When the cheque arrived, boldly printed with the unbelievable sum of a million dollars, the celebrations started afresh. The members of her family took turns to hold it, to convince themselves that it was real. Paul asserted that it must be deposited in the bank before she lost it, and offered to take her to town. She opened an account, and the manager gaped at the cheque. The staff plied her with coffee and cakes, and the effusive manager presented her with a chequebook. Paul took her straight to a farm machinery shop and pointed out his dream tractor. Carrin bought it. She settled the bond and drove the truck home so that Paul could bring his precious tractor. That night, her mother cooked a feast, and Carrin fell into bed happy and tired.
Over the next week, she went house hunting, and found a smallholding not far from her mother's farm. Carrin paid cash, unable to believe her luck. She filled it with new furniture, and Julia, now her best friend, took her shopping for new clothes, padding her own wardrobe at the same time. Carrin moved into her new house, installing her horses in the stables and her dog on the rug before the fireplace.
Once the initial excitement was over, Carrin had time to reflect. Her bank balance was more than healthy. Two labourers ran the smallholding and tended the horses. What more could she want? Mark Lord's fine features intruded, and she thrust them aside. No. She was content. Why spoil it with impossible dreams? Two months had passed since she had received the cheque, and she was happy. Was she? Of course she was. She bought a smart new car and enjoyed driving it. She went out for lunch at restaurants and even took a short holiday at the coast. Alone. Perhaps she should go overseas? A trip to Disneyland. Carrin sat in a cane chair on her veranda and contemplated the fading calluses on her hands. Perhaps she should write another screenplay?
A week later, the second bombshell fell. A letter from the film studio advised her that her film would be going into production the following month, and she was needed on the set to make changes to the script. It gave an address in Hollywood. Carrin almost panicked. That meant returning to America. It meant seeing him again... Just when she had settled into her new house, content with her new life. Content? Well, it was as good as it was going to get. There was no escaping the commitment that she had made when she had sold the screenplay, however. It was in the contract; she had no choice.
With a mixture of excited anticipation and dread, she purchased a ticket to Hollywood. Armed with her chequebook and the many credit cards that she had been given, she went on a mammoth shopping spree without the benefit of Julia's advice. This time she was not going to look like a farm girl. She bought elegant clothes, striving for the loveliness and poise that she had acquired in the dress that Mark had loaned her. Nothing quite matched it, but she was far more confident. She still enjoyed wearing jeans and T-shirts, only now they were designer jeans and expensive T-shirts.
At last she was ready, and boarded the aeroplane first class, disguised in dark glasses, like a celebrity. This time she fitted in with the rest of the well-dressed passengers. The studio's sleek white limousine collected her at the airport and took her to a five star hotel. She dined alone in her room that night, and the following morning the limousine waited to take her to the studio.
There she met the producer and director, neither of whom was well known, although the director's name sounded vaguely familiar. Warren Banner, the producer, showed her around the set. He was a nondescript man in his mid-forties with a shy smile and eager grey eyes, whose thinning brown hair was cropped short. The film was not being shot in sequence, he explained. The first shoot was from the middle of the movie, a scene involving a great deal of stunt work and pyrotechnics. She admired the set, which was close to what she had imagined. In this scene, the hero, played, of course, by Mark Lord, would be in a car chase with some of his fellow criminals. He was a hit man hired to kill an assassin from an opposing mafia family, whose target was the don who had raised him as a son. His target was a woman, and he was supposed to kill her before she could do her job. He was unable to, however, at first because she was skilful, then because he grew to admire her, which would turn into love.
The director, Harold Morten, explained how he planned to shoot the scene, most of which she agreed with. A stout man whom she estimated to be in his early fifties, Harold affected a superior air, at times harassed, and his pale blue eyes did not miss a thing. His greying hair and clipped goatee lent him a sophisticated appearance that was at odds with his jolly personality. She made a few suggestions, and he promised to consider them. Carrin watched the first few takes of the scene, wondering where Mark was. The cast consisted entirely of stunt men and women; evidently he was not required. The set was a deserted street corner where two speeding cars would collide. The stunt men and woman would then leap out and engage in a running battle. Several times the scene went wrong and had to be re-shot.
