Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 31

In a few minutes the lights would dim in the private screening room and Victor Mason would run the test of Katharine Tempest playing Catherine Earnshaw in a scene from Wuthering Heights.

Francesca sat in the next seat to Katharine, filled with a complex mixture of excitement and anticipation underscored by apprehension, and as the seconds ticked by her apprehension accelerated. Her anxiety was not for herself, nor was it in any way linked to the scene she had written for Katharine.

In all truth, Francesca did not feel she had contributed very much to the test, for there was little or no conceit in her. As far as she was concerned, she had simply taken some of those immortal words from Emily Brontë’s monumental masterpiece and arranged them as straight dialogue, without adding or subtracting anything. In consequence, her ego was not on the line. She was not about to be judged. But Katharine was, and therein lay the root of her fear, and her concern was solely for her friend. The points Victor had made to her about the technique of acting in front of a camera now echoed ominously in her ears, and she prayed that Katharine had not been tempted to over-act or be histrionic; or that she had not swung in the other direction and been too low key to make the proper impact; that Katharine had, in fact, hit just the right note and given a balanced performance.

In the past few weeks Francesca and Katharine had become the closest and most intimate of friends. There was a shared trust and empathy and understanding between them, all of which had developed without benefit of time. It had been thus since that first meeting, when they had instinctively reached out in silent communication, striking chords in each other to which they had both responded from their innermost hearts.

And so, not unnaturally, the success of the screen test meant as much to Francesca as it did to Katharine, and she had lived through every single moment of it with her new friend, was living it now, on tenterhooks. Moving her head slightly to one side, Francesca stole a look at the other girl. That beautiful profile appeared more spectacular than ever. But Katharine sat straight-backed and rigid on the seat, and Francesca detected her tension, her extreme nervousness, controlled though it was. Impulsively she reached out and touched Katharine’s hand. It lay immobile in her lap, and it was icy.

Katharine looked at Francesca swiftly, gave her a small weak smile and shrugged.

‘It’s going to be all right. I know it is. Don’t worry,’ said Francesca quietly, her smile confident and full of love. She squeezed Katharine’s hand again and held on to it tightly, wanting to warm those icy fingers, to reassure, to alleviate the other girl’s anxiousness if she possibly could.

Katharine nodded and turned back to stare at the darkened screen. She was mute with nerves. All the worries she wanted to voice to Francesca were strangled in her throat. She had been supremely self-confident since making the test, filled with absolute certainty about the final result. She knew she had done a superlative job, and Bruce Nottley, the director hired for the test, had been wonderful to work with. He had been patient and kind, understanding her initial nervousness of the camera, encouraging and complimentary afterwards. But in the last few days that overriding self-confidence had ebbed away, leaving her riddled with the most awful self-doubt, and mounting disquiet.

Katharine was well aware that Victor had induced these feelings in her. He had already seen the test, yet when she had questioned him about it, he had been noncommittal, even vague, and this worried her. Surely, if it was good he would have been excited and would have hired her at once. On the other hand, she reasoned, if it was bad, why had he bothered to invite half a dozen other people to view it with him today? Unless, of course, he was uncertain and wanted other opinions. Victor’s attitude puzzled Katharine, and so much so she no longer knew what to make of the situation. She sighed wearily. In desperation and misery, she broke her recently-made rule about not smoking during the day, and took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it.

Francesca was glancing around the room with interest. This was the first time she had ever been to a private screening, and she was fascinated. In fact, she had discovered that many areas of film-making intrigued her, and she had gained a wealth of knowledge in the past few weeks. Victor and Nicholas Latimer were seated in the row behind them, several places along, and both of them were talking to the man Victor had introduced as Jake Watson, the line producer, who had flown in from Hollywood recently. Francesca had not understood the meaning of the title line producer, and had asked Nicky for clarification. He had told her it meant the working producer, the person who was on the set at all times, ‘On the line, so to speak, making sure everything works, that nothing goes wrong with the production on a day-to-day basis.’ He had further explained that Victor was the executive producer, ‘Who’s not so much concerned with the daily details but more with the overall aspects of the project. Financing, casting, script, director, and distribution. But making a film is teamwork essentially, and it’s up to the executive producer to put the best team together,’ he had finished, adding with a sly grin, ‘And let’s hope the kid has done so.’

