The crash-cart bashed open the double doors at the end of the corridor, and the crowd of doctors and nurses vanished through them. Carrin would have followed, but a nurse blocked her way.
"Sorry miss, you'll have to wait here."
Warren pulled her away, guiding her to a waiting room where she sank into a soft chair. Her legs shook, and her stomach was a tight knot. Warren brought some coffee, and she clutched the warm Styrofoam cup and stared blankly ahead, her mind numb with worry. The image of Mark so still on the stretcher as these strangers handled him haunted her. His lack of consciousness had not diminished his charisma at all, but the spark of life was gone, leaving behind an empty, breathing shell. Yet he had held her hand in the ambulance, giving her a sign from the other side of the darkness that had claimed him. She longed to be with him to hold his hand and help him fight his way back to consciousness.
Jumping up, she paced, and Warren watched her with worried eyes. What were they doing to him? Why did they have to keep her away from his side? He needed her now. A screech of tyres outside, and banging doors, made her glance out of the window. A TV news van was parked askew before the hospital doors, and a crew carrying cameras and sound booms, led by a woman with a microphone, raced into the hospital. Another van pulled up, as a second crew descended on the hospital.
Warren looked at her. "The vultures are gathering."
She glared at him, hating the insinuation.
He glanced away. "Sorry. Bad choice of words."
Carrin sipped the boiling coffee and winced. How long had he been in there now? Ten minutes? Half an hour? Time had no meaning; it dragged by on leaden feet. Two limousines pulled up outside, and Harold and Janice got out of one. The other disgorged two men whom she recognised as the art director and the director of photography. News teams that bristled with microphones and shouted unintelligible questions surrounded them. Hospital security men fought to extricate the hapless directors and actress. More media arrived; the paparazzi in taxis, radio and TV news crews in brightly painted vans. How had they found out so fast? Already they had started to broadcast. Anchor-men and women stood on the hospital steps and jabbered into microphones, clasping their ears as they received instructions and updates from distant bosses.
Harold strode into the waiting room, looking tired and harassed. Janice clung to his arm, trying her best to appear grieving and tearful, but unable to hide a hint of malice in her eyes. The other two directors were hot on his heels. He looked at Warren, who shook his head.
"No news yet."
Carrin shot Janice an angry look, then turned to Harold. "Did you find out how it happened?"
Harold sank into a chair, shaking Janice off. "I've just fired about ten people. There was a mess up with the marks and the cushion. The stunt co-ordinator's gone; he was in charge of it. Mark was on his marks; the cushion and safety men were in the wrong place."
"How could they make such a stupid mistake?" Warren demanded.
Harold shook his head. "It was a miscalculation. The ground on the far side of the rocks is three feet lower than in front of them. The safety team thought that Mark would roll to the left, but he went to the right because of the angle of the rocks and the stuntwoman is right handed. They were only out by a foot or so, but it was enough."
Janice dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and Warren shot her a scornful glance. The art director went for coffee, bringing back enough for the other three.
Warren muttered, "We should have used a stunt man for the fall."
Harold nodded. "I wish we had now. I wanted a shot of him going over the rocks, without breaking the flow of movement. Mark's done more dangerous stuff before. It didn't require any special skills, or it shouldn't have."
"I hope you got your shot," Carrin said, glaring at Harold. She was immensely relieved that her argument with Mark had not caused the accident. His mood had not caused him to stray from his marks, or make a mistake.
Harold nodded. "If Mark's all right we'll use it."
"And if he's not?"
He shot her a hard look. "Then we won't even finish the film."
Carrin turned away and gripped the window ledge, staring at the swarms of media outside. In the reception area, someone had switched on a TV, and she could hear the anchor-woman.
"Mark Lord, one of Hollywood's most celebrated stars, was rushed to this hospital not half an hour ago. Sources say that he was involved in an accident on the location of his latest film, Deadly Games. At this time, we don't know how serious his injuries are; only that he was brought in unconscious with some sort of trauma to the head. As soon as we know more, we'll keep you updated, but for now it's back to the studio."
Harold grunted, and Janice inspected her nails, muttering, "At least it's good publicity."
Carrin turned to glare at her, and Harold snapped, "Shut up, Janice."
For what seemed like an eternity, they sat in silence. Carrin stood by the window and sipped her cooling coffee, not tasting it. Warren paced, then sat down again. Harold crushed his empty cup and pushed it into the rubbish bin with unnecessary force. Janice chain-smoked, undoubtedly worried about the movie being abandoned. A nurse brought in a weeping woman and made her to sit in the corner, where she sobbed, reminding Carrin that Mark was not the only one in the hospital.
At last a blue-garbed doctor walked in, glancing around at the group. "Which one of you is a member of Mark Lord's family?"
They all stood, except for the woman, and Harold said, "We're with him. He doesn't have any family."
The doctor grunted. "Okay. Well, he's not in any danger. He has a nasty scalp wound on the back of his head, which required some stitches, and a concussion. There's no fracture to the skull, or any internal bleeding. Nor is there any damage to his neck or spine."
They sagged with relief, and Carrin approached the doctor. "Can we see him?"
