Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘All of it. Especially when you’re shouting.’

  ‘I’m shouting because I feel as if I’m going out of my mind. I tell you we’ve lost our star and you don’t bat an eyelid. Grace Hastings asks for a private meeting with you and you won’t tell me what was said. And then you talk to Marian on the phone and don’t find out what’s happening in Italy. What is it with you? Or should I say, what is it with you and Marian? You get back here after that meeting with Grace and the first thing you ask is, has Marian called? Not Bronwen, but Marian – and not a word about what you and Grace have talked about. Then you proceed to ring Italy, every hour on the hour, getting increasingly agitated when you can’t get an answer – and you never once asked for Bronwen’s room, only Marian’s. Then, when you finally speak to Marian, you talk utter gibberish – at least, that’s what you tell me – but over lunch this afternoon you cheerfully inform Frank Hastings that she is your great white hope for the script, with, I might add, a total disregard for Deborah Foreman’s sensibilities. And that’s not all, is it? What about the night you made me call Marian after she’d been out with Woody? You wouldn’t let it drop until I did. So just what is going on, Matthew? Are you falling for her or something?’

  ‘Come and watch this,’ he said, ‘it’s hilarious. That woman has just informed her boyfriend she’s . . .’

  ‘Matthew!’ she screeched. ‘Please listen to me. Perhaps I’m sounding hysterical, perhaps I’m paranoid, but you can hardly blame me when you remember what’s happened to us in the past. And now, with all this business with Marian, I’m terrified it’s going to happen again. Please, Matthew, tell me it won’t.’

  ‘It won’t. Oh, and by the way, now we’ve seen the Hastings’ house I’ve had a great idea for the opening sequence. It involves a helicopter, two cranes and two crews. How does that grab you?’

  Stephanie closed her eyes. It was useless, utterly and completely useless. She looked at him again, but he was still watching TV, so she turned on her heel and walked into the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later he strolled in after her, carrying a gin and tonic in each hand. ‘Feeling a bit calmer now, are we?’ he said, pulling back the shower curtain.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, especially when I haven’t got any clothes on.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He put her drink on the washbasin and perched on the edge of the lavatory. ‘Do you really feel so insecure? I mean, about me?’ he asked as she stepped out of the shower.

  ‘No, I was making it up.’

  He nodded and handed her a towel.

  ‘For God’s sake, Matthew, don’t you ever see yourself the way other people do?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I do. To be perfectly honest, I’m not too sure how to go about it.’

  ‘Stop making me laugh, I’m furious with you and you know it.’

  ‘Yep, I guess you are.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think I’ve got good reason to be? I mean, first there’s Kathleen, then there’s Samantha, now there’s Marian. Do I figure anywhere in the picture?’

  ‘Sure. You’re the producer.’

  ‘God help me, Matthew, I’m going to take a swing at you in a minute. Pass me that body cream behind you and then start psyching yourself up to tell me what the hell’s going on inside your head.’

  He picked up the body cream, but instead of handing it to her he held onto it.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’m psyching myself up, remember? Stop interrupting. Ah, that’s it, I think I’m ready now to tell you what’s in my mind. Yes, yes, I definitely am. Stephanie, will you marry me?’

  She stared at him, her mouth half-open, her hand frozen in mid-air. He looked back, his eyes full of irony and the corner of his mouth drawn in a smile. Then he stood up and went to turn the shower on again. She watched him, but said nothing as he removed his clothes; then he picked her up, put her back under the water and got in with her. He looked round for the soap, then he rubbed it between his hands and started to lather her shoulders.

  ‘Would you like to say that again?’ she whispered, the blood rushing through her veins with the same vigour as the water that cascaded over her face.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She stood aside, so that she was no longer under the water. ‘What you said just now.’

  ‘Oh, that. I said, will you marry me?’ He looked into her face, but she still seemed to be in a state of shock.

  ‘Why now?’ she breathed. ‘I mean, what happened?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I want you to believe that I love you. That Kathleen, Samantha, Marian, none of them figure in the picture, only you.’

  She gulped as he pulled her back into the shower, but the soap slipped from his fingers, and as he bent to retrieve it she caught him by the hair and pulled him back up again. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘You know, I had an idea you might.’

  ‘And despite the fact that I hate you, I’ll marry you.’

  ‘Then why not stop talking and kiss me, woman.’

  They decided that for the time being they would keep their engagement secret, mainly because of Samantha, but also because there was still the worry of Kathleen – although she had been keeping a low profile of late, if she were to discover their plans then, given the way she felt about Stephanie, she would probably do something to delay the divorce proceedings which she herself had put in motion. However, it didn’t stop Matthew taking Stephanie into Tiffany to buy a ring, which she wore on her left hand when they were alone together, on her right when they were in company. While they were in Tiffany Matthew also bought a trinket for Marian – to thank her for the way she’d handled Kathleen, he explained when Stephanie protested.

