Angel

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  His mother was his confidante, coach, critic and audience, and she encouraged him in his ambitions, forever told him he was handsome enough to be in the movies. But he had never really believed her. In those days, he thought he was too short. She had just laughed, said his height didn’t matter, his talent was what counted, and that anyway he would grow taller as he got older. She had been right about this. However, he hadn’t grown quite as tall as he would have liked.

  Not long after the deaths of his mother and grandfather, Gavin met Kevin, Rosie and Nell, as well as Mikey and Sunny. Their little group had been formed and they had vowed to be a family, always there for each other, no matter what.

  He had been living with relatives of his father’s. They let him have a small room in their apartment for a nominal amount, and he worked in a supermarket at weekends in order to pay them. But as soon as he was able to he had left, had taken a room in a small boarding house in Greenwich Village, existing as best he could, doing odd jobs and working as a waiter at a local café. And acting, always acting, grabbing every bit of work he could, mostly in little theatres in the Village.

  His mother and grandfather had not left him entirely destitute. There had been money in the bank for him, but he had preferred to leave it there, earning interest. That money was for his lessons at the Actor’s Studio, where he learned at the knee of the master, Lee Strasberg, Deity of the Method School of Acting.

  The group had been his mainstay in those struggling days, the friendships vitally important to him. It was Gavin who had given everyone their names during the first year of the group’s existence. Rosie had been christened Angel Face because she was angelic and adorable. Nell became Little Nell after one of his favourite Charles Dickens characters. Kevin was Gumshoe, the most appropriate name for an aspiring cop. Mikey had been dubbed Professor, a perfect description for the most studious person he knew. Sunny had acquired the name Golden Girl because she was just that—all golden and shimmering and filled with laughter and light.

  Not any more, he thought sorrowfully, not any more.

  It was Rosie who had decided he must have a special name, too. Without even consulting the others, she had announced one day that he would be called Actor. ‘You’re a chameleon, Gavin,’ she had said. ‘You can become anyone you want, play any part. You’re a true actor. That is you. That defines you.’

  Rosie and he had always been attracted to each other, from that first evening when he had met her with her brother. And they had become involved a year later when she was eighteen and he was twenty. This was just after she had started a four-year course at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, studying fashion design.

  A youthful romance, an infatuation, that’s all it had been, and they had broken up three years later, over something so silly and petty he could no longer remember what it was. But more than likely it had been his fault. He was selfish, totally committed to his work. He knew that. And he was self-involved. He wondered what actor wasn’t. All actors were some kind of pain in the ass to somebody.

  He had met Louise when he and Rosie were more or less estranged, and had promptly hopped into bed with her. A torrid little affair had started. And before he could blink twice he had made her pregnant. They had married quickly, because Louise was terrified of her socialite parents and what they would do, and because he felt guilty and entirely responsible for her predicament. He had always prided himself on being a man of honour. And dependability.

  A year later, when she was twenty-two and had finished her FIT course, Rosie had rushed off to Paris. Here she had met Guy de Montfleurie, through his sister, her friend Colette. Almost immediately they had become involved and had married about a year later.

  And that had been that.

  Eventually Gavin and Rosie had become great friends again, and she had soon joined his working team. They were at last able to enjoy a very special friendship, and each other’s company, while working together on a permanent basis. She helped to make his life with Louise more bearable somehow.

  Gavin sighed to himself. A lot of water had gone under the bridge since those early days in New York when they had all been kids. Young, innocent, full of piss and vinegar, courageous and optimistic and a lot of other wonderful things as well. Fourteen years ago. It seemed so much longer to him. Decades past.

  Louise had recently implied that he still harboured strong feelings for Rosie. That was true. He did. She was his best friend, after all, and his confidante; she worked on every single one of his movies. He wouldn’t have it any other way. And yes, he did love Rosalind Madigan. But it was platonic. Their romantic feelings for each other had died long ago; even before he had met Louise that infatuation had been over.

