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice but he was seething inside. Victor Mason wasn’t very much different from the rest, in spite of his reputation for honesty. They were all trying to steal from him, in one way or another, when they came with their elaborate schemes and questionable deals. But none of them were a match for him. Inevitably he outsmarted them all.

‘There are ways and means to do it,’ Victor replied, sounding and looking enigmatic.

‘I see.’ Lazarus remained motionless in the chair, holding his annoyance in check. Mason was such a fool, being evasive, and wasting his valuable time. The man would have to reveal his plans eventually. But Lazarus decided not to press. Instead, he drawled softly, ‘How much can you save?’

‘About a million dollars.’

Lazarus regarded Victor closely, with those keen and assessing eyes. A cynical smile touched his mouth fleetingly. ‘Then I feel justified in my assumption that the budget was padded. That’s the trouble with the motion picture industry. Too much waste, too much fat. An inefficient business in my opinion.’

‘You’re wrong. About the budget. It wasn’t padded, merely erroneous,’ Victor shot back sharply, sheathing his irritation. ‘An easy mistake for a production man to make when he’s sitting in Hollywood.’

‘Obviously you picked the wrong production man, Victor. A shame.’ He made the last word sound ominous, even though his voice was soft. Lazarus sighed lightly and took a sip of his tea. ‘A good production man doesn’t make mistakes, Victor, wherever he’s sitting. Poor judgment on your part. I hope it will be less flawed when it comes to other areas of our project. I also sincerely pray we’re not going to have the pleasure of his company here in England, when we start shooting.’ Lazarus laughed thinly. ‘Otherwise, we might find the budget escalating to four million dollars. Perhaps even five. And why not!’

‘He was not hired on a permanent basis,’ Victor answered, ignoring the sarcastic jibes. ‘As a matter of fact, the entire production team will be English.’ He lit a cigarette, furious with himself for even bothering to justify his actions to Lazarus. But Lazarus had a way of putting everyone on the defensive.

‘Well, that’s a step in the right direction,’ Lazarus responded, his tone patronizing. ‘Let’s talk about casting. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, analysing, and I’ve decided on the female lead. Ava Gardner. She would be marvellous as Catherine Earnshaw, and I – ‘

‘No.’ Victor’s voice was even but emphatic. ‘I’m testing Katharine Tempest. And if she tests the way I believe she will, then she gets the part.’

Lazarus stared at Victor, and his lip lifted slowly, disdainfully. ‘And who in hell is Katharine Tempest? If I’ve never heard of her, then you can bet your last dime the American public hasn’t either. I don’t want an unknown in my picture. I want an established movie star, who is an international name. I want a few box office guarantees, my friend.’

I’m not your friend, Victor thought, bristling. But he contained himself, and he chose not to remind Lazarus that he was one of the biggest box office names in the world. If not the biggest. Aloud he remarked, ‘Katharine Tempest is a brilliant young actress who’s starring in the West End play, Trojan Interlude, at the moment. And she is the perfect Cathy. You have to agree, she certainly looks right for the part.’

‘I told you, I don’t know who she is,’ Lazarus responded, coldly impatient.

The lazy smile eased onto Victor’s mouth. ‘You couldn’t take your eyes off her on Monday evening. At Les Ambassadeurs,’ he rejoined swiftly. ‘Much to the annoyance of your female companion. If looks could’ve killed, you’d be dead, my friend.’

Nick’s eyes swivelled between them alertly. He didn’t remember seeing Lazarus on Monday evening. But then he had arrived late, when Victor and his other guests had already moved into the restaurant. Mike Lazarus had leaned forward slightly, and Nick detected a faint flicker of sudden interest in those inscrutable eyes. Lazarus was silent for a split second, regarding Victor unblinkingly, and then he said slowly, ‘You must be talking about the very dark girl with those extraordinary eyes.’ Remembering the girl’s beauty, he felt a flare of internal excitement, but took care to conceal this behind a façade that was expressionless, adding, ‘I can’t imagine you are referring to that insipid blonde, the debutante type, who was with you.’

‘Dead right,’ Victor answered. He was angered by the disparaging reference to Francesca, but instantly clamped down on it. ‘Katharine has quite a face, hasn’t she? She’s as beautiful as Ava Gardner.’

