‘I don’t understand.’ She was trembling. Kariana’s parents had to help her. If they did not, how could Vidal leave her?
‘If Kariana returns home and behaves just once as she did today, then the ultra-respectable Dansarts will have her very swiftly, and very privately, institutionalized.’
Her lips were so dry that she could hardly force the words past them. ‘Is that perhaps what she needs?’ she asked falteringly, unable to make her eyes meet his.
‘No!’ Vidal snatched his hand from hers and ran it through the thick pelt of his hair. ‘Most of the time she’s perfectly sane. I know that’s hard for you to believe after the way we behaved today when she was missing, but it’s true. She’s very gentle. Very shy.’
‘Then what is it?’ she asked bewilderedly. ‘What happens to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said despairingly. ‘For no reason she begins to change. She becomes moody and edgy and irrational. Sometimes it culminates in a storm of tears and verbal abuse. Sometimes it’s like today. She goes off with men that she doesn’t know. Even worse, she’s quite likely to go off with men that she does know. Her language becomes vile and she doesn’t seem to know if she’s dressed or naked.’
They fell silent as the waiter poured their wine. When he had gone, Vidal said, ‘An institution is no answer. It would terrify her. For most of the time she wouldn’t know why she was there.’
‘But she must know that she is ill!’
‘She knows that there are days she cannot recall. And she knows that her behaviour during those periods is… embarrassing.’ He paused, his eyes darkening. ‘She knows enough to live in fear.’
‘Is that why she goes away?’ she asked, the hope that she had cherished, diminishing and dying.
‘Yes, there’s a doctor in Switzerland whom she trusts implicitly. I’ve tried other doctors in New York and Los Angeles, but none of them have been able to help her.’
Valentina remembered her brief glimpse of Kariana when Vidal had brought her to the studio to see one of the sets for The Warrior Queen. She had been ethereally beautiful. There had been fragility in the delicate movements of her hands, sweetness in the low tones of her voice. And some monstrous affliction transformed that delicacy into coarseness and promiscuity. She felt sick. It was a horror too great to imagine.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She was sorry for Kariana. Sorry for Vidal. And sorry for herself and the child that she carried.
The waiter set two plates of hors d’oeuvres before them. Neither of them reached for a fork.
‘Is there no solution? None at all?’
He shook his head. ‘Only to carry on as I have done for the last few years. To have Hazel Renko in the house when I am absent. To take Kariana out on her good days and to protect her from herself on her bad days.’
In a mirror at the far side of the room she could see herself clearly. Her soft, dark hair dipped forward in deep waves at her cheekbones; her eyes were luminous and thick-lashed; her mouth full and generously curved, painted a warm pink instead of the fashionable red. She was beautiful. She was rich. She was famous. She was loved. She could remain all those things if she accepted Doctor Helmann’s advice and had an abortion. It would be so simple. So easy. And for her, so wrong. She could not murder Vidal’s child. She would rather murder herself.
Her eyes returned to him. She could no longer put off asking the question that her future life depended upon. ‘Is there no way that we can ever be married?’
The deep pain in his eyes was her answer. ‘No,’ he said gently. ‘I have promised Kariana that she will never have to face the dark alone. It is a promise that I cannot break.’
The walls of the restaurant seemed to close in on her, the moment worse than anything she had ever experienced. At a nearby table Ronald Colman could be heard ordering steak tartare. Gloria Swanson had just entered with her husband. All around her, people were eating, talking, laughing, and she was dying piecemeal, her world in ruins; her dreams ashes.
‘Why did you come to Villada this morning?’ Vidal was asking curiously.
She stared at him, not understanding at first what it was that he was saying. He repeated the question and she replied, ‘I… I… I came instead of one of the crew. It wasn’t important. A key had been lost. Don thought you might have had a spare one.’
‘Which key?’ Vidal asked, puzzled.
‘I don’t know, I’ve forgotten. It’s all right. It was found.’
