– 4 –

The trip to Rome was marred by only one thing: totally unused as she was to planning for these eventualities, Marian started her period on the very morning they left. Paul laughed, but Marian was mortified, and it took every ounce of cajolery he could muster to persuade her that it didn’t matter, and he really didn’t mind. Hoping that the untimely occurrence would spoil the weekend, Madeleine could barely restrain her glee. However, it irked her to see Paul feeding ice-cream to Marian on the Piazza Navona, just as if they were lovers barely an hour from intimacy; and the way they threw coins in the Trevi fountain and spent hours strolling around St Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel, getting a crick in their necks from looking at all that boring stuff on the walls and ceilings, was enough to make someone puke.

All she wanted was to get home and prepare herself for Tuesday morning. She’d made up her mind now that Matthew Cornwall’s film was going to be the turning point for her. Though she’d never acted before in her life, she’d been to the cinema enough times, and watched enough films on television, to know it couldn’t be that difficult. In secret she’d already been practising in front of the mirror, making up the dialogue as she went along, and she was pretty impressed with the results. She’d show Matthew Cornwall that she wasn’t just an easy – though good – lay; she’d work really hard; then once she’d done that film, and before he left Bristol, she’d let him screw her again, this time for the promise of another job, or at least a decent contact, in London. Then somehow, no matter what it took, she’d get onto Page Three. And by keeping in with Matthew Cornwall she might well stand a good chance of becoming both a model and an actress. She was vaguely aware that her plan had flaws, but it didn’t matter, she’d survive somehow and then, when she was rich and famous, and Paul O’Connell and her holier-than-thou cousin came begging at her door, she’d tell them to go to hell.

She was standing at the altar of some church she couldn’t remember the name of, and thinking of the word hell made her feel a touch uncomfortable, so she closed her eyes quickly, apologised to God, then thanked Him for sending Matthew Cornwall to Bristol.

On Saturday night they dined at Alfredo’s, where Marian had her fettucini served with a gold spoon and Paul bought her half a dozen red roses from a peasant woman who came round with them in a basket. Madeleine was serenaded by the guitarist, and she too had roses bought for her, but when the waiter told her they were from the old man sitting at a table in the corner, who was uglier than sin, it was left to Marian to thank him and Paul to carry them out of the restaurant.

It was their last night at the Hotel Giulio Cesare on the Via degli Scipioni, and despite her preoccupation with herself, even Madeleine couldn’t help noticing how happy Marian was. People were even smiling at her in the streets, and Madeleine half-suspected that she and Paul must be doing it anyway, because no one glowed like that unless they were. In fact, after she had plucked up the courage to ask him, Paul had shown Marian how she could satisfy him – at the same time warning her not to do what he’d overheard Madeleine telling her to. It had been a momentous experience for Marian to witness a man in the throes of ecstasy and to know that she could give such pleasure to someone she loved made her want to do it again and again. Though highly amused by her fascination with his body, Paul was astonished at how willing a pupil she was, and there were increasing occasions, now, when it took more willpower than he ever knew he had to stop himself turning her on her back and making love to her there and then.

‘Why don’t you get in with me?’ he’d asked her earlier as she sat on the edge of the bath, soaping him. ‘Let me do the same to you.’

She shook her head and tried to explain that just looking at him was enough for her.

‘You won’t be saying that this time next week,’ he grinned, then yelped as she splashed him and went off to get dressed for dinner.

It was seven thirty on Sunday evening when they arrived back in Bristol, and trudged from the bus stop to the West Mall in the drizzling rain. Paul opened the door and Marian groaned as she picked up her bank statement, a letter from Barclaycard and the red gas bill. Madeleine walked slowly on up the stairs, stopping just before the first-floor landing to let someone past. He brushed by without so much as a glance in her direction, but Madeleine turned to watch him run down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Marian said hello, and though he answered politely enough, he showed no sign of recognising her. She could see from the dark look on his face that he was angry, and she flinched as he slammed the door behind him. Then turning back, she looked up the stairs at Madeleine.

Madeleine’s eyes were wide and she was staring at the door. ‘Who was that?’ she breathed.

Marian looked confused. ‘It was Matthew Cornwall,’ she said haltingly.

