Rosie said, ‘Yes, Marie Louise of Austria, daughter of Emperor Francis, who did bear him that son he so wanted. She was very young, though, wasn’t she? And Josephine was six years older than he.’
Gavin nodded, and moved away from the railings. ‘Come on, let’s go inside. I want to go over a few things with you.’
Taking her arm, he led her through the dining room and into the long hallway which in turn led to his favourite room in the house. This was his study, where he did all of his work. It was a huge, airy room, with a high-flung cathedral ceiling, walls of books, and many windows overlooking a manicured green lawn that rolled down to a small lily pond. A huge antique mahogany table, the type used in boardrooms, served as a desk, and there were groupings of comfortable chairs and sofas upholstered in soft coffee-coloured leather.
Gavin pulled up a chair for Rosie, and they sat down next to each other at the table. He found his notebook, flipped it open, and explained: ‘I have a theory. I believe that leaving Josephine was the beginning of Napoleon’s downfall. It was then that his luck seemed to change. Giving up Josephine, the truest love of his life, was the single biggest mistake of his life. It seems to me that without her nothing was ever really the same again for him.’
‘There’s something so sad about their story,’ Rosie murmured. ‘I’ve always thought that, Gavin.’
‘I agree.’ Gavin glanced down at his notebook. ‘Now, consider this for a great scene, Rosie. It’s a cold day, November thirtieth, 1809. We’re at the palace—the Tuileries—with Napoleon and Josephine. He tells her he is going to have their marriage annulled. This is what he says to her: “I still love you, but in politics there is no heart, only head.” Josephine faints, then pleads, then breaks down completely and weeps, her sorrow overwhelming her. But he is adamant. He has to be. And he has to do it.’
‘Oh Gavin, how terrible. What happened next?’
‘She went to Malmaison, the house he had bought for her years before, and where they had led such a peaceful existence, been so happy. That was on December fifteenth, when Josephine left his life for ever, after being with him for some fourteen years. But he never stopped loving her; there’s loads of documentation to prove that. In fact, only a month later he was writing to her, saying that he wanted to see her. Their parting broke her heart, of course. And his. At least, that’s what I believe, and that’s what the movie’s partially about—a man and a woman, not just a great man.’
Gavin paused, glanced down at the notebook again, turned the pages. ‘Just listen to this. It’s a letter he wrote to her when he was twenty-six, after he had made love to her for the first time. She was thirty-two, and at that moment not quite as besotted with him as he was with her. She fell in love with him later; but listen, Rosie.’
‘Go ahead, I am listening.’
It was obvious to Rosie that Gavin knew the words by heart. He didn’t even look in the notebook as he began to speak.
‘I have woken up full of you. Your portrait and the memory of yesterday’s intoxicating evening have given my senses no rest. Sweet and incomparable Josephine, what an odd effect you have on my heart! Are you displeased? Do I see you sad? Are you worried? Then my soul is grief-stricken, and your friend cannot rest… But I cannot rest either when I yield to the deep feeling that overpowers me and I draw from your lips and heart a flame that burns in me. Ah! last night I clearly realized that the portrait I had of you is quite different from the real you! You are leaving at noon, and in three hours I shall see you. Until then, mio dolce amor, thousands of kisses; but don’t kiss me, for your kisses sear my blood.’
Rosie sat gazing at Gavin, for a moment unable to speak. He had held her mesmerized, had spoken the words beautifully, as only he could, and she felt as though he had become Napoleon in those few moments. Now she couldn’t wait to see him in that role.
Frowning slightly, he asked, ‘Well, what do you think? You’re not saying a word, and I thought that was a wonderful love letter from a man the world forever thinks of as an ambitious general out to conquer the world, when he wasn’t that at all. At least he was much more than that.’
‘I was moved, Gavin, that’s why I’m silent.’ She gave him a direct look. ‘You have the script already, don’t you?’
‘Ah, you’re too sharp, Angel Face, I can never pull the wool over your eyes. Yes, I do have a script and it’s more or less finished. It just needs a final polish.’
‘It’s by Vivienne Citrine, isn’t it?’
‘You got it.’
‘I’m glad she’s written the script. There’s nobody better, and she works so well with you.’
‘You’re going to enjoy being on this movie. For one thing, I’m going to be shooting in your favourite country, France. I’ll be based in Paris, at Billancourt Studios, and I’ll be doing a lot of shooting in and around Paris, and at Malmaison. If the French Government will give me permission to shoot exteriors there, that is.’
‘It’s such a beautiful house, Gavin, and I’m sure they will. They might even let you shoot inside too. The French Government are usually very cooperative when it comes to this kind of historical film-making.’
‘I know. Anyway, my people are working on all that, and I hope you’ll start your research for the clothes after Christmas. Can you?’
‘You bet I can.’
Gavin laughed. ‘I knew I could count on you, and by the way, even though you’ll want to design some of those flimsy gowns Josephine and the women wore, I’d like to point out that Napoleon disapproved of them.’
‘He did?’
‘Sure. Once, he had the fires stoked so high at Malmaison everyone was sweating. The place was like an oven, and he kept exclaiming, very pointedly, that he wanted the women to be warm in their nakedness.’
