The Midnight Rose Page 6
‘I won’t, I promise. Thanks, Mrs Trevathan.’ Rebecca knew the older woman was mothering her, and it was a comforting feeling.
Her early childhood was not a time Rebecca cared to go back to. Very few people, not even her agent, knew the truth of her past. Although one evening, when Jack and she had taken a short vacation in an autumnal, windswept Nantucket, she had told him the truth.
He had held her as she’d cried, tenderly wiping the tears from her eyes.
Rebecca shook her head and sighed. She had felt truly loved by Jack then. She stood up and paced across the creaking floorboards, the memory so at odds with more recent times when he’d been high, incoherent and aggressive. Not for the first time, she wished with all her heart that they were just Mr and Mrs Average, like they’d been that weekend, wrapped up against the chill and unrecognised. Just a boy and a girl in love.
But that wasn’t how it was, and she knew it was pointless wanting it to be.
Brushing those thoughts aside, Rebecca saw she had less than an hour before she joined her co-star for dinner.
3
‘Good evening,’ said James as Rebecca entered the small sitting room of his suite, where a table had been set up for dinner. He kissed her on both cheeks and led her towards it. ‘Thought you might prefer to eat up here, under the circumstances.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ agreed Rebecca, grateful for the privacy from beady-eyed diners, but at the same time worrying about gossip amongst the hotel staff. Being spotted entering her attractive co-star’s suite at night was in many ways worse than being seen with him in the hotel’s public restaurant.
‘And don’t worry about the staff saying anything.’ James seemed to read her mind as he pulled the chair out to sit her down. ‘Robert informed me the hotel has signed a privacy clause whilst we’re all staying here. If one word leaks out to the press on any of the cast’s activities, the production company’s lawyers will sue the hide off them.’
‘Okay,’ said Rebecca.
‘It’s madness, really, isn’t it?’ sighed James, sitting down opposite her. ‘Anyway, the soup is already here, so tuck in before it gets cold. Wine?’ He proffered a bottle.
‘No, thanks,’ said Rebecca. ‘I need to be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘So, how did you get “discovered”?’ asked James, pouring a healthy slug of wine into his own glass.
Rebecca stirred the bowl of thin, nondescript soup as she considered how to answer, thinking that Mrs Trevathan’s offerings were far superior to this. ‘I don’t actually feel I ever was discovered. I just got a small part in a TV series when I was twenty, and from there, the parts just grew and grew.’ She shrugged.
‘I’ve yet to make it to Hollywood,’ said James. ‘The press attention here in the UK is bad enough, but from what I’ve heard, it sounds like a nightmare in LA.’
‘Oh it is,’ agreed Rebecca, ‘which is why I don’t live there. I have an apartment in New York.’
‘Good for you. I think you’re wise. I have a friend who went across to do a movie in LA a couple of years ago and he says that most film stars literally never go out. They barricade themselves in their homes in the hills behind their high-security walls and banks of cameras. That wouldn’t suit me at all,’ he added with a grin.
‘Your friend is right, and it doesn’t suit me either. New York is way more relaxed.’
‘Except for times like now, when they even stalk you in deepest Devon.’ James raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, it’s hell right now.’ Rebecca gave up on her soup and placed her spoon on the plate beside it.
‘I always find it ironic that every young actor’s goal is your kind of fame and fortune,’ James mused. ‘But the price is high. I’m not in your league, of course, but even my antics end up in the papers.’
‘I guess you’re supposed to get used to it.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘It becomes normal. But it’s the lies they tell that get me.’
‘But this engagement isn’t a lie, is it, Rebecca?’
Rebecca paused and thought how to answer, whilst James cleared away the soup and produced two dishes from the warmer that room service had provided.
‘I’d say the announcement was a little . . . premature. But yes, Jack has asked me to marry him.’
‘And you’ve said yes?’
‘Kind of. Anyway, let’s talk about the film, shall we?’ she said abruptly.
