Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  A door closed behind them and they were in shadow. Valentina blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the small studio.

  ‘Morning, Mr Rakoczi.’

  ‘Good morning, Harris. Let me have a closer look at that set.’

  ‘We’ve been working on it flat out ever since you gave the orders, but three hours is no time at all. If we’d known last night …’

  Vidal was no longer listening to him. He was striding across coils of cable towards the hastily-constructed set. The backdrop was a painted canvas of medieval grandeur: the interior of a fifteenth-century palace. In front of it stood a dark oak table and a high-backed chair, intricately carved.

  Valentina stood where he had left her. There were sixteen or more men in the room: cameramen, electricians, grips. None paid her any attention. Their eyes were focused on the tense, lithe figure of Vidal Rakoczi.

  ‘I thought perhaps we should put straw down on the floor, Mr Rakoczi?’ the man called Harris began.

  ‘No.’ Vidal’s voice was decisive. ‘I want her to walk forwards towards camera. I want her robes to sweep the stone slabs of the floor, to rustle. I want no other sound at all. None. Just the girl walking forward until she faces her uncle and speaks directly to camera.’

  ‘OK, Mr Rakoczi.’

  Vidal gave the set a last, dismissive glance and turned to the cameras. ‘Let’s move. I want that kleig further to the left.’

  Valentina stood silently behind the lights as they were manoeuvred into place. It was a fifteen-year-old princess, summoned from comparatively obscurity to her uncle’s presence that Vidal wanted her to portray in the first scene.

  Vidal was at her side, his gaze disturbingly intense. ‘First, I want right and left profile shots. Then I want you to stand at the very rear of the set. When I tell you to move, I want you to walk forward – slowly. Remember, it’s a king you’re facing. The King of France. He may be your uncle, but he has the power of life or death over you. You have no idea why you have been summoned into his presence. I want to feel your uncertainty. England wants you as Queen in order to salvage something of the wreckage of her former power in France. When Charles VII tells you that you are to marry Henry, both you and he know the reasons. As far as Charles is concerned, you will exert your influence as Queen of England to his advantage. You are, after all, only a girl and, in his eyes, malleable. He expects that, even married to Henry, your loyalty will be to France.’

  She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and she began to tremble. She clenched her hands tightly. She must not think of him. She must forget her own existence and that of Vidal Rakoczi, the man she loved. Only Margaret of Anjou and Rakoczi the director could be allowed to exist if she was to live and breathe on the screen.

  ‘Everything’s ready, Mr Rakoczi,’ a voice called.

  Vidal turned swiftly, the planes of his face harsh. ‘Thanks, Harris. Valentina, I want you to stand at the side of the chair. We’ll do some straight shots first, and then we’ll take it from the script.’

  She walked forward uncertainly, standing with one hand resting lightly on the carved back of the chair. The grips, the electricians, the cameramen, momentarily disconcerted her. She had not known they would be so close. Then she closed her mind to them and they no longer existed.

  The obligatory casting shots were taken and she moved to the rear of the set to face the brilliant glare of the kleigs. With a sharp intake of breath, Vidal saw that her script was nowhere in sight, and then she moved forward and he knew that it did not matter. The first time he had seen her, he had seen magic in her face, and as the cameras started to whirr that magic shone through.

  ‘Jesus,’ Harris whispered in awe to Vidal, ‘this dame’s coming across in another dimension.’

  Valentina halted on the chalk line before the camera and the non-existent king of France.

  ‘My liege,’ she said, curtseying deeply, the haunting smoke quality of her voice silencing the set, ‘you wished to speak with me?’ Her smile was hesitant and flickering, the smile of a girl who does not yet know her fate. Yet when she raised her head, her eyes were surprisingly bold. The eyes of a woman no man had as yet taken into account.

  When she had finished, Vidal contained his excitement and said smoothly, ‘And now for the Warrior Queen speech, Valentina. Remove the coronal and stand further to the left.’

  She did as he told her, pausing briefly with her back to him and the crew. No longer young and vulnerable she was queen of a divided country, fighting to secure the throne for her husband and her son.

