Tom laughed. ‘I’ll help you. And contrary to what I told you, I still have some work to do.’
‘I knew that,’ she murmured. ‘Just take me to bed.’
He did, and she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. But it was some time before Tom stopped staring down at her unconscious face. And when he went back downstairs, instead of working, he poured himself a glass of wine and took it out to the terrace, where he stared out over the water, and the lights of Sanctuary Cove reflected in it, for a long time.
The next morning Cathy woke feeling surprisingly refreshed and she let Tom sleep in while she set out to potter around her new, temporary domain, making breakfast, doing the washing. But as she worked, she tried to take stock and see behind their conversation of the night before, only to come to the conclusion several times that the only thing she could be sure of was that there must be some hallowed ground between Tom and Bronwen, even if he might be trying to deny it to himself. Then she deliberately reminded herself of her code of behaviour and warned herself to apply it to her thought processes.
Tom was still fast asleep when she took his breakfast in, and she paused a moment before waking him. He was lying on his side and he had taken over all the bed since she had left it; he’d got the sheet impossibly twisted round the lower half of his body and he was cradling her pillow in his arms.
A faint smile touched her mouth, because it was only in sleep that he ever looked—not vulnerable, she mused, but younger somehow, and it was only when he was asleep or just waking that she found herself feeling affectionately indulgent and as if she had a slight edge instead of being very definitely the younger, the student half of the relationship. But when he was asleep she could, and often did, remind herself that he had some faults. He was hopelessly untidy and incredibly forgetful about a lot of things, such as paying basic bills like the electricity and phone; he could never remember where he’d put his car keys; he was utterly careless of his clothes, often found himself without a cent on him or a credit card, forgot appointments and, when he didn’t forget them altogether, often turned up a day late or expected people a day early—in fact, how he’d survived before he’d married her was something of a mystery to her. He could also be abominably rude to perfectly innocent people and then be surprised to find he’d hurt them to the core.
‘Tom?’ she said softly.
He opened one eye and squinted at her, then rolled on to his back with a groan. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Nine o’clock. I brought your breakfast——’
‘Nine!’ He sat up and raked his fingers through his hair.
‘We start at ten, don’t we? That’s plenty of time,’ Cathy said placidly, and put the tray down beside the bed.
‘You start at ten—I had planned to be there a lot earlier so I could go over yesterday’s rushes.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and smiled down at him. ‘You should have told me.’
By way of reply, Tom fingered the blue shadows on his jaw, eyed her state of pristine freshness, her gleaming hair, her white shorts and blue T-shirt, then with a sudden movement pulled her into his arms and lay back with her.
‘Tom!’ she protested.
‘Cathy?’ he returned politely, but added, ‘I have this… caveman urge to undo you and muss you up, quite an irresistible urge, I must tell you. What do you say to that?’
She trailed the shadows on his jaw with her fingers and said demurely to the wicked, hungry glint in his eyes, ‘That will make you even later.’
‘Not the way I feel right this instant—but I’ve changed my mind—I don’t care if I’m late or the rushes have to wait. I don’t give a damn. Dear Cathy,’ he finished gravely.
‘You… you’re serious!’ She managed to evade his arms long enough to sit up, although his hands captured her about the waist almost immediately.
‘Never more so.’
‘Well—’
‘There you go again!’ he teased.
‘But I’ll be… I mean, I was feeling much calmer this morning, sort of, and unrushed and—’
‘I don’t plan to change any of that—in fact I could add to it. Sometimes,’ he said seriously, ‘the way I make love to you gives you an air of rather lovely serenity.’
Cathy stared at him. ‘Tom West,’ she said severely, ‘you are incredibly vain about some things, you really are!’
‘But wrong?’ he queried softly.
‘Well…’
But that was the last word she was able to say for a time, and by the time his mouth left hers, she was drowning in the warmth of his embrace and unable to resist the deft removal of her clothes or her ‘undoing’ as he had put it, which turned out to be a mutually joyful experience despite the fact that he was as good as his word and it didn’t take long at all.
