Scorpio Summer

by Jacqueline Gilbert

  'Doone country is in Devon, Tom," came the dry voice from behind. 'Shades of Jamaica inn, perhaps?'

  "Yes, well, it's all the same.' Deverell said blithely.

  Not to a Cornishman, thought Frances, and she could tell that the man Felix thought the same and gave him a small smile which he ignored.

  "Right, Miss Heron, if you're ready?' Deverell asked.

  Frances nodded and swung off the fur jacket, throwing it carelessly across the back of the chair. She then pulled off the cloche hat and shook her head, freeing the mass of chestnut hair, running her fingers carelessly through the waves. She turned to the two men ready for further instructions and then waited uncertainly. The man Felix wore his usual enigmatic face, but Deverell's was alive with delight and he rubbed his hands together gleefully.

  'Well, well, this is something more like! My word, yes!' He stopped and added anxiously: 'You do have a Cornish accent in your repertoire, don't you. Miss Heron?' and sighed with relief on her nod of assent. 'Then let's get started.'

  'Tom has asked me to read Penruth. I hope you have no objections. Miss Heron?' the man Felix murmured, leading her to the centre of the room while Deverell hurried back to the table and seated himself.

  'None whatsoever,' replied Frances coolly, trying to kid both of them, not at all happy about the way her surmise that he was an actor had been proven. She made a conscious effort to relax and hoped he wouldn't see the script trembling in her hand.

  'You may have gathered from Tom's preamble that Penruth is gentry and Mary local girl. This first scene follows on from where she has saved Penruth's life by rowing out to rescue him from rocks after his boat has been smashed up by a storm: The second scene is after he has married Mary and is confronting her in a jealous rage for a supposed indiscretion on her part. This is a fiery quarrel ending in a passionate embrace.' His voice was strictly impersonal and the tawny eyes were half hidden by dropped lids. 'Ready?'

  Frances nodded. Afterwards, she had to admit that her co-actor gave her as much help as it was possible to give, feeding her the lines beautifully. Yes, she would hand that to him—he could act, and this quite naturally brought up her own performance, her voice with the Cornish burr contrasting nicely with his rather attractive one.

  And could the fact that Deverell asked them to do the quarrel scene twice be something in her favour? She hoped so. Admittedly, it was difficult to struggle with someone holding a script and reading from it, and it would be safe to assume that the second time round would be better. It was—not for that reason, but because her co-actor took every advantage of the kiss allowed him in the script. Finally pulling herself away, eyes sparkling with anger, she spoke the ensuing lines with personal fervour and wished she could do the face- slapping bit that followed in the story.

  He had known exactly how she was feeling, saying with a gleam of amusement in his eyes: "We cut here, Miss Heron. A shame for you, but you can't expect an actor to be slapped consistently throughout an afternoon of auditions.' He smiled, enjoying her discomposure. 'I'm sure you can slap beautifully, just as you anger beautifully.' He then turned, saying casually: 'Sufficient, Tom?'

  'Thank you, Felix, yes. Will you come over here and join me, Miss Heron?' Deverell called, and giving the actor a glacial stare, Frances stalked over to the desk, head held high, every proud bone in her body showing just what she thought of him.

  Deverell looked up and smiled encouragingly. 'Thank you. Your reading was most interesting. Do sit down. From this list I see you've played Bristol, Queensbridge, Rotheringham, Leicester and Chichester . . .'

  'Yes, I've only listed the roles worthy of any note,' agreed Frances. She could see the man Felix out of the corner of her eye, sitting a few yards away, legs outstretched, contemplating the tip of his highly polished shoes.

  'You had good reviews at Chichester,' continued Deverell, and she nodded.

  'I was lucky with my director and co-actors.'

  'You haven't done television work before, but that's not too important. . . and you've done period costume.' There was silence while he carried on reading the list, his thumb tapping the paper thoughtfully. This pause was broken by a slow voice from the other chair.

  'Acting for television is a totally different technique from the live theatre. Does Miss Heron realize that?'

  The two men looked at her consideringly and Deverell raised his brows at her questioningly.

