Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 27

Nicholas Latimer, being the consummate novelist, often elected to play the spectator. He sat back, enveloped in silence, and listened and watched and stored everything away in the computer that was his mind, for future reference and use in his work. Once, a few years ago, a female acquaintance had said she hated having writers as friends, because, as she stringently pointed out, ‘They steal everything about you, and recycle it in their books.’ He had exploded with laughter at the time, but now he suddenly recalled her comments, and he said to himself: she was right.

At this moment he was once again the spectator, and he knew he was going to revel in the scene which was on the verge of being enacted before him. And naturally he would hoard it away, and push it into the typewriter when he needed it. The protagonists were fascinating opposites, which added to the drama – Victor Mason and Mike Lazarus. And they were poised like gladiators about to do battle, to fight to the death. Nick smiled at his own rather melodramatic analogy. On the other hand, much was at stake, and if the daggers were not exactly drawn, they were sheathed and waiting, figuratively speaking, of course.

Instinctively, he knew Victor would emerge the … victor. He smiled again at his childish game but he couldn’t help himself. Words were his drug, and old habits were hard to break. Victor had had the upper hand before they had met Lazarus. Not that Lazarus realized this, being ignorant of the meeting with Hélène Vernaud and thus unaware that she had passed on a certain amount of crucial information. Lazarus most probably thought he had the upper hand, especially since it was the hand which held the chequebook.

Nick had been taken aback when Victor had told him they were meeting Lazarus in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. For tea. Good God, for tea! When he had questioned Victor about this somewhat weird location, Victor had laughed dryly and remarked: ‘Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that when he was about to do battle with the enemy, he liked to select the location and the time for his preference? He believed it gave him the advantage. So do I.’

Nick had nodded, constantly amazed at Victor’s esoteric knowledge, and said, ‘Yes, it was Napoleon. But why a public place, kid?’ Another dry chuckle from Victor, who had gone on to explain, ‘When we reach an impasse, as we undoubtedly will, I don’t want to have to kick him out of my hotel suite, or have him eject me from his offices. Also, on neutral territory, such as the Ritz, he’ll have to curb his temper. He’s hardly likely to throw one of his famous tantrums in the middle of the hotel.’ Nicholas had nodded and said nothing, but he had thought: Well, you’re wrong there, because he just might. Lazarus is unpredictable, according to what I’ve heard.

So here they were, the three of them, at four o’clock in the afternoon, sitting in a secluded corner of the Ritz, amidst gilded period furniture, potted palms and elegant, behatted ladies. All very genteel and civilized, Nick commented to himself, and swallowed a laugh of wry amusement. There was nothing very genteel or civilized about Mike Lazarus, despite his impeccable linen and well-tailored suit and his façade of genial containment. Nick had never met Lazarus before, but he knew of him by reputation. It was common knowledge that he would go for the jugular at the least provocation, if it suited his purposes to do so. He was cold and ruthless.

As Nick observed them both, his best friend and his best friend’s adversary, he had to admit there was something unusual about Lazarus. For a moment he was not quite sure what this was. He was stocky and muscular, had angular features and dark hair slightly tinged with grey. Nondescript was perhaps the best word to describe him. As he studied Mike Lazarus Nick suddenly reversed this opinion. Lazarus was not really nondescript at all, he just seemed curiously diminished in comparison to Victor. But then what man isn’t, Nick said to himself. Victor’s immense presence was as potent off the screen as on it, probably even more so.

Nick moved his head slightly, and his cool blue eyes swept over Victor, regarded him objectively, took in the dark grey pin-striped suit, the stark white shirt, the silver grey silk tie. Elegant. Immaculate. Conservative. In contrast, the handsome face and dark arresting looks and raw masculinity acquired a greater vibrancy, stunned with their startling impact. And there was a very special aura surrounding Victor, one that set him apart from other men. Success, fame, wealth, Nick thought. Yet it was more elemental than that. Is it his sexuality? Nick wondered. Partially, he answered himself. It’s also his adventurous spirit. Soldier of fortune. Buccaneer. Riverboat gambler, he characterized, and then smiled inwardly and said to himself: Maybe I’ve seen too many of his movies.

