by Ann Charlton
'What's this?' he said amiably as he threw himself into a chair. Then he recognised it. 'Oh boy—this was a rotten film to make. Six weeks on location up near the Birdsville Track. Bugs and dust and the flyaway tents I told you about. I vowed I'd have clean sheets every day when I got back to civilisation and made some money.' She smiled at that. 'What the devil are you doing with this anyway, Dru? It's ancient history. I didn't know what I was doing in those days—'
Dru glanced at him. 'You were acting,' she said.
Locke shuffled a bit in his chair. After a while he leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. Dru got up and handed him the remote control and left him to it. For some time she heard him re-winding and running bits of the film again as he got re-acquainted with Locke Matthews, actor.
It was three weeks before he mentioned Eva. He was annoyed when she calmly said that Eric had told her about his previous marriage.
'I meant to tell you myself—' he said. 'It's just that I didn't really think it mattered after all this time.' It mattered too much, she knew that. That was why it had taken him weeks to speak of it. Locke could pretend but she had heard him cry Eva's name in his sleep, mourning her loss even after nine years. There were no photographs of Eva in the apartment. Dru was glad of that.
Eric called in at the end of the 'official' honeymoon. Dru was on the terrace when she heard Locke let him in. The brothers casually chatted about Acapulco and the Hollywood director Eric had run into and his jaunt over to Montego Bay on the spur of the moment. It was another world, she reminded herself and somehow she had to enter it and come to terms with it. This interlude with Locke had been wonderful but now she had to get used to the unreal world of the star. 'You'll have to go over to L.A.' she heard Eric say. There was a protest from Locke. 'The contract has a clause to cover it. They have to re-shoot those scenes with her highness in it. A week at the most if everything goes right.'
'Dru will come with me,' Locke said. 'Can we use your humble little Santa Monica hacienda while we're there?'
'Sure, sure—'
Dru's cheeks were flushed when she came inside, less from the idea of going to Hollywood than because Locke wanted her with him. Eric bounced to his feet, came over and took her hands and kissed her cheek.
'Hello pet—you're looking great, just great.' He beamed as she greeted him, then gave her arm a pat. 'How about some coffee, while we nut out a bit of business eh? Dru made the coffee, conscious of mild irritation. It was her fault she decided. Eric had every reason to believe she was the type to scurry to the kitchen while the men talked of important matters. He'd only ever seen her in a stunned state.
'I want to talk terms with Bradman over Brother Blade,' Locke was saying when she came back with the coffee.
'I knew you'd love Prentice.'
'I don't want to do Prentice. I want Travers.'
Eric was astonished. 'Run that past me again.' Locke ran it past again. 'Are you kidding? It's a supporting role. They've probably cast it already.'
'Tell Bradman I'm interested.'
'Hell Locke, they've got a decent budget but they can't shell out your kind of money for a supporter.'
'I'll do it for less.'
'A minor part for less money?' Eric gave an uncertain laugh closely followed by relieved comprehension. 'You're kidding, right?' He turned to Dru, 'The fan mags never do make enough of the star's sense of humour—'
'Being a star nearly cost me my sense of humour,' Locke said drily, 'Sometimes I think I'd be better off as an underpaid actor—'
'You've been there, done that. As I recall you didn't like it a lot.'
'Yeah—well, now I don't need the money anymore and maybe I'd like to stretch myself a bit.'
'Everyone needs the money old son. If inflation doesn't get you the taxman will,' Eric said dryly. Dru noticed him finger the ruby ring, rub his thumb across it like a superstitious gesture for luck.
'I've got nothing against being paid well—I'd be a fool if I did—but I want some parts with meat in them. God knows I haven't done any real acting for years.'
'Come on—' Eric laughed. 'That's crazy. Ramage won you best television actor award two years ago—'
'Eric, you and I know that all I do is play the same bloody role. Sometimes its dressed up in moleskins and whiskers like in Nash's Gold but it's all the same. I play the Ransome Man. Dru summed it up nicely. She said I do everything on film that was in the Ransome ads—except shave.'
Eric looked over at Dru, startled. For a second she had the feeling he was angry. But he laughed.
