Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘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?’

  ‘Pooh! 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 glowe
d. ‘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 murmured 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 j
ob 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.’