Taking pride of place was an eight-by-ten of Larry’s father when he had been a much younger man. How devastatingly handsome Nicholas Vaughan was, truly glorious looking in this particular picture by Patrick Lichfield. It hit her then. Larry, as he was today at thirty-five, was the spitting image of his father in this photograph. Except for the hair. Larry’s was as dark as a raven’s, like hers, whilst his father’s was a light brownish-blond, almost nondescript. It’s the eyes, she thought, they’re exactly the same blue, the colour of cornflowers, and they’re powerful, mesmerizing. And both men have the same classical features, the same straight nose.
Her eyes moved on and she gazed at the picture of Larry’s father and mother, standing together on a stage dressed in the costumes they wore as Antony and Cleopatra. Next to this was a portrait of Pandora Gallen alone—so blonde, so beautiful; Larry’s exceptional mother, a talent beyond belief. And then came a collection of smaller photographs of Larry with his various siblings. My God, they were a good-looking bunch. Just like her lot were.
‘Sorry the drinks took so long,’ Larry said, walking across the room with two glasses. Handing one to her, he lifted his Bloody Mary. ‘Cheers!’ he said.
‘Cheers, and thanks.’ M took a sip, and exclaimed, ‘Wow, oh wow, that’s very strong! But great.’
Larry glanced at the photographs arranged on the chest, and then at her, a brow raised quizzically. ‘Since you know so much about me, and you did claim that, then you don’t need me to explain who all of these disreputable ruffians are.’
‘You don’t have to do that, no, I can reel off their names to you. But I would like to know about them. I’m very curious about your siblings.’
‘Take your pick, and I’ll give you the low-down.’
‘This is Horatio, isn’t it?’ She pointed a finger at one of the men in the photograph.
‘Yep. And my favourite brother. He’s a good guy, a good friend, always on my side, as I’m on his. You’ll like him a lot.’
‘Named for Hamlet’s friend Horatio, correct?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And Portia is named for another favourite Shakespearean character of mine…straight out of The Merchant of Venice.’
‘On the nose, babe. And Portia’s a friendly sort. No agenda.’
‘And you like her, I think—more than like, actually. You love her.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s the expression on your face, Larry. Your eyes are warmer, you smiled when I mentioned her name, and your face is relaxed.’
‘My favourite sister. I certainly don’t like the other one, Miranda. A pain in the ass, that one. Don’t worry, you won’t have to meet her.’
M burst out laughing. ‘And Thomas? Tell me about him.’
‘We’re not so close. He is the eldest, but you’re aware of that, if I know you. He’s serious, a little bit dull, but hugely talented, and we’re friends, respectful of each other, but no, we’re not close.’
‘And that leaves us with Edward.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Don’t you like him?’
‘He bloody well beat me up when we were kids, so I’m always
wary of our crafty Edward, but we’re pals, at least to some extent, these days. And he’s aimed to please me for years. We have a sort of truce, I guess you’d call it. Edward’s okay, in small doses. But questionable.’
‘He’s probably suffering from terrible guilt for smacking you around when you were little, don’t you think?’
‘Possibly. One never knows with Edward. Cagey bugger that he is, and a past master of the art of dissimulation.’ He took a swallow of the Bloody Mary. ‘And he can be a real bastard with women.’
M said, ‘I love this photograph of your mother and father as Antony and Cleopatra. They became legends after that play, didn’t they?’
A huge smile lit up his face and he nodded enthusiastically. ‘They sure as hell did! The greatest stars of the English theatre, that was them in their heyday. And it’s a tough part, Cleopatra. Most actresses are scared to touch it; you need quite a range to play Cleo. My mother did it to perfection. It’s Shakespeare’s greatest play, at least in my opinion, and still very modern…politicians, politics, tragedies, failures, celebrities hitting the dust.’
‘Fallen heroes all,’ M announced.
He gave her a swift look, and frowned. ‘Someone else once said those exact words to me, but I can’t remember who.’
A feeling of sick dismay swept over her, and she chided herself, aware that this was one of her brother’s standard comments about the play. Changing the subject swiftly, she said, ‘I’m getting hungry, Larry. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and make lunch?’
