– 10 –

The small suite of offices, just off Dean Street in Soho, was normally buzzing with activity. Messengers came and went, together with editors, make-up artists, costume designers and actors. Marian met them all, since they had to come to her office first, where she sat at her desk sorting the mail, operating the fax machines and the photocopier, and attempting to master a word processor Stephanie had had installed just after her arrival. Every telephone call came through Marian, too, and she fielded them out to Stephanie, who was in the office upstairs, and Matthew if he was there. Stephanie’s partner, Bronwen Evans, was in America at present so Marian hadn’t met her yet, but she had spoken to her on the phone. Bronwen’s was one of the very few friendly voices she’d heard in the four weeks since Stephanie had driven to Bristol to collect her and her worldly possessions – which hadn’t amounted to much – and brought her up to London.

She couldn’t get used to the way people had so little time for one another, and avoided each other’s eyes in the street as they rushed about their business. The Underground was nothing short of a nightmare to her, so she took the number fourteen bus to work, passing Harrods, the Ritz and Piccadilly Circus – that, and the bright theatre lights of Shaftesbury Avenue, was all she’d seen of London so far. She travelled alone and spent her evenings alone. Stephanie’s flat in Chelsea was small, but as Stephanie was so rarely there it didn’t matter – however, Marian longed for company. She missed Madeleine more as time went on, and any thought of Paul inflamed the hurt so badly that all she wanted was to hide from the world in an effort to shield herself from any more pain. Her self-confidence was now even lower than it had been before she met him, and though she tried hard to fight her feelings of inadequacy, each time she looked in the mirror the same pallid, stricken expression seemed to haunt her face, mocking her with the evidence of her rejection. That he could have effected such a transformation in her, first with his love and then with his treachery, made her heart cry out for a reason why he should have done it. She called her mother on the pretence of telling her about the actors she’d met, but really to find out if Madeleine had been in touch. But every time her mother said the same thing: ‘Our Madeleine still hasn’t rung me, dear. What’s she up to? Has she got a job yet?’ Marian’s replies were always vague. Her mother thought they had gone to London together.

As she thought about her mother now, Marian’s eyes dropped sightlessly to her sandwiches. Then suddenly her throat was so choked with misery that she knew she couldn’t eat. She threw her lunch in the bin and turned again to the newspaper. Thank God her mother didn’t get The Sun, it would break her heart to see Madeleine displaying herself like that; but Marian knew it was only a matter of time before some obliging neighbour pointed it out. It was the second time Madeleine’s picture had appeared; she’d been in last Tuesday’s edition as well.

‘Isn’t that your cousin?’ Woody had said, laying the paper out on her desk. He’d been passing the office on his way to the bank and had popped in for a coffee.

Even before she looked at the paper Marian froze with apprehension. Of course it would be Madeleine, hadn’t this always been her ambition? But when she saw the face smiling up at her, she frowned. ‘No. Well, yes. I mean, it looks like her. But . . .’

‘Madeleine? That is her name, isn’t it?’ Woody’s finger was pointing at the square-inch of print attached to the picture.

‘You should know.’

They both looked up as Matthew wandered into the office, and Marian’s cheeks turned crimson. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, and Marian couldn’t make out whether it was because he hadn’t shaved that his face looked so dark, or because he was in a bad humour. His brown eyes surveyed the two of them lazily and he rested an elbow on the corner of the filing cabinet beside him. It was always the same when he came into the office – his presence was so overwhelming that her tongue seemed to twist itself into a knot, her blood either left her face completely or rushed to it with unprecedented vigour, and the palms of her hands became embarrassingly damp. If he spoke to her, which was rare, her lungs flatly refused to take breath and her brain simply upped and died. She wondered if it was his looks that made her react as she did, yet Paul had been handsome and she’d never, not even in the early days, been so overawed by him. But then Paul wasn’t as fierce as Matthew.

‘Afternoon, guvnor,’ Woody said wryly.

Marian watched as Matthew’s face broke slowly into a grin, and though she vehemently disliked him she was forced to admit that the journalist who’d written about him in Screen International the week before might have had a point when she’d described him as devastating. Even Paul’s smile wasn’t as attractive as Matthew’s. ‘Have you still got my script for the Bristol film?’ he asked Woody. ‘Or have you thrown it away?’

‘Thrown it away!’ Woody repeated, aghast. ‘Guvnor, would I do such a thing?’

Matthew’s ironic expression made Marian giggle. ‘Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind sending it over to De Lane Lea where Trevor’s struggling with the rough cut.’

‘Will do.’

Matthew was already half out of the door when he suddenly turned back. ‘By the way, I’m shooting a BMW commercial in Scotland next week, have the production company been on to you yet?’

Woody shook his head. ‘But I can’t do it, guvnor, I’m going on holiday next Friday.’

‘Go on Saturday.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Woody saluted, when he’d gone. Then turning to Marian he grumbled, ‘If he’d only say please.’

‘Does he ever?’ Marian asked, dolefully aware that, as usual, Matthew hadn’t uttered a single word to her.

‘No, he’s usually too busy. Now, where were we? Ah yes, your delectable cousin. I’m telling you that is her.’

Marian nodded. ‘It’s just that she looks sort of different. Maybe it’s the make-up.’

Woody pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and looked down at the page. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he wouldn’t mind having another little session with Madeleine Deacon, when he realised that it probably wasn’t quite the right thing to say to Marian. ‘Anyway,’ he said instead, ‘at least you’ve got some idea where she is now. Give the paper a ring, see if they can help.’

But when she’d phoned, the man at the other end had explained that he couldn’t give out details about the models – though he had agreed to pass on a message. Marian had left both her home and office phone numbers, but a week had gone by and Madeleine still hadn’t called.

Now her picture was back in the paper, and having hit a lull in the day, Marian toyed with the idea of calling the man at the newspaper again. She was halfway through dialling when she suddenly hung up. She was afraid of annoying the man and simply couldn’t face someone else being unkind. But no one’s being unkind, a little voice told her. It’s you, you’re a coward. She tried to ignore it, but the voice persisted. Do something brave for once, pick up the phone. No. I won’t do it because I know Madeleine doesn’t want to see me. Maybe not, but you’re still a coward – just look at the way Matthew treats you and you never stand up to him. How can I stand up to someone like him? He’s a director, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Matthew Cornwall’s the least of my problems. Is he? Yes. Then why do you mind so much that he ignores you? I don’t. Oh yes, you do, so why don’t you pull yourself together and show him just what you’re made of? Which is? Mettle. I’ve never had mettle in my life. You’ve always had mettle, now use it. How? You could start by being honest with yourself. What about? No, don’t answer that, this argument was supposed to be about Madeleine. There you go, running away again. Life moves on, Marian, stop fighting it.

‘I wish I could,’ she said aloud, pressing her fists onto the desk. But her life had changed so dramatically and so bewilderingly over the past few weeks that taking refuge inside herself had seemed the safest and most natural thing to do. Lately, however, her subconscious had been troubling her a lot, urging her to face things she was afraid of, questioning her excuses for weakness, and ultimately demanding an existence for a person she hardly recognised as herself. Take the other day, for instance, when she’d made Stephanie howl with laughter at her impersonation of Woody. Afterwards she could hardly believe she’d done it; she’d had no idea she had such a talent for mimicry, and displaying it in public like that had astonished her even more than it had Stephanie. But she couldn’t deny the thrill she had got out of seeing Stephanie laugh. She adored Stephanie, not only because of what she’d done for her, but because when Stephanie was around she didn’t worry about what other people thought of her.

