Duel of Passion

by Madeleine Ker

  The landing was bumpy, and the tarmac was wet with drizzle. The ground staff seemed to look at the incoming passengers with world-weary, cynical eyes. The familiar smells of Heathrow hit Sophie with a wave of melancholy. Fighting through the crowds of people, she decided to take a taxi home rather than battle with her heavy suitcases in the Underground late at night. She didn't want to come down to earth with too much of a bump just yet.

  Two and a half hours later, she was falling into bed in her tiny flat in St John's Wood.

  It was on a main road, and after the peace of Jamaica the noise of the traffic outside when she woke next morning was intrusive. Despite Mrs Flanagan's languid efforts, the pokiness of the place was something of a blow after the airy room at the San Antonio, and when

  she remembered the rent she was paying for it distaste for her surroundings settled like a cloud over her head. W ould she ever make enough money at her job to afford a better place? London was so hideously expensive these days, yet no one with aspirations to a career in acting could afford not to live here.

  The black silk sarong was the first thing she found when she opened her big suitcase.

  She lifted the dress out, and stared at it, grey eyes sombre. The faint smell of the Giorgio Armani perfume was still on it, reminding her poignantly of her last night in Jamaica.

  The night before last? It all seemed to have happened an eternity ago. His kisses, his touch. The way he'd asked her to sail away into the mists of romance with him ...

  Would he ever get back in touch with her?

  She was starting to have a terrible feeling that she would never hear from Kyle Hart again.

  Why should he bother to get back in touch with her, anyway? She'd left no invitation for him to do so. In fact, that note might be construed as deliberately final. She thought back, biting her full lower lip, and wished she could remember exactly what she'd said.

  Five o'clock in the morning, under the influence of Jamaican rum and Kyle's kisses, had not been exactly the best time for balanced literary composition.

  Had she made it more harsh than she'd wanted to?

  Had she really envisaged her return here as being like this, with no possibility of ever seeing Kyle again?

  Suddenly, she dropped the black dress and ran to the telephone. She had the San Antonio's number in her diary, and she hunted frantically through the telephone book to find the STD code for Jamaica.

  She dialled the number, and sat tensely by the telephone. It would be eight o'clock in Jamaica right now. She would start off by apologising for that ridiculous note. Or trying to apologise. God, he must be feeling so awful by now. She just hoped he would listen to her. Then she would tell him exactly how she felt about him,

  how much he meant to her. Then she would ask him to—`San Antonio Hotel, can I help you?'

  `Hello! This is Sophie Aspen, calling from England. I've been staying in room for the past three weeks—'

  `Yes, Miss Aspen,' the receptionist said brightly. 'Have you left any personal property behind? Anything we can do?'

  `No, I haven't left anything. I'd like to speak to Mr Kyle Hart, if I might.'

  Òh, Miss Aspen, you've missed Mr Hart.'

  `Has he gone somewhere?'

  `He checked out yesterday,' the receptionist replied.

  `Checked out?' she gasped. 'Where has he gone to?'

  Ì have no idea, I'm afraid. He informed Reception he was leaving right after breakfast, and that's what he did. I could take a message, in case he gets back in touch with us, but he didn't say he was going to.'

  Ìf he does get in touch,' Sophie said tautly, 'will you ask him to telephone me, please?'

  She left her number, and went back to her unpacking with a dark sense of acute frustration. Where had he gone to? What did his suddenly checking out like that mean?

  She worried miserably for half an hour. Then reaction set in to her mood of loss. Damn it, girl! She made herself a cup of coffee, cursing herself. Forget him, for God's sake.

  He's a shallow, heartless, careless man, to whom you mean no more than a snap of his fingers. Forget him. You've got him out of your system at last; be content with that.

  He was never the man for you. Don't let your head be turned a second time!

  Forcing herself to face hard practicality, she set about finishing off the cleaning job Mrs Flanagan had started.

  There were two telephone calls that evening.

