– 20 –

Madeleine giggled. Deidre, her dark auburn hair tucked behind her ears, leaned back in her chair and watched her, an indulgent smile hovering about her mouth. Inside, her emotions were in turmoil, but she was sufficiently in control of herself not to let them show.

‘This great love of yours is beginning to make me feel old,’ she smiled, when Madeleine finally put the phone down and threw out her arms in an expression of joy. ‘How did he take it?’

‘He already knew,’ Madeleine answered, flopping down on Deidre’s leather sofa and putting her feet up. ‘He wondered if you’d like to come out to dinner with us tonight, to celebrate?’

‘Love to. Is Harry Freemantle invited?’

Madeleine pulled a face. ‘Yes.’

Deidre wondered if it was worth getting to the bottom of Madeleine’s dislike for Paul’s editor, but decided that if she wanted to tell her, she would. The fact that Paul’s book had entered the best-seller lists in its first week was the reason for Madeleine’s elation, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, exactly – it had cost her a great deal of money.

‘So what do you think?’ Madeleine said, holding out her hand for the umpteenth time so that Deidre could get a good look at the ring.

‘I think two things,’ Deidre answered. ‘First, no matter what the size, a diamond can never be vulgar – though yours comes close, madam. Secondly, it’s good to see you. Morocco obviously agreed with you.’

‘Loved it. Paul bought me this ring with his advance. It cost him the whole amount. It’s an engagement ring, you know?’

‘I did gather that,’ Deidre answered dryly. ‘Congratulations. As you say, we’ll celebrate tonight. Now, how would you like to open up your diary so we can get down to business?’

While Madeleine leafed through her new leather-bound Mulberry – something else Paul had bought her – Deidre buzzed through to Anne. A few minutes later Anne brought in the newspaper and magazine cuttings for the past week, and left them for Madeleine to peruse.

Self-admiration came so easily to Madeleine that Deidre might have been appalled if she hadn’t been used to it. Besides, she liked Madeleine better when she was being narcissistic, at least it meant that everything was back to normal. Obviously Paul’s proposal of marriage was just the tonic she’d needed – there hadn’t been a single mention of her aunt and cousin since, no refusal of work, and the haunted, almost frightened expression had gone from her eyes. If anything, she was looking more striking than ever. Deidre immediately despised herself for the feeling of relief this gave her; but there was no getting away from the fact that, when Sergio gave her the word, she would find her task much easier to carry out if she felt that Madeleine had known happiness. She wouldn’t be able to bring herself to do it, she thought, if the rift with Paul had continued. She wondered if it would please Sergio when she told him that Paul and Madeleine were now engaged; he had told her that she must report every development in their relationship to him, and everything she knew or found out about Paul. His request confirmed to Deidre that she had been right all those months ago when she suspected that Sergio knew Paul – but exactly how he knew him, or what their relationship was, he had refused to say.

‘Right,’ she said, picking up the booker’s cards in front of her, ‘you’ve got everything up until tomorrow, haven’t you? Good. The next day. In the morning they want you on the ‘This Morning’ programme up at Granada TV. They’ll be asking you about the new perfume, so someone will be there to give you the necessary details. From there Roy will take you into Manchester where you’ll meet up with Paul. He’s doing book-signings at Waterstone’s and, let me see, Smith’s and . . . well, Anne’s got a list of the bookshops. The BBC local news will have their cameras there, I expect Granada will, too. Roy is writing a little speech for you in case you’re asked to say something. In the afternoon Paul is on the radio in Leeds while you’re going off to open a new beauty salon. They’re holding a raffle, I believe, and it’s being fixed for you to win a prize, don’t forget it goes to charity – Roy’s got the name of a couple of local ones. From there both you and Paul go to Birmingham for more book-signings and personal appearances. Local TV news and again newspapers will be there. At ten tomorrow night there’s something happening at Stringfellow’s. Anne’s got the tickets. She’ll pick you both up from Euston station, drive you home to get ready, then on to the club. Don’t insult Peter Stringfellow again – at least, tell Paul not to. He’s a nice chap and can do you a lot of good.’

