The Haunting of Highdown Hall (36 page)

For hours she had lain in bed, flicking through magazines and newspapers, indulging herself in frivolous articles, reserving her energy for the evening ahead. Late afternoon, Sally had drawn a bath for her, deep, warm and scented. She had fussed over her, scrubbing every inch of her back, teasing at her curls, ensuring her fuchsia dress was as smooth as the skin on her mistress’s face. She had stepped proudly aside as Cynthia had left her bedroom, watching devotedly as she descended the stairs to greet the anticipating crowds.

As they had marvelled at her, Cynthia couldn’t help but marvel too. Before her stood a star cast of her own devising. Faces from film made flesh – but none as famous as her. She was set to soar beyond the stars, higher than even she had dared to imagine, in demand the world over, the lead in the most eagerly anticipated film in cinematic history.

Of course there were those who were jealous, she wasn’t stupid, she knew that; the smile never quite reaching their eyes when they greeted her. Young starlets mostly, knowing in their heart of hearts that they would never reach the dizzy heights she had, but occasionally more established actors and actresses too, those who had been eclipsed by her. ‘Where has she come from?’
she could imagine them whispering. ‘Nowhere special,’
the reply
.
That might be true, but she was special now, none could deny it. And she had worked hard to become so – doing everything and anything to shine. Few would have gone as far as she had. She deserved her glory.

She’d noticed David Levine amongst the throng immediately and had shuddered at the sight of him. She hadn’t wanted to invite him but had had to concede in the end. He’d written to her two weeks before the party, congratulating her on her forthcoming role in
Atlantic
, informing her that he too was travelling to America to talk with producers, hinting that he might even be working on
Atlantic
itself. When she’d worked with him on
Later in the Day
, he was an assistant to the director, no, not even an assistant, more of the director’s pet; she’d found him sly, insidious – a weasel of a man. Thankfully, he was easy to avoid, although at the wrap party, not so easy – he had virtually stalked her, frighteningly so. The last thing she ever wanted was to see him again but, remembering the old adage to keep your friends close but your enemies closer
,
she had followed its advice. If he was more up and coming these days, if he was going to work on
Atlantic
, she would find out and put a stop to it; she was, after all, the one who called the shots now.

Ignoring Levine, she concentrated instead on her other guests, laughing with them, dancing with them, toying with them. By nine that evening, the party had been truly under way; her guests sipping on the finest champagne, feasting on canapés and fancies sent direct from Harrods. Although she had refrained from eating, she had allowed herself a drink or two, which quickly turned into three or four, the tiny bubbles of champagne bursting inside her like perfect spheres of happiness. And then he had collared her, David Levine – had laid his hand upon her.

“We need to talk,” he had whispered into her ear, not seductively as so many had whispered that night but with a harsh edge to his voice.

“Unhand me,” Cynthia had hissed back, desperate for such interplay to go unnoticed. Now was not the time to enter into any sort of discussion concerning
Atlantic.

Levine, however, was undeterred.

In a slightly louder voice, he continued, “Come with me, Cynthia, or I will say what I have to say in public, right here, right now. Destroy you where you stand.”

Destroy
her? What was he talking about? How could
he
possibly destroy her?

With deliberate slowness, she edged away from the guests she had been regaling with anecdotes of working with Hitchcock. She thought they would be reluctant to let her go, would protest, but their circle had quickly closed again, locking her out. Her surprise that they had done so made her momentarily forget Levine. But soon she became aware of him again, his eyes boring into her. Although she didn’t want to, every fibre in her being fought against it, she looked into his face – it had a hardness about it, but also an emptiness too, the latter infinitely more disturbing. How many years had passed since their encounter, she briefly wondered. Four or five? What on earth did he want now? Blackmail? Or worse?

Cynthia’s eyes searched desperately for John; suddenly she felt a need for him, a need as strong as a newborn child for its parent. All night long John had followed her with his eyes, silently begging her to favour him, and only him, but now, when she truly needed him, he was staring no more. His attention had finally been captured. Adelaide Dearborn, a British actress, was pretty, but not spectacularly so, not compared to her. Their heads were close together, laughing, their dark hair, Cynthia noticed with a painful stab of jealousy, almost exactly the same shade. A terrible loneliness descended upon her then, the same loneliness she had felt on her first day in London, aged fourteen: the same loneliness that had plagued her ever since and wouldn’t let go, that seemed to have caught her in its grip, ensnared her. She also felt guilty. She shouldn’t have taunted John tonight, he didn’t deserve it, had never deserved it. He was the one she should have kept close, not her enemies. If she had done so, Levine wouldn’t have been able to reach her.

There was nowhere private to go except her bedroom. She was loathe to take Levine there of all places, but what choice did she have? Whatever he had to say to her, she didn’t want it said in public. Her guests would miss her if she disappeared though, the party would come to a standstill. Surely? She looked about her and was amazed to find everybody looked happy enough,
very
happy in fact. She felt invisible all of a sudden; expunged from centre stage. Even John, faithful John, was ignoring her. Stumbling slightly, she blamed the champagne – just how much had she had to drink? She beckoned for Levine to follow, praying she’d encounter Sally on the way. Sally could run and fetch John, tear him away from the clutches of that two-bit actress. But Sally was nowhere to be seen.

In the Grand Hall waiters rushed past her, intent on keeping the guests’ glasses full, just as she had instructed them – under no circumstances was any glass allowed to run dry. As she started climbing the stairs, Levine instructed her to wait. As if in a dream, she watched him retreat. Only seconds later he was back, a brown box clutched to his chest. A non-descript looking object, tatty she would say, why had he bothered to go and get it? Together, they ascended. Where
was
Sally? She hadn’t seen her all evening.

