Here he was, eldest son of a successful, wealthy father, and grandson of the most lauded actor in the country. In other words, the heir to a kingdom.
Besides that, he was relatively handsome, ethical, kind—well, as kind as he could be to his geeky, weird nephew—and generally the type of person with whom success should walk hand in hand. And yet, it didn’t. And it never had.
What was it his father had said to him after the memorial service, when Marcus had begged him to loan him the £100,000 until probate came through? That he was a “lazy inebriate” who expected everyone else to sort out his problems. God, that had hurt, really bloody hurt.
Whatever his father thought of him, Marcus knew he had always done his best. He’d missed his mum so much after she’d died that for the following two years her loss had felt like an acute physical pain. He’d been unable to express his grief—even the word “mum” had brought a lump to his throat—and the harsh world of an all-male British boarding school was not a place anyone could afford to look like a sissy. So he’d closed up and worked hard—for her. Yet, had anyone ever noticed? No, they were too busy worrying about his little sister. And when he’d decided to try his luck as a fledgling producer in LA, choosing projects he knew his mother would have liked because they “said something about the world,” his films had bombed over and over again.
At the time, Charles, his father, had been understanding. “Go back to London, Marcus. The LA scene isn’t right for you. The UK is much more receptive to the kind of low-budget art-house films you want to make.”
To be fair, Charles had given him a decent amount to rent a place in London and live comfortably. Marcus had moved into an airy apartment in Notting Hill and begun Marc One Films.
Then . . . he’d fallen in love with Harriet, a long-legged blond socialite—he’d always had a penchant for pretty blondes—whom he’d met at one of Zoe’s screenings. An aspiring actress herself, she’d been thrilled to be linked to “Marcus Harrison—film producer and grandson of Sir James Harrison,” as the tabloids had quoted under their pictures in the gossip columns. He’d spent all his father’s money on Harriet’s expensive lifestyle, but once she had realized he was a “loser trading on his family name,” she’d left him for an Italian prince. Marcus had had to crawl back to his father, who’d bailed him out of the heavy debt she’d left in her wake.
“This is the very last time I’m saving your hide,” Charles had barked down the line from LA. “Get your life together, Marcus. Find a proper job.”
He’d then met an old school friend who told him of an eco film project that he and a few other chaps in the City were backing. He’d offered Marcus the chance to produce it. Still smarting from Harriet’s biting assessment of him and his career, he’d taken out a large overdraft for the necessary capital. Then he’d spent six months filming in Bolivia and had fallen in love with the isolation and grandeur of the Amazon rain forest, and the determination of the people who had lived in it for thousands of years.
The film had been a huge and terrifying flop and Marcus had lost every penny of his investment. In retrospect, he had to acknowledge that the script hadn’t been up to much, that whatever the moral value of the film itself and what it “said,” it also needed a great story—as his grandfather had once commented. So when he’d been sent a script a few months ago from a young Brazilian writer, and actually wept at the end, he’d known this was the film with which to make his mark.
The problem was that none of the banks would now touch him because of his appalling financial track record and his father had refused point-blank to “throw away” any more money. Everyone had lost their faith in him—just as he’d started to realize what it took to make an ethical but beautiful film, which he was sure would fill cinemas around the world, and might even win awards. The audience would be moved by the central love story, and would learn something in the process.
He was at his wits’ end to know how to change everyone’s attitude, and wasn’t ashamed to admit how excited he’d been when his grandfather had finally popped his clogs. Even though it was obvious that all Sir Jim’s affection had been for Zoe, Marcus was, after all, one of only two grandchildren.
But the reading of the will had not gone as expected. And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt real bitterness. His inner confidence and his optimism had disappeared in a puff of smoke. He felt like a failure.
Am I having some kind of breakdown? he wondered.
The telephone rang, breaking into his thoughts. Marcus picked it up reluctantly when he saw the caller ID flash up. “ ’Lo, Zo. Look, I’m really sorry about the other night. What I said was out of line. I . . . haven’t been myself lately.”
“That’s okay.” He heard her sigh heavily down the line. “None of us have. Did you get the text I sent you a few days ago? You have remembered you’re taking me to this premiere tonight?”
“Erm . . . no.”
“Oh, Marcus! Don’t say you can’t come now! I really need you.”
“I’m glad someone does.”
“Stop moping, have a shower, and meet me in the American Bar at the Savoy in an hour. My treat.”
“That’s big of you,” he quipped, then added, “Sorry. I’m just a bit down, that’s all.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at seven. We can talk then. I was listening to you the other night, you know.”
“Thanks, sis. See you later,” Marcus muttered.
That evening, with a second whiskey in front of him, Marcus sat at the bar in the dimly lit art deco lounge. When Zoe finally entered, wearing a black strapless evening gown with diamond drop earrings, every head—male or female—turned to admire her.
“Wow, Zo. You look radiant tonight,” he told her, subconsciously brushing a hand over the wrinkled suit trousers he’d dug out of the laundry pile.
“Do I?” she asked nervously as she kissed him and sat down. She put a hand to her hair. “What do you think? I don’t look too old-fashioned, do I?”