‘Now, on to Friday. An eight o’clock morning flight to Glasgow for you both. There you part company. Paul’s publicist has his schedule, Roy will have yours. It’s mainly fashion stuff. Café-Society and Tatler will have photographers going round with you, Roy will probably have a few more lined up, too. Obviously Phillipa will be with you, so will Helen and her team to sort out your make-up and hair. You’ll catch up with Paul in Edinburgh where you’ll both be on a local chat show. Overnight in Edinburgh, then the big fashion shoot on the Orkneys for the following two days. I’ve spoken to Harry Freemantle and the publicity people at Freemantle’s, and they’re quite happy for Paul to go with you. Phillipa’s arranged to borrow some men’s clothes from the Armani collection, so Paul will also be involved in the shoot – if he wants to be. Again, TV cameras will be there, this time from ‘The Clothes Show’ and a new programme TVS will be launching next month. How are you doing so far?’

‘I think I’ve got all that. Does Paul know about everything?’

‘Harry should be talking to him this afternoon. When you come back from the Orkneys, you’ll have a day to pack and then you’re both off to Los Angeles. I think the Johnny Carson Show is recorded rather than live, but I’ll check that out before you go. Then you’ve got an audition for a major movie – no, it’s not the starring role. I’ve booked you into the Beverly Hills Hotel for the night, but Shamir has invited you to stay with her. Yes, OK, I’ll cancel the Beverly Hills. Right, you’re then flying to New York where Paul’s publishers and their publicity people will take over. Is that enough to be going on with?’

Madeleine’s pleasure was more than touching. ‘Can I take all these cuttings home to show Paul?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Deidre stood up, pushing her hands into the deep pockets of her black cotton dress. ‘Now, off you go, I’ll see you tonight. Where are we going, by the way?’

‘I’ll get Paul to ring and let you know.’

‘You’d better, if we want Roy to send along some photographers.’

Madeleine hooked her bag over her shoulder. It was the same subtle shade of orange as her shoes, belt and the suede panels in her cream-coloured dress.

‘Tailored clothes become you, Maddy,’ Deidre remarked.

‘Just wait until you see my outfit for tonight,’ Madeleine gushed as they walked out into Anne’s office. ‘It’s white with sequins and things. Skin-tight, I won’t be able to wear a thing underneath. Well, I couldn’t anyway, because the top’s completely see-through and there are great chunks cut out of the hips right round to here.’ Her hands rested on either side of her pubis. ‘It’s something else,’ she sighed.

‘Sounds delightful,’ Deidre murmured, then she kissed her on either cheek, and waited until Madeleine was in the lift before turning to Anne. ‘Is Dario around?’

‘No. He went off on a shoot at the weekend – I mean, a gun shoot – and hasn’t come back yet.’

‘Abysmally hung-over, knowing him. If he does manage to drag himself in at some point, have him come in to see me, will you?’

‘Will do. By the way, I still haven’t managed to get an answer from Sergio’s apartment.’

‘OK. But keep trying.’

Back in her office, Deidre closed her eyes and leaned against the door. It was several days now since Sergio had been here, but she was still reeling from the shock of discovering that Dario, the photographer who had been her partner for seven years, was a member of the bottega. Sergio had told her so that she wouldn’t feel so alone in what she was doing. But having Dario to support her made little difference; since she’d agreed to help by taking Madeleine to Italy, she had barely slept or eaten. She tried so hard not to think about it, there was still some time before he needed her, Sergio had told her – but not knowing what was going to happen to Madeleine once she got to Italy was tearing her apart inside. And having to face Madeleine day after day, and pretend that everything was normal, only increased her anguish. But she knew she would do it, not only because those few days he’d spent in London had sharpened her love for him in a way that made it almost too painful to bear, but because he had asked her to marry him and go to live with him in Florence. It was what she had always wanted.

‘They’re still arguing about those damned cranes,’ Hazel grumbled as she walked into the office. ‘It’s simply beyond me how they do it. Lovers by night, adversaries by day. Something Freudian there, must be.’

The office was crowded and noisy, so no one paid her much attention. Besides, Stephanie and Matthew’s difference of opinion over the film’s opening sequence had long since lost its joke-value.

