‘Madame Asternan, s’il vous plaît,’ he said, when the hotel finally answered.
A moment later Doris’s sleepy voice was murmuring hello.
‘Good morning, Doris. It’s David. I hope I didn’t awaken you, my dear.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she laughed. ‘But that’s all right. I can’t think of a nicer way to be awakened. How are you, darling?’
‘I’m fine. I had your letter this morning, and I’m delighted about the house.’
‘Oh David, the Villa Zamir is perfectly divine! You’re going to love it, and so are Francesca and Kim.’
‘I’m sure we will.’ He smiled to himself. Doris might be a millionairess, but she was the least jaded person he knew. Her enthusiasm and gaiety and zest for life invariably lifted his spirits. ‘I can’t wait to see it. In the meantime, I also called to ask you something, so I’ll get straight to the point. Have you heard of a family in Chicago called Tempest?’
‘No, no, I don’t think I have,’ Doris said hesitantly. After a brief pause, whilst she obviously pondered on it, she said more positively, ‘I’m sure I haven’t. I would have remembered the name. It’s quite unusual. Anyway, why do you want to know, darling?’
‘Apparently Kim has been seeing a girl for a number of months. She’s from Chicago and her name is Tempest.’ He then proceeded to tell her about his concern, and the reasons for it.
Doris listened carefully. When he had finished, she asked, ‘Do you really believe Kim wants to marry her, David?’ her tone alert.
‘Yes, I do. And since he’s almost twenty-two he doesn’t need my permission. Whilst I don’t want to play the heavy Victorian father, I don’t want him to make a mistake either. A mistake he’ll regret.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but I find it damned peculiar he knows so little about the girl and—’
‘So do I,’ Doris broke in. ‘You knew my entire life story within a week of meeting me.’
‘Yes, and you knew mine,’ he answered, gratified that she confirmed his own opinion.
‘Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you talk to the girl herself?’ Doris suggested. ‘Ask her to fill you in about her background.’
David drew in his breath sharply. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, Doris. At least not yet. I’ve only just met her. It would be frightfully bad form, poor taste, and besides—’
‘Good heavens, David, you English never cease to astound me. Here you are worried to death, or at least you sound as if you are, and you talk to me about bad form. To hell with bad form! If the girl is intelligent she’ll understand your reasons.’
‘Yes, there’s some truth in what you say, but to be honest, I don’t want to precipitate anything at this moment, and I certainly don’t want to give the relationship too much importance in their eyes.’
‘But, David darling, it’s obviously important in your mind.’
‘Well, yes it is. But I don’t want Kim to know I take the relationship seriously. Oh, hell, Doris, I’m not making any sense at all, am I?’
‘Yes, you are. To me at any rate. You think that by simply ignoring the romance it might easily fizzle out. Whereas if you start asking too many questions, giving it credence, they’ll start to view it in a different light themselves. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, darling?’
‘Yes, Doris. As usual, you’re right on target. Parental interference and pressure often cause two people to draw closer together than they otherwise might. Fighting the world, so to speak.’ He rubbed his chin and exclaimed impatiently, ‘Oh, Christ, Doris, maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion!’
‘Yes, you could be, darling,’ she said. ‘And you know what young people are like. They’re madly in love one day, and can’t stand the sight of each other the next. They blow hot and cold with comparative ease. I realize you believe Kim has serious intentions, but he hasn’t actually announced them to you, has he?’
‘No,’ David admitted. But he’s going to, he thought.
‘Then in my opinion I think you should play it cool. Ignore the whole thing for the time being. Let it run its course. Kim might change his mind. Or the girl might,’ Doris soothed. Then she asked curiously, ‘By the way, what’s she like, the mysterious young lady from Chicago.’
‘Rather lovely, to be truthful. It’s easy to see why the boy’s smitten. Francesca also seems very sold on her, and I was quite impressed with Katharine myself. She’s certainly an unusual girl, I’ll say that.’
There was a silence at the other end of the telephone and then Doris said slowly, ‘Wait a minute, David, you’re not talking about Katharine Tempest, the young actress, are you? The girl in the Greek play in the West End?’
