Fantasy Woman

by Annabel Murray

  FANTASY WOMAN

  Annabel Murray

  Gina wanted to star in his life

  Gina Darcy was Fantasy Woman, the masked star of England's most popular TV show that made wishes come true. Although she loved her work, Gina longed to act without the mask. Then Tod Fallon appeared to fulfill her wish.

  The wealthy director always got what he wanted and he wanted Gina in his film, even if it meant letting her fall in love with him.

  Gina's contract bound her to Tod for three years. But the commitment she really wanted lasted a lifetime.

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Come on! Come on! Damn you!'

  It was an old saw that a watched kettle never boiled and it certainly seemed that the more constantly you looked at a clock, the slower its hands moved. Irritatingly, the clock in Tod Fallon's hotel suite was no exception.

  He could have gone for a walk to pass away the time, but London was in one of its wet, cold, grey moods. So instead, for the last hour, he had been pacing up and down from bedroom to sitting-room, with a monotonous, regular tread that might have inflicted serious damage on a less expensive carpet. His rawly masculine features wore an expression of intense irritation at the tedious waiting; irritation also with himself, at his nervous, anticipatory mood, the necessity for expending his valuable time. Marcha would be furious if she knew what he was up to, but though, for the past six months, it had been his habit to indulge Marcha in every way, this time she must bend to his will.

  He was unaccustomed to waiting; efficient aides, secretaries and household staff saw to that. But not even a man of his wealth, power and influence could hasten time, even though, to him, time was money and time was something that was running short, thanks to Marcha's procrastination.

  During his pacing he had thrown off the jacket of his impeccably tailored grey suit, wrenched loose the knot of his tie and discarded it, too, the violence of the act also serving to undo the top buttons of his blue silk shirt, revealing that the smooth bronze of his facial skin extended down the hard, firmly corded throat to his chest. His thick, dark, vibrant hair, liberally sprinkled with grey, had been disarrayed by the impatient, forceful thrusting of strong hands.

  Tall and broad, physically dominating his surroundings, the energy and ill-suppressed eagerness exuding from him made even the generous proportions of his suite seem small and confining.

  He picked up, for perhaps the twentieth time, the printed programme provided by the management; for all the suites in this luxury building boasted a television set. Though he could have recited its contents by heart, he re-read the blurb outlining the show he intended to watch. 'An extravaganza, produced in association with TLM Enterprises.' He studied intently the adjacent photograph of the presenter, a poor reproduction which did little to answer the numerous questions that exercised his mind. It was hard to believe she would be suitable, yet he had his secretary's firm assurance. Strange, though, that Marcha should be so against the idea.

  An exasperated glance showed him that the hands of the clock had still barely moved and he threw aside the magazine, reaching for the television's remote control switch. Even the advertisements would be preferable to riding out this uncharacteristic tension.

  Tod Fallon was accustomed to getting what he wanted. It was disconcerting to realise that this time he could not be one hundred per cent certain of attaining his objective. As the last of the adverts faded away and the music, the opening credits, of the next programme began, Tod found himself leaning forward, poised on the edge of his seat, and with an exclamation of annoyance he forced himself to relax. Damn it! He shouldn't have any doubts. If his own findings confirmed what his secretary had told him, his eventual object would be achieved. After all, he was in a position to pull several influential strings.

  Only a fool would turn down the proposal he intended to make.

  An anonymous voice, overlaid with dramatic emphasis made the announcement,

  'Every week, millions of viewers tune in to this station to see her, the lady to whom no request is an impossibility. Ladies and gentlemen, viewers everywhere, your presenter, Fantasy Woman!'

  To studio applause, she appeared, walking down, around the turn of a spiralling staircase, and this time Tod was unaware of his own forward inclination as his intelligent dark eyes scanned and assessed the star of the show. What age would she be? About twenty-five? Was that too old for what he had in mind? Television could be deceptive, but he guessed she was the right height, around five-seven, five-eight, long-legged, and frankly curvaceous, with firm, splendid breasts emphasised by the cut and drape of the sparkling evening gown she wore. Thick, almost straight hair, the colour of a red setter's coat, framed all that he could see of her face. If only the damned woman didn't have to wear that half mask. But his secretary had warned him about that ridiculous gimmick.

