Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Yes. We’re just waiting for final approval from Mr Hastings.’

  ‘This is very good, no? So soon you will begin to make the film?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure really.’

  ‘Is something the matter? Are you unwell?’

  ‘No, no,’ Marian assured him. ‘I think I’m still a bit shaken by what happened outside.’

  ‘Ah. Again, I am sorry.’

  The urge to look at him was almost overpowering, but she knew that she must avoid his eyes. There was something strange about them, hypnotic, and she was afraid that once they held her she would lose control of what she was saying. Then, to her overwhelming relief, the door opened and Bronwen came in.

  ‘Ah, Signora Evans,’ Sergio said, and smiling, he got to his feet.

  ‘Signor Rambaldi?’ Her astonishment was so obvious that it made Marian laugh.

  ‘You are feeling a little better now?’ he said. ‘Come, sit down and drink some wine with us.’

  As Bronwen sank into the chair he held out for her, she shot a look at Marian, but with Sergio standing over them there was nothing Marian could say.

  Having heard the door open, Signora Giacomi came into the café and took another glass for Bronwen from a shelf behind the counter. By the time she went out again Bronwen had regained her composure. She said to Marian, ‘I think I’ve found a village, just over the brow of the hill. We’ll take a drive over there later.’ Then turning to Sergio, her jolly expression was suddenly transformed into one of unmistakable lust and she proceeded to flirt outrageously.

  Deciding that it would be politic to leave them to it, Marian excused herself, saying she wanted to ring her mother. Signora Giacomi gave her the telephone, which she carried up to her room to make the call in private.

  ‘Mum, it’s me, Marian,’ she said when she heard her mother’s gentle West Country tones at the other end of the line.

  ‘Oh, Marian!’ Celia cried, sounding surprised. ‘I thought you were in Italy.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you sound like you’re in the next room. How are you, lovely?’

  ‘I’m all right, Mum. The weather’s not too good, though, but we’ll battle on. I’m really calling to see how you got on with Madeleine. Did you write to her in the end?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I sent it to that address what you gave me, the one for her agent, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘No.’ And Celia’s voice sounded so flat that Marian wished she was there to hug her.

  ‘Never mind, Mum. I’m sure you will. Maybe she’s out of the country and hasn’t got it yet.’

  ‘Yes, you might be right.’

  There was a pause, and Marian said, ‘Are you all right, Mum? There’s nothing else, is there?’

  ‘Well, yes, there is, I’m afraid. You see, Mrs Cooper came up the other day and she brought this saucy magazine with her, one of her husband’s, she said it was, and there’s these pictures of our Madeleine in it – well, Marian, I shouldn’t like for you to see them, not really.’

  ‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry. But Mrs Cooper shouldn’t have shown you.’

  ‘Yes she should. After all, our Madeleine is my responsibility and now I don’t know what she’s up to. There’s her face always there on the telly, with the make-up and stuff, and she looks so beautiful I feels right proud of her, I do. But then when I saw those pictures . . .’

  ‘Mum? Are you crying, Mum?’

  ‘No, no.’ But Marian knew she was, and suddenly her own eyes were full.

  ‘Look, I shall be in Italy for another week or so, but I’ll come down and see you as soon as I get back. Have you got something to take your mind off things in the meantime?’

  ‘’Course I have. I’m going down the Legion tonight with Mr Butcher, you know, the man who comes round for the football pools. I still do them for you, Marian, so I might make you rich one day.’

  Marian laughed, but because of the lump in her throat it sounded more like a sob. ‘There’s not a new romance blossoming, is there?’ she teased.

  ‘Oh no,’ Celia cried. ‘He just said he was a bit lonely like, now his wife’s passed on, and did I fancy a drink down the Legion one night. So I said yes.’

  ‘And why not!’ Marian declared. ‘No getting drunk, mind you?’

  Celia chuckled. ‘Drunk! Listen to you, our Marian. When have you ever seen me drunk?’

