‘Nun will help you.’ Her mother nodded at the statue on the altar. It had a man’s body, but a frog’s head. ‘Nun will guide you. More than anyone ever did for me…’
Her mother jerked suddenly, then fell backwards down the stairs, tumbling like a rag doll towards the black-and-white tiles of the hall. Annalise screamed and tried to grab her, but Bzzzzzzzzzzz.
She opened her eyes; the balcony window framed blue dusk. Bzzzzzzzzzz. She sat up, her dress cold with sweat. Her script lay where it had fallen on the floor. Bzzzzzzzzzz. That bloody noise! She looked towards the kitchen, thinking the timer on some device had gone off. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Wait – it was her apartment door. She discouraged visitors, so she’d never actually heard it before. She stumbled into the hallway and opened up. The landing was filled by a black giant.
‘Miss Palatine?’ The bass voice. ‘Your car is outside.’
‘Oh. You’re Emerson’s friend.’
‘Levine, Miss. I work for H.E., yes.’
‘H.E.?’
‘Mr Emerson.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. You’ll have to tell Harry that I can’t come. I fell asleep. I’m not ready.’
‘Miss Palatine, are you tryin’ to get me fired?’
‘Eh? N-no…’
‘Good, because that’s what I’ll be if I go back to H.E. without you in that car.’
‘But–’
‘I’ll call ahead and say we are delayed,’ he set off down the staircase, ‘but try to hurry. If you knew H.E., you wouldn’t keep him waiting.’
She stood for a second then slammed the door.
‘Bloody hell!’ she told herself. ‘Bloody hell!’
She fell into the shower. The water woke her up, but her tummy felt swollen and her breasts were sore. She had a good mind to… what? Pull on a bathrobe, go down to the street and tell Emerson’s goon to bugger off? Would an American understand ‘bugger off’? Or maybe she should turn the television on loud and refuse to answer the door again. But as she dried, she admitted what she had known since Emerson had sprung his invitation – she had to go. She flung outfits around her bedroom, and she nearly did storm outside to tell Levine to bugger off, but eventually chose a demure, chocolate-brown Rozae Nichols dress that hung to the knee. She hadn’t a hope of drying her hair so she pulled it into a ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup, other than a quick flick of mascara. She lifted her purse and tried to picture the look on Holly Spader’s face at the idea of ‘dating’ Harry Emerson without any make-up. Still, she donned flat shoes so as not to tower over him.
Levine’s Range Rover was almost too wide for the narrow streets, but he drove rapidly out of the village and climbed the forested hills beside Beynac Castle, which, lit by yellow spotlights, looked like something from a dream – a much more pleasant dream than hers. Then, the darkness closed in and she realised she had absolutely no idea where she was being taken.
2
Levine stopped at a grand set of gates, gilded spikes arrayed between pillars, each pillar topped by a stone orb. Another big man, also dressed in black, stepped from the shadows. Levine’s window hummed down.
‘Bernstein. Just me and the package.’
Bernstein looked at Annalise, nodded, then opened the gates, admitting them onto a gravel drive.
‘What package?’ she asked.
Levine’s eyes found hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘’Scuse me, Miss?’
‘You said, “Me and the package.”’
‘You’re the package, Miss. Don’t be offended; it’s just security talk.’
‘Is all this really necessary?’
‘Is all what really necessary?’
‘Anyone would think we were in one of your boss’s spy movies.’
‘When you as famous as H.E., you gotta have security.’
‘H.E.!’ she copied Levine’s deep voice. ‘Hey, H.E.! You the man, H.E.! You gotta have total security!’ Levine laughed.
A mansion came into view, spotlit like Beynac Castle. It had a pillared portico and tall windows framed by white shutters. The car stopped by the entrance steps and a man with silver hair and a tailcoat appeared at her door, opened it and, in a perfect Home Counties accent, said, ‘Please, Miss Palatine, follow me.’
She gave Levine a little wave. ‘See you later, maybe.’
‘I hope so, Miss.’
She followed the butler up the steps.
‘Annalise! So glad you could come!’
