Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Sensing the other man’s acute discomfort and embarrassment, Victor smiled, his charming manner restored. ‘Relax Jerry. Forget it. I know you didn’t mean any harm, and your dedication to the film is commendable. I’ve no quarrel with you there. And I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard.’ He laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘I guess I’m a bit sensitive in certain areas. I took a bad fall once, on location, and before I could open my eyes, pick myself up and shake the dust off me, I heard the line producer voice the opinion that I’d just screwed up the budget by getting myself killed. He was actually annoyed at my carelessness, and was still exclaiming about all the wasted footage when I threw him a right hook.’ Victor roared. ‘The bastard hadn’t anticipated getting slugged, least of all by a supposed corpse.’ He continued to chuckle, recalling the incident and its repercussions.

  Jerry joined in, but his laughter was stilted. I sounded downright cavalier, he thought regretfully, and then he cautioned himself yet again to watch his step around Victor Mason, who was obviously an original, and quite unlike the Hollywood stars with whom he had worked in the past. For the most part they had been egomaniacs, and insensitive bastards to boot. Mason continued to surprise him, and in the most unexpected and unpredictable ways. He might be a stern and demanding task master, a tough executive producer who had-his eyes smartly peeled and was ten jumps ahead of everyone else, but it was clear he was a superior human being. It appeared he was decent and caring. Nor was he bizarre in an industry in which to be bizarre was more often than not quite normal. As yet, he had not once played the star; he had made no peculiar demands; and he treated everyone as an equal. I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s got immense style, Jerry thought.

  Conscious of the growing silence, and in an effort to dispel Jerry’s lingering uneasiness, Victor’s tone relaxed. ‘Anyway, onward and upward. What did you start to say about Francesca having an idea?’

  Relieved that the awkwardness between them had evaporated, Jerry said, ‘Ah yes, Francesca. Apparently the attics of the castle are stuffed with old furniture, lamps, bric-a-brac, lots of stuff, in fact. And according to Francesca, it’s not particularly valuable. She thinks we might be able to use some of it for the film. I’d told her about replacing certain items in the rooms where we’ll be shooting. She suggested we sort through the junk—her word, not mine—and select anything we think we can utilize.’

  ‘That’s very bright of her,’ Victor pronounced, suppressing a small amused smile, inwardly applauding her shrewdness. ‘It will save us money, providing the stuff is appropriate. Once we’ve decided on a set designer, let’s get him to Langley Castle to make a few choices.’ He picked up his gold lighter and toyed with it, and said guardedly, ‘What about Francesca? Is she very sick? I feel a bit guilty, Jerry; after all, she obviously caught the cold when she was working for us.’

  ‘She says she sounds much worse than she feels, but personally I think she’s down with a bad bout of the ’flu.’

  ‘She is back in London, though? You reached her at the house here?’

  ‘Yes, and not to worry, old chap. I’m sure she’s being properly looked after. By the daily cleaning woman. A Mrs Moggs. It was she who answered the ’phone. Very reluctant to get Francesca out of bed. Sounded motherly and capable.’ Jerry rubbed his hand across his chin thoughtfully. ‘Poor kid, I’m sure she did get a chill up on those moors. Very bleak, and the weather was raw. Maybe I should send her a basket of fruit from Bellissima Productions. That would be a nice gesture, don’t you think?’

  ‘Good thought, Jer. Get one of those fancy, super-de luxe jobs from Harte’s in Knightsbridge. Now, did Jake tell you about the meeting this afternoon? I’d like you to be there, incidentally.’

  Jerry was flattered by this invitation and he smiled broadly and exclaimed, ‘He told me about the meeting, but not that you wanted me to come along. Delighted to do so, old chap. I was going out to the studios, but there’s no urgency about that trip. And incidentally, Victor, congratulations on signing Mark Pierce. To be honest, I never thought you’d get him. He’s a difficult bugger. In fact, I told Jake a few weeks ago that, in my opinion, you were barking up the wrong tree. Just goes to show, you never know in life.’ Jerry stared hard at Victor, his eyes narrowed, inquisitiveness fucking into them. ‘How the hell did you get him?’

