Grudgingly Merril had to admit it. With Ray, the features editor, not to mention Damian, whose manner was ambivalent, she had no choice but to say yes.
'A car will pick you up at two p.m.'
Replacing the receiver, she felt a sigh of relief go round the office. One or two of the younger subs had picked up the atmosphere, and word quickly passed round that Merril had been singled out to interview Torrin Anthony.
'Anybody would think I'd been granted an audience with the Queen,' she grumbled as she went to fetch a cup of coffee. But secretly she was intrigued. At least it helped to take her mind off Azur for five minutes. She had managed to get no further than the first paragraph with her article about meeting a latter-day Lawrence of Arabia, and maybe it would help to compare the two men. Similar in physique—even she had to admit that—but one blond, rugged, tough, a man of action, the other a rather languid, dark-haired actor, afraid it seemed, of even making a speech in front of a crowd of admirers without the security of a script in his hands! She couldn't imagine why he had asked specifically for her to conduct the great interview, but if he thought she was going to write the usual sycophantic rubbish he was in for a nasty shock!
The car that was sent for her arrived prompt at two o'clock. It caused a minor sensation when it whispered to a halt outside the plate glass doors of the office block where News and Views had the fifth floor. It wasn't every day that humble journalists were whisked to the daily grind by a Silver Shadow. It came complete with uniformed driver.
Was I right or was I right when I guessed he had a wealthy family supporting him? Merril asked herself as she sank down into the lush interior and fixed a blank expression on to her face to show how unimpressed she was. This would all go down in the notebook, but not in the admiring terms Torrin Anthony was no doubt counting on.
Feeling as if she had arrived by magic carpet, she climbed out as soon as the chauffeur stopped and came round to open the door. They had pulled up outside an imposing Regency mansion in its own grounds near the park.. The passing London traffic was a discreet roar in the distance, and with plenty of mature beeches and horse-chestnuts about she could almost imagine she was in the countryside and not ten minutes by Rolls from Piccadilly Circus.
A butler stood at the top of a shallow flight of steps and she was ushered into a magnificent entrance hall—all marble domes and crystal chandeliers. This has to be a joke, she thought, looking round for a sign of the owner. A man was waiting at the top of the stairs and he came forward as the butler indicated for her to go up.
It was only as she drew level that Merril felt a vague flicker of recognition. He came to a standstill on the tread above her, looking down at her with obvious amusement.
In black denims, a matching sweat-shirt and a pair of designer running shoes, the sort that cost as much as a small stereo, she observed, he didn't look like one of the servants, but nor did he look as if he owned this pile of expensive real estate, either. He stepped in front of her as she made to go on up and she side-stepped, half turning to glance back at the butler to see if she should go on. But the stranger put out a hand. 'You don't recognise me, do you?'
She stared up into his face, wrinkling her brow as she tried without success to place him.
Clean-shaven, with a very impressive jaw, aggressive nose and hooded eyes, his hair was viciously short and looked as if it had just been cut. It formed a light blond stubble all over a rather beautifully shaped head. He could stand in for a model for one of those Greek sculptures any time, she remembered thinking, then her glance swivelled to his eyes again, a blush spreading like sudden fire up the back of her neck and into the roots of her hair.'
Everybody reminded her of Azur these days. Even now, in this ridiculous situation . . . She took a deep breath. 'Have we met?' she asked.
The man gave a soft laugh. 'Follow me.' Without further explanation he turned, and before she could object he ran two at a time up the wide staircase, pausing only briefly at the top to make sure she was following, before hurrying along the gallery to a door at the far end. 'Here, sit down. Make yourself at home.'
Merril laughed inwardly at this last remark, trying not to goggle at the palatial apartment into which he led her. He was watching her closely, too closely, making her feel clumsy. She hovered just inside the doorway.
'What about a drink—tea, coffee, or something else?'
He closed the door, coming close, making her flinch, the same look of amusement across his face with which he had greeted her. His movements were quick, decisive, as if he wasn't used to having much spare time, organising her entrance into the room, settling her into a capacious sofa beside one of the floor-length windows with that same bright glance of expectation.
