by Susan Lewis
‘Like what?’
‘Like going to see Jodi again – and then not telling me about it.’ Except that if she did, he would know. Frank Hastings’ people were going to keep an eye on her during their time in New York.
The moment Marian would never forget was six and a half hours after take-off, when the plane tilted and the captain came over the PA system to tell those who hadn’t already noticed that the Manhattan skyline was to their left. The last time she had come to New York the weather had been so grey and overcast that she had been unable to make out even the very tops of the highest buildings, but now, there it was – a city of skyscrapers, projecting through the shimmering heat haze like rockets on a launch pad. She’d seen it so many times in movies, on TV, in books, but there was nothing like seeing it for real. Her chest swelled with excitement and she was certain that somehow, in some way, New York would be the turning-point for her and Matthew.
After passport control, baggage collection and customs, they emerged from Kennedy airport into a blanket of wet heat. It clung to their nostrils and trickled over their skin in clammy beads of sweat. Thankfully, the stretch limousines waiting to drive them into the city were air-conditioned, and when they arrived at the Dorset Hotel Marian took great delight in the reception she got from Tony, the doorman, who had been there the last time she was in New York with Bronwen.
‘Well, my oh my,’ he said in his Southern drawl as he looked her up and down, ‘is that really you? I’d never have recognised you. Don’t you look just the gal.’
‘Young lady,’ Hazel corrected him, as she passed by with Bob Fairley, the lighting cameraman.
‘Sure, that’n’all,’ Tony grinned. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Miss . . .’
‘Marian,’ she reminded him.
‘Sure. And where’s Miss Bronwen, she’s a-coming with y’all?’
‘She’s in the car behind,’ Marian answered, and after digging into her purse for a generous tip, she followed one of the liveried bellhops upstairs to her room.
On the fourteenth floor a two-bedroomed, two-bathroomed suite had been taken over for production offices, there was even a galley kitchen just inside the door. Marian found Josey already there when she went exploring, organising removal men who were carrying in desks, chairs, shelving units and typewriters.
‘There’s a photocopier in there,’ Josey said, pointing to one of the bedrooms. ‘Couldn’t run off a couple of dozen of these, could you?’
Marian took the sheet of paper she held out and saw that it was a list of everyone’s room number. Her eyes raced down the page, and when she found what she was looking for her heart lifted.
‘We thought it might be a bit off, the producer and director shacking up together,’ Stephanie explained, when Marian handed her a list and asked if everything was all right.
‘But why?’
‘Lots of reasons, really. If anyone wanted to talk to one of us confidentially, say, they might not feel so inclined to come if they thought they might be interrupting something. And Matthew’s going to need all the sleep he can get; so am I, come to that; besides, there’ll be enough shenanigans going on with the rest of the crew without me behaving like the madam in a travelling brothel.’
‘Doesn’t Matthew mind?’
‘I don’t think so, he didn’t really say much when I told him. Ah, Josey,’ she said, as the door opened and Josey came back into the production office, ‘Hazel was looking for you just now, she wants you to go down to the art gallery location with her.’
‘But I’ve got tons to do here,’ Josey protested.
‘I’m only passing on the message,’ Stephanie said.
‘I suppose I’d better go and find her, then.’ And muttering under her breath, Josey went back out again.
‘Well,’ Stephanie sighed as she looked around at the chaos in the room. Then, laughing, she threw an arm round Marian’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘We’re really going to have our work cut out, you and I. We’ll have to be at least five steps ahead of the shoot at all times, racing about town pacifying lawyers, getting last-minute deals struck every time Matthew changes his mind – which he will, at least a dozen times a day – and making regular visits to the set to make sure they’re on schedule. Think you can cope? ’Cos I’ll let you into a secret, I’ve hardly slept a wink this past week, worrying whether or not I can.’
‘You don’t mean that?’
‘I do. Still, don’t let’s think about it now, let’s just concentrate on enjoying the time we’ve got left to us.’
‘Anyone would think you were on death row,’ Marian laughed.
