by Erica James
Elijah had been a wonderful man. A soldier with the Suffolk Regiment, she had scarcely seen him for the first five years of her life, then when the war was over, and he came home for good, she moved out of Island House and into Winter Cottage with him. It had been a strange and bewildering time for her – he was her father, so she had been told from the earliest age, but she didn’t actually know him. As for her biological father, she never knew who he was and had no inclination to track him down.
In those initial weeks of living with Elijah she had often cried in her bed at night wanting to be back at Island House with Florence and Annelise and Stanley. Poor Elijah, he didn’t know what to do, other than let her spend time back at Island House. After a while she made the adjustment, as did he. It couldn’t have been easy trying to be her father. But she never doubted that he loved her, and she grew to adore him. He had made such a sacrifice taking her on, not that he ever said as much. He always said he had loved her mother and was determined to marry her despite knowing she was carrying another man’s child. How many men would do that? He had been exceptional in all ways. Isabella doubted she would ever find a man to marry who would be as good as he was.
His death when she was seventeen had left her bereft and unable to talk about him. She locked away her love and grief for him deep in her heart, where it could never be lost. It was that which she tapped into if an acting role she was playing called for her to cry. All she had to do was force herself to think of her grief for Elijah and the tears would flow. Somebody once said of her that she actually turned deathly pale when she cried on stage.
‘My parents are very well,’ George said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘and both as busy as ever – Mum at Island House and Dad at the bakery.’
‘And how’s university going for you?’ Isabella asked. She knew how proud his parents were that he was the first of their family to go to college. ‘Remind me what you’re studying?’
‘It’s going well, and I’m reading Chemistry.’
She smiled. ‘Quite the boffin.’
He laughed. ‘Not at all. By the way, I loved your last film. You were marvellous in it.’
‘Thank you.’
They talked some more and then George took out what looked like a Chemistry textbook with incomprehensible symbols littering the pages. ‘You don’t mind if I read, do you?’ he asked.
‘Be my guest. It gives me the chance to snatch a quick forty winks.’
Her eyes closed, she thought of the weekend ahead and of her disappointment that she wouldn’t be seeing Romily. It was very unlike Romily to miss a family get-together. All Isabella knew, based on the telegram she had received, was that ‘something unexpected had cropped up’ and Romily would be home a week later than planned.
Well, that was Romily all over, the unexpected was her speciality. She coped with it better than anyone Isabella knew.
Chapter Eight
Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
Romily had asked Clara the maid where she should go to have her hair done and having taken her advice, she was now back from the salon. The hairdresser, who had wielded the tools of his trade as though conducting an orchestra, had made an excellent job of trimming and setting her hair into a stylish wave that was swept back from her forehead. She felt better for going.
However, the slapdash nature of Red St Clair’s note earlier that morning still rankled. She wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for meeting him, but she couldn’t. Even so, she was determined to look her best, and most businesslike. This was a business lunch after all. She put on her favourite cream Chanel suit and silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. She applied her make-up with care, slipped on her butterfly-wing sunglasses, and then scooped up her handbag to go across to the main house.
But the moment she stepped outside she realised the dry arid heat of the day had increased and she was going to be far too hot. Back inside the guest house, she threw off her suit and put on the red and white candy-stripe boat-neck dress she had earlier dismissed as being too informal. She then hunted for the handbag that matched the dress and her red peep-toe sandals, then reapplied her lipstick. This time a deep red.
‘All set,’ she declared, reaching for her sunglasses once more and appraising her reflection in the mirror. ‘Showtime for Mr St Clair.’
She apologised to the taxi driver who had patiently waited for her, and following a short drive to La Bella Vista, she was told by the maître d’ – a suave Italian with an impressive moustache – that her dining companion had called to say he was sorry, but he was running late. Resisting the urge to turn on her heel, Romily politely allowed the man to show her to the table that had been reserved for them. It was outside in the garden in the shade of a vine-covered pergola.
‘Would the Signora like an aperitivo while she waits?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, the Signora would indeed like an aperitif while she waits. She would like a vodka martini with a twist of lemon. Shaken not stirred.’
He smiled. ‘Subito, Signora. Subito.’ He hurried off, clicking his fingers ostentatiously to attract the attention of a waiter.
While waiting for her drink, Romily turned her attention to the other diners. They were mostly couples enjoying what appeared to be a romantic lunch. Seated at the table nearest to her was a young woman about Isabella’s age staring adoringly into the eyes of her dining companion, a man old enough to be her grandfather. She was talking about them playing tennis later that afternoon and him taking her dancing that night at somewhere called the Thunderbird Country Club. The man looked the sort to want a nap after lunch, never mind exerting himself on a tennis court, or dance floor.
It was a sight Romily had often witnessed in Hollywood, young girls throwing themselves at older men who they believed would further their careers. Or those who hoped for marriage and a life of wealth and luxury. But there were, of course, plenty of rich and powerful men who took advantage of these wide-eyed ingenues for their own ends.
