Chapter Four

Halfway down the viale Pasitea is a restaurant, da Vincenzo's. Next door a caffè. Both establishments stand at a bend in the road, and from the tables on the terrace opposite one has the perfect coastline view. Michael had chosen the caffè as a meeting point, and now found himself sitting face to face with Adela Fairfax, his cappuccino in front of him, the wide sky all around them.

Until this moment they had not yet spoken. He had responded to the letter by calling her pensione and leaving a message with the hotel-keeper, who took down his suggestion for a time and place. But when the time and place came, he was still unprepared for the sight of a woman in a blue frock, with fair hair and a good figure, rising from her table to greet him.

He had speculated, of course. She had heard perhaps about The Other House, was pursuing him for a role. The scripts had gone out to casting directors and talent agents and there were good female parts, or would have been, if the production had not been cancelled.

He had approached the caffè with controlled amusement. It was something of a novelty to be meeting an actress.

His instincts seemed right at first. Adela was wearing Ray-Bans and flipping through a glossy magazine. Her posture was extremely considered, frock flowing, arms draped, as though she had noticed the view and placed herself before it to best effect. Up close, however, he appreciated that she was giving a cool shoulder to the men on the neighbouring table, whose cleft chins and mirror shades panned off when he arrived.

She was relieved, delighted. She pulled off her Ray-Bans with a smile, eyebrows arching in grateful surprise at the sight of the man who had produced himself so obligingly. She rose from the seat and offered a hand.

Her face was unbelievably fresh. Adela Fairfax had the fairest complexion. The irises were green and when she looked up at him, her eyes seemed to follow him into himself. Already she was concentrating, getting a sense of the person she was so keen to meet and whose privacy she had intruded upon. When she pulled off her band, loosening her hair, it seemed a glamorous gesture, but a nervous one, too, as if she were anxious to make the best impression. They sat down and she caught her sleeve on a coffee cup. But then Michael arranged his legs under the table and, as he did so, she allowed him to take a longer look at her, and to register, before a word was spoken, the reality of this curious meeting. The mutual expectation was almost comic. A smile crossed her face. Despite fair skin, she had dark eyebrows, which suddenly converged.

'I'm really sorry to have disturbed you.'

'Not at all.'

'You're so kind to meet me like this.'

She had a natural speaking voice, warm and clear.

'I'm not trying to be mysterious or anything.'

He laughed away his awkwardness. 'Of course not!'

'I could have put more in the letter, but there's so much to explain and – as they say in my trade – I wanted to take it from the top.'

'Well, it's very nice to meet you.'

She smiled broadly. 'What an imposition!'

'Impose, impose,' he smiled back, catching her perfume on the breeze.

She was easier now, elbows propped on the table, wrists floppy. She noticed a waiter coming out of the caffè and raised a quick arm, drawing him across the road with a smile.

'Have you been here long?' she asked.

'Oh, ten days or so.'

This seemed to please her. 'Isn't it wonderful!'

Henodded easily. The waiter stood over him and he ordered a coffee.

'Are you on holiday?' he enquired.

'No . . . I . . . I desperately need a break and I'd love to stay–' She flung her hair back. 'But things at home are hectic, and my only excuse for coming here is to see you.'

He raised a humorous eyebrow.

'All will be explained.' She smiled, enjoying herself. She had recovered her confidence. 'Promise me that you'll tell me to shut up if any of this gets tedious. You see, there's lots to explain.'

'I promise,' he said solemnly.

'Can I ask another favour?' She was suddenly concerned. 'Would you treat this in confidence?'

He shrugged, covering his curiosity. 'Of course.'

'And for your trouble may I buy you dinner?'

'Oh!' He was pleasantly surprised. 'Well, I hope I can justify it!'

She set her hands on her lap, repairing her comportment for the next stage. 'I'll tell you about myself first.'

He noted again her fineness of posture, which made best use of table and chair, and gave her some force of address, as though bearing were itself part of a process of thought. She gazed at him directly as she spoke, telling him what he needed to know, but making no assumptions about his knowledge or interest. She was twenty-eight, young and ambitious with much before her, but already distinguished in her field, and by Michael's standards extremely successful.

