Shame and grief made a choking sob rise in her throat. Sophie forced it down, covering her eyes with one hand, but she couldn't stop the trem bling that shook her whole body.
`W hat are you trembling for?' Kyle mocked, sliding his thumbs into the lace of her panties, as though he was about to pull them down and expose her nakedness to his kiss. 'Am I hurting you? Haven't you dreamed about me every night since you left Jamaica?'
He must be a sorcerer, to know her mind like that! `Yes,' she whispered, lowering her hand to look at him with swimming grey eyes. 'But not like this, so cruel and mocking—'
`Sex without love often has both cruelty and m ockery in it,' he said brutally. 'Sex is an odd thing, Sophie. A man can dislike a woman, almost hate her ..' his teeth grazed her soft skin, making her gasp ... and yet he can also desire her body. In a way, the anger makes the desire all the stronger, all the more potent'
Ìt's not a game anymore,' Sophie pleaded quietly, knowing this was her last chance to save herself from the destruction of being seduced by a man who hated her. 'Maybe you were justified in thinking I did something really bad to you in Jamaica. Maybe you were even justified in wanting to ... to punish me. But you can't justify this, Kyle.'
`Do I have to justify it?' But, as though her unquestionable emotion had touched him in some obscure way, Kyle's hands slowly slid away, releasing her briefs. He moved, freeing her from the weight of his body. Feeling utterly naked and vulnerable, Sophie rolled away from him and curled into a ball of misery, hiding her face in her arms.
`W hy are you doing this to me?' she whimpered, desire and pain mingling sickly inside her. 'Have I ever done anything to you that made you feel half as wretched as I feel now?'
Ì don't know,' he said in a sombre voice. He watched her in silence for a moment, then went on quietly. 'If I'm wrong about you, then I don't know how you'll ever forgive me.
Or how I'll ever forgive myself. But if I'm right about you, then it's no more than you deserve.'
`You're wrong about me,' she said passionately, lifting her head to glare at him with blurred eyes. 'You've been wrong about me from the very start.'
`Have I?' he said with a slow smile.
`You bastard,' she told him shakily. 'I wish to God you'd never come into my life!'
Ànd that sounds like my cue to leave.' He rose with fluid grace, zipping his denims and clipping the heavy brass buckle of his belt.
`W here—where are you going?' she asked, her chestnut hair tumbled around her face.
Òut of your life,' Kyle said flatly. He reached for his shirt and pulled it on, muscles rippling for an instant before the black denim covered his torso. 'I don't think I need to pursue my vendetta any longer. I've just discovered something—that I can't hurt you without hurting myself. So it's over.'
Her mind tried to grapple with the realisation of what he was saying. She reached numbly for her own jeans. `What about Jenny, what you said you'd do—?'
Ì'm not interested in Jenny,' he said with contempt, tucking his shirt in. Ì never had any intention of taking her to bed. You were all I was interested in. As it turned out, you were too easy to fool. It would only have been fun if you'd shown some spirit.' He turned and watched her as she got into her jeans and pulled a T-shirt out of a drawer.
When she was dressed, Kyle took the key out of his pocket and unlocked Sophie's bedroom door. She followed him out on shaky legs.
`Kyle—'
`W hat?'
Will—will I see you again?' she whispered.
`You and I are like oil and flame—a dangerous combination,' he replied. 'We're better apart. We do nothing but harm to each other. I think we've both driven each other a little crazy..:
She hugged her aching breasts, pale-faced. 'Then it's all over?'
`Yes,' he answered indifferently. He walked to the door, and opened it. If he noticed that she was crying, he gave no sign of it. 'Enjoy Pisa,' he said laconically. Ìt's a beautiful city.'
`Kyle!'
But he was walking out of her life, just as he had promised. Sophie ran to the door, but he didn't look back. He climbed into the black XJS, switched on the ignition, and drove off down the street without a backward glance.
Sophie was still standing numbly at the doorway of the flat as Jenny came walking up the street from the direction of the tube station. She came up the stairs, lifting her sunglasses into her red-gold hair.
