by Susan Lewis
‘And either Stephanie or I will have a broken heart.’
‘It’ll be Stephanie.’
Marian pulled a face. ‘That’s the problem, I don’t want it to be me, but I don’t want it to be her, either. Oh, what a mess! Anyway, enough about that. What’s all this about you and Paul getting married? When did he propose?’
‘This afternoon,’ Madeleine answered, suddenly animated. ‘I could hardly believe it. He just announced it to the press. Oh, it was so romantic. He’s so wonderful, Marian.’
‘Don’t tell me, muscular thighs, smouldering eyes . . . No! No!’ she cried, as Madeleine started to hit her with a pillow.
‘Come on,’ Madeleine said, ‘let’s go and see what he’s doing.’ And pulling Marian up from the bed, she led her off down the stairs.
The following morning Marian was the first to rise. By the time she’d showered and dressed the newspapers had arrived, so she carried them into the kitchen to read while the kettle boiled. The Daily Echo was the third paper in the pile, and when Marian saw the banner headline, she snatched it up, scowling.
SEX SYMBOL SPURNED! it said. Then, as she quickly devoured the story below, her blood turned to ice. Surely Madeleine hadn’t said all that about Enrico? He had been so kind to her, and Madeleine was so fond of him. Why would she want to hurt him like this? Then, hearing someone on the stairs, she shoved the paper into her bag and busied herself with the teapot.
‘Great!’ Madeleine cried, tossing back her tangled mass of hair. ‘The papers! Have you read them yet?’
‘Only glanced through,’ Marian answered.
The tea was made and they were on their second cup by the time Madeleine, having read aloud from all the other papers, looked up from across the table and said: ‘There’s no Echo. Damn that newsagent, I was really looking forward to Edward Bingham’s piece. He was so nice to me yesterday – but only after he’d tried to trip me up, mind you. Oh well, I’ll just have to go out and get an Echo later.’
Paul came in then, and Madeleine pulled him down beside her and started leafing through the papers again.
‘No Echo?’ he said casually, a few minutes later. Marian realised she was only delaying the inevitable, so, digging into her bag, she pulled the paper out and handed it over.
Madeleine’s face turned white as she read the headline.
‘What the . . .’ Paul snatched the paper from her and read the story aloud. ‘“Sex kitten Madeleine Deacon turned sourpuss yesterday when she revealed that Grand Prix winner, Enrico Tarallo, was unable to make love to her. Tarallo’s loss has gained him the compassion of the world, but slighted Madeleine has not taken her snub lightly. ‘He didn’t want to,’ she told this reporter yesterday, then went on to sneer, ‘He couldn’t, so instead he told me a story.’ Her acid attack on the bereaved Tarallo begs the question, What kind of viper has this nation been harbouring in its bosom since her meteoric rise to fame? Miffed Madeleine went on to say . . .”’
‘Stop!’ Madeleine cried. ‘No more. I don’t want to hear it. Oh Paul, what am I going to do? I never said any of it; at least, not like that. Where are you going?’
‘To ring that bastard Bingham and ask him what the hell he’s playing at.’
Marian and Madeleine followed him into the sitting-room, and held one another’s hands while Paul dialled the number and waited to be put through.
‘Bingham?’ he spat. ‘Paul O’Connell here. Yes, I have seen the garbage you printed in your fucking rag this morning, and I don’t know what your game is, but I think you should know we’re going to sue you and your paper for . . . The quotes might be correct, but they were not delivered in the spirit in which you’ve written them, and you know it. And what about Tarallo? Do you think he needs this sort of publicity when his wife’s hardly cold in her grave? Jesus Christ, next thing you’ll be saying the poor guy wears his dead wife’s underwear to bed . . . Well, you’re sick enough. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’ He banged the phone down.
Marian stared at him in horror. She turned to Madeleine, but her horror only increased: Madeleine couldn’t see it, she didn’t understand what he was doing.
‘That told him,’ Madeleine said. ‘Will we really sue?’
‘You bet your life we will,’ Paul snapped.