A light flashed on the panel in front of her, and she lifted the receiver to take an incoming call.

‘Marian? It’s Bronwen. How you doing, cariad?’

‘Bronwen!’ Marian was suddenly animated. ‘I’m fine. How are you? Are you back in New York?’

‘No, I’m still at Bennington College, up in Vermont. I shall be flying back to Manhattan tonight.’

‘I’ve got lots of messages for you.’

‘Fire away. And then I’ve got some news for you.’

It took several minutes for Marian to read all the messages out, which she did slowly, in order that Bronwen could write down the telephone numbers she passed on. As she came to the end of her list she laughed at Bronwen’s weary groan. ‘Nearly there,’ she said. ‘Your husband called late yesterday, he said to tell you he’s at your house in Wales . . . Oh, you’ve spoken to him. OK. I’ve been round to your flat and picked up the mail . . . Stephanie’s got it, and she wants to speak to you urgently.’

‘OK, cariad, put me through. I’ll come back to you after.’

‘She’s not here at the moment, but I can . . .’

‘Any idea what it’s about?’

‘Matthew wants a full rewrite of the Disappearance screenplay.’

‘Don’t we all. Has he spoken to Deborah Foreman? She’s the writer, not me.’

‘I don’t think so. I think the general idea is that you should speak to her because you’re in New York.’

‘Well, lucky old me,’ Bronwen said dryly. ‘Will I be doing this by telepathy, or is Matthew going to call me?’

‘He’s shooting a commercial this week, so he’ll be flying to Scotland tomorrow. But he’s at home this afternoon. The only thing is, Stephanie says she wants to talk to you before he does.’

‘Does she now? That can only mean that Matthew’s being every bit as demanding as his reputation says he is. I think it’s going to prove rather interesting working with Mr Cornwall, don’t you? Anyway, instead of me spending hours on transatlantic telephone calls, get them to dictate whatever wit and perspicacity they’ve come up with to you, and then you can bring it over when you come.’

Marian blinked. ‘Come?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some help out here with the research. There’s no point in me asking Deborah Foreman, she’s in cahoots with the Hastings – and like Stephanie I’m convinced they’re all hiding something about Olivia and I’m determined to find out what it is. Of course, whether we can use it in the film is a different matter, seeing that Frank Hastings is providing all the money. He and his wife are in Florida now, so you won’t get to meet them, but you’ll fall in love with them when you do. Everyone does. Anyway, remind that Stephanie that you’re my secretary as well as hers, and right now my need is greater. Can you fly out tomorrow? No, perhaps that’s too soon for you. Come the next day. Ring me with your flight times and I’ll meet you at JFK. And bring some warm clothes, it’s freezing in New York. I’ll have to rush now to get my flight. See you on Thursday cariad.’

Once Bronwen had rung off, Marian gazed round the office and was slightly startled to find that it looked the same: rain on the windows, a filing drawer half-open, her sandwiches in the bin where she’d thrown them a year ago – at least, that was what it felt like. She gulped as a sudden shout of excitement threatened to burst from her lips. New York! Tomorrow! She was going to take a plane to the United States of America and when she got there . . . It was all too much to take in, so she picked up the phone and called Stephanie.

Stephanie replaced the receiver and shouted: ‘That was Marian. Bronwen’s telephoned.’ When there was no response she opened the bathroom door. ‘I said . . .’

‘I heard.’ Matthew was towelling his hair.

Stephanie leaned against the door and watched him. ‘She wants Marian to fly out to New York.’

‘Does she?’ He dropped the towel and picked up a comb from the washbasin. Then catching her reflection in the mirror, he grinned. ‘What are you looking at, Stephanie Ryder?’

‘Your legs, actually.’

He turned round and pulled her into his arms. The hard masculinity of his body never failed to trigger a response in her, and with a somewhat crooked smile she relaxed against him and lifted her mouth for a kiss. They were at his flat in Chiswick where she had all but lived for the past six weeks. Since the day after she’d walked out on him in Bristol she had known it was pointless to continue deluding herself, so she had waited until he returned to London and then set about seducing him – as he put it. In fact she had driven round to his flat, knocked on his door, and when he answered she had told him she loved him.

‘Then you’d better come in,’ he’d said.

She would never forget that night and the tenderness with which he made love to her. It was as if he had been trying to soothe away all the pain he had caused her. Nor would she forget the roses he had sent the following day, nor the way his door was already open when she arrived in the evening. She had walked in and found him sitting on the sofa reading the paper, a bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table, a toothbrush on the seat beside him. He had looked at his Watch and with that hateful, adorable irony of his he had told her she was late – then carried on reading the paper.

Her happiness was so visible that whenever she looked in the mirror she felt like an old painting that had been lovingly restored. Sometimes she felt so filled with love that no matter where they were or what they were doing, she had to tell him, and he’d laugh and fold her into his arms. Now that there was no longer any pretence between them, it was as if the pain and separation of the past six years had never happened.

At last he released her from his embrace, and looking down into her face he murmured, ‘I love you, Steph.’

Her heart skipped a beat, and she knew that as long as she lived she would never tire of hearing him say that. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘But if we carry on like this we’ll be back in the bedroom, and we’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon.’

By the time he joined her in the sitting-room she had made some coffee and was jotting notes onto the second draft of the script. This was the part of their relationship she was proudest of – the way they could be making love one minute, then debating the script the next. On the agenda that day was casting, and though they weren’t making much headway, the most important, and therefore the most difficult hurdle had been eliminated. The signing-up of Eleanora Braey to play Olivia had been quite a coup: the Oscar she had won for her last movie had come after two successive years of nominations for best supporting actress.

As they ploughed through Spotlight, making lists they would eventually hand over to the casting director, Stephanie sensed that Matthew’s concentration was waning.

‘I’m thinking about the overall interpretation,’ he answered, when she challenged him. ‘OK, so Eleanora Braey knew Olivia; it helps, obviously. But I didn’t – don’t. God, I don’t even know whether to refer to her in the past or present tense. All we know is that for a year or so she was a celebrity in New York. Why? I mean, Jewish American princesses are two a penny in that town, so what was so special about Olivia? She didn’t act or sing or model or write, in fact, as far as I can make out she didn’t work at all.’

‘She was an artist. A successful artist.’

Matthew looked at her from the corner of his eye. ‘Did Daddy orchestrate the success?’

Stephanie shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘Somebody must.’

‘Is it relevant?’

‘Stephanie.’

‘All right, all right, I know. Everything’s relevant. And something’s being hidden. But what? I wonder how Bronwen’s getting on. She’ll be back at the Dorset tomorrow, I’ll . . .’ She stopped as the phone rang and Matthew got up to answer it.