Madeleine’s eyes flew to Marian’s as her mouth fell open. ‘What?’

‘Oh God,’ Marian muttered, and thrusting the mail at Paul, she ran up to her cousin.

Madeleine slumped onto the stairs. Then looking up at Marian she screamed, ‘I don’t believe it! You’re lying!’ But when Marian only blinked at her, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. ‘Oh Marian,’ she wailed, ‘why is this happening to me?’

Marian shot a look down the stairs at Paul, but he only shrugged. Turning back to Madeleine, she said, ‘So I take it that the man who’s just gone out of the door was not the man you . . . you saw in Pamela’s flat.’

‘No,’ Madeleine sobbed.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do you think I’d forget someone like that?’ Madeleine spat, waving her hand towards the front door. ‘Oh Marian, I thought everything was going to work out this time. I had everything planned, I was going to work really hard in that film. I was going to prove to everyone that I could do it, that I really could make it. And now . . .’

‘You will,’ Marian said, quickly sitting down next to her and hugging her. ‘I mean, you’ve got a part, haven’t you? You’ve even been told where to turn up and what time, so whoever he was, he must have been something to do with the film or else . . .’

‘How do I know that?’ Madeleine snapped. ‘He could have been the fucking plumber for all I know.’

‘It must have been the man I gave the parcel to,’ Marian said. ‘But you’ve spoken to this Dorothy,’ she added encouragingly.

‘And who’s she when she’s at home? I’ve never met her, have I?’

‘I’d hazard a guess,’ Paul said, wandering up the stairs, ‘that Dorothy is a booking clerk. The man you screwed, Madeleine, was Matthew Cornwall’s first assistant director. His name’s Philip Forrester, otherwise known as Woody.’

Madeleine’s face was drained of all colour as she looked up. ‘How do you know?’ she whispered.

‘I met him on the stairs the morning after you did your – audition.’

‘You bastard!’ she spat. ‘You knew all this time and you never said a word.’ She lunged towards him, but Marian caught her and Paul stepped back. ‘I hate you!’ Madeleine screamed. ‘You’re a sly, conniving . . .’

‘Madeleine, stop it!’ Marian shouted. ‘Paul, help me get her up the stairs.’

As they passed Pamela’s flat Madeleine screeched, ‘You wanker!’ But whether it was directed at Woody or at Paul no one knew.

‘Now,’ Marian said, once they were inside the flat. She pushed Madeleine onto the sofa and turned to Paul. ‘What’s going on? You say you met this Woody character. What did he say?’

Paul shrugged. ‘That it was quite some girl I shared a flat with and he couldn’t wait to see what the other cousin was like. And by the way, if you want to be in the support cast there’s a part for you too.’

Marian’s frown deepened. ‘But there is a part for Maddy?’

‘Sure. As an extra.’

‘A what?’

‘An extra,’ he repeated. ‘You know, background action, passers by, supermarket shoppers, could be anything. They walk about but don’t speak. They’re what’s called the support cast.’

Madeleine let out a howl. ‘No! He’s lying. He’s doing this on purpose, Marian. He’s trying to make a fool of me.’

Marian went to her, and looking at Paul she mouthed, ‘Make some tea.’

It was some time before she could persuade Madeleine to accept that Paul was very likely telling the truth. ‘I mean, no one’s sent you a script, have they?’ she pointed out. ‘You’ve not actually met the director, and I would think he must be the one who decides who’s actually in the film.’

‘So what you’re saying,’ Madeleine sniffed, ‘is that this Woody is lying, even about me being an extra?’

‘No.’ Paul was standing in the doorway. ‘A first assistant director usually casts the extras, so Matthew Cornwall probably knows nothing about you.’ When Marian gave him a look, he answered it by saying, ‘I’m only trying to point out that if Cornwall doesn’t know who she is, then the field’s still clear for her to try again. And if she’s on the set, even as an extra, he can hardly not notice someone like her, can he?’ He shrugged. ‘The rest is up to Madeleine. Plenty of extras, if they’re good enough and impress the director in some way, get made up to main cast.’

Marian turned to Madeleine. ‘What do you think, Maddy?’

Madeleine looked from Marian to Paul and back to Marian.

