Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Oddly enough, and unlike most other actors, Victor Mason had acquired a trenchant understanding of the financial and business side of picture making, was aware of its countless ramifications, conversant with the myriad complexities not always comprehended by other artists. He had started his movie career as an extra in Hollywood at the age of twenty, and as he had embarked on the gruelling, rung-by-rung climb up the steep and slippery ladder to stardom, he had diligently made it a point to learn every aspect of movie making. This was for his own protection, with an eye to the future as well as his present work. If there ever came a time when he no longer wanted to be an actor, he would have a second career as a producer to fall back on.

  Victor was not stupid. On the contrary, he had a keen intelligence, the ability to assess people and situations accurately, and he was a tough negotiator. Apart from being shrewd and calculating, he was ambitious and driven, and he was the complete realist with his eyes perpetually scanning the profit line. Most importantly, he was blessed with an unusual amount of foresight.

  Long before any of his colleagues had seen it coming, he had predicted a radical change in the motion picture industry. He had proved to be right. Just as he had envisaged late in 1949, the old studio system had begun to disintegrate rapidly and was still plunging on its downward journey into total extinction. More and more stars were breaking free of the restrictions imposed upon them by the long-term contracts that tied them to such studios as Warner Brothers, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Twentieth Century-Fox and Columbia. Not only the stars but all the other talent as well, such as producers, directors and writers, wanted their independence, control of their own careers and total approval of the projects they were involved with. And as far as the stars were concerned, a bigger chunk of the money, a percentage of the profits, to which they were undoubtedly entitled.

  Victor had been one of the first to buck the studio system, and he had left the studio which had built him into a big name as soon as his long-term contract had expired. When the president had wanted to sign him up for another seven years he had demurred, and in 1952 he had started his own production company. Until now he had always engaged an outside independent producer to make the films he starred in, and which his company, Bellissima Productions, partially financed. With this remake of the old classic he would not only be on the screen but at the helm.

  My first real freedom, he thought. But freedom does bring its own responsibilities.

  The telephone rang. He turned around and stared at it in irritation, realizing he had forgotten to ask the hotel switchboard operator to monitor his calls. It shrilled again, insistently, and cursing himself for being so remiss earlier, he went to answer it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said in a gravely, muffled tone, attempting to disguise his voice.

  ‘You sound as if you were out on the tiles again last night, you old reprobate. I hope I’m not disturbing you, that this is not an inopportune moment. You sound half asleep for God’s sake. Disgusting at this hour. Are you not alone, perchance?’

  Victor chuckled, recognizing Nicholas Latimer’s voice. This was standard dialogue between them, an old joke. They were both early risers, no matter what time they had gone to bed, or with whom. ‘Nicky, you son-of-a-gun, it’s great to hear from you. And of course I’m alone. What else. How’s Paris? How’s it going?’

  ‘Paris! You must be kidding. All I’ve seen of Paris are the walls of a hotel suite. And it’s not going badly. Quite the opposite, I’d say.’

  ‘That’s swell. When are you coming in?’

  ‘Soon,’ Nick replied laconically.

  ‘What the hell does that mean? Come on, give me a date, Nicky. I want to see you, to talk to you. It’s not the same when you’re not around. I miss my sparring partner.’

  Nick said, ‘You all right? I detect a hint of—dejection maybe?’

  ‘I’m fine, not a bit dejected,’ Victor answered. ‘When can I expect you?’

  ‘I told you. Soon. When I’ve finished the second draft. It’s rolling pretty well. I’ve licked all the problems, and I think you’ll like the changes. Minor ones, really, but I believe they bring additional drama and effectiveness to the last few scenes.’

  ‘I’m certain I’ll like the new draft, Nick. There wasn’t much wrong with the first one, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I know you were fairly well satisfied, Vic, but I felt it didn’t move quickly enough, that the pace was slow at the end. Anyway, I’ve sharpened it up in parts, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track now. Incidentally, have you heard from Mike Lazarus?’

