Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 33

Victor Mason gave Jerry Massingham a long, hard stare and said in his briskest tone, ‘You’d better make sure we take out plenty of insurance on Langley Castle itself, apart from our overall insurance for the film. And I do mean plenty, Jerry. I sure as hell don’t want problems, should there be any accidents or damage to their valuables. In fact, I’d prefer to think we were over-insured.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Jake about it, so don’t worry,’ Jerry answered him quickly, wondering if Victor thought he was a dimwit. Certainly for the past hour he had sounded as if he was trying to teach him how to suck eggs. But then Jake Watson had also been at the receiving end of similar treatment. Jerry grinned to himself, fully aware that Victor was simply in one of his businesslike, take-charge moods this morning: the executive producer rather than the star, well-versed in every facet of the production and shrewdly assessing the minutest detail. And letting us know it, Jerry added silently.

Suddenly conscious of Victor’s dark eyes resting on him, Jerry felt obliged to add, ‘I also intend to remove most of the lamps, vases and ornaments in the rooms we’ll be shooting in, and I’ll be replacing them with reproductions, to be on the safe side –’

‘Yes, you’d better,’ Victor cut in. He leaned back in his chair, flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his dark blue jacket and remarked, ‘I imagine the place is full of expensive carpets, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. The Earl pointed out an Aubusson, several Savonneries and a couple of antique Orientals. Seemed a bit worried about them, but I explained we’ll be using transparent plastic sheets underneath the cameras and the other equipment, whether there are carpets down or not. And we’ll take up the rare carpets I’ve just mentioned. Actually, Victor, the castle is jam-packed with the most incredible treasures, priceless objects of art, so we can’t take any chances.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘It’s an amazing old place and extraordinarily beautiful. And the paintings!’ He whistled in admiration, shaking his head again. ‘My God, they’ve got to be worth a small fortune. But look, don’t worry, I’ve got everything well in hand. I don’t miss a trick.’

‘I know you’re a stickler for detail, but then so am I, Jerry. I like to be doubly sure, and surprises don’t sit well on me. Particularly nasty surprises.’ Victor threw Jerry a brief smile, and turned his attention to the many black and white photographs Jerry had taken in Yorkshire the previous week. He spread them out on the table, studying them closely and with keen and expert eyes.

Jerry sat back, tensely waiting for judgment to be passed, as he knew it would be. Victor could be relied upon to speak his mind, and with a candour that sometimes startled in its bluntness.

Victor was concentrating on the photographs. ‘When will the colour shots be ready?’ he asked without raising his head.

‘Later this week. And you’ll be stunned. Yorkshire is quite a magical place. I hadn’t realized that before. Actually, the scenery took my breath away.’

‘Yes, I can see from the black and whites exactly why it did. You hit on some truly great photogenic spots.’ Victor looked up, nodding approvingly, impressed. A wry smile touched his mouth. ‘Better than the back lot any time, eh, Jerry?’

‘Not half,’ said Jerry, happy to hear this unexpected approbation. ‘And I do think we found some superb locations, I really do. ’Course that was no accident. It was entirely due to Francesca. Lovely girl. Surprisingly diligent, and very sweet. Not a bit toffee-nosed, like the usual deb.’

Victor’s ears pricked up at the mention of Francesca’s name, and innumerable questions flew to his tongue. He muffled these, and adopted a cautious tone as he asked, ‘She worked out okay then? You thought it was worth having her along?’

‘God, yes! I’d have been lost without her. She saved us a lot of time, not to mention aggravation.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Victor murmured, wondering whether or not she was back in London. He was about to question Jerry, but instantly changed his mind, considering it wiser to remain discreetly silent. ‘How did you get on with the Earl?’ he asked, draining his coffee cup.

‘Very well. He’s a nice chap. Rather down-to-earth, I thought, and most obliging. Made us feel very much at home. He seemed tickled we want to film at the castle, looking forward to all the excitement probably. A farmer’s life is pretty dull, I suppose, and that’s what he is really. A gentleman farmer. And I must say, he was startled when I told him the fee. I don’t believe he expected so much. If anything at all.’ Jerry paused and drew on his cigarette, meditating. After a moment, he voiced the thought which had nagged at him all weekend, when he stated, with a touch of dourness, ‘Maybe you’ve been over generous, old chap. You could have paid him much less, and he’d still be ecstatic.’

‘Come on, Jerry, don’t be such a tight wad!’ Victor reproved, although his voice was tinged with laughter. ‘We’re well within the budget, and I understand from Katharine Tempest that the Earl’s pretty short on walking around money.’ Noting the baffled look on Jerry’s face, he grinned and explained, ‘Ready cash.’ He reached for the second set of photographs, fanned them out, and commented, ‘These rooms look exactly right for the interiors of Thrushcross Grange. We’ll be saving ourselves a fortune on sets. So I’m glad to help the family if I can. Listen, it’s cheap at the price.’