  ‘Right,’ said a distant voice. ‘One, two, three. Roll’em.’

  She spun round on her heel, her skirts whipping about her ankles. She was fire and lightning and the very air sizzled as she rallied her troops against the oncoming army, intent on taking her prisoner.

  At last it was all over. She stood, momentarily disorientated as once again she became aware of the camera and crew and then, to her utter amazement, she heard first one man begin to applaud and then another.

  Vidal strode forward and seized her so tightly that his hands seemed to crush the bones in her wrists. ‘You were sensational! Once Gambetta’s seen these rushes, we’ll be able to have The Warrior Queen in production within the week!’

  Harris was patting her on the back. ‘Boy, oh boy, I just couldn’t believe my eyes. You’ve sure got some future ahead of you, lady.’

  Don Symons was staring at her mesmerized. Hollywood history had just been made and he had been part of it.

  The rest of the crew gathered round, shouting out congratulations.

  ‘Come on.’ Vidal was tugging her away. ‘I want you out of the studio before the word spreads.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ His touch was scorching her skin and she knew that she should pull away from him.

  ‘The Beverly Hills Hotel,’ he said, striding out into the sunlight. The Rolls was waiting at the studio exit and he half threw her into its luxurious interior before anyone could run forward with questions.

  ‘I don’t have enough money to stay at the Beverly Hills,’ she protested, trying to gather her scattered wits as he sat at her side, so close that his thigh was only a fraction away from hers.

  ‘You’re going to have so much money you’ll never be able to count it,’ he said as the Rolls sped through the studio gates. ‘Theodore Gambetta isn’t going to let you escape from Worldwide now. Not after he sees the shots we took this morning.’

  She tried to steady her breathing. ‘Was I really so good?’

  ‘Yes.’ His smile was sudden and devastating. ‘You were really so good.’

  She turned her head away swiftly. His smile was not for her. It was for himself. Because his judgement had been proved correct. Because the movie that was his private passion could now be put into production. She hugged her arms as if holding herself together against inner disintegration. As Margaret of Anjou she had been able to forget her anguish. Now there seemed no escape. The Rolls glided up to the porte cochere of the Beverly Hills Hotel and her fingers tightened on her arms.

  The chauffeur opened the door. She was obliged to follow Vidal past liveried bellboys and to the front desk.

  ‘A bungalow for the lady,’ he requested curtly.

  ‘Of course, Mr Rakoczi.’

  ‘Madam’s luggage will follow shortly.’

  ‘Of course, sir. This way, sir.’

  She was vaguely aware of decor of pink and green banana leaves swirling over the walls, of a log fire burning in the lobby despite the heat, and then they were outside in the gardens. Diminutive humming birds darted between the trees, their turquoise and gold plumage flashing in the sunlight. Tropical flowers grew lushly, encroaching on carefully tended lawns.

  The bellboy inserted a key into a bungalow door. She saw Vidal crush dollar bills into his hand and then the door swung open and she stepped into an oasis of white lace drapery and sugar pink carpeting.

  ‘This will be your home until I can find you somewher
e more permanent.’ He held the key out to her and her fingers closed over the cold metal. ‘I don’t want you to leave this room until I telephone after Gambetta has seen the rushes, understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, holding his eyes steadily, ‘but I must see Bob.’

  Vidal frowned. He had already forgotten Bob Kelly and was strangely annoyed that she had not also done so. He gazed down at her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘He’s a truck driver,’ he said coldly. ‘You don’t have any reason to see or speak to him again.’

  Her eyes sparked dangerously. ‘He was good to me,’ she said defiantly.

  He shrugged. ‘Telephone him, if you must, but don’t leave this suite.’ There was a distinct edge to his voice that he made no attempt to conceal. ‘When Gambetta wants to see anyone, he doesn’t wait around.’ He paused at the door, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the seductive curve of her mouth. ‘And neither do I,’ he added brutally, hating himself for his weakness, swinging on his heel and striding out into the sunlit gardens and leaving the door wide open behind him.

