“That was great,” he sighed, right on cue. “How was it for you?” he asked, compounding the offence.
She nestled into his ear, licking and biting the lobe. “Over,” she sighed.
His eyes sprung open. With a laugh, she spun round and leapt out of bed, dragging the tumbled mass of silk sheets with her, and ran to the shower. As the water hit her lithe body and she pumped shampoo from the container on the wall, she could not stop herself humming ‘So beautiful, but so boring’. Still, he had served his purpose. Now it was time for her to face the world again and go to work.
Her villa was truly beautiful. It was set into the rock face of a small promontory jutting out to sea just outside Théoule-sur-Mer, a few miles along the coast west from Cannes. To her it looked like a foot dipping in the sea, so she had aptly named it Pied à Mer.
She even had her own private beach, not normally allowed in France. When the town had constructed the entrance of the marina in the 1960s, they had built a long finger of rocks that stretched into the Mediterranean. This gave protection to the yachts from the Mistral wind and had the added benefit of changing the current around the rocks below her home, creating a small pebble-strewn beach.
Every May three truckloads of sand were duly laid over the rocks. This would last all summer before being washed away in the winter storms, only to be replenished by another delivery the following spring.
It was now the third week in April and her beach had just received a new delivery of sand. The tourist season was about to start again, which meant her own business had two months of craziness before it would taper off. She made her considerable income mostly from October through June.
Freshly showered, Mako sat on the terrace eating a brioche and sipping an espresso. She looked past the young man seated across from her who was still awkwardly trying to make polite conversation. She gazed out to sea where she could clearly see the outline of the underwater nets of the fish farms, laid out like huge cages full of the local fish, loup de mer.
The young man paused and pushed his sunglasses onto his face. “I can get Garance to call you a cab if you like,” Mako smiled into a lull in the conversation.
Everything was the wrong way around, the young man thought to himself. He should be the one aching for the conquest to leave. This woman seemed to treat men as badly as he treated countless wide-eyed female tourists during the mating frenzy that was summer on the Côte d’Azur.
On hearing his name, the well-groomed housekeeper stepped out onto the terrace.
“No need, Madame. I will take Monsieur into town… with the laundry,” suggested Garance. The young man knew when he was beaten. Game over. He got up to leave.
Twenty minutes later Mako was rounding the point in the Melinda 2, her glorious teak hulled Riva Aquarama S speedboat. She was heading towards Cannes, a few kilometers to her east with the island of l’Île Sainte Marguerite on her right.
Already she could see the outline of the Palais des Festivals, the massive convention center that occupied its own pier and faced impassively out to sea. That building and the town behind it had been very good to her.
The Riva purred into the new Cannes harbor. Mako deftly lashed the craft to the pontoon. Picking up her briefcase, she kicked off her blue leather deck shoes, slipping on a pair of Manolo Blahnik mules. She walked towards her office in the Palais des Festivals.
Her construction crews were already hard at work building the stands in preparation for the Cannes Festival du Film better known as the Cannes Film Festival that took place every May.
Cannes was a glamorous holiday destination in the summer months, but in truth it made its money as a convention town. In addition to the Film Festival there were two conferences for television in April and October, and there were other world class events for music, property, advertising and even a convention for Duty Free goods.
These events dominated the town and injected countless millions into the local economy as well as Mako’s bank account.
Each festival attracted up to 25,000 delegates, numerous companies with their most senior executives, the international press, hangers on, the deal hopefuls, and the party lovers. Many of the delegates needed stands to exhibit their wares or just someone to plan extravagant parties.
This was Mako’s forte. Her company designed and built the stands and organized the best event parties. Clients included record companies, Hollywood film studios, television stations, construction companies, advertising agencies and perfume manufacturers from all four corners of the world. Each had their Cannes ‘bandstand’ and the most expensive and lavish were designed by her company.
Yet no matter how good her work was, no matter how creative and at times even beautiful, it lasted only a few days. Transitory, superficial. Those words defined not just her work, but her as well. They were her world.
Back at Pied à Mer Garance was signing for the weekly package of forwarded mail originally sent to Mako’s father, Stefan de Turris. Since his car accident over a year ago, all of her father’s correspondence was forwarded to her.
Among the mail that day was an envelope containing a screenplay and a quote from Balzac. It had been sent by a man Mako had never known, and it would change her life forever.
10
SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA
Cara Baines was completely unaware of Sam Wood’s death. It had made none of the papers in the Land of Lakes of northern Minnesota where she had been vacationing.
Her Ford pick-up exited the freeway for Santa Barbara. Cara loved the laid-back seaside town with its white Spanish Colonial style buildings and terracotta tiled roofs. Having spent all her life in Los Angeles with a billboard every few paces, living in a city where billboards were banned was an added bonus.
Behind the city, the Santa Ynez Mountains rose 4,000 feet into the clear blue sky. She could see them from her house and it was up there, under a star-filled sky that stunt co-ordinator Bill Baines had proposed to her.
When she turned into her driveway, a car was parked there with a driver who seemed to be asleep at the wheel.
