Читать книгу Voice of the Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 21

Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.

Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wood in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.

Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.

Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.

‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.

‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’

Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’

‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’

‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’

Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who were propping up the bar, and then tucked her gloves in her bag to keep them clean, as she always did. She was glad she had chosen the Arlington Club, commonly known as ‘Joe’s’ after the bartender, who was something of a character and had a large following. It was an intimate and congenial spot, patronized by well-known newspapermen, writers and film people. Also, being located in Arlington Street, directly opposite the Caprice, it was a popular watering hole for stars, directors and producers, who dropped in for a drink either before or after lunch at the Caprice. For all these reasons, Katharine thought it was an excellent place to be seen, and also to observe.

‘Here you are, Miss Tempest,’ said Joe, placing the mimosa before her. ‘And thanks again for the tickets. I loved you in the play. You were right smashing.’

‘Why thank you, Joe. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Katharine said.

Joe went to take orders from two new arrivals, whom Katharine knew to be the editor of the Sunday Express and the paper’s show business columnist, John Logan. The latter had interviewed her and written a glowing story, and he was something of a fan, both professionally and personally. She returned their friendly waves and smiles, and then shifted her position slightly on the stool and took a sip of her drink. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and immediately changed her mind, thinking of her throat.

Katharine worried a great deal about her health, since she had a somewhat delicate constitution, and was particularly prone to chest colds and bronchial attacks. Her throat was no longer sore, but she did not want the condition to recur, especially with the screen test imminent; smoking was hardly conducive to the crystal-clear tones she had perfected so assiduously.

At the age of twenty-one Katharine was already a highly complex young woman, and there was a curious duality in her personality, as Nicholas Latimer suspected. Talented to a point of true brilliance, she nonetheless strove endlessly to perfect her craft in ways not always necessary, and despite her immense belief in herself there were times when she was in need of reassurance about her acting ability. Sweet of nature, she had an understanding heart and great generosity of spirit, and would go to extraordinary lengths to help a friend or colleague. She was loyal, devoted and considerate almost to a fault, and nothing was ever too much trouble for her. Yet cold calculation, self-interest, and a ruthless determination to get her own way at all costs, stamped the reverse side of this otherwise glittering medallion, and she had no qualms about using anyone to suit her own ends.

And now, as she sat at the bar, toying with her drink, her mind turned once again to the material she would use for the test, the words she would say. She knew she had to compel and convince in a way she never had before. Everything depended on that. Damn, she thought, if only Nicholas Latimer hadn’t been so difficult and indifferent, I wouldn’t be facing this problem today. She was wondering what stratagem to use, to get the material adapted, when a voice behind her said, ‘You’re Katharine Tempest, aren’t you?’

Katharine swung her head swiftly, and found herself staring at a heavy-set girl with a florid complexion and the brightest of carrot-red hair. She was a vision, if a somewhat eccentric one, in a suit of violent purple and a small emerald felt hat with a long purple feather. What a strange outfit, Katharine thought, but said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ A crease puckered her brow. For a moment she was at a loss, and unable to identify the girl. Then she exclaimed. ‘And of course, you’re Estelle Morgan! How are you?’ Katharine extended her hand, smiling warmly. Adept at self-promotion, she was never one to slight a journalist. Even those she considered to be insignificant were treated to a very large and compelling dose of the inimitable Tempest charm, since they might be important one day and therefore useful.

The carrot-haired girl took hold of Katharine’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grinning with delight. ‘I’m feeling pretty dandy. And how lovely of you to remember me, a famous actress like you.’

How could anyone possibly forget you, Katharine thought to herself. But she wisely bit this back, and murmured sweetly, ‘You’re very striking, you know.’

Estelle positively glowed. ‘Didn’t we meet at Lady Winner’s bash, or was it at the Duke’s? Bedford, that is.’

Katharine laughed, inwardly tickled at the unabashed name-dropping, and shook her head, still laughing, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I think we were introduced at the party John Standisti gave for Terry Ogden a few months ago.’

‘That’s right! And you looked absolutely ravishing in a little black number and lots of pearls. In fact, I said so to Hilary Pierce, and she agreed you were the chicest, most beautiful woman there. I like Hilary, she’s a lovely girl, although I thought she was behaving in a dippy way that night, didn’t you?’

Katharine’s eyes widened, and she stared back at Estelle, a blank expression on her face. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

Estelle volunteered, with considerable glee, ‘Oh, but I saw it all! Why, Hilary spent the entire evening drooling over Terry. Mind you, I can’t say I blame her. He’s something to drool over. But I thought, at the time, it was a good thing Mark was off shooting a film somewhere in darkest Africa or India. I think he would have been pretty jealous if he’d witnessed their performance.’