‘Of course.’ James took the hint. ‘So, Miss Bradley, tomorrow morning, I get to kiss one of the most beautiful women in the world. Woe is me.’ He raised his eyes heavenward and sighed dramatically. ‘Acting really is the most rubbish job. And I have to say, Rebecca, you really are the most gorgeous-looking creature.’ James leaned forward to study her features. ‘I can’t even detect a speck of make-up on that face of yours. Not even lipstick.’
‘Then you won’t recognise me tomorrow. They’ll be plastering it on. I’ll resemble a painted doll, for sure.’
‘Well, it was the era for that kind of look,’ said James equably. ‘So, apart from Jack, have you ever fallen for any of your co-stars before?’
‘No,’ Rebecca answered honestly. ‘Have you?’
James took a sip of his wine. ‘I wouldn’t say that my reputation has been exactly spotless,’ he admitted, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. ‘I have been a bit like a child in a sweet shop, working with so many gorgeous women. But to be honest, I’ve been no better or worse than any other red-blooded young man in his twenties; the difference is I’ve done it in the media spotlight. So, moving swiftly on,’ he smiled, ‘how are you finding England so far?’
Over the course of the evening, Rebecca found herself warming to James. For a well-known actor, he was self-deprecating and possessed a keen sense of humour. She liked the fact that he didn’t take himself or his career too seriously; he saw his acting very much as a job. After Jack and his preciousness about his talent and the lack of chances he’d had to show off his ability in the roles he’d been given, James’s attitude was a breath of fresh air.
‘Let’s face it,’ he said over mint tea for her and coffee and brandy for him, ‘if you and I both looked like the back end of a bus, it’s doubtful we’d be playing Elizabeth and Lawrence. That’s just the way it is.’
Rebecca smiled. ‘I really have to go,’ she said, seeing it was already after ten o’clock.
‘Of course, and I shall slink next door to my comparative broom cupboard of a bedroom, as you’re taken off to sleep like a princess in your tower. I’ll say goodnight here, shall I?’ He smiled. ‘I don’t want any lurking photographers outside getting the wrong idea.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Rebecca said as she stood up. ‘See you tomorrow on set.’
James kissed her gently on both cheeks. ‘And seriously, Rebecca, if you ever need to talk, I’m here.’
‘Thanks, goodnight,’ she whispered as she left the suite. She took the stairs down, rather than risk being caught coming out of the lift, then hurried through the front door of the hotel. Spying Graham waiting in the Mercedes outside, she climbed swiftly into the back of it.
Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca opened the door to her bedroom and closed it behind her. Mrs Trevathan had switched on the bedside lamp and turned back the bedcovers. Undressing and slipping in between the sheets, Rebecca decided that she did indeed feel like the princess James had described.
Sometime during the night, Rebecca awoke with a start, sure she’d heard a sound in the room. After switching on the light, she saw it was empty. She sniffed the air, which seemed to be filled with a smell of heady floral perfume. It wasn’t unpleasant, just oddly strong. Rebecca shrugged, turned off the light and eventually drifted back to sleep.
‘You’re on set in five minutes, Miss Bradley,’ said the runner, entering the make-up room.
‘And she’s ready to go,’ said Chrissie the make-up artist, placing a last dash of powder on Rebecca’s forehead. ‘There,’ she said as she removed the protective apron from around Rebecca’s shoulders.
‘She does, doesn’t she?’ agreed Chrissie.
‘Thank you,’ said Rebecca, still trying to get used to her newly blonde, bobbed hair, the heavily painted eyes, the alabaster-white skin and the dark red lipstick. She hardly looked like herself at all. Following the runner along the corridor and emerging into the main hall, she saw Anthony walking down the wide marble staircase towards her.
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Good morning.’
As Anthony caught sight of her, he paused on the stairs, a look of shock on his face.
‘My God,’ he breathed.
‘What is it?’
Anthony didn’t reply, he just continued to stare at her.
‘We’d better go, Miss Bradley,’ urged the runner.
‘Goodbye,’ Rebecca said uncomfortably to the stationary figure on the stairs, and then followed the runner out of the entrance hall.
