Natalie agreed, a worried expression crossing her face. She was growing increasingly alarmed at the way Kirk was handling the finances. He was doing exactly what the studio feared, ignoring budget limitations, doing things his own way and hang the cost.
“Have you tried talking him into holding down the expenses?” Ginger asked.
Natalie laughed shortly. “Nobody can tell Kirk anything about how to shoot a film, Ginger. You know that.”
“What if the studio gets cold feet and pulls the rug out from under us? It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to a producer, you know.”
“I know. But at this point we can just hold our breath and hope they’ll decide that since they’ve invested this much, they might as well spend a little more.”
They were busy the rest of the morning with packing.
Early that afternoon, they walked to the clearing where the helicopter was waiting to fly them back to civilization. Kirk was there, overseeing the loading of cans filled with exposed film.
He greeted Ginny and Natalie. “I guess I won’t be seeing you two ladies for a few weeks.”
“Right,” Ginger said. “Natalie is going to Los Angeles with me to see how the sets on the sound stages are coming along.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Let me know how things look there.”
His hazel eyes turned toward Natalie. She felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as her pulse quickened. Would she ever be strong enough to ignore the effect his intense gaze could have on her?
“I’m going to need both of you in Tunisia in a few weeks,” he reminded them.
“Yes,” Ginger said. “The sets you’re planning to construct in the desert.”
“Correct. We’ll need some more of your expertise for that. Right now, though, we’ll be doing some scenes in Tunis, where the Russian agent, Nichole Nikova, enters the story and contacts Clay Winters. That will take up all our time for a while and will give you a breathing spell.”
Natalie tried to be cool and distant as she nodded briefly and walked past him. But inwardly her emotions were a battleground.
Kirk touched her arm as she moved by him. The contact was electrifying. Her knees suddenly became watery.
He captured her arm and turned her deliberately around to face him. Her eyes were wide, the pupils expanding over the irises.
His gaze was filled with a strange, burning intensity that sapped the strength from her body and made her legs tremble. Why was he looking at her in this way, she asked herself out of the whirlwind of emotions that his look had created. What did it mean? Was he thinking about that night on the yacht?
“See you in Tunisia,” he murmured.
Suddenly, without warning, he bent and his lips brushed hers.
She pulled away from him, totally disoriented. She fled to the helicopter. Her lips burned from the kiss. She was breathing hard, furious at her traitorous emotions. What good did it do to swear to herself she would keep her emotional distance from Kirk until this film was completed when she reacted like this?
When the whirling blades lifted them skyward, she looked down. Kirk was standing there, legs apart, hands on hips, gazing up at them. His words echoed in her mind. “See you in Tunisia....”
They were halfway back to Rio before the trembling inside her subsided.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You can boil down the whole business of special effects into three categories. First, you don’t have to run film through the camera continuously. You can photograph each frame separately, then project it at a normal speed. Second, you can ‘fake’ reality with various kinds of artwork and models that look like the real thing on the screen. And third, you can combine one or more images onto one strip of film. You can bet the effects you’ve seen from a Walt Disney cartoon to Star Wars use one or all of those techniques.”
Ginny Wells was discussing her craft as she and Natalie escorted Marie Taylor, a magazine writer, through the sound stages where her crews were hard at work on the sets for the outer space scenes to be used in The Last Encounter.
Two weeks had passed since Natalie and Ginny returned to Los Angeles. It had given Natalie an emotional breathing spell. She had slept late, had gone on shopping trips with Ginny, read and watched TV and tried to forget about what lay ahead of her in Tunisia.
Yesterday, the studio publicity department had called to let her know that a well-known national magazine, Persons and Events, was sending a staff writer around to do an article on The Last Encounter production. Natalie knew it was the job of the unit publicist to attract media coverage to a promising release while it was being shot. This usually took the form of on-the-set interviews with directors, writers and stars. Newspaper, TV and magazine journalists were encouraged to make the movie known as early as possible. This publicity was aimed both at the public and at the theater owners who keep close tabs on advance coverage. If the advance media coverage made the film look good to the theater owners it would be easier for the distributor to sell it once it was released.
The writer, Marie Taylor, a bright young woman in her late twenties, was fascinated with the making of movie magic through special effects. Artists, technicians and workmen were busy on projects ranging from interiors of the gigantic space station to miniature models of space shuttles.
“I’ve been a movie fan all my life,” she told Natalie and Ginny. “I’ve just been amazed at the marvelous things you people get on the screen—the animation, the weird creatures, the scenes in outer space. I was really delighted when I got this assignment so I could see firsthand what goes on behind the scenes.”
They stopped at the coffee shop. As they sipped drinks, Ginny continued detailing how effects were achieved, explaining all the different techniques.
All too soon, Marie turned to Natalie. “I’d like to have your feeling about this production, Miss Brooks. How does it feel to be working with your husband?”
The question took Natalie by surprise. She thought, with a bit of irritation, it might be a deliberate trick of a skilled interviewer to catch the subject off guard. She paused to regain her composure and tried to keep her voice level. “I’m afraid I don’t exactly understand your question, Miss Taylor.”
