The topaz eyes smiled and he drawled:
'I don't want you to catch pneumonia until after we've finishedPenruth,' and a newly ironed handkerchief was flipped out of his top pocket and handed to her.
'I'll see if I can oblige,' answered Frances. 'I saw the car pull up and thought I'd save you getting drenched as well,' she explained, mopping herself up. 'This won't be much use to you now, she observed, eyeing the now sodden handkerchief ruefully. 'I'll launder it for you, Mr Ravenscar, and …
He plucked the linen out of her hand and threw it negligently into the dash compartment. 'I thought we'd dispensed with formality on the telephone. You called me Felix on Sunday.'
'Did I?' said Frances in surprise that was genuine. She shivered slightly. The rain was now beating heavily upon the car, the water running down the windows in a steady torrent. The Lancia seemed isolated and very intimate.
'Yes, Frances, you did. And knowing how everyone is on Christian name terms in the theatrical profession, we may as well start practicing today. Here's your watch, he added, bringing an envelope from his pocket. 'Shall I fasten it for you?'
She nodded and held out her hand and he slipped it on, fingers cool and firm as he secured the tiny gold watch into place.
'Thank you for having it mended for me. How much do I . . .?'
'There's no charge. One of our technicians did it— merely a ten-second job. Nothing that your independent soul could possibly object to,' and he smiled, a slow lazy smile.
Before Frances could check herself she found that she was smiling in return, the tensions of this meeting dissolving and a spreading warmth enveloping her. All her preconceived notions of behaviour for the day melted into nothing.
In that moment, as they sat smiling at one another, Frances was beset by a number of contradictory emotions, of which the first was exasperation. It seemed that she was completely unable to carry out the simplest of plans—of coolness and reserve. This was followed by the utmost pleasure at being on the receiving end of that smile.
Warning bells were signalling somewhere far back in the recesses of her mind, telling her that working efficiently with Felix Ravenscar didn't mean being a fool as well. That this man was a past master at knocking down the strongest of resolutions—and where was her backbone, for heaven's sake?
'How do you know that I have an independent soul?' she asked.
'I guessed.' His brow gave a comical quirk. 'Have you read any good horoscopes lately?'
She laughed. 'No! I only consult them when I'm stuck in a lift,' and feeling ridiculously pleased that he had referred to their first meeting, added teasingly: 'Was I right? About Scorpio?'
'If November the second comes under that sign, then yes, you were right,' he replied, peering through the windscreen at the now abating cloudburst. 'I believe it's letting up. I'll put the heater on once we're moving and you'll be warmer. Ready?' he asked, his eyes upon her once more.
Frances nodded and in the next moment they were under way.
So he had noticed her shiver, she thought to herself. Not much missed those eyes, and the reflection unnerved her slightly. She moved casually in her seat so that her eyes could rest on him without him being aware of her regard.
Scorpio . . .
The sign of the Zodiac governed by the planet Pluto.
Scorpio . . .
The sign depicted by the scorpion, whose sting is sometimes fatal.
You'd better remember that, my girl, Frances told herself urgently, and dragging her gaze away, looked resolutely out of the window.
CHAPTER FOUR
As they swung into Kennington Road, Felix said casually.
'My mother sends her love.'
Frances looked at him sharply. 'You told her you'd be seeing me today?'
'Naturally. It's given her something to think about,' he replied dryly, braking suddenly to avoid a motor-cyclist coming up on the nearside. 'Silly young fool,' he said calmly, watching the bike race on ahead.
Frances studied him curiously. There was no exasperation or show of temper following what could have been a nasty accident. This confirmed her first opinion that Felix Ravenscar was basically a cool customer, not readily given to displaying emotion, able to cope efficiently with any situation.
'How did you get into the acting game?' he asked suddenly, cutting into her thoughts.
She wrinkled her nose, giving the question her full attention. 'I suppose I drifted into it. A girl I knew at school dragged me along to a local drama group and it was ironical that her interest waned while mine grew. Leaving school at eighteen it seemed automatic to go on to drama school.'
'Your parents raised no objections?'
'They died when I was fifteen, but I don't think they would have stopped me going.'
He was quiet for a moment. 'Have you any brothers or sisters?'
Frances shook her head. 'No. I was transferred from day school to boarding school and from there went on to drama school. Luckily there was enough money to see me through my training, and by that time I was fairly used to being self-sufficient, so the rounds of grotty digs and strange, lonely towns were not hard to adapt to. The parts were small, of course, but I gained good experience —and when you're young it's all an adventure and part of living life to the full, isn't it?' and her voice was full of amusement at herself at that time.
Felix said dryly: 'Thus speaks the ancient twenty-five- year-old .You make my further decade seem twice that long.' He shot her a quick glance. 'And how different is the Frances of then and the Frances of now?'
'Five years different,' she said a trifle grimly.
'Do I denote a touch of cynicism in the tone?'
'Not really. You can't go through life without being hurt, can you?'
'Or hurting others.'