While the shooting was in progress, Warren Banner asked her to make some changes to the screenplay, where her ideas did not fit the reality of camera angles and lighting. While they were discussing it, a commotion made Carrin look up with a mixture of hope and trepidation. A beautiful woman strode onto the set, shrugging off the few fans who always hung around outside like a horse brushes away flies. Her large brown eyes flashed fire as she approached Warren Banner. The charisma that radiated from her amazed Carrin; she made everyone else seem grey and insignificant. Her long chestnut hair framed a face whose creamy skin seemed to glow, and her professional make up enhanced her almond-shaped eyes and near-perfect features. Her clothes looked like they came straight out of a fashion magazine, and brought back memories of Mark's film star friends. Carrin recognised her as Janice Sharner, a well-known star. Janice strode up to Warren Banner.
"Warren, you've got to do something about those people outside, they're a nuisance."
Warren bobbed and smiled. "We will, Janice. I'd like you to meet Carrin York, the writer."
Janice glanced at Carrin. "How do you do. Warren, where's Mark?"
"Er, he's not here. He's not in this scene. We're shooting your scene tomorrow, hopefully."
"Hopefully!" She glared at him. "What sort of schedule is that? If I've got to be here, I'm not hanging around waiting."
Warren seemed to shrink. "Well you know how it is. It all depends on how well this scene goes."
"Oh, get it right Warren! Where's Harold?"
"Directing."
"I know that." She looked around, spotting Harold. "Ah, there he is."
Janice marched off, and Warren watched her go before turning back to Carrin. "Isn't she lovely?"
Carrin smiled. "To look at, yes. She isn't quite what I had in mind, though."
"Well, she's got the part." He shrugged.
"She's a bit too feminine for a hit woman, don't you think?"
"Ah, but once wardrobe and make up are through with her, she'll look like a hit woman, don't worry."
Carrin nodded. "At least she's not too tall."
Warren chuckled. "We couldn't cast anyone tall next to Mark Lord, could we? Harold wanted Amber Pearl, but she's over six foot tall."
Warren went off chortling, and Carrin took her copy of the screenplay back to the hotel to work on it. For the next week, Carrin worked with Harold, giving advice, usually when asked. He seemed to value her opinion, and on several occasions scenes were changed to match her vision of the story. Sets were altered, and the timing of scenes varied according to her ideas. Janice Sharner mostly ignored her, even when she changed one of the actress' scenes. The instructions came from the director, and Janice acted as if Carrin did not exist. That did not bother Carrin; she enjoyed the experience, even though it was confusing shooting the scenes out of sequence. Some were only partial scenes, to be combined later.
The limousine ferried her to and from the hotel every day, and the studio paid the bills, including tickets to movie shows and amusement parks on the weekends. Warren took her out to dinner twice, and she enjoyed his company. Carrin refused to show any interest in Mark's whereabouts, although the questi
on burnt within her. She refrained from asking any other questions about him either, although Warren did tell her a little about him during the course of dinner conversation.
Even with the hectic schedule and busy days, Carrin couldn't shake her yearning to see Mark again. It was ridiculous, she mused. He would only be the same distant acquaintance that he had been before. Why did she want to go through that again? Her heart longed for his presence, however, and his memory haunted her. In the film lot environment, she kept seeing him around every corner and glimpsing him, ghost-like, in mirrors. The stunt man who played his part looked a lot like him from a distance, and several times her heart leapt when she saw him.
By the end of the week, they had shot most of the scenes with Janice and other actors that could be shot in the studio. The studio stunt work was finished, and only a couple of scenes that required neither of the stars remained. Carrin left for the weekend feeling fulfilled, yet empty. She still did not know when Mark would arrive.