“Forgive me if I’m getting onto personal ground, but it’s common knowledge that you and Kirk Trammer have been estranged for the past two years. Now he’s your director. Does that present a problem?”
Natalie frowned. “The production has nothing to do with our personal lives. Kirk is a brilliant director. I respect him professionally as he respects me professionally.”
“He has a reputation for being difficult, if not impossible, on the set,” Ms. Taylor suggested.
“That’s one of those things that’s blown out of proportion. Kirk is demanding because he is striving for perfection. He won’t hesitate to shoot a scene over a dozen or more times until he gets what he wants.”
“Is that why he’s known as an expensive producer?”
“Maybe,” Natalie said testily. The interview was beginning to stretch her nerves.
“This is apparently going to be a very costly movie. You’re filming a lot of scenes on location. You’ve just come back from Brazil. Where will you be going next?”
“We’re flying to Tunisia next week. Ginny will be going there, too. Kirk plans to use the arid, desert setting. He’s got a crew out there now, building a mock-up Middle-Eastern village that will play an important part in the story. There’s a lot of cliff-hanger action in the movie, chase scenes, shoot-outs, along with a great love story and the international intrigue.”
“Would you describe The Last Encounter as an action-adventure story, in the James Bond tradition?”
“It’s a kind of mixture of romance, science fiction, and intrigue. There is a lot of action and a strong romantic involvement. But it’s going to have more substance than just that. Kirk is going to give it an underlying philosophical-political message.”
“Which is?”
“That where id
eals, politics and philosophy have all failed to eliminate the plague of war, science will eventually provide the key. But there is still the underlying battle between good and evil in human nature that can threaten the peace science has achieved.”
The journalist made one of her disconcerting, abrupt subject changes.
“How do you like having Tom Sacks as your screen lover?”
“I enjoy working with Mr. Sacks, if that’s what you mean. This part is going to give him a chance to show what a fine actor he really is.”
“Yes, but on a personal level. Tom Sacks is probably the most gorgeous hunk on the screen today. Any chance of a real romance developing between the two of you?”
Natalie felt her cheeks color. She thought about that morning on the beach in Rio. Tom was definitely interested in her. But she doubted if she could have any clear feelings on the matter until she knew she was no longer Kirk’s wife.
She ducked the writer’s question by replying, “There are no men in my life right now. I’m too busy with my role in the film, which is very demanding.”
Ms. Taylor tried to pursue the matter of Tom Sacks, but Natalie refused to say any more. The interview was upsetting. As a matter of public relations, she had to be pleasant to the magazine writer, but she was relieved when it was over.
* * * * * * *
At the end of the week, Natalie left for Tunisia alone. Ginny had run into problems with the sets and had to remain in Los Angeles a few more days.
In the airport, Natalie checked her baggage. Then she stopped at a magazine stand.
Suddenly a picture on the cover of a tabloid leaped out at her. It was one of the sensational weekly publications that specialized in Hollywood gossip. The picture that had riveted her attention was of Kirk and Marsha Sanders in a night club.
The headline read, “Marsha Sanders Once Again Romancing Her Director.”
Natalie reached for the publication with trembling fingers, her stomach suddenly in a painful knot. Through angry tears, she read the story written in lurid tabloid style. “They’re at it again. When Marsha Sanders starred in The Two of Us, she and director, Kirk Trammer, turned the behind-the-scenes action into their own romantic twosome. Now she’s again one of the stars in Trammer’s big blockbuster, The Last Encounter, currently being filmed on location in Tunisia, and she and the controversial director are writing their own version of the love story. They have been making the rounds of colorful Tunis. Our photographer caught them holding hands in one of the romantic nightclubs. We’re definitely in love, Marsha confided to our reporter. I’ve never been happier in my life. Meanwhile, Kirk’s wife, Natalie Brooks, the real star of the film, seems to be out of the picture as far as Trammer’s personal life is concerned.”
Cold fury whipped through Natalie. She looked down at her left hand. In spite of the impending divorce, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to take off her wedding ring. It was the symbol of too many sentimental memories.
Now, she jerked it from her finger as if it were burning her skin. “Well, this does it! So much for you, Kirk Trammer. You’re out of my life forever. Good riddance!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tunisia....
Natalie sat in the improvised projection room in the building rented by the production company in Tunis. The room was small and stifling. But she was unaware of her discomfort. Her entire attention was captured by the images flashed on the screen. These were the rushes of scenes that had been filmed in the narrow, exotic streets of Tunis during her absence. Marsha Sanders was in every scene. Her haunting, dark beauty dominated the screen. She was a gorgeous young woman who photographed exquisitely, Natalie admitted with a deep, wrenching pain. It was easy to see why she and Kirk had become lovers.
The screen glared white as the last frame was flipped through the projector. Kirk, who had been sitting beside her, rose and switched on the lights.
“Well, what do you think of them?” he asked.
“They look good,” Natalie said stiffly.
Marsha, playing the lovely Russian agent, Nichole Nikova, had entered the story at this point and had become involved with the American hero, Clay Winters, creating the love triangle with Natalie’s Rebecca Abrahms. In the movie, just like in real life, she’s trying to take my man away, Natalie thought wryly.
