Camellia

  'It's harder to look a prat than to do it properly,' Nick smiled as he picked up his oars. Dan couldn't be described as handsome – his features were too rough hewn – but it was a face full of character. 'Just watch me, I'm an expert on looking a prat!'

  For all his arrogance Dan was a fine young actor. The moment he'd got his boat in the right position for the take some thirty yards from the shore, he began to flay his oars around in just the way a novice would.

  Nick had the reverse problem: he had to look as if he'd been born in a boat, skimming across the lake effortlessly while shouting instructions to Dan.

  Dan stood up in the bows, waving his arms in feigned anger, right on cue. As the boat rocked, he staggered and fell into the water backwards.

  Dan's portrayal of a non-swimmer was so realistic even Nick thought for a moment he was in difficulty. Anxiety made him row harder, and he forgot about the biting wind. When Dan sank beneath the water, Nick was up in his boat, diving in without a moment's hesitation.

  He had underestimated the weight of his track-suit and plimsolls as he reached out for Dan and pulled him to the surface. The water was so cold he felt paralysed, but still he had to gasp out his lines while hauling a twelve-stone lad pretending to be semiconscious back to the boat and heave him into it, unaided.

  'Cut!' Nick heard the magic command from the motorboat and sank down into the bottom of the boat beside Dan.

  'Bloody hell, Nick,' Dan burst out as he lay panting like a netted fish. 'I didn't think you had it in you.'

  Nick had known the part of outdoor pursuits instructor was perfect for him when he read the script, but he hadn't anticipated that his feelings for young Dan would echo the storyline or that Dan in turn would come to admire him. Nick's first reaction to the lad had been horror: he strutted around the set like a rooster, boasted about himself, put others down, and generally behaved like the spoiled pampered brat he was. But as filming started, so did a kind of chemistry between them, which, as the days passed, grew stronger. Nick had some real experience with rock climbing and he shared it with Dan. In return the lad helped him out in other directions. One evening about ten days into filming, instead of rushing off into Windermere to get drunk and pick up a girl Dan hung around waiting for Nick. He claimed to want to discuss the next day's shooting, but in fact he was curious about Nick. To Nick's surprise Dan had seen all six episodes of Hunnicroft Estate and couldn't understand why Nick wasn't famous.

  'Because I was a conceited prat,' Nick said lightly. He went on to chart his rapid decline from star to nobody. 'Watch out you don't fall into the same trap,' he said finally as Dan sat hanging on his every word. 'You're a bumptious young bugger just like I was and you need friends in this business. If you do make the big-time from this one small film, don't think it's down to your talent. It's just luck.'

  After that evening Dan sought Nick out every time they had a break in between scenes. He stopped boasting and name dropping and from behind the brash bold exterior stepped a child, desperate for some affection and attention.

  The story built to a dramatic climax when Alan, instructing the boys in rock climbing, falls into a crevice because his line hadn't been properly secured. All the boys see this as an opportunity to escape from the gruelling course and make a break back to Glasgow.

  They flee, but by the time they have reached the road at the bottom of the mountain, Gary finds he has a conscience after all. Dan played the scene superbly, torn between freedom and his fear for the safety of the man he has come to admire.

  The other boys take his change of heart as betrayal, but Gary eventually sways them, revealing the qualities of leadership and reason Alan had brought out in him during the course.

  Sending some of the boys for help, Gary climbs back up to Alan. The final scene, as he inches his way towards the injured instructor, is achingly emotional as Alan realises that the lad really does have all the finer qualities he'd hoped for.

  'Perfect,' Tim called out jubilantly at the final take. 'If that doesn't win a few awards then I'll retire.'

  Nick felt strange as he drove back to London. He felt he ought to be excited – everyone was predicting both he and Dan would soon be inundated with film offers – or at least a little sad at saying goodbye to all the new friends he'd made. But he felt nothing. It was almost as if his emotions had shut down.