Chapter Five
On Monday, the limousine dropped Carrin off outside the studio's side entrance as usual. Although nothing remarkable appeared to be happening, there was a buzz in the air, a subtle tension that told her that something was afoot. When she spotted two lesser-known actors who played supporting roles, her excitement grew. They were in scenes with Mark. She almost bumped into a grip hurrying past with lighting booms, and apologised as she got out of his way. She wondered where Harold and Warren were. The two supporting actors vanished through a door marked 'no entry', and she followed them.
Emerging into a warehouse set, she recognised it as Mark's first scene, where he met the two mafia messengers who hired him to kill the woman. It could also be another partial, she reminded herself. There were shots in which the supporting men appeared without Mark, while they waited for the hit man to appear. It did not mean that Mark was here.
Nevertheless, excitement made her heart pound, and she stopped to gaze around at the set, striving to remain calm. Shafts of light shone in through dusty windows near the roof, and some pigeons had been released to flutter amongst the rafters. Artfully arranged boxes and dusty junk littered the floor, and a big black limousine was parked near a shaft of bright light. This was where the actors would stand. The harsh overhead lighting was designed to give them a sinister look.
"Hello, Carrin."
Heart hammering, she turned. Mark Lord stood there, looking just as she remembered him. His dark hair and eyes made his skin look paler, and the odd lighting accentuated his lean face. His black shirt, leather jacket and slim-fitting black jeans made him look taller. He was already dressed for the part, she realised, amazed by how well the clothes suited him. He really looked like the hit man, quietly dangerous and coldly efficient. Her eyes locked with his, and she was unable to look away. He glanced around at the set. Realising that she was staring, she lowered her eyes.
"Hello, Mark."
"Nice set. Is this how you imagined it?"
Carrin looked around again. A pigeon fluttered and cooed in the rafters. "I didn't think of the pigeons, but it's a nice touch."
He nodded. "Set designers are good at coming up with these little details. They don't have so much to think about."
Carrin was unable to think of anything intelligent to say, and Mark sighed.
"Have you been well?"
"Yes, fine. And you?"
"Good enough. I hope they paid you a decent amount for the script."
Carrin almost laughed. "Yes, they did."
"Good."
The pigeons cooed overhead. Mark shifted, the sound of his movement loud in the huge empty set. Carrin wondered where everyone else was, and searched her mind for something to say, afraid that he would grow bored and leave.
"Did you just arrive today?" she asked, then kicked herself mentally. Of course he had, what did she think, that he'd been hiding behind the props all this time?
"Yes," he replied. "I was at my ranch. I flew in this morning."
Carrin risked a glance at his face, and found him regarding her broodingly, his eyes intense. How she wished that she could see what was going on behind those piercing eyes, but his expression was mysterious, as usual. Before she could think of anything else to say, a door at the back of the set burst open and people boiled out, led by Janice Sharner. She spotted Mark with a glad cry.
"Mark! Here you are! I've been looking all over for you. I was told you had arrived, but you were hiding as usual."
The actress glided up to Mark, smiling. Carrin had never seen her look so pleasant. Her usual sulky expression had vanished, and she hugged Mark, kissing him on the lips. He returned the greeting, and Carrin wondered if Janice was his latest lady. The flood of people that followed in Janice's wake spread out across the set. Warren came over to shake Mark's hand.
"Glad to see you, Mark. We're almost ready for you. I see you've already been to wardrobe, perhaps you should go to make up now."
Mark nodded and turned away. Janice clung to his arm, gazing up at him. Carrin was surprised to find that Janice's powerful charisma paled in Mark Lord's presence. His dark charm filled the gloomy set, and she was sure that everyone knew that he was here without even seeing him. She stood uncertainly as Warren hurried away on some errand, leaving her alone on the bustling set. The two supporting actors had taken up their positions, and the director called instructions.
"Carrin."
She turned in surprise at the sound of Mark's voice.
"Perhaps you should supervise."
She nodded, glancing at Janice, who glared. Mark looked at the actress, and instantly Janice's expression changed to one of smiling friendliness.
"Janice, you must have met Carrin York?" he enquired.