Katharine’s ears had pricked up at the mention of Hilary Pierce in connection with Terry Ogden. An unlikely combination, she said to herself. She was riddled with curiosity about the incident, but she thought it wiser to curb her inquisitiveness and not probe Estelle for further details. Instead she tucked the information away at the back of her mind, for future reference, and said, ‘I’m afraid I missed that particular scene. Still, I do remember one thing. If I’m correct, you’re a columnist for an American magazine, aren’t you?’

‘What a fabulous memory you do have! Yes I write for several American magazines. I’m the roving European correspondent for them, on a freelance basis. I’m mainly covering café society, the beau monde, you know, and show business as well.’

It had become apparent to Katharine that Estelle Morgan was intent on hovering and not about to budge, and so she said pleasantly, ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Oooh! How super-duper of you. Yes, thanks.’ She heaved herself on to the next stool and, pointing an emerald-gloved hand at Katharine’s drink, cried, ‘What’s that?’

Katharine winced inside at her gaucherie, and said, ‘It’s a mimosa. Mainly champagne and orange juice. Why don’t you try it. It’s delicious.’

‘That’s a fab idea. I think I will.’

Katharine motioned to Joe for two more of the same, and then she focused all her attention on Estelle, radiating charm. She gave her the benefit of that most glittering of smiles, and said, ‘Your job must be lots of fun. Do you find plenty to write about in London?’

‘Sure. But although this is my base for the moment, I do a lot, of flitting around.’ She giggled. ‘Gay Paree. Monte. Biarritz. Rome. Venice. I hit all the high spots, in the appropriate season of course. Chasing the beau monde, Katharine.’ She emitted another high-pitched giggle, and asked, ‘I can call you Katharine, can’t I?’

‘Naturally, Estelle,’ Katharine replied quickly, deciding it would be smart to cater to the journalist’s most patent desire to be chummy.

‘I thought you were divine in Trojan Interlude. Absolutely divine!’ Estelle exclaimed. Her manner was fawning, and she kept giving Katharine admiring glances. ‘I expect you’re going to have a long run in the play, but I must tell you, when I saw you on stage it occurred to me you ought to be in pictures.’ She peered myopically at Katharine, and asked, ‘Any films coming up in the near future?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But then one never knows in this business, does one?’ Katharine murmured. Inwardly she cautioned herself to be cagey with Estelle.

‘No, one doesn’t.’ And unexpectedly Estelle winked in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘I saw you dining with Victor Mason at the River Club a few weeks ago. I wondered at the time if you might be going to make a picture with him. Are you his next co-star? Or is this relationship strictly personal?’

Katharine stiffened slightly, irritated by this last remark, but she kept her voice pleasant and neutral. ‘We’re just good friends,’ she answered with a small off-handed smile.

‘That’s the stock remark everyone makes,’ Estelle chortled. ‘I can’t help being nosey, I’m afraid. Occupational hazard. However, I don’t work for Confidential, so you don’t have to worry about little old me.’

‘I’m not,’ Katharine replied, a frosty note edging into her voice. ‘And Victor and I really are only good friends, that’s all. Oh, thanks, Joe,’ she added as the drinks materialized in front of them.

Joe moved away, and Estelle picked up her mimosa. ‘Skol!’

Katharine said, ‘Cheers, Estelle.’ She took a small swallow and gave the journalist a long look that was quizzical. After a short pause, she asked cautiously, ‘What made you mention Confidential} That’s an awful magazine, devoted to exposés of movie stars and celebrities. There’s nothing to expose about me. Or Victor for that matter. Or the two of us together, I might add.’ The second this last sentence left her mouth, Katharine silently chastised herself. I’ve said too much, she thought.

Estelle had detected a mixture of concern and genuine puzzlement in Katharine’s manner, and she said in a confiding whisper, ‘I guess you didn’t know, but Arlene Mason is suing Victor for a divorce. I understand she’s the bitch of all time. Anyway, she seems out to make trouble and is demanding a fortune. And I mean a fortune. Under California law she might just get it too. Community property and all that. It seems she has a lot of juicy things to say about Victor’s extra-marital love affairs with a number of delectable ladies, and I do mean juicy! She’s babbling away to all and sundry who will listen, particularly journalists. As I said, most of us think she’s a bitch on wheels, and that she’s out to embarrass Victor by creating a public scandal. But he does happen to have a lot of loyal friends in the press, so she won’t get to first base. But you might warn him that Confidential seems to be paying attention to her. In fact, I heard on the grapevine that they’re looking for a journalist to do a piece on him and his romantic activities in merry old England.’

