‘Yes, that’s right. Doris is the widow of Edgar Asternan. He was a meat-packing tycoon. It’s Doris’s company now.’ Francesca paused to stare at him. ‘You’re looking even more surprised, Victor. Have you met Doris? Do you know her?’
‘No, I don’t. But I know of the Asternan company. It’s a household name in the States, and big, like Armour, and Swift, who’re also based in Chicago because of the stockyards.’ Victor whistled. ‘That’s quite a company she’s inherited, and a hell of a fortune.’
‘Seemingly so.’ Francesca was reflective and after a moment she found herself confiding, ‘Daddy is so strange at times, and I have an awful feeling her money is getting in the way—’ She faltered and glanced down at her hands.
Victor said, his voice gentle, ‘That’s understandable, Francesca. He has his pride.’ He looked at her carefully and added, ‘But don’t worry your pretty little head about them. They’ll work it out, if they’ve a mind to do so. And whatever happens will be for the best. Life has a way of taking care of itself.’ He got up. ‘Now, I think I’d better get back to the kitchen before everything is burned to a cinder.’
She half rose. ‘I’ll come and help you.’
‘No,’ he said from the doorway. ‘You can light the candle, but that’s all you can do. And I hope you’ve worked up an appetite, because you’re about to eat one of the greatest Italian meals that’s ever been cooked. Superb!’ He kissed his bunched fingertips and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘I’ve outdone myself tonight, believe me I have. This dinner’s the whole enchilada!’
Francesca laughed. ‘If the chef is satisfied, then I’m certain I will be too. Incidentally, I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, what does that expression mean?’
‘The whole enchilada? The whole works. It’s a very Californian saying, and I’ll explain the derivation later. In the meantime, my hot stove beckons.’ He winked and went out.
Francesca went to the mirror, taking a quick peek at herself. The warmth of the room and the champagne had brought a hint of shell pink to her high cheekbones and her eyes were unusually bright. From the champagne or Victor? Victor, without question. She hurried back to the table and slid onto the chair, not wishing to be caught primping a second time. Francesca hugged herself with joy, thinking about his compliments, and of the way the evening was progressing. It was a success thus far, and so much so she felt like pinching herself, just to make sure she was not dreaming. She had half expected him to be stiff and distant, and also, being conscious of him on all levels, had been nervous about conducting herself with aplomb. But he was relaxed and natural and, more importantly, he seemed to be accepting her for herself. In turn, this had made her feel at ease and comfortable with him.
‘First course coming up,’ Victor announced, and walked in carrying two plates of food, a basket filled with bread-sticks and the butter dish wedged in between them, as well as a bottle of chilled Soave.
He had put on his powder-blue silk de and his pale grey cashmere sports jacket, and as he came towards her Francesca was yet again struck by his elegance, the costliness of his beautiful clothes, the aura of success and glamour he emanated. He had seemed so homely in his shirtsleeves. Now he looked like the famous movie star again, and this unexpectedly unsettled her; she was acutely aware of her own lack of sophistication, her simple appearance, her inexpensive, homemade felt skin. But at least the new sweater was nice, and anyway she had been brought up to understand that clothes did not make the man, nor the woman for that matter. Nonetheless, recognizing the intrinsic truth in this did not prevent her from wishing she was wearing a gorgeous dress, the kind Katharine owned.
She looked up at him and said brightly, ‘That’s the best balancing act I’ve ever seen.’
‘It sure is, but then I’ve had lotsa practice. I used to be a waiter. Don’t look so doubtful, it’s true.’ He grinned, tickled by her astonishment, and set down the Soave, then the bread basket, and finally the plates. He lifted the butter dish out of the basket, and explained, ‘When I first went to Hollywood I had to find a way to support my wife and the boys, in between my jobs as an extra at the studios. So I became a waiter. And a damned good one, even if I say so myself.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes widening, believing him. And then she thought: There’s so much I don’t know about him… his whole life really.