  The rest of the week in New York was taken up with lawyers, location-finding, deals and casting. Now that the role of Olivia was again open, Judith, the casting director Stephanie had hired just before they left London, flew over to handle the bombardment of young hopefuls. Frank, true to his word, set about fixing the nightclubs they wanted, and he and Stephanie, together with an army of lawyers, went through contracts, clauses and disclaimers until she began to feel as though the whole of life was one big loophole.

  Bronwen called from Florence and at last Stephanie found out what Marian had learned from Sergio Rambaldi. ‘And just wait until you see the Scenes she’s written as a result,’ Bronwen enthused, ‘they’re out of this world. We’re going to have to do something about her when we get back to London. I mean, she should be paid for all this work, and credited.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Stephanie told her. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In her room, getting changed. Sergio’s taking us to dinner tonight. She didn’t want to come because she knows I fancy him like crazy, but I can’t leave her in on her own, not on such a beautiful night as it is here. Besides, apparently Matthew’s told her she’s got to glue herself to my side.’

  ‘Matthew told her that? Why?

  ‘Because he thinks I’m a loose woman, to quote Marian.’

  Stephanie burst out laughing. ‘Well, he’s not far wrong, is he? Enjoy your dinner, and see you in London next week.’

  When Stephanie teasingly tackled Matthew about his instructions to Marian, he snapped at her and told her to stop bothering him about the girl. He’d been on a short fuse ever since they had seriously discussed the opening sequence of the film. Stephanie had given a categoric no to Matthew’s idea; it involved enormous expenditure, and as far as she could see the shot did nothing to tell the story, it was merely a vehicle for opening credits. She liked straightforward credits, white on a black background.

  Not a day passed that wasn’t spiced by a bitter row on the subject. He accused her of having a parochial mind typical of someone from television, and she hit back by reminding him that she held the purse-strings so she called the shots – an unfortunate choice of phrase that sent him slamming out of the room before he became violent.

  ‘If y
ou wanted the helicopter and cranes for an action sequence, it might be different,’ she told him the next time the matter was raised. ‘What if they don’t have the cranes in New York? We’ll have to get them shipped out from California, and just imagine what that will cost! Plus the extra camera crew. No, Matthew. You heard what Frank said, the budget won’t be increased, and I’ve got to make sure the money’s used where it’s absolutely necessary.’

  They were in the art-deco bar of the Dorset Hotel, so Matthew refrained from raising his voice as the place was jammed with media people. ‘Am I going to have to justify every shot of this fucking film?’ he hissed. ‘Is that what you want? Or are you just after my balls?’

  Stephanie’s implacable stare began to crack. She kept up the struggle as long as she could, but ended up exploding into laughter.

  The irony of what he’d said didn’t escape him, but though he let the matter rest for the time being, he wasn’t going to give up that easily.

  ‘By the way,’ she said as they rode the elevator up to their room, ‘why did you tell Marian to glue herself to Bronwen’s side?’

  ‘Stephanie,’ he sighed, ‘just let it drop about Marian, will you? It’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t want another row tonight.’

  ‘Row? But why should it cause a row?’

  ‘Because that’s what happens every time you mention Marian’s name.’

  Stephanie’s next words died on her lips as she realised that this was true – and it was her fault. Even though he’d asked her to marry him, she was still unable to disentangle herself from the web of unreasonable jealousy and insecurity she’d wound herself into.

  Later, as they got into bed, she settled into the crook of his arm and started to curl her fingers through the hair on his chest. ‘I’m very fond of Marian, you know,’ she told him in a quiet voice.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  She looked up at his face and he bent his head to kiss her. ‘And I’m sorry,’ she said afterwards.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because she called this morning and left a message for you to ring her, and I didn’t pass it on.’

  He threw her aside. ‘She called me this morning and you’re only telling me now?’

  She flinched as his arm shot past her, reaching for his watch. ‘Matthew, for God’s sake, why are you so angry?’

  ‘I’m angry because of your damned jealousy,’ he said through clenched teeth, and throwing back the covers, he got out of bed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Down to reception to ring her,’ he answered as he pulled on his jeans.

  ‘But why can’t you do it from here?’

  ‘I just can’t. Now leave it at that, will you?’ And before she could say anything else, he slammed out of the door.

  – 18 –

  It was about four in the afternoon when Paul, carrying a brown paper parcel, left Harry Freemantle’s pied-à-terre in Pimlico. Already the evening rush hour was starting to build up, and the dust and grime of overheated London streets was thick in the air. As he turned into Ebury Street he saluted a couple of Chelsea Pensioners, then tossing his parcel into the air, he started to whistle. Everything was going so perfectly according to plan, he could have kicked his heels together with the joy of it. His first book had already been to the printers, and his second, now that Madeleine and Harry had given him the experiences, responses and emotions his characters required, was spilling from his mind with such intoxicating fluency that it hurt to tear himself away. But this afternoon’s assignation had been necessary, and as a result he had good reason to believe that his publication date was no more than six weeks away. In England, that was. In the States it would happen the following month. Funny that, how quickly they could turn things around, given the right incentive.

