Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘I told you he’d like you,’ Vidal said dryly as the chauffeur opened the rear door of the Rolls and she stepped inside.

  It was several minutes before her voice was steady enough for her to speak. Then she asked, ‘How long will it be before The Warrior Queen is in production?’

  ‘Under normal circumstances it could be six months to a year.’ At the horror on her face he laughed. ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing normal about The Warrior Queen. The script is already written and the budget approved. We’ll be in production within six weeks.’

  She was silent for a few moments and then said tentatively, ‘What will I do until then?’

  ‘Plenty. I’ll have the script sent round to you tomorrow and from then on you learn it.’ His gaze was disconcerting. ‘If the way you memorized your lines for this morning’s shooting is anything to go by, you shouldn’t have any problems.’

  He felt something twist deep inside him as he gazed down into the shadowed oval of her upturned face. His mouth hardened. The hell of his private life could be shared with nobody. Least of all the innocent young girl at his side. Any consolation he sought would have to come from other quarters. Meaningless and ephemeral.

  She sensed his withdrawal from her and the line of her jaw tensed as she struggled to remain calm. Why did he smile at her one moment and frown the next? Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes but she choked them back. It was better if he was cold and distant to her. When he was kind he opened up visions of a relationship that could never be.

  The Rolls swept up the porte cochere and when it halted she did not wait to see if he would escort her to her bungalow.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Rakoczi,’ she said, pulling the mink closer around her shoulders.

  ‘Goodnight, Valentina.’

  For an instant their eyes met and held. His dark with an expression she could not understand, hers anguished. The chauffeur opened the door and without another word she slid from his side, running past the gold epauletted doorman. Running until she reached the sanctuary of her bungalow and turned the key in the lock behind her.

  Chapter Seven

  When she woke next morning she was lying naked between satin sheets. She stared around her bewilderedly for a moment and then memory came flooding back. Vidal. Vidal was married and she was about to become a star. Her limbs felt strangely heavy as she swung her legs to the thickly carpeted floor.

  She surveyed the trunks that Vidal had sent and cautiously opened the lid of the first one. A sable opera cloak lay cradled in a layer of tissue. The fur felt alien and strange beneath her fingers as she lifted it out of the trunk. Beneath it were two silver fox furs, a white satin evening gown with a matching jacket edged with ermine and a long, flowing gown of emerald green chiffon.

  She leaned back on her heels, wondering if she was destined to spend the rest of her life in plunging, exotic evening wear. Apprehensively she turned to the next trunk and breathed a sigh of relief. There were swimsuits and wide bottomed trousers. Day dresses with Lucien Leiong labels, crépe de chine pyjamas and sumptuous shantung day robes. She picked out a loose flowing kaftan edged at the neck and hem with gold braid and slipped it over her head before continuing with her task.

  In another trunk were shoes. Backless shoes, wedge-heeled shoes, high-heeled shoes, peep-toes shoes. There were hat boxes containing picture-hats, turbans, tiny pill-boxes decorated with feathers and wisps of veiling. There was even perfume. She sprayed it on her wrists. It was a fragrance she would have chosen for herself. She was just about to lift a silver lamé evening gown from its tissues when there was a knock at the door and a maid entered carrying a breakfast tray.

  She ate melon and scrambled eggs and bagels and cream cheese and eyed several unopened jewellery cases uneasily. If the contents were as lavish as those of the trunks they would have to be returned. As, eventually, would the dresses. She was just about to satisfy her curiosity and open the smallest of the black leather cases when she was disturbed again, this time by a bell boy delivering her script. The jewellery cases forgotten, she settled herself comfortably against the pillows and began to read.

  Within seconds she was utterly absorbed. Vidal had prefaced the script with two excerpts from Shakespeare’s works and a historical resumé of the events leading up to the War of the Roses. She had never before read Shakespeare and she found the language difficult, yet intriguing.

