'Of course he hasn't. He'd better not—I don't want Mike Davis stealing my story.' Merril stifled a sob. 'I suppose you're right, though—a meal and bed would be nice.'
Merril expected things to get back to normal fairly soon after this. After all, it had only been a job, more exciting than the usual routine stuff, but if she was going to prove herself she couldn't let her feelings get in the way.
As the days passed, though, she found it increasingly difficult to settle back into the old routine. Everywhere she looked she saw loving couples wrapped in each other's arms, and she longed to be with Azur again, to see that bantering smile light up his face.
Confessing all this to Annie one evening, she said, 'I'm sick of the office. I think I'll resign.'
'Don't be crazy, darling! You feel restless, that's all. It'll pass. You'll get used to being back.'
'Oh, Annie, why don't they have men like Azur over here? I'm sick of wimps and wallies. 'What's happened to all the real men?'
'I know a handful,' said Annie, considering. 'Well, one or maybe even two . . .' She gave a brilliant smile. 'I'll work on that one. Trust me!'
As the days became one week, then two, Merril's restlessness turned in on itself, until one day she simply let rip at the nearest person and there was a huge row in the middle of the office. Ray Doyle intervened.
'Take two days off—that's an order. I want you to go to the Chelsea Flower Show when you get back.'
'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Ray!' She stared at him as if he were mad.
'Somebody's got to cover it,' he told her, looking as tough as his balding head and paunch would allow.
To his immense mystification, his top girl news reporter immediately burst into floods or tears.
Later Merril mentioned the incident to Annie. 'It's what Azur predicted—the Chelsea Flower Show and man bites dog stories. Oh, Annie, I'll never forget him!'
'You certainly won't so long as you keep going on about him. I'm supposed to be the romantic one of us two, don't forget.'
Merrill had the grace to blush. 'I can't help it. I know I'll never meet anyone like him again.'
Annie shrugged. 'Suit yourself. But at least warn off the lovesick swains. Speaking of which, Damian rang. You left the office without finalising the arrangements for tonight.'
'Damn tonight. Did I say I'd go out with him?'
'You did indeed. Surely you haven't forgotten? It's the first night of that new play everybody's raving about.'
'How can they be raving if it's the first night?' Merril retorted as she got up to get ready.
'Because it did phenomenal business in the provinces and it's coming into the West End to take us all by storm, that's how.'
'It won't take me by storm, I'm not in the mood for cardboard cut-outs.' She came to the bathroom door. 'Actors, huh! I'd rather curl up in front of the TV and watch the news.'
'And dream of him, I suppose,' said Annie drily.
By the time the doorbell rang Merril had grudgingly submitted to Annie's blandishments and put up her hair, donning a shocking pink taffeta dress from out of Annie's special collection. 'It is a first night,' she reproved when Merril was about to throw on any old thing.
She liked nothing better than to dress people up. First she made Merril try on a slinky black draped affair with an off-the-shoulder neckline and tiny beaded flowers round the hem. Then she changed her mind and insisted that she try on the taffeta. 'Sensational' was her verdict. 'That should make Damian's hair curl!'
'God forbid!' grumbled Merril. 'I'm not in the mood for theatrical types. Damian's really over the top sometimes when he gets backstage.'
'I thought you felt it was all rather fun?'
'All that false enthusiasm, false smiles, false hair, false eyelashes—and that's only the men. Why are you making me suffer, Annie? Will you go instead?' For a moment Merril looked hopeful.
'Nonsense. I'm seeing Cornel.'
'Again? Oh well, here goes,' said Merril resignedly as she made her departure.
Despite the good-natured bantering she felt strangely disembodied, as if everything going on around her was only the interval between two acts of a play. The first act had been the meeting with Azur, but what the second was going to be she couldn't imagine.
Damian was sweet. He was everything a girl could want in an escort, as Annie reminded Merril in a whispered aside just before she left.