Nick’s eyes rested briefly on Mike Lazarus now, and he was conscious yet again of a quality in the other man. It was something not immediately definable, or initially apparent, yet it grew on one, slowly and most forcefully. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning striking, Nick knew what it was. Mike Lazarus had the effluvium of power. Enormous power. He exuded it, reeked of it, and it was distinguishable in the way he held himself in the chair, his body tautly controlled like a panther ready to spring, and in his very pale blue eyes, as cold as a dead fish’s, yet strangely magnetic and compelling. They seemed to penetrate with their keen intelligence, and Nick unexpectedly had the unpleasant feeling that those eyes were like lasers, beaming into his brain to pierce his thoughts. He looked away quickly, and reached for a cigarette, filled with discomfort.

From all the things he had read and heard about Lazarus, he knew the man had an austere discipline, an abrasive energy and a restless ambition. Nick, who on his Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University had read history, was addicted to the sixteenth-century period. He thought: If Lazarus had lived at the time of Catherine de Medici he would undoubtedly have been a Prince of the Blood, one of those dark and sinister figures stalking across the complex and elaborate tapestry that was France in the 1500s. A Bourbon Prince, such as a Condé, perhaps. Or possibly a duc from the notorious House of Guise. Yes, the latter most assuredly, for there was something decidedly Guisardian about Lazarus, with his scheming Machiavellian mind, his stealth, his penchant for plotting, his unquestionable aptitude for dissimulation, his avarice, and his absolute fearlessness. But he wasn’t French. Nick had read somewhere that Lazarus was of German-Jewish extraction, like himself. Or had his family been Russian-Jewish émigrés? Now he was not sure. Notwithstanding, the man was brilliant. He had to be, to have created a multinational conglomerate of the magnitude of Global-Centurion, whose claws were embedded in the surface of the entire world. More or less. And he was only forty-five or thereabouts. Funny, Nick mused, despite the millions of words written about him, I’ve never read much about his personal life, or his early beginnings. They are shrouded in mystery. He wondered, absently, how much Hélène Vernaud knew about Lazarus’s past. He must ask her some time.

The two men facing each other across the small tea table had not begun to skirmish yet, but were skirting each other warily, and with great adeptness, using verbal thrusts and parries, testing each other. He smelled the tension between them. It hung in the air like a curtain of gauze. He knew that Victor detested Lazarus. But it was difficult to ascertain Lazarus’s feelings for Victor. The man had adopted a posture of geniality. A constant benign smile played around his mouth. But the eyes were alert and watchful and chilling in their deadliness.

The two men droned on about the stock market, and Nick turned away, stifling a yawn.

Lazarus made a remark about trouble brewing in the Middle East, and spoke for a few minutes about oil, and the attitude of the Arab states eventually changing; and then unexpectedly, and abruptly, he switched from this topic.

Suddenly, Lazarus said, ‘Well, Victor, you’ve procrastinated for days about this meeting, presumably because you were having the contract dissected by your battery of lawyers. Since you’re sitting here, I assume all is in order. And I trust you brought the contract with you. Signed. I can’t delay my return to New York any longer. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I want to wind things up with you before doing so.’

‘Yes, I’ve brought it,’ Victor responded in a pleasant, easy tone. He moved in his chair, crossed his long and elegant legs, and leaned back, on the surface relaxed. Observing him quietly, Nick knew he was as taut as Lazarus.

‘Ah. Good,’ Lazarus said. ‘Seemingly we are making progress at last. I’d like to give you my ideas, and my conditions, now that we’re partners. Or at least about to be, after I’ve signed the contract. First of all, I cannot sanction the budget of this movie. It’s excessive. Three million dollars is, in my estimation, exactly one million dollars too much.’

‘Agreed,’ Victor said with a small cool smile.

If Lazarus was surprised at this ready acquiescence, he did not display it. Not an eyelash flickered. ‘How do you propose to cut production costs, might I ask?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice but he was seething inside. Victor Mason wasn’t very much different from the rest, in spite of his reputation for honesty. They were all trying to steal from him, in one way or another, when they came with their elaborate schemes and questionable deals. But none of them were a match for him. Inevitably he outsmarted them all.

