by Susan Lewis
Stephanie closed her eyes as relief washed over her, calming her heart to a steady rhythm. She had thought he was about to tell her that he was going back to his wife. Dear God, was she always going to live in such terror of losing him again?
‘Do you think you can handle it?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if she does try one of her stunts?’
Stephanie laughed. ‘For you, Matthew, I could handle anything – even Kathleen.’
He grinned. ‘How about this script?’
‘Ah, well, that’s another matter altogether. When I speak to Bronwen I’ll get her to bring Deborah Foreman back to London with her when she comes.’
Matthew pulled a face.
‘I’m sorry, Matthew,’ she chuckled. ‘Frank wants Deborah on the film, and that’s that!’
‘It must be good to be Frank, calling all the shots,’ he snapped. ‘But what does he know about making a film? Give him the credit as an executive producer, why not, but can’t he leave the rest to the experts?’
Stephanie didn’t answer. They’d gone over this a hundred times before.
‘The woman can’t write,’ Matthew went on, ‘at least, not screenplays.’
‘Bronwen will see to it. Between us we’ll make it work.’
‘I hope you’re right, because we sure as hell can’t shoot a line of what’s there right now. There’s no structure, no depth, not even any imagination.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, Trevor’s expecting me at four, he wants to show me a rough cut of the Bristol film.’
She started to gather up the Spotlights and script. ‘Back for dinner?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got an executive meeting about the title of the Bristol film. It’ll take half the night if I know Richard Collins. Producers, they’re the bane of my life.’
‘I thought it was writers,’ she said wryly.
‘Don’t remind me,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, I should be back around midnight. Will you be here?’
‘No. I’d better dictate our “wit and perspicacity” to Marian, and then I think I’ll take her out somewhere.’
‘Marian?’
‘You know who she is.’
‘Oh, you mean my rival for your attentions. Well, have a good time. Pick me up at six in the morning?’
‘What time’s your flight?’
‘Eight.’
‘I’ll pick you up at half-past six.’
After he’d gone, Stephanie called Marian. She sounded so pleased at the prospect of spending an evening with Stephanie, even if they would be working for the best part of it, that Stephanie immediately felt guilty. From her point of view, bringing Marian to London had been one of her better ideas – she was a good secretary, the best she’d ever had. But it was obvious to anyone who knew her that Marian was lonely. Still, loneliness happened to most people when they first arrived in London, and Marian would find her feet soon enough.
She was still thinking about Marian as she crawled through the traffic on her way to the West End. Marian had been the cause of the one row she and Matthew had had since their reunion. He’d walked out of the office when Marian had shown him a picture of her cousin in the newspaper, and Stephanie, watching Marian’s uncertainty turn to hurt and embarrassment, was angry with Matthew that he could be so dismissive of someone who meant so much to Marian. When she confronted him about it later he was furious.
‘You’re surely not expecting me to drool over some pornographic picture of one of her family? No, don’t lay it all on me again, I already know: her heart’s been broken. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s got to treat her as if she’s got a terminal illness, or that you have to keep leaping to her defence. Jesus, don’t you think I get enough of this from Kathleen and Samantha?’
‘But Marian’s tried everything to be friends with you, and all you do is ignore her. And yes, I do always leap to her defence and I always will, because you’re unreasonable where that girl is concerned, Matthew, unreasonable and cruel. I just hope you don’t treat your daughter in the same way.’
‘I’m absolutely hopeless with gadgets,’ Bronwen was saying in her husky, melodic Welsh voice, ‘and people don’t always take too kindly to you writing things down as they talk, especially not under these sort of circumstances; that’s the main reason I wanted you here. You know, two heads and all that. Between us we should remember everything – well, the salient points, anyway.’
It was just after four o’clock in the afternoon. The rain was beating down and the dank, dull mist Marian had seen from the plane as it circled New York was thickening to a fog. She shivered. Three times they had asked the driver of the yellow taxi to wind up his window, but to no avail – the man hardly spoke a word of English.
