Diary of a Painted Lady

by Maggi Andersen

  Dylan walked into the room. She met his gaze in the mirror, the brilliant blue of his irises had caused women the world over to fall in love with him.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat before rehearsal.” His voice had an attractive, Irish lilt. “I did hope to, but the flight was delayed.”

  With a smile, Astrid swung round to face him. “Only two takes. I thought it helped in the end, kept it fresh. Did you feel it went well?”

  “Good for me. The more takes I do, the worse I get.” He grinned. “Frank Sinatra refused to do more than one take. I think he had something there.”

  She expected him to be arrogant, not unassuming, or was this part of his charm offensive? If so it was disarming. Aware her face shone with cold cream she turned back to the mirror. Grabbing a tissue, she quickly wiped it off.

  “You look great without makeup.”

  “Oh please!”

  “No. You do, honestly. Like a kid.”

  “I’m supposed to like that?” She pulled the Alice band from her long hair. “French women are not afraid to grow old.”

  He laughed. “You hardly need to worry about that. Are you here in England on your own?”

  She dropped the tissue into the waste basket. Her hairdresser had been right. She would have to be careful. She cast him a challenging look. “I am. Why?”

  Dylan leaned against the wall, his arms folded. A smile pulled at the corners of his well-shaped mouth. “I read somewhere that you and Philippe had broken up. I was going to offer my condolences.”

  “That article in The Truth? Pure fabrication. Philippe considered suing them, but his lawyers said it was better to ignore it.” She picked up her hairbrush. “We are still together, and very happy, thank you.”

  “Then I pity all the young men who read the article and hoped,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

  Did he disapprove of Philippe? Some men did resent older men dating young women, she knew. “You are an actor who likes to mix work with pleasure, yes?” she said mildly. The inference that he slept with all his leading ladies hung in the air.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m subjected to the same lies written about me in tabloids as you are.”

  The door closed behind him. She’d been rude, and she wasn’t sure why. She usually made an effort to get on with co-stars. It could get quite difficult if you didn’t. She turned back to the mirror. After all, he’d only been flattering her, and that might have been his way of breaking the ice.

  And why had she lied about Philippe? Was it because she wasn’t ready to let him go? Or did she find Dylan Shaw a little too appealing? Frowning, she briskly brushed her hair. She must concentrate on this performance.

  ***

  Astrid watched from the front window as the narrow street filled with cars. Most of the cast had arrived together. Sunday lunch covered the long trestle table under the chestnut tree in the back garden. Through a band of trees, the sun glinted off the waters of the Thames.

  Antony Sandeo, the actor playing Milo Russo, came through the gate first, in an extremely loud patterned shirt, struggling with a clinking box of wine. Behind him, the dour Scot, Alistair McNaught strode empty handed.

  Astrid didn’t like him much. She considered him perfectly cast as the villain in the film.

  She opened the door as her guests straggled up through the front garden with offerings of food and drink, avoiding the bank of yellow roses spilling over the path. “Bonjour,” she called, noting Dylan wasn’t among them.

  One of the hired waiters appeared and took the food and wine to the kitchen. The stunning middle-aged actress, Maureen O’Shaunessy, called a breezy hello and slipped off the mink jacket she wore over a black top and pants. A young waitress took the fur and stroked the sleeve before adding it to the pile of coats to take upstairs to the bedroom.

  In the garden, the cast members gathered around the table on wicker chairs padded with colorful, floral cushions. A squirrel roamed a branch above them, waiting for crumbs from the lavish spread. Caviar, oysters, quiche, cold chicken, salads and crusty bread rolls. The wine flowed; everyone laughed and cracked jokes, with the knowledge that they could sleep in tomorrow. While adjustments to the script were rushed through, the studio had cancelled filming until the afternoon. The delay added to the billowing costs and made the producer cranky.