  Gavin turned up the collar of his coat, shivering in the cold, and came to a standstill in front of the Arc de Triomphe at last.

  It was not a good idea to look back in life, it just didn’t pay, and it usually spelled unnecessary heartache. Always forward. That was his motto. Onward and upward, he thought, as he gazed at the huge imposing arch, and the tricolour fluttering under it in the wind. The flag of France. Napoleon’s flag.

  This movie is going to be a hell of a job to make, he thought, and playing Napoleon the biggest challenge I’ve ever had to meet. But I’ve got a wonderful production team pulled together; I’ll just make sure the cast is equally good.

  It was an easier day on the set when you worked with pros.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Back at his suite in the Ritz, Gavin ordered a chicken sandwich and tea with lemon, and sat back on the sofa, studying the second draft of Napoleon and Josephine.

  A waiter appeared in no time at all with the food, and once he had eaten he picked up the phone and dialled Rosie’s number in the Loire.

  ‘Château de Montfleurie, bonjour,’ a woman’s voice said and he knew at once who it was.

  ‘Hello, Rosie, it’s me.’

  ‘Gavin! I’ve been trying to reach you in LA for days. Since Friday actually! Since the script and your gift arrived. Gavin, thank you so much for the pearls. They’re beautiful, just exquisite. But you’re far too extravagant.’

  ‘Nothing’s too extravagant for you, Angel Face. You deserve them, after all the hard work you did on the picture, and looking after me when I had my accident. I owe you, honey.’

  ‘Gavin, don’t be so silly, it’s me you’re talking to!’ Rosie exclaimed, and then asked, ‘But where are you?’

  ‘Paris. At the Ritz. I was in London for a few days. Looping my lines. You know what a problem it is when too many ancillary sounds on the film obscure the dialogue. I had to re-record a couple of Warwick’s battle scenes, you know, when he’s talking to Edward.’

  ‘I wish I’d known you were in Europe. You could have come here for the weekend, instead of sitting in Paris alone. I mean, I’m presuming you’re alone,’ she finished, making her last few words sound more like a question.

  ‘I’m alone.’

  There was a pause at his end, and he cleared his throat. ‘And it was pretty stupid of me not to call you, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t really sure how long the looping would take. Also, I had several meetings planned with the guys from Billancourt Studios.’

  ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Great, Rosie, really great! We’ll be using the studio facilities starting in February. We’ll be headquartering there. Aida’s on as producer, by the way, and I think I may have Michael Roddings as the director. How about them apples, kid?’

  ‘I like them apples,’ she laughed. ‘And it’s all sounding wonderful. Especially the news about Aida. As for Michael, I’m a big fan, he’s one of the best directors around.’

  ‘I knew you’d approve, honey.’ Gavin leaned back against the cushions, propped his feet on the coffee table and asked, ‘Have you had a chance to look at the script yet?’

  ‘Look at it! I’ve read it already. And it’s brilliant. I love it, Gavin. It’s very touching, extremely moving in parts, and highly dramatic. The
pacing is great. But then you and Vivienne have always worked well together. It reads like a final draft to me.’

  ‘Yep. It’s pretty good. Another light polish and that should do it. How’s it going down there at the château? How’s Collie? I know you were worried about her.’

  ‘Collie seems much better, thank God. Very thin, but really much fitter than I thought she’d be. Everyone else is fine, things are just fine here.’

  ‘And what about Guy? How’s he?’

  At the other end of the phone, Rosie thought that Gavin sounded suddenly sour. Then she dismissed this and said, ‘Oh he’s not here. A couple of weeks ago he had a row with Henri and disappeared the next day. We haven’t seen or heard from him since. Frankly, we all hope he stays away.’

  ‘As my Scottish mother would have said, good riddance to bad rubbish. Right?’

  ‘Spot on! I have some really good news, Gavin. Henri and Kyra are getting married.’

