by Susan Lewis
‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ Madeleine cried.
‘I don’t know. A nice intimate cruise for you and Matthew Cornwall?’
Madeleine thought about that, then said, ‘Yes, why not? Now go and get that brochure, and tomorrow we’ll go to Debenham’s and spend, spend, spend.’
By the time Paul came back Madeleine had been out for another bottle of wine, and while Marian was tipsy Madeleine was ‘pissed out of her skull’, as she informed him.
‘And now,’ she said, staggering to her feet, ‘I’m going downstairs to introduce myself to Matthew Cornwall.’
‘Oh God, no, Maddy!’ Marian cried. ‘Not like that. You’ll ruin everything.’
‘Rubbish!’ Madeleine declared. ‘And I’ll tell you what, if he plays his cards right he can do whatever he likes to me, just so long as he gives me a part in his film and makes me rich and famous.’ She looked at Paul but her eyes were too blurry to read his expression.
Marian giggled. ‘Paul, stop her,’ she said, but Paul merely stood aside and watched as Madeleine teetered down the hall and somehow managed to wrest her bra from under her sweater. Turning back, she laughed and threw it at him.
‘I’ll have to go after her,’ Marian said.
As she passed him, Paul caught her arm. ‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘She’ll only turn nasty if you get in her way while she’s in that state.’
‘I suppose so,’ Marian sighed. ‘And with any luck he won’t be in.’
Madeleine was picking her way carefully down the stairs. When she reached the landing below, she rapped hard on the door. She didn’t have long to wait before he answered, and when she saw him she blinked several times. They’d never found that picture of him, but Marian had said he was gorgeous. Well, he wasn’t bad, but she’d been expecting someone taller and not quite so thin. Still, he had a nice enough face, despite the glasses, and until Paul came along she’d always quite liked dark men.
‘Hello,’ she slurred. ‘I’m Madeleine. I live upstairs.’
He smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘I was wondering whether you’d like a drink.’
‘Well this isn’t . . .’
‘I’d invite you up to my flat, but my cousin’s there with her boyfriend. But we could always have a drink in yours.’
‘As I was saying, this isn’t my flat, exactly.’
‘I know. It’s Pamela’s, but she won’t mind. We’re having drinks together all the time down here.’ She brushed past him. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.’
He stood aside and watched Madeleine walk down the hall. Then taking a deep breath, he closed the door and followed her into the bedroom.
‘Oops! Silly me!’ she giggled. ‘Took the wrong turning.’ She backed out and weaved her way into the kitchen. ‘Now, where does she keep the wine?’ she said, looking round.
‘I’ve got some already open,’ he told her.
‘Wonderful. Lead me to it.’
He took her into the sitting room and gently eased her into a chair. ‘So you live upstairs?’ he said, his lean face alive with amusement.
‘With my cousin,’ she answered. ‘Who I hate. Well, I don’t exactly hate her, but I can’t stand her.’
‘Oh,’ he said. Then after a pause: ‘And what do you do, Madeleine?’
‘Do?’ She looked perplexed. ‘Oh, do! I’m a shtrip-o-gram girl. You know what that is?’
‘I think so,’ he smiled.
‘Can I have a drink?’
‘Certainly.’ He walked over to the sideboard and poured her a glass of wine.
‘Actually,’ she said, trying out her best voice, ‘that’s why I came down here. You see, I want to be a model and I thought you might be able to . . . I mean, I want to be an actress and I hoped you might give me a part in your film.’ She took a gulp of wine, then fumbled the glass onto the small table beside her.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s not that . . .’
‘I know all about the casting couch,’ she interrupted, ‘but I’d rather do a proper audition. You know, prove what I can do.’
He covered his smile with his hand. ‘I think it might . . .’
‘But if you want to do it first, that’s all right because it’ll make Paul jealous, but only if you promise to give me an audition.’
His eyebrows shot towards his receding hairline and this time he actually laughed. ‘And who’s Paul?’ he asked.