Doctor Helmann had been unable to say whether she was two months pregnant or three. If she was three months pregnant, she had no time to spare. Unless she made the break now, Vidal would know the baby was his.
And if he did? She closed her eyes. He would leave Kariana and acknowledge the baby. Kariana would be left to face the world and her nightmares alone. Her tragedy would continue to be their tragedy. Vidal would never be able to free himself of the guilt he would feel at abandoning her. Their happiness would be built upon the destruction of the woman he had once loved.
She opened her eyes and gazed across at him. His hair curled low in the nape of his neck, thick and springy as heather. There were gold flecks near the pupils of his eyes so that in the restaurant’s soft lights they seemed to flame amber. Fatigue had etched deep lines around his mouth but nothing could detract from the handsomeness of his lean, dark face. There was harshness as well as tenderness there. Sensuality as well as sensitivity. It was a face that would burn in her mind forever.
‘Would you mind if I went home, Vidal?’ she said unsteadily. ‘I don’t feel very well.’
His brows flew together in concern. In the soft light of the restaurant her eyes were blue-shadowed, her face pale.
‘Of course not. You should have said so earlier. We’ll leave immediately.’
‘No.’ She put a hand on his restrainingly. It would be the last time she would do so. A hot onrush of tears stung her eyes. ‘I’d rather go alone,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘The chauffeur is waiting.’ Her lips were stiff and cracked, her voice that of a stranger.
He stared at her incredulously. ‘Of course I’m not going to let you go home alone!’
He rose to his feet and hysteria welled up in her like a submerging tide. If he touched her, held her, she would never be able to finish what she had set out to do. She tried to speak, to say goodbye, but her voice broke in an anguished gasp. Spinning on her heel she ran blindly from the room before he could seize her. Running past startled diners and waiters. Running until she was out in the street, tears raining down her cheeks.
‘Anywhere!’ she gasped to her chauffeur, pulling open the rear door and stumbling inside. ‘Please! Quickly! Anywhere!’
‘Valentina!’ He was only yards behind her. She could hear the beat of his running feet, and then the limousine swerved away from the kerb and entered the mainstream of traffic.
For a fleeting second she caught a glimpse of his agonized face as he shouted her name again and again, and then he was left far behind and she fell across the seat like a broken doll, crying as if
she would never stop.
She didn’t go to the studio the next day but moved from the home she had grown to love into a small bungalow at The Garden of Allah Hotel. Her residence there would not remain a secret for long, but it would ensure that Vidal would not appear on her doorstep that evening.
There was a bar, a swimming pool and several other bungalows occupied mainly by screenwriters. She had no intention of staying for long. Only until The Heiress Helena was completed.
The books Vidal had given her looked strange in their new home. She ran her finger across their spines, reluctant to make the telephone call that had to be made. She was the most sought-after woman in Hollywood, yet she had no date for that evening. And she could not wait until the word spread that she was no longer living the life of a hermit. She had only weeks in which to convince Vidal that the child she carried was not his.
Reluctantly she moved across t
o the cream-coloured telephone and dialled Sutton Hyde’s number.
‘Darling, what a delightful surprise,’ Sutton said, putting down the script he had been reading. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I wondered if you could do me a favour, Sutton?’
‘I would be only too pleased,’ the English actor said sincerely. ‘Your wish is my command, my dear.’
‘I’ve lived the quiet life for too long, Sutton. I want to go out and enjoy myself.’
‘A reasonable enough desire,’ Sutton said equably. ‘In what way can I be of help?’
She fumbled for a cigarette and lighter with her free hand. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, Sutton, but I want to go out this evening and I haven’t a date. I thought perhaps you might know someone. That we could go out in a foursome with you and your wife.’
Sutton chortled. ‘My dear Valentina, every male in town, including those under the age of puberty and over the age of senility, are simply panting to be seen at your side. Just leave it all to me. We’ll pick you up at eight.’
‘I’m not at the ranch any longer, Sutton.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser. Just where are you?’
She told him and Sutton rang off, reaching for his address book. A little intrigue would be very welcome. Life had become rather dull of late.
