Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Should I call your wife to come and soothe the angst?’

  ‘Any more suggestions like that and you can call the nearest employment agency.’

  ‘On my way.’

  ‘No, don’t go. Put Sandy into the hands of that wimpy dresser of hers and come and collect me. You can drive me to the Hilton.’

  ‘On my way.’

  At eight thirty sharp, during a fortuitous break in the music, a car horn sounded outside. Matthew was dressed. Jeans, trainers, navy sweat-shirt over white shirt, and black leather jacket. His dark hair was still damp, and needed cutting, and his razor had all but let him down. Well, Stephanie had seen him in far worse states than this, and he was damned if he was going to let her think he’d made an effort specially for her.

  He opened the door and checked his pockets for keys before closing it. Woody blasted the horn again, and Matthew swung round to dash down the stairs. How he managed to save himself from going head-first he didn’t know, but he had given whoever was in the way a sharp crack on the skull with his knee cap.

  ‘What the hell . . .! What are you doing sitting there, for Christ’s sake! I could have broken my neck.’

  Marian was holding the back of her head, but didn’t turn round. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, reaching out for the stair rail to pull herself to her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Matthew snapped, already edging past her to get down the stairs.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. No damage.’ As she lowered her hand, her lank, mousey hair parted to reveal a pair of swollen red eyes, white cheeks – if one politely ignored the blotches – and bitten lips that were trembling with the onset of another tear-storm.

  Matthew sighed, and trying very hard not to roll his eyes, took a step towards her. ‘Aren’t you the girl who lives upstairs?’

  Marian nodded. ‘I know, you’re going to complain about the noise. Complain away. If you can get her to stop, there’ll be no one more grateful than me.’

  Woody tooted again. Matthew glanced over his shoulder and thought hurriedly. He didn’t want to leave the girl in such obvious distress, but on the other hand he was in no mood to play Sir Galahad. ‘Look, I can’t stop now,’ he said, ‘but this music business . . . we’ve got to get something sorted. I’ll be back later, around six. Perhaps you’d like to come down and we can talk about it?’

  Through their puffed lids Marian’s eyes looked at him with such gratitude that he already regretted the offer. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘Around six,’ Matthew interrupted, and fled.

  Woody, Matthew’s ever capable, ever loyal first assistant director, roared his Porsche to a standstill on the cobbles outside Bristol’s Hilton Hotel. Matthew got out, gave Woody a few more suggestions as to how to fill his day off, then laughing at Woody’s response, walked up the steps into the hotel.

  His arrival caused quite a stir amongst the starchly-uniformed receptionists. Over the past year, in fact ever since his film Monsieur et Mademoiselle cleaned up at BAFTA, the press had taken it upon themselves to turn him into some kind of sex symbol. The whole thing made Matthew cringe, but his embarrassment at finding himself a celebrity – and even his rudeness to the journalists who pounced on him in the street – only seemed to increase his appeal. Their prime interest was his sex life which, being an extremely private man, he kept under tight wraps. However, the press were not to be done out of their stories, so they made them up. If he had even half the stamina they credited him with, he’d be in a circus, as he told Kathleen when she called him to complain – loudly, of course.

  The senior receptionist, exercising the privilege of rank, led him across the foyer, leaving a stifling waft of perfume in her wake. She chattered away to him, her flat ’a’s and over-pronounced ’r’s typical of the Bristol accent – an accent he enjoyed. When they reached a door that gave no introduction to the room beyond, Miss Carter – he’d read it on her badge – stood aside to let him pass, then smiled so suggestively when he thanked her that he actually blushed.

  The room was empty, but that didn’t surprise him. It was a fairly typical producer ploy – to make sure he arrived first so that she wasn’t the one to be kept waiting. What was surprising was the size of the room. It was a full-scale conference room, complete with table, chairs, blotting-pads, jugs of water and glasses. He looked round for the video screen, certain there would be one, and there was. The cabinet beneath, containing the playback machine, was open, and several cassettes were stacked up beside it. He picked one up but it was labelled in some sort of code.

  Several minutes ticked soundlessly by while, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, he paced the room.

  He couldn’t help wondering, why a conference room? It was to be only the two of them, as far as he knew. Suddenly he had an image of himself performing on the table before a kangaroo court of investors, executive producers, screen-writers and associate producers, showing them how he would shoot the film, before falling on his knees to beg them to let him do it. And the video. What if there’d been a hidden camera the last time he and Stephanie were together? Was she going to play it back for him, frame by atrocious frame, while she sat there, impassively observing the destruction of his dignity? Jesus, he hadn’t thought about that final night in years. He shuddered, then laughed – his imagination was into double time.

  At last there were footsteps outside. He turned as the door opened, and she was there. Stephanie Ryder. The first production assistant he’d ever worked with, and had continued to work with until . . .

  She smiled. ‘Hello, Matthew.’ She closed the door behind her and walked towards him. Her titian hair swung gently in a sleek bob, a style that was new and suited her better than the curls she’d had when he knew her. Her make-up was light, no longer trying to disguise the smattering of freckles, but the slanting green eyes and generous mouth were still as enticing as ever. She put her briefcase on the table and slipped off her raincoat. She was wearing a navy pin-stripe trouser-suit, with a white shirt pinned at the throat by a cluster of fake diamonds. This style and composure were also new.