  So far, she was just what he'd been led to expect. Her figure would have done justice to a Miss World candidate. Despite the mask, he could discern that her face was square, with a chin as uncompromisingly determined as his own—a little too strong perhaps for someone whom he intended to manipulate—and that below the lower edge of the black square her mouth was wide and generously proportioned.

  The programme planners had certainly spared no expense, either on the lavish set or on her glamorous outfit; and the same applied to the stunts, the fulfilment of wishes. A young girl wanted to meet a favourite pop star. Others were more bizarre, such as the ninety-year-old woman who had always wanted to ride a camel. There were the wildly extravagant, the comic; some were even looking for the excitement of danger. As he watched, Tod's eyebrows, a thick dark line, came down heavily above brooding eyes and he nodded decisively. This woman he had to meet, and if she was any good ...

  Gina Darcy lowered her long, graceful length into the only comfortable chair in her dressing-room and peeled off the black mask which, with her make-up and the perspiration caused by strong studio lights, had adhered unpleasantly to her face. She was always glad to be rid of the wretched thing, wished she need not wear it, but her sponsors were adamant. It was part of her image, of the anonymity behind which she hid, the apparently all-powerful Fantasy Woman.

  That was a joke! If only people knew it. Not that she didn't enjoy her role, but sometimes she wished it had greater depth of involvement; wished that the fame, the nationwide acclaim, could be for Gina Darcy and not for her alter ego; two minor adjustments to her role which the sponsors had always refused to consider.

  There was one advantage:* no one from her old life was likely to recognise her. The most likely people to guess her identity from her voice and general appearance, her parents, were living abroad. Even Keith was unlikely to see, in her glamorous new identity, the old Gina. In one sense that was a source of dissatisfaction. She would like Keith to see her, to realise that she had made a success of her life, despite and without him. But her real name was never printed in the programme and thus far, following instructions, she had managed to evade and baffle the press. Still, she thought, stretching her body in a movement as languorous and graceful as a cat's, apart from the frustrated ambition to be famous in her own right, as Marcha had become, she had a lot to be thankful for: her career in television and, discreetly in the background, a thriving business of her own, to which she could return if this life ever palled.

  Not that she thought it would. She was busy, fulfilled, mistress of her own destiny, with no one other than her producer to interfere or to criticise her, no man to make demands of her; and if that was selfish, well, Gina considered she had earned her right to be so. She'd been self-sacrificing once and all that had brought was unhappiness and disillusionment.

  A knock on her dressing-room door, the insertion of a glaringly ginger head and a pleasant, freckled face
, heralded the arrival of Jimmy Riley, originator and executive producer of Fantasy Woman. Only he and the programme's sponsors were aware of Gina's true identity; there was Marcha, of course, but she'd been sworn to secrecy.

  'Superb performance as ever, darling!' His voice was affectionate, his lean face full of enthusiasm. Precariously, he perched his long, wiry frame on a stool, too alight with nervous energy and excitement to take up any more permanent position.

  'Yes, thank goodness!' The words, spoken in a warm, husky voice, were heartfelt. 'I'd much prefer it if the programme was all prerecorded items. When we go out live, you can never be sure something won't go wrong.'

  'Hmm!' Jimmy did not sound convinced. 'On the other hand, our viewers like the live shows, the element of chance. Keeps them on the edge of their seats. Which reminds me .. .' He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. 'Thought you might like to see next week's schedule.'

  As Gina perused the list, Jimmy watched her intently, studying her reactions. Her square, vivid face was so tellingly expressive, he thought, as always feeling himself deeply stirred by her attraction. Beautiful woman! Pity they had to disguise half the potential of those lovely features.

