‘I suppose this happens to you all the time,’ Paulos said, as the photographer was unceremoniously hustled away by two of Mike Romanoff’s henchmen. Mike was a professional. He knew the clients who welcomed such attentions and he knew instinctively the ones who did not. The alluring and breathtakingly beautiful Valentina fell into the rare but latter category.
‘No,’ she said, aware that the purpose of the evening had been fulfilled, ‘I don’t dine out very often.’
Paulos regarded her long and measuringly. She was not at all what he had expected. She had none of the pretensions and affectations of the newly famous. There was something rare and intriguing about her. Something hidden below the surface. She raised her eyes to his and his hand clenched on the starched white tablecloth. The sadness he had seen in her eyes had been no fleeting emotion. It was an integral part of her, so deep that he doubted if it could ever be erased. Yet she was a woman who was envied and emulated by millions.
He sat very quietly as Sutton and Claire discussed the wisdom of Sutton starring in yet another medieval costume drama. There was something about the woman at his side that touched his heart. And in twenty-five years only music had had that power.
‘Sutton warned me that you would not be what I expected,’ he said, wishing that he could take her hand in his, yet knowing that she would instinctively withdraw from him if he did so, ‘and he was right.’
‘Have I disappointed you?’ There was no coquetry in her question. She was lauded in public as a screen goddess. A great star. It would be only natural if Paulos Khairetis was disappointed with her in the flesh.
He smiled gently. ‘No. I doubt if you would ever do that.’
‘Then what is it about me that you did not expect?’ she asked curiously.
‘I did not expect such sadness,’ he said simply.
He saw alarm flare through her eyes and then she looked quickly away from him. ‘Is it so obvious?’ she asked, staring unseeingly at silver and cut glass and white napery.
‘To me it is.’
There was a long silence. He studied her ringless hand only a fraction of an inch away from his.
‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that you need a friend, Valentina. May I be that friend?’
His hair was dark, his skin olive-toned, and yet he was not remotely like Vidal. He had none of Vidal’s drive and energy. He would never be able to kindle the flame that had consumed her whenever Vidal looked at her or spoke to her. There could never be another Vidal in her life. He had her heart and her soul, and they could never be given elsewhere. And the loneliness was crucifying.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I would like you for my friend, Paulos.’
The next morning she appeared on the set, costumed and made
up and outwardly composed. Vidal strode across to her, oblivious
of the curious crew. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been out of my mind with worry!’ His face was haggard and looked as if he had not slept.
She drew in a deep, ragged breath. ‘I went out with Sutton and Claire Hyde…’
‘You did what?’ he shouted, and the entire crew flinched. ‘You told me you were ill! You weren’t home yesterday! No one knew where you were!’
‘I’m sorry, I…’
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He grasped her wrist and marched off the set, dragging her in his wake. Out in the open air he slammed her back against the studio wall. ‘What’s going on?’ he rasped, his eyes blazing. ‘You weren’t just out with the Hydes! You were with some Goddamned Greek! There are photographs in all the early editions!’
It was what she wanted. What she had schemed for. She dug her nails deep into her palms, praying for strength. ‘Yes,’ she said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, ‘he’s rather nice. He…’
‘Vigygzzon!’ he hissed, his hands crushing her wrists. ‘You haven’t been home! Have you been with him? Sleeping with him?’ Despite his rage, his eyes were disbelieving. It needed only one word from her. One little word, and everything would be as it had been before. She thought of the baby; of Kariana; of the madness Kariana would spiral into if Vidal left her and knew that the future could not be built on such a betrayal.
‘Yes,’ she said, and cried out in pain as his hand slapped her face, sending her stumbling against the wall.
‘Nem! Nem! NEM!’ he roared, his face white, and then, as she pulled away from him, running back to the set, ‘Valentina!’ His voice was anguished. She didn’t look back. Didn’t pause. Ashen-faced, she steadied her breathing and ignoring the curious glances of the crew, walked across to the canvas chair with her name painted on the back, and sat, not moving, her face rigid. It was twenty minutes before Vidal followed her. When he did so his face was grim, every muscle of his body tense.
‘Right,’ he said tersely, ignoring her as if she didn’t exist. ‘Places everybody. Don, move that kleig further to the left.’
It was a day that took all of her stamina to survive. He didn’t speak to her unless it was to give her directions, and when he did his icy voice slid across the vast sound stage like a whip.
At the end of the day she said goodbye to no one, simply walking off the set and into her limousine without even removing her costume or make-up.
‘The ranch or the Garden of Allah?’ her chauffeur enquired, wishing he knew what it was that was troubling her and that he could help.
‘The Garden of Allah. I shan’t ever be returning to the ranch.’
It held too many memories. Memories of Vidal’s ringing laughter; of his down-slanting smiles; his kisses and embraces.
There was a note waiting for her when she returned to her cottage at the Garden of Allah, inviting her to join her new neighbours for a drink in the bar that evening. She put it to one side and wearily began to run a bath. It was nice of them to ask her, but she couldn’t face socializing. Not unless it was the kind of socializing that would find its way into the gossip columns and link her name romantically with her escort. News of her appearance with the Hydes and Paulos Khairetis had already spread through the movie community. Her telephone rang five times before she was able to step into her bath. Four of the men were married and the fifth had a reputation as a womanizer that was exactly what she needed. She had an hour to bathe and change and assume the part that the evening required.