  ‘There’s always a first time. Anyway, I’d better ring off now, but try not to worry, Mum, and if anything happens, ring me. I’ll give you the number here, and I’ll call you again when I get back to Florence.’

  ‘All right, then. I’ve got a pen here, so I’m ready.’

  Marian gave her the number, then said, ‘Bye now, and try not to worry too much about Madeleine, I’m sure she’s all right really.’

  ‘Yes, I ‘spect so. Cheerio then, my lovely, enjoy yourself over there, and keep yourself warm.’

  ‘I will,’ Marian answered, and she rang off quickly before her mother could realise that she was crying. ‘Oh Mum,’ she sighed, as she wandered over to the bed, ‘why does loving you so much make me want to cry?’ And laughing at herself, she took a tissue from the box beside her bed and sat down to blow her nose.

  For a while she toyed with the idea of rejoining Bronwen and Sergio, then decided that Bronwen might not appreciate an intrusion. But though Bronwen was undoubtedly enjoying Sergio’s company, Marian realized that his unexpected appearance in the village was making her distinctly uneasy. His enquiries about New York had seemed innocuous enough, but she was half-afraid that his visit might have something to do with what she had said about Rubin Meyer. But that was nonsense, she’d hardly said anything – at least, nothing coherent enough to draw any conclusions from.

  She leaned back against the pillows and stared blindly at the foot of the bed. Art Douglas, Rubin Meyer, Sergio Rambaldi, Olivia Hastings. What was it all really about? She knew about the children in New York, but something had happened after that, and now she was as convinced as Art Douglas that Sergio Rambaldi knew what it was. But how had she managed to become so deeply embroiled in it? Why did she feel that events were moving beyond her control? She wondered about Pittore, why there were so few people around, why Sergio had said he didn’t know the village when she was certain he did. She wondered if she really had heard screams the night before, or if, as Bronwen said, they were part of a nightmare. She remembered then what her mother had said about Madeleine. ‘Our Madeleine is my responsibility and now I don’t know what she’s up to.’ What would Celia say if she knew what she, Marian, was involved in? She would worry herself to an early grave, was the answer – and the thought of her mother dying brought the tears back to her eyes. She was such a wonderful mother, so trusting, so innocent and so warm.

  Suddenly the phone rang, and having forgotten it was there, Marian’s heart nearly leapt from her body. ‘God, I’m a bag of nerves since I’ve been here,’ she mumbled to herself as she looked at it. Then remembering it was the only one in the house, she supposed she ought to answer it – though with no Italian she wasn’t going to be of much use to anyone.

  She got up from the bed to lift the receiver, then sat back in the window seat. ‘Hello, Paesetto di Pittore albergo,’ she announced, hoping that was the right thing to say.

  ‘Marian? Is that you?’

  ‘Matthew!’ And again her heart lurched, but this time it was from pure joy. ‘You got my message? What time is it there?’

  ‘Ten in the morning. Look . . .’

  ‘You must have been up early. I called . . .’

  ‘We spent the night at the Hastings’ house, Stephanie’s gone off to another meeting with their lawyers and I’ve just got back. Now listen, Marian, I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Do I need a pen and paper?’

  ‘No, I just want you to listen. Are you alone at the moment, or is Bronwen with you?’

  She swallowed, wondering what on
earth he was going to say. ‘Yes, I’m alone, Bronwen’s . . .’

  ‘Good. Marian, Grace has told me about Olivia – I mean, everything about Olivia – and she’s also told me about Art Douglas.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Marian said, and her mind was suddenly spinning. ‘I would have told you, Matthew . . . I wanted to . . . I just . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, my darling, just as long as you’re all right. When we couldn’t get in touch with you I was afraid you might have said something to Rambaldi. You didn’t, did you? Marian? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ she breathed. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘I said, did you say anything to Rambaldi about Rubin Meyer?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did, but I made a bit of a hash of it and I don’t think he took much notice. He’s here at the moment, downstairs talking to Bronwen.’

