Carrin dropped the cutting and picked up another. This time the picture was only of Mark, and underneath it said, 'Mark Lord, having just completed his new film, Meet Me at Midnight, has divorced Alisha Trimble Lord after a four-month marriage. The star would not comment on the reasons for the breakdown, but in Hollywood, nothing stays the same. Mark stars with...'
The clipping fell from her nerveless fingers as a sob closed her throat. She gazed his young, beautiful face with its slight, secret smile. With a trembling hand, she picked up the last clipping. At the top was a black-edged photograph of the laughing girl who was Mark's erstwhile bride. Carrin read the article with growing horror.
'Alisha Trimble Lord, former wife of actor Mark Lord, was found dead in her Boston flat yesterday. Police have issued a statement to the effect that Alisha died of an overdose of sleeping pills. This, just a month after her divorce from her husband, has many speculating that this was the reason for her suicide. After marrying and losing one of the most eligible young stars in Hollywood, is it possible that Alisha died of a broken heart? Alisha leaves her parents, father...'
Carrin let the paper fall and swallowed the sour sting of bile. Her heart was a painful lump, and a sob racked her. Cruel talons of pain tore her heart. Her dreams lay shattered in the pile of clippings on the floor, ruined forever. Not even friends. He was evil! She raised her fists and pounded the scraps of paper.
"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Her hands ached, and she covered her eyes, tears running down her face. "You bastard! You lying bastard!"
It seemed like hours that she sat there, rocking as she wept. When at last the storm of her sorrow subsided, she picked up a cutting and gazed at Mark's young face, her grief a mighty tide that tugged at her reason. How could someone so handsome be so rotten inside? He had broken his first wife's heart so badly that she had been driven to take her own life. That must have been his greatest conquest ever. Had he also married her to convince her of his love, then tossed her aside like a broken toy? He was twisted and bitter from a childhood without love, and now he was exacting vengeance for his mother's sin. Little did he know, his mother was blameless. Now he planned to make Carrin his next victim.
Anger blossomed within her, washing away her sorrow. Her hands shook as she wiped her eyes and gathered up the clippings. Stuffing them back into the envelope, she put it on the table and went to wash her face. The reflection that gazed at her from the mirror had puffy eyes and a red nose.
Back in the lounge, she phoned the airport. Ten minutes of arguing with a belligerent woman gained her a seat on a plane to South Africa, first class. The flight left in three hours. Savagely she stuffed her clothes into her suitcase, only one thought drumming in her mind. She had to get as far away as she could from Mark Lord. She would go back to her African farm, where he would never find her. Her suitcase was packed when the front desk clerk phoned to tell her that the limousine was waiting to take her to the location. She told him that she was not going and slammed the phone down.
Seething, she called a taxi. Time was running out. She had to be at the airport an hour before an international flight, but she still had to face Mark. She wanted to tell him exactly what she thought of him. She called Mark's house, knowing that he would already be at the location, but John would be there. Rita put her through, although Carrin's request seemed to confuse her a little.
When John's husky voice came on the line, she said, "John, I need your help. My mother has fallen ill suddenly, so I have to go home. My plane leaves in two hours, but I won't make it in time. I must speak to Mark first."
"Sure, Miss York, what can I do?"
"I need you to collect my luggage from the hotel, then go to the airport and get my ticket. Put my luggage on the flight and book me in. Got it?"
"Don't you worry; I'll get you on that plane, Miss York."
Feeling like a heel for deceiving him, she gave him the flight number, and then hurried downstairs. The desk clerk promised to allow John up to the suite, and Carrin ran to the waiting taxi. In the heavy traffic, it took almost half an hour to reach the location. Cursing the delay, she asked the taxi driver to wait.
He shook his head. "My shift's over, lady."
"Just for a minute, then you can take me to the airport."
He shrugged.
