Valentina hung up her evening dress and bleakly slipped on a lace-edged nightdress. She was in Hollywood, not the Convent of the Sacred Heart. She should have been prepared for Rogan’s kiss, and she should have handled the situation with more sophistication.
She took two aspirins and lay down in the darkness. She could only hope that Rogan’s masculinity had not been so offended that it would alter his attitude to her on the set. If it did then she would be totally friendless. The electricians and lighting men were helpful and kind, but she knew that they dare not take the time to talk to her without incurring Vidal’s wrath.
Vidal. Why was it impossible to think of anyone or anything but Vidal? His face burned against her mind. Sensually aware; mocking, confident. And tonight, furiously angry. But why?
She tossed and turned restlessly, finding no answer. At last she rose and crossed to the window, staring out into the darkness. Had it been pain she had seen so fleetingly in the black gutter of his eyes? And if so, why? She leaned her face against the coolness of the window pane. Was it because the woman he loved spent so much time away from him? If she were married to him, she would not leave his side for a second. She blinked away weary tears. But she was not married to him. She could not ease his pain, nor comfort him. She could only act for him.
Heavy-hearted, she returned to bed and wondered how long it would be before her love for him would wither and die from lack of nourishment. From the moment she had known that he was married she had not wanted to love him. But the knowledge had come too late. From the time she had first seen him it was as if he had become a part of her. And now, try as she might, she could not free herself of the need to see him; to be near him. She closed her eyes. She must sleep. She had to be at the studio by six and the day ahead would be long and arduous – and joyless.
Vidal’s mood the next day was even more explosive. He watched, legs astride and his hands on his hips, as Rogan’s huge mobile dressing-room was towed on to the lot. Then he brusquely ordered everyone who had anything to do with the production to be in his office before shooting started.
There were murmurs of discontent at his attitude from both cast and crew as they walked en masse across to Vidal’s white stucco bungalow.
‘The man’s an egomaniac,’ said Sutton Hyde, the actor who was cast as Henry.
‘He’s certainly the most uncompromising director in town,’ Leila Crane, the girl who played Valentina’s handmaid, said a little more charitably.
‘He’s a shit,’ Rogan Tennant said, scowling fiercely and looking as if he had had very little sleep.
Don Symons, Vidal’s chief lighting man, chewed gum laconically and said, ‘He’s a man of genius and vision and you’re all bloody lucky to be working for him and not producing a fifth rate, B movie on lot nine.’
There were groans and blasphemies from those around him but they were quickly silenced as they entered the bungalow.
Valentina looked around with interest. It was a big room taken up almost completely by a massive desk. There was a vast clutter of costume sketches on it and several pages of the screenplay that Vidal had obviously been in the process of altering. On the walls were shooting schedules and sketches of the sets.
Vidal glared at them as they entered. ‘Yesterday’s rushes were rubbish!’ he said grimly. ‘I wanted you all here to tell you for one last time that this isn’t just any Hollywood epic we’re producing. This is going to be a classic.’
He stalked round to the front of his desk and there was a shuffled retreat.
‘None of you is giving enough. Not the so-called male lead…’ He cast a withering look in Rogan’s direction, ‘…nor the crew. I want everything you’ve got. I want sixteen hours a day solid work and I want you to live in purdah till the last reel is in the can. No night life, no parties, no drink and no drugs. Nothing but this movie, is that understood?’
Valentina waited for the sound of protest. There was none. Nobody liked it, but no one wanted to be off the movie.
‘That’s okay with me, Mr Rakoczi,’ a voice said from the back of the room.
There were other mumbled assents.
Vidal’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. ‘That means everyone from the special effects man to the script girl. Got it?’
‘Yes sir, Mr Rakoczi,’ they said in unison.
There was a cruel edge to his voice as his eyes rested finally on Valentina. ‘There’s no one on this set who can’t be replaced. I hope that’s understood.’