Walking slowly down the corridor to her bedroom, Cynthia noticed the sounds of the revellers below becoming increasingly muffled; every step she put between herself and them was rendering her more and more vulnerable. Drawing closer, she was relieved to find anger stirring. How dare Levine think he could treat her so!

Not so much pushing as shoving open the bedroom door with the palm of her hand, she entered the room fully before swinging round to face him, her head held high, her eyes, she knew, firing sparks at him.
Nobody
gave orders to Cynthia Hart.

“I’d tread very carefully if I were you, Levine. Dare to threaten me and I’ll bring down the wrath of the entire British judicial system upon your head.”

“I’m sure you will,” Levine replied, far too coolly she thought. Taking time to survey the sumptuousness of their surroundings, he added, “God knows, you can afford it.”

Cynthia was undaunted. “I can ruin you with one click of my fingers, Levine. I am not afraid of you.”

“Then why scurry upstairs with me so willingly Cynthia, if you’re not just the tiniest bit afraid? Or is it that you simply want a replay of our night together?”

Cynthia started as though she’d just been shot. What night together? Did he mean the wrap party? He must, it was the only time she had spent any extra-curricular time with him. On the night they’d finished filming
Later in the Day
, Levine had been one of several she’d ended up in a hotel room with – how he had managed to inveigle his way in she didn’t know – he was nothing but a glorified lackey, but she’d been too preoccupied to question his presence fully. As always, the relief of finishing the picture had prompted a recklessness in her. Pills had been involved, white lines of cocaine, gleaming and endless, bottles and bottles of champagne. Of that particular crowd, she hadn’t wanted him to touch her, something about him set her teeth on edge, but she’d had to work hard to avoid him, at every turn he was there. Surely she had managed though? She remembered sandwiching herself between her naked co-stars, Diana Lambton and Oliver Byrne, using them as a form of armour against him. She didn’t remember much more than that – the night had passed in a white haze, a blur, but she was sure he hadn’t touched her – not him.

She had refused to have anything to do with Levine again after that evening – the very thought of him made her feel uncomfortable. If a film was offered to her that he was involved in, she had simply refused it. When asked why, she would not hide her feelings about him. It was usually enough to have him removed from proceedings, even if she still refused to take the part. The only contact she’d had with him since, his recent letter.

“Get out,” she snarled at him. “The sight of you sickens me.”

“Oh, Cynthia,” he laughed, such a hollow sound. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy our lovemaking?”

Lovemaking? How dare he even insinuate? They’d done no such thing. She doubted he even knew what love was. About to reply, her eyes fell on the box he was still holding.

“What’s in there?” she demanded, a cold fear trickling down her spine. If there were pictures of her from that night, naked pictures, there would be pictures of others too, her co-stars – all of them significant in the film industry, all of them with friends in high places. He wouldn’t get far with those pictures – they would ensure the media shunned him.

Coming closer, making her flinch, he placed the box on the edge of her bed.

“I’ll tell you what’s in that box, Cynthia, but first I have something to reveal to you: my true identity.”

Cynthia was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this.

“Your true identity? What...”

“I am David Levine.”

“I know who you are,” her voice was derisive.

“But that’s not the name I was given at birth.”

“Don’t speak in riddles, man, what are you talking about?”

“My real name is Jack Hart, Cynthia. I am your brother.”

She stared at him in horror. What nonsense was this? He was nothing like her brother! Levine’s hair was dark; her brother’s had been fair, not quite blonde but not quite brown either, an in between shade, mousy. Jack had been a scrawny little kid, a snivelling kid, she remembered, whereas this man had a respectable build, as though he were no stranger to fitness. His eyes were brown like her brother’s, but it was a common colour, not a clue. Jack had been a boy of eleven when she’d last seen him, almost twelve, clinging to his mother’s skirts as he’d done all his miserable life, their mother content to let him, indulging him, Cynthia had often reflected bitterly. Their devotion to one another so complete, it excluded her.

“You can’t be... You’re
not
my brother,” she managed at last.

“Oh, but Cee-Cee, I am.”

At the mention of her brother’s pet name for her she felt her legs buckle. Her breath caught in her throat and seemed to get stuck there. Quickly, she staggered over to the bed and gripped hold of one of the posts. Jack had called her Cee-Cee since he’d been a toddler, when he couldn’t pronounce her name properly. Her mother had called her that too on occasion.

Clearly amused by her reaction, Levine laughed.

“Oh come on, Cee-Cee, are you trying to tell me you really didn’t know who I was? You had not the slightest inkling? That it wasn’t part of the reason you enjoyed our game of cat and mouse that evening?” More furiously, he added, “I’m your brother, how could you
not
know me?”

“You’re not. No...” she continued to deny it; the use of her pet name meant nothing. Perhaps she had revealed it once in an interview and Levine had picked up on it? But scouring her mind, she was sure she hadn’t. She had never found it endearing, had wanted to forget it if anything. Forcing herself to look into his eyes, she had to admit, there
was
something familiar about him. Was it the shape of his face perhaps – the turn of his head? She remembered she’d thought he looked familiar when she first met him, but had quickly dismissed the notion, her brother the last person on her mind.

“You can’t be,” she repeated, the cold fear she had felt earlier turning to ice.

“I can be and I am, sister dear,” was his cutting reply.

Cynthia stared at him again. No, it was not the shape of his face nor the turn of his head, it was the look in his eyes that was familiar, the vast swathes of emptiness in them – an emptiness she had always recoiled from as though somehow it could infect her too.