Voice of the Heart

  ‘A producer I know. Sam Legalle. He’s going to L.A. for three months and wants a tenant while he’s away. Since I don’t want to rent for much longer than that, it suits me fine. Come on, let me show you the most important room of all—the library. And the place where I’d write.’ He threw open the door, led her in, waited for her reaction.

  ‘What a marvellous partner’s desk, and all these books! Oh Nick, it’s super. So conducive to work.’ She tucked her arm in his. ‘How many other rooms are there?’

  ‘A living room, a master bedroom, a couple of baths, and a guest room. Oh, and the kitchen. That’s in here. Sam had it remodelled, and it’s modern and more than adequate. No dining room though, I guess he always eats out.’

  Francesca walked around the kitchen, which was a mixture of white and chrome, and far too sterile for her taste, but it was efficiently planned and suitable for Nick’s requirements. ‘So far I like the flat, and I’m sure Dibs will too,’ she teased with a small smile. ‘But aren’t you going to finished your guided tour? What about the bedroom and the living room?’

  ‘Oh sure, kid. The living room first.’ They left the kitchen and Nick went on, ‘It’s at the other end of the foyer.’ He ushered her towards the tall oak door, opened it, moved aside to let her enter first.

  Francesca took two steps into the living room and stopped dead in her tracks. A sickening horror swamped her. Victor Mason, larger than life and staggeringly handsome in an elegant dark blue suit and an impeccable blue shirt and tie, was leaning against the mantelpiece, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  ‘Hello, Ches,’ he said in a grave voice.

  She did not respond, was unable to respond. She had not set eyes on him since he had left the South of France, and the sight of him now rendered her speechless, threw her off balance. Immediately, rage with Nick flared. He had trapped her in the most underhanded way. She swung her head to him, her eyes blazing, her expression one of fury mixed with disbelief. Finding her voice, she spluttered, ‘I never expected this from you! How mean and unfair of you to take advantage of—’

  Nick held up his hand, and not giving her the opportunity to berate him further, he exclaimed, ‘The man wants to talk to you. If nothing else, you owe him that at least, Francesca.’ He strode out, closed the door softly behind him.

  Realizing she was alone with Victor, Francesca panicked. Oh God! Oh God! What was she going to do? She knew he would question her. How was she going to explain her behaviour towards him without revealing Katharine’s confidences? She clutched her shoulder bag, wanted to bolt out after Nick. But she was rooted to the spot, afraid to move in case she stumbled. Her legs were wobbling and tremors were shooting through her. She could hardly keep a limb still.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down,’ Victor suggested evenly, and strolled past her to an antique armoire which had been turned into an open bar.

  Francesca sank into the nearest chair, not because she wished to stay and listen to his lies, but because she knew her legs were finally buckling. She closed her eyes for a minute, willing herself to keep cool, planning her strategy, formulating plausible reasons for ending their relationship weeks ago. And then she began to condemn Nicholas Latimer for his deviousness, cursed herself for her stupidity, for not anticipating this situation. It was typical of them. They were blood brothers, weren’t they?

  Dimly, through the pounding in her head, she heard Victor’s voice asking her what she wanted to drink. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ she said and was startled by the steadiness of her tone.

  He did not reply.

  She heard the rattle of ice against glass, and various other small puttering noises. His shadow fell across her and she was acutely aware of his presence as he bent down and placed the drink on the coffee table without saying a word. He brushed so close she felt his breath, the familiar warmth of him, and her whole being was assaulted by that well-remembered smell which was so personally his. It was a pristine smell of soap and shampoo and recent barbering and the spicy scent of the cologne he used and just the faintest hint of tobacco. I’m going to faint, she thought, hardly daring to breathe until he had moved away.

  He was leaning against the mantelpiece again, she saw out of the corner of her eye, looking nonchalant and perfectly at ease. This maddened her, and unexpectedly she wanted to fling abusive words and accusations at him, was on the brink of telling him she knew all about his affair with Katharine, informing him about the baby and the abortion. But she stopped herself in the nick of time. She could not betray Katharine to their betrayer. Furthermore, she had sworn on the honour of her family name never to divulge these secrets. She could not go back on her word.