She held his gaze steadfastly, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Yes, Mr Rakoczi,’ she said with a composure she was far from feeling. ‘I think you’ve made everything perfectly clear.’
A pulse began to throb at his jaw line. He had been right about the steel beneath the fragility of her beauty. He clenched his fists.
‘I want everyone on the set in fifteen minutes.’
With relief, cast and crew dispersed and Rogan, already in costume, crossed over to her. ‘About last night, Valentina. No hard feelings?’
She smiled. ‘None at all, Rogan.’
The doublet and breeches he wore suited him. His bucket-top boots were of soft yellow leather and trimmed with lace. There was more lace at his neck and cuffs. A short velvet cloak hung jauntily from one shoulder, exposing a fine sword and giving him an air of martial swagger. If in life the Earl of Suffolk had been as handsome, then Valentina could well understand the attraction he had held for Margaret of Anjou. If it wasn’t for Vidal, she would probably be halfway to being in love with her handsome co-star.
‘Then let me make amends,’ Rogan said, his eyes warm and concerned. ‘How about dinner tonight? Somewhere quiet where we can talk and really get to know each other?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not used to late nights and early mornings. I need sleep if I’m to survive this sort of routine.’
He felt a feeling akin to panic. What had started off as an entertaining diversion had now become all important. No woman had ever rejected him. And there was something special about this one that could not be easily forgotten.
‘Sunday?’ he said desperately. ‘We could meet Sunday. Take a picnic. Go down to the beach.’
At the mention of the beach her eyes darkened. ‘No, Rogan. It sounds to me as if Mr Rakoczi may well want us on the set at weekends as well.’
Vidal’s assistant director was walking towards her and she turned her attention to him leaving Rogan frustrated and thwarted.
As the morning progressed, Vidal’s verbal lashings became more severe. They were redoing all the work they had done the day before, and for the cast, in their heavy, medieval robes, the heat was crippling. Valentina nearly sank to the ground with relief when Vidal’s voice shouted curtly, ‘Okay, wrap it up for an hour.’
While the others staggered off gratefully to the commissary, Rogan escaped to his dressing room and Valentina set off in the direction of the drivers’ depot. Though costumes attracted very little attention on the lot, she was aware of people stopping and staring at her. Everyone had heard of the girl Theodore Gambetta had declared was going to be Worldwide’s biggest star, and this was the first chance many had had to see her at close quarters.
She didn’t have to ask for Bob. He was standing near a truck, a cup of coffee in his hand.
As her shadow fell across him, he looked up. Surprise and something darker flashed through his eyes and then he said with a grin, ‘Hi. Are you lost?’
She smiled. ‘No. I just wanted to see how you were.’
‘I’m fine. I hear you’re knocking them for six down on the set.’
‘I’m doing my best, but it’s harder than waiting tables.’
‘It’s prettier,’ he said, surveying her costume appreciatively.
She shrugged. ‘I’m playing the part of a princess.’
‘That explains it.’ His smile faded and his eyes were concerned. ‘Are you happy? Is everything working out okay?’
She thought of the tense, nerve-racking atmosphere on the set. ‘Yes
,’ she lied with a crooked smile. ‘Everything’s fine, Bob.’
‘Good.’ His eyes were sincere. ‘If ever things change, you know where to find me. I have to go now. They’re waiting for this load down at La Jolla.’ He swung himself up into his cab. ‘Bye, Valentina.’
Her eyes held his and she knew that it was their last goodbye.
‘Goodbye Bob,’ she said, blowing a kiss. ‘And thanks. I shall never forget.’
‘Where the hell have you been? You’re late!’ From beneath black brows, equally black eyes blazed in Vidal’s lean, dark face.
She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘I’m not. There’s still five minutes to go before the hour is up.’
‘You weren’t at the commissary!’ His voice was accusing.
‘I went to see a friend.’
‘You went to see Bob Kelly!’ he said and jealousy flared through him. ‘From now on, you have no contact with him whatsoever! You’re a star and he’s a truck driver. Is that understood?’