Although Katharine knew Victor was having trouble with his divorce, she was both taken aback and troubled by this additional information. However, uncertain of Estelle’s motives, she concealed her reaction behind a bland façade, and said, after a slight hesitation, ‘I knew about his divorce, but not the details. And I must say, it’s very nice of you to pass on the information about the magazine. I will warn Victor. I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative.’

‘My pleasure,’ Estelle said, lifting her drink and glancing about, looking star struck, as indeed she was.

There was a soft disarming smile on Katharine’s lovely face as she regarded Estelle, but her mind was working with icy precision. She was considering the journalist with great objectivity at this moment. Was Estelle sincere in wanting to warn Victor? Or was she dissembling to cover her own tracks? Estelle might very well be working for Confidential herself. Suddenly, instinct and her well-honed perception, told Katharine otherwise. She had already discerned that Estelle was a flatterer, and unctuous, and, very transparently, a sycophant who preferred to make the famous her friends rather than her enemies. She was also a bit dim. Without deliberating further, Katharine made a snap judgment and decided to take a chance on Estelle. It also struck her that if possible she ought to find a way to totally neutralize her, whilst making use of her if she could. Girls like Estelle, who fed off their associations with the famous, were often invaluable, and they never really minded being used. The flatterers feel flattered, Katharine thought sardonically. It appeals to their diminished egos. Makes them feel important.

Shifting her position on the bar stool, and crossing her legs, Katharine drew closer, pinning the other girl with her hypnotic gaze. She said, in a voice as sweet as honey, ‘You know, Estelle, I’ve been thinking about the things you’ve just told me, and perhaps you ought to talk to Victor yourself.’ She paused, and improvising quickly, went on, ‘He’s giving a small supper this coming Sunday. I know he would be delighted if you came with me. Also, you might meet some interesting people you can write about.’ Katharine did not know who these would be, since she had only just thought up the idea of the supper, but she would worry about the guest list later.

Estelle positively glowed. ‘I say, that’s really great of you, Katharine. I’d love it.’ Her dark and avid little eyes glittered like chips of jet. ‘Actually, I think I should write a story about you. I heard somewhere that you’re an American. Is that true? You don’t sound as if you are.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ Katharine assured her. ‘It’s nice of you to want to write about me, but I have a lot of other commitments just now. Perhaps in a few weeks.’ Seeing the crushed look on Estelle’s face and deeming it necessary to appease, she suggested hurriedly, ‘But listen, why don’t you interview Victor? He’s about to remake Wuthering Heights. I could arrange an exclusive for you, if you want, Estelle. Since Victor hasn’t made any announcements about the film as yet, it could be quite a coup for you. A scoop,’ she finished with a gay laugh.

‘Hey, that’s a terrific idea!’ Estelle fished around in her bag and brought out a card. ‘Here’s my number. Do let me know about the dinner party. What time is it, and where, and all the other details – ‘ She stopped, staring at the entrance to the club, and then said, ‘I think your lunch date has just arrived. At least, the girl standing over there is looking this way.’

Katharine turned and spotted Francesca near the door. She waved, slipped off the stool and went to meet her. Francesca stepped forward, smiling broadly.

‘There you are, Francesca dear!’ Katharine cried, her face lighting up with pleasure. They clasped hands warmly.

Francesca said, ‘Hello, Katharine. I’m sorry I’m late.’ She was out of breath and flushed.

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’ve not been here very long anyway. Now do come and meet Estelle Morgan, a very dear journalist friend of mine. Estelle, this is Lady Francesca Cunningham.’

Estelle, who was preening at being termed a dear friend, grabbed hold of Francesca’s outstretched hand and pumped it. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she purred. ‘Well, I see my own date has arrived at long last, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the drink, Katharine. See you Sunday.’

Katharine guided Francesca to the stool Estelle had vacated. ‘I’m having a mimosa. It’s very refreshing. Would you like one?’

Francesca said, ‘Yes, thank you. It sounds very festive and just what I need.’ She perched on the stool and looked across at Katharine, smiling, and then she caught her breath, startled yet again by Katharine’s extraordinary loveliness. She thought: Hers is exactly the kind of unforgettable beauty that has inspired great poets and artists for centuries. It’s romantic and mysterious and heart-stopping in its poignancy. No one could remain unmoved by it for very long, she decided. And once again Francesca found herself entirely captivated by her new friend.

