Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Eyebrows raised, he looked down into her face, and her heart skipped a beat as she saw that lazy smile come into his eyes. ‘Are you objecting to my services?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘But nothing. We are making tea, Marian, there is nothing to feel guilty about.’

  He was standing so close and was looking at her so intently that her eyes moved involuntarily to his mouth, and she felt the colour burn in her cheeks as she turned away. ‘Isn’t there?’ she mumbled.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that I think you should go and see what she wants.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’ And chucking her under the chin, he went off upstairs.

  Sighing, Marian fell back against the wall. She just didn’t know what to think any more. She didn’t know what he was feeling, whether there was hope, or whether she was just imagining everything. One touch, one glance, one smile, and it was as if her whole body came suddenly to life. To make matters worse, she knew that as soon as she’d left for Sardinia Stephanie had moved back into her flat – though whether it was a gesture intended to let Marian know she wouldn’t be welcome back, or whether she had walked out on Matthew, Marian didn’t know. All she did know was that her premonition had proved right: New York had been the turning point for her and Matthew; yet she had no idea in which direction they were now travelling.

  It was strange how she’d found the courage to deal with so much these past few months, but now, faced with asking Matthew what he really felt about her, she was as timorous as she’d ever been.

  What the hell’s the matter with me? she sighed to herself as she switched off the kettle and started spooning tea into the pot. Why can’t I just come right out and ask him? She pulled a face; she knew only too well why she couldn’t – she was afraid of the answer, afraid that what had passed between them that night in New York had meant nothing to him. Yet she had only to think about the way he had behaved to her since to know that that couldn’t be true.

  She threw up her hands in frustration. She was simply going round and round in circles.

  Upstairs in Stephanie’s office Bronwen, Matthew and Stephanie were sitting round Stephanie’s desk going over the suggestions Bronwen and Deborah Foreman had come up with for the final sequence of the film. With Bronwen present, neither Matthew nor Stephanie had referred to the incident in the kitchen, though Bronwen was acutely aware of the hostility between them.

  ‘Anyway,’ she was saying, ‘I know these ideas fall a long way short of being brilliant, but I wanted to see if they might inspire some genius in either of you.’

  ‘Mm,’ Matthew said, tapping his fingers on the desk and looking down at the scenes with an ambiguous expression. ‘They’re not as bad as you think, Bron, but –’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out several sheets of handwritten notes; then, avoiding Stephanie’s eye, he went on, ‘In my opinion, with some careful scripting, this will work. But I do stress careful scripting; it comes pretty close to being libellous.’

  ‘In that case there’s no point in us looking at it, is there?’ Stephanie said.

  He looked across the desk at her sour face, and as their eyes met Bronwen almost winced at the enmity that sparked between them. ‘I think you should,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘I mean, why should we look? Because the idea is good, or because the idea is Marian’s?’

  Bronwen started to get to her feet. ‘Look, I think we’d better resume . . .’

  ‘Sit down, Bron,’ Stephanie said, and sighing heavily, Bronwen sank back in her chair. ‘Well?’ Stephanie said, glaring at Matthew.

  ‘Does it matter whose the idea is as long as it’s good?’ he asked.

  ‘In this case, yes.’

  ‘And you call yourself a producer.’

  For one moment Bronwen thought Stephanie was going to hit him, but instead she folded her hands on the desk in front of her and said, ‘As a matter of fact, I do. And what, besides a director, do you call yourself?’

  ‘I’m not staying for any more of this,’ Bronwen said. ‘If you two have got something to say to one another, then say it, only wait until I’ve gone. But just for the record, I think you’re both behaving extremely unprofessionally. We haven’t got an end sequence worked out yet, and that’s what this meeting should be about, not . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Bronwen,’ Stephanie said, ‘it’s my fault, and you’re right, we have to get this sorted out.’ She turned back to Matthew. ‘So what has Marian come up with?’

