Stranger in the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  The bitter humiliation of waking up, sober, to realise precisely how he saw her, in what role he had cast her, she had been carrying with her ever since. She had woken up on a cold hillside and she would never again wander into those treacherous realms of love.

  Macey had, of course, only taken a stab at the truth, because he had had to use his imagination, and in the play the heroine's betrayal had come in very different circumstances, but it had come close enough to make her very wary of Macey. He saw too much and he was too clever.

  She shook off her disturbed thoughts and got up. Macey blinked, looking up at her through half-lowered lids.

  'I think I'll have a swim before I change for dinner,' she told him as she turned away.

  'You do that,' he murmured lazily. 'I'll stay where I am, thank you, and watch. You're very watchable.'

  She pretended to smile, but her mouth moved stiffly and she knew he observed the movement with intent scrutiny.

  She walked towards the pool with him staring after her and sank into the artificially blue water. She did a rapid crawl from one end of the pool to the other before turning on to her back and idling along, her smooth golden skin gleaming wet under the afternoon sun.

  A pity they had to drive to Nice, she thought. She was enjoying total idleness. The tensions and nervous irritations of work had faded from her mind during the last week. She had needed these days in the sun.

  She clambered out of the pool and Macey stood up in a stretching, graceful movement. He stared at her as she walked back to him, her wet hair plastered to her head.

  'You swim like a fish,' he observed, running his eyes down over her. 'But you're not shaped like one.'

  'Deathless lines,' Clare mocked, walking towards the house.

  'If I wrote words that burned the paper they were written on you'd only laugh,' he retorted drily.

  'If you wrote words that burned the paper they were written on you'd be wasting your time, surely?'

  'Don't I know it?' There was a sudden savage note in his voice which made her whole body tense. She glanced at him nervously over her shoulder, but when she saw his face he was smiling coolly.

  They separated and Clare went to her bedroom to shower and wash the chlorine from her hair before blow-drying it into the feather-light golden waves which clung around her head to give her a sophisticated beauty her green eyes emphasised.

  She sat on her dressing-table stool wrapped in a big lemon-yellow towel, brushing her drying hair as she turned the hair-dryer from one side to the other. She didn't hear the little knock above the sound of the machine, but when the door opened and Macey peered round it she glanced sideways at him in surprise.

  'I knocked,' he said, smiling. 'I forgot to warn you— Rowena will be wearing blue, she informed me, so whatever you do stay away from the colour blue.'

  Clare's eyes danced. 'I'm tempted.'

  'Don't be,' he said drily. 'She'd never forget it.'

  She nodded, shrugging. 'Okay.'

  Turning back to the mirror, she went on with her hair, but Macey didn't go. She could hear him standing there, his body motionless but his muted breathing oddly audible. Sliding a glance at him, she met his eyes with an inward tremor. Macey gave her a dry smile and went out, closing the door.

  Clare was dismayed to find her face very flushed when she looked back at it. Macey had been staring at her so strangely, the set of his mouth hard, his eyes narrowed.

  She told herself she was imagining it. Macey had shown signs of attraction to her in the past, but that was all long ago. He hadn't made a single pass for years.

  Although Rowena was in her sixties she remained a challenge which no self-respecting actress would refuse. Clare took great trouble in dressing for the evening. Rowena was famous for her snubbing sharpness in certain moods. People bore with her because they had no choice. Genius makes its own rules, and nobody imagined Rowena was not a genius. Clare admired her, revered her and was terrified of her. Those cold, marble blue eyes could annihilate with a look. Rowena's wit could be deadly, and Clare had no intention of becoming a target for Rowena's amusement.

  Macey eyed her when she joined him with a lifted brow. 'Full armour, darling?'

  'Absolutely. I know Rowena,' she nodded.

  'Not yet you don't,' Macey informed her. 'You may think you do. I think one reason why Rowena's invited us over is to get a closer look at you. Rowena always sizes up the opposition.'

  'Me? I'm no threat to her.'

  'Every actress under sixty is a threat to Rowena.'

  'Well, I suppose that does cover me, just about,' she smiled.