'Hey—everything but shave—that's good, pet—'
Then to Locke: 'Let's keep everything in perspective. I know you've been getting bored, Locke, but who doesn't? Hell, I guess even Scofield occasionally gets bored playing his choice roles. After the play you'll feel refreshed, I know it. When you've gone through the heavy labour of live performances every night you'll be glad you're a screen man. Then we can get on with what you do best.' Eric spread his hands and waggled his head. 'And like I've always said, that's the secret in this business. Find out what you can do and do it just great. Look at Reynolds and Selleck. You start messing about, going outside your limits and you can end up a loser both ways.'
Dru frowned. Was Eric telling Locke he couldn't act anything but his stereotyped hero? Surely she must have missed something somewhere. Locke sighed.
'Maybe it's time I started testing myself again, Eric. Success kind of carries you along and you don't stop to think where it's taking you. I don't want to wind up in twenty years worrying about hair transplants and facelifts so that I can play an ageing Ransome. If I can break out I'd like to try it. I'm so stale and out of touch that I didn't even recognise the potential in Travers. Dru had to point it out to me.'
Eric glanced over at her again. His eyes were sharp, shrewd. He hid it well but she thought he wasn't entirely happy. She could sympathise. Eric was Locke's adviser after all and she wished Locke hadn't mentioned her in connection with his decision. But Eric bounced back. Literally. He was on his feet and almost prancing around.
'Okay, if that's what you want. I'll talk to Bradman. What about the Conclusion script?'
'I don't know, Eric. Once I would have jumped at it but—' he grinned, 'I think they only want me for my body.'
Eric shook his head and laughed. 'Just get this guy will you?' he said, turning to Dru. 'Here I am losing my hair, fighting to fit into my suits and this big lug sniffs at using his looks.' He shot a playful punch at his brother's midriff. Locke pretended to crumple. 'I tell you, life is unfair.'
Dru laughed at his doleful expression and left them to talk. Later when Eric took his leave, he put an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.
'Did you read the Conclusion script, pet?'
'Yes. It seemed a bit spare on dialogue. More parts for cars and stunt men than for actors.'
'I'm surprised you could follow it—Draper's scripts are bloody terrible things.'
'I managed.'
'And you said you didn't know anything about the business,' he chided.
'Oh you know how it is,' she grinned. 'I don't know much about it but I know what I like.'
At Locke's insistence she joined him for lunch a few days later. As he was meeting Eric and a film executive she protested.
'Come on. I know you're not shy.'
'No. But it's all over my head.'
'It's won't be—not for long,' he flattered and she gave in. Locke certainly did appreciate her quick mind.
She knew she looked out of place in the restaurant, even in her new clothes. On Locke's arm she looked out of place anywhere, she thought—but here in the up-market ritz of the thirties re-created, she was all wrong. They were early and sat quietly over a drink while Locke told her about their guest, Graham McCann.
'On someone else's expense account he'll eat enough for two and drink two bottles of best claret single handed. Or single-mouthed. He has a lot of influence and a lot of contacts in the industry. H
e gets free lunches nearly every day,' he said drily.
Eric arrived with two girls clinging to him. They were voluptuous. Bosomy, blonde clones. A buzz started at his dramatic entrance. Eric shook off one of the girls momentarily to raise his hand and call out a greeting to the restaurant proprietor who had already spoken to Locke discreetly without drawing attention to him. Every head in the place turned to Eric.
'Martin old son, put my name on Thermidor here will you?' he indicated the live seafood tank where a number of lobsters cringed. Martin hurried over with a waiter to see Eric's choice and supervised the dismal business of netting the creature. Then he guided the two girls away. They went pouting, with hopeful looks over at Locke.
'We've got to talk business girls—order what you like—' Eric touched his fingers to his lips and blew them a kiss. As he made his way over he stopped twice to speak to other diners. He was beaming when he reached the bar.
'Dru pet, love your gear.' He kissed her, clapped Locke's shoulder and ordered a drink. 'My usual,' he said to the bar attendant.