  As she turned he started to extend his hand, but she was already on tip-toe, kissing his cheek. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Not what you expected me to say? It’s true, it is good to see you. You’re looking very . . . what’s the word? Rakish. How have you been?’

  ‘Surviving. You?’ His eyes were holding hers, and she didn’t look away.

  ‘The same.’

  The sub-text was unmistakable, and it was only with superhuman effort that he stopped himself reaching out for her. Christ, he hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but suddenly to find that after all this time she could still . . .

  ‘Shall we sit down?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. Who else are we expecting?’

  ‘Expecting? Oh, the room. All there was available. We have to be out of here by eleven, eleven thirty at the latest. That’ll be enough time, won’t it?’

  Again he shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

  She turned away and started to unpack her briefcase. Watching her – almost feeling her, she was so close – he couldn’t stop himself remembering. Remembering the pale smoothness of her skin, the generosity of her mouth, the life and the energy of her that had once been his to take, to use and to love – until he walked away.

  ‘You’re staring, Matthew.’

  He looked away, rubbing his hand over his chin and wishing he’d bothered to try a little harder with the razor. ‘So how are you?’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. I keep hearing about you. Seen most of what you’ve done, at least, I think I have. It’s good. The series of plays on the BBC . . . Didn’t you write one of them?’

  She nodded. ‘With my partner, Bronwen.’ She looked older, but unlike most women, it suited her. How old would she be now? Thirty-eight? No, probably thirty-nine. Her birthday was ten days after his. She’d sent him a card just after it all broke up. He
’d returned the compliment by ignoring her birthday, believing that the cleaner the break, the easier it would be for her – and for him. But none of it had been easy. They’d had to work together for three more weeks after that last night, and then after that – when she’d gone, emptied her office, taking everything with her – that was when the real loss had begun.

  But perhaps he had done her a favour by getting out of her life. She had loved him so much then, she’d have done anything, sacrificed anything for him; and had it not been for Kathleen, he’d have let her.

  ‘Shall we talk about it, or would you prefer we forgot that anything ever happened?’

  That was just like her. First she would read his mind, then whatever he wanted, whichever way he wanted to play it, she would follow. No man on God’s earth was worthy of a woman like this. That was a strange thing to think. He’d never considered her such a paragon before. ‘How about you?’ he said. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think it’ll serve any purpose. Not now, anyway.’

  He lowered his head, and it was a while before he spoke again. Stephanie waited. She had plenty of time. After all, she’d waited six years for this.

  ‘How did you get the rights?’ he asked.

  The abrupt change of subject startled her, but she didn’t let it show. ‘From Deborah Foreman, you mean?’

  He nodded. ‘How did you get her to sell? I thought she’d vowed she never would.’

  ‘Not her decision. She may have written the book, but the rights belong to the Hastings – so I went to see them.’

  A slow smile spread over Matthew’s face. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Stephanie.’

  She inclined her head and sat down.

  ‘Well,’ he said, pulling up a chair, ‘you can’t just leave it at that. How did you get to them? As far as I knew, they’d always refused to talk about the girl’s disappearance publicly.’

  ‘I got to them through Debby.’ She paused. ‘Look, this is strictly between you and me, Matthew, and I mean that – but the Hastings are hiding something about Olivia.’

  ‘Why should they do that? Besides, there was an investigation second only to Watergate when she went missing. If there was anything shady, which is what I assume you’re suggesting, surely it would have come out then.’

  ‘Or would it? The Americans are pretty good at cover-ups.’

  ‘Then why should the Hastings agree to the film?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But two years ago, just after Deborah’s book was published, new evidence was found – or I should say, received.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Are you going to tell me?’ he asked, when she didn’t continue.

  ‘No. At least, not yet.’

  The implication was clear. She would only tell him if she decided that he was to direct the film.

  ‘But whatever it is, I take it it’s the reason for the film.’

  Stephanie sighed. ‘Again, I’m not sure. They’re playing everything pretty close to their chests. Frank Hastings is financing the entire project.’

  Matthew looked impressed. ‘Nice to be so rich. And why you?’

  ‘They like me.’ She grinned. ‘Or so Deborah tells me. But I think the real reason is that they didn’t want the film Hollywood-ised, or glitzed in the American way, so they’ve decided to go British.’

  There was a lengthening silence. In the end he decided to come right out with it. ‘Who told you I wanted to make this film?’

  ‘Word gets round.’

  ‘Did you go after it for that reason? So that we’d be in the position we’re in now? You the boss?’

  Stephanie laughed. She laughed for quite some time. ‘I don’t remember you being so arrogant, Matthew. But yes, I went after it because I knew you would want it. And, because like most other people, I’m fascinated by it. The daughter of one of the wealthiest men in America, who at the age of twenty-one becomes an overnight success as an artist, who has every eligible man in the world vying for her hand, and a social diary that would make Princess Diana’s look like a teddy-bear’s picnic – who in other words has everything to live for – disappears from the New York scene, resurfaces in Italy, then disappears altogether: who wouldn’t be interested? It’ll make a bloody good film once it’s in shape. So shall we get down to it? Tell me what you have in mind.’