There was no response for a moment. Lazarus seemed thoughtful, and then he said, ‘I’ll reserve my judgment until after I’ve seen the test. And even if the test is good, I’m still not sure we can use an unknown. I’ll have to consider it carefully. Yes, very carefully. Now, I’d like to discuss the script with you. Frankly, it has to go. It’s far too arty for my liking. Not commercial enough by any stretch of the imagination. We’d better get a new screenwriter on the job. Immediately. We’ve no time to waste.’

There was an awkward silence. Nick, who had flinched, thought: The lousy son of a bitch. He’s behaving as if I’m not here. I guess I’m not, as far as he’s concerned. He was on the point of exploding from frustration. He wanted to defend himself, and his work, and even jab Lazarus a swift right hook. But Victor had asked him to keep silent, whatever ensued, and so he kept his clenched fist pressed into the side of the chair, and waited.

Victor, whose face was stony and closed, said with quiet authority, ‘It’s a damned great script, Mike. Not just good, but great. Furthermore, it’s the script I have every intention of shooting. And let me tell you something else. Nick is not going to be replaced by any other screenwriter. Not today. Not next week. Not ever, my friend.’

‘Now, look here, Victor, nobody’s going to tell me how to make my own picture, the picture I’m bankrolling to the tune of two million dollars. I must say, I thi – ‘

‘Oh, shut up,’ Victor murmured.

Lazarus was so startled that he did exactly that. He sat staring at Victor, an expression of disbelief washing over his face.

It took all Nick’s self-control to suppress the laughter rising in his throat. Mike Lazarus looks as if he’s just been hit in the face with a wet fish, he thought, and glanced away, biting his lip.

Lazarus recovered himself immediately. ‘We’d better get something straight, my friend. And right now. Nobody, but nobody, ever tells me to shut up!’

‘I just did,’ Victor said. He leaned forward and lifted his briefcase onto his lap. He opened it. ‘Here’s the contract.’ He handed Lazarus a manilla envelope, snapped down the fid and locked his briefcase.

In spite of the fury boiling within him, Mike Lazarus could not resist opening the envelope. The contract was in two halves, had been ripped across the middle. His eyes were riveted on the two pieces he was holding. For a moment he appeared to be mesmerized. Never in the whole of his life had he been so humiliated, so insulted. A slow flush rose from his neck, filled his face with deep colour. When he lifted his head, his eyes were like steel blades, and condemning.

Before he could utter a word, Victor, swift on the draw, said, ‘That’s what I think about your contract. And I’m sure you know what you can do with it. As hard as this might be for you to believe, I don’t want your money, and I most certainly don’t want you involved in my picture.’ Victor retrieved his briefcase and stood up. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mike,’ he finished with a mirthless little smile. His black eyes were as cold and as hard as marble.

Nick had also risen and Lazarus regarded them both furiously for a prolonged moment. The bright colour had drained from his face. He was chalk white, and his voice, although as soft as always, was deadly as he said, ‘You’ll five to regret this, Victor. Truly, truly regret it. I’ll make damned sure of that.’

Victor did not bother to respond. He took hold of Nick’s arm and said, ‘Come on, sport, let’s get out of here. I do believe I’m in need of a bit of fresh air.’

Victor was striding rapidly towards the lobby. Nick kept in step, and when there was enough distance between themselves and Lazarus, he said, ‘Jesus, Vic, you really – ‘

‘Let’s wait until we’re in the street, Nicky.’ They collected their coats from the men’s cloakroom in silence. Victor shrugged into his camel-coloured cashmere overcoat and looked at Nicholas out of the corner of his eye. He winked theatrically, murmured, ‘That was short and sweet. Very sweet,’ and headed for the revolving door that opened onto Piccadilly.

Nick was so elated he could hardly contain himself. He had been a champion boxer at Princeton, and once they were outside he could not resist executing a few nimble, ballet-like steps. He feinted, and then delivered a light punch on Victor’s shoulder, exclaiming, ‘You really shoved it to him! Gave him the whole enchilada!’

‘I’m lucky I was able to do so,’ Victor said with a grin. ‘Thank God I really don’t need him, or his lousy money.’

