Voice of the Heart (87 page)

Victor had paused then, had shaken his head dourly. ‘And that’s when I made my fatal error. I was about to slip out, beat it to the dance, when I remembered my briefcase. It was in my suite and unlocked. I didn’t want Arlene rifling through it, so I came up to get it. I found her clothes strewn all over, and Arlene herself already gowned and piling on the loot. You see, she knew about the dance—from Helene, who had mentioned it in passing on the drive from the airport. Arlene insisted on coming with me. We quarrelled, had a knock-down-drag-out fight. I gave up, said I was going to bed. She followed me to your suite, Nick, parked herself here.’

‘But why didn’t you simply blow?’ Jake had asked wonderingly, at this point in the story.

‘Oh, I thought about it,’ Vic had told them with a pained and weary smile. ‘But I knew she was hell bent on going, determined to make a stink, a scene, and I figured she’d get a cab, high-tail it after me if I left. So I settled in for the night. With the script. More or less ignored her. Refused to discuss anything with her.’ He had leaned forward anxiously then and asked with apprehension, ‘Now, tell me about Ches. Is she all right?’

Jake had said, ‘Nick here can fill you in better than I.’

And he had done so, not missing one thing, and when he had finished Victor had nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I knew she’d be hurt, disappointed. But I was trying to avert a disaster by staying away.’ Slowly, and in sentences liberally interspersed with colourful expletives, Victor had gone on to reveal the details of Arlene’s threats. He and Jake had listened carefully and with growing worry, but neither had been able to offer a possible solution to Victor’s dilemma.

Victor, however, had made his own plans. ‘I’ve decided to get her out of this neck of the woods, and
pronto
, before she can do any serious damage. Once we’re in London I think I can neutralize her, reason with her, negotiate.’

Jake had agreed this was probably the best course, then
retired to his own suite. Nick and Vic had talked for a while, then Vic had written a note of apology to Doris and the Earl, plus a longer letter to Francesca. Nick had delivered both on Sunday afternoon, when Victor and Arlene were already on their way to the airport in Nice.

It’s a goddamn mess, Nick thought. In his anxiety to protect Francesca was Victor perhaps not underestimating the girl? He treats her like a child, when really she’s pretty savvy. Nick wished he was on shore, not on this goddamned boat. Ship rather. On
terra firma
he could use a telephone, talk to Victor in London, advise him to confide his problems to Francesca.

‘Pip pip! Hi there Nicholas, my darling!’

He swung around, saw Estelle, smiled, waved. Her company was infinitely less trying to him than that of some of the other imbeciles on board.

‘You look smart, News Lady,’ he said, his voice friendly. And she really did. For once her clothes were simple and tailored, less flamboyant than usual. She wore white slacks, a navy-blue sailor top, and a white cotton hat with a floppy brim perched on her bright red curls.

Estelle planted a kiss on his cheek and said, ‘I’ve been looking all over for Katharine. Isn’t she here?’

‘No. She decided to stay at the Villa Zamir. So did Francesca. I think they’ve had enough parties. Haven’t you? Aren’t they getting you down too?’

‘A bit,’ she admitted, then laughed breezily. ‘Still, socializing is my bread and butter, Nick. I pick up a lot of ideas for features and stories, getting around the way I do. And talking of stories, have you seen Hillard Steed?’

‘No, I haven’t. Didn’t know he was coming. But then I guess he would be here. He’s pretty close to Beau.’

‘I’m hoping he’s going to confirm it. Do you think he will?’

‘Confirm what? I don’t follow you.’

Estelle looked at him in surprise, leaned closer, dropped
her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘You mean you’ve not heard the rumours… about Mike Lazarus taking over Monarch Pictures? Or rather, Global-Centurion doing so?’

Nick gaped at her. ‘No, I hadn’t heard them,’ he replied at last, and thought: Nor has Victor. Oh Jesus! If that’s true, we’re up a creek. Victor had a whole series of pictures planned with Monarch. Not only that, the treatment of the screenplay he planned to write for Victor and Katharine Tempest was already in Hilly Street’s hot little hands. Oh Jesus!

Estelle was saying, ‘Hey Nicholas, you’re looking green around the gills. Are you ill?’ She peered at him.