‘I suppose so,’ Jerry agreed grudgingly, and then on a more defensive note, he continued, ‘And be happy I am a tight wad. I’m keeping the budget under control, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, and for that I’m very grateful, Jerry. So is Jake Watson. You’re making life a lot easier, I can tell you. And speaking of our brilliant line producer, where in hell is he?’

‘When I went out to get us coffee, he was interviewing Harry Pendergast. The set designer. He’s damned good by the way.’

‘Damned expensive too,’ Victor pointed out. ‘Oh, by the way, I was talking to Jake over the weekend, and we both came to the conclusion we might need an auxiliary generator for the kliegs. Did you think to check that out?’

‘I did. I spoke to the Earl on Friday, just before I left for London. He seemed a bit vague about the capacity of the generator at the castle, and Francesca promised to follow it through for me.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Glad you brought it up, old chap. She stayed on to spend the weekend with her father, but she was due back this morning. I think I’ll give her a tinkle right now. Get the matter settled. Excuse me a minute, Victor. I’ll just pop back to the production office to make the call. I left some of my notes there.’

Victor rose and crossed to a small table at the far end of the conference room. He poured himself another cup of coffee, dropped in a spoonful of sugar, stirring absent-mindedly, thinking of Francesca. So she had returned to London after all. She had sounded vague about her plans before leaving, had been uncertain about joining them for dinner tonight. Tonight. He smiled, feeling a little surge of elation at the thought of seeing her. There was no point in lying to himself. He had noticed her absence.

Whistling merrily, he carried the cup of coffee back to the table, sat down and picked up Jerry’s photographs of the ballroom at Langley Castle. Jerry had taken a number of different angles, and he could see that the dimensions were exactly right. But it looked to him as if it needed a paint job, and a bit of sprucing up. Beautiful crystal chandelier and candelabra though, he commented to himself. He turned to the rough sketch of the room on which were indicated the possible areas for setting up the cameras, the klieg lights and other mandatory movie equipment. There was obviously plenty of space in which to shoot a superb ballroom scene, a brilliant and glittering scene, with beautifully attired guests waltzing to a small orchestra. Jake agreed with him that this touch of real glamour, Hollywood style, was vital. He sifted through the other views of various interiors, which Jerry had selected for potential scenes, carefully following the action in Nick’s screenplay. There was a period bedroom, a handsomely-appointed drawing room and a book-lined library, and the Earl had been most accommodating in agreeing to make all of them available if they were required.

So this is where she was born and raised, he mused, eyeing the photographs again, and from an entirely different point of view, no longer seeing them as possible locations for his film, but as rooms in someone’s home. Her home. He picked up a coloured picture postcard Jerry had purchased in the village of Langley. It was an exterior of the castle itself, a long shot taken from a distance. It showed a portion of a lovely crystal lake, partially bordered by trees, and a verdant, grass-covered hillock sweeping up from the water’s edge to the castle. This was poised on the crest of the hill, under a wide and iridescent sky that was china blue and cloudless. The castle was ancient and proud, with its crenellated walls and high-flung towers, the bleakness of the time-worn grey stones softened by rafts of dark-green ivy rippling over much of their surface. To one side of the castle were several grand, stately old oaks and plump clumps of rhododendron bushes abloom with delicate mauve and pink flowers. Victor could see that the shot had been taken in early summer, and there was a pastoral beauty to the scene, a quiet timelessness which was essentially and indigenously English.

He was struck by the imposing beauty of the castle, conscious of all that it stood for, mindful of the things it represented. The evidence leapt out at him, could not be denied; it was an integral part of the ancient history of this country, the symbol of an impressive lineage and of a family name that was centuries old. It hit him more forcibly than ever that Francesca was a true aristocrat of great breeding and background.

Victor wondered, curiously, what it had been like to grow up in a place like this. He had an instant mental picture of that crowded kitchen in the small house in Cincinnati … redolent with the delicious aromas of spicy Italian food cooking … the walls reverberating with the sounds of laughter raised in raucous competition with the phonograph … and above the perpetual ear-splitting din, his mother’s strong and loving voice shouting … ‘Vittorio, Armando, Gina, stopya horsing around. I’ma listening to the greata Caruso!’ He smiled, remembering, and a bitter-sweet nostalgia overtook him. What a funny kid he had been. Smartassed, sassy, street-wise, always fighting, nose always bloodied, experienced too young in the ways of exigent men and a cold, uncaring, indifferent world. And yet despite his clenched fists, eternally raised to do battle, his contentious attitude and his tough, combative approach to life, he had been oddly addicted to the most unlikely things: books, an avid if secretive reader; music; the theatre; and movies. All had been his means of escape, and they had helped to fire his imagination, had, in a sense, helped to shape his life and led him inevitably to where he was today.

I bet she had a wholly different childhood, he reflected. Undoubtedly hers must have been a privileged, protected and excessively strictured childhood. He contemplated Francesca, endeavouring to envision her as she must have been then, his mind forming images of a small, angelic, fair-haired little girl, playing hide-and-seek in that great castle, romping with puppies, riding a pony, flying through the air on a garden swing, being taught by a governess. She must have been the most adorable child imaginable.