‘You’re not far wrong there. Anyway, to take my mind off things, I’d like to take you to the Village tonight for dinner. Just the two of us. Bronwen’s having a meeting with Deborah Foreman, and Matthew’s got costume and make-up parades in here at six, then he’s taking Christina Hancock out to the Hastings’. They’ll be talking over the ins and outs of Olivia’s personality so I’m going to leave them to it. Much to Matthew’s relief, I might add. So, if you’re willing and able, go and take a shower and put on your glad rags – we’re off to Il Mulino, one of my favourite Italian restaurants.’
‘You as well,’ Marian smiled. ‘Bronwen took me there last time I was in New York. But I’d love to go again,’ she added quickly when Stephanie’s face fell.
At seven o’clock, when Marian wandered downstairs to the lobby to meet Stephanie, she was wearing a loose white shirt tucked into the wide belt of a figure-hugging mustard skirt which finished just above the knee, and matching shoes. It was the first time she’d worn the skirt because it hadn’t really fitted her when she bought it, but now she had lost weight, and as she had noticed when she looked in the mirror, the mustard skirt contrived to make her look even slimmer. Her silvery hair was brushed and shining, and the only make up she wore was mascara. In fact, she was feeling rather pleased with the way she looked until the elevator doors opened and Stephanie walked out with Matthew.
It was bad enough that Stephanie had such elegance and style, and towered above Marian’s five feet five inches in a way that, despite her new slimline figure, made her feel frumpish; but tonight Stephanie’s red hair was woven into a French plait, and the glimmer of her gold earrings and subtle lip gloss was matched by the light in her tawny eyes. She looked beautiful in every sense of the word. But Marian felt decidedly better when Matthew treated her to a long, appreciative wolf-whistle, and she laughed with delight when he swept her into his arms and gave first her, then Stephanie, an exaggeratedly passionate good-bye kiss.
As the yellow taxi drove them down-town, Marian craned her neck to look up at the obelisk-like buildings, waiting for the bizarre suspension of reality that had overtaken her the last time she was in New York. Everywhere she looked, glaring neon signs blinked and flashed, while on the ground steam swirled from the drains. The colour, the hustle and bustle, the sounds, the chaos of life, were all the same, but for some reason she wasn’t responding to it as she had before. She didn’t know whether this was because the city no longer held the same magic for her – or because the sense of unreality was with her constantly now and she hadn’t realised it.
The driver dropped them at the restaurant and, once inside, they were shown straight to their table. ‘Right,’ Stephanie said, after the waiter had taken their orders, ‘let’s get down to some serious gossip. Things have been so hectic these past few weeks, I’ve hardly seen you. So, tell me everything, sparing no detail.’
‘Well, cariad,’ Marian began, giving a wonderful rendition of Bronwen’s Welsh accent, ‘did you know that Bronwen’s been trying for days to call Sergio Rambaldi?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Stephanie laughed. ‘She wants a repeat performance with him when we go to Italy, I believe.’
‘If you ask me, darling,’ Marian said, sounding exactly like Hazel, ‘I think she’s frightfully brave. I mean, the guy might be good-looking but, quite frankly, he gives me the spooks. No, I’m sorry, he does. I feel
as if he’s looking right into me with those eyes of his. Just wait ‘til you meet him, darling, you’ll see exactly what I mean.’
‘Oh, are you English?’ a voice behind them called out suddenly.
Marian and Stephanie turned round to see a lumpy, middle-aged American woman sitting at a nearby table with her husband, and beaming all over her face at them. ‘Can you talk a bit more,’ she said, ‘I just love that accent.’
‘Oh my god,’ Marian muttered.
‘Over to you,’ Stephanie said, grinning widely.
‘Actually,’ Marian began, ‘I don’t really speak like that, you see, I was mimicking a . . .’
‘Will you just listen to that voice!’ the woman said.
Thankfully their food arrived then, so the woman left them alone.
‘I didn’t think that happened for real,’ Marian hissed under her breath.
‘Me neither,’ Stephanie said, still laughing. ‘We’ll have to tell Bronwen, she’ll find it hysterical. Now what’s that you’ve having there?’
