Voice of the Heart (42 page)

‘I suppose so,’
Jerry agreed grudgingly, and then on a more defensive note, he continued, ‘And be happy I
am
a tight wad. I’m keeping the budget under control, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, and for that I’m very grateful, Jerry. So is Jake Watson. You’re making life a lot easier, I can tell you. And speaking of our brilliant line producer, where in hell is he?’

‘When I went out to get us coffee, he was interviewing Harry Pendergast. The set designer. He’s damned good by the way.’

‘Damned expensive too,’ Victor pointed out. ‘Oh, by the way, I was talking to Jake over the weekend, and we both came to the conclusion we might need an auxiliary generator for the kliegs. Did you think to check that out?’

‘I did. I spoke to the Earl on Friday, just before I left for London. He seemed a bit vague about the capacity of the generator at the castle, and Francesca promised to follow it through for me.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Glad you brought it up, old chap. She stayed on to spend the weekend with her father, but she was due back this morning. I think I’ll give her a tinkle right now. Get the matter settled. Excuse me a minute, Victor. I’ll just pop back to the production office to make the call. I left some of my notes there.’

Victor rose and crossed to a small table at the far end of the conference room. He poured himself another cup of coffee, dropped in a spoonful of sugar, stirring absent-mindedly, thinking of Francesca. So she had returned to London after all. She had sounded vague about her plans before leaving, had been uncertain about joining them for dinner tonight.
Tonight
. He smiled, feeling a little surge of elation at the thought of seeing her. There was no point in lying to himself. He
had
noticed her absence.

Whistling merrily, he carried the cup of coffee back to the table, sat down and picked up Jerry’s photographs of the ballroom at Langley Castle. Jerry had taken a number of different angles, and he could see that the dimensions were exactly right. But it looked to him as if it needed a paint job,
and a bit of sprucing up. Beautiful crystal chandelier and candelabra though, he commented to himself. He turned to the rough sketch of the room on which were indicated the possible areas for setting up the cameras, the klieg fights and other mandatory movie equipment. There was obviously plenty of space in which to shoot a superb ballroom scene, a brilliant and glittering scene, with beautifully attired guests waltzing to a small orchestra. Jake agreed with him that this touch of real glamour, Hollywood style, was vital. He sifted through the other views of various interiors, which Jerry had selected for potential scenes, carefully following the action in Nick’s screenplay. There was a period bedroom, a handsomely-appointed drawing room and a book-lined library, and the Earl had been most accommodating in agreeing to make all of them available if they were required.

So this is where she was born and raised, he mused, eyeing the photographs again, and from an entirely different point of view, no longer seeing them as possible locations for his film, but as rooms in someone’s home.
Her home
. He picked up a coloured picture post card Jerry had purchased in the village of Langley. It was an exterior of the castle itself, a long shot taken from a distance. It showed a portion of a lovely crystal lake, partially bordered by trees, and a verdant, grass-covered hillock sweeping up from the water’s edge to the castle. This was poised on the crest of the hill, under a wide and iridescent sky that was china blue and cloudless. The castle was ancient and proud, with its crenellated walls and high-flung towers, the bleakness of the time-worn grey stones softened by rafts of dark-green ivy rippling over much of their surface. To one side of the castle were several grand, stately old oaks and plump clumps of rhododendron bushes abloom with delicate mauve and pink flowers. Victor could see that the shot had been taken in early summer, and there was a pastoral beauty to the scene, a quiet timelessness which was essentially and indigenously English.

He was struck by the imposing beauty of the castle,
conscious of all that it stood for, mindful of the things it represented. The evidence leapt out at him, could not be denied; it was an integral part of the ancient history of this country, the symbol of an impressive lineage and of a family name that was centuries old. It hit him more forcibly than ever that Francesca was a true aristocrat of great breeding and background.

Victor wondered, curiously, what it had been like to grow up in a place like this. He had an instant mental picture of that crowded kitchen in the small house in Cincinnati… redolent with the delicious aromas of spicy Italian food cooking… the walls reverberating with the sounds of laughter raised in raucous competition with the phonograph… and above the perpetual ear-splitting din, his mother’s strong and loving voice shouting… ‘Vittorio, Armando, Gina, stopya horsing around. I’ma listening to the greata Caruso!’ He smiled, remembering, and a bitter-sweet nostalgia overtook him. What a funny kid he had been. Smart assed, sassy, street-wise, always fighting, nose always bloodied, experienced too young in the ways of exigent men and a cold, uncaring, indifferent world. And yet despite his clenched fists, eternally raised to do battle, his contentious attitude and his tough, combative approach to life, he had been oddly addicted to the most unlikely things: books, an avid if secretive reader; music; the theatre; and movies. All had been his means of escape, and they had helped to fire his imagination, had, in a sense, helped to shape his life and led him inevitably to where he was today.