‘I say, go on Tuesday,’ Paul said, turning back to the kitchen. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose. Unless, of course, Woody’s told Matthew Cornwall what happened, but even then . . .’

Madeleine closed her eyes and let her head fall back. ‘I can’t do it, Marian,’ she said. ‘I can’t go.’

‘But why? Paul’s right, you’ve . . .’

‘Think about it. If that Woody bloke as good as told Paul, someone he’s never even met before, then he’s bound to have told Matthew, isn’t he? I’ll bet he’s told everyone, and they’ll all be laughing and pointing their fingers at me from the minute I turn up.’

Marian had to admit that this was a possibility, and in the end she agreed to call Dorothy and tell her that Madeleine was not available after all. Which she would have done first thing on Monday morning, had she not lifted the phone to discover they had been cut off.

On her way back from the telephone box Marian stopped at the newsagent’s to pick up Paul’s paper, as it hadn’t been delivered that morning. ‘Hello there, Mr Biggs,’ she said cheerfully, as she walked in. ‘I see I didn’t win on the pools again this weekend. How about you?’

‘Not a brass farthing,’ he answered, as he handed a customer his change.

‘Never mind,’ Marian sympathised, ‘got to keep trying, haven’t we? I’ll be in again on Thursday with my coupons. Now, I’ll take the Independent if I may.’

Biggs nodded to his assistant, then walking round the counter, he beckoned Marian to come out of earshot of the steady flow of customers. ‘Were you wanting your paper on account?’ he asked quietly.

Inside Marian froze, but somehow she managed a smile and said, ‘Only if that’s all right. I can pay for it now if you prefer.’

‘I think it would be better,’ he said, his kind old eyes shifting with embarrassment.

Digging into her purse, Marian took out a fifty-pence piece and handed it to him.

He took it, then said, ‘When do you think you might be paying off your bill, dear? You see, it’s gone over forty-five pounds and we don’t usually . . .’

‘What!’ Marian gasped. ‘How much did you say?’

He looked at her with a helpless expression. ‘It’s the magazines young Madeleine has, they cost a lot nowadays,’ he said.

Marian quickly lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see her anger. ‘Of course,’ she mumbled. ‘Well, would it be all right to pay at the end of the week?’

‘That’ll be just fine,’ he answered. ‘Now, you pick up your paper and I’ll get you your change.’

When she walked out of the shop the cool air was like a balm on her burning face. She knew already that she couldn’t say anything to Madeleine. After the shock she had received over Woody and Matthew Cornwall, she was upset enough, and Marian didn’t want to add to it by shouting at her over a few magazines. But the question was, how on earth were they going to pay Mr Biggs at the end of the week?

One thing’s for sure, she told herself as she headed for home, the telephone will have to stay cut off for the time being. She thought of Paul then, and knowing that in his heart of hearts he still hadn’t given up hope of hearing from the publisher, she started to consider what it might be like to live without electricity instead. But Madeleine would never stand for that. No TV, no hairdryer, no proper lighting to put her make-up on. Well, that was one area where they could definitely cut down. No more beauty treatments, and no more nights out for a while, either. Then she remembered the red gas bill, the TV licence demand and her bank statement. Her heart plummeted and a horrible buzzing started up in her ears. She had to get back and sort out just how much of a mess they really were in. But as she ran up to the front door, she suddenly stopped dead as she remembered the loan she had taken from the finance company. The repayments on that were over a hundred pounds a month. How could she ever have thought that she’d be able to pay it back?

She walked slowly up the stairs, a nauseating dismay churning in her stomach. She’d wanted to go to Rome to make Paul happy, and Madeleine too, but now she couldn’t believe how irresponsible she’d been. She couldn’t even ask them to help with the repayments because she’d told them she’d got the money from an insurance policy. Dear God, how could she have been so stupid? How could she have let things get so out of hand?

When she reached the fourth-floor landing, she stopped outside Pamela’s door. She looked at it for a moment or two, then, hardly thinking about what she was doing, she knocked. She had some vague notion of trying to explain to Matthew Cornwall about Madeleine, though exactly what she would say she had no idea. But there might just be a chance that Woody hadn’t said anything, and if he hadn’t, or even if he had, there still wasn’t any reason why Matthew Cornwall shouldn’t at least meet Madeleine.

