Voice of the Heart (70 page)

‘I know, Jake.’

A contemplative expression settled on the producer’s narrow, angular face. He said, ‘This may sound weird, but I believe Katharine would be big whether she wanted to be or not. She’s like a force of nature. She exists, therefore she will be. There’s just no stopping her now. Mind you, I doubt that she’d be able to stop herself, even if she tried. It’s gone beyond her control. In fact, the only way Katharine could avoid stardom would be if she retired from this business and hid herself in a nunnery. That girl was born to be a star. It’s an inevitability… it’s her destiny.’

Although Nick knew at once what Jake was implying, recognized the sincerity behind the words, he could not help exclaiming, ‘But you’re being inconsistent! Suddenly you’re saying her career has been preordained, or some such things, whereas a few minutes ago you told me she was a little operator.’

Jake cried assertively, ‘That she is, Nicholas. And a very shrewd one, in my opinion. But don’t you
see
, she doesn’t really have to be. Katharine Tempest has everything going for her without playing the angles, loading the dice. Jesus, she’s a natural. All she has to do is sit still and let it happen. And believe me it will in record time. I’m afraid Katharine
wastes far too much energy—unnecessarily. Let’s hope she doesn’t waste her talent.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s also hope that fame and glory don’t go rushing to
her
head.’

‘Yes,’ Nick murmured. ‘It’s all pretty potent stuff. But I’m sure she can handle it.’ As he spoke he wondered if she could.

‘Don’t look so serious, Nicholas.’ Jake punched him on the arm. ‘And after today Katharine Tempest will no longer be any concern of mine. Come October she’ll be Monarch’s problem.’

‘But after that you may find yourself stuck with her again, old sport. You’re bound to be the line producer on Victor’s next picture for Bellissima, and it would be criminal if he didn’t use Katharine. Let’s face it, they are magical together.’

‘True. Very true, Nicholas. But in the meantime, I’m taking a sabbatical. I fully intend to… Leave Her to Heaven.’

‘You had to have the last word, didn’t you,’ Nick laughed. ‘Here comes our star. The conference must be over.’ Nick waved to Victor, who was hurrying across the sound stage towards them. He was already dressed for his role as Heathcliff, looking impossibly handsome in an elegantly-cut black Victorian frock coat, narrow pants, matching waistcoat and a white shirt with a ruffled front.

‘Hi Jake, Nicky.’ He eyed the writer, and asked, ‘How long have you been here, kid?’

‘About half an hour. You were tied up.’

‘Yep. Talking the scene over with Katharine, after Mark’s mandatory run-through earlier. It’s the one before the death scene. As you know, we shot that in Yorkshire. I wanted her to feel absolutely confident about it, so that she’ll be relaxed.’ He glanced at Jake, his eyes sharp. ‘No problems?’

‘Not at the moment. But don’t hold your breath. You’ve been to make-up I see. I guess you’re all ready to go.’

‘Sure, I’m all set. Katharine’s having her hair done, and Terry’s
almost dressed. The troops are geared up to do battle, any time the big man wants. Where is he, Jake?’

‘I haven’t seen him for well over an hour. He disappeared after the run-through. Don’t worry, he’ll show up at five minutes to three, cracking his whip and snarling.’

‘For the last time,’ Victor retorted.

‘I’ll say
amen
to that!’ Jake exclaimed. ‘If you don’t need me for anything, Victor, I’d better go and round up All the King’s Men.’

Victor gave the producer a swift look. ‘So you and Nicky are still playing that old game, are you? Sure, go ahead. And Jake, remember one thing—it may be Battleground today, but tomorrow it’ll be Bright Victory.’ The lazy grin slid onto his mouth. ‘Surprised you, didn’t I? But I know a few movie tides, too. Give me a yell if you need anything.’ Victor grabbed Nick’s arm and led him over to a group of canvas directors’ chairs arranged to one side of the cameras and facing towards the set to be used for the last scene. ‘Here, take my chair, kid,’ Victor said.

Nick sat down, remarked, ‘Aren’t you joining me, Vic?’

‘I prefer to stand while we visit. I don’t want to crease these trousers. They’re as tight as hell.’

‘It’s a tough world, old sport,’ Nick laughed.

