Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Feeling Grace move beside her, she murmured. ‘She’s so beautiful.’

  Grace nodded. ‘It was done before . . . Before the drugs.’

  Suddenly the weight of this woman’s loss seemed to move into Marian’s heart. ‘Grace,’ she whispered, ‘I know we’re making the film to try and get someone to come forward, but what if . . . What will you do if . . .’ She couldn’t say it, but Grace had read her mind.

  ‘That’s something Frank and I discussed a great deal before we decided to go ahead with the movie. But you see, Marian, she’s our only child. Probably we loved her too much, but to have lost her this way . . . We have to know, even if, at the end of it all we find that she’s dead. It’ll be better than living with this kind of torture.’

  Marian turned back to the portrait. So little was actually known about the disappearance. Police and private detectives had searched and hypothesised for five years, but still nothing had come to light. Yet somebody must know something – someone like Rubin Meyer or Sergio Rambaldi. Marian felt herself turn cold. If they were guilty, what had they done with her? Where were they hiding her? Maybe the screams she’d heard in Paesetto di Pittore had been Olivia after all . . . She turned to Grace, wondering if she should tell her about it; but no, it would only add to her pain. Besides, Pittore had been subjected to countless searches and no one had ever found anything.

  ‘I know that you know what she’s done,’ Grace spoke quietly, ‘and I know that there is no excuse. All I can say is that for the last two years before she . . . vanished, she wasn’t like my daughter any more. She wasn’t like the child who had grown up here, who had lots of friends and boyfriends, who had a normal, happy life. She wasn’t like the girl you’re looking at now. That’s the girl I want to find, Marian, the girl I loved. But it frightens me, and I know it frightens Frank, that if we do find her she will still be the monster that the drugs and those people made her into. But even if she is, I still want to find her. I want to persuade her to make good the wrong she has done, even if it means she has to do it from jail.’

  Instinctively Marian reached out for Grace’s hand. ‘I’m sure you will find her,’ she said.

  Grace smiled and covered Marian’s hand, holding it between her own. ‘Would you like to see her bedroom?’ she asked, but before Marian could answer she shook her head. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. This is all too depressing . . .’

  ‘I’d like to see it, really,’ Marian assured her.

  As they walked back through the west wing and out onto the first-floor veranda, they heard the clapper-loader yell: ‘Shot 73 Take 5!’ They looked over the railings, and in the courtyard below a camera emerged from behind the fountain and started to glide slowly upwards.

  ‘Cut!’ Woody popped up from behind a bush. ‘For Christ’s sake, Marian what the hell do you think you’re doing. Clear shot!’

  Grace and Marian exchanged sheepish looks, then vanished through the nearest door. ‘I think we’ll go round the other way,’ Grace said, and giggling, they crept back through the house.

  Olivia’s bedroom was at the end of a long corridor in the south-east corner of the house. As Grace opened the door Marian felt as though she were stepping inside a fairy tale. The curtains, the drapes round the bed, the furniture, the carpet, even the walls were white. There was lace, silk, satin and damask. The only colour came from the abstract paintings which she quickly realised had been done by Olivia herself. Grace smiled as she saw the expression on Marian’s face, then walked across the room to close a wardrobe door that had fallen open. Marian was immediately aware of the clothes that hung behind the door, never worn now.

  From the window she looked out over the woods that sloped down to the river. A single cruiser bobbed on the waves, and Marian found herself imagining what it must have been like for Olivia to grow up in a house like this – taking trips on the river with her father, exploring the woods and gardens.

  ‘What’s that over there?’ she asked, as Grace joined her at the window. She was pointing to an ornate cast-iron dome nestling in the trees.

  ‘The gazebo,’ Grace answered. ‘And over there, you see, beside the apple orchard, is the summer house. Olivia and her friends used to play there all the time when they were young. It was anything they wanted it to be, from a witch’s castle to an oriental temple.’ She laughed. ‘Such imagination, children.’

