I thought of movies and ice-cream sodas. ‘We watched movies in the winter,’ I admitted, ‘if Dad wasn’t working late, but in the summer I was mostly busy sailing. We’d go for chips after a regatta, or an Indian in Brae on the way past.’
‘But he wasn’t driven about it.’ She spoke jerkily, on a short breath: ‘You didn’t have to win to be loved.’
I thought about the bronze medals, and the silvers. The year he’d gone to Iraq would have been my last year in the Mirror Nationals, and I’d been determined to get the gold. I think I would have, too – but that was water under the bridge.
‘It must have been difficult,’ I said, ‘keeping liking Favelle. I’d have been so jealous.’
‘I did suffer from suppressed jealousy,’ Maree agreed. ‘But actually I was kinda relieved too. She could get on and be a star, and I could just have a normal life, until she got Pollyanna and Mom insisted I could be her stand-in. It wasn’t fun like this. I hadda do all the really boring bits. Measuring the distance for the camera, focus, lighting, all that. I stood there for an hour while they fussed around, ignoring me completely, like I was a dummy, and then she came on and did the lines.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t hate Favelle, but I sure as hell hated Mom for that. Then the TV follow-up bombed, and for a while we got to go to normal school, instead of the school on the lot, with a dozen other narcissistic kids. I really loved that. I was the star there. I was a cheerleader, and in the athletics team, and I learned fencing. Favelle was hopeless at all that.’
‘I’d have thought she’d be good,’ I said. ‘It’s what everyone knows about her, Favelle the action-woman. In that Greenpeace film she was scrambling all over the place, driving motorboats, climbing rigs, all that stuff.’
Maree turned her head away, a quick, startled movement. ‘Yeah, of course, all that stuff. But she’s – well, I don’t know how you’d say it here. My analyst said she was a late developer. I’d had my periods for two, no, three years before she had hers.’
Too much information, Maree.
She gave me a wry smile. ‘Favelle wasn’t good at making friends. Half the time you felt she wasn’t there. What she’s good at – well, you’ve seen her on the screen. You give her a feeling, a situation, and she’ll be it. Tears, smiles, betrayal, love, uncertainty.’ She paused, then rushed on, as if she’d thought it, but never dared to say it before, as if it was being drawn out of her by the stillness of the night, and the soft apricot of the sky. ‘It was like she’d never had real emotions, just what she was given to do. All her life, she’d only done pretending. Even Ted, well, he was her leading man in her first contemporary story, after all the swords and sorcery stuff. The director told her to fall in love with him, and there they were, the latest ‘Hollywood Golden Couple’. He never fooled me, but –’ She stopped, abruptly. ‘Hey, though, I’m just talking on about my life, and Favelle’s. You’ll meet her soon, and anyway, I’m giving all that up. I’ve had enough, and Ted’ll just have to lump it. Really, what I wanted …’ She turned her head towards me, eyes uncertain in the dimness. ‘I wanted to get to know you better. Dermot’s so proud of you, you know? Tell me about your life. It sounds real exciting, from what Dermot’s said, going all over the world on sailing ships. Have you been round the Horn?’
‘Mmm.’ I nodded. ‘Both ways. Once in the Statsraad – that’s a Norwegian barque – and once in a forty-footer. That was mad.’ Confidence for confidence; but I wasn’t going to tell her about Alain. Instead, I told her about some of the skippers I’d worked for, trying to give her a picture of life at sea, and she listened like someone who’d spent her life in a cage, eyes shining.
‘My golly, I’m envious. Will you take me out on this boat sometime? To spend a night at sea, under the stars?’
‘If you like.’ Now it seemed natural to ask. ‘Are you staying much longer?’
She flushed, the colour rising like a flood tide up her neck and cheeks. ‘Yeah, I’ll be here a while.’ She rose, still graceful even in her hurry. ‘My golly, it’s getting dark.’
‘Here,’ I said, ‘let me give you my mobile number, and if you get a chance for a sail, ring me.’
‘That’d be neat.’ She pulled out her own phone and programmed my number in. ‘Are you coming to Sunday lunch?’