A few rows in front, Jerry Massingham, the English production manager, was slumped down in his seat, biting on an unlit briar pipe, and nodding from time to time to his assistant. Jerry, a rumpled-looking man, heavyset and with shaggy red hair, invariably spoke in statistics, or so it seemed to Francesca.

Francesca shifted in her seat, making herself more comfortable, and stared at the lifeless screen, momentarily drifting with her thoughts. She had been thrilled when Katharine had announced that Victor had given his permission for her to come along this morning, and had accepted immediately. She was only sorry Kim was not present. Katharine had wanted him to attend as well, but he was in Yorkshire, running the Home Farm and also coping with the problems of the burst pipes at Langley Castle. There had been several more leaks at the concave end of the Widow’s Gallery this past week. Fortunately these had been caught in time, and the Turner and Constable landscapes on display there were safe, but additional sections of the centuries-old panelling had been completely ruined. The damaged panelling was currently being replaced, slowly and painstakingly. According to Kim, their father was still plunged in gloom because the repairs and the new panelling were going to cost a fortune. Her father had deemed it necessary to engage a master cabinetmaker, a craftsman from the old school, since he insisted that the reproduction panelling be a fascimile of the original, and authentic down to the last detail. Apart from carefully treating the new wood so that it looked aged, the craftsman was going to use the old-fashioned method of pegging the panelling into position, a process that was slow, not to mention difficult.

Poor Daddy, Francesca thought, remembering his distress on the day they had received the upsetting news. But at least Kim is there to give him moral support, and the money he’s received from Giles Martin for the prize heifers will more or less cover the cost of the panelling and the new plumbing being installed.

The disaster at the castle had precipitated yet another discussion about money that particular Thursday evening, after Kim had gone off to meet Katharine at her flat, armed with the Fortnum’s hamper laden with the food Francesca had prepared for them. She had finally plucked up her courage and suggested to her father that she look for a job, perhaps in a reputable Mayfair gallery dealing in antiques or art, in order to help with their heavy expenses. He had refused to countenance the idea and had been horrified at first, later somewhat amused. Laughingly, he had pointed out that she couldn’t possibly earn more than a pittance, which would hardly solve their grave problems. But the Earl had been touched by Francesca’s generous offer, especially unselfish in view of her dedication to her writing. Subsequently she had poured all of her energies into the book on Chinese Gordon. But she continued to fret about the situation in general, and one night, when Katharine came to supper at the Chesterfield Street house, she had confided her worries about money. Carefully, Francesca had enumerated some of the facts, endeavouring to explain in the simplest terms such things as entailment and trusts, and her great-grandfather’s curious will. This had actually been dictated by her great-grandmother, in much the same way that this redoubtable lady had conceived, structured and dictated the various family trusts. The Ninth Countess of Langley, aware of ‘Spendthrift Teddy’s’ proclivity for extravagant living and young mistresses, had been determined to protect her children, her grandchildren and their progeny from any foolishness on his part. To this end she had bullied her husband into acceding to her wishes, and the family’s solicitors had been obliged to create a number of iron-clad trusts which could not be invaded or broken. Everything was neatly and very tightly sewn up for ever, making it virtually impossible to sell anything. Whilst successfully tying her husband’s hands, the Ninth Countess had also hamstrung future generations. ‘We’re rich in land, paintings, and possessions, but cash poor,’ Francesca had pointed out gloomily, adding, with a surge of youthful optimism, ‘At least until the Home Farm starts making a profit, which won’t be long, now that Daddy has modernized the operation. It’ll soon be on a paying basis.’

Katharine had been understanding, but she had categorically taken the Earl’s side. She had advised Francesca, rather vociferously, to double her efforts on the biography, in the hope that it would be a commercial success and earn her a bushel of money. Katharine had continued to be supportive, and a receptive and patient listener whenever Francesca wanted to discuss the book, for which Francesca was grateful.