  'I'm not joking, Clare. Keep your shield up while we're there.'

  'What do you think this is?' she demanded, turning on one toe in a little pirouette.

  'Full battle order, from the look of you,' Macey agreed, his eyes running slowly from the bright sleek head, over the smooth golden shoulders exposed by her green dress, down the curved line of breast, waist and thigh to the long silken legs. 'You're quite something when you're dressed to kill.'

  'I admire Rowena, but she isn't treating me like a walk-on in a Christmas panto. I've seen her do it— and to ladies who should have been able to hold their own. Not me, though, Macey—Rowena isn't flattening me!'

  'If I were a wiser man I'd stay at home and watch the telly,' Macey drawled.'

  'No, you wouldn't, because blood and thunder is your staple diet.'

  'So long as it isn't a massacre,' said Macey, sounding dry, as he guided her out of the house.

  'Which of us do you think is for the chop? Or can I guess?'

  Macey eyed her sideways as he started the car. 'Darling, you're clever and witty, but Rowena's been eating people for breakfast since before you were born.' 'Time she stopped, then. She'll get indigestion.'

  'Not Rowena. She has a cast-iron digestion.' Clare laughed. 'Are you trying to frighten me?' 'Just a word of gentle warning. I love you and I don't want to see Rowena getting her teeth into you.'

  They turned towards Nice at a steady pace, the car purring. The town lay sprawled in the evening sunshine, the houses falling down steep hills in terraces, the white walls and red roofs picturesque, given a hint of tropical somnolence by palm trees whose shadows etched the deepening sky.

  Macey shot her another look. 'Darling, when you've been on a stage with Rowena you'll know why it's best to go on your knees rather than quarrel with her. She can ruin a performance without you even knowing she's doing it. The audience don't even know what's going on! She'll fidget with her hair or straighten her dress, and every man jack in the place is watching her, because Rowena makes people watch her. On a stage she's a magnet. Even sitting absolutely still she can somehow make people watch her. If she decides to she can destroy anyone acting with her. So watch it, Clare. Don't antagonise her.'

  She smiled. 'All right, Machiavelli.'

  Macey drove, both hands moving on the steering wheel as they took the terrifying bends of the mountain road, on one side the sheer hillside, on the other a plunge into empty space which made Clare's eye stay riveted on Macey rather than look the other way.

  When they arrived at Rowena's villa they were ushered into a long, lemon-walled room which seemed full of people. After a moment Clare sorted out the apparent crowd scene into three people and Rowena— Rowena was a crowd scene all by herself.

  She was dressed in a high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress which somehow managed to make her taller and more striking than ever. About a hundred thin gold chains hung clinking round her neck; Clare could imagine what damage they would do to anyone acting on a stage with Rowena. An audience wouldn't hear a word. Rowena swept forward, accompanied by a silvery metallic sound like tiny bells. Although she was in her sixties she looked so much younger that Clare could scarcely believe her eyes. Rowena moved like a young girl, the faint wrinkling of her long throat veiled by that clever, concealing neckline. Her skin had a smoothness which Clare suspected owed much to brilliant make-up technique. Her blue eyes were en
ormous, very bright and very watchful.

  Clare watched her touch a cheek warily to Macey's face. 'Darling Macey, how lovely to see you! You are good to spare some of your precious time to come and see me.'

  'I dropped everything and ran,' said Macey, his smile coaxing.

  'Flatterer,' said Rowena, not displeased.

  Macey took her hand and bowed over it in an elegant movement, his lips brushing the back. 'It's very good of you to invite us—we were thrilled.'

  Rowena graciously turned towards Clare, her smile painted on her mouth but not continuing in her blue eyes. Clare felt the piercing shaft of those eyes as they ran over her.

  'How lovely you look, my dear,' Rowena said in her beautiful voice with extreme coldness.

  Clare gave her a wide-eyed, awed look. It wasn't all acting. She was finding it a considerable shock to stand here, facing a woman whose acting she had always admired to the point of adoration. She had met Rowena several times before; but never felt those blue eyes actually looking at her. Rowena only noticed people she felt deserved to be noticed, and until now Clare hadn't come within the range of Rowena's Olympian vision.