Emerson strode towards her through a brightly lit hallway, hurrying as if he had been summoned from a distant part of the house. He wore a plain, grey suit with a navy shirt and looked taller than he should have, almost the same height as her. Elevator heels, she guessed. Still, his man-boy features split into such a joyful grin that it was hard not to respond in kind. He embraced her; lightly, barely touching.
‘I’m real sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk sooner, but I’ve been up to my ass… hey!’ He took a step back. ‘My gawd, you look amazin’!’ She blushed and suddenly wished she’d made more of an effort. ‘That dress… Talbot! Doesn’t Miss Palatine look amazin’? Where did you get that dress?’
‘Oh,’ she realised that Emerson was actually waiting for an answer, ‘just some place in London, when I was promoting my last film.’
‘Popular Delusions?’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Course I’ve seen it! You deserve an Oscar, let alone a BAFTA!’ She blushed some more. ‘May I?’ Holding her fingertips, he guided her along the hallway towards a pair of double doors. Talbot swooped ahead and opened them. ‘I thought we’d eat in the library.’
He released her into the room, which was two storeys high and ornate in a sterile sort of way; slender bookcases around the walls alternated with elongated gilt mirrors and hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier the size of a small car. A circular table was set for two, beside a patio door that looked out onto the night. Casually, she inspected the nearest bookcase, tapping the spine of a volume with her fingernail.
‘False,’ she noted.
‘Huh?’
‘The books – let me see…’ she tapped another, ‘yes, they’re false. Strips of wood, painted to look like books. It’s an old-fashioned decorative technique…’
‘Gawd.’ Emerson frowned and rapped one, accusingly. ‘I never noticed. I thought they were, like, books.’
‘It’s such a lovely place.’
‘My people organised it for me, I told them to pick somewhere nice. Used to belong to some count.’
‘I’m sure it did. May I?’
Cursing herself inwardly, she fled through the patio door. He followed her into a darkened garden; the only visible feature was a fountain, lit by underwater lamps. As she approached it, a large black object leapt into the bright pool, making her start. The silhouette swam away; it was a frog. ‘Oh look, a f– such a beautiful evening. So warm at this time of year.’
His answer was reflective, as if he were talking to himself. ‘I guess you’re not wowed by a joint like this ’cos you grew up in that big old place in Ireland. Me, I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in New Jersey.’
‘How do you know where I grew up?’
A discreet cough wafted through the patio door.
‘Ah, Talbot.’
‘Aperitif, Sir?’
‘Not for me, but perhaps Miss Palatine would care for somethin’?’
‘If you have a cold beer, that would be lovely.’ The butler withdrew. ‘So tell me,’ she persisted, ‘how do you know where I grew up?’
‘What do ya think of Peter Tress?’ he countered, ushering her back inside the ersatz library, where he took up a pose against the fireplace. He rapped it, as if to check it really was marble, then fixed his eyes on her. He uses those eyes, she thought, to pin people down, like butterflies in a display case.
‘What do I think of Peter? Gosh. He’s great.’
‘Ya think so?’
‘I loved his last film,’ she offered.
‘Yeah,
but this is a much bigger movie we’re makin’ here. Do ya think he can handle it?’
‘I’m sure we’re all feeling our way a bit, but–’
‘Two weeks of shootin’ and ya think we’re still feelin’ our way?’ He looked as if he might pounce, like she’d been a bad butterfly.
‘Uhh… what I meant was I’ve been trying to find my own feet…’ The hallway door opened and Talbot returned with a tray bearing a single glass of beer, which she accepted, nodding her thanks.
‘But what d’ya think of Tress?’
Emerson was obviously getting at something, so she chose her next words more carefully. ‘Peter is great. I wish I had the same confidence in myself as I do in him.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I’ve been rehearsing like mad, trying to get Roselaine.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Actually, I thought maybe you’d invited me up here tonight to fire me.’
‘No way!’ he guffawed. ‘You were great today, kiddo! You don’t need to rehearse to get Roselaine!’
‘It’s nice of you to say so, but I’m–’
He pressed on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You don’t need to rehearse; all ya gotta do is fall in love with me.’
