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.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The key was in the door. Victor knocked and opened it, called, ‘It’s me, Nicky,’ and walked in without waiting to be invited.
Nick was standing in the sitting room with his back to the door, talking on the telephone. ‘All right. Do your best. Thanks. Goodbye.’ He hung up.
‘Did you forget the meeting? Everyone else has arrived and we’ve been waiting for—’ Victor began, and stopped as Nick swung around. Nick’s face was haggard
and, despite his tan, there was a greyish cast to his complexion.
‘What is it, Nicky?’ Victor asked, frowning. He searched his friend’s face. The pain in Nick’s eyes leapt out at him.
Nick shook his head, lifted his hands in a gesture of futility and sat down on the sofa without answering. He looked as if he was about to say something, but then his mouth drooped and he remained silent. He took a cigarette and lit it shakily, and there was an air of bleakness about him.
‘Jesus Christ, Nick, what’s happened?’
After a moment, Nick lifted his head and sighed. Finally, in a constricted voice he said: ‘I was sitting here. Minding my own business. Working on the new novel. Feeling great. Just sitting here. Working. And then… and then the call came through—’ He was not able to continue and his bright blue eyes darkened. He brushed his hand across them and looked away. He took a long breath. ‘It’s Marcia, Vic. She—’ Once more he paused, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.
Victor’s eyes had not left Nick’s face. ‘What about your sister Marcia, Nicky? Is something wrong with her?’
Nick moved his head from side to side as if he was trying to deny an awful fact, one he found unacceptable. There was another silence before he replied, in a shaken voice, ‘She’s dead, Vic. Marcia’s dead.’
‘Oh my God! No!’ Victor stared at Nick stupefied. Speechlessly he sat down heavily in the chair opposite, and a numbing coldness washed over him. Very slowly, he said, ‘I don’t understand… we spoke to her the other day.’ He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘What happened?’ He faltered, was incapable, at this moment, of saying another word.
Nick said dully, ‘A freak accident. Marcia was walking down Park Avenue on Sunday afternoon. Yesterday. Going to my mother’s. A stinking lousy car went out of control. Mounted the sidewalk. It slammed into Marcia at full force. They got her to the hospital at once. She was still alive. But the internal injuries…’ He shook his head. ‘She died at five o’clock this morning.’
Victor’s face reflected his shock. ‘Oh Nick, Nick, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. What a tragic, senseless thing to happen.’
‘Why her, Vic?’ Nicky demanded, anger spilling out of him. ‘In God’s name, why?’ His tone rose. ‘She was only twenty-two. Twenty-two, for Christ’s sake! Her life was just beginning. She was only a baby, and she was so full of life, and good, and loving, and generous in every conceivable way. And she never hurt anybody in her life. It’s not fair, Vic!’
‘I know, Nick, I know.’ Victor’s voice was gentle and understanding. He bent towards Nick. ‘What can I do for you? How can I help you to—’
Nick seemed not to hear these words. He cried ‘God damn it! God damn it to hell!’ Grief and rage took hold of him and he began to pound the back of the sofa with his clenched fist, and his face was ringed with a wrenching hurt.
Watching him, Victor flinched, and he wondered desperately how to assuage Nick’s suffering, but he knew he could do nothing. His heart went out to his friend, and then it clenched with sorrow and he was besieged by a terrible helplessness.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Nick cried. ‘I just can’t. I keep telling myself it’s some awful mistake.’ He leapt to his feet, staring directly at Victor, ‘My baby sister. She’s… she’s gone.’ He half ran across the floor in the direction of the bedroom.
Victor followed him, propelled by a need to help Nick, seeking words of consolation. But words were meaningless, utterly worthless. He shivered involuntarily, remembering. Remembering Ellie.
Nick was in the bathroom, standing with his head pressed against the tiled wall, his shoulders hunched over, his narrow shoulder blades protruding through the thin blue cotton shirt. He looked so vulnerable, young and defenceless, and Victor wanted to take Nick in his arms and comfort him as one would a small child in distress. But he did not move. He knew Nick was struggling to contain his emotions, wishing to be strong, fighting back his tears, believing tears were unmanly. But Victor knew the ability to weep was rooted in immense strength, had nothing to do with weakness at all.
‘Let it out, Nicky,’ he finally said from the doorway. ‘Let it out. Don’t hold the grief back like this. It won’t do you any good. Please, Nicky.’ He walked in and put his hand on Nick’s shoulder.
There was a muffled gasp and Nick leaned closer to the wall, hiding his face, and then unexpectedly he spun around to face Victor, his expression baffled, beseeching. A sob rose up in him and he brought his hands to his face. Victor stepped closer and put his arm around Nick, and again there was nothing he could say except, ‘I’m here, Nicky, I’m here, old buddy.’