  The more she read, the more she understood why the character of Margaret so fascinated Vidal. She was a woman worthy of Greek mythology. A woman who evoked either passionate love or raging hate. A woman of legendary beauty, she was a femme fatale; a leader of armies; a chief of state; a heroine and an executioner.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and it opened before she could even call out or move from the bed. As Vidal strode into the room she began to gather the scattered pages together in confusion.

  ‘I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon,’ she said, the colour mounting her cheeks as he stood in the centre of the room, dominating it with his presence.

  ‘You need to be seen in all the right places,’ he said curtly. ‘We’re lunching at the Brown Derby. You’ll need to wear something more suitable than that.’

  The shimmering kaftan made her look like a queen.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She slipped from the bed and stood barefoot, wondering why he was staring at her with such a strange expression.

  ‘There are drinks in the sitting room,’ she said awkwardly.

  With faint surprise he realized that she was waiting for him to leave the bedroom. With a shrug of impatience he left her, walked into the adjoining room and poured himself a large vodka.

  Valentina slid back the mirrored doors of the wall-length wardrobe and slipped a white silk dress from its hanger. There were high-heeled, sling-back calf shoes to complement it and she twisted her hair into the simple chignon that suited her so well. When she emerged, Vidal’s eyes were appraising. She took seconds to change and look stunning where other women took hours, and the white she favoured set off her dramatic looks to perfection.

  ‘The gold bracelets will look best with it,’ he said, careful to keep the admiration from his voice.

  She looked at the array of unopened jewel cases.

  ‘Yes. Which case?’ Her hand hovered uncertainly.

  He stared at her. ‘Haven’t you opened them yet?’

  ‘No. I’ve been reading the script.’

  ‘They are in the red velvet case,’ he said, wondering how many other women would have regarded a script of more importance than the contents of unopened jewellery cases.

  She lifted the lid and removed a broad bracelet of hammered gold and clasped it around her wrist.

  ‘Do I need anything else?’ she asked, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

  ‘No.’ His voice was surprisingly gentle. ‘You look perfect.’ He led the way out of the bungalow. ‘Rogan Tennant will be lunching with us. He’s anxious to meet you.’

  She smiled, her mouth unknowingly soft and sensuous.

  ‘Roger Tennant wants to meet me?’

  He grinned. ‘He’s curious as to why Gambetta has cast an unknown for the main lead.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks I’ll let him down.’

  ‘Or steal the picture,’ Vidal said, laughing.

  She looked across at him curiously. He laughed rarely but when he did he became a different person. It was at moments like this that she knew that his company, and his company alone, would suffice her for the rest of her days.

  The sounds of chatter and laughter came from the hotel’s pool. A mocking bird and a blue jay swooped low overhead, disappearing with a rustle of leaves into the thick foliage.

  She smiled at the chauffeur as he opened the rear door of the Rolls for her, amazed at how easily she had become accustomed to such attentiveness and luxury.

  ‘What did you think of the script?’ Vidal asked as the Rolls headed the short distance to the restaurant.

  ‘I haven’t rea
d all of it yet. I’ve been reading the extracts from Shakespeare and the historical notes.’

  ‘What did you think of the Shakespeare?’ he asked, suddenly aware that her reply would mean a good deal to him.

  ‘I had to read the pages a few times to really understand them, but after a while it all made sense. Especially when I read it out loud.’

  ‘That I would like to have heard.’

  She looked across at him doubtfully, wondering if he was mocking her, but the sun-bronzed face showed no sign of it and she continued to discuss the Shakespeare and the historical notes with growing confidence.

  Interested bystanders watched them as they entered the Brown Derby on Vine Street. Inside Valentina found it pleasantly informal. It was designed so that everybody could see everybody else, with the tables set at a series of semicircular brown leather banquettes. A waiter addressed Vidal deferentially by name and led them to where a blond-haired Greek god sat swirling bourbon and ice around in his glass.

  He looked up as they approached, immediately rising to his feet and stretching out his hand.

  ‘Valentina, Rogan Tennant who I know you have seen many times on the screen. Rogan, Valentina. Your new co-star.’