As she waited she could hear voices inside, and as if she were waking from a dream, she suddenly realised that she was about to make an unspeakable fool of herself. She turned to make a hasty escape up the stairs, but it was too late.

‘Can I help you?’

Marian turned back, surprised at the female voice. The woman was about thirty, dressed in jeans and an anorak, with a large paisley shawl draped round her shoulders. She was smiling, but Marian could tell from her manner that she was in a hurry.

‘No, not really,’ Marian stumbled. ‘Actually, I was hoping to speak to Mr Cornwall.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman answered, ‘we’re having a production meeting at the moment so he’s a bit tied up. Can I tell him who called?’

Marian’s face suddenly flooded with colour. ‘Well, my name’s Marian Deacon, I live upstairs.’

‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll tell him.’ She leaned out of the door and looked towards the landing window. ‘Bloody rain,’ she grumbled. ‘Our whole schedule’s gone to pot because of it, so this meeting’ll probably drag on most of the day, and if we can get it together we’ll be on a night shoot tonight and tomorrow, so unless you want to see Matthew urgently you’d better leave it until the end of the week.’

‘OK,’ Marian answered. ‘Thank you.’

She was about to leave when the woman said, ‘Did you say Marian Deacon?’

The way she enunciated her name made Marian’s heart sink. So they did all know about Madeleine. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled.

‘And you live upstairs?’

Marian nodded miserably.

The woman gave her a peculiar look, then casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she said in a low voice, ‘Between you and me you were lucky you happened upon Woody the other night. Of course, there’s no excuse for the way he took advantage and allowed you to think he was Matthew, but from the way he tells it, you were a bit pissed and wouldn’t let him get a word in. Anyway, if Matthew had been in and you’d tried to pull a stunt like that on him . . .’ She shuddered. ‘Matthew’s got a real thing about women who . . . Still, that’s beside the point. The point is, we seriously are looking for extras, so if you’re still interested . . .’

‘Actually,’ Marian said, ‘you’ve got the wrong person. It wasn’t me, it was my cousin, Mad . . .’ Feeling shamefully disloyal, she broke off.

‘Madeleine! That’s right. I thought . . .’

‘Does Matthew know about what happened?’

The woman nodded.

‘Then would you mind not telling him I called? I think it’s better if we forget the whole thing.’

The woman shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’

When Marian let herself into the flat, Madeleine was in the bath and Paul was still in bed, asleep. For the last few days he’d had all the symptoms of a heavy cold, which Marian was convinced was turning into flu. She tiptoed into the bedroom and put a hand on his forehead. He stirred. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

He blinked and tried to sit up, but the effort was too great and he closed his eyes again. ‘Terrible,’ he croaked.

‘I think you’ve got a temperature,’ Marian told him. ‘Would you like me to call the doctor?’

He shook his head, and kissing him gently on the cheek, Marian went to take off her coat.

‘How did you get on with Dorothy?’ Madeleine called from the bathroom.

Marian pushed open the door and went to perch on the edge of the lavatory. ‘She was OK about it. Apparently the schedule’s changed anyway, so nothing’s happening today. How are you feeling now?’

Madeleine shrugged. ‘How do you think? Like nothing in the world’s ever going to go right for me. And now, having seen Matthew Cornwall . . .’ She sighed. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so fucking handsome. God, I really missed out there. I mean, next to him even Paul . . . Do you think I’ve really blown my chances?’

‘I think so,’ Marian had to admit. ‘Besides, looks aren’t everything, he might be a real bastard for all we know. Or happily married.’

Madeleine lifted a long leg from the soapy water and inspected it closely. ‘Don’t think I’m putting on weight, do you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Marian answered. Then as Madeleine checked out the other leg, she said, ‘Maddy, we’ve got to talk about money.’

‘Ugh,’ Madeleine groaned, and disappeared under the water.

Marian waited for her to resurface. ‘Do you think you might be able to go in to work a few more nights a week?’ she asked. ‘It’s only that I think we’re in a worse mess than I realised.’

‘And if we are, whose fault is that?’

