Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘You took her there, didn’t you?’ she persisted, confused yet unable to stem the mounting tide of foreboding. ‘You took her there when you wouldn’t take me. Why?’

  ‘Deidre, stop!’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you understand how important it is to me that you should trust me?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I am talking about Olivia. I’m talking about that night . . .’

  ‘Why do you ask me about her now? She is gone, she is . . .’

  ‘Gone? Gone where, Sergio?’ And when he only stared at her, she answered for him. ‘You took her to the bottega and she’s never been seen again. Isn’t that the truth?’ Her mind was in torment, and all she wanted was that be should deny it.

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying. You are crazy.’

  ‘No, I don’t know what I’m saying, but I can’t forget the night you sat here and wept like a child. It was the night she disappeared. And I can’t forget the way you sent me back to England, but not before you’d made me tell the police you spent the whole night here with me. But you didn’t, Sergio, so where were you?’

  ‘I told you, I was at the bottega.’

  ‘And Olivia? Was she there too?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he yelled. ‘Nobody knows.’

  She closed her eyes, trying to push away the doubt and make herself believe him. ‘Why did you cry that night?’ she whispered into the piercing silence. She heard him move across the room, and when she looked up he was standing at the window. ‘Why did you cry, Sergio?’

  ‘I cannot remember. It is a long time ago.’

  ‘Was it because of Olivia? Because of something that had happened to her?’

  He walked back to the chest and ground out his cigarette. He didn’t turn round, but put his hands on either side of the chest and lowered his head. Her heart was pounding with dread. The silence simmered round her and at last she slumped back against the pillows and covered her face with her hands.

  It was a long time before he went to her, but when he did he sat down carefully, putting his arms round her and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘You want to know why I cry that night,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘I cry for many things, but they are past now. They are over and you must not torment yourself like this.’

  ‘But if I knew what they were. If I knew . . .’

  ‘Ssh, cara, it is not important now.’ He held her closer, and pulling a sheet over her shoulders, he kissed the top of her head.

  ‘Why do I love you so much, Sergio?’ she whispered.

  As he answered she heard the smile in his voice. ‘Today you ask me so many questions I cannot answer.’

  ‘But there is one that you can. Will you, if I ask it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the answer that every nerve in her body was screaming to reject. ‘Was Olivia ever at the bottega?’ she asked.

  There was no tremor in his voice, no faltering of the hand that smoothed her hair, and no hesitation as he calmly but firmly denied it.

  She looked up, and when she saw the tenderness in his eyes, the remaining vestiges of her fear were swallowed into a tide of love and relief.

  Side by side, with their glorious hair wound into unicorn rods on the tops of their heads, and their make-up glittering silver and gold about their eyes, Shamir and Madeleine glided down the catwalk. Both wore the shimmering, tight-fitting evening dresses from Phillipa Jolley’s collection. All round them flash-bulbs were popping, film was spooling and pencils were scratching over notepads. It was the end of the show, and it had been the designer’s idea that Shamir should join Madeleine for the finale. The contrast she offered to Madeleine’s provocative violet eyes, ivory-gold skin and pearl-white hair was breathtaking in itself, but it was the looks that passed between the two of them, as they strutted and sashayed in time to the music, that were setting everyone alight. Even Deidre, who had flown in early that afternoon after spending the morning making up with Sergio, was transfixed by the mystery that seemed to lie behind that electric communication of eyes.

  Watching from his seat in the front row, Paul understood that communication perfectly. He had seen the two of them parading in front of mirrors, had been the sole audience as they rehearsed the precise gestures and movements that would convey various shades of sexual nuance; he had listened to them discussing the power they had; and he knew that it was their utter belief in themselves as untouchable, superior beings that created the air of enigma surrounding them.

  Now, as Shamir pirouetted in front of him and threw back her head, his eyes slid over her slender body and he felt a bolt of livid anger jar through him. The night before he had overheard her telling Madeleine that she was insane to put up with his moods. What Shamir thought didn’t matter an iota to him, but he did mind that Madeleine was telling people about the way he behaved. He had said nothing at the time, it was late and she had a big day ahead of her, but now that the show was over he was going to take her to task.