  Vidal saw with satisfaction that Rogan Tennant was looking slightly dazed as he sat down still staring at Valentina. Vidal knew that Rogan had expected – a flashy, affected replica of Romana de Santa. Style and class had been the last things he had expected to see.

  Vidal’s customary vodka and blue curaçao and soda was brought across to him and he ordered a bottle of Piper Hiesdeck.

  ‘Valentina,’ he said, turning to Rogan, ‘drinks only wine.’ He grinned suddenly and Rogan Tennant stared. He had worked with Rakoczi on three movies. He admired and respected him, but did not like him. This was the first time he had seen him relaxed and in good humour.

  ‘Valentina has a copy of the script and knows what is wanted of her,’ Vidal continued, ignoring the menu cards as he surveyed Rogan Tennant. ‘I understand from Gambetta that you’re not happy at being removed from Pirate King.’

  Rogan Tennant’s perfect features were marred by a frown. ‘It isn’t being removed from Pirate King that I object to. It’s being given a supporting role. If I’m going to be in this movie I want star billing.’

  ‘You’ve got star billing,’ Vidal said reasonably.

  ‘I haven’t got the leading part!’ Rogan Tennant looked like a petulant child. ‘If I don’t have the leading part, everyone will think I’m on the way out. I’m Worldwide’s hottest property. I have to have the leading part.’

  ‘You have,’ Valentina said, drawing the eyes of both men to her immediately.

  ‘No I haven’t!’ Rogan’s mouth was set in a sulky line. ‘The king is the leading part. I’m not playing in this movie unless I play the king.’

  ‘It would ruin your reputation.’

  Rogan stared at her. She had the most incredible eyes he had ever seen, like smoked quartz. He struggled to concentrate on the conversation. Rakoczi and Gambetta were easing him down and out and he had no intention of allowing them to have their way. He was a star. A big star. And he had every intention of staying one.

  ‘In this movie there’s a king and queen. You’re playing the part of the queen. How could playing the king ruin my reputation? It will be ruined if I don’t!’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Valentina said, leaning forward slightly, the cowl neck of her silk dress dipping low and revealing creamy white breasts. ‘The king is not important. He’s a weakling. That’s why the title is The Warrior Queen. It is his wife who leads the armies into battle. When a young lady tried to seduce him he was so horrified that he had her removed from court.’

  Rogan stared at her in horror. ‘You mean the guy was a homo?’

  Valentina had only a vague idea as to what Rogan meant. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He was holy. He liked books and learning. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t do anything that was manly. It was really all most unfair. He shouldn’t have been a king. He should have been a monk.’

  ‘Do you fancy playing the part of a sexless monk?’ Vidal asked, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘It can be arranged if that’s what you want, Tennant.’

  ‘No! No! Steady on!’ The smoothly sophisticated Rogan Tennant was growing increasingly agitated. ‘What kind of guy is this Suffolk, the guy you want me to play?’

  ‘He,’ Vidal said with a touch of impatience, ‘is the male lead. I told you that before. He’s a warrior. A lover.’

  ‘Whose lover?’

  ‘Mine,’ Valentina said, and smiled.

  Rogan felt his manhood harden and swell. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  ‘You’re not stitching me up over this are you, Rakoczi?’

  Vidal’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘No, I am not stitching you up, as you so eloquently put it. I am offering you the greatest part of your career. I am giving you the chance to show that you can act. If you don’t want to seize the chance, then don’t. There’ll be other actors who will be only too willing.’

  Rogan Tennant stared from Valentina to Vidal. ‘Is this movie really going to be so big?’

  ‘This movie,’ Vidal said, summoning the waiter across to their table, ‘is going to be the biggest this town has ever seen.’

  Rogan swallowed. In his books, the kings were the heroes. It was hard to accept that being a mere earl could be the main part. Yet if he played the part of the king and was made to look a fool…

  ‘This king, Was he really so wet?’

  ‘Saturated,’ Valentina said.

  Vidal’s grin widened and Rogan gave a lop-sided smile and said, ‘Okay, count me in.’

  Steak, mushrooms and broccoli appeared accompanied by the champagne.

