by Susan Lewis
She snatched at the receiver, still too shaken to know whether it was a part of the dream, but when Stephanie’s voice came across the line, laughing and demanding to know if the jet-setter had arrived in one piece, she relaxed.
Ten minutes later Bronwen was knocking at the door. She whisked Marian off to breakfast, left her in the dining-room while she went off to make a few phone calls, then spent the rest of the day in Marian’s room trying to decipher Matthew’s instructions, and wondering how on earth she was going to come up with something that would even remotely satisfy him.
‘And what the hell’s this supposed to mean?’ she grumbled, as Marian passed her the final sheet of dictation. ‘“To get the right depth you must achieve it by degrees, always considering changing ambience, i.e., sound, colour, temperature. A patchwork portrait of a sybaritic society is not good enough. Sinister undertones would be welcome, if you think there are any. Get complete! unexpurgated! character studies of friends and colleagues.”’ Bronwen looked up. ‘Are the exclamation marks yours?’
Marian grinned. ‘It’s how he said it.’
Bronwen laughed. ‘I’d love to know what was going through Stephanie’s mind while he was dictating all this.’
‘Read on,’ Marian told her.
Bronwen did for several minutes, until she reached the bottom of the page and burst out laughing. ‘“If I didn’t love him, I’d hate him. Anyway, hope you enjoyed your lesson on how to research a story, you have my full permission to tell him to f . . . off, however I wouldn’t advise it, he bites.” Stephanie’s voice, I take it?’
Marian nodded.
Bronwen sighed. ‘Well, cariad, we’ve certainly got our work cut out trying to impress Matthew Cornwall. Still, I guess being a pedantic perfectionist is what’s got him to the top, and we lowly individuals should be grateful to be working with him.’ She pulled a sardonic face and got to her feet. ‘You know, it’s true, most people would give their eye teeth to be in our position – but I need mine, I’m famished. Let’s go and get some dinner.’
While she was in the shower Marian’s mind was overflowing with thoughts of Olivia. Though they had spent the entire day discussing her, analysing everything they knew of her, she still remained maddeningly elusive. In her notes Stephanie had said, ‘Of course, we will never come up with complete answers to this mystery, but the intention is to get as near to the truth as possible – or should I say, permissible?’ Marian took rather a dim view of such defeatism, and was certain that if they worked hard enough and delved deep enough they would inevitably find a solution to what was proving such an irresistible enigma. And now that she understood why the business of the editor had played on her mind, there was at least one part of the puzzle she might be able to solve.
She wasn’t too sure yet how to go about it, but once she’d spent some time with Bronwen and listened to what Olivia’s friends had to say, she was sure that something would occur to her. She intended to make her investigation alone, not in order to take credit from Bronwen, but – if she pulled it off – in order to try and change Matthew’s attitude toward her. Loathing him as she did, it irked her to think that she was even bothering to try and impress him – but she couldn’t bear the way he dismissed her as somebody unworthy of even so much as a civil hello. She was determined to prove that there was a great deal more to her than either of them realised. And if she didn’t get anywhere with her investigation, no one would be any the wiser and she wouldn’t have risked making a fool of herself.
As it turned out, she didn’t get an opportunity to do anything for over a week. She was with Bronwen every minute of the day, very often in the company of the sons and daughters of New York’s wealthiest and most influential families. They travelled all over Manhattan, and Marian would never forget the police car that sped past their taxi in Washington Square when they were on their way to see Rubin Meyer. It squealed to a halt almost in front of them. Then, with the siren still wailing and lights flashing, four policemen leapt out, guns clenched in their fists, and ran into a building. She would never forget it for the simple reason that she hadn’t even been alarmed by it. For her, driving round New York was like touring a movie set. Nothing seemed real, because she’d seen it so often in films. Like the steam that swirled from drains, the crisscross of rusty fire escapes on tenement buildings, and most of all the intimidating, soaring, skyscrapers. The city both exhilarated and daunted her, but not once did it frighten her.