Ì've just seen Kyle driving away,' she said sus-viciously. 'What the hell is going on, Sophie? What was he doing here?' Jenny looked closer at her cousin. 'You look like a bus just ran over you. Come on, let's get inside.'
Once in the little living-room, Jenny looked around, seeing the bottle of wine, and Sophie's opened bedroom door, the rumpled bed visible inside, the torn blouse on the floor. She stared at Sophie's dazed face, and then grabbed her arm. 'Sophie!' she said in shock. 'Have—have the two of you been making love behind my back?'
Sophie shook her head mutely. Jenny released her arm, her cheeks suddenly pale with anger. 'You're lying! I always knew there was something going on between you and him!' Furiously, Jenny flung herself into the chair. Ì might have known!' she snapped. 'I might have bloody well known.'
`Jenny—'
`God, I've been such a fool! You were all he ever wanted to talk about. Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. Endless questions about you. The man was obsessed with you—and he never so much as wanted to kiss me!'
`W e've all gone a little crazy,' Sophie said tiredly, echoing Kyle.
'He was just trying to get at you, wasn't he?' Jenny's blue eyes sparkled with indignation. 'Just wanted to make you jealous enough to get you into bed with him!'
`You don't understand,' Sophie said wearily.
Ì understand only too damned well. I've been a patsy.' She glared up at her cousin.
'So you've lost that precious virginity of yours at last. I hope you realise it was thanks to me.' She gave Sophie a twisted smile. 'Cat got your tongue? The least you could do is tell me what it was like! Marvellous, I expect.'
Ìf I told you the truth, you wouldn't believe me,' Sophie said quietly. Tears were flooding her eyes, tears of finality and loss.
Òh, don't be silly!' Jenny exclaimed. She jumped up and hugged Sophie. 'Losing your virginity isn't such a big deal! You're much better off without the damned thing.'
But Sophie was crying so brokenly that Jenny looked afraid. 'Don't cry like that,' she pleaded. 'I know I've been a bitch to you sometimes, but I really care about you, you know that, don't you?' She hugged her cousin tightly. 'I'm glad you've won for a change. I was starting to think you must be frigid or something.'
Sophie tried to fight back her tearing sobs. 'You don't understand,' she said. 'But it—doesn't matter—anymore. It's all over. It's all—over—now.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE Leaning Tower of Pisa was something Sophie had seen in countless photographs. It was as familiar to her as Big Ben, or the Eiffel Tower. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the sheer, stunning beauty of the building, with its slender columns of white marble soaring upward, row upon row. Even if subsidence hadn't caused the tower to start leaning sideways, centuries ago, making it an object of wonder, it would still have been one of the great monuments of the world.
As it was, the soft evening sunlight gave the leaning tower a surreal ouality, its unlikely profile dominating the other, no less beautiful buildings in the long, grassy quadrangle.
Sophie stared up at it with misty grey eyes as the continuity girl arranged the folds of her skirt. It seemed to her like a symbol of human hope, once tall and lovely, now sinking slowly into absurdity.
She was sitting on the grass, reading Dante, and waiting for her lover.
At least, that was what was written at the top of Scene , being shot for the fourth time that evening.
Her lover, at that moment, was sitting a few feet away with a much-stained paper towel round his neck, having his make-up adjusted by Angela, the make-up girl. He was trying to d
rink a Coke at the same time, and chattering volubly to Franco Luciani over Angela's lean brown arms.
It was hard to keep your romantic illusions about an actor, even one as handsome as Luigi Canotta, once you'd got used to seeing him in a bib stuffed with cotton wool, having greasepaint applied over his features.
Her own face felt slightly stiff under the layer of lightener that made her look so pale.
She was now dying. Or meant to be. What would it feel like, she wondered absently, to be really dying, on this romantic evening in early autumn?
It was impossible to imagine. And yet the sadness of Marjorie had entered her soul over the past weeks of filming, making her feel at times infinitely depressed. She had never quite realised just what a tragic script The First Day of Autumn was. But then, she hadn't felt quite this sense of acute loneliness when she'd first read it ...
