– 21 –

‘OK, Woody, let’s have a look at this schedule.’ Stephanie stood over his desk, a hand planted on either side of her slim hips and a wry smile raising the corners of her mouth. ‘No, the second week,’ she said, when he tried to push the first week’s to the top of the pile. She glanced over at Marian and winked. Hazel was turned to the window, pretending to be on the phone, and Josey was snickering behind her hand. ‘It’s all right, Woody, I know what you’ve done,’ Stephanie said. ‘I just want you to convince me that it’s going to work.’

Accepting that he’d been caught out, and indeed knowing he would be sooner or later, Woody pulled out the second week’s schedule for America. Stephanie studied it for several minutes, then handed it back.

‘How long have you worked with Matthew?’ she asked.

Woody shrugged. ‘Ten years?’

‘And you’re telling me he’ll get that opening crane shot in a morning.’

‘We’ll have to because of trying to match it. The helicopter stuff we can do any time. I’ve got it down for the next day because it’ll probably take all day.’

Stephanie was shaking her head. ‘Sorry, that crane shot can’t be done in a morning, I’m not buying it.’

At that point Matthew walked in. ‘Buying being the operative word,’ he said. ‘I take it she’s found out.’

‘She has,’ Stephanie confirmed. ‘And you don’t impress me by sneaking it into the schedule like this, though I should have expected as much. So I’ll sanction it, but you’d better make damned sure it works.’ She paused. ‘And one other thing. Don’t, under any circumstances, put an actor in it. The shot’s complicated enough without having to contend with motivation or whatever other rubbish they want to discuss. The clock will be ticking in dollars that morning, Matthew, remember that, won’t you?’ She smiled sweetly, then disappeared up the stairs.

‘Does anyone have a good word to say about actors?’ Marian asked Josey.

‘If they do I haven’t met them,’ Josey answered, then throwing her arms wide, she embraced Matthew. ‘You wily old fox, you. Of course, you know the shot’s jinxed now, don’t you?’

‘One more comment like that and you’re fired,’ Matthew said, unwinding himself. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, Hazel, get onto Chapman’s in Hollywood and confirm our provisional booking.’

‘What provisional booking?’

‘The one Bob Fairley made for the cranes. Well, get on with it, woman, we need them in New York in ten days time. And while you’re at it, let Bob know, will you, and confirm the helicopter too. Now Woody, I think you deserve a drink, my friend. Come on, Marian, get that umbrella of yours, we’re off to celebrate.’

‘Some of us have work to do,’ Josey commented.

‘Which is why I didn’t invite you,’ Matthew retorted.

Marian adored him when he was in this mood, and abandoning not only Stephanie’s and Bronwen’s last-minute correspondence but her own resolution to avoid him as much as possible, she rushed out to the kitchen for her umbrella.

It was the first time she’d seen him since the afternoon at his flat. Afterwards she had gone over all he’d said a thousand times – but never for a minute allowing herself to dwell on what he’d said about Stephanie. As for the rest, it was so ambiguous that it was difficult to draw any definite conclusions, but a sixth sense told her that, though it might take time, things really might have a chance of working out for them. She wouldn’t allow herself to think further than that, mainly because of what it would mean for Stephanie, but there were occasions when she could do nothing to control the hope that sprung mischievously into her mind, painting glorious pictures of the future and telling her that all she had to do was trust Matthew to come up with a solution that would make everyone happy.

‘Now, Woody,’ Matthew said, as he set down a tray of drinks on the table in front of them, ‘make up your mind before we go who you’re going to screw, and stick with her; I don’t want any make-up girls snivelling into their tea because you’re giving them a hard time – in or out of the sack.’

Marian’s mouth dropped open, but as she turned to look at Woody, she started to laugh.

‘He thinks he’s such a wag,’ Woody remarked. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m celibate these days.’

‘That sounds a bit harsh on your already long-suffering wife,’ Matthew said, sitting down next to Marian. ‘Or maybe she likes it.’

‘It doesn’t include her. What I meant to say was, I’m faithful.’

‘What he meant to say,’ Matthew told Marian, ‘is that she’s caught him out again. Am I right?’ he added, looking at Woody.

‘Nail on the head.’

‘On the subject of wives,’ Matthew said, laughing as he turned back to Marian, ‘Kathleen asked me to send you her love, and said something about seeing things coming and was she right?’

Marian swallowed her laughter and looked at him shyly, wondering whether he knew what Kathleen meant. ‘Tell her she was right,’ she said, ‘but I’ll cope.’

‘Women,’ Woody grunted. ‘Not only do they talk in riddles, they expect you to pass them on. What was all that about?’

‘Search me,’ Matthew shrugged, ‘but over the years I’ve learned not to ask. Now, how many assistants have you got yourself when we’re in New York?’

‘Four. One’s flying out with us, the others are hired locally. That should keep the natives happy, anyway.’

‘What about Bennington?’

‘Same.’

‘Bit excessive, four for Bennington, it’s mainly interiors.’

‘That’s because you’re a bit excessive, guvnor,’ Woody told him. ‘Besides, we’ve got thousands of extras when we’re at Bennington.’

‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘OK, hundreds. Have you ever been on a shoot before, Marian?’

‘No, never.’

‘Then this will be an experience, I can tell you. While Matthew here sits back and gives orders, you’ll see the rest of us running around like headless chickens, and then at lunchtime he’ll ask us what we’ve been doing all morning. This question, I might add, will very likely be delivered from the window of his own personal winnebago.’

‘Winnebago?’ Marian said curiously.

‘Caravan.’

‘When have I ever had a winnebago?’ Matthew demanded.

‘You’ve got one this time, Hazel’s booked it.’

‘Well, you can just tell her to unbook it, I don’t like all that pretentious stuff and you know it. Besides, with you and Rory what’s-his-name, the camera operator, running loose on the set, it’ll only end up being used as a knocking shop.’

‘Would we defile your holy territory?’

‘You do it on your own doorstep so I can’t see my winnebago going unmolested.’

Marian burst out laughing at the pained expression on Woody’s face.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ Woody sulked.

‘Just listen to who’s talking.’ They all looked up as Stephanie shook out her umbrella beside them and nodded when Bronwen asked her if she’d like a shandy. ‘You were the one who encouraged him to schedule that sequence,’ Stephanie said, looking accusingly at Woody as she sat down between him and Matthew. ‘I should have remembered what you two are like when you get together.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t really stand a chance, did I?’

‘Not really,’ Woody told her cheerfully, removing his glasses and giving them a wipe with a lens cloth. ‘But some of us have to learn the hard way.’

