by Susan Lewis
Matthew closed the door quietly behind him, and as he walked to the lift his face was grim. So she was still in love with O’Connell, and it was no more than a rebound crush she’d felt for him. But the relief he’d expected to feel didn’t come, and as he closed the door to his room he tried to remind himself that she was just a kid. ‘You feel sorry for her, want to comfort her because she’s lonely,’ he told himself. ‘It’s nothing more than that.’
‘How many more times do I have to tell you, Harry,’ Paul sighed irritably. ‘It’s over between us. I don’t even know what you’re doing here in New York.’
‘I’m here as your publisher, and because I thought you wanted me to be here.’ Harry’s face was taut, and his hand trembled as he picked up the cup of coffee that had just been put in front of him.
Paul looked around the shadowy enclaves of the Twenty-One Club to make sure no one could hear. It was lunch time, and, mercifully, not crowded. ‘I said nothing to indicate I wanted you here. Shit, if Madeleine were to find out . . .’ He pushed his hand through his hair in exasperation. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he looked at his editor with undisguised loathing. ‘You’re not considering turning up at the party tomorrow night, are you?’
‘I was. But contrary to what you think, I haven’t come all this way to cause a scene. I’m here because what we have between us is real, and you know it.’
Paul thumped his hand on the table, rattling the cups in their saucers. ‘For the last time, Harry, I am not a homosexual. I am a writer doing his research. It’s done, I don’t need to do it again.’
‘You may not need to, but you and I both know you want to.’
Paul stared sightlessly up at the curious collection of planes, baseballs, soup tins and tankards that hung from the club’s oak-beamed ceiling. He didn’t want to lose Harry’s friendship – apart from anything else, his next book wasn’t far off completion – but the man was a parasite. ‘OK,’ he said eventually, what will it take to convince you?’
Harry’s face relaxed. ‘I’m staying at the Freemantle apartment on the Upper East Side, Sixty-Fourth and Third.’ He took a pen from his inside pocket and jotted down the address. ‘Spend an afternoon there with me, and if nothing happens between us . . . Well, then I could be convinced.’
Paul took the slip of paper, looked at it, then ripped it into shreds. ‘I can remember the address,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’ll call you when I can make it.’
The two cranes inched slowly through the trees, crunching a path over dried leaves and pine-cones. The drive’s sweeping crescent was fringed by weeping hemlocks, beech and horse chestnuts, and hidden behind their dense foliage were billowing acres of park and woodland. At the end of the quarter-mile approach, the road curved past the Gothic revival mansion and snaked off into the woods beyond.
Matthew stood in front of the colonnaded porch with Frank Hastings. They were looking up at a narrow arched window on the second floor and discussing how much wisteria would have to be chopped away. Behind them, Woody was shouting instructions into a walkie-talkie while at the same time windmilling directions to the crane drivers. His assistants rushed about with call sheets, teas and coffees, while props men unloaded their vehicles and electricians unravelled miles of cable. The make-up and wardrobe caravans were parked in the stable complex, adjacent to the house, along with the winnebagos and catering trucks.
Marian stood under a cluster of sugar maples, feeling a little overwhelmed by all the activity. It was the first time she’d visited the set, for during the first week Stephanie had flown out to Bennington alone, leaving her to take care of things back at the Dorset. Now the crew had returned to New York, and they had all left Manhattan at six that morning to drive to the Hastings’ home in Westchester, where they would begin shooting around nine.
Franz and Belinda were wandering about with their assistants, as the artistes weren’t called for costume and make-up until midday. In fact Franz and Belinda wouldn’t have been there themselves if it hadn’t been the day of the much-talked-about-crane shot. They strolled over to join Marian who, never having seen a chipmunk before, was gazing round-eyed as two of them scampered through the trees. Franz gave her a critical up-and-down, then, leaning on her shoulder, turned to watch the cranes as they moved slowly into place.
‘Vill you just look at that Hazel,’ he hissed, a minute or two later. ‘Vhy she doesn’t just put her tits in Bob Fairley’s hands I’ll never know. I svear she’s doing it on purpose to annoy you, Belinda, dolling. After all, everyvun’s noticed how your tongue starts hanging out vhen he’s around.’