What the hell, she is still a child! This thought brought him up sharply in the chair. Victor lit a cigarette, glowering. He had better take himself in hand immediately. Thoughts of her had intruded far too frequently of late. But Francesca Cunningham was off limits. Absolutely off limits. He had made that decision weeks ago and nothing and no one could induce him to reverse it. He agreed with Nick’s assessment of Francesca. Anyone in their right mind would. She was lovely, and charming and bright, and she was a pleasant companion. But he now refused to acknowledge she was anything more than that, and, like Katharine, merely an antidote to boredom and loneliness. The situation would remain exactly the way it was, and under his tight control. He could not afford distractions, or God forbid, any entanglements, particularly with a girl like her. The circumstances were all wrong. At this moment, he thought, the cards are stacked against me. Well, so be it. And in the meantime, I have work to do.

Resolutely, Victor began making rapid notes on a yellow pad, listing a number of additional points to take up with Jerry and Jake. After ten minutes, he took off his horn-rimmed glasses and sat back in the chair, glancing around Monarch’s conference room, and with distaste. He found the ambience oddly depressing. The dark wood-panelled walls, the heavy mahogany furniture and the expensive wine-coloured carpet were ponderous and ugly, created a cheerless, dismal effect that reminded him of a funeral parlour. Somebody, most likely Hilly, Victor guessed, had felt obliged to hang a number of ornately-framed blow-ups of Monarch’s former contract stars on the walls, and this flashy gallery of retouched glossies, now considerably outdated, looked somehow ridiculous and incongruous in the setting which was decidedly Victorian in its overtones.

His thoughts settled on Hillard Steed. Although Hilly was an inveterate and endless memo-writer, and a fearsome perfectionist who tended to nit-pick in the most exasperating way, Victor was happy he had made the deal with Monarch. He had almost been on the verge of signing with Metro when, quite by accident, he had discovered that Mike Lazarus held a large quantity of Metro stock. Whilst this in itself did not mean Lazarus could interfere in any current productions, since he was not on Metro’s board, it did give Victor reason to pause, to evaluate and to reassess with caution. He came to the conclusion that Lazarus, being a megalomaniac, was more than likely to be entrenched with the top echelon at the studio. Remembering Nick’s anxiety about Lazarus, his terse warnings after the meeting at the Ritz, he had adroitly switched the deal to Monarch, who were poised, and eagerly so, on the sidelines. And in the final analysis, I made a far more advantageous deal, Victor told himself. Wuthering Heights aside, he and Hilly had already begun discussions about a number of possible properties they could co-produce, and both of them were thinking in terms of a long association between Monarch and Bellissima. The future looked decidedly rosy. And if Hillard Steed was something of a bugbear, he was, nevertheless, a weight that Victor Mason believed rested lightly on his broad shoulders. There were many other production heads who were much worse, if not downright tyrannical.

Feeling restless, Victor stood up and strolled across the room to the window. He parted the curtains and looked down into South Audley Street. It was still pouring with rain. As usual, he thought, and with resignation, cursing the English weather, wishing he was in Southern California, not necessarily at the ranch, just anywhere the sun was shining. He swung around as Jerry came back into the room, with Jake Watson following closely behind.

Both men looked unusually serious, and Victor at once suspected trouble, which he always did, trouble being endemic to any production. ‘What’s the problem now, boys? Don’t tell me the Earl reneged?’

‘No, no. Nothing quite as bad as that, old chap,’ Jerry instantly assured him. ‘We’re all set there. Everything’s perfectly okay. Although, speaking of the Earl, he’s had an accident. Oh yes, and Francesca’s ill,’ he mentioned as an afterthought. He rushed on, without drawing breath, ‘We are going to need the auxiliary generator. Francesca spoke to the bailiff, and the generator at the castle is sound, but he doesn’t think it’s completely safe to throw the whole load on to it. Jake and I agree. Those kliegs are hellish powerful. Incidentally, she came up with an idea that will help the budget no end –’

‘Jesus, Jerry! What’s got into you!’ Victor exploded, infuriated by his apparent callousness. ‘What do you mean, Francesca’s sick and the Earl’s had an accident? I’d like to know about my friends. Jesus Christ!’ He shook his head in disbelief, glowered with ferocity at Jerry, and then swung his irate gaze on Jake. The latter was now grinning, but his face sobered at once.

‘Oh, sorry, Victor, old chap,’ Jerry apologized nervously, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid I am inclined to get carried away with my budget, aren’t I? Yes. Well. Er … er … nothing to worry about really. The Earl had a fall and fractured a pelvic bone. No problem, he’ll be up and about in a couple of weeks. Francesca, poor thing, has a rotten cold. At worst, just a touch of the ’flu.’

