Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  As she thought about her mother now, Marian’s eyes dropped sightlessly to her sandwiches. Then suddenly her throat was so choked with misery that she knew she couldn’t eat. She threw her lunch in the bin and turned again to the newspaper. Thank God her mother didn’t get The Sun, it would break her heart to see Madeleine displaying herself like that; but Marian knew it was only a matter of time before some obliging neighbour pointed it out. It was the second time Madeleine’s picture had appeared; she’d been in last Tuesday’s edition as well.

  ‘Isn’t that your cousin?’ Woody had said, laying the paper out on her desk. He’d been passing the office on his way to the bank and had popped in for a coffee.

  Even before she looked at the paper Marian froze with apprehension. Of course it would be Madeleine, hadn’t this always been her ambition? But when she saw the face smiling up at her, she frowned. ‘No. Well, yes. I mean, it looks like her. But . . .’

  ‘Madeleine? That is her name, isn’t it?’ Woody’s finger was pointing at the square-inch of print attached to the picture.

  ‘You should know.’

  They both looked up as Matthew wandered into the office, and Marian’s cheeks turned crimson. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, and Marian couldn’t make out whether it was because he hadn’t shaved that his face looked so dark, or because he was in a bad humour. His brown eyes surveyed the two of them lazily and he rested an elbow on the corner of the filing cabinet beside him. It was always the same when he came into the office – his presence was so overwhelming that her tongue seemed to twist itself into a knot, her blood either left her face completely or rushed to it with unprecedented vigour, and the palms of her hands became embarrassingly damp. If he spoke to her, which was rare, her lungs flatly refused to take breath and her brain simply upped and died. She wondered if it was his looks that made her react as she did, yet Paul had been handsome and she’d never, not even in the early days, been so overawed by him. But then Paul wasn’t as fierce as Matthew.

  ‘Afternoon, guvnor,’ Woody said wryly.

  Marian watched as Matthew’s face broke slowly into a grin, and though she vehemently disliked him she was forced to admit that the journalist who’d written about him in Screen International the week before might have had a point when she’d described him as devastating. Even Paul’s smile wasn’t as attractive as Matthew’s. ‘Have you still got my script for the Bristol film?’ he asked Woody. ‘Or have you thrown it away?’

  ‘Thrown it away!’ Woody repeated, aghast. ‘Guvnor, would I do such a thing?’

  Matthew’s ironic expression made Marian giggle. ‘Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind sending it over to De Lane Lea where Trevor’s struggling with the rough cut.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Matthew was already half out of the door when he suddenly turned back. ‘By the way, I’m shooting a BMW commercial in Scotland next week, have the production company been on to you yet?’

  Woody shook his head. ‘But I can’t do it, guvnor, I’m going on holiday next Friday.’

  ‘Go on Saturday.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Woody saluted, when he’d gone. Then turning to Marian he grumbled, ‘If he’d only say please.’

  ‘Does he ever?’ Marian asked, dolefully aware that, as usual, Matthew hadn’t uttered a single word to her.

  ‘No, he’s usually too busy. Now, where were we? Ah yes, your delectable cousin. I’m telling you that is her.’

  Marian nodded. ‘It’s just that she looks sort of different. Maybe it’s the make-up.’

  Woody pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and looked down at the page. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he wouldn’t mind having another little session with Madeleine Deacon, when he realised that it probably wasn’t quite the right thing to say to Marian. ‘Anyway,’ he said instead, ‘at least you’ve got some idea where she is now. Give the paper a ring, see if they can help.’

  But when she’d phoned, the man at the other end had explained that he couldn’t give out details about the models – though he had agreed to pass on a message. Marian had left both her home and office phone numbers, but a week had gone by and Madeleine still hadn’t called.

