Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers

by kps

  California. Los Angeles was hot and humid. Layers of smog made the sun seem like an angry red eye, and everyone saying, "Well, you ought to have been here last week! It was beautiful then. This fog will soon burn away."

  She missed cool, green England, the unhurried pace of life. But now Anne felt as if she had been taken over, to be pulled apart and carefully put together again until she wasn't really herself but an Image.

  She had seen some of the advance publicity already. "Anne Mallory-Top European Model-to Play Lead in Greed for Glory, the Best-seller That Has Everyone Talking."

  She was seen and photographed at all the in places. As she came out of the Palms on Sunset on Harris Phelps's arm, there was old friend Johnnie Bardini waiting outside with the other photographers, giving her a friendly wink before his flash went off, almost blinding her. She became used to the personal, probing questions, too.

  "Miss Mallory, is it true you're engaged to Harris Phelps?" "Your name was linked with Webb Carnahan's in England, wasn't it? How will you feel having him as your leading man?"

  And she learned to parry the questions, to keep smiling, giving the appearance of being sure of herself, even when she felt herself crumbling inside.

  Anne and Harris had twin suites, with a connecting door, at the Beverly Wilshire. It had become a routine for him to knock gently before he opened it, then come in to make sure she was settled in for the night and had everything she needed.

  Sometimes he stayed for a while. She was used to his undemanding, almost comforting lovemaking by now. And sometime she would only kiss her and leave her alone.

  The trouble was, she didn't like being alone, and had taken to swallowing a Valium to put her to sleep after Harris left. Harmless-everyone did it! At least, she wouldn't dream then; wouldn't lie awake moving uneasily, pushing the covers away and pulling them about her shoulders the next moment while myriad unwanted images crowded her mind. Webb ... why did his name keep coming up? The female reporters studied her enviously and curiously as they asked their questions. Oh, damn him!

  Why did she have to arm herself against meeting him again? Webb and Venetia-and from there, inevitably, her thoughts would take her to Violet, veering away, not wanting to answer any questions, even to herself.

  Two weeks in Los Angeles and then a week at a "cottage" in Malibu-loaned to them by a friend of Harris's. Lying half the day on a private sundeck overlooking the ocean, Anne got an all-over tan that turned her pale skin to gold. No reporters and no public appearances for a change; she had time to study the bulky script that Harris had handed her.

  "It's only a draft. We're going to have to cut quite a bit, I'm afraid, to keep within three hours. But it'll give you some idea of how we're adapting the book for the screen. And if some scenes seem a bit ... risque, perhaps, you must keep in mind, love, that we'll be doing two versions. One for Europe and one for the States, where it should get an

  "R" rating."

  Why did Harris have to shoot his movie here? But of course his reason was logical: realism. The final and most exciting chapters of Greed for Glory were set in Spanish-Mexican California. The old presidio of Monterey, a mythical rancho covering hundreds of acres along the Sur coast. And Harris was determined to have authenticity at all costs, as he had explained at a conference he'd called just before they'd left London.

  "I'm not going to say that Greed for Glory will be another Gone with the Wind. I am saying that it will be a landmark motion picture with a modem message, in spite of its historical setting. And I'm going to insist on absolute realism, in every way. We're sticking to the story, too-no changes." He smiled.

  "I promised Ms. Savage that when I bought her book. Her readers are not going to be disappointed when they see this movie!"

  There'd been more-questions and answers. Johnnie Bardini protested because most of the filming was to be closed to the press and the public.

  "Is that because of those explicit fuck scenes in the book? You going to keep them all in, Mr. Phelps?"

  "You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" Harris had countered blandly.

  Actually, Anne hadn't paid too much attention. She'd felt herself drawn tightly up inside a brittle shell that could break far too easily. Too conscious of Webb across the room from her, lounging in his chair with his legs stretched before him. But for all his lazy attitude, Anne could almost tangibly feel the anger inside him. For some reason, he was furious with her!