  'Yes, I do, but I'm sure I could pick up the technique quickly—I presume your director is capable of teaching me?' Frances answered evenly, referring the words to Deverell but meaning them for long-legs over there. She was rewarded by a bark of laughter from the casting director and a slight change of position from long-legs.

  'Yes, I think he is,' agreed Deverell, still highly amused. 'I like your accent. Miss Heron. It sounds native, is it?'

  'No. I spent my early childhood years there.'

  'Ah, that accounts for it. . . yes, the accent comes over most natural.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That's all, I think. We'll be in touch—we do have your address, don't we?' Deverell rose with a smile and walked round the table, fetching her coat and helping her on with it. 'You should hear one way or the other in about five days.' He held out his hand and shook hers firmly. 'Glad you didn't miss the audition . . . and I apologize again on behalf of our lift! You can find your own way out, can't you?' and when she smiled and nodded, he then threw a: 'Won't be a minute, Felix, wait for me, will you?' over his shoulder and giving Frances a friendly nod, Deverell left the room.

  Frances took her time getting ready to go. She wasn't going to let Felix whoever-he-was fluster her. She twisted her hair into a knot before pulling on the cloche, tucking in some stray wisps at the back that had escaped. She collected her bag and finally looked across the room. He was now tilting his chair backwards, balancing it on two legs, watching her with disconcerting intensity, hands behind his head.

  'I was right about the choleric, wasn't I?' he drawled. Temper and red hair always go together.'

  Red hair! He'd said that on purpose. Her hair was truly deep chestnut, like the colour of a highly polished conker. She smiled pityingly.

  'Do you know, I've heard that said so often I might come to believe it in time!' She thrust her bag beneath her arm and hesitated, saying stiffly: Thank you for the coffee, it was a life-saver.'

  He inclined his head and sketched a salute, his face as polite as her own, only his eyes challenging her politeness.

  Halfway to the door she turned. 'I think your birthday's in November—and if it isn't, it ought to be! You're a classic arrogant Scorpio!' and rounding on her heel she swept out.

  As she marched along the corridor Frances made a fervent wish that the chair would overbalance and send him crashing to the floor—but it wouldn't, it never did, to cocksure people like that. More's the pity!

  'I think you're in with a good chance,' said Zoe. She was painting her fingernails a bright scarlet, the tip of her tongue peeping between lips of the same colour as an aid to concentration. 'From what you tell me, you gave a good reading. Tom Deverell was taken with your physical appearance and liked your accent."

  Frances looked up from the book she was reading and shook her head, asking: 'Do you know him ? Was he your "influential source"?'

  'No—I heard from a friend of a friend, you know the way it is.' Frowning slightly, Zoe inspected her handiwork, then considered her friend, brush poised. 'It was funny you getting stuck in that lift, Frankie.'

  'Hilarious!'

  Typical, of course.'

  'What do you mean? I've never been stuck in a lift before in my life!' responded Frances indignantly. 'And I don't ever want to be again.'

  'What about the old lady who was ill? Just you! Still, you couldn't leave her, and everything turned out okay in the end,' Zoe continued, impervious to the indignation, 'I think that actor put a good word in for you with Deverell.' She waved her hands in the air to dry the polish. 'You say he was good in the part of Penruth?'
>
  'Uhuh . . . very,' replied Frances, her nose in the book again. She had said very little to Zoe about the man Felix, but despite this he still kept coming into the conversation. Had he put in a word for her? she wondered. He had been uncommunicative in the lift, but not hostile. Only later, at the audition, had she sensed an indefinable something, almost antipathy, in his cool scrutiny. Her thoughts were broken by Zoe, who said…

  'I can't think of any actor called Felix, can you? Of course, he may be basically a television actor and we hardly ever get the chance to view, treading the boards nightly as we do. That's something, Frankie—if you do get the part you'll be working during the day with lots of lovely free evenings.' She screwed the top on to the nail varnish bottle and began to clear the table. 'We'll just have to cross our fingers and wait. It's about time something good happened to you. Since Chichester your shining talent has been somewhat hidden beneath ghastly comedies or equally ghastly whodunits!'