Frances frowned. 'Only unconsciously, I hope. Anyway, you don't go into this profession without realizing the difficulties, not if you have any sense. I had my share of luck . . . I stepped out of understudy shoes into lead part on dress rehearsal night at Bristol—that was my first real break. I received good notices and the parts and the digs have become progressively better ever since. Hence me sitting here beside the well-known television director Felix Ravenscar.'
'Of whom you'd never heard,' came back the sardonic retort.
She looked at him thoughtfully. 'You couldn't care less about that, could you?'
He smiled but did not dispute her claim, saying instead: 'I believe I must have read your Chichester reviews.'
'You could have,' Frances admitted. 'We made the national press.' Her voice softened. 'That was quite a play.'
'I'm surprised they didn't keep you.'
Frances did not reply. She was dismayed by the sudden urge to explain, justify, but pride has two edges, and whereas she wanted him to know that Chichester had been reluctant to let her go, conversely she didn't want to make known the reasons for her flight. Luckily they arrived at the studios and this topic of conversation was shelved.
Felix parked the car and on their way into the building advised her of the morning's plans. 'I'm going to take you to a studio and leave you for a while. I've already checked with the director concerned and he's given his consent.' His stride faltered and he looked down at her quizzically. 'Will you chance the lift, or are you going to make me walk the stairs?'
She laughed. 'I'll chance the lift.'
'Good girl.' The doors slid open and they walked in. The lift behaved itself beautifully and they left it on the third floor.
'Here we are,' Felix announced, pausing at a set of double doors. 'In you go.'
Frances found herself in the control room of a large studio, looking very much as she had imagined it to look from information gleaned from films and documentaries. The wall opposite her was made of glass, giving a complete view of the studio floor below, where the actors and cameramen were working. All the technicians were wearing headphones and Frances could see a microphone standing on the long table area, through which contact was presumably made
. It all looked, she thought with a flicker of panic, terribly complicated. She must have appeared slightly worried because the man seated opposite the microphone gave her an encouraging smile and lifted his hand briefly to Felix, who acknowledged the greeting and led Frances to a chair by the glass wall.
'I won't forget you,' he promised quietly, and resting his hand gently upon her shoulder in a reassuring gesture he then left.
She looked around her, feeling rather self-conscious at first, but as no one took any notice of her she gradually became engrossed in what was going on.
Her interest was initially held by the wall filled completely with monitored television sets, each showing a different picture of what was happening down below. She became aware that although the director and his staff, seated at the long table, had their backs to the glass wall and studio, they were following the action through these screens.
Turning to the studio floor she could see that it was divided into three compartments, or sets, each depicting a different scene. One looked like a pub-bar, another the kitchen of a modern house and the third a court-room. She had a bird's eye view from her position and was so involved that she turned in surprise when Felix slipped into the seat next to hers and she saw from her watch that an hour had passed.
They continued to watch, without speaking, until he touched her arm, indicating that it was time to go. On their way out he placed his hand briefly on his colleague's shoulder, receiving a lift of the hand in return, accompanied by a swift curious look in Frances' direction.
When they were out in the corridor Felix smiled and said:
'You look as though you're bursting with questions,' and she laughed happily, her glowing face raised to his.
'Oh, I am! I can't tell you how interesting I found it. . . thank you, Felix . . .'
'I'm glad the morning has been so successful,' he cut in smoothly, taking her arm and guiding her through a maze of corridors. 'You can ask as many questions as you like, but in comfort, with a cup of coffee,' and Frances found herself in a well furnished office where, at the press of a button, two cups of coffee appeared instantly and the deferential tone of the girl who brought them bespoke a certain amount of awe in relation to her companion.
This brought her up short for a moment, stemming the flow of questions, but Felix's politely effortless manner cleverly unleashed them.
'Who was the director talking to through the mike?' she asked curiously.
'To a man who we call the floor manager,' Felix replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. 'There has to be a liaison between the control room and the studio floor, thus the floor manager is a very important man. All instructions come from the director through to him, and he in turn relays this either to the technical crew, lighting or cameramen, or to the actors.'
'And the people sitting at the desk with the director?'
'The woman on his immediate left is the production assistant and she works ahead of the director, calling camera shots before they're due and following the script. She also makes arrangements for filming, travelling and hotel bookings, and keeps records of all decisions made.'
'Rather like a stage manager,' offered Frances, and Felix nodded.
'On the director's right are the two men who check the next shot due to go up and the colour levels.' He smiled at the look on her face. 'It sounds complicated but isn't really.'
Frances said pensively: 'I can understand now why a television director needs to know the technical side of things, but I suppose during rehearsals you work more or less the same as a theatrical director?'
Felix pursed his lips, giving the matter some thought. 'To a great extent, except that camera angles are always in mind.' He leaned forward and took her cup, placing it with his own empty one on the table beside him. 'Now, for the actor, the difference in the medium is rather like a painting. For the theatre the canvas has to be large, with strong brush strokes, emotions being conveyed by the voice and body. For television, the canvas is smaller and the brush strokes are delicate and intimate, emotions being conveyed by the flicker of an eyelid or the trembling of a lip—both of which would be lost on a theatre audience.'
They were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, and with a murmur of apology, Felix answered it.
