Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

Rogan rose to his feet, impotent with fury. To object could well mean losing the most important part of his career. Almost incoherently he said goodbye to Valentina then stormed past Vidal.

  ‘Bastard,’ he muttered viciously beneath his breath when he was safely out of earshot. ‘Sonofabitching bastard!’

  As Vidal watched Rogan’s undignified departure, Valentina rose from her wicker chair. Immediately, Vidal swung round. ‘I told you not to see anybody. Anybody!’ he rasped.

  Heads were beginning to turn in their direction, but Vidal was uncaring. He slammed a book down on the table. ‘From now on, I’ll be too busy to discuss literature with an empty-headed trollop who can’t wait to get her hands on her leading man!’

  Valentina gasped and then her hand shot out, slapping him full across the face. ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ she hissed, her face white with fury.

  He seized her wrist in a steel-like grip, his eyes glittering. ‘I dare do anything,’ he rasped through clenched teeth. ‘Never forget it! From now on, no Rogan. Understand?’

  ‘No,’ she flared, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. ‘I’m not your property! I’ll go where I want and see who I choose!’

  He shook his head and at the expression in his eyes she flinched.

  ‘You will not! You will do exactly as I say!’ and spinning on his heel he strode away from her, leaving her alone among the flowers.

  He did not come again to read to her in his rich, dark voice. There were no telephone calls; no messages. She continued her reading alone. She studied her script. She played an occasional game of tennis with the hotel coach, and she swam when she thought she was unobserved.

  She did not read the Los Angeles Times or The Examiner and so she did not know that a readership of millions now knew her name; that she was gaining publicity by shunning it. That Hollywood and its adoring fans were being told that Vidal Rakoczi, the controversial Hungarian director, had searched for years to find an actress to play the lead in a mammoth movie he had written and would direct. That he had found the girl he had predicted would be the star of the decade and brought her out of obscurity. That Valentina was going to be a name to rank alongside Valentino’s in Hollywood history.

  Vidal dismissed the euphoric prose impatiently. He had no time for the publicity office, nor for the gossip columnists who fed the hungry appetites of their adoring readership. He installed a brawny young man in the bungalow adjoining Valentina’s, giving him strict instructions to see that no one from the press approached or spoke to her. He also took the precaution of booking the bungalow on the other side of her in a further attempt at securing privacy.

  The hotel staff were all under strict instructions to deny that she was staying there and his own telephone calls to the desk clerk increased. Totally unaware of it, Valentina was under twenty-four hours surveillance. With relief, Vidal learned that Rogan Tennant had not been foolish enough to try and contact Valentina again. When his rage had burned itself out, he tortured himself with the isolation he had imposed on her.

  He tried to expiate his guilt in his work and failed. She was in his thoughts continuously. The longer he went without seeing her the more desperately he longed to feast his eyes on her, to renew their few magical hours together. Because he could not trust himself to do so, he turned with increasing regularity to his one method of escape: racing his Duesenberg at suicidal speeds when the long, punishing days he set himself were over. Striding the beach, consumed by the darkness of his thoughts. Fighting a desire that could only lead to misery and unhappiness.

  On July 1, a bellboy delivered a typed message to Valentina. It asked that she be ready for work at five the next morning and informed her that a studio Cadillac would convey her to Worldwide.

  She slept badly, more in fearful excitement at the prospect of seeing Vidal again, than in nervousness at the thought of what might be required of her on the set.

  She dressed the next morning with care and the Worldwide chauffeur looked at her with admiration as she walked down the shallow flight of steps towards the Cadillac. The rumours flying about Worldwide had not been wrong. She was certainly different from any other star he had been requisitioned to collect and he determined there and then to request that he become her permanent driver.

  As they entered the canyon that led to Worldwide, her heart began to beat in slow, thick strokes. This time, it was she who received a deferential salute from the man at the gates. She regarded him coolly, remembering the way he had spoken to Bob.