In fact they made the giant, rather barnlike studios with two minutes to spare, and Tom put his hand briefly over hers before they got out of the car. ‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked.
Cathy raised an innocent eyebrow. ‘What for?’
‘Rushing you.’
She looked up into his eyes and answered him with a little glint in her own. ‘The true test of that will be in today’s rushes, probably.’
‘Ah-’ his lips twisted into a wry smile ‘—so be it.’
It was not until they began shooting that it occurred to Cathy that whereas yesterday she had been expected to project a Chloe unconscious of what was going on around her, today’s script called for more, a serene Chloe who could not be unaware that a very odd sequence of events seemed to be unfolding about her but at the same time refused to be fazed by any of it.
She had no trouble with the part at all, although she did eye her husband once a little narrowly and wondered about two things—how well he must know her and whether he would actually use that knowledge to get a better performance out of her. Then she resolutely closed her mind and gathered her serenity back.
It was amazing how time flew. Hours, then days and weeks. And it was equally amazing how well it all went—which was not to say those first weeks of shooting didn’t have a share of drama; they did. Tom had been right about Bronwen having some difficulty with Portia—but nothing that was to approach the last few weeks’ high drama, did they all but know it. It was also, Cathy realised more and more, a tribute to Tom’s genius, those relatively trouble-free first few weeks—his patience with Bronwen, his knack of inspiring the others and leading them to the correct interpretation of a role, his judgement on when honest criticism would work and when encouragement was needed—and when throwing the script to the floor and swearing coldly, comprehensively and precisely at everyone would galvanise them out of a bout of boredom.
And Duncan, although he commuted to and from Melbourne fairly regularly, contributed too, as a referee occasionally, or as a quiet friendly presence.
It was also a time of pleasant socialising for Cathy, more particularly the sessions they had at home at Sanctuary Cove where she was happy to provide food and drink and listen with deep interest to the debates that flourished on every aspect of film-making. But there were other outings—boat trips and sightseeing trips, receptions, media sessions—no wonder, she thought once, time had flown.
Was it also how busy they all were, she also wondered once, that accounted for the fact that her problems appeared to have virtually disappeared? It was certainly no longer a problem for her to be just one of the cast on the set. Just as it appeared to be no problem for Tom and Bronwen to work with each other, despite her difficulties with the part and the undoubted animosity between her and Charlie. And, Cathy was to realise later, it was easy to put Bronwen’s air of abstraction down to the problem of Portia and leave it there… For that matter, to ignore the fact that Bronwen spent very little time at the Sanctuary Cove villa compared to most of the other members of the cast and crew but seemed to prefer to be alone with Duncan, who was obviously an old friend despite his once made comment. And it would have been asking a lot anyway, she had re
asoned once, to expect Tom and Bronwen to be like lifelong buddies, and it might have made her feel awkward when Tom put an affectionate arm about her or the times when they stood in the doorway and waved their guests off, then closed the door on their private life…
That was another aspect of it all that she was to discover had escaped her—it was true she and Tom had never been demonstrative in front of others, it was also true that even socialising, she often felt as if she was trailing in Tom’s wake, a quiet shadow with the snacks. But every now and then he would say something or do something that demonstrated to all concerned that she was his, and manage to do it in a way that warmed her and satisfied her. She never stopped to think how little it took to achieve that for her… Just as, she was to come to realise with bitter self-mockery, she was either too stupid or busy and stimulated enough to be lulled into accepting the surface of things, and didn’t see the rocks below the surface until she crashed into them.
It didn’t even, for example, occur to her that Charlie Westfield was to be one of those rocks.
She did discover during those first weeks that she liked him, that he made her laugh, that she thought he was doing a good job with Robert, and also that his aura of being into fast cars, fast women and moderately loose living was somewhat exaggerated. Although there was certainly an abundant supply of girls who were happy to surround him, girls with dark-painted lips and nails and few inhibitions.