‘About what?’ Bronwen asked, handing Stephanie a drink.

‘Matthew, and his inimitable talent for getting his own way . . .’

The light-hearted banter continued, and Marian listened, thrilling to the way so much of it was directed at Matthew. When the rest of the production team arrived they instantly picked up the frivolous mood and began ribbing and ridiculing one another, though always with an eye on Matthew to see if he was listening. Only those very close to Matthew had the nerve to tease him, Marian noticed, but it seemed as if everyone’s purpose was to make him laugh.

Franz, the make-up supervisor, was undoubtedly the victor. He and Hazel had been at each other from the minute they walked in, though Marian hadn’t caught much of what they’d said until now. But following Matthew’s eyes, she started to eavesdrop on the conversation that was going on behind her.

‘. . . and I don’t vant vun of those bloody make-up caravans with the low chairs again,’ Franz was saying. ‘It gives me the fucking back-ache, having to bend over all day.’

‘I don’t know why,’ Hazel retorted, ‘you bend over all night without any problems.’

Matthew roared with laughter, but Franz was not to be outdone, and after shooting Matthew a quick look, he said studying his fingernails: ‘At least there’s alvays somevun behind me vhen I’m bending over in the night, vhich is more than I can say for you, dollink.’

Matthew choked on his beer and Marian laughed so hard that tears started to stream down her face.

‘Oh God, Hazel and Franz aren’t at it again, are they?’ Stephanie groaned. ‘What are they saying now?’

It was some time before Matthew could repeat it, and when he did everyone collapsed into laughter.

‘OK, my round,’ Woody declared, getting to his feet.

‘No, I’ll get them,’ Stephanie said, ‘but you can come to the bar and give me a hand.’

Once they’d sorted out what everyone wanted and gone off to the bar, Matthew turned to Marian. ‘Are you all right?’ he said quietly.

‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

He grinned. ‘Bit of a motley lot, aren’t they, but I think you’re going to enjoy New York.’

‘I’m sure I am,’ she said enthusiastically.

Matthew watched her as she picked up her drink, but when her eyes met his he looked away.

Three days later, on a rainy Saturday morning, thirty-two members of production and crew boarded the British Airways flight to New York – the rest of the unit would be flying out the following day. Shooting would begin on Tuesday at Bennington, where Olivia Hastings had been a student. Marian was so excited that she didn’t sleep for one minute of the seven-hour flight. She sat between Matthew and Woody, who started telling her horror stories about what usually happens to novices on a film set. Stephanie, Bronwen and Hazel were at the back of the plane, smoking, and the others were dotted about the aircraft, either sleeping or drinking.

Halfway across the Atlantic, Woody’s head dropped onto Marian’s shoulder and he drifted into a noisy slumber.

‘God, he’s disgusting,’ Matthew grinned as Woody gave a particularly loud snort. ‘Push him off.’

‘He’s all right,’ Marian laughed.

Matthew turned back to look out of the window, then a few minutes later his hand moved across and covered hers. ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ he said, turning to her. ‘I mean, about going to New York now that Art Douglas has told you about Olivia?’

‘No, I’m not nervous,’ Marian answered, amazed that her voice could sound so calm when her insides were churning so disturbingly.

He wondered if he should tell her that someone was following her, but he decided not to – it would only alarm her, and there was a chance he could be wrong. But he didn’t think so; the man who was sitting four rows behind them now had been standing at the bar of the pub they’d had a drink in a few days ago. He’d also seen someone very like him walk past the office yesterday, though the man was so nondescript, with his wavy brown hair and bland face, that it was difficult to be sure. ‘Good,’ he smiled, giving her hand a squeeze. We’re probably making too much of all this, but nevertheless, don’t go taking any risks, will you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like going to see Jodi again – and then not telling me about it.’ Except that if she did, he would know. Frank Hastings’ people were going to keep an eye on her during their time in New York.

The moment Marian would never forget was six and a half hours after take-off, when the plane tilted and the captain came over the PA system to tell those who hadn’t already noticed that the Manhattan skyline was to their left. The last time she had come to New York the weather had been so grey and overcast that she had been unable to make out even the very tops of the highest buildings, but now, there it was – a city of skyscrapers, projecting through the shimmering heat haze like rockets on a launch pad. She’d seen it so many times in movies, on TV, in books, but there was nothing like seeing it for real. Her chest swelled with excitement and she was certain that somehow, in some way, New York would be the turning-point for her and Matthew.

After passport control, baggage collection and customs, they emerged from Kennedy airport into a blanket of wet heat. It clung to their nostrils and trickled over their skin in clammy beads of sweat. Thankfully, the stretch limousines waiting to drive them into the city were air-conditioned, and when they arrived at the Dorset Hotel Marian took great delight in the reception she got from Tony, the doorman, who had been there the last time she was in New York with Bronwen.

‘Well, my oh my,’ he said in his Southern drawl as he looked her up and down, ‘is that really you? I’d never have recognised you. Don’t you look just the gal.’

‘Young lady,’ Hazel corrected him, as she passed by with Bob Fairley, the lighting cameraman.

‘Sure, that’n’all,’ Tony grinned. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Miss . . .’

‘Marian,’ she reminded him.

‘Sure. And where’s Miss Bronwen, she’s a-coming with y’all?’

‘She’s in the car behind,’ Marian answered, and after digging into her purse for a generous tip, she followed one of the liveried bellhops upstairs to her room.

On the fourteenth floor a two-bedroomed, two-bathroomed suite had been taken over for production offices, there was even a galley kitchen just inside the door. Marian found Josey already there when she went exploring, organising removal men who were carrying in desks, chairs, shelving units and typewriters.

‘There’s a photocopier in there,’ Josey said, pointing to one of the bedrooms. ‘Couldn’t run off a couple of dozen of these, could you?’

Marian took the sheet of paper she held out and saw that it was a list of everyone’s room number. Her eyes raced down the page, and when she found what she was looking for her heart lifted.

‘We thought it might be a bit off, the producer and director shacking up together,’ Stephanie explained, when Marian handed her a list and asked if everything was all right.

‘But why?’

‘Lots of reasons, really. If anyone wanted to talk to one of us confidentially, say, they might not feel so inclined to come if they thought they might be interrupting something. And Matthew’s going to need all the sleep he can get; so am I, come to that; besides, there’ll be enough shenanigans going on with the rest of the crew without me behaving like the madam in a travelling brothel.’

‘Doesn’t Matthew mind?’

‘I don’t think so, he didn’t really say much when I told him. Ah, Josey,’ she said, as the door opened and Josey came back into the production office, ‘Hazel was looking for you just now, she wants you to go down to the art gallery location with her.’