Belinda threw him a sour look and Marian giggled. She dreaded being at the receiving end of Franz’s vicious tongue herself, but in this instance, he was hardly exaggerating – Hazel was rubbing herself against the lighting cameraman as if they were actually engaged in the sexual act.
‘Ah, there’s Rory,’ Franz sighed, as the blond camera operator, wearing only shorts and a vest, carried one of the 35mm cameras across the forecourt and into the house. ‘Dolling, my cock’s gone hard just looking at him,’ he drooled. ‘He had Christina Hancock, our star, vhen ve vere in Bennington, but don’t tell anyvun. Oh God, save me, here comes Beat-me-up Beanie.’
‘Shut up, Franz, she’ll hear you,’ Belinda snapped.
Marian watched the continuity girl as she parked her picnic chair behind the camera van and took out her script. Ben, the focus puller, carrying a lens case in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, fell straight over her as he rounded the vehicle, and Franz and Belinda hooted with laughter as Beanie’s script scattered across the gravel. A couple of riggers ran over to rescue the lens case, leaving Ben to mop the tea from his face while Beanie swore at him. Marian turned to Franz.
‘Why Beat-me-up Beanie?’
‘Because, dolling, she’s had every bastard in the Vestern hemisphere. Cries herself to sleep over vun of them every night. It’s how she gets her kicks. She’s in love vith Rory now, but then who isn’t?’ His pale blue eyes rolled in their sockets as Rory emerged from the house with the operator of the second camera. Bob Fairley called out to them and then Matthew joined in, waving his hands in the air as they all looked up to the sky.
As Marian watched Matthew, she tried to fight back the misery that welled into her throat. Since the night he’d come to tell her about Paul and Madeleine, she had hardly seen him, because he’d flown to Vermont with the rest of the crew on the morning they arrived. But during the few minutes she had spent in his company before he went, and again after his return, she had sensed a change in him. He seemed distant, somehow, as if he were uncomfortable in her presence; but then Stephanie had remarked on how aloof he was, too, and added that he was always like that once filming was under way. Like most directors, she told Marian, he became so engrossed in what he was doing that he ate, slept, lived and breathed it – which had a lot to do with his apparent lack of concern about his and Stephanie’s separate rooms. Hearing that had gone some way to cheering Marian, but as she watched him now she was aware of the ache inside that longed for him just to glance in her direction.
‘So when we do the helicopter shots tomorrow,’ Matthew was saying to Rory, ‘I want you to come in as fast and as close as you can to each window of the house, then just as it looks as though you’re going inside, veer off and up. It’s got to look as though you’re trying to find a way in. The final helicopter run should take you over the top of the house, so that we can get a good aerial view of all four wings with the courtyard in the middle, then crash-zoom down to the fountain. Got that?’
Rory nodded.
‘Right, we’ll go over it again in more detail tomorrow, but that’s how the sequence begins. Now for today’s stuff. The second camera and crew need to be on the crane inside the courtyard, starting on the fountain then swinging up, very slowly. As soon as it’s clear of the house, I want them to hold rock-steady on the sky, and then you, Rory, pick up with your camera, pull back across the roof, get in as much of the
parklands and river as you can, then bring it down to the second-storey windows, pan round the house to the front and track in to the bedroom window. Simple as that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s got to look like one shot, so we have to hope that there’s never a cloud in the sky. The sun’s perfect. As soon as the cranes are ready I’ll come up with you and show you exactly what I mean. Woody!’
Woody came rushing round from the back of the house. ‘Yes, guvnor?’
‘How are we doing round there?’
‘Trouble getting the crane in at the moment. The one at the side of the house is in position if you want to go up and have a look.’
As the crane soared over the north wing of the house, Stephanie and Grace Hastings came out of the front door. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I can assure you we’ve no intention of shooting here any longer than three days,’ Stephanie was saying. ‘We’re on schedule at the moment, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the way it’s going to stay. But I confess this damned shot makes me nervous. I wish I hadn’t made so much fuss over it now, something’s bound to go wrong.’