  Now the piercing blue eyes pinned her down and she did not need to pretend to be awestruck. She was awestruck.

  Rowena, at close quarters, was quite terrifying.

  'I saw you in The Wild Duck,' Rowena intoned in that voice which could ring in the mind like a drowned bell. 'Poignant performance. I was quite well received in that part myself a few years back.'

  A good forty years back, Clare thought, remembering the date of Rowena's famous appearance in the part.

  Aloud she said, 'That's the great difficulty of the classics. One is always aware of the great performances of the past and always afraid one can never match them.'

  'You can only try, my dear,' said Rowena, so sweetly that Clare smiled, although she was very conscious of the hidden thrust beneath the words.

  'And what are you doing at the moment?' Rowena asked with apparent interest.

  Clare gazed at her innocently. 'I'm between parts, I'm afraid.'

  Rowena's smile was a miracle of benevolence. 'They'll come, my dear, they'll come.' She turned, waving a graceful hand. 'Now, have you met my husband?'

  Clare shook hands with Ted Kilby, exchanging brief smiles with him. He was a painter who spent most of his time in the south of France, as she knew from Macey. Faintly balding, short and sturdy, with spatulate hands and a dry way of talking, he took little part in Rowena's public life. They had, however, been married for more than thirty years and were apparently ideally suited. Rowena had little room for a private life, anyway, and Ted Kilby's remote personality suited her own.

  'And this is my business manager,' Rowena went on, her hand under Clare's elbow. 'Bob Ryland.'

  He was a man of around forty, his manner smooth as silk, his clothes expensive, his smile over-polite. Clare didn't much care for him. She found the roaming assessment of his dark eyes offensive.

  'And you know Ray, of course,' Rowena said.

  Clare turned without any particular delight. 'Hallo, Ray.'

  'Hallo,' said Ray Gordon, her dark eyes cold. Ray had been in love with Macey for some time; Macey either did not know or preferred not to admit he had noticed. Clare realised that Ray's hostility towards her was born of jealousy, but could hardly go out of her way to tell her that the jealousy was misplaced. If she had thought Macey returned Ray's feelings she might have done something to clear Ray's mind but, since Macey showed no sign of doing that, Clare let it go.

  Tall, languid, with cloudy black hair and a beautiful pale skin, Ray was an actress of considerable talent. She was also Rowena's niece. Clare had forgotten that Rowena had no children of her own and had always publicly made much of Ray, proud of her talent and not above giving her a helping hand if she thought it necessary.

  Ray would, in any case, have made it on her own. Clare had seen her give some intelligent and beautiful performances.

  'What will you have to drink?' Bob Ryland asked at Clare's elbow.

  'A dry Martini, thank you,' she said, giving him a brief smile.

  'You're staying at Macey's villa?' Ray asked in a stilted little voice, her eyes lowered.

  'Yes.'

  'Graham and Liz are there, too, aren't they?' Ray murmured. 'You should have brought them.'

  'They left yesterday,' said Clare, and Ray's dark lashes flickered before lifting. Her dark eyes shot towards Macey who met her glance blankly.

  He turned to take his glass from Bob Ryland's hand, and Ray stared at his averted profile with a deeply intent look that made Clare feel strangely sick. Oh, God, she thought. Poor Ray. How can she bear to go on feeling like that about a man who just ignores her?

  Ray was so beautiful and the way she felt was so unhidden. Did she make any attempt to hide it? Didn't she care that everyone who saw her with Macey could tell how she felt?

  In a long, cloudy glass behind Ray's head she caught sight of Macey. His brown skin gleamed, his intelligent blue eyes were veiled by his lids. There was no expression in his face at all, he looked as though he were asleep, yet she knew that that look betrayed Macey's hidden thoughts. When he was deep in observation he looked like that. His brain was clicking away behind those hidden eyes.

  He turned his head and in the mirror their eyes met. Macey didn't smile. He just looked at her and it was Clare who looked away, a shiver running down her spine.