Suddenly Francesca felt a light tap on her shoulder, and she swung her head to face Nicholas Latimer, who was leaning forward. It was almost as if he had been plugged into her mind like an amp, for he said, ‘Did you take my advice about bridging and spanning time, the early years of Gordon’s life?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I did, Nicky. Thanks so much.’

‘Keep at it, kid. You’ll write that last page one day.’

‘I hope so. Incidentally, what’s this delay about?’

Nick grinned. ‘We’re waiting for God. We can’t possibly begin until he arrives.’

‘God?’

‘Yes. The guy from Monarch Pictures. He now holds our fate in his hands, since they’re going to be distributing Wuthering Heights and, more importantly, financing it. Mind you, they’re not making a problem about who plays the female lead. All they’re really interested in is getting one of Victor’s pictures. It’ll give them the prestige they need, and it’s quite a coup that he signed with them. Metro really wanted the film too. Anyway, Vic thought Hilly Street ought to see Katharine’s test. A courtesy gesture.’

‘Hilly Street? That’s not really his name, is it?’ Francesca giggled, eyeing Nick doubtfully, aware of his penchant for teasing her unmercifully. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you just invented it.’

Nick laughed. ‘Sure I did. But years ago. And the nickname stuck.’

‘But why such a peculiar nickname?’

‘It’s appropriate. Doing business with him is like riding a bike up a very hilly street. Excessively bumpy. His real name’s Hillard Steed, which prompted my play on words, I guess, and he’s not such a bad guy. Congenitally late though.’

Victor, who had overheard their conversation, straightened up and glanced at Nick. ‘I’ll give Hilly about ten more minutes and then I’ll tell the projectionist to roll it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven. As usual, Hilly’s going to be half an hour late. I told him ten-thirty.’ Victor stood up, dwarfing them with his great bulk. ‘I’m going into the projection room, Nick. Excuse me.’ He nodded rather curtly to Francesca, who managed a bleak little smile in return before he disappeared.

A knowing glint flicked into Nick’s eyes as he observed this cool and perfunctory exchange. Francesca had become something of a permanent fixture in their lives, and Vic’s behaviour when she was around was causing Nick considerable amusement. Ever since meeting Victor, Katharine Tempest had spent a great deal of her free time with him, especially when Kim was in Yorkshire, introducing him into the smartest social circles and to the crème de la crème of London society. This had not changed, except that now she had her new bosom chum trailing along in her wake. Wherever Katharine went Francesca’s presence was sure to follow, like the proverbial little lamb. Nick felt Francesca’s presence as acutely as Victor did. She was astonishingly bright and gay, articulate to the point of being rather outspoken at times, unusually self-assured for her age, and yes, enormously pretty. Quite beautiful, really, in that understated English way that was dewdrop fresh and reminiscent of a spring garden. No, it wasn’t easy to ignore the Lady Francesca, as Nick had quickly come to understand.

Victor always seemed delighted at the prospect of their company, until the girls arrived, and then his demeanour instantly changed, and radically, in relation to Francesca. He was either remote and vague and retreated into protracted silences, or became excessively jolly and avuncular, alien postures which did not sit well on him. To Nick, Vic appeared curiously transparent and out of sync when Francesca was in the same room. For a quintessential actor he was doing a pretty lousy job of concealing his feelings. In fact, his abnormal behaviour only confirmed his immense attraction to Francesca more forcibly than ever. For her part, she was completely natural, her comportment relaxed and pleasant, and she was apparently oblivious to Victor’s indisputable interest in her. Maybe I’m the only one who’s aware of it, because I know him so well, Nick thought, and another possibility quickly insinuated itself into his mind. Could it be that Victor did not comprehend his feelings for the girl? Hardly likely, Nick answered himself. Still, Vic might have buried his emotions so deep he was able to ignore them, and therefore did not have to confront or deal with them. If that’s the case, he’s being very foolish, Nick decided.

