Czytaj książkę: «Shadow Marriage»

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘SARAH?’

She recognised the voice of her agent immediately, and her fingers tensed on the receiver in response to its jovial tone, hope feathering fingers of tension along her spine.

‘Good news,’ Carew told her buoyantly, ‘and not ad-work this time, before you ask. It’s a film part, and a good one. Want to hear more?’

The teasing enquiry reminded her that she was twenty-three and not eighteen, and long past the stage of dry-mouthed excitement over any part.

‘It depends,’ she responded cautiously. Her voice was warmly husky; extraordinarily sexy, was how one director had once described it, but Sarah had made it clear to Carew before she became one of his clients that she had no intention of accepting parts that emphasised or relied on her sexuality—in any way. And she had stuck to her statement rigidly, even though it had often meant that she had been forced, on more than one occasion, to take other jobs to pay her rent—working in shops and offices, glad of the odd well paid commercial which came her way.

‘It’s a beaut,’ Carew assured her, and although she could not see his face she could picture it well enough, and the jumbled chaos that passed for his office.

‘You’ll love it,’ he continued. ‘I’m having the script sent round to you right away. We’ve got a meeting with the director tomorrow. Lunch at the Savoy. You’re one lucky female, Sarah. The part was as good as cast, and then Guy Holland happened to see that ad you did for the shampoo people. You’ll be flattered to know that he rang me at home last night. It’s only by chance that he’s over here at all. A large part of the filming is going to take place in Spain. He’s a stickler for authenticity, and he was only in London overnight, so…’

‘Carew, tell me more about the film,’ Sarah cut in quickly. She knew Guy Holland’s reputation—who didn’t in the film world?—and there was only one other director that she could think of who possessed an equivalent aura; whose name provoked the same powerful charisma.

‘Oh, it’s about Richard the First,’ Carew told her obligingly, ‘and before you ask, it’s no mere costume piece. According to Guy the screenplay is one of the best he’s ever seen, and it’s been written by an amateur, someone who has guarded his identity so closely that no one seems to know exactly who he is. Anyway,’ he seemed to collect his thoughts with an effort, as though he realised how tense and impatient she was growing, ‘it seems the long and short of it is that Guy wants you to play Joanna—Richard’s sister. The part’s a gem, Sarah. I’ve only glanced through the screenplay, but what I’ve read is enough to convince me that Guy isn’t exaggerating when he says he’s got half a dozen top actresses going down on their knees for it.’

‘But his budget is limited, and so he’s got to make do with me,’ she cut in drily.

‘No way. Like I told you, Guy is a stickler for accuracy, and according to him your colouring is exactly right for Joanna. The first thing he wanted to know was if your hair was natural.’

Sarah pulled a wry face into the receiver. Her hair was a particularly distinctive red-gold, and she had the pale Celtic skin to go with it—unfashionably pale really, her eyes a deep smoky grey, bordering on lavender whenever her emotions were intensely aroused.

‘The second thing he wanted to know was how long it was. It’s just as well you didn’t agree to have it cut for that ad. Apparently whoever plays Joanna must have long hair.’

Sarah grinned to herself as she listened to him. At the time he had been all for her having her hair cut as the shampoo company had wished, but she had been with Carew long enough to accept that at bottom his clients’ interests were paramount.

‘Excited?’ he questioned.

‘I might be—when I’ve read the part.’

She didn’t say any more, but he interpreted her remark easily.

‘It’s perfectly all right—there aren’t any sex scenes. At least, not for you. I’ve already checked that out. The script should be with you within the hour. Give me a ring when you’ve read it, won’t you?’

As she replaced the receiver Sarah tried not to give in to the insidious tug of excitement spiralling through her. A film part as juicy as this one promised to be was a gift she had long ago made up her mind she would never receive. For one thing, she liked living and working in London, which was hardly the Mecca of the film world. For another, her insistence on parts without any sexual overtones automatically narrowed her field considerably. She knew quite well that Carew was curious about her rigid refusal, his instinct telling him that there was more to it than a natural disinclination to use her body to further her career. After all, she had joined him straight from her part in the highly acclaimed film of Shakespeare’s life in which she had played the wanton Mistress Mary Fitton of Gawsworth—Shakespeare’s ‘Dark Lady’.