  ‘You can read it for yourself,’ he said, pushing the notes across the desk.

  She picked them up, and after barely more than a cursory glance said, ‘A solitary car driving down the autostrada in Tuscany? Is that it?’

  ‘Why don’t you finish reading it?’

  ‘“The car,”’ she read aloud, ‘“belongs to the American student. He drives Olivia down an empty autostrada at dusk, stops halfway up the hill to Paesetto di Pittore, and Olivia gets out. In the background we can just make out the village through the mist. Olivia starts to walk up the hill – camera on high shot – and as she approaches the village the credits start to roll.” ’ She looked at Matthew. ‘I’m supposed to be impressed?’

  Biting back what he would really like to say, Matthew fixed her with an obdurate glare and remained silent.

  ‘Why is it libellous?’ she asked uninterestedly.

  ‘That part of it isn’t. It’s the montage of shots that comes before, which you haven’t bothered to read. It involves close-ups of the characters we most strongly suspect.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Stephanie stated. ‘We can’t do that, I wouldn’t allow it and neither would the lawyers.’

  ‘They might if we found a way round it.’

  ‘There isn’t a way round it. Libel is libel.’

  ‘And you’re not even going to try, are you?’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Bronwen said. ‘It’s the best ending there is, because it’s the real one, and so far not one of us has had the guts to admit that we’re frightened to death of doing something like this because of what Frank Hastings might say. What else have we got to end with? A whole bunch of half-baked theories that wouldn’t lend themselves to a soap opera, let alone a feature film. Thank God someone’s come to their senses at last and had the courage to do this, even if it is libellous. And I think that if we temper the approach, and combine some of Marian’s notes with what Deborah and I have come up with, we’re there. The only other solution is for us to find out what really did happen, and that’s not very likely, is it?’

  ‘She’s right, and you know it,’ Matthew said, looking at Stephanie who was staring down at her hands. He hated himself for doing this to her, and he wished it wasn’t Marian who had written the sequence; he knew Stephanie couldn’t take much more. But what the hell more could he do to reassure her? He’d told her he loved her, he’d asked her to marry him, he’d all but pleaded with her not to move her things back to her own flat, but none of it seemed to convince her that his feelings towards her hadn’t changed. And they hadn’t, he was certain of it. But what he couldn’t get to the bottom of were his feelings for Marian. After that night in New York things had changed between them, he couldn’t deny it; but how could he talk about that to Stephanie when he didn’t even understand it himself?

  At last Stephanie lifted her head, and looking from one to the other of them, said, ‘OK, moderate it, check it with Frank Hastings, and if he approves, so will I.’

  Matthew refrained from breathing a sigh of relief, then bracing himself for her reaction to what he was about to say, he looked straight into Stephanie’s eyes. ‘It won’t be easy to persuade Frank, of course, but I think Marian should be the one to do it.’

  ‘Why?’ Stephanie demanded angrily, the strain she was under beginning to show.

  ‘I can’t explain why, I just think she should.’

&nbs
p; ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ she spat. ‘Bronwen is the co-producer and editor of this screenplay, not Marian, or are you planning some sort of take-over?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Then Bronwen will talk to Frank.’ And she snatched up the phone as it rang.

  Matthew turned to Bronwen. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  ‘If I told you what’s really going through my mind, Matthew, I don’t think you’d like it much. Anyway, I have to be going.’

  ‘It’s for you,’ Stephanie said, thrusting the receiver at Matthew. ‘Come along, Bron, I’ll walk you downstairs.’

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’ Bronwen asked as she and Stephanie walked out into the street.

  Stephanie shrugged. ‘Sounded like his son. Bron, I’m sorry about all that just now, it must have embarrassed the hell out of you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Bronwen answered, placing a comforting hand on Stephanie’s arm. ‘Just sort things out with him.’

  ‘When I get the time.’