In the evenings she and Bronwen had dinner sent up while they sat in her room typing all they could remember of the interviews they’d done that day. Rubin Meyer had told them nothing they didn’t already know. Yes, he had put on Olivia’s exhibitions. Yes, she had lived in the apartment above his gallery. No, he knew nothing about her private life except what he’d read in the press – and that you had to take with a pinch of salt. Her ex-boyfriends either refused to talk at all, saying they’d told the police all they knew at the time, or theorised wildly about what might have happened. Her friends described her variously as reckless, exciting, exotically erotic, selfish, often cruel, never vulnerable, and in one case, evil. It was that particular friend Marian went back to see, alone, the morning Matthew arrived.
They had known he was coming because he’d left a message for Bronwen the day before.
‘Oh, that’s all we need,’ she groaned when she picked it up. ‘Still, at least some sort of pattern’s beginning to emerge. But I can hear him now: “It’s a patchwork portrait of New York’s sybaritic society – it’s not good enough.” Well, it’s all we could get so he’ll just have to lump it. In any case, I think it’s all rather visual, don’t you? I mean, the locations are seedy as well as smart, the people are weird and wonderful, and those druggy-type parties she used to have in that wasteground of an apartment should make for a few good scenes.’ She sighed. ‘Not very substantial, though, is it?’
‘It would help, I suppose,’ Marian said, ‘if we had found a boyfriend, or even a girlfriend, whom she’d been more than superficially involved with.’
‘Wouldn’t it just. Of course, a lot of them know more than they’re letting on, that’s obvious, but even if we succeeded in getting anything out of them, Frank Hastings probably wouldn’t allow us to use it.’
‘How much do you think he actually knows about what went on during the two years before she disappeared?’
‘A lot more than he’s telling us. But one thing I’m pretty certain about, he doesn’t know where his daughter is now. To be honest, I don’t think any of them do.’
‘Well, couldn’t that be the story? I mean, if Deborah Foreman were to write the script in such a way that each scene ends on a kind of question mark – you know, the way our interviews have – surely it would get people thinking, if nothing else.’
‘Thinking about what?’
‘About what Olivia was really like as a person. About what might have happened during those two years. People will come up with their own conclusions, but it’ll get her talked about, and if someone does know where she is, they might be more inclined to speak up in the glare of publicity. I mean, nobody’s going to bump them off when the whole world is watching them – assuming that being bumped off is what they’re afraid of.’ She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed at exposing her ideas, though not for one minute attaching any credibility to what she was saying. To her it was all fiction, so the casual suggestion that people were afraid of being killed held no plausibility whatsoever in the real world – the real world being England.
Bronwen’s head was on one side and she was staring at Marian intently. ‘You know, you might have a point, cariad. If we make the film one huge question mark, that’s like an umbrella for all sorts of allusions . . .’ Slowly her face started to light up. ‘He hasn’t exactly said so, but I’m sure that’s Frank’s motive for making the film. To get people talking, to encourage whoever has the answers to come forward. Because someone must know where she is. By George, Marian, I think you’ve got it. All we have to
come up with are the allusions.’
‘Murder. Kidnap. Love affair. Artistic commitment. Satanism. Drug-induced memory loss . . .’
‘Perfect. I like the satanism, it might well account for the way she changed over those two years. I’ll have to check this out with Frank, of course, see how much artistic licence he’ll allow us, and we’ll have to change all the names to avoid libel suits, but damn me, Marian, I’m feeling quite excited all of a sudden. I’d better get Deborah Foreman over here tomorrow, so we can put it to her and Matthew together.’
‘Will you be needing me?’ Marian asked, and when Bronwen looked surprised she added, ‘I thought I’d do a bit of shopping. Climb the Empire State – you know, all the touristy things. But only if it’s all right.’
‘Of course it is, cariad. You could do with a day off. But these are your ideas, I thought you would want . . .’