As she stepped from the bath, the doorbell rang. She froze, terror and hope fighting for dominance. Quickly she slipped her arms into a towelling bathrobe and with trembling fingers tied it tightly around her waist. When she opened the door, it was Paulos who stood on the step, not Vidal.
‘May I come in? I wondered if you would have dinner with me this evening?’ His smile was charmingly hesitant.
‘I… I have a date,’ she said, recovering herself with difficulty.
His smile faded. For the first time he realized how naive he had been. Of course she would be going out. He had been a fool to expect anything else. Stars of her calibre dated only immensely rich men, European aristocrats, or stars of equal status. As a virtually unknown classical pianist he fell into none of the acceptable brackets. Last night had been a fluke. And her acceptance of his offer of friendship had been taken lightly and had not meant to her what it had meant to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely, trying not to let his disappointment show. ‘Perhaps another evening. Goodnight, Valentina.’
The door closed behind him and she was left alone. A weariness that was bone-deep suffused her. The Lothario she was to spend the evening with would undoubtedly try and get her into bed and behave like a spoilt child when he did not succeed. It would have been far nicer to have spent the evening with Paulos. She doubted if he would ask her again. And she doubted if any of her future escorts would be as pleasant and as undemanding as the quiet-spoken, gentle-mannered Greek. Joy, which had been hers in such rich abundance, had now completely fled. All that remained was desolation. With a heavy heart she began to apply her makeup.
Chapter Si
xteen
Vidal marched from the set and did not even remain to view the day’s rushes. He dismissed his chauffeur, driving the Rolls high into the Hollywood hills, half-crazed with rage and bewilderment. The last forty-eight hours had been a rapidly spiralling nightmare. Valentina’s behaviour was incomprehensible. They loved each other. He would have staked his life on her faithfulness and yet, without warning or reason, she had openly flaunted another man in his face. Bile rose in his throat as he slewed the Rolls to a halt in a cloud of dust and gazed out over the spread of greater Los Angeles. It didn’t make sense. Overnight she had turned into a stranger. Far away in the distance, beyond scrub-covered hills, the Pacific shimmered, silver-grey as dusk approached. His hands clenched white on the wheel. If he lost her, he would be destroyed. Life would have no purpose; no meaning. He felt as if a knife were twisting deep in his gut. He had lost her already. Her eyes, when she had told him about the Greek, had been cool and dispassionate. The future stretched before him. A parched desert in which he could find no comfort.
Dusk fell and still he remained at the wheel, his jaw tense, his eyes those of a man coming to terms with an inner hell. Not until the light faded and the coyotes began to howl did he force himself into movement, slamming the car into gear and slewing it back on to the road, heading God alone knew where.
Valentina laughed and danced, flirted and posed for newsmen, and
no one seeing her would have guessed that she was hating every
minute of the evening. Lex Dale was no Paulos Khairetis. He touched her constantly and his conversation left her in no doubt that he expected the evening to culminate in her lying spreadeagled beneath him. They had dined at La Maze and had then gone on to the Trocadero to drink and to dance, and to enable Lex to be seen in Valentina’s company by as many people as possible.
‘We’d love a photograph,’ he said expansively to the photographers who followed them from the restaurant to the night club.
The arm around her shoulders was hot and sweaty, unduly proprietorial. ‘Let’s say, “We’re just good friends”,’ he said with a leer at the gossip columnist of The Hollywood Reporter.
‘How about a more friendly shot, Lex?’ The Daily Variety’s photographer demanded.
‘Why not?’ Lex Dale grinned. There was nothing he liked better than publicity, and this was publicity of the best kind. Valentina was front-page news. She was the hottest star in town. Effortlessly she had created an aura of mystery about herself, seldom being seen in public and rarely appearing without Vidal Rakoczi by her side. He would be the first man her name had been linked with romantically and he was going to play it to the hilt.
Valentina smiled seductively, a white mink stole around her throat, a waterfall of diamonds hanging from her ears.
‘C’mon honey, let’s give the people what they want,’ Lex said, pulling her towards him and kissing her full on the mouth.
His breath smelt of rum. His mouth was wet, his tongue probing. She endured it as long as she could and then pressed her hands against his shoulders, pushing him coquettishly away.
‘So when’s the happy day?’ the gossip columnist from The Reporter asked.
‘We’re just good friends,’ Lex repeated with a wink to indicate that they were far more.
Paulos Khairetis stood on the far side of the dance floor. He had seen her the instant he had entered the club. His first reaction had been to walk quickly away but then he had been held in repelled fascination as Lex Dale had kissed her for the benefit of the watching newsmen. He would have staked his life that such behaviour would have been anathema to her. He was filled with a sense of disappointment so deep it was almost one of betrayal. And then he saw the fleeting expression in her eyes as Lex Dale lifted his head from hers, his arm still around her shoulders as he continued his repartee with the press.