  As Astrid sipped her wine, Jenny Lane, the young dancer who played Mabel Collins, slipped into the seat beside her. “Where’s the gorgeous hero of our movie?”

  Astrid shrugged. “He has a family, a bébé perhaps?”

  “No. I heard Dylan just broke up with someone.” Jenny raked her short, blonde hair and shivered enthusiastically. “He can leave his slippers under my bed any night. I’ll bet he doesn’t wear any, though,” she said, arching her finely plucked brows, “or pajamas.”

  A tall man in jeans and a leather jacket came out of the back door. “Here he is now.”

  “Great.” Jenny could make a single word suggestive, Astrid thought with a smile as stood to greet him.

  Dylan peeled off his jacket. His black t-shirt with a camouflage print, molded itself to his muscled chest. He tied the sleeves of a stone-colored cashmere sweater around his neck as he crossed the lawn. “I’m sorry I’m late.

  Bike trouble.”

  “You ride a bicycle?”

  He laughed that sexy, slightly teasing laugh. “Motorbike.”

  When she visualized him straddling a bike a shiver climbed her spine. She grew annoyed with herself, she refused to react like a million other women. Good-looking men were spoiled. They couldn’t be trusted. She would not behave like Jenny. “A magnum of champagne? Isn’t that a little precipitous? I’d wait until the movie is wrapped. What if it isn’t a success?”

  Dylan grinned. “Perish the thought. One never needs a reason for champagne.” He placed it on the table. “Let’s drink it now. It’s chilled.”

  “Bring some flutes will you, Colin?” Astrid called to the waiter, “and another ice bucket.”

  Dylan stood looking up at the old cottage. “Cute. One might say picturesque. But you’re alone here?”

  “I’m used to spending time alone. Acting is a lonely profession, don’t you think?”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “I mean,” she continued, deliberately ignoring his suggestive tone, “We are often away from home working with people we haven’t met before. Our movies play to a darkened theatre where lonely people project our lives onto them. They don’t know who we really are.”

  “In some cases that’s just as well,” he said grinning.

  “What part of Ireland are you from?”

  “The sunny south-east.”

  “The sunny south east?” Jenny echoed leaning her elbows on the table. “I didn’t know Ireland had a sunny part.”

  “How well do you know Ireland?” Dylan asked.

  “I’ve never been,” she said, holding her glass up for Antony to fill. Her glance invited a response from Dylan. “I’d like to, if I had someone to show me about.”

  “I’m sure you won’t find that a problem,” Dylan said, deflecting her rather neatly Astrid thought.

  “Are you going to drink all that champagne, yourself?” Antony walked over and slapped Dylan on the back.

  “I thought you’d be a red drinker, Antony.” Dylan winked at Astrid and picked up the bottle.

  Antony held out a glass. “You’re right, but I can always drink champers.”

  Dylan went around the table, filling flutes and greeting each person warmly, as if he’d been friends with them forever. Astrid couldn’t help admiring his ability to make everyone feel special. The natural charm of the Irish she supposed.

  Astrid wasn’t particularly fond of champagne. She sipped the excellent red Antony had brought. The sun warmed her back and the wine relaxed her. Only half listening to the conversations, she watched Dylan talking to Maureen. Astrid had viewed the rushes. They’d been great together in that mother, son s
cene. There was an interesting undercurrent in the way they responded to each other. A history there, perhaps.

  Dylan turned and caught her gaze. He smiled, acknowledging her with his glass. Philippe pushed his way her thoughts, and her stomach tightened with nervous anticipation. He would ring tonight, as he did every night.

  Alistair McNaught pulled a chair up beside her. “You have this place all to yourself?” he asked.

  “For the moment,” she answered coolly. “My partner is expected soon.”

  “We should get together and rehearse that scene,” he said. “It would be great to do it here.”

  “At the studio on Tuesday will be fine,” she said pointedly.

  When someone across the table claimed McNaught’s attention, she quickly adjusted the low neck of her white, jersey boat-neck top where his eyes had rested.