The scene was about to be shot again. The sound crew had checked the little tape recorder concealed in the folds of her skirt, and were now crouching over the bigger machines, headphones on as they listened for any intrusive ambient noise. Angela, the make-up girl, finished with Luigi and picked up her kit, hurrying over to check Sophie's face. A little work with a big, soft brush had the make-up to her satisfaction, and she trotted back to the cameras, calling out. 'They're ready,' to Franco Luciani.
ÒK,' Franco said, uncurling his tall frame from the director's chair, 'let's go.'
`W ait!' several people called. The continuity girl pointed upwards. A patch of cloud was moving across the sun, changing the scene.
Everyone waited patiently for the cloud to drift its slow way out of the sky, which was now a clear eggshell blue, fading to yellow near the horizon. A beautiful, Italian sky, Sophie reflected, like skies nowhere else in the world. It was five o'clock in the evening, almost the end of October. She had been in Italy for six weeks, and The First Day of Autumn was now -nine-tenths in the can. Franco had been true to his word: filming had been swift and without hitches, and within a short while her own part in the film would be over. The crew would be disbanded, and filming would resume in Rome, at the
vast complex of studios known as Cinecitta. Sophie herself would soon be going back to England.
As the cloud headed serenely northward, someone started shushing the chattering crowd of tourists who were watching from behind the rope barrier that had been erected around the set.
Something like silence gradually prevailed. Sophie caught Luigi Canotta's eye, and he grinned at her. Over the past six weeks they had struck up an excellent rapport. Apart from a general conviction that he was God's gift to women, he was a likeable, amusing boy. Only three or four years older than Sophie herself, he was also a talented actor with whom she'd enjoyed working.
ÒK,' Franco called, finally satisfied that all was well. `Ready, Sophie?'
She nodded. Everyone was speaking Italian, but she'd learned enough in the past month and a half to understand everything that was said to her. Or almost. There had been a few mix-ups, but luckily these had been comical rather than disastrous.
One of the sound men lowered a foam-wrapped microphone on a long boom until it was hovering over Sophie.
'Cameras ... action!'
She, was staring at the book as the scene began, reading the beautiful lines of poetry.
There wasn't much dialogue in this scene, but the action had to be convincing. These were the scenes she hated most, the scenes in which she had to counterfeit physical passion. Sometimes it was only with an effort that she could get through them, and Luigi's easygoing sense of humour really helped.
Luigi Canotta walked across the grass towards her. As his shadow touched her she looked up, smiled, and held out her arms to him.
Laughing, he sat down beside her and embraced her. They kissed, mouths miming passion as Sophie slowly sank down on to her back, Luigi on top of her.
As had always happened, at moments like this Sophie's mind flooded with thoughts of Kyle. With memories of his kisses, his touch. The rush of emotion was intense, covering her skin with goose-flesh. She had to force her mind to forget Kyle, and to relinouish the shuddering remembrance of how it had been with him This was here, now. This was fiction.
One of the cameras had dollied forward on its tracks, and was now zooming slowly in for a close-up over Luigi's shoulder. The kiss broke off.
`W hat are you reading?' Luigi asked. The script was all in English; an Italian version would later be dubbed for distribution on the Italian circuits.
`Dante,' she told him, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
`Dante?' he laughed. 'Why does an English girl read Dante?'
`Because he speaks of our love,' she replied. Had she really once thought this corny script so touching? Or was she just getting blasé about it?
They clinched again, lips meeting in kisses that grew longer and more passionate.
Sophie's arms twined themselves around the young Italian's neck, her eyes closed as she feigned the abandon of a woman in love.
But she was not a woman in love. In the cinema, months away, it would seem like a highly emotional scene. But to Sophie, right now, it meant almost nothing. She was thinking how absurd kisses were when there was no emotion to give them a meaning: grinding contacts of lips and teeth, empty and uncomfortable.
The kiss went on for longer than in the first three takes. Franco must be pleased with the way this take was turning out. Imprisoned by Luigi's embrace, Sophie was growing self-consciously aware of his body on top of her own. She could hear his breathing, taste the sweet trace of Coca-Cola on his mouth. She waited tensely for the end of the take, her hands restlessly caressing Luigi's back.