But that Charlie Westfield should consider himself falling deeper and deeper in love with her every day actually only surprised two people— herself and him. In fact, it would have wounded his pride severely had he realised that on top of this strange new feeling that was gripping him so intensely he was not quite hiding it with his usual cool. That his emotions would get the better of him one day surprised no one else either; indeed, it was a matter of open speculation among some that it was only a matter of time.
The first intimation of it came when they were filming a balloon sequence—another of Pete’s cherished cameos of Chloe escaping Robert—this time per medium of her being hijacked in a balloon with Robert chasing in another.
They used three balloons on a clear sunny Sunday morning, setting out from a vast paddock at Carrara—Cathy in one with the villain who was abducting her. The villains in the plot had by now realised that by dangling Chloe in front of Robert they could get him to do almost anything. Her villain was in fact a balloonist in disguise, while Robert was ostensibly operating his own balloon, and Tom and a cameraman were squashed into a third.
Of all Pete’s bizarre scenarios, this was the only one that had worried Cathy, but she had said nothing and trusted in her new-found professionalism. But no sooner were they off the ground and rising higher than she discovered she was frozen with fear, that the roar and the smell of the burner were horrible, the swaying was nauseating, but what was worse was looking down, and she crumpled to the bottom of the basket.
The confusion that followed mostly escaped her as she tried desperately to concentrate on the advice her alarmed balloonist was offering her and the image, if she could ever get on her feet again, she was supposed to project this time for the camera, of haunting farewell as she was sailed off into the blue yonder. In fact, she did get to her feet once and look back, but she didn’t stay up for long, although she was dimly aware of Tom’s voice booming through a megaphone and Charlie adding his voice and manhandling his balloonist, who was supposed to be unseen, upright and commanding him to do something!
By some miracle, they managed to curtail the flight and all land in another large paddock, although some distance from each other. But it was Charlie who reached Cathy first and helped her down while the balloon was made fast, and it was Charlie who had his arms around her when she discovered her legs had left her, and Tom arrived on the scene.
There followed another couple of confused minutes as Charlie Westfield clutched her and demanded angrily of Tom how he could have put her through such an ordeal.
Tom replied with some cutting advice of an extremely personal nature, and uttered so menacingly that he quite took Charlie by surprise, and took the opportunity to take Cathy from him, swing her into his arms and snap at her, his hazel eyes cold and furious still, ‘You bloody idiot! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Cat?’
The same question, but asked in a different voice, several frustrating hours later after a forced, estranged wait in a strange paddock while the ground support team changed direction and desperately tried to find them.
Cathy had refused to say a word, although due to Tom’s machinations and the fact that he’d sat himself down to wait and kept her in his arms, together with her genuinely feeling sick, she had hidden her extreme chagrin with him from the others.
Now, though, she was home and alone with him, ensconced on a settee with a cup of tea beside her, and had been ordered not to move.
She fiddled with a small ornament on the table beside her, then lifted her blue eyes to his at last. ‘I didn’t know,’’ she said hotly.
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t even suspect?’
‘I… well, I was a bit nervous,’ she admitted reluctantly at last.
‘You should have told me that, Cathy,’ he said quietly.
‘I didn’t think… I really didn’t know it would be so…’ She broke off and shuddered. ‘I mean, I don’t mind flying in planes or helicopters, but… I also,’ she said with a dignified glance this time, ‘wanted to be professional about it, and I thought if you knew I was nervous, well…’ She shrugged.
‘You’re damned right—I would have done something about it,’ Tom said with a rueful smile. ‘The point you seem to have missed is that I wouldn’t have expected anyone to go through that kind of hell, but least of all you.’
‘Is that so?’ A little glint of anger lit her eyes. ‘I suppose that’s why you called me a… an idiot?’