‘Yes, I am. I say, do you know her after all, Doris?’ His hopes soared.
‘No, afraid not, darling. But she was pointed out to me in the Mirabelle last summer. Stunning girl, I must agree with you there. I didn’t know she was an American, and from Chicago no less…’ Doris hesitated, and then said, with a laugh, ‘I can tell you one thing, darling, she’s as Irish as Paddy’s pig.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘The dark hair, the white skin, the bluer-than-blue eyes. She’s very Irish looking, David. I remember thinking that last summer in the restaurant.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I’ve met enough of the Irish in Chicago to recognize that look of theirs. The women in particular are often extraordinary beauties.’ She chuckled. ‘The men aren’t that bad either.’
‘Then she’s probably a Roman Catholic.’
‘Does that matter, David?’ There was a startled echo in her voice.
‘No, I don’t suppose it does, although we’ve always been a Protestant family—’ His voice trailed off lamely. He regretted the comment. He found religious and racial prejudice intolerable in others. He hoped Doris did not misunderstand him.
Before he got a chance to clarify himself, Doris exclaimed, ‘Look here, cheer up, darling. I’ll be back in a couple of days and we can discuss this further. In the meantime—’ She stopped and, after a moment, went on carefully, ‘I almost hesitate to suggest this, because I know prying is not your style, but if you want me to, I’ll make a couple of calls to Chicago. I might be able to find out something about the Tempest family. Discreetly of course, without mentioning your name, or involving you.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Doris. Thanks anyway. If Kim ever discovered we’d done such a thing, he’d be hurt and furious, and understandably so. And you’re right, it’s not to my taste at all. However I will take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Kim and I will be at Langley together for several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get an opportunity to go over this with him.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then dashed on, ‘Actually, if anyone asks any questions about the Tempest family, it should be Kim. And of Katharine, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do, darling, and please don’t worry so much.’
‘No, I won’t. I feel better now that I’ve talked to you. Thanks for listening, Doris.’ His voice dropped, became more intimate and tender. ‘Incidentally, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, my darling.’
‘That’s worth a lot to me, you silly man!’
They talked for a few minutes longer, said fond goodbyes, and hung up. The smile she had brought to his eyes lingered there for a moment. Doris had the marvellous ability to allay his anxieties, whatever they might be. Perhaps she was right, too, about Kim and Katharine. Maybe it was merely a youthful infatuation which would soon cool off. Not only that, he was taking Katharine and the children to dinner tomorrow evening. With a bit of luck he might glean more information, especially if he formulated his questions skilfully.
‘Good morning, your grace.’
David looked up quickly, startled to see Mrs Moggs, their daily, hovering in the doorway. He had not heard her come into the house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Moggs,’ he said wondering where on earth she had found her extraordinary hat. I
t was an exotic creation trimmed with poppies and cornflowers. He then remembered it had been a Christmas present from Francesca, one of her more exuberant flights of fancy into millinery design. He had made unflattering remarks about it at the time, but apparently Mrs Moggs adored it.
‘Now, your grace, ’ow about a nice steaming ’ot pot of tea?’ Mrs Moggs suggested, still loitering in the doorway.
‘No, thank you. I’ve had my morning tea, Mrs Moggs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er… er… Mrs Moggs, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this again, but one only addresses a duke as your grace.’
‘Dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, lords, barons, they’re all the same to me, your grace, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she beamed. ‘Fair makes your blinking head swim, it does, having to call ’em all by different things, as I was saying to my Albert the other day. An’ my Albert says—’
‘Quite so, Mrs Moggs,’ David murmured hurriedly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.’
She beamed at him again, hitched her shopping bag onto her arm, and then did a little pirouette and disappeared. He shook his head in exasperation, but nevertheless a smile of amusement flew across his face. Mrs Moggs was impossible, and an infernal nuisance, always ‘popping in’ as she called it, when he was deep in work. But Francesca thought she was marvellous and continually refused to get rid of her. How fortunate he was in having Francesca. She had turned out very well, that girl, and he had no doubts about her.