  Marian laughed too, and allowed her eyes to wander over the paintings, searching for the OH! that was to be found somewhere in every one. ‘I can’t imagine what this must be like for you,’ she said, her voice thick with compassion. ‘I wish there was something I could do or say, but . . .’

  Grace smiled, and putting an arm round Marian’s shoulders she drew her over to the dressing-table, where they both sat down on the ottoman. ‘It’s nice of you to care, Marian,’ she said, ‘and I want you to know that Frank and I care about you, too. We will make certain no harm comes to you, so please don’t be afraid of what you know. If you are afraid, ever, please come to us and we will do all we can to help you. Have you noticed the men following you?’

  Marian’s eyes widened. ‘You mean, there is someone following me?’

  ‘Sure, they’re Frank’s people.’

  Marian was amazed, and not a little flattered. ‘What, even in London?’ she said. ‘I kept getting the feeling someone was watching me, but I put it down to a vivid imagination.’

  Grace suddenly frowned. ‘Someone was watching you in London, Marian, but it wasn’t one of Frank’s people. Matthew noticed him a few days before you came to the States, so he told Frank and we’ve had the guy checked out. He’s a private investigator, working for Rubin Meyer. That’s why Frank’s people are following you everywhere you go now.’

  ‘I see,’ Marian said, her throat suddenly constricting with fear. ‘But how does Rubin Meyer know that I know anything? I haven’t even seen him since I was last here with . . . But I’ve seen Sergio Rambaldi. I mentioned Meyer’s name to him.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Sure, Matthew told us. We thought, like you, that you’d probably gotten away with it, but it doesn’t look like it now. So that’s why I say, please don’t be afraid to call us any time of the day or night. But Frank thinks this guy who’s been tailing you is harmless, otherwise something would have happened to you by now. Which means that Rambaldi and Meyer aren’t sure whether you know or not, and the investigator is giving them a progress report on everything you do and everyone you speak to. So you mustn’t try to contact Art Douglas while you’re here, and it would be better to stay away from Jodi, too. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Marian mumbled.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Grace asked, when Marian had remained silent for some time.

  Marian’s eyes moved to hers and slowly her face broke into an incredulous smile. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking,’ she said, ‘I just can’t take it all in. I know I should be afraid, but it’s as if I’m only getting small flashes of fear, and then . . . It’s like a dream, as though it’s happening to someone else who isn’t me, yet I know it is.’

  ‘Probably a touch of shock,’ Grace told her. ‘But when it wears off, I want you just to continue your life as normal. You don’t even have to worry about being with someone all the time, because Frank’s people are watching you, they’ll be with you wherever you go.’

  ‘So you do think Meyer and Rambaldi are behind everything. Matthew said you did.’

  ‘We’re certain of it,’ Grace answered, ‘but we can’t prove a thing. So we have to tread very carefully, because Olivia’s body has never been found. Of course that doesn’t mean that she’s still alive, but it does give us hope.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marian whispered, thinking again of the screams, but she kept her silence and smiled when Grace suggested they go downstairs to find out how the filming was going.

  As they walked back to the door, the wardrobe fell open again, and this time Marian went to close it while Grace wandered out into the hall. She resisted the temptation to take a
peek at the clothes, afraid they would disturb her in the same way the portrait had.

  Downstairs in the hall, one of the runners put his fingers to his lips and held up his hand for them to go no further. Several seconds later Woody was heard yelling, ‘Cut!’ and the runner waved them on.

  Outside, the crane was swinging Rory back across the roof. Everyone was looking up at him, then broke into cheers and spontaneous applause as he raised a thumb.

  ‘It’s in the can!’ Woody shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din. ‘And that’s lunch. Back at two thirty.’

  Arm in arm with Bob Fairley, Stephanie walked round the side of the house, then catching sight of Marian and Grace, she ran over to them, her face covered in smiles. ‘Seventeen takes,’ she cried, ‘but it’s done. The video assist went down at the last minute, but I’d seen enough by then. He’s right, damn him! It’s going to look spectacular, and he’s managed to get it in the can before lunch. Why did I underestimate him when I know he’s a genius?’ Laughing, she hooked her arms through Marian’s and Grace’s and led them off to the stable complex.