She had trained at RADA, then gone to the RSC. In her early twenties she played Charmian at Stratford, and Desdemona in a West End transfer, but her first big break was in Jack Unswick's Lothario, a production that Michael remembered from its saucy posters and commercial aura of lust and wit. Television followed. She was Belinda in The Bartholomew Saga, Cissy in First Daughter, and a year later, at the fair age of twenty-seven, her features appeared on the cover of the Radio Times; she had landed Gwendolyn, eponymous heroine of a primetime mini-series. The role had an establishing effect. It defined her particular appeal and gave to the audience an old-fashioned demeanour, of beauty emboldened by courage and quickened by pain, and the exquisite expression, lost to the modern world, of sublimated passion. Michael had seen it in the Screen International still, and he saw it now very well. Adela was fair and glowing, but the quick lashes and dark eyebrows created an impression of acute inner life. She smiled, but she smiled in different ways, and he realised as he sat listening that there was an engaging transparency in the range of her looks, and those eyes – so candid in their clarity of colour – were very suggestive of feeling. She spoke her own script, told her own story, but every word located the source of a particular emotion, precisely remembered, carefully conveyed.

There had been many offers after Gwendolyn. Many dud scripts. The American networks desired her; the National beckoned. West Coast talent agencies were taking an interest, keeping her in sights. She wanted movie roles but had no bankability; the only concrete breaks were for dubious projects, erotic thrillers, subsidised Euro films stitched together by a dozen financiers in too many languages. The BBC had another classic in the offing, but that was to be typecast.

'I don't want to be stuck in the heroine ghetto. I mean, I think those characters are fascinating, beautiful in a way, and I can reach them quite well. I don't know, perhaps they still express a great deal of what it is to be a woman. But before I become terminally typecast I want to play something ambivalent, more modern. That must be the next thing. And I think I've found it.'

He was intrigued.

'Or rather, it's found me.'

She frowned again, as though digesting something.

'A really big movie,' she said quietly. 'Fully financed, fully packaged. The lead's a huge star.' She gazed at him earnestly, as though still moved by that fact. 'Shane Hammond. He's approached me to play the main female role.'

Michael nodded appreciatively. 'That's wonderful.'

'Yes, and it's a project you know something about.'

'I do?'

Her face was a picture of seriousness. 'The Shane Hammond project.'

Michael had to think quickly. Hammond was of course a household name, but it took a moment to make the connection. He was curious and then slightly nonplussed.

'Shane and I were in Uncle Vanya at Chichester,' she said.

It was a non sequitur, but he nodded.

'He and my older sister were at RADA. We go back.'

He sat quietly, letting this information settle on his mind.

'You're a friend of his?' he asked.

'Probably less than a friend and more than a colleague.' She was suddenly lit up. 'We hadn't spoken in years. I never thought I'd see him again–' She sighed admiringly. 'He's so mega.'

He smiled.

'Humungous,' she gleamed. 'According to my agent, Shane's number-one bankable. Not to mention incredibly good-looking and a brilliant actor.'

'He's big, all right.'

Her eyes were wide with marvel and mirth. 'His head must be enormous.'

Michael nodded. 'I dare say.'

Shane Hammond had gone from Harold Pinter revivals, Shakespeare stagings at the National, and low-budget art-house movies to an Oscar and film stardom in about three years. He had acting kudos and box-office clout. Thinking Time did three hundred and fifty million world-wide; Charisma took a Palme d'Or and six Golden Globes. Hammond was in the almost unique position of being a star who was a real actor, a good-looking man who could inhabit very different roles. He had gone to Hollywood and retained his independence, mixing genre hits with art-house fare, action thrillers and Shakespeare remakes.

'I thought he was out there being God, and then I got a call.'

Michael refused to anticipate. He was very engrossed.

'In the middle of the night. Shane's on location. I'm in bed. A weird call. There's a voice, which I don't really recognise. A few pleasantries, 4 a.m., you know. Then, will I read a book, please. No explanation. Much implication.'

'What was the book?'

'The Last Muse.'