‘My cousin’s boyfriend.’
‘I see.’ He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘So what you’re saying is, if I promise to give you an audition you’ll . . .’ he hesitated, not quite sure how to finish the sentence.
‘Let you fuck me,’ she supplied, sitting back and crossing her legs.
He couldn’t help being shocked, but laughed all the same. ‘That’s very generous of you, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘but I think you should . . .’ He stopped as she suddenly yanked her sweater over her head.
During all the years he’d worked in films, he’d come across dozens of women who were only too keen to make themselves available, drunk or sober. In that respect Madeleine was no exception. But what did set her apart from the rest was not only the size of her breasts – he’d always found it difficult to resist large breasts – but the look in her eyes as she waited for his reaction to them. He’d never seen anything quite so erotic.
She stood up and walked towards him. ‘Do you like my tits?’ she said.
‘Very much,’ he murmured, watching them as they swayed gently against her ribcage.
‘Everyone likes my tits,’ she said, scooping them into her hands. She rolled her nipples between her fingers until they were rich and red and succulent. ‘If you want to touch them, you’ve got to promise to give me a chance,’ she told him.
‘OK.’
‘But I don’t want an audition, I want a part.’
He shrugged. ‘Sure.’
She brushed her hand across the front of his trousers and feeling the erection, she suddenly moaned. It was weeks since she’d had sex, and in all that time her body had been on fire for Paul. Now, at the touch of a man lust charged through her veins, and she closed her eyes, whimpering as she told herself it was Paul’s mouth that had closed around her nipples; it was Paul’s hand pressing into her crotch, it was Paul’s trousers she was undoing.
And it was Paul who removed her jeans, pushed her urgently to the floor and opened her legs. And when he jerked himself inside her it was still Paul. She wrapped her legs around him, returned his kisses with fury, pulled at his hair and shouted for him to go faster and harder. Then suddenly she could feel it starting to happen; the heat rushing to her loins, the muscles tensing around his penis, control fleeing, and her fingers dug into his buttocks, urging him to push her over the edge.
But then his hips slowed and he ground them into her as he shouted, ‘JEE-SUS!’ before gasping and spluttering at the burning flood of semen that spurted from his body.
He was lying over her, sweat pouring from his skin and the breath still shuddering from his lungs. She turned to look at him and blinked. For a moment she wondered who he was, then remembering, the corner of her mouth dropped in a wry smile. If it could be that good just pretending it was Paul, then God only knew what it would be like if it was him. But right now Matthew Cornwall was more important, and because of the way he had succumbed so easily, then yelled with such desperation for his maker when he came, she felt an intoxicating swell of pure victory enfold her.
‘Would you like to come and meet Paul and Marian?’ she said, as they were getting dressed.
He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go out. Perhaps some other time.’
‘But you’ll keep your promise?’
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘What’s the part?’
He looked at her blankly.
‘You said I had a part in your film.’
‘Oh, yes, sure. We’re always looking for support cast, lucky I met you, really.’
&
nbsp; Her face broke into a beaming smile. ‘You mean, you really have got a part for me?’
He turned to the table and scribbled down a number. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to her, ‘call this number tomorrow morning. Ask for Dorothy and she’ll tell you when to turn up.’
Madeleine snatched the piece of paper, threw her arms around him, pushed her tongue deeply and sensuously into his mouth, then rushed out of the flat.
Marian and Paul were sitting on the sofa watching TV when they heard the front door slam and Madeleine come running down the hall. ‘I’ve cracked it!’ she squealed, waving her piece of paper and dancing round the room. ‘I’ve got a part.’
Paul and Marian exchanged looks. ‘Well done you,’ Marian said, not even bothering to hide her surprise. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have to call this number tomorrow morning and “Dorothy” will tell me where I have to turn up.’
‘So it’s an audition?’
‘No. I told you, he’s cast me in a part.’ She pulled Marian off the sofa and spun her round. ‘I’m going to be in a film!’ she cried.
