by Liz Fielding
Could that really have all been just an act? He could scarcely believe it. And yet she had said as much, denied nothing.
She had seduced him, drawn him in, had invited him to make love to her and she had done it so cleverly that all the time he thought he was the one conducting the orchestra. And when Melanie had interrupted she had still been in control, had still been pulling his strings because when he saw how upset she was, he had nothing else in his head but the desire to protect her.
Despite the cold he broke into a sweat as he recalled the gut-wrenching concern when he realised she had left the party without a word, his mad drive down to Broomhill, expecting any moment to see that crazy old E-type upended in a ditch, his relief when he found her car parked on the promenade. And when he realised he couldn’t get at her he had left that note. What an idiot he had been! Thank God she hadn’t read it.
Then he stopped.
Why had she thrown it in the bin unread? That was rather odd, surely? In her position most women would have wanted to revel in their triumph. Or maybe it just hadn’t mattered that much to her. Maybe it was just business, sex as a reward for bailing her father out of a sticky situation, not as he had so naively thought, simple, uncomplicated desire.
Instead of Fizz Beaumont’s heart lying shattered in his hand, the trophy he had sought to lie on his sister’s grave along with Claudia Beaumont’s brilliant career and Edward Beaumont’s reputation, he was the one left feeling used and heart sore.
Well, they would see.
They would see.
‘Luke?’ He turned to regard the car that had drawn up alongside him and Melanie’s concerned face looking up at him. ‘What are you doing walking?’ He didn’t answer and she opened the door and climbed out to stand beside him. ‘Come on, get in.’ She took his hand. ‘You’re freezing.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, absently. ‘But thanks for stopping.’
He climbed into the back of the car, saw Melanie and Andy exchange a glance. Then he shut his eyes and began to think again about Felicity Beaumont.
If he had been that wrong, he decided, he had missed something. Something important. He would have to go back to the beginning. What had happened with Patrick March?
*****
Luke looked up from the folder in his hand to the man sitting before him. According to the sheet of paper in front of him Patrick March was thirty-three years old, but he looked nearer forty. It would take more than a salon tan to disguise a cocaine habit, alcohol abuse and a mouth that in repose wore a naturally bitter expression. Patrick, conscious of the scrutiny, shifted uneasily in his chair.
‘It’s a long time since you’ve done any film work, Patrick,’ he said, finally.
‘I’ve never been out of work.’ Luke waited. Fizz would have recognised the technique, although perhaps not the Australian accent he had adopted for the interview. ‘Mostly in the States of course. Sitcoms, adverts, summer stock.’ Again the silence descended. ‘I did a couple of films a few years back.’
‘Is that why you stayed in America? In the hope of more film work? I have the press cuttings your agent sent me.’ He looked up, his expression deceptively mild. ‘Of course they’re rather old, but they’re very flattering. You looked set for big things, Patrick. What happened?’ Patrick’s shrug was studied, diffident, the kind of gesture to portray that there was something else, inviting the onlooker to probe a little deeper. Luke obliged. ‘You did have a part starring in a film with…’ He glanced at the papers in front of him. ‘Felicity Beaumont?’ He frowned thoughtfully, wondering if acting could be infectious. It was hard to tell who was working harder at playing a part. ‘Is she any relation to Claudia Beaumont?’
‘She’s her sister, her younger sister. Claudia’s okay. I mean she can act,’ he said, generously. ‘I guess Fizz was given the part because, well, I guess they hoped her name would ensure reviews, get plenty of publicity. Another Beaumont takes the stage. All that stuff.’
Luke buried his resentment at this man’s casual use of Fizz. ‘It happens,’ Luke agreed, apparently sympathetic. ‘The film was never finished? Why?’
Patrick appeared to hesitate, a man apparently torn between gossip and discretion. It might have been genuine; Luke had no idea how good an actor the man was. It didn’t really matter.
He knew that Patrick March was desperate for work and that he would succumb to the need to justify what had happened, so he waited patiently until the he gave a helpless little shrug and grinned.