While he spoke, Frances thought about her morning. It had been a revelation and not only from the technical side. Her companion had showed her kindness and patience and as he was obviously a very busy man, the time he had allowed her was doubly precious. A busy man and one of importance—this had come noticeably to the fore by the respect shown him by others.
When the telephone conversation finished Frances half expected Felix to show some signs that the visit was over, but he settled back in the chair and ended her uncertainty by raising a quizzical brow, saying: 'Well ? Anything more?'
She lifted her hands expressively from her lap, dropping them down again as she pulled a wry face. 'Too much to waste your time with this morning, but I would like to know how you start off on a project . . . I mean, when, for instance,Penruth arrives on your desk!'
He nodded thoughtfully. 'We begin with a budget plan and call a planning meeting at which all the senior technicians, the head cameramen especially, are present.'
'Why are they involved so early on?' she asked curiously.
'To tell us if what we want to do can be done!' he explained simply. The moveability of cameras, lights, sound booms, all have to be taken into consideration. Then we cast and rehearsals begin. Any film inserts are done fairly early on to allow time for processing and editing. Towards the end of rehearsal time the crews come in and watch a run-through, to get the idea of the thing as a whole. Sometimes problems that were not considered at that initial meeting turn up and have to be ironed out. Rehearsals then move to the studio, make-up people come in; costumes, whether modern or period, have been under way during this period, and the dress rehearsal is run through. Finally the play is performed for the actual take.'
Frances grimaced. 'We'll skip over that bit—the thought terrifies me!'
'By the time I've finished with you, you'll have forgotten that the cameras are even there!' He rose to his feet, brow creased and head slightly tilted as he studied her. 'You might have some discomfort from the heat from the studio lights, and if the weather in Cornwall turns rough you may get rather wet,' he conceded dismissively. 'You'll be perfectly all right,' and seeing her face as she rose, added, 'What are you smiling about, Frances?'
She turned a demure face. 'You! How can I fail to be anything but "all right" if you say so!'
He lifted a brow. I only surround myself with people in whom I have the utmost confidence.'
'You see?' she appealed, still smiling. 'Why, now I could fly to the moon if you said it was possible!'
He returned her smile. 'I won't be asking you to do that.'
Frances made her way leisurely home, stopping off to sit for a while in Park Square. The rain that had deluged over them earlier had ceased, and the sun had been out long enough to dry the pavements and benches, although the grass was still lush with moisture.
She sat for a while thinking about Felix. The words— I only surround myself with people in whom I have the utmost confidence—kept coming back to her. She hoped she could live up to such high expectations. But how typical those words were of the man! He would not suffer fools gladly, or waste time with people he didn't respect, she decided with wry amusement, neither would he kow-tow to people or conventions. She wondered what sort of a director he would turn out to be, finding that she was looking forward to the start of the rehearsals the next day, and on this optimistic note she caught the tube for home.
The following morning Frances allowed herself plenty of time to find the rehearsal room. She changed tubes at Oxford Circus and left at St John's Wood, walking in the direction of Prince Albert Road. She was wondering just how long they were going to rehearse in London before going down to Cornwall and was vaguely aware of a vehicle of some brightness passi
ng her, but when this screeched to a halt, backing up for fifteen yards to finish broadside, the vagueness took a more solid form.
'Frank, girl! Light of my life! I thought I recognized that mop of brilliance . . . let me feast my eyes upon you.'
This enthusiastic and uninhibited greeting came from a gentleman most adequately dressed for the car he was driving. Snazzy check sporting cap, long striped scarf, sheepskin coat and leather gauntlets in no way disguised his identity from Frances.
'Well, well, if it isn't Sir Galahad himself,' she teased. 'And what, my dear Julian, is this monstrosity?'
Julian Raynor took off his tinted glasses, pulled away the scarf and displayed a pained expression on his good looking face.
'My God, Frank!Monstrosity? Have you no soul, woman?' he demanded, flinging open the door with a flourish and unwinding himself with great dignity. Walking round the vehicle, his eyes feasting on its lines, he continued in a voice of utmost patience: 'This, my dear Frank, is the Panther Lima . . . a stylish hand-built sports car, capable of travelling over a hundred miles an hour. . .'
'Not with me in it,' retorted Frances, trying to look suitably impressed. Enthusiasm overtaking patience, Julian's words gained momentum.
'. . . four-cylinder engine, two twin-choke Dell 'Orto carburetters, a Firenza exhaust manifold . . .'
'Yes, yes, Julian, she's beautiful and very striking,' Frances broke in, laughing, and he grinned, patting the long, low bonnet fondly. Knowing that Julian was a perfectly normal man, capable of intelligent conversation away from his cars, she took pity on him and stalked round the Panther, trying to look knowledgeable.
She had to admit that the whole effect was most impressive. The Panther Lima was blessed with a large, curvaceous bonnet and wings that flowed in graceful lines to old-fashioned running-boards. The two headlamps, the radiator grid and the gleaming chrome of the bumper gave the appearance of a permanently grinning face, and looking at the bright yellow and black coach- work, Frances said dryly:
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