After what had happened with the props men at HTV, Marian couldn’t help being sceptical. But she said nothing, and the following morning when Madeleine called Dorothy, Dorothy asked her to report to the Holiday Inn the following Tuesday at Seven in the morning, when there would be transport waiting to take her to location. Marian heaved a sigh of relief and went off to the Bristol Hippodrome to do a half day’s typing.
‘And what did you have to do to get the part?’ Paul asked when he came back upstairs after seeing Marian off.
Madeleine was reading her horoscope and didn’t bother to look up as she answered, ‘What do you think?’
Paul sat down at the table, leaned back in his chair and grinned. ‘So you actually screwed him.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Believe it or not, there are men around who behave like men – not like some I could mention.’
‘Meaning me?’
She looked up with an arrogant smile on her lips. ‘Well, let’s face it, apart from flashing it at me, you’ve done nothing with yours in months.’
His shout of laughter nettled her, and she threw him a filthy look and started to get up.
‘A word of advice before you go,’ he said. ‘You don’t make people jealous by sleeping around these days. All you make them is afraid of what they might catch.’
He caught her hand before it struck his face, and twisted it behind her back.
‘You bastard!’ she hissed.
He nodded. ‘You can call me anything you like, Madeleine, but I can’t help wondering – if she knew what you were really up to – what Marian would call you?’ He let her go, and whistling tunelessly he walked into the hall, picked up his coat and went out.
– 4 –
The trip to Rome was marred by only one thing: totally unused as she was to planning for these eventualities, Marian started her period on the very morning they left. Paul laughed, but Marian was mortified, and it took every ounce of cajolery he could muster to persuade her that it didn’t matter, and he really didn’t mind. Hoping that the untimely occurrence would spoil the weekend, Madeleine could barely restrain her glee. However, it irked her to see Paul feeding ice-cream to Marian on the Piazza Navona, just as if they were lovers barely an hour from intimacy; and the way they threw coins in the Trevi fountain and spent hours strolling around St Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel, getting a crick in their necks from looking at all that boring stuff on the walls and ceilings, was enough to make someone puke.
All she wanted was to get home and prepare herself for Tuesday morning. She’d made up her mind now that Matthew Cornwall’s film was going to be the turning point for her. Though she’d never acted before in her life, she’d been to the cinema enough times, and watched enough films on television, to know it couldn’t be that difficult. In secret she’d already been practising in front of the mirror, making up the dialogue as she went along, and she was pretty impressed with the results. She’d show Matthew Cornwall that she wasn’t just an easy – though good – lay; she’d work really hard; then once she’d done that film, and before he left Bristol, she’d let him screw her again, this time for the promise of another job, or at least a decent contact, in London. Then somehow, no matter what it took, she’d get onto Page Three. And by keeping in with Matthew Cornwall she might well stand a good chance of becoming both a model and an actress. She was vaguely aware that her plan had flaws, but it didn’t matter, she’d survive somehow and then, when she was rich and famous, and Paul O’Connell and her holier-than-thou cousin came begging at her door, she’d tell them to go to hell.
She was standing at the altar of some church she couldn’t remember the name of, and thinking of the word hell made her feel a touch uncomfortable, so she closed her eyes quickly, apologised to God, then thanked Him for sending Matthew Cornwall to Bristol.
On Saturday night they dined at Alfredo’s, where Marian had her fettucini served with a gold spoon and Paul bought her half a dozen red roses from a peasant woman who came round with them in a basket. Madeleine was serenaded by the guitarist, and she too had roses bought for her, but when the waiter told her they were from the old man sitting at a table in the corner, who was uglier than sin, it was left to Marian to thank him and Paul to carry them out of the restaurant.