‘But I’ve got tons to do here,’ Josey protested.

‘I’m only passing on the message,’ Stephanie said.

‘I suppose I’d better go and find her, then.’ And muttering under her breath, Josey went back out again.

‘Well,’ Stephanie sighed as she looked around at the chaos in the room. Then, laughing, she threw an arm round Marian’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘We’re really going to have our work cut out, you and I. We’ll have to be at least five steps ahead of the shoot at all times, racing about town pacifying lawyers, getting last-minute deals struck every time Matthew changes his mind – which he will, at least a dozen times a day – and making regular visits to the set to make sure they’re on schedule. Think you can cope? ’Cos I’ll let you into a secret, I’ve hardly slept a wink this past week, worrying whether or not I can.’

‘You don’t mean that?’

‘I do. Still, don’t let’s think about it now, let’s just concentrate on enjoying the time we’ve got left to us.’

‘Anyone would think you were on death row,’ Marian laughed.

‘You’re not far wrong there. Anyway, to take my mind off things, I’d like to take you to the Village tonight for dinner. Just the two of us. Bronwen’s having a meeting with Deborah Foreman, and Matthew’s got costume and make-up parades in here at six, then he’s taking Christina Hancock out to the Hastings’. They’ll be talking over the ins and outs of Olivia’s personality so I’m going to leave them to it. Much to Matthew’s relief, I might add. So, if you’re willing and able, go and take a shower and put on your glad rags – we’re off to Il Mulino, one of my favourite Italian restaurants.’

‘You as well,’ Marian smiled. ‘Bronwen took me there last time I was in New York. But I’d love to go again,’ she added quickly when Stephanie’s face fell.

At seven o’clock, when Marian wandered downstairs to the lobby to meet Stephanie, she was wearing a loose white shirt tucked into the wide belt of a figure-hugging mustard skirt which finished just above the knee, and matching shoes. It was the first time she’d worn the skirt because it hadn’t really fitted her when she bought it, but now she had lost weight, and as she had noticed when she looked in the mirror, the mustard skirt contrived to make her look even slimmer. Her silvery hair was brushed and shining, and the only make up she wore was mascara. In fact, she was feeling rather pleased with the way she looked until the elevator doors opened and Stephanie walked out with Matthew.

It was bad enough that Stephanie had such elegance and style, and towered above Marian’s five feet five inches in a way that, despite her new slimline figure, made her feel frumpish; but tonight Stephanie’s red hair was woven into a French plait, and the glimmer of her gold earrings and subtle lip gloss was matched by the light in her tawny eyes. She looked beautiful in every sense of the word. But Marian felt decidedly better when Matthew treated her to a long, appreciative wolf-whistle, and she laughed with delight when he swept her into his arms and gave first her, then Stephanie, an exaggeratedly passionate good-bye kiss.

As the yellow taxi drove them down-town, Marian craned her neck to look up at the obelisk-like buildings, waiting for the bizarre suspension of reality that had overtaken her the last time she was in New York. Everywhere she looked, glaring neon signs blinked and flashed, while on the ground steam swirled from the drains. The colour, the hustle and bustle, the sounds, the chaos of life, were all the same, but for some reason she wasn’t responding to it as she had before. She didn’t know whether this was because the city no longer held the same magic for her – or because the sense of unreality was with her constantly now and she hadn’t realised it.

The driver dropped them at the restaurant and, once inside, they were shown straight to their table. ‘Right,’ Stephanie said, after the waiter had taken their orders, ‘let’s get down to some serious gossip. Things have been so hectic these past few weeks, I’ve hardly seen you. So, tell me everything, sparing no detail.’

‘Well, cariad,’ Marian began, giving a wonderful rendition of Bronwen’s Welsh accent, ‘did you know that Bronwen’s been trying for days to call Sergio Rambaldi?’

‘Yes, I did,’ Stephanie laughed. ‘She wants a repeat performance with him when we go to Italy, I believe.’

‘If you ask me, darling,’ Marian said, sounding exactly like Hazel, ‘I think she’s frightfully brave. I mean, the guy might be good-looking but, quite frankly, he gives me the spooks. No, I’m sorry, he does. I feel as if he’s looking right into me with those eyes of his. Just wait ‘til you meet him, darling, you’ll see exactly what I mean.’

‘Oh, are you English?’ a voice behind them called out suddenly.

Marian and Stephanie turned round to see a lumpy, middle-aged American woman sitting at a nearby table with her husband, and beaming all over her face at them. ‘Can you talk a bit more,’ she said, ‘I just love that accent.’

‘Oh my god,’ Marian muttered.

‘Over to you,’ Stephanie said, grinning widely.

‘Actually,’ Marian began, ‘I don’t really speak like that, you see, I was mimicking a . . .’

‘Will you just listen to that voice!’ the woman said.

Thankfully their food arrived then, so the woman left them alone.

‘I didn’t think that happened for real,’ Marian hissed under her breath.

‘Me neither,’ Stephanie said, still laughing. ‘We’ll have to tell Bronwen, she’ll find it hysterical. Now what’s that you’ve having there?’

‘Tuna fish and beans.’

‘You’re not still trying to lose weight?’

‘Have you ever had Hazel as a dietician?’

‘No,’ Stephanie chuckled, ‘but I can imagine. You really do look terrific on it, though.’

‘Why, thank you,’ Marian grinned, and sat back as the waiter refilled their glasses.

Like any Italian restaurant, Il Mulino was crowded and noisy, with greenery and empty chianti bottles decorating the walls. As Marian looked about she suddenly felt that someone was watching her – not in the curious way some Americans had of ogling foreigners as though they were playful aliens, but in the way she had felt it before, back in London. She shivered – but then told herself that Matthew’s mention of Art Douglas on the plane must have made her jittery.

‘Did you mean what you said earlier?’ she asked, turning back to Stephanie and picking up her fork. ‘About not sleeping?’

Stephanie pulled a face. ‘Don’t remind me. A nervous producer’s all we need, isn’t it? But I don’t mind telling you, Marian, it feels like I’m about to launch myself off the edge of a precipice with no wings.’

‘You amaze me. You seem so perfectly in control.’

‘That is thanks to Matthew. Between you, me and the gatepost, if it weren’t for him I think I’d have gone to pieces by now.’

‘But why?’