  Victor said, ‘That’s your favourite—vodka with lime juice and a splash of soda. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ she mumbled, and lifted the glass, not knowing what else to do. In a moment she would get up and leave, once her strength had returned. She was conscious of his eyes on her, but she resolutely kept her face averted, afraid to look at him, and suddenly she felt flustered and undone. A match flared and he lit another cigarette before walking slowly across the floor and seating himself opposite her.

  Victor crossed his long legs, smoked in silence, observing her quietly, his gaze levelled on her, unwavering and intent. He was perfectly aware she was unnerved, and understandably so since she had been caught off guard. He wanted to give her a chance to settle down, to steady herself. She had lost weight. Too much, in his opinion, and yet her fresh young loveliness was undiminished. She wore a white silk shirt, a grey flannel skirt and a dark blue blazer. The plain understated clothes she usually favoured. Class, he thought, she’s got the kind of class that comes out of a top drawer. She’ll never lose it. It’s bred in the bone. With a small shudder he considered the albatross around his neck, and his black eyes narrowed with loathing for Arlene.

  Francesca unexpectedly shifted her position, swung her head to glance around, continuing to avoid his eyes. The bright sunlight trickled through her hair, turning it to burnished gold, and his heart clenched. He ached to pull her into his arms, to hold her close, to pour out his soul, to tell her he wanted to keep her safe with him for ever. An impulse came over him… a compulsion to take her by the hand and leave with her right now. Leave this room, leave England, catch the first flight back to L. A. Yes, run with her and suffer the consequences. Tell the whole world to go to hell. The world well lost. Get rid of the people who encumbered his life… Arlene… Hilly Steed… Katharine Tempest. Get rid of the things that were encumbrances. Sell Bellissima. Dump the Monarch stock and take the losses. Cancel the films. Retire. Go to the ranch. With her. Whatever happened they would make it together. They had everything going for them. Do it, a voice nudged. And then his extraordinary sense of responsibility, his fear of scandal, his awareness of her extreme youth plus her background came to the forefront of his mind, eroded his courage. He abandoned the idea of instant flight. And in so doing Victor Mason made the gravest mistake of his life, one he would live to regret most bitterly.

  Wanting to get to the root of the trouble between them, he said, ‘I don’t usually play sneaky games, but I didn’t know what else to do, how else to see you. I must talk to you, Ches.’

  ‘What about?’

  The question astonished him and his black brows drew together in perplexity. ‘Surely that’s obvious. Since you’ve been back in London you refuse to take my calls, to meet me, and finally, when I do manage to get you on the ’phone, you blithely announce everything is over between us and hang up. Jesus Christ, Ches, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?’

  Her head came up with swiftness. ‘Explanation?’ She laughed hollowly. ‘If anything is obvious it’s your situation. Your marital situation to be precise. You are back with your wife. She is living with you at Claridge’s,’ Francesca snapped.

  The iciness in her tone was so unprecedented he was astounded. He exclaimed heatedly, ‘She’s not living with me! Yes, she is staying at Claridge’s, but not w
ith me. She has her own suite.’

  ‘I’m really quite uninterested in your family sleeping arrangements,’ she retorted, her face stiff and closed.

  He flinched, but chose to ignore both the crack and her derisive tone. ‘The only reason Arlene is in London is to finalize the settlement, and you know that, Ches. It will be worked out. It’s taking longer than I expected because of the many complexities. But look, I didn’t ask Nicky to get you over here to talk about my… problems. I want to talk about you. Why are you acting so strangely? What’s happened between us to cause this… this rift?’