Victor sat down at the conference table, surprised at his sense of relief. ‘I’m glad to hear neither of them are at death’s door,’ he remarked, the sarcastic bite in his voice underlining his continuing irritation. ‘So …’ He leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers and gazed at his two associates over them, his eyes cold. ‘Since everything is hunky-dory, why were you both looking as if we had a major crisis?’

Jake said swiftly, ‘A minor crisis. Hilly Street to be exact. We ran into him in the corridor, and he informed us we can only have two more offices for the production staff. He says he can’t release any more space to Bellissima, so we’re short of one office.’

‘Is that all!’ Victor’s face was a picture of disgust. ‘Let’s hope most of our problems are as serious. If they are, we’ll breeze through the picture. And there’s a very simple solution to this one, Jake. Tell Hilly that Bellissima are taking a suite at Claridge’s for the rest of the production staff, and that we’re charging it to Monarch. Believe me, Jake, he’ll find you that extra office within the next hour, even if he has to turf out one of his executives.’

Jake chuckled. ‘It’ll be my pleasure. I’ll go and see him right now.’

The minute they were alone, Jerry flopped down into a chair. He said softly, ‘Hell, Victor, I didn’t mean to sound so cold-blooded and heartless …’ He fidgeted in his seat and ran his hand through his unruly red hair. ‘It’s not that I’m oblivious to people or their problems,’ he explained, selecting his words with care. ‘I’m just preoccupied with the film, and I’m afraid this does cloud my judgment … But still, I know that’s no excuse.’ His voice petered out lamely. He was at a loss for words, understanding he had blundered.

Sensing the other man’s acute discomfort and embarrassment, Victor smiled, his charming manner restored. ‘Relax Jerry. Forget it. I know you didn’t mean any harm, and your dedication to the film is commendable. I’ve no quarrel with you there. And I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard.’ He laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘I guess I’m a bit sensitive in certain areas. I took a bad fall once, on location, and before I could open my eyes, pick myself up and shake the dust off me, I heard the line producer voice the opinion that I’d just screwed up the budget by getting myself killed. He was actually annoyed at my carelessness, and was still exclaiming about all the wasted footage when I threw him a right hook.’ Victor roared. ‘The bastard hadn’t anticipated getting slugged, least of all by a supposed corpse.’ He continued to chuckle, recalling the incident and its repercussions.

Jerry joined in, but his laughter was stilted. I sounded downright cavalier, he thought regretfully, and then he cautioned himself yet again to watch his step around Victor Mason, who was obviously an original, and quite unlike the Hollywood stars with whom he had worked in the past. For the most part they had been egomaniacs, and insensitive bastards to boot. Mason continued to surprise him, and in the most unexpected and unpredictable ways. He might be a stern and demanding task master, a tough executive producer who had his eyes smartly peeled and was ten jumps ahead of everyone else, but it was clear he was a superior human being. It appeared he was decent and caring. Nor was he bizarre in an industry in which to be bizarre was more often than not quite normal. As yet, he had not once played the star; he had made no peculiar demands; and he treated everyone as an equal. I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s got immense style, Jerry thought.

Conscious of the growing silence, and in an effort to dispel Jerry’s lingering uneasiness, Victor’s tone relaxed. ‘Anyway, onward and upward. What did you start to say about Francesca having an idea?’

Relieved that the awkwardness between them had evaporated, Jerry said, ‘Ah yes, Francesca. Apparently the attics of the castle are stuffed with old furniture, lamps, bric-a-brac, lots of stuff, in fact. And according to Francesca, it’s not particularly valuable. She thinks we might be able to use some of it for the film. I’d told her about replacing certain items in the rooms where we’ll be shooting. She suggested we sort through the junk – her word, not mine – and select anything we think we can utilize.’

‘That’s very bright of her,’ Victor pronounced, suppressing a small amused smile, inwardly applauding her shrewdness. ‘It will save us money, providing the stuff is appropriate. Once we’ve decided on a set designer, let’s get him to Langley Castle to make a few choices.’ He picked up his gold lighter and toyed with it, and said guardedly, ‘What about Francesca? Is she very sick? I feel a bit guilty, Jerry; after all, she obviously caught the cold when she was working for us.’

‘She says she sounds much worse than she feels, but personally I think she’s down with a bad bout of the ’flu.’

‘She is back in London, though? You reached her at the house here?’

‘Yes, and not to worry, old chap. I’m sure she’s being properly looked after. By the daily cleaning woman. A Mrs Moggs. It was she who answered the ’phone. Very reluctant to get Francesca out of bed. Sounded motherly and capable.’ Jerry rubbed his hand across his chin thoughtfully. ‘Poor kid, I’m sure she did get a chill up on those moors. Very bleak, and the weather was raw. Maybe I should send her a basket of fruit from Bellissima Productions. That would be a nice gesture, don’t you think?’

‘Good thought, Jer. Get one of those fancy, super-de luxe jobs from Harte’s in Knightsbridge. Now, did Jake tell you about the meeting this afternoon? I’d like you to be there, incidentally.’