‘There are ways and means to do it,’ Victor replied, sounding and looking enigmatic.

‘I see.’ Lazarus remained motionless in the chair, holding his annoyance in check. Mason was such a fool, being evasive, and wasting his valuable time. The man would have to reveal his plans eventually. But Lazarus decided not to press. Instead, he drawled softly, ‘How much can you save?’

‘About a million dollars.’

Lazarus regarded Victor closely, with those keen and assessing eyes. A cynical smile touched his mouth fleetingly. ‘Then I feel justified in my assumption that the budget was padded. That’s the trouble with the motion picture industry. Too much waste, too much fat. An inefficient business in my opinion.’

‘You’re wrong. About the budget. It wasn’t padded, merely erroneous,’ Victor shot back sharply, sheathing his irritation. ‘An easy mistake for a production man to make when he’s sitting in Hollywood.’

‘Obviously you picked the wrong production man, Victor. A shame.’ He made the last word sound ominous, even though his voice was soft. Lazarus sighed lightly and took a sip of his tea. ‘A good production man doesn’t make mistakes, Victor, wherever he’s sitting. Poor judgment on your part. I hope it will be less flawed when it comes to other areas of our project. I also sincerely pray we’re not going to have the pleasure of his company here in England, when we start shooting.’ Lazarus laughed thinly. ‘Otherwise, we might find the budget escalating to four million dollars. Perhaps even five. And why not!’

‘He was not hired on a permanent basis,’ Victor answered, ignoring the sarcastic jibes. ‘As a matter of fact, the entire production team will be English.’ He lit a cigarette, furious with himself for even bothering to justify his actions to Lazarus. But Lazarus had a way of putting everyone on the defensive.

‘Well, that’s a step in the right direction,’ Lazarus responded, his tone patronizing. ‘Let’s talk about casting. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, analysing, and I’ve decided on the female lead. Ava Gardner. She would be marvellous as Catherine Earnshaw, and I –’

‘No.’ Victor’s voice was even but emphatic. ‘I’m testing Katharine Tempest. And if she tests the way I believe she will, then she gets the part.’

Lazarus stared at Victor, and his lip lifted slowly, disdainfully. ‘And who in hell is Katharine Tempest? If I’ve never heard of her, then you can bet your last dime the American public hasn’t either. I don’t want an unknown in my picture. I want an established movie star, who is an international name. I want a few box office guarantees, my friend.’

I’m not your friend, Victor thought, bristling. But he contained himself, and he chose not to remind Lazarus that he was one of the biggest box office names in the world. If not the biggest. Aloud he remarked, ‘Katharine Tempest is a brilliant young actress who’s starring in the West End play, Trojan Interlude, at the moment. And she is the perfect Cathy. You have to agree, she certainly looks right for the part.’

‘I told you, I don’t know who she is,’ Lazarus responded, coldly impatient.

The lazy smile eased onto Victor’s mouth. ‘You couldn’t take your eyes off her on Monday evening. At Les Ambassadeurs,’ he rejoined swiftly. ‘Much to the annoyance of your female companion. If looks could’ve killed, you’d be dead, my friend.’

Nick’s eyes swivelled between them alertly. He didn’t remember seeing Lazarus on Monday evening. But then he had arrived late, when Victor and his other guests had already moved into the restaurant. Mike Lazarus had leaned forward slightly, and Nick detected a faint flicker of sudden interest in those inscrutable eyes. Lazarus was silent for a split second, regarding Victor unblinkingly, and then he said slowly, ‘You must be talking about the very dark girl with those extraordinary eyes.’ Remembering the girl’s beauty, he felt a flare of internal excitement, but took care to conceal this behind a façade that was expressionless, adding, ‘I can’t imagine you are referring to that insipid blonde, the debutante type, who was with you.’

‘Dead right,’ Victor answered. He was angered by the disparaging reference to Francesca, but instantly clamped down on it. ‘Katharine has quite a face, hasn’t she? She’s as beautiful as Ava Gardner.’