I bet
she
had a wholly different childhood, he reflected. Undoubtedly hers must have been a privileged, protected and excessively strictured childhood. He contemplated Francesca, endeavouring to envision her as she must have been then, his mind forming images of a small, angelic, fair-haired little girl, playing hide-and-seek in that great castle, romping with puppies, riding a pony, flying through the air on a garden
swing, being taught by a governess. She must have been the most adorable child imaginable.

What the hell, she is still a child!
This thought brought him up sharply in the chair. Victor lit a cigarette, glowering. He had better take himself in hand immediately. Thoughts of her had intruded far too frequently of late. But Francesca Cunningham was off limits. Absolutely off limits. He had made that decision weeks ago and nothing and no one could induce him to reverse it. He agreed with Nick’s assessment of Francesca. Anyone in their right mind would. She
was
lovely, and charming and bright, and she was a pleasant companion. But he now refused to acknowledge she was anything more than that, and, like Katharine, merely an antidote to boredom and loneliness. The situation would remain exactly the way it was, and under his tight control. He could not afford distractions, or God forbid, any entanglements, particularly with a girl like
her
. The circumstances were all wrong. At this moment, he thought, the cards are stacked against me. Well, so be it. And in the meantime, I have work to do.

Resolutely, Victor began making rapid notes on a yellow pad, listing a number of additional points to take up with Jerry and Jake. After ten minutes, he took off his horn-rimmed glasses and sat back in the chair, glancing around Monarch’s conference room, and with distaste. He found the ambience oddly depressing. The dark wood-panelled walls, the heavy mahogany furniture and the expensive wine-coloured carpet were ponderous and ugly, created a cheerless, dismal effect that reminded him of a funeral parlour. Somebody, most likely Hilly, Victor guessed, had felt obliged to hang a number of ornately-framed blow-ups of Monarch’s former contract stars on the walls, and this flashy gallery of retouched glossies, now considerably outdated, looked somehow ridiculous and incongruous in the setting which was decidedly Victorian in its overtones.

His thoughts settled on Hillard Steed. Although Hilly was
an inveterate and endless memo-writer, and a fearsome perfectionist who tended to nit-pick in the most exasperating way, Victor was happy he had made the deal with Monarch. He had almost been on the verge of signing with Metro when, quite by accident, he had discovered that Mike Lazarus held a large quantity of Metro stock. Whilst this in itself did not mean Lazarus could interfere in any current productions, since he was not on Metro’s board, it did give Victor reason to pause, to evaluate and to reassess with caution. He came to the conclusion that Lazarus, being a megalomaniac, was more than likely to be entrenched with the top echelon at the studio. Remembering Nick’s anxiety about Lazarus, his terse warnings after the meeting at the Ritz, he had adroitly switched the deal to Monarch, who were poised, and eagerly so, on the sidelines. And in the final analysis, I made a far more advantageous deal, Victor told himself.
Wuthering Heights
aside, he and Hilly had already begun discussions about a number of possible properties they could co-produce, and both of them were thinking in terms of a long association between Monarch and Bellissima. The future looked decidedly rosy. And if Hillard Steed was something of a bugbear, he was, nevertheless, a weight that Victor Mason believed rested lightly on his broad shoulders. There were many other production heads who were much worse, if not downright tyrannical.

Feeling restless, Victor stood up and strolled across the room to the window. He parted the curtains and looked down into South Audley Street. It was still pouring with rain. As usual, he thought, and with resignation, cursing the English weather, wishing he was in Southern California, not necessarily at the ranch, just anywhere the sun was shining. He swung around as Jerry came back into the room, with Jake Watson following closely behind.

Both men looked unusually serious, and Victor at once suspected trouble, which he always did, trouble being endemic
to any production. ‘What’s the problem now, boys? Don’t tell me the Earl reneged?’