As she nervously got out of the truck, her little black pug leapt out and started to bark incessantly at the intruder’s vehicle. The sleeping man woke with a start then smiled and unwound himself from the driver’s seat. He got out raising his hands over his head in mock surrender to the pint size dog.
“I’m sorry. It’s Cato, isn’t it?” asked the man.
“Marcus…? Marcus Riley. What on earth are you doing here…,” said an incredulous Cara.
It was an awkward moment for them both, and it brought back very painful memories for Cara.
“Cara, lovely to see you. Forgive me for my unannounced visit. Can we go inside? There’s quite a bit to tell and not much I can explain,” said Marcus with a grimace.
Cara invited him into the house. She turned off the alarm and activated the air-conditioning as the rooms were hot and stuffy having been empty for nearly a month.
Marcus looked at the artwork and photos on the wall and remembered Cara’s family had emigrated from the Philippines to Los Angeles in the early 1950s. She had grown up in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, just north of Pasadena.
Cara walked over next to Marcus and smiled softly “That’s a photo of me graduating from the make-up course at the Joe Blasco Cosmetics School,that led to a job at Fox where it all started for me. I met Sam during lunch in the commissary.”
Marcus took a breath and told her about the terrible events of the past few days. Cara paused in silence then got up and went to the drinks tray.
“I can’t believe Sam is dead,” she said handing him a glass of Tupay, the Philippine spirit with an eye-watering kick. “And this script…you say he sent it to me…but why…what is going on? What’s in it?”
“It’s the best script I think he’s ever written. I can’t explain why he sent it to me, let alone you. Go on and read it, but… keep quiet about it, for now, for me,” he said. “I need to make this movie,
Cara.”
“Let me see if I even have it,” she said getting up to collect the mail that someone had piled up on her hall table.
“My PA comes in once in a while to check on the place when I’m away,” she explained
Among the pile she found a note from the courier who had tried to deliver something a few days earlier.
“No script but could be this. I’ll chase it down tomorrow. Can we go outside to get some air,” she suggested.
They sat out in the cool evening breeze, the Santa Ynez range looming above them in the dusk’s fading light. Their talk, unsurprisingly, turned to her late husband.
“You remember when Sam and Jax invited me over for dinner one night as a blind date… all she would say was he was a stuntman called Bill. You were there with some pretty thing.”
Marcus smiled “Of course I remember.” The now half empty bottle of Tupay had lowered their initial inhibitions and the talk flowed more easily.
“‘A pearl of the Orient Sea,’ the rascal had whispered to me. I suppose Sam or you had tipped Bill off about the term used to describe Filipina women.”
“Well, it worked didn’t it,” chuckled Marcus.
She nodded, with a wistful smile. At dinner Bill had proved carefree and charming. So many stuntmen were just pent-up balls of testosterone, eager to show off their prowess on set, with hints of equal daring-do in the bedroom. Bill was never a threat.
“I asked him to explain what he did,” Cara said. “He went all coy talking about wire work till you put me straight and explained, Marcus.”
“He was just playing modest in front of you. Bill was the man for falling off tall buildings,” smiled Marcus, “But you weren’t fooled by the quiet act,” he added.
“I found out a while after that dinner, and the danger he had lived with. Once it was helicopters and planes he jumped out of,” Cara said as she took a long slow gulp. “Instead of cameras shooting at him, it was snipers. I still have a bunch of his army medals somewhere.”
It had been during training with the British Parachute Regiment that Bill had come across a machine that he would later adapt so successfully in later years for movie stunt work. It was a winch-like brake whose long cable was attached via a harness to the chest of new recruits. As they jumped from higher and higher platforms onto the mattresses below, the brake kicked in slowing the landing enough to avoid injury. For the movies, Bill simply swapped the harness for an ankle cuff that allowed him to dive headlong from any number of platforms, buildings, helicopters, or even a mountain.
Marcus knew Bill had left the service and mooched about in security until he got talked into jumping out of a crane using his ankle brake for a TV documentary series on some local cable show.
Marcus had been watching the documentary. He needed the bad guy in his latest film to fall from a helicopter. The film’s stunt team had baulked at the budget and the price Marcus was offering. Bill obliged and literally jumped at the chance. Work flooded in. Next thing Bill knew he was packing his bags for Hollywood.
He secured his first break in North America on a ‘slasher’ horror movie located in the arctic wasteland. Shot in Canada and directed by hot new director, Robert Kelso, POLE-AXED was made for next to nothing yet generated a waterfall of cash, thanks in no small part to the spectacular falls and explosions that Bill organized. Once that movie was a hit, it was natural that he would be asked to be stunt coordinator on Robert’s next production, THE LAST COMPANY.
Marcus raised a glass in a toast. “To Bill and Sam.” Cara raised her glass and continued reminiscing.
“One evening a few months after that first dinner, Bill and I were sitting high up in the shadow of those mountains and he proposed.”
She paused and looked directly at Marcus. “It was then he told me everything. How much do you really know about his past?”
“Some,” replied Marcus. “But tell me.”