For several minutes he said nothing, only listened, and Stephanie turned to a photograph of Olivia. She’d studied the picture over a hundred times, yet still it chilled her. The delicate oval face was beautiful beyond description, but there was a callousness about it that had made Stephanie’s blood run cold the first time she’d seen it. Olivia had been only twenty-two when the photograph was taken, but there was an air of worldliness about her that belonged to a woman twice her age. Sometimes, looking at it, Stephanie got the impression that the girl was mocking her, or tantalising her, or sneering at her. She’d never admitted this to anyone, but she knew Bronwen felt the same. ‘I hate her,’ Bronwen had said once. ‘I hate her because she hates me.’

Why? Stephanie asked herself. Why should a girl so young, with so much going for her, seem so filled with malevolence? And where was she now? What had happened to her?

She looked up as Matthew started to speak. ‘OK, I’ll look into it,’ he said. ‘No, don’t do that . . . Tell her . . . Will you listen for a moment? Now look here . . .’ The line went dead, but he held the receiver for several seconds before replacing it. When he turned round his face was strained, and Stephanie could see he was angry.

He expelled a deep sigh and combed his fingers through his hair. ‘My daughter,’ he said. ‘Apparently the maintenance money hasn’t arrived this month and Kath . . . her mother’s having a blue fit.’ He walked over to the sofa and sat down. ‘Now, where were we?’

Stephanie gave him a long look before answering. Then deciding that he really did want to change the subject, she said, ‘Hypothesising. Theorising. Whatever you want to call it. Perhaps we should call a halt for now, at least until I’ve spoken to Bronwen. By the way, she wants us to dictate our “wit and perspicacity” to Marian so Marian can take it over to the States with her.’

‘Where’s that note Hastings received?’ He foraged around on the table, then picking up a crumpled scrap of paper he read aloud: ‘“Mr Hastings, your daughter was not dead, I know. Please find her. A.”’ He looked up. ‘Was not dead. Does that mean she is now? And who is “A”? I suppose Hastings is convinced it’s not a hoax?’

‘No. How can he be?’

Matthew shook his head, then buried his face in his hands. ‘Shit! I can’t even begin to imagine what the man’s going through. His only daughter. His only child. I’d be out of my mind if it were Samantha.’

Stephanie sat forward and began gently to massage his shoulders. ‘You miss her, don’t you. When did you last see her?’

‘Over a month ago.’ He slammed his fist on the table. ‘She’s as bitter as Kathleen, godammit! And Kathleen’s doing everything she can to make it worse.’

‘What about your son?’

‘He’s at university, isn’t he? Well out of it. Still, at least he keeps in touch. God, what a mess.’ There was a long, simmering silence before he finally turned to face her. He took her hands in his, and seeing the grave expression in his eyes, her heart faltered. ‘Steph, there’s something I have to tell you,’ he said quietly, and it was as if the blood in her veins had turned to powder. ‘Kathleen knows I’m back with you. Don’t ask me how she found out, but she has. I hope to God there won’t be another scene like the last one, but . . . Well, you know Kathleen. But whatever she does or says, I want you to know that it’s over between her and me. It was over six years ago, when I met you.’

Stephanie closed her eyes as relief washed over her, calming her heart to a steady rhythm. She had thought he was about to tell her that he was going back to his wife. Dear God, was she always going to live in such terror of losing him again?

‘Do you think you can handle it?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if she does try one of her stunts?’

Stephanie laughed. ‘For you, Matthew, I could handle anything – even Kathleen.’

He grinned. ‘How about this script?’

‘Ah, well, that’s another matter altogether. When I speak to Bronwen I’ll get her to bring Deborah Foreman back to London with her when she comes.’

Matthew pulled a face.

‘I’m sorry, Matthew,’ she chuckled. ‘Frank wants Deborah on the film, and that’s that!’

‘It must be good to be Frank, calling all the shots,’ he snapped. ‘But what does he know about making a film? Give him the credit as an executive producer, why not, but can’t he leave the rest to the experts?’

Stephanie didn’t answer. They’d gone over this a hundred times before.

‘The woman can’t write,’ Matthew went on, ‘at least, not screenplays.’

‘Bronwen will see to it. Between us we’ll make it work.’

‘I hope you’re right, because we sure as hell can’t shoot a line of what’s there right now. There’s no structure, no depth, not even any imagination.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, Trevor’s expecting me at four, he wants to show me a rough cut of the Bristol film.’

She started to gather up the Spotlights and script. ‘Back for dinner?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got an executive meeting about the title of the Bristol film. It’ll take half the night if I know Richard Collins. Producers, they’re the bane of my life.’

‘I thought it was writers,’ she said wryly.

‘Don’t remind me,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, I should be back around midnight. Will you be here?’

‘No. I’d better dictate our “wit and perspicacity” to Marian, and then I think I’ll take her out somewhere.’

‘Marian?’

‘You know who she is.’

‘Oh, you mean my rival for your attentions. Well, have a good time. Pick me up at six in the morning?’

‘What time’s your flight?’

‘Eight.’

‘I’ll pick you up at half-past six.’

After he’d gone, Stephanie called Marian. She sounded so pleased at the prospect of spending an evening with Stephanie, even if they would be working for the best part of it, that Stephanie immediately felt guilty. From her point of view, bringing Marian to London had been one of her better ideas – she was a good secretary, the best she’d ever had. But it was obvious to anyone who knew her that Marian was lonely. Still, loneliness happened to most people when they first arrived in London, and Marian would find her feet soon enough.

She was still thinking about Marian as she crawled through the traffic on her way to the West End. Marian had been the cause of the one row she and Matthew had had since their reunion. He’d walked out of the office when Marian had shown him a picture of her cousin in the newspaper, and Stephanie, watching Marian’s uncertainty turn to hurt and embarrassment, was angry with Matthew that he could be so dismissive of someone who meant so much to Marian. When she confronted him about it later he was furious.

‘You’re surely not expecting me to drool over some pornographic picture of one of her family? No, don’t lay it all on me again, I already know: her heart’s been broken. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s got to treat her as if she’s got a terminal illness, or that you have to keep leaping to her defence. Jesus, don’t you think I get enough of this from Kathleen and Samantha?’

‘But Marian’s tried everything to be friends with you, and all you do is ignore her. And yes, I do always leap to her defence and I always will, because you’re unreasonable where that girl is concerned, Matthew, unreasonable and cruel. I just hope you don’t treat your daughter in the same way.’

‘I’m absolutely hopeless with gadgets,’ Bronwen was saying in her husky, melodic Welsh voice, ‘and people don’t always take too kindly to you writing things down as they talk, especially not under these sort of circumstances; that’s the main reason I wanted you here. You know, two heads and all that. Between us we should remember everything – well, the salient points, anyway.’

It was just after four o’clock in the afternoon. The rain was beating down and the dank, dull mist Marian had seen from the plane as it circled New York was thickening to a fog. She shivered. Three times they had asked the driver of the yellow taxi to wind up his window, but to no avail – the man hardly spoke a word of English.

Bronwen had met her at the airport, recognising her from the photograph Stephanie had faxed over; Marian knew she’d have recognised Bronwen, no matter what, because Bronwen, with her long, jet-black bob, unruly fringe, and slim, animated hands, Was exactly as Marian had imagined her. Apart from the rosy Stain on each of her high cheek-bones, her skin was pale, and she wore no make-up on either her lips or her eyes. She was as tall as Stephanie, and just as glamorous, but there the resemblance ended. Whereas Stephanie’s manner – at least outwardly – was relaxed, dignified, almost aloof, Bronwen’s warmth, zest and garrulous friendliness gave her the air of a mischievous, fun-loving scatterbrain.