Marian snatched up her bag. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, ‘I’m already late.’
By the time she reached Deidre’s office she was shaking. She was shown straight in, and found Deidre on the phone delivering a tirade similar to Paul’s. ‘I expect you’re here about this,’ she said, ending her call with a flourish and slapping her hand down on the offending newspaper.
‘Yes, and to ask for your help,’ Marian answered.
‘My help? What for?’
‘I’m afraid for Madeleine, but I don’t know what to do about it. Paul set this up. Don’t ask me how or why, he just did. You know the way she feels about him; even if I spoke to her, she wouldn’t listen to me. That’s why I’ve come to you.’
Deidre looked at her, smiling. ‘Marian, I don’t claim to understand Paul and Madeleine’s relationship, I never have, but I know it’s something very special – and this he wouldn’t have done, not after everything else that’s just happened.’
‘I’m telling you Deidre, he did.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it was simple jealousy over Enrico, but I think it’s more.’
Deidre shook her head. ‘You know what the press are like, Marian, they build someone up just so they can knock them down again. It’s a fact of life in this country. Besides, I was there myself yesterday – the quotes are accurate, and how on earth could Paul have foreseen what Madeleine would say?’
‘I don’t know, but he managed it. He’s got a strange sort of power over her, Deidre. I don’t know what it is, but it frightens me. I’m going to Italy next Monday, and I don’t want her left in the house alone with him.’
‘What! Marian, I really do think you’re taking this too far. I know you . . .’
Marian interrupted. ‘I’d like you to make some excuse – decorators, plumbers, anything – and ask if you can go and stay with them. Please don’t laugh at me Deidre, I’m perfectly serious.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Deidre said, falling back into her chair. ‘I’m not laughing at you, Marian, I’m laughing at myself, and how stupid I’ve been.’ She waved her arm. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Let’s discuss this sensibly.’
She waited until Marian was comfortable and Anne had brought in some fresh coffee, then said: ‘You’re off to Italy, you say? Yes, you’re working on this film about Olivia Hastings, aren’t you? Madeleine told me. Now supposing, just supposing, I believed everything you’ve told me about Paul, well, I can’t see what good me going to stay with them will do, can you? You’d still be worried to death about her. Don’t you think it’s a far better idea to take her with you?’
‘I can’t do that,’ Marian answered. ‘The producer would never allow it.’
‘I don’t see that it’s up to the producer. After all, anyone can go to Italy, they don’t have to have the permission of your producer, do they?’
‘I suppose they don’t. But we’re staying in a village, miles from anywhere. Accommodation is already short.’
‘Madeleine could always share with you, couldn’t she? Then she’d be right where you want her, under your wing.’
‘But what about Paul? They’ve sworn a pact never to be parted again. But that doesn’t matter,’ she went on, answering her own question, ‘I’ve got a cottage to myself. Only one bedroom, but there’s sure to be a sofa or something downstairs, I could always sleep on that and they can have the bed.’
‘There you are, then. And who knows, your producer might even find a part for Madeleine in the film? After all, she’s quite an audience puller, your cousin.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ Marian said. ‘And we’ve yet to cast the part of Geraldine – a student who was in Florence studying at the same t
ime as Olivia. Mind you,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘I can’t see the producer going for it, but I’ll speak to the director, see what he says.’
‘Good. Let me know how you get on, won’t you? But whether you succeed with the director or not, Marian, I still think you should take Madeleine with you – for your own sake if not for hers.’
Shooting was due to finish at eight o’clock that night, and though Marian racked her brains for an excuse to go out to the set, it seemed as if both Bronwen and Hazel were determined to keep her at her desk. Bronwen was flying to Italy the following day – hoping, Marian guessed, to steal a little time with Sergio before everyone else arrived. Though Bronwen was still friendly towards her, she sensed a certain restraint and it saddened her, knowing that Bronwen’s loyalty to Stephanie was at the root of it.