  Dylan paused in his conversation with Antony. His gaze met hers, his brows raised in query. Was it silly to think his radar had picked up on her discomfort? She found herself responding to his slow, warm smile, conspiratorial and sexy. She was drawn to him, but knowing she’d be just another conquest, brought her up short and she dropped her gaze.

  The lunch continued on into the late afternoon, while they discussed the movie business that enveloped all their lives. The food had been picked over and the hired staff began to remove it. When the air turned cool they all retreated inside. Astrid went to the kitchen to organize the desserts, crème brûlée and strawberries and cream. It was served in the sitting room while others wandered out onto the veranda to have a cigarette.

  Antony played a few popular tunes on the piano, his solid gold bracelets jangling against the keys. Maureen asked him if he could play the new theme song from Painted Lady. He could. She began to sing the haunting, romantic song in a strong, true voice which had graced many musical theatre productions.

  Astrid returned to the kitchen to see to the coffee. The staff had washed up and packed things away, and she’d let them go. She turned from the sink to find Dylan at the door.

  “What sort of coffee is that?” He walked across the room. “I’ve become a bit of a connoisseur; I prefer Brazil’s Bourbon Santos.”

  “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”

  A grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “I thought the French loved their coffee.”

  “I thought the Irish loved their tea.”

  They both laughed.

  “Good group.” He nodded toward the room where everyone had joined in to sing.

  “Lucky this time.” She opened the foil bag and the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.

  “Yes.” He placed a booted foot on the rung of a chair and watched her. “I heard a rumor your last movie wasn’t such a pleasure to make.”

  She busied herself with the coffee. “It all worked out in the end.” She felt the need to defend Phillippe even though the tense environment had been mainly due to his autocratic manner. It was no secret, but she’d feel disloyal to admit it. She wouldn’t work with Philippe again, however.

  “I like the movie, though.” Dylan’s blue eyes gleamed. “Particularly that scene where you had to strip the clothes from the unconscious guard.”

  “Fun to do.” She piled cups on a tray. He was so confident, so comfortable in his own skin. He made her very aware of him. He seemed to fill the small kitchen with his presence.

  “It was funny, and sexy.” He added teaspoons and the sugar bowl to the tray.

  She wished he wouldn’t watch her. Her hand shook and she spilled coffee over the counter-top.

  “Would you like me to do that?”

  She turned around to face him, and leaned her back against the counter. “You are making me nervous.”

  “Why?” He stepped closer and gazed at her with a funny, tender expression.

  She caught her breath and attempted a laugh. “You obviously think you could do this better.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  She shrugged. “What other reason would there be?” She turned back to the coffee maker.

  His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “That you sense something between us. There has been from the first meeting.”

  She moved away from him. “You have an overactive imagination.” She admitted she was handing this badly. What on earth was wrong with her? “Help me take the coffee in before everyone gives up and goes home,” she said, turning back briskly to the task.

  “Allow me.” He pulled up the sleeves of the sweater he’d donned and gently moved her aside, making her acutely conscious of his tall, athletic physique as he took over the kitchen.

  Chapter Ten

  Two days later, Astrid emerged from wardrobe in her costume, a high-necked, apricot linen gown with a tucked bodice, that hugged her breasts and waist and flared over a small bustle. She joined Dylan on the set.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She wriggled and frowned. “This corset is very uncomfortable.”

  “It certainly flatters a woman’s figure,” he said with an appreciative glance.

  “Like a cod piece flatters a man?” she asked innocently.

  He gave a loud chuckle.

  They rehearsed their scripts with Laurence Gilbray, the director. The film set was completed and the props placed about. The lighting had been rigged up and the camera and sound recording equipment set up.

  She entered the sparsely-furnished, Victorian studio where a half-finished painting perched on an easel. Canvasses were stacked around the walls and a deplorable rug covered the bare boards. The paucity of furnishings made her feel sad. It was just like Gina had described in her diary, and Astrid had come to know her well by reading her words which had come from the heart.