‘Mine. And yours.’

‘So what about you? What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll have to sign on with a couple more agencies, I suppose, and maybe see if I can get a part-time job in one of the department stores. The bank have taken my cheque card and asked me not to write any more cheques until the overdraft’s clear.’

There was a swish of water as Madeleine sat up. ‘You’re not serious. When did that happen?’

‘Last week some time,’ Marian answered dismissively. ‘How much money have you got?’

‘None in the bank. All I’ve got is in my purse.’

‘Well, when you’ve finished in here we’d better sit down and go through everything and find out just how we stand.’

‘What about Paul?’

‘I think he’s got flu. Besides, I’ve got his money.’

‘How wifely! Hand me the towel, and if we can afford it I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’

Their predicament was even worse than Marian had feared. Their combined resources amounted to little more than a hundred pounds which, not counting her loan, was eleven hundred pounds short of what they needed to pay off their bills.

‘We don’t have to pay the credit cards all in one go,’ Madeleine said. ‘We can pay them monthly.’

‘Yes, but what about the gas and electricity? We’ve had the red notice for both, so we’ll have to pay now, and I’ve promised Mr Biggs we’ll pay him at the end of the week. Then there’s food, what do we do about that? And the rent’s due next week.’

‘Oh God,’ Madeleine groaned, ‘we’re going to end up on the streets at this rate. There’s only one answer.’ She looked at Marian, but seeing the look in her eye, Marian shook her head.

‘No. I can’t ask Mum again. It’s not fair. We’ve spent practically all she’s got already.’

‘Well what else can we do?’

‘I don’t know.’

The next three weeks were a nightmare. Marian went to the South Western Electricity Board and arranged to pay their bill in instalments. Madeleine did the same at the Gas Board. They ignored the rent demand, avoided Mr Biggs, and sent off ten pounds to each of the credit card companies. Though she didn’t tell the others, Marian continued to fill in the football pools, sending off her money by postal order in the now almost vain hope that a miracle might occur.

It was over a week before Paul recovered from his flu, then Marian went down with it. By the time she was better Madeleine had caught it, so what little income they had was greatly reduced by their inability to work. Marian was unable to sleep at night, and knowing that she had already failed to meet her first repayment on the loan turned her cold with terror.

In the end she knew she had to tell someone about it. For a whole day she agonised over whether it should be Madeleine or Paul, but the decision was made for her when Paul came back from the post office and found her crying.

‘There’s nothing else for it,’ he said when she told him, ‘I’ll have to get a job.’

‘But what about your writing?’

‘It’ll have to wait. No,’ he said, when she started to protest, ‘you took the loan for me, and therefore it should be me who pays it back. Besides, I’ve been living off you long enough.’

‘That’s not true!’ she cried. ‘You give me your dole money every week, which is usually twice what I earn.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ll get a job.’ He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tightly. ‘You are an idiot,’ he said, ‘getting yourself into this mess for me. But I love you. And as soon as we get that Madeleine out of the bedroom and back on her feet, I’m going to prove it.’

‘One hundred thousand pounds,’ Marian repeated, trying her hardest to inject some cheer into her voice.

Madeleine raised two fringes of heavily mascaraed lashes and treated Marian to all the scorn her violet eyes could muster. ‘Shut up!’ she seethed, then turned away and started to rub a circle into the steamy café window. Outside in Broadmead, shoppers hurried past, stooping under wind-blown umbrellas and heaving heavy bags from one arm to the other.

Marian watched anxiously as Madeleine’s face, still pale from her bout of flu, stiffened with contempt. It was clear that this time their childhood game wasn’t going to work.

She gazed about the damp, overcrowded café. Several men were glancing in Madeleine’s direction, but Madeleine was too depressed to notice.

She turned back as Madeleine started to tap her spoon against the sugar bowl. ‘Money, money, money!’ she cried, pushing her face towards Marian’s. ‘It’s no wonder we’re sitting here like fucking down and outs when we’ve got nothing. Oh, don’t look at me like that, those silly little eyes of yours get on my nerves.’

‘Anything else?’

Madeleine looked up to see the waiter with his pen poised over a notepad, but as she started to shake her head, Marian interrupted.