She waited at her desk until nine thirty, hanging around while Josey typed up the call sheets and Woody’s assistants telephoned the artistes, but in the end she had to accept that Matthew had gone straight home – Stephanie wasn’t around either, which depressed her even more. But as she went out into the street they were walking towards her with Judith, the casting director, and then she remembered that, of course, they had been to a late casting session. Her fingers crossed in her pockets – please don’t let them have got anyone for the part of Geraldine yet.
‘Matthew,’ she said, as they came up. ‘Could I have a word with you, please?’ She knew Stephanie was looking at her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to look back.
‘Sure,’ Matthew answered, looking as awkward as she’d expected. Judith walked on into the office, and without a word Stephanie followed.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she told him, glancing up the street to see if Boris – her shadow – was around. ‘But it’s fairly urgent.’
‘Oh? Has something happened?’ he asked, following the direction of her eyes.
‘No, no. Well, nothing to do with Boris, he’s still there, bless him, I wonder when he gets any sleep?’ She looked up into Matthew’s face and smiled tenderly when she saw how tired he looked. ‘Hard day?’
‘No more than usual. How about you?’
She laughed. ‘Frustrating. I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.’
‘OK. Well, why don’t we share a taxi home? We can talk on the way. I’ll just pop inside and have a quick word with Woody, then I’m all yours.’ And he laughed at her ironic look.
‘I’ll call a taxi,’ she said in a dry voice.
She managed to hail one without too much trouble, and climbed into the back seat to wait. After a few minutes Stephanie and Bronwen came out of the office, and Marian despised herself for the way she shrank back into the shadows. Whether or not Stephanie saw her Marian couldn’t be sure, but Bronwen certainly did, and treated her to a cold stare before linking arms with Stephanie and walking on up the street.
‘Now, what’s the mystery?’ Matthew said, getting into the taxi beside her. ‘Holland Park, then on to Chiswick,’ he told the driver.
Marian told him about the newspaper story, repeating it exactly as it had appeared, then added her suspicions about Paul. ‘So you see, I’m not too keen to leave Madeleine on her own with him,’ she finished.
‘But she’s been alone with him all these months, surely . . .’
‘I know, but I just get the feeling, now, that something’s not quite right. I don’t trust him, Matthew.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Well, I know it’s probably a crazy idea, but Madeleine might be right for the part of Geraldine, and then we could take her to Italy with us.’
Matthew burst out laughing. ‘In the first place, we’ve already cast Geraldine, tonight, and in the second, you know Stephanie would never swallow it, no matter how small the part.’
Marian grimaced. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I’ve got to take her to Italy with me, Matthew.’
‘Providing she pays for herself and doesn’t get in the way, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you.’
‘Will you tell Stephanie for me?’
‘Coward,’ he teased. ‘Sure, I’ll tell her, but only if you can convince me about all this nonsense regarding Paul.’
Marian pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘Open it tomorrow, after you’ve read the Echo, and you’ll see what I mean.’
When Matthew did as she asked the following morning, he had to admit she might be right. Although what she had written wasn’t exactly what it said in the paper, it was near enough. ‘“. . . the poor guy wears his dead wife’s underwear to bed,” said a source very close to the black-hearted beauty.’ He noticed, too, at the bottom of the page, that the Tarallo family had declined to comment.
‘. . . and if you come with me,’ Marian was saying to Madeleine, ‘you could have the chance to see Enrico, and explain.’
Madeleine’s eyes were red from crying. ‘I shouldn’t think he’ll want to see me, not after this.’
‘If my judgment of Enrico is anything to go by then he probably knows anyway that it’s all lies. Please come, Maddy, you ought to speak to him.’
‘But what about Paul?’
‘He can come, too. The village where we’re filming is made up of tiny one- and two-bedroomed cottages. I’ve only got a single one, but you two can have the bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa – if there is one! To be honest, I could do with your moral support – everyone’s practically sent me to Coventry since Stephanie and I had that row.’
‘OK, I’ll come, but only if Paul says he will, too. You know we’ve sworn a pact . . .’
‘Yes, I know,’ Marian teased. ‘So let’s ask him, shall we?’