  Now her picture was back in the paper, and having hit a lull in the day, Marian toyed with the idea of calling the man at the newspaper again. She was halfway through dialling when she suddenly hung up. She was afraid of annoying the man and simply couldn’t face someone else being unkind. But no one’s being unkind, a little voice told her. It’s you, you’re a coward. She tried to ignore it, but the voice persisted. Do something brave for once, pick up the phone. No. I won’t do it because I know Madeleine doesn’t want to see me. Maybe not, but you’re still a coward – just look at the way Matthew treats you and you never stand up to him. How can I stand up to someone like him? He’s a director, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Matthew Cornwall’s the least of my problems. Is he? Yes. Then why do you mind so much that he ignores you? I don’t. Oh yes, you do, so why don’t you pull yourself together and show him just what you’re made of? Which is? Mettle. I’ve never had mettle in my life. You’ve always had mettle, now use it. How? You could start by being honest with yourself. What about? No, don’t answer that, this argument was supposed to be about Madeleine. There you go, running away again. Life moves on, Marian, stop fighting it.

  ‘I wish I could,’ she said aloud, pressing her fists onto the desk. But her life had changed so dramatically and so bewilderingly over the past few weeks that taking refuge inside herself had seemed the safest and most natural thing to do. Lately, however, her subconscious had been troubling her a lot, urging her to face things she was afraid of, questioning her excuses for weakness, and ultimately demanding an existence for a person she hardly recognised as herself. Take the other day, for instance, when she’d made Stephanie howl with laughter at her impersonation of Woody. Afterwards she could hardly believe she’d done it; she’d had no idea she had such a talent for mimicry, and displaying it in public like that had astonished her even more than it had Stephanie. But she couldn’t deny the thrill she had got out of seeing Stephanie laugh. She adored Stephanie, not only because of what she’d done for her, but because when Stephanie was around she didn’t worry about what other people thought of her.

  A light flashed on the panel in front of her, and she lifted the receiver to take an incoming call.

  ‘Marian? It’s Bronwen. How you doing, cariad?’

  ‘Bronwen!’ Marian was suddenly animated. ‘I’m fine. How are you? Are you back in New York?’

  ‘No, I’m still at Bennington College, up in Vermont. I shall be flying back to Manhattan tonight.’

  ‘I’ve got lots of messages for you.’

  ‘Fire away. And then I’ve got some news for you.’

  It took several minutes for Marian to read all the messages out, which she did slowly, in order that Bronwen could write down the telephone numbers she passed on. As she came to the end of her list she laughed at Bronwen’s weary groan. ‘Nearly there,’ she said. ‘Your husband called late yesterday, he said to tell you he’s at your house in Wales . . . Oh, you’ve spoken to him. OK. I’ve been round to your flat and picked up the mail . . . Stephanie’s got it, and she wants to speak to you urgently.’

  ‘OK, cariad, put me through. I’ll come back to you after.’

  ‘She’s not here at the moment, but I can . . .’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘Matthew wants a full rewrite of the Disappearance screenplay.’

  ‘Don’t we all. Has he spoken to Deborah Foreman? She’s the writer, not me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think the general idea is that you should speak to her because you’re in New York.’

  ‘Well, lucky old me,’ Bronwen said dryly. ‘Will I be doing this by telepathy, or is Matthew going to call me?’

  ‘He’s shooting a commercial this week, so he’ll be flying to Scotland tomorrow. But he’s at home this afternoon. The only thing
is, Stephanie says she wants to talk to you before he does.’

  ‘Does she now? That can only mean that Matthew’s being every bit as demanding as his reputation says he is. I think it’s going to prove rather interesting working with Mr Cornwall, don’t you? Anyway, instead of me spending hours on transatlantic telephone calls, get them to dictate whatever wit and perspicacity they’ve come up with to you, and then you can bring it over when you come.’