  Waiting only until the applause died down, he got up from his seat and pressed a path through the swarming, rhapsodic mass of people to the dressing-room.

  When he got there, he saw that Madeleine was surrounded by Shamir, Deidre, Roy, Phillipa, dressers and countless others he didn’t recognise. Phillipa was filling everyone’s glass from a magnum of champagne and flushing with delight as they sang her praises.

  ‘Paul!’ Madeleine cried when she saw him. ‘Come and get some champers.’

  He walked over to the crowd, who parted to let him through, asking him if he wasn’t proud of Madeleine and didn’t he think she’d been superb? But as he took Madeleine’s arm and dragged her through rack after rack of dresses to a distant corner of the room, their voices dried on their lips.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she grumbled, kicking off her high-heels before she fell over.

  ‘I want you to get changed and come back to the George V, now!’

  ‘What? But we’re celebrating. Didn’t you see the way . . .’

  ‘Now!’ he repeated, through clenched teeth.

  ‘But I can’t just leave.’

  ‘I want you back there,’ he hissed, and for the benefit of those who were peering through the rails he pressed his mouth against hers.

  When he let her go, Madeleine giggled. ‘Yes, sir,’ she saluted. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  He wandered outside to wait in the fresh air, only to be bombarded by photographers and journalists.

  ‘When’s she coming out?’ one of them cried.

  ‘What did you think of the show, Paul?’

  ‘How does it feel to be married to a sex bomb like Madeleine Deacon?’

  ‘We’re not married,’ Paul snapped.

  ‘When’s the big day?’

  ‘Will Phillipa Jolley design the dress?’

  Paul threw up his hands – the picture made the front page of a newspaper in Britain the following day with the headline, Will she many me or won’t she?

  Inside, Madeleine was slipping hurriedly into her jeans and telling Shamir not to make such a fuss.

  ‘But he storms in here like some Neanderthal man and orders you out,’ Shamir protested. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t drag you off by the hair. It’s your big day as well as Phillipa’s, you’re supposed to be celebrating.’

  ‘I’m about to,’ Madeleine grinned. ‘But I’m afraid the rest of you aren’t invited.’

  ‘Tell him to wait, for Christ’s sake. What is he, some kind of animal that he has to have you straightaway?’

  ‘That’s right. All animal,’ Madeleine laughed as she picked up her holdall. ‘And I’ll let you into a secret – when Paul wants me the way he does right now, I couldn’t care less if he dragged me out by the pubes.’

  ‘Will we see you later, at La Tour d’Argent?’ Shamir called after her.

  ‘I
expect so,’ Madeleine called back, ‘but don’t hold your breath.’

  As she burst out into the street, she shrieked as a plethora of white flash-bulbs exploded in her face.

  ‘Come on,’ Paul cried, grabbing her arm. ‘There’s a taxi waiting over here.’

  They were pushed and jostled, and Madeleine’s shirt was torn in the rush, but finally they managed to reach the car, which sped off in the direction of the Champs Elysées.

  ‘You like me to lose?’ the driver enquired eagerly.

  ‘No point,’ Paul answered, ‘they know where we’re staying.’

  The driver’s face fell, but nevertheless he kept his foot jammed on the accelerator and in less than ten minutes they were back at the George V, just in time to avoid the press.

  ‘Look at my shirt,’ Madeleine complained as they were going up in the lift, ‘the sleeve’s practically off.’

  Paul took it in his hand, and to the amazement of the other people in the lift, he gave it a quick tug and completely severed it from the shoulder.

  Madeleine’s eyes narrowed, and with a salacious smile she murmured, ‘I dare you to do that with the rest of it.’

  Taking a lapel in each hand, Paul ripped open the shirt, exposing her breasts to stupefied eyes. Madeleine smiled at them happily, then as the doors opened to their floor, he dealt her a stinging blow across the face and walked out of the lift.

  ‘Paul!’ she cried, grabbing her holdall and clutching the front of her shirt as she ran after him. ‘Paul, wait. What is it? What have I done?’