'I don't believe it,' she stated flatly. Of course that brief similarity to Azur was crazy, and it was disconcerting to find herself face to face with someone who had such a strange resemblance to the man she dreamed of meeting again one day. But she had indeed met the man grinning so infuriatingly at her now. She felt like a fool. 'Without the black stage wig and eighteenth-century gear, you look quite different,' she admitted in a dazed voice.
'Isn't it amazing what a little artifice can do?' he murmured, putting his head on one side and smiling down at her. 'It frightens me sometimes how people can react so strongly to the physical appearance and miss so totally what lies underneath.'
To hide her confusion Merril scrabbled in her bag for her notebook.
'Wait.' He held up both hands. 'Let me get you a drink. What'll it be?'
'Coffee, please—black.
While he went through another door which she had already mentally decided to describe as stage left in her article, she admitted ruefully that he had won the first round. She had been totally nonplussed, first by the mansion which he appeared to inhabit in such opulent style, and secondly by the unexpectedness of his appearance. He looked quite different from the way he'd looked the night before. Tougher, certainly not at all foppish. In fact, altogether disturbing—almost ascetic, like a monk, with that savagely short haircut and hard, clean-cut features. It suited him, of course, and he must realise how striking he looked. Beautiful, she grudgingly admitted as she scribbled a few notes, if such a word could properly describe the austere maleness of his appearance.
Feeling wrong-footed, she was just preparing to open a counter-attack with a searching question or two about the advantages of coming from such a privileged background when he appeared suddenly with the drinks, and before she got her mouth open he asked casually, 'Why do you hate actors so much? I would have thought we were a pretty harmless bunch on the whole.'
'That's probably why,' she replied, too late realising she had risen at once to the bait. 'Life's too short to spend in being harmless.'
'Ah, the intrepid war, reporter. I read your piece about the uprising in --'
'I'm surprised, she cut in. 'I wouldn't imagine world affairs were your metier.'
'I do emerge from the eighteenth century once in a while,' he replied mildly, settling down next to her on the sofa in what seemed unnecessary proximity. She edged away to prevent the entire length of his leg pressing against her own.
'I think it necessary to keep in touch,' he went on. 'It's an actor's job to interpret the world, and he can hardly do that if he knows nothing of it.'
'You, obviously, know rather more than most --'
Merril said, without bothering to veil her sarcasm as she glanced critically round the impressively beautiful room in which they were sitting. 'It must say something for your imagination if you can summon up a knowledge of the world from the midst of this privileged cocoon.'
'The world?'
'The one in which real people live.'
'Real people?' he queried.
'Ordinary people. Ones who have to work hard for every penny they get --'
'Oh, real people,' he broke in, nodding, as if she had mentioned some rare species.
She gave him a quick glance, imagining she detected a note o
f derision in his velvety voice, but his expression was appropriately blank.
'Of course,' he went on smoothly, 'it's always a great danger to jump to conclusions. Snap judgements aren't always accurate.'
Merril again had the uncomfortable feeling he was teasing her, but there was no flicker of amusement in the golden-brown eyes. It struck her that it was an unusual combination—dark lashes, black, in fact, with that light brown-blond hair. Perhaps they were dyed, to match the stage wig.
'How long have you lived here?' she asked, firmly opening her notebook at a clean page.
'That's a little like the question "When did you stop beating your wife?" ' he countered.
'I beg your pardon?'
'It's based on an assumption. I thought I'd warned you about snap judgements?' he remarked mildly. He was leaning back now and giving her face a close scrutiny that brought two red spots of anger to her cheeks. She bit her lip and tried to keep cool. There were always difficult ones. It was part of the job. But it needed every ounce of her training not to chip in with some cutting rejoinder. The trouble was, he reminded her uncomfortably of Azur—but it was monstrous to compare the two men. They were as unalike as wine and water. She schooled herself to wait, giving him time to go on. When he did, she was as confused as ever.