  Marian blinked. ‘Come?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some help out here with the research. There’s no point in me asking Deborah Foreman, she’s in cahoots with the Hastings – and like Stephanie I’m convinced they’re all hiding something about Olivia and I’m determined to find out what it is. Of course, whether we can use it in the film is a different matter, seeing that Frank Hastings is providing all the money. He and his wife are in Florida now, so you won’t get to meet them, but you’ll fall in love with them when you do. Everyone does. Anyway, remind that Stephanie that you’re my secretary as well as hers, and right now my need is greater. Can you fly out tomorrow? No, perhaps that’s too soon for you. Come the next day. Ring me with your flight times and I’ll meet you at JFK. And bring some warm clothes, it’s freezing in New York. I’ll have to rush now to get my flight. See you on Thursday cariad.’

  Once Bronwen had rung off, Marian gazed round the office and was slightly startled to find that it looked the same: rain on the windows, a filing drawer half-open, her sandwiches in the bin where she’d thrown them a year ago – at least, that was what it felt like. She gulped as a sudden shout of excitement threatened to burst from her lips. New York! Tomorrow! She was going to take a plane to the United States of America and when she got there . . . It was all too much to take in, so she picked up the phone and called Stephanie.

  Stephanie replaced the receiver and shouted: ‘That was Marian. Bronwen’s telephoned.’ When there was no response she opened the bathroom door. ‘I said . . .’

  ‘I heard.’ Matthew was towelling his hair.

  Stephanie leaned against the door and watched him. ‘She wants Marian to fly out to New York.’

  ‘Does she?’ He dropped the towel and picked up a comb from the washbasin. Then catching her reflection in the mirror, he grinned. ‘What are you looking at, Stephanie Ryder?’

  ‘Your legs, actually.’

  He turned round and pulled her into his arms. The hard masculinity of his body never failed to trigger a response in her, and with a somewhat crooked smile she relaxed against him and lifted her mouth for a kiss. They were at his flat in Chiswick where she had all but lived for the past six weeks. Since the day after she’d walked out on him in Bristol she had known it was pointless to continue deluding herself, so she had waited until he returned to London and then set about seducing him – as he put it. In fact she had driven round to his flat, knocked on his door, and when he answered she had told him she loved him.

  ‘Then you’d better come in,’ he’d said.

  She would never forget that night and the tenderness with which he made love to her. It was as if he had been trying to soothe away all the pain he had caused her. Nor would she forget the roses he had sent the following day, nor the way his door was already open when she arrived in the evening. She had walked in and found him sitting on the sofa reading the paper, a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table, a toothbrush on the seat beside him. He had looked at his Watch and with that hateful, adorable irony of his he had told her she was late – then carried on reading the paper.

  Her happiness was so visible that whenever she looked in the mirror she felt like an old painting that had been lovingly restored. Sometimes she felt so filled with love that no matter where they were or what they were doing, she had to tell him, and he’d laugh and fold her into his arms. Now that there was no longer any pretence between them, it was as if the pain and separation of the past six years had never happened.

  At last he released her from his embrace, and looking down into her face he murmured, ‘I love you, Steph.’

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she knew that as long as she lived she would never tire of hearing him say that. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘But if we carry on like this we’ll be back in the bedroom, and we’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon.’

  By the time he joined her in the sitting-room she had made some coffee and was jotting notes onto the second draft of the script. This was the part of their relationship she was proudest of – the way they could be making love one minute, then debating the script the next. On the agenda that day was casting, and though they weren’t making much headway, the most important, and therefore the most difficult hurdle had been eliminated. The signing-up of Eleanora Braey to play Olivia had been quite a coup: the Oscar she had won for her last movie had come after two successive years of nominations for best supporting actress.

  As they ploughed through Spotlight, making lists they would eventually hand over to the casting director, Stephanie sensed that Matthew’s concentration was waning.