‘I’d like another coffee, please.’

Before he went away, the waiter cleared their used cups and ran a wet towel over the plastic tablecloth. Madeleine waited, glaring at Marian, but Marian was looking out of the window.

‘What the bloody hell’s the matter with you?’ Madeleine exploded, once the waiter had gone. ‘You know damned well we haven’t got the money to pay for it.’

‘But we can’t sit here with nothing or they’ll throw us out, and it’s raining outside. And Paul’s not back yet.’

‘Marian,’ she raged, ‘we counted this up to the penny. One meal between us and a coffee each. It comes to five pounds exactly, which is all we’ve got. Where do you suppose we’re going to get the other eighty pence from?’ When Marian didn’t answer, Madeleine snatched up her bag and stood up. ‘I’m leaving,’ she snapped. ‘Sort it out yourself.’

‘Maddy, sit down.’

‘Then cancel the coffee.’

Marian looked down at her hands, cupped round the plastic salt and pepper pots. ‘There’s no point,’ she said quietly. ‘We can’t afford to pay for the meal anyway, so one more coffee won’t make a lot of difference.’

Madeleine moved slowly back into her chair. ‘You bought it, didn’t you?’ she hissed. ‘You fucking well bought it!’

Dumbly, Marian nodded.

‘You stupid cow!’ Marian winced, but Madeleine went on. ‘Our phone’s been cut off, we can’t pay the rent, we’ve got bills up to our eyes, we can’t even afford to eat, and you go and blow our last five pounds on a fucking lottery ticket!’

Marian looked up. ‘I might win,’ she said with a ridiculously optimistic smile.

Madeleine shot forward, but Marian jerked herself away and Madeleine’s hand grabbed at thin air. ‘Win!’ she sneered. ‘When have you ever won? All your life you’ve been a loser, so what the hell makes you think you’re going to win now?’

Marian’s eyes filled with tears. Their predicament was now so bad that she no longer knew which way to turn. Buying the lottery ticket had been a gesture of defiance that had given her only a moment’s pleasure, and now she regretted it bitterly.

Madeleine expelled her irritation in a loud sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Come on, don’t cry. We’re in this together. And besides, you know I didn’t mean it.’

‘Didn’t mean what?’

Neither of them had seen Paul come in. He was standing over them, his blond hair dripping rain onto the collar of his jacket and his black brows drawn together in a frown. Madeleine’s heart turned over as he smiled and tucked Marian’s mousey hair behind her ear. Then noticing the tears, he sat down quickly.

‘How did it go?’ Marian asked, before he could ask why she was crying.

He shrugged and used a paper napkin to wipe the rain from his face. ‘The secretary couldn’t find the script, and my money ran out before she came back to the phone.’ His voice was light, but Marian knew how disappointed he was. It had been over two months since he’d taken his manuscript to London, and still there was no word. She started to speak but he put his finger on her lips and shook his head. ‘So now my last pennies have gone on a fruitless telephone call,’ he sighed, ‘I’m what you might call brassic. How about you two? Any chance of a coffee?’

‘Marian has spent our money on a lottery ticket,’ Madeleine spat.

Marian tensed, praying Paul wouldn’t be angry with her too. But he smiled and held his hand out for hers. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ he chuckled, and her face glowed her adoration as he leaned over to whisper in her ear.

Madeleine wanted to scream, and as Marian’s face turned as red as the tablecloth she sprang to her feet, hugging her bag to her chest. ‘Well, while you two sit there behaving as if you haven’t got a care in the world, I’m going to sort out this bill. And you, Marian Deacon, are off to Devon tomorrow to beg some money from your mother.’

Instantly Marian’s glow was swallowed into the greedy throat of misery. ‘But what about the rail fare?’ she protested feebly.

‘Write a cheque and say you’ve lost your card. And don’t come back until . . .’

Marian had turned back to Paul. ‘I can use the phone there!’ she cried. ‘I’ll call the publisher, try and sort out what’s happened.’

On a snort of disgust, Madeleine stalked off across the café. From the corner of his eye Paul watched her go, knowing exactly how she was going to get out of paying the bill. He wondered if the owner would be content with just looking at those magnificent breasts.