  Victor caught the subtle change in Nick’s tone, the worried intonation. ‘No, not for a few days. Why?’ he asked, instinctively alerted.

  ‘No real reason. I just wondered, that’s all. He’s a difficult bastard, and I know he’s been on your back for the second draft.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Lazarus, Nicky. I’m not. I can deal with him. And take all the time you need with the screenplay. We can’t start shooting for at least two months, you know.’

  ‘Points well taken, Victor. Listen, I’ve got to run, I have an appointment. It was nice talking to you, and I’ll be seeing you soon. Sooner than you think, kid.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Victor replied with a laugh, and they both hung up. He immediately lifted the receiver, told the operator to screen his calls and asked for room service. He ordered coffee, and then turned his attention to the production sheets again, wanting to make a final check of the new figures in readiness for the meeting with the production manager the next day. But his concentration had fled. He found himself thinking instead of Nicholas Latimer, and with not a little affection. He missed Nick and would be glad when he returned from Paris, where he had insisted on going, ‘To hole up and do the rewrite in peace and quiet, with no distractions,’ Nick had explained. Victor missed the younger man, for he had come to rely on his friendship, his companionship, his sharp wit and his incisive mind.

  They had first met six years ago, when the writer, then only twenty-three, was being acclaimed as the bright new star on the American literary scene, after publication of his first novel. They had been at a chic party in Bel Air, and had taken to each other immediately. Discovering their mutual boredom with the other guests and the banal movie industry chit-chat, they had made their escape to a bar in Malibu, where they had quickly exchanged confidences and laughed a lot, slowly and diligently getting roaring drunk in the process. Within the space of the next few days, most of which were spent roistering and drinking, they had become firm friends. There were some of their intimates who thought the relationship between the glamorous macho Hollywood movie star and the East Coast intellectual novelist a trifle improbable, even ludicrous, in view of the many diversities in their personalities and backgrounds. Victor and Nicky cocked a snook at these gratuitous opinions.

  They knew the reason for their friendship, the foundation for their growing closeness. Quite simply, they understood each other on a fundamental level, and they recognized, too, that this closeness actually sprang from those very disparities in their characters, backgrounds, upbringing and careers. ‘And let’s face it, we do share one common denominator. Neither of us is a wasp. But then I happen to think a wop and a yid make an unbeatable team,’ Nick had said sardonically at the time. Victor had roared. Nicky’s irreverence and his ability to laugh at himself were traits the actor appreciated. Nicholas Latimer and Victor Mason might have been tipped out from the same mould, for both were mavericks at heart.

  Nick had rapidly become a permanent fixture in Victor’s life. He was a constant visitor at the ranch near Santa Barbara, he often travelled with Victor to the foreign locations of his movies, and he wrote two original screenplays for him, one of which turned out to be a smashing critical and commercial hit, and earned the two men an Oscar each. Nick also advised Victor on which movie properties to buy, and became a partner in Bellissima Productions. When they were not working, they took trips together. They went up to Oregon, to shoot du
ck, or fish for salmon at the mouth of the Rogue River; they went skiing in Klosters; they drank and womanized their way from Paris down to the French Riviera and on to Rome, leaving behind a trail of empty champagne bottles and a string of broken hearts. They had fun, they laughed a lot, and, in short, they became inseparable. As the years had passed they had grown to care for each other deeply, in that special way two completely heterosexual men can.

  Nick is the best friend I’ve ever had, Victor said to himself, as he sat reflecting. The only real friend I’ve ever had. He instantly corrected himself. Except for Ellie. Yes, Ellie had been his truest and dearest friend, as well as his devoted wife, and he still missed her after all these years.

  The numbing ache, which had dwelt in him since her death, flared savagely, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Would he never be free of that terrible sense of loss, this perpetual ache in his gut? He doubted it. Ellie had been the one real miracle of his life, the one thing of true value, and she had possessed that rarest of all human qualities—absolute goodness. There never would be another woman like Ellie, not for him at least. No man was ever fortunate enough to have two such perfect relationships in a lifetime. It just wasn’t in the cards.

