Scorpio Summer

by Jacqueline Gilbert

'You're easily identifiable, Julian! She looks like a wasp.'

  'She certainly has a sting in her tail,' announced Julian, leaping back into the driving seat. 'In you get, Frank, I'll give you a lift.'

  'Why, thank you, Julian, but it's hardly worth it. I'm nearly there, when I can find the place!'

  'Jump in, I say. I know exactly where you're going,' and he gazed benignly up at her.

  Frances stared back, hardly daring to believe him. 'Julian! Do you mean . . .?'

  He grinned. 'I do. It's time we worked together again, isn't it?'

  Frances tumbled into the car and threw her arms round him. 'Oh, Julian, I am glad! Now I'll know someone in the cast. Who . . .?'

  'Nick Penruth himself sits before you, dear girl,' cut in Julian. 'All ready to tackle the first seven episodes and by popular request, a further twenty-seven!'

  'Idiot!' exclaimed Frances, and suddenly realising the effect they were having on the inhabitants of Prince Albert Road, she said hastily: 'Does this thing have a seat belt, Julian?'

  'It's damned difficult to get at,' he grumbled, complying with her request by finding it for her, 'and you're a gonner anyway if you have a bust-up.'

  'You say the most reassuring things,' drawled Frances, clicking herself in, 'and Julian, I want to get to rehearsal in one piece with no speed records broken, understand?'

  'The hall is just up the road, and if you think you can judge this beauty's potential by driving a hundred yards you're mistaken.'

  With a 'whoomph' in the small of her back and a screeching bellow from the exhaust, the Panther sprang forward with a snarl, and Frances grabbed the sides of her seat.

  They circled the area and finally whined into a carpark, windswept and exhilarated, with Julian shouting: 'It's got very good braking power.'

  'I'm very glad to hear it,' Frances shouted back, and received his grin. Making a large sweep, Julian pulled up beside the line of cars. When the noise of the Panther died down they both eyed the sleek black Lancia, and raising his brows, Julian drawled:

  'Very nice,' and jumping out he whipped off his cap, ruffling his fair hair as he walked round the Lancia for a closer inspection. 'I wonder whose this is?' he asked at last.

  'Felix Ravenscar's,' replied Frances calmly, removing herself with some difficulty.

  Julian stopped his prowling and looked at her with interest. 'Oh, yes? And since when has our Frank been carousing with the likes of our illustrious director?'

  'Why should you assume I've been carousing?'

  'Because you're beautiful, Frank, and Ravenscar has an eye for beauty.'

  She dropped him a curtsey. Thank you kindly! What a lovely word carouse is. I wonder why we don't use it more often?'

  'I make sure I use it at least three times a day,' Julian said solemnly.

  Frances laughed. 'Fool!' He put his arm round her shoulders and they walked across the car-park towards the hall. 'Do you know him?' she asked casually.

  'Who ?Felix ? Yes, he's a friend of the family.' Julian peered at her. 'How well do you know him, Frank?'

  For some obscure reason Frances found herself colouring.

  'Do stop looking at me like a dutch uncle, Julian. I don't know him at all—our relationship is strictly a business one.'

  'Mind you keep it that way. Black Felix would make mincemeat out of an innocent like you.'

  'It's two years since Bristol,' Frances reminded him dryly, yet touched by his concern, 'and I'm a big girl now.'

  'I'm very glad to hear it,' Julian replied disbelievingly.

  As the first week of rehearsals passed, Frances knew that all she had heard in praise of Felix Ravenscar as a director was based on fact. Apart from his intelligence and intuitive flair for knowing what he wanted, he also had the ability to approach each actor in such a way as to obtain from them their personal best.

  The cast was a large one and it was impossible to get to know everyone well, but those Frances came into contact with the most she found to be pleasant and friendly, and although they all worked hard there were lighter moments.

  One evening, sitting in Zoe's dressing room watching her friend take off her stage make-up, Frances began to bring her up to date, relating a few amusing incidents.

  'Who's this Gemma you keep on talking about?' Zoe asked, creaming her face.

  'Gemma Ghent? Don't you remember, she was in that Scottish series about a year ago. Dark girl, very pretty. She's worked with Felix before and seems to know him quite well.'