‘No, of course not. I was just analysing the possibilities of the takeover, that’s all. Now, my sweet, let’s get you a glass of bubbly and go over there where it’s quiet and have a chat.’ He took her arm firmly, propelled her towards a remote corner of the deck, whisking a glass of champagne off a tray as a waiter passed them.

‘What about Hillard?’ Estelle protested.

‘You’ll find him later. He can’t very well get off and walk. We’re already halfway out of the harbour, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Yes,’ she giggled and snuggled closer. Giving him a look that left nothing to the imagination, she whispered huskily, ‘And what do you want to talk to me about, Nicholas, my darling?’

Nick merely smiled enigmatically.

As the
Artemis
lifted anchor and sailed out of Monte Carlo harbour, its passengers gaily embarking on a day of merry-making, Francesca Cunningham sat on the terrace of the Villa Zamir.

She was not unhappy to be alone. In all truth, she was relieved that everyone had left, was delighted to have a few hours to herself. She was in an introspective mood this morning, and thus content to retreat into her myriad thoughts, without being disturbed by the continual comings and goings of the family, their constant chatter, the incessant round of activities.

An ineffable tranquillity hovered over the villa, broken only occasionally by the sounds of the staff going about their duties: the whir of the vacuum cleaner, the faint bird-like chirpings of the maids as they dusted adjacent rooms, the echo of the butler’s brisk tones issuing orders, the click of a door closing, the patter of distant busy feet. Gradually these individual noises were beginning to merge, flowed together to create a vague and muffled hum that hardly intruded at all.

Francesca lay back on the
chaise longue
, her body relaxed and languorous. She closed her eyes, shutting out the brilliant sunshine, the azure sky so sharp and penetrating. Instantly, an image of Victor’s face, that familiar and much-loved face, formed in minute detail and floated with tantalizing precision in her imagination, every feature clear and sharply denned. Where was he at this moment! What was he doing? Who was he with? She had no way of knowing, and she sighed inaudibly, longing for his presence, for his tenderness, the touch of his hand, the sound of his vibrant laughter. She
earnestly wished he could be magically transported to this terrace, and to her. If only she could open her eyes and find him standing here, grinning irreverently, the black eyes teasing and full of humour. But that was not possible. He was enmeshed in problems in London. He was not returning to the Riviera.

He had told her that yesterday, when she had spoken to him from Nick’s suite. Hearing his voice had stilled her troubled mind, her awful anxiety. Even so his decision to remain in England had plunged her into depression.
The summer was over for her.
She had announced this to him on the telephone, her misery so acute that she had been unable to conceal it. With his usual perception he had picked up her mood, had chided her quietly, told her not to be ridiculous. ‘I’ll be here when you get back. Stick to your plans. Go to Paris with Doris.’ His words had held such a ring of finality that she had had little choice but to acquiesce. Even so, she had wanted to fly home without further delay. She was lonely without him, and lost. Part of her had gone with him. The best part really… her heart.

Before he had hung up, Victor had apologized yet again for spoiling her evening on Saturday. She had assured him it did not matter, wanting to alleviate his most transparent guilt, and she had meant those words. For with her intelligence, Francesca had come to terms with her crushing disappointment, reasoning that one dance gone awry was hardly meaningful in the span of a lifetime. There would obviously be many more special occasions to look beautiful for him, to enjoy with him. Years and years of occasions.

And yet it had mattered at the time… it had been the worst night of her life. She had smiled and danced and laughed and chatted, and entertained their guests with charm and vivacity. She had done her duty as she had been brought up to do it, with style and outward composure, hiding her feelings behind a mask of inscrutability. She had put up a front for her father’s sake. But the effort
had been enormous and inevitably draining. Only when she had retired to the blessed privacy of her room had she loosened her iron control, permitted herself to let go, to weep out her disappointment and frustration.

She had not left her room on Sunday, claiming a headache and a hangover. She did not want anyone to see her red eyes, her swollen face. She was also reluctant to be drawn into the usual gossipy post mortem of the preceding evening, which was an inevitability. In the late afternoon, Diana had come to her room to tell her that Nick had arrived with armfuls of flowers for Doris, and a note of apology from Victor. Plus a letter for her. Francesca had opened the envelope eagerly, and with trembling fingers. As love letters went, it was neither inspired nor romantic, being brief to the point of terseness. But she supposed he had been in a hurry, and excused him. Miraculously, her tears had ceased, her heart had lifted with renewed hope, her sadness had been transmuted into pure joy. But much later that night, in the quietness of her room, she had thought how curious it was that this particular man could affect her state of being so drastically. He had immense power over her. She had found this discomfiting, alarming even.