  He said nothing until they were inside their suite, when he took the holdall from her, dropped it on the floor and flung her onto the sofa. ‘You talked to Shamir about me?’ he seethed.

  She blinked, and shook her head in confusion. ‘Shamir? What’s she got to do with anything?’

  ‘Everything!’ he yelled. ‘You discussed me with her, and I won’t tolerate it.’

  ‘You were listening last night, weren’t you? When you were supposed to be asleep in the other room?’

  ‘Yes, I was listening.’

  ‘But I only told her . . .’

  ‘I know what you told her.’

  ‘But she’s my friend. Friends tell one another things like that.’

  ‘When are you going to grow up, Madeleine? She’s out with journalists the whole time. If she mentioned to one of them that you’d complained about me being moody and temperamental, it would be all over the papers the next day.’

  ‘Well, what difference does that make?’

  ‘All the difference in the world. They’ll start printing stories about the break-up of our relationship and the next thing you know, the pressure will be so intolerable that we’ll be going our separate ways. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘Then think about what you’re saying and who you’re saying it to.’

  ‘You can talk,’ she spat. ‘You just hit me in front of a lift full of people. What if that gets in the papers?’

  ‘We can deny it. Nobody in that lift knows us, and it’s their word against ours. Whereas anything Shamir says would inevitably have come from you and you alone. You’re always together, you’re known to be friends, and she wouldn’t welsh on you unless it were true.’

  ‘You’re jealous of Shamir,’ she accused him.

  ‘Of course I am. It’s hard for me, coming to terms with the fact that you need someone else in your life besides me. So give me a break, will you?’

  He turned away, burying his face in his hands, and she got to her feet.

  ‘I don’t need anyone but you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I told you that before.’

  ‘Then stop seeing so much of her,’ he raged.

  ‘All right. All right, I will. But we’ve got that session for the Fairplay centrefold the day after tomorrow, I’ll have to see her then.’

  He turned to look at her, and when he saw her pale, worried frown and the tatters of her shirt hanging from her shoulders, the anger and revenge drained from him, and shaking his head he held out his arms. ‘Oh, my darling,’ he sighed, as she went to him, her hands stuffed stubbornly in her pockets. ‘I’m such a bastard to you.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed.

  He kissed her tenderly, then said, ‘Promise me you won’t confide any more of my grim little secrets to Shamir?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘You know why I’m jealous of her, don’t you? I mean, the real reason?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Because I don’t want you going to the top with her, I want it to be with me.’

  ‘Oh, so do I,’ she cried, throwing her arms round him. ‘And we will, I know we will, because. I’ve had an idea about Harry Freemantle.’ She stepped back and looked into his face.

  ‘Oh?’ he said, weighing her breasts in his hands.

  ‘Well, I was thinking, he’s pretty good-looking, Harry, isn’t he? I mean, no self-respecting queer would turn him down, would they? So I thought, if I paid one of the boys from Deidre’s agency to do it with him, in our bed, then we could rig up a camera and hey presto, we’ve got him.’

  ‘Mm, not bad,’ he said, leading her back to the sofa and pulling her onto his lap. ‘But how do we get them into our bed?’

  ‘That’s the easy bit. I’ll give the boy the keys to our house while we’re away in New York next week, and he can take Harry back there. The difficult bit is introducing him to Harry and getting Harry to fancy him. But you know what male models are like. As long as Harry’s not into a bit of rough, it should be plain sailing.’

  ‘About New York,’ he said, fingering her nipples and brushing his lips over her neck as she started to purr. ‘I can’t come.’

  ‘Oh Paul!’

  ‘I’ve got too much work to do, and you’ll be so busy I’d hardly see you anyway. But while you’re there I could engineer this meeting between the model and Harry, and if need be, go and spend a night in a hotel while they do the business.’ He circled her lips with his tongue. ‘Did I ever tell you what a brilliantly devious mind you’ve got?’ he murmured.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how much I love you doing that?’ she answered, as he blew gently in her ear.