After Katharine had ordered from Joe, she touched Francesca’s arm lightly, affectionately, and her face was happy and radiant as she told her, ‘I’m so glad you could make lunch today. I was dying to see you again, and talk to you.’

‘Yes, so was I,’ Francesca responded with warmth and the same eager enthusiasm. Now her eyes roamed around the club, taking in the elegant décor. She grinned and said, ‘This looks like a rather nice place. I usually go to a grotty greasy spoon for a revolting sandwich when I’m at the BM. Obviously it’s hardly as smart as this.’

Katharine asked with some curiosity, ‘What’s the BM?’

‘The British Museum. My home away from home, as Kim calls it.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Were you there this morning?’

‘Yes. I was doing some digging into the background of Gordon’s siege at Khartoum this morning, when I suddenly bogged down in the worst way.’ She sighed. ‘The more research I do the more I realize what a monumental task I have ahead of me. Hundreds of documents to sift through and read, masses of material to analyse and evaluate.’

‘But Kim told me you have been researching for almost eight months already, and every day!’ Katharine exclaimed, an eyebrow lifting in amazement.

‘Yes, I have.’ Francesca grimaced. ‘And I still have a long way to go before I’m finished. Sometimes I think the book will never get written,’ she wailed. She retreated into silence as Joe arrived with the drinks. Actually she was surprised she had so readily voiced this troubling thought, one that had nagged at her for days, and which she had diligently pushed away in an effort to deny it.

‘Of course you’ll write it!’ Katharine said emphatically, and moved the glass towards Francesca. ‘Try your mimosa. It’ll do you good. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Francesca attempted a smile without much success and picked up her glass.

Katharine looked at her closely, wondering how to cheer her up. She was about to say something suitably encouraging when the maître d’hôtel hurried over, apologized for interrupting and handed Katharine a note. She thanked him, gave Francesca a puzzled smile and opened it. She saw at once that it was from Estelle. It was brief and to the point. Quickly she read: I have some important info, about that magazine and V.M. During lunch go to the ladies room and I’ll follow you to give you the dope. E.’

Alarm stabbed at Katharine but she repressed it, screwed the note into a ball and pushed it into the pocket of her skirt. She explained, with a dismissive laugh, ‘Estelle wants me to arrange an interview with Victor. She would like to write a feature about him for one of the American magazines she represents here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Francesca mumured with the most obvious lack of interest.

Katharine was quiet for a few minutes, a stillness settling over her. She sipped her drink thoughtfully, her mind focused on Victor. All at once she pigeon-holed her worry about him, deciding she must concentrate on Francesca for the moment. She said in a voice full of understanding, ‘I know you’re disturbed about the book, Francesca. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca replied, uncertainty apparent in her tone and manner. But in point of fact, Francesca did feel like unburdening herself. Kim’s derogatory remark about the book not selling, whilst jocular in intent, had unfortunately had an adverse effect on her, one which had intensified rather than diminished since Saturday. She was filled with grave doubts about its ultimate success, and, in all truth, she had not only become intimidated by the massive job ahead of her, but unsure of her ability to write the biography. These factors, plus her increasing worry about earning money to help out at home, had combined to dampen her original enthusiasm. She had thought of talking to her father about her work, but he was far too preoccupied at the moment, and she knew none of her girl friends would be interested. The majority of them whiled away the days doing nothing, or worked in inconsequential jobs, marking time until they found the right young man to marry. What she needed was an intelligent person who would listen with a sympathetic ear. And Katharine seemed the most appropriate candidate. Apart from the fact that she seemed genuinely interested, and caring, she was also a creative artist and had a proper career. Katharine would therefore comprehend her predicament and her feelings far better than anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Francesca now found herself confiding, ‘To tell you the truth, Katharine, I was thinking of abandoning the book this morning. I really am disheartened, and for two pins I would chuck it in.’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Katharine cried with unusual sharpness. She stared at Francesca aghast, and then she leaned forward and adopted her most solicitous manner and convincing tone. ‘Look, you mustn’t lose heart. You’ve got to keep going, you really do.’

Francesca shook her head, the miserable expression intensifying on her young face. ‘I don’t even know if it will ever get published. What if I can’t sell it? Then I’ll have wasted my time. Years probably.’