  She opened her mouth, and then closed it adamantly, terrified of saying the wrong thing, of telling him the truth. Suddenly, for the first time since entering the room, she really saw him, and his appearance appalled her. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed and his handsome face was gaunt, even haggard. Exhaustion was written all over it, and despite the tan he looked ill. For a split second Francesca softened, wanted to reach out and touch him, to comfort him. I love him so much. I will never stop loving him all the days of my life. There will only ever be him for me. He’s my heart. A lump wedged in her throat and she was afraid she would break down. And then she thought: He’s not sick. He’s been over indulging in the high life. His infidelity loomed larger than ever in her head, and the anguish of heart and mind he had caused her came rushing back, ran quick and virulent in her blood. Victor Mason had killed her soul. She could never trust him again. She did not dare. She hardened herself towards him.

  Taking a deep breath, Francesca repeated softly, ‘What happened?’ Looking down at her hands, unable to meet the dark and penetrating gaze, she said, with enormous coldness, ‘I came to my senses, Victor.’

  ‘What do you mean by that exactly?’ He leaned forward with such suddenness and urgency she shrank back in the chair and then her lovely amber eyes were raised to his. As he looked into them Victor saw something he could not quite define, and his heart twisted with dismay. He reached for his drink and, much to his annoyance, his hand shook. Putting the glass down unsteadily, he pressed, ‘I asked you what you meant.’ He waited, alarmed at the apprehension he was experiencing.

  Francesca knew there was no going back now, that she must bring this meeting to a conclusion, and leave as rapidly and as gracefully as possible. She could not stand being near him any longer. She said, ‘Arlene’s arrival pointed up so much to me. I saw things clearly for the first time, as they really are. You are married, Victor, and your divorce could take years. I also began to realize that our relationship could never work. There are too many things against us.’

  ‘Such as what precisely?’ he asked in a strangled voice, his face tightening.

  ‘Our age difference to begin with. You’re too old for me.’

  He stifled a small involuntary gasp, but he could not keep the hurt off his face. ‘I don’t believe that!’ he cried with great vehemence.

  ‘Oh but you did once. I haven’t forgotten how ambivalent you were about me, because I’m twenty years younger than you. Then there are the differences in our backgrounds and the fives we lead. I know you’re a sophisticated, well-travelled man, and perhaps you do understand my world. However, I don’t understand yours at all, and I doubt I ever will. I would be like a fish out of water with you. And finally, there is my father. Quite frankly, although he might like you on a man-to-man basis, I hardly think he would approve of you as my… boyfriend.’ She paused, looked away, then finished, ‘All these things clarified for me. That’s what happened. There’s no point in making this a protracted dialogue. It’s over, finished between us.’

  Rarely had Victor been shaken as he was at this moment, and for once he was incapable of responding. In that politely insidious way, which was so typically English, she had adroitly insulted him on a number of levels. There had also been a hard, even cruel, note in her voice which he had trouble reconciling with the Francesca he knew. He was on the verge of sweeping aside her arguments, of asking her to marry him. But he was not free to do so. He lit a cigarette shakily and the strangest feeling came over him. He doubted her. Doubted the reasons she had given for ending their relationship.

  Francesca stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  He flung the cigarette in the ashtray, sprang to his feet, was by her side in two long strides, grasping her by the shoulders, swinging her to face him, staring into her face. His eyes were bleak with desperation, his mouth ringed in white. ‘Ches, please, you can’t leave like this. Please, baby. You must know how I feel, that I love you. I love you, darling.’ He pulled her into his arms, gripping her to him.

  No you don’t love me, she thought angrily. You have a damaged ego because I walked out on you. She struggled free. ‘Please, Victor, let us part in a civilized manner.’

  He gaped at her, further shaken by her calculated cold control. ‘Don’t you love me any more, Ches?’

  ‘No,’ she lied, and turned away. ‘Please don’t come to the door. I’ll find my own way out.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said numbly. He watched her leave. That’s my fife walking out of here, he thought. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

  The door clicked. He was alone. More alone than he had ever been in his entire forty years, except when Ellie died. He slumped into a chair, dazed by the abruptness with which their meeting had been terminated. He had planned it so differently. His plans had somehow gone awry, God knows why. He dropped his head into his hands, discovered, with a little spurt of surprise, that his face was wet. He pressed his fingers to his aching eyes. He heard the door opening and looked up eagerly, with renewed hope. But it was not her. It was Nicky.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Nicky walked across the room slowly, perturbed to see Victor’s most obvious distress, his wet eyes.