Grace was smiling. ‘I never had you down for the superstitious type, Stephanie. Anyhow, you stay as long as you like. If Frank can handle the disruption, so can I.’
‘Well, come what may, we have to be at the art gallery on Friday. Ah, there are the sound boys. I want to talk to them about the nightclub, if you’ll excuse me.’
As Stephanie ran across the forecourt to where the sound equipment was being loaded onto a trolley, Franz whispered in Marian’s ear. ‘Every man on the set’s get the hots for that vun. But rumour has it our director is the vun getting the how’s-yer-father there.’
Marian’s face was stony. ‘Really?’ she said, and stalked off towards the house. She bumped into Woody as he came hurtling round the corner, and asked if she could do anything to help.
‘Yes, just keep out of the way, darling,’ he said, and lifted his walkie-talkie to speak to Matthew who was still up in the crane.
Turning round, Marian saw Grace laughing, and started to laugh herself ‘I think we’re all in the way,’ Grace said, as Marian joined her. She held out a slim hand. ‘I’m Grace Hastings.’
‘Marian Deacon,’ Marian said.
‘Yes, I know, Matthew pointed you out to me earlier.’
Marian’s cheeks turned pink and for a moment she wondered if Grace was going to say anything about Olivia and Art Douglas.
‘I believe Matthew and Frank are relying on you to come up with a sound end to the movie.’ Grace said.
‘I hope they’re not relying on me,’ Marian answered. ‘Bronwen and Deborah are working on it now, but like everyone else I’m doing my best.’
‘Sure you are.’ Grace covered her ears as behind her an electrician bellowed for more cable, then she moved swiftly behind a pillar to avoid two props men carrying ladders. ‘How’s about I introduce you to Frank?’ she said. ‘He’s been just dying to meet you.’ As she turned, she happened to glance up at the front of the house. ‘I see. Looks like he’s kinda busy right now.’
Frank was hanging from an upstairs window, chopping away at the wisteria that covered it. At that instant Woody came round the corner, and seeing what Frank was up to, yelled: ‘Scenes! Props!’
Grace’s voice was simmering with amusement. ‘Reckon he’s kinda in trouble too, what do you say?’
Marian burst out laughing. She’d heard about Grace’s warmth from Stephanie, and despite feeling anxious about the bother she’d caused, she had nevertheless been looking forward to meeting her. She didn’t look at all as Marian had imagined: her limited experience of wealthy American women had taught her to expect loud, sequinned clothes, heavily jewelled fingers and inch-thick make-up, but Grace, from her immaculately groomed, though greying hair to the tips of her Ferragamo shoes, was every inch a lady. The pale skin of her face was as smooth as her voice, and in the faint lines around her eyes Marian read kindness and humour as well as the deep sadness she had expected.
Franz and Belinda were watching Marian and Grace as Hazel wandered up, sipping black coffee from a polystyrene cup.
‘I see you’ve let Bob Fairley up for air,’ Belinda remarked through gritted teeth.
Hazel smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sure Franz can lend you a file for those claws, Belinda darling. And if you speak to me like that again I shall be forced to remind you of my position.’
‘The contortions of your sex life hold no interest for me, darling.’
Franz was almost popping with delight. ‘You girls are so catty over your bouncey-bouncey.’
‘Nothing compared to you boys,’ Hazel said. ‘So come on, Franz, tell us who’s getting the benefit of your charms these days.’
‘Anyvun who vants them, darling.’
‘He’s after Rory,’ Belinda informed her.
Hazel laughed. ‘Who isn’t? But of course you’ve had him, haven’t you, Belinda? Tell me, what’s he like?’
‘Better than Bob Fairley.’ Belinda’s smile was sugary.
‘Touché.’
‘Try him,’ Belinda continued. ‘They say he’ll fuck anything that moves.’
‘I wonder at your success then, my sweet.’
As the crane swooped down from the sky like a great black bird, they all looked at Matthew. Belinda’s and Hazel’s eyes met and Hazel shook her head. ‘Strictly off-limits.’
‘Tell that to young Marian,’ Franz tittered. ‘The girl practically vets her knickers every time she sees the man.’