“He served two tours in Northern Ireland. During the third month of the second tour he and seven others were ambushed.” This Marcus did not know. Cara went on with Bill’s story.
Marcus sat silently, transfixed by the story. Cara continued. "His brick was out on patrol." Marcus looked puzzled.
“Sorry, a brick is slang for a section. Eight of them. Bill was in charge, there were two lance corporals, four privates, and a radio operator, Joe Trott. Joe was Bill’s best friend. They were all carrying SLR rifles, except Joe who had a side arm. It was late afternoon as they turned down a narrow street. There was an injured dog, whimpering, lying in the road. They stopped to see if there was anything they could do, but he was in a bad way. Looked like a hit and run. In a way it was. But it was Bill’s section who were hit and the gunmen who ran. As Bill bent down to look at the animal, the doorways of the terraced houses to their left flew open and the gunmen opened fire.
Bill’s unit was caught off guard. Point blank. Five died immediately. Bill went down next, a shoulder wound. Joe drew his pistol as he dove for cover and scrambled behind some trash cans across the other side of the street. The front door behind Joe slowly opened and a little girl appeared. As Joe turned to push her back inside, a sawn-off shotgun snaked out from the darkness behind her. Shot him point blank in the face. Joe flew back out into the street as his service revolver clattered to the ground and into a storm drain. The gunman pushed the girl aside and ran off as the terrified parents tried to console their screaming daughter. Before Bill lost consciousness, Joe’s killer pulled off his ski mask just a moment too soon as the gunmen piled into a Land Rover. Bill never forgot a face.”
Cara poured herself another two fingers of Tupay and offered Marcus the bottle as she finished her story. Bill had slowly recovered in hospital, and when well enough he had resigned his commission.
“He was done fighting for the army. He had a personal score to settle. He made a pilgrimage to the alley and recovered Joe’s gun from the drain.” Cara paused and took another drink. “Six weeks passed. Took a lot of digging but he found a family name to match the face,” said Cara calmly.
She described a lonely windswept cottage outside Crossmaglen and three hard men, two brothers and a cousin, who were shot dead with Joe’s missing revolver. A fourth gunman died as he tried to escape in his Land Rover. It exploded in a fireball as it bounced across the moors, presumably laden with illicit and unstable explosives.
“The gun’s owner had been served his revenge, and Bill a measure of closure. That’s real danger not make believe,” Cara said.
Marcus looked at her for a beat. He thought back to that night when he had last seen Bill alive.
She leaned over and filled Marcus’ glass snapping him out of his thoughts from the past.
“Bill understood the danger of taking action, Marcus. He was always going to go after the bad guys in the Philippines. I don’t blame you. I just miss him still. Always will.”
“We all do. That movie broke so many things. But you suffered the most.”
“I know you tried, Marcus. I appreciated the calls and the visit after you got back. But I was so alone. Not a day passed without wishing I could have done more to find out what had really happened to him. But it had been hopeless.”
“You know that bastard McConnell even threatened to sue me. Said Bill’s disappearance had cost him the movie!” She gave a sarcastic laugh. “The local police shrugged at my pleas for help and without a body, the Consulate suggested Bill might simply have run off. He disappeared thousands of miles from home and no one could help me.”
Marcus looked at her as she pulled her shoulders back and sat up straight.
“He’s dead. He would have moved heaven and earth to come back to me.”
She took a final drink and looked up to the mountains.
“So, after a year I left Hollywood, the bullshit, and sound stages and bought a home here. The Union told me to accept the pittance McConnell was offering to pay me to settle this. I took his money. Started my florist business.”
Cara had assumed t
he grief would subside and that someday another man would fill her days and nights. A few drifted in and out of her embrace, but she now accepted that her future would be without a steady partner. Instead her life centered on her flower business, her friends, and her small black pug.
“So now you are here, Marcus. And Sam sent you a script. And it also seems, to me. Maybe some kind of catharsis?”
“Sam wasn’t the sentimental type, Cara… I feel guilty bringing up bad memories, but I want to get this made. In fact, I have to,” said Marcus quietly.
“So, he reached out to you… be grateful. I’m sure he had his reasons. But why send it to me?”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe you can tell me. Read the script and call me. Now, I have to get going.” As Marcus got up the small pug gave a low growl.
“How did you know his name,” she said, nodding to the pug at her feet?
“Cato’s famous. He’s on your The Santa Ynez Proposal website.”
Cara smiled. “Promise me I can do the flowers for the Premiere if you pull this off.”
“When I pull it off. Sure… or for my grave as I die trying.”
Marcus knew the moment the flippant remark came out of his mouth that it had been a mistake and saw a shadow of fear on Cara’s face.
“I will call you, as soon as I’ve read it. Now be careful,” Cara replied
Marcus gently kissed her on the cheek. He was glad he hadn’t told her about the others in the group that had received the screenplay. Cara’s feelings towards McConnell were clear. She would never help him if she thought he was involved.
11
SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA
“Don’t you dare piss on my azaleas!” Cato’s round black face stared back at Cara, his hind leg cocked in midair.
“Now, how’s today going?” Cara asked her PA who was shuffling her papers.
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