At last, Franco's voice broke into the silence.
`Cut!' he called, and came over as Sophie and Luigi broke their clinch. She had to restrain herself from wiping her mouth in distaste. She didn't want to hurt Luigi's feelings.
The director was smiling broadly. 'Excellent,' he nodded. 'Just right. We'll stop there for tonight—the light's going. I'll check the rushes tomorrow, but I think that last take is going to be just perfect.'
Luigi was pulling grass out of his clothing. He grinned. `Pity. I was just getting into that scene.'
Sophie smiled, getting to her feet. It was Luigi's usual joke. In fact, they had already played far more intimate scenes, in bed. Luigi had been completely naked for some of them, Sophie herself wearing only briefs. She just hadn't had the depth of professionalism to carry off those scenes without embarrassment. Somehow, pretending to make love to a strange man in front of a watchful crew of ten or fifteen technicians had always made her feel acutely uncomfortable. She suspected it always would. Just what kind of actress, she wondered, was she?
`Tomorrow afternoon,' Franco was saying to Sophie, `we'll start working on the hospital scenes. I'd like to have a short script conference tomorrow morning, to discuss some aspects of your part. OK, Sophie?'
`Fine,' she nodded.
Ì'll run you home as soon as you are ready. Be waiting for you in the car.'
`Thanks, Franco,' she smiled. She borrowed cleanser from Angela, sat down on one of the canvas chairs, and started taking off her make-up amid the general confusion of packing up.
The heavy canisters of film were being unloaded from the cameras, and the road crew had moved into action, dismantling the other eouipment for the evening.
They were moving location tomorrow. With the illogicality of film -time, the seouel to.
scene had already been shot, a few days ago. They'd come to the Leaning
Tower this evening because, it being a Wednesday afternoon, there would be the fewest tourists.
When she was ready, she gathered her belongings into her kitbag, said goodnight to Luigi and the crew, and walked over to Franco's big silver Mercedes-Benz. As he drove her through the busy centre of Pisa towards her hotel, which was out in the countryside, Franco was eagerly discussing the next phase of filming. The hospital scenes were the last in the film; Marjorie was to overdo
se on heroin and be rushed into a clinic, where she was destined to die.
The 'clinic' was actually a beautiful sixteenth-century palazzo, now an old-age home run by nuns, in which Franco had hired a floor for a week. He was very enthusiastic about the setting, which was admittedly beautiful.
But then, old buildings in this part of Italy had so much charm. Even her hotel was exquisite; it never failed to lift her heart to come back to the Pensione D'Este after a tiring day's filming. An old Tuscan farmhouse set among cypresses, it had immense charm.
She said goodnight to Franco and went up to her room, which overlooked a central courtyard. Just at the level of her windows a huge pergola supported a leafy vine, which was now heavy with dark grapes. If she'd wanted, she could have reached out and plucked one of the dusky fruits ...
She showered, and got into a loose cotton dress, then went downstairs to the dining-room. There were no more than half a dozen guests, and it was a quiet evening. She ate a light supper of minestrone followed by fresh strawberries. Her appetite was practically non-existent these days, which was all to the good. The extra-slender pallor made her performance as Marjorie all the more convincing ...
A week. Not much more than that, and she would be going back to England. Back to everything she had left behind her.
She didn't want to go home. Her memories were still acutely painful.
The weekend after that last scene with Kyle was still rather hazy in her mind. Jenny and she had hardly spoken. Still put out at having 'lost' Kyle to her cousin, Jenny had been offended that Sophie was unwilling to discuss what had happened. It was so natural for Jenny to boast about her conquests of men that she hadn't been able to comprehend that Sophie wanted to keep her experiences with Kyle private.
Eventually, they'd made it up, but by then Jenny's feelings had been hardly relevant any more. Sophie's sense of hurt and loss had been impossible to shed. More than ever, she had been overwhelmed by her sorrow, her incomprehension, and her hopeless love for Kyle.
Duel of Passion Page 17