Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Tell her you’ll be here all night,’ Vidal said brusquely. ‘The estimates are out and I want them redrawing before Gambetta panics and calls the whole thing off.’

  Harris swallowed. If they were over budget now, they’d be criminally so if the unit went to a new location. He dialled a number and after a brief pause said tightly, ‘You’d better get down here immediately. It looks like we have problems.’

  They worked through the night and at dawn, when Vidal pushed his chair away from his desk, the whole San Fernando location had been redesigned. As Harris and the special effects man stumbled home to grab a couple of hours’sleep, Vidal remained in his office. He couldn’t face the thought of returning to Villada. Instead, he stretched out on his long leather sofa and stared into the darkness. Louella Parsons had recently headlined him as the man who had everything. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. She was devastatingly wrong. He was a man who had nothing of true value.

  In the morning on the set Harris approached him nervously, his face tired and drawn from lack of sleep.

  ‘Rogan Tennant and Valentina haven’t turned up for customes or make-up.’

  Vidal glanced at his watch, his mouth tightening. ‘Are they in hairdressing or the commissary?’

  ‘No, Mr Rakoczi. They’re nowhere in the studio.’

  ‘Have their studio cars returned?’

  Harris shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘Tennant’s has, there’s no sign of Valentina’s.’

  ‘Let me speak to Tennant’s driver. I don’t care how sick he is, he’s going to have to come in today.’

  Don Symons, who had been listening to the conversation, said uneasily, ‘I don’t think he’s sick, Mr Rakoczi. There was a little trouble on the set yesterday, and Tennant turned nasty and threw a punch at Harris.’

  Vidal cursed volubly in Hungarian. It had been bound to happen sooner or later. A movie company’s cast and crew was a spawning ground of intense personal relationships. People who would never normally talk to each other were thrust into daily contact for long periods. The results were often explosive, and it could well explain Valentina’s absence.

  ‘Did she seem distressed at the time?’ he asked sharply.

  Harris blinked uncomprehendingly and Vidal resisted the urge to imitate Tennant’s behaviour. ‘Valentina,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Did she seem distressed at the time by the scene between you and Tennant?’

  ‘She looked a bit shaken,’ Harris said.

  ‘She must have been more than shaken to stay home rather than face the two of you this morning,’ Vidal said savagely, turning on his heel. ‘I’ll put a call through to the Beverly Hills now. You get Tennant on the phone and tell him if he doesn’t get his ass over here in thirty minutes, he’s off the movie.’

  Don and Harris exchanged glances, well aware that wherever Valentina and Tennant were, they were together.

  ‘Use a pass key!’ Vidal thundered into the telephone receiver. ‘If she’s not answering, it means she’s sick!’ The flesh tightened over his cheekbones. He couldn’t imagine a small thing like a disagreement between Harris and Tennant disturbing her so deeply that she would ruin a day’s shooting by wilfully absenting herself from the studio. Perhaps she’d been unable to sleep and had taken sleeping pills. She would be unused to them. Perhaps she had accidentally overdosed. His knuckles showed white as he clenched the receiver, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  ‘The lady in bungalow eight has specifically requested not to be disturbed, sir,’ the distant voice said respectfully.

  ‘This is Rakoczi here!’ Vidal thundered. ‘I want you to get in that bungalow, do you understand me?’

  There was an awkward pause at the other end of the line, and then an apologetic voice said, ‘I believe the lady is entertaining, sir.’

  Vidal froze, well aware of what the polite euphemism meant. For a second he thought he was going to black out, then slowly he replaced the receiver on its cradle.

  Don cleared his throat uncomfortably. The voice from the Beverly Hills had been clear enough for them all to hear.

  ‘I guess they were celebrating late and slept in. I’ll get someone over there straight away.’

  ‘Just who do you mean by “they”, and exactly what were they celebrating?’ Vidal asked, turning towards Don, his voice so full of menace that Don automatically took a step backward.

  ‘Rogan Tennant and Valentina. That’s what caused the disruption on the set yesterday. Tennant insisted on throwing an impromptu party to celebrate their engagement.’