‘God, this traffic’s terrible,’ she complained as they crawled along the Van Wycke Expressway on their way into Manhattan. ‘Now, you haven’t told me, how was your flight? Is this the first time you’ve flown alone? You’re from the West Country, aren’t you? Beautiful part of the world. How are you finding London? As miserable as this, I’ll bet. God, I loathe London when it’s cold.’

Marian laughed. ‘Yes, it’s cold,’ and experiencing a surge of spontaneous affection, she added, ‘And yes to everything else.’

‘Oh, very rash,’ Bronwen teased. ‘Have you got Stephanie’s notes?’

‘Yes. And Matthew’s. But he dictated them into a tape recorder while Stephanie was driving him to the airport, and I can hardly hear a thing.’

‘I’m sure we’ll manage between us, if not we’ll make it up. You know, you’re much prettier than your photograph let on, it suits you with your hair in a pony tail.’

Marian blushed. ‘That’s what Stephanie said.’

‘Me, I look like a clown if my hair’s not covering my face. Especially with the way my ears stick out. My husband calls me jug, you know.’

Marian burst out laughing, and had to check a sudden impulse to let her euphoria boil over into an embarrassing and unnecessary compliment.

Giggling, Bronwen opened her diary. ‘This is what I’ve arranged so far for the weekend. You don’t mind working the weekend, do you?’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Good girl. We’ll put you to bed early tonight, get you over your jet lag, then tomorrow we’ll sort out the mess Matthew’s given us. It must be wonderful being a director, don’t you think? Speak, and we minions shall obey. Now tomorrow night I’ve booked us into one of my favourite restaurants, down in the Village. We’ll have a drop of wine and a long chat about you. I want to hear all about that bastard who walked out on you. It sounds to me like . . . Oh, cariad, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it still hurt,’ she gasped, as Marian’s face paled. ‘Oh, me and my mouth, running on like that. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Marian chuckled. ‘It was just a bit unexpected, that’s all. I didn’t know Stephanie had told you. Not that I mind, but I try not to think about him, you see.’

‘Very wise too. So we won’t talk about him, we’ll talk about that Matthew and Stephanie. Is the honeymoon still going on?’

‘Oh yes,’ Marian answered, shocked as well as flattered by Bronwen’s frankness.

‘It’s great, isn’t it? While we’re over here working our butts off, they moon about making eyes at one another. But tell me about Steph, does she seem happy? She’s been in love with that man ever since I’ve known her, you know. Never been anyone else, at least, not that I know of. Trouble is, being a career woman you tend to neglect your love life. Good job I got married first, I always say, or I’d be a spinster, I’m sure of it. And there’s me, forty next month. No kids, though, didn’t have the time.’

‘Do you mind?’ Marian asked.

‘Yes, I do a bit.’

‘But surely it’s not too late.’

‘No, not yet. Maybe when this film’s over.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘That’s what I always Say, but then the next film comes up and before I know it another year’s gone by.’

‘What about your husband? Does he mind you working so much?’

‘Oh, heavens no. He’s a writer, and you know what they’re like. Want to be left alone. Suits him perfectly, me not being around too often. To be honest, I think I drive him nuts. Now, where were we? That’s right, going for dinner tomorrow night. Then on Sunday I thought I’d take you for brunch at Tavern on the Green. You’ll see all the rich Americans there, oh, are some of them ghastly! Jewels and limousines like you’ve never seen before in your life. And caked make-up you could plant trees in. Deborah Foreman will be coming too, so you can meet her. Crabby old cow, she is, but don’t tell her I said so. Then on Monday I’ve managed to get us an appointment with Rubin Meyer. He’s the guy who runs the art gallery where Olivia’s paintings were exhibited. He’s been refusing to see me, but Frank Hastings called him from Florida and told him it would be all right. Now what do you make of that? Ah, here we are at last. This is Fifth Avenue we’re crossing now, you know, where all the smart shops are. See there, there’s Gucci, and if you turn back, look down there on the left, there’s Tiffany. Oh, you missed it, never mind, it won’t go away.’

As the taxi came to a halt outside the hotel, a man in green livery shot forward with an umbrella and opened the door.

‘Hi, Tony,’ Bronwen said as she clambered from the car. ‘This is Marian. It’s her first time in New York so I want you to look after her.’

‘Sure thing,’ the man grinned. He waited while Bronwen paid the fare and refused to give a tip.

‘For someone who can’t speak English, that’s the best Anglo-Saxon I’ve heard in a long time,’ she chuckled, as the driver pulled away. ‘Now come along, Marian, let me introduce you to the Dorset Hotel. They’ve turfed some poor unsuspecting bugger out of his room so that you can be next to me, isn’t that obliging?’

Marian nodded, laughing as she tried to imagine anyone not obliging Bronwen.

Her near silence in the taxi had not only been because it was difficult to get a word in with Bronwen, but because she was still too dazzled by being actually in New York! Having hardly had time to get used to London, she was now slap bang in the middle of a city exploding with life – the people, the traffic, the sky-scrapers were faster, louder and higher than she could ever have imagined. It was almost surreal; she felt as though she was being swept along on a current of almost unbearable excitement, and she was about to ask if they might go out despite the rain, when Bronwen suggested it herself.

‘We’ll just pop up and look at your room, make sure there’s nothing lurking in the bath, then you can have a quick freshen up and we’ll wander up to the Plaza and have some tea in the Palm Court, or whatever they call it. You can stuff yourself silly with wonderful gooey cakes, drink orange tea and listen to the string quartet. It’s just like being at the Ritz, just as American.’

Half an hour later they were being shown to a table, and Marian was trying very hard not to be overwhelmed by her exotic surroundings. She even pinched herself to check she wasn’t dreaming, because although she had seen places like this on TV and at the cinema, she had never imagined that one day she would actually be there herself. What on earth would Madeleine say if she could see her? The sudden, unbidden thought fell like a cloud over her exuberance and she glanced about her, horribly aware of how shabby she must seem amongst such splendour.

Stop it, that little voice inside told her. You weren’t supposed to bring your old self with you, and it’s only thinking of Madeleine that’s making you feel like this. This is your life now, and though you might not be as rich or as chic as some of the people here, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.

‘Now, what are we going to have?’ Bronwen said, perusing the menu. Suddenly she reached across the table and squeezed Marian’s hand. ‘Oh, you don’t know how good it is to have some company, cariad.’ Then she laughed as Marian’s face turned pink with pleasure.

Marian was too excited to eat more than a cucumber sandwich, but Bronwen was nowhere near so reticent. She had a generous helping of chocolate gateau, and a bowl of trifle to follow.

‘Don’t you ever put on weight?’ Marian asked, hardly able to believe anyone could eat so much.

‘You’re kidding. I’ve always been this thin. High metabolism, I suppose. My mother always used to say . . . oh, speaking of mothers, I can’t wait for you to meet Grace Hastings – Olivia’s mother. She’s a dream. It won’t be on this trip, though, I’m afraid, because they’re in Florida; I think I told you. But next time.’

A few minutes later Marian asked, ‘If the Hastings are hiding something about Olivia, why do you think they want to have a film made about her?’