  ‘No kidding! How did that happen?’

  Rosie told him the whole story, leaving nothing out, and finished, ‘They’re getting married a few days after Christmas. Here at Montfleurie, in the private chapel. The village priest will come up to perform the ceremony in the afternoon and then we’ll have a little tea party here at the château. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. And I’m glad it’s worked out for Kyra. I always thought she was a nice woman.’

  ‘Yes, she is. So, when are you going back to LA?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Or rather, I’m taking the Concorde to New York tomorrow, and staying the night in New York. I’ll go on to the coast the next day. For Christmas with David… and Louise.’

  ‘It’ll do you good to have some time with your family, to rest and relax,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Sure,’ he responded laconically.

  ‘I’m going to Paris immediately after the wedding, early in the new year,’ Rosie told him. ‘I want to get to work on the preliminaries for the costumes. Henri has dug up some wonderful books on the Empire period here at the château, and I’ve been really inspired.’

  ‘When are you ever not inspired, Rosie?’ Gavin asked, meaning this sincerely. To him she was the most talented costume designer in the world.

  Rosie simply laughed, brushed aside his compliment, saying quickly, ‘When are you coming back to Paris?’

  ‘I’ll be going to London first, around the second week of January, to see the edited film again, and to hear the final score. Then I’ll hop a plane to gay Paree, and start the ball rolling on Napoleon and Josephine. How does that sound?’

  ‘I can’t wait to get going on the movie!’

  ‘Neither can I. Anyway, I just called to say Happy Christmas, Angel Face.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Gavin darling. And God Bless.’

  ‘Take care, Rosie.’ He dropped the phone in the cradle, picked up the script and began to read again, not wanting to face the fact that he missed her. And a lot more than he cared to admit.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘A man who gives a woman pearls of great value is heavily involved with her,’ Henri de Montfleurie murmured in a low voice, giving Kyra a pointed look.

  Kyra frowned. ‘Do you mean emotionally?’

  ‘In every way.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Gavin Ambrose is in love with Rosie?’

  ‘It’s more than likely, I would say.’

  Kyra did not at first respond.

  Turning slightly, she glanced down the vast entrance hall, focusing on Rosie, who was busily taking pictures of Lisette, Collie and Yvonne.

  The three of them stood in front of the giant-sized tree which was heavily laden with all manner of unique decorations and glittering with tiny lights. The two girls were laughing and chattering, and Collie was gently ordering them to stand still, while Rosie fiddled with the camera before taking more snaps.

  Filled with the excitement of Christmas Eve, they were having a great deal of fun, especially Collie, Kyra observed, and this pleased her immeasurably. Like Rosie, she was worried about Colette, who was painfully thin and drawn. She looked like a waif tonight, even though she had obviously made an enormous effort to dress herself up for the Christmas festivities. The dark-green silk dress she had chosen drained what little colour she had from her face, and she seemed excessively pale to Kyra. But maybe it was the dress over-emphasizing the whiteness of her skin after all. She hoped so.

  As Kyra swung her gaze back to Rosie, a thoughtful expression settled on her face. Rosie, too, had dressed up this evening. She wore a stunning, black-velvet tunic dress, the square patch pockets heavily encrusted with beaded embroidery. And around her neck were the extraordinary South Sea pearls. How lustrous they looked against the black velvet. They must have cost a fortune, Kyra thought. Perhaps seventy-five thousand dollars, maybe more. Henri was right. Costly pearls were not given merely in appreciation of work well done on a movie. Most especially pearls from Harry Winston, the great New York jeweller.

  Another thought struck Kyra, and she turned to Henri and said in an undertone, ‘We must remember that they are old old friends, darling. They were teenagers in New York, and she’s been working on his movies for a long time. It could be that the pearls are a gift for… for all those years they’ve been close friends and colleagues.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Henri took a sip of his champagne. ‘I’ve seen those two together, been in their presence quite frequently, as you well know, and there is something very special between them. They are deeply involved, take my word for it. Whether they realize this—’ He paused and shrugged, then added, ‘Well, that is another matter.’