Nicholas Latimer was the first to admit he was very taken with Francesca. In the short time he had known her he had grown extremely fond of her in a brotherly fashion, and in some respects she reminded him of his sister Marcia. She took his banter exceptionally well, in the spirit it was given. Francesca was a good sport. Unlike Katharine, he commented inwardly, and smiled with acerbity. His wit and irreverent joshing fell on stony ground when directed at her. Oh she smiled, even laughed occasionally, but the eyes were so glacial he thought he would get frostbite from them one day. Because of her impeccable manners, Katharine was always civil to him, even cordial, but this could be so excessive it bordered on parody, in Nick’s view, at any rate. Frigid was the only word he could ever find to properly characterize her to himself.

In contrast, he thought of Francesca as warm and loving and sunny of nature. An uncomplicated young woman who was lots of fun, and had a terrific sense of humour. In particular, Nicky liked her smart mind. She was also keen and incisive and he admired her vast knowledge of history.

On that tedious Sunday evening, a couple of weeks earlier, when Victor had been inveigled by Katharine into giving a supper party in his suite, Francesca had started to look as bored as he was feeling. She had drifted over to join him during cocktails, and had remained resolutely glued to his side thereafter. Nick had been delighted to have her company. He had sensed rather than observed her irritation with Estelle Morgan’s ridiculous affectations and inanities. In fact, Francesca’s distant manner was a reflection of his own attitude, and his growing impatience with the journalist, whom Nick mentally categorized as a pushy New York broad of the worst kind.

That evening he and Francesca had spent several hours discussing the historical figures who most intrigued them. She had talked about Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, known as the Kingmaker, that glittering figure who, in the fifteenth century, had placed Edward Plantagenet on the shaky throne of England after the Wars of the Roses. Nick had listened to her in astonishment, discovering she had an amazing ability to make both the man and the events surrounding him come vividly alive in the manner of a born storyteller. He had been encouraging her efforts to write ever since, had volunteered to help her in any way he could, and had already spoken to his English publisher about her book.

Now, as he reflected, Nick could not remember enjoying an evening so much in a long time. Yes, there was something unique about Francesca Cunningham. His only regret was that she was so very young. Otherwise she would have been perfect for Victor. Exactly the kind of woman he needed in his life. Too damned bad, Nick muttered under his breath, and then he frowned. Who had decided she was too young? Victor, of course. But I did tease him about her age, Nick thought, regretting this now, wondering if he had sounded disapproving. I’d better correct that impression, he resolved.

Again, Nick found himself focusing on Katharine Tempest, contemplating the test he was about to see. Was it really any good? Victor had been close-mouthed, even cagey, about it and for once Nick had been unable to read his best friend. When Nick had pestered him, Vic had merely said, ‘I think you’d better see it for yourself. I don’t want to influence you in advance. And listen, old buddy, I want an honest opinion from you.’

Nick strictured himself to be unbiased, to keep an open mind. He must not let his dislike of Katharine as a woman becloud his judgment of her as an actress. Nick merely tolerated her company out of deference to Victor, who was oddly attached to her. Sometimes he wondered about that attachment.

Hillard Steed finally arrived. He and Victor were chatting in the doorway, and Nick sauntered over, greeting Hilly with amiability. Victor interrupted sharply, with, ‘Okay boys, let’s get this show on the road. You can talk later.’ Nick winked at Hilly, gave Victor a smart military salute and edged along the row. A second later, Victor lowered himself into the next seat, swung his head, and indicated to the projectionist peering out of the booth window that he wanted to start.

Francesca gave Katharine’s hand a quick squeeze without looking at her. Her eyes were glued to the screen and she sat perfectly still. Katharine herself was suddenly petrified and she wanted to flee, but that would be cowardly and she prided herself on her courage. Her nervousness increased and she felt as if her heart was in her mouth. Outwardly she remained contained and unruffled, but she was glad Francesca was there to lend her support. Katharine closed her eyes, and she, who was not particularly religious, found herself saying a small silent prayer: Please God, let me be good. So much depends on this. My future and Ryan’s too. Her eyes opened and she settled back against the seat, willing herself to relax.