Hazel looked shocked. ‘Marian! Franz, my precious, Marian might have a crush, but if it came right down to it she wouldn’t know what a man was if he unzipped his fly and waved it at her. She’s a virgin.’
‘A vhat!’
‘I thought they went out with the dodo,’ Belinda said. She shuddered. ‘Ugh! I don’t know that I can bear one around me. Especially not one of her age. It’s not normal.’
‘It certainly isn’t,’ Hazel agreed. ‘And she’s so much more attractive these days. Still, with so many gorgeous men around . . .’ Again her eyes met Belinda’s.
‘Are you two thinking vhat I think you’re thinking?’ Franz trilled.
‘I rather think we are,’ Hazel answered, a smile slowly curving her lips.
Grace put her hand on Marian’s shoulder as the clapper loader rushed past them. ‘It’s like Grand Central Station here,’ she remarked. ‘Shall we go inside? Maybe you’d like to see around the house?’
‘I’d love to,’ Marian said, ducking as an electrician swung a lamp dangerously close to her head.
Marian had always loved looking round old houses, ever since her father used to take her and Madeleine to visit the stately homes of Devon, but even they paled by comparison with the grandeur of Paulynghurst. The entrance hall was octagonal, with white marble pillars standing two feet out from the eight corners, and a beautifully carved bust on a pedestal stood against each alternate wall. In the centre was a vast black marble table, and the floor was chequered with black and white marble tiles. It was breathtaking in its simplicity, but only an introduction to the splendours that Marian was to see next.
She had little knowledge of antiques, but Grace pointed things out as they went: the Dutch bombé chest that had been passed down through her family, and the porcelain mounted cabinet – a wedding gift from the Vanderbilts. Glorious Adam fireplaces were Summer homes for brass and cast-iron baskets filled with logs and vases of exotic dried flowers. The furniture was a mixture of French and English eclecticism, most of which, Grace told her, had been collected by her and Frank when they travelled in Europe. But the paintings in the drawing-rooms, study and dining-hall were all works of twentieth-century American artists.
By the time they reached the end of the second floor of the west wing, Marian had no idea of the time or what was going on outside, and didn’t much care. She was completely smitten with Grace, and could have spent an entire week looking round her house if it meant being in her company.
At the top
of a narrow staircase Grace opened a door and stood back for Marian to go ahead. ‘The Long Gallery,’ she announced, and as she turned a switch, the room was slowly suffused with a subtle yellow glow. ‘Most of the paintings on the west wall,’ she said, ‘are old masters. I’ll take you through them if you like.’ But Marian had spotted the portraits on the opposite wall and asked if they were ancestors.
Grace smiled. ‘Some. Some are still alive. You see there, in the middle, is Frank. Next to him, his father.’ Marian followed her down the room. ‘Here am I on my eighteenth birthday. And the old rogue next to me is my father.’
Marian’s eyes flitted across the next few portraits. ‘No, no mothers,’ Grace chuckled. ‘They are both still alive and both still opposed to our marriage, even after all these years.’
‘Why?’
‘Frank is Jewish. My family are Irish Roman Catholics. It probably sounds archaic to your young ears, but that sort of thing still exists, believe me. Frank’s father is dead, but he was our ally until the last. His wife doesn’t know, but he had a Catholic love of his own once, but never stood up to his father.’ Her eyes suddenly had a far-away look. ‘Olivia used to love hearing about the family,’ she sighed. ‘She always said it was more romantic than a book. That’s her, over there. She was twenty when she sat for it.’
Marian moved slowly towards the painting on the far wall. It was larger than the others, but framed in the same elaborately carved wood. The small, delicate face had Grace’s pointed chin, her wide mouth and slanting eyes. As she gazed up at the portrait, Marian was aware of a strange sensation creeping over her. For the first time she was seeing Olivia as the person she had been before her life was so tragically corrupted. She was seeing her as someone who had loved and been happy, someone who had really lived – and perhaps still did. It came as such a shock to Marian that she couldn’t speak. She was appalled to think that until now she had perceived Olivia as little more than a project, a make-believe character they were making a film about, when all the time she was as real to Grace as she, Marian, was to her own mother.