He nodded slowly.

'By James Hilldyard. Bernie – my agent – bikes the manuscript from Basil Curwen. I've read it by teatime the next day.' She shot him a clear, green-eyed glance. 'It really knocked me out.'

'A manuscript?'

'It hasn't been published yet.'

She was referring, it seemed, to the very novel that Hilldyard had suppressed.

'It knocked you out?'

'Oh,' she shrugged. 'Incredible.'

Hilldyard had described the work as loathsome.

'At 6 p.m. Bernie's heard from Coburn Agency. They rep Shane. I'm offered the part. Female lead. What Bernie describes as Shane's love interest.' She smiled. 'I have to say, this was all very exciting and rather ridiculous.'

'Was there a film script?'

'No script.'

He was surprised. 'They financed a film with no script?'

'Well . . .' She glanced poignantly to the side. 'A script would have been written, I suppose. What really maddened me was they didn't have the rights.'

Michael remembered the story: Curwen's movie deal, Hilldyard's second thoughts, three-quarters of a million nonchalantly repulsed.

'What a mess!' she said, spreading her fingers. 'Shane's suits completely blew it. The negotiation was fine. I think the deal was agreed. Then there's a hold-up and some creep from Coburn goes behind Curwen's back and calls Hilldyard in Italy.'

'Someone phoned Hilldyard?'

'An agent – Rick Weislob.'

Michael was amazed. 'Curwen gave out the number?'

'Weislob told Curwen that Shane wanted to speak directly to Hilldyard, but then he went and called him himself. Hilldyard was horrified. He blew them out.' She touched her bosom. 'Shane is so distraught. His heart was set on this book. And can you imagine Coburn Agency? Shane's been signed there for six months. They do packaging, get distribution deals, virtually exec movies, but now they can't even deliver an option agreement. And what really upsets him is that he reveres Hilldyard. He thinks the book is a masterpiece.'

He nodded in slow assessment. It was strange to be sitting in a caffè in Italy talking to an actress about film rights and movie stars. He sipped his coffee and glanced out to sea.

'Which is why I'm here.'

There was a pause. Adela galvanised herself.

'We have a stalemate,' she summarised. 'Shane's people are powerless. Curwen can't help.'

He waited for elucidation.

'It's down to me, I realise, if anything is to happen.'

'D'you mean . . . ?' He involuntarily smiled.

She stared at him uncertainly.

'You've come to persuade James Hilldyard?'

'Oh no!' She was taken aback. 'I wouldn't presume. I mean, who am I?'

There was a durable pause in which he declined to respond.

'I've come to see you.'

He stared at her.

'According to Basil you have a wonderful relationship with James.'

There was much that might have been implied in such a remark. Michael remained silent.

'I know this is presumptuous.' She raised a hand, was pained. 'I have never done anything like this and it looks like disgusting self-interest, which it probably is, but I've come here because I genuinely think it's worth trying. There's something important at stake.'

He shook his head, equally pained by her agitation. 'Tell me. What d'you want?'

'Your help.'

He was surprised. 'My help?'

'I'd be eternally grateful.'

'But to what end?'

Her face lightened, encouraged. 'I want you to persuade James Hilldyard to change his mind.'

Michael blinked.

'And to grant the film rights.'

There was an interval in which he merely stared.

She merely waited for him.

He thought he was blushing and raised a hand to his lips. He had no inkling she was coming to this. He was surprised, embarrassed, at a loss to know what to say. He pinched the bridge of his nose, playing for time. Adela had proposed something which to him was unthinkable.

Her eyebrows converged, as if to meet his seriousness. 'I am very presumptuous.'

The waiter jackknifed between them, speeding cups on to the table, posing himself for further instructions. She waved him away.

'I think you're very enterprising,' he said quietly.

'Basil has nothing to do with this. I went to him because I thought I could approach Hilldyard personally, which he said was pointless. Then he told me about you. It was my idea to contact you. As far as Basil is concerned I'm here on my own initiative. Shane knows, of course, but this is all my doing.'

He nodded reasonably, noting that Curwen must nonetheless have given her his number. He might well have put her up to it.