Jerry was flattered by this invitation and he smiled broadly and exclaimed, ‘He told me about the meeting, but not that you wanted me to come along. Delighted to do so, old chap. I was going out to the studios, but there’s no urgency about that trip. And incidentally, Victor, congratulations on signing Mark Pierce. To be honest, I never thought you’d get him. He’s a difficult bugger. In fact, I told Jake a few weeks ago that, in my opinion, you were barking up the wrong tree. Just goes to show, you never know in life.’ Jerry stared hard at Victor, his eyes narrowed, inquisitiveness flicking into them. ‘How the hell did you get him?’

Victor smiled lazily. ‘I charmed him,’ he answered cryptically. How could he properly explain all the ramifications, and Hilary Pierce’s willing complicity in Katharine’s convoluted schemes and manipulations? And there was no question in Victor’s mind that Katharine had been extremely manipulative. However, she had achieved the desired results and he was disinclined to probe her modus operandi. Besides, she herself had been vague, even uncommunicative, except for saying that Hilary was the key, insisting that he sign Mark’s wife to do the clothes. Since Hilary Pierce was undeniably talented and enjoyed a fine reputation in the field of theatrical costume design, he had readily agreed. However, this long histoire would sound decidedly peculiar to an unimaginative and prosaic guy like Jerry Massingham, who was evidently more at ease dealing with columns of figures and budgets than people. Victor cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Jerry, I missed that. What did you say?’

‘I was just wondering out loud what the meeting was about, and who’s coming.’

‘You, of course. Jake, Mark, and the casting director. We must make our final decisions today … about the overall casting,’ Victor said. ‘I’ve also asked Nicholas Latimer to sit in, since Mark might have some script questions. I want to get everything buttoned up today. You do know I’ve signed Terrence Ogden to play Edgar Linton?’

‘So Jake said, before you arrived. Terry’ll be good. I’ve always said he had real film potential. It’s a pity he’s only made one before, and that it was a flop. Perhaps that’s why he’s been less than eager to attempt another.’

Both men turned their heads and glanced at the door, as Jake Watson, grinning hugely, hurried in, closing the door swiftly. He leaned against it, and it was obvious he could hardly contain himself. ‘I thought Hilly was going to keel over when I told him about getting a suite at Claridge’s, Victor. He’s scurrying around right now, trying to produce an additional office for us.’

Victor’s mouth twitched. ‘Let’s hope it’s large enough.’

Jake gaped at him. ‘Oh no, Victor! You wouldn’t!’ He began to laugh. ‘You wouldn’t dare refuse it, say it was too small, insist on the suite … Would you?’ Jake knew the answer almost before the question had left his mouth. He had worked with Victor on five pictures, and they were old friends. He was therefore more than acquainted with his sense of humour, his mischievous penchant for making the top brass squirm, especially those who were arbitrary and pompous, as Hilly was pre-disposed to be.

‘I just might,’ Victor’s black eyes were twinkling with mirth. ‘Give him a run for his money. He begged, literally begged for WH and he hasn’t stopped griping about the costs ever since. It would behove him to put his own house in order. Jesus, the waste here is unbelievable.’ Faintly, at the back of his mind, Victor heard an echo of Mike Lazarus’s words. That son of a bitch was right in many respects, he told himself, recalling the critical comments Lazarus had made about the motion picture industry. Victor looked at Jake. ‘But running the London offices of the Monarch Picture Corporation of America is Hilly’s problem not ours. Right?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I made a few notes when you were both out. I’d like to review a number of things with you before I leave.’

For the next half an hour the three men discussed a variety of matters pertaining to the production and were able to come to several decisions, some only tentative, because Mark Pierce, as the director, would have to be consulted. Along with Victor, he would have the final word on major points. But they were able to cover most of the details regarding the second unit; review the credentials of various other set designers, as well as Harry Pendergast, whom they all agreed sounded the best; touch on appropriate composers for the musical score; also arrive at possible dates for the start of principal photography.

As the discussion drew to its conclusion, Victor said, ‘Well, that’s about it. I think we’re pretty well prepared for this afternoon. Also, by then I’m hoping we’ll have a decision from Ossie Edwards. Mark has talked to him several times, and I think he’ll come with us. He’s the perfect cameraman for the picture, in my opinion.’ He stood up, stretching.

Jerry said, ‘Yes, I agree. And he’ll be in his element in Yorkshire. He’s got a painter’s eye for landscapes.’

‘And beautiful women,’ Victor retorted.

‘Well, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ve a few things to take care of States-side.’ He paced across the room, paused to pick up his trenchcoat, flung it over his arm. ‘Claridge’s. At three. See ya, boys.’ He gave them a jaunty grin and left.

When Victor stepped into the street, he saw, much to his relief, that it had finally stopped raining. He looked up and down, and spotted Gus leaning against the car, which was parked a short distance away. Gus straightened up when he saw Victor, rushed to open the door and asked, ‘Where to now, Guv?’