Stephanie took a deep breath and picked up her glass of wine. ‘This is my first major film. Everything else I’ve done has been for TV, with a budget only a fraction the size of this one and shot either on videotape or sixteen millimetre film. This, as you know, is being done on thirty-five millimetre, which makes a hell of a difference – not only the look of it, but the cost. Matthew’s used to thirty-five mill, of course. Thankfully we’re not plagued with a horde of executive producers and studio heads interfering and changing things – including producers – every five minutes, the way they do on most films. Nevertheless, this is my proving ground, and if I flunk this one . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.

‘I can’t see that happening,’ Marian said, swallowing a mouthful of tuna. ‘I can’t see you letting it, for one thing, never mind Matthew.’

Stephanie smiled. ‘You know all the right things to say, don’t you? But the truth is, I don’t think I could do it without him. He’s carrying the brunt of everything right now, which is the main reason why we’re not sharing a room. I can’t go on burdening him with my blasted nerves, he’s got his own job to do.’

‘My guess is,’ Marian said, ‘that once the shooting starts and you’re right in the thick of it, you’ll forget all about your nerves and just get on with it.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Stephanie laughed. Then holding her glass out to Marian, she said, ‘Here’s to Disappearance.’

They drank the toast, and when they’d finished their meal the waiter brought two espressos.

‘You seem to be over that crush you had on Matthew now,’ Stephanie said, resting her elbows on the table and holding her cup between her hands.

Though Marian managed a smile, she couldn’t meet Stephanie’s eyes.

Returning the smile, Stephanie said: ‘God, when I think back to all the crushes I had on older men. Silly, really, isn’t it. Still, in this case it was Matthew’s fault entirely, he shouldn’t go around behaving the way he does. The trouble is, I’m not sure he knows what effect he’s having. But there’s no harm done, is there?’

Marian’s mouth had become dry and a horrible drumming was starting up in her chest. Somehow she managed to force another smile. ‘None at all.’

‘Good. That’s what I want to hear. Now I can let you to my little secret. I’ve been dying to tell someone, but Bronwen’s so engrossed in that Sergio fellow, my mother’s somewhere in the Bahamas, and Hazel couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Anyway, Matthew’s asked me to marry him.’

It was strange how the room seemed suddenly to dip away from her and everything appeared to be happening at the end of a long tunnel. Mentally Marian shook herself, as if trying to free herself from a dream. The words were there, but somehow they hadn’t quite reached her. She looked into Stephanie’s face; then, as she heard herself mumble something about fantastic news, the reality of what Stephanie had said came thundering towards her in a great ball of screaming, panic-filled denial. This couldn’t happen. This wasn’t right. Somehow Stephanie had got it wrong. She tried to move but her hands were paralysed, her legs weighted like lead.

‘Of course, we’ve got to wait for his divorce to come through,’ Stephanie was saying. ‘God knows how long that’s going to take. That’s why it’s still a secret. If Kathleen finds out she’ll do everything she can to delay it.’ Her frown lifted, and reaching for Marian’s hand, she gave it a squeeze. ‘You know how much I’ve always wanted this, how I was so terrified I’d lose him again. I still don’t think I’m quite over that yet, but . . . God, I must have bored you to tears with it by now. But I feel so incomplete without him, Marian. He says he feels the same without me, but can you imagine Matthew anything but completely together?’ She laughed, and Marian watched as Stephanie’s love enveloped her as clearly as if Matthew were there, taking her in his arms.

Somehow she got through what was left of the evening, but she knew it was only pride – which had solidified into a kind of numbness – holding her together. Once she was inside her hotel room, her breath started to choke in her throat and she could feel her resolve beginning to splinter. But no, she told herself, you musn’t let go. You can’t, or there will be no way of surviving this.

There was a red light on her phone. She called down for the message, then literally fell to her knees as she replaced the receiver. Matthew had called from the Hastings’. He’d be back around midnight and he wanted her to wait up.

Trust him, she reminded herself. He knew what he was doing, and now he was coming to explain.

Her half-unpacked suitcase was lying open on the bed. It was a quarter to twelve now, he could arrive at any minute. Frantically she rummaged through her clothes until she found the pale blue satin nightgown she’d bought in a moment of extravagance. She draped it over the bed, then made a quick trip to the bathroom to check on the way she looked. Her face was pinched, haunted, but there was nothing she could do about it, the shock of Stephanie’s news had been too great.

By the time he knocked, at twenty past midnight, she had run the gamut of every possible reason he might have for asking her to wait up. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that it was something to do with Olivia, or how many obstacles she tried to put in the way of her hope, it wouldn’t go away. It was going to work out for them, it just had to.

When she let him in, she almost gasped – she had never seen him so handsome. He was wearing a black suit, his tie was undone and the top button of his white shirt was open. Dressed like that, he seemed so remote from the Matthew she knew that she felt herself being sucked into a world of absurdity, and from the shadowy margins of her mind there seemed to come a doom-laden warning that she was in danger of making herself ridiculous. He wouldn’t be able to miss her paltry attempt at seduction, with the lights turned down low and a subtle hint of perfume in the air, and already she was on fire with embarrassment.

‘Secret trysts at midnight, what would everyone say?’ he joked, as she closed the door.

She tried to laugh, but he was standing so close, and the smell of him sent the blood rushing so fast through her veins that it came out as a sob.

He smiled, and slipping an arm round her shoulders he led her over to the bed and sat down.

‘I hope I haven’t alarmed you,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ she assured him.

‘Good, but I do have some news. It’s nothing to do with Olivia or Art Douglas, but I wanted to tell you before you went to bed.’

‘What’s that?’ she said, breathlessly.

‘You’d better prepare yourself for a bit of a shock. It seems that apart from the bank and several other businesses Frank heads, he’s also the chairman of a company called Seeberg and Wright. They’re a publishing house, and next week they’re launching Paul O’Connell’s book. Paul and Madeleine were there, at dinner tonight.

‘I wanted to tell you now,’ he went on, ‘before you picked up a newspaper or switched on the TV and saw them. Forewarned, and all that. It’s the most bloody coincidence, I know, but we can’t do a thing about it. Anyway, New York’s a big town, it’s unlikely you’ll run into them. She recognised me, of course, from Bristol, but I didn’t mention anything about you, I thought it was something you’d prefer to handle yourself.’

It was the one thing that hadn’t even entered her head, and as she listened to him she had been too stunned to interrupt. Now she wanted only to scream. To yell at him that she didn’t give a damn about her cousin any more, or Paul. To beg him to explain why he’d asked Stephanie to marry him, when . . . When what? She turned to look at him, and when she saw the way his dark eyes were so filled with concern for her, she was suddenly engulfed by the hopelessness of her situation. Wrenching herself away, she threw herself against the pillows, crying, ‘No! No, no.’