‘No, no. Nothing quite as bad as that, old chap,’ Jerry instantly assured him. ‘We’re all set there. Everything’s perfectly okay. Although, speaking of the Earl, he’s had an accident. Oh yes, and Francesca’s ill,’ he mentioned as an afterthought. He rushed on, without drawing breath, ‘We
are
going to need the auxiliary generator. Francesca spoke to the bailiff, and the generator at the castle is sound, but he doesn’t think it’s completely safe to throw the whole load on to it. Jake and I agree. Those kliegs are hellish powerful. Incidentally, she came up with an idea that will help the budget no end—’

‘Jesus, Jerry! What’s got into you!’ Victor exploded, infuriated by his apparent callousness. ‘What do you mean, Francesca’s sick and the Earl’s had an accident? I’d like to know about my friends. Jesus Christ!’ He shook his head in disbelief, glowered with ferocity at Jerry, and then swung his irate gaze on Jake. The latter was now grinning, but his face sobered at once.

‘Oh, sorry, Victor, old chap,’ Jerry apologized nervously, looking abashed. ‘I’m afraid I am inclined to get carried away with my budget, aren’t I? Yes. Well. Er… er… nothing to worry about really. The Earl had a fall and fractured a pelvic bone. No problem, he’ll be up and about in a couple of weeks. Francesca, poor thing, has a rotten cold. At worst, just a touch of the ’flu.’

Victor sat down at the conference table, surprised at his sense of relief. ‘I’m glad to hear neither of them are at death’s door,’ he remarked, the sarcastic bite in his voice underlining his continuing irritation. ‘So…’ He leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers and gazed at his two associates over them, his eyes cold. ‘Since everything is hunky-dory, why were you both looking as if we had a major crisis?’

Jake said swiftly, ‘A
minor
crisis. Hilly Street to be exact. We ran into him in the corridor, and he informed us we can only
have two more offices for the production staff. He says he can’t release any more space to Bellissima, so we’re short of one office.’

‘Is that all!’ Victor’s face was a picture of disgust. ‘Let’s hope most of our problems are as serious. If they are, we’ll breeze through the picture. And there’s a very simple solution to this one, Jake. Tell Hilly that Bellissima are taking a suite at Claridge’s for the rest of the production staff, and that we’re charging it to Monarch. Believe me, Jake, he’ll find you that extra office within the next hour, even if he has to turf out one of his executives.’

Jake chuckled. ‘It’ll be my pleasure. I’ll go and see him right now.’

The minute they were alone, Jerry flopped down into a chair. He said softly, ‘Hell, Victor, I didn’t mean to sound so cold-blooded and heartless…’ He fidgeted in his seat and ran his hand through his unruly red hair. ‘It’s not that I’m oblivious to people or their problems,’ he explained, selecting his words with care. ‘I’m just preoccupied with the film, and I’m afraid this does cloud my judgment… But still, I know that’s no excuse.’ His voice petered out lamely. He was at a loss for words, understanding he had blundered.

Sensing the other man’s acute discomfort and embarrassment, Victor smiled, his charming manner restored. ‘Relax Jerry. Forget it. I know you didn’t mean any harm, and your dedication to the film is commendable. I’ve no quarrel with you there. And I didn’t mean to come down on you so hard.’ He laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘I guess I’m a bit sensitive in certain areas. I took a bad fall once, on location, and before I could open my eyes, pick myself up and shake the dust off me, I heard the line producer voice the opinion that I’d just screwed up the budget by getting myself killed. He was actually annoyed at my carelessness, and was still exclaiming about all the wasted footage when I threw him a right hook.’ Victor roared. ‘The bastard hadn’t anticipated getting slugged, least of all by a supposed corpse.’ He
continued to chuckle, recalling the incident and its repercussions.

Jerry joined in, but his laughter was stilted. I sounded downright cavalier, he thought regretfully, and then he cautioned himself yet again to watch his step around Victor Mason, who was obviously an original, and quite unlike the Hollywood stars with whom he had worked in the past. For the most part they had been egomaniacs, and insensitive bastards to boot. Mason continued to surprise him, and in the most unexpected and unpredictable ways. He might be a stern and demanding task master, a tough executive producer who had-his eyes smartly peeled and was ten jumps ahead of everyone else, but it was clear he was a superior human being. It appeared he was decent and caring. Nor was he bizarre in an industry in which to be bizarre was more often than not quite normal. As yet, he had not once played the star; he had made no peculiar demands; and he treated everyone as an equal. I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s got immense style, Jerry thought.