‘Brilliant,’ he replied, walking back to the chest and the jug of tomato juice and vodka. ‘I’ll make us another, shall I? To help us through the cooking.’
‘Why not?’ she said, and went to join him, relieved she’d distracted him.
‘I think I’d better make lunch,’ M announced after five minutes of moving around Larry, bumping into him as he skirted her. ‘It’s a great kitchen, but it’s not big enough for two cooks. Anyway, too many cooks spoil the broth, so my mother says.’
‘But I really want to do it,’ Larry shot back, turning to her, frowning. ‘After all, I invited you here, not to a restaurant, and I am your host, you know.’
M swallowed her amusement at his seriousness about this, and exclaimed, ‘No, no, no, it’s better if I do the cooking. And do be careful, don’t drop those eggs.’
He was now leaning towards a counter top, and the box of eggs was precariously balanced in one of his hands.
Hurrying across the floor, she took the eggs from him, placed them on the counter, then untied the white chef’s apron he was wearing over his black cashmere sweater and black jeans. ‘I shall put this on instead of you, and that means I’m now in charge.’
He grinned. ‘Yes, General, as you say, General.’ He saluted her, grabbed her arm, pulled her to him and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His eyes were appraising when he asked teasingly, ‘Have I fallen for a bossy Margaret Thatcher?’
‘I’m afraid you have.’ She eyed him flirtatiously, laughter making her black eyes sparkle. ‘It’s easier if only one person cooks. Now go and sit at the table,’ she ordered. ‘We can chat as I cook. What kind of eggs would you prefer?’
‘Poached, fried, scrambled, I don’t care. There’s streaky bacon in the fridge, and Canadian bacon as well. The tomatoes are over there in that bowl. We could have a real fry-up, if you’d like that.’
‘I do, and we could, but hey, Larry, what about bacon butties? Don’t you just love them?’
‘I do indeed, they’re my favourite, and I always make a beeline for them on an early morning shoot. The film caterers usually serve them for breakfast. And what about fried egg sandwiches as well?’ He grinned at her, enjoying being with her; she was a good sport, and he liked that about her. He couldn’t stand pretentious women who put on airs and graces.
‘It will be a fantastic repast,’ she confided, sounding sure of herself, and began to move around the kitchen, taking food out of the refrigerator, and getting organized, looking across at Larry, listening to him when he told her where to find the things she needed. She loved hearing that marvellous voice of his, so rich and full of cadences, an actor’s beautiful voice.
For his part, Larry was thinking that she was probably one of the more adorable women he had met in his life. This morning she looked young and delectable, wearing very little makeup, her hair now pulled back in a ponytail. Yes, she did have a look of Audrey, that was true, but she was also herself and highly individualistic. It suddenly struck him there was something rather exotic about her looks, and he was absolutely certain she was photogenic. It was the high cheekbones, of course, the broad brow and hollow cheeks, the perfectly arched brows. Yes, she probably photographed like a dream; no wonder that photographer had been entranced.
He sat ba
ck, scrutinizing her as she moved around, energetic, lithe, and so graceful in her movements. She paused for a moment to roll up the sleeves of her white cotton shirt, and it occurred to him that she had an elegance about her that was unusual in somebody so young. This led him to ask himself a question: Was she too young for him? He answered himself immediately with a resounding no. He was twelve years older than her, as she had pointed out, but then she had also said that numbers didn’t matter. This was true; he’d always believed that. And M was confident, truly self-assured, and had apparently been groomed to go anywhere, meet anyone, and at any time; there was no doubt in his mind that she would conduct herself with great aplomb and lots of charm. She was unusually engaging.
The whistling of the kettle broke into his thoughts, and he made a move to get up, but M shushed him down, exclaiming, ‘No, no, no! I’ll do it. Do you have a brown teapot?’
‘I’m afraid not, love, only my mother’s antique silver pot.’
‘Then I’ll have to buy you one.’
‘Thank you. I accept,’ he said, smiling across at her. Suddenly he was no longer hungry, had lost interest in food. What he wanted was to take her to bed and slowly and tenderly make passionate love to her.