  Johnnie Bardini had given her a clue when he questioned her slyly: "This big romance between you and Carnahan-was it the real thing gone sour, or just another publicitygimmick?"

  Anne had looked back at him without answering before she turned on her heel and walked away, hearing his jeering laughter behind her.

  "I have my ways of finding out, Miss Mallory!"

  Well, let him! Let him follow her around with his telephoto lens-for as long as he could.

  "Don't worry, Anne," Harris had said soothingly. "No one knows exactly where we're going to start filming." He chuckled. "I've let rumors leak that it'll be Mexico-or perhaps Nevada for the desert scenes."

  Oh damn, forget it, she thought. Stop going over it!

  Harris had been busy this last week, and Anne almost enjoyed being alone and on her own with just the sun and the faint sounds of the ocean, safely far below. While she acquired her tan and let herself laze, she tried not to think too far ahead. Wasn't it enough that she was away from the unpleasantness of her last few months in England, not having to worry about being watched and followed? Let Harris take care of everything; he had a knack for it. And he was good to her-protective, taking care of all the little details, caring. Uncomplicated.

  Anne shifted position, turning onto her stomach to feel the sun warm her back and shoulders. The letters on the page she was reading blurred as she blinked her eyes.

  A love scene that she would have to play with Webb. Tender, savage, explicit.

  Dammit, and damn her own memories of him! She must try to remember that this was only a story-a piece of make-believe. He was so good at it. She would show him that she was, too.

  Why then, with the heat of the sun penetrating her very bones, did she have to keep remembering? His hands on her, his lips on her. Tawny-gold of his eyes; the way he squinted them at her. Feel of him-harshness of short, curling hair against her breasts-huskiness in his voice when he whispered, "Annie ... God, Annie, you're so beautiful!"

  He hadn't meant any of it. Why was it still so hard for her to accept this? Oh, maybe for a little while, when he'd thought her out of reach. But then there'd been Venetia, a new conquest, another "engagement." How many others had there been since Venetia?

  He's consistent in that much at least; he never stays pinned down for long. Thinking that, Anne realized that she had closed her eyes, forgetting the script. Harris's voice brought her back to reality.

  "Darling, you're not asleep, are you? You don't have the kind of skin that can take the sun for too long, you know. And you're a temptation, lying there like that, so unaware

  ..."

  Why did she have to snatch at her towel, spreading it across her thighs as she rolled over? Harris, as understanding as usual, only laughed softly.

  "And you're still as modest as a kid of seventeen, aren't you? Never mind, love. I've got good news for you. Everything's set at last and we're leaving tomorrow."

  Leaving for where? Harris wouldn't tell her. It was part of the "surprise" that he still hinted at. Like an obedient child, she didn't try to spoil it with too many questions.

  Harris Phelps's private Lear jet took off from Los Angeles Airport the next evening; just the two of them as passengers and a uniformed, impassive young man who served drinks and hors d'oeuvres while Harris talked, keeping Anne's attention fixed politely on him so that she didn't have too much time to wonder where they were going. Harris was a dear. Why hadn't she seen that right at the beginning? Why had she wanted forbidden fruit instead? Webb ... but she was being silly, childish, stupid.
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  Webb had been part of a learning experience she had needed. When she saw him again, she would prove both to him and to herself that it hadn't meant anything.

  They'd had an affair-so what? "Thanks, Webb darling, for showing me a lot about acting."

  It was dark and four martinis later when they landed at a small airport.

  Monterey in the summer was colder than she remembered it. But she had been a child then, spending summers with her bored, beautiful mother. It had ended abruptly with that one particular summer from which the Dream stemmed-her mother's death and her grandfather's stroke.

  'Why can't you talk about it?" Dr. Haldane had asked gently. And she had cried out wildly, "Because I don't want to -I don't want to!"

  She had been happy before, spending her summers by the ocean; hearing it roar like a friendly lion when she lay in her bed at night. Getting wet and dirty and covered with sand, and nobody minding or scolding. Going into Carmel for a shopping treat and ice cream at Swenson's on weekends, with Grandmother introducing her to her friends.