There was no response for a moment. Lazarus seemed thoughtful, and then he said, ‘I’ll reserve my judgment until after I’ve seen the test. And even if the test is good, I’m still not sure we can use an unknown. I’ll have to consider it carefully. Yes, very carefully. Now, I’d like to discuss the script with you. Frankly, it has to go. It’s far too arty for my liking. Not commercial enough by any stretch of the imagination. We’d better get a new screenwriter on the job. Immediately. We’ve no time to waste.’

There was an awkward silence. Nick, who had flinched, thought: The lousy son of a bitch. He’s behaving as if I’m not here. I guess I’m not, as far as he’s concerned. He was on the point of exploding from frustration. He wanted to defend himself, and his work, and even jab Lazarus a swift right hook. But Victor had asked him to keep silent, whatever ensued, and so he kept his clenched fist pressed into the side of the chair, and waited.

Victor, whose face was stony and closed, said with quiet authority, ‘It’s a damned great script, Mike. Not just good, but great. Furthermore, it’s the script I have every intention of shooting. And let me tell you something else. Nick is not going to be replaced by any other screenwriter. Not today. Not next week. Not ever, my friend.’

‘Now, look here, Victor, nobody’s going to tell me how to make my own picture, the picture I’m bankrolling to the tune of two million dollars. I must say, I thi –’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Victor murmured.

Lazarus was so startled that he did exactly that. He sat staring at Victor, an expression of disbelief washing over his face.

It took all Nick’s self-control to suppress the laughter rising in his throat. Mike Lazarus looks as if he’s just been hit in the face with a wet fish, he thought, and glanced away, biting his lip.

Lazarus recovered himself immediately. ‘We’d better get something straight, my friend. And right now. Nobody, but nobody, ever tells me to shut up!’

‘I just did,’ Victor said. He leaned forward and lifted his briefcase onto his lap. He opened it. ‘Here’s the contract.’ He handed Lazarus a manilla envelope, snapped down the lid and locked his briefcase.

In spite of the fury boiling within him, Mike Lazarus could not resist opening the envelope. The contract was in two halves, had been ripped across the middle. His eyes were riveted on the two pieces he was holding. For a moment he appeared to be mesmerized. Never in the whole of his life had he been so humiliated, so insulted. A slow flush rose from his neck, filled his face with deep colour. When he lifted his head, his eyes were like steel blades, and condemning.

Before he could utter a word, Victor, swift on the draw, said, ‘That’s what I think about your contract. And I’m sure you know what you can do with it. As hard as this might be for you to believe, I don’t want your money, and I most certainly don’t want you involved in my picture.’ Victor retrieved his briefcase and stood up. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mike,’ he finished with a mirthless little smile. His black eyes were as cold and as hard as marble.

Nick had also risen and Lazarus regarded them both furiously for a prolonged moment. The bright colour had drained from his face. He was chalk white, and his voice, although as soft as always, was deadly as he said, ‘You’ll live to regret this, Victor. Truly, truly regret it. I’ll make damned sure of that.’

Victor did not bother to respond. He took hold of Nick’s arm and said, ‘Come on, sport, let’s get out of here. I do believe I’m in need of a bit of fresh air.’

Victor was striding rapidly towards the lobby. Nick kept in step, and when there was enough distance between themselves and Lazarus, he said, ‘Jesus, Vic, you really –’

‘Let’s wait until we’re in the street, Nicky.’ They collected their coats from the men’s cloakroom in silence. Victor shrugged into his camel-coloured cashmere overcoat and looked at Nicholas out of the corner of his eye. He winked theatrically, murmured, ‘That was short and sweet. Very sweet,’ and headed for the revolving door that opened onto Piccadilly.

Nick was so elated he could hardly contain himself. He had been a champion boxer at Princeton, and once they were outside he could not resist executing a few nimble, ballet-like steps. He feinted, and then delivered a light punch on Victor’s shoulder, exclaiming, ‘You really shoved it to him! Gave him the whole enchilada!’

‘I’m lucky I was able to do so,’ Victor said with a grin. ‘Thank God I really don’t need him, or his lousy money.’