Marcus appraised his sister’s sleek golden hair, which had been pulled back into some kind of fancy updo.
“You look like Grace Kelly, elegant and classy. Okay? Can I stop now?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re not usually paranoid about your looks. What’s up?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing. Get me a glass of champagne, will you?”
Marcus did as he was bid. Zoe raised the glass to her lips, drained half of it, and put it down on the table.
“God, I needed that.”
“You sound like me, Zo,” he said with a grin.
“Well, let’s hope my half glass of champagne doesn’t have the same effect on my appearance as that whiskey seems to have had on yours. You look dreadful, Marcus.”
“To be honest, I feel it too. Any more thoughts on lending me that hundred grand?”
“Until probate’s through, I simply don’t have the cash.”
“Surely you could borrow money on the strength of what’s coming to you? Please, Zo,” he urged her again. “If I don’t stump up soon, the project’s going to disappear from right under my nose.”
“I know, I believe you. Really.”
“Thanks. I mean, surely you must feel just a little pissed off with our grandfather too? Sorry, Zo, but what does a ten-year-old want with what must amount to millions of pounds? Can you imagine how much that will be in eleven years’ time when Jamie turns twenty-one?”
“I understand how hurt you are about the will, but really, it’s not fair to blame Jamie.”
“No.” Marcus drained his glass and ordered another. “I’m just . . . at the end of my tether, I suppose. Everything’s going wrong. I’m thirty-four this year. Maybe that’s it—maybe I’m suddenly staring middle age in the face. I’ve even gone off sex.”
“Christ, now that is a sobering thought.” Zoe rolled her eyes.
“You know”—Marcus waggled his Marlboro Light at her—“that kind of reaction is just wha
t I expect from my family. You all patronize me, treat me as though I’m a child.”
“Is that our fault? Let’s face it, you have got yourself into some scrapes over the years.”
“Yes, but now, when I have a cause I’m totally committed to, no one will believe or support me.”
Zoe sipped her champagne and checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes before the premiere began—twenty-five minutes before she saw him, in the flesh . . . Her heart rate gathered pace and she felt horribly sick.
“Look, Marcus, we’ve got to be going. Get the bill, will you?”
Marcus signaled a waiter and Zoe took one of his cigarettes out of the packet.
“Didn’t think you smoked.”
“I don’t. Often. Listen.” Zoe inhaled, felt even sicker, and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’ve had an idea about how we might be able to sort out your problem. I’ll have to speak to Dad about it.”
“Then it’s a nonstarter to begin with. Dad’s as down on me as he could be.”
“Leave it with me.”
“What is it? Tell me now, Zoe, please. Let me sleep tonight,” Marcus begged her.
“No, not until I’ve talked to him. Thanks.” The waiter handed Zoe the bill and she tucked her credit card inside the leather folder. “How are you for the moment? Do you need some cash to see you through?”
“To be honest, yes,” Marcus admitted, not able to look her in the eyes. “I’m down to my last few pounds and I’m about to be chucked out of my fleapit of an apartment for missing last month’s rent.”
Zoe reached into her clutch bag and drew out a check. She handed it to Marcus. “There. It’s a loan, mind you. I took it out of my savings account and I want it paid back when probate comes through.”
“Course. Thanks, Zoe. I appreciate it.” He folded the check and slid it into his inside jacket pocket.
“Just don’t spend it on whiskey, Marcus, please. Right, let’s go.”
The two of them took a taxi to Leicester Square, and crawled through the traffic at Piccadilly Circus.
“How big is your role in this?” Marcus asked her.
“Second lead. Even you might enjoy it. It’s a good film—low budget, meaningful,” she added.
The area outside the front of the Odeon in Leicester Square had been cordoned off. Zoe nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right. Here goes.” She stepped out, shivering in the cold drizzle, and surveyed the crowd of eager onlookers. This was a production without a Hollywood star or special effect in sight, but she knew who it was they’d come to see. The huge poster on the front of the building was illuminated by numerous spotlights, Zoe’s profile partly hidden by the lead actress’s face—the curvaceous Jane Donohue.
“Blimey, wish I’d taken more of an interest while you were filming,” Marcus quipped, looking up at the poster and the leading lady.
“Be nice when you meet her, won’t you?” Zoe grabbed Marcus’s hand instinctively as they walked onto the red carpet.
“When am I not nice to beautiful women?” he asked.
“You know what I mean. Stay close tonight, promise?” She squeezed his hand.
Marcus shrugged. “If you want.”
“I want.”
Flashbulbs popped as they walked into the foyer, which was buzzing with the usual first-night mixture of soap stars, comedians, and those famous simply for being famous. Zoe accepted a glass of wine from a tray and glanced around nervously. He’d obviously not arrived yet.
Sam, the director, pounced on her and kissed her enthusiastically. “Darling, sorry about poor Sir James. I would have come to his memorial service, but I was horribly caught up with all this.”
“Don’t worry, Sam. It was for the best. He was very poorly toward the end.”