‘No. You’ll be able to articulate them much better than me. And I don’t much fancy the idea of trying to convince Matthew. He’s not too keen on me.’
Bronwen laughed. ‘Is Matthew keen on anyone, I ask myself? All right, you go and enjoy yourself, leave his nibs to me.’
The next morning Marian was hoping to get out of the hotel before Matthew arrived, but as the lift doors opened and she walked into reception her eyes were immediately drawn to the tall figure standing at the check in desk. Immediately a discomfiting heat mushroomed through her body and her heart jerked with an unnatural thump. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and would have stepped back into the lift, but the doors had closed. In panic her eyes hunted about for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere. What are you so afraid of? Her other self asked. Shut up! she snapped back, and as a porter passed with a rack of hanging luggage, she slipped in behind him.
‘And where might you be off to?’
His voice was smooth and deep, and when she looked up at his face her heart seemed to grind to a halt.
‘Oh, just going to do a bit of . . .’ The word escaped her, and two crimson patches flared across her cheeks.
‘Sight-seeing?’ he suggested, concealing his amusement at the way she’d tried to slide past him.
Dumbly, she nodded. ‘Bronwen said it would be all right.’
‘Then take that damned camera from round your neck and put it in your bag.’
She looked at him with wide, blinking eyes.
He sighed. ‘A girl your age – or any age, come to that – doesn’t walk round New York alone advertising the fact that she’s a tourist. Not unless she’s completely stupid, that is.’
‘Oh,’ Marian mumbled, and reached round the back of her neck to unhook the strap of her camera. It had somehow got tangled in the loop of her coat, and though she would willingly have torn either to get them apart, neither would budge.
Taking her by the shoulders, Matthew turned her round, undid the knot, slipped the strap over her head and handed her the camera. ‘What’s Bronwen’s room number?’ he asked, his face unyieldingly impassive.
Marian told him, then was about to make good her escape when he said, ‘Marian?’
She turned back, dreading what he might say now.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ he smiled, and picking up his key he followed the bell captain across the lobby.
For several seconds Marian was too stunned to move. That was the first time he’d ever smiled at her. The first time he’d ever called her by name, even. She watched as the lift doors opened and he walked in. For one wild moment she thought her feet were going to rush her across the room so she could return the smile, but then the doors closed, and realising she was causing a jam in the busy traffic of early morning hotel life, she spun round and walked jauntily towards the door.
Tony, Bronwen’s friend, was outside, so she asked him to hail her a taxi, and less than half an hour later she was delivered to an imposing apartment building on the Upper East Side.
The doorman called up to Jodi Rosenberg’s apartment to announce her arrival, then showed her to the lifts. In less than five seconds she was on the thirty-third floor, the doors opened, and to her astonishment she was in Jodi’s vast apartment.
Jodi was on the telephone, but as she saw Marian she beckoned her to come in.
Marian walked uneasily across the room, wondering how many times Stephanie’s flat would fit into this one. It must be bigger than the entire Bristol ice rink, she thought as she looked around at the vibrant abstract paintings. At the opposite end of the room, on a podium, was a king-size bed with a majestic carved headboard and yards upon yards of rose- and oyster-coloured silk, satin and lace. The walls were a muted wash of pink and orange, and the thick, luxuriant carpet was a silvery blue. It was a bit like walking into a tropical sunset, she decided, and the sumptuous white furniture was the surf.
There was a copy of the New York Times on a glass dining-table so she opened it and made a pretence of reading. In fact her courage was beginning to fail her. Calling up Jodi and asking to speak to her again had seemed no more than an adventurous thing to do when it was just an idea, but now she was here it felt different. To begin with, what did she intend to ask this woman? Why was Olivia evil? Well, yes, that was what she was here for, but it seemed so trite now. And she could hardly come straight out with it. Besides, it might just have been one of those flip remarks that Jodi had made without thinking. Even if it wasn’t, what right did she have to go round questioning people like this? She didn’t even have Bronwen’s permission. She looked across the room at Jodi Rosenberg, and felt herself shrink by inches. Even in her jogging suit, sneakers and sweat-bands Jodi managed to look imperious.