‘So you’ve made a deal with a major? For financing?’ Nick questioned, his bright blue eyes probing.

Victor shook his head negatively. ‘No, not yet. But it’s in the works. Metro’s considering it, and very seriously. But even if they turn it down, I’m not going to abort the production after all. I’ve decided to go ahead. Too much sweat, yours and mine, has gone into this project for me to let it go that easily.’

Relief flooded through Nick. ‘Hey, that’s great, kid. But can Bellissima finance the picture completely?’

‘Just about. If I defer my salary, and if I can find other ways to cut production costs, which Jerry Massingham seems to think we can do. But I’m pretty sure Metro’s going to roll with us. They want me for another picture of theirs, so they’re willing to play ball with me on this one.’

‘Will you do their picture, after Wuthering Heights?’

‘Most likely. I’ve more or less said yes, in principle. Subject to reading the script of course.’

Nick chuckled and jabbed Victor’s arm again. ‘Did you see Lazarus’s face, when he realized that you’d torn up the contract? I thought he was going to have apoplexy. I wish he had, the slimy bastard. I almost punched him in the nose when he was raving on about the script as if I wasn’t there.’

Victor laughed. ‘I thought you might myself. That’s why I didn’t dare look at you. Thanks for restraining yourself, old sport. We could have all ended up on the front page of the Daily Mirror if you hadn’t.’

‘Well, despite the insulting way in which he treated me, I wouldn’t have missed being there for anything. I bet it’s the first time anybody’s turned down his money. He was staggered.’

Victor nodded in agreement. ‘You’re probably right. That’s part of his problem. He’s had too much power for too long, running that fiefdom of his. He thinks he can push everybody around. I suppose I could have been more above board with him, and told him days ago that I wasn’t prepared to go ahead with the deal. But I’m afraid the actor in me overrode my scruples. I couldn’t resist playing the scene out to the bitter end. And I have to admit, Nicky, it gave me a lot of satisfaction, dumping him exactly the way I did.’

‘Me too. But I didn’t like his parting shot though. About your regretting it. He’s got a nasty reputation … for being vindictive. And there is something inimical about him. He might just try to get back at you, Vic.’ Nick’s voice vibrated with nervousness. ‘I think he’s creepy. Sinister. To be honest, he kind of scares me. Doesn’t he scare you?’

‘Not at all.’ Victor looked at Nick quickly, his eyes narrowing. ‘And I don’t think he scares you either, sport. As for being sinister, I think that’s your writer’s imagination working overtime. You know you enjoy playing casting director and visualizing people in various roles. The whores and the ladies, the good guys and the heavies. Goodness versus evil, and all that jazz.’

‘I suppose I do,’ Nick agreed. ‘Nonetheless, I think he’s bloody unscrupulous. And you said yourself he’s paranoid. Jesus, I feel sorry for Hélène. I don’t relish the idea of her being involved with a guy like him –’

‘I know what you mean,’ Victor interrupted. ‘But she’s a big girl. I think she’s capable of taking care of herself when it comes to men. Don’t you?’

‘I guess. Incidentally, did you notice that flicker of interest when you explained who Katharine was?’

‘Sure, and I saw that same look, only much more pronounced, on Monday night in the bar at Les A. Lazarus came in with this well-stacked, stately redhead, dripping jewellery from every pore, and clinging to him like an octopus. And from the moment he noticed Katharine, she might as well have not been there. And don’t think she wasn’t aware of his attention straying. It was all very pointed. They left after one drink, just before you arrived.’

‘Who was the redhead?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Victor responded. ‘But I can tell you one thing, Nick. I think Mike Lazarus is a womanizer in his own quiet but rather predatory way. Something I hadn’t realized before.’

‘That’s what I meant, about his being unscrupulous. I bet he’s a real bastard where women are concerned. And it’s apparent to me he keeps a girl in every port. Hélène in Paris. The redhead here in London. God knows who he’s got stashed where.’ He sighed. ‘Poor Hélène. She doesn’t deserve him. But then I guess that’s her problem, not mine.’