  The first, which arrived midway during her dinner of salad and cheese, had her scrambling for the phone, her heart pounding in the expectation that it would be from

  Kyle. It wasn't. It was from her mother in Scarborough, to check that she'd arrived safely back.

  `You don't sound very cheerful, darling,' she commented, after listening to Sophie's rather lacklustre assurances that the holiday had been enjoyable. 'Maybe you should have had someone to keep you company, after all.'

  `To tell the truth,' Sophie admitted, 'I'm just not feeling all that jolly.'

  `Disappointed it's all over?'

  Ìn a way. And I think I might be getting one of those summer colds ...'

  `Poor thing! Get an early night. We're all so excited about the film. I just wish you were able to come home to watch it with us.'

  `So do I,' Sophie sighed. 'But I just can't. I'm scheduled to be working on the commercial that day, and the next.'

  Òur baby, on television,' her mother marvelled. 'I still can't get over it.'

  `You'll get a shock when you see me in The Elmtree Road Murders,' she warned. Her family hadn't seen her while she'd been playing Maisie, and didn't know what to expect. 'Just remember that I'm not in a very flattering role.'

  `W e're expecting the worst,' came the laughing reply. Às long as we can recognise you. Darling, your cousin wants to come down and stay with you.'

  `Jenny?:

  `Yes. She'll be on holiday from next week, and you know how she loves London.'

  Ì do,' Sophie said, a shade wryly. That was all she needed right now. She really wasn't in the mood to have her vivacious and rather spoilt younger cousin to stay. Jenny on holiday was, at best, something of a handful, and previous visits had left Sophie exhausted. But blood was thicker than water.

  Ìf you're too busy to have her—' her mother began.

  `No, no. I'll be working during the day from the thirteenth to the sixteenth, but apart from that I'll be free. Tell her I'd love to have her.'

  Àre you sure?'

  `Yes, of course! Tell her to come down as soon as she can.'

  `She'll be thrilled. You get yourself into bed now, and take an aspirin. My bet is you'll be right as rain tomorrow. Goodbye, darling.'

  "Bye, Mum.'

  By the time the second call came at nine, she was less sanguine in her hopes. It wasn't from Kyle, either, but from Joey Gilmour, Sophie's agent.

  `W elcome back to civilisation,' he boomed. 'I nearly rang you in Ocho Rios!'

  `W hy, what's the news?'

  Ònly two separate and distinct movie directors anxious to secure your services, that's all.'

  `Joey!'

  `W ell, don't get too excited. Neither of them's Steven Spielberg. But apparently word's getting round about the great performance you put in for The Elmtree Road Murders.

  The people who've seen the edited tapes say you're sensational. I knew you would be.

  Come round to my office tomorrow at ten, and I'll tell you all about it.'

  Òh, please tell me about it now,' she begged, sitting down by the phone with bright eyes. 'Who are they? What are the films?'

  `The directors are John Payne and Franco Luciani.' `Never heard of them,' Sophie said, slightly disappointed.

  `They're both young and relatively unknown,' Joey replied, 'except in arty circles.

  However, they've turned in good work recently. I've seen both scripts, and they aren't bad.'

  Ànd the roles?'

  Ìn John Payne's script you'd be playing a psychopath. You go around posing as a nurse,
and murdering your patients.'

  Ùgh! And in the other?'

  `The other role's a young drug addict, called Marjorie. You die tragically just as you discover love. It'll be filmed in Italy, in Pisa. That's where Franco Luciani comes from'

  `W hat language is the script in?'

  Ènglish. The exciting thing is that this is a lead role.'

  `W ow,' she laughed. 'I can't believe it. I've never even met this man, and he wants me to play the lead in his next film?'

  `He's very keen about you, and apparently his backers agree. He's had access to some of the Elmtree Road tapes, and he's very impressed. Quote: "If she can do that, she can do anything," unquote!'

  `Gosh! I don't know what to say.'

  `There are various problems,' Joey cautioned. 'For one thing, he's working on a very small budget. I've checked out his backers, and they haven't given him much leeway.