Tonight he was impeccably turned out in dinner-jacket and blood-red carnation, dark hair fashionably groomed, and a slight though artificial tan setting off his ready smile; he was quite the most presentable male in the office. Not quite six feet and rather narrow in the shoulder, he should have made her heart flutter just a little, Merril pondered, especially when, having settled her comfortably in his sleek black car and flicked on the lush stereo, he ran a sensual finger over the back of her hand, murmuring, 'I'm so glad you said yes, darling. I've missed you.'
She withdrew her hand unobtrusively from beneath his, as if to readjust her seat-belt. 'Missed me? I've been sitting across the office from you every day for goodness knows how long!'
'Missed you ever since you went on that foreign assignment, I mean. It's as if you haven't quite come back to me-—' He paused, his sensitive face full of concern. 'Before you left we seemed to be growing close, but now—'
'Aren't you going to start the car? We'll be late, won't we?'
'Merril, we're not going to get another chance to be alone for the rest of the evening, and at work we don't seem to have time to talk much these days. I do care about what's happening to us --'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, Damian, can't we just enjoy ourselves? I don't want to get into some heavy emotional scene tonight!'
She felt guilty to see his eyes darken with hurt for a moment, then he gave a light laugh. 'No, even I can see that! We play it for laughs, then, do we? As long as you're sure that's what you want.' He patted her hand, trying to hide his evident disappointment at her lack of warmth, and with an air of resignation turned the key in the ignition.
Soon they were entering the crowded foyer of the West End theatre where the first night was to be held.
Merril's preoccupation with Azur over the last two weeks had hidden from her the fact that there was a new excitement on the scene. Damian's job as theatre critic kept him in the forefront of showbiz gossip, but Merril had failed to take in that tonight was one of those special nights rumoured to be a landmark in theatre first nights. In its out-of-town run the show had been a smash hit, a fact that had totally escaped her.
Now the splendid gold and green foyer was thronged with well-known faces, flashbulbs kept up a continuous lightning attack as one after another the already famous came to pay court to a star in the making. One actor, Damian told her, had pulled the show from out of its original rating as just another moderately good crowd-puller, his name now on everyone's lips. It was all news to Merril.
She pulled at Damian's arm as they drifted with the crowd beneath the magnificent central chandelier towards the main house. 'Just tell me, Damian,' she whispered, 'who is this genius we've all come to see?'
He raised his eyebrows. 'Really, Merril, don't let anybody hear you say that, you'd never live it down! He's the latest cause celebre. An absolutely brilliant discovery called Torrin Anthony.'
Merril looked critically round at the over-made-up, avid, eager faces of the many older women in their expensive clothes, as they cooed and brayed at each other over the bald heads of their escorts. 'Some new toy boy, by the look of things,' she said bitchily. 'What a bore!'
'Not at all. He's in his early thirties.'
'Then if he's so wonderful, why haven't we heard of him before now?'
'He's one of these dedicated types who nurse their talent, picking and choosing parts he really wants to play. It means he's frequently been out of work or playing in obscure provincial theatres with directors he's wanted to work with, rather than going for the big, glamorous showcase roles. He avoids publicity and refuses to be inter
viewed or even have his photo released --'
'Oh, how pretentious! And to be able to act in this high-minded way no doubt he has a nice rich family to support him, too!' For some reason Merril was determined to dislike everything she heard about this man. The hullabaloo in the foyer was deafening, cries of 'darling!' and 'sweetie!' irritating her as they had never done before.
Damian took her by the arm. 'You usually find this scene fun,' he remarked. 'That's why I thought you'd enjoy being here tonight.' He held one of her hands in his. 'I thought it might remind you of old times, but instead it looks as if I've made a gaffe.'
'I'm sorry, Damian—am I being too beastly?' She was shamefaced. 'I don't seem to be able to get in the mood for anything much these days.'
