Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Frank was standing at the vast window, looking down at the ceaseless flow of traffic that swarmed over the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. He was a tall man, well-built, with a shock of grey hair that glinted silver in the sunlight. Beneath his dark, heavy brows the expression in his brown eyes was normally a captivating combination of shrewdness and humour, though at that moment he was frowning. He ran a finger down the length of his regal nose, and his wide mouth was a compressed line of concentration. After a while he followed the progress of a chopper as it swooped out of the Downtown Heliport until it disappeared from view behind the tower blocks of Brooklyn Heights; then he inhaled deeply, slid his hands into his trouser pockets and turned back into the room.

  Sitting round the mahogany mini-conference table that jutted from the rear of his desk were Stephanie, Matthew, Deborah Foreman and Grace Hastings, his wife. He looked at them all, one at a time, then strolled back to his desk.

  ‘I understand your reservations about bringing the movie forward,’ he said, resting his large hands on the back of his chair. ‘I understand all you’ve said about weather, light, short days and what that’ll mean in terms of cost’ – his eyes returned to Matthew – ‘but you got Bronwen and Marian out there in Italy now, and it’s not gonna take them long to sort out what you’re gonna shoot there, ’cos Olivia wasn’t there more than four weeks. And I want to get this movie on the road.’

  Stephanie looked at Matthew as he answered. ‘You’re probably right about Italy,’ he said, ‘and I’ve got no objections to shooting in late autumn; I just wanted you to be aware of what it could entail – not only in terms of cost, but weather too.’ He shrugged. ‘However, at the end of the day, it amounts to the same thing. Bad weather costs money.’

  Frank nodded.

  Matthew went on, ‘And it also means that Deborah here will still be writing the end of the screenplay while we’re shooting the beginning of it in Manhattan.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Deborah chipped in, and Matthew tried not to wince at the sycophancy in her voice. Deborah had a certain reputation as an investigative journalist, but nothing she had come up with – either in her book, or for the screenplay – had so far impressed him. Her writing was lazy, repetitive and very often included straight lifts from the newspapers of the time. He guessed that in her day she might well have been a force to be reckoned with, but now she was little more than a tired old hack whom Frank Hastings had taken on because her fading glory made her malleable. She was a large woman, probably in her early fifties, though the thick powder on her cheeks, black-pencilled lines round her eyes and syrupy coating of tangerine lipstick gave her the look of a gruesome thirty-year-old caught up in a sixties time-warp.

  Matthew turned back to Frank. ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘plenty of films have been shot this way before – I mean, without the script being complete – but what I want you to realise is that there could be developments in Italy that might entail a re-shoot in Manhattan.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I don’t know until Deborah has written the Italian scenes, but what I’m thinking is that if she fictionalises something to take place in Florence, or the Tuscan village, that should have its roots in Manhattan, we might not know in time.’

  ‘Know what?’ Deborah asked sourly.

  ‘What you’re going to write,’ Stephanie explained patiently.

  ‘Well, how can I know until we’ve spoken to Bronwen?’

  ‘You can’t. But what Matthew and I are trying to point out is that scenes can’t be scheduled until you have written them. Now, what we have for Bennington stands, so do most of the New York scenes – those we can schedule; but if we’re shooting in Manhattan while you’re writing the Italian scenes, and you come up with something that affects New York, we won’t be able to put it into the schedule.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because once the schedule has been drawn up, actors will be contracted according to that schedule, as will locations, camera equipment, special effects – the list is endless. Therefore we won’t be able to change it without incurring enormous costs. So unless you can come up with a working script for Italy within the next three to four weeks . . .’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Deborah interjected heatedly.

  ‘Precisely.’ Stephanie turned to Frank. ‘The bottom line is that there should be something in the budget to facilitate a return to New York, should it be necessary. If there is, then Matthew and I are right with you on pulling the film forward.’

  Frank chuckled. ‘Thank you, Stephanie.’ He looked at Grace, and though neither of them spoke, both Stephanie and Matthew could sense the almost tangible bond that held them in mental and physical togetherness. ‘Yeah, sure, it figures.’ Frank nodded, and pulled out his chair to sit down. ‘When are you speaking to Bronwen?’