He pulled his address book towards him, found Giles Martin’s number in Yorkshire and dialled it, ready to start haggling about the price of the two prize heifers.
Chapter Thirteen
Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.
Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wool in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.
Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.
Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ’thirties and early ’forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.
‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.
‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’
Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’
‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’
‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’
Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who were propping up the bar, and then tucked her gloves in her bag to keep them clean, as she always did. She was glad she had chosen the Arlington Club, commonly known as ‘Joe’s’ after the bartender, who was something of a character and had a large following. It was an intimate and congenial spot, patronized by well-known newspapermen, writers and film people. Also, being located in Arlington Street, directly opposite the Caprice, it was a popular watering hole for stars, directors and producers, who dropped in for a drink either before or after lunch at the Caprice. For all these reasons, Katharine thought it was an excellent place to be seen, and also to observe.
‘Here you are, Miss Tempest,’ said Joe, placing the mimosa before her. ‘And thanks again for the tickets. I loved you in the play. You were right smashing.’
‘Why thank you, Joe. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Katharine said.
Joe went to take orders from two new arrivals, whom Katharine knew to be the editor of the Sunday Express and the paper’s show business columnist, John Logan. The latter had interviewed her and written a glowing story, and he was something of a fan, both professionally and personally. She returned their friendly waves and smiles, and then shifted her position slightly on the stool and took a sip of her drink. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and immediately changed her mind, thinking of her throat.
Katharine worried a great deal about her health, since she had a somewhat delicate constitution, and was particularly prone to chest colds and bronchial attacks. Her throat was no longer sore, but she did not want the condition to recur, especially with the screen test imminent; smoking was hardly conducive to the crystal-clear tones she had perfected so assiduously.
At the age of twenty-one Katharine was already a highly complex young woman, and there was a curious duality in her personality, as Nicholas Latimer suspected. Talented to a point of true brilliance, she nonetheless strove endlessly to perfect her craft in ways not always necessary, and despite her immense belief in herself there were times when she was in need of reassurance about her acting ability. Sweet of nature, she had an understanding heart and great generosity of spirit, and would go to extraordinary lengths to help a friend or colleague. She was loyal, devoted and considerate almost to a fault, and nothing was ever too much trouble for her. Yet cold calculation, self-interest, and a ruthless determination to get her own way at all costs, stamped the reverse side of this otherwise glittering medallion, and she had no qualms about using anyone to suit her own ends.
And now, as she sat at the bar, t
oying with her drink, her mind turned once again to the material she would use for the test, the words she would say. She knew she had to compel and convince in a way she never had before. Everything depended on that. Damn, she thought, if only Nicholas Latimer hadn’t been so difficult and indifferent, I wouldn’t be facing this problem today. She was wondering what stratagem to use, to get the material adapted, when a voice behind her said, ‘You’re Katharine Tempest, aren’t you?’
Katharine swung her head swiftly, and found herself staring at a heavy-set girl with a florid complexion and the brightest of carrot-red hair. She was a vision, if a somewhat eccentric one, in a suit of violent purple and a small emerald felt hat with a long purple feather. What a strange outfit, Katharine thought, but said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ A crease puckered her brow. For a moment she was at a loss, and unable to identify the girl. Then she exclaimed. ‘And of course, you’re Estelle Morgan! How are you?’ Katharine extended her hand, smiling warmly. Adept at self-promotion, she was never one to slight a journalist. Even those she considered to be insignificant were treated to a very large and compelling dose of the inimitable Tempest charm, since they might be important one day and therefore useful.
The carrot-haired girl took hold of Katharine’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grinning with delight. ‘I’m feeling pretty dandy. And how lovely of you to remember me, a famous actress like you.’
How could anyone possibly forget you, Katharine thought to herself. But she wisely bit this back, and murmured sweetly, ‘You’re very striking, you know.’
Estelle positively glowed. ‘Didn’t we meet at Lady Winner’s bash, or was it at the Duke’s? Bedford, that is.’
Katharine laughed, inwardly tickled at the unabashed name-dropping, and shook her head, still laughing, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I think we were introduced at the party John Standish gave for Terry Ogden a few months ago.’