  Reflecting on the past hour, and all that had passed between him and Harry, Paul grimaced – not at himself for doing something that only a month ago would have been totally repugnant to him, but at Harry. The man was so malleable in his hands that he found it almost distasteful. A man in his position should have dignity, Paul felt. But then he shrugged; there was never any telling what depths a man might plunge to in the name of love.

  Take what he himself had allowed Madeleine to do to him, for instance. That had been pretty demeaning – though he still wasn’t sure what she had got out of it. As for him, well, it had totally blown his mind. Not that he particularly wanted to repeat the experience, but subjecting himself to her anger, and giving her free licence to do as she pleased with his body, had completely smashed the boundaries of eroticism – that he might repeat. The funny thing was, Madeleine had changed since that night. She had become withdrawn and less certain of herself, she no longer socialised quite so much, and had actually turned down three centrefold offers. On the other hand, the new perfume was about to be launched, and that she was looking forward to.

  As far as their relationship was concerned, she seemed to love him even more than she had before, and had become so dependant on him emotionally that it seemed the empty Russian doll at last had a heart and a conscience which, like her mind, were his to command. She was dependant on him financially now, too, but she didn’t know that. As for him, he was still baffled by the way she had taken him captive. Her coarse, countrified voice and – until lately – inordinate vanity; her near obsessive love for him and her zealous drive to get them both to the top, had closed in around his heart to such a degree that to be without her now was inconceivable. Just to picture her face set off all kinds of reactions within him; and despite what he had done to prove to himself that he was still in control of his feelings for her, could still hurt her if he chose, he was sometimes afraid that he loved her too much. But why, when he loved her, did he actually want to hurt her? That was a question he’d asked himself a thousand times, and the answer he gave was that it proved he was able, at will, to detach himself from all emotion – even his own. For him, emotion must be merely something to experience before exploiting it on the page. Nevertheless, to experience the emotion was vital, he felt; he truly believed that he could not write about something that he had not actually known for himself.

  Though he’d taken a shower before leaving the flat he could still smell Harry on his clothes as he got into his car. He waited for the fuse of desire to ignite, but it didn’t happen, and laughing quietly he dropped his parcel onto the seat next to him and started the engine.

  It would all be over with Harry soon, once his book was out. Naturally, rejection would make Harry more compliant than ever, but there would be no more afternoon trysts, no more rough male hands exploring his body. In his mind’s eye he caught a glimpse of Harry’s penis, erect yet vulnerable, and his hand moved to his own – well, maybe it wasn’t all quite over with Harry yet.

  When he drove into the mews the car valet service was waiting for him, so after unlocking the front door he tossed over his keys, then took the parcel from the car. As he walked into the house he inhaled the fresh, tangy smell that told him the cleaning lady had been there earlier, squirting substances from her ozone-friendly bottles.

  He was on his way through to the kitchen when, hearing voices in the sitting-room he stopped, and opening the door, saw Madeleine sitting in front of the TV. On the screen were highlights of Enrico Tarallo’s fourth Grand Prix win of the season, but it was evident from the way she was sitting – her head resting on her hand and her face, puckered with anguish, tilted towards the ceiling – that she wasn’t paying attention. Immediately his heart leapt to his throat, then a wave of anger tautened his muscles. Somehow she had found out about Harry, and that she should have discovered now, when the relationship was all but over, was too damned unfortunate for words.

  He walked further into the room, looking at her curiously, and when he spoke guilt gave a stilted edge to his laugh. ‘When I left you this morning you were on your way to Morocco,’ he said, hardly hearing himself above the pulses drumming in his ears.

  Her eyes didn’t move, so
putting the parcel down he went to turn off the TV. The room plunged into silence. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d be lying on a beach by now, soaking up the sun through Ambre Solaire. I’ve got the right commercial, haven’t I?’ he added, when she made no response.

  She sighed. ‘Trouble with the air traffic controllers. We’re going tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘So why the long face?’

  She shrugged. Then after a while she pulled a hand from her pocket, producing the letter she’d received from her aunt. When he saw it he had to check himself rapidly as relief bubbled in his throat like laughter. He took the letter, then tossing it onto the table he moved across to the sofa and slipped an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I thought we’d gone over all this,’ he said gently.

  ‘I know. But I can’t help it. Please don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘Sssh, I’m not angry. I understand, my darling.’ He knew she loved it when he called her darling, and to confirm this she nestled herself closer to him. ‘But what did you expect? Of course she’s upset. She doesn’t know where you are, or who you’re with, she doesn’t know anything except what she reads in the papers. And she knows that I was once involved with Marian, so obviously she’s not happy about us being together, especially as you’ve never contacted Marian to explain.’

  ‘But how can I explain when we took all that money? I know I don’t have to tell her, but she’ll sense something, I know what Marian’s like. Anyway, it’s not that I’m worried about. Well, it is, but apart from that, it’s what my. Auntie Celia said about everything else. She’s really upset.’

  ‘Maddy, just because she doesn’t approve of your modelling doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it only means that she’s an old woman who’s never been any further than the end of the road, so you can’t expect her to understand. It would be kinder to ignore the letter than go home and start up all the arguments you know you’ll have. You don’t want that, do you?’