  Victor smiled lazily. ‘I charmed him,’ he answered cryptically. How could he properly explain all the ramifications, and Hilary Pierce’s willing complicity in Katharine’s convoluted schemes and manipulations. And there was no question in Victor’s mind that Katharine had been extremely manipulative. However, she had achieved the desired results and he was disinclined to probe her modus operandi. Besides, she herself had been vague, even uncommunicative, except for saying that Hilary was the key, insisting that he sign Mark’s wife to do the clothes. Since Hilary Pierce was undeniably talented and enjoyed a fine reputation in the field of theatrical costume design, he had readily agreed. However, this long histoire would sound decidedly peculiar to an unimaginative and prosaic guy like Jerry Massingham, who was evidently more at ease dealing with columns of figures and budgets than people. Victor cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Jerry, I missed that. What did you say?’

  ‘I was just wondering out loud what the meeting was about, and who’s coming.’

  ‘You, of course. Jake, Mark, and the casting director. We must make our final decisions today… about the overall casting,’ Victor said. ‘I’ve also asked Nicholas Latimer to sit in, since Mark might have some script questions. I want to get everything buttoned up today. You do know I’ve signed Terrence Ogden to play Edgar Linton?’

  ‘So Jake said, before you arrived. Terry’ll be good. I’ve always said he had real film potential. It’s a pity he’s only made one before, and that it was a flop. Perhaps that’s why he’s been less than eager to attempt another.’

  Both men turned their heads and glanced at the door, as Jake Watson, grinning hugely, hurried in, closing the door swiftly. He leaned against it, and it was obvious he could hardly contain himself. ‘I thought Hilly was going to keel over when I told him about getting a suite at Claridge’s, Victor. He’s scurrying around right now, trying to produce an additional office for us.’

  Victor’s mouth twitched. ‘Let’s hope it’s large enough.’

  Jake gaped at him. ‘Oh no, Victor! You wouldn’t!’ He began to laugh. ‘You wouldn’t dare refuse it, say it was too small, insist on the suite… Would you?’ Jake knew the answer almost before the question had left his mouth. He had worked with Victor on five pictures, and they were old friends. He was therefore more than acquainted with his sense of humour, his mischievous penchant for making the top brass squirm, especially those who were arbitrary and pompous, as Hilly was pre-disposed to be.

  ‘I just might,’ Victor’s black eyes were twinkling with mirth. ‘Give him a run for his money. He begged, literally begged for WH and he hasn’t stopped griping about the costs ever since. It would behove him to put his own house in order. Jesus, the waste here is unbelievable.’ Faintly, at the back of his mind, Victor heard an echo of Mike Lazarus’s words. That son of a bitch was right in many respects, he told himself, recalling the critical comments Lazarus had made about the motion picture industry. Victor looked at Jake. ‘But running the London offices of the Monarch Picture Corporation of America is Hilly’s problem not ours. Right?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I made a few notes when you were both out. I’d like to review a number of things with you before I leave.’

  For the next half an hour the three men discussed a variety of matters pertaining to the production and were able to come to several decisions, some only tentative, because Mark Pierce, as the director, would have to be consulted. Along with Victor, he would have the final word on major points. But they were able to cover most of the details regarding the second unit; review the credentials of various other set designers, as well as Harry Pendergast, whom they all agreed sounded the best; touch on appropriate composers for the musica
l score; also arrive at possible dates for the start of principal photography.

  As the discussion drew to its conclusion, Victor said, ‘Well, that’s about it. I think we’re pretty well prepared for this afternoon. Also, by then I’m hoping we’ll have a decision from Ossie Edwards. Mark has talked to him several times, and I think he’ll come with us. He’s the perfect cameraman for the picture, in my opinion.’ He stood up, stretching.

  Jerry said, ‘Yes, I agree. And he’ll be in his element in Yorkshire. He’s got a painter’s eye for landscapes.’

  ‘And beautiful women,’ Victor retorted.

  ‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ve a few things to take care of States-side.’ He paced across the room, paused to pick up his trenchcoat, flung it over his arm. ‘Claridge’s. At three. See ya, boys.’ He gave them a jaunty grin and left.