‘I hope you like prosciutto,’ Victor remarked casually, seating himself opposite her, pouring the wine, taking a breadstick and breaking it in half.
‘Actually, I’ve never had it before.’
‘It’s smoked Italian ham, sliced paper-thin, and it’s usually served with melon, but I often use other fruit for a change of pace.’
‘So I see. Where on earth did you find fresh figs at this time of year?’ She eyed the tender green fruit which he had split in half to expose the luscious pink pulpy centre.
‘Harte’s. Where else? I’m really hung up on their food department. I could spend hours just browsing.’
‘I know. It’s my favourite shop.’
‘Buono appetito.’
‘Bon appétit.’ Francesca tasted the ham, told him it was delicious and, between mouthfuls, went on, ‘The woman who owns Harte’s is a friend of ours, well, of my father’s and she’s quite incredible. The most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.’ As she ate, Francesca recited everything she could remember hearing about the legendary Emma Harte, whom she greatly admired.
Victor was fascinated, and he listened attentively and with growing interest, thinking that Nick had been correct when he said Francesca had a talent for telling a good story, and telling it well. ‘I like the sound of your Emma Harte,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I’ve always been partial to strong, independent and determined women. I can’t stand clinging violets.’ He winked. ‘They’ll never cling to me.’
Francesca’s eyes were watchful. ‘Most men feel threatened by a strong woman.’
‘Not this man.’
She said nothing, smiled enigmatically, and tucked this bit of information away to add to her store of knowledge about him.
After they had finished the prosciutto and figs, Victor cleared the plates, and before Francesca had time to blink he returned, pushing the trolley into the room in front of him. The cart was stacked with an array of silver serving dishes, and she said, ‘Goodness, it looks as if you’ve made enough to feed an army!’
Victor nodded, laughter rippling across his wide mouth. ‘Yes, I know, and I always do, I’m afraid. I’m sure the tendency springs from once being very poor. I’m over-compensating now, I guess. But, Jeez, I can’t stand empty cupboards or an empty refrigerator either. They’ve got to be stacked to overflowing to satisfy me, to make me feel good.’ He hovered over the trolley, removed various lids with a flourish, beamed at her and went on, ‘Fettuccine Alfredo, exactly the way they make it at Alfredo’s in Rome. His recipe by the way, and he gave it to me as a special favour.’ Victor served the pasta expertly, handed her the plate, took another larger one, and explained, ‘And it’s accompanied by a veal chop, pink and succulent and tender. I hope. There you are.’ He put the veal chop in front of her. ‘How does that look to you?’
‘Everything looks absolutely marvellous, Victor. Thank you.’
‘I’ve also made a salad of basil leaves, tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, but let’s tackle this first.’ He served himself, sat down and lifted his glass of white wine.
Francesca followed suit and they clinked glasses, and before he could propose a toast, she exclaimed, ‘To the chef!’
‘Grazie.’ He tasted the Soave. ‘Mmmm. Not bad, not bad at all,’ he said, savouring it. He touched her glass with his again. ‘And here’s to my beautiful patient. Fortunately fully recovered.’
Francesca inclined her head. ‘Why thank you, Victor.’ She was relieved she could accept this compliment without blushing.
As the meal progressed Francesca realized he had not exaggerated about his talents in the kitchen, and she was impressed.
The food, which he had prepared so painstakingly, and apparently so lovingly, was delicious. The pasta was cooked to perfection, the sauce creamy without being over rich, whilst the veal chop was as tender as he had hoped and her knife slid through it as though cutting butter.
‘I’m really staggered,’ she told him at one moment. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
‘The best place, the only place. At my mother’s knee.’ He drank some of his wine, and told her, ‘I love cooking. It helps me to unwind, and there’s nothing I like better than pottering around in the kitchen at the ranch. And I want you to know I’m pretty versatile.’ His black and brilliant eyes danced. ‘I can rustle up terrific steaks on the barbecue, and I make the best chicken and dumplings you’ve ever tasted. They’re out of this world.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she laughed, enjoying him, revelling in his company. In the past they had never once been alone, had always been accompanied by Nick and Katharine, and surrounded by a tribe of other people as well. She was delighted to have him to herself, to see a wholly different side of him.