  The three of them were sitting in one of the air-conditioned winnebagos, picking suspiciously at their location lunches and talking about the scenes Deborah Foreman had added to the ones Marian had written for Italy, when the door suddenly flew open and Matthew walked in. Without saying a word he grabbed Stephanie by the arm and dragged her outside.

  ‘What are you doing? What’s happening?’ she protested as he proceeded to drag her round to the back of the house, much to the astonishment, and amusement, of those still ambling off the set.

  His answer was to march her down the bank into the woods, and when they reached the clearing in front of the gazebo he stopped and swung her round to face him. His eyes were bright, but he was frowning.

  ‘Matthew?’ she said tentatively, then she shrieked as he suddenly swept her into his arms and spun her round. ‘Matthew,’ she laughed, ‘stop it, someone might see.’

  He carried her into the gazebo and set her down in front of him. Then lifting her face in his hands, he began touching her lips gently with his own. But as the passion between them rose, he pushed her away.

  She watched him as he walked to the edge of the gazebo and leaned against it. He looked back at her, standing against the background of flowers, surrounded by a blaze of colour. ‘I want you,’ he said. His voice was gruff and he closed his eyes as another rush of desire spread through his loins.

  Stephanie moved slowly towards him, then putting her arms around his neck she pushed herself against his erection. He groaned, and taking her roughly in his arms he found her mouth and pushed his tongue deep inside.

  ‘I want you now,’ he growled.

  Her laugh was unsteady. ‘To think I could have forgotten the effect these arty shots of yours can have on you.’

  He gave her a wry grin, but his eyes were still simmering.

  Knowing that she was on the verge of losing control, and knowing too that this was neither the time nor the place, she took his hand and started to lead him back to the woods.

  ‘Steph?’ he said, as they were about to climb the bank. ‘Sleep with me tonight.’

  She turned round, surprised by the sombre note in his voice.

  ‘All this sleeping apart nonsense,’ he said. ‘It’s getting me down. I miss you.’

  She smiled and reached up to stroke the dark hair that curled over his collar. ‘Just you try and keep me away,’ she whispered.

  – 22 –

  Morale was running high. They were ahead of schedule, with the celebrated crane shot already in the can; Bronwen and Deborah Foreman had managed to produce some excellent scenes for Italy to go with Marian’s; and it was looking as if they might come in on, if not under, budget.

  Stephanie was sitting in the production office on the fourteenth floor of the Dorset Hotel. She was alone – at least until breakfast was over. She grimaced at last night’s empty beer cans which summoned up images of the unsubtle seductions that had probably taken place. As far as she knew, Hazel was still getting it together with Bob Fairley, while Rory and Woody were systematically working their way through the entire female population of the unit. Franz was doing the same with the men – though she imagined Franz’s success fell far short of Woody’s and Rory’s. Still, whatever they were up to was no concern of hers; as long as they dragged themselves out of bed on time in the mornings, they could do as they liked in the evenings.

  She jerked herself from her chair and went to open the French windows. The unmistakable New York morning chorus rose to a crescendo and she wandered out onto the terrace, hoping the noise and the heat would drown her restlessness. Michael Douglas’s film, Black Rain, had premièred the night before, and Matthew had escorted Marian. Frank and Grace Hastings had invited them. Stephanie wasn’t sure whether Marian was Grace’s choice or Matthew’s, but it hardly mattered. No, that wasn’t true – it did matter. Marian and Matthew, it was like a recurring nightmare, and although he had asked her to marry him, and despite those few moments in the gazebo the day before, and the fact that she had slept with him last night, she was still unable to rise above her jealousy. She knew only too well how damaging it was to their relationship, but it seemed there was nothing she could do to control it. It seemed so ridiculous to be tortured with jealousy over a girl almost half her age – but she had only to look around her to see how many men wrecked the lives of those who loved them by setting up home with a younger woman. Yet it all seemed so improbable with Marian. She gave a dry laugh. Once it might have been, but not any more. There was no denying he felt something for the girl – the question was, what?