Her eyes held his unflinchingly. ‘I told you before, Mr Rakoczi, Bob Kelly is a friend. If I want to see him, I shall see him.’
He covered the distance between them in one stride. ‘Not in my time, you won’t!’ he blazed, seizing her shoulders with strong, large hands.
At the physical contact a vibration of shock ran through both of them. She gasped and he let go of her as if he had touched a volt of electricity. ‘Damn it to hell!’ he rasped, striding away from her towards the set, white-faced.
She stood for a little while, struggling to regulate her breathing, and then followed. If anyone had seen the scene between them, they did not mention it. The harsher Vidal’s demands, the kinder the crew were to her. And, despite the rigorous pressure, Valentina found that she was enjoying herself.
She was beginning to be able to tell when a take was successful, and it sent an enormous surge of adrenalin along her veins. Exhilaration banished tiredness and she felt only disappointment when Vidal said finally, ‘That’s it for today. I hope for all your sakes the rushes are better than yesterday’s.’
‘Autocrat,’ said a perspiring Sutton Hyde under his breath.
Leila grinned. ‘They say his name is written in letters of fire on his contract.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Sutton said darkly. ‘He directs as if he’s been chosen by God.’
‘I have, Sutton, I have,’ Vidal said tightly, striding past them without glancing in Valentina’s direction.
He was once more in control of himself and he felt an inner sense of elation. His bullying of Rogan Tennant had paid off. For once in his life Worldwide’s heart-throb was acting superbly. And Valentina had been magnificent. Valentina. He felt a familiar build-up of pain behind his eyes. He should never have touched her again. Even touching her in anger had inflamed his senses.
He entered his bungalow and poured himself a large vodka and blue curaçao. Then he telephoned the Beverly Hills and asked the desk clerk to inform him if she left the hotel. He swallowed his vodka and frowned, drumming his fingers upon the leather surface of his desk. There was no need for Valentina to leave the hotel via the lobby. The bungalows had been built specifically for privacy, and the narrow, winding pathways through the gardens made it easy to enter and leave without being seen.
He placed another call; this time to the employee he had posted in the bungalow nearest Valentina.
‘If she goes out, Bains, I want to know. And I want to know who with.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bains was intrigued. Rakoczi was behaving like a jealous lover. He settled himself where he could clearly see the door of Valentina’s bungalow, and poured himself a bourbon.
When Vidal saw the rushes that night, he knew his elation at the end of the day’s shooting had been justified. And with grim satisfaction, he learned that Valentina had not left her bungalow all evening.
The next morning he invited Rogan and Valentina, Sutton and Leila to see the rushes of their previous day’s work.
‘No thank you, Mr Rakoczi,’ Leila said nervously. ‘I just hate to see rushes. It makes me terribly self-conscious and then my work suffers.’
Vidal nodded. He had met many other actors and actresses who felt the same way.
‘Were they good?’ Rogan asked.
‘Adequate,’ Vidal said curtly, disturbingly aware of Valentina as they walked into the projection room.
‘I always see the previous day’s rushes,’ Rogan was saying to Sutton. ‘I like to have some say in which takes are chosen.’
Sutton smiled as the projection room lights dimmed. He doubted if Rogan would have any say where Vidal Rakoczi was concerned.
Within minutes Rogan was groaning. ‘Why do they keep taking my left side, for God’s sake?’ and then in another take, ‘Oh shit. I look awful in that one. Now that one’s better!’ He leaned forward in his seat enthusiastically. ‘I look really good in that one.’
Sutton’s remarks, too, were restricted to how he came across personally on the screen. Vidal had never known an actor who thought in any other way. Their appearance, their image, was all important to them. He wondered how Valentina would react and was not disappointed.
‘She looks too confident in that one,’ she said of the scene where she was summoned to the presence of the King of France. ‘She would be wary, wouldn’t she? That one is better. Her uncertainty is showing through.’
