For as long as she could remember, the theatre for her had been a place of refuge and her happiest moments had been spent on a stage. When she was ten years old she had appeared in a nativity play at the convent in Chicago, and ever since that time she had known she would become an actress, for her destiny had been truly sealed that day. It was the only life she could bear to live, the only one which had any real meaning, and purpose, to her. In a sense, the magical unreality of the stage was her only reality. She found escape in her roles, bringing to them such belief and intensity, she literally became the characters she played. And it was this extraordinary commitment, total and unwavering, that gave her portrayals the absolute ring of dramatic truth, and was perhaps one of her greatest strengths as an actress. She never failed to touch, to move, and perhaps, more importantly, to convince. Even as a student, her interpretations of classical parts, in particular Shakespearean heroines, were innovative and individualistic, and she brought to them wholly new dimensions which staggered with their brilliance.
Charlie, the stage-door attendant, gave her a cheery greeting, and after exchanging a few friendly words with him, she went down the stone staircase to her dressing room. She sighed with relief as she closed the door and snapped on the light. She was home again. Safe and secure. Here nothing could harm her.
Katharine always went to the theatre several hours before first curtain call. She needed this time to relax, to empty her head of extraneous matters, to repose, to concentrate and to psyche herself into the part of Helen of Troy. This afternoon she was earlier than usual, but she welcomed the chance to be alone, to think and plan her strategy for the next few days. She still had a lot to achieve before the screen test. After her lunch with Francesca, she had debated whether to go back to her flat, and then decided against it, realizing it was a waste of energy to return to Lennox Gardens for only an hour at the most. Instead, she had strolled down Piccadilly, stopped at Hatchards to buy several books, and then made her way to the Haymarket. She had attempted to call Victor Mason from a telephone booth, to give him Estelle’s information about Confidential. To her frustration he was not at the hotel, and so she had left a cryptic message, adding that she would call again later.
Now, as she took off her cape, her skirt and her sweater, she concentrated on the supper she had dreamed up on the spur of the moment at the Arlington Club. She was quite positive Victor would not object, since he relied on her for much of his social life, and he had already intimated he wanted to take her to dinner with Francesca on Sunday night. So he’ll give a small party instead, she thought, slipping into her towelling robe and sitting down on the couch to pull off her boots. After she had carefully put all her clothes away in the wardrobe, she found a small note pad and pencil, and moved to the dressing table to make a tentative guest list. There would be Victor. And Nicholas Latimer. Naturally, she thought with a small caustic smile. And Francesca, Estelle and herself. She needed at least three more people, perhaps even five, to make up an entertaining group. Well, Kim and the Earl were out, as they were returning to Yorkshire on Sunday afternoon. She paused, the pencil poised in mid-air, considering various friends who would be suitable to include. The Shand-Elliots were possibilities if…
There was a light tapping on the dressing room door, and she looked at it in surprise. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘It’s me, Katharine. Norman,’ Terry’s dresser said.
‘Oh, come in, love,’ she exclaimed, smiling broadly as Norman’s head appeared around the door. But the smile fled when she saw his face. Norman, usually breezy, jovial and as bright-eyed as a chirpy Cockney sparrow, wore a dour expression and distress was mirrored in his light brown eyes. Katharine saw immediately that he was agitated. He entered the dressing room with unusual swiftness and closed the door almost furtively. He leaned against it, his body taut, his nervousness spilling out of him.
‘Norman, whatever’s wrong?’ Katharine cried, straightening up in the chair, her eyes fixed on him. ‘You look terribly upset.’
He nodded, his movements jerky. ‘I am. And thank God I’ve found you. I’ve been ’phoning your flat for ages. I even ran over there and pushed a note through your letter box. Then I decided to come to the theatre, just on the off-chance you might be here.’
‘But Norman, tell me what’s wrong!’ Katharine demanded impatiently, her voice more high pitched than usual. She tensed, and unexpectedly felt a rush of real fear as she observed his anxiety increasing.
