Camilla said, ‘You’re staring at me.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I am, and I was just thinking that you could easily pass for thirty-six.’ He leaned across the table, fixed his cool grey eyes on her. ‘Know what! You might look too young for the part.’
She guffawed.
‘I’m being serious. Honestly I am.’
‘Shut up and tell me the story,’ she answered. ‘A good part might be exactly what I need to cure what ails me.’
***
Later, as she lay between the cool sheets in her bed in the hotel, Camilla thought about the film. David Maines told a story well, and he had intrigued her. Perhaps she ought to let him suggest her to the producer. Yes, it was worth considering. And she had meant it when she had said to him that a good part would cure what ailed her.
Camilla Galland loved her work, and her acting career had always been the most important thing to her. Certainly it had given her the most satisfaction, above everything else in her life. Her two husbands had never been able to understand this, hence her two divorces. They had felt threatened by her career, her fame, her immense success. Only Charles Mallingham had understood her acting, her deep-seated need to perform on a stage or in front of a camera, and in so doing enlighten and entertain. She had met Charles early on in her career, and had been engaged to him when he had suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of forty-nine. She had been twenty-three. But she had never noticed the age difference between them, had been grief-stricken by his death. A prominent investment banker, who was widowed and childless, Charles had left her the bulk of his fortune, had made her a very rich young woman.
Charles had been the only man she had ever loved. Except for Maximilian West. When she had first met Maxim in Paris in 1959 she had been very taken with him, had fallen heavily. But he had never even noticed her, had only ever had eyes for Anastasia. And so, being pragmatic, she had got on with her life, buried her feelings for Maxim, and eventually married two other men. Her first husband had been Roland Vickers, an English actor, her second Peter Jarvis, a stage director of small talent. She and Maxim had become friends over the years, and he had helped her from time to time, giving her advice about her investments. But there had never been anything between them, much to her disappointment. Until September of 1980, just ten months ago, when they had run into each other in New York.
Maxim had asked her out to dinner several times and suddenly, to her enormous surprise and happiness, they were involved in an affair. She had been ecstatic. He had been so warm and attentive, seductive and charming, ever the ardent lover, sending her flowers, books, and he had even given her an expensive piece of jewellery. In December he had sent her a diamond brooch from Cartier, just before flying off to London, where he had gone to spend Christmas with Anastasia and their children.
When he returned to New York in January he had been cool, unresponsive to her, showed no real interest in her any more. Quite unexpectedly, and with an abruptness that was startling, he had explained that it was all over between them. When she had asked for a reason, he had been evasive, had turned icy cold and uncommunicative. She had seen a toughness in him, a ruthlessness even, which had been dismaying. Nonetheless, recognition of these traits had not changed the way she felt about him. But she had had no alternative but to put up a good front for the world and get on with her life.
The play she was starring in on Broadway closed in early March and she had flown to California to attend the Academy Awards. Two months later, proudly carrying her Oscar, she had flown from Los Angeles to Paris, where she had an apartment, and which had been her home for a number of years.
Camilla turned over restlessly. Sleep still eluded her. Again her mind focused on the script David was writing, and she thought: yes, I am going to do it, and to hell with Maxim West. At the thought of Maxim her eyes filled with tears, and she began to weep into the pillow, her anguish surfacing. Deep down, within herself, she knew why he had broken off their relationship. He still loved Anastasia. She had known this even when they were romantically involved. He would always love Anastasia and only her.
Impatiently throwing off the bedclothes, she went into the bathroom, where she found a box of tissues. She dried her eyes and blew her nose, splashed cold water on her face, and endeavoured to pull herself together.
Loving a man who did not love her was a waste of time. And she had never quite recovered from the indifference he had shown to her this past January, upon his return from London. To hell with him, she muttered again under her breath, and she resolved to do the film. She would tell David tomorrow when he came to pick her up to move her into his villa.
Work will help to assuage my sorrow, she told herself as she turned off the bathroom light and went back to bed.