  His last film was praised to the skies by the critics, but it didn't make a penny at the box-office, so this is something of a shoestring operation. That means that he's not in a position to pay anything like the fee you got for Elmtree Road. On the other hand, nor is John Payne. Frankly, if we wait around, we'll probably get better offers. But I'll give you the scripts next week, Sophie. I've got them down here in my office. You can have a think about them both'

  ÒK'

  `So how was Jamaica?'

  Òh, it was beautiful. I had a lovely time.'

  `You can show me your holiday snaps next week. And I'll fill you in on all the gossip since you've been away. You must be worn out. Sleep well, Sarah Bernhardt!'

  Kyle didn't get in touch that night, nor through the week that followed. She rang the San Antonio, just to be sure, but he hadn't been back in touch with the hotel. They had no idea where he might be.

  She went to see Joey Gilmour, to pick up the scripts and discuss her prospects.

  `There's no rush to accept either part,' Joey counselled. 'If we wait a month or two, you might get an offer of a part you like better. In fact, you might get a whole lot of offers!'

  `That seems a little callous—'

  Ìt's a hard world, Sophie! Frankly, I think these two young guys have both had the same idea—to get in before you become hot property, which may just happen after The Elmtree Road Murders is screened next month. They're both working on very limited budgets, and they aren't exactly offering top dollar, either of them. They want a talented actress at a cheap fee, and that isn't so easy these days.'

  Àm I really a talented actress?'

  `You tell me,' Joey smiled. 'I think you're very talented. You'd be making much less than you did for the BBC, and working for a longer period. On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt your reputation to work for either of these two guys. They have something of a cult following in intellectual circles, and they could be the Fellinis or the Viscontis of the future.'

  `Can we afford to put them off? Two job offers is two more than I've ever had, even to play a drug addict and a psychopath!'

  `Yes,' Joey said, more soberly. 'That's something else. I know you're afraid of being typecast, after Maisie. We don't want you to be playing oddball parts for the rest of your career. So we'll have to think about this situation in role terms, as well.'

  Òh,' she replied. 'I'm delighted about this, Joey, don't get me w rong. But you're right. I do want to pick my next part carefully.'

  'Of course you do. And I'm here to help. You go and read those scripts, and have a think. Remember, I can only give advice. The final decision is down to you.'

  Sophie started reading the scripts that afternoon, and tried to think logically about the future. But really, she was concerned with little else but Kyle, wondering what he was doing, whether he had taken that tour of the Caribbean with Emma after all, whether he had returned from Jamaica yet, whether he would forgive her for her deception.

  Wondering whether he would ring.

  The only answer to those questions was the silence that deepened, day by day, as the weekend approached.

  By the following Sunday, there had still been no phone call, no visit, no letter. Nothing.

  The days passed, and with each one, a little something died inside Sophie.

  Seldom had time passed in such depression for her.

  And she had plenty of time to fill in before she started work on the commercial. She had her hair cut and styled, after agreeing with the art director of the advertising agency, into a fairly short modern style that showed off her slender neck, but left plenty of glossy chestnut curls to frame her face.

  She also, at the same art director's instigation, paid two visits to beauty clinics for a facial, and to get her eyebrows shaped.

  She re-read both scripts carefully. John Payne's script, about the psychopathic nurse, was violent and bloody, and didn't ring any bells with her at all. But the other one did.

  Franco Luciani, whoever he was, had written his own sensitive and very touching script, based on a recent novel called The First Day of Autumn. The film was to have the same title. The more Sophie read the script, the more im pressed she was. It was a simple story: a young English girl who can't shake her addiction to heroin goes to Italy, meets and falls in love with a good-looking Italian boy who tries to save her, but dies in the end, leaving him heartbroken. The central role of Marjorie, the young

  drug-addict, was a good one, anyone with any feel for drama could see that at a glance, and the script as a whole had the feel of a prospect that would succeed. It was a contemporary love story. It was moving, it was glamorous, and it was exciting.