‘Depends on the filming schedule,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how organised they’re going to be, for me to let you know in advance.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, they’ll be organised.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘Elizabeth’s in charge of this unit. Ted’s secretary. Desperately in love with him, of course, and hates Favelle like poison, but too valuable to sack.’ She swung herself ashore. ‘Thanks, Cass. Sleep tight.’
I watched her stride up the grassy slope until the dimness swallowed her. I wasn’t ready for bed yet, though; I sat on in the cockpit, watching the soft apricot fade to rose, then to a yellow-blue, then at last to night blue, with the stars becoming sharper and sharper, and thought about parents and children. About my father who’d driven me to so many regattas, like a son. About Maree and Favelle, and their mother, who’d wanted two stars, and had had to make do with one. Hadn’t she seen the way she’d taken the chance of being sisters from them? Poor little rich girls …
Suddenly, from below us, outside on the pier, there was an inhuman wail. Sergeant Peterson leapt to her feet, and the inspector came in from the kitchen. He was at the window as quickly as I was, and then out of the door. The white-suited figures had left their ring around Maree’s body and were struggling with a man who thrashed ineffectively at them, then sank to his knees, reaching one hand through the mesh of arms towards Maree, and wailed again.
‘Dad?’ I said, and then he raised his head to look up at the windows, and I saw that it was Ted Tarrant, his chiselled face distorted with despair and shock and grief.
I remembered the misshapen hands, with the long nails gleaming shell-pink, and knew what it was that had given me that sense of wrongness.
It wasn’t Maree lying there. It was the star herself,
Favelle.
Chapter Six
Ted and Favelle had arrived the day after Maree’s visit. They’d taken their private jet direct to Scatsta, the oil terminal airport, and for an hour before they arrived, the pier was thronged. They’d come straight to the ship, his secretary Elizabeth had said, to get set up. I got Anders and Gibbie busy adjusting the running rigging, to give the mast a very slight rake, and I was watching and saying, ‘Let out a bit – back a bit.’ It was a nice, captainly pose to be discovered in.
They had a police escort from the airport. The white limo nosed its way down the gravel path. I straightened and braced myself, then strode across the gangway and onto the pier. It was all very well for Anders, doing a mock-salute at me.
There was a pause, to let a pair of photographers get set up, then the lead car’s driver door opened, and Ted Tarrant stepped into a flurry of camera flashes. He had that American smoothness – Gene Kelly, or the good-looking one from The A-Team, very charming, but with something just a bit dodgy about him. He had dark chestnut hair, gleaming teeth, an implausibly sincere smile. He wore an open-necked shirt and chinos, and he bounded out of the car like a man trying to prove he could still cycle up to Machu Picchu if he wanted to.
It was really odd seeing him in real life. What surprised me was that he looked exactly the same as he did on the big screen. Every move, every gesture was just that little touch too precise, as if he was an actor playing himself. He waved at the crowds, then walked around the bonnet of the car and opened the door for Favelle, who shimmied out in full film star rig: a long, pale coat trimmed with soft jade sheepskin, a Cossack hat covering the famous red hair, and a pair of mirror shades. As if it was a signal, the doors of the following cars opened. A scurry of suited flunkeys engulfed them for a moment before they posed for photos, Ted smiling that confident smile, Favelle on his arm, lips curved enigmatically. That done, Ted took a couple of strides forward, and held his hand out to me.
His voice was warm and soft as a summer evening.
‘Hi, you must be Cass. Glad to know you.’ He caught up my hand in one of those double-handed Clinton shakes, green eyes looking directly into mine. They were flecked with hazel, and his eyelashes were as long as a girl’s. ‘This ship looks wonderful. I could see her from all the way along the bay, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Favelle sure will have to look to her laurels if the Stormfugl – did I say that right? – if the Stormfugl’s not to upstage her.’
‘Yes, she’s turned out well,’ I agreed.
‘She’s a real beauty, exactly what I want.’ He turned to gaze down the sunlit voe. ‘Such a feeling of space, you know? Norway’s beautiful, but it’s all too high. Here in Shetland you’ve got the sea, and this narrow strip of land, and the sky. It’s just made for widescreen. And the light – Michael’s been raving about it all week.’