  ‘Jesus God,’ Vidal said softly, his face draining of blood. Don and Harris looked away in embarrassment. They had been wrong in their conjectures. There was something going on between Mr Rakoczi and Valentina, only they had been too blind to see it.

  No one spoke. The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly. At last Vidal forced himself to move. His feral, primitive quality, barely veneered by the politeness that civilization demanded, was now naked. His eyes blazed in a fury that was white-hot as he rounded his desk, hurtling out of the room and towards his Rolls.

  ‘Mr Rakoczi…’ Harris called after him in vain.

  The rear door of the Rolls slammed and the startled chauffeur hurriedly put the car into gear, speeding towards the studio gates with scant regard for the strictly enforced five-miles-per-hour limit.

  As the cloud of dust in the Rolls’wake dispersed, Harris walked weakly back into Vidal’s office and sat down. ‘For once in my life I feel sincerely sorry for that bastard Tennant,’ he said, fumbling for his cigarettes. ‘Rakoczi’s going to make mincemeat of him.’

  Don remained silent. Unless Mr Rakoczi’s temper cooled on the short drive from the studio to the Beverly Hills Hotel, Rogan Tennant could be facing far more than a severe beating. He could be facing extinction and Mr Rakoczi could be facing a murder rap. He walked sombrely out of the room, filled with a sense of foreboding crushing in its intensity.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For once in his life Vidal had no coherent thought or plan. He only knew that to see Valentina married to Rogan Tennant would be an agony beyond endurance.

  The pink, stuccoed fairytale cupolas of the Beverly Hills Hotel came into view and before the Rolls could slide to a halt Vidal had opened the rear door and leapt from the car. His chauffeur stared after, him, shrugged his shoulders, and then eased the car away from the front entrance until it should again be requested.

  Vidal raced through the immaculately kept gardens to the ochre-tiled bungalow. He had no intention of wasting time by presenting himself at the front lobby and requesting a pass key. Tennant would open the door to him or never set foot before a camera again. Bile rose in his throat. If Tennant was in the bungalow, then it meant that he and Valentina were already lovers.

  The drapes were drawn and he hurled himself at the door, beating on it with his fists.

  ‘What the hell…’ he heard Rogan say bewilderedly, and then he threw his shoulder against the door, yelling: ‘Open this Goddamned door, Tennant!’

  A passing waiter, wheeling a breakfast trolley away from one of the other bungalows, left his silverware unattended and rushed to inform security that a disturbance was taking place outside bungalow eight.

  Rogan stumbled, half-naked and bleary-eyed, from the bed. He had drunk far too much the previous evening. He had a vague recollection of leaping joyously into the Plaza fountain and of being helped through the grounds by a bevy of companions all wishing him well, and shouting drunken congratulations. He stared round dazedly for Valentina and saw a pillow and blanket in rumpled disarray on the sofa.

  ‘What the hell…’ he repeated as the pounding on the door continued and a string of Hungarian oaths filled the air.

  ‘It’s Vidal,’ Valentina said, white-faced, emerging from the living room, bare feet peeping from beneath a tightly wrapped rose-silk negligée. ‘I told reception I didn’t wish to be disturbed. They must have thought I meant this morning, not last night. Th
ere’s been no studio call. Nothing.’

  ‘What the fuck happened last night?’ Rogan asked, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as the door began to give on its hinges.

  Valentina stared from him to the door and back again, her voice unsteady. ‘We had a celebration dinner and then we went for drinks in the Polo Lounge and Sutton was there. He toasted us with champagne and then the word spread and the whole thing got out of hand. Sutton said the trade papers would hear of the story within hours and that I should tell reception I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘Christ!’ Rogan said despairingly as the door splintered on its hinges. ‘We’re sure as hell being disturbed now!’

  Vidal burst into the room like a tornado. In one glance he took in the dishevelled bed, the empty champagne bottle and glasses, Rogan scrambling frantically for his shirt and jacket; and Valentina, perfectly still, perfectly composed. Unutterably beautiful.