"Oh yes, one of the set designers."
Carrin bristled. "No, I'm the writer."
Janice smiled sweetly. "Yes of course."
Mark waited for Carrin to join him, and they went through the set door into a backstage area filled with old props and scurrying people. Mark led the way to room lined with mirrors and seats. Make up equipment covered the tables, some of it thrust into corners, the rest placed in orderly rows. Two people sat swathed in white sheets, make-up artists bent over them.
At Mark's entrance, they paused to look up and smile as he walked past. He went to a chair set aside from the rest, and a young, longhaired man approached. He gestured to the chair, and Mark disengaged himself from Janice to sit in it. The make-up artist draped a white cloth around him, covering him from the neck down to protect the costume. Janice settled in a chair nearby, and Carrin stood and fiddled with her copy of the screenplay. The young technician set out make up on a trolley beside Mark's chair.
"A pleasure to be working with you, Mr Lord. I'm Jerry Beal."
Mark smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Jerry."
"This shouldn't take long. You don't need much make up for this scene."
"Good."
Jerry sat in a chair beside his subject and mixed a flesh-coloured paste to match Mark's skin. Janice lit a cigarette and regaled Mark with the latest gossip while the make-up man applied the flesh tone paste to Mark's face. This was, Carrin guessed, to ensure there was no shine on it under the harsh lighting. Jerry brushed a little eyeliner around Mark's eyes and combed his hair into place. When the make-up artist produced a thin artificial moustache and glued it to Mark's upper lip, Carrin straightened from where she leant against a table.
"Excuse me," she interrupted Janice's seemingly inexhaustible flow of small talk. "My description says nothing about a moustache."
Jerry glanced up at her. "Director's orders."
"Jason Talbot does not have a moustache."
Jerry looked confused. "Who's Jason Talbot?"
"The character he's playing."
"Oh, I see. May I ask who you are, Miss...?"
"York. Carrin York, and I'm the writer."
"Oh, well, you'll have to take it up with Mr Morten."
Janice puffed a cloud of smoke. "I think i
t suits him."
"Well I don't." Carrin shot her a frown, and Mark watched her.
Jerry shook his head. "I'm afraid I have my instructions, Miss York. You'll have to clear it with the director if you want change anything."
Carrin nodded. "I'll go and find him."
Mark raised a hand. "No, I'll send my assistant. Where is my assistant, Jerry?"
The make-up man glanced around. "Ah, that would be Gregory. Tara, would you find Gregory please?"
One of the other make-up artists left, and Carrin wondered at the waste of time. "Why don't you just send her to fetch Mr Morten."
Jerry shrugged. "It's better this way."
Janice stubbed out her cigarette. "Because Harold wouldn't take any notice of Tara, she's just a make-up girl."
"But surely -"
"That's the way things work around here," Janice interrupted.
Carrin thought it was rather silly, and fumed as they waited.
Janice studied Mark's new moustache. "I think you look good with a moustache, darling, perhaps you should grow one."
Mark smiled. "Never really liked them, myself."
"Me either," Carrin agreed.
Janice lit a fresh cigarette as a thin, nervous-looking young man who pushed gold-rimmed spectacles up his nose appeared, and the gum-chewing Tara accompanied him.
"I'm sorry, Mr Lord, I didn't know where you were," he said.
"Where else would he be?" Janice snapped.
Gregory paled, but Mark waved it aside. "Never mind. Go fetch Mr Morten, we have a problem with make-up."
Carrin glanced at him. A problem? Was he subtly criticising her? Gregory hurried out, and Jerry sat back, looking miffed. Mark sighed and stared at the ceiling as Janice prattled again. Soon Harold appeared, looking annoyed.
"What's the problem, Mark?"
Mark gestured at Carrin. "Carrin doesn't like the moustache."
"Ah." Harold turned to her. "It adds to his air of villainy, don't you think?"
"No. Besides, he's not truly a villain; he's a guy who got into the wrong profession. At heart he's not a bad man."
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