Rosie laughed. ‘He had great wit, I think. Anyway, this is going to be an exciting project… I’m already excited. I can’t wait to get cracking on the clothes.’
‘I knew you’d say that.’
‘When can I have a copy of the script?’
‘Early in January. I’ll bring it to you myself. I’m going to be in Paris at the end of that month, since I’ll have finished postproduction on Kingmaker by then.’
‘Good. I can’t wait to read it.’
The phone at the far end of the table rang, and Gavin got up, went to answer it. Rosie’s eyes strayed around the table. It was piled with books, manila folders, and maps. She saw that there were many volumes on Napoleon, Josephine, French politics of the period, and Napoleon’s military campaigns. There were also books on his contemporaries, from Barras to Talleyrand, both of whom she knew turned out to be his enemies. It was obvious that Gavin, as usual, had done his homework and had done it well.
When Gavin hung up, he said, ‘Let’s go and have lunch, Angel Face. Miri is going to serve it out on the terrace.’
***
Later that afternoon, long after Rosie had left, Gavin was working on the script in his study when the door flew open unexpectedly.
Annoyed that he was being disturbed, he glanced up to see his wife Louise standing in the doorway.
He stared at her, his irritation barely concealed.
Louise, a petite, dark-haired beauty, was elegantly dressed in couture clothes, as usual. She glared back at him, detecting his displeasure immediately, so finely tuned had she become to his moods of late.
‘I’m going,’ she announced in a clipped tone.
When no response was forthcoming, she added, ‘To Washington.’
‘But naturally,’ Gavin said finally, his voice full of acerbity. ‘Where else do you go these days?’
Kicking the door shut with an elegantly-shod foot, wanting privacy from Miri, Louise stepped forward into the room, still glaring at him. Then a flush rose up from her neck to flood her face as she exclaimed, ‘At least I’m made to feel welcome by my friends there. Which is more than I can say about being in this house.’
‘This house, as you term it, is your home, Louise. Stop pl
aying drama, please. It doesn’t impress me, or affect me. I’m the actor in the family, remember. Anyway, when are you coming back?’
‘Showing some interest in me at last, I see. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
Gavin’s brow furrowed. ‘What about Thanksgiving?’
‘What about it?’
‘Won’t you be here?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘For David’s sake.’
‘David only has eyes for his father, and you know that only too well, since you’re the one who has turned him against me.’
‘You’re being stupid, Louise!’ Gavin exclaimed furiously, his voice rising almost to a shout. ‘Damn stupid! Why would I turn our son against his own mother, for God’s sake?’ Gavin shook his head. He was honestly puzzled by her last statement. He found it difficult to believe that she really thought he had driven a wedge between her and their son.
Changing the subject, knowing she was losing ground, Louise said, ‘And how long are you staying? How long are we going to have the pleasure of your company in LA?’
‘I have to go back to London at the end of November. I’m in postproduction on Kingmaker, as you well know.’
‘And will you be coming home for Christmas?’
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be here?’
‘I thought you would be starting your new movie almost immediately. That’s what you seem to do these days, make movies back to back. And all of them on foreign location, I might add. You’ve made it pretty obvious these last few years that the movies come before me and David.’
‘That’s not true, Louise, and you know it isn’t. And while you might hate my movies, which is what you keep announcing to me and anyone else who’ll listen, you certainly don’t hate spending the money they make.’
Louise looked at him coldly, but she made no comment.
Gavin said, ‘I’ll be starting preproduction on the movie in February or March.’
‘Bully for you.’
‘Oh, Louise, please. Stop it, will you?’
Stepping closer to the long work table, she eyed the books piled up. ‘Napoleon! Good God, I ought to have known you’d get around to him one day. Another little man with grandiose ideas,’ she intoned sarcastically, her eyes steely blue daggers in her pale face.
Choosing to ignore this pointed dig, Gavin said, ‘I’ll be out of your hair, since I’ll be living and working in France for the next six months or so.’
‘That figures,’ she cried. ‘I might have guessed you’d end up there!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Your precious Rosalind lives and works in France, and you just can’t bear to be away from her, can you?’
‘Oh come on, cut it out,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your congenital jealousy clouds your judgement constantly. That’s what’s ruined our marriage.’
‘Hah! Don’t give me that bullshit, Gavin Ambrose. I haven’t done anything to our marriage. You have. You and all your women.’
Gavin knew that they would end up having one of their horrendous rows if he did not curtail this particular topic of conversation, and he must do it right now. Adopting a softer, quieter voice, he said, ‘Please, Louise, let’s stop this. Immediately. I’m working, and I have a deadline on this script. And you have a flight to make. Have a good time in Washington, and give Allan my best.’
Louise drew back slightly. ‘I’m not going to Washington to see Allan. I’m going to see the Merciers. It’s Alicia’s birthday. They’re having a party, and I’m staying with them.’
Like hell you’re not going to see Allan Turner, he thought, but said, ‘Then give the Merciers my best. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you before I leave for London, I suppose.’