  At times she felt almost frightened of Macey. She felt like that now. The cold, impassive man whose eyes had just met her own in the cloudy glass had been strangely alarming. Macey's warmth and vitality were only shadows of what went on behind his mask of a face. The mind which had spawned his clever, startling plays was remote from that face and Clare guessed she knew little of what went on inside that mind.

  Rowena watched Clare accept her Martini from Bob Ryland. 'We're hoping for another arrival,' she told her almost coyly. 'Keep your fingers crossed that his plane was on time.'

  Clare looked at her enquiringly, smiling.

  'My wife's godson,' Ted Kilby explained. 'He was due in from the States this evening and Rowena is hoping to have him here for dinner if he's recovered from jet-lag.'

  There was a ring at the door a moment later and Rowena gave a little cry of delight. 'He's here, he's here!'

  It was as much a performance as her usual behaviour. Rowena had probably never acted spontaneously in her life. Her smile was wide and genuine, however, and she moved to the door as it opened with her hands outstretched and a welcome bubbling to her lips.

  Clare glanced idly across the room and all the colour seeped out of her face as she suddenly recognised the man greeting Rowena.

  Her hand began to shake. The pale liquid in her glass spilled and Macey turned to look at her sharply. Clare struggled to pull herself together, dragging on the broken reins of her self-assurance, fighting down a desire to run out of the room. She heard Rowena excitedly talking yet could not take in a word. She stood there, staring at the -newcomer, and shook so much she had to put down her glass.

  Her eyes shot away and met Macey's fixed, narrow stare. She felt her colour come back with a terrible rush and looked down.

  He hadn't altered. Or very little. Perhaps there were fine threads of silver in the black hair. His features were more arrogant than she remembered, carried a little more self-satisfaction. She was seeing him now with eyes that saw clearly, far more clearly than they had on that first occasion. She could now read the self-willed sensuality in the line of his mouth, the cruelty in the grey eyes.

  She looked up and took in his face again. Her sight was beginning to clear from the peculiar hazed mist which had seemed to obscure it when she first recognised him, and she felt very cold, her skin prickling. He was talking to Ray now, holding her hand and looking down at her with the deliberate charm Clare recognised only too painfully. Ray talked lightly, smiling. They obviously knew each other very well. Rowena was Watching them indulgently.

&nbs
p; Clare's hand groped for her glass again. She lifted it to her mouth and drained the contents. It might help. She had to get through this moment somehow. Surely she could act well enough to disguise her shock?

  Macey had already noticed it. She guessed that from the way he was watching her now, his stare intent and searching. But it wasn't Macey's observation that was bothering her. An icy sensation was sweeping over her as she contemplated how Luke would look at her in a moment.

  He hadn't seen her yet. He hadn't even glanced her way. What would his face reveal when he did? Her teeth clenched at the thought of him lifting one of those black eyebrows, smiling, his grey eyes reminding her of their night together.

  She was so tense her hands were sweating. If she had had the nerve she would have got herself another drink, but she wasn't going to do anything which might draw attention to her. She had to stand there like a fool, shivering, sick with shame and self-loathing.

  Even after nine years the memory of her own humiliation was so strong that all her self-possession had deserted her.

  Rowena extended an embracing arm, saying, 'Macey darling, this is my godson, Luke Murry. Luke, this is one of our brightest new talents—Macey Janson.'

  Macey was shaking hands, his voice very cool, his face wearing a smile which did not reach his eyes. Clare picked up the sensations inside Macey and realised that he did not like Luke. Macey did not often take a dislike to people, but he had taken one to Luke Murry.

  'That last play of yours was terrific,' Luke told him. 'I was fascinated. When I read it in print it seemed quite different. On stage it had a peculiar menace one couldn't quite pin down.'

  'Oh?' Macey asked with offhand indifference.

  Luke looked at him and smiled again. Clare watched the charm she remembered and saw that it could not touch Macey, whose face stayed hard. 'That second act was quite spine-chilling.'

  'Kind of you to say so,' Macey told him tersely.