'You really don't recognise me, do you? I thought it was because you were embarrassed.'
'I didn't at first, but I do now. And why should I be embarrassed?'
He sighed and looked down at his hands. 'That was a very good article,' he said after a rather long pause.
'Thank you.' She didn't need reminding of Azur in this context. 'May we get back to you?'
He gave her an odd look. 'What would you like to know?'
'Everything.
'That's a tall order in the time we have.' He gave a fleeting, slightly crooked smile. 'Do you expect me to put myself entirely in your hands and let you savage your way through my life just like that?' He broke off. 'I've never done one of these before. I've always avoided the press. It seems --' He hesitated, as if searching for the right word. 'It seems like the height of vanity to unload every detail about oneself and one's ambitions, and have it published to the world at large.' He shrugged and the smile flashed unexpectedly. 'That's what you want, I suppose—the bared soul. I had hoped you would guide me through it . . . gently?' he suggested, raising his eyebrows.
Does he think he can get round me to write the usual tosh by appealing to me in this way? Merril asked herself, deliberately forcing herself to resist his undoubted appeal. This false humility makes me cringe. Everybody knows actors love publicity.
Once again she felt he was amused about something, but he had the actor's knack of being able to wipe expression from his face at will. He observed her tightening lips.
'Now I've offended you by trying to appeal to your sympathy.' He rose to his feet so suddenly, she dropped her notepad, and as she bent to pick it up he said, 'This isn't working, is it? I confess I don't quite know how to handle the situation --'
Merril raised a flushed face to his. 'Oh come, Mr Anthony, just be yourself if you can.' She felt herself flounder like a complete beginner, then, unforgivably, heard herself ask, 'Are you trying to say I'm no good at my job?'
'You're obviously very good at your job—such as it is,' he added, just as she was beginning to feel a curl of satisfaction that he should recognise the fact. .'But I don't think much of the press at the best of times. And your interviewing technique leaves something to be desired,' he added, wounding her pride even further. 'You're supposed to put me at my ease, aren't you? Instead I feel anything I say will be taken down and used in evidence against me. I particularly wanted to avoid the sort of sparring game that characterises so much of one's dealings with the media—as if they're all the time trying to discover some skeleton in the cupboard. There are none in mine and I resent being made to feel there are.'
'You haven't given me a chance!' she flared. 'You're the one who asked to be interviewed, though why the hell you asked for me I shall never know. Especially after last night.'
'Yes, that was a mistake,' he agreed, 'but I was willing to make allowances for last night. It was an odd situation for both of us, I fancy. All those people!' He smiled disarmingly and ran a hand over the cropped hair. 'I asked for you,' he went on, 'because, among other reasons, I thought you could be fairly objective.'
His criticism of her anything but objective behaviour stung Merril's professional pride. 'I can be objective, as I'm sure you'll find,' she retorted. 'So let's begin . . . How does it feel to be flavour of the month, Mr Anthony?' she asked, pencil poised.
'Wonderful. What do you expect me to say? Everyone wants to be liked, don't they?' He sat down in the chair opposite.
'You more than most, perhaps?'
'Do you think so?' His eyes pierced hers, bright as tiger stone.
'I'm supposed to be asking the questions.'
'Quite right. Fire away.' His lips curved slightly.
'Is this your father's house?'
'What?' He looked round at the chandeliered room as if suddenly surprised to find himself sitting in the midst of such opulence. 'No, not exactly.'
'What's that supposed to mean?! demanded Merril.
'It means it's not my father's house. Look,' he said hurriedly, 'aren't you supposed to ask me about what parts I've played, what parts I hope to play, what I think about theatre in general, stardom, integrity, my favourite directors, even what my first part was --?'
'What was it?'
'Third shepherd in a school Nativity play.
She had a mental picture of the roguish shepherd he would make, a picture which was quickly stifled.