His finger leafed the pages idly. Barrymore? Cooper? Donat? Flynn? Grant?
His wife came in and leant over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing, darling? You look very engrossed.’
‘I’ve just had an interesting telephone call from Valentina. She’s lonely and would like to go out with us this evening in a foursome.’
‘And who is her escort?’ his wife asked, perching herself on the arm of his chair.
‘That, my dear, is just what is so intriguing. She hasn’t one. I am to play matchmaker.’
‘Then for goodness’sake, ignore Flynn and his cronies. Why not ask Paulos if he is free this evening?’
‘Paulos Khairetis, the Greek pianist?’
‘Yes, he would be far more suitable. He’s cultured, intelligent, breathtakingly handsome and mercifully free from the egotism and vanity afflicting most of your friends.’
Sutton looked pained. ‘I hope I don’t fall into the same category as my friends, my dear.’
She kissed him on the top of a hairline too rapidly receding. ‘You, Sutton, are the vainest man I know. Ring Paulos and tell him Valentina is an angel and not at all like the screen goddesses he has avoided so far.’
‘Doesn’t the fact that he has avoided them rather make you think Paulos’sexual proclivities may be in other directions?’
Claire Hyde rose to her feet. ‘You really are the most awful fool, darling. Paulos Khairetis is undoubtedly heterosexual. Just because he doesn’t hunt, shoot, fish and whore doesn’t make him any less masculine.’
‘Then Paulos it is,’ Sutton said, trusting his wife’s judgement in this as he did in everything.
He reached for the telephone and dialled the Beverly Wilshire, asking to be put through to Mr Khairetis.
‘No thank you, Sutton,’ Paulos said when Sutton had announced his reason for calling. ‘Your narcissistic ladies of the screen leave me cold.’
‘This one, dear boy, is far, far different,’ Sutton said chidingly. ‘She is one of nature’s miracles. A natural born beauty with flair and charisma and the sensitivity of a nun.’
Paulos laughed. ‘I may not know Hollywood very well, my friend, but one thing I do know is that no nun would flourish in its midst!’
‘Convent reared, as I live and breathe,’ Sutton continued undeterred. ‘I have promised that we will pick her up at eight.’
‘No!’ Paulos protected, a note of alarm creeping into his voice. But it was too late. Sutton had rung off.
He replaced the receiver slowly. Valentina: would she be as stunningly beautiful in the flesh as she was on screen? He doubted it. It would be a physical impossibility. She would be like all the other actresses he had been introduced to in the three months he had been in town. She would have no conversation except when the subject was herself. She would be totally self-absorbed, self-centred and a hollow mockery of the dazzling personality she appeared to be on the screen. He had seen all her movies. His face was suddenly sombre. Where Valentina was concerned, he had no desire to have his illusions shattered.
Valentina surveyed herself in the mirror. She had to look dazzlingly beautiful this evening, sparklingly happy. Her eyes were swollen from the tears she had shed, bruised with grief. She had made her decision. Now she had to act upon it. There could be no turning back.
At seven o’clock she took a gown of brilliant green flowing chiffon from her closet and began to dress. She picked up her perfume spray and then put it down again. It was Arpège. The perfume she had worn whenever she was with Vidal. She would not wear it again.
Rogan had long ago given her a present of Je Reviens by Worth. She sprayed it on her throat and wrists, wondering which famous Hollywood womanizer was to be her date for the evening. The doorbell rang and she answered it herself. She had told Ellie to take a holiday and did not expect to see her until her new way of life was firmly established. Ellie would know immediately what it was that she was doing and she wasn’t strong enough yet to face her censure.
‘Darling, you look like a gift from the gods,’ Sutton cooed, kissing her on the cheek and entering her room to survey it with raised brows. It was, to say the least, modestly furnished and there was no sign of a maid.
‘Let me introduce you to Paulos. He came over to compose music for Louis B, but he insists he is disenchanted with Hollywood and is returning as speedily as possible to the cultural worlds of Paris and Rome.’