The overhead lights were doused, and there was a flickering on the screen, but it went black and a collective groan rose and echoed around the screening room. Almost immediately the reel started and the titles on a clap-board read: SCREEN TEST: MISS KATHARINE TEMPEST: WUTHERING HEIGHTS.

And so the scene began.

Ann Patterson, the actress playing Nelly Dean, sat in the kitchen of Wuthering Heights, the Earnshaw farm, singing a lullaby to the baby Hareton, actually a doll wrapped in a shawl. In the Brontë novel, Heathcliff had been present, talking to Nelly a moment before she had lifted the child from its crib. Then he had walked across the room and flung himself down on a bench against the wall, hidden from view by a large settle. He had remained in the kitchen.

Francesca had included this in her version, since she believed it was Heathcliff’s hidden presence that helped to give the chapter a great deal of its dramatic impetus, in that Heathcliff overhears the unflattering things Cathy has to say about him, as opposed to Edgar Linton, and the recitation of her feelings for them both.

However, Victor had limited Bruce Nottley to only one other actor to play opposite Katharine, to keep the costs of the test down to a minimum. And so the first few pages of Francesca’s relatively short, twenty-eight-minute script had been dropped by the director, eliminating the need for an actor to play the role of Heathcliff. Katharine had been concerned that this tampering with the script, minor though it was, would diminish the values in the scene. But Bruce had managed to reassure her, explaining that Ann could easily indicate to the viewer that there was an eavesdropper present, simply through worried glances directed to the far end of the kitchen, her vain attempts to silence Cathy increasing Nelly’s nervousness. Katharine had no choice but to acquiesce, since Bruce, as the director of the test, had the last word.

The elderly actress continued to croon softly to the child, and the screening room was now completely hushed, the silence broken only by the gentle whirring of the projector. The tension and expectancy were high, seemed to vibrate like waves in the air. Everyone was keyed up and waiting, wondering if they were about to witness a disastrous failure or the birth of a new star. Only Victor knew the answer and he had given none of them the vaguest clue.

The kitchen door flew open and Katharine Tempest was on the screen. Her first lines, spoken in a whisper, were, ‘Are you alone, Nelly?’ All eyes were focused on her as she floated forward to join Nelly Dean by the hearth, in the foreground of the shot. She looked like a dream in a white muslin frock sprigged with tiny cornflowers. Her thick chestnut hair was parted in the centre and held back at each side with small blue-velvet bows, and it fell softly to her shoulders in loose waves. The camera dollied in for a close-up and there were several quite audible gasps as it lingered there to reveal the perfect features, the purity and innocence in those matchless eyes.

Katharine seemed to leap out from the screen, blazingly alive, larger than life. Her acting was superb, but the force she projected had little to do with this, or her grace of movement, her facial expressions, the mellifluous ring to her voice, although, indeed, all were in great evidence. It was something far beyond these attributes which came across so powerfully and magnetically, which stunned with its impact. It was sheer force of personality. Katharine had incredible presence, and glamour, and charisma personified, and all spelled STAR in no uncertain terms. And the camera truly loved her.

As the scene unfolded, Katharine ran the gamut of emotions. Her initial quiet anxiety on entering was quickly replaced by lighthearted gaiety tinged with skittishness, which in turn moved on to indignation and a hint of imperiousness. She was also defiant, cajoling, sweetly endearing and, finally, was held in the grip of a passion so intensely, so eloquently expressed it was heart-stopping in its pathos and realism. Francesca was mesmerized and on the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly together. Gooseflesh ran up her arms when Katharine began Cathy Earnshaw’s famous declaration of her all-consuming love for Heathcliff. She was unusually familiar with the words, had heard them said many times before; but it seemed to her that Katharine was giving them new life and meaning and with a depth of feeling that was remarkable. She was touched and moved in a way she had never been before in her young life, and she knew she was watching genius. Katharine Tempest was spellbinding.