‘You’ve got a funny look on your face,’ M said as she carried over the teapot and a jug of milk, peering at him as she put them down on the table.
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged, laughed and said, ‘You were sort of ogling me, I guess.’ And she laughed again and walked away, murmuring, ‘Perhaps “leering” would be a better word.’
He made no response, amazed at her keen powers of observation. I’m going to have to watch myself when I’m around her, he thought. I’d better put on my actor’s mask, and prepare to dissimulate.
FOURTEEN
Lunch in the kitchen had been a splendid success as far as Larry was concerned—warm, cosy and intimate, and he was loath to break this unique mood by going out to the movies. He wanted it to continue, wanted to know more about her, to get even closer to her.
Staring across the table at M, he said, ‘Listen, why don’t we watch a film here? We have a small screening room in the back that my father created. It’s simple but comfortable with a big screen, and we have loads of films to choose from.’
‘Oh, Larry, I’d love that!’ M exclaimed, beaming at him. ‘We could watch you in Hamlet. That would be brilliant. I loved you in the movie as much as I did on the stage.’
‘Oh, no,’ he answered, shaking his head with some vehemence, grimacing. ‘I have no desire to stare at myself acting. Actually, I rarely ever do that. I only ever look at the rushes—the film of the day’s shoot. However, you can gape at my siblings doing their stuff, if you wish, and my parents, but not me. Listen, I’ve a better idea. Give me the title of one of your favourites—you can be certain it’s here if it’s a big movie.’
‘Well, there’re a lot I love, so wait, just let me think for a moment. Oh, I know one that’s really special to me. Do you have Julia? Jane Fonda plays Lillian Hellman in it, and Vanessa Redgrave is Julia.’
‘I know it well. It’s a Fred Zinnemann film, and one of my favourites, too,’ Larry told her.
‘I read something once about Zinnemann. A journalist asked him what it was like directing Vanessa Redgrave, and he said, “Driving a Rolls-Royce”. Wasn’t that cool?’
Larry smiled at her. ‘He also said something that was most astute…“the camera’s got to love you”, and oh, boy, was he spot on about that…Come on then, let’s go and look for Julia. I’m pretty sure we have it…’ Larry paused, frowning, obviously listening, his head tilted, and then said, ‘Do you have a mobile in your bag? I can hear one ringing somewhere and it’s not mine.’
‘Oh, God, yes!’ M jumped up, ran out into the entrance hall, where she had left her red Kelly and knitted coat on a chair. Rummaging in the bag, she grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
The voice at the other end was faint, faraway, and she could hardly hear it. ‘Is that you, M?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘Caresse.’
‘Oh, Caresse, hi! Have you heard when Frankie’s coming back? Is that why you’re calling me?’
There was a sudden sound of sobbing at the other end, and then Caresse finally said in a mumble, ‘Oh, M, it’s terrible, I don’t know what I’m going to do…’
The voice disappeared and M shouted into the phone, ‘Caresse, I can’t hear you!’
‘Frankie’s…dead!’
‘Oh, my God, no! Oh God, what happened?’ M’s voice wobbled, and she sat down heavily in the hall chair and endeavoured to steady herself. Tears sprang into her eyes. She could hardly believe what Caresse was saying.
‘He was in a car crash. In France. On something called grancornish.’ Caresse’s voice faded for a moment or two and then she started to sob. Almost immediately static and sizzle took over.
‘Caresse, are you still there?’ M asked, pressing her ear to the mobile.
‘Yes.’ Caresse’s voice was back once more on the line.
‘Where are you, Caresse? Tell me where you are.’
‘At Frankie’s. At the studio.’
‘Stay there. I’m coming over. Now.’
Larry had not failed to hear the distressed tone in M’s voice, and he had rushed out of the kitchen. The moment he had seen the dismay on her face, he knew something bad had happened, and he stood in the doorway, staring across at her, filled with concern.
Once she finished the call, he went over to her. She was unusually pale and there was a stricken expression in her eyes.