Bronwen shrugged. ‘Baffling, isn’t it? But I promise you there’s something very peculiar going on. Nobody will talk unless Frank Hastings tells them it’s all right – not even the police. He’s a really powerful man, Frank, you only have to meet him once to know it – it sort of oozes out of him.’

‘What does he do?’

‘What doesn’t he do would be easier to answer. Banking mainly. Actually, he’s not bad looking for someone his age; nor is his wife, come to that. Olivia’s inherited the best of both of them. Have you seen the photographs of her?’

Marian nodded.

‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Well, yes,’ Marian answered hesitantly.

‘Oh, you too. They give Stephanie the willies, but she won’t admit it. They do me, too.’

‘I thought maybe they were just bad shots.’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘No, they’re all like that. It doesn’t matter whether she’s smiling or serious. Grace didn’t want to hand them over at first, I think she only did in the end because she knew I’d dig them up from newspapers anyway. And that was a funny thing, because when I did go through the papers I found that all the pictures used during the time she disappeared were at least two years old, despite the fact that the papers themselves must have had a whole collection of shots taken when she was at the height of her fame. She was probably the most celebrated heiress and artist in New York up until the time she disappeared. Her photo was on the covers of all the magazines, she was always in the society pages, she was courted by every eligible bachelor in town and women all over the country were copying her look. There haven’t been so many blondes in America since the days of Marilyn Monroe.’ Bronwen paused for a moment, then, as if something had just occurred to her, she went on, ‘It was uncanny, you know, the influence she seemed to have on people – especially since she was So young. She wore a certain pair of sunglasses that she’d designed herself, and some entrepreneur made a fortune out of copying them. Everyone had a T-shirt with OH! on the front, which is how she signs her paintings. Of course, all the papers exercised their usual eloquence with headlines like, OH! She’s a genius or OH! What a girl or OH! What a surprise. It was a kind of trade mark. And when she went missing there were the inevitable OH! Where is she?’s or OH! Who’s got her?’s or in the case of one paper, OH! What a con!’

‘Con?’ Marian asked.

‘That’s what it said. Saw it myself in the library. In fact it was an editorial, and would it surprise you to hear that the editor was sacked shortly afterwards?’

Marian’s eyes widened and several seconds passed before she asked, ‘What did the accompanying article say?’

‘Most of it was a bit disappointing, really. Just that her paintings weren’t brilliant at all, that it was all just a load of hype and the great American public had fallen for it. But at the end it said something about making connections and coming up with answers people in high places might not like. I’ve got a copy of it back at the hotel, you can read it yourself if you like.’

‘Yes,’ Marian answered thoughtfully. Then, ‘Isn’t this editor someone we should try to get to see?’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘He won’t speak without Frank’s permission?’

Bronwen shook her head. ‘Can’t.’ And when Marian looked puzzled, she leaned across the table and in a low, meaningful voice said, ‘He’s dead.’

A waiter came between them with the check and Marian waited while Bronwen paid, then followed her out into the street. The rain had stopped but the wind was biting cold.

‘Very convenient, don’t you think?’ Bronwen said, as she linked Marian’s arm and they started to walk the few blocks back to the hotel.

‘How did he die, do you know?’

‘Road accident, somewhere in the Bronx.’

‘But you don’t think it was an accident?’

‘As I said, it was very convenient, wasn’t it? Can’t ask a dead man questions, can you?’

Later, when Marian was lying in bed, too tired to sleep, she thought back over all Bronwen had said. Something about it bothered her, but she couldn’t seem to put a finger on exactly what it was. It was only when her eyelids finally started to droop that the answer came, but by then she had already drifted too far down the road towards sleep to consider it.

The phone woke her in the morning, startling her from a vivid nightmare in which someone in an OH! T-shirt silently chased her through Bristol. The streets were deserted, except for her and her pursuer. At first it was Paul, but when she looked back it was Matthew, and Madeleine was with him. She didn’t know why she was running away from them, but her terror was like a living thing. Her ears droned a dreadful, whining tattoo, her lungs were on fire, her eyes bulged from their sockets, and as her pursuers drew closer her legs seemed to dissolve with pain. She rolled to the ground and a car sped towards her, Olivia was driving . . . she was going to die. Her mouth swelled with huge, empty screams – and then the phone rang.

She snatched at the receiver, still too shaken to know whether it was a part of the dream, but when Stephanie’s voice came across the line, laughing and demanding to know if the jet-setter had arrived in one piece, she relaxed.

Ten minutes later Bronwen was knocking at the door. She whisked Marian off to breakfast, left her in the dining-room while she went off to make a few phone calls, then spent the rest of the day in Marian’s room trying to decipher Matthew’s instructions, and wondering how on earth she was going to come up with something that would even remotely satisfy him.

‘And what the hell’s this supposed to mean?’ she grumbled, as Marian passed her the final sheet of dictation. ‘“To get the right depth you must achieve it by degrees, always considering changing ambience, i.e., sound, colour, temperature. A patchwork portrait of a sybaritic society is not good enough. Sinister undertones would be welcome, if you think there are any. Get complete! unexpurgated! character studies of friends and colleagues.”’ Bronwen looked up. ‘Are the exclamation marks yours?’

Marian grinned. ‘It’s how he said it.’

Bronwen laughed. ‘I’d love to know what was going through Stephanie’s mind while he was dictating all this.’

‘Read on,’ Marian told her.

Bronwen did for several minutes, until she reached the bottom of the page and burst out laughing. ‘“If I didn’t love him, I’d hate him. Anyway, hope you enjoyed your lesson on how to research a story, you have my full permission to tell him to f . . . off, however I wouldn’t advise it, he bites.” Stephanie’s voice, I take it?’

Marian nodded.

Bronwen sighed. ‘Well, cariad, we’ve certainly got our work cut out trying to impress Matthew Cornwall. Still, I guess being a pedantic perfectionist is what’s got him to the top, and we lowly individuals should be grateful to be working with him.’ She pulled a sardonic face and got to her feet. ‘You know, it’s true, most people would give their eye teeth to be in our position – but I need mine, I’m famished. Let’s go and get some dinner.’

While she was in the shower Marian’s mind was overflowing with thoughts of Olivia. Though they had spent the entire day discussing her, analysing everything they knew of her, she still remained maddeningly elusive. In her notes Stephanie had said, ‘Of course, we will never come up with complete answers to this mystery, but the intention is to get as near to the truth as possible – or should I say, permissible?’ Marian took rather a dim view of such defeatism, and was certain that if they worked hard enough and delved deep enough they would inevitably find a solution to what was proving such an irresistible enigma. And now that she understood why the business of the editor had played on her mind, there was at least one part of the puzzle she might be able to solve.

She wasn’t too sure yet how to go about it, but once she’d spent some time with Bronwen and listened to what Olivia’s friends had to say, she was sure that something would occur to her. She intended to make her investigation alone, not in order to take credit from Bronwen, but – if she pulled it off – in order to try and change Matthew’s attitude toward her. Loathing him as she did, it irked her to think that she was even bothering to try and impress him – but she couldn’t bear the way he dismissed her as somebody unworthy of even so much as a civil hello. She was determined to prove that there was a great deal more to her than either of them realised. And if she didn’t get anywhere with her investigation, no one would be any the wiser and she wouldn’t have risked making a fool of herself.

