Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Matthew nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Woody.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Bronwen went on, ‘I can tell you, there’s been plenty of activity going on over at Paesetto di Pittore these past few days and there was me thinking it was a ghost town. Cars up and down the mountain at all hours of the day and night – always travelling in convoy. There’s only the one road, unless you walk from here round the mountain, and I never got close enough to the village when it was hosting its visitors to see which house they went into. Conveniently, trees would come down to block the road, or locals would wander along the path and engage me in conversation. Such a knowledge of Tuscan wildlife I have now, I could write a book on it.’

  ‘Have you seen Rambaldi at all?’ Matthew asked, reluctantly raising his voice to make himself heard over the banter going on around them.

  Bronwen shook her head. ‘I was supposed to on Saturday, but he stood me up. I’ve been ringing his apartment in Florence ever since, but he’s not there; either that, or he’s not answering the phone. I’ve called the Accademia, but they say he doesn’t have any lectures until next month, so I haven’t got the foggiest idea where he is.’

  ‘So you didn’t manage to get what you came for then, eh, Bron?’ he grinned.

  ‘Very funny,’ she said, throwing him a droll look. ‘Actually, I was hoping he might be able to tell me what all the fuss was over in Pittore, but then he says he doesn’t really know the village, so . . .’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe him,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘I don’t, but it wouldn’t have stopped me asking. I wonder if he does know anything about what happened to Olivia?’ she mused.

  ‘If I were you, I’d be careful who you ask that question of,’ Matthew told her, ‘especially now we’re in Italy.’

  ‘Really?’ Bronwen said, suddenly interested. ‘Do you know something we don’t, then, Matthew?’

  Avoiding Stephanie’s eyes, he shook his head. ‘No. But you have to remember that whatever did happen to Olivia very likely happened somewhere round here, and if Rambaldi was lying about not knowing Pittore, well . . . Just don’t ask the question too loudly.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Bronwen said, rubbing her hands gleefully, ‘it’s like being in a spy movie, isn’t it, Steph?’

  ‘Mm,’ Stephanie answered, with a dubious look. ‘Anyway, what do you say we take a look at the final sequence once more before we give it to the actors?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Bronwen answered. ‘I’ve already made a couple of changes, but they’re written in my awful handwriting, I’m afraid. Did Marian bring her typewriter?’

  ‘Marian’s brought everything,’ Stephanie said, in a tight, sarcastic voice, and she raised her eyes to meet the look Matthew shot at her. But after a second or two of hostility, they both smiled.

  ‘Right, I’ll ask her to type them tonight,’ Bronwen said. ‘What time do we start shooting in the morning?’

  ‘Six o’clock,’ Stephanie grimaced. ‘Michelangelo here wants a sunrise.’

  Matthew gave her an ironic grin and turned back to Bronwen. ‘Why don’t you give us a . . . Bronwen, are you listening?’

  ‘Heavens above,’ she muttered, looking towards the door. ‘Isn’t that . . .? Yes, it is. I see what you mean, Steph, Marian has brought everything, or at least, everybody.’

  Matthew got to his feet and walked across the bar to greet the latest arrivals and Bronwen turned to Stephanie, who was hunched over the fire, warming her hands. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked in a heavy whisper.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Matthew,’ Stephanie answered. ‘It’s all beyond me, and I’ve given up fighting. Just as long as the film gets made and the cousin doesn’t decide to flash her tits somewhere in the back of shot, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘But you didn’t say they could come, did you?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I didn’t say they couldn’t, either. She was very clever, Bron, she got Matthew to ask.’

  ‘Well I never.’ Bronwen stole another look across the bar. ‘Are you and Marian speaking now?’ she asked.

  ‘Just about. You know, much as I hate her, I can’t help but admire her for the way she had the guts to come and talk to me that day. If I’d been in her position I think I’d have gone out of my way to avoid me.’

  ‘So would I,’ Bronwen said seriously. ‘Has Matthew said any more about her?’

  Stephanie shook her head. ‘But things seem a bit better between him and me. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, but for the moment we’ve sort of called a truce.’