Francesca sat up on the
chaise
, sloughing off the residues of Saturday night. The dance was like a bad dream, therefore not worth pondering; wasting her precious time over. And so she relegated it to the back of her mind, buried the memory so carefully, so deeply and so thoroughly, that it would he submerged, from this day on, for over two decades.

She considered the next two weeks. Today was Tuesday, and nothing special was happening until Friday, when Beau Stanton was giving a dinner party at his villa in Cap d’Antibes. The guests of honour were Katharine, Terry and Hilary, and from what Katharine had told her it was going to be a rather fancy affair. The following day Katharine was returning to London to prepare for her trip to Hollywood. Kim was leaving with her, since he was needed at Langley.
Diana, Christian and Nicky would depart in the middle of the coming week, and she would remain at the villa with her father and Doris. They would be the last to leave, after her father and Doris attended the special luncheon for Winston Churchill at Bunky Ampher’s house. The day after, the three of them were driving to Paris in Doris’s Rolls-Royce, and her father would proceed to England, taking the car with him. She and Doris were staying in Paris, where Diana was to join them, and they would all choose their wedding outfits at Pierre Bahrain’s couture house.

Fourteen more days away from him. Not so long really, Francesca thought, a smile breaking through. I’ll soon be back in London. With my dearest love. Her expression became beatific as she contemplated Victor. He was her reason for being.

Francesca began to daydream, planning their future life together. Once he had sorted out his problems, she knew he would ask her to marry him. Lady Francesca Mason.
Mason
. She repeated his surname several times, and lovingly so, liking the way it sounded. They would live at Che Sarà Sarà, she was certain of that. She didn’t care where they lived really, so long as they were together. And she would have lots of babies. Well, two at least, and they would be beautiful, just like their father, and she and Vic would be so happy, so very very happy. Her mind ran on unchecked, fantasizing about the future.

Katharine Tempest was also in a reflective mood this morning as she sat at the small desk upstairs in her room. Like Francesca, she too felt the summer was over, was eager to leave for London, since she was exceedingly preoccupied with the months ahead and all that they entailed.
Hollywood. Her new film. Her career.
Priorities for some weeks, they had been uppermost in her mind for the past few days, more so than usual after the telephone call from London on the Friday before the dance. The call had momentarily stunned her, for it had put all she had worked for in certain
jeopardy. As the dismal facts had sunk in she had been cast down into despair, and her desperation had manifested itself in a nervousness that was extreme. To her irritation she had found this difficult to control and camouflage.

Thankfully she was feeling better. After several sleepless nights, during which she had analysed the situation countless times, Katharine had made several crucial decisions, and she fully intended to execute them, no matter what the cost to herself. So, having made her plans, she was impatient to put them into operation, to plunge ahead, galvanized as always by her nervous energies and her intrinsic need for action. Naturally exigent, and for ever in a hurry, Katharine was, however, a pragmatist, and she recognized that in this instance her desire for speedy solutions was not merely a characteristic of her basic temperament but an absolute imperative. In two weeks she was leaving for California and everything must be properly resolved by the day of her departure.

At this moment there was no doubt in Katharine’s mind that she could deal with matters in an orderly manner, and though some aspects of her solutions were a little unpalatable, the thrusting knowledge that she, and she alone, was in control of her own destiny had a calming effect on her. And so she was convinced she could cope with the few remaining days at the Villa Zamir with self-possession and equanimity.

Katharine brought her eyes back to the list of things she had to do before she left England and, satisfied that she had forgotten nothing, tucked the sheet of paper away in her current script. Rising from the desk, she walked over to the window. Opening the shutters, which she had closed to cool the room, she glanced down at the terrace. Her gaze rested on Francesca sunning herself, and a gentle expression flitted across her face. She thought, with a stab of sadness, I’m going to miss you, my dearest, dearest friend. Francesca was closer to her than anyone, and truly understood her;
the loving relationship they enjoyed would be hard, if not indeed impossible, to duplicate. There would be a gap in her life when she was in Hollywood.