As it turned out, she didn’t get an opportunity to do anything for over a week. She was with Bronwen every minute of the day, very often in the company of the sons and daughters of New York’s wealthiest and most influential families. They travelled all over Manhattan, and Marian would never forget the police car that sped past their taxi in Washington Square when they were on their way to see Rubin Meyer. It squealed to a halt almost in front of them. Then, with the siren still wailing and lights flashing, four policemen leapt out, guns clenched in their fists, and ran into a building. She would never forget it for the simple reason that she hadn’t even been alarmed by it. For her, driving round New York was like touring a movie set. Nothing seemed real, because she’d seen it so often in films. Like the steam that swirled from drains, the crisscross of rusty fire escapes on tenement buildings, and most of all the intimidating, soaring, skyscrapers. The city both exhilarated and daunted her, but not once did it frighten her.

In the evenings she and Bronwen had dinner sent up while they sat in her room typing all they could remember of the interviews they’d done that day. Rubin Meyer had told them nothing they didn’t already know. Yes, he had put on Olivia’s exhibitions. Yes, she had lived in the apartment above his gallery. No, he knew nothing about her private life except what he’d read in the press – and that you had to take with a pinch of salt. Her ex-boyfriends either refused to talk at all, saying they’d told the police all they knew at the time, or theorised wildly about what might have happened. Her friends described her variously as reckless, exciting, exotically erotic, selfish, often cruel, never vulnerable, and in one case, evil. It was that particular friend Marian went back to see, alone, the morning Matthew arrived.

They had known he was coming because he’d left a message for Bronwen the day before.

‘Oh, that’s all we need,’ she groaned when she picked it up. ‘Still, at least some sort of pattern’s beginning to emerge. But I can hear him now: “It’s a patchwork portrait of New York’s sybaritic society – it’s not good enough.” Well, it’s all we could get so he’ll just have to lump it. In any case, I think it’s all rather visual, don’t you? I mean, the locations are seedy as well as smart, the people are weird and wonderful, and those druggy-type parties she used to have in that wasteground of an apartment should make for a few good scenes.’ She sighed. ‘Not very substantial, though, is it?’

‘It would help, I suppose,’ Marian said, ‘if we had found a boyfriend, or even a girlfriend, whom she’d been more than superficially involved with.’

‘Wouldn’t it just. Of course, a lot of them know more than they’re letting on, that’s obvious, but even if we succeeded in getting anything out of them, Frank Hastings probably wouldn’t allow us to use it.’

‘How much do you think he actually knows about what went on during the two years before she disappeared?’

‘A lot more than he’s telling us. But one thing I’m pretty certain about, he doesn’t know where his daughter is now. To be honest, I don’t think any of them do.’

‘Well, couldn’t that be the story? I mean, if Deborah Foreman were to write the script in such a way that each scene ends on a kind of question mark – you know, the way our interviews have – surely it would get people thinking, if nothing else.’

‘Thinking about what?’

‘About what Olivia was really like as a person. About what might have happened during those two years. People will come up with their own conclusions, but it’ll get her talked about, and if someone does know where she is, they might be more inclined to speak up in the glare of publicity. I mean, nobody’s going to bump them off when the whole world is watching them – assuming that being bumped off is what they’re afraid of.’ She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed at exposing her ideas, though not for one minute attaching any credibility to what she was saying. To her it was all fiction, so the casual suggestion that people were afraid of being killed held no plausibility whatsoever in the real world – the real world being England.

Bronwen’s head was on one side and she was staring at Marian intently. ‘You know, you might have a point, cariad. If we make the film one huge question mark, that’s like an umbrella for all sorts of allusions . . .’ Slowly her face started to light up. ‘He hasn’t exactly said so, but I’m sure that’s Frank’s motive for making the film. To get people talking, to encourage whoever has the answers to come forward. Because someone must know where she is. By George, Marian, I think you’ve got it. All we have to come up with are the allusions.’

‘Murder. Kidnap. Love affair. Artistic commitment. Satanism. Drug-induced memory loss . . .’

‘Perfect. I like the satanism, it might well account for the way she changed over those two years. I’ll have to check this out with Frank, of course, see how much artistic licence he’ll allow us, and we’ll have to change all the names to avoid libel suits, but damn me, Marian, I’m feeling quite excited all of a sudden. I’d better get Deborah Foreman over here tomorrow, so we can put it to her and Matthew together.’

‘Will you be needing me?’ Marian asked, and when Bronwen looked surprised she added, ‘I thought I’d do a bit of shopping. Climb the Empire State – you know, all the touristy things. But only if it’s all right.’

‘Of course it is, cariad. You could do with a day off. But these are your ideas, I thought you would want . . .’

‘No. You’ll be able to articulate them much better than me. And I don’t much fancy the idea of trying to convince Matthew. He’s not too keen on me.’

Bronwen laughed. ‘Is Matthew keen on anyone, I ask myself? All right, you go and enjoy yourself, leave his nibs to me.’

The next morning Marian was hoping to get out of the hotel before Matthew arrived, but as the lift doors opened and she walked into reception her eyes were immediately drawn to the tall figure standing at the check in desk. Immediately a discomfiting heat mushroomed through her body and her heart jerked with an unnatural thump. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and would have stepped back into the lift, but the doors had closed. In panic her eyes hunted about for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere. What are you so afraid of? Her other self asked. Shut up! she snapped back, and as a porter passed with a rack of hanging luggage, she slipped in behind him.

‘And where might you be off to?’

His voice was smooth and deep, and when she looked up at his face her heart seemed to grind to a halt.

‘Oh, just going to do a bit of . . .’ The word escaped her, and two crimson patches flared across her cheeks.

‘Sight-seeing?’ he suggested, concealing his amusement at the way she’d tried to slide past him.

Dumbly, she nodded. ‘Bronwen said it would be all right.’

‘Then take that damned camera from round your neck and put it in your bag.’

She looked at him with wide, blinking eyes.

He sighed. ‘A girl your age – or any age, come to that – doesn’t walk round New York alone advertising the fact that she’s a tourist. Not unless she’s completely stupid, that is.’

‘Oh,’ Marian mumbled, and reached round the back of her neck to unhook the strap of her camera. It had somehow got tangled in the loop of her coat, and though she would willingly have torn either to get them apart, neither would budge.

Taking her by the shoulders, Matthew turned her round, undid the knot, slipped the strap over her head and handed her the camera. ‘What’s Bronwen’s room number?’ he asked, his face unyieldingly impassive.

Marian told him, then was about to make good her escape when he said, ‘Marian?’

She turned back, dreading what he might say now.

‘Enjoy yourself,’ he smiled, and picking up his key he followed the bell captain across the lobby.

For several seconds Marian was too stunned to move. That was the first time he’d ever smiled at her. The first time he’d ever called her by name, even. She watched as the lift doors opened and he walked in. For one wild moment she thought her feet were going to rush her across the room so she could return the smile, but then the doors closed, and realising she was causing a jam in the busy traffic of early morning hotel life, she spun round and walked jauntily towards the door.

Tony, Bronwen’s friend, was outside, so she asked him to hail her a taxi, and less than half an hour later she was delivered to an imposing apartment building on the Upper East Side.