FIFTY-ONE
It had been difficult to explain to the taxi driver where she wanted to go. It still had no name yet, this vast white villa on the hill, David’s home, filled with his books and paintings and all the other precious trophies he had collected in his world-wide meanderings as a writer over the years.
She paid off the cab and pushed open the huge iron gates. The bell tinkled and she nodded to the gardien, who came to the door of his gate house when he heard the chimes.
The old man bowed low, touching his dark-red fez.
Camilla smiled back and nodded, and went up the drive, the gravel crunching under her feet as she walked at a brisk pace.
The villa stood on a rise, its pure white marble columns glinting in the afternoon sunlight, the lawns glistening with water from the many sprays David had installed, the shrubs and trees bright with blooms of vivid colour. She had been staying at the villa for three weeks, since moving from the El Minzah, and she was still not accustomed to the beauty of David’s house as it was viewed from the main gates and the driveway.
When she reached the steps that led up to the portico and the front door, she turned, and as usual a smile of pleasure crossed her face as she looked down.
Rolling steeply away from the villa were more verdant grassy lawns, bordered by eucalyptus and orange trees, and beyond the stone wall surrounding the property the rooftops of Tangier were just visible. Still further beyond were the pale sandy beaches of the coastline and the aquamarine Mediterranean.
The villa was silent when she went inside.
She dropped her packages on an ancient pearl-inlaid loveseat in the marble hall, and pushed open the door to the sitting room. The shutters were closed to keep out the bright sun and she blinked as she focused her eyes in the cool darkness.
Camilla had given this room a name when she had first arrived. She had dubbed it the mint-tea room because of its lovely mixtures of greens against the white walls. The latter were offset by pale lime-green silk draperies. Deeper-green rugs were laid on the white marble floor, silk pillows in various shades of green were arranged on the white sofas and French Louis XV chairs, also upholstered in white heavy cotton. Enormous rubber plants and other tropical species with dark green leaves grew in brass tubs standing near the many windows. The only splashes of vivid colour in this cool coniferous room were the modern paintings on the walls, the shelves of books, the masses of flowers in white ceramic urns, picked from the little plantation at the back of the house.
She laughed to herself when her eyes fell on the low Moroccan brass table set with an ancient silver teapot and tea glasses in silver filigree holders.
‘You called this the mint-tea room and that’s what it’s going to be from now on,’ David had said to her several weeks ago, and since then either Fatma or Menoubah set the table every afternoon. It was a new ritual obviously meant to be kept, although she and David did not always do that.
Closing the door of the sitting room, Camilla walked along the hall in the direction of David’s library. She heard the sound of his typewriter as he tapped out new words for his screenplay. He still wrote on an ancient electric machine; no new-fangled word-processors for this wordsmith.
He was going at ful
l speed and she wondered whether to disturb him, hesitated before knocking. Suddenly his voice rang out through the heavy, brass-inlaid doors as she raised her hand.
‘Camilla, come in, I know it’s you. I heard your high heels. Fatma and Menoubah just slap around in their bare feet. Unless of course—’ the door was jerked open in her face, ‘—I have some unexpected lady visitor.’
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked, staring up at him.
He led her into the library. ‘No, absolutely not. And I have very sharp ears, Camilla, and I actually miss the sound of your little feet tapping around this great old place. I just sit and wait for you to come back, when I’m not working.’
‘David, you have been so wonderful to me, and this place is so fabulous… I never want to leave.’
‘You don’t have to leave, Camilla. You can stay as long as you wish.’
‘That’s so sweet of you, darling, but I must find my own house.’
‘I know… any luck?’
She shook her head. ‘Janine is still scouring Tangier. As yet I haven’t really liked anything I’ve seen. But then I’m spoiled by this place, it’s so heavenly.’
‘The thing is to take your time, you’ll eventually stumble on the perfect villa when you least expect it. Now, how about a drink? It’s almost six and I was just about to pour myself a coupe de champagne… Pommery and Greno, pink version. I’ve earned it after my day in the salt mines—’
‘More like the gold mines, wouldn’t you say?’ she cut in.