  ‘Later, I hope,’ Stephanie answered. ‘I called her yesterday, but it must have been around ten o’clock at night in Florence and she wasn’t very coherent – she seems to have got herself a bad case of heat-stroke. I did manage to get out of her that they’d interviewed Sergio Rambaldi yesterday afternoon, and got some pretty useful stuff, but apparently Marian has the details, and when I tried her room there was no answer.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll try again when this meeting’s over, and naturally, if she’s come up with some draft scenes – which, knowing Marian, she will have – I’ll get her to call Deborah straightaway.’

  Frank rested his chin on a bunched fist and again looked at his wife. She gave an almost imperceptible nod and he said: ‘OK, I’ve got no objection to the cost in principle, but I’d like to take a look at the figures before I give the go-ahead.’

  ‘Of course,’ Stephanie answered, and unzipping her attaché case she took out the rough breakdown she and Bronwen had cobbled together since Frank had mooted the suggestion that the film be brought forward. She handed it to him, and watched as his keen eyes perused it, but they gave nothing away. In her lap her hands were clenching and unclenching; she knew that what it amounted to was little short of a further million dollars. She glanced at Matthew, but his mind didn’t seem to be on what was happening in the room. He was sitting with an arm hooked over the back of his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, while he tapped a pen thoughtfully against his chin. But when he caught her eye he winked, and Stephanie pursed her lips as she realised that his nonchalant air was a deliberate ruse to tease her.

  When Frank had finished he pushed the budget across the table to Grace.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘if that’s what it costs, then that’s what it costs. But if I paid my boys even twice what you’re paying yourself, Stephanie, they’d be out of here faster than you can say God Save the Queen. Now all I wanna know is when to free up the capital?’

  Again Stephanie delved into her case, and this time she handed him a calendar breakdown of estimated financial commitments.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he said, as she passed it over. ‘Shrewd anticipation breeds healthy results.’

  Matthew grinned as Stephanie preened herself at the compliment, and noticing, she dealt him a swift kick on the shin.

  ‘I’ll have my accountants look this over,’ Frank told her, then after exchanging yet another look with his wife, he said, ‘I want you to talk with my lawyers about the film, Stephanie. You and Deborah. We don’t want any libel suits, or anything that might cause embarrassment. I know you’ve heeded my request not to dig too deep on this, and I appreciate it. I also appreciate you not asking me to explain. Now, I’ve instructed the attorneys to be here at three thirty, so why don’t we take a break until they arrive. Matthew, my wife would like to talk to you, in private, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Matthew answered, unable to hide his surprise.

  ‘Just a minute, before you go,’ Deborah said stiffly. She looked at Frank. ‘Rubin Meyer.’

  Frank sighed. ‘Yeah, sure.’ And his lips tightened as Deborah Foreman folded her arms and sat back in her
chair with a supercilious look on her face.

  Frank turned to Stephanie. ‘The scenes with Meyer, did Marian write them?’

  ‘More or less,’ Stephanie answered.

  His eyes met Grace’s. ‘Yep, I thought so.’

  ‘Why? Is there something wrong with them?’ Stephanie asked, baffled.

  ‘No, they’re all great. The guy’s as jittery as she’s written him, and just like the script suggests, he’s been feeding narcotics to art students in this town since the mid-seventies. Which reminds me,’ he said, as he made a note on the pad in front of him, ‘that’s something else we’ll have to bring up with the lawyers. I notice Marian’s already changed Meyer’s name, but it’s not enough. We’ll work on that. No, the real point is the final scene with Olivia and Meyer in New York. There are undertones of an ulterior motive for telling her to go to Italy. I want it changed.’

  It was on the tip of Stephanie’s tongue to ask why, but she knew that Frank’s answer would be evasive.

  ‘Deborah’s already drafted an alternative scene,’ he went on, ‘which she’ll show you. There’s nothing portentous in it and that’s the way I want it to be.’

  Stephanie nodded. ‘OK.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Now is there anything else before we break up?’