For that part she had received rave reviews. She had put her heart and soul into it, immersing herself completely in it, so much so that afterwards she had wondered if she hadn’t been infected with some of Mary’s wantonness herself. Certainly that would explain why she had…

The heavy clatter of something falling through her letter box dragged her thoughts away from the past, and she hurried into the small hall, picking up the heavy package, and retreating with it to the comfort of her sitting room.

Her flat might only be small, but Sarah had an inborn flair for colour and tranquillity—something she had inherited from her parents, no doubt. Her father had been an acclaimed interior designer, and her mother his assistant. The one shred of comfort she had been able to salvage from the destruction of her life after they had been killed in a plane crash had been that they had gone together.

She had only just entered drama school when it happened; a late entrant, having decided at the last minute not to go on to university, but to try her hand as an actress instead.

She had only been nineteen when she was offered the part of Mary Fitton. Shakespeare had been played by Dale Hammond, an actor whose star was very much in the ascendant. Unlike her, Dale had gone on to international fame, and a smile plucked at Sarah’s lips as she remembered several instances of his Puckish sense of humour. They had got on well together, so well that she had found no embarrassment in their intensely emotional and sensual scenes together, unlike those she had had to play with Benedict de l’Isle, the actor who was playing the Earl of Southampton, her other lover, and reputedly Shakespeare’s as well!

As she unwrapped the package, she shivered, suddenly cold, unwilling to remember the desire that had flamed between the two of them; a desire which had left its mark on the film, highlighting the emotional drama they played out as Southampton and Mary Fitton. Dale had been her friend, and in consequence of their friendship she had been able to relax while they played their love scenes, but with Benedict there had been no relaxation possible. And that was why…

The script slipped from her fingers, landing on the polished wooden floor with a thud, bringing her sharply back from the past. Schooling her thoughts, Sarah bent and picked it up, flicking through the opening pages and then going back to read them more slowly as the typed words enthralled her imagination.

Two hours later, when she put aside the final page, her thoughts were still coloured by all that she had read. For that brief span of time she had been living in the twelth century, totally absorbed by the lives of the characters she had been reading about; Richard, third son of Henry II and his estranged wife Eleanor of Aquitaine; adored by his mother and hated by his father. Richard, who would one day be king. Sarah shivered in sudden reaction, trying to visualise the man who had written so sensitively and deeply about a man who, she realised for the first time, had been an intensely tortured individual, torn between duty and desire, unable to fulfil one without destroying the other. She didn’t have enough knowledge about the Plantagenet era to know how factual or otherwise the script was, but she remembered enough to sense that it had been carefully researched, and that in depicting Richard as a man tormented by his intense love for another knight, the writer had leaned towards the truth rather than inventing the relationship simply for effect. Having read the script, it was dizzyingly heady to know that Guy Holland wanted her for Joanna. The part wasn’t a large one, but then none of the female parts were. The only other ones of any magnitude were Eleanor, Richard’s mother, and Berengaria, his wife.

Unlike earlier thirties films about Richard, this one was not concerned primarily with the Third Crusade, which she was surprised to see had occupied a relatively short span of Richard’s life. What did amaze her was the discovery that he had first gone to war as a teenager, defying, and eventually defeating, his father. But it was her part as Joanna she must concentrate on. She had three major scenes—the first when Richard accompanied her through Spain on her way to her first husband, the aged William of Sicily, a man who was fifty to her seventeen; the second when Richard came to Sicily with his army en route for the Crusade and rescued her from her unscrupulous brother-in-law, Tancred, following the death of William, and the third when she renounced the man she loved—one of Richard’s knights—before agreeing to marry Raymond of Toulouse, her second husband.

Carew hadn’t exaggerated when he described the part as ‘meaty’, and Sarah hurried to the phone, quickly dialling his number.

Heather, his assistant, recognised her voice straightaway and put her through.