Bronwen had met her at the airport, recognising her from the photograph Stephanie had faxed over; Marian knew she’d have recognised Bronwen, no matter what, because Bronwen, with her long, jet-black bob, unruly fringe, and slim, animated hands, Was exactly as Marian had imagined her. Apart from the rosy Stain on each of her high cheek-bones, her skin was pale, and she wore no make-up on either her lips or her eyes. She was as tall as Stephanie, and just as glamorous, but there the resemblance ended. Whereas Stephanie’s manner – at least outwardly – was relaxed, dignified, almost aloof, Bronwen’s warmth, zest and garrulous friendliness gave her the air of a mischievous, fun-loving scatterbrain.
‘God, this traffic’s terrible,’ she complained as they crawled along the Van Wycke Expressway on their way into Manhattan. ‘Now, you haven’t told me, how was your flight? Is this the first time you’ve flown alone? You’re from the West Country, aren’t you? Beautiful part of the world. How are you finding London? As miserable as this, I’ll bet. God, I loathe London when it’s cold.’
Marian laughed. ‘Yes, it’s cold,’ and experiencing a surge of spontaneous affection, she added, ‘And yes to everything else.’
‘Oh, very rash,’ Bronwen teased. ‘Have you got Stephanie’s notes?’
‘Yes. And Matthew’s. But he dictated them into a tape recorder while Stephanie was driving him to the airport, and I can hardly hear a thing.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage between us, if not we’ll make it up. You know, you’re much prettier than your photograph let on, it suits you with your hair in a pony tail.’
Marian blushed. ‘That’s what Stephanie said.’
‘Me, I look like a clown if my hair’s not covering my face. Especially with the way my ears stick out. My husband calls me jug, you know.’
Marian burst out laughing, and had to check a sudden impulse to let her euphoria boil over into an embarrassing and unnecessary compliment.
Giggling, Bronwen opened her diary. ‘This is what I’ve arranged so far for the weekend. You don’t mind working the weekend, do you?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Good girl. We’ll put you to bed early tonight, get you over your jet lag, then tomorrow we’ll sort out the mess Matthew’s given us. It must be wonderful being a director, don’t you think? Speak, and we minions shall obey. Now tomorrow night I’ve booked us into one of my favourite restaurants, down in the Village. We’ll have a drop of wine and a long chat about you. I want to hear all about that bastard who walked out on you. It sounds to me like . . . Oh, cariad, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it still hurt,’ she gasped, as Marian’s face paled. ‘Oh, me and my mouth, running on like that. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Marian chuckled. ‘It was just a bit unexpected, that’s all. I didn’t know Stephanie had told you. Not that I mind, but I try not to think about him, you see.’
‘Very wise too. So we won’t talk about him, we’ll talk about that Matthew and Stephanie. Is the honeymoon still going on?’
‘Oh yes,’ Marian answered, shocked as well as flattered by Bronwen’s frankness.
‘It’s great, isn’t it? While we’re over here working our butts off, they moon about making eyes at one another. But tell me about Steph, does she seem happy? She’s been in love with that man ever
since I’ve known her, you know. Never been anyone else, at least, not that I know of. Trouble is, being a career woman you tend to neglect your love life. Good job I got married first, I always say, or I’d be a spinster, I’m sure of it. And there’s me, forty next month. No kids, though, didn’t have the time.’
‘Do you mind?’ Marian asked.
‘Yes, I do a bit.’
‘But surely it’s not too late.’
‘No, not yet. Maybe when this film’s over.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘That’s what I always Say, but then the next film comes up and before I know it another year’s gone by.’
‘What about your husband? Does he mind you working so much?’