Matthew closed the door quietly behind him, and as he walked to the lift his face was grim. So she was still in love with O’Connell, and it was no more than a rebound crush she’d felt for him. But the relief he’d expected to feel didn’t come, and as he closed the door to his room he tried to remind himself that she was just a kid. ‘You feel sorry for her, want to comfort her because she’s lonely,’ he told himself. ‘It’s nothing more than that.’

‘How many more times do I have to tell you, Harry,’ Paul sighed irritably. ‘It’s over between us. I don’t even know what you’re doing here in New York.’

‘I’m here as your publisher, and because I thought you wanted me to be here.’ Harry’s face was taut, and his hand trembled as he picked up the cup of coffee that had just been put in front of him.

Paul looked around the shadowy enclaves of the Twenty-One Club to make sure no one could hear. It was lunch time, and, mercifully, not crowded. ‘I said nothing to indicate I wanted you here. Shit, if Madeleine were to find out . . .’ He pushed his hand through his hair in exasperation. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he looked at his editor with undisguised loathing. ‘You’re not considering turning up at the party tomorrow night, are you?’

‘I was. But contrary to what you think, I haven’t come all this way to cause a scene. I’m here because what we have between us is real, and you know it.’

Paul thumped his hand on the table, rattling the cups in their saucers. ‘For the last time, Harry, I am not a homosexual. I am a writer doing his research. It’s done, I don’t need to do it again.’

‘You may not need to, but you and I both know you want to.’

Paul stared sightlessly up at the curious collection of planes, baseballs, soup tins and tankards that hung from the club’s oak-beamed ceiling. He didn’t want to lose Harry’s friendship – apart from anything else, his next book wasn’t far off completion – but the man was a parasite. ‘OK,’ he said eventually, what will it take to convince you?’

Harry’s face relaxed. ‘I’m staying at the Freemantle apartment on the Upper East Side, Sixty-Fourth and Third.’ He took a pen from his inside pocket and jotted down the address. ‘Spend an afternoon there with me, and if nothing happens between us . . . Well, then I could be convinced.’

Paul took the slip of paper, looked at it, then ripped it into shreds. ‘I can remember the address,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’ll call you when I can make it.’

The two cranes inched slowly through the trees, crunching a path over dried leaves and pine-cones. The drive’s sweeping crescent was fringed by weeping hemlocks, beech and horse chestnuts, and hidden behind their dense foliage were billowing acres of park and woodland. At the end of the quarter-mile approach, the road curved past the Gothic revival mansion and snaked off into the woods beyond.

Matthew stood in front of the colonnaded porch with Frank Hastings. They were looking up at a narrow arched window on the second floor and discussing how much wisteria would have to be chopped away. Behind them, Woody was shouting instructions into a walkie-talkie while at the same time windmilling directions to the crane drivers. His assistants rushed about with call sheets, teas and coffees, while props men unloaded their vehicles and electricians unravelled miles of cable. The make-up and wardrobe caravans were parked in the stable complex, adjacent to the house, along with the winnebagos and catering trucks.

Marian stood under a cluster of sugar maples, feeling a little overwhelmed by all the activity. It was the first time she’d visited the set, for during the first week Stephanie had flown out to Bennington alone, leaving her to take care of things back at the Dorset. Now the crew had returned to New York, and they had all left Manhattan at six that morning to drive to the Hastings’ home in Westchester, where they would begin shooting around nine.

Franz and Belinda were wandering about with their assistants, as the artistes weren’t called for costume and make-up until midday. In fact Franz and Belinda wouldn’t have been there themselves if it hadn’t been the day of the much-talked-about-crane shot. They strolled over to join Marian who, never having seen a chipmunk before, was gazing round-eyed as two of them scampered through the trees. Franz gave her a critical up-and-down, then, leaning on her shoulder, turned to watch the cranes as they moved slowly into place.

‘Vill you just look at that Hazel,’ he hissed, a minute or two later. ‘Vhy she doesn’t just put her tits in Bob Fairley’s hands I’ll never know. I svear she’s doing it on purpose to annoy you, Belinda, dolling. After all, everyvun’s noticed how your tongue starts hanging out vhen he’s around.’

Belinda threw him a sour look and Marian giggled. She dreaded being at the receiving end of Franz’s vicious tongue herself, but in this instance, he was hardly exaggerating – Hazel was rubbing herself against the lighting cameraman as if they were actually engaged in the sexual act.

‘Ah, there’s Rory,’ Franz sighed, as the blond camera operator, wearing only shorts and a vest, carried one of the 35mm cameras across the forecourt and into the house. ‘Dolling, my cock’s gone hard just looking at him,’ he drooled. ‘He had Christina Hancock, our star, vhen ve vere in Bennington, but don’t tell anyvun. Oh God, save me, here comes Beat-me-up Beanie.’

‘Shut up, Franz, she’ll hear you,’ Belinda snapped.

Marian watched the continuity girl as she parked her picnic chair behind the camera van and took out her script. Ben, the focus puller, carrying a lens case in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, fell straight over her as he rounded the vehicle, and Franz and Belinda hooted with laughter as Beanie’s script scattered across the gravel. A couple of riggers ran over to rescue the lens case, leaving Ben to mop the tea from his face while Beanie swore at him. Marian turned to Franz.

‘Why Beat-me-up Beanie?’

‘Because, dolling, she’s had every bastard in the Vestern hemisphere. Cries herself to sleep over vun of them every night. It’s how she gets her kicks. She’s in love vith Rory now, but then who isn’t?’ His pale blue eyes rolled in their sockets as Rory emerged from the house with the operator of the second camera. Bob Fairley called out to them and then Matthew joined in, waving his hands in the air as they all looked up to the sky.

As Marian watched Matthew, she tried to fight back the misery that welled into her throat. Since the night he’d come to tell her about Paul and Madeleine, she had hardly seen him, because he’d flown to Vermont with the rest of the crew on the morning they arrived. But during the few minutes she had spent in his company before he went, and again after his return, she had sensed a change in him. He seemed distant, somehow, as if he were uncomfortable in her presence; but then Stephanie had remarked on how aloof he was, too, and added that he was always like that once filming was under way. Like most directors, she told Marian, he became so engrossed in what he was doing that he ate, slept, lived and breathed it – which had a lot to do with his apparent lack of concern about his and Stephanie’s separate rooms. Hearing that had gone some way to cheering Marian, but as she watched him now she was aware of the ache inside that longed for him just to glance in her direction.