‘Ssssh! Not so loud,’ Norman warned. ‘It’s Terry. He’s in real trouble, and I need your help, Katharine. Now.’
‘Trouble,’ Katharine repeated, keeping her voice low. ‘What kind of trouble?’ Her eyes were wide with apprehension, for Norman’s acute distress was being transmitted more forcibly than ever.
‘Well, for one thing, he’s dead bloody drunk. Three sheets to the wind,’ he told her in a voice that was practically inaudible. ‘Can you get dressed and come with me to Albany? I’ll fill you in on the way there.’
‘Yes, love,’ Katharine said, rising at once. She wrenched her clothes out of the wardrobe, dashed behind the screen and was dressed within a few seconds. She emerged and said, ‘I just have to get my boots, then I’m ready.’ Seating herself on the couch she began to pull them on.
Looking up, her eyes questioning, she stated: ‘Terry’s insisting on going on tonight, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. The bloody fool,’ Norman responded with a tight grimace. ‘And he mustn’t. At least not in his present condition.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost four o’clock. We’ve got three hours to sober him up. If we can’t, then I’ll have to try and restrain him somehow, and his understudy will have to play tonight.’ Norman’s eyes remained on her face and he regarded her carefully. After a second, he said with a worried frown, ‘If Terry does go on, it’ll be quite a burden for you, Katharine. I’m afraid the whole play will be on your shoulders. And Terry’s going to need every bit of help you can give him. You’ll have to cue him, lead him, cover up for him, and literally carry him through his performance.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It won’t be easy, Katharine. It’s going to take all your strength and ability and ingenuity to camouflage his disabilities from the audience.’
Katharine’s heart sank but she returned Norman’s steady gaze with one equally level. Although her face was grave, the tone she adopted was light and cheerful. ‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Norman. But we’ll think about that eventuality later. Come on,’ she cried. ‘Let’s go!’
Chapter Fifteen
Nicholas Latimer, being the consummate novelist, often elected to play the spectator. He sat back, enveloped in silence, and listened and watched and stored everything away in the computer that was his mind, for future reference and use in his work. Once, a few years ago, a female acquaintance had said she hated having writers as friends, because, as she stringently pointed out, ‘They steal everything about you, and recycle it in their books.’ He had exploded with laughter at the time, but now he suddenly recalled her comments, and he said to himself: she was right.
At this moment he was once again the spectator, and he knew he was going to revel in the scene which was on the verge of being enacted before him. And naturally he would hoard it away, and push it into the typewriter when he needed it. The protagonists were fascinating opposites, which added to the drama—Victor Mason and Mike Lazarus. And they were poised like gladiators about to do battle, to fight to the death. Nick smiled at his own rather melodramatic analogy. On the other hand, much was at stake, and if the daggers were not exactly drawn, they were sheathed and waiting, figuratively speaking, of course.
Instinctively, he knew Victor would emerge the… victor. He smiled again at his childish game but he couldn’t help himself. Words were his drug, and old habits were hard to break. Victor had had the upper hand before they had met Lazarus. Not that Lazarus realized this, being ignorant of the meeting with Helene Vernaud and thus unaware that she had passed on a certain amount o
f crucial information. Lazarus most probably thought he had the upper hand, especially since it was the hand which held the chequebook.
Nick had been taken aback when Victor had told him they were meeting Lazarus in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. For tea. Good God, for tea! When he had questioned Victor about this somewhat weird location, Victor had laughed dryly and remarked: ‘Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that when he was about to do battle with the enemy, he liked to select the location and the time for his preference? He believed it gave him the advantage. So do I.’
Nick had nodded, constantly amazed at Victor’s esoteric knowledge, and said, ‘Yes, it was Napoleon. But why a public place, kid?’ Another dry chuckle from Victor, who had gone on to explain, ‘When we reach an impasse, as we undoubtedly will, I don’t want to have to kick him out of my hotel suite, or have him eject me from his offices. Also, on neutral territory, such as the Ritz, he’ll have to curb his temper. He’s hardly likely to throw one of his famous tantrums in the middle of the hotel.’ Nicholas had nodded and said nothing, but he had thought: Well, you’re wrong there, because he just might. Lazarus is unpredictable, according to what I’ve heard.