‘Oh, heavens no. He’s a writer, and you know what they’re like. Want to be left alone. Suits him perfectly, me not being around too often. To be honest, I think I drive him nuts. Now, where were we? That’s right, going for dinner tomorrow night. Then on Sunday I thought I’d take you for brunch at Tavern on the Green. You’ll see all the rich Americans there, oh, are some of them ghastly! Jewels and limousines like you’ve never seen before in your life. And caked make-up you could plant trees in. Deborah Foreman will be coming too, so you can meet her. Crabby old cow, she is, but don’t tell her I said so. Then on Monday I’ve managed to get us an appointment with Rubin Meyer. He’s the guy who runs the art gallery where Olivia’s paintings were exhibited. He’s been refusing to see me, but Frank Hastings called him from Florida and told him it would be all right. Now what do you make of that? Ah, here we are at last. This is Fifth Avenue we’re crossing now, you know, where all the smart shops are. See there, there’s Gucci, and if you turn back, look down there on the left, there’s Tiffany. Oh, you missed it, never mind, it won’t go away.’
As the taxi came to a halt outside the hotel, a man in green livery shot forward with an umbrella and opened the door.
‘Hi, Tony,’ Bronwen said as she clambered from the car. ‘This is Marian. It’s her first time in New York so I want you to look after her.’
‘Sure thing,’ the man grinned. He waited while Bronwen paid the fare and refused to give a tip.
‘For someone who can’t speak English, that’s the best Anglo-Saxon I’ve heard in a long time,’ she chuckled, as the driver pulled away. ‘Now come along, Marian, let me introduce you to the Dorset Hotel. They’ve turfed some poor unsuspecting bugger out of his room so that you can be next to me, isn’t that obliging?’
Marian nodded, laughing as she tried to imagine anyone not obliging Bronwen.
Her near silence in the taxi had not only been because it was difficult to get a word in with Bronwen, but because she was still too dazzled by being actually in New York! Having hardly had time to get used to London, she was now slap bang in the middle of a city exploding with life – the people, the traffic, the sky-scrapers were faster, louder and higher than she could ever have imagined. It was almost surreal; she felt as though she was being swept along on a current of almost unbearable excitement, and she was about to ask if they might go out despite the rain, when Bronwen suggested it herself.
‘We’ll just pop up and look at your room, make sure there’s nothing lurking in the bath, then you can have a quick freshen up and we’ll wander up to the Plaza and have some tea in the Palm Court, or whatever they call it. You can stuff yourself silly with wonderful gooey cakes, drink orange tea and listen to the string quartet. It’s just like being at the Ritz, just as American.’
Half an hour later they were being shown to a table, and Marian was trying very hard not to be overwhelmed by her exotic surroundings. She even pinched herself to check she wasn’t dreaming, because although she had seen places like this on TV and at the cinema, she had never imagined that one day she would actually be there herself. What on earth would Madeleine say if she could see her? The sudden, unbidden thought fell like a cloud over her exuberance and she glanced about her, horribly aware of how shabby she must seem amongst such splendour.
Stop it, that little voice inside told her. You weren’t supposed to bring your old self with you, and it’s only thinking of Madeleine that’s making you feel like this. This is your life now, and though you might not be as rich or as chic as some of the people here, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.
‘Now, what are we going to have?’ Bronwen said, perusing the menu. Suddenly she reached across the table and squeezed Marian’s hand. ‘Oh, you don’t know how good it is to have some company, cariad.’ Then she laughed as Marian’s face turned pink with pleasure.
Marian was too excited to eat more than a cucumber sandwich, but Bronwen was nowhere near so reticent. She had a generous helping of chocolate gateau, and a bowl of trifle to follow.
‘Don’t you ever put on weight?’ Marian asked, hardly able to believe anyone could eat so much.
‘You’re kidding. I’ve always been this thin. High metabolism, I suppose. My mother always used to say . . . oh, speaking of mothers, I can’t wait for you to meet Grace Hastings – Olivia’s mother. She’s a dream. It won’t be on this trip, though, I’m afraid, because they’re in Florida; I think I told you. But next time.’
A few minutes later Marian asked, ‘If the Hastings are hiding something about Olivia, why do you think they want to have a film made about her?’
Bronwen shrugged. ‘Baffling, isn’t it? But I promise you there’s something very peculiar going on. Nobody will talk unless Frank Hastings tells them it’s all right – not even the police. He’s a really powerful man, Frank, you only have to meet him once to know it – it sort of oozes out of him.’