‘Back to Claridge’s. Thanks, Gus.’ Victor had one foot inside the car when he changed his mind. ‘No, on second thoughts, I think I’m going to walk back. I’d like some fresh air. I won’t be needing you until this evening, Gus. Why don’t you check in around four o’clock though, so I can tell you my plans.’

‘Right you are, Guvnor.’

Victor stepped back, and as Gus pulled out and drove off he gazed admiringly at his new Bentley Continental drop-head coupé, a recent purchase. It had been expensive, he had to admit, but it was worth it, a gorgeous piece of machinery with its glazed claret finish, pale buff-coloured hood and white-wall tyres. And it was a dream to drive with its automatic gear shift and fluid fly wheel. Victor prided himself on two things: his impeccable taste in automobiles and his keen and discerning eye for thoroughbred horses. He preferred his cars and his horseflesh to be graceful, sleek and fast, and as smooth as velvet.

Reaching Curzon Street, Victor turned left and headed towards Berkeley Square, intending to do a full circle around Mayfair before returning to the hotel. But he drew to a sharp halt when he passed the end of Chesterfield Street. Impulsively, he thought: Maybe I should drop in on Francesca, to check that she really is all right. No harm in that, surely. He turned smartly, retraced his steps and walked leisurely up the street, but as he approached the house he found himself increasing his pace. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he did stop by to see her, she would be annoyed, would regard it as an intrusion, a breach of etiquette. The English were so damned peculiar about certain things. He remembered Katharine’s constant mutterings about good form and bad form. To arrive on Francesca’s doorstep unannounced would most certainly be considered bad form. He glanced swiftly at the door and with quickening interest, but curbed himself, and strode on determinedly, without stopping. He pushed up into Chesterfield Hill, then veered to the right and continued down Charles Street, aiming for Berkeley Square.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the square were the windows of Moyses Stevens, the renowned florist. They were awash with water, and he paused to look. Mechanical things had always intrigued him and he was constantly tinkering with the machinery at the ranch, although never with cars. As Nick said, costly cars were verboten to amateur mechanics like himself.

Water streamed down the glass like a fine, undulating curtain. It was probably being released from hidden ducts or some kind of similar system in the ceiling, then recycled back through intricate piping. He watched it for a moment, fascinated, before pressing closer to the glass, peering through this constantly-moving, liquid curtain, his eyes resting on banks of the most beautiful flowers he had seen for a long time. Colour flamed vividly in a profusion of variegated reds and oranges intermingled with magenta and purple, paled to soft fading yellows and crisp white; and interspersed amongst these brilliant hues and the more fragile tints were innumerable dark and light greens, leaves so luxuriant and shiny they looked as if they had been individually polished to a glossy sheen. A smile touched Victor’s lips and his spirits lifted. The array of flowers and plants were like a breath of spring, evoked images of sharp clear sunlight on green meadows, trees newly bursting with tender young leaves, and blue and radiant skies. Such a contrast to this dreary rain-sodden March day, he thought. And if the flowers made him feel light-hearted, then certainly they would bring a smile of pleasure to Francesca’s face.

This time there was no hesitation on Victor’s part. Decisively, he pushed open the door of the florist’s shop and went inside. Instantly his nostrils were assaulted by all manner of mingled scents and the fresh and pungent smell of damp earth and growing greenery. He selected a huge armful of mimosa, brilliant yellow and sweetly fragrant, flown in that morning from Nice, he was informed. He added three dozen scarlet-tipped white tulips from Holland, and several bunches of pale and fragile narcissi from the Scilly Isles. He also bought a china cachepot which had been planted with hyacinths, tall, waxy, and a light hazy-blue in colour, but chosen mainly because he could not resist their heady perfume. He knew he had gone overboard with the flowers, especially since Jerry was sending the basket of fruit. But what the hell, he muttered under his breath; everyone expects a movie star to make the grand and extravagant gesture.

The sales lady showed him the tray of cards, so that he could write a message, before she went off to wrap his purchases. Victor took a card and stared at it for several seconds, frowning, wondering what to say. He did not want Francesca to misunderstand the gift of flowers, to misinterpret their meaning, read something into them which did not exist. In the end, after several false starts and wasted cards he penned a bland line, wishing her well, and signed it simply, ‘From Nicky and Victor.’ He slipped the card in the envelope, sealed it and addressed it clearly. When the sales lady returned with his bill he handed her the card and the money, and asked when the flowers would be delivered. ‘Within the hour, Mr Mason,’ she said with a polite, rather shy smile. ‘You are Victor Mason, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he smiled back, radiating charm.

Glowing, she gave him his change, and went on, in a confiding though deferential manner. ‘I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your films, Mr Mason. I go to see all of them. In fact, I’m quite a fan of yours.’

‘Why, thank you,’ he responded. ‘Thanks very much. It’s nice to hear.’