  Zoe's creamed face stared at her through the mirror. 'Oh?'

  Frances looked back uncertainly. 'What do you mean, "oh"?'

  Zoe shrugged. 'I mean that I've been hearing one or two things about your Mr Ravenscar, Frances. He might be the blue-eyed boy around the studios, but his reputation isn't all for directing plays!'

  Holding out a box of tissues, Frances said carelessly: 'What have you heard?'

  'Nothing terrible,' admitted Zoe, using the tissues with practiced speed, 'he's not the flamboyant type, but he's left a few damaged hearts in his wake from females who thought they were the one to change his mind about bachelorhood. They all appear to have a good word for him, though, which says something.'

  'How've you found this out?' Frances asked curiously, and Zoe flapped her hand.

  'Oh, from one of his ex's . . . and she'd come running if he crooked his finger again, by the sound of her.' She aimed the used tissues at the waste-basket and missed. 'She summed him up as being a clever, ambitious man who knows exactly where he's going.'

  Frances picked up the tissues and dropped them in the basket. 'That sounds like him. He's working us as hard as hell so that we'll be ready to go south on time. When he's not sending us through our paces he's having consultations with the costume and make-up people, technicians and script-writers—the man's a positive dynamo.' She perched on the edge of the dressing-table and swung a leg. 'If he's as single-minded in his leisure hours as he is in his business ones I can understand why his ex would come running.'

  'How did it go today? Was it as bad as you thought, being in front of the cameras?' Zoe asked, and Frances shook her head.

  'It was as Felix said, we were so well rehearsed that after a few nervous minutes I almost forgot about them. Julian was a help, bless him.'

  Zoe groaned. 'Oh, lord', Frankie, don't become enamored of Julian Raynor! He has more scalps attached to his belt than Geronimo!'

  'I thought you liked Julian?'

  'He's good fun and the ideal partner for a party . . .'

  'I think you're wrong, Zoe. Julian may give the impression that he's hail-fellow-well-met without a care in the world, but he's not like that really.' Frances grinned mischievously. 'And he's driving me down to Cornwall!'

  'Now you're showing some sense,' retorted Zoe cynically, covering her section of the dressing-table with a cloth and switching off the overhead light. 'Is it tomorrow that you're going to see the new Lowry play?'

  'Yes, Gareth is picking me up at seven,' Frances explained, and Zoe shook her head wonderingly.

  'And this is the girl who only a few weeks ago was saying she was off men!' she tossed over her shoulder.

  'I didn't say I was going to live like a nun!' objected Frances, pushing open the stage door and taking a welcome breath of fresh air. 'I just said that I was going to remain heartwhole,' she added, coming to an abrupt halt.

  'What's the matter?' Zoe asked, bumping into her and following her gaze. So far as she could see there was nothing out of the ordinary about the audience still streaming from the theatre foyer.

  'If you want to see what Felix Ravenscar is like, Zoe, he's over there,' said Frances calmly, 'talking to the girl in white who looks like a model. See?'

  Zoe peered in the crowd and then nodded. "Yes, I see, and she's not a model, she's the daughter of a banker.' Her eyes moved over. 'So that's Felix Ravenscar, she commented, watching the couple climb into a taxi and drive off. 'Mmm, an interesting face. I can see the attraction.' The two girls began to make the
ir way to a Greek restaurant where they were meeting some of the cast from Zoe's show.

  Zoe shot her friend a keen look. 'Are you sure he hasn't made a pass at you, Frankie?'

  'Quite sure—and I'd know, wouldn't I?' Frances replied dryly. 'You needn't worry, Zoe, I'm quite safe. There's something about me that bothers him.' She shrugged. 'Nothing to do with the job. I don't know what it is.'

  'Go down on your knees and thank the good Lord! because that man's nothing but trouble for a softy like you,' answered Zoe firmly, and following her into the restaurant, Frances was inclined to agree with her.

  The Lowry play lived up to its expectations and Frances spent an enjoyable evening with Gareth Williams, the Welshman proving an intelligent and amusing companion, and showing a lively knowledge of the theatre. They parted with the promise of repeating their evening together when Frances returned from Cornwall.