  ‘It might be a wise thing to call one with Marian, too, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking that myself.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You’re quite fond of her really, aren’t you, Bron?’

  ‘I am,’ Bronwen admitted. ‘And so were you before all this happened. I know she’s changed, Steph, but she’s not the devious little madam you’ve got her down for, you know. If anything I’ll bet all this is tearing her apart just as much as it is you. She didn’t mean any of it to happen, I’m sure of it. Well, why would she?’

  ‘The devil’s advocate,’ Stephanie said, with a dry laugh.

  ‘Not really. All I’m trying to say is that if we could choose who we fell in love with, the world would be a much easier place to live in.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it just?’

  There was a loud shriek from the other end of the bar and Stephanie winced. ‘I’ll try with Marian, Bron,’ she said, through gritted teeth, ‘but I’m not so sure about the cousin. Does she have to scream like that?’

  ‘That man is beautiful, isn’t he?’ Bronwen said, looking in the direction of the bar.

  ‘If you’re talking about Matthew, the answer’s sometimes.’

  Bronwen laughed. ‘I was talking about Paul O’Connell, actually. But seeing them standing there, Matthew so dark and Paul so blond, it’s like . . . well, it’s like . . .’

  ‘Torture,’ Stephanie supplied. ‘Or Happy Families. Madeleine and Paul, Marian and Matthew. Don’t they look cosy? I can just see them now; all the shared holidays, the weekend visits, Christmases, birthdays, picnics . . . Sorry, Bron, I think I’m going to have to leave before I make a fool of myself.’

  ‘It’s all right, cariad,’ Bronwen answered. ‘I’ll come with you . . .’

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Madeleine hissed in Marian’s ear, ‘but she’s leaving.’

  Despite the glow Marian felt inside, her heart sank. ‘Don’t gloat, Maddy, she’s probably feeling really awful.’

  ‘Why should you worry? He’s over here with you, isn’t he?’

  ‘I know, but things aren’t as simple as that.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Matthew interrupted, almost shouting to make himself heard above the noise.

  ‘You, as a matter fact,’ Marian smiled.

  ‘Now, why don’t I believe you?’ he said, looking down at her in a way that seemed to close them off from everyone else.

  ‘We were, honestly,’ Madeleine piped up, then flinched as Marian trod on her toe.

  Matthew could hardly restrain his grin as he reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Marian’s and turned back to Paul.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Paul said, as he attempted again to pay for his and Madeleine’s drinks, ‘if you would let me have a schedule of your filming.’

  ‘Sure,’ Matthew answered. ‘I’ll get Woody or one of his assistants to drop one into your cottage.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s just that I want to find myself a couple of isolated spots to write in and I don’t want to run the risk of finding myself in shot. Don’t think I’d be too popular if I did that, would I?’

  ‘Not really,’ Matthew laughed, pressing himself against the bar to let someone pass. ‘What are you writing about, may I ask?’

  ‘I’m trying to imagine what it feels like to be on trial for murder. I’m not too keen on doing things this way, I like to experience everything I write, but I’ve invit
ed several people to become my murder victim and they’ve all turned me down.’

  ‘Not very sporting of them,’ Matthew commented.

  ‘Just what I thought,’ Paul laughed. “Don’t suppose you’d care to volunteer, would you?’

  Matthew shot a glance at Marian, then turning aside so she couldn’t hear, he said, ‘If things carry on as they are, I might just do that.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’ Paul said, laughing.

  ‘Don’t even ask. Anyway, I’d better go and see what Stephanie and Bronwen are up to, there are some rewrites I need to look at. See you in the morning.’ And after setting his glass on the bar, he put a hand on Marian’s arm. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, goodnight,’ she answered, trying not to look disappointed, then suddenly her drink slopped all over them as Woody sneaked up behind her and kicked the rigidity from her knees.

  ‘You’re a pest, Woody,’ she told him, as she watched Matthew, still laughing, walk out of the door.

  ‘But a lovable one,’ Woody grinned. “Now, are you going to reintroduce me to your cousin?’ He gave Madeleine an outrageously appreciative look-over.