Bronwen was standing over Marian as she typed, and Woody was bobbing up and down from his seat, rearranging the schedule cards he had pinned all over the wall. Franz, the Swiss make-up artist, and Belinda, the costume designer, were at Hazel’s desk, leafing through the budget she had presented them with, while Josey, the production secretary, screamed down the telephone at someone in the passport office.

‘Do ve know who’s playing Olivia yet?’ Franz asked.

‘No,’ Hazel answered.

‘Veil, I have to bloody know.’

‘What cast have we got?’ Belinda asked.

‘Judith will give you the details,’ Hazel answered, taking Belinda’s hand and pulling her out of her chair. ‘She’ll be in later. Matthew wants to see you both before you start shopping.’

‘If he can spare the time,’ Woody put in. ‘I don’t know why Stephanie can’t just give in to him. He’ll win in the end, he always does.’

‘Matter of pride, darling,’ Hazel answered. ‘Franz, get your sweaty feet off my desk and for God’s sake put your shoes on.’

‘Fucking moron!’ Josey spat as she slammed down the receiver. ‘I’ll have to go down there. Marian, can you book me a cab?’

‘Hail one,’ Bronwen said, ‘she’s busy.’

At that point Matthew thundered down the stairs and marched out into the street.

‘Looks like we’re back at stalemate,’ Woody said, watching him go.

‘Well, they’ve got two weeks to sort it.’ Hazel batted Franz’s feet from her desk and picked up the phone. ‘Any news from Adrian, anyone?’

‘He’s on his way. Production meeting at six?’

‘Six thirty,’ Hazel answered. ‘Stephanie and Matthew can’t make it before. Final auditions for Olivia’ – she turned to Franz – ‘you’ll be pleased to know.’

‘Dollink, ve all vant a star. Vill she be English?’

‘Don’t be a prat,’ Woody butted in. ‘An unknown American. Judith picked up three of them from the airport yesterday.’

‘Why is it always like this in the final couple of weeks’ prep?’ Josey complained. ‘I’m so panicked I can’t sleep at night.’

Marian’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard but she was neither listening to what anyone was saying, nor paying attention to what she was typing. Her mind, as always these days, was on Matthew. Every time someone spoke to her about him she thought she could detect pity or amusement – and Stephanie’s kindness only drove her humiliation deeper. Since she had had her talk with Stephanie she had told herself that from now on she must with never be alone with him again. It had taken a great deal of courage to do what she had, especially when Matthew returned to the office and she set about persuading him to go home. In fact, he hadn’t taken much persuading, and after he’d gone Bronwen’s words rang clear in her mind: ‘. . . but they will straighten themselves out. Matthew will make certain of it.’ It was that, more than anything else Bronwen had said, that convinced her of the strength of Matthew’s love for Stephanie, and the ridiculousness of her own behaviour. But even knowing that, she hadn’t been able to stop herself dwelling on the things he had said when they’d had dinner together, like: ‘We’ll work something out, don’t worry. It’ll just take time.’ Much as she wanted to believe he was talking about them, in her heart she knew he was talking about his daughter. Yet he had taken up her hand and given it a squeeze as he said it . . .

She wound the letter out of the typewriter and handed it to Bronwen.

‘Thanks,’ Bronwen said. ‘I’ll sign it, then if you can get it in the post tonight . . . Josey, before you go, did you take the script to be photocopied?’

‘Yes,’ Josey answered impatiently. ‘I’m picking it up at six. If I’m back.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Marian offered.

‘No you won’t,’ Bronwen broke in. ‘I need you later to go over the draft scenes Deborah Foreman faxed us this morning. Woody, can you pick it up?’

‘I’m the first assistant director, not a slave,’ he stated.

‘Thanks, Woody. Josey will be forever in your debt.’ And Bronwen swept from the office.

Later in the day, as everyone started to pour in for the meeting, Bronwen waited for Marian to pack up. The downstairs office and stairway were teeming with people, everyone from the gaffer spark to production buyers to stunt arrangers. Bronwen and Marian pushed a path through them, then just as they were going out of the door, they came face to face with Stephanie and Matthew.

‘And where might you two be going?’ Matthew asked.

‘The Groucho Club.’ Bronwen answered. ‘Any luck with Olivia?’