Victor went on, ‘I’m going to see the assembled footage this weekend with Pierce, and next week I’ll do the dubbing he needs for my exteriors. Then I thought we’d take off for Paris. Spend a few days there before heading south to Beaulieu. How does that sound to you?’

‘Great. You realize I’ll be dragging my typewriter along. I must get back to work.’

Victor nodded. ‘Sure, I know that. It’s the best thing for you, Nicky. You’ll be able to write undisturbed at La Reserve and by then the area should be much quieter, less crowded with tourists. I gather there have been more people than ever on the Riviera this summer, because of Grace Kelly’s wedding. Oh, incidentally, after Jake’s supervised some of the
editing with Pierce, and mopped up here in general, he’ll be joining us for a week or so. You don’t mind do you?’

‘Of course I don’t.’ Nick looked at Victor.

‘I suppose it’s already crossed your mind that it’s going to be like old home week. Hollywood on the Med. Hilly Street will be floating around, or so I’ve heard, and so will Jerry. We’ll be tripping over a lot of familiar faces.

‘Including Beau Stanton, not to mention whomever he’s got in tow from the Coast. He was a guest at Grace’s wedding, and rented a villa at Cap d’Antibes for the summer. He’s in London at the moment, flew in Tuesday night. He came to see Hilly about the comedy.’ Victor leaned forward, dropped his voice an octave, ‘It’s not been announced yet, but Hilly’s going to be made head of worldwide production for Monarch, operating out of Los Angeles, starting some time in October. He’ll see the Bolding picture on its way in France before handing over to his successor here.’

‘Hey, that’s terrific news, Vic. It augurs well for Bellissima, doesn’t it?’

‘Sure. He wants to continue the association. Anyway, getting back to our vacation, as soon as I heard about the Bolding crowd converging on Monte Carlo, I started studying the map, picking out some choice places we could mosey off to for several days at a time.’

Nick listened carefully as Victor went on to outline his ideas and plans for the rest of the summer, observing him acutely, seeking tell-tale signs of the moodiness and worry Jake mentioned earlier. To his relief, Victor seemed untroubled. On the other hand, the actor was just that—an actor, and a consummate one. Deception was part of his professional stock in trade. It even crept into his personal life sometimes. Nick thought then of Vic’s secretiveness about his relationship with Francesca. Other than Diana, he was the only person who knew about them. Vic had certainly kept the lid down tight on that situation. Besides, Victor did have a marvellous ability to shelve any personal problems when
he was working, in order to concentrate completely on his current role, and so he could easily be covering up. Nick knew it would be both thoughtless and imprudent to start prodding his friend at this most crucial moment before the final scene, and so wisely he held his tongue. If Vic did have worries, he would confide them soon enough.

‘I’d toyed with the idea of driving to the south, of taking the Bentley to France, but perhaps we’re better off flying,’ Victor was saying. ‘I’ll talk to the travel agency tomorrow about our tickets, a hotel in Paris. I’m wondering if we should stay at the George Cinq, the Ritz or the Raphael…’ Victor stopped, distracted by a small flurry of noise. He swung his head, glanced towards the door, turned back. ‘There’s Mark now. This is it. Let’s hope we can lock this scene up in less than the usual five or six takes.’

‘You will. Go and sock it to ’em, Vic.’

‘I’ll do my damnedest.’ He strode off.

Nick leaned back in the chair and relaxed, his gaze riveted on Mark Pierce, who was conferring with Ossie Edwards, Jake and Jerry. The director was a short, compact, attractive-looking man, with a mild manner in social situations, one that truly belied his fierce temper and tyrannical posturings when he was working. Nick had only met him a couple of times before leaving for New York, and had found him to be erudite and contemplative. However, his attitudes and opinions very much reflected the British Establishment, and Nick had stamped him a snob, and a pompous one at that. He had not particularly liked Pierce.

Ego problems there, Nick thought. Like all extremely small men he adopts a bombastic and dictatorial manner to compensate for his lack of height. Napoleon complex. Nick concentrated his attention on the group with undisguised interest. Victor was gesturing towards the set, and all four men moved over to it in one body, talking amongst themselves. After several seconds of further discussion they dispersed. Mark brought the set decorator and a prop man
over to the set, and they began to make some minor adjustments to the furniture arrangement. Victor ambled across to Terry and Katharine, who had walked onto the sound stage accompanied by Ann Patterson, who played Nelly Dean in the film, as she had in Katharine’s screen test.