  ‘But Gavin is married,’ Kyra murmured, leaning closer to him.

  ‘If you can call it that,’ Henri countered. ‘Gavin seems very removed from his wife, distant. I believe Louise to be a very strange woman, so I can’t say I blame him. She is brittle, neurotic, highly strung and not particularly intelligent. And she’s thin to the point of starvation.’ He shuddered involuntarily and made a face. ‘Haven’t you ever noticed that her head looks too big for that bird-like body of hers? Why is it that some women are obsessed with their weight? Have the desire to look like victims of Dachau?’ He shook his head in obvious distaste. ‘There’s nothing feminine or womanly or remotely sexual about bone-thin women like Louise, who resemble boys. Not to me, anyway. I think they are grotesque.’

  Kyra gave him a broad smile. ‘I am glad you prefer a bit of flesh on the bones, otherwise where would I be?’ She laughed and picked up her glass, touched it against his. ‘I do love you, Henri de Montfleurie.’

  ‘And I you, my dear,’ he said with great warmth.

  ‘Louise Ambrose is very odd, you’re quite right about that,’ Kyra murmured, and she couldn’t help glancing at Rosie again. ‘She and Rosie are as different as chalk and cheese. Just look how beautiful Rosie is tonight. She looks glorious. Like a ripe peach.’

  Amused, Henri laughed at this analogy, but he made no comment.

  Kyra went on thoughtfully, ‘What a pity it is that Gavin is married.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Henri asked swiftly. ‘Whenever did the state of matrimony ever stop anybody? You know as well as I do that most people usually go after what they want in matters of the heart. And the loins. Especially when they are obsessed. And quite regardless of anybody else’s feelings, I might add. However, I genuinely believe that Gavin and Rosie don’t understand how they truly feel about each other.’

  Kyra stared at him. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Let me correct myself. I don’t think Rosie knows how involved she is with Gavin on a personal level. She’s been so embroiled with Guy and their problems and their failed marriage. And too involved with all of us for that matter, and for a number of years. But that is all going to change, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now that she has made up her mind to divorce Guy, her life is going to be very different. Radically different.’
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  ‘They haven’t lived together as man and wife for years, and Guy’s hardly been here, so she’s not seen very much of him. Do you really think the divorce will make all that much difference to her?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Rosie is very straightforward, and full of integrity. As long as she was bound to Guy legally, she was somehow bound to him in her own head, and therefore not free to do as she wished. At least, this is the way I have analysed her attitude, and the predicament she’s been in for a long time. Just deciding to go ahead and get a divorce has already wrought a fundamental change in her.’

  ‘What kind of change?’

  Henri reflected for a moment before he said, ‘She’s free at last of Guy. In her mind. And that gives her a sense of liberation. She’ll feel even better once the divorce actually comes through.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so, Henri! I love Rosie, and I want her to be happy…’ Kyra fell silent, and then she said a little hesitantly, a second or two later, ‘I didn’t want to broach the subject of Guy… but have you heard from him?’

  Henri nodded. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you, nor did I wish to upset you, but he telephoned me last night. From Paris. To apologize, if you can believe it. Naturally I accepted his apology. It was the right thing to do, I believe. I also told him we were getting married, and that I was going to legitimize our son by legally adopting him.’

  ‘What did he say to that news?’

  ‘He congratulated me. He said he was glad about our marriage and that I was acknowledging Alexandre.’

  ‘This is extremely difficult for me to accept, Henri.’

  ‘And for me also, even though I heard it with my own ears.’ Henri squeezed her arm. ‘But oddly enough, I do think he really meant what he said. He’s a strange bird, my son. Certainly he’s always baffled me.’

  ‘And everyone else. I’m surprised he didn’t ask if he could come to Montfleurie for Christmas.’