  As the Cadillac slid to a halt Vidal strode across to greet her. He had still not changed from his riding breeches and boots and there were damp patches of sweat on his silk shirt. He had been up even earlier than Valentina. Riding in the hills like a Dervish, as if in so doing he could lessen the physical tension he felt. His efforts had been in vain.

  ‘Wally is waiting for you in make-up,’ he said frowning down at her, and then he turned on his heel, rasping a volley of orders to the minions who hurried in his wake.

  Wally was genuinely pleased to see her. His friendliness did much to calm the tumult raging under her calm exterior.

  A young boy whose eyes held both curiosity and awe led her from make-up to hairdressing and then to wardrobe. Wherever she went she was watched; treated with respect. The whole of Worldwide knew who she was. For the first time she realized the enormity of the gamble Vidal and Theodore Gambetta had taken, and she determined that, no matter what the situation was between herself and Vidal, she would not let them down.

  The set fell silent when she entered the studio. She saw Rogan and he immediately came up to her, putting her at ease, quietly explaining just what it was that the electricians and lighting men were doing. She felt a flood of warmth towards him, grateful for his kindness. Vidal continued to ignore her except to give her curt orders. The day passed in a haze that she afterwards found difficult to remember.

  There were their lines to go through. Endless rehearsals. Changes. She had to become accustomed to the marks on the floor, and understand what Vidal meant when he told her to hit them.

  The first time she had looked at him in bewilderment and Rogan had quietly crossed to her and said, ‘See those chalk marks on the floor? The assistant cameraman puts them there and that’s exactly where he wants us to stand for the various takes. If an actor fails to stand or hit the marks accurately, the cameraman in charge of focus may run into difficulties.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  ‘Have you quite finished playing nursemaid, Tennant?’ Vidal snapped harshly. ‘Now, let’s try again. One, two, three. Hit those marks! Watch those lights, Tennant! Jesus God! You’re supposed to be an earl! Let’s have a bit of dignity for Christ sakes!’

  The film crew looked at each other silently with raised eyebrows. If this was a foretaste of the movie’s shooting it was going to be a rough ride.

  As Vidal strode across to a seething Rogan, Valentina quietly studied the marks on the floor.

  ‘Right, let’s try it again. And act for God’s sake, Tennant! Head up, Valentina! You look more like a scullery maid than a princess! Quiet, please! Hold it down! Roll’em! Take six! Speed! Go!’

  And again and again and again: ‘Smile, Valentina, but don’t move your chin! Hold it! She’s sweating again. Make-up!’

  She stood under the unbearably hot lights as her face was powdered.

  ‘Right. Let’s make this the last take. Quiet on the set, please. Hold it down! Roll’em. Take seven.’

  Again Valentina greeted Suffolk who was to play such an important part in her life. Who was to arrange her marriage; become her champion, her lover. With overwhelming relief she heard Vidal rasp, ‘That’s it. Print it.’

  The camera operator gave an audible sigh of relief. As the long, arduous day drew to a close, Valentina asked Rogan, ‘How long will what we have done today be on screen?’

  ‘Three minutes, if we’re lucky,’ Rogan said drily. Rakoczi was being as much of a bastard to Valentina as he was to everyone e
lse; he was certainly not romantically interested in her. ‘Let’s have dinner tonight and talk about it.’

  ‘I’m very tired, Rogan.’

  ‘So am I, but the more you know about how this place works the easier it will be for you. I’ll pick you up an hour after we break from here.’

  ‘You’re being paid to act, Tennant,’ Vidal said coldly. ‘Could we please have your attention back where it belongs?’

  His eyes did not even flicker in her direction.

  The long, taut, tense day finally drew to an end. Throughout it all, Vidal had not given her one word of praise or encouragement.

  When she left the set, walking tall and proud and showing none of the rejection she felt, Don Symons, Vidal’s chief lighting man, said, ‘When that camera starts whirring, she turns on the magic and you can’t believe your eyes.’

  ‘No,’ said Vidal, his eyes bleak, ‘you can’t.’