‘Touche,’ he laughed, and walked across to the bar at the far end of the library. ‘Want a glass?’ he asked as he bent down behind the bar and opened the refrigerator, took out the bottle of pink champagne.
‘Why not? It sounds like a grand idea, thank you.’
A moment later he came back carrying the two glasses and a packet of the thin black cigarettes he occasionally smoked.
‘What sort of secret mission took you into Tangier after lunch?’ he asked, and winked wickedly as he sat down. ‘I know you weren’t looking at villas today. Janine told me she was off to Fez with a rich American client.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be such a fool! I went to buy a pair of babouches, so that I can slide around the house silently like Fatma and Menoubah. And some books.’
‘I hope you bought at least one David Maines. I need the money,’ he teased.
‘No. But I bought a book for David Maines, my most generous and loving friend.’ She rose and left the library before he could respond, and as she hurried through into the hall she hoped he would like her gift. She had spent most of the afternoon searching the shops and the souks for it, wishing to present him with something special to show her appreciation for his many kindnesses to her.
When she returned and gave it to him, he opened the package excitedly like a small boy with his first important gift.
‘Camilla, you shouldn’t have, but I can’t say I’m not thrilled, because I am. The only girl who gives me presents is my twenty-year-old daughter Polly.’ He pulled off the last piece of wrapping paper and exclaimed in delight, ‘An old Moroccan Koran! Wherever did you find it? I’ve looked for one of these for years. Why, darling, it’s perfectly beautiful.’ He looked through the ancient book, turning the pages carefully, fingering the Moroccan-leather binding tooled in gold, appreciating its rarity.
‘It is old isn’t it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I did want to find one that was genuine.’
‘It is indeed, and it’s a masterpiece, in my opinion. It’s from Fez, the old university city. Thank you, Camilla, thank you so much.’ He put the Koran down on a table nearby, hugged her, kissed her cheek.
‘It comes with much love, David.’
He smiled, went and sat down on the sofa again, lighted one of his thin black cigarettes. ‘Come on, darling, drink your champers before it gets warm.’
Taking the chair opposite him, Camilla lifted her glass from the heavy mahogany table inlaid with brass, took a quick sip of the pink champagne. ‘Mmmm, that’s good, it was very hot in the town this afternoon. You were certainly hard at it, pounding away when I came in. How’s the screenplay going?’
‘Very well, I’m pleased with it, Camilla. I should have the first draft finished in a couple of days, and then I want you to read it. I’ve spoken to Dick Tomlinson, and he’s itching to have you star in it.’
‘I can’t wait to read it, David.’
They sat and talked about the script for a short while, and drank another glass of champagne each, and then David said, ‘I forgot to tell you, I’m expecting guests for dinner.’
‘Anyone I know?’ she asked, looking across at him, lifting a shapely blonde brow.
‘No, you haven’t met them… the Marrons from Casablanca. They’re in Tangier for a few days with their son, Michel, and his Moroccan wife, Leyla. They called this morning and I invited them for supper. You’ll like them, they’re very charming. And, not unnaturally, they’re excited about meeting you. They’re fans of yours.’
Camilla smiled at him, glanced at her watch. ‘I suppose they’re about to arrive, and here am I looking very grubby and sticky in an old cotton frock.’
‘They won’t be here for about an hour and a half. You have plenty of time to get into your best bib and tucker. But I’d better meander into the kitchen and poke old Fatma in the ribs. She’s slower than ever these days.’ As he spoke he rose, and so did Camilla.
Together they strolled out into the hall. Camilla picked up her bag and the rest of her packages and headed in the direction of the wide, curving staircase.
‘See you later,’ David said as he went through the door into the kitchen.
As she walked past it she heard Fatma, his cook-housekeeper, chortling merrily at his instructions in Arabic and Spanish.