‘So when we do the helicopter shots tomorrow,’ Matthew was saying to Rory, ‘I want you to come in as fast and as close as you can to each window of the house, then just as it looks as though you’re going inside, veer off and up. It’s got to look as though you’re trying to find a way in. The final helicopter run should take you over the top of the house, so that we can get a good aerial view of all four wings with the courtyard in the middle, then crash-zoom down to the fountain. Got that?’

Rory nodded.

‘Right, we’ll go over it again in more detail tomorrow, but that’s how the sequence begins. Now for today’s stuff. The second camera and crew need to be on the crane inside the courtyard, starting on the fountain then swinging up, very slowly. As soon as it’s clear of the house, I want them to hold rock-steady on the sky, and then you, Rory, pick up with your camera, pull back across the roof, get in as much of the parklands and river as you can, then bring it down to the second-storey windows, pan round the house to the front and track in to the bedroom window. Simple as that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s got to look like one shot, so we have to hope that there’s never a cloud in the sky. The sun’s perfect. As soon as the cranes are ready I’ll come up with you and show you exactly what I mean. Woody!’

Woody came rushing round from the back of the house. ‘Yes, guvnor?’

‘How are we doing round there?’

‘Trouble getting the crane in at the moment. The one at the side of the house is in position if you want to go up and have a look.’

As the crane soared over the north wing of the house, Stephanie and Grace Hastings came out of the front door. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I can assure you we’ve no intention of shooting here any longer than three days,’ Stephanie was saying. ‘We’re on schedule at the moment, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the way it’s going to stay. But I confess this damned shot makes me nervous. I wish I hadn’t made so much fuss over it now, something’s bound to go wrong.’

Grace was smiling. ‘I never had you down for the superstitious type, Stephanie. Anyhow, you stay as long as you like. If Frank can handle the disruption, so can I.’

‘Well, come what may, we have to be at the art gallery on Friday. Ah, there are the sound boys. I want to talk to them about the nightclub, if you’ll excuse me.’

As Stephanie ran across the forecourt to where the sound equipment was being loaded onto a trolley, Franz whispered in Marian’s ear. ‘Every man on the set’s get the hots for that vun. But rumour has it our director is the vun getting the how’s-yer-father there.’

Marian’s face was stony. ‘Really?’ she said, and stalked off towards the house. She bumped into Woody as he came hurtling round the corner, and asked if she could do anything to help.

‘Yes, just keep out of the way, darling,’ he said, and lifted his walkie-talkie to speak to Matthew who was still up in the crane.

Turning round, Marian saw Grace laughing, and started to laugh herself ‘I think we’re all in the way,’ Grace said, as Marian joined her. She held out a slim hand. ‘I’m Grace Hastings.’

‘Marian Deacon,’ Marian said.

‘Yes, I know, Matthew pointed you out to me earlier.’

Marian’s cheeks turned pink and for a moment she wondered if Grace was going to say anything about Olivia and Art Douglas.

‘I believe Matthew and Frank are relying on you to come up with a sound end to the movie.’ Grace said.

‘I hope they’re not relying on me,’ Marian answered. ‘Bronwen and Deborah are working on it now, but like everyone else I’m doing my best.’

‘Sure you are.’ Grace covered her ears as behind her an electrician bellowed for more cable, then she moved swiftly behind a pillar to avoid two props men carrying ladders. ‘How’s about I introduce you to Frank?’ she said. ‘He’s been just dying to meet you.’ As she turned, she happened to glance up at the front of the house. ‘I see. Looks like he’s kinda busy right now.’

Frank was hanging from an upstairs window, chopping away at the wisteria that covered it. At that instant Woody came round the corner, and seeing what Frank was up to, yelled: ‘Scenes! Props!’

Grace’s voice was simmering with amusement. ‘Reckon he’s kinda in trouble too, what do you say?’

Marian burst out laughing. She’d heard about Grace’s warmth from Stephanie, and despite feeling anxious about the bother she’d caused, she had nevertheless been looking forward to meeting her. She didn’t look at all as Marian had imagined: her limited experience of wealthy American women had taught her to expect loud, sequinned clothes, heavily jewelled fingers and inch-thick make-up, but Grace, from her immaculately groomed, though greying hair to the tips of her Ferragamo shoes, was every inch a lady. The pale skin of her face was as smooth as her voice, and in the faint lines around her eyes Marian read kindness and humour as well as the deep sadness she had expected.

Franz and Belinda were watching Marian and Grace as Hazel wandered up, sipping black coffee from a polystyrene cup.

‘I see you’ve let Bob Fairley up for air,’ Belinda remarked through gritted teeth.

Hazel smiled sweetly. ‘I’m sure Franz can lend you a file for those claws, Belinda darling. And if you speak to me like that again I shall be forced to remind you of my position.’

‘The contortions of your sex life hold no interest for me, darling.’

Franz was almost popping with delight. ‘You girls are so catty over your bouncey-bouncey.’

‘Nothing compared to you boys,’ Hazel said. ‘So come on, Franz, tell us who’s getting the benefit of your charms these days.’

‘Anyvun who vants them, darling.’

‘He’s after Rory,’ Belinda informed her.

Hazel laughed. ‘Who isn’t? But of course you’ve had him, haven’t you, Belinda? Tell me, what’s he like?’

‘Better than Bob Fairley.’ Belinda’s smile was sugary.

‘Touché.’

‘Try him,’ Belinda continued. ‘They say he’ll fuck anything that moves.’

‘I wonder at your success then, my sweet.’

As the crane swooped down from the sky like a great black bird, they all looked at Matthew. Belinda’s and Hazel’s eyes met and Hazel shook her head. ‘Strictly off-limits.’

‘Tell that to young Marian,’ Franz tittered. ‘The girl practically vets her knickers every time she sees the man.’

Hazel looked shocked. ‘Marian! Franz, my precious, Marian might have a crush, but if it came right down to it she wouldn’t know what a man was if he unzipped his fly and waved it at her. She’s a virgin.’

‘A vhat!’

‘I thought they went out with the dodo,’ Belinda said. She shuddered. ‘Ugh! I don’t know that I can bear one around me. Especially not one of her age. It’s not normal.’

‘It certainly isn’t,’ Hazel agreed. ‘And she’s so much more attractive these days. Still, with so many gorgeous men around . . .’ Again her eyes met Belinda’s.

‘Are you two thinking vhat I think you’re thinking?’ Franz trilled.

‘I rather think we are,’ Hazel answered, a smile slowly curving her lips.

Grace put her hand on Marian’s shoulder as the clapper loader rushed past them. ‘It’s like Grand Central Station here,’ she remarked. ‘Shall we go inside? Maybe you’d like to see around the house?’

‘I’d love to,’ Marian said, ducking as an electrician swung a lamp dangerously close to her head.