‘I know you’ll sell it!’ Katharine pronounced airily and asserted with great certainty, ‘I bet there’ll be dozens of publishers beating your door down. Fighting to get the book.’

‘I doubt that,’ Francesca laughed, but there was no humour in the laughter. ‘Actually, I think I’m deluding myself in believing I can have a career as a writer. It would be much more practical if I got myself a job in a shop, selling undies or something. At least I’d be earning some money and helping out at home.’

This remark so startled Katharine, she gaped at her. She was about to ask Francesca what she meant, but she checked herself and said, ‘Kim told me you have a natural talent for writing, and – ‘

‘He’s just being loyal,’ Francesca retorted.

Katharine squeezed Francesca’s arm, wanting to both reassure and comfort her. ‘I’ll concede that, up to a point. Still, he’s no fool, and I value his opinion. He also told me that you’d sold several magazine articles, so that must prove something to you.’ When Francesca did not answer, she added spiritedly, ‘Well, it does to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a professional writer.’

‘Not really, Katharine,’ Francesca murmured in a negative voice. ‘Magazine articles don’t mean that much, and anyway a book is an entirely different kettle of fish, especially an historical biography of this nature. I know it’s going to take me years, and I’m not sure it’s worth all the time and effort I’ll have to put into it.’ Her frustration rose to the surface, and she finished, ‘I’m awfully down in the mouth about it today, and perhaps I shouldn’t be boring you with it, after all. It’s not very fair, dumping my depression on you.’

‘Don’t be silly, I want to help,’ Katharine said. ‘I think we should discuss it a bit more, and then perhaps we’ll get to the root of the problem. Come on, Francesca, try and tell me.’

Francesca forced a smile onto her face, and she laughed thinly. ‘That’s just it, I don’t know what I feel. Ambivalent, I suppose, about the book’s chance of getting published and of it being a success if it ever does. And uncertain of myself, my capabilities as a writer … ‘ She faltered, seemed on the verge of tears.

Katharine identified with Francesca’s problems and empathized. There was a brief silence, and then she hazarded slowly, ‘I think I know what’s wrong with you.’ She waited a moment before continuing, and her tone was gentle as she added, ‘You’re suddenly afraid. You’ve lost your nerve. But you mustn’t lose it, Francesca. I know you can write the book. I also feel sure it will be a great success. A smash hit. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. Truly.’ Katharine cleared her throat, and volunteered, ‘Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re going through, because I’ve been exactly where you are at different times. Unsure of myself in a role, worried I might fail, even crippled by stage fright. I suppose it’s a kind of self-doubt, but if you keep going it passes, truly it does.’

Katharine saw that the other girl was plunged into despair. Francesca’s golden-amber eyes had darkened, she bit her lip nervously, and fiddled with the stem of the glass, her face slightly averted. After a few seconds Katharine decided to take another approach. ‘You know, Francesca, I think it’s important for us all to try and master something we’re afraid of, for that great sense of accomplishment we feel when we’ve actually done it. Of course, it takes a lot of strength and determination. And courage. But it’s worth it in the end. You mustn’t give up now, Francesca darling.’ Being single-minded of purpose, dedicated, disciplined and ambitious, Katharine was always a little puzzled when she sensed these essential drives were missing in others. Now she wanted to fire Francesca on, to imbue in her that same intense desire to succeed which had so motivated her own career as an actress. To Katharine, personal gratification, as well as fame and money, was the spur that goaded her on.

She scrutinized Francesca and exclaimed with enormous conviction, ‘You must pursue your dreams, because without our dreams we have nothing. And then life isn’t worth living.’

Francesca, who had been listening closely, shook her head dismally. ‘I know what you’re trying to say, Katharine, but perhaps I just don’t believe in myself enough.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘And it’s a bit arrogant, isn’t it, thinking I can tackle an historical biography of this magnitude, and get it published to boot?’

‘No, it isn’t!’ Katharine declared. ‘You have talent and you’re very intelligent, and hard working and – ‘ She left her sentence dangling in mid-air and broke into laughter. ‘I suppose a lot of people thought I was arrogant, believing I could get the part of Helen in Trojan Interlude. But whatever they thought, and even said to me, I ignored them. And I did get it.’ Her manner became more persuasive than ever. ‘Listen to me, Francesca! If you abandon this project now you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. You’ll never have the nerve or the self-confidence to attempt another book. And you’ll be wasting your talent, just throwing it down the drain, and that would be a terrible crime. You’ll end up feeling bitter about the “might-have-beens” and all you’ve missed. And think of the research you’ve already done. All those months will have been wasted too.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Francesca agreed. She was surprised at the extent of Katharine’s concern, her supportiveness and her genuine desire to be helpful. She was also grateful, and she admitted finally, ‘And I believe you hit the nail on the head. I think I have lost my nerve. And the immensity of the work I still have to do frightens me. I keep thinking I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.’