  Marian rolled her eyes, then turning Madeleine away from Paul, she made the introductions – and was still making them an hour later, since everyone on the unit wanted to meet either Madeleine or Paul. Then, about ten o’clock, Bronwen put her head round the door and asked if she could do some typing before she went to bed, so to a chorus of sympathetic groans Marian went off to unpack her typewriter.

  ‘Well, what do you think of him?’ she asked Madeleine when she wandered into the cottage half an hour later.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Madeleine answered, flopping down on the lumpy sofa.

  Marian folded her arms over her typewriter. ‘Isn’t he?’ she sighed, then sat up quickly as the table started to rock dangerously.

  ‘And he definitely feels something for you, Marian. It’s obvious. I mean, the minute we walked into the bar he abandoned Stephanie and came to join us.’

  ‘I know, don’t remind me.’

  ‘All’s fair,’ Madeleine commented. ‘I’ve talked to Paul about it, and he thinks you should tell Matthew how you feel. You know, bring it to a head.’

  Marian shuddered as a tingling sensation crept over her nerve ends. ‘He already knows, Maddy.’

  ‘Are you sure? Well, I think you should tell him again, just to make sure.’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘Anyway, I’m going to leave you to your typing now, and find that man of mine before – what did you call her? – Cracks-yer-nuts Hazel gets her claws into him.’

  Laughing, Marian walked her to the door and watched as, by torchlight, she picked her way down the crooked steps before disappearing into the shadows. The night was damp and inky black, and though Marian could hear the distant buzz of conversation coming from the bar, much more vivid was the twitter and rustle of night creatures and the haunting moan of the wind. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the screams – the screams everyone had said were a nightmare. And they were, she told herself firmly as she closed the door. But as she turned to look across the shadowy room she felt such a sense of foreboding, such a premonition of doom, that for a moment it seemed to stifle her. Then suddenly the screams were with her again, piercing, agonised cries of terror that whipped through her head like a savage wind through the hills. And as she stood there in the silence, fear charging through her veins, she suddenly knew that the screams were hers. That they had always been hers – as if her mind were trying to forewarn her of something so terrible that her imagination could give it no form.

  Then, as abruptly as it had come, the feeling passed, and pulling herself together, she walked back to her typewriter, smiling at her absurd over-reaction, she started to type. What a strange place, so beautiful by day, yet so eerie by night!

  Because of the early morning calls, and so as not to incur a massive overtime bill, the crew were wrapping at four thirty in the afternoon – which, because there were no rushes, was just about an hour before they started on Manfredo’s grog. The first two days had gone well, despite grumbles and protests at the late changes to the script and a near disaster with the generator, which had ploughed off the edge of the road into a tree. However, they had finally got to the plateau beneath the village where the other vehicles were parked, and Woody was forever yelling at people to watch out for the profusion of cables that ran along the footpath into the village. An old storeroom, tucked in behind the dining cottage, had been turned into a production office, and at the end of the day Marian vacated her makeshift desk in the corner to give Beanie room to type up her continuity notes.

  On Wednesday evening, as the crew were stowing their gear in the laundry room beside Stephanie’s cottage, Matthew was sitting on the piazza outside the bar, drinking Campari and soda and flicking through the scenes they would be shooting the next day. Rory was at the top of the lane, talking to the runner, but waved out when he saw Marian wandering down through the herb garden. Neither of them had ever spoken about the night when she had got drunk in New York, it was as if it had never happened; but Marian knew he had told Matthew the truth about it, and was as grateful to him for that as she was for the fact that he hadn’t taken advantage of her. The others, of course, still thought she had lost her virginity that night, but they could think what they liked, Marian wasn’t much concerned.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ she said, as she walked up behind Matthew.

  ‘No, no, I’m just about done,’ he said, turning round. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink, come and join me?’

  ‘No, I don’t really feel like anything,’ she said, sitting down on the chair he pulled up for her. ‘Like the hat, by the way. Very Slav.’

  ‘Very warm,’ he said, laughing as he pulled it off and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s damned cold up here, especially now the wind’s picked up. You should get yourself a hat, you know. How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK. And you?’