  ‘Sure, I’ll live.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry you’re seeing me in this state.’ He ran his hands over his face, shook his head. ‘She just did me in, and in a way no woman ever has.’

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry, Vic. I’d hoped it would turn out differently. But I knew it had blown when she left. I was on the steps, getting a breath of air. She flew straight past me, cut me dead. She looked awful. As upset as you are.’

  ‘I guess it was an ordeal—for both of us.’ He looked at Nick for the longest moment. ‘I’ve only ever loved two women in my life… I mean truly loved. One died on me. The other just walked out on me.’ He took a long swallow of his Scotch, then lit another cigarette, taking hold of himself. ‘C’est la guerre, old buddy,’ he added with a laugh that had no laughter in it.

  Nick went to the armoire, poured himself a vodka, added ice. He carried the drink back to the sofa, sat down, staring intently at Victor. ‘What did she say?’

  Victor told him everything. He finished slowly, thoughtfully, ‘For a minute, though, I had the queerest feeling she was lying. But I guess I was wrong. It’s not in Ches to lie. She told it to me exactly the way she sees it. Damn Arlene. She’s the cause of this trouble. If she hadn’t landed on me in the South of France none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Did you tell Francesca about the detectives, the things Arlene has threatened to do?’

  ‘No, I didn’t get a chance, and—’

  ‘Oh Jesus, Vic, you should have told her.’

  ‘There was no point. It would have only frightened her, and it wouldn’t have achieved one goddamn thing. Besides, Ches was pretty unbending. She made up her mind about us weeks ago, and she’s not about to change it. Too stubborn, the little one.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘Ches is also very very young, Nicky, in a variety of ways. And the young are notoriously impatient. They want instant solutions, see everything in black and white. There are no greys for them, and yet the whole goddamn world is grey. To the young, compromise is a nonexistent word.’ He exhaled, went on softly. ‘I know Ches is intelligent, and abnormally perceptive about many things; even so, she simply doesn’t have the maturity… to… understand my problems, nor the experience to grasp the countless com
plexities of my life. She hasn’t lived long enough to learn how to cope.’ His lids lifted and he straightened up in the chair. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. I mean that she’s ditched me.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! Aren’t you going to do anything—’

  ‘I’m not going to pursue her, Nicky, so don’t try to persuade me. She said I was too old for her, and she’s undoubtedly right. I certainly feel it today.’

  ‘Come on, Vic, you’re talking nonsense,’ Nick exclaimed. Nonetheless, he had to admit that Victor did not look his usual robust self and had not for several weeks. He had been working long hours with Mark Pierce and the editor, preparing the answer print of Wuthering Heights, as well as attending to countless other details about the distribution. When he was not caught up with business, he was wrangling with Arlene, or conferring long-distance with his lawyers on the Coast, or with his brother Armando, who handled some of his other interests. No wonder he appeared to be worn out. Nick said, ‘I wish you’d get a check-up. You look lousy, in my opinion.’

  ‘I’m okay. It’s just fatigue. I’ve spent the last few nights on the ’phone to L.A. so I’ve hardly had any sleep. None last night, as a matter of fact. Johnnie Seltzer and Perry Lukas saw to that. I must have talked to them both about half a dozen times. About the Monarch situation.’

  Nick nodded. ‘Is there about to be a débâcle?’

  ‘Possibly. But I hope not. Johnnie is hell bent on helping Perry circumvent Mike Lazarus. I’m throwing in with them. Even if I didn’t want to, which I do, I’ve no other choice really. Jesus, Nicky, I’m carrying so much Monarch stock I’m sinking under it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About five million dollars worth.’

  Nick whistled. ‘Holy Christ!’ Another thought struck him. ‘Remember what I told you? That I believe Hilly Steed is hand-in-glove with Lazarus, even though he plays the innocent?’ Victor nodded, and Nick continued, ‘Well, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I’m right. It makes sense. He wants to head the studio, wrest control from Perry.’