Romily recalled her own relationship with a much older man all those years ago and thought of the many people who had believed that she married Jack for his money. She smiled to herself thinking of the old biddies in Melstead St Mary, long since dead, who had considered her a scarlet woman. They had most assuredly assumed the worst of her. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
God how she had loved Jack! And what a passionate romance they had shared together. There had been no one like him since. Yes, she had been involved with a number of men in the intervening years, but no man had possessed her heart, body and soul the way Jack had. Now, at the age of fifty-five, she was content to live as a single and carefree woman. She had her work and her friends and a family whom she loved; what more did she need?
As though in answer to that question, the young waiter who had been assigned the task of bringing her vodka martini took that moment to materialise. ‘Signora,’ he said deferentially, setting down the tray containing her drink, along with a dish of plump olives and salted almonds.
‘Grazie,’ she responded, although she could see with his pale freckled complexion he was about as Italian as she was.
Her drink had been perfectly mixed with just the right amount of vodka and she relished the sublime dryness of it while reading the menu.
Her glass was almost empty, and she was contemplating ordering a second drink, when she was aware that she was no longer alone.
‘I bet you’ve been sitting there wondering what kind of a worthless fellow has the audacity to keep you waiting so long.’
From behind her sunglasses, she raised her gaze to the man before her. He was so tall and broad in the chest and shoulders he eclipsed everything around him. ‘And you would be who exactly?’ she asked.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, that is somewhat ingenuous of you, but just so as you know, I’d get down on my knees and beg your forgiven
ess if I could.’ He held out an oversized hand. ‘Red St Clair at your service. Can you forgive an ignorant Yank such appalling behaviour?’
She shook hands, her own disappearing into his. ‘If you really are such an ignorant Yank,’ she said, ‘I doubt we have any business to conduct.’
He smiled and pulled out the chair to the right of hers. His enormous body instantly dominated the space, making her back away from him.
‘Have you decided what to eat?’ he asked, indicating the menu in front of her. ‘I can recommend the sardines followed by the linguine al frutta di mare. They’re both favourites of mine.’
‘I thought I’d have the ravioli e limone followed by the veal escalope,’ she said, perversely changing her mind from her first choice of sardines and linguine.
‘An excellent choice too.’ He raised a large hand into the air, instantly attracting the attention of the waiter who’d brought Romily’s drink to her.
‘Hi Danny,’ Red said to him, ‘how’re you doing?’
‘I’m very well, sir.’ The young waiter beamed, his pen and pad poised to take their order.
Red glanced at Romily and indicated her glass with his finger. ‘Another of the same?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he turned back to the waiter. ‘Make that two, I have some catching up to do.’
‘Certainly, sir. Have you chosen what to eat?’
Red rattled off their order, along with the request for a bottle of Barolo Marchesi.
If there was one thing Romily could not abide, it was a brash, self-important man treating her as though she wasn’t capable of ordering her own meal, or deciding which wine to drink with it. If this was how it was going to be, working alongside Mr Red St Clair, Gabe and Melyvn Correll would have to think again! What was more, she was going to have to make things very clear to the man himself. She drank what remained of her martini and very slowly counted to five. Then: ‘Mr St Clair,’ she began, ‘I think we need to—’
‘Hey, please, call me Red.’ He shifted his chair so that he was sitting at a ninety-degree angle to the table, an elbow resting on it, his legs stretched out languidly in front of him; they seemed to go on for ever, like a pair of Red Wood trees. ‘Go on,’ he said, leaning back in his seat, causing her to wonder if it could bear his weight. He wasn’t fat, simply a colossus of a man. ‘What do we need to do?’ he asked. ‘Other than write a cracking script. Have you ever co-written anything before?’
‘No, and I’m really not convinced that—’
‘That it’s a good idea?’ He laughed. ‘You may well be right.’
‘Then why are we—’
‘Sitting here at all?’
She stared at him hard. ‘Are you going to interrupt me all the time by finishing what I’m about to say?’
Drawing his thick brows together, he frowned, as though having to tease out the meaning of her question. ‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ he said, at length. ‘It means we’re tuned in to each other, that we’re on the same wavelength.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I think that highly unlikely.’
Their young waiter appeared with their martinis and after he’d placed them on the table and they were alone again, Red drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this wrong, but I suspect we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’
She gave him a pitying look. ‘Goodness, do you really think so? You delay our meeting by several hours and then can’t even be bothered to turn up for lunch on time. What kept you, a round of golf, or a game of tennis at the Racquet Club?’
‘I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?’
‘So you did. But it didn’t have the slightest ring of sincerity to it. And if that’s how it would be for our working relationship, then I’m afraid there’s little point in us continuing with this conversation.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Good day to you, Mr St Clair. I believe we’ve said all we need to say to each other.’
‘Wait,’ he called after her.
But she didn’t. She kept on walking, right out of the restaurant until she realised she was on the street and with not a taxi in sight. Damn and blast, she would have to go back inside and ask for somebody to order her a car.