  When he got to his small flat in Hither Green that afternoon and saw the mess he'd left behind him a month ago, his numbness left him. The bed was unmade, thick gritty dust on every surface. The kitchen was even worse, the sink full of unwashed dishes, a couple of rotting black bananas surrounded by flies, and ants marching in a thick orderly line up the wall and into the cupboard. Suddenly he switched back to reality.

  'Yuk!' he exclaimed, opening a window to let out the hot, smell-laden air. His flat overlooked the railway lines by Hither Green station and the noise from the trains usually made him keep it closed, but noise was preferable to a stink. 'So this is how the star really lives! Don't even think of going out tonight. This has to be tackled.'

  He was halfway through washing the kitchen floor when the phone rang.

  'Thank goodness you're back,' his father's deep voice rang out.

  'I got home a couple of hours ago,' Nick said. 'Why? Is there something wrong?'

  'Something right at last,' Magnus chuckled. 'Guess who's coming to Oaklands?'

  'Mel?' Her name just popped out.

  'No, son.' Magnus's voice dropped a little. 'But we're halfway there. It's Helena. She's coming here in two weeks' time.'

  'What? You're having me on!'

  'Of course I'm not,' Magnus said.

  'But how? Why?' Nick had to sit down.

  'I'd better come clean,' Magnus explained. 'You see some time ago I read a tiny article in the local newspaper about a film company looking for locations in the West Country. Amongst other things they were looking for a suitable country house. I thought it might give Oaklands a bit of a boost, so I sent off some photographs. Anyway, I had a letter back thanking me for my interest but saying Oaklands wasn't suitable, they were looking for something more sinister. They enclosed the bit of blurb about the film Broken Bridges they were intending to make, presumably just as a public relations gesture, and low and behold, I saw Helena Forester was to be the star.'

  'And you didn't tell me?' Nick felt a flush of anger.

  'Would you have concentrated on your acting if I had?' Magnus retorted. 'No you wouldn't, you'd have been up at the film company's offices making a nuisance of yourself.'

  Nick's anger left as quickly as it had come. His father was right of course. 'Well, come on, out with the rest of it!'

  'When you were last here I'd just written to her. I didn't expect a reply – I thought the letter to MGM studios wouldn't even reach her. But I wrote anyway and invited her to stay here while she's in England.'

  'She accepted? You mean it's definite?'

  'Yes, first I got a letter from her secretary thanking me for the offer, the usual stuff: Miss Forester would be in touch etc. But yesterday I got her personal letter. Shall I read it to you?'

  Nick could hardly contain himself. 'Go on,' he said, perching on the arm of a chair.

  'Dearest Magnus,' his father read. 'What a delightful surprise to hear from you after all these years. I've often thought about you and wondered where you ended up, just as I have wondered about so many people I knew back in those postwar years.

  'I was so sorry to hear about your wife's death, but heartened to hear your children have all done so well for themselves. That must be a consolation to you.

  'I'd be more than happy to take you up on your invitation, at least for a night or two while I get adjusted to being back in England and find a suitable house. Your hotel sounds and looks idyllic from the brochure you enclosed, and I know I can count on you to be discreet. It will be so good to talk over old times. I don't often get excited these days, but I am thrilled at the thought of seeing you and England again after so many
years away. My secretary will be in touch to make the arrangements.

  'Until then, yours affectionately Helena.'

  Nick gave a long low whistle. 'That's great Dad. Are you sure she wasn't an old flame too?'

  'Quite sure,' Magnus laughed softly. 'You do understand we have to keep this under our hats?'

  'Of course,' Nick replied. 'Will you let me know when she's coming so I can get down there?'

  Magnus hesitated. 'I think it would be better for me to see her alone first,' he said slowly, as if he'd been churning things over in his mind. 'For one thing we don't want to intimidate her, and for another we don't want her thinking I want a leg up for my actor son.'

  Nick was disappointed at not meeting the famous actress, but he kept it to himself. 'How's the rockery looking?' he asked instead.

  'Finished.' He could almost see his father smiling. 'I got the pump sorted out. The waterfall works perfectly now and the plants are plumping up beautifully. It changes that whole part of the garden. But what about you, Nick, how did the film go?'