‘Oh, well it was all a long time ago. The truth is Fizz had a bit of a crush on me.’
The grin gave him an oddly boyish charm. And Luke had seen the old publicity photographs. Even now, with the telltale marks of disappointment etched into his still handsome face he could see how girls might easily have a crush on Patrick March.
‘A bit of a crush?’ His manner suggested disbelief.
‘A bit? Did I say a bit? The truth is it was off the scale crazy. I suppose I should have seen it coming. I mean she was a good looking kid, eager to learn and I went out of my way to help her, but I had a steady relationship with one of the make-up girls.’ He gave Luke a knowing look. ‘I got her a job on the crew so that we could be together in Italy. Fizz Beaumont did everything she could to break it up.’
Luke felt his heart sinking. He had wanted to be wrong. He would have liked to look this man in the face and call him a liar. But Fizz hadn’t been exactly subtle in her attempts to shoehorn Melanie out of his life. ‘It must have been difficult for you,’ he encouraged.
‘It wasn’t funny. She practically cornered me in my caravan, began tearing off her clothes, all over me like a rash. When I wouldn’t play ball she had hysterics, refused to carry on with the film, acted just like the spoiled brat she was.’
Luke’s mouth flooded with saliva and for a moment he felt physically sick. It took all his willpower to reach for the glass of water on the table in front of him and sip it while he carefully blotted out the memory of Fizz sliding down the zip of her dress, stepping out of it and throwing herself at him.
‘The director even suggested I should play along with her, just to get the film back on the road, you know. Of course I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been right.’
‘No.’
‘Poor kid. I felt sorry for her really. Her sister had to come and take her home and the whole thing was hushed up. Her father saw to that. They said she had developed a virus or something.’ ‘And the film folded?’
‘There just wasn’t enough money to start again from scratch.’
‘That was very hard on you.’
‘It didn’t do her career much good either. At least I’ve been working. She’s never set foot on a sound stage since.’ He wasn’t able to disguise his satisfaction.
Luke, too, discovered that hiding his feelings was increasingly difficult, that smiling was too much effort. Even talking to the man was more than he could bear.
He stood up, indicating that the interview was over, but didn’t offer his hand.
‘Thank you for coming to see me at such short notice, Patrick. I’ll be in touch if we decide to go ahead with the project. In the meantime Phillip will refund your expenses.’
*****
‘Well?’ Phillip Devlin demanded a few minutes later, after he had seen Patrick March out of his office. ‘Did you discover anything?’
Luke regarded his cousin thoughtfully. ‘Only that talking to Mr Patrick March has left me with a very strong urge to take a shower.’
‘Maybe that’s enough.’
‘Maybe.’ Luke would have liked it to be enough. But he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he had been listening to an eerie echo of what had happened at the party.
Was that the reason Fizz had looked afraid when he had first met her? Why she seemed to veer between fire and ice? Did she have a terrible weakness that she tried desperately hard to control? And just occasionally something snapped? Fizz, bang.
‘Maybe he just took a knock
at that moment when the scales are evenly balanced between success and failure. A well received film, Phillip, an opportunity to show what he could do and we’d have to join the queue and pay good money to see him perform. Instead it all went wrong. So now his agent will send him to talk to anyone about work, even an unheard of producer who hints at a minor role in an unlikely drama series set on the other side of the world. What expenses did he claim?’
‘A first class fare from Perth.’ Phillip smiled as Luke’s eyebrows rocketed upwards. ‘Perth in Scotland. According to Mr March he interrupted a golfing holiday to see you.’
‘How good of him. What else?’
‘Overnight at Brown’s and thirty pounds for taxis.’
‘Only thirty pounds?’ Luke smiled. ‘I fully expected fifty. But added together not a bad fee for half an hour of his time. I do hope you didn’t embarrass him by asking for receipts.’