  When Victor stepped into the street, he saw, much to his relief, that it had finally stopped raining. He looked up and down, and spotted Gus leaning against the car, which was parked a short distance away. Gus straightened up when he saw Victor, rushed to open the door and asked, ‘Where to now, Guv?’

  ‘Back to Claridge’s. Thanks, Gus.’ Victor had one foot inside the car when he changed his mind. ‘No, on second thoughts, I think I’m going to walk back. I’d like some fresh air. I won’t be needing you until this evening, Gus. Why don’t you check in around four o’clock though, so I can tell you my plans.’

  ‘Right you are, Guvnor.’

  Victor stepped back, and as Gus pulled out and drove off he gazed admiringly at his new Bentley Continental drop-head coupé, a recent purchase. It had been expensive, he had to admit, but it was worth it, a gorgeous piece of machinery with its glazed claret finish, pale buff-coloured hood and white-wall tyres. And it was a dream to drive with its automatic gear shift and fluid fly wheel. Victor prided himself on two things: his impeccable taste in automobiles and his keen and discerning eye for thoroughbred horses. He preferred his cars and his horseflesh to be graceful, sleek and fast, and as smooth as velvet.

  Reaching Curzon Street, Victor turned left and headed towards Berkeley Square, intending to do a full circle around Mayfair before returning to the hotel. But he drew to a sharp halt when he passed the end of Chesterfield Street. Impulsively, he thought: Maybe I should drop in on Francesca, to check that she really is all right. No harm in that, surely. He turned smartly, retraced his steps and walked leisurely up the street, but as he approached the house he found himself increasing his pace. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he did stop by to see her, she would be annoyed, would regard it as an intrusion, a breach of etiquette. The English were so damned peculiar about certain things. He remembered Katharine’s constant mutterings about good form and bad form. To arrive on Francesca’s doorstep unannounced would most certainly be considered bad form. He glanced swiftly at the door and with quickening interest, but curbed himself, and strode on determinedly, without stopping. He pushed up into Chesterfield Hill, then veered to the right and continued down Charles Street, aiming for Berkeley Square.

  The first thing he noticed when he entered the square were the windows of Moyses Stevens, the renowned florist. They were awash with water, and he paused to look. Mechanical things had always intrigued him and he was constantly tinkering with the machinery at the ranch, although never with cars. As Nick said, costly cars were verboten to amateur mechanics like himself.

  Water streamed down the glass like a fine, undulating curtain. It was probably being released from hidden ducts or some kind of similar system in the ceiling, then recycled back through intricate piping. He watched it for a moment, fascinated, before pressing closer to the glass, peering through this constantly-moving, liquid curtain, his eyes resting on banks of the most beautiful flowers he had seen for a long time. Colour flamed vividly in a profusion of variegated reds and oranges intermingled with magenta and purple, paled to soft fading yellows and crisp white; and interspersed amongst these brilliant hues and the more fragile tints were innumerable dark and light greens, leaves so luxuriant and shiny they looked as if they had been individually polished to a glossy sheen. A smile touched Victor’s lips and his spirits lifted. The array of flowers and plants were like a breath of spring, evoked images of sharp clear sunlight on green meadows, trees newly bursting with tender young leaves, and blue and radiant skies. Such a contrast to this dreary rain-sodden March day, he thought. And if the flowers made him feel light-hearted, then certainly they would bring a smile of pleasure to Francesca’s face.

  This time there was no hesitation on Victor’s part. Decisively, he pushed open the door of the florist’s shop and went inside. Instantly his nostrils were assaulted by all manner of mingled scents and the fresh and pungent smell of damp earth and growing greenery. He selected a huge armful of mimosa, brilliant yellow and sweetly fragrant, flown in that morning from Nice, he was informed. He added three dozen scarlet-tipped white tulips from Holland, and several bunches of pale and fragile narcissi from the Scilly Isles. He also bought a china cachepot which had been planted with hyacinths, tall, waxy, and a light hazy-blue in colour, but chosen mainly because he could not resist their heady perfume. He knew he had gone overboard with the flowers, especially since Jerry was sending the basket of fruit. But what the hell, he muttered under his breath; everyone expects a movie star to make the grand and extravagant gesture.