  Ellie was the only one who deserved to share his fame, the comfort and privilege which came with his wealth, for she had worked like a dog to help him achieve it. But she had not lived to see him make it into the big time, to enjoy her well-earned rewards. There were times when it seemed to him that his fame was hollow without her beside him. In a sense, he thought of his success as an anomaly. Once the initial euphoria wore off, it had little real meaning, because there was no one to enjoy it with him, no one special who had been there at the beginning, who truly knew the heartache, the sacrifice, the struggle and the immense work it had taken to grasp it. And later, the effort expanded to hold onto it firmly with tenacious hands. That was perhaps the hardest part of all—holding onto the success. In reality it was so ephemeral. And it was lonely at the top. Hellish lonely.

  Years ago, when he had been Victor Massonetti, construction worker, the simple Italian-American kid from Cincinnati, Ohio, he had laughed disbelievingly when he had heard someone mouth that cliché. Now he knew it to be true.

  Victor realized for the thousandth time how empty his life was without Ellie, and in so many different ways. His other two wives did not count at all, except for the aggravation they had managed to cause him, and neither had ever been able to expunge the memory of his lovely Ellie, or even remotely take her place. But, at least he had the twins. He thought of Jamie and Steve, back home in the States, and instantly the pain lessened, as it always did. And wherever Ellie was now, if there was such a thing as an afterlife, then she knew their boys were loved and safe and protected, and would be for all the days of his life. His mind lingered on his sons and then he made an effort to rouse himself, attempting to push aside the despondent mood which had descended on him so inexplicably.

  After a while he felt more composed, and he started to check the figures in front of him, but he had no sooner begun on the second column than a loud knocking on the door disrupted the silence. Surprised, he looked up and frowned. That’s the fastest room service I’ve ever had in this hotel, he thought, striding to the door. He jerked it open, and his jaw dropped.

  Nicholas Latimer was standing there, propped up against the door frame, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Sooner than I think indeed!’ Victor exclaimed huffily, glaring at Nick. But his mouth began to twitch with laughter.

  ‘I know, don’t say it! I’m a bastard and a childish one at that, pulling this asinine trick on you,’ Nick declared. They grasped hands and embraced roughly, and Victor said, ‘Well, don’t stand there, you clown. Come on in.’

  ‘I took the first plane from Paris this morning. I just checked in a while ago,’ Nick said, his wide grin intact. ‘When I called you I was already in the suite down the hall, as you’ve probably guessed. Couldn’t resist it, kid.’ He ambled into the sitting room and glanced around. ‘Mmmm. Not bad. I like this better than the other suite you had, it’s more your style.’ Nick lowered his long, lanky frame into the nearest chair, slumped down into it, and threw a manilla envelope onto the coffee table with casual grace. ‘I tried to call you last night, but you were out. So—’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I decided to fly in. I thought I’d surprise you.’

  ‘You succeeded. And I’m glad you’re here. I just ordered coffee. Do you want some? How about breakfast?’

  ‘Just coffee. Thanks, Vic.’

  Victor went to the telephone and Nick stood up and took off his sports jacket. He draped it over the back of a chair and sat down again. His icy-blue eyes, usually twinkling and full of mischief, were contemplative, and the grin that gave his boyish face a puckish quality, was missing. He looked across at Victor, and his face softened with fondness. He had been right to pack up in Paris and come to London. This was too important to discuss on the telephone. And two heads are infinitely better than one in this kind of situation, he thought. He lit a cigarette and stared at the burning tip, wondering how Victor would receive the news he was about to impart. With equanimity? Or would his Latin temperament get the better of him, as it sometimes did when he was thwarted. Of course, Victor would be angry, and with good reason, but he had a reservoir of self-control and the ability to sheath his emotions when he so wished. Nick decided it could go either way.