His lips quivered. ‘I apologise for that,’ he said gravely, however. ‘It was, in fact, an expression of concern—that got a bit twisted.’
She considered, then said candidly, ‘You were also terribly rude to Charlie.’
Something flickered briefly in his eyes, a curious mixture of irritation, she thought, and speculation, but about what she didn’t know. He murmured finally, ‘I’m sure Charlie will survive. How are you feeling now?’
Cathy laid her head back with a grimace. ‘Fine. And foolish. Do… will I have to do it again?’ She sat up suddenly. ‘Perhaps you could hide in my balloon? I’m sure I’d feel better with you there.’
Tom’s eyes resting on her determined expression were oddly gentle. ‘No, you won’t have to do it again. We’ll find some other way.’
But, later that day, he got an excited call from Jason, and he turned to her when he put the phone down.
‘You can relax, Cathy. The rushes are marvellous, apparently. You look thoroughly haunted and Charlie suitably demented, and the whole sequence has a tangibly tense air about it—I wonder why?’ he added with a grin. ‘But anyway, will you let me give you dinner? We could wander round some of those fascinating shops in the village and then have an early meal.’
But not all the consequences to the ballooning sequence were so successful.
Unknown to anyone this time, Charlie Westfield brooded darkly but very secretively this time and, several days later, found himself alone with Cathy in a deserted corner of the set, surrounded by some really weird props such as a stuffed tiger which Cathy got trapped behind, and found he could no longer conceal his feelings.
‘Cathy,’ he said slowly, his dark eyes roaming her simple yet exquisitely cut dusky pink dress that was so different from the complicated mixture of straps and studs, berets and socks, trousers of all description and tiny tube bodices, jangling bracelets and necklaces and bizarre earrings that most of the girls he knew wore.
‘Oh, Charlie, there’s a real menagerie here. What do you suppose——’
‘Cathy,’ he broke in intensely, s
till studying her smooth, bare, golden arms, her bare throat and her hair, ‘I love you. I can’t think about anything but you, I…’ He stopped as she made a shocked little sound and her blue eyes widened.
They stared at each other across the tiger.
Cathy cleared her throat. ‘Charlie, you can’t be serious,’ she said with difficulty. ‘I——’
‘Goddamn it, I am——’
‘But I’m married——’
‘Leave him!’ Charlie Westfield said urgently. ‘He only treats you like his lapdog anyway. They all do! And do you know why? They’re jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ Cathy echoed incredulously.
‘That stuck-up bitch Bronwen Bishop is, anyway.’ He gestured contemptuously. ‘For two reasons, because you’re going to steal the show—you’ve got movie magic in you, honey! Everyone here knows it and she knows it—next to you she looks like a dried-up old bat, and don’t think she’s not regretting that on two counts—your precious husband being one of ’em. It’s killing her to think you’re not only going to steal the show but you stole him.’
‘I didn’t!’ She——’
‘Whatever,’ Charlie said with another grand gesture. ‘And don’t think he’s not jealous either! He’s no fool, whatever else he might be, our high and mighty Mr Director. He knows how good you are, he knows a love affair between a person and the cameras when he sees it, but has he ever told you?’ He waited a moment as Cathy’s lips parted, then closed. ‘Of course he hasn’t. He’s not one to share the limelight either, our Tom West. Specially not with his wife, whom he’s trained like a little——’
‘Stop it!’ Cathy gasped. ‘How dare you?’
‘I dare because I’m crazy about you, Cathy.’ A dull flush of colour spread over Charlie Westfield’s good-looking features. ‘And I don’t want you as my faithful shadow. I want to free you.’ His voice deepened and quietened. ‘Have you ever been free, Cathy? Have you ever spread your wings and let your hair down and done things just for the hell of it? I could teach you how to do that, but I’d also look after you because,’ this time his voice quickened with exasperation, ‘I love you.’
The Director's Wife Page 7