  ‘Make it, or you’re going to drive yourself insane. I’ll never know why you moved yourself back to your own flat.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. We weren’t having sex any longer, that’s why. Now, doesn’t that tell you something?’

  ‘Me, no. But obviously it does you. Look, Steph,’ she said, giving her a quick hug, ‘I’m sorry but I have to run, I’ve promised to have tea with my aging aunt at five o’clock. I’ll come over to the flat later, if you like, and we can discuss this idea of Matthew’s that Marian should speak to Frank.’

  ‘But in principle what do you think of it?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘I think he might be right. Don’t ask me why, but I get the feeling she’s got some influence – if that’s the right word – with Frank, or if not with him then with Grace. Anyway, we’ll talk about it later. In the meantime, keep your chin up, cariad.’

  ‘I will,’ Stephanie smiled, and as Bronwen ran off down the street she wandered back inside.

  She was about to go upstairs to her office when her eye was caught by the brown paper parcel propped against Marian’s desk, and turning back, she put her head in through the door. ‘You got it, then? The painting?’

  Marian looked up. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her discomfort more than evident.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Getting to her feet, Marian walked round her desk, glancing nervously towards Hazel and Josey – but they were both studiously engrossed in their own business.

  ‘Did you actually bid yourself?’ Stephanie asked, as Marian started to unwrap the parcel. ‘I’ve never been to an auction myself. I keep saying I will but I never get round to it. Was it fun?’

  ‘It was OK,’ Marian answered, pulling the painting from the protective padding and handing it to Stephanie. ‘Here it is. It might not be quite your taste, but Mum always loved flowers so I thought . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful, Marian,’ Stephanie cried. ‘Have you seen it, Hazel?’

  Hazel looked up. ‘Yes, isn’t it divine?’ she said, then turned back to what she was doing.

  At that moment the phone rang, and as Marian leaned across the desk to answer it, she noticed Hazel glance up again and saw the strange, almost malicious smile that came over her face as she caught Stephanie’s eye.

  ‘Hello, Ryder and Evans,’ Marian said into the receiver, but she was barely listening to the voice at the other end because she was watching Stephanie and Hazel, certain that they were going to do something to damage the painting. Then she realised that it was Madeleine speaking to her, pleading with her to go home, and because of the panic in Madeleine’s voice Marian turned her back on the room and whispered down the line, ‘It’s all right, I’ll be there in half an hour.’ And before Madeleine could say anything else, she rang off.

  When she turned back, Stephanie was still admiring the painting and telling Hazel what wonderful taste Marian had. There was no sarcasm in her tone, but the remark hung so heavily in the air that Marian wanted to snatch the painting away and tell her to mind her own business. Then Stephanie asked who was going to hang it for her.

  ‘I’m sure Maddy and I can manage between us,’ Marian answered shakily. Inside her there was a fomenting rage which she knew came from guilt, making her want to yell at Stephanie, strike her, even – anything to make Stephanie lash out with the hatred she must be feeling. They all knew that she, Marian, was to blame for the way things were between Stephanie and Matthew, yet no one, not even Matthew, would talk about it.

  ‘Would it be all right if I left now?’ she said, taking the painting from Stephanie. ‘I’ll come in early tomorrow to make up for it, but I . . . something’s come up at home.’

  ‘Of course it would be all right,’ Stephanie said, starting to help her with the wrapping. ‘Nothing’s wrong, I hope?’

  ‘No, no,’ Marian answered. ‘It’s . . . Ever since Madeleine found out that my mother was dead, she’s been in a pretty bad way, and now Paul’s just rung her and she’s agreed to see him.’

  Stephanie picked up the phone. ‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ she said. ‘You don’t want that painting getting crushed on the tube, do you?’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ Marian insisted. ‘I’ll hail one.’ And taking her coat from the stand, she started to leave the office.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Matthew?’ Stephanie enquired.

  Marian tensed. ‘No, he’s still on the phone,’ she said, without turning round. Then, with a muttered good-bye to Josey and Hazel, she left.