It was their last night at the Hotel Giulio Cesare on the Via degli Scipioni, and despite her preoccupation with herself, even Madeleine couldn’t help noticing how happy Marian was. People were even smiling at her in the streets, and Madeleine half-suspected that she and Paul must be doing it anyway, because no one glowed like that unless they were. In fact, after she had plucked up the courage to ask him, Paul had shown Marian how she could satisfy him – at the same time warning her not to do what he’d overheard Madeleine telling her to. It had been a momentous experience for Marian to witness a man in the throes of ecstasy and to know that she could give such pleasure to someone she loved made her want to do it again and again. Though highly amused by her fascination with his body, Paul was astonished at how willing a pupil she was, and there were increasing occasions, now, when it took more willpower than he ever knew he had to stop himself turning her on her back and making love to her there and then.
‘Why don’t you get in with me?’ he’d asked her earlier as she sat on the edge of the bath, soaping him. ‘Let me do the same to you.’
She shook her head and tried to explain that just looking at him was enough for her.
‘You won’t be saying that this time next week,’ he grinned, then yelped as she splashed him and went off to get dressed for dinner.
It was seven thirty on Sunday evening when they arrived back in Bristol, and trudged from the bus stop to the West Mall in the drizzling rain. Paul opened the door and Marian groaned as she picked up her bank statement, a letter from Barclaycard and the red gas bill. Madeleine walked slowly on up the stairs, stopping just before the first-floor landing to let someone past. He brushed by without so much as a glance in her direction, but Madeleine turned to watch him run down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Marian said hello, and though he answered politely enough, he showed no sign of recognising her. She could see from the dark look on his face that he was angry, and she flinched as he slammed the door behind him. Then turning back, she looked up the stairs at Madeleine.
Madeleine’s eyes were wide and she was staring at the door. ‘Who was that?’ she breathed.
Marian looked confused. ‘It was Matthew Cornwall,’ she said haltingly.
Madeleine’s eyes flew to Marian’s as her mouth fell open. ‘What?’
‘Oh God,’ Marian muttered, and thrusting the mail at Paul, she ran up to her cousin.
Madeleine slumped onto the stairs. Then looking up at Marian she screamed, ‘I don’t believe it! You’re lying!’ But when Marian only blinked at her, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. ‘Oh Marian,’ she wailed, ‘why
is this happening to me?’
Marian shot a look down the stairs at Paul, but he only shrugged. Turning back to Madeleine, she said, ‘So I take it that the man who’s just gone out of the door was not the man you . . . you saw in Pamela’s flat.’
‘No,’ Madeleine sobbed.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Do you think I’d forget someone like that?’ Madeleine spat, waving her hand towards the front door. ‘Oh Marian, I thought everything was going to work out this time. I had everything planned, I was going to work really hard in that film. I was going to prove to everyone that I could do it, that I really could make it. And now . . .’
‘You will,’ Marian said, quickly sitting down next to her and hugging her. ‘I mean, you’ve got a part, haven’t you? You’ve even been told where to turn up and what time, so whoever he was, he must have been something to do with the film or else . . .’
‘How do I know that?’ Madeleine snapped. ‘He could have been the fucking plumber for all I know.’
‘It must have been the man I gave the parcel to,’ Marian said. ‘But you’ve spoken to this Dorothy,’ she added encouragingly.
‘And who’s she when she’s at home? I’ve never met her, have I?’
‘I’d hazard a guess,’ Paul said, wandering up the stairs, ‘that Dorothy is a booking clerk. The man you screwed, Madeleine, was Matthew Cornwall’s first assistant director. His name’s Philip Forrester, otherwise known as Woody.’
Madeleine’s face was drained of all colour as she looked up. ‘How do you know?’ she whispered.
‘I met him on the stairs the morning after you did your – audition.’
‘You bastard!’ she spat. ‘You knew all this time and you never said a word.’ She lunged towards him, but Marian caught her and Paul stepped back. ‘I hate you!’ Madeleine screamed. ‘You’re a sly, conniving . . .’
‘Madeleine, stop it!’ Marian shouted. ‘Paul, help me get her up the stairs.’
As they passed Pamela’s flat Madeleine screeched, ‘You wanker!’ But whether it was directed at Woody or at Paul no one knew.