Marian had always loved looking round old houses, ever since her father used to take her and Madeleine to visit the stately homes of Devon, but even they paled by comparison with the grandeur of Paulynghurst. The entrance hall was octagonal, with white marble pillars standing two feet out from the eight corners, and a beautifully carved bust on a pedestal stood against each alternate wall. In the centre was a vast black marble table, and the floor was chequered with black and white marble tiles. It was breathtaking in its simplicity, but only an introduction to the splendours that Marian was to see next.

She had little knowledge of antiques, but Grace pointed things out as they went: the Dutch bombé chest that had been passed down through her family, and the porcelain mounted cabinet – a wedding gift from the Vanderbilts. Glorious Adam fireplaces were Summer homes for brass and cast-iron baskets filled with logs and vases of exotic dried flowers. The furniture was a mixture of French and English eclecticism, most of which, Grace told her, had been collected by her and Frank when they travelled in Europe. But the paintings in the drawing-rooms, study and dining-hall were all works of twentieth-century American artists.

By the time they reached the end of the second floor of the west wing, Marian had no idea of the time or what was going on outside, and didn’t much care. She was completely smitten with Grace, and could have spent an entire week looking round her house if it meant being in her company.

At the top of a narrow staircase Grace opened a door and stood back for Marian to go ahead. ‘The Long Gallery,’ she announced, and as she turned a switch, the room was slowly suffused with a subtle yellow glow. ‘Most of the paintings on the west wall,’ she said, ‘are old masters. I’ll take you through them if you like.’ But Marian had spotted the portraits on the opposite wall and asked if they were ancestors.

Grace smiled. ‘Some. Some are still alive. You see there, in the middle, is Frank. Next to him, his father.’ Marian followed her down the room. ‘Here am I on my eighteenth birthday. And the old rogue next to me is my father.’

Marian’s eyes flitted across the next few portraits. ‘No, no mothers,’ Grace chuckled. ‘They are both still alive and both still opposed to our marriage, even after all these years.’

‘Why?’

‘Frank is Jewish. My family are Irish Roman Catholics. It probably sounds archaic to your young ears, but that sort of thing still exists, believe me. Frank’s father is dead, but he was our ally until the last. His wife doesn’t know, but he had a Catholic love of his own once, but never stood up to his father.’ Her eyes suddenly had a far-away look. ‘Olivia used to love hearing about the family,’ she sighed. ‘She always said it was more romantic than a book. That’s her, over there. She was twenty when she sat for it.’

Marian moved slowly towards the painting on the far wall. It was larger than the others, but framed in the same elaborately carved wood. The small, delicate face had Grace’s pointed chin, her wide mouth and slanting eyes. As she gazed up at the portrait, Marian was aware of a strange sensation creeping over her. For the first time she was seeing Olivia as the person she had been before her life was so tragically corrupted. She was seeing her as someone who had loved and been happy, someone who had really lived – and perhaps still did. It came as such a shock to Marian that she couldn’t speak. She was appalled to think that until now she had perceived Olivia as little more than a project, a make-believe character they were making a film about, when all the time she was as real to Grace as she, Marian, was to her own mother.

Feeling Grace move beside her, she murmured. ‘She’s so beautiful.’

Grace nodded. ‘It was done before . . . Before the drugs.’

Suddenly the weight of this woman’s loss seemed to move into Marian’s heart. ‘Grace,’ she whispered, ‘I know we’re making the film to try and get someone to come forward, but what if . . . What will you do if . . .’ She couldn’t say it, but Grace had read her mind.

‘That’s something Frank and I discussed a great deal before we decided to go ahead with the movie. But you see, Marian, she’s our only child. Probably we loved her too much, but to have lost her this way . . . We have to know, even if, at the end of it all we find that she’s dead. It’ll be better than living with this kind of torture.’

Marian turned back to the portrait. So little was actually known about the disappearance. Police and private detectives had searched and hypothesised for five years, but still nothing had come to light. Yet somebody must know something – someone like Rubin Meyer or Sergio Rambaldi. Marian felt herself turn cold. If they were guilty, what had they done with her? Where were they hiding her? Maybe the screams she’d heard in Paesetto di Pittore had been Olivia after all . . . She turned to Grace, wondering if she should tell her about it; but no, it would only add to her pain. Besides, Pittore had been subjected to countless searches and no one had ever found anything.

‘I know that you know what she’s done,’ Grace spoke quietly, ‘and I know that there is no excuse. All I can say is that for the last two years before she . . . vanished, she wasn’t like my daughter any more. She wasn’t like the child who had grown up here, who had lots of friends and boyfriends, who had a normal, happy life. She wasn’t like the girl you’re looking at now. That’s the girl I want to find, Marian, the girl I loved. But it frightens me, and I know it frightens Frank, that if we do find her she will still be the monster that the drugs and those people made her into. But even if she is, I still want to find her. I want to persuade her to make good the wrong she has done, even if it means she has to do it from jail.’

Instinctively Marian reached out for Grace’s hand. ‘I’m sure you will find her,’ she said.

Grace smiled and covered Marian’s hand, holding it between her own. ‘Would you like to see her bedroom?’ she asked, but before Marian could answer she shook her head. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. This is all too depressing . . .’

‘I’d like to see it, really,’ Marian assured her.

As they walked back through the west wing and out onto the first-floor veranda, they heard the clapper-loader yell: ‘Shot 73 Take 5!’ They looked over the railings, and in the courtyard below a camera emerged from behind the fountain and started to glide slowly upwards.

‘Cut!’ Woody popped up from behind a bush. ‘For Christ’s sake, Marian what the hell do you think you’re doing. Clear shot!’

Grace and Marian exchanged sheepish looks, then vanished through the nearest door. ‘I think we’ll go round the other way,’ Grace said, and giggling, they crept back through the house.

Olivia’s bedroom was at the end of a long corridor in the south-east corner of the house. As Grace opened the door Marian felt as though she were stepping inside a fairy tale. The curtains, the drapes round the bed, the furniture, the carpet, even the walls were white. There was lace, silk, satin and damask. The only colour came from the abstract paintings which she quickly realised had been done by Olivia herself. Grace smiled as she saw the expression on Marian’s face, then walked across the room to close a wardrobe door that had fallen open. Marian was immediately aware of the clothes that hung behind the door, never worn now.

From the window she looked out over the woods that sloped down to the river. A single cruiser bobbed on the waves, and Marian found herself imagining what it must have been like for Olivia to grow up in a house like this – taking trips on the river with her father, exploring the woods and gardens.