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Paul said, when he came out of the shower and they told him. ‘We could do with a holiday, Maddy, and being around a film shoot might be fun.’
‘So it’s fixed!’ Marian cried. ‘I’ll get on to the travel agents the minute I get to the office and book your flights.’
Which she did, and later, with Matthew’s help, she wrote to Enrico, telling him they were coming and going on to explain what she thought was happening. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that her suspicions about Paul were right.
Matthew read the letter one last time before handing it back to Marian, and as she sealed the envelope his face was grim. He didn’t like it. If her theory was right, and Paul was doing what she suspected, then Madeleine wasn’t the only one whose safety they needed to worry about.
– 27 –
The remote village of Felitto, high in the vast, undulating hills of Tuscany, amounted to no more than a tiny cluster of honeysuckle- and vine-covered cottages. In the heat of the day lizards scuttled about the red slate roofs and chickens clucked and pecked at the dry earth. It was about an hour’s walk from Paesetto di Pittore, around the brow of the mountain, and a good thousand feet above Camaiore, the nearest small town. Most evenings, cloud and mist billowed in over the mountaintops, shrouding the village and making the road up to it more perilous than ever. Precious few barriers had been erected for protection against the sheer drops, and there was no room for manoeuvre should one misjudge a hairpin bend. In fact, the drive was so arduous that Stephanie found herself bribing the electricians and props men, who were staying in Camaiore, with ‘danger money’ in order to get them to do it each morning.
Felitto’s twenty or so stone cottages, which sprawled haphazardly amongst the trees and brush on either side of the footpath – the village’s main street – had long since been taken over by an English tour operator who offered seclusion and panoramic views to holidaying painters. At the heart of the valley, which fell away from the village in tiers of vineyards and olive groves, was the cluttered town of Camaiore. On clear days, the sea glittered on the horizon between mountain peaks that rose in the distance. The surrounding hillsides were thickly wooded and beautiful walks were mapped out with yellow arrows carved into the trees so that no one should get lost.
; Marian’s cottage, which she was sharing with Madeleine and Paul, was at the top of a set of weathered steps that zig-zagged through a steep herb garden behind the main cottages, which were used as a dining room, bar and kitchens. The cottage consisted of only two rooms. The sitting-room had bare, whitewashed walls, a stone hearth with an age-spotted mirror above, a shabby carpet and a beamed ceiling. A sofa stood beneath the window and a chair beside the fire; this was the only furniture, apart from a rickety old cane table against the wall at the foot of the stairs. The bedroom, whose bed was neither a double nor a single, but something inbetween, had not even a wardrobe, only a curtained alcove in the corner. But it was home for a while, and Marian fell in love with the cottage on sight. Bronwen and Hazel had the cottages on either side of her, and Stephanie’s and Matthew’s were below the tiny piazza that jutted out of the hillside in front of the bar. Further up the hill was a group of cottages being used by cast, costume and make-up; higher still, the camera crew occupied rooms in the crumbling houses on either side of the precipitous pathway that led to the swimming pool.
Manfredo and Gabriella were the old couple who looked after the village, and when the crew arrived, late on Monday afternoon, Manfredo had a fire blazing at one end of the bar and special toddies waiting – though the sun was still shining, with the promise of a glorious sunset, it was bitterly cold.
As soon as they’d settled into their cottages, Matthew and Stephanie wandered up to the bar to join Bronwen beside the fire. The crew were already gathering at the other end of the dimly lit room, and flexing their Italian with demands for a ceaseless flow of Manfredo’s potent concoction.
Bronwen moved along the sofa for Stephanie to sit down, and Matthew perched on the fender with one foot resting on the log basket. ‘Frank and Grace arrived yesterday,’ Bronwen informed them. ‘They’ve taken a villa near Volterra. It’s a bit cramped for them here, I think, when they’re used to that great mansion in New York. By the way, Adrian couldn’t book the helicopter for the aerial shots on Thursday, so we’ll have to reorganise the schedule. I think he’s got it for Friday.’