For a moment Damian pulled her close, one arm slipping lightly around her waist. She couldn't move away because people were surging around them, going in to find their seats. 'If it's anything you want to talk about, you know I'm always available --'
'I'm sorry, Damian,' she put up a hand and let it rest on his shoulder for a moment, 'I don't know what's got into me. I'll try to enjoy the show. It's really lovely to be here.'
Even as she said it she knew it sounded horribly false, but it couldn't be unsaid. She knew she was going to hate every minute of the next few hours.
They took their seats near the front of the stalls. One thing about Damian, Merril thought as she looked round at her extravagantly dressed neighbours, his job meant he could always come up with the best seats in the house, and vanity made her glad she had allowed Annie to make her wear the shocking pink taffeta. Then her thoughts were interrupted by the rising of the curtain, and silence fell.
As she watched the unfolding scenes, something strange started to happen. It was as if the audience was holding its breath until Torrin Anthony made his entrance. And then—then even Merril felt them fall as one under his spell.
Tall, dark, handsome—and with a too, too predictable appeal, was her verdict as she watched. But the audience had a different view. She tried to fight it, ignore it, but, critical though she was, she couldn't help but be aware, like them, of the man's charisma. She sneaked a glance from time to time along the row of faces on each side. Everyone was transfixed. Not a shuffle or a cough broke the rapt attention with which they hung on his every word and gesture.
The play was a sort of eighteenth-century tragicomedy, with songs and clowning and all kinds of theatrical effects, but the way it was played gave it a contemporary significance, and Merril could see why it had caught everyone's imagination.
During the interval she grudgingly admitted to Damian that she was beginning to get an inkling of what all the fuss was about, though as far as she was concerned the man was a sham and had simply made such an impact because it was a peach of a role.
'You're the only woman in the place who wouldn't sell her soul to the devil for him. He paused, eyeing her flushed and haughty face with some amusement. 'Though I'm delighted to hear you're so impervious to his rather rakish charm. When I come to write my review I shall make a special note of it.'
'But he is all show, isn't he?' Surely you can see that?' she burst out. 'That calculated slightly world-weary cynicism, with just a hint of the master crook about him.'
'He looks well in brocade. Surely you'll give him that?'
'Oh, very well,' she admitted with a deprecating laugh. 'A proper Regency rake. A pirate, in fact, with that dark glossy hair in a pigtail—very contemporary. And the padded shoulders --'
'Are they padded?'
'Don't you think so?'
They fell into a discussion of whether or not Torrin Anthony's shoulders were real or not, and a group of Damian's friends joined in with all the frivolity such a subject warranted. Even Merril noticed that the men were relieved there was at least one woman who hadn't gone overboard about him.
'My wife's totally mad about the chap. How can I compete with a Lord Rakewell?' a genial though decidedly paunchy-looking man whose name she had instantly forgotten confided in her as they stood in a circle beside the bar.
Someone else chipped in. 'It's because nobody knows anything about him—that's my theory. Women love a mystery, don't you know?'
'Yes, just wait until he has a profile in the press. It'll be like bursting a bubble. Once they find out he likes two fried eggs with his bacon and went to Eton, the mystery will evaporate and we'll all be able to relax --'
'He's no doubt counting on it, that's why he refuses to give interviews. We've been after him for months, but his agent, bless her, won't even let us speak to him on the telephone. Keeps his phone number ex-directory and his address a total secret.'
'Doesn't want your foot-in-the-door techniques, old boy. Can't say I blame her.'
'As if we would!' The journalist thus addressed smiled into his brandy. 'I'd like to pull off an interview soon, though, before anybody else gets in on it.'
'Send a pretty girl along. What about Merril here?' The men turned to look at her.
'You must be joking!' she laughed. 'I'm a news journalist, not a showbiz gossip columnist!'
'Tactless, sweetheart, very tactless,' whispered Damian in her ear as they went back to their seats. 'You've just turned down an offer from one of the top features editors in the country.'
'I don't care,' Merril told him as she settled in her seat. 'Torrin Anthony is the last man on earth I want to interview.'