  ‘He’s there, in Pittore? Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure, really. He said he wanted to help with the research.’

  ‘Did he?’ There was a pause, but she knew he was still there because she could hear him breathing. Finally he said, ‘Now look, I don’t want to alarm you, Marian, we’re none of us certain about anything as far as Meyer and Rambaldi are concerned, but I want you to make certain that wherever you go, Bronwen is with you. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if anything untoward happens you’re to ring me straightaway. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Now tell me what’s been happening over there.’

  In a state of utter jubilation, Marian told him all about Pittore, starting with the taxi driver who had brought them there, and going on to the screams in the night and how she had ended up sleeping with Bronwen, then to the chicken in the undergrowth, and Sergio, and the snake on the terrace – remembering to spice it all up with gruesome details of the weather. ‘I promise you, Matthew, I don’t think my heart can stand any more shocks,’ she finished, but he was still laughing and she doubted if he’d heard.

  ‘Sounds one hell of a place,’ he said.

  ‘Hell being the operative word. It’s really creepy. I honestly won’t be sorry to leave.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be back there for the film, but you’ll have me to look after you then, so no more snakes or chickens. I’m not too sure about the screams in the night, though; with a film crew around there’ll probably be plenty of them. You’ve gone quiet again, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ she answered, relieved that he couldn’t see her face. ‘I’m not sure we’ll be able to shoot in this village; they seem to despise Americans.’

  ‘Yes, that could be a problem. Is Bronwen working on it?’

  ‘Yes, in fact she may already have found an alternative village. It’s just round the brow of the mountain from here.’

  ‘Good. When are you going back to Florence?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, maybe in a couple of days. Shall I call you before we go?’

  ‘If you want to. Now don’t worry about any of this, you’ll be all right just as long as you remember not to mention Rubin Meyer. Come to that, tell Bronwen not to, either, and if she asks why, say it’s an instruction from Frank.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Take care of yourself now, I want to see you back in London pretty soon, we’ll get together then and talk.’

  ‘OK. Matthew?’ But the line had already gone dead, and she wasn’t sure what she’d intended to say anyway.

  She looked out of the window, and laughed as the sun suddenly broke through the clouds and perched haughtily on the mountains – it was as if it was trying to outshine her. But it would take more than the sun to out-dazzle the way she was feeling at that moment. He had called her ‘darling’, he had said he would be here to look after her. She had heard his voice, had listened to him breathing, and she’d made him laugh. You’re as bad as Signora Giacomi, she told herself, behaving as though Matthew’s some kind of god. Well, at the very least he was her protector, but the funny thing was, now she’d spoken to him she wasn’t afraid any more.

  Smiling, she got to her feet, then unplugged the telephone and carried it downstairs. She shouldn’t be thinking this way, she knew she shouldn’t, but his voice had sounded so intimate over the phone, as if he really cared about her, and impossible as it seemed, and disloyal to Stephanie as it was, she truly believed that maybe there was a chance he was beginning to feel something for her. Just to think of it sent a thrill shooting through her body – and in its wake a longing to feel his strength embrace her, not only mentally but physically.

  With a beaming smile she handed Signora Giacomi the telephone, then wandered into the café to find Bronwen. She was alone, studying a map spread out on the table in front of her.

  ‘What with you and the sun, I think I’d better dig out my sunglasses,’ she remarked when she saw Marian’s face. ‘I take it your mother’s heard from Madeleine?’

  ‘No,’ Marian laughed. ‘No, I was just talking to Matthew. Where’s Sergio?’

  ‘Had some business to do locally, he said, but he’s offered to take us to dinner when we get back to Florence. By the way, very obliging of you going off like that, cariad, leaving me to do my worst.’

  ‘Never let it be said that I don’t know when I’m not wanted,’ Marian said chirpily. ‘And you a married woman. Whatever next?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Bronwen grinned. ‘Now, what did Matthew say was happening in New York?’