  She took her mark opposite Dylan.

  As usual, Gilbray imparted his overpowering vision of how he wanted the scene played, as Astrid attempted to keep the work she’d done fresh in her mind. One look at Dylan told her he felt the same way. Neither was particularly good with this kind of iron-clad direction.

  They rehearsed with the picture and sound crews. Then, as the clapperboard marked the first action shot, Astrid took on the character, surprised by the parallel unfolding, the struggle to resist falling into a man’s arms, if for different reasons. Dylan played his part to perfection, manly charm, grace and confidence unraveling at her angry rejection. After the director approved the sixth take, Astrid walked back to her dressing room with Dylan.

  “You were brilliant in that scene,” he said. “You were just as I imagined Gina when I read the diary.”

  “Merci.” She couldn’t explain the connection she felt to Gina, fearing he wouldn’t understand.

  “Do you want to go over your lines for this afternoon?”

  “I think we should.”

  “Come and have a coffee after you’ve changed,” he said. “You won’t get a better cup outside Paris.”

  She laughed. “I suspected as much.”

  Her assistant and the wardrobe mistress waited. By the time she’d stripped off, showered and changed into comfortable cream pants and a black knitted top, she felt stronger, able to handle the growing attraction between them with a cool head. She knocked at his door. He opened it with a towel around his neck, dressed in jeans and a blue cotton shirt the color of his eyes. She wondered if he’d picked it out for that reason.

  He caught her looking. “You like my shirt? My mother bought it,” he said with a boyish grin. “A birthday present.”

  “Should I wish you happy birthday?” He hadn’t been aware of her thoughts surely? She hoped not, she felt mean. It was her experience that some male actors were vain, but she suspected he wasn’t one of them.

  “Thank you. It was two weeks ago. When is yours?”

  “February,” she said. So he was a Scorpio. Astrid didn’t get caught up in people’s star signs, but oddly, they could reveal aspects of a person’s character. Scorpio’s were passionate, obsessive sometimes, she’d heard. “I’ve been reading Gina’s diary notes. She w
as a brave woman.”

  “She was. You have to admire Blair, too,” he said banging about in the kitchen. “He knew what he wanted.”

  Astrid smiled. “And that was Gina.”

  Dylan turned to look at her. “Yes.”

  She sat on his couch watching him through the door as he fired up his noisy cappuccino machine. He brushed a damp lock off his forehead. He’d washed his hair and hadn’t bothered to style it. She admired his precise movements as he prepared their coffee, suddenly so different from the character he played. It was like a release valve easing the tension in Astrid’s body and she laughed.

  He turned, surprised. “Let me in on the joke?”

  “I had not expected you to be so domesticated.”

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Basic stuff. You’re French, you must be an excellent cook.”

  “I’m a little rusty.” She’d helped her mother when she lived at home, but it had seldom been necessary to cook for Philippe. He employed a chef, but also liked to cook himself, or they ate out. But she didn’t say so. Mentioning Philippe would spoil the mood and she was beginning to feel lighthearted. The first time in months. She looked around at Dylan’s orderly suite. Notes and books all stacked neatly on the table. Laundered clothes carefully folded on a chair.

  “You’re very tidy.”

  “I believe in being thorough. In everything I do.” The expression in his blue eyes warmed her to her toes. “I am good with my hands.”

  Astrid took a breath, then leapt right in. “You like to hammer and saw, make things?”

  “Yes, but I don’t get much time for it.” He handed her a cup of aromatic coffee. “I made a wooden hat rack for my mother when I was in grade school.”

  “And did it turn out well?”

  He grinned. “A bit crooked. But she still hung it on the wall. She uses it, but things tend to slide off.”

  They both laughed.

  “Then how do you know you have this talent?” she asked, leading with her chin.