He shook his head. "He's still unconscious."
"I'd like to see him, anyway."
"I'm sorry. Maybe when he wakes up."
He left before she could argue. Harold stood up and stretched, looking much happier. Carrin sat down, the intensity of her relief making her legs shaky again. Janice stubbed out her cigarette.
"Well, I'm going home," she announced, and rose. Harold eyed her, then went with her; since she had arrived in his car, he had to take her home. On the hospital steps, lights lit the doctor as he gave the media the good news. Harold and Janice ran the gauntlet of flashing cameras and shouted questions and drove away.
Hours ticked past. Harold returned, and the two lesser directors left. Warren made some phone calls, and Carrin tried not to wear a hole in the dull brown carpet. Finally, the doctor returned.
"He's awake, if you'd like to see him." Carrin jumped up, and the physician continued, "Only two of you."
Carrin sent Harold a pleading look, and Warren said, "I'll stay here. Go ahead, Carrin."
The doctor led them along several sterile white corridors with harsh neon overhead lights, to a private room decorated in beige and white, where Mark lay in the bed by the window. He looked asleep, and she crept to his side, pulling up a chair. Harold hovered at the bottom of the bed. Glossy hair poked through the top of the bandage that swathed Mark's head, and he looked pale and sick. The hospital staff had washed off the dirt and fake blood, and a hospital gown covered his chest above the sheet.
"Just a few minutes," the doctor warned as he left.
Mark opened his eyes and spotted Harold, then Carrin beside him. "Hi."
Harold beamed. "Glad to have you back. You gave us quite a scare."
Mark closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "Sorry."
"It wasn't your fault," Carrin said. "The stunt co-ordinator made a mistake."
Mark opened his eyes again and looked at her. "I know. I guess I realised that about the same time as I hit the rocks."
"How do you feel?"
"I have a headache."
She glanced at Harold. "Can't they give you something for it?"
He sighed. "Yeah, they did, that's why I'm so sleepy."
Carrin looked at Harold as Mark's eyes closed again, and he jerked his head at the door. Reluctantly she rose and followed him out, looking back at Mark's sleeping face. His pallor made the contrast with his hair and lashes stark, giving him a fragile quality, which his strong bone structure belied. He looked a lot younger than thirty-four years.
Harold led the way back to the waiting room, where he told Warren the good news. They persuaded Carrin to leave with them, since there was no point in staying at the hospital. They would visit again the next day, Harold promised, but for now Mark needed his rest. Carrin longed to stay at his bedside, just to watch him breathe, but reluctantly agreed.
On the hospital steps, a barrage of media met them with glaring lights and shouted questions about how the accident had happened. The security men held them back, and Warren took Carrin to the car while Harold stopped to answer the questions briefly. He soon joined them in the car, and they pulled away, leaving the frustrated news' crews with no one to harass. The limousine dropped Carrin off at her hotel, where she flopped onto her bed, exhausted.
Chapter Thirteen
The following day, flowers and cards filled Mark's room. Nurses brought in extra tables to hold all the well wishes, and some of the names on the cards were legendary. An endless stream of people came and went during the visiting hour, and the phone beside Mark's bed never stopped ringing. He looked better, sitting up, his pallor gone. Carrin perched on a chair beside his bed and watched him greet his visitors. At the end of the hour, he looked tired, and she had not had a chance to talk to him at all. The nurse shooed out the last of the visitors, and Carrin left with them.
The next day was a little better. The volume of flowers had increased, and the room was like a floral jungle, but there were fewer people around. Simon came and stayed for the hour, so once again, Carrin hardly spoke to Mark. By then, he was growing fidgety with the enforced rest, and said that he would be released the next day. The huge bandage had dwindled to a small dressing on the back of his head, and from the front he almost looked normal. Harold did not visit, and Mark said he was filming the location stunt work, which was good. Carrin wondered why he was so concerned with the film. Surely it was up to the producers to make sure it went ahead?
On the day of his release, she did not go to the hospital, deciding that there were enough people vying for his attention already, and she would just add to the crowd. She watched on TV as he left the hospital in a wheelchair, to his obvious disgust. A crowd of well-wishers, fans and media pushed at a swaying barrier of security guards and policemen. The orderly stopped the wheelchair beside Mark's limousine, where John held the door and took Mark’s bag. Mark waved to the crowd before sliding into the car without answering any questions or signing any autographs.
Carrin switched off the TV and stared into space. Should she go and see him? Would he still be angry with her? Maybe she should give him time to simmer down. Her heart yearned for his company, however, overriding her more sensible urge to stay away for a little while.
Carrin put it off until after lunch, then the longing to see him became too strong, and she ordered a taxi. When she gave the driver the address, he raised his brows and studied her with pitying eyes.
"Press?"
"No. A friend."
"Really? Must be nice to have Mark Lord for a friend."
"Yes, it is," she agreed with a smile.
"Is he fully recovered?"
Carrin answered the curious driver's questions, happy to give him the pleasure of a little insight. She knew what it was like to be an outsider, unwelcome in the private world of the superstars.
As they drew nearer to the Beverly Hills mansion, he warned, "The gates will be crawling with paparazzi. Are you sure you can get in?"