‘And you mustn’t be negative.’ Katharine’s smile was consoling. ‘You know, you’re probably just a bit tired and out-faced by it all. I think you ought to step away from the book, and take a few days off. Spend your time doing something totally removed from the biography. You’ll feel refreshed and raring to go again after a rest.’ Another thought occurred to Katharine. She said quickly, ‘Look, is there anything I can do to help you? Maybe some research. I’d be glad to, honestly I would, if it would make things easier.’

Francesca straightened up on the bar stool and stared at Katharine. She was temporarily at a loss. Unexpectedly, her father’s concern, which he had voiced earlier that morning, popped into her mind. But he had no reason to worry. She was convinced of that now. Katharine was everything she appeared to be, and so much more besides. She was sweet and loving and so unselfish. All the troubling thoughts Francesca herself had had were immediately dispelled, and she was tremendously relieved she had not asked Katharine those leading questions about her life in Chicago, as she had planned to do. Questions she had even rehearsed on the bus on the way from the British Museum. How rude and suspicious and unkind I would have seemed, Francesca thought to herself. Out loud she said, ‘That’s so sweet of you, Katharine. But I’m afraid I’m the only one who can do the research, because I’m the only one who knows what I’m looking for.’ The laughter flickering on her mouth was real as she said, as an afterthought, ‘At least I think I know. Thank you, anyway, for offering. It was a super gesture.’

‘Just give me a yell, if you do need some help,’ Katharine responded with a jaunty grin. ‘Promise me you won’t abandon the book, and that if you do get down in the dumps again you’ll talk to me about it. Promise!’

‘I promise.’

‘I’ll hold you to that. Now perhaps we’d better go in for lunch.’

After they were comfortably seated, Katharine gave the menu a cursory glance, and asked, ‘What would you like?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Francesca answered, her eyes scanning the list of delicious dishes. She was horrified at the prices, and decided to take her cue from Katharine. ‘What are you having?’

‘I’ll most probably have the grilled Dover sole and a green salad.’

Francesca nodded. ‘I think I’ll have that too. It sounds good.’

‘Would you like some wine?’

‘Gosh no! It makes me sleepy during the day.’

Katharine laughed her spiralling girlish laugh. ‘Me too. I’d better refrain as well, otherwise my performance might be off tonight.’ The waiter came to their table and Katharine ordered, and then she turned to Francesca and said, ‘Will you excuse me for a minute, I’ve got to go to the powder room.’

‘Of course.’

Katharine pushed back her chair, stood up and floated through the restaurant, her eyes focused on the arched doorway ahead, quite oblivious of the admiring glances and heads that turned as she weaved through the maze of tables. When she reached the powder room she took a lipstick out of her bag and redid her mouth. She had only been there a few seconds, standing in front of the mirror, when the door burst open and Estelle flew in, looking as if she could hardly contain herself.

Katharine swung around to face her, but before she could open her mouth, Estelle cried excitedly, ‘Katharine, guess what! I’ve stumbled on something terribly important. Pay dirt. The man I’m lunching with told me there is definitely a writer in London who is filing material back to Confidential:

‘My God!’ Katharine stared at Estelle. ‘Is he sure?’

‘Yes, he’s pretty certain.’

‘How does he know?’

‘Peter, that’s the guy I’m with, runs the London office of a top Hollywood publicity company, who handle a number of big stars and some of the top movies. His Los Angeles office alerted him about the Confidential reporter. Right now some of his company’s biggest clients are filming here in London, or in Europe, and Peter’s been told to warn them to watch their step, and keep their feet dry.’ Estelle giggled and rolled her eyes upwards, then proceeded, ‘He’s also been instructed to scrupulously check out every freelance journalist who requests an interview, just to be sure they’re really accredited to the publications they claim they represent.’

‘Are you trying to say he doesn’t actually know who the reporter is from Confidential?’

‘You don’t think writers who work for that magazine would be foolish enough to announce it, do you? Every door would be slammed in their faces! And anyway, they usually use a phony by-line, so they are hard to check out properly.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ Katharine acknowledged quietly. Then she asked, ‘Does your friend know whether it’s a man or a woman?’