So here they were, the three of them, at four o’clock in the afternoon, sitting in a secluded corner of the Ritz, amidst gilded period furniture, potted palms and elegant, behatted ladies. All very genteel and civilized, Nick commented to himself, and swallowed a laugh of wry amusement. There was nothing very genteel or civilized about Mike Lazarus, despite his impeccable linen and well-tailored suit and his façade of genial containment. Nick had never met Lazarus before, but he knew of him by reputation. It was common knowledge that he would go for the jugular at the least provocation, if it suited his purposes to do so. He was cold and ruthless.
As Nick observed them both, his best friend and his best friend’s adversary, he had to admit there was something unusual about Lazarus. For a moment he was not quite sure what this was. He was stocky and muscular, had angular features and dark hair slightly tinged with grey. Nondescript was perhaps the best word to describe him. As he studied Mike Lazarus Nick suddenly reversed this opinion. Lazarus was not really nondescript at all, he just seemed curiously diminished in comparison to Victor. But then what man isn’t, Nick said to himself. Victor’s immense presence was as potent off the screen as on it, probably even more so.
Nick moved his head slightly, and his cool blue eyes swept over Victor, regarded him objectively, took in the dark grey pin-striped suit, the stark white shirt, the silver grey silk de. Elegant. Immaculate. Conservative. In contrast, the handsome face and dark arresting looks and raw masculinity acquired a greater vibrancy, stunned with their startling impact. And there was a very special aura surrounding Victor, one that set him apart from other men. Success, fame, wealth, Nick thought. Yet it was more elemental than that. Is it his sexuality? Nick wondered. Partially, he answered himself. It’s also his adventurous spirit. Soldier of fortune. Buccaneer. Riverboat gambler, he characterized, and then smiled inwardly and said to himself: Maybe I’ve seen too many of his movies.
Nick’s eyes rested briefly on Mike Lazarus now, and he was conscious yet again of a quality in the other man. It was something not immediately definable, or initially apparent, yet it grew on one, slowly and most forcefully. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning striking, Nick knew what it was. Mike Lazarus had the effluvium of power. Enormous power. He exuded it, reeked of it, and it was distinguishable in the way he held himself in the chair, his body tautly controlled like a panther ready to spring, and in his very pale blue eyes, as cold as a dead fish’s, yet strangely magnetic and compelling. They seemed to penetrate with their keen intelligence, and Nick unexpectedly had the unpleasant feeling that those eyes were like lasers, beaming into his brain to pierce his thoughts. He looked away quickly, and reached for a cigarette, filled with discomfort.
From all the things he had read and heard about Lazarus, he knew the man had an austere discipline, an abrasive energy and a restless ambition. Nick, who on his Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University had read history, was addicted to the sixteenth-century period. He thought: If Lazarus had lived at the time of Catherine de Medici he would undoubtedly have been a Prince of the Blood, one of those dark and sinister figures stalking across the complex and elaborate tapestry that was France in the 1500s. A Bourbon Prince, such as a Condé, perhaps. Or possibly a duc from the notorious House of Guise. Yes, the latter most assuredly, for there was something decidedly Guisardian about Lazarus, with his scheming Machiavellian mind, his stealth, his penchant for plotting, his unquestionable aptitude for dissimulation, his avarice, and his absolute fearlessness. But he wasn’t French. Nick had read somewhere that Lazarus was of German-Jewish extraction, like himself. Or had his family been Russian-Jewish émigrés? Now he was not sure. Notwithstanding, the man was brilliant. He had to be, to have created a multinational conglomerate of the magnitude of Global-Centurion, whose claws were embedded in the surface of the entire world. More or less. And he was only forty-five or thereabouts. Funny, Nick mused, despite the millions of words written about him, I’ve never read much about his personal life, or his early beginnings. They are shrouded in mystery. He wondered, absently, how much Hélène Vernaud knew about Lazarus’s past. He must ask her some time.