  ‘Apart from being my usual decrepit, shattered self, pretty good.’ He sighed as he stretched out his legs and rested them on the wall in front of them. ‘Will you just look at that sunset,’ he said, gazing hungrily at the purple, orange and yellow wash on the horizon. ‘I hope to God we get them like that next week when we start the night shoots. Ah, here comes Holland Park’s answer to Jack Higgins.’ They watched as Paul jumped down from the bank next to the storeroom, then disappeared between the cottages. ‘How are things there?’ Matthew asked, turning back to Marian.

  ‘Nothing untoward, but there is something I want to tell you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Boris isn’t following me any more. I haven’t seen him since we’ve been here.’

  ‘Maybe he got the wrong flight.’

  ‘Probably,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s funny, though, but I feel more nervous with him not following me than I do when he is. Well, maybe I wouldn’t if I hadn’t done something that will probably make you angry.’

  ‘What was that?’ he said, looking at her with wary, though humorous eyes.

  ‘Well, when Bronwen said she didn’t know where Sergio was, and then with Boris vanishing, well . . . There’s no point in beating about the bush, I rang Rubin Meyer in New York. Don’t worry, I didn’t say who I was, but the point is, he’s not there and he won’t be until the end of the month. I asked where I might contact him, but all his secretary would tell me was that he was somewhere in Europe.’

  ‘I see.’ Matthew’s eyes moved from Marian’s face and for a long time he stared thoughtfully towards the horizon. Finally his hand closed round the glass in front of him and he turned to look at her. ‘Did Bronwen tell you about all the activity going on over at Pittore?’

  ‘She mentioned it.’

  He nodded. ‘Mm. I think we’d better let Frank and Grace know about Meyer, and as for you, you’re not to go anywhere near the place, do you understand?’

  ‘Don’t worry, wild horses wouldn’t drag me.’

 
There was another lengthy silence before he spoke again. ‘I don’t know what’s going on over there at Pittore,’ he said, ‘it could be nothing to do with Rambaldi and Meyer, but I’ve got a horrible feeling it is. Now, it may be that they’ve decided you know nothing, and that’s why Boris has disappeared, so I don’t want you frightening yourself half to death over this, but just make sure you don’t go out of this village alone. Now, I want to talk to you about Paul and Madeleine.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, surprised by the sudden change of subject and wondering why he was looking at her so strangely. ‘Madeleine’s been to see Enrico, by the way. She went this afternoon.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘OK, I think. He knows what the press are like, he’s been subjected to them often enough before. Anyway, he didn’t mention anything to her about the letter we sent.’

  Matthew was still looking pensive. ‘Good,’ he said slowly. Then, turning in his chair he leaned towards her. ‘Look, I have to say this to you, and coming on top of the news about Rambaldi and Meyer, it’s not going to do much to calm your nerves. But you have to be aware of this situation Marian.’

  ‘What situation?’ she said, puzzled.

  ‘If you’re right about Paul, then you must have considered what kind of position that puts you in.’

  Shrugging, she said, ‘I have to admit I’ve thought about it, but I’m family.’

  ‘That didn’t stop him before, did it?’ He watched her face, waiting for this to sink in, but as she started to protest, he stopped her. ‘Look, whose idea do you really think it was to take that lottery money? I don’t wish to be rude, Marian, but Madeleine isn’t too bright, is she? She might have said it was all her doing, but think how easy she is for a man of Paul’s intelligence to manipulate. And it got you out of the way, didn’t it? At least for a while. Have you ever asked yourself why he didn’t tell her about your mother’s death? Because he knew she’d come running to you, that’s why. It was all going very nicely for him, if you think about it. You gone, your mother dead. Then he managed to get rid of Shamir. He’s refused to continue paying Deidre, and he’s made Madeleine financially dependent on him. Then he very cleverly orchestrated that vicious expose of Tarallo to make it look like Madeleine’s doing, certain that Tarallo would never want to see her again. Thank God he’s been proved wrong, but he doesn’t know it yet. And because she appears to have attacked Tarallo, the press and the public have turned against Madeleine, too. That only leaves you.’