He turned back to me, confidential. ‘What I’m going to do here is do for Shetland what Dr Zhivago did for Russia, or Lawrence of Arabia did for the desert. This movie’s going to be epic. In thirty years’ time you’ll still be putting it on your CV, just so people can say, ‘Wow, you worked on Sea Road?’ It’s a totally new departure for Favelle. She’s done the action girl bit, the dedicated campaigner. Now she’s going to be the big heroine. Think Vivien Leigh, think Julie Christie. That’s what this story is, one woman’s journey in a changing world.’
‘We’re all ready to go, Mr Tarrant,’ I said.
He gave me the benefit of the dazzling smile that had left my teenage self weak-kneed. I was annoyed to find it still worked. ‘Ted, please, Cass. How did it go in the old man-of-war days, a master for the ship and another for the fighting men? Equal ranks. Well, you’re the ship’s master, and I’m in charge of the army.’
‘Ted,’ I said, smiling back, ‘we’re ready to go whenever you want.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said, and turned his gaze on my crew. ‘Anders? Glad to meet you. Cass here’s told me what a lot of work you’ve done on the engines. Gibbie. Your experience’s going to be invaluable.’ He half-turned, motioned me forward towards the group by the limo. ‘Now, Cass, come and meet Favelle. Favelle, honey, this is Cass Lynch, our skipper. Dermot’s daughter, you remember.’
‘Of course I remember,’ she said, in the husky voice so familiar to cinema goers all over the world. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Ms Lynch.’ One perfectly manicured hand went up to the shades; she pulled them away in one graceful gesture and smiled at me.
It was like seeing Botticelli’s Flora come to life. There was the perfect oval face held on the slender column of neck, the heavy-lidded almond eyes framed by dark lashes, the long, straight nose, the arched brows, the serene three-cornered smile. Her pale skin was so perfectly made up that it seemed to be blush-rose velvet. Her green eyes seemed almost too wide open, as if she was trying to look interested in you while really thinking about something else. I stared, and couldn’t think of anything to say.
She was used to that of course. ‘You’re our skipper. She’s a beautiful ship, I sure am looking forward to going on her.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Are we using the ship for Dermot’s advertisements too, honey?’
‘In port,’ he said. ‘The interviews, perhaps. Definitely the publicity shots.’
She gave me another of those wistful smiles. ‘I love boats, but of course back home in LA I don’t really get the time to indulge that. I’m looking forward to this shoot. And the costumes are marvellous, lovely heavy velvet in a to-die-for shade of green, specially dyed to match my eyes.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said inanely, suddenly feeling as if I was talking to Inga’s peerie Charlie. Then she suddenly flared into life. ‘I’m playing the first white woman in America, Gudrid.’ The blank eyes sharpened, the whole face focused into seeing a new land, and for a moment I could believe the illusion.
‘Well,’ Ted said, ‘I must get my troops organised for the morning.’
He fumbled in his pocket for his famous silver cigar case. I took a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry, but you can’t smoke on board Stormfugl.’
He gave me an astounded look. ‘Cass, I smoke everywhere.’
‘She’s wooden,’ I said, ‘saturated with tar and a bit of diesel from the engine, and sheep-grease on the ropes. One still-lit butt and she’d be ablaze.’ He was still staring at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I finished.
A moment’s silence, then he flung back his head and laughed, the light gleaming off his white teeth. ‘Very well, then, skipper. No smoking aboard. I’ll make sure all my crew understand that too.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
He clapped my arm and headed off. I was about to follow when there was a familiar rattle of pushchair wheels among the crowd that had gathered to see the stars arrive, and a little voice shouted, ‘Dass, boat, Dass, boat.’ Peerie Charlie burst out of the crowd, with Inga in pursuit, and stopped dead in front of me. ‘Dass. Boat.’ He was just holding up his hand when he saw Favelle.
They say you’re never too old to fall in love. You’re never too young either. Charlie was instantly smitten. He gazed up at her in total silence for a full minute, ducked his head away, watching how she reacted out of the corners of his eyes, then looked straight at her and gave his most beaming smile.
Favelle’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, ‘you’re a little darling. What’s your name?’
Charlie ignored that. ‘Boat. Hand,’ he stated, and held out his hand to her.