Carrin jumped out and trotted through the extras and crew who thronged the location's streets. It did not take long to reach the spot where cameras and sound booms surrounded a section of road. Carrin took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and put them on. Mark must not see the ravages of her tears. She would not even allow him that small victory. The cast and crew were taking a break, standing around drinking coffee and talking. Several people greeted her, and she forced a stiff smile. Mark chatted to Warren and Harold, dressed in the black shirt, slim-fitting jeans and leather jacket. Carrin did not pause to let her anger cool, but marched into the middle of them.
Mark's brows rose. "Carrin!" His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
"You bastard!" she shouted.
He stepped back. "What's wrong?"
"You're a lying bastard, that's what's wrong, as if you didn't know! You thought you could con me too, didn't you? And you nearly did! My god, you're scum! I don't know how I could ever have admired you!"
Mark looked stunned, and she pulled the white dress and jewellery box containing the necklace that he had given her from her bag and threw them at him. Warren and Harold gaped at her.
Mark glanced down at the expensive missiles at his feet, then back at her. "Tell me what's wrong."
She threw the envelope at him, and the cuttings fluttered out. "Remember her? Another of your conquests! Remember Alisha? The wife you killed!"
Mark's eyes flicked down to the cuttings, his expression one of disbelief and horror. Carrin spun on her heel and marched away.
"Wait!" Mark overtook her in a few strides, grabbed her arm and yanked her around. "Listen to me."
"I'm sick of your lies! Let me go!"
He shook his head. "I can explain!"
"I'll just bet you can, you bastard!" She pulled the ring off her finger and threw it in his face. "It's over!"
"No, you've got to listen to me!" He hung on when she tried to wrench free, and in desperation, she punched him in the face. Mark released her and recoiled with a curse, clutching his eye. Carrin turned and ran.
When she reached the place where she had left the taxi, she found it gone. Cursing, she looked around as the sound of running footsteps came from behind her, adding to her panic. He must not catch her now, and spin his web of lies and magic around her again. She could not bear it so soon after her discovery. She ran up the street, searching for a way to escape. Refreshment tents lined the road, and the parked cars of extras and actors. Her eye fell on Mark's black Lotus Esprit.
Running to it, she yanked open the door. The keys were in the ignition, and she slid into the cool leather seat. The turn of the key brought a powerful growl from behind her, and she glanced in the rear-view mirror. Mark ran towards the car, just a few feet away. In a panic, she gunned the motor and let out the clutch. The engine roared, the tyres spun in a cloud of blue smoke, and the Lotus shot ahead, narrowly missing the car parked in front of it. Carrin wrestled with the steering wheel as the Lotus slewed, its wheels still spinning because her foot had the accelerator jammed to the floor.
The tyres gripped, and the powerful car howled up the street. She changed down, and was slammed back in the seat as the car leapt ahead again. Buildings flashed past at breakneck speed, and a corner loomed ahead. She lifted her foot off the accelerator and jammed it on the brake pedal. The car skidded, turning sideways as she yanked the steering wheel around at the same time. A wall rushed at her from the side, and terror filled her. Then the tyres gripped again, and the car straightened with a jerk. She changed up, and the Lotus accelerated up the narrow street towards the highway. Forcing herself to relax, she eased up on the juice and let the engine settle to a steady growl.
Even though
she had left him far behind, Carrin kept glancing in the rear-view mirror, afraid that Mark would catch her before she was safely on the plane. The drive to the airport seemed like a nightmare. She strayed onto the wrong side of the road constantly, causing other drivers to hoot and curse her. The car's power frightened her. It accelerated much too quickly whenever her foot touched the pedal. The heavy traffic made it worse, and she pulled into the airport with a sigh of relief. Abandoning the car, she sprinted into the building. The PA announced her flight, and John waited with her ticket.
She took it with a smile. "Thanks John, you're an angel."
"You'd better hurry, Miss York, they're calling your flight."
"Yeah. Bye John."
Carrin trotted towards the departure lounge, where a queue stood at the boarding gate. The woman at the counter took her ticket, stamped her passport and gave her a boarding pass. The queue was dwindling rapidly, and she hurried towards the boarding gate as her flight's final call echoed around the airport.
"Carrin!"