On the screen Katharine was at Nelly’s feet, one hand on her knee, and, as she looked up at her, those huge turquoise eyes beseeched, were flooded with mingled suffering and ecstasy and final acceptance of her overpowering love. Slowly she said:

‘“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”’ Katharine paused for a beat and in that dramatic, split-second pause the tears seeped out of her eyes and trickled unchecked down her cheeks. And then she declared: ‘“Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable –”’

Katharine buried her head in the folds of Nelly’s skirt, racked with sobs, and there was a slow fade-out as the camera pulled back for a final long shot of the two women. The screen went black, and the scene, which had run for exactly twenty-four and a half minutes, came to an end.

The test was electrifying.

There was total silence in the screening room. Not a single person stirred until the overhead lights finally went on, and then a hubbub broke out, and everyone was excitedly talking at once. Francesca, wiping a tear, caught a glimpse of Hillard Steed surreptitiously doing the same, looking sheepish.

Francesca quickly turned to Katharine, her eyes watery, and threw her arms around her, hugging her friend tightly. ‘Oh, Katharine, Katharine, you were absolutely marvellous!’

Katharine blinked several times, feeling curiously numb, and before she could fully take hold of herself they were suddenly crowding around her. Slowly she stood up, still looking slightly startled, smiling with uncertainty, overcome by shyness. They began to congratulate her in the most lavish terms, and the accolades were flying so fast and furious around her she could hardly take them all in. Victor hovered at the edge of the group, beaming, and exuding an air of quiet pleasure and much pride, and a hint of possessiveness besides.

Only Nicholas Latimer remained seated. Being decent and fair, and very much the professional, he was not one to begrudge credit where it was due, especially to a creative artist who excelled at what she did. And he fully intended to offer Katharine congratulations once he had recovered his equanimity.

He was still considerably shaken by her performance. Nick had known, within the first few minutes of the test, that she was pure magic. She would be a star. Not a run-of-the-mill star either, but big, very big. Probably the biggest of them all. She was unadulterated box-office material, for she had the extraordinary ability to project the stuff of romantic dreams, and that was what mass audience motion pictures were all about. Her staggering looks, her sexuality mingled with a touch of innocence, her incredible brilliance as an actress were more than enough to guarantee her the most glittering place in the Hollywood firmament of stars. And she would go to Hollywood. There was no doubt in his mind about her eventual destination.

He replayed the test in his head. She had astounded him with her sense of timing. It was perfect. She had paused dramatically when he had not anticipated it, and increased her speed when he had expected her to adopt a slower pace. But she had been correct. Her instinct is infallible, he said to himself, and that’s something you can’t teach an actor. It was there, or it wasn’t. Besides timing, she had been gripping, exciting, and so convincing, that when she had said, ‘Nelly, I am Heathcliff!’ he had thought instantly: And she is Cathy. She’s not acting this, she’s living it, and with every fibre of her being. It will always be the same with her, whatever role she’s playing. She’s a natural, just as Vic is a natural, and like him she has that same mysterious communication with the camera. To Nick, it was almost as if Katharine had had a love affair with the lens, and it had captured so many things about her he had not realized she possessed: vulnerability, a poignancy that tugged at the heart, a restless tempestuousness, and hidden fire.

He remembered some of the lines he himself had adapted for the actual screenplay, of Heathcliff crying out, in the anguish of his love: ‘My wild sweet Cathy! My wild heart!’ How appropriate those words had become in the space of twenty-five minutes. They not only so aptly described Catherine Earnshaw but Katharine Tempest, who truly was the embodiment of them.

Finally, Nick rose and edged his way into the aisle, and approached Katharine who was surrounded by Jake, Jerry and Hilly, with Francesca and Victor standing on the sidelines. She was laughing gaily, enjoying this moment of triumph, but when she saw him the laughter broke off, and her face turned stony and hostile. The gaze she levelled at him was one of icy blue disdain, and he saw challenge mirrored there as well.

Nick experienced a sharp tightening across his chest and he shivered, feeling suddenly cold and drained. And he did not understand himself at all. He drew to a standstill in front of Katharine, staring down at her; it struck him how small and fragile she appeared, and he wondered why he’d never really noticed this before.

Growing conscious of the prolonged silence, of all eyes on him, he said softly, ‘You are Cathy. I’ll never believe anyone else in the part now. Not after seeing you. To use Vic’s favourite expression, you’re the whole enchilada.’