The doorman called up to Jodi Rosenberg’s apartment to announce her arrival, then showed her to the lifts. In less than five seconds she was on the thirty-third floor, the doors opened, and to her astonishment she was in Jodi’s vast apartment.

Jodi was on the telephone, but as she saw Marian she beckoned her to come in.

Marian walked uneasily across the room, wondering how many times Stephanie’s flat would fit into this one. It must be bigger than the entire Bristol ice rink, she thought as she looked around at the vibrant abstract paintings. At the opposite end of the room, on a podium, was a king-size bed with a majestic carved headboard and yards upon yards of rose- and oyster-coloured silk, satin and lace. The walls were a muted wash of pink and orange, and the thick, luxuriant carpet was a silvery blue. It was a bit like walking into a tropical sunset, she decided, and the sumptuous white furniture was the surf.

There was a copy of the New York Times on a glass dining-table so she opened it and made a pretence of reading. In fact her courage was beginning to fail her. Calling up Jodi and asking to speak to her again had seemed no more than an adventurous thing to do when it was just an idea, but now she was here it felt different. To begin with, what did she intend to ask this woman? Why was Olivia evil? Well, yes, that was what she was here for, but it seemed so trite now. And she could hardly come straight out with it. Besides, it might just have been one of those flip remarks that Jodi had made without thinking. Even if it wasn’t, what right did she have to go round questioning people like this? She didn’t even have Bronwen’s permission. She looked across the room at Jodi Rosenberg, and felt herself shrink by inches. Even in her jogging suit, sneakers and sweat-bands Jodi managed to look imperious.

Eventually, just as Marian was wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, Jodi put down the phone and spun round.

‘Hi,’ she cried, ‘come over here and sit down. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Juice?’

‘Juice would be very nice,’ Marian answered.

‘Let me get your coat,’ Jodi said, and she whisked it off Marian’s shoulders before Marian had a chance to lament its shabbiness.

‘I hope you didn’t mind me calling you,’ Marian said, as Jodi handed her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. ‘It was just that . . .’

‘I was expecting your call,’ Jodi interrupted.

‘You were?’ Marian asked, surprised.

‘Sure I was. Your associate’s pretty smart, feigning that kind of absent-mindedness, it catches people off their guard. I knew after I said what I did that it wouldn’t rest there.’ The genial smile suddenly dropped from her face. ‘I’ve thought a lot about what I would say when you did come, and I’m still not too sure.’ For a long moment Jodi regarded her with wide, unfathomable blue eyes, then at last she said, ‘I told you she was evil, didn’t I?’

Marian nodded.

‘She wasn’t always that way. She fell in with a bad set, here in Manhattan; drugs, you know. It’s easy in this town, there’s crack or heroin sold on just about every street corner. We all dabble, for fun, you know, at parties and places, but Olivia took it too far. She got hooked and that’s what changed her. We all tried to help, but she wouldn’t let us, it had a hold on her and there was nothing we could do. She was a regular junkie. In the end her father got to find out and that was when the real trouble started. Frank didn’t mean for it to blow up the way it did, but . . .’ she shrugged ‘. . . well, it did, and now Olivia should be made to pay for what she’s done. They all should.’

Remembering how Bronwen kept silent when a revelation was about to break, and hardly able to believe that it had happened so quickly, Marian returned Jodi’s stare and waited. But she wasn’t experienced enough to carry it off, and in the end she said, ‘But what did she do?’

‘If I told you that . . .’ Jodi stopped, looked round the room, then suddenly seemed agitated. ‘Look, I don’t know any more. I’ve told you too much already.’

‘You haven’t told me anything,’ Marian protested.

‘And that’s the way it’s gotta stay. I told you nothing. You haven’t been here today. I never said Olivia was evil, I said nothing.’

‘Why did you agree to see me if you’re not going to tell me anything?’

‘I agreed because I had some fancy notion of morality. I fooled myself into believing there was something you people could do. But I was wrong. I’ve gotta keep my mouth shut, like everyone else.’

‘Can’t you tell the police what you know?’

Jodi laughed. ‘Are you kidding? The cops know more than I do. And it just kills me to think she’s walked away like she had nothing to do with it. Frank Hastings was trying to protect her, he still is, but it’ll all come out in the end, it has to.’

‘Are you saying that Frank Hastings knows where Olivia is?’

‘No, he doesn’t know. None of us do. Like it said in the papers, Frank arranged for her to go to Italy to study art under Sergio Rambaldi – at the Accademia. She finished her course, she said goodbye and no one’s seen her since.’

‘But people don’t just vanish into thin air.’

‘Well, Olivia managed it, didn’t she?’

‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

As she answered, Jodi’s face was bitter. ‘I’m telling you, Marian, I hope that bitch is rotting in hell. I hated her. We all did once we found out. She might have been a drug addict, but she knew what she was doing all right, and she didn’t care so long as she got her fix.’

‘Look,’ Marian said, affecting a conspiratorial tone, ‘if you’re worried about trusting me, I swear to you I won’t reveal your name, no matter what you say. Only you and I will know. I’d go to prison rather than betray you,’ she added dramatically. She’d heard about journalists and researchers going to prison rather than revealing sources.

Jodi’s mouth curved in a slow, patronising smile. ‘If I told you all I know, Marian, you wouldn’t go to jail, you’d probably die. We both would.’

Marian suddenly wanted to laugh. Not only was New York like a movie set, but its people were like movie stars. Nobody would ever say anything like that in real life, and mean it. ‘Die?’ she repeated, unable to stop herself grinning.

Jodi’s face was frighteningly solemn as she nodded. ‘Oh, sure. A lot did, Marian. A lot did, and Olivia . . .’

‘Olivia what?’ And when Jodi didn’t answer, ‘Was the newspaper editor one of the dead?’

Jodi showed no surprise. ‘So you know about him. Sure, he was one.’

‘I was thinking,’ Marian said, after a pause. ‘That he – the editor, I mean – well, I think he probably told someone else on the paper what he knew.’

Jodi’s head snapped up. ‘Why do you say that?’

Startled by the response, Marian went on carefully, ‘They usually do, don’t they? Tell a colleague they trust? Especially if it’s something . . .’

‘Well, you’re wrong this time.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘I just do.’ Suddenly Jodi was on her feet. ‘Look, I know I said I was free this morning, but something came up at the last minute. I’m sorry, but I gotta go out.’

Marian stood up, her eagerness deflated by the abrupt dismissal. But then she remembered that she was now able to confirm that there was a cover-up, though of what she still had no idea. More importantly, she was now convinced that the editor had told someone else. The question was, how on earth could she find out who?

She smiled as Jodi handed her her coat. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

Jodi waited while Marian buttoned her coat, then walked her to the lift. When Marian was inside Jodi pressed her finger on a button and held the doors open. ‘I’ll call you at your hotel tonight,’ she said. ‘There’s someone you should talk to. The guy’s gone to ground, he’s running scared. I don’t even know if he’ll talk to you. But if he will, before I give you his name I want you to think long and hard about whether you want to go through with this. You could be putting yourself in a lot of danger, Marian.’

The use of her name sent a cold chill down Marian’s spine. ‘But what about you?’ she asked. ‘Won’t it be the same for you?’