  "This is little Anne. My granddaughter."

  "Oh my! Isn't she just the image of her mother?"

  Sand-summers, snow-winters.

  "Must we stay here? I hate Deepwood. There's nothing to do! Why can't we live in California?"

  "Because of your father, darling! He wants us here."

  "But he never comes!"

  Now she remembered her mother's sharp, impatient sigh and understood it. "His work keeps him busy. Will you stop pestering me, Anne?"

  After that there had been the schools. Private, impersonal. And Deepwood, which she had hated even more.

  "No questions yet, love!" That was Harris, helping her off the plane and a few moments later into his private helicopter. Sitting beside her, he squeezed her hand, and kept hold of it as they took off. She was beginning to feel drowsy by then, not really caring where he was taking her. Anne leaned her head against his shoulder and smelled his expensive cologne. He put his arm around her, and she felt his fingers caress her breast very lightly.

  "Only a short while now," he murmured, and soon after she saw the lights of a small landing strip below them.

  "Where are we?" The helicopter was descending now, almost too quickly. Anne felt entitled to her question after all the time of holding back. But Harris, smiling, only reminded her to fasten her seatbelt. "I'm bringing you home, Anne. Be patient just a little longer, love."

  There was a comfortable covered pickup waiting there to take them even further, driven by a dark-featured, politely expressionless man. Far above, Anne could catch glimpses of stars pinpricking a dark sky, although as the narrow road wound lower, streamers of fog wreathed them. She was beginning to feel really tired, trying to bring herself back to a state of interested awareness for Harris's sake.

  "Only a short while longer, Anne." His arm tightened around her shoulders, and then suddenly, as if for dramatic effect, the fog seemed to thin and open up like a cobweb curtain and she had the eeriest feeling of deja vu as the road dipped down, widening slightly, and they drove down what appeared to be an avenue of dark, twisted trees.

  Monterey cypress and twisted oaks. And she was a child again, telling herself, "One more bend and we'll be there."

  And there, just as it had stood so often in her dreams, the house waited for her with lighted windows, welcoming her back. And she must be dreaming-she had to be!

  "Welcome home, Anne," Harris said softly at her side, his voice echoing her first jumbled thoughts. "You see, I wanted the first present I gave you to be a very special one."

  The garage had been a carriage house once. The doors had hardly ever been left closed. But now the closed, thick wooden doors opened silently and automatically to let them in, and it was much larger than Anne remembered it. The only thing that was the same was the sound of the ocean in the sea caves beneath when the motor was shut off. Pulsing, pushing, rumbling with a frustrated growl of anger as the waves pulled back, only to start a fresh assault.

  "But if there are caves, why can't I explore them?" "Because it would be quite dangerous. They're almost always full of water, in any case."

  "But, Grandfather, didn't you explore down in there when you were a boy?" "That's neither here nor there, Anne! It's out of the questionl"

  She had loved the ocean then-watching fascinated from her window high up when it stormed; trying to imagine herself on a sailing ship out there. All the men on her mother's side of the family had belonged to the sea, all of them had died in it or within sight and hearing of it. And her mother, too-only this wasn't the time to remember that, when she should be trying to thank Harris for his gift to her.

  Whaler's Island-and long before that, Wrecker's Island. Really an almost-island squatting hump-backed in the ocean with only a narrow spit of land connecting it with the Big Sur coast. Her great-grandfather had had the bridge built so that they could cross over safely even when the tides were at their highest.

  "My grandfather used to be a naval captain. And his grand-father was a whaler.

  That's when he first saw the island. Actually, they used to shine lights off the headland, long ago, to lure in ships ... Anyway, he was a smart man, and I think he dabbled in smuggling, although Grandfather never would admit that to me. His ship anchored off the shore one day, and eventually he married the daughter of the Spaniard whose land grant included this island-and quite a bit of the land inland, as well, stretching all the way to the mountains. I used to think that someday I would write a book about the family .. ." Anne broke off, suddenly aware that she was talking too much, probably from sheer nervousness.