  ‘Nightclubs,’ Matthew said. ‘We’ll be engaging a location manager as soon as we get back to London, but my feeling is that he’s going to have some trouble getting permission to film if we’re going to say that drugs were taken in the club. Can you help?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll have my secretary get onto it right away. I guess there’ll be no problem with Bennington?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Not according to Bronwen.’

  ‘Good. And I’ve got a couple of downtown art galleries in mind that you might like to take a look at while you’re in town.’

  Matthew smiled, and it was clear to everyone in the room that the two men both liked and admired one another. ‘Just lead me to ’em,’ Matthew said, affecting Frank’s New York accent.

  Frank’s amusement was evident as he said, ‘I think you’re gonna like ’em, Matthew.’

  ‘So all we’re needing now is a workable script for Italy.’ Matthew thought it odd that it was Deborah who had reiterated the obvious, especially as she made it sound like someone else’s responsibility. Still, considering what she’d been coming up with, it probably was.

  ‘Shame Marian didn’t come over with you,’ Frank said, as he capped his pen and poked it into his inside pocket. ‘Grace and I would like to meet her. Sounds like a bright kid, judging by her latest ideas.’

  ‘She is,’ Matthew answered, wondering if the snub to Deborah was deliberate.

  ‘Now, you all coming out to the house for dinner tonight?’ Frank said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll have my chauffeur pick you up at your hotel around seven, that do you?’

  They all stood up, and catching Stephanie’s eye, Grace smiled. ‘When it comes to mundane matters like eating, you can always rely on a man to overlook what’s important,’ she said. ‘Is anyone a vegetarian?’

  Stephanie laughed. ‘No vegetarians.’

  ‘Except me,’ Deborah added.

  ‘And there was I thinking she was a cannibal,’ Matthew breathed in Stephanie’s ear – and from the smile that flitted across her face, it was evident that Grace had heard too.

  ‘See you tonight, then, Matthew,’ Frank said, walking Stephanie and Deborah to the door.

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ Matthew responded. ‘It’ll give me a chance to do a recce on the place.’

  He was still smiling as he turned back to Grace, and she waved a hand for him to sit down again. She was a woman whose manner held all the poise and serenity her name suggested, and when Matthew was first introduced to her he had been hard put to it to hide his surprise. Though her hair – which she wore in a knot at the back of her neck – was greying, and fine lines fanned the corners of her blue eyes, her delicate face was an uncanny replica of Olivia’s, though of course older – and devoid of malevolence. He’d watched her over the past two hours, how she held her position at Frank’s side with sensitivity and subtlety, and he knew intuitively that although it was unlikely that she was responsible for Frank’s success, she was almost certainly at the core of his strength. Not, he imagined, because she was in any way manipulative or cunning – she probably knew little about the day to day running of the Hastings’ empire – but because she truly loved her husband and he her.

  Grace waited for him to sit down, then folded her hands on the table in front of her, and as she spoke her blue eyes were watching him carefully. ‘I want to talk to you, Matthew, to ask you if you’ve ever heard of a man by the name of Art Douglas?’

  Matthew frowned as he searched his memory. ‘I don’t think so. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a reporter, here in New York. Used to be a reporter, would be more correct.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘No, but now I know you don’t, it makes this conversation all the more necessary.’

  Mystified, Matthew waited for her to continue.

  ‘Art Douglas knows what happened to Olivia before she went missing.’ Grace paused, and her eyes dropped to her hands. ‘You have heard about the newspaper editor who died in a car smash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Art Douglas believes that it wasn’t an accident’ – and as she lifted her head she looked straight into his eyes. ‘He believes that certain people here in Manhattan killed his editor.’

  Though she hadn’t emphasised any of her words, hadn’t altered the tone of her voice nor changed her expression, there was suddenly an air in the room that Matthew found unsettling. He held her gaze, but when she didn’t continue he ventured, ‘Something to do with Olivia?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Eddie Kalinowski – the editor – knew things about the people Olivia was involved with. He told Art, and consequently Art considers his own life to be in danger. After the car smash he went into hiding – went to ground, as they call it. Frank has regular contact with him, but respects Art’s wish to remain hidden; after all, if Art is right about the accident, he has cause to think his life is in jeopardy. I’m telling you this, because that’s what it could mean to know what Olivia was mixed up in. So if you don’t wish to know, please say so now.’ Her expression was deadly serious and Matthew felt a cold chill run down his spine.