Victor was striding out quickly, suddenly preoccupied. After a moment he said, ‘Do you mind if we take a long walk, Nicky? I don’t feel like going back to Claridge’s just yet. I’m restless, and I need the exercise.’

‘That’s fine with me, kid.’

Victor and Nick kept up a brisk pace, not talking, but perfectly at ease with each other, as they had been since their first meeting. They were so well attuned to each other’s moods. Both were immersed in their own thoughts as they walked along Piccadilly, past Green Park, heading towards Hyde Park Corner.

Victor was pondering the current negotiations now under way with MGM, structuring the deal in his head, endeavouring to formulate all the elements which would make it even more tempting to them than it already was. His presence in the film gave them the box office guarantee they required, and they were not challenging him about casting an unknown actress in the female lead. But if he could offer them a prize package of superior talent, then the deal would really fly, and fly high. There was no question in his mind that he needed a back-up of good, solid British actors who were names, most especially Terry Ogden for the important role of Edgar Linton. And the right director was an imperative. Mark Pierce. Unfortunately Mark had already turned the picture down, because he did not want to direct a remake. Or so he said. Victor knew he had to have him, must get him at any price. But he didn’t really have to worry about either Mark Pierce or Terry. That problem was in other capable hands, would imminently be solved. Now if he could get Ossie Edwards then he was in clover. He was the best damned cinematographer in England, and he was already establishing an international reputation. There was also the matter of a completion guarantee. He might have to get that from one of the financial guys in New York, but Jake Watson would advise him. Jake was due to arrive early next week, and was itching to start shooting. Yes, everything was starting to roll along smoothly, now that he had made a few crucial decisions.

As they pushed ahead, Nick looked at Victor from time to time, but said nothing, not wishing to intrude. His own thoughts had stayed with Mike Lazarus. Despite what Victor said about his writer’s imagination, nothing could dissuade him from the belief that the man was somehow dangerous. His parting words had sounded ominous, even threatening. But what could Mike Lazarus do to harm Victor? He did not carry any weight in the motion picture industry, and besides Vic was a big star, a superstar in fact, who was also part of the old Hollywood Establishment, that cliquish upper echelon that was almost a private club. Jesus, you are stupid! Nick suddenly exclaimed to himself. Men with the kind of power Lazarus wielded invariably, and inevitably, had influence with somebody or other in every business where big money was involved. He turned the matter over in his mind several times, analysing and worrying, as was his custom. Finally he gave up, recognizing that worrying would not solve anything. Victor seemed calm enough, and was confidently going ahead with the film. Best not to borrow trouble, Nick decided. If Lazarus comes at Vic, he’ll just have to meet the bastard head on. And I’ll be right there with him in the fray.

Nick shivered and hunched further into his trenchcoat, suddenly feeling the nip in the air, and the bite of the wind which had blown up. They were on Park Lane now, approaching the Dorchester Hotel, and beyond he could see the top of Marble Arch silhouetted against the sky. He lifted his head quickly, squinting. It was no longer the spring sky it had been earlier in the day, golden and glorious and shimmering with blue luminosity, like the glaze on antique Chinese porcelain. The sun was fugitive, and the blueness had been obliterated by daubs of darker and more sombre hues, a range of greys, ombréd from pearl to opal to cinereous, and leaking into lividity at the outer edges. There, on the rim of the horizon, splinters of light suddenly poked out like shards of broken crystal, and pierced the darkening cloud mass with spears of glittering brilliance. In an instant it had become an unearthly sky, the kind that presaged, or followed, a thunderstorm, and to Nick it was perfectly beautiful.

He did not mind the rain and fog and greyness of London in the midst of winter. Unlike Victor, who missed the sunshine and balmy breezes of Southern California, Nick loved England’s inclement weather and changing seasons. Perhaps because it reminded him of New York and his childhood, and also of his years at Oxford University. Salad days. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. For no reason at all, his thoughts turned to Francesca Cunningham. Now she was really something else. There’s a lot more to that one than meets the eye, he thought.

Nick tapped Victor’s shoulder and said, with a soft laugh, ‘Lazarus was a bit hard on Francesca, wasn’t he? I’d hardly call her insipid. I think she’s quite a dazzler!’