  Gina had a large following. Fan mail arrived for her daily by the sackful, and the programme was inundated with requests from people wanting to be on her show. Not surprisingly, there was a high ratio of requests from curious men, but they were flogging a dead horse. Stage door Johnnies weren't encouraged, and, under the terms of Gina's contract, personal involvement with any of her guests was strictly forbidden. Not that there was any danger of Gina flouting the rule. As far as Jimmy could see, Gina didn't go in for personal relationships of any kind. He had never heard her mention her family or any women friends, and her reactions to men were all too clear.

  He had particular reason to know that much. Strongly attracted to Gina, he had once tried to push their relationship beyond the bounds of producer and presenter, but only once. Gina had been perfectly polite but, nevertheless, she had made it quite clear that she was not interested. It was nothing personal, she'd explained, her tone coolly remote, simply that she had no intention of becoming involved with any man. She had her future mapped out. First and last, she intended to remain a career woman.

  So chilly had been the barriers she erected that Jimmy had not even dared to ask why, for he guessed there must be some other reason besides ambition. He didn't believe for one moment that she was frigid. It was his theory that, at some time in the past, Gina had been badly hurt by a man and that she didn't intend to risk a similar occurrence.

  But what a waste! She was a woman formed for love, and he wasn't just thinking of the physical side. She was a thoroughly nice person, caring and compassionate. She really enjoyed making people happy, especially kids. She would have made a wonderful mother.

  Her smooth brow had furrowed into creases and he could guess why. He'd known she wasn't going to like one of the items on that list, but there was nothing he could do. The sponsors' word was law.

  'This motor-cycle scramble, the fifteen-year-old girl who wants to compete against the boys…'

  'I know what you're going to say, Gina, but it's no use. It's in. The girl's been contacted, so have the organisers of the rally. All you have to do is to be there, introduce the item, congratulate her or console her afterwards as the case may be and hand over the "Fantasy" memento.'

  'It could be dangerous for the kid,' Gina began.

  Jimmy sighed. With variations of theme, they had this same argument almost weekly.

  'Nowhere near as risky as some of the stunts we used to pull. We do weed out the really dangerous ones nowadays. At the worst, the kid'll get a few bumps and bruises and a sore behind. The sponsors ...'

  'To hell with the sponsors!' she interrupted impatiently. 'They think they're little tin gods, but they're just damned irresponsible. It won't be one of them that gets the blame, or the pain, if there's an accident. If that kid gets injured, perhaps for life, it will be the programme that gets the bad publicity and I'll carry the can, too. I've never forgotten ...' She shuddered, not finishing her sentence.

  'Yes, well,' Jimmy put in hastily, 'the incident you're thinking of had its effect even on the sponsors. They won't permit anything like that again and'—as she looked to be on the point of arguing further—'you know it's no good your standing out against them. They reserve the power to hire and fire. What's the point in risking losing your job? You still enjoy it, don't you?' And he didn't want to lose her, he thought painfully.

  'You know I still enjoy it and I don't want to lose it; and I know I'm not irreplaceable. That damned mask sees to that. I'm not the first to wear it and I know, if I were to quit or get fired, I wouldn't be the last. The name Fantasy Woman will fit anyone with a reasonable figure and red hair. But Jimmy, if only they'd let me try out some of the stunts, test them before these kids risk their necks. And I'm getting tired of being an anonymous figure. One of these days, I want to be a show-business personality in my own right, as me, Gina Darcy. I want to show the public that I'm more than just a body, a figure-head.'

  Jimmy shrugged. He wasn't complaining about the figure she presented, but, if she only knew it, with her looks and bubbling personality she had the potential to go a long way. She had more than looks, a kind of sparkle; but to himself he could admit that, in part, he was responsible for holding her back, that her anonymity suited him. He had a selfish desire to keep Gina to himself. He hadn't given up hope that some day he'd persuade her to ... Aloud, he said, not unaware of hypocrisy,

  'As a friend, as well as your producer, I'd advise against any change at present' not while you're still so popular in this role, while the show's still going down well. Some day, maybe, hmm?'