David had given her the bedroom Camilla considered to be the best in the villa. Large and light, with three French windows opening onto a terrace, it overlooked the gardens and the sea.
At first she had protested, feeling quite certain that she was turning him out of his own room. But he had sworn he had never used it as his, and she had believed him. It was much too feminine for a man. Later he had shown her his own suite, a series of adjoining rooms, rather masculine and furnished somewhat sparsely. They had been designed, like his library downstairs, for writing, his bachelor existence.
He had bought the villa and much of the upstairs furniture from a French banker who had quit Tangier. ‘Got it for a song,’ David had told her, the first day she had been there. ‘Poor bastard! It held too many tragic memories for him. I almost felt guilty, I got it so cheaply.’ According to David, the banker had built the villa for his mistress, a young Algerian girl, who had been fatally killed in a motorboat accident in the Bay of Tangier. The room Camilla occupied had been hers, and quite often, in the weeks since she had been here, Camilla had caught herself wondering about the girl, trying to visualise her face.
The room had a stark, almost virginal quality to it. Vast and high, with white walls and a white marble floor, it was furnished with a large four-poster bed, a huge armoire and a dressing table. All were Spanish in feeling, made of black wood with gilt inlays. The rugs and the draperies were also white, but David had given life to this virginal boudoir with some of his colourful paintings, and Menoubah filled huge Moroccan pottery jugs with fresh flowers every day.
Camilla took a bath in the grand mosaic-tiled bathroom adjoining her bedroom, and thought about what she would wear for the dinner this evening. Being July, Tangier was hot, and so she decided on a short pale-grey chiffon dress that was strapless, had a draped bodice, and a full floating skirt. It was gossamer light, cool.
After her bath, she wrapped a towel around herself and went to the dressing table, where she sat down and brushed her reddish-blonde hair. Once she had swept it up into a chignon on top of her head, she anchored it firmly in place with two antique silver combs she had found in one of the souks.
Her weeks in the Tangier sun had given
her a light tan, and she needed little makeup, only a touch of brown mascara, silver eye-shadow and bright red lipstick. Once she had sprayed herself with Joy, she put on pale-grey lace underwear, pale-grey stockings shot through with silver, and then the dress. Her shoes matched, were high-heeled grey silk pumps. She stepped into these, wound the long matching scarf around her neck, let the ends fall down her bare back.
Camilla liked the pale grey image of herself that stared back at her from the mirror. It was soft, gentle, and the grey chiffon was perfect with her tan, far more subtle and becoming than white or pale blue would have been. She realised she did not need much jewellery. ‘Let’s not gild the lily,’ she muttered out loud. Large mabe pearl earrings and her diamond evening watch were the only pieces she selected from her small travelling jewellery case.
A moment later she hurried out, glancing at her watch as she did so, noting it was twenty to eight. Thankfully, she was only a few minutes late. She loathed arriving after everyone else, making an entrance, because as a famous actress she knew everyone expected it of her. At least, strangers did.
Coming down the wide staircase and crossing the hall, she headed for the sitting room where David usually served cocktails on the long terrace which opened off this room. As she walked in she could see him talking to someone through the French windows which stood ajar.
As she pushed open the doors and glided out, she exclaimed, ‘There you are, David, I do hope I haven’t kept—’ She broke off and stood gaping at him and his companion.
It was Maximilian West.
Maxim stood there smiling at her, looking larger than life. His lean and handsome face was deeply sunburned, and he wore an impeccably-cut cream silk suit, a cream Swiss voile shirt and a dark-blue tie. Everything about him seemed to gleam, from the tips of his highly polished brown shoes to his dark and brilliant eyes. He was forty-seven and gorgeous, all six-foot-one of him. And, as always of late, he had more the appearance of a movie star than a business tycoon.
Rarely ever at a loss for words, Camilla was speechless. She stood rooted to the spot, gaping at him stupidly, so startled to see him she had as yet not even returned his smile. She began to shake inside and her legs felt unexpectedly weak.