‘Tuna fish and beans.’
‘You’re not still trying to lose weight?’
‘Have you ever had Hazel as a dietician?’
‘No,’ Stephanie chuckled, ‘but I can imagine. You really do look terrific on it, though.’
‘Why, thank you,’ Marian grinned, and sat back as the waiter refilled their glasses.
Like any Italian restaurant, Il Mulino was crowded and noisy, with greenery and empty chianti bottles decorating the walls. As Marian looked about she suddenly felt that someone was watching her – not in the curious way some Americans had of ogling foreigners as though they were playful aliens, but in the way she had felt it before, back in London. She shivered – but then told herself that Matthew’s mention of Art Douglas on the plane must have made her jittery.
‘Did you mean what you said earlier?’ she asked, turning back to Stephanie and picking up her fork. ‘About not sleeping?’
Stephanie pulled a face. ‘Don’t remind me. A nervous producer’s all we need, isn’t it? But I don’t mind telling you, Marian, it feels like I’m about to launch myself off the edge of a precipice with no wings.’
‘You amaze me. You seem so perfectly in control.’
‘That is thanks to Matthew. Between you, me and the gatepost, if it weren’t for him I think I’d have gone to pieces by now.’
‘But why?’
Stephanie took a deep breath and picked up her glass of wine. ‘This is my first major film. Everything else I’ve done has been for TV, with a budget only a fraction the size of this one and shot either on videotape or sixteen millimetre film. This, as you know, is being done on thirty-five millimetre, which makes a hell of a difference – not only the look of it, but the cost. Matthew’s used to thirty-five mill, of course. Thankfully we’re not plagued with a horde of executive producers and studio heads interfering and changing things – including producers – every five minutes, the way they do on most films. Nevertheless, this is my proving ground, and if I flunk this one . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.
‘I can’t see that happening,’ Marian said, swallowing a mouthful of tuna. ‘I can’t see you letting it, for one thing, never mind Matthew.’
Stephanie smiled. ‘You know all the right things to say, don’t you? But the truth is, I don’t think I could do it without him. He’s carrying the brunt of everything right now, which is the main reason why we’re not sharing a room. I can’t go on burdening him with my blasted nerves, he’s got his own job to do.’
‘My guess is,’ Marian said, ‘that once the shooting starts and you’re right in the thick of it, you’ll forget all about your nerves and just get on with it.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Stephanie laughed. Then holding her glass out to Marian, she said, ‘Here’s to Disappearance.’
They drank the toast, and when they’d finished their meal the waiter brought two espressos.
‘You seem to be over that crush you had on Matthew now,’ Stephanie said, resting her elbows on the table and holding her cup between her hands.
Though Marian managed a smile, she couldn’t meet Stephanie’s eyes.
Returning the smile, Stephanie said: ‘God, when I think back to all the crushes I had on older men. Silly, really, isn’t it. Still, in this case it was Matthew’s fault entirely, he shouldn’t go around behaving the way he does. The trouble is, I’m not sure he knows what effect he’s having. But there’s no harm done, is there?’
Marian’s mouth had become dry and a horrible drumming was starting up in her chest. Somehow she managed to force another smile. ‘None at all.’
‘Good. That’s what I want to hear. Now I can let you to my little secret. I’ve been dying to tell someone, but Bronwen’s so engrossed in that Sergio fellow, my mother’s somewhere in the Bahamas, and Hazel couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Anyway, Matthew’s asked me to marry him.’
It was strange how the room seemed suddenly to dip away from her and everything appeared to be happening at the end of a long tunnel. Mentally Marian shook herself, as if trying to free herself from a dream. The words were there, but somehow they hadn’t quite reached her. She looked into Stephanie’s face; then, as she heard herself mumble something about fantastic news, the reality of what Stephanie had said came thundering towards her in a great ball of screaming, panic-filled denial. This couldn’t happen. This wasn’t right. Somehow Stephanie had got it wrong. She tried to move but her hands were paralysed, her legs weighted like lead.