'You'd like it to stay at that level, wouldn't you? Hoping I'll write the usual sort of drivel, praising you to the skies?' She leaned back against the soft cushions. 'That's it, isn't it?' She watched him. His expression gave nothing away. 'You want a paean to the glory of Torrin Anthony, celebrated genius of the stage, famous --' She was about to say stud but thought better of it. There was something dangerous in his stillness. She leaned forward. 'Let's get one thing straight, Mr Anthony, you won't get that from me. I'm not some stupid gossip columnist, waiting to jump on the latest band-wagon, helping turn the latest name into a star for the dubious privilege of being first on the gravy train. I write as I find, and my only aim is the truth.'
'Fighting talk,' he added drily.
Merril started to put her notepad back in her shoulder-bag and, undeterred, went on, 'I saw the way you pretended to be tongue-tied at that first-night party when they asked you for a speech. I mean, really! You might fool most people, but I'm not so gullible. As if an actor with your experience would have qualms about getting up in front of a few friends-—' She was surprised he hadn't tried to interrupt her. 'It's obvious I can't do this assignment. I didn't want to do it in the first place. And I'm certainly not going to give you the puff you want. I'll hand you over to someone else.' She rose to her feet and stood uncertainly when he still didn't try to stop her. 'It's the sort of job I hate. Even this house! I mean, look at it! It's exactly the sort of place someone obsessed by stardom like you would choose. It's nothing but a theatrical backdrop, designed to impress. Well, it doesn't impress me and you've made a bad mistake if you think otherwise. I can't imagine why you thought I'd write the sort of article you want.' She made a move towards the door. 'We may as well stop now.'
'Sit down.'
'What?' She was pulled up short by the quiet coldness of his tone.
'You heard.'
She gazed at him in stupefaction, then a smile broke over her face. 'What's happened to the charm now? Is this the real Torrin Anthony? The one lurking beneath the facade?'
'Shut up, will you?'
She laughed in his face. 'The veneer is quite thin, after all!'
His tone was very even. 'You'd like me to lose my temper, wouldn't you? You're like the rest of your kind—desperate to get your' teeth into any little failing. I said, si
t down.'
'I heard you.' Merril remained standing and took out her notebook with insolent deliberation, but. before she could open it he moved quickly across the intervening space and took it out of her hands, sending it flying across the coffee-table where it slithered over the Italian marble and fell on to the carpet on the other side.
Merril looked at it in astonishment. Before she could register a protest, he pushed her down on to the sofa and stood glowering down at her. She was surgingly conscious of his physical power. He had a contained feline presence, like a wildcat waiting to pounce. Their glances meshed, her own gripped despite her wishes by the intensity of his.
'I don't often lose my temper, but you really push your luck, lady. Is this show of bad manners part of the objective journalism you're so proud of?' His eyes narrowed to gold slits. 'What's really eating you? Or does honesty stop when it comes to turning it on yourself?'
'I don't know what you mean!' She tried to struggle to her feet.
'Sit still. I haven't finished --'
'Don't you dare touch me!'
'Very Victorian!' he mocked as she flinched away from the hand he placed on her shoulder to keep her in her place. His grip tightened. 'Well? Was it a waste of time asking you here? Did I overestimate you? Are you as trivial and bigoted as the usual run of muck-rakers that litter your profession?'
'How dare you?'
'I haven't said anything yet,' he growled. 'Tell me,' he went on in mock conversational tones, 'what do you imagine gives you the right to throw insults without a comeback? Sit still!' He suddenly slid down beside her so that she was effectively wedged against the end of the sofa. 'You came here to do a job and you're going to do it, and if you imagine I'm going to let you walk out of here with all your prejudices intact, you couldn't be more wrong.'
'Prejudices?' she echoed.
'That's what I said. This ridiculous prejudice about actors, for instance.'
'No worse than yours about journalists!' Merril spat back.
'We're not all charlatans,' he went on as if she hadn't spoken. 'Some of us take the job seriously. Or is it just me you dislike, for some reason?' He cocked an eyebrow. 'I don't know the answer to that one. I doubt whether you do either. You have such a warped view, I wonder what's behind it?'
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