She gazed at Kirk, feeling a mixture of anger and pain. The last thing she had expected was for Kirk to meet her plane when she landed at Tunis. “Why are you here?” she’d demanded at the airport.
He’d shrugged. “Somebody had to meet you. You’d be lost in this city. Everyone else in the production company has moved out to the desert location. I just came into the city to look over some rushes. I’ll take you to your hotel, but first I want to stop off and see what those scenes we filmed last week look like.”
The lurid tabloid story about Kirk and Marsha was smoldering in her handbag. But as angry as she was, she couldn’t stifle the physical awareness of his presence. The taxi had seemed filled with the heat from his body. No matter how much she seethed with anger at his betrayal, the hunger for him remained.
Now after viewing the rushes with him, she couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice as she said, “Marsha looks beautiful. You know just what camera angle to use with her.”
Kirk nodded absently. “She’s fine in that part. I knew she would be.” Then he said, “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”
She wanted to cut him short, to plead a headache and go straight to her hotel room. But the traitorous emotions that clamored to be near him were too strong. It made her wonder at her own sanity. How could she experience the way he’d hurt her and still have these mixed emotions—the ambivalence that made her hate him and desire him at the same time? Was love that closely related to hate?
She had to dismiss the impulse to touch his hand, to reach up and brush her fingers through his thick hair. She struggled to keep fantasies of them in bed together from surging through her mind, making her heart pound and her breasts ache.
Would she ever get over this irresistible physical attraction for him that enslaved her in such a devastating manner?
Yearning for him was a dead-end street. It lead to nowhere but a futile wall of heartache. He didn’t love her; he had never loved her. It was impossible to build a marriage on those sad terms.
She cursed herself for her weakness even as she gathered up her purse and let him escort her out of the building to a taxi.
The general architecture of Tunis gave the city the appearance of being low and white. Most of the buildings in the modern section were not over six or seven stories tall. As they drove along the Avenue Habib Bourguiba, they passed the municipal theater, banks and main hotels. They made a stop at one of the hotels where Kirk registered for her and had her bags sent to her room. Then, following Kirk’s order, the driver of their cab picked his way through the heavy traffic of the broad main streets and turned into the narrow, winding alleyways of the old city, al-Madinah. Natalie felt as if they had left the twentieth century behind. In this Muslim section were clustered the bazaars, the individual markets called “sugs,” dating back to the Hafsid dynasty of the middle ages. On display were handcrafted carpets, pottery, leather and intricately carved silver and gold jewelry. Shopkeepers hawked their wares in singsong Arabic voices.
Here in this medieval city, the narrow streets wound among one-story, ancient, windowless houses that resembled white cubes. Time seemed suspended here, as if it were still eight centuries before Christ, when Phoenician merchants founded the city of Carthage here on the Mediterranean coast.
The weight of centuries rested on this most ancient of cities. In the dust of ages, Natalie felt the presence of lingering ghosts, the Vandals, Arabs and Turks—all conquerors of Carthage. The sandaled footsteps of Roman centurions seemed to echo down the corridors of the alleys. Twice Carthage had been sacked and burned. Twice it had risen from the ashes.
“I found this little café run by a French couple,” Kirk said. “W
e’ve become good friends. They have a piano and I’d come down here and have a bottle of wine and play at night when we finished filming for the day.”
That was Kirk’s style. Natalie knew him so well. Wherever he went, he managed to find some little family-owned café that became his temporary home.
“Arabic is the official language of Tunisia,” Kirk went on, “but a lot of French is spoken. It was a French protectorate from 1881 until 1956. French is still very prominent in the press, in education and in the government. You should have no trouble with the language.”
When they stepped out of the cab, Natalie drew her coat collar closer. There was a faint, cold mist in the air. This time of the year, the Mediterranean climate was cool and damp along the northern coast.
They entered a narrow doorway, stepped down a short flight of stairs and entered a small room containing no more than a half dozen tables covered with red checkered cloths. The lighting was soft. Only two other couples were eating dinner.
A short, bald man greeted Kirk profusely in English with a thick Gallic accent and gave him an impulsive embrace.
Kirk patted his shoulder, winking at Natalie. “It took a while but I’ve managed to talk him out of kissing me on the cheek.” Then to the café owner, “Monsieur Petreaux, this is my wife, Natalie Brooks.”
The roly-poly café owner beamed, clasping his hands in ecstasy. “Ah, Natalie Brooks, ze mos’ famous, beautiful American movie star. I ’ave seen all your pictures. You ’ave done me ze great honor to come to my humble café!” Then he called to the kitchen. “Mama! Come quick!” And there followed a barrage of excited French.
Remembering her finishing school French, Natalie picked out enough words to know that she had become the center of attention in the small café. She was thankful that more customers were not present. She was embraced by Madame Petreaux, who was as plump and jolly as her husband. The two couples who were dining in the small café left their tables to gaze at her in awe and requested that she autograph their menus. One of them had a camera. Natalie had to oblige everyone by being photographed with each person present as they took turns operating the camera.
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