‘What’s that over there?’ she asked, as Grace joined her at the window. She was pointing to an ornate cast-iron dome nestling in the trees.

‘The gazebo,’ Grace answered. ‘And over there, you see, beside the apple orchard, is the summer house. Olivia and her friends used to play there all the time when they were young. It was anything they wanted it to be, from a witch’s castle to an oriental temple.’ She laughed. ‘Such imagination, children.’

Marian laughed too, and allowed her eyes to wander over the paintings, searching for the OH! that was to be found somewhere in every one. ‘I can’t imagine what this must be like for you,’ she said, her voice thick with compassion. ‘I wish there was something I could do or say, but . . .’

Grace smiled, and putting an arm round Marian’s shoulders she drew her over to the dressing-table, where they both sat down on the ottoman. ‘It’s nice of you to care, Marian,’ she said, ‘and I want you to know that Frank and I care about you, too. We will make certain no harm comes to you, so please don’t be afraid of what you know. If you are afraid, ever, please come to us and we will do all we can to help you. Have you noticed the men following you?’

Marian’s eyes widened. ‘You mean, there is someone following me?’

‘Sure, they’re Frank’s people.’

Marian was amazed, and not a little flattered. ‘What, even in London?’ she said. ‘I kept getting the feeling someone was watching me, but I put it down to a vivid imagination.’

Grace suddenly frowned. ‘Someone was watching you in London, Marian, but it wasn’t one of Frank’s people. Matthew noticed him a few days before you came to the States, so he told Frank and we’ve had the guy checked out. He’s a private investigator, working for Rubin Meyer. That’s why Frank’s people are following you everywhere you go now.’

‘I see,’ Marian said, her throat suddenly constricting with fear. ‘But how does Rubin Meyer know that I know anything? I haven’t even seen him since I was last here with . . . But I’ve seen Sergio Rambaldi. I mentioned Meyer’s name to him.’

Grace nodded. ‘Sure, Matthew told us. We thought, like you, that you’d probably gotten away with it, but it doesn’t look like it now. So that’s why I say, please don’t be afraid to call us any time of the day or night. But Frank thinks this guy who’s been tailing you is harmless, otherwise something would have happened to you by now. Which means that Rambaldi and Meyer aren’t sure whether you know or not, and the investigator is giving them a progress report on everything you do and everyone you speak to. So you mustn’t try to contact Art Douglas while you’re here, and it would be better to stay away from Jodi, too. OK?’

‘OK,’ Marian mumbled.

‘What are you thinking?’ Grace asked, when Marian had remained silent for some time.

Marian’s eyes moved to hers and slowly her face broke into an incredulous smile. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking,’ she said, ‘I just can’t take it all in. I know I should be afraid, but it’s as if I’m only getting small flashes of fear, and then . . . It’s like a dream, as though it’s happening to someone else who isn’t me, yet I know it is.’

‘Probably a touch of shock,’ Grace told her. ‘But when it wears off, I want you just to continue your life as normal. You don’t even have to worry about being with someone all the time, because Frank’s people are watching you, they’ll be with you wherever you go.’

‘So you do think Meyer and Rambaldi are behind everything. Matthew said you did.’

‘We’re certain of it,’ Grace answered, ‘but we can’t prove a thing. So we have to tread very carefully, because Olivia’s body has never been found. Of course that doesn’t mean that she’s still alive, but it does give us hope.’

‘Yes,’ Marian whispered, thinking again of the screams, but she kept her silence and smiled when Grace suggested they go downstairs to find out how the filming was going.

As they walked back to the door, the wardrobe fell open again, and this time Marian went to close it while Grace wandered out into the hall. She resisted the temptation to take a peek at the clothes, afraid they would disturb her in the same way the portrait had.

Downstairs in the hall, one of the runners put his fingers to his lips and held up his hand for them to go no further. Several seconds later Woody was heard yelling, ‘Cut!’ and the runner waved them on.

Outside, the crane was swinging Rory back across the roof. Everyone was looking up at him, then broke into cheers and spontaneous applause as he raised a thumb.

‘It’s in the can!’ Woody shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din. ‘And that’s lunch. Back at two thirty.’

Arm in arm with Bob Fairley, Stephanie walked round the side of the house, then catching sight of Marian and Grace, she ran over to them, her face covered in smiles. ‘Seventeen takes,’ she cried, ‘but it’s done. The video assist went down at the last minute, but I’d seen enough by then. He’s right, damn him! It’s going to look spectacular, and he’s managed to get it in the can before lunch. Why did I underestimate him when I know he’s a genius?’ Laughing, she hooked her arms through Marian’s and Grace’s and led them off to the stable complex.

The three of them were sitting in one of the air-conditioned winnebagos, picking suspiciously at their location lunches and talking about the scenes Deborah Foreman had added to the ones Marian had written for Italy, when the door suddenly flew open and Matthew walked in. Without saying a word he grabbed Stephanie by the arm and dragged her outside.

‘What are you doing? What’s happening?’ she protested as he proceeded to drag her round to the back of the house, much to the astonishment, and amusement, of those still ambling off the set.

His answer was to march her down the bank into the woods, and when they reached the clearing in front of the gazebo he stopped and swung her round to face him. His eyes were bright, but he was frowning.

‘Matthew?’ she said tentatively, then she shrieked as he suddenly swept her into his arms and spun her round. ‘Matthew,’ she laughed, ‘stop it, someone might see.’

He carried her into the gazebo and set her down in front of him. Then lifting her face in his hands, he began touching her lips gently with his own. But as the passion between them rose, he pushed her away.

She watched him as he walked to the edge of the gazebo and leaned against it. He looked back at her, standing against the background of flowers, surrounded by a blaze of colour. ‘I want you,’ he said. His voice was gruff and he closed his eyes as another rush of desire spread through his loins.

Stephanie moved slowly towards him, then putting her arms around his neck she pushed herself against his erection. He groaned, and taking her roughly in his arms he found her mouth and pushed his tongue deep inside.

‘I want you now,’ he growled.

Her laugh was unsteady. ‘To think I could have forgotten the effect these arty shots of yours can have on you.’

He gave her a wry grin, but his eyes were still simmering.

Knowing that she was on the verge of losing control, and knowing too that this was neither the time nor the place, she took his hand and started to lead him back to the woods.

‘Steph?’ he said, as they were about to climb the bank. ‘Sleep with me tonight.’

She turned round, surprised by the sombre note in his voice.

‘All this sleeping apart nonsense,’ he said. ‘It’s getting me down. I miss you.’

She smiled and reached up to stroke the dark hair that curled over his collar. ‘Just you try and keep me away,’ she whispered.