Vidal’s eyes were appraising. She was not seeing herself on the screen, but Margaret of Anjou. It was how the character came across that mattered to her. Not how she herself looked.
The next scene was between Sutton and Rogan. In the flickering light of the small projection room she became uncomfortably aware of Vidal’s nearness. Slowly she slid her eyes across to him and her heart seemed to freeze in her throat.
For an insane second she thought that he was looking at her with desire in his eyes and then she blinked and saw that she had been mistaken. His eyes were as cold and dark as obsidian and she turned her head away, striving to concentrate once more on the screen before her.
Rogan and Sutton complimented each other effusively on their performances, and then the rushes came to an end and the room was flooded with light.
‘Which takes have you decided upon in the scene between Sutton and myself?’ Rogan asked.
‘The eighteenth.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Sutton said affably. ‘They were all so bloody good, I don’t know why there had to be so many.’
‘Because Mr Rakoczi is a perfectionist,’ Don Symons said as they filed from the room and out into the sunlight.
Rogan was at her side, supremely pleased with himself. Rakoczi might be a bastard to work for, but as a director he was a genius.
‘You were sensational, Valentina. Absolutely stunning.’
‘Thank you, Rogan.’
Rogan eyed her with a certain amount of reservation. She had been sensational. She glowed on screen, commanding all attention. Which meant that there would be less attention directed to himself.
‘I hope you’ve changed your mind about Sunday?’
‘No. If we’re not working on the set, then I’ll be going over my lines, Rogan.’
‘I’m not just trying to be friendly,’ Rogan said, a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘You’re driving me crazy, Valentina. I can’t sleep…’
‘Places everyone,’ Vidal said, his voice raw with naked anger. He had seen Tennant’s blond head indecently close to Valentina’s.
Harris looked across at him in surprise. The rushes had been good. The cast were working together without any problems. Yet there was a throb of uncontrolled fury in Vidal’s voice. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.
‘Lights,’ he called. ‘All right everyone. Cameras. Action!’
The day set the pattern for all those that followed. The work was hard, demanding, and utterly absorbing, and it was soon common knowledge that something extraordinary was going on down on lot fourteen.
Vidal continued t
o subject Rogan to verbal abuse in order to gain from him the kind of performance he would be too lazy to give otherwise.
He spoke to Valentina only when absolutely necessary, and the occasions became fewer and fewer. She seemed to know what he wanted from her even before he asked for it. As the weeks passed, the rapport between them grew total and absolute. She responded utterly to his trust in her, his total conviction that she could play the part of Margaret as no one else could. Her performance was alive with a magic that neither the other members of the cast nor the crew had ever seen before.
Rogan continued to ply her for dates, and as she steadfastly refused realized that for the first time in his life he was feeling genuine emotion for someone other than himself. He sought consolation elsewhere. But it was Valentina he wanted. Valentina that he craved.
At the end of each day’s shooting, she returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel, to spend her evenings alone, counting the hours until she would be in Vidal’s presence again.
‘The schedule should be letting up soon,’ Rogan said to her one morning as their stand-ins stood patiently in the centre of a mock battlefield and the cameras were adjusted to Vidal’s satisfaction.
‘What do you mean? We haven’t shot a quarter of the movie yet.’
‘Kariana Rakoczi is on her way home. She’s terminated her European tour and is staying with her family in New England. In a few days’time she’ll be crossing America by rail on the Chief.
Valentina swayed slightly and Rogan grasped her arm. ‘Be grateful we don’t have to stand out there for hour after hour while Rakoczi checks that every single camera is exactly as he wants it. Did you hear him earlier, ranting on about historical detail? Apparently one of Henry’s soldiers arrived on the lot wearing a wristwatch! Rakoczi vowed he’d never again work on one of his productions and he gave the continuity girl such hell she’s been in floods of tears ever since.’
Rogan chuckled and did not notice that all the colour had left Valentina’s face. Vidal’s wife. She had been absent for so long that she had nearly managed to convince herself that Kariana didn’t exist.
Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams Page 12