‘Sure. But like everyone else in this town, I love Frank and Grace. They don’t deserve what’s happened to them and I wanna help.’ She smiled. ‘Do yourself a favour, Marian, and don’t tell anyone you’ve been here today, it’ll be safer that way for both of us. And if I’m asked, I’ll deny it.’ She let the button go, and as the doors started to slide quietly together she said, ‘I’ll call you, but my advice is, take the easy way out. Go back to England and forget you ever heard the name Olivia Hastings.’

As Marian stepped outside into the cool, dank air of Park Avenue she glanced up at the apartment building, half expecting it to have disappeared. For days she had felt as though she was drifting through a preposterous illusion. Nothing seemed to surprise her, confound her or even alarm her because she was unable to attach any credibility to anything she was told. In fact, since Jodi had suggested her life might be in danger, she’d given up trying to make any sense out of it. It was all just too absurd.

Shrugging, she walked off down the street and hailed a cab to take her to the New York City Library. Once there, she buried herself in the newspapers of five years ago. Yet still, when hours later she finally resurfaced and wandered out into the dismal, cloudy evening, she was no closer to accepting that people like those she’d been reading about could possibly be bothered with someone as lowly as her. She felt as though she had been reading a kind of detective novel in which she had to come up with the solution herself. So she saw no harm in having written down the name of the editor who had died, the telephone number of the paper, and a list of the journalists who had worked on it at that time.

By the time she reached the hotel, it was night. That did surprise her, mainly because she must have been walking in the dark without realising, and also because it seemed only an hour ago that Tony had hailed her a cab to take her to see Jodi. She glanced at her watch, and almost simultaneously her stomach started to rumble. It was just after seven o’clock. She’d look in on Bronwen to see how the meeting had gone with Matthew and Deborah Foreman, then she’d get a sandwich sent up to her room.

When she reached Bronwen’s room she was on the point of knocking when the door suddenly swung open and Matthew, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his coat, careered into her.

Quickly she bit her tongue to stop herself crying out at the pain of his foot on hers, and was about to apologise for being in the way when he suddenly grabbed her shoulders.

‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ he cried. ‘Bronwen’s been half out her mind with worry. I was just about to go out looking for you.’

‘Me?’ Marian asked stupidly.

He rolled his eyes, then letting her go, he stood back and motioned her into the room.

‘Where’s Bronwen?’ she asked, when she saw the room was empty.

‘Where do you think? Out combing the streets in a taxi. Where the hell have you been all day?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make anyone worry. It’s just . . .’

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

‘All over, really.’

‘All over where?’

‘New York.’

He sighed. ‘I know New York, but where? The doorman said you took a cab to the Upper East Side.’

She shrugged, then cowering away from his forbidding black eyes, she turned to stare at the window.

‘Marian, I think you’d better tell me exactly what you’ve been up to today.’

‘What do you mean? I haven’t been up to anything.’

‘Then why did you go to Jodi Rosenberg’s apartment?’

She flinched, but stayed mutinously silent.

‘Marian,’ he said, ‘look at me.’ When she didn’t, he put a finger under her chin and lifted her face. Then pronouncing each word with harsh deliberation, he said, ‘What did you think you were doing going to Jodi Rosenberg’s apartment?’

To her horror, her mouth started to tremble and tears pricked at her eyes. Then suddenly she was shouting. ‘I hate you! You’re always nasty to me just because I’m ugly. Well, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t got feelings.’ She gasped, hardly able to believe what she’d said.

For a moment he looked startled, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘So the mouse squeaks.’

‘Don’t call me that!’

He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. No, you’re right, I shouldn’t call you that. But I meant timid, not ugly. And where in heaven’s name did you get the notion I was nasty to you because you were ugly? Which, incidendy, you’re not.’

She looked at him blankly, and again he laughed.

‘You’re patronising me now,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child, and I resent being treated like one.’

‘Then stop damned well behaving like one. Why did you go to Jodi Rosenberg’s apartment?’

‘If you must know, I did it for you. I did it to try and prove to you that I wasn’t a miserable little nobody. I thought if I could find something out that would work for your film, you might be a bit nicer to me.’

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, then before he could answer she said, ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired and hungry, so I’m going to my room.’

She moved swiftly past him, but he was even quicker. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, grabbing her arm. ‘You’re going to give me a proper answer.’

‘Stop treating me like a child,’ she seethed.

‘Then answer me!’

‘I went to Jodi’s apartment to find out why she said that Olivia was evil,’ she spat.

‘And did it ever occur to you to wonder why Bronwen didn’t pursue that herself?’

She’d already taken a breath to answer, but as that had never occurred to her, her mouth fell silently closed. She shook her head.

‘Was she in? Did you speak to her?’

‘No and no.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then it’s lucky for you that she wasn’t. You can’t go around dabbling in this sort of thing, Marian. It’s not a game, it’s serious, and dangerous.’

‘Why?’

‘You know the answer to that. There’s been a massive cover-up in this town to conceal what really went on before Olivia disappeared. Now Bronwen’s told me about the ideas you came up with earlier, they’re excellent, and as far as we are concerned, we leave it at that. OK? We’re film-makers, not detectives.’

‘But don’t you want to know what happened to Olivia?’

‘Of course. Everyone does, Frank Hastings most of all. But leave the spade-work to him, Marian, and don’t attempt anything like that again – especially not for me.’

Suddenly she was so choked with misery that she couldn’t speak, and terrified she might break down in front of him, she shot to her feet and ran out of the room.

‘It’s OK, cariad,’ Bronwen said later, ‘it was my fault. I got you all worked up with curiosity and it was only natural you should do what you did. But I thought Stephanie had told you . . . I should have told you. I didn’t take what Jodi said any further because, you see, it was enough. To have pursued it might have meant putting not only us in danger, but Jodi too. Frank explained all this to us right at the start – don’t dig too deep, he said. Of course, just like you, my own curiosity made me want to, but my sense of self-preservation stopped me. Something very nasty’s been going on in this town, but there are a lot of very influential people involved, that much we know, so that’s where we must leave it.’

Marian looked at her, wanting to tell her that she had seen Jodi, but she couldn’t. She’d promised Jodi, and after all, Jodi hadn’t actually told her anything. And when Jodi called later she would simply tell her that she had decided to take her advice to leave things alone.

‘Now, are you coming down to dinner?’ Bronwen said. ‘Matthew wants to buy you a drink to say he’s sorry for upsetting you.’

Marian smiled. ‘Is that what he said? Well, please thank him for me, but tell him I’ve already ordered some dinner to be brought up to my room and then I’m going to bed.’

‘As you like. I’ll tell him the lady has pride and can’t be bought off that easily, shall I?’

Marian giggled. ‘Yes, you tell him that.’

By the time the phone rang at half-past nine Marian was asleep, but the moment she heard Jodi’s voice she was alert. She started to tell her that she’d decided to take her advice and didn’t want to know any more about Olivia, but Jodi interrupted.

‘It’s no good,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He won’t speak to you.’

‘That’s OK,’ Marian answered, aware of the tension seeping from her body.

‘So can we forget today ever happened?’

‘It’s already forgotten.’ And when the line went dead, Marian got out of bed, fumbled in her coat pocket for the notes she’d taken at the library, and tore them to shreds.

It was some time before she fell asleep again, but when she did, it was with a smile at the memory of Matthew telling her she wasn’t ugly.