‘I suppose,’ she mumbled, and turning on her heels she walked out imperiously, slamming the door behind her.
Gavin stared at the door for a few moments, and then he dropped his eyes to the script. It was the final draft, but it was so complete it was almost a shooting script.
Just a few more changes, he thought, picking up his pencil. I must get the nuances right in a few more places.
A short while later, Gavin realized he was not able to concentrate. Louise’s words were still echoing in his head. She had implied—no, she had said quite pointedly—that he wanted to work in France because Rosie lived there. And that wasn’t true.
Or was it?
He sat pondering this for a long time, the script suddenly forgotten.
PART TWO
Sacred Friendships
FIFTEEN
Although the traffic in Paris was heavy, it moved along at a rapid pace, and much to Rosie’s relief she was leaving the centre of the city behind within half an hour.
But it was only when she hit the motorway and headed her Peugeot sedan in the direction of Orléans that she began to relax. Settling back behind the wheel, she let out a sigh of relief. It was the sixth of December, and after a week in Paris, mostly spent clearing her desk, attending to her affairs, and doing a little business for Gavin, she was at last on her way to her beloved Montfleurie.
Since it was Friday, there was additional traffic on the motorway as people headed to their country homes. But it was still early afternoon, and there was not enough, as yet, to cause congestion. She was able to move along at a steady speed, and as she drove her thoughts turned to Johnny Fortune.
Automatically, she reached for the tape Nell had given her in Beverly Hills, and which she had dropped into her canvas carry-all before leaving her apartment on the rue de l’Université in the seventh arrondissement a short while ago. Having played only a portion of the tape in her apartment earlier in the week, she was not entirely familiar with all of it. And so, as his voice filled the confines of the car, she was suddenly struck by the poignancy of his voice and of the words he was singing, from You and Me (We Wanted It All).
To her surprise she discovered that the words of the song touched her quite deeply; more than she had thought a popular song ever could.
And as she listened to him singing, a strange sorrow enveloped her, and inexplicably tears pricked the back of her eyes. She felt an acute sense of loss, thought then of what might have been, what her life might have been like, how it could have turned out differently. The words he was singing were hauntingly, profoundly sad. And how prophetic they sounded to her… it was so easy to break someone’s heart, and to have your own heart broken. She knew that only too well.
Johnny moved on to another number, his melodious voice still surrounding her, and not unnaturally her thoughts stayed with him and the evening they had so recently spent together at his house. At this moment it seemed far away to her. And yet it was only a little over a week ago that she had been in Beverly Hills with Nell and Gavin, her two dearest friends; had met the famous Johnny Fortune for the first time, and had found herself curiously drawn to him. Now she was driving into the heart of France, and to another life altogether. How different those two worlds were, thousands of miles apart, and in more senses than one. Everything was much more structured in Europe than it was in California, and there was no question that moving from the freewheeling style and hoopla of Hollywood celebrity to the formality of the French aristocracy was quite a leap. Nell was forever saying this to her, teasing her about her two wholly different existences, although her girlhood friend was the first to acknowledge that she had managed the leap with infinite dexterity and skill.
Nell had called her from New York yesterday, to tell her that various Christmas gifts would be winging their way to her by courier later in the week, and then she had chuckled, sounding very mischievous. ‘Johnny’s been pestering me for your phone number. I wasn’t sure what you’d want me to do, so I gave him the studio number in London. Then I faxed Aida at the studio and told her she mustn’t give out your number to anyone. But no one.’ Nell had laughed again, wickedly, and added, in a conspiratorial voice, ‘Naturally, I said I was acting on your instructions, and that you didn’t want to talk to anyone for a
few weeks, that you wanted a rest at Montfleurie. But listen to me, Rosie mine, I was right, you know. Johnny’s got it bad. He’s quite smitten with you, my darling, oh yes, quite smitten.’
Rosie smiled to herself, thinking of how she had pooh-poohed such an idea to Nell. But she had to admit that she had been flattered yesterday when Nell had told her about his interest in her. She thought there was something truly special about Johnny, and she liked him; quite a lot, in fact. He was totally unlike any of the men she had known in the past, and she had recognized many lovely qualities in him. There was no doubt in her mind that she would have enjoyed seeing him again, but there was no way she could do that. And she wasn’t entitled to think about him either… at least, not in that way. After all, there was an impediment.
I won’t even permit myself to indulge in daydreaming, Rosie thought, and punched the stop button on the tape deck in the dashboard. Instantly, his voice was stilled, and the interior of the car was silent.
She drove on for a while, the word impediment rolling around in her head. It was a funny word for her to use, and her mind flicked back to her youth and the remembrance of an old movie she had seen on television. It was Jane Eyre, a great favourite of hers, both as a book and a movie.
One scene remained forever imprinted on her brain: Jane and Mr Rochester in the village church, the vicar asking if there was any impediment to their marriage, and then shock and pandemonium when a man stepped forward to reveal that there was indeed an impediment. A wife. And a mad wife at that… the wife Mr Rochester had married when he was a young man, who was locked away in a padded room at the top of his house, the crazy woman Grace Poole looked after, the one who had set the fires.
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