She took it like she was mesmerised. ‘You want to go on the boat, honey? Come on then.’
Charlie led her over to the gangplank. I took an involuntary step forward. The tide was as high as it could go, so the plank was at a steep angle. Then I remembered the Greenpeace film. The Favelle who’d clambered over those oil rigs was well capable of controlling a toddler on a four-foot gangplank. I’d reckoned without her film star shoes and coat, though; she tottered up, hanging onto the side rope, and I stood at the edge of the jetty, ready to jump into the water and get Charlie if need be. He was steadier than she was, though, and safe aboard the ship while she was still mountaineering.
‘Boat!’ he shouted triumphantly. I felt a stupid pang of jealousy run through me. All the fun we’d had, with me chasing him around the rowers’ benches or on all fours playing peek-boo in the cabin, was forgotten beside a pretty face.
Favelle had clambered aboard at last, and took his hand again, looking around. Her gaze fell on Anders, went from his flaxen head and blue eyes to Charlie’s. ‘Hi there! Is this your little boy?’
‘Ders,’ Charlie affirmed.
Anders looked horrified. ‘No, ma’am,’ he managed, as if Favelle was royalty. ‘He’s Inga’s.’
She turned to see who he was indicating, looking first at me, then at the woman with the give-away pushchair.
‘Hiya!’ she said. ‘Your little boy seems to have kidnapped me. May he play here for just a short time?’
Inga nodded, and in a couple of minutes we were both forgotten, as Charlie initiated Favelle into his favourite game of jumping from seat to seat. I didn’t think she had children herself, but she must have friends who had, for she seemed to understand what he wanted, and even deciphered the joined, waving hands and word ‘pider’ that was a request for Incy Wincy.
They were on their third repetition, with Favelle giving the spider her Oscar’d all and Charlie shrieking with laughter, when Ted went past. Favelle put out a hand and caught his sleeve. ‘Ted, honey, look at this darling boy. You know how we cut the part of Gudrid’s little boy, well, couldn’t we put it back in? Please? This little angel would be so cute.’
The spasm of annoyance crossed his face so swiftly that I thought I must have imagined it. ‘Sure, if his mom has no objections.’
‘Mind having her little boy star in a movie? Of course she won’t,’ Favelle chirped. ‘How would you like to be my little boy? I still don’t know your name, do I? Can you tell me?’
Inga moved forward stiffly. �
�His name’s Charlie, and no, I don’t mind.’ It was obvious that she did.
‘Then that’s settled,’ Favelle said, and went back to Incey Wincey spider.
‘Okay,’ Ted said. ‘I’ll tell the writers he’s back in.’
His tone was casual but his back was rigid as he turned away from us, and Inga, beside me, breathed very steadily, as if holding words in.
Ted was busy conferring with Michael, and Favelle had given Charlie back and gone off with her entourage to be dressed, when a brisk, blonde-haired woman came up to me. ‘Ms Lynch? I’m Elizabeth Sparkes, Ted’s secretary.’
She’d been the one who’d sent me most e-mails, detailing what was to be done, where, when, and how; the one Maree said hated Favelle like poison.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ I said, holding out my hand. Her shake was quick and firm. ‘I don’t know where we’d all be without your organising.’
She disclaimed the compliment with a wave of one beautifully manicured hand. She was in her mid-thirties and glossy, with platinum-fair hair looped up in a clasp at the back, and cut with long strands that framed her oval face in front. She had manicured brows, eyelashes with just the right amount of mascara to look groomed, and yard-arm-straight teeth and nose. She wore a dark blue suit, the jacket like a man’s, the skirt a flowing fifties swirl, and cradled a navy clipboard. I wasn’t sure how easy she’d be to work with in the flesh, with the briskness of her e-mails translated to a brusqueness that suggested no shilly-shallying would be tolerated. I hoped the weather gods would continue to be kind to us.
She was looking over my shoulder at the longship, her eyes alert, then they flared, and a little smile curved her lips. She relaxed the clip-board breastplate and nodded to Ted as he came up alongside us.
‘I’m just introducing myself to Cass here.’
‘Great,’ Ted said. ‘Elizabeth is my right-hand woman, Cass, I couldn’t do anything without her.’
Death on a Longship Page 8