  Victor sat down opposite Nick, his eyes focused on the envelope. ‘Is that the second draft of the screenplay?’ he asked.

  ‘It sure is, kid. It’s more or less finished. I have a few changes to make on the last six pages, but I can do that tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s all yours. You can read it later.’ He fell silent, drawing on his cigarette. ‘I came in a couple of days earlier than I’d planned because I wanted to talk to you,’ he said finally.

  Recalling Katharine’s words on the previous evening, Victor said, ‘You’ve heard of the telephone, haven’t you?’ He smiled at Nick. ‘Don’t answer that. Obviously you have something important to say, or you wouldn’t be here. Not with Natalie stashed in Paris. Or did you bring her with you?’

  ‘No. She’s not in Paris either. She had to go back to the Coast to start her new picture. She left in the middle of this past week.’ Nick eyed the rolling cart holding bottles of liquor and soft drinks. ‘I don’t think I want coffee after all. I’d prefer a drink. How about you?’

  Victor peered at his watch. ‘Why not. The pubs are now officially open, so I might as well start pouring. What do you want? Scotch or vodka?’

  ‘Vodka with some tomato juice. And fix yourself a stiff drink. I believe you’re going to need it.’

  Victor, who was half-way to the bar, swivelled, staring hard at Nick. He said carefully, ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘I’ve given you the good news about the screenplay.’ Nick attempted a smile, but it faltered instantly. ‘But we’ve got a problem. A really serious problem.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’ Victor picked up the bottle of vodka and proceeded to make Nick’s drink.

  ‘Mike Lazarus is in Paris—’

  ‘Lazarus! But I spoke to him only last Wednesday and he was in New York,’ Victor cried. He carried the drinks back to the seating arrangement in front of the fireplace, and sat down.

  ‘Maybe so. But right now he’s well ensconced in the Plaza-Athénée.’ Noting the surprise registering on Victor’s face, Nick exclaimed heatedly: ‘You should know what he’s like by now, Vic! When you’re the president of a multinational corporation, as he is, you’re ubiquitous. And he thinks nothing of hopping onto that private plane of his and hitting the sky as casually as though he’s driving down the Los Angeles freeway.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Down the hatch.’ Victor fixed his eyes tightly on Nick. ‘I have the oddest feeling you’re about to tell me Lazarus is on the war-path. About the picture. So what? I’m ready for him. And I’ve told you before, I can deal with him. Believe me, I really can.’


  Nick raised his hand. ‘Wait, Vic. Just hear me out, please. You’re right. Lazarus is on a rampage. He’s also heading for London—’

  ‘How come you’re so well informed about Lazarus? And what he’s up to? How do you know so much?’

  Nick said slowly, choosing his words with care, ‘You know, life is full of surprises, and it can be awfully ironic. Do you remember Hélène Vernaud, the Dior model I used to date?’

  ‘Sure. The tall brunette with the stunning figure and the great legs.’

  Nick could not resist laughing. Trust Victor to remember a beautiful girl. ‘Let’s forget about her figure. She happens to be a graduate of the Sorbonne and the London School of Economics, and she is extremely astute. In fact, she’s a hell of a lot smarter than most people I know. Anyway, as you know, we remained friends after we split up, and I called her when I got to Paris three weeks ago. We had lunch, a few laughs remembering old times, and all that jazz. Halfway through lunch she asked me what I was writing. I told her I was doing the screenplay of Wuthering Heights. For you. She immediately became tense and strained, even a little agitated, much to my amazement. She then blurted out that she knew something about the picture because she was involved with its main backer, Mike Lazarus. To tell you the truth, I was floored. But, not to digress. Hélène begged me not to mention our lunch. Apparently Lazarus is very jealous and keeps her on a tight rein.’ Nick stood up. ‘I need another Bloody Mary. Can I fix you a Scotch?’