“Grief suits you, Zoe.” Sam looked at her admiringly. “You look stunning tonight. There’s a real buzz about the film, and doing this royal charity premiere was a stroke of genius by the PR people. We’ll get oodles of newspaper coverage tomorrow, especially with you in that dress.” He kissed her hand and smiled. “Enjoy, darling. See you later.”
Zoe turned round; Marcus—despite her plea—had disappeared. “Damn!” She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her, making her head spin. And decided she had every right to behave in a cowardly and immature way. So she went and hid in the ladies’ toilet, trying to calm her thumping heart. Just as the lights went down in the cinema, she crept into her seat next to Marcus.
“Where did you get to?” he hissed.
“The loo. I’ve got the runs.”
“Charming,” he sniffed, as the opening credits began to roll.
Zoe sat through the film in a daze. The thought that he was here, in the auditorium, possibly only a few yards away from her, breathing the same air as her for the first time in over ten years, sent such confusing, intense shafts of emotion through her that she doubted she’d make it to the end of the film without passing out. After all this time of telling herself it was some kind of adolescent fixation, she had to admit now that those sharp, deep feelings had still not left her. She’d used Jamie as an excuse for the lack of boyfriends in her life, not wanting to unsettle him with a string of different men. But tonight, Zoe knew she’d only been fooling herself.
And how exactly do you exorcise a ghost from the past? she asked herself. You meet it straight on and look it deep in the eyes. If she was ever to free herself from his invisible grasp, she had to destroy the fantasy that she had built up in her mind over the years. Meeting him again in the flesh, studying him for signs of imperfection, was the only hope of a cure. Besides, there was every chance he would have forgotten who she was by now. It had been a long time ago and he met so many people, especially women.
The lights came up with a roar of applause. Zoe gripped the seat with her hands, holding herself in it so she would not run away. Marcus kissed her cheek and squeezed her arm tightly.
“You were great, sis, seriously. Want a part in my new film?” he added.
“Thanks.” Zoe sat paralyzed as those around her began to make their way out of the auditorium, all her earlier resolution leaving her.
“Shall we go straight home? My stomach really isn’t good,” she said as they finally stood up and followed the crowd outside.
“Surely you need to glad-hand for a bit? Suck up the praise? I was chatting to Jane Donohue while I was waiting for you to reappear from the loo and we agreed to meet at the after-party.”
“Marcus, you promised! Take me home now, please. I’m really not well.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll just go and find Jane to explain.”
Zoe stood in the crowd, counting the seconds until Marcus returned and she could leave. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Zoe?”
She turned round, and felt the blood rush to her face. There he was, looking a little older, with a few creases beneath his warm green eyes, laughter lines etched into the skin on either side of his mouth. But his body seemed as trim in his dinner suit as it had been more than a decade ago. She gazed at him, thirstily drinking in every detail.
“How are you?”
She cleared her throat. “Well, thank you.”
“You look . . . stunning. You’re even more beautiful than you were.” He spoke in hushed tones, leaning forward slightly to reach her ear. She smelled his scent, so familiar and frighteningly intoxicating. “And I enjoyed the film, by the way. I thought you were excellent.”
“Thanks,” she managed.
“Sir . . .” A gray-suited man appeared next to him and indicated his watch.
“I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
The gray suit melted back into the crowd.
“It’s been so long,” he said wistfully.
“Yes.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
“I read about your grandfather. Nearly wrote to you but I didn’t know your, er, circumstances.” He looked at her aska
nce and she shook her head.
“I’m not attached,” she said, then hated herself for admitting it to him.
“Look, I have to run, I’m afraid. Could I . . . call you, maybe?”
“I . . .”
The gray suit was approaching once more.
He reached out a hand to touch her cheek but stopped himself a whisper away from her skin.
“Zoe . . . I . . .” The pain was visible in his eyes. “Goodbye.” With a resigned wave he was gone.
She stood in the crowded foyer, oblivious to everything except his walking away from her, leaving her for matters that took priority—just as they always had and always would. Yet her treacherous heart rejoiced.
Zoe stumbled back to the ladies’ powder room to recover her composure. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she could see that the light in her eyes, which had flickered off so abruptly over ten years ago, had started burning once more.
Marcus was kicking his heels outside in the foyer. “Blimey, you do have a problem. Going to make it home?”
Zoe smiled and linked her arm through his. “Of course I am.”
THE WHITE KNIGHT
The knight, with its L-shaped moves, is the most unpredictable of pieces
5
Joanna was late again. Jutting both elbows out, she jabbed her way through the press of bodies on the bus and leapt onto the pavement at Kensington High Street just before the doors shut. Passing the identikit businessmen in black and gray suits and holding designer briefcases, she broke into a run, the cold morning air biting at her skin. Checking her watch, Joanna upped her pace. It had been a while since she had gone for a run, choosing instead to sit on the sofa and eat ice cream with EastEnders on the telly. At home in Yorkshire, she used to run five miles a day—up hills no less—and although she had tried to keep up the regimen in London, it simply wasn’t the same. She missed the pure air of the moors, the glimpses of hares and peregrine falcons. The most exciting wildlife to see in London was a pigeon that still had both of its legs.
The Royal Secret Page 5