  The sales lady showed him the tray of cards, so that he could write a message, before she went off to wrap his purchases. Victor took a card and stared at it for several seconds, frowning, wondering what to say. He did not want Francesca to misunderstand the gift of flowers, to misinterpret their meaning, read something into them which did not exist. In the end, after several false starts and wasted cards he penned a bland line, wishing her well, and signed it simply, ‘From Nicky and Victor.’ He slipped the card in the envelope, sealed it and addressed it clearly. When the sales lady returned with his bill he handed her the card and the money, and asked when the flowers would be delivered. ‘Within the hour, Mr Mason,’ she said with a polite, rather shy smile. ‘You are Victor Mason, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled back, radiating charm.

  Glowing, she gave him his change, and went on, in a confiding though deferential manner. ‘I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your films, Mr Mason. I go to see all of them. In fact, I’m quite a fan of yours.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ he responded. ‘Thanks very much. It’s nice to hear.’

  ‘Do come in again, Mr Mason,’ she called as he went through the door. He swung his head, waved and told her he would.

  That’s what I like about the English, he thought, stepping out into the street. They’re so courteous. And so absolutely bloody civilized, he added in mental mimicry of Kim’s upper-class English voice. He stepped out briskly, heading in the direction of Claridge’s, and several times he smiled to himself, although he was not sure why he did so. Nor did he understand the reason for his sudden sense of quiet happiness, a feeling of genuine tranquillity the nature of which he had not experienced for a number of years.

  ***

  There was a pile of mail and a number of telephone messages waiting for Victor at the hotel. He asked the operator for Nick’s suite and sat down. There was no reply. Putting on his glasses, he began to peruse the mail.

  Three letters from Beverly Hills gained his attention first. They were from his business manager, his agent and his lawyer. He opened the one from his lawyer with some trepidation, fully expecting it to contain distasteful and distressing news about Arlene and their impending divorce. To his surprise it did not, although it did concern his second wife, Lillianne. Apparently she wanted to sell the Dali, and had asked Ben Challis, his lawyer, to find out if he would be interested in purchasing it from her. He laughed out loud. The painting had been part of their divorce settlement. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s got nerve, he thought, his mouth twitching with amusement. She actually wants me to buy back something which was mine in
the first place! I’ll be damned. He shook his head, still laughing as he put the letter down. But why not? He did not own much good art and he had been attached to the Dali. She must be in desperate need of cash to sell it. As usual. Vaguely he wondered what Lillianne did with money. He had been very generous with her when they had separated. According to Ben, she was constantly in strained financial circumstances, and he had come to her rescue more than once in the past few years.

  His second marriage, like his third, had not been particularly happy, but Lillianne was not a bitch, which was more than he could say for the tempestuous and vituperative Arlene, who was currently on a rampage and hell bent on creating a scandal. He sighed, and asked himself why he had had no luck with women since Ellie’s death. He continually made dreadful mistakes in his private life, which was in constant upheaval, and yet, funnily enough, he never made the same mistake twice in his profession or in his business dealings. But now I’ve turned over a new leaf, he muttered, and brushed away these speculations about wives and women, which were not only a waste of time, but irritating. He glanced at the other two letters from Beverly Hills, which were of no great importance, and reached eagerly for the envelope from the travel agency in Bond Street. He opened it quickly and pulled out two first-class airline tickets for Zurich, and his face lit up.

  Next week he and Nick were going to Klosters, via Zurich, on a five-day skiing trip, and they were both like excited schoolboys about to sally forth on their first adventurous spree. Victor, being an intensely physical man and accustomed to the most strenuous of outdoor activities, felt increasingly constrained in London, hemmed in and restless as his sedentary existence began to create mounting tension in him. Apart from this, he knew he was out of condition, and gruelling exercise and a thorough workout had become imperative. In a sense, he considered the trip to be a medical necessity, since it would be therapeutic in a number of ways. Jake had tried to dissuade him from going, being fearful he would break a leg or an arm and consequently throw the picture off schedule. But he had managed to convince the line producer that he was going solely for health reasons, and not riotous fun or distractions of a feminine nature. Finally, he had had to solemnly promise not to take any chances on the slopes, swearing he would stick to the gentler ski runs.