  ‘Is there a reason why I should know?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘You should know because Marian knows.’

  Matthew couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d hit him.

  ‘Marian knows,’ he breathed. ‘How?’

  ‘Art Douglas told her.’

  ‘He what? When?’ He dashed his fingers through his hair, then suddenly leapt to his feet and started to pace the room.

  ‘If you just hang on, I’ll tell you. As far as Art is aware, he and Frank don’t agree on what might have happened to Olivia. Art believes that Olivia is in Italy, and that there was a conspiracy between Rubin Meyer and Sergio Rambaldi to keep her there.’ She paused. ‘In fact, that’s exactly what Frank thinks too, and that is why he doesn’t want that scene in the film, because if Rubin Meyer does know where Olivia is, he’s the last person Frank wants to upset. The reason Frank hasn’t confided his suspicions to Art is because he’s afraid Art might do something stupid, like confront Meyer.’

  ‘But why did Douglas tell Marian? Jesus Christ, Marian of all people. She’s only a kid.’

  ‘He told her because she’d been to see Jodi Rosenberg, an old friend of Olivia’s, and Jodi and Art are both of the opinion that Frank should be persuaded into accusing Meyer through the movie. As Marian had expressed more interest in the cover-up than anyone else, Jodi and Art assumed her to be the person to tell, in the hope that she would join them in persuading Frank.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because Art’s conscience was troubling him after he told Marian, so he confessed to Frank what he h
ad done – for Marian’s protection.’ She pronounced the last three words with ominous deliberation. ‘If she were to let something slip to the wrong person, then . . . Well, who knows what might happen to her.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Matthew groaned. ‘Why hasn’t she told anyone about this?’

  ‘Both Art and Jodi swore her to secrecy. The only person she was to speak to was Frank. It is a dangerous thing to know, but . . .’

  ‘But what about Jodi? If she knows, why isn’t she in hiding?’

  ‘She employs a team of bodyguards to watch over her twenty-four hours a day. Art doesn’t have that kind of money.’

  Matthew slumped back in his chair and dropped his head in his hands. ‘Neither does Marian.’

  ‘Which is why I’m telling you.’

  He nodded. ‘Shit!’ he muttered, as he remembered the scene he’d had with Marian after she’d been to see Jodi. He looked at Grace. ‘She did it for me, you know.’ And when Grace looked perplexed, he waved a hand dismissively. ‘She had some notion in her head that I thought she didn’t count for anything, so she went to see Jodi in the hope of getting to the bottom of things, to try and make me change my mind about her.’

  ‘I see.’ Grace smiled inwardly as she realised that she probably understood a great deal more from that than he did. ‘Well, now it’s only for me to tell you what Olivia was doing. Of course, you don’t have to know . . .’

  ‘No, no, I do,’ he interrupted. ‘She can’t carry this on her own.’

  ‘Sure, but it could put you in a position of . . .’

  ‘Don’t let’s worry about that.’

  ‘OK. But obviously, once I’ve told you it should go no further. It can’t possibly go into the movie, and we don’t want to put anyone else at risk.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I don’t even know if Marian is at risk, but there’s no point in taking chances.’

  He nodded, then he noticed that her expression was changing, and as he listened in growing horror and disgust to what she was telling him, a look of such suffering came over her face that he told her to stop. But she shook her head and went on, pouring out the loathsome exploits of the paedophile club and her daughter’s part in it, as if she were going through some kind of ritualistic exorcism. Images of his own children at that age sprang to Matthew’s mind, and he clenched his teeth against the revulsion and violence he felt not only towards the men who were committing the rapes, but towards Olivia Hastings too. He knew that even if he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand why a girl with parents like Frank and Grace, a girl who had the world at her feet, had ever needed to take the drugs that drove her to commit such atrocities.