‘Perish the thought.’ Fizz would have been surprised by Phillip’s sudden grin. ‘And this way he’s left with the very unsatisfactory feeling that he might have got away with more. Are you staying in town tonight?’
‘No, Phillip. I’ve got to get straight back. There are things to be done at home.’
‘Home? Broomhill? You mean you’re serious about setting up your headquarters there?’
‘I’ve got to decide on somewhere, I’ve camped out in your offices for long enough. And I want to expand Harries, develop the site to its full potential.’
‘Is that altogether wise? I mean, will you be able to stay on after you’ve given the Beaumonts the coupe de grace?’
‘I rather think it’s a question of whether Edward Beaumont will want to remain in Broomhill, don’t you?’
*****
Fizz arrived at the script conference hoping that the cast would be keen to proffer ideas about how best to use Melanie, because her own brain, deprived of sleep, seemed to consist entirely of cotton wool.
Melanie had given her a strange look when she arrived. Once or twice since she had looked up from the pad she was doodling on to find herself the subject of further scrutiny. But nothing was said.
The debate, fuelled by coffee, largely flowed over her until she was brought back from a distant and totally blank space in her head. The one place where she was comfortable.
‘Fizz?’ She roused herself. ‘Can we go ahead with that? Or do you want to speak to your father about it?’
Fizz who had once or twice nodded helpfully or murmured assent when it had seemed appropriate, had no idea what she was being asked to agree to. She discovered that she didn’t care very much.
‘Well I think it’s a brilliant idea. Edward will love it.’ The old character actress who had retired to the seaside and now supplemented her pension by playing a post woman, a lady vicar and the mostly dignified, but occasionally drunk wife of a publican in “Holiday Bay”, was adamant.
Fizz took her word for it. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’
There was a sigh of contentment from around the table and she looked up in surprise. It must have been a great idea. The husband and wife team who wrote “Holiday Bay”, another pair of retired thespians who had turned their hands to writing when work had been hard to come by, gathered their notes and promising the scripts by the end of the week, threw her a smile before disappearing through the door.
The others lingered over coffee and realising she couldn’t put it off, Fizz turned to Melanie. ‘I don’t believe I thanked you properly for the party. I’m sure everyone will be talking about it for months.’
‘You didn’t stay very long. I thought perhaps you weren’t enjoying yourself.’
‘Oh, I was. But the radio station is a bit like a baby. A seven day a week job.’ Melanie continued to regard her with big concerned eyes. ‘I hope you beat the curfew last night,’ she said, refusing to admit that she only wanted to hear that Luke had arrived home safely. Why she should care she didn’t know. But she did.
‘Only just. We picked Luke up on the way. It was terribly cold to be walking.’
‘He said he wanted to get a breath of fresh air.’ Fizz realised she was twisting her hair around the end of her finger, a nervous habit she thought she had grown out off. Self-consciously she tugged her finger free. ‘I hope he didn’t catch a chill?’
Melanie shrugged. ‘I didn’t see him this morning. He drove up to town first thing.’ Fizz nodded, relieved that he was out of Broomhill, at least for the day.
‘Fizz, did you two have a row or something last night?’ That was the trouble with the young, Fizz thought. They didn’t beat about the bush. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’ve never seen Luke looking like that before.’
Like what?
‘I think “or something” would probably best cover it. Just a few crossed wires, nothing for you to worry about, Melanie. Really.’ She made an effort to move the conversation into safer water. ‘Did you have a good time on Sunday with Andy?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘Luke says I shouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him, but I think he’s really nice.’
‘Well, Luke may have a point. He’s not that nice.’
Melanie laughed out loud. ‘You don’t have to warn me, Fizz. There isn’t a man born who’s that nice.’ Then, more gravely, she added, ‘Except Luke.’ She looked suddenly shy and dropping her eyes, gave a childishly awkward little shrug. ‘I’d better go. Claudia said they are recording some more episodes today and I want to really get the feel of things before I jump in next week.’
‘Of course.’