M got up out of the chair. She said, ‘That was Caresse, Frankie Farantino’s receptionist, and she’s had bad news…’ Her voice faltered. ‘He’s been killed in an accident…Frankie’s dead.’
‘Oh, M, how dreadful,’ Larry responded, his voice quiet, sympathetic. ‘I’m so sorry. Where did it happen?’
‘He was in the south of France. Caresse said it was on “grancornish” but I’m sure she was mispronouncing Grande Corniche.’
‘Yes, she must have meant that,’ Larry agreed. ‘I know that road, it’s treacherous, very dangerous to drive on—and especially so if someone doesn’t know it well.’
M was obviously extremely distressed, and Larry put his arms around her, wanting to comfort her as best he could.
She clung to him, but after a few minutes she pulled away and straightened up. Looking up at him, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Very sorry.’
‘Don’t be so silly, M, I know how upset you are, and I don’t blame you, it’s tragic, a terrible shock. Listen, I heard you tell Caresse you were going to go and see her. I think I should come with you, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, Larry. Please.’
It was a nice day and there was a lot of traffic going downtown, but half an hour later M and Larry were ringing the bell of Frank Farantino’s photography studio in the Meatpacking District.
The huge, nail-studded black door was opened almost immediately. Standing there was a tall, thin young man who looked about seventeen, perhaps eighteen. He had a shock of brown curly hair, a saturnine face and hazel eyes that looked sorrowful and somewhat teary.
At once M noticed the strong resemblance he bore to Frankie and, stretching out her hand, she said, ‘Hello, I’m M, and this is my friend Laurence Vaughan. Caresse is expecting us.’
The young man shook their hands, saying as he did, ‘I’m Frankie’s son, Alex. Please come in, Caresse is waiting for you.’
‘We were so upset when we heard about your father’s accident, such a tragedy.’ M touched the boy’s arm lightly, added softly in a warm, caring voice, ‘I’m very sorry, Alex. It was so sudden, so unexpected, you must be blindsided.’
Looking more tearful than ever, he started to blink and muttered, ‘Thank you, thanks very much. Yes, it’s been a shock.’ He pursed his lips nervously. It was obvious he was strained and anxious.
La
rry now spoke up. ‘I’m sorry, Alex. My condolences to you. This is an awful thing for you to bear, and if there’s anything M or I can do, or if we can help you in any way, you must let us know.’
‘Thanks, Mr Vaughan, thanks.’
‘Call me Larry, please. I much prefer it.’
The young man nodded, and took them through the reception area, heading in the direction of the main studio. They followed hard on his heels.
M felt slightly dazed, could hardly believe this was happening. The last time she had been in the vast main studio was for her shoot, the day Frankie had announced she was surely Audrey Hepburn’s twin, and promised to launch her career as a model when he got back from the fashion shoot in Morocco. Well, he certainly wasn’t coming back now, except in a coffin.
Sorrow swept over her. Frank Farantino was dead. There would be no launch of her career; her big break had unexpectedly vanished in a flash. But none of that mattered. She could begin again, start all over, find her way somehow. But Frankie wasn’t coming back…and that was the greatest of tragedies. The world had lost a truly good man and a talented and exceptional photographer, a brilliant artist.
A wave of memories assailed her as she followed Alex and Larry into the studio. She thought of the fun and excitement of that special day of photography, and she couldn’t quite grasp that she would never see Frankie ever again…Now she remembered him moving around with such agility, telling her what to do, how to stand, to pose, focusing his camera on her, snapping pictures…encouraging her, praising her…
All of the lights had been turned on and were blazing throughout; sitting in a chair in the centre of the studio was Caresse. She was hunched over, her arms wrapped around herself, her bright red head bent down on her chest.
M’s throat tightened. She stood perfectly still, aware that Caresse was heartbroken, and somehow she understood that there had been something important between Caresse and Frankie and that he had been much more than merely her boss.
Taking a deep breath, M moved forward, went over to Caresse, knelt down next to the chair, and wrapped her arms around the receptionist. ‘Caresse…I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry. What an enormous shock this must be for you.’
Breaking the Rules (2009) Page 10