His disappointment fled and he began to move purposefully towards her. Despite all appearances to the contrary – her smiles, her gestures – her eyes were desperate, the eyes of a trapped animal as the hunters closed in.
‘Excuse me,’ he said with quiet authority, pushing his way through the crowd around her table.
‘Hey… What the hell…?’ An outraged photographer began indignantly as Paulos politely moved his camera out of the way.
Lex Dale blinked, staring up at him. It wasn’t a face he knew and the guy was obviously not from the press.
‘Let’s go,’ said Paulos, holding out his hand to Valentina.
Her hesitation was minimal. With overpowering relief she grasped his hand and rose regally to her feet.
‘Now just a minute, buddy…’ Lex Dale protested, his fists clenching.
‘My cousin has only a few hours before his flight leaves,’ Valentina said soothingly. ‘Please excuse me for now, Lex. I’ll see you later.’
It was a blatant lie. She had no intention of ever seeing him again.
Lex glanced at the watching photographers. Flash bulbs were popping all over the place. He ground his teeth together and managed a smile.
‘Sure, honey,’ he said, and then with a wave of his hand in Paulos’direction, ‘have a nice flight.’
Paulos grinned. The longer he spent in Hollywood, the more ridiculous the pretence and sham that everyone lived with seemed.
Once they were outside the nightclub he led the way across to an elegant Hispano-Suiza.
She sank thankfully into the wood and leather interior. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t ask her any questions. There was something infinitely restful about Paulos Khairetis. She closed her eyes and when she opened them they were cruising leisurely along a wide, neon-lit boulevard.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
His voice did not betray his curiosity. ‘You looked like a damsel in distress,’ he said wryly.
For the first time in days a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘I was.’
He didn’t ask why. He was a man who valued his own privacy and would never invade the privacy of others. If she wanted to tell him what she was doing in the company of a man she obviously disliked, she would do so in her own good time.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked. It was still only ten o’clock.
‘I’d like a cup of cocoa,’ she said with beguiling honesty.
He grinned. ‘That’s quite a tall order in this town. Where do you suggest we go?’
She had no desire for the harsh lights of a soda-fountain. ‘Let’s go to my place,’ she said, a feeling of ease seeping through her. The man at her side would not misunderstand her invitation. She would not have to fight for her virtue as she had had to do with Rogan, or as she would have had to do with Lex Dale.
They drove to the Garden of Allah in silence, Paulos aware that he was no longer looking forward to leaving Hollywood; Valentina, that her plan of being seen publicly with different escorts was going to be even more distasteful than she had at first imagined.
‘I haven’t had cocoa since I was a child,’ Paulos said as he parked the car and they stepped out into the balmy warmth of the evening air.
‘When I was a child, cocoa was one of my greatest luxuries. Here, where everyone drinks champagne, it’s becoming something of a secret vice,’ Valentina confided.
They laughed as Valentina turned her key in the lock and opened the door, flicking on the light switch and leading the way into a welcoming pool of soft light.
Paulos watched her as she entered the kitchen, putting water on to boil, measuring out cocoa into ridiculously thin china cups. All her sadness was in her eyes. All her loneliness.
‘When are you leaving Hollywood?, she asked as she set his cup before him on the glass-topped coffee table, knowing that when he did leave she would miss him.
‘Soon,’ he said, aware that he no longer wished to leave at all.
The sadness in her eyes returned and he resisted the urge to reach out and touch her.
‘I shall be sorry when you’re gone,’ she said sincerely. ‘Will you come back and compose
more music for Mr Mayer?’
‘Dear God, no!’ Paulos said with an explosion of feeling. ‘I realized the first twenty-four hours I was here that I had been mad to imagine I could ever work away from the concert platform. Louis Mayer is in the business of manufacturing commercial entertainment. The creation of art is secondary.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Compose music that pleases me and that does not have to please tone-deaf producers.’
She smiled and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Everything about her was soft and warm and beautiful. With Valentina at his side, he could compose music that would shake the world. Music that would live for ever. But there was no place for him in her world; he could not prolong his stay indefinitely, and for all he knew they would never meet again after tonight.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked, her eyes darkening with concern. ‘You look sad.’
‘I no longer want to leave Hollywood. I’m going to miss you.’
She turned away from him. ‘I shall not be in Hollywood for much longer, Paulos. I, too, am leaving.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Where else would you go to make movies?’
‘I don’t think I shall be making any more movies, Paulos,’ and then, to her own astonishment, she said simply, ‘I’m expecting a child.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence. She waited for him to ask who the father was; why she didn’t have an abortion. He asked none of those things. He said only, ‘What will you do?’
‘First of all, I’ll have to tell Theo. That’s Theodore Gambetta, head of Worldwide. I’m under contract for seven years. There’s a clause in my contract called “Moral Turpitude”.’ She smiled wryly. ‘It means I can do what I like as long as it isn’t made public.’
‘And having a baby…?’
‘… is completely against the rules. Even if you’re married, it’s difficult. The studios worry about your figure. Your femme fatale image; if you’re unmarried, it’s a death knell.’ Her voice became bitter. ‘Abortion is the name of the game.’
Silver Shadows, Golden Dreams Page 22