  Valentina entered her bungalow slowly and sat down on the edge of her bed. So this was what it was going to be like. Day in and day out. No wonder Rogan had nicknamed him Torquemada. He had been nice to her until he had got what he wanted: her signature on Theodore Gambetta’s contract; Gambetta’s agreement that she should play the lead in The Warrior Queen.

  There was no more reason to stay endlessly in the pink-carpeted suite. Vidal would not be calling with another armful of books or to discuss the movie. She knew her script. There was nothing to stop her going out with Rogan.

  She showered and changed into a backless evening dress decorated with seed pearls. Rogan, at least, was kind to her.

  He arrived on time and eyed her appreciatively. They went to Ciro’s and Valentina ate enchiladas and salad and watched fascinated as Rogan waved to his acquaintances. After they had eaten they danced and then Rogan led her from table to table, introducing her to movie stars she had never dreamed she would meet in the flesh and who now, incredibly, seemed passionately eager to meet her.

  They returned to their table and Rogan had a Scotch. ‘Let’s make a night of it,’ he suggested, taking her hand in his. ‘Have you ever gambled?’

  A smile lurked at the corners of her mouth. ‘No, but I’ve an awful feeling I’d like to.’

  He grinned. ‘We’ll go on to the Clover Club. It’s the smartest gambling house in town. Roulette, chemin-de-fer, black-jack. You name it and they’ve got it.’

  His arm slid around her shoulder in the intimacy of the car on the way there, and for a brief moment she stiffened as if about to pull away. Rogan was aware of her movement and his desire for her increased. She wasn’t going to be an easy lay, but that was precisely why he was putting himself to so much trouble. It had been a long time since he had had to make an effort for a woman.

  At the club he sat her down at a roulette wheel with a stack of chips and proceeded to teach her the rules of the game.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said to him, ‘It can’t be that easy.’

  Rogan laughed. ‘It is, Valentina, it is.’

  The spinning wheel and the rattle of the ball fascinated her. When she won, she was as delighted as a child. When she lost, her disappointment was endearing.

  ‘Having fun?’ he asked, his knee brushing hers.

  She laughed and raised her head. ‘Yes,’ she said, and then the smile froze on her face.

  Vidal was leaning against a far wall, every line of his body lithe and tense. Her hand faltered over the chips that were being pushed in her direction. She could not tear her eyes from his. They were blazingly angry; demonic in their fury.

  ‘C’m on, Valentina. Stake again on the red,’ Rogan said encouragingly.

  Mechanically she did as she was bid, but her eyes were not on the table. They were on Vidal. She felt as if a band of steel was tightening around her chest, squeezing the breath from her body. What had she done to arouse such fury? Surely he could not expect her to remain a prisoner in the hotel for ever? She had done all that he had asked of her. She had studied her part, learned her lines. What more did he want?

  The answer came unerringly. He wanted to control her as Svengali had Trilby in one of the books they had read together. He didn’t see her as a person but as an object. And, like an expensive piece of equipment, he wanted her to remain under lock and key until such time as he required her.

  Anger licked through her. He was not her husband. Nor her lover. Not even her friend. He had no right to order where she would go; who she would see; what she would do. She saw shock register in the black glitter of his eyes. Whatever reaction he had expected when their eyes met and held, it had not been one of defiant rage. For a second she thought she saw pain and then he wheeled away, striding from the room, ignoring every greeting and leaving a trail of raised eyebrows behind him.

  For an insane moment she wanted to run after him. Then reason asserted itself and with a dull ache she returned her attention to the roulette wheel and forced herself to smile as Rogan continued to chat and joke with her, telling her outrageous anecdotes about the various stars playing the other tables.

  Vidal strode across to his Duesenberg and slammed the door behind him. Savagely, he revved the engine and slewed the car out onto the road. The build-up of pain behind his eyes was crucifying. For the first time in his life, he was racked by indecision. He passed a hand across his eyes despairingly. Other Hollywood marriages ended in divorce every day. But they were not like his. No amount of alimony could compensate Kariana if he abandoned her.