Victor talked a lot during dinner, and about a variety of things, but mostly he talked about his ranch near Santa Barbara, his love of horses and the outdoor life, the quiet and essentially private existence he led when he was not working in a picture. But he did touch on the professional side of his life several times, regaling her with funny anecdotes about his early years in Hollywood and stories about some of the crazy characters who were his friends. He was witty and amusing and he kept her laughing and vastly entertained.
For his part Victor was enjoying himself as much as Francesca. She was an avid listener, the best captive audience he had ever had, and when she did ask questions these were intelligent or pointed, and usually pertinent. Her comments ran from acerbic to the hilarious. He began to realize he had not had such a good time for months, maybe even years.
Victor Mason was very much the domesticated male animal who had always preferred to relax in the luxury and privacy of his own home, rather than gallivanting in public. It suddenly occurred to him that this type of intimate evening was the one thing he had missed with his last two wives. Both had been perpetual and tireless party-goers, social butterflies of the most relentless kind, and they had wearied him to a point of suffocating boredom, as had the endless parties to which they had dragged him, invariably protesting.
But mostly, he knew, it was Francesca’s presence which was making the evening so pleasurable for him. She was companionable, and lots of fun, and tranquil to be with. Victor discovered he was drawn to her more than ever and for a variety of reasons. Prominent amongst these were her sweet disposition and her natural manner, coupled with her ingenuousness and straightforward honesty. He could not abide women who were crafty or coy or coquettish, who played oblique sexual games, and it was a relief to him to be with someone who was so utterly without guile, who was not out to set a trap for him. Because of her intelligence, her intellectual promise, her many lightning perceptions and her unusual self-confidence, Victor was beginning to forget about her extreme youth, that singular and most disconcerting fact which had continually nagged at him for weeks. And in so doing he set a trap, albeit unwittingly, for himself.
After dinner they seated themselves in front of the blazing fire, sipping coffee and chatting desultorily. Victor was ensconced in the wing chair, nursing a cognac and smoking one of the Earl’s best cigars, both of which Francesca had brought to him, once he had finished clearing away the dishes and the remnants of their meal. She sat opposite him, curled up in one of the large easy chairs, her feet tucked under her.
A silence had fallen between them, yet it was a compatible silence. Victor eased back in the chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He puffed on the cigar contentedly, regarding her through the haze of the smoke.
She smiled at him. ‘When do you actually start shooting in Yorkshire?’
‘Some time in May or June. We must be certain of good weather. But we start principal photography at Shepperton Studios the first week of April. That’s a firm date, and we’ll get as much footage in the can as possible, before going on location. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d like to give my father a tentative date for the weekend house party.’
‘I’ll check it out with Jake Watson on Monday, and let you know before I leave. I’m going away next week.’
Francesca felt the muscles in her face tighten. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I… I didn’t know.’ She fiddled with the fastening on her chain belt and ventured quietly, ‘Are you going back to Hollywood?’
‘Nope. I’m going to Switzerland. To Klosters. It was a trip I’d planned to take with Nicky, and since he’s no longer available, I was going to cancel it. But then I decided I might as well go off by myself. I need a few days’ break before plunging into the picture. I’m leaving this coming Wednesday, for about five days. It’s the last chance I’ll have before I’m firmly battened down by Jake.’
‘How lovely. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage.
Victor took a mouthful of the brandy, and then stared deeply into the glass, asking himself whether he would enjoy the trip without Nick. He never travelled unless Nick was able to accompany him and, unexpectedly, the prospect of five days alone, even in Klosters, did not seem appealing.
He put the brandy on the table and leaned forward. ‘Listen, Francesca, I’ve just had a terrific idea. Why don’t you come with me?’ He sat back, not sure he had heard himself correctly. That he had taken her by surprise was evident. Jesus, he’d surprised himself.