  Stephanie’s and Hazel’s eyes met, and without relinquishing the gaze Hazel asked Josey to leave the room.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Hazel said, when they were alone.

  Stephanie’s smile was sardonic. ‘Neither do I, but what else can I do? So he did take her to the auction. I don’t know why I’m surprised, he said he was going to. The day after a night shoot, as well. What won’t he do for her, I ask myself?’

  Hazel turned quickly as Matthew walked in. ‘Off now,’ he said. ‘Shall I see you later?’

  Stephanie looked up. ‘No, sorry. I’ve got a lot to finish off here, then I promised to call in on the accountants.’

  Matthew turned to Hazel. ‘Stood up again,’ he joked, but his anger was obvious. ‘See you in the morning, Haze. Seven o’clock call?’

  Hazel nodded, and watched him walk out into the street. ‘Why did you do that?’ she said, turning back to Stephanie.

  Stephanie shook her head. ‘What’s the point in seeing him? He won’t give me any answers, he can’t even meet my eyes when I ask him a question.’

  ‘But you can’t keep running away from him.’

  ‘I can and I will, until he’s sorted himself out and made up his mind what he wants.’ She paused. ‘Do you think Marian’s trying to find out where she stands, too? Maybe she already knows.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, darling, she doesn’t even come into the picture.’

  ‘Are you blind, Hazel?’

  ‘No, and nor am I so riddled with jealousy that I can’t see what’s staring me in the face. You’re driving him away, behaving like this, Stephanie. Instead of talking to him about it and trying to sort it out, you’re just making matters worse by pushing him straight into Marian’s arms.’

  ‘He doesn’t need pushing, Hazel,’ Stephanie snapped, and before Hazel could answer, she walked out of the office.

  – 26 –

  When the knock on the door came, Madeleine dropped the glass she was holding and her hands flew to her face. ‘It’s him!’ she cried, and leaping to her feet, she ran to the middle of the room.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Marian said, stooping to pick up the glass which fortunately hadn’t broken, ‘just keep calm and remember you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘But what am I going to say?’

  ‘I should have thought it was more a question of what he was going to say,’ Marian answ
ered, and taking Madeleine’s hands between hers, she added, ‘Are you sure you want me to let him in?’

  Madeleine’s eyes were wide with a confusion that bordered on hysteria. She wore no make-up, her lips were pale and her skin taut and colourless. For days they had discussed what she should do if Paul called, and Marian had thought they’d agreed that she wouldn’t see him for at least a month. She needed some time to think, and to re-settle after all that had happened. But Marian realised now that she should have known better; just the hours Madeleine had spent poring over the photographs and cuttings of herself and Paul should have told her that Madeleine was pining for him.

  ‘Well?’ Marian prompted.

  Madeleine nodded her head. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll have to see him now, I said I would.’

  ‘OK. Now, you wait here and I’ll go and let him in. Do you want me to stay in the room with you while you talk?’

  Madeleine’s agitation was so great that Marian smiled and gave her a quick hug. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll sort something out.’ And letting Madeleine go, she walked out to the front door.

  She had wondered, over the past hour, how she would feel when she saw Paul again, remembering all he had once meant to her, how deeply she had felt his betrayal; but so much had happened to her since that she felt as if it was a stranger who had loved him then, not her at all. However, she knew that when she opened the door she would be sure to feel something; a final pang, maybe; regret; pleasure, even. Contempt never entered her head.

  He smiled at her, and she remembered only too well the effect that smile used to have on her, but, God, it felt like such a long time ago – another world. Now here she was, standing on the threshold of a luxurious house in one of London’s smartest districts, a house Paul had bought from Madeleine because he was, and always had been, a wealthy man. Suddenly the smile offended her and she didn’t bother to return it.

  ‘Hello, Marian,’ he said, raising an eyebrow at her disdain. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she answered, standing back for him to come in.