‘He thinks it’s a man. Peter’s been racking his brains to narrow it down, but he’s not been able to pinpoint anyone. Actually, that’s why he mentioned it to me. He thought I might have heard who it was on the grapevine, but I haven’t. I didn’t even know they had someone based in London. Anyway, I think you’d better mention it to Victor immediately. Put him on his guard. It’s more than likely he’s one of the current targets, because of his bitchy wife’s big mouth.’

‘I will. Thank you, Estelle. You’ve been really terrific, alerting me to all this. I won’t forget it, and neither will Victor. Look, I’ve got to get back to the table. I’ll call you tomorrow, and let you know about Sunday. Thanks again, Estelle darling.’

‘Any time, Katharine,’ Estelle beamed, suffused with self-satisfaction about the way she was so cleverly cementing the relationship. ‘I’m only too glad to help if I can.’

When she returned to the table, Katharine sat down and said with an apologetic laugh, ‘Sorry I was so long, but I ran slap-bang into Estelle, and I’m afraid she can be awfully garrulous at times. But she’s quite a good sport, and I didn’t want to offend her.’

‘Oh, that’s perfectly all right,’ Francesca replied. ‘I do understand. Thank you for listening, Katharine. And for the marvellous pep talk. You helped me a lot, and I’m going to take your advice. I’ve decided to take a few days off, and make a new start on the book next week.’

Katharine was delighted. ‘I’m so glad, Francesca. And listen, any time you need a sounding board, I’m here. Incidentally, when I was in the ladies room it struck me you ought to have a literary agent. I assume you don’t have one. Or do you?’

‘No. And to be honest I wouldn’t know where to get one either. Anyway, I don’t have a manuscript to show at this moment.’

‘I realize that. On the other hand, it might be a good idea to talk to a few agents, and see what they say. Later, when you’ve finished the book, you’d be better off using a literary agent, rather than trying to sell it yourself. At least I know that much.’ She paused and then excitement animated her. ‘I know what we can do. We can ask Victor to get you one.’

‘No!’ Francesca cried, and flushed with embarrassment, realizing she had snapped at Katharine, and without good reason.

Katharine gave her a peculiar look, but merely shrugged. ‘Then I suppose I could ask Nicholas Latimer. He’d never do anything for me, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping you.’

‘Why wouldn’t he do anything for you?’ Francesca asked with a confused frown. ‘He was very charming at Les Ambassadeurs on Monday night. I thought he liked you enormously. He certainly behaved as if he did.’

‘Oh but he doesn’t,’ Katharine said with a cool and knowing smile. ‘He is pleasant, and he teases me a lot, and behaves as if he’s my best buddy. But haven’t you noticed his flat blues when he’s talking to me?’

‘Flat blues? What do you mean?’

‘His eyes. Flat and blue and hard. His mouth might be smiling, but his eyes drip ice. I know he hates my guts.’

Francesca was flabbergasted. ‘Oh but surely you’re wrong, Katharine! I would have noticed. Anyway, I can’t imagine anyone hating your guts,’ she pronounced with certainty. ‘And please don’t ask him for any favours for me. I don’t want you putting yourself in an awkward position. And as I said, I don’t need an agent at the moment.’

‘No, I suppose you don’t,’ Katharine answered. ‘Anyway, we can always hold Nicholas Latimer in reserve, I guess. Incidentally, talking of favours, I was going to ask one of you – ‘

‘Would you like the fish off the bone, madame?’ the waiter interrupted, displaying the sole with a splendid flourish.

‘Yes, thank you very much. Would you, Francesca?’

Francesca nodded, and when the waiter was out of earshot, she said eagerly, ‘What kind of favour, Katharine?’

Katharine leaned across the table and explained. ‘I need someone to write the material I want to use for the screen test, and I was wondering if you would do it for me.’

Francesca looked at her in amazement. ‘Gosh, Katharine, I wouldn’t know how! I mean, dialogue and that kind of thing is way beyond me. Good Lord, I wouldn’t know where to begin!’

Katharine said, ‘Oh,’ in a very small voice. Crushed, she dropped her eyes and stared at the tablecloth.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to help you,’ Francesca exclaimed anxiously, her voice rising. ‘I’d do anything for you, Katharine, I really would. I just don’t know how to write something like that. Honestly, I don’t,’ she persisted, feeling downright mean for refusing. Then she was filled with chagrin. Katharine had shown her extraordinary understanding, and kindness, had been so patient and encouraging. She felt she was somehow letting her new friend down by refusing to accede to this request. She said, ‘Please don’t be upset. I couldn’t bear it. Let’s talk about it at least.’