‘Umm, that voice—it’s like being drowned in melted honey!’ Carew told her extravagantly. ‘Guy will find it a bonus he hadn’t expected. Well, you’ve read it, I take it? What do you think?’

‘You know what I think,’ Sarah managed in a husky whisper. ‘Oh, Carew…’

Stupidly tears filled her eyes and she had to shake them away. She had fought so hard to tell herself that it didn’t matter that her career had never been the success she had wanted, that she had hardly dared to let herself hope that she might get a part like this. Now she no longer doubted that Guy Holland hadn’t been boasting when he claimed that half a dozen Hollywood greats were clamouring for it, and she could only bless the perverseness that made him such a stickler for detail that he wanted a genuine long-haired redhead for his Joanna.

‘Well, don’t forget there’s still tomorrow,’ Carew cautioned her, quickly soothing her leaping fears by adding, ‘Not that you’ve anything to worry about. Once Guy sees you…’

‘Who’s playing Richard?’ Sara wanted to know.

‘An old friend of yours.’ He paused expectantly, and Sarah felt her blood run cold. ‘Dale Hammond,’ Carew told her, obviously disappointed by her lack of response. ‘Apparently Guy has certain reservations about him, but his colouring is right, and there’s no denying that he has the experience for the part. Guy is very anxious that Richard should be played sympathetically, and yet remain very much the male animal.’

The part would be extremely challenging and taxing, Sarah could see that, and in her mind’s eye she collated Dale’s roles since his Shakespeare. He had the experience for the role, he also had the slightly malicious sense of humour that had come across so well in his Shakespeare, and which was evident in some ways in Richard, but he would need intense depth and breadth for the role, if he was to be played as she sensed the playwright had intended him to be. As she hung up, promising Carew that she would not forget their lunch date, she frowned thoughtfully, curious about the writer of the film, experiencing something which was almost a comradeship with him, so caught up in the spell of his words that it was almost as though her senses knew him.

She spent the morning in her local library, and emerged with her arms piled high with reference books, with barely an hour to spare before her lunch date.

She dressed quickly; a dove-grey silk dress with undertones of lavender to darken her eyes, leaving her skin free of make-up apart from a slick of colour along her lips, braiding her hair and twisting it into a coronet on top of her head.

The effect was startling, and she smiled a trifle wryly at her haunting reflection. Guy Holland was no fool. He would realise instantly that she was trying to portray his ‘Joanna’. Whether she had succeeded or not she had yet to discover.

She arrived exactly on the dot of one and was shown to a secluded table in the cocktail bar. Carew’s eyes widened as he saw her and he struggled to his feet, a small, rotund man, with a shock of untidy fair hair and owlish brown eyes. His companion uncoiled himself from his chair far more elegantly, one lean, tanned hand extended to grip hers, his eyes coolly appreciative as they studied her, and was studied in return.

His first question wasn’t what she had expected at all. His glance lingered on her hand as his own was withdrawn, and she had to fight against a deeply instinctive desire to wrench off the plain gold ring adorning her left hand.

‘You’re married?’

‘I… I’m divorced,’ she managed curtly, frowning as Carew rushed into what she considered to be unnecessary explanations. ‘Sarah was married briefly to Benedict de l’Isle.’

‘Really?’ Darkly silvered eyebrows rose speculatively. ‘I know Ben quite well. I hadn’t realised he’d been married.’

‘I’m sure he wants to forget it as much as I do,’ Sarah told him, glaring at Carew. What on earth had he said anything for? He knew she abhorred all mention of her brief and all too disastrous marriage to Benedict de l’Isle. A marriage that had been over almost before it had begun. A marriage entered into through ignorance and folly on her part and reluctance and guilt on Benedict’s. How much reluctance she had discovered on the night of their wedding. Thank God Dale had been there to help her. Without him…

‘You’ve read the script. What do you think of it?’ Guy asked her, resuming his seat.

‘It’s marvellous.’ Her eyes glowed with conviction. ‘The whole thing’s so powerfully compulsive that I feel I almost know the writer. He makes you feel what’s written; experience Richard’s anguish, and understand all that he must endure. I…’ She broke off, feeling flustered as she realised Guy was watching her speculatively. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised awkwardly. ‘You must be used to this reaction by now.’