Horrified, she glanced back. Mark ran through the airport, dodging people. He looked desperate, and pushed through the crowd, some of which protested and glared after him. Carrin ran to the departure lounge and joined the queue. To her relief, the security men stopped Mark at the doors, since only passengers were allowed beyond them. He argued with them while she showed the attendant her boarding pass and started up the tunnel into the plane.
"Carrin!"
Carrin looked back as Mark stretched out a hand towards her in a desperate, pleading gesture. Her throat closed, and she turned to hurry to the plane. She would never see him again. It was over, finished; the friendship, the engagement, everything but the love. That would never die, no matter what he had done, but she could not bear to see him again. She could only hope that the pain of his betrayal would fade with time.
On the plane, she flopped into her seat and closed her eyes, trying to banish the image of Mark's desperate face and outstretched hand, his voice cracked with emotion. It seemed to be burnt into her retinas, however, and closing her eyes only made it more vivid. It was all an act, she told herself, a first class one. Another Oscar-winning performance from the great Mark Lord, deceitful superstar. She tried to imagine what he was doing now that she was gone. He was probably angry, and cursing her for getting away. To distract herself, she flipped through a magazine, but Mark's despairing face would not leave her alone.
Carrin could not sleep on the long flight. The images haunted her. Alisha’s laughing face, Mark's wedding photograph, so young and handsome, his lips curved in that famous smile. His face at the airport, calling her name in a cracked voice. She tried to watch the film, but it did not help. The morning's events ran before her eyes like an endless film. The photos, the fight at the set, the race in the car, and worst of all, his face as she left the airport. She wished that she had stayed and listened to him, and cursed her soft heart. It would have been lies, what else? How could he explain this? She tried to think of an explanation that would exonerate him, and drew a blank.
By the time she reached her destination, Carrin was exhausted. Her nerves jangled, and her stomach was a knot of misery. Catching a taxi, she went back to her little empty house. It was familiar, and felt like home, welcoming for all its emptiness. Safe from Mark's silver tongue, burning eyes and deadly attraction. She dumped her bags and flopped down on the bed. A deep, exhausted sleep claimed her.
When she woke, birds sang outside, the workers tended the land and the horses grazed in the paddocks. Sunlight shone through the windows, gilding the dust on the floor and stabbing her eyes with lances of pain. She showered and changed into a pair of old jeans and a ragged T-shirt, then drank a cup of coffee while she sat on the veranda. Mark's face returned to haunt her, and she wept for what could have been. The dream was shattered forever. Never again would she be able to meet him in her dreams without remembering what he had done to his young wife. She had barely escaped the same fate, it seemed. Alisha must have loved him a lot, to kill herself when he left. Carrin understood, although she would never contemplate suicide.
In the afternoon, she phoned her mother and told her that the wedding was off. To her relief, Mrs York accepted her brief explanation. Things had not worked out, that was all there was to it. Mrs York did not sound surprised, so perhaps she also thought it was too good to be true. Well, it had been, hadn't it? It had all been a lie.
The first letter arrived a week after she got back. Mark's bold handwriting leapt at her from the envelope, bringing fresh tears. She burnt it unread. Even in his writing, she sensed the tug of his magic. The next letter she shredded, and the third she burnt. Soon he would give up and look for another victim. He would forget about her, just as she tried to forget him.
Three weeks later, she dragged herself from the deep gloom that kept her sitting listlessly in the safety of her home. Arming herself with a slasher, she attacked the weeds that invaded her garden. Blisters formed on her hands and burst. She put plasters on them. The work helped to numb her misery, though sometimes tears ran down her face as she cut and slashed savagely. Time would heal the pain, she told herself, but it was taking too long. A deep-seated misery suffused her, which she could not shake off. She missed him terribly, and nothing could fill the void that he had left. She burnt his last letter, and the following week none came.