'I can't possibly help you.'

To his surprise she blushed. She was not ready for a turn-down.

'Please tell me why.'

'Well . . .' He was uncomfortable now. 'For one thing, the novel's been withdrawn.'

She was really quite distressed. 'It should be published. It should be filmed!'

'Not in his view.'

'How can he? It's so wonderful.'

He smiled tightly.

'Why give a manuscript to your agent if you think it's no good?'

Michael shook his head. 'He must have changed his mind.'

'Then his mind is changeable!'

He was almost impressed by her insistence. To entertain hopes of persuading a famous novelist against his better judgement took a mixture of bravado and stupidity.

'I think no means no.'

She clasped the air, wringing her wrist. 'NomeansnotoaHollywood movie. And this was never going to be a Hollywood movie. This was going to be film for grown-ups, something intelligent.'

He smiled awkwardly. 'It's hard for you to be disinterested.'

'That's why I've come to you,' she pleaded. 'Read it and form your own opinion. You're the only person who can persuade him.'

'Read what?'

'The manuscript. I have a copy!'

He was startled. There was a moment of silence as he digested the information.

'Please!' she said.

She was going to be insistent and he wondered in a vague panic whether he could make her back off without seeming discourteous. She had gone out on a limb for a project that appealed to her and that took some pluck. Unfortunately the matter was more delicate than she realised, so much so that he had doubts about receiving the manuscript without the author's knowledge.

'Listen,' he said, with kind firmness. 'I have a very new and rather special relationship with James Hilldyard. I'm not his agent. I've no interest in where he sells his work. Other people do that job, and if they can't convince him, I wouldn't try. My responsibility is simply to help James with his work. He finds it useful to have me around. So I need to be sensitive, and I know for a fact that The Last Muse is a book he doesn't like, and won't want to hear about. To lobby for it on someone else's behalf would be an abuse of my position.' He paused, unsure how much else to say. 'The essence of my role is, actually, not to question him. It is to go along with him. And if he trusts me, it's because I've worked that out for myself.'

She nodded slowly. She had listened carefully and seemed to understand his position rather better. She looked at him with renewed interest.

'If he trusts you so much–' she was suddenly admiring – 'you must have very good judgement!'

There was no need to acknowledge the assertion.

'He relies on your judgement?'

'He relies on my tact.'

'But then aren't you the one person who can make him think twice?'

It was odd to hear this from a person he had only just met.

She gazed at him steadfastly.

'And if he has any taste for the truth your views won't upset him.'

He frowned at the stealth of her logic. 'What truth?'

'That the book is wonderful.'

He shook his head.

'And should be made into a film.'

'Oh please!'

'Surely you can raise it with him!'

He groaned. She was relentless.

'He must do himself justice,' she declared.

'Why should I force him to defend an artistic decision?'

'He can't be that touchy!'

'He's a writer, Adela!'

'So impatient with the human race?'

He didn't like the inference or its tone. 'What you're asking me to do is just not on the cards!'

She tossed her head, shaking the hair back from her face in a spirited manner. 'You see, it's not just my opportunity. It's everyone's.'

There was something in her switched on to maximum, not entirely charming, but somehow impressive. Her commitment was focused, moving around obstacles and objections, which made it more important that she should understand him. She needed to absorb his concerns and make sense of them. He wanted her to feel Hilldyard's best interests more keenly than her own.

'Look, Adela . . .'

'You'll read the book and you'll agree with me. It's incredibly involving, amazingly written and definitely adaptable. But there's something else here. I've read hundreds of scripts, Michael. I'm sure you have, too. What I mostly get offered is corny rubbish that's made into worse rubbish. And then I read a book which is emotionally satisfying and subtle and I can hardly believe it when somebody comes along and says they want to make a film of it, because films like this are hardly ever made any more. It's an opportunity to do something really special. Can I tell you,' she said, moving to the edge of her chair, 'what it feels like to want a part? It's a hunger. You just have to have it. You know it will call on everything you have and that you can do it. And that's what I live for. What makes it worthwhile being an actress. And the reason I'm out here pleading with you and embarrassing myself is because I really believe there's a character in this book that I was born to play!'