  'You mean when I start getting old and wrinkled? When they decide to replace me with someone younger? Then you'll have me playing old-lady character parts? No thanks! Rather than wait for that to happen, I'll go back and carry on running my business.'

  'I meant,' he interrupted hastily, 'when you're established enough for the public to want to see you in other roles.'

  'How are they supposed to express their wishes,' she demanded sarcastically, 'when they don't even know what I look like? I could be as ugly as sin.'

  'There's no guarantee that you'd be a success in other fields.'

  'And there's always the fact that this show is your baby,' Gina retorted. Then, penitently, 'Sorry, Jimmy, that was uncalled for. I know your advice is well-meant, but sometimes I get so frustrated. I know I have it in me to do better things.'

  'And you know, too,' he added drily, 'that if I had my way, you'd never work at all. I can well afford to support a wife and .. .'

  'Jimmy, please!' she said hurriedly. Not that well-worn track again. She'd heard those words so often before, interminably. 'Don't start. Don't ruin our friendship. Nowadays you're the only man I've any respect for.'

  His pleasure mingling with guilt, he shrugged himself off the stool.

  'I suppose that's something,' he conceded wryly. Then, consulting his watch, 'Well, the fans should have given up by now. Time to go home.'

  Gina always waited for an hour after the studio audience had left. Only once had she tried to leave immediately and she had run the gamut of a curious, sensation-seeking crowd. One man had even tried to snatch off her mask. These days she left the TV centre dressed shabbily, a scarf tightly obscuring the giveaway cascade of red hair, Jimmy driving her back to her flat in a deliberately unostentatious car. Now, the only other time she wore the mask was on location, when she was surrounded by the protective posse of cameramen and the production team.

  'Any chance of a coffee?' Jimmy enquired, as they pulled up outside the block of flats near Regents Park which housed her bachelor apartment.

  Amused, for it was a regular request which he already knew would not be granted, she shook her head.

  'Fantasy Woman,' he quoted grumblingly, 'never says no! Never says impossible. Except to poor old Jimmy Rile
y.'

  Laughter faded from her lovely face as she slid from the passenger seat.

  'Now you know that's not true, Jimmy, not in my private life. No one has seen the inside of my little flat except my cleaning lady, and to her, I'm just "Miss Darcy" who's "something in the City"!'

  'You can't blame a chap for trying!' Jimmy said glumly and her amusement returned.

  'And you can't blame a girl for being consistent! 'Night, Jimmy!'

  *

  'Little flat' was a purposely inadequate description of her four-room apartment. Like her past and her private life, she chose to keep her surroundings strictly to herself, a place where she could be herself, with no one else making their mark upon it, leaving memories to destroy the peaceful atmosphere she had created and which closed about her in a reassuring cocoon every time she came home.

  With a sigh of relief she closed the apartment door behind her, shutting out the world, shutting out fantasy. What, she wondered, would her fans think if they ever discovered how different was the woman from the public image? She suspected that most of the people she interviewed found her daunting, thought of her as the kind of woman who would always have everything under control. Because, in her name, their fantasies were fulfilled, they probably believed her infallible where her own life was concerned. They were wrong; at least, they were wrong about the past.

  But that mistake was behind her, never to be repeated. For the future all her energies and emotions would be wrapped up in her career. Only once had she let her heart rule her head, dropping ambition for what she had mistakenly expected to be personal happiness.

  There would be no more Keiths to dispute her right to her individuality and independence and then, finally, worst blow of all, to destroy her confidence in herself as a woman.

  She wandered into the modern, functional kitchen, walls, units and ceiling in stainless steel, and collected the items she needed to make herself a snack. Did her former husband ever think of her these days? Did he ever speak of her to Frances, making comparisons that would not be in Gina's favour? She'd met Frances just once; an insignificant little woman, the type who would fulfil Keith's notion of a 'proper wife': placid, domesticated and, perhaps even more important in view of his nature, unlikely to attract admiring notice from other men.