Eventually, just as Marian was wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, Jodi put down the phone and spun round.
‘Hi,’ she cried, ‘come over here and sit down. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Juice?’
‘Juice would be very nice,’ Marian answered.
‘Let me get your coat,’ Jodi said, and she whisked it off Marian’s shoulders before Marian had a chance to lament its shabbiness.
‘I hope you didn’t mind me calling you,’ Marian said, as Jodi handed her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. ‘It was just that . . .’
‘I was expecting your call,’ Jodi interrupted.
‘You were?’ Marian asked, surprised.
‘Sure I was. Your associate’s pretty smart, feigning that kind of absent-mindedness, it catches people off their guard. I knew after I said what I did that it wouldn’t rest there.’ The genial smile suddenly dropped from her face. ‘I’ve thought a lot about what I would say when you did come, and I’m still not too sure.’ For a long moment Jodi regarded her with wide, unfathomable blue eyes, then at last she said, ‘I told you she was evil, didn’t I?’
Marian nodded.
‘She wasn’t always that way. She fell in with a bad set, here in Manhattan; drugs, you know. It’s easy in this town, there’s crack or heroin sold on just about every street corner. We all dabble, for fun, you know, at parties and places, but Olivia took it too far. She got hooked and that’s what changed her. We all tried to help, but she wouldn’t let us, it had a hold on her and there was nothing we could do. She was a regular junkie. In the end her father got to find out and that was when the real trouble started. Frank didn’t mean for it to blow up the way it did, but . . .’ she shrugged ‘. . . well, it did, and now Olivia should be made to pay for what she’s done. They all should.’
Remembering how Bronwen kept silent when a revelation was about to break, and hardly able to believe that it had happened so quickly, Marian returned Jodi’s stare and waited. But she wasn’t experienced enough to carry it off, and in the end she said, ‘But what did she do?’
‘If I told you that . . .’ Jodi stopped, looked round the room, then suddenly seemed agitated. ‘Look, I don’t know any more. I’ve told you too much already.’
‘You haven’t told me anything,’ Marian protested.
‘And that’s the way it’s gotta stay. I told you nothing. You haven�
��t been here today. I never said Olivia was evil, I said nothing.’
‘Why did you agree to see me if you’re not going to tell me anything?’
‘I agreed because I had some fancy notion of morality. I fooled myself into believing there was something you people could do. But I was wrong. I’ve gotta keep my mouth shut, like everyone else.’
‘Can’t you tell the police what you know?’
Jodi laughed. ‘Are you kidding? The cops know more than I do. And it just kills me to think she’s walked away like she had nothing to do with it. Frank Hastings was trying to protect her, he still is, but it’ll all come out in the end, it has to.’
‘Are you saying that Frank Hastings knows where Olivia is?’
‘No, he doesn’t know. None of us do. Like it said in the papers, Frank arranged for her to go to Italy to study art under Sergio Rambaldi – at the Accademia. She finished her course, she said goodbye and no one’s seen her since.’
‘But people don’t just vanish into thin air.’
‘Well, Olivia managed it, didn’t she?’
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’
As she answered, Jodi’s face was bitter. ‘I’m telling you, Marian, I hope that bitch is rotting in hell. I hated her. We all did once we found out. She might have been a drug addict, but she knew what she was doing all right, and she didn’t care so long as she got her fix.’
‘Look,’ Marian said, affecting a conspiratorial tone, ‘if you’re worried about trusting me, I swear to you I won’t reveal your name, no matter what you say. Only you and I will know. I’d go to prison rather than betray you,’ she added dramatically. She’d heard about journalists and researchers going to prison rather than revealing sources.