  ‘So what’s the theme?’ Rogan asked, spearing a mushroom.

  ‘England in the fourteen hundreds,’ Vidal said briefly. ‘The Wars of the Roses’.

  ‘Sounds kinda pretty,’ Rogan said.

  Valentina waited for Vidal to explain and when he didn’t put her fork down and said passionately, ‘It wasn’t pretty at all! It was called the Wars of the Roses because King Henry’s symbol was a red rose and the nobles who were trying to take the crown from him had a white rose as their symbol.’

  ‘I see,’ Rogan said, wondering if he would be requested to ride into battle carrying a flower and determining that no force on earth would persuade him to do so. Not even Vidal Rakoczi.

  ‘Margaret was young and beautiful, and yet, because she married Henry, she became known as the “Bloody Rose”. She was…’ Valentina struggled for the right words to convey to Rogan the magnitude of the events they were going to depict on screen. ‘She was like a figure of the Apocalypse!’

  Both men stared at her. Rogan because he had never met anyone so beautiful, so extraordinarily passionate. Vidal because she never ceased to amaze him. Twenty-four hours ago she had never heard of Margaret of Anjou. Now she was conjuring her up in words that fired even his imagination.

  She faltered, aware of the way both men were looking at her.

  ‘Go on,’ Vidal said encouragingly.

  ‘I don’t know much else about it. Not yet. But I do know that it wasn’t pretty. For thirty years the English spilt each other’s blood in a hideous struggle for the throne. Hundreds and hundreds of people were destroyed and the whole of European history was changed.’

  Rogan blinked. He had had some funny conversations in the Derby, but nothing to equal this one.

  ‘That, I think, just about sums it all up,’ Vidal said, regarding the bewildered Rogan with a wide grin.

  ‘I guess so,’ Rogan said, rallying his forces manfully. ‘You a teacher before you came out here?’

  Valentina giggled. ‘No. I wasn’t anything before I came out here.’

  ‘Oh God, here comes Lucrezia Borgia,’ Rogan said suddenly, smiling falsely over Valentina’s head.

  Valentina gazed round to see a small, energetic looking w
oman bearing down on them, her pin-bright eyes alive with curiosity.

  ‘Darling, there’s rumours of great things afoot at Worldwide,’ she said as Vidal took her hand. ‘I think that perhaps it would be mutually beneficial if I drove up to Villada and we discussed them.’

  ‘Meaning that if I tell you what you want to hear you won’t print any more blatant lies about my private life,’ Vidal said drily.

  The little bird-like woman at his side was unperturbed. ‘Something like that, darling.’ Her eyes swivelled to Valentina.

  ‘Louella, let me introduce you to Valentina,’ Vidal said, wondering how she would handle Hollywood’s most formidable gossip columnist. ‘Valentina. Miss Louella Parsons, columnist for the Hearst press.’

  ‘And is this your new star?’ Louella asked, surveying Valentina as if she was an interesting and possibly valuable piece of merchandise.

  Vidal nodded.

  Valentina met Miss Parson’s gaze without any of the simpering nervousness Miss Parsons was accustomed to. The columnist’s eyes gleamed. This was no run-of-the-mill glamour girl being given a chance to show her mettle or fall flat on her face. This girl was special. The very fact that Vidal Rakoczi was dining her out showed that. For over a year she had ferreted in vain in Rakoczi’s private life for a story. Now, for the first time, he had appeared in public with a woman other than his wife.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked Valentina with her usual directness.

  ‘From here,’ Valentina replied, unruffled.

  ‘If you’d come from here, you’d have been spotted long before now,’ Louella said bluntly. ‘I want to know all about your past. Who you are, where you come from, how Mr Rakoczi found you.’

  Valentina smiled gently and accomplished the near impossible: she charmed Louella Parsons within three minutes of meeting her. ‘I don’t have a past,’ she replied in low, measured tones. ‘I only have a future.’

  Louella crackled appreciatively. ‘If there were bets running, I think I’d stake quite high on that one. I’ll be seeing you again, Miss…’

  ‘Valentina.’

  ‘No surname?’