Stunned by this unfamiliar and unexpected approbation from Nicholas Latimer, Katharine returned his stare, not sure whether or not she had heard him correctly. Immediately she was suspicious and wary, steeled herself for the barbed line, the snide remark that inevitably fell from his mouth. But to her growing astonishment he remained silent, and he was looking at her with such warmth she was unnerved. And very slowly the frostiness in her eyes dissolved.

Katharine smiled back at Nick, and it was the only sincere smile she had given him since their first meeting. Aware that he was impervious to her, she had never bothered to exercise her devastating charm on him in the past, believing it would be a waste of time.

Hesitantly, she said, ‘Do you mean you actually thought I was good?’

‘Not good, Katharine. Brilliant.’

There was another silence, in reality a sudden stillness between them, and then she asked, ‘Are you sure, Nick? Really really sure?’

‘Yes, I am, Katharine,’ he replied in a voice that was low and serious. But as he turned to Francesca, his wicked grin flashed. ‘And you did a pretty damned good job with the scene, kid. I’d better watch myself, or I’m going to be out of a job. Christ, the amateurs are getting to be real professionals around here. And some of them are still in diapers.’

Delighted, Francesca burst out laughing, and she clutched his arm. ‘I was wondering what you’d say, and coming from a writer like you, those are words of praise indeed. Thank you.’ Nick took this opportunity to lead Francesca away from the group, out of the limelight, all the while trying to define the cause of his discomfort, diagnose the reason for the chill in his bones. It had to be the flu.

Katharine’s gaze followed them, and lingered briefly on Nicholas Latimer. If this man who so hated her said she was brilliant, then it must be true. Know thine enemy, she thought, and unexpectedly remembered something her father had said years ago – that it was often wiser to seek the truth from an enemy rather than a friend. Now she could not help thinking of her brother Ryan, picturing his face when he saw her on the screen, when he understood she was a famous star. Or about to be one. She wished her brother had been here today. To witness the beginning of it all. And it was the beginning, just the way she had planned it.

Katharine’s young heart quickened, and that driving ambition, that fierce and relentless determination to succeed were intensified within her as never before, and yet again she silently reiterated her resolution to rescue Ryan and destroy her father’s hold on him. It won’t be long now, she promised herself, not long at all …

‘I’m sure it goes without saying that you’ve got the part,’ Victor exclaimed.

Startled, Katharine looked across at him, her eyes scanning his face. After a moment she said, ‘I hope so. Thank you, Victor.’ She laughed. ‘I’m definitely hired?’

‘You are. I’ve prepared the contract for your agent to look over. He’ll be getting it later today.’

‘Thanks …’ She stopped, frowning, and then pronounced in a careful tone, ‘I’d like to ask you something. Why were you so noncommittal, so vague with me about the test? I don’t unders –’

‘That’s right, you bastard,’ Nick interjected with a broad grin. Adopting an exaggerated English accent, he went on, ‘Awfully bad show, old boy, keeping us in the dark. Not very sporting of you, wot?’

A smile swept across Victor’s face. ‘I had a good reason for playing it cool, and close to the chest. Very simply, I wanted to be absolutely sure I would get honest reactions from everyone. I was worried I might set you up, influence you, if I let my own excitement show, and I almost did several times. That’s why it was easier for me to keep quiet. When I first ran the test I could hardly contain myself. Then I ran it again, and again, looking for flaws, but there weren’t any. Actually, I’ve seen it four times altogether,’ he admitted, ‘and in my opinion it gets better every time. I knew I couldn’t be wrong in my assessment, but I wanted to see if you were all going to be swept off your feet, like I had been.’

‘We certainly were,’ Francesca exclaimed, and then blushed furiously. There were nods of agreement, and Hillard Steed volunteered, ‘I think Monarch would be interested in signing a contract with Katharine.’ He swung his eyes away from Victor and let them rest appraisingly on Katharine, finishing, a trifle pompously, ‘How do you feel about that, young lady?’