‘So you’ve made a deal with a major? For financing?’ Nick questioned, his bright blue eyes probing.

Victor shook his head negatively. ‘No, not yet. But it’s in the works. Metro’s considering it, and very seriously. But even if they turn it down, I’m not going to abort the production after all. I’ve decided to go ahead. Too much sweat, yours and mine, has gone into this project for me to let it go that easily.’

Relief flooded through Nick. ‘Hey, that’s great, kid. But can Bellissima finance the picture completely?’

‘Just about. If I defer my salary, and if I can find other ways to cut production costs, which Jerry Massingham seems to think we can do. But I’m pretty sure Metro’s going to roll with us. They want me for another picture of theirs, so they’re willing to play ball with me on this one.’

‘Will you do their picture, after Wuthering Heights!’

‘Most likely. I’ve more or less said yes, in principle. Subject to reading the script of course.’

Nick chuckled and jabbed Victor’s arm again. ‘Did you see Lazarus’s face, when he realized that you’d torn up the contract? I thought he was going to have apoplexy. I wish he had, the slimy bastard. I almost punched him in the nose when he was raving on about the script as if I wasn’t there.’

Victor laughed. ‘I thought you might myself. That’s why I didn’t dare look at you. Thanks for restraining yourself, old sport. We could have all ended up on the front page of the Daily Mirror if you hadn’t. ‘

‘Well, despite the insulting way in which he treated me, I wouldn’t have missed being there for anything. I bet it’s the first time anybody’s turned down his money. He was staggered.’

Victor nodded in agreement. ‘You’re probably right. That’s part of his problem. He’s had too much power for too long, running that fiefdom of his. He thinks he can push everybody around. I suppose I could have been more above board with him, and told him days ago that I wasn’t prepared to go ahead with the deal. But I’m afraid the actor in me overrode my scruples. I couldn’t resist playing the scene out to the bitter end. And I have to admit, Nicky, it gave me a lot of satisfaction, dumping him exactly the way I did.’

‘Me too. But I didn’t like his parting shot though. About your regretting it. He’s got a nasty reputation … for being vindictive. And there is something inimical about him. He might just try to get back at you, Vic’ Nick’s voice vibrated with nervousness. ‘I think he’s creepy. Sinister. To be honest, he kind of scares me. Doesn’t he scare you?’

‘Not at all.’ Victor looked at Nick quickly, his eyes narrowing. ‘And I don’t think he scares you either, sport. As for being sinister, I think that’s your writer’s imagination working overtime. You know you enjoy playing casting director and visualizing people in various roles. The whores and the ladies, the good guys and the heavies. Goodness versus evil, and all that jazz.’

‘I suppose I do,’ Nick agreed. ‘Nonetheless, I think he’s bloody unscrupulous. And you said yourself he’s paranoid. Jesus, I feel sorry for Hélène. I don’t relish the idea of her being involved with a guy like him – ‘

‘I know what you mean,’ Victor interrupted. ‘But she’s a big girl. I think she’s capable of taking care of herself when it comes to men. Don’t you?’

‘I guess. Incidentally, did you notice that flicker of interest when you explained who Katharine was?’

‘Sure, and I saw that same look, only much more pronounced, on Monday night in the bar at Les A. Lazarus came in with this well-stacked, stately redhead, dripping jewellery from every pore, and clinging to him like an octopus. And from the moment he noticed Katharine, she might as well have not been there. And don’t think she wasn’t aware of his attention straying. It was all very pointed. They left after one drink, just before you arrived.’

‘Who was the redhead?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Victor responded. ‘But I can tell you one thing, Nick. I think Mike Lazarus is a womanizer in his own quiet but rather predatory way. Something I hadn’t realized before.’

‘That’s what I meant, about his being unscrupulous. I bet he’s a real bastard where women are concerned. And it’s apparent to me he keeps a girl in every port. Hélène in Paris. The redhead here in London. God knows who he’s got stashed where.’ He sighed. ‘Poor Hélène. She doesn’t deserve him. But then I guess that’s her problem, not mine.’

Victor was striding out quickly, suddenly preoccupied. After a moment he said, ‘Do you mind if we take a long walk, Nicky? I don’t feel like going back to Claridge’s just yet. I’m restless, and I need the exercise.’