Fizz continued to sit in the conference room for some time after everyone had left. She couldn’t get over the feeling that Melanie had, very gently, rebuked her for not driving Luke home.
She sighed. Being an agony aunt was a thankless task she decided. She remembered thinking that it might be a good idea to run advice slots, perhaps in conjunction with the lunchtime music programme. Cutting down on the music would help reduce the fees for broadcasting rights.
If it’s Monday it must be Money, she wrote. Then crossed it out. She wondered if the dour Mr Nicholson at the bank could be flattered into taking part for free. No. That wouldn’t do. It would have to be someone impartial.
She threw down her pen in disgust. The trouble was, she really didn’t care. For the first time since the station was up and running she just didn’t care.
She got up, suddenly desperate to get away and blundered into Susie. ‘Oh, here you are. There are a pile of messages on your desk.’ She didn’t stop. ‘Fizz?’
‘You deal with them. I need some air.’
‘You could open your window.’ But Fizz was already half way across the foyer. ‘Don’t forget the Trust meeting at two.’
Damn, damn, damn. She had completely forgotten about it, but she couldn’t give it a miss. They had to decide who would be invited to replace Michael Harries on the board.
She had been going to drive up to the Downs and walk. Instead she turned into the restaurant and found a table tucked away in a corner.
‘Hello, Miss Beaumont. Are you going to help yourself from the buffet, or shall I ask John to whip you up an omelette or something?’
‘Just a cup of tea, thanks Janice. I’ve just come in to escape the office for a few minutes.’
‘Right you are, dear. I’ll take all this cutlery out of your way, shall I? That was a nasty bit of old weather we had on Saturday night. You don’t expect it down here, do you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Although I expect our young Australian friend enjoyed the snow while it lasted.’ She was looking out of the window and with a sense of foreboding Fizz followed her gaze.
Melanie was laughing at something. Something Luke had said to her as they stopped by the window. She held her breath, uttered a short prayer, to no avail. Luke opened the door and something squeezed tightly in her chest.
‘The kitchen…’ she managed to croak out, scrambling to her feet as Melanie’s voice drifted
in on the wind.
Janice nodded. ‘If you say so, dear.’
John looked up briefly from an omelette he was bringing to perfection but said nothing as she sank onto a chair set at a small table laid for one. He turned it onto a plate, garnished it with watercress and placed it on the hot counter, then he turned and gave her his undivided attention. ‘Couldn’t you wait for Janice to take your order?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry to invade your kitchen at lunch time but I’m seeking sanctuary,’ she said.
‘Why, what have you done?’
‘Done?’
‘I thought criminals sought sanctuary in the church.’
‘Two steaks, chef. Very rare. And green salad with dill dressing, for Miss Brett,’ Janice said. ‘If it gets about that she’s eating here regularly, it’ll be good for business.’
‘I’ll put a sign up, shall I?’ John said with a grin. ‘Eat with the stars of “Holiday Bay” at the Pavilion Restaurant.’ He looked at Fizz slyly. ‘Or not, as the case may be.’
‘I’m not avoiding Melanie.’
‘No. I didn’t think you were.’ He picked up an alarmingly large knife and took two steaks from the fridge. ‘I’m glad you dropped by, though. I was going to come up and see you later. This way we can have lunch together. I’ve already opened a bottle of my special reserve.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’re celebrating something.’ He didn’t answer. ‘You’re not going to give notice are you, John?’
He finished trimming the steaks and after dipping them in hot melted butter put them on the griddle. Then he fetched a bottle of red Bordeaux that he had opened an hour earlier in readiness for the peace that descended just before one-thirty, when it was suddenly just a bit too late to order lunch and still too early to think of tea.
He poured Fizz a glass. It was warm and rich in colour.
‘Now, tell me what you think of that,’ he said, as he finished the steaks and a moment later laid them on a plate. She obediently took a sip of the wine. ‘Take a proper mouthful,’ he advised, apparently capable of seeing through the back of his chef’s hat.