Francesca was thunderstruck. She was unable to answer, and sat gaping at him, her lips parted, her eyes conveying her amazement.
Victor’s expression mirrored hers. He had spoken on the spur of the moment, without thinking things out clearly, and a number of snags flew into his mind. On the other hand, having extended the invitation he could hardly rescind it without appearing foolish. Besides, it a good idea, and for a variety of reasons, he decided. ‘Well, what do you say?’
Astounded though she was, Francesca was thrilled and excited. She was on the point of accepting when she saw the impossibility of the situation. Her excitement ebbed away. She swallowed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she began, and said no more. She bit her lip, knowing she had no alternative but to explain her refusal, lest he be offended. This was the last thing she wanted.
‘You see it would be very difficult to go away without telling my father, and he’d be… well… er… er… You know. I mean, he might think it a bit funny.’ She could not go on, and she looked at Victor helplessly, embarrassed by her admission that she was still obliged to inform her father about her movements, that she needed his approval.
Victor stared at her aghast. She had misunderstood him, and his motives. Jesus Christ! Seduction was the last thing on his mind. He must clarify that, set her straight before the discussion went any further. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m trying to proposition you!’ he exclaimed fiercely. ‘Because I’m n—’
‘Of course I don’t!’ Francesca cried with the same vehemence, sharply cutting him off. ‘It never entered my head.’ Her gaze was cool and her manner haughty. ‘Nor would my father think such a thing. He brought me up to have a sense of right and wrong, and he trusts me implicitly. It’s just that, well, I’ve never been away with a—’ She cleared her throat. ‘What I’m trying to say is that Daddy is rather old-fashioned, and he would think it quite improper for me to take a holiday alone with you.’
‘I can’t say I blame him,’ Victor replied, adopting the lightest, most dismissive tone he could. He lolled back in the chair, and his smile was rueful as he went on, ‘I guess it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’ He shrugged, attempted nonchalance. ‘No harm done, I sincerely hope.’ Then he felt a need to explain himself further. ‘And again, I hope you didn’t misinterpret the invitation, take it the wrong way. It simply struck me, suddenly,
that the mountain air would do you good, since you’ve been so sick, and, to be honest, you would’ve been great company for me. I hate travelling by myself. I get pretty lonely. And we have become close buddies this past week.’ When she was unresponsive, he pressed, ‘Well, we have, haven’t we?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, crushed and let down. I’m just a surrogate Nicholas Latimer, she thought miserably. A bloody chum. How could I have possibly imagined otherwise?
‘Hey, don’t look so glum.’ Victor was laughing, visibly relaxing. ‘It’s not the end of the world. And I understand why your father would be against it. After all, you’re only nineteen, Francesca. I keep forgetting that. Mind if I help myself to another cognac?’
‘Please do.’ Bridling at his reference to her age, she continued, ‘I’d like one too, please.’
‘Sure.’
Francesca put her elbows on her knees and dropped her chin into her hands. Her face was thoughtful, brooding. So badly did she want to be part of Victor’s life, to spend time with him on a one-to-one basis, she was now prepared to accept the relationship on any terms. More precisely, his uncompromising terms. She would settle for a platonic friendship. If they could only be buddies, as he phrased it, then so be it. She focused on the trip to Klosters. I’m going with him next week, come hell or high water, she made up her mind. I must, to cement our friendship. But how to accomplish this without dissembling? She was incapable of lying to anyone, particularly her father. I don’t have to lie, she thought, I can simply go, without telling him. But this would be deceitful. It was another form of lying in a way, and if he ’phoned the house and she was not there he would be concerned, if not, indeed, disturbed. Francesca knew she could not inflict this kind of worry on her father. He had enough to contend with. Somehow Daddy must be circumvented, she told herself.
Victor handed her a brandy snifter, interrupting her thoughts with, ‘Here you are.’
Voice of the Heart Page 38