  He pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and the needle flicked from eighty to eighty-five miles an hour. The highway stretched out in front of him, empty and stark, the waves creaming ghostly white on his left-hand side, the mountains, barely discernible in the darkness, on his right. Kariana’s personal nightmare had engulfed him as surely as it had engulfed her. There could be no escape.

  ‘God in heaven!’ he cried aloud, beating the wheel with his fists. ‘What am I to do?’ In a cloud of dust and the scorching fumes of burning tyres, he screeched to a halt and buried his head in his hands and wept.

  Chapter Nine

  Valentina tried to concentrate on the game but failed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she made a foolish mistake for the third time. ‘I have a headache, Rogan. Would you take me back to the hotel, please?’

  ‘Sure, honey.’ Taking her arm he excused himself from the table, calling out many goodbyes as he left the room. It would be all over Hollywood next morning that Rogan Tennant was living up to his reputation as Worldwide’s greatest stud, off screen as well as on.

  As they drove back to the Beverly Hills Hotel and he told her what a hit she had made at Ciro’s and the Clover Club, she was subdued. It had been kind of Rogan to have taken her out but Vidal’s appearance at the Clover Club had spoiled her evening. She could almost feel his presence teasing and tormenting her.

  Unlike Vidal, Rogan moved to leave the car and escort her to her bungalow. She put a hand lightly on his arm.

  ‘It’s only a short walk, Rogan. Thank you for the evening.’ She remembered that he had promised to tell her more about the way the set worked but that the conversation had never once touched on either The Warrior Queen or Worldwide. She felt guilty. She had been a poor companion, barely answering him as he had spoken to her on the way back to the hotel, her thoughts far away.

  Rogan leaned back in his seat and slid his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘You’re a tease, Valentina,’ he said softly. ‘Shall we motor further on and find a little privacy?’

  She shook her head, her hair brushing his hand.

  He laughed, hooking a finger under her chin and tilting her face to his. ‘We can hardly say goodnight in the full glare of the porch lights, can we?’

  ‘I’m afraid that we’ll have to,’ she said gently, aware that she had led him on unfairly.

  His cologne was heavier and sweeter than the one Vidal used. His hand caressed the nakedness of her shoulder. ‘I want to make love to you, Valentina.’ He leaned forward, taking the lob
e of her ear gently between his teeth. ‘I’ve wanted to make love to you ever since we met,’ he said huskily. His hand slipped down, cupping her breast and she pulled away from him.

  ‘Goodnight, Rogan,’ she said firmly, and then was silenced as his mouth came down on hers. She tried to free herself and failed. Her hands pushed in vain against his chest. For a moment she wondered if she was mad. She was in the arms of a man who looked like a hero from the Greek myths. And she was trying to free herself from his embrace.

  ‘You’re a witch, Valentina. A beautiful, tormenting, glorious witch and I want you so much I’m burning up.’ His voice was thick with desire, his mouth skimming her neck, her shoulders, the soft warm flesh of her breasts.

  She drew in a ragged breath and pushed herself away from him. ‘Stop it, Rogan! I don’t want to be kissed! To be touched!’

  At the vehemence in her voice he pulled away from her, stunned. It was the first time in his life that he had been rejected. ‘Do you swing the other way?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Do you prefer girls?’ It was the only conceivable explanation for her behaviour that he could think of.

  She put a hand to her throbbing head. ‘I’m sorry, Rogan. I don’t understand you. I have a terrible headache and I really am very tired. Today has been a long day for me.’ She managed to smile. ‘I’m sorry if I over-reacted. I’m just not used to … to being touched like that.’

  She slid across the seat and opened the car door.

  ‘Goodnight, Rogan. It was a nice evening. I’m sorry if I spoiled it.’

  The door closed behind her. There was the rapid tip-tap of her high-heeled sandals as she crossed the lobby, and then silence.

  Rogan shook his head as if to clear it, and then reached for his cigarettes. His hand was unsteady and he gazed down at it in disbelief. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to find himself in deep water. Hooked and landed like a kid just out of high school. Unassuaged desire washed over him in waves. It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to. Crushing out his cigarette, he revved the engine and set off at high speed for a house where he knew he would be made more welcome.