  Harris was watching her with an indulgent smile, his eyes unusually bright under the enormous crystal chandelier.

  She could feel herself flush with embarrassment. "Harris! I can't imagine how you found out-and managed to buy it! And as for calling this a present, just as if it were aa box of candy, I don't know that I can .. ."

  "I can afford my whims, Anne. And it seemed right. A magnificent coincidence that this place should be on the market just when I was looking for coastal property. It's perfect -don't you see that? And by rights, it should belong to you. Do you remember when I once talked to you about families, old families, and their roots in the land?

  Houses like this one are part of our roots. They carry a sense of continuity from generation to generation."

  She shook her head, still dazed. "Oh, Harris! This is-I still can't grasp it all. And to buy a place like this can hardly be called a 'whim,' you know! I'm still in a state of shock, but I couldn't possibly .. ."

  He leaned across the table, his hand touching hers where it lay clenched on the linen tablecloth. "The deed is made out in your name, Anne. And you have to admit that this would be an ideal location for shooting most of the movie! Apart from that, there are no strings attached, my love. This is your home, as it always should have been."

  He smiled at her. "And now, while we're having our coffee, why don't you tell me more about your great-grandfather?"

  Just when she thought she was beginning to understand Harris Phelps, she didn't understand him at all! Anne felt tangled up in the web of her own confused emotions, and it felt easier for her to talk, exorcising some of her memories that way.

  "My great-grandfather was a bit of a scoundrel, I suppose. But my grandfather .. ."

  He'd left a trust. She could understand, of course, why her grandmother had sold the land, not wanting to be alone with painful memories. She had turned suddenly frail and old. Why keep it? Not for Anne, who was still a child, with a father who had more than enough money of his own. She had died within a year of selling it.

  And then, not too many years ago, there had been pictures in one of the glossy magazines. Yes, that was it. Anne could remember the wrench in her stomach when she saw the pictures and read the article that accompanied them. Danny Verrano, the singer, owned the island now. He was the kind of man who was always surrounded by sycophants-and a lot of women. And yet, he
needed his private retreat. There had been innuendos about wild, week-long parties in the carefully guarded seclusion that this particular place provided. He'd built a draw-bridge over the natural moat that the ocean provided on the land side. It was the kind of colorful, flamboyant thing Verrano would do. And no doubt he and his friends had used the private beach, too-the water was always aquamarine, studded with rocks so that it wasn't safe for boats to come in too close. But the beach was part of the past that Anne didn't want to remember.

  As if he'd sensed the dark direction of her thoughts and wanted to lead them forward again, Harris began to talk casually of his plans.

  "You might want to change the decor, Anne. Poor Danny had deplorable taste."

  Poor Danny had also developed a drinking problem; especially after his records had stopped selling. He had been relieved to find a buyer for what had become a white elephant.

  But Harris had already dismissed Danny Verrano as he went on thoughtfully: "I suppose it'll have to do for the moment, though. At least he had the forethought to build guests chalets, and he did convert one of the tower rooms into a screening room. That's going to prove very useful to us. Yves and Jerry can do all their editing right here, instead of having to fly the film to the studio in Los Angeles." He smiled at her, inviting her to share his satisfaction. "It's perfect, Anne! Plenty of room to accommodate everybody-and we can be perfectly self-contained while we're out here shooting. We can bring supplies in by helicopter, and it'll be no problem keeping out the inquisitive public-and the kind of reporters we don't want."

  God, she felt tired! And sleepy. Tonight, for sure, she wouldn't need a Valium to put her under. But for Harris's sake, Anne tried to put on a bright-eyed front as she took very tiny sips of her after-dinner Courvoisier.

  Harris was telling her of his plans for the next week-a time for relaxation and acclimatization, as he put it. And for entertaining a few very select guests. Important people-and people who had put money into the movie. James Markham, an Arab emir with an unpronounceable name who happened to be Karim's uncle, and Dr.