  ‘Before I start, can I be sure you’re not on some kind of revenge trip?’

  ‘No.’

  His left eyebrow flicked a reaction, then, grinning, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

  ‘Approach and interpretation,’ she said.

  He reached inside his jacket and took out a battered copy of the first draft screenplay her secretary had sent a couple of weeks before. ‘This is going nowhere,’ he said, throwing it onto the table.

  ‘I know. Go on.’

  There followed a quick-fire exchange of ideas; disagreement, enthusiasm, laughter at his literal interpretation of stage directions; then rudeness, threats, and the old familiar feeling of grudging but mutual admiration.

  The meeting went on until ten past eleven, by which time there seemed nothing more to be said for the moment. Stephanie collected her things and placed them neatly in her briefcase. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘Your ideas are interesting. And it was good to see you.’ She was standing as she spoke, her coat already over her arm.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I think we’ve discussed everything, yes.’

  ‘Except one vital piece of the plot.’

  ‘I’ll be thinking it over after I’ve seen a couple more directors. I’ll be in touch by the end of next week.’

  He got slowly to his feet. ‘I see.’ His expression was inscrutable but she knew he was angry. ‘Are you sure you want to play it this way, Stephanie?’

  ‘I’m not playing it any way, Matthew. But I think you should know that I’ve worked with a lot of other directors since you. Good directors, who could make this film work too. And their contracts wouldn’t come loaded with conditions, the way yours would. Are you prepared to meet my conditions?’

  His eyebrows arched. So she was going to make him pay for that night. ‘It would depend what they were,’ he said.

  ‘I think you know, Matthew. And let me tell you something while you’re making up your mind. I’m a different person now. I’m a producer, with responsibilities to executives, investors, script-writers and cast. I won’t put up with unprofessionalism on my sets. The family burden you carry with you from one film to the next is fast becoming the laughing stock of the industry. You’re only surviving it because you’re good. But I won’t have one of my films, or anyone connected with it, mocked in that way. And I don’t think I want to speak any plainer than that.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ She noticed that a dangerous gleam had leapt into his eye. ‘And if you were half as well informed as you claim to be, you’d know that I’ve left her. Six months ago – which is six years later than I should have done. Does that suit you? Is that what you wanted to hear?’

  Her harsh expression dissolved as the blood drained from her face. All the years of carefully considered strategy were suddenly blown to pieces. But she couldn’t think about it now. She needed to be alone, because if what he said was true, it changed everything. ‘I didn’t know,’ was all she managed to utter.

  ‘Well, you do now. So is that condition number one fulfilled? I’ve left my wife. Condition number two?’

  The sarcasm in his voice brought her sharply to her senses. ‘You flatter yourself, Matthew Cornwall. And condition number two will be spelt out as and when I am ready. As for the first condition, I’ll think about it and let you know if it’s enough. It just might not be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my secretary will call you.’

  He waited until she was at the door. ‘Bitter and twisted were never words I’d thought to use to describe y
ou, Stephanie. Make sure you don’t try for more than the pound of flesh.’

  The door slammed on his last word.

  By the time Stephanie reached her car, parked at the back of the hotel, she was still trying to simmer down. Just thank God she had managed to keep her cool during the moments it had mattered most. But what a disaster at the end. If only she hadn’t let herself get out of control. But when had she ever had control where Matthew Cornwall was concerned?

  She thumped her hand against the steering wheel. How could she have forgotten what it did to her just to look at him? And to know that without him she wouldn’t be where she was today only incensed her further.

  He had believed in her, had given her the confidence she needed to take the breaks when they came. If he’d been around to witness her success then things might have been very different – as it was she’d fought her way to the top for the sole reason that they should find themselves in the position they’d been in that morning. He’d seen straight through it, of course, and now her revenge seemed petty and trivial. And what was the point in it anyway, when it wasn’t what she wanted? It was him that she wanted, it always had been, and all these years she’d blamed him for the way she’d humiliated herself.

  Six years ago he’d promised her the earth. That was in the days when she’d been his production assistant and his lover. He was setting up his own production company and she would be the producer. Together they would take the world by storm. They’d leave mainstream television and take on pop videos, commercials and eventually feature films. They’d be partners. Partners in everything, because together they had what it took. That was until that night – the night that still haunted her every time she thought about him, the night when everything had fallen apart.

  They’d been to dinner, celebrating the fact that the new company had now been registered. Nothing was mentioned then about him leaving Kathleen, but it was implicit in all they talked about. He was about to hit the big time and couldn’t afford to have his wife walking onto set ordering people about, telling them they weren’t giving him enough time, that the scripts were dreadful, that the costume designer had got it all wrong. But what he could afford even less was that hideously embarrassing bag she brought with her, filled with hot soup in winter or iced lemonade in summer, and sandwiches, sausage rolls and cakes, together with the latest creation from the mother-in-law’s oven.