‘Do come in again, Mr Mason,’ she called as he went through the door. He swung his head, waved and told her he would.

That’s what I like about the English, he thought, stepping out into the street. They’re so courteous. And so absolutely bloody civilized, he added in mental mimicry of Kim’s upper-class English voice. He stepped out briskly, heading in the direction of Claridge’s, and several times he smiled to himself, although he was not sure why he did so. Nor did he understand the reason for his sudden sense of quiet happiness, a feeling of genuine tranquillity the nature of which he had not experienced for a number of years.

There was a pile of mail and a number of telephone messages waiting for Victor at the hotel. He asked the operator for Nick’s suite and sat down. There was no reply. Putting on his glasses, he began to peruse the mail.

Three letters from Beverly Hills gained his attention first. They were from his business manager, his agent and his lawyer. He opened the one from his lawyer with some trepidation, fully expecting it to contain distasteful and distressing news about Arlene and their impending divorce. To his surprise it did not, although it did concern his second wife, Lillianne. Apparently she wanted to sell the Dali, and had asked Ben Challis, his lawyer, to find out if he would be interested in purchasing it from her. He laughed out loud. The painting had been part of their divorce settlement. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s got nerve, he thought, his mouth twitching with amusement. She actually wants me to buy back something which was mine in the first place! I’ll be damned. He shook his head, still laughing as he put the letter down. But why not? He did not own much good art and he had been attached to the Dali. She must be in desperate need of cash to sell it. As usual. Vaguely he wondered what Lillianne did with money. He had been very generous with her when they had separated. According to Ben, she was constantly in strained financial circumstances, and he had come to her rescue more than once in the past few years.

His second marriage, like his third, had not been particularly happy, but Lillianne was not a bitch, which was more than he could say for the tempestuous and vituperative Arlene, who was currently on a rampage and hell bent on creating a scandal. He sighed, and asked himself why he had had no luck with women since Ellie’s death. He continually made dreadful mistakes in his private life, which was in constant upheaval, and yet, funnily enough, he never made the same mistake twice in his profession or in his business dealings. But now I’ve turned over a new leaf, he muttered, and brushed away these speculations about wives and women, which were not only a waste of time, but irritating. He glanced at the other two letters from Beverly Hills, which were of no great importance, and reached eagerly for the envelope from the travel agency in Bond Street. He opened it quickly and pulled out two first-class airline tickets for Zurich, and his face lit up.

Next week he and Nick were going to Klosters, via Zurich, on a five-day skiing trip, and they were both like excited schoolboys about to sally forth on their first adventurous spree. Victor, being an intensely physical man and accustomed to the most strenuous of outdoor activities, felt increasingly constrained in London, hemmed in and restless as his sedentary existence began to create mounting tension in him. Apart from this, he knew he was out of condition, and gruelling exercise and a thorough workout had become imperative. In a sense, he considered the trip to be a medical necessity, since it would be therapeutic in a number of ways. Jake had tried to dissuade him from going, being fearful he would break a leg or an arm and consequently throw the picture off schedule. But he had managed to convince the line producer that he was going solely for health reasons, and not riotous fun or distractions of a feminine nature. Finally, he had had to solemnly promise not to take any chances on the slopes, swearing he would stick to the gentler ski runs.

We’ll see about that, he thought, smiling with pleasure at the prospect of a few days in the Alps. He and Nick had discovered Klosters two years before, actually through Harry Kurnitz, a writer friend of Nick’s, who was an habitué of the place. It was also the favourite gathering ground for a small group of other Americans, all skiing aficionados, in particular the novelists Irwin Shaw and Peter Viertel, and the movie director Bob Parrish.

Victor contemplated the trip with longing. He could hardly wait to leave, remembering how marvellously fit he felt in the mountains, with the cold bracing air stinging his face and the wind at his back as he sped at breakneck speed down the glistening white mountain sides. Apart from wanting the physical exertion which so refreshed and rejuvenated him, and craving the exhilaration and sheer thrill of skiing, he also looked forward to the relaxed evenings of camaraderie. After a day of hard skiing the group gathered in the local tavern, feasted on a few delicious local dishes and then sat around the roaring fire, exchanging exaggerated stories about their prowess in all fields, and drinking cherry-flavoured Kirschwasser until dawn broke or they ran out of tall tales.

Thoughts of his favourite Swiss dishes made his mouth water, and he suddenly realized he was hungry. Once again he tried Nick’s suite, wanting to tell him the trip was all set, and to ask him what he wanted for lunch, but to his sharp disappointment there was still no answer. He stared at the telephone, trying to recall whether they had made a definite date for a snack before the meeting. He could have sworn they had. Perhaps Nick had misunderstood or forgotten. He called room service and ordered a club sandwich and a cold beer, reminding the waiter who took his order that the kitchen had his precise written instructions for preparing the club sandwich exactly the way he liked it. He walked across to the small portable bar and poured himself a Scotch and soda and, returning to the desk, he leafed through the telephone messages, tossing most of them to one side. He re-read the one from Katharine, asking him to call her at the Caprice Restaurant, where she would be until three o’clock. He did so.