  All the passion, all the jealousy, all the possessiveness he had kept damned within him for so long burst free. He had wanted her since he had first set eyes on her and he had fooled himself into believing that it was only to film her. For weeks now he had known the truth and he had fought against it. He was incapable of fighting any longer.

  With the agility and speed of a rampaging Magyar, he seized hold of a still half-naked Rogan and pitched him head first through the open door on to the rose bordered gravel outside. Then he kicked the damaged door shut with his heel and faced Valentina, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his eyes blacker than the coals of hell.

  ‘It was my fault…’ she began with difficulty, the words strangling in her throat as his blazing eyes riveted her so that she could not move; could hardly breathe. ‘I told reception yesterday that I was not to be disturbed. They misunderstood. There was no studio call this morning. Nothing.’

  ‘You were in bed with Tennant!’ he said ferociously, seizing her wrist, encircling it with a lean, strong hand.

  She stared up at him dazedly. Surely his fury was because she hadn’t turned up on the set on time? Not because of Rogan.

  ‘We got engaged yesterday,’ she said, feeling herself begin to tremble.

  ‘The devil you did!’

  The heat of his touch burned her. He was holding her so savagely that she felt faint with pain. His mouth was etched with white lines and even his nostrils seemed pinched with fury.

  ‘You’re hurting me!’

  Vidal was uncaring. ‘Of all the men in the world, you have to lose your virginity to a mindless, conceited cretin like Tennant!’

  ‘What is it to you if I did?’ she flared, shock giving way to answering fury. ‘I’m not your property! I have a life of my own to lead and I’ll lead it in any way I choose!’

  ‘No you damn well won’t!’ Vidal thundered. Grasping hold of her shoulders he dragged her against him, kissing her with the pent-up urgency and hunger of months.

  For a brief second she remained rigid as his arms imprisoned her and then, with a sob that relinquished reason, her arms circled his neck and her mouth parted willingly beneath his.

  Vidal was ablaze with sensations he had never given rein to before. As her lips opened like a flower beneath his, he knew that he was experiencing not mere passion but a love that was all-consuming.

  With a groan he swept her up in his arms and carried her towards the bed. Her hair brushed his flesh, fine and soft and silky. He lowered her beneath him, her robe falling apart at her breasts. His mouth was on her lips, her throat, her shoulders and then his hand slid down, touching and possessing. She heard herself gasp, and then her breath was lost in the passion of his mouth and her body was no longer her own.

  ‘I love you,’ he said urgently as her pulse thundered in her temples and her heart thudded against her breastbone. ‘I shall find no peace without you!’

  If there was pain as he entered her, she was unaware of it. She felt only his swift intake of breath and then was lost in the near mindless pleasure of loving and being loved. Her body felt as if it were parched earth, saturated by soft, sweet rain after years of drought.

  ‘I love you,’ she gasped, her body arching to meet him, her fingers burrowing deep in the thick mass of hair. ‘I love you! I love you! I love you!’

  Afterwards there was utter stillness. His body still imprisoned her, her arms wrapped tight against him as if she would never let him go. Outside birds twittered and the morning sunlight fell through the shutters, bathing them in golden light. Very slowly, he raised himself on one arm and looked down at her, tenderly smoothing a tendril of hair away from her damp forehead.

  ‘You never slept with Tennant, did you?’

  She smiled the gentle, intoxicated smile of a woman fulfilled. ‘No,’ she said, brushing his shoulder with her lips. ‘I never did.’

  He kissed her lingeringly and she sighed, her whole being suffused with a joy that was bone-deep.

  ‘I should have made love to you that night on the beach,’ he said, his eyes glittering wickedly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her fingers touching his body in the familiar, intimate way that they had longed to for so long. ‘You should have.’

  When he made love to her again it was with the gentleness of absolute love. Their bodies moved together in a harmony that was beyond the expectations or experience of either of them.

  The sun was high in the sky when she reached across for the telephone and asked room service for breakfast for two.

  ‘And a bottle of Bollinger,’ Vidal prompted, tracing the delicious curve of her breasts with his forefinger.