‘That’s fine with me, kid.’

Victor and Nick kept up a brisk pace, not talking, but perfectly at ease with each other, as they had been since their first meeting. They were so well attuned to each other’s moods. Both were immersed in their own thoughts as they walked along Piccadilly, past Green Park, heading towards Hyde Park Corner.

Victor was pondering the current negotiations now under way with MGM, structuring the deal in his head, endeavouring to formulate all the elements which would make it even more tempting to them than it already was. His presence in the film gave them the box office guarantee they required, and they were not challenging him about casting an unknown actress in the female lead. But if he could offer them a prize package of superior talent, then the deal would really fly, and fly high. There was no question in his mind that he needed a back-up of good, solid British actors who were names, most especially Terry Ogden for the important role of Edgar Linton. And the right director was an imperative. Mark Pierce. Unfortunately Mark had already turned the picture down, because he did not want to direct a remake. Or so he said. Victor knew he had to have him, must get him at any price. But he didn’t really have to worry about either Mark Pierce or Terry. That problem was in other capable hands, would imminently be solved. Now if he could get Ossie Edwards then he was in clover. He was the best damned cinematographer in England, and he was already establishing an international reputation. There was also the matter of a completion guarantee. He might have to get that from one of the financial guys in New York, but Jake Watson would advise him. Jake was due to arrive early next week, and was itching to start shooting. Yes, everything was starting to roll along smoothly, now that he had made a few crucial decisions.

As they pushed ahead, Nick looked at Victor from time to time, but said nothing, not wishing to intrude. His own thoughts had stayed with Mike Lazarus. Despite what Victor said about his writer’s imagination, nothing could dissuade him from the belief that the man was somehow dangerous. His parting words had sounded ominous, even threatening. But what could Mike Lazarus do to harm Victor? He did not carry any weight in the motion picture industry, and besides Vic was a big star, a superstar in fact, who was also part of the old Hollywood Establishment, that cliquish upper echelon that was almost a private club. Jesus, you are stupid! Nick suddenly exclaimed to himself. Men with the kind of power Lazarus wielded invariably, and inevitably, had influence with somebody or other in every business where big money was involved. He turned the matter over in his mind several times, analysing and worrying, as was his custom. Finally he gave up, recognizing that worrying would not solve anything. Victor seemed calm enough, and was confidently going ahead with the film. Best not to borrow trouble, Nick decided. If Lazarus comes at Vic, he’ll just have to meet the bastard head on. And I’ll be right there with him in the fray.

Nick shivered and hunched further into his trenchcoat, suddenly feeling the nip in the air, and the bite of the wind which had blown up. They were on Park Lane now, approaching the Dorchester Hotel, and beyond he could see the top of Marble Arch silhouetted against the sky. He lifted his head quickly, squinting. It was no longer the spring sky it had been earlier in the day, golden and glorious and shimmering with blue luminosity, like the glaze on antique Chinese porcelain. The sun was fugitive, and the blueness had been obliterated by daubs of darker and more sombre hues, a range of greys, ombréd from pearl to opal to cinereous, and leaking into lividity at the outer edges. There, on the rim of the horizon, splinters of light suddenly poked out like shards of broken crystal, and pierced the darkening cloud mass with spears of glittering brilliance. In an instant it had become an unearthly sky, the kind that presaged, or followed, a thunderstorm, and to Nick it was perfectly beautiful.

He did not mind the rain and fog and greyness of London in the midst of winter. Unlike Victor, who missed the sunshine and balmy breezes of Southern California, Nick loved England’s inclement weather and changing seasons. Perhaps because it reminded him of New York and his childhood, and also of his years at Oxford University. Salad days. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. For no reason at all, his thoughts turned to Francesca Cunningham. Now she was really something else. There’s a lot more to that one than meets the eye, he thought.

Nick tapped Victor’s shoulder and said, with a soft laugh, ‘Lazarus was a bit hard on Francesca, wasn’t he? I’d hardly call her insipid. I think she’s quite a dazzler!’

‘I’ll say she is!’ Victor exclaimed, glancing at him. ‘I got the distinct impression Lazarus was attempting to be inflammatory when he made the comment.’

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