The two men facing each other across the small tea table had not begun to skirmish yet, but were skirting each other warily, and with great adeptness, using verbal thrusts and parries, testing each other. He smelled the tension between them. It hung in the air like a curtain of gauze. He knew that Victor detested Lazarus. But it was difficult to ascertain Lazarus’s feelings for Victor. The man had adopted a posture of geniality. A constant benign smile played around his mouth. But the eyes were alert and watchful and chilling in their deadliness.
The two men droned on about the stock market, and Nick turned away, stifling a yawn.
Lazarus made a remark about trouble brewing in the Middle East, and spoke for a few minutes about oil, and the attitude of the Arab states eventually changing; and then unexpectedly, and abruptly, he switched from this topic.
Suddenly, Lazarus said, ‘Well, Victor, you’ve procrastinated for days about this meeting, presumably because you were having the contract dissected by your battery of lawyers. Since you’re sitting here, I assume all is in order. And I trust you brought the contract with you. Signed. I can’t delay my return to New York any longer. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I want to wind things up with you before doing so.’
‘Yes, I’ve brought it,’ Victor responded in a pleasant, easy tone. He moved in his chair, crossed his long and elegant legs, and leaned back, on the surface relaxed. Observing him quietly, Nick knew he was as taut as Lazarus.
‘Ah. Good,’ Lazarus said. ‘Seemingly we are making progress at last. I’d like to give you my ideas, and my conditions, now that we’re partners. Or at least about to be, after I’ve signed the contract. First of all, I cannot sanction the budget of this movie. It’s excessive. Three million dollars is, in my estimation, exactly one million dollars too much.’
‘Agreed,’ Victor said with a small cool smile.
If Lazarus was surprised at this ready acquiescence, he did not display it. Not an eyelash flickered. ‘How do you propose to cut production costs, might I ask?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice but he was seething inside. Victor Mason wasn’t very much different from the rest, in spite of his reputation for honesty. They were all trying to steal from him, in one way or another, when they came with their elaborate schemes and questionable deals. But none of them were a match for him. Inevitably he outsmarted them all.
‘There are ways and means to do it,’ Victor replied, sounding and looking enigmatic.
‘I see.’ Lazarus remained motionless in the chair, holding his annoyance in check. Mason was such a fool, being evasive, and wasting his valuable time. The man would have to reveal his plans eventually. But Lazarus decided not to press. Instead, he drawled softly, ‘How much can you save?’
&nbs
p; ‘About a million dollars.’
Lazarus regarded Victor closely, with those keen and assessing eyes. A cynical smile touched his mouth fleetingly. ‘Then I feel justified in my assumption that the budget was padded. That’s the trouble with the motion picture industry. Too much waste, too much fat. An inefficient business in my opinion.’
‘You’re wrong. About the budget. It wasn’t padded, merely erroneous,’ Victor shot back sharply, sheathing his irritation. ‘An easy mistake for a production man to make when he’s sitting in Hollywood.’
‘Obviously you picked the wrong production man, Victor. A shame.’ He made the last word sound ominous, even though his voice was soft. Lazarus sighed lightly and took a sip of his tea. ‘A good production man doesn’t make mistakes, Victor, wherever he’s sitting. Poor judgment on your part. I hope it will be less flawed when it comes to other areas of our project. I also sincerely pray we’re not going to have the pleasure of his company here in England, when we start shooting.’ Lazarus laughed thinly. ‘Otherwise, we might find the budget escalating to four million dollars. Perhaps even five. And why not!’
‘He was not hired on a permanent basis,’ Victor answered, ignoring the sarcastic jibes. ‘As a matter of fact, the entire production team will be English.’ He lit a cigarette, furious with himself for even bothering to justify his actions to Lazarus. But Lazarus had a way of putting everyone on the defensive.
‘Well, that’s a step in the right direction,’ Lazarus responded, his tone patronizing. ‘Let’s talk about casting. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, analysing, and I’ve decided on the female lead. Ava Gardner. She would be marvellous as Catherine Earnshaw, and I—’