  ‘And a bottle of Bollinger’she repeated, her eyes dancing. ‘And Beluga caviar and lots of black coffee and scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Uristen,’ Vidal groaned, ‘what a mixture!’

  She slid down beside him, her lips burned and bruised by his kisses. ‘After we eat, shall we return to the studio?’

  Vidal winced. For two days not a foot of film had been shot. Gambetta might even now be rampaging over the set like a maddened bull.

  ‘I doubt if Tennant will show his face today, but we’d better. Both the cast and the crew are going to wonder what the hell is going on.’

  Valentina gurgled with laughter as she pressed her naked body closer to his. ‘And will you tell them?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘You’re a wanton hussy,’ he said, pulling her down on top of him, his hands caressing her thighs and buttocks.

  ‘Not so wanton that I will forgo my breakfast,’ Valentina said laughing as she bit his ear lobe, then slipping off the bed and into her discarded negligée as the waiter knocked on the door, a midday breakfast trolley, complete with champagne and caviar, at his side.

  Vidal sat Indian-fashion on the bed and she knelt beside him, the champagne cork flying upwards. They toasted each other joyously in champagne ice-cold and delicious.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, nibbling at toast and caviar, ‘that I shall have to disengage myself.’

  ‘At the very soonest opportunity,’ he said, kissing away champagne droplets that had fallen on her breast.

  ‘And you?’ she asked, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘How long will it take for you to unmarry yourself?’

  His glass remained motionless in mid-air for a second or so and then he said, with a peculiar edge to his voice, ‘I shan’t be unmarrying myself, Valentina.’

  She stared up at him, the joy fading from her eyes. ‘But you love me! I know that you love me! Surely you’ll be getting a divorce?’

  ‘No.’ His sun-bronzed face was suddenly hard and uncompromising. ‘I do love you, but I shall never get a divorce.’ His voice was raw with pain as he set his champagne glass down and took her hand in his. ‘I shall never be able to marry you, Valentina.’

  For a long minute she simply did not believe him, and then, when the enormity of what he had said sank it, she backed away from him, shivering convulsively.

  ‘I don’t understand … We love each other. We belong together…’

 
; He made no move towards her. His eyes were sombre. ‘I’m married, Valentina. I have a responsibility towards my wife. She needs me.’

  Disappointment and hurt flooded through her. ‘I need you!’ she cried, her eyes anguished. ‘I love you! I’ve always loved you! I always will love you! But I can’t continue to be your lover if you stay with your wife.’

  Slowly he stood up and reached for his shirt. ‘My wife is ill,’ he said in low, measured tones, ‘I can’t leave her, Valentina. Please don’t ask it of me.’

  ‘But she’ll get better.’ She threw herself on her knees before him, filled with wild hope. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her enough. It was that beneath his go-to-the-Devil attitude he was a man of honour. ‘We can marry then! Oh, please, Vidal! I couldn’t live if I thought we would never be married!’

  The sunlight was behind her so that a nimbus of gold seemed to halo her dark hair. He cupped her chin in his hands and raised her face to his.

  ‘No matter how bad things are, Valentina, we can always live through them.’

  Shs gazed up at him, the expression on his face awakening within her a nameless fear. For the first time she realized that the deep lines running from his nose to his mouth had been etched there by suffering.

  ‘Is it so bad?’ she whispered, her eyes pleading with him to deny it, to renew hope.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘it’s so bad.’

  Their eyes held and she knew that she had no decision to make. It had been made long ago when she had stood on the set of The Black Knights and had not even known his name.

  ‘Then we won’t speak of it again,’ she said with devastating simplicity. ‘We’ll just love each other for as long as we live.’

  He drew her to her feet, kissing her long and deeply, knowing that she had an inner core of strength that he would always derive sustenance from. He felt no guilt towards Kariana for there was none to feel. Their life as husband and wife had ended long ago. She demanded only that he remain with her, protecting and shielding her, and he would do so.

  As their lips parted they gazed at each other, aware that they were embarking on no transient affaire, but a life-long commitment.