  ‘I don’t believe it, Matthew,’ Stephanie said as she walked ahead of him into their room at the Dorset Hotel. ‘You say you spoke to Marian, but she didn’t tell you what they managed to get from Rambaldi?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why didn’t she?’

  ‘I confess, I forgot to ask.’ He closed the door, and when he turned back it was to find her standing beside the bed, staring at him with bewildered eyes. ‘Then what did you talk about?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Chickens, snakes, and things that go bump in the night.’

  Irritation flashed through her eyes as he grinned. ‘Oh, very amusing,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Yes, it was, actually.’

  ‘Matthew! I’m trying very hard to remain patient here. Now what did Marian tell you about Rambaldi?’

  ‘That he was downstairs talking to Bronwen.’

  ‘And nothing about the afternoon they spent with him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She watched as he walked over to the phone and dialled the number for messages, then waited while he scribbled them down.

  ‘There’s one here for you,’ he told her.

  She ignored it. ‘Matthew, what is going on? Only two days ago you couldn’t wait to speak to Marian, and now you have, you tell me you talked about snakes and bumps and God knows what.’ She peered at him suspiciously. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘I told you I loved you last night,’ he teased.

  She stamped her foot. ‘Matthew! For heaven’s sake, I’m the producer of this film, so stop playing games with me and treating me as if I’m still you’re PA. And you haven’t told me yet what Grace Hastings wanted to talk to you about, either.’

  He strolled over to an armchair and sat down. ‘Olivia, what else?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know what else. You tell me.’

  ‘Characterisation.’

  ‘Is that it? Characterisation?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll go into more detail if you like, but right now I think you should return that call. It was Eleanora Braey’s agent, and after all, as the producer of this film you should be pandering to our star.’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Matthew,’ she snapped, but realising she was getting nowhere, she stalked across the room and snatched up the phone.

  Making himself comfortable, Matthew picked up the remote control and started to flick through the profusion of TV channels. He wasn’t particularly happy about having to lie to Stephanie, but he couldn’t tell her the tru
th, so evasion, he’d decided, was the only route open to him. But it had been damned stupid of him, forgetting to ask Marian what she’d got out of Rambaldi, and he couldn’t think now why he hadn’t. But he hadn’t, and as they’d find out what Rambaldi had said soon enough, there was no point in dwelling on it.

  He was just getting involved in Oprah Winfrey’s ‘Good News’ show and chuckling as some man turned down his girlfriend’s proposal of marriage in front of twenty million viewers, when Stephanie cried: ‘But the contract’s ready for her to sign! We start shooting in September. No, I know you didn’t know that, but we had an option, right? For Christ’s sake, she’s playing the part of Olivia, we can’t re-cast just like that.’ There was a long pause, then Stephanie said: ‘I see. Well, of course I’m very happy for her’ – which, it was clear from her tone, she wasn’t. ‘OK. Yes, thank you, goodbye.’

  She slammed down the receiver, then thumped her fist on the table. ‘Damn! Damn and fucking damn!’

  ‘Something wrong?’ Matthew asked, not taking his eyes from the screen.

  ‘Eleanora Braey is pregnant! Five bloody months pregnant!’

  ‘Oh.’

  She swung round. ‘Oh? Is that all you can say? Our star goes down the pan and you say oh.’ She tapped her foot, her pale skin darkening with anger. ‘I’ll sue,’ she declared.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Matthew, this is serious. Where are we going to get someone else at this short notice?’

  ‘We’ve got two months. We’ll find someone in that time.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Off the top of my head, I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, great! She was your choice, you could at least express some disappointment.’

  ‘I am disappointed, but five months is very pregnant and there’s not a lot we can do about it. Except find ourselves another star.’

  ‘Oh well, if it’s so easy I’ll leave it all to you.’

  ‘Good. Now, come and sit down. Better still, get room service to bring us up a couple of gin and tonics.’

  ‘Matthew!’ Her hands were pressed either side of her head as if she was trying to hold in the frustration. ‘I can’t stand this any longer. What’s got into you? Doesn’t anything I say get through to you?’