  'I thought you were never going to ask. Absolutely marvellous. I think things might work out for me at last, but right now I'm cleaning up my flat. Let me know when Helena's coming won't you?'

  'I'll let you get back to your chores,' Magnus's voice grew a little husky. 'I'm proud of you, son.'

  The night before Helena's arrival, Magnus began to get nervous. Everything was in readiness: the menus planned, the staff informed who the important guest was. They had always prided themselves on giving their guests privacy, but in this case Magnus had to be sure no leak came from his end. Only two other couples were staying. The London barrister and his wife were too well-connected themselves to be unduly excited if they discovered the 'old family friend' was an actress, and the two Australian botanists had spent so much time in remote parts of the world they probably wouldn't know the Queen if she walked in.

  Magnus downed a large whisky in the bar, said goodnight to the staff and made his way upstairs.

  He was putting Helena in the Blue Room and on an impulse he went in to check everything. It was in fact a suite, the one he always gave to special guests. Until Ruth died, it had been his and Ruth's private rooms.

  As he stood on the pale blue carpet a shiver ran down his spine – not an unpleasant sensation, just a gentle reminder of Ruth, for she'd loved this room so much. He could see her now, small and plump with wavy brown hair, sitting sewing on the window seat, constantly looking out at the view she never tired of.

  Despite redecoration and new furniture, Magnus had kept the essence of Ruth's original scheme. She had chosen blue as the dominant colour because it faced south. In winter the two small settees in smudgy pink and blue sateen flanked the gracious Adam fireplace, and the matching curtains were replaced with heavy dusky pink velvet. But now the settees sat by the windows, the fireplace was filled with a huge jug of fresh flowers, the cooler, lighter curtains in place. Ruth's dainty Edwardian writing bureau was still here, no longer overflowing with menus, diaries and odd bits of mending, but filled instead with a selection of writing paper, booklets about the West Country and a telephone.

  Once a Welsh dresser had stood on his right, laden with bits of bric-a-brac. In those days the blue walls were a mere backdrop for pictures and photographs, a room cluttered with mementos of the past. All the clutter was long since cleared, taken away by Sophie and Stephen in silent disapproval that Magnus no longer wanted it. How could he explain to them that he felt Ruth's presence even more strongly after her death than he had during her life? Those items she arranged so carefully were nothing more than milestones in their life together and unnecessary now. He could look back over their years together in one glorious long sweep, like the view from the window. He didn't need reminders of anything; it was engraved on his heart and mind for all time.

  The room was perfection now, from the handprinted silk paper on the walls, to white bone-china doves sitting on the mantelpiece. He knew Ruth would approve.

  Magnus opened the window wide and leaned out. The night air felt like a lover's warm kiss on his cheeks. He could hear an owl somewhere in the distance and closer the splashing of the fountain round the side of the house. Earlier tonight people had been sitting out on the terrace. Many of them had stayed there until it was dark, lingering over their drinks, enjoying one of those rare almost Mediterranean summer nights. He had seen couples strolling arm in arm down across the lawns, and he was glad to see there were still romantics who liked to look at starry skies, to feel damp grass beneath bare feet and kiss in the seclusion of a beautiful garden.

  He had found Mel looking out this window one evening in her first summer here. The room was free at the time and for some reason he had imagined it was a burglar. He had crept in silently, without turning on the light.

  She was leaning out the window, just as he was doing now. He stood for a moment before speaking, but then he realised she was crying. She didn't hear him walk across the thick carpet, and she jumped in surprise when he put his hand on her shoulder.

  'What is it, Mel?' he asked. 'Why are you crying in here?'

  He couldn't see her face clearly, but there was enough light to reflect on the tears on her cheeks. 'Because it's so beautiful,' she said.

  'So why cry?' He put one finger under her chin and lifted her face up. Her eyes were mere slits in a white face.

  'It's just that I don't think I belong anywhere as beautiful as this,' she said. 'Every day I wake up feeling brand new, like everything that went before was a bad dream. But late at night like this I get to thinking this is the dream and that tomorrow I'll find it gone.'