  In short, Sophie had the feeling that it was a winner. Discussions with Joey confirmed that he was not so sanguine, believing that she could get far more money if she waited. But he had another bit of news about the film.

  `The male lead is going to be Luigi Canotta.'

  `W ow,' Sophie said appreciatively. Though Canotta was not all that well known in England, he was very much a rising star in Italy. He was also a strikingly handsome man, and something of a younger generation sex symbol.

  `Yeah,' Joey-grinned, watching her expression. 'Very good-looking, and quite a man.

  You'd be in good company, at any rate.'

  However, they confirmed their decision to hold off giving any reply, or even meeting the director, until The Elmtree Road Murders was screened.

  Ì'll stall him for another couple of weeks,' Joey said, ànd see what turns up. In the meantime, I've told him you're reading the script and thinking about it.'

  The weekend dragged by in an infinity of loneliness and nostalgia. She was haunted by thoughts of Kyle.

  Thoughts of his kindness and humour, the fun they'd shared.

  Thoughts of his incredible physical appeal for her. That was the hardest thing to forget.

  Images of his beauty had been stamped into her mind forever, memories of that tanned, muscled body, and the way it had loved her.

  She lay in bed, suffocating and restless with the burning heat of the passion he'd awoken in her, remembering the dizzy intimacy of their caresses until she thought she would go mad with frustrated desire.

  There was no release, only an increasing imprisonment with her own hunger for Kyle.

  Where was he? Why didn't he call or write, if only to abuse her with angry names?

  Jenny arrived to stay on Monday, looking prettier than ever, announcing that she would stay for four or five weeks.

  Ìs that too long?' she asked, innocent blue eyes wide.

  Òf course not,' Sophie smiled. 'We never see each other these days. How're things at university?'

  `Marvellous. I'm having this wild affair with one of the lecturers,' she confided gaily to a shocked Sophie. Òh, don't look like that! He's practically old enough to be my father.'

  Ànd that makes it better?'

  Àt least he isn't in the maths department,' she said with a giggle. 'Anyway, I prefer older men—that way it can't ever get very serious, can it?' Jenny said practically, and plunged into the steamy details o
f her love-life.

  Sophie, acutely conscious of her own inexperience, listened in alternating amusement and horror. How had Jenny grown into such an uninhibited womanhood, while she herself, two years older, was still a virgin? How did Jenny always manage to be the one in control of her relationships with men, while Sophie's only real love-affair with a man had just ended in disaster?

  From the day of her arrival, the telephone glowed red-hot from Jenny's breathy, interminable phone calls to men, and not just to the love-lorn lecturer in York, either—there seemed to be at least four on the go.

  Despite their differences of temperament, they had always been good friends. And the presence of her unashamedly frivolous, flirtatious cousin for company was a distraction, in some measure, from her inner ache about Kyle.

  Jenny got her out of the flat, too. They went to all the latest shows, Sophie getting tickets through friends in the profession, met a lot of acquaintances, and went to their

  fair share of parties—all of which gave Jenny the idea that being an out-of-work actress was a better deal than being employed in any other profession.

  On the thirteenth, two days before the screening of The Elmtree Road Murders, Sophie stopped being an out-of-work actress, and started filming for the television commercial.

  It was scarcely demanding work: her part consisted of sitting practically naked in a bathtub of foamy water, lathering various parts of her body, with a dreamy expression on her face.

  Jenny, whom she wangled on to the set to watch the performance, was amused.

  `You're going to have the cleanest right arm in London,' she announced after the seventeenth retake of Sophie soaping her arm. 'Darling, I'm sure I could do that just as well as you!'

  Sophie, shivering slightly in her bathrobe, shrugged. Ì'm sure you could.'

  `W hy do they keep doing the same bit over and over again?'

  Àdvertising work is so meticulous. They get less than a minute to put their message over—a very expensive minute. So every second has to be perfect. But it can be rather dull.'