  Cornwall! Suddenly there was only one more day in London and then they would be off. Accommodation addresses had been given out, times of trains and buses had been noted. The tiny village of Morwenstow, the cliffs along that part of the north Cornish coast as well as Bodmin Moor, were all to be the main locations for the filming ofPenruth, well trodden and loved by Frances in her childhood. Most of the addresses for the company to stay at had been in or around Launceston, a good central spot for that part of Cornwall, but they were not for her. Frances had high hopes of finding somewhere off the beaten track to stay.

  With her mind buzzing over with plans, she ran down the last flight of stairs at the studios, turning over the idea of buying or hiring a bicycle for getting herself to and from the location points. She reached the foyer just as Felix walked out of the lift and they walked towards the main doors together.

  Felix looked in surprise at his watch, saying: 'Good heavens, Frances, what are you doing here at this time?' They both said goodnight to the girl on reception, thanked the doorman for opening the door, and stepped out of the building.

  'Wardrobe wasn't happy with a couple of my costumes,' Frances explained as they slowed to a standstill on the pavement outside. 'I've been having a fitting and it took longer than expected.' She looked at him and said impulsively: 'You look tired, Felix.'

  He smiled faintly and replied: 'Will you come and soothe my fevered brow, Frances ? Or is your cool palm already spoken for?'

  'I wouldn't be much use, I'm afraid. I'd be fainting at your feet with hunger! I haven't eaten since midday, and that was only a snack,' she pointed out apologetically.

  'So much the better. I dislike eating alone. May I feed you, Frances?'

  'Why, I . . . thank you,' and almost before the final words had stuttered from her lips she found her arm taken and she was led towards a waiting taxi.

  The Lancia is being serviced,' Felix explained as he sank into the back seat with her. 'They're bringing it back later this evening.' He ran his fingers through his hair as if to clear his thoughts. 'Any preference in the eating line?'

  Frances shook her head. 'No, but I hope we're not going anywhere special ? I'm not dressed for dining out.'

  Felix passed a sweeping gaze over her silk blouse and tailored trousers, cream and brown, and the beige chunky-knit jacket slung round her shoulders.

  'You look charming to me, but as we're eating in private you needn't worry.' Frances gave him a startled look and he added dryly: 'That is, unless you're too scared to dine alone with me in my flat?'

  She felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she was given another glance, this time a faintly mocking one.

  'No, of course I'm not,' she managed calmly, and with commendable panache, added: 'Do I have to earn my food by cooking it?'

  He laughed with a spontaneous burst of amusement and Frances found herself laughing with him. 'By no means, my dear girl,' Felix told her reassuringly. 'I have a very satisfactory arrangement with an excellent French restaurant just round the corner. They deliver superb food at the ring of the telephone.'

  'How civilised,' she responded with approval. 'Not even any washing up!'

  The taxi pulled up outside a tall apartment block, quite old and gritty-looking on the facade but which, Frances soon realised, in no way advertised the comfortable accommodation inside.

  She wandered over to the huge window where there was an unexpected view of the Thames in the distance. As it was nearly dark, the lights of the city added to the picture.

  'I suggest you go and freshen up while I phone for the food,' said Felix, crossing to the telephone. 'The bathroom's through that door—have a shower if you feel like one, there's plenty of towels, but be as quick as you can, there's a good girl, because I'm ravenous!'

  She grinned and ran. A quarter of an hour later she emerged feeling as good as new. Felix passed her with a 'make yourself at home' and disappeared into the bathroom.

  The curtains had now been drawn and the table laid. Frances wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase which was filled to overflowing. Her eyes quickly passed along the shelves . . . Conrad, James, Hemingway, Kafka, Hardy, Le Carre—none really gave a clue, except that his taste was catholic. The row of books devoted to the cinema and theatre was more expected, but the scientific and mathematical ones were a surprise.

  'You've managed to keep happy, I see.'

  Frances looked up with a start to find Felix entering, his hair curling slightly from the shower, looking less tired in a clean open-necked shirt and light-coloured pants. He moved indolently across the room, a bottle of wine in his hand which he placed on the table.

  'I'm a compulsive bookcase scrutineer,' Frances confessed, reluctantly replacing a book on Picasso. There was a ring at the doorbell and Felix glanced at his watch, giving a nod of approval.