Carrin took long rides in the bush every day to enjoy the peace and quiet that seemed to fill the empty space within her somehow. Wild gallops helped to leave her misery behind, but it soon caught up with her. The spring rains turned the brown veldt into rolling fields of green. All around her, life burgeoned. Her neighbour's sheep gave birth to beautiful little lambs; the cows dropped wobbly-legged calves. Her brother helped to plant her land, a quiet steady presence. He brought soup and stews from her mother, for she was getting thin, he claimed. Carrin did not care, but she ate the food. Her life resumed its former grey, dull routine, and only a lingering misery reminded her of the pain in her heart.
Two months passed, and Hollywood seemed like a distant dream. Some nights she woke sweating from a terrible nightmare of Mark, his hand outstretched, calling her name in a despairing voice. It echoed in her mind as she jerked her awake, and she longed to reach out to him, but was unable to. A month had passed since his last letter.
Chapter Sixteen
Carrin sat on Smoke, her big grey horse, and stared across the veldt and bush around her. Smoke was not as big or as beautiful as the palomino that Mark had given her, but he was a steady bush horse that did not shy at things that rustled in the long grass. He was the sort of animal one needed in the treacherous bush, where a rustle could be a snake.
A hawk high above caught her eye, she watched it hover on quivering wings, then fold them and plummet from the sky. Moments later it rose again with something in its talons. It winged away, carrying its meal to a safe place to eat, or maybe to a chick in a nest somewhere. Life was cruel. Some had to die so that others could live, and sometimes beauty perished to feed ugliness. She touched her chest, where her heart was a dead, hollow lump. She had burnt her drawings of Mark, along with his letters and anything else that reminded her of him. She almost wanted to sell her farm and donate the proceeds to charity, but she could not sell her brother's precious tractor, or take back the money that had paid her mother's bond. Her new computer sat idle in her study; she could no longer write.
Carrin sighed and turned Smoke onto the trail. Looking up, she spotted a distant horseman and reined in to watch him. When he vanished behind a hill, she urged Smoke away. She did not wish to meet anyone out here. This was her quiet time, just her and Smoke. Following a faint trail, she traversed a ridge and a shallow valley. On top of the next hill, she spotted the rider again, still far off. He rode a big black horse with consummate skill, and she admired his mastery. When he vanished into a patch of bush, she continued along the trail. Some young farmer, no doubt, or a farmer's son. She guided Smoke into a donga with a stream at the b
ottom. There she dismounted in the shade and let Smoke drink. He pawed the water, sending up great showers, and she laughed and pulled him away before he rolled and ruined her saddle.
"You can roll in the dam when we get home, Smoky." She patted his neck. "You always wanted to be brown, I know."
Carrin sensed someone watching her, and glanced around. Dismounting in the bush was not really safe. A glance up at the ridge from which she had just descended found the eyes that she could feel. The horseman was silhouetted there, standing quite still, and she frowned, annoyed to be spied on by some farmer's son. The man side-reined his mount and descended into the donga. He rode the black horse as if he was a part of it, and there was only one person she had ever seen ride like that. She froze, her breath stopped and her heart hammering.
Galvanised by a strong, irrational need to escape him, she gathered up Smoke's reins and swung into the saddle. Turning the big grey, she kicked him hard, urging him up the other side of the donga. Smoke sprang up the bank even as the black horse reached the bottom behind them. On the ridge, Carrin jerked her horse's head to the side and sent him cantering down a steep muddy path, skidding and sliding. Never had she traversed this trail at such a speed, but fear made her reckless. They entered a tunnel of bush, the branches overhead dappling the bright sun. She bent low to avoid the sharp branches that stuck out of the thicket, urging Smoke into a gallop.
Clattering over a patch of rock, she entered the stream lower down, and guided Smoke into it amid showers of spray. The black horse burst from the tunnel behind her, its rider bent low over its neck. She lashed Smoke's haunches, sending him careering down the stream, snorting in surprise and fear. He negotiated the treacherous rocks, jumping and sliding, then clambered up the bank into more bush. She ducked just in time to avoid the tree that hung across the trail, praying that Mark would hit it. The black horse was closer now, a faster, lighter built animal than Smoke. A glance back allowed her a glimpse of his grim, angry face, which made her gasp in fright and lash Smoke again.
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