It was a lunch such as she had never had. Graham McCann not surprisingly was an enormous man destined to become even more enormous. True to Locke's prediction, he ate enough for two and drank enough for all of them. Eric consulted the waiter and then the chef over two of the dishes discussing them at length—there was a constant coming and going at the table, of other guests who knew Eric well and Locke— judging by their eagerness—not as well as they would wish. He smiled and talked in his own relaxed manner—almost under-stated by comparison with Eric. Ironic really. One man had the look of the star but not the manner—the other had the manner but not the look.
'Darlings—' A perfumed, scarved, bejewelled vision floated to a standstill at their table. Eric got up and greeted her.
'Philomena you look fantastic—come on, tell me where you found the fountain of youth.'
She laughed, accepted a rather winy kiss from Graham, who almost missed the mark and turned her full attention on Locke. 'Ah, you big brute—' she sighed as he towered over her and bent to kiss her cheek. 'When I see you I wish there was a fountain of youth. If only I was thirty again…' Philomena said in the throaty voice of a woman who knew that once she'd been desirable. Dru recognised her. Philomena, whose other name had vanished somehow, had hosted celebrity talk shows, written countless columns in women's magazines, dabbled in fashion and any other arena where her outspokenness and unique appearance were plus factors. She was rumoured to be over sixty and her past was suitably mysterious and European flavoured. Once she was beautiful—the remnants of the beauty were still there framed in chokered pearls and outrageous auburn hair. Her make up was as thick as her accent. And her eyelashes were thicker than both.
'But think of the people who would drink from a fountain of youth,' Locke murmured as he beckoned a waiter for another chair. 'Harve Randall, for one.'
Philomena's false-fringed eyes flashed. The acid tongued columnist, Dru observed was not one of this lady's favourites. She said one or two succinct things about Randall, rendered less offensive by her accent, but nevertheless frank enough to set Dru back in her chair. Philomena cackled, reached out and grabbed one of Dru's hands in her own beringed one. The strength of her grip and the metal of her rings made the sensation powerful. Like holding hands with the bionic man. 'So this is your wife, Locke my darling—' she looked long and hard at Dru, who said 'Hello.' It sounded dreadfully inadequate in such colourful company.
'Now don't tell me what is your star sign—' she commanded and closed her eyes for a moment. Her lashes rested halfway down her cheeks, Dru noticed in fascination. 'Cancer or Leo I think—'
'Cancer,' Dru admitted. 'But how could you tell?'
Philomena waved a hand and a hundred jewel facets flashed. 'I tell,' she dismissed.
'Are you still on this horoscope kick Philomena?' Eric laughed. 'I don't believe in any of it—'
'You should believe, Eric,' she sent him a sly look.
'It might help you win on the horses sometimes—'
Eric reddened and tossed down his liqueur.
'Cancer—' she mused, regarding Dru steadily, 'Sensitive and loving and sometimes hiding like the crab,' she reached out and touched Dru's heavy mass of hair, 'but you have the crab's pincer. You hold on— so.' Her hand tightened and Dru only just managed to repress a grimace. 'When you are threatened—so you hold on. No running away from the bad times for you.'
Dru gulped, looked down at Philomena's glittering red-clawed hand. 'Why do I get the feeling that you are Cancer too?'
The woman cackled again and let her pincer grip loosen. 'I like her,' she announced to the restaurant at large. She insisted on having Dru's birth date to prepare a horoscope chart. Then on a round of kisses and a billow of silk, she departed.
'You must do a chart for me one day, Philomena,' Eric called after her. 'Silly old cow,' he muttered when she was out of earshot. 'Time she retired. But Elizabeth Arden would probably go out of business if she did.'
Graham took a cab then the three of them went to the carpark. Eric's racy red Porsche was parked near Locke's more sedate Rover. Once again Dru smiled at the irony.
'—the new Ramage series,' Eric was saying, 'From what Graham told me, we can screw them down to whatever we want, which is what I thought—'
'I'm not sure that I want to do any more Ramage,' Locke said thoughtfully. 'I know it means losing out on a lot of publicity but—'
Eric jerked to a halt. He had the look of a sleep walker who wakes to find himself on a slim parapet. 'You can't give up Ramage. You've never mentioned giving it up—'
Locke didn't notice his brother's pallor apparently. 'It's been on my mind since I went on holiday,' he said. 'Do you think I should do another series, Dru?' he asked her as if her opinion was valuable to him. It was a heady feeling but Dru thought it would be tactless to venture advice with Eric watching. Her brother-in-law looked almost stricken. Ramage was clearly a project close to his heart.