  Frances laughed at the dour note in her voice. 'You can't blame management when those sort of plays do good box office,' she argued reasonably, 'and it's a job with a pay-packet at the end of it. As for Chichester— well, that's another story, isn't it?'

  'Are you completely over Mark now, Frankie?' Zoe asked quietly.

  Frances pondered the question, staring pensively out of the window, thinking about Mark Lucas.

  'Don't bother to answer if I'm stepping where angels fear to tread,' added Zoe during the pause.

  'I don't mind, Zoe. It's all over—has been for weeks now. Six months is a long time for a heart to heal that wasn't really broken in the first place.'

  Thank goodness for that,' breathed Zoe. 'I haven't probed because I know what it's like, but honestly, Frankie love, you're better out of it.'

  'I know,' murmured Frances, rubbing her fingers against the pile on one of the velvet cushions. 'I knew then, but knowing and doing are two different things, aren't they ? There was no choice but for me to cut and run, not when I managed to think coherently, but the effort at the time was painful.' She shrugged. 'From now on I'm off men! I'm going to concentrate on my career.'

  Zoe gave an amused cackle. 'Now I've heard everything! You may want to be "little sister" to them, but you'll not be allowed the part! And you're not made to be a spinster, kiddo. Your trouble is that you draw the little-boy-lost types like a magnet, and they're not your sort.'

  'Really? And what is my sort?' Frances asked dryly.

  'What you really need is a strong, dominant male. Someone who can match you in an argument and who has the sense to stop you taking over. I've told you time and time again, Frankie, that men don't like women being more capable than themselves. It positively shrivels that tiny seed of love worse than a drought! I know you've had to stand on your own two feet for so long that you've had to be independent, but you must learn to play it down.' Zoe was really warming to her theme now, and hitched her chair closer. 'You need a man who makes instant decisions, the right ones, of course, and who'll encourage you to be the little woman now and again. A man as intelligent as yourself who you can respect and lean on.'

  'And just where does this paragon exist?' asked Frances mildly.

  'He exists, kiddo, make no mistake. Just be sure he isn't an actor!'

  'They're the only men I meet,' offered Frances, 'and I loathe dominant men, they always rub me up the wrong way. Anyway, I thought you were anti-falling in love? Aren't your aims on a higher, mercenary level?'

  Zoe grinned wickedly. 'I could marry for money, but I doubt you can, and I don't particularly want you to fall in love—only six months is a long time for a young and healthy heart to remain in cold storage. There's a danger you'll lose it to someone totally unsuitable again.'

  'Mark wasn't unsuitable exactly . . .'

  'No, only married.' Zoe raised her eyes in wonderment. 'He was a dimwit if he hadn't found out about your puritan streak before offering you his all.' She stood up. 'Coffee?' and at Frances' smile of agreement, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Dear Zoe, Frances thought with affection. She put down her book and thought back to that first meeting with Zoe at drama school, six years ago, and how she had been immediately attracted to the tall, leggy brunette, Zoe Aleksander. She was a couple of years older than Frances, with her own brand of drawling wit, and the attraction had been reciprocated. Zoe had taken the younger girl under her wing, inviting her back to her parents' home as soon as she found out how alone in the world Frances was. The Aleksanders knew all about being alone and friendless, having fled the horrors of Warsaw and sought refuge in England. They were a charming couple and Frances loved them dearly.

  'Mama rang tonight,' Zoe declared, coming in with the coffee. 'I told her about your audition and she says she can't wait until she's watching you on the box.'

  'If I get the job! She's rather premature,' protested Frances.

  'You sound unduly pessimistic considering how well the audition seems to have gone. Is there something you're keeping to yourself that I should know?' Zoe demanded, handing over a mug, frowning as she changed her line of thought. 'This Felix person, I'm sure I ought to be able to place him. What's he like? Attractive?'

  'That all depends on what you mean by . . .'

  'Yes, yes, I know! but even if the man doesn't appeal to you personally, do you reckon he has sex appeal, for goodness' sake!'