  ‘About Shamir,’ he said, as he started to unzip her jeans. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Are we seeing her later?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Then I’ll make an effort to be especially nice to her.’

  ‘Not as nice as you’re being to me now, though?’

  ‘Oh no, not that nice.’

  Her eyes fluttered open, and as she gazed into his face he saw the stirrings of that now famous look, and knew that if they did make it to dinner that night they would be very, very, late.

  Deidre was sitting in a dark corner of the studio with Roy Welland, watching the set-decorators and photographer’s assistants at work. So far there had been no sign of Madeleine and Shamir, though she guessed they were upstairs being dressed and made-up. To say Deidre was shocked when Shamir had called up to say she’d like to do the Fairplay session with Madeleine, would be an understatement. Never, in the three years Shamir had been with Deidre, had she ever shown any inclination for this kind of exposure. Not that she would be revealing anything more than a beautiful face herself, it was just astounding that she should want to appear in a publication of that kind at all. However it was an indication of how close the two girls had become, and it pleased Deidre a lot since Madeleine seemed to have no one in the world besides Paul. Except that there was a cousin somewhere who had tried to make contact through The Sun newspaper a while ago.

  ‘Oh her,’ Madeleine had sneered when Deidre told her. ‘She’s after Paul, not me. She was always trying to break us up, that’s mainly the reason we left Bristol. If she calls again, tell her to get lost.’

  Not wanting to become embroiled in some kind of family feud, Deidre had thrown the phone number away, but she was saddened by Madeleine’s response,
and that was why she had been so heartened when the friendship between Madeleine and Shamir seemed to blossom – quite apart from their indisputable success as a professional duo. Madeleine needed a friend, all girls did at that age, regardless of whether or not they were in love, and Deidre felt there had been a marked improvement in Madeleine since she’d known Shamir.

  The impact they had made in Paris was still being felt throughout the fashion world, and Deidre guessed that the same would happen in the glamour world once this particular edition of Fairplay hit the stands. It was a shame Madeleine didn’t want so much joint publicity after this, but she had told Deidre that she wanted to share her limelight more with Paul than Shamir, and as Madeleine was paying, Deidre had quite naturally agreed.

  A young secretary in a short, tight black skirt handed Deidre a cup of coffee, and as Deidre watched her walk away she frowned at the distant memory of her own miniskirt days. Then hearing Roy chuckle beside her, she threw him a look before asking him what he had lined up for them in New York.

  A few minutes later the door opened and Madeleine and Shamir walked into the studio. Behind them were dressers, make-up artistes, a team of editors from Fairplay, and an elderly man with a handle-bar moustache wearing starched Edwardian clothes. Madeleine’s costume was covered by a robe several sizes too big, but Shamir looked positively imperious in her ankle-length black satin skirt, white chiffon blouse and grey satin jacket with panniered hem. Her hair, rolled back from her face, was hidden beneath a glorious feathered hat. Taking the role of the gentleman’s half-caste wife who had returned with him to England after he had been injured in battle ‘somewhere in India’ – so Deidre read from the notes in front of her – Shamir could have stepped right out of 1910. Madeleine’s part was that of the miscreant maid who had been caught trying to steal her mistress’s sapphire and ruby necklace, thus availing her mistress of a long-awaited opportunity to inflict humiliation and punishment on a white woman. That was how the story would begin, told in more detail by one of Fairplay’s sub-editors, and from there the photographs would take over.

  Neither Shamir nor Madeleine had noticed Deidre and Roy sitting in the shadows at the back of the room; so, unobserved, Deidre watched as Madeleine talked, giggled, and eyed up the men like a schoolgirl. Then Madeleine spotted Deidre and ran across the studio to throw her arms round her agent. She babbled on with excited chatter about what they would be doing in New York, how she had been practically mobbed in Oxford Street the day before, and the ‘fab pics’ in one of the morning papers that must have been taken weeks ago. Deidre smiled and laughed and urged her to calm down. But she needn’t have worried, because when the photographer came into the studio some ten minutes later and Madeleine was called to the set, her manner immediately reflected Shamir’s, which was one of serene confidence and professionalism.