  She stood without moving until he had disappeared from sight and the sound of his receding footsteps had faded into silence. Then, very slowly, she closed the door and leant against it.

  When the tears fell, they fell silently, blinding her until she slid down against the door, sinking into a crumpled heap, the key clutched so tightly that it pierced her flesh and a spot of bright red blood dripped on to the candyfloss pink of the carpet.

  It was the bellboy who roused her from her stupor of grief, knocking at the door, delivering flowers and a basket of fruit with the management’s compliments. She took them dazedly and then, with trembling fingers, she picked up the telephone receiver and asked to be connected with Worldwide.

  ‘Could I have the drivers’depot, please?’ she asked when the telephonist at the studios came on to the line.

  ‘Sorry, no private calls are accepted,’ a metallic voice said uncaringly.

  ‘It’s very important … a family matter … there’s been an accident,’ she lied.

  There was a bored sigh from the other end of the line. ‘OK, who is it you wish to speak to?’

  ‘Bob Kelly.’

  ‘I’ll try for you, but I doubt he’ll be in at this time of day. Hope you realize what a favour I’m doing you, lady.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, I do.’

  Nervously she waited, cradling the mouthpiece until at last she heard Bob’s familiar voice. ‘OK, Gladys, I’ve got it,’ and then, in a different tone, ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Valentina,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ he yelled. ‘I thought you were dead or something!’

  ‘I’m at the Beverly Hills Hotel.’

  ‘The where? Are you sick? Did someone give you a shot of dope? Just tell me where you are and I’ll come and collect you.’

  ‘I’m at the Beverly Hills Hotel,’ she repeated, looking down at the key in her hand. ‘Bungalow eight.’

  ‘I’m on my way!’ The telephone sounded as if it had been thrown down. She replaced her own receiver with care and wondered what she would say to Bob when he arrived.

  The afternoon sunlight streamed into the room and she rose, half closing the shutters. Whatever he said or did, there could be no going back. Standing beneath Lilli Rainer’s glittering chandelier, her life had changed direction. She had walked away from anonymity and Bob, lured by a world of make-believe. That make-believe world was the only one she could now inhabit.

  Whatever Bob had expected when he had arrived at the Beverly Hills, it was not to be conducted with perfect propriety through the gardens to a bungalow that must be costing at least five hundred dollars a day. As Valentina opened the door to him, his anxiety turned to perplexity.

  ‘What are you doing here, for Christ’s sake? The guy at the desk knows damn well you’re here. It’ll have to be paid for …’

  She took his arm and led him into the room, closing the door behind them. ‘Please don’t worry about that, Bob.’

  He looked at her suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. ‘You haven’t done something real foolish, have you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I have, Bob.’

  He sat down slowly. ‘Tell me,’ he said, his face grim.

  ‘Last night at the party I met Vidal Rakoczi.’

  Bob sucked in his breath.

  ‘He asked me if I would do a screen test.’ She knelt beside his chair. ‘I’m sorry, Bob. Truly. This is something that I have to do. Please try and understand.’

  There was utter certainty in her voice and he knew that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. He felt suddenly old. It was all over. For the first time he realized how very much he had loved her. He smiled lopsidedly.

  ‘If you’re going to be a star, Valentina, be a big star. The biggest and the best.’

  Her eyes were overly bright. ‘I will, Bob. I promise.’

  He rose to his feet. ‘It was fun,’ he said, a catch in his voice as he took hold of her hands. ‘No one makes better chilli and tacos.’

  Her hands tightened in his. ‘I can make them for you again, Bob.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, releasing his hold of her and walking across to the door. ‘Sure you can, sweetheart.’ But as he stepped out into the sunlight, both of them knew that those days were over.

  The door closed behind him and she remained sitting where he had left her until, with the sun beginning to fade, the telephone rang. It was the desk clerk informing her that Mr Rakoczi would be coming for her in half an hour.

  Chapter Six

  Vidal Rakoczi was preceded by a convoy of bellboys ferrying load after load of hide luggage with Valentina stamped in gold letters across the corners. Hat boxes followed. Vanity cases. Dozens of sumptuous furs. She caught glimpses of sable, mink, leopard. Bemusedly she watched as the cases and trunks were piled high in the centre of the pink-carpeted room.