  He put his arms round her and let her cry on his shoulder. With hindsight he felt he should have done more.

  Why hadn't he questioned her that night, and dug until he got at the whole truth?

  He already trusted her to take cash to the bank, he had begun to involve her more and more in the running of the hotel, he valued her assistance out in the grounds in the afternoons, and she helped him there even though it was her free time. Looking back he couldn't understand why he hadn't been suspicious of such a perfect employee. She watched Antoine cooking and read books on food and wine. She studied the bar, the flower arrangements, everything and anything, all the time asking questions. When she went out it was just to walk. She was friendly and helpful to his guests, but never overly familiar.

  He got into the habit of confiding in her, about guests, plans for the hotel, even things about Ruth and his children. She was so interested in him; she filled a part of his life that had been empty for too long. Then when she first met Nick and he sensed the current between them, he was overjoyed. If only he'd stopped to consider then why Mel held Nick at arm's length, instead of lapsing into daydreams about a big white wedding, and grandchildren playing in the grounds.

  What a blind and stupid fool he was!

  Magnus closed the window, then went over to the bedroom. Mel had chosen the material for the cover on the four-poster bed, deep-sea blues and greens. He remembered how fussy she was about this suite and the bed: the cover had to be just so, smoothed to perfection, just touching the carpet on both sides, the pillows folded into it with precision.

  'Oh Ruth,' he murmured, picking up a small pressed flower picture from the dressing table that she had made. 'Where do I go from here?'

  'Magnus,' Jayne Sullivan called him from the bottom of the stairs, her voice as crisp as the starched white shirts she always wore. 'The car's just pulling in, it's her!'

  It was four o'clock, yet it seemed to Magnus as he hurried down the stairs that it ought to be nearer ten at night. He'd been unable to sleep the previous night and had got up soon after six, working in the garden all morning to take his mind off Helena and the images of Bonny she was bringing back.

  As he stepped out the front door to greet her, the chauffeur opened the back door of the grey Daimler. A glimpse of dark glossy hair, one slim leg stretched out and the years slipped away.

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; 'Ellie!' he called out and strode across the gravel drive, arms outstretched. 'It's so good to see you!'

  She looked every inch a star, and far younger than the forty-seven he knew her to be: big dark eyes, skin as taut as a young girl's and black waves rippling down onto the shoulders of a white suit.

  'Magnus, you old devil.' She ran to meet him. 'You look so bloody marvellous!'

  Later as he had tea with her in her room he saw she hadn't quite halted the years. Her movements were a little slower, and on closer inspection there were tiny lines around her eyes. There was just the faintest suggestion of a double chin, and she didn't laugh quite so readily as he remembered.

  The first time he'd seen her in that theatre in Oxford, he remembered likening her face to a pansy, yet those huge dark eyes had been full of fire then. Now they spoke of sadness. Even when he told her humorous stories about starting the hotel, he felt she was holding back, or worse had forgotten how to laugh from the belly the way she once did. She even reprimanded him for calling her Ellie, saying she'd left that name behind a great many years ago.

  'Are we going to skirt round all the delicate areas?' she said suddenly. 'We can't talk about the old days without mentioning her name!'

  Magnus blushed. They had been speaking for almost an hour, about his hotel, her films, his wife and children, yet he hadn't been able to bring himself to go further. She didn't invite confidences now, the way she had years ago. Her voice still had that same, deep husky quality, but there were overtones of an American accent and a different, much more brusque manner about her. 'I didn't like to,' he said. 'You know of course that she died?'

  The colour drained from her face so fast Magnus thought she was going to faint.

  'I'm so sorry,' Magnus got up from his seat and went to sit beside her on her settee, taking her hand in his and squeezing it. 'How tactless of me. I thought you must know.'

  'I didn't,' she said weakly. 'It's such a shock. When did this happen?'

  'In 1965.'

  'But Camellia! She would only be fifteen then. Oh Magnus, how terrible. How did John take it? He must have been torn apart – he loved Bonny so much.'