‘I’ll say she is!’ Victor exclaimed, glancing at him. ‘I got the distinct impression Lazarus was attempting to be inflammatory when he made the comment.’

Nick peered at him, his brow furrowed. ‘Did you, now?’ He studied Victor reflectively, and then went on, ‘But why would he think that a derogatory remark about Francesca would inflame you? Does he know something I don’t? Come on, Vic, ’fess up. What gives?’

Victor laughed. ‘I guess you could call that a Freudian slip on my part. No, he doesn’t know anything. There isn’t anything to know. But he might have noticed I was paying special attention to Francesca in the bar for a while, trying to make her feel comfortable. Mind you, I was really only being my usual charming and gallant self.’

‘Hey, come on, kid! You can’t get out of it that easily. I know you too well. And what did you mean by Freudian slip? Explain.’

‘If you must know, I was rather taken with her, when I first met her. And, well … Well, I guess she has been dancing around in my head a bit. But that doesn’t mean a thing. She’s a mere child, Nicholas. A baby.’

‘San Quentin quail, eh?’ Nick grinned, his eyes twinkling with considerable amusement.

‘Hardly that. She is nineteen.’

‘She’s too young for you, maestro.’

‘You’re damned right she’s too young,’ Victor shot back sharply. ‘Twenty years too young.’

Nick gave Victor a sceptical look, trying to recall his behaviour on Monday evening. If he remembered correctly, Vic had been extremely proper and hadn’t paid undue attention to Francesca, or even spoken to her much. But that’s meaningless with him, Nick muttered under his breath. He’s a dark horse. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not going to do anything about her?’ Nick asked.

‘Of course I’m not going to do anything about her. She’s off limits. But regardless of that, I don’t think she’s interested in me anyway. So this discussion is pointless.’

Nick threw back his head and roared. ‘What do you bet, old buddy? What do you bet? I’ll give you a hundred to one she is more than interested.’

‘If she is, I’ll never know, because I’m not even going to try to find out. I told you, she’s far too young, and naïve, and we’re from different worlds anyway. It would be a bad mix. Trouble I don’t need.’

‘That’s true. By the way, talking of trouble, have you heard anything from Arlene The Bitch?’

Victor frowned. ‘Not a peep out of her, or her fancy lawyers, who are no doubt still figuring out ways to take me to the goddamn cleaners. Listen, don’t even mention her name, you’re spoiling my day.’

‘Sorry, Vic,’ Nick answered, and went on, ‘I got the impression Francesca is terrified of you.’

Victor gave him a baffled look and said, ‘Terrified of me! You gotta be kidding, kid. What the hell do you mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t think she’s afraid of you the way most women are, you know, of your fatal charm. Far from it. I think she’s quite a cool customer, very self-possessed. But when we were talking the other night, she said she came from Yorkshire. I asked her what she thought of Wuthering Heights, and she told me you had forbidden her to discuss it with me. Then she closed up like a clam and didn’t open her mouth for ages.’ He gave him a quizzical look and asked, ‘Did you forbid her to talk to me about it?’

Victor couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, of course not. I made some joking remark about keeping her away from you. Because she has strong opinions, Lady Francesca does. She told me, and in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t a love story at all, but a novel about revenge.’

‘She’s right.’

‘She is?’ Vic said, sounding a bit doubtful.

‘Sure. But it is a love story as well, and a rather touching and heart-breaking one at that.’ Nick grinned. ‘Intelligent as well, eh? Lethal combination, as far as you’re concerned. You’d better watch yourself there, old sport.’

‘Go to hell,’ Victor exclaimed, and then laughed. ‘I’m too preoccupied with the picture to start any romantic relationships, particularly with a teenager who has stardust in her eyes.’