'Well—you know I don't personally like the show but I don't know enough about the business to offer opinions on whether you should take it on again.'
Locke nodded. 'There's time yet. We'll kick it around a bit.'
It was clear that she was included in that 'we'. Dru was dismayed at Eric's quickly disguised resentment. She didn't want to come between Locke and his brother.
'Right. We'll do that,' Eric said and motioned the carpark attendant who dashed over and reversed the Porsche out and drove it the short distance to where they were standing.
'When do we have to go to Hollywood?' Locke asked.
'The week after you finish your theatre contract. Opening night next week—any nerves, old son?'
'Plenty. I have a feeling that the critics are going to rip me limb from limb.'
'You would insist on doing a play.' Eric shrugged. 'You'll be there opening night, Dru?'
'Of course she will. It will be Dru's first official appearance as Mrs Matthews.'
'Don't lose any sleep over it pet. It's a jungle out there but you've got us. Now don't you worry, hear?'
Dru, who hadn't worried at all up to then, felt a flash of anxiety.
Eric said goodbye, kissed Dru and went to the throbbing car. The two blonde clones appeared again, fluttered their lashes at Locke and slid into the Porsche, giving a fine display of bosoms and thighs. The attendant and several other people turned to watch the car take off with an exclusive roar. They watched Locke too and Dru couldn't help feeling that it must be a disappointing sight. The star driving off quietly with an ordinary wife instead of two showgirls.
'You know I think your brother is more a Ransome Man than you,' she said.
'He certainly shaves more often,' Locke chuckled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dru could not toss off a vague disquiet that appeared to be separate from her yearning to be a real wife and a loved one. She couldn't pin the feeling down. But one thing emerged more certain than ever, over the days that followed.
Her love for her husband grew stronger the more she knew of him. And she wished she could make the move to go to his bedroom and tell him that now she wanted to be more than friends. It was the mirror that stopped her. One look in it and she knew it had to Locke who made that move. If she could not be loved, she had to at least know that she was wanted.
'Tonight,' Locke said to her at breakfast on the day the play was to open. She met his eyes with a leap of excitement and apprehension.
'Tonight—what?' she croaked.
A smile curved his beautiful mouth. 'Tonight we drink that bottle of French champagne I put on ice a month ago.'
'In celebration of the beginning of the play?'
'In celebration of the beginning.'
That night she sat in the theatre with Eric and Vanessa.
'How do you like the play?' the girl said to her at the interval. 'You don't seem to be laughing much.'
Dru almost blushed. Her eyes had rarely left Locke, her mind had not registered the play—it had been busy with a scenario of her own preference… Locke had set two champagne glasses in the refrigerator that afternoon… she had draped a new silk nightgown on her bed before leaving…
'That's because I know it almost word for word. I helped Locke learn his lines.' She smiled. 'I had awful trouble reading glamorous divorcee Rhonda's part.'
Melanie Cross, who was playing Rhonda had no trouble with it. The play unfolded smoothly and Locke who had been tight with nerves that afternoon was relaxed on stage. Dru overheard any number of surprised comments on his comic acting ability and she stored them away, picturing herself relating them to him as they drove home. Home. Laughing, they would walk arm in arm to the elevator. Perhaps on this second beginning Locke would carry her over the threshold of the apartment. Would he kiss her then? Dru watched the stage and wondered about that. If he doesn't, she thought—I'll kiss him. She bit her lip at the idea of taking the initiative… then nodded. Yes, she definitely would kiss him if he didn't kiss her first… then… she would change into her silk nightgown and… would he come to her? Or would she go to his room? Perhaps they would both emerge from their rooms together and collide as they had that morning at Sea Winds. She stifled a nervous giggle. What would he wear? Pyjama pants low-slung, a brocade dressing gown like in the movies—nothing at all?… they could laugh and Locke would take her in his arms, caress her through the silk… the champagne would be in a silver bucket by his bed, the glasses already filled and fizzing… as they drank, Locke would look at her with those fabulous green eyes and he would put his glass down…