Matthew was smiling. ‘Perfect. Girl called Christina Hancock.’

‘At least they’ve agreed on something,’ Bronwen muttered as they walked on.

‘Marian!’

Marian turned round, then watched as Matthew spoke rapidly to Stephanie before stepping back into the street. ‘Wait for me at the Groucho, I’ll join you when the meeting’s over. Stephanie’s going to see her mother so I’m at a loose end.’

Marian cast a quick look at Bronwen, but she was walking on down the street. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said, with a slight toss of her head. ‘Bronwen and I are only going for a quick drink, then we’re going home to look at the script.’

‘Oh.’ He seemed disappointed. ‘Oh well, maybe some other time.’ He started to move off, then having second thoughts, he turned back. ‘Do you still think you’re being followed?’

‘No,’ Marian answered. She did, but there was little point in telling him when she was fairly sure it was paranoia on her part.

‘Good,’ he said. Then, peering into her face: ‘Everything’s all right, is it? You aren’t still worrying about your mother?’

‘No, I’m fine, please don’t fuss over me.’

He looked as astonished as she felt at this, and her immediate instinct was to apologise, but gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remain silent.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I suppose I have been overdoing it a bit.’ Then, when she didn’t answer, ‘Am I forgiven?’

‘Yes,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’d better go now, Bronwen’s waiting,’ and before he could say anything else, she turned and walked off down the street, her heart and her cheeks burning with misery.

After that she did her utmost to avoid him, and this was made easier when he suddenly declared that he would be working from home until they went to New York. Though he rang in several times a day, and always asked how she was, Marian never returned the compliment. She didn’t enjoy being rude to him, but told herself it was the only way – for Stephanie’s sake as well as her own.

Then, five days before they were due to fly out, he called Josey to ask her to go and sit in on a scheduling meeting between him, Bob Fairley, Woody, Freddy, and make-up and costume. Hazel took the call because Josey was at the carnet office, filling in last-minute details, and from there would be going on to the American Embassy to pick up visas for the actors who had recently been cast. Hazel needed the finalised schedule with such urgency that she and Woody had been yelling at each other all week about it, so now that Josey wasn’t there to go to Matthew’s meeting and bring the schedule back with her, she could have screamed. Marian happened to walk back into the office at that moment.

‘Call yourself a cab, honeypop,’ Hazel ordered. ‘Get over to Matthew’s and don’t leave until you’ve got that shooting schedule.’

Marian didn’t get the opportunity to protest, for Hazel picked up a handful of files and swept up the stairs to Stephanie’s office.

When Marian arrived at the flat in Chiswick, Belinda, the costume designer, let her in. Immediately she was ushered into the kitchen and told to make coffee. When it was done Woody helped her give it out, then sat on the floor again beside Matthew who was going through the first week’s shoot, scene by scene. He hadn’t acknowledged Marian’s arrival, nor did he look up as she passed him a cup.

There was nowhere to sit, so she went back into the kitchen where, seeing his things lying about, she got caught up in a fantasy of what it would be like if she lived there with him. She knew she was torturing herself, but couldn’t stop. Nothing else seemed to live in her mind now, except him; even the mystery of what had happened to Olivia, and how they had both become embroiled in it, seemed no more than a distant dream. At first, when he had rung her in Italy to tell her he knew about Art Douglas and Olivia, she had harboured a hope that it would bring them together. In a way it had, for a time, but now, because of Stephanie, it was driving them apart. The constant ache she felt for him was like nothing she had ever known, even with Paul. She tried to reason with herself, telling herself that it was because her feelings were unrequited, because she was on the rebound, but nothing seemed to help. Sometimes, at night, when she knew he would be holding Stephanie in his arms, she wanted to scream with the pain of her jealousy. She wanted to forget everything Bronwen had said: above all, she wanted to forget how she had asked Bronwen if it was Matthew who had asked her to speak to her – and how Bronwen had remained eloquently silent. She wanted to run to him and . . . And what? Beg him to tell her he loved her? It was like asking for the stars, and already, in her mind’s eye, she could see his embarrassment and feel the fire of humiliation curl through her limbs as he backed away.