She had not thought of that, and shrugged. "Well, if I can't, you'll have to drive me back to the hotel."
Carrin had never had to deal with Mark's security before. Every time she had come here, it had either been in his car or Simon Grey's, both of which were allowed in. Her heart sank when the crowd of paparazzi at the gate descended on the taxi as it pulled up.
"Are you a friend of Mr Lord?"
"Can you tell us about the accident?"
"Aren't you Carrin York, the screenwriter?"
Following Mark and Simon's example, she forged her way to the security camera that watched the gates. Beneath it was a box with a button and a speaker. She pressed the button, trying to ignore the clamouring around her. The questions became more provocative as the press tried to goad her into answering them. After a moment, a voice spoke from the box.
"No press." It said in a flat, bored tone. Carrin recognised John's voice.
"John, it's me, Carrin," she shouted over the hubbub.
The camera above her whirred as it turned towards her, and she looked up at it. The gates clicked, then, with a faint whir of electric motors, the huge gates swung open. She hurried back to the taxi and climbed in, fighting with the press for possession of the door as they tried to detain her. Shutting it, she sat back with a sigh of relief as the taxi drove through the gates with a spurt of gravel and crunched up the long, tree-lined driveway. Looking back, she found the reporters hanging around the gates. Apparently they knew better than to trespass on a superstar's property. In front of the house, she paid the taxi driver and climbed the steps. Rita opened the door with a broad grin.
"Hi, Miss York. He's in the study."
Carrin had noticed the subtle difference in the treatment of friends of stars and those who were not. Those who were not had to wait in the lounge while the maid announced them, then were shown onto the patio or wherever Mark happened to be. Friends were shown in immediately, since there was no question of their welcome. To her relief, Rita led the way to the study and knocked. A gruff reply came from within, and she pushed open the door.
"Miss York, sir," she announced, then smiled and retreated, closing the door behind Carrin.
Mark looked up from the book on his lap. He sat on one of the comfortable chairs, dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, a cup of coffee on the table before him.
"Hello, Carrin." There was no enthusiasm in his voice, and his smile was slight.
"I hope you don't mind me dropping in," she said. "I just wanted to see how you were."
"Not at all. Have a seat. Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She settled on a chair, studying him. He looked quite well, maybe a bit tired. "I had no chance to speak to you at the hospital; there was always a crowd around."
He raised a brow. "What did you want to speak to me about?"
A cold sensation spread through her chest at his polite tone, which sounded as if she was unwelcome. Evidently he was still peeved about the argument. She plunged ahead, determined to make amends, for she wasn't going to lose his friendship.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry for arguing with you about the make-up. I was wrong; I should have left it to the experts."
The maid entered with a second cup of coffee, and Carrin wondered how she had been told of the need for a second cup. Mark waited until she had left.
"Is that all?" He didn't seem impressed with her apology; apparently he wanted more than that.
She continued, "Well, I know you were very angry about it. I saw you arguing with Harold afterwards. You probably wanted to kick me off the production." She smiled, hoping that he would find it amusing, but he stared at her unnervingly, and her hands shook. "I hope it didn't contribute to the accident, I felt terrible afterwards. I blamed myself for upsetting you."
He hesitated. "Harold wanted to kick you off the location. He feels we can do without you now. You've fulfilled your obligation, and the movie's almost finished."
Carrin stared at him, stunned.
He looked down at his cup. "That's what we were arguing about, just before the accident. I refused to let him get rid of you, because if he did, you'd run off back to Africa, and I still have someth
ing to prove, don't I?"
She gulped and shook her head. "You don't have to prove anything. I don't care about that. It bothered me at first, but since then I've got to know you better. If you did do it, I'm sure you had a good reason, and if you didn't, then there's no problem."
Mark had started shaking his head at her first words. "I intend to prove it, not only for you, but also because I have a bone to pick with Helen. She's not going to get away with that little stunt."
"You won't hurt her?" she blurted, and instantly regretted her words.
Mark glared at her. "Far from it. Now, if you've finished your coffee, I'll have John drive you back to your hotel. I'm rather tired."
The brush-off was unexpected and hurtful. She swallowed a massive lump. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
He shrugged. "I know what you think of me, so it didn't come as much of a surprise."
Carrin searched for the words to make amends without giving away too much, but found none. Instead she drained her coffee.
Mark said, "You should go back on location tomorrow; they're still shooting. I won't be back until next week."
Next week! Carrin's heart sank. It was only Tuesday. That meant she would not see him for six or seven days, at least. It seemed like a lifetime, so soon after she had almost lost him. He was shutting her out, pushing her away. She went cold, and her heart laboured as if she was about to pass out.
"Are you all right?" Mark frowned. "You've gone as white as a sheet."
"I'm fine." She forced herself to relax. "I just... well, it will be difficult to face Harold knowing that he doesn't want me around."
Mark shook his head. "It's not that he doesn't like you. He does. It's just that we were causing too much strife with our... hostility. He felt he had to get rid of one of us, and you were the obvious choice."
"Of course."
"There won't be a problem when I'm not around, and even when I return, we're over our little... spat."
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