After a while, Nick regained some of his self-possession. ‘I’ll be all right, Vic,’ he muttered, forcing the words out. ‘I’ll be all right.’ He moved away from Victor and grabbed a towel, pressing it to his face. His voice was low as he said, ‘Let me be for a while, Vic.’
‘Sure, Nicky.’ Victor went back into the sitting room and flung himself into the nearest chair disconsolately. Automatically he lit a cigarette and sat smoking. He was filled with deep sadness. He understood why Nick found his sister’s death hard to believe. He was having a problem comprehending it fully himself. Death was always unacceptable to those left behind to grieve, but in this instance it was the unexpectedness of it, the senselessness of the accident, which so appalled.
Marcia, that tall, lovely girl, sunny and outgoing in disposition, the replica of Nick, with the same blonde hair and his clear blue, mischievous eyes. To Victor, Marcia had always been a golden girl, bubbling with irrepressible laughter and optimism about life. He had grown extremely attached to Marcia over the years, and they had become great buddies when she had come out to the ranch to spend part of her summer vacations with Nick and him. His sons, Steve and Jamie, had also been smitten with her, following her around like devoted puppy dogs, and she had reciprocated their youthful adoration with a tenderness that had been infinitely touching to him. He had spoken to her only on Saturday. Saturday night for God’s sake, and from this very suite. It did not seem possible that she was lying in some hospital morgue in New York. He closed his aching eyes, recoiling from the horror of it.
Nicoletta, named for Nick, had been one year old on Saturday, and the family had gathered at Marcia’s apartment for the child’s first birthday party. Nick, the baby’s godfather, had telephoned New York, wanting to be part of the celebration even from long distance, anxious to speak to his beloved Marcia, and to make certain the gifts for his little niece had arrived in time. What a happy occasion it had been, and who could have known it presaged such sorrow. Victor thought of the child, motherless now, and of Hunter, Marcia’s young husband, and of Nick and Marcia’s parents. He stubbed out the cigarette and dropped his head in his hands, endeavouring to marshal his troubled thoughts.
Victor jumped up, shaking himself, making a supreme effort to quell the despondency which had descended on him, and with great deliberation he walked around the room, turning on all the lamps. He forced his mind to work on practicalities. Apart from being grief-stricken, Nick was suffering from shock, and it was obvious that someone had to set the wheels in motion to get him back to the States immediately. He would have to do Nick’s thinking for him. Victor ran the priorities through his head: plane reservation. Packing. Gus to take them to the airport. Car at Idlewild when Nick arrived.
Oh God, the production meeting. Victor grimaced. They were all waiting for him back in his suite. He had better speak to Jake at once. He moved forward to the desk, intending to call Jake, when Nick walked into the sitting room.
Nick’s eyes were red-rimmed, but they were dry, and on the surface he appeared to be calmer and in control of himself. ‘Sorry I broke down like that, Victor. I’d been pushing the grief back ever since I heard. You unplugged the dam.’
Victor nodded, understanding. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best, Nicky,’ he said. He went over to the sideboard, poured Scotch into two glasses and carried them over to the coffee table. ‘Come and
sit down, and drink this. Then we’d better get you organized, and quickly. When are you planning to leave for New York? Have you made a plane reservation yet?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Nick replied. ‘I went to all the airlines at lunch time. I’m having trouble getting out of here tonight. I was talking to PAN AM when you arrived. They’re fully booked. So are TWA and BOAC. I’m on standby with those three.’ He picked up the Scotch and drank most of it in one gulp.
Victor said, ‘I’d better get Jerry to handle the reservation, and I’ll tell Jake to go ahead with the meeting.’
‘Oh hell, Vic, the meeting went right out of my mind. I’m sorry—’
‘Forget it,’ Victor interrupted. He reached for the ’phone and asked for his suite. Jake answered. Victor said, ‘You’ll have to have the production meeting without me, Jake. Nick’s had very tragic news. His sister has been killed in a car accident. I’m going to stay with him until he leaves.’ There was a silence as Victor listened, and then he murmured, ‘Yes, yes, Jake. Thank you. I’ll tell him. Now, let me speak to Jerry a minute, please.
‘Hello, Jerry,’ Victor said. ‘Jake told you about Nick’s sister? Yes, thank you. Look, Nick’s having problems getting a plane to New York tonight. He’s on standby with PAN AM, TWA and BOAC. Can you pull any strings? Rustle up a seat?’ Victor waited, nodding to himself. ‘Great. Great. Get to it right away. Call me back as soon as you know something. Oh and Jerry, Gus will be checking in imminently. Tell him to come over to the hotel and wait. I’ll want him to take us to the airport later, but he’d better be on hand in case there are any errands to do.’ He hung up, his hand resting on the receiver.
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