Katharine lifted her head sharply and smiled beguilingly. ‘I know you can do it! I really do, especially since it’s a long passage from Wuthering Heights. You said on Saturday that you knew the book extremely well.’

‘Yes, that’s true, I do … ‘ Francesca’s brows went up in a quirk. ‘But why do you need me to write something for you? I thought Victor Mason had a finished screenplay.’

‘When I asked Victor for the particular pages I need, he said that I could have them. At first. Later he called me back and told me that Nicholas Latimer was rewriting that whole section of the script, and therefore I couldn’t have them after all.’ Katharine bent her head closer to Francesca’s, and lowered her voice. ‘But I don’t believe Nick is rewriting. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not Victor being difficult. It’s Nick. I don’t think he wants me to have those pages.’

‘How rotten of him! But surely Victor can – ‘ ‘Nicholas Latimer has a great deal of influence over Victor. It seems to me that anything Nick says goes. They’re as thick as thieves. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear to God they were a couple of fags.’ She burst out laughing when she saw Francesca’s face. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Anyway, they’re not. As I was going to say, their reputations as studs precede them. Nick, in particular, thinks every woman he meets is going to fall flat on her back for him.’ She laughed again, and went on, ‘In any event, Nick probably lied to Victor when he told him he was working on the screenplay, and did it just to thwart me. Victor suggested I do something from Trojan Interlude.’ Katharine shrugged. ‘What could I say. When I told him I preferred to use something that was fresher to me, he said I could select anything I wanted that ran about thirty minutes. I went through Wuthering Heights again, and I really studied the scene I like. And to be honest, it wouldn’t be difficult to adapt.’

‘Which scene is it?’ Francesca asked, her interest aroused.

‘It’s the one where – ‘ Katharine stopped when the waiter approached the table with the food, and then said, ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

Once lunch had been served, Katharine took a few mouthfuls and then put down her knife and fork, suddenly unable to eat. ‘You know something, Francesca, every time I think about that scene I get excited. I know it’s exactly right for the screen test. And I do want Victor to see me playing Cathy, not Helen of Troy. It’s that very moving and dramatic scene, where Cathy comes back from Thrushcross Grange and tells Nelly Dean that Edgar Linton wants to marry her. They get into a long discussion about her feelings for Linton, as opposed to her feelings for Heath-cliff. Nelly tries to stop Cathy, who is being very outspoken. She knows Heathcliff is listening outside the door. But Cathy presses on, and says something about how it would degrade her to marry Heathcliff, because her brother has brought him so low – ‘

‘And then Cathy starts talking about her love for Heathcliff,’ Francesca cut in, her face alive with excitement, her eyes shining. ‘And there are those marvellous lines about their souls. I can almost quote it to you verbatim. Cathy says, “He shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as moonbeam from lightning, as frost from fire.” Of course I know it, and very well, Katharine. And you’re right. It is dramatic and emotional.’

Katharine had observed Francesca’s enthusiasm, her growing interest, and now she seized the moment. She said, ‘If you look at that particular chapter in the book again, and study it, you’ll see there’s enough dialogue between Nelly and Cathy to create a good thirty-minute scene, which is all I need for the screen test. Listen, Francesca, I know you can do it, and in a very short time. I also thought it would be a change of pace for you, and would get you away from your research for a day or two. Oh please, do say yes,’ she cajoled. She gazed at Francesca, her expression pleading, then finished, ‘I need you, I really do. Please, won’t you give it a stab? The test is so important to me.’ Katharine’s eyes did not leave Francesca’s face.

Francesca bit her lip, unsure of herself. But she did want to help Katharine, to please her, and so she swallowed her uncertainty. ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘If. you think I can do it, then I’ll give it a try.’

‘Oh, thank you, Francesca darling! Thank you. I’m so grateful,’ Katharine cried.

‘It might not be right, you know, not exactly what you want, but I promise I’ll do my very best. And you’ll have to tell me how many pages you need, where I should begin and end the scene. I will need a little guidance.’

‘I’ll help you. In fact, I can explain some things over lunch. You won’t find it difficult, because it is all there in the book,’ Katharine assured her.

Francesca nodded and stared at her plate. When she lifted her head she looked slightly perplexed. ‘You seem to have a lot of confidence in me, Katharine. Why?’

Katharine thought for a second, and then she smiled. ‘Instinct,’ she replied.