Michael nodded with an uneasy half-smile on his face. When she switched it on there was little he could say in reply.

'Shane's wedged into Hollywood. He can get money, best writer, best cast, and really control quality. It's a major opportunity. And I can't bear that it might not happen because James Hilldyard spoke to some jerk in a Hollywood agency.' She exhaled suddenly, fanning her face and falling back in her chair. 'Gosh, it's warm!'

He sat pensively. Adela, he could see, was a force. She was intelligent and ambitious, a natural persuader. She had enough self-belief to fortify her against the contrary views of great novelists.

'You'll never take no for an answer,' he said.

'I live by my instincts. I have to believe them.'

This he did not doubt. And he also saw that she was more extended by having come to Positano to beg his assistance than he would be put out by talking to Hilldyard. Her interest was a fact, a force, a human need; and although Hilldyard's views were totally negative, it was no great sin for Michael to check them again, delicately and discreetly, and make sure that the matter was indeed closed.

'I hope you'll accept Hilldyard's verdict?'

'If I have no choice.' She smiled equivocally.

'Then I'll ask him for you.'

'Oh, thank you!'

The immensity of her relief was embarrassing. He was a stranger to her, and yet in this matter she was utterly dependent on him.

In a single movement she produced a plastic carrier bag from under her seat and set it on the table. 'Here you are, then.'

He gazed at the carrier bag with some alarm. This was the manuscript, praised by two or three people in the world, reviled by Hilldyard.

'When can you read it?'

If he asked Hilldyard's permission to read the book, the author might decline.

'Um . . . As soon as possible.' He would read first and deliberate later. It was not the ideal way to proceed, but that's what he would do.

'Oh thank you!'

'Can you stay a little longer?' he asked.

'Oh certainly. I'll explore. I'll go to Capri.'

'You don't mind being alone?'

'I don't feel lonely here. And anyway, I hope we can have dinner. Not that I want to pester you.'

'Not at all,' he said. 'Of course, if Hilldyard says no, you may not want to see me again.'

Her lips twisted in appreciation. She was amused by this imputation. 'I'll want to see you.'

He laughed at the determined graciousness of her reply.

'I've been very curious about you, actually. You're a producer, but somehow working with Hilldyard. That's very interesting.'

She was astute.

'I don't know if I really am a producer.'

'Basil said you were distinguished and discriminating.' She shivered grandly.

'Did he say that?' He enjoyed the irony but kept a straight face.

'I had an image of you.' She smiled provocatively. 'Rather older, a mature operator. A businessman-cum-connoisseur. Man of the world, confidant to artists and writers. Swann in Proust.'

He duly noted the reference. 'The jealous Swann?'

'But you're different.' She dwelt on his face so that he felt studied, sampled even, as though something of his essential self were being extracted for classification.

'I certainly feel different.'

She caught him instantly. 'It must be extraordinary.'

He saw that her interest was genuine. 'It's the best thing that's ever happened to me.'

She launched forward on her elbows. 'What has happened? What is this relationship? According to Basil, James thinks you're marvellous.'

He was innocently pleased by this. 'I'm not sure why.'

'You must have something special.'

'Oh well . . .'

'To command the respect of a man of genius is my ultimate ambition.' Her eyes glittered at the frivolity of the statement, which however silly was likely to be true, a paradox she could relish.

'Oh yes?'

She tossed her hair back, raised a refined profile. 'I'd love to be a muse. The source of inspiration. God knows what he'd think of me. Does he like women?'

He remembered Hilldyard's reaction to her on the beach.

'He does.'

'Well, anyway, you will have dinner with me? I want to hear all about this.'

Michael rose from his seat. He took up the carrier bag in his arms. 'Shall we try to meet the day after tomorrow?'

'Will you call me?'

'Of course.'

'Or come to the beach? We could do lunch.'

'I'll call.'

She rose to see him off, and as he turned to take his leave he thought it better not to shake her hand. And as he could not kiss her, he simply bowed and smiled. She stood there with a hand on the chair, and smiled back.