Then, hearing his voice in the other room, she suddenly knew that she couldn’t go to New York, that she couldn’t take any more. She had to get away from him and try to end this torment. She’d speak to Bronwen, Bronwen would understand.

It was almost an hour after she’d gone into the kitchen that Woody finally yelled out for her. When she went into the room, the others were leaving, and Woody was holding out a wad of handwritten notes. ‘This is what you’ve been waiting for,’ he said. ‘Glad I’m not in your shoes, giving this to Josey. She’ll be up all night.’

Marian took the notes, and mumbling a thank-you, she started to follow Woody out of the door.

‘How are you getting back to the office?’ Matthew asked. It was the first time he’d spoken to her.

Of course she didn’t have an answer. It hadn’t even occurred to her to book a return taxi.

He smiled, then called out to Woody: ‘Get onto the special effects people about that scene. Have them call me here if there’s any problem.’

When Woody had gone, Marian was left standing in the centre of the room, surrounded by the debris of coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays.

‘Serves me right for holding a production meeting in my own home,’ Matthew laughed.

‘If it’s all right, I’ll use your phone to ring for a taxi. Then I’ll help you clear up, if you like,’ she offered, carefully avoiding his eyes.

‘Thanks. But don’t bother about the taxi, I’ll drive you over there myself. What happened to Josey?’

She explained about the carnet office and the Embassy. ‘So I came instead,’ she finished, shrugging and looking out of the window.

‘But you didn’t want to?’

‘No! Yes, I mean . . .’

He took the notes from her hands and led her to the sofa. ‘You’ve been avoiding me for days,’ he said, sitting her down. ‘No, don’t deny it. Now, what’s going on? What have I done this time?’

‘Nothing. You haven’t . . .’ Her voice was coming with no breath, but she was afraid to let go.

‘You’re shaking. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Come on, you must tell me.’

Suddenly she leapt to her feet. ‘Nothing’s happened, at least, nothing that you’re thinking. I’d better call for a taxi – Josey and Hazel will be waiting for the schedule.’

He stood up slowly, watching her as she used the phone. Afterwards, he helped her carry the cups to the kitchen, but though neither of them spoke she was acutely aware of his eyes on her.

When the doorbell rang she quickly gathered up her handbag and the notes, but when she turned she went right into his arms.

It was too late. She wouldn’t be able to get away now before breaking down. But still she fought it, breathing deeply to try and keep herself under control.

‘Oh, Marian, Marian,’ he murmured as he stroked her hair. ‘What am I going to do about you?’

Her answer came in a sudden rush. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she gasped. ‘I won’t embarrass you any more. I won’t be coming to New York. I’m sorry, Matthew, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

‘Embarrass me?’ he said, pulling her away from his shoulder. ‘How on earth have you embarrassed me?’

‘Please, don’t make me say it.’ Her face was strained but still she managed not to cry.

‘Say what, for heaven’s sake? And what’s all this nonsense about not going to New York?’

‘I can’t!’ she cried. ‘Not after . . . Not when you know . . .’

He pulled her back into his arms and squeezed her. ‘Not when I know what, mm?’

When she didn’t answer, he let her go and walked over to the entryphone to tell the driver to wait.

‘Sit down,’ he said when he came back.

She did as he told her, but couldn’t look at him as he knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. He had a fair idea of what it was all about, and though he didn’t want to do anything to exacerbate her distress, he knew they had to talk.

‘Come to New York,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘But . . .’

‘I want you to.’

‘But I feel such a fool. Everyone’s laughing at me.’

‘Who’s laughing at you?’

‘Everyone. No one. Oh, I don’t know. Oh God, this is all so awful, I feel such an idiot, especially after you asked Bronwen to . . .’

‘Asked Bronwen to what?’

She shook her head.

‘I think you’d better tell me, Marian.’

So, haltingly, with her cheeks glowing her humiliation, she told him.

When she’d finished he sighed deeply, then got to his feet. ‘I didn’t ask Bronwen to do that,’ he said. He looked down at her, feeling anger at Stephanie who he knew was behind it, and an overwhelming compassion for Marian because of the way she had suffered as a result. But it was more than compassion. He didn’t understand what he felt for Marian, he had never tried to analyse it, not even when Stephanie had challenged him about it; but whatever his feelings were, he knew now, as he gazed down at Marian, that Stephanie had cause to feel jealous.