Her opinion was confirmed later at the backstage party.
'Oh, Damian, do we have to?' she protested when they were finally able to leave their seats after a record number of curtain calls. Those in the know were already flocking backstage.
'Look you know I have to phone in my crit straight away. You may as well join the admiring throng for a few minutes.'
'Then by the time you get back I'll have changed my mind about partying all night. Oh, very well. I'm sorry I'm such a misery. Best smile—promise!' Merril gave him a peck on the cheek before he went off to phone in his review.
It is an occasion, she thought, so I must make an effort to be pleasant—but someone like Azur would loathe all this tinselly nonsense.
She stood by a window at the end of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms to wait for Damian, but one of his friends came back to look for her with a glass of champagne in his hand.
'Drink this while you're waiting. The party's going to be on stage. We're all in Torrin's dressing-room—you can't miss it.' He pointed to the far end of the corridor, where a crowd was jammed into one of the doorways. He was evidently in a hurry to get back. Equally evidently, Damian had given him the task of chaperoning her. He waited for her halfway back along the corridor.
'Everybody's here tonight,' he told her with satisfaction. 'Isn't this an occasion? That final scene—phew! I don't mind admitting I had tears in my eyes.' He went on in this rather irritating vein all the time they were making their way towards the subdued uproar at the other end, and, trying to conceal her reluctance, Merril made one or two noncommittal noises as she followed him down, already hating the babble of voices, but welcoming the anonymity of the crowd once she felt it immerse her.
There was no asking where Torrin Anthony was—it was obvious. The star was where a star should be, firmly in the centre of things. He hadn't had time to change out of his stage clothes before the crowd of well-wishers descended, and he was lounging in a chair in front of a large lighted mirror, graciously extending a lace-cuffed wrist to receive handshakes of congratulation from the stream of people who came in.
Standing anonymously in the wings, as it were, Merril had a chance to have a good look at him. His eyes, she thought, looked dark with strain, until she remembered he was an actor and this was presumably the image he wanted to create tonight. Every so often the now famous smile would dazzle as he lifted his head to accept the tributes pressed on him. The narrow rake's moustache, she now saw, was simply make-up. Underneath all the goo he would look quite different, and there was no way of knowing what he was really like.
Part of his mystique, she judged unkindly. As she studied his face between the bobbing heads of his admirers, Damian appeared beside her.
'Lost your indifference, I see.' He sounded rather sharp.
'Not at all --'
'You were giving him a pretty thorough scrutiny.'
'Wondering what made him tick—and if I could see the cracks in the carefully polished facade.'
Just then there was a slight change in the hum of conversation, and she looked up to see the subject of their exchange staring straight at her. The half dozen people closest to him had noticed the direction of his gaze, and all turned to look at the same moment. There was a lull.
Merril felt a sensation like ice run up her spine and lodge itself somewhere in her throat, so that she would have found it impossible to speak had she so wished. But the initiative was taken from her, for the actor, with studied art, raised one hand and beckoned to her to come over to him.
There was the smile again—rakish, dangerous, confident. His eyes, a lighter brown than she had imagined, were still outlined in dark pencil.
Everyone waited, expecting her to move forward, showing how honoured she was to share the limelight, but something stopped her. Never shy, now she wished the ground would swallow her up. It was as if he expected her to say something, to do something—yet all she could do was stare at him while he waited, one hand extended towards her.
'Go on, Merril, get that interview for us,' whispered Damian in her ear. He pushed her in the small of the back.
But she couldn't move and she watched, mesmerised, as Torrin Anthony rose to his feet and slowly came towards her.
He seemed even taller off stage. She was reminded sickeningly of Azur, how he had towered over her when he dragged her to safety into the bombed house. But this man was an actor—even his height seemed put on, as if he had shrugged it on together with that air of authority he had adopted!
She put up a hand as if to ward him off. Everyone was watching.
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