‘What?’
‘I said, ya gotta fall in love with me.’
She flushed. ‘Oh yes, I see what you mean – Roselaine falls in love with Bernard.’
‘No! Not our characters! I mean you, Annalise Palatine, have gotta fall in love with me, Harry Emerson!’ She felt her face flare up, but there was no escaping those eyes. ‘Who is Bernard?’ he demanded.
‘Sorry?’
‘Who is Bernard?’
‘Bernard is a twelfth-century crusader who realises that–’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ he barked. She flinched. ‘Bernard ain’t no crusader – Bernard is me!’ He smiled like a cartoon wolf with big, perfect teeth. ‘When ya get to my level, kiddo, ya don’t act any more! It don’t matter who I am – a soldier, a spaceman, a secret agent – the audience pays to see Harry Emerson!’
‘I suppose…’
‘Bruce Willis!’
‘Eh?’
‘Bruce Willis always plays Bruce Willis, right? Clint is always Clint, just like Marilyn was always Marilyn! You follow?’ Dumbly, she nodded. ‘Good! So now ya see why fallin’ in love with Bernard is the same as fallin’ in love with me!’
‘I think so…’
‘Lemme ask ya somethin’ – how would ya like to win an Oscar?’
‘I…’
‘When I said you deserved an Oscar for your last movie, I wasn’t bullshittin’, but since that was just some liddle British indie thing, it ain’t gonna happen. But when Heresy opens next year, the studio will spend millions on marketin’ alone and if you and me set that screen on fire, they’ll sink millions more into pushin’ for a few of those little gold statues!’ He suddenly leaped forward, seized her arms and skewered her with those eyes. ‘Annalise! This is what Peter Tress does not understand! To hell with the script – you and me, we gotta set that screen on fire!’ He glanced down; in his enthusiasm, he had forgotten she was holding a glass of beer. Her hand and the floor were now beer-soaked. ‘Oh shit… I’m sorry… TALBOT!’ The butler materialised almost instantly. ‘Take Miss Palatine to the john and get me Frost down here, asap!’ Wordlessly, Talbot relieved Annalise of the near-empty glass and led her to a door off the hallway.
She washed her hands. The bathroom was bigger than the kitchen of her apartment. She studied her reflection, but her reflection seemed rather alarmed, so she practised smiling for a while before returning to the library. Emerson had been joined by a woman in her thirties who wore a taupe linen jacket and a black dress on a body that either over-exercised or never ate or both. The woman’s jet hair had been ironed into a sophisticated bob but her face showed a pain as she watched Emerson bang his knuckles off the false books.
‘Ya see?’ he was explaining. ‘They’re all fake. Just bitsa wood, painted to look like books. Back in the olden days, it’s how they dickied up a room.’
‘Yes, H.E., I can see that now…’
‘Annalise Palatine, I’d like you to meet my chief personal assistant, Judy Frost. Judy – Annalise. It was Annalise who spotted the books, Judy. In fact, she spotted them the second she walked into the room.’ Frost shook Annalise’s hand with a smile, but if her eyes could have spoken, they would have said something like ‘curl up and die, you interfering bitch’. Her mouth said, ‘I can assure you, H.E., that when we took the lease on the property, the owner said nothing about this.’
‘It’s your job to take care of the details, Judy. Where would we be if we didn’t take care of the details?’ Annalise felt embarrassed for the older woman, being ticked off in front of a total stranger over something so trivial.
‘We’d be nowhere, H.E. I’ll call the owner immediately and inform him of our displeasure in the matter.’
‘Inform the fuckin’ asshole that we don’t want his crappy house then find me somewhere better.’
Frost blanched. ‘But… this is the best château within thirty miles of Beynac. It took months to organise.’
Emerson’s reply was a masterpiece of curbed menace. ‘Judy–I want a castle with real books. Do you think you could do that for me, please?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘We need to take care of the details, Judy. Another example–I inspected the kitchens this mornin’ and I noticed that some of the condiment jars had been placed on the storage shelves with their labels turned inwards.’
‘Condiment… jars?’