He took Marian’s hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Look, maybe you’d better go now,’ he said. ‘I need some time to think. But I want you to promise me one thing?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘Don’t leave. Come with us to New York. Finish the film, at least. Perhaps by that time we’ll have a better idea of what we’re . . .’ He stopped, shaken by what he’d been about to say. ‘A better idea of what has happened to Olivia,’ he finished, smiling.

Swallowing hard, Marian nodded, then suddenly she was laughing. ‘I must be driving you mad,’ she said. ‘I always seem to have a problem, and you’re always the one to sort it out. First Art Douglas, then getting Madeleine’s agent’s address, then listening to me bleat on about my mother, and now this . . . Well, I will come to New York, and I promise you I won’t do or say anything to embarrass you. I understand the way you feel about Stephanie, I love her too. And so I should, after all she’s done for me.’

‘You’re quite a girl, Marian,’ he smiled. ‘But don’t forget the problems of mine that you’ve sorted out. Now we share one, which just at this moment seems a million miles away, I know. But Rubin Meyer and Sergio Rambaldi do exist, as do the men Olivia kept company with in New York. And as for Stephanie, you’re right, I do love her and I always will. Please remember that.’

He had no idea how brutal his words were because he had no way of knowing how deep her feelings ran. Had he been looking at her, perhaps he might have seen the flash of pain in her eyes, but he was staring into the distance, his gaze for once brooding and withdrawn.

As she walked to the door he said: ‘I think it would be better if you didn’t tell Bronwen that we’ve spoken. In fact, don’t mention anything to anyone. I’ll deal with this myself, and you’re not to worry about a thing. It’ll all be all right.’

As Roy Welland let himself in through the front door of Shamir’s Beverly Hills home he was listening for the sounds of the TV, but the house was in silence, and as the sun was in the dying throes of its struggle with the smog, it was in semi-darkness too. He walked across the white-tiled hall and pushed open the door of the sitting-room. On the floor were discarded newspapers and half-finished drinks. Then, hearing voices, he went over to the window, and pulling back a lace curtain, he saw Shamir and Paul in the pool.

‘Hey!’ he called, knocking on the window. ‘It’s almost over.’

‘What?’ Shamir called back. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

Leaving the sitting-room, Roy walked through the conservatory and out to the edge of the kidney-shaped pool. ‘I said, it’s nearly over,’ he repeated. ‘Why aren’t you watching?’

‘Oh my God!’ Shamir gasped. ‘I forgot all about it. Quick, go inside and turn on the TV, Paul!’

‘Yes, I heard,’ Paul said, heaving himself out of the water, and he smirked as he noticed the peculiar look Roy gave him before turning back into the house. The look, he knew, was not because he had forgotten that he and Madeleine were on the Johnny Carson Show in an interview they had recorded the day before, but because he was stark naked. And so, if Roy had looked a little more carefully, was Shamir.

As Shamir walked into the sitting-room, the final credits were rolling.

‘You’ve missed it,’ Roy said, looking up. ‘Just as well I remembered to set the video tape before I took Madeleine to the audition or she’d wonder what the hell you’d two had been up to, forgetting the Johnny Carson Show.’

‘I know what you think, Roy,’ Shamir said, walking over to the bar and pouring herself a drink, ‘but you’re wrong. Skinny-dipping is quite normal in these parts, everyone does it – even you.’

‘Yes, but not with someone else’s man.’

‘I should hope not,’ Paul grinned, as he walked into the room, a towel wrapped round his waist. ‘I’ll have one of whatever you’re having,’ he told Shamir, and picking up a newspaper, he flopped down on the billowing cushions of the sofa. ‘Did we miss the interview?’ he said, glancing at Roy.

‘Yes.’

As Paul turned back to the paper, Roy was still watching him. Deidre had asked him to keep an eye on Paul and Madeleine, wanting to make sure, she told him, that their relationship was well and truly clear of the rocks. Her request hadn’t surprised him, for everyone in the agency knew how fond she had become of Madeleine, but he wondered how she would take it if he told her about Paul and Shamir swimming together in the nude. She’d probably just laugh and accuse him of being a prude – which was exactly what Madeleine did later when the limousine service delivered her back to the house and Paul told her how he and Shamir had shocked Roy by taking a swim in the all-together.