  ‘I’ll send a maid to unpack for you,’ one of the bellboys said deferentially.

  She thanked him, a small frown furrowing her brow. The trunks would contain dresses as splendid as the furs. She touched the cheap silk of the amethyst dress. It seemed a lifetime since she had stepped into it in the bedroom of the little house in Heliotrope.

  The last vanity case was placed on top of a brass cornered trunk and the bellboys retreated. Slowly she ran her fingers over the gold letters of her name, remembering the moment on the beach before she had known that Vidal Rakoczi was married. When he had kissed her and she had believed that he loved her. That he was taking her home with him and that they would be together for ever.

  The silence was broken by the swift sound of approaching footsteps. She whirled round as he threw open the door, striding into the room, and filling it with his presence.

  ‘What the devil are you doing?’ he snapped, staring at her. ‘I told you to be ready the instant I came for you!’

  Angrily he heaved the first available trunk into the centre of the room and slammed open the lid. Tissue-paper billowed out over chiffon and silk.

  ‘Here,’ he scooped up a swirl of white satin. ‘Put this on and be quick about it.’

  He hurled it towards her and she caught hold of it, retreating hastily into the bathroom. As she turned on the shower she could hear his muffled curse of impatience. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Mr Vidal Rakoczi would just have to wait.

  When she had towelled herself dry and sprayed herself with cologne, she stepped into the sinuous sleekness of the dress he had chosen so peremptorily. It was long and clinging, encrusted with crystal beads. The halter-strap was a mere ribbon of silver, exposing her naked shoulders and back. Hastily she brushed her hair, coiling it low in the nape of her neck, and securing it with an orchid from the shoulder of her amethyst gown. The reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger’s. It seemed impossible that she should be so beautiful and alluring. The material skimmed her breasts, plunging nearly as low in the front as it did at the ba
ck, leaving her with the sensation of nakedness.

  ‘Uristen!’ Vidal swore in Hungarian, yanking open the bathroom door in a fever of impatience. Seeing her he halted. She hadn’t a trace of make-up on and she looked like a goddess. A strange sense of unease touched his spine and was immediately banished.

  ‘Come on! Do you realize that you’re the only woman who has ever kept Gambetta waiting?’ he snapped, seizing hold of her wrist.

  Her dress was so tight that she had to run in tiny little steps to keep pace with him as he marched her out of the bungalow towards the waiting Rolls.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said, gasping for breath as he dragged her mercilessly in his wake.

  ‘If I lose Gambetta’s enthusiasm for this project because of your lateness, I’ll do more than hurt you. I’ll beat you to death,’ he threatened, pushing her unceremoniously into the rear of the Rolls.

  As they began to speed out of the hotel grounds she rubbed her wrists and said, ‘Was Mr Gambetta pleased with the rushes?’

  ‘He was ecstatic,’ Vidal said with grim pleasure. ‘He’s given the go-ahead for The Warrior Queen to go into production immediately.’

  ‘With me as Margaret of Anjou?’

  His teeth flashed in a sudden smile. ‘With you as Margaret of Anjou,’ he confirmed.

  ‘I’m not sure that I believe it,’ she said dazedly.

  ‘You had better do. You’re going to have to work, work, work from now on.’

  ‘Who will play the part of Henry?’

  ‘Desmond Brookes, Raymund Mullone. There’s going to be a lot of time spent getting that particular piece of casting perfect. Gambetta naturally sees Henry as being the male lead, but he isn’t. He’s too insipid. He doesn’t motivate events. Doesn’t dominate in any way. The real male lead is the Earl of Suffolk. He’s the noble who fights for Queen Margaret’s cause. The man who leads her troops; who rides into battle beside her; who loves her and dies for her. For that part I want Rogan Tennant and I’ve told Gambetta so.’

  She looked across at him in surprise. ‘Wasn’t Tennant the star of The Black Knights?’