Nick made no comment and the two of them walked on in silence, pushing through the shoppers milling around Oxford Street. They cut back, down North Audley Street, to escape the flood of humanity and roaring traffic on the main thoroughfare, and approached the more gracious and tranquil streets of Mayfair with relief. Nick glanced about, his eyes scanning the charming old houses and elegant edifices that dated back to another century. He thought fondly of his father, who had first brought him and his sister Marcia to London when they were children, and had lovingly imparted so much of his own considerable knowledge about the history of this city. He and his father had been inseparable then. He now wondered how he had ever lived through the terrible years of his father’s monumental anger with him, after he had announced he wanted to be a writer, did not want to join him in the bank. He had not enjoyed being on the receiving end of his father’s thunderous silence. They were on better terms of late, and for that Nicky was thankful. He had always loved his father. The terrible things parents do to their children, he thought with a stab of sadness. And children are equally bad.

Victor suddenly stopped in his tracks, staring ahead. They were drawing close to a construction site where a high building was rising slowly, its skeletal frame soaring into the sky like the fleshless bones of some gargantuan prehistoric monster.

‘What’s up, Vic?’

‘Nothing.’ Victor took a step backwards and raised his head, craning to see the highest point of the towering steel girders, where two solitary workmen were perched like ants, finishing up at the end of the day. Memories flooded through him. He brought his gaze to meet Nick’s puzzled eyes.

A pained smile played around Victor’s mouth. ‘You don’t know what fear is, sport, until you’ve dangled up there in the sky, with nothing between you and the ground but a narrow edge of metal and lots of yawning air. And then seen one of your friends slip and go plunging down, crumpling like a rag doll on the way. If you’re ever going to freeze, that’s when you freeze, when you know you can’t go up, can’t hit the sky ever again. The freeze, when you get it, is paralysing. Later come the shakes. Shakes like a dypsomaniac never knew existed.’

Nick was silent, observing the grimness on Victor’s face, the anguish in his eyes. But the expression passed, and Nick asked gently, ‘Did that happen to you, Vic?’

‘Sure as hell it did. But the funny thing was, I didn’t get the freeze when Jack actually fell. I was too concerned about him that day, I guess. It hit me forty-eight hours later.’ He shook his head. ‘Every construction worker dreads the freeze, because, for ever after, your days on the job are numbered. Of course you try to conceal it, bury it, because you need the work, but it gets to you in the end. The fear becomes impossible to live with, and there is no way of faking, because as the building goes up, you’ve got to go up. And up and up and up. If you don’t, you get thrown off the job. And pronto. Anyway, your buddies always smell it on you … the fear.’

‘Is that when you got out?’

‘Yes, after a few weeks. Ellie smelled the fear on me, Nick. Her father and her brothers were construction workers. That’s how I met her, through Jack. He was her youngest brother. Just a kid when he fell. Hell, she knew, Nicky, really knew. From past experience … with them. And she begged me to quit. I wouldn’t at first. I had to be different. Naturally. I had to conquer the fear. And I did. A week after Jack had slipped, another young kid got stuck on the girders at the top of a sixty-storey building. It had started to rain and a wind had blown up. A terrific gale. The kid remembered Jack’s accident, and he froze. He was unable to come down. I went up and got him. About a week later I left the construction business for good, much to Ellie’s relief. That’s when we packed up and left Ohio for California. The twins weren’t even a year old. We bought an old pick-up and drove it across the country. The four of us and the luggage, what little there was of it, packed in like sardines. But I’ll tell you something, Nicky, they were the good days. I had Ellie and the boys, and that’s all that mattered to me.’ Victor chuckled. ‘Jesus, and I wasn’t even twenty.’

‘And Ellie’s brother Jack? Was he killed when he fell?’

‘No, he was paralysed. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. Thank God I eventually made it, and have been able to look after him properly over the years.’

Nick was unable to speak for a moment, a lump constricting his throat. He thought: There’s nobody in this world quite like Vic. At least that I know of. That makes eight people he supports, to my knowledge, quite apart from the friends he helps out all the time. He’s got a heart the size of a goddamn mountain.

Victor had thrown back his head and was surveying the soaring girders for a second time, his lips compressed, his expression unreadable. When he lowered his head he half smiled at Nick. And then he said slowly, and with great care, ‘So you see, I know what real fear is, Nicky. And I’ve conquered it. Believe me, I ain’t afraid of Mike Lazarus.’

‘I believe you, Vic.’