  'Good. The food has arrived.' He left her and she could hear voices in the hall. A few seconds later he reappeared carrying a cloth-covered tray. 'If madam would care to join me?' and with a swirl of the hand he threw off the cover.

  The food, as promised, was delicious and they were so hungry it was eaten in almost total silence. The tray was then restacked with the used plates and with wine glasses refilled, they left the table and moved to the other end of the room.

  Felix paused at the record cabinet, selected a record and by the time he had settled his long body on the carpet, his back against the seat of the settee, the mellow voice of Sinatra washed over them.

  Frances, curled up on the settee, pushed a cushion over and fitted it under his head.

  'What a clever girl you are, Frances, full of home comforts,' he drawled, moving more comfortably to accommodate it. 'All I need now is the cool hand to soothe my fevered brow.'

  Frances had no intention of playing with fire. She felt relaxed and happy and in complete control, and she wanted to stay that way.

  'Your brow doesn't look at all fevered to me, and if it is then you should have chosen Diana Ross or Barbra Streisand to soothe it for you. For me, Sinatra's fine.'

  He smiled and made no reply.

  From where Frances was sitting it seemed natural to let her eyes rest upon him. The dark head was very close to her knee. If she reached out she could run her fingers lightly through his hair, or rest her palm against the sharp planes of his face. His eyes were closed and she could see how thickly the lashes lay across his cheeks. One arm, sleeve turned back, was resting across his stomach, the other lay on the carpet, fingers comfortably touching the stem of the wine glass. With one knee upraised and the other outstretched, he lay in an attitude of complete ease.

  The scorpion motionless, poised before the kill.

  'What are you thinking, Frances?'

  He hadn't moved, hadn't looked in her direction, but Frances felt a wave of panic sweep over her, almost as if he had caught her with her fingers actually touching the curls growing bushier because of the recent shower.

  'I was wondering where you've managed to acquire that marvellous tan. Not, I guess, from our uncertain English weather!' She was rather proud of her casual tone.

  'Quite right. I c
aught this filming on Corfu. Do you know Greece?'

  Frances gave a spurt of laughter. 'Only from brochures, and it looks heavenly.' She gave a sigh, heavier than she intended. 'I'm not a travelled person. The furthest south I've managed is Land's End, and north, Middlesbrough!' Her shoulders began to shake with amusement. 'The mind boggles!' And then she said dreamily: 'Oh, but I'd love to go to the Greek Islands— or Venice—how beautiful Venice must be . . . but then I've always had a yearning to see the Grand Canyon,' and her voice trailed, as if she was considering the toss of a coin to determine which dream should take priority.

  'I've seen most of the places I've wanted to see,' Felix said pensively. 'I'm afraid I tend to take travel for granted these days, business or pleasure. A pity when the bloom goes off enthusiasm.' He took a drink. 'You would be an excellent companion for the blasted traveller, Frances. Your delight would renew all the old ones. I should like to take you to the Greek Islands, or Venice, which though very beautiful is a dying city and rather sad. Would you come with me, Frances, and make me see them through your eyes?'

  The words dropped like a stone into a pond, the ripples multiplied in ever-increasing circles. Shock ripples.

  Frances sat very still.

  'Of course, if you'd rather it was the Grand Canyon, then Arizona it shall be, but I'd sooner you chose Greece or Venice—both are much more romantic than the Grand Canyon.' He opened his eyes and twisted his head slightly. Sinatra was adding to the occasion by begging her to fly with him to the moon. Both requests were equally outside her scope.

  'Have you lost your tongue, Frances?'

  The tawny eyes held hers in a steady look, clear and questioning, and Frances dragged her own away, transferring them to the wine left in her glass.

  'You shouldn't joke about such things, Felix, she scolded gently, 'you might be misunderstood.'

  'I'm not joking, my dear. I was never more serious in my life.'

  'I . . . I don't believe you.'

  'I wish you would.' He turned his body towards her and took her free hand in his, caressing the smooth skin of her inner arm with his fingers. 'We'd go to Corfu first, I think, it's an ideal place to get to know each other. Life is leisurely on the Island. We would lie on the sands in the sun, swim in the bluest of blue seas, drink local wine beneath the moon …