  ‘I’m thinking about the overall interpretation,’ he answered, when she challenged him. ‘OK, so Eleanora Braey knew Olivia; it helps, obviously. But I didn’t – don’t. God, I don’t even know whether to refer to her in the past or present tense. All we know is that for a year or so she was a celebrity in New York. Why? I mean, Jewish American princesses are two a penny in that town, so what was so special about Olivia? She didn’t act or sing or model or write, in fact, as far as I can make out she didn’t work at all.’

  ‘She was an artist. A successful artist.’

  Matthew looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘Did Daddy orchestrate the success?’

  Stephanie shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Somebody must.’

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘Stephanie.’

  ‘All right, all right, I know. Everything’s relevant. And something’s being hidden. But what? I wonder how Bronwen’s getting on. She’ll be back at the Dorset tomorrow, I’ll . . .’ She stopped as the phone rang and Matthew got up to answer it.

  For several minutes he said nothing, only listened, and Stephanie turned to a photograph of Olivia. She’d studied the picture over a hundred times, yet still it chilled her. The delicate oval face was beautiful beyond description, but there was a callousness about it that had made Stephanie’s blood run cold the first time she’d seen it. Olivia had been only twenty-two when the photograph was taken, but there was an air of worldliness about her that belonged to a woman twice her age. Sometimes, looking at it, Stephanie got the impression that the girl was mocking her, or tantalising her, or sneering at her. She’d never admitted this to anyone, but she knew Bronwen felt the same. ‘I hate her,’ Bronwen had said once. ‘I hate her because she hates me.’

  Why? Stephanie asked herself. Why should a girl so young, with so much going for her, seem so filled with malevolence? And where was she now? What had happened to her?

  She looked up as Matthew started to speak. ‘OK, I’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘No, don’t do that . . . Tell her . . . Will you listen for a moment? Now look here . . .’ The line went dead, but he held the receiver for several seconds before replacing it. When he turned round his face was strained, and Stephanie could see he was angry.

  He expelled a deep sigh and combed his fingers through his hair. ‘My daughter,’ he said. ‘Apparently the maintenance money hasn’t arrived this month and Kath . . . her mother’s having a blue fit.’ He walked over to the sofa and sat down. ‘Now, where were we?’

  Stephanie gave him a long look before answering. Then deciding that he really did want to change the subject, she said, ‘Hypothesising. Theorising. Whatever you want to call it. Perhaps we should call a halt for now, at least until I’ve spoken to Bronwen. By the way, she wants us to dictate our “wit and perspicacity” to Marian so Marian can take it over to the States with her.’

  ‘Where’s that note
Hastings received?’ He foraged around on the table, then picking up a crumpled scrap of paper he read aloud: ‘“Mr Hastings, your daughter was not dead, I know. Please find her. A.”’ He looked up. ‘Was not dead. Does that mean she is now? And who is “A”? I suppose Hastings is convinced it’s not a hoax?’

  ‘No. How can he be?’

  Matthew shook his head, then buried his face in his hands. ‘Shit! I can’t even begin to imagine what the man’s going through. His only daughter. His only child. I’d be out of my mind if it were Samantha.’

  Stephanie sat forward and began gently to massage his shoulders. ‘You miss her, don’t you. When did you last see her?’

  ‘Over a month ago.’ He slammed his fist on the table. ‘She’s as bitter as Kathleen, godammit! And Kathleen’s doing everything she can to make it worse.’

  ‘What about your son?’

  ‘He’s at university, isn’t he? Well out of it. Still, at least he keeps in touch. God, what a mess.’ There was a long, simmering silence before he finally turned to face her. He took her hands in his, and seeing the grave expression in his eyes, her heart faltered. ‘Steph, there’s something I have to tell you,’ he said quietly, and it was as if the blood in her veins had turned to powder. ‘Kathleen knows I’m back with you. Don’t ask me how she found out, but she has. I hope to God there won’t be another scene like the last one, but . . . Well, you know Kathleen. But whatever she does or says, I want you to know that it’s over between her and me. It was over six years ago, when I met you.’