‘I’m certainly used to hearing the script praised,’ he agreed, ‘but you’re the first person I’ve come across to mention the actual writer with such emotion. Normally any emotion is reserved for the box office receipts, or star prestige,’ he added with dry cynicism. ‘You feel you could handle the part?’ He watched her carefully as he spoke, and Sarah sensed that his question was in some way a test.

‘I hope so. Joanna grows from a child to a woman during the course of the film. She falls in love with Richard’s squire as a child, but gives herself to him as a woman, knowing the price she must pay for her love is marriage to Raymond of Toulouse.’

‘I hear you flatly refuse to play any heavy sex scenes,’ Guy intervened, suddenly changing the subject. ‘Why?’

Sarah shrugged, her palms damp, fear cramping through her although she fought to control it. ‘Perhaps because I feel true sensuality is more effective for being implied than actually witnessed.’

‘Umm. I suspect the two actors who are to play Richard and his lover heartily feel the same thing. Unfortunately, as far as they are concerned the script calls for some decidedly physical scenes.’

‘Oh, but in the context of the script they’re…’ She broke off, flushed and confused, as Guy Holland turned to her.

‘Go on,’ he prompted, ‘they’re what?’

‘Almost hauntingly emotional,’ she responded hesitantly, unable to find the words to convey the terrible sadness that had gripped her when she read the script.

‘Let’s just hope the censors see it that way,’ Guy told her with another flash of dry humour.

They were shown into the restaurant and were halfway through their meal before he put Sarah out of her misery and confirmed that she had got the part.

‘You won’t be an entirely popular choice,’ he warned her, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, you’re the right one.’ He went on to discuss other members of the cast. Berengaria was to be played by a well known film star whose smoulderingly sensual nature was at such odds with Berengaria’s naïve innocence that Sarah could only hope that she was an excellent actress.

‘She wasn’t my choice,’ Guy told her, startling her by reading her thoughts, ‘but let’s just say she comes with the script, and I wanted it badly enough to agree.’

Sarah caught her breath. Did that mean that Gina Frey knew who had written the screenplay and was romantically involved with him?

It was a question she sensed would not be answered even if she asked, so instead she opened a discussion about filming sequence and dates and discovered that most of the filming was to be done in Spain, where there were enough castles, desert and empty spaces for them to be able to recreate the feel of the twelfth century.

After lunch they returned to Carew’s office to finalise details and sign contracts, promising that she would be in Spain for the end of the month.

‘After all,’ she commented to Carew when Guy had gone, ‘what’s to stop me?’

‘You’d better go out and buy yourself a ton of sunscreen,’ Carew warned her. ‘Guy won’t be too happy if your skin gets burned, and you’ll be filming all through the summer. I wonder why he wanted to know about your marriage?’ he added, eyeing her thoughtfully. Although he was basically a kind-hearted man, on occasions it irked him that Sarah was so resolute about not discussing her brief marriage. After all, Benedict de l’Isle was of sufficient importancé in the film world for his name to carry weight; Sarah could have used it. When she had first come to him he had read up on her press-cuttings, and it had been from them and not from her that he had learned of their affair while they were playing opposite one another in Shakespeare; she as Mary Fitton and he as Southampton, the man who ultimately destroyed her. They had been married at the end of the filming; there had been a party for all the cast, and then, within a week, it was all over. To quote Benedict de l’Isle, as many of the papers had done with evident glee, his new wife, like Mistress Fitton, had been unable to choose between her two lovers and in the end had chosen wrongly. He eyed Sarah obliquely. If de l’Isle had been speaking the truth, did that mean that she and Dale had been lovers, and if so…

Anxious to get back to her library books and her research, Sarah was oblivious to his thoughts. This part was a gift from the gods in more senses than one. Another twelve months without a decent part and who knows, she might have been on the verge of abandoning her career. But she had got the part, and she fully intended to leave her stamp on it; to be the Princess Joanna, spoiled darling of the greatest house in Christendom until the woman accepted what the child could not; that princesses were but pawns, bought and sold to bind allegiances.