  She looked at her watch. The crew would be leaving in ten minutes and she wanted to speak to Matthew before he went.

  Downstairs in the restaurant, from the table she shared with Hazel and Josey, Marian was keeping an eye on Matthew. He and Bob Fairley were listening intently to Christina Hancock, who was waving her arms about and distorting her beautiful features in a series of frowns and manic laughter. They were obviously discussing Olivia’s character, and Marian knew that no one, but no one, interrupted the director when he was talking to an artiste. But she really wanted to speak to him before he left for location.

  After lunch the day before, she and Stephanie had come back to the Dorset, then Stephanie had gone off to a meeting with Frank’s lawyers, leaving Marian alone in the production office to think over her conversation with Grace. But instead of thinking about that, she had found her mind wandering back to Olivia’s portrait, and gradually ideas for the end of the film had begun to formulate. Then, when Grace rang at five o’clock to invite her to the film première and she discovered she was to spend the evening with Matthew, she had looked upon it as a gift of fate. But a movie, particularly one as loud and violent as Black Rain, was not the ideal background against which to tell him her ideas, so she had hoped they might have a drink together when they got back to the hotel. But as they walked into the lobby, Stephanie was waiting for them, and the look she’d given her had told Marian she would be wise to go straight off to bed.

  Eventually Christina Hancock got up to leave and Marian went over to Matthew and asked if she could have a word.

  ‘Sure, sit down,’ he said, and she was relieved to notice that he didn’t seem quite as withdrawn as he had of late. In fact, his piercing eyes were softened by a tenderness that flooded her cheeks with colour, and smiling, he brushed the back of his fingers over the rosy stain. ‘What is it?’ he smiled.

  She glanced at Bob, and Matthew nodded to the lighting cameraman, a polite dismissal. But she had time only to tell him she’d come up with an idea before Woody interrupted. She tried to look interested as they talked about dead areas and other things she didn’t understand, but as time ticked on she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to tell him anything before he left.

  ‘After rushes tonight,’ he said, as they walked out of the dining-room. Stephanie was walking towards them, and h
e waved out to her. Then turning briefly back to Marian, he said: ‘I’ll come and find you in your room.’ He smiled, and though his eyes had their normal teasing light, he had spoken quietly, making the rendezvous sound almost intimate.

  It was more than she could have hoped for, and the rest of the day, spent mainly at the Dorset, seemed to drag endlessly while she waited for seven o’clock to come round.

  But at seven thirty he still hadn’t come. Trying not to be hurt, Marian wandered upstairs to the conference suite where rushes were screened. The door opened as she approached, and Bob Fairley came out with Stephanie. Seeing Marian in the corridor, Stephanie looked quickly over her shoulder, then closed the door.

  ‘If I were you, I’d make myself scarce,’ she whispered.

  ‘But I was looking for Matthew,’ Marian protested. She had nothing to hide, after all, it was Disappearance she wanted to talk to him about.

  ‘Do as I say,’ Stephanie snapped. ‘If Matthew sees you . . .’ She broke off as the door opened and Matthew came out.

  Marian brightened, but the words dried in her throat as she caught the expression on his face.

  ‘Get her out of my sight,’ he spat at Stephanie – and when no one moved, he yelled it.

  Quickly Stephanie took Marian’s arm and whisked her back down the corridor. Marian was shaking. ‘What is it? What have I done?’ Stephanie’s fingers were digging painfully into the bare flesh of her arm and she tried to break free.

  ‘You’ve fucked up the shot, that’s what you’ve done,’ Stephanie hissed.

  ‘Me?’ Marian’s bewilderment was, for a second, greater than her shock. ‘What shot?’

  The lift doors opened and Stephanie pushed her inside. ‘Is there any other shot?’ she said. ‘The crane shot – you’re in it. At the very end, as the camera tracks into the bedroom window, you’re reflected in the mirror, fiddling about with some cupboard. What the hell were you doing there?’