‘What does he do?’
‘What doesn’t he do would be easier to answer. Banking mainly. Actually, he’s not bad looking for someone his age; nor is his wife, come to that. Olivia’s inherited the best of both of them. Have you seen the photographs of her?’
Marian nodded.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Well, yes,’ Marian answered hesitantly.
‘Oh, you too. They give Stephanie the willies, but she won’t admit it. They do me, too.’
‘I thought maybe they were just bad shots.’
Bronwen shook her head. ‘No, they’re all like that. It doesn’t matter whether she’s smiling or serious. Grace didn’t want to hand them over at first, I think she only did in the end because she knew I’d dig them up from newspapers anyway. And that was a funny thing, because when I did go through the papers I found that all the pictures used during the time she disappeared were at least two years old, despite the fact that the papers themselves must have had a whole collection of shots taken when she was at the height of her fame. She was probably the most celebrated heiress and artist in New York up until the time she disappeared. Her photo was on the covers of all the magazines, she was always in the society pages, she was courted by every eligible bachelor in town and women all over the country were copying her look. There haven’t been so many blondes in America since the days of Marilyn Monroe.’ Bronwen paused for a moment, then, as if something had just occurred to her, she went on, ‘It was uncanny, you know, the influence she seemed to have on people – especially since she was So young. She wore a certain pair of sunglasses that she’d designed herself, and some entrepreneur made a fortune out of copying them. Everyone had a T-shirt with OH! on the front, which is how she signs her paintings. Of course, all the papers exercised their usual eloquence with headlines like, OH! She’s a genius or OH! What a girl or OH! What a surprise. It was a kind of trade mark. And when she went missing there were the inevitable OH! Where is she?’s or OH! Who’s got her?’s or in the case of one paper, OH! What a con!’
‘Con?’ Marian asked.
‘That’s what it said. Saw it myself in the library. In fact it was an editorial, and would it surprise you to hear that the editor was sacked shortly afterwards?’
Marian’s eyes widened and several seconds passed before she asked, ‘What did the accompanying article say?’
‘Most of it was a bit disappointing, rea
lly. Just that her paintings weren’t brilliant at all, that it was all just a load of hype and the great American public had fallen for it. But at the end it said something about making connections and coming up with answers people in high places might not like. I’ve got a copy of it back at the hotel, you can read it yourself if you like.’
‘Yes,’ Marian answered thoughtfully. Then, ‘Isn’t this editor someone we should try to get to see?’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘He won’t speak without Frank’s permission?’
Bronwen shook her head. ‘Can’t.’ And when Marian looked puzzled, she leaned across the table and in a low, meaningful voice said, ‘He’s dead.’
A waiter came between them with the check and Marian waited while Bronwen paid, then followed her out into the street. The rain had stopped but the wind was biting cold.
‘Very convenient, don’t you think?’ Bronwen said, as she linked Marian’s arm and they started to walk the few blocks back to the hotel.
‘How did he die, do you know?’
‘Road accident, somewhere in the Bronx.’
‘But you don’t think it was an accident?’
‘As I said, it was very convenient, wasn’t it? Can’t ask a dead man questions, can you?’
Later, when Marian was lying in bed, too tired to sleep, she thought back over all Bronwen had said. Something about it bothered her, but she couldn’t seem to put a finger on exactly what it was. It was only when her eyelids finally started to droop that the answer came, but by then she had already drifted too far down the road towards sleep to consider it.
The phone woke her in the morning, startling her from a vivid nightmare in which someone in an OH! T-shirt silently chased her through Bristol. The streets were deserted, except for her and her pursuer. At first it was Paul, but when she looked back it was Matthew, and Madeleine was with him. She didn’t know why she was running away from them, but her terror was like a living thing. Her ears droned a dreadful, whining tattoo, her lungs were on fire, her eyes bulged from their sockets, and as her pursuers drew closer her legs seemed to dissolve with pain. She rolled to the ground and a car sped towards her, Olivia was driving . . . she was going to die. Her mouth swelled with huge, empty screams – and then the phone rang.