‘Hello, Victor,’ she said when she came onto the line.

He laughed. ‘How could you be sure it was me?’

‘No one else knows I’m having lunch here. Victor, about tonight. Francesca’s sick and –’

‘Yes, I know, honey. Jerry told me.’

‘Do you still want to have dinner after the play, as we planned?’

The thought of eating at midnight suddenly palled on him. ‘Would you mind if I backed out tonight? I think I ought to concentrate on my lines. But hey, honey, I don’t want to leave you high and dry. Listen, I’ll talk to Nicky. Why don’t the two of you have dinner together?’

‘Oh no! I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.’ This was said so emphatically he was surprised. There was an imperceptible hesitation at the other end of the telephone before she explained, in a softer tone, ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose on him. Let’s forget it. I don’t mind, honestly, and I should do the same as you, and study my part.’

‘Yes, maybe you should, and listen, honey, thanks for being so understanding. I owe you one. Who’re you lunching with?’ he asked, although more out of a desire to be friendly than any curiosity on his part.

‘Hilary Pierce and Terry Ogden. It’s a celebration lunch, because we’ll all be working on Wuthering Heights.’

‘Another one! Well, have fun, and I’ll talk to you later in the week. We’ll fix a date for supper.’ They hung up, and Victor sipped his drink, his mind revolving around Katharine. She was the most indefatigable young woman he had ever met. Always busy with her lunches, her parties and her dinners. For ever running and doing. For ever in the biggest hurry. By the same token, her social obligations never seemed to interfere in any way with her work. She was a real professional and supremely dedicated to her craft. Victor also suspected that her social life, which she took very seriously, was totally bound up with her ambition, for he had come to understand that she was excessively ambitious and driven and tireless when it came to her career. She seemed to live and breathe it with extraordinary intensity. But there’s no harm in that, he reflected, and she’s a great girl. The best. A fond smile lingered on his face. He had an extremely soft spot for Katharine, and now their lives were going to be entwined to an even greater extent. She had signed the personal contract with Bellissima, and in so doing had placed herself entirely in his hands; for the next few years he would be guiding her career, all aspects of it. He had strongly advised her to do the Beau Stanton picture, following completion of Wuthering Heights, and after listening to him attentively, and reading the script, she had agreed at once to be loaned out to Monarch.

Some of her questions had been so intelligent, so well formulated, so incisive, he had been taken aback for a moment. He had discovered she had an astute head for business, at least in relation to herself and her career. This had not displeased him, rather she had risen in his estimation. Unlike many other young actresses, Katharine was nobody’s fool when it came to money, and she had shrewdly put a high value on herself and her services. Yes, he said inwardly, the little lady knows exactly where she’s heading. To the top and as rapidly as possible. More power to her, he thought. This was the roughest, toughest business in the world, as he knew from experience, populated with the best and the worst. Hollywood had spawned more than its fair share of opportunistic, ruthless, exigent and venal characters, along with its talented, gifted and dedicated men. Katharine was smart to have her wits about her, even though she would have the benefit of his protection and patronage so long as she was under contract to Bellissima.

Now he made a mental note to talk to Hilly about the loan-out contract with Monarch when he next saw him. There were several special clauses he wanted included. Victor did not envision any problems with Monarch, since they were delighted that the arrangement had been made with comparative ease, as was Beau Stanton. A week ago, Hilly Steed had flown a print of Katharine’s screen test to the Coast, and Beau had been bowled over by Katharine’s looks and her talent. Who isn’t, Victor thought, and pursed his lips, aware that there was at least one person who was not exactly crazy about Katharine Tempest. The waiter appeared with the club sandwich, correctly prepared, he was glad to see, and the beer was really cold, something of a miracle in England. After Victor had consumed both, he returned all his local calls, spoke briefly to his stockbroker in New York, and finally reached his manager at the ranch near Santa Barbara. They talked for a good fifteen minutes, settled a couple of small problems and then, satisfied that everything was under control at Rancho Che Sarà Sarà, Victor said goodbye. He hurried through into the bathroom to freshen up for the impending meeting, relieved he had been able to attend to most of his urgent business for the entire week in one day.

Jerry and Jake were the first to arrive. Ted Reddish, the casting director, followed closely behind, and Mark Pierce knocked on the door at precisely three o’clock. They sat around chatting amiably, waiting for Nick to join them. At twenty minutes past three, growing increasingly exasperated, Victor excused himself and went into the bedroom. He tried Nick’s suite again. This time the line was busy. Damn! Victor hurried back into the sitting room.

He said, to the room at large, ‘I have a feeling I might not have made it clear to Nick that I needed him at the meeting. He’s on the ’phone. I’ll just run along and bang on his door. In the meantime, why don’t you go over the ground we covered this morning, Jake. And Jerry, let Mark take a look at the location pictures. I’ll be right back.’