‘Of course, we’ve got to wait for his divorce to come through,’ Stephanie was saying. ‘God knows how long that’s going to take. That’s why it’s still a secret. If Kathleen finds out she’ll do everything she can to delay it.’ Her frown lifted, and reaching for Marian’s hand, she gave it a squeeze. ‘You know how much I’ve always wanted this, how I was so terrified I’d lose him again. I still don’t think I’m quite over that yet, but . . . God, I must have bored you to tears with it by now. But I feel so incomplete without him, Marian. He says he feels the same without me, but can you imagine Matthew anything but completely together?’ She laughed, and Marian watched as Stephanie’s love enveloped her as clearly as if Matthew were there, taking her in his arms.
Somehow she got through what was left of the evening, but she knew it was only pride – which had solidified into a kind of numbness – holding her together. Once she was inside her hotel room, her breath started to choke in her throat and she could feel her resolve beginning to splinter. But no, she told herself, you musn’t let go. You can’t, or there will be no way of surviving this.
There was a red light on her phone. She called down for the message, then literally fell to her knees as she replaced the receiver. Matthew had called from the Hastings’. He’d be back around midnight and he wanted her to wait up.
Trust him, she reminded herself. He knew what he was doing, and now he was coming to explain.
Her half-unpacked suitcase was lying open on the bed. It was a quarter to twelve now, he could arrive at any minute. Frantically she rummaged through her clothes until she found the pale blue satin nightgown she’d bought in a moment of extravagance. She draped it over the bed, then made a quick trip to the bathroom to check on the way she looked. Her face was pinched, haunted, but there was nothing she could do about it, the shock of Stephanie’s news had been too great.
By the time he knocked, at twenty past midnight, she had run the gamut of every possible reason he might have for asking her to wait up. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that it was something to do with Olivia, or how many obstacles she tried to put in the way of her hope, it wouldn’t go away. It was going to work out for them, it just had to.
When she let him in, she almost gasped – she had never seen him so handsome. He was wearing a black suit, his tie was undone and the top button of his white shirt was open. Dressed like that, he seemed so remote from the Matthew she knew that she felt herself being sucked into a
world of absurdity, and from the shadowy margins of her mind there seemed to come a doom-laden warning that she was in danger of making herself ridiculous. He wouldn’t be able to miss her paltry attempt at seduction, with the lights turned down low and a subtle hint of perfume in the air, and already she was on fire with embarrassment.
‘Secret trysts at midnight, what would everyone say?’ he joked, as she closed the door.
She tried to laugh, but he was standing so close, and the smell of him sent the blood rushing so fast through her veins that it came out as a sob.
He smiled, and slipping an arm round her shoulders he led her over to the bed and sat down.
‘I hope I haven’t alarmed you,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ she assured him.
‘Good, but I do have some news. It’s nothing to do with Olivia or Art Douglas, but I wanted to tell you before you went to bed.’
‘What’s that?’ she said, breathlessly.
‘You’d better prepare yourself for a bit of a shock. It seems that apart from the bank and several other businesses Frank heads, he’s also the chairman of a company called Seeberg and Wright. They’re a publishing house, and next week they’re launching Paul O’Connell’s book. Paul and Madeleine were there, at dinner tonight.
‘I wanted to tell you now,’ he went on, ‘before you picked up a newspaper or switched on the TV and saw them. Forewarned, and all that. It’s the most bloody coincidence, I know, but we can’t do a thing about it. Anyway, New York’s a big town, it’s unlikely you’ll run into them. She recognised me, of course, from Bristol, but I didn’t mention anything about you, I thought it was something you’d prefer to handle yourself.’
It was the one thing that hadn’t even entered her head, and as she listened to him she had been too stunned to interrupt. Now she wanted only to scream. To yell at him that she didn’t give a damn about her cousin any more, or Paul. To beg him to explain why he’d asked Stephanie to marry him, when . . . When what? She turned to look at him, and when she saw the way his dark eyes were so filled with concern for her, she was suddenly engulfed by the hopelessness of her situation. Wrenching herself away, she threw herself against the pillows, crying, ‘No! No, no.’