‘Yeah, can you believe that? I asked Stefan about it and he said one of the house staff musta done it. So I said to him, how in the hell are we supposed to know which condiment is which if the labels aren’t positioned outways so we can read them?’ Annalise almost giggled but stopped herself when she saw the utter seriousness of Emerson’s expression.
‘I agree, H.E., that that is a completely unacceptable situation.’
‘How was anyone supposed to find the right condiment, Judy?’
‘Really, H.E., you shouldn’t trouble yourself with–’
‘It’s okay, I fixed it already. I personally turned all those jars so their labels faced outways. But I shouldna hadda do that – should I, Judy?’
Frost whispered, ‘No, H.E., you should not.’
He sighed. ‘Fake books, disorganised storage – things are sure are gettin’ sloppy round here.’
Now, the woman looked frightened. ‘I’ll arrange new accommodation straight away. And I’ll sack the housemaid.’
He sighed absently. ‘Yeah, you do that. One more thing: call Peter Tress and tell him I wanna talk to him.’ he consulted his watch, ‘say twenty minutes from now. I’ll take it in here. And tell Talbot we’re ready to chow down.’
‘Of course.’ Frost backed out the door, closing it gently. Emerson shook his head.
‘Goddamn incredible, ain’t it – no matter how rich or famous you are, you gotta do everythin’ yourself!’
‘Harry,’ Annalise tried to hide the astonishment in her voice, ‘you’re not really going to move from this beautiful house just because of those silly books? I was only trying to make conversation.’
He sat down at the table, without holding her chair out, much less waiting for her. ‘This is why you and me are gonna be so great together. You got taste – you were born into this.’
‘Not really.’ She seated herself opposite. ‘It’s true that I grew up in a big house, but it was an awful wreck and we never had any money.’
‘You say that, but you got pedigree.’
‘Like a dog?’
‘Professional pedigree. Lemme tell you somethin’,’ now his voice turned soft and pseudo-confessional, ‘lemme tell you somethin’ about me. Until I discovered the movies, everythin’ about me was ordinary. I was an ordinary kid, with an ordinary life, in ordinary New Jersey. And the neighbourhood kids were mean to me, so, every
day, I hid out in the movie-house. All through the late seventies and the early eighties, I saw every movie that was ever made. But one movie changed my life, because it made me wanna act. Now I reckon you know what I’m talkin’ about here – don’tcha?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
He smiled. ‘Go on, you first.’
‘We didn’t live near a cinema, but when I was little, I had a video copy of Bugsy Malone. I wanted to be Jodie Foster so badly that I cut my hair with nail scissors and tried to dye it blonde with lemon juice. My mother nearly beat me to death with a hairbrush.’
He laughed. ‘There ya go! Age twelve, I saw this guy in a movie and boom! That was it! I knew what I hadda do with my life!’
‘What was the film?’
‘It was Fanshawe, Grovel and the Valley of Fear.’
‘No!’
‘And the guy who made me wanna act was–’
‘No!’
‘…David Palatine!’
‘Really?’
‘Cross my heart.’ And he launched into a fair impersonation of her father’s upper-class idiot voice. ‘“I say, Grovel, prostrate yourself across yonder puddle, so I don’t get me galoshes wet.’” She laughed, but from nerves, not amusement. ‘He played both parts, right? The crazy English aristo and his French sidekick?’
‘Yes, Grovel was my father in heavy make-up.’
Emerson chuckled to himself and Talbot burst through the door followed by a waiter pushing a trolley.
‘The hors d’oeuvre, Sir.’
He served them plates with silver covers which he lifted with great ceremony to reveal nothing more than a handful of prawns, crisscrossed with a trickle of scarlet sauce and a single purple lettuce leaf.
‘Spiffing.’ Emerson resumed his Fanshawe accent. ‘Tell Stefan that he’s a spiffing chap!’
‘I will, Sir.’
‘Best chef in the British Empire, what?’
‘Will that be all, Sir?’
Annalise piped up. ‘I’m sorry, but could I trouble you for another beer? I didn’t get much of the last one.’
Darling Sweetheart Page 3