‘Oh Roy,’ Madeleine laughed, throwing her arms round him, ‘you’re such an old fuddy-duddy sometimes. You were swimming with me yesterday while Paul was upstairs asleep and Shamir was down town shopping, and unless my eyes were deceiving me you’re quite a man. So what’s the difference?’

‘None, I suppose,’ Roy admitted with a reluctant grin. ‘And don’t call me an old fuddy-duddy.’

‘Just a fuddy-duddy, eh?’ Shamir said.

‘Less of your cheek, madam. Now, how about telling us what happened at the audition, Maddy?’

‘Not a lot really,’ she answered, sinking into the sofa next to Paul and relaxing against the arm he held out for her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as Shamir passed her a cocktail. ‘They just said they’d be in touch with my agent.’

‘But did you have to act? Or read anything?’ Paul asked.

‘Yeah, they gave me a scene from the script and I read that.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I don’t know, really. My part’s not very big – if I get it. Something to do with this bloke who goes around picking up women in bars – or at least, the part I read was.’

‘You’re one of the women?’

She nodded. ‘Though I get to go to bed with the guy, which is more than some of them do. And you’ll never guess who the guy is? Robert de Niro. So naturally, I said I didn’t mind taking off my clothes for the camera. I mean, who would if it’s with Robert de Niro?’

‘You wouldn’t mind, whoever it was,’ Shamir commented.

‘Oooh, you can be so cutting sometimes,’ Madeleine laughed. ‘Anyway, did you watch the interview?’

‘No, we recorded it so that we could watch it with you,’ Paul answered, before anyone else had a chance to.

Madeleine pressed her head back against his shoulder, and looking up into his face, she waggled her tongue between her lips.

Laughing, he covered her mouth with his own and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

‘If you don’t mind us,’ Shamir remarked, throwing a cushion at them. ‘Are we going to watch this interview or aren’t we?’

‘No, we can watch it any time,’ Madeleine answered. ‘Right now I’m for a shower and something to eat. Shall we all go out tonight?’

‘Why not?’ Roy said. ‘As the rest of us are flying to New York tomorrow, let’s take Shamir out on the town. Come on, Shamir, where do you want to go? The world’s your oyster in a twenty-mile radius.’

‘So kind,’ Shamir smiled sweetly. ‘When I’ve come up with the most expensive place I can think of, I’ll let you know.’ She linked arms with Madeleine and the two of them went giggling off towards the stairs.

‘So, Royston,’ Paul said when they’d gone, ‘I still can’t tempt you into becoming a murder victim?’

‘Not today, no,’ Roy answered blithely.

‘I’ve got to kill someone, or how am I going to experience what it’s like being on trial for murder?’

This was a conversation that had started between them on the plane from London, and one which they had gone back to several times during the past forty-eight hours because they both found it highly entertaining.

‘Why do you have to experience it? Can’t you go to a prison and ask someone who’s done it?’

‘Nah,’ Paul said, shaking his head, ‘it’s not the same, is it? I need to write it from the gut.’

‘What about the actual act of killing? Who’s going to do that?’

‘It’s not important, not the way I’m writing it. The guy’s in a kind of trance, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he only regains his senses when he’s in the courtroom.’

‘I see. Well, sorry, mate, but I’m all out of the need to die right now.’

‘If I can’t persuade you, I’ll have to think of someone else. At the moment my editor’s top of the list. The publishing house couldn’t turn it down, could they, if one of their own was despatched by a writer?’

‘Do you think he’d be agreeable?’

‘I could get Harry to agree to almost anything these days, but being murdered might prove difficult. However, he can always come back to life once the trial’s over. I don’t want to end up spending the next twenty years in prison.’

‘Oh, so you only want someone to play dead?’

‘Yes, but for real. The authorities have to think they’re dead, otherwise it won’t work.’

‘But you’ll need a body.’

‘Yes,’ Paul said, drawing the word out thoughtfully, ‘I haven’t quite managed to overcome that slight hitch yet, but I’m working on it.’