For a second Paulos did not move. Her hair looked as if it had been strung with beads of light. Everything about her glittered and shimmered. Everything but her eyes. They were smoke-dark, filled with inestimable sadness. He stepped forward and took her hand, aware of a growing sense of wonder.
Valentina was aware first of surprise, and then of relief. The young man holding her hand in a cool, firm grasp was not a familiar figure from the Hollywood merry-go-round of premières and parties. His eyes were grey and intelligent. His face fine-boned.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ he said sincerely, and the speculating, lecherous look that she had become accustomed to was refreshingly absent.
‘Is Paulos a Russian name?’ she asked, picking up her wrap.
‘No, Greek.’
There was a pleasant quality to his voice, and though he took her arm as they stepped out towards the car, he released it once they were seated in the dark interior. Her relief intensified. At least she was not going to be bedevilled by unwelcome intimacies.
‘Where is it to be?’ Sutton asked as he seated himself beside his chauffeur.
‘You’re impossible, Sutton,’ said his wife exasperatedly. ‘Haven’t you booked a table anywhere?’
‘My dear girl. I had no idea where our guests would like to go. For all I know, Valentina is cherishing a secret desire to slum and…’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling,’ Claire said crisply, ‘Valentina has no desire to slum and neither do I. We’ll go to Romanoff’s. Mike will ensure we get a good table.’
‘I thought,’ said Sutton with pained indignation, ‘that you had no desire to slum? Mike Romanoff is a poseur and a crook.’
‘Mike Romanoff is a gentleman,’ Claire Hyde said, a note of steel in her voice effectively silencing her husband. ‘He is an absolute darling and one of the kindest men that I know.’
‘Romanoff’s,’ Sutton said wearily to the chauffeur and Valentina was aware that Paulos was grinning.
‘I like His Imperial Highness,’ he said as the limousine headed out on to Sunset Strip. ‘We met the first week I was here.’
‘The man is a sham,’ Sutton said, lighting a cigar.
‘Well of course he’s a sham,’ his wife agreed, ‘but he’s a delightful sham which is more
than can be said for the other shams in town.’
‘I haven’t met him,’ Valentina said, aware that the evening was not going to be the ordeal she had envisaged. ‘Is he really Russian?’
‘Can’t speak a word of it, my dear,’ Sutton replied. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if the fellow has been no further east than the Battery.’
‘I think you are wrong here,’ Paulos said, and there was a gentle quality in his voice that Valentina liked. ‘He may not have been to Russia, but he has certainly been to Europe.’
‘I despair,’ said Sutton. ‘If a man of your intelligence is taken in, what hope is there for the rest of the credulous world?’
‘Not taken in, Sutton,’ Paulos replied equably. ‘Just fascinated by a man with an indisputable flair for living.’
‘Poppycock,’ said Sutton and then, when they had stepped from the limousine and entered the restaurant, he embraced His Imperial Highness, Prince Michael Alexandrovich Dmitry Obolensky Romanoff, warmly.
‘Afraid we haven’t booked a table, old boy. There’s four of us.’
Mike Romanoff surveyed Sutton’s party, his eyes alighting on Valentina, a delighted smile spreading across his face.
‘The divine Valentina!’ he exclaimed, taking her hand and kissing it reverently. ‘My Imperial greetings. Of course we can find a table.’ He turned to his head waiter. ‘Remove those peasants from table four at once.’
‘But they are very important people, Mr Romanoff. They are…’
‘Peasants,’ Mike Romanoff finished for him. ‘Remove them.’
‘Yes sir.’
The peasants were removed. Valentina and Paulos, Claire and Sutton, sat down.
Their fellow diners turned and smiled and acknowledged their presence. Valentina could hear her name being whispered and queries as to the identity of her escort. By tomorrow, Louella would have got hold of the news and there would be a report of it in her column.
A photographer, seeing his chance, walked smartly by their table and Valentina blinked as a double flash momentarily blinded her.
Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams Page 21