Technicians were materializing as if from thin air; stagehands, sound engineers, the continuity girl, and an assortment of assistants were milling around, and activity accelerated as the crew prepared to start shooting. Ossie Edwards was behind the camera, talking to his assistant, and Pierce positioned himself nearby. And then, before Nick could blink, Jerry Massingham’s voice rang out: ‘Extinguish all cigarettes, please. Silence. Lights.’ A low hubbub continued, and again Jerry bellowed: ‘SILENCE!’

Quietness descended immediately. The set, depicting Catherine Earnshaw Linton’s bedroom at Thrushcross Grange, was flooded with brilliant illumination from the kliegs. Mark beckoned to Katharine, who floated forward. She was wearing a white summer dress of period design, cut loose and flowing, since she was supposed to be pregnant by Edgar Linton, and there was a lacy wool shawl of sky blue around her shoulders. Her chestnut hair fell in a dark tumble of waves around her face, which was without a spot of colour and made her spectacular turquoise eyes seem more startling than ever. Mark went up and spoke to her. She nodded, stepped onto the set and seated herself in a chair. He waited until Katharine had settled herself comfortably, placed a book on her lap, and laid her hands on it listlessly.

Mark then motioned to Victor and Ann, who disappeared behind the set so that they could enter it through the door built into the backdrop. He then resumed his stance near the camera, and without taking his eyes off Katharine, he raised his hand, called, ‘Camera. Action.’

The door opened. Ann led Victor into the room, guiding him towards the chair where Katharine sat.

Nick leaned forward, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his chin cupped in his hand, his entire attention focused on the actors. Always prepared to take part in the make-believe of the theatre and of film, his willing suspension of disbelief was, nonetheless, so instantaneous he was surprised. Within a split second he had accepted the two leading performers so completely he was convinced and mesmerized by them. Katharine and Victor were no longer themselves. They
were
Catherine and Heathcliff.

The fatally-ill Catherine, half reclining, half sitting in the chair looked exhausted and weak, her life ebbing out of her.

There was a faraway expression in her eyes and her face was dreamy and gentle.

In contrast, Heathcliff exuded power, was filled with vigour and strength and lithe animal grace, this despite his agonized countenance which so revealed his own suffering.

Now he stepped forward boldly, fell into her direct line of vision, and immediately an extraordinary change was wrought in her, was so forceful it leapt out at those watching. There was a straining in her, a breathless expectancy, an eagerness, as if Heathcliff brought with him the very breath of life, her life’s blood itself. He was by her side in a few quick strides, emotion spilling out of him. He took her in his arms hungrily, and his anguish and despair were as tangible as her expectancy and hope as he gazed down into her lovely face. And they conveyed the deepest, most intense feelings without uttering one single word to each other. Heathcliff had the first line, and Nick’s face prickled with gooseflesh as it was uttered.

‘Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! How can I bear it?’

As the scene progressed to its climax, Nick could almost feel the silence around him. It was absolute. He was also aware of the mounting tension on the set, knew that dozens of pairs of eyes were fixed in concentration on these two electrically-charged beings, who were so caught up in a
vortex of passion and heartbreak they were oblivious to everything but themselves. They were hypnotic together, held everybody spellbound. Their performance was stunning; it went beyond performing to Nick. He had no words to describe what was happening on the set this afternoon, could only think of it as something quite miraculous.

After another passage of dialogue between Catherine and Heathcliff, during which they had remained virtually motionless, Heathcliff went to stand behind her chair, endeavouring to hide his pain and suffering from her. Then suddenly he was in front of the fireplace, glowering, and turning from her, and Catherine herself had risen, was supporting herself on the arm of the chair, imploring him with her eyes when, finally, his gaze met hers.

Heathcliff swung his head away, brought it back to regard her, the tears streaming down his face, and then—they were in each other’s arms again. Heathcliff began to kiss her wildly, whilst rebuking her in quiet anger, his voice finally falling away into black despair.

‘You teach me how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false.
Why
did you despise me?
Why
did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry, and wring out my kisses and my tears; they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you! You loved me—then what right did you have to leave me? What right—answer me—for that poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation and death and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us,
you
, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—
you
have broken it, and in breaking it you have broken
mine
. So much the worse for me, that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—Oh God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?’