  Frances laughed at Zoe's exasperation. 'Yes, he has sex appeal,' she admitted, seeing the tall, lean figure in her mind's eye, leaning against the lift wall contemplating her. 'He's tallish, darkish, good-looking in an angular sort of way, and I imagine he has no difficulty in finding a bedmate. There, does that satisfy you?'

  'I bet it satisfies him,' drawled Zoe, eyeing her friend with interested eyes. 'But does he appeal to you?' she persisted, and Frances returned the look, measure for measure, and then gave in, her face breaking into a reluctant grin.

  'Yes, Zoe, to my annoyance, but the feeling isn't reciprocated, so you can take that look off your face.'

  'How do you know?'

  Frances shrugged. 'I overheard something I wasn't meant to hear.'

  'Fatal, but irresistible. Go on.'

  'I went back for my gloves and the door was open.

  Tom Deverell was saying something complimentary “about the reading and he went on about how marvellous my hair would look under the lights. While I was dithering over whether to knock and interrupt them my dear actor friend, in his most cynical voice, said that colour comes out of a bottle these days and not to fall for a pair of blue eyes! He finished off this piece of good advice by saying that I looked like nothing but trouble to him.'

  'Male chauvinist pig,' announced Zoe calmly. 'Yet another actor with an inflated ego. We will not become involved emotionally, Frankie, with an actor—let someone else pander to their neuroses.' She stretched out her arms and stifled a yawn, and looking at the clock, exclaimed : 'Heavens—look at the time! I must be off to do my bit.'

  'How's the show going?' Frances asked with interest.

  'Fine. I can't believe I'm in a West End hit. Eight months and still full houses!'

  When Zoe had left for the theatre Frances found her thoughts returning to the television job. She wondered why she felt so upset over the actor's remarks about her and hoped Tom Deverell wouldn't allow himself to be influenced by them. She needed something demanding to go at, something to bring her alive emotionally again. The dreadful ache and deadness that had been with her when she left Chichester was gone and she was beginning to come out of limbo. Spring was having its influence too, and the part of Mary Trewith could prove an exciting challenge, if only she were given the chance to do it. Bother arrogant, enigmatic men and their interfering ways, she grumbled.

  She came into contact with that same arrogant, enigmatic man some two weeks later. Right on collision course they met abruptly in the doorway of the Studios and once more his arms grabbed her and her cheek pressed briefly against the hard chest.

  'Oh! It's you,' she said short
ly, pushing herself away.

  'And I might have guessed it would be you,' he answered with heavy calm. 'It does help to look where you're going, you know.'

  'Yes, I'm sorry, it was my fault,' she replied, her eyes searching the floor.

  'Is this what you're looking for?' he asked, and bent down to retrieve her script. 'I see you've been given the part of Mary Trewith.'

  'Yes.' She could have said more, but didn't, and took the script from him. 'I've just collected this.'

  'Are you pleased?'

  'Of course I'm pleased,' she said, as if talking to an idiot, and then her natural buoyancy bubbled through and she broke into a wide smile. 'Thrilled to bits, actually—and a little scared too. I hope the director will be patient with me at first. Er . . . are you playing Nick Penruth?' she asked cautiously, and he gave a sardonic smile.

  'No,' and the relief must have shown on her face because he added mockingly: 'More's the pity . . . I enjoyed your audition immensely.'

  'I wish I could say the same,' Frances replied waspishly, remembering the kiss and feeling her cheeks redden.

  'I thought we went rather well together,' he complained in a hurt voice, and Frances gritted her teeth and said what she knew needed to be said.

  'Thank you for reading in so well with me, I'm sure that helped.'

  'My pleasure,' he replied with exaggeration, 'always ready to oblige . . . in any way,' and giving her a knowing smile, he walked on.

  Frances resisted the urge to throw something at him— the only thing to hand was the script, and she was going to need that! What is it about that man ? She asked herself in exasperation. The minute we start talking like reasonable human beings he drops the acid in. Thank goodness, she thought with fervour, that he's not Penruth ! She would have found it difficult to portray love with his mocking eyes looking down at her.