Before she could open her mouth, Victor cried, ‘Hold your horses, Hilly! Not so fast. Bellissima Productions has a verbal commitment from Katharine, and the contract is right here in my pocket.’ He patted the front of his jacket and, noting Hilly’s disbelief, he immediately pulled out an envelope. ‘Do you want to see it, Hilly?’

Hilly shook his head, his disappointment apparent. ‘No, I believe you, Vic. And I don’t blame you. Congratulations to you too. You’ve got yourself a major new star on your hands.’ Another thought struck him, and he said quickly, ‘Would you be interested in a loan out? That is, if you don’t have another picture in mind for Katharine after Wuthering Heights? I’d like to talk about that possibility with you, even start negotiations.’

Victor looked interested. ‘Do you have a particular property in mind, Hilly?’ he asked, knowing he undoubtedly did, otherwise he wouldn’t have made the proposal. Not Hilly Street, who was a veteran film maker.

‘Sure do, Victor.’ Hilly’s eyes narrowed, and he waited, purposely holding back, anticipating a string of pertinent questions from Victor, wanting his announcement to have the maximum effect.

But Victor, also percipient, merely smiled, well versed in Hilly’s ploys and tactics, and not about to take the bait too swiftly. He lit a cigarette, out-waiting Hilly, and turning to Nick, he said, ‘Incidentally, talking of properties, did you read the script by Frank Lomax? The one the Morris office sent. Now that would be a great vehicle for Katharine.’

Nick, understanding immediately Victor’s strategy, jumped in with, ‘It’s terrific. I think we should grab it, and Bellissima can produce it –’

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Hilly interrupted sharply. ‘Not until you’ve heard me out.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I want Katharine for … the new Beau Stanton picture.’ He let his words sink in, and went on rapidly, ‘We’re all set to go, except for the female lead. Naturally, we’ve a few top stars in mind, but personally I think Katharine would play off marvellously against Beau. They’d make a great team. Script by Henry Romaine. The best in the business, as you know, Vic. Willy Adler directing. Morton Lane producing. Costumes by Edith Head. We start shooting in October. In Hollywood. Locations in San Francisco and New York. Twelve weeks shooting schedule.’

Victor swallowed. This he had not expected, and he was tremendously impressed by the prestigious names attached to the film, all adding up to a quality production, and not the least was the male star. Richard Stanton, commonly known as Beau in the industry, was a big box-office name and had been for the past twenty years or so. An English actor who had first made it big in the Hollywood of the thirties, Beau was one of the longest-lasting perennials, handsome, debonair, suave, and ageless. He was a leading man of faultless grace, inimitable style, great elegance, and had an easy charm that wholly captivated women. His penchant for light, glossy, sophisticated comedy had become his forte, and his films were always highly commercial successes. If Katharine went into a picture with Beau immediately after starring opposite Vic himself, then her career in the movies was not merely launched but would be jet-propelled. Meteoric. She would be established as an international name instantaneously.

Jesus! Vic thought. Concealing his excitement, he said evenly, with cool thoughtfulness, ‘Obviously I have to talk to Katharine first, explain about loan outs. And I would want to see the script before I make a final decision. But I’m not negative, Hilly, not at all. I think we’d better sit down and talk this out later in the week. In the meantime, shall we go to lunch? A celebration lunch. I’ve booked a table at Les Ambassadeurs. It’s champagne and the whole –’

‘Enchilada,’ Katharine finished for him. Her face, calm and inscrutable, revealed nothing. But her heart was pounding, her mind was racing and she could hardly breathe. She smiled a small secretive smile as she linked her arm through Victor’s and guided him towards the door.

Nick took hold of Francesca’s hand and hurried her up the aisle after them. It’s all going too fast. Far too fast, he thought, shafted by dismay. There’s going to be trouble. Nothing but trouble. And suddenly he had an awful sense of foreboding, one so real to him he faltered momentarily. As they stepped into the lift Nick’s uneasiness increased, and then he laughed inwardly and told himself he was being over imaginative, even ridiculous. And he laughed again, trying to shake the feeling off. But he could not dispel it, and it was to linger in him for the rest of that day, and for many months to come.