She pushed open the door and found Mr St Clair blocking her way. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘would you give me the chance to explain why I was late?’
‘It won’t make any difference,’ she said, ‘I can’t imagine for one moment that we could work together.’
‘That might be true, but I’d like the opportunity to apologise properly to you.’
Reluctantly she followed him back through the restaurant and outside to the garden area. Other diners were looking at them curiously. Over on the far side of the pergola, tucked away in a discreet corner, she spotted Lucille Ball and her husband, comedian Gary Morton staring directly at her. And was that Dinah Shore on the table next to them? She suddenly felt mortified at the spectacle she had made of herself, and with such an illustrious audience. Dear God, what had got into her?
It was only when they neared their table that she noticed Red was limping. Yes, she thought cynically, he’d probably strained a muscle in bed with some young socialite.
He held her chair out for her, in spite of it already being some distance from the table. Obviously he was trying to prove he was a gentleman.
Once he was also seated, in the same way he was before, at ninety degrees to the table, he nudged her drink towards her. ‘Cool your pistons with a sip or two, and then let me apologise for making such a poor impression on you.’
Cool her pistons? Oh really, these Americans had such an absurd way of speaking! She took a sip of her martini, and then another. She unexpectedly had to force herself to suppress a smile, but failed. The truth was, she did need to cool her pistons.
‘There you go,’ he said, noticing her lips twitching, ‘I’ve always been of the belief that there’s nothing a good martini can’t cure. Now then, as to the reason I so rudely delayed our meeting, which I am genuinely sorry about, I’m afraid it was beyond my control. The thing was, I had an early call from the doc at the hospital that he couldn’t see me tomorrow as planned, only this morning.’
‘Are you ill?’ she asked doubtfully. He didn’t look like he had anything wrong with him. Far from it. She put him in his early fifties, and everything about him spoke of him taking good care of his appearance. In a cream pair of trousers and a short-sleeved Fred Perry T-shirt, as though he’d just come off the tennis court, he appeared the absolute picture of health – tanned, fit, strong and virile, bursting with energy. There was no doubt in her mind that he would be considered an extremely good-looking man, with the type of effortless sexual allure that would attract attention wherever he went. Without meaning to, but out of habit, her eyes drifted towards his left hand. There was no wedding ring.
To her annoyance she saw that he’d noticed her glance. ‘No, I’m not ill,’ he said, a smile playing at the corners of his full lips. ‘And I’m not married either.’ He tapped his leg that was nearest to her, and which was stretched out in front of him. ‘But I had to have a new prosthetic leg fitted this morning.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not the way I’d ideally like to spend a morning.’ He smiled. ‘Not when I’m supposed to be spending it with a beautiful English woman. But it was the only time this week the doc could see me. He was then delayed by an hour, so I just had to wait my turn. Am I forgiven?’
The humiliation Romily had experienced a few minutes ago was nothing to what she was now feeling. Never had she felt such excruciating shame. She was furious with herself.
‘Hey,’ he said, holding out a fork for her to take when she didn’t say anything, ‘just in case you think this is some kind of elaborate ruse on my part, try pushing that into my shin to prove to yourself that I’m speaking the truth. Just be sure to stab the correct leg!’
‘There’s no need to be quite so—’
&
nbsp; ‘Melodramatic?’ he finished for her.
‘And there you go again,’ she said, ‘interrupting me.’
He grinned and raised his martini glass to her. ‘How about we drink to many more occasions when I can finish off your sentences?’
‘Let’s just see how lunch goes, shall we, Mr St Clair?’
‘I told you, call me Red. And talking of lunch, here’s our antipasti. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’
Once they were alone again, Red said, ‘You haven’t asked how I lost my leg, and from what I know of you Brits, I know that’s a British thing, a display of good manners by avoiding the blindingly obvious.’
‘What precisely do you know about us Brits, then?’ she asked.
‘I spent time there during the war flying with Bomber Command. Unfortunately I let everyone down by getting blown out of the sky and ending up in northern France with a shattered leg.’
‘Well, that puts me resoundingly in my place.’
‘Hey, don’t sweat it. It’s my special skill to rub people up the wrong way. You’re not the first to have their hackles ambushed, and you certainly won’t be the last, you can bet on it. How’s the ravioli?’
‘It’s delicious. Do you always flit from one subject to another?’
‘Only when I’m nervous. And right now, I’m as nervous as two world leaders playing a deadly game of nuclear poker.’
His throwaway remark was a chilling reminder that the world was currently balanced on a knife edge. Which was hard to believe sitting here in such beautiful surroundings. For days now the news the world over had been consumed with what was being called the Cuban missile crisis. Last week President Kennedy had made a lengthy television broadcast informing America that Soviet ships were carrying weapons to Cuba and that the US would do all it could to prevent that happening. US warships were now in position. Who would blink first was the question on everybody’s lips, Kennedy or Khrushchev?