James was waiting inside the drawing room as the crew set up camera positions on the terrace.
‘Love the hair, darling,’ he said with a broad smile, ‘and is that you under all that make-up?’
‘Somewhere, yes,’ she quipped back, as they were called on to the set.
‘Well, as I’m sure everyone has told you, you look simply ravishing. But personally, I prefer you naked . . . I mean your face, of course,’ James whispered cheekily as he offered her his hand and they stepped outside.
Robert Hope, the director, came over and put an approving arm around her shoulders. ‘You look perfect, Rebecca. Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ she breathed nervously.
‘You’re going to be wonderful, I promise you,’ he reassured her. ‘Now, you two, let’s take a run through from the top of the scene.’
Two hours later, Rebecca stepped back inside the drawing room with James. She flopped into a chair, exhausted from the tension. ‘Boy, am I glad that’s over.’
‘You were great, really,’ James commented, as he lit up a cigarette by the open door and smiled at her. ‘Your accent was perfection.’
‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said appreciatively. ‘You really helped me feel comfortable.’
‘I think we make a good team, don’t we? And I really enjoyed that kiss,’ he added with a wink.
Rebecca reddened and stood up. ‘I’m going in search of a cool drink. See you later.’ She left the room before he could follow her, not wanting to give him any encouragement that their on-screen relationship had any chance of developing off it. She’d seen that look in a number of her co-stars’ eyes before. James was a lovely guy, but she needed him as a friend, not a lover.
‘Rebecca.’ Steve caught her as she made her way to the location catering van. ‘The production office has just had an irate call from your agent, saying that your fiancé has been in touch with him. They both want to know where you are. Can you contact them?’
‘I did leave them both a message to tell them I was fine,’ Rebecca countered. ‘But I have no cell service here.’
‘I know. It’s causing a real problem for everyone, so we’ve asked Lord Astbury if we can use his landline. We’re picking up the bill, of course, so by all means, go and use it. We don’t want any scare stories in the press about how you’ve been kidnapped, do we?’ he added and walked swiftly away.
Sighing, Rebecca began to mount the stairs to her room to retrieve her cellphone for the numbers.
‘Rebecca?’
She turned round and looked below her. Anthony was standing in the entrance hall.
‘Hello,’ she said uncertainly. Again, he was staring at her, and she felt distinctly uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.
‘Have you got a few minutes?’ he asked. ‘I want to show you something.’
‘Of course,’ she answered. She could hardly say no.
Anthony reached out his hand, signalling that she should make her way back down the stairs towards him. He smiled at her as she arrived next to him, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Follow me.’ He led her along the corridor that accessed the formal rooms overlooking the garden at the back of the house. Stopping outside one of them, he turned to her. ‘Prepare yourself for a surprise.’
‘Okay,’ Rebecca replied as he opened the door and they entered a spacious library. Pulling her into the centre of the room, Anthony put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face the fireplace.
‘Look at the painting above it.’
Rebecca found herself staring at a portrait of a young, blonde woman, dressed similarly to herself, with a jewelled headband across her forehead. But it wasn’t just what the woman was wearing that struck her, it was her face.
‘She –’ Rebecca found her voice. ‘She looks like me.’
‘I know. The likeness is –’ Anthony paused – ‘extraordinary. When I saw you this morning, with your hair blonde and dressed as you are, I thought I was seeing a ghost.’
Rebecca was still taking in the huge brown eyes, the heart-shaped face as pale as her own, the small retroussé nose and the full lips. ‘Who is she?’
‘My grandmother Violet. And, what’s even stranger, she was American. She married my grandfather, Donald, in 1920 and came to live with him here at Astbury. She was regarded both in England and America as one of the great beauties of her day. Sadly, she died very young, so I never met her. And my grandfather died only a month after her.’ Anthony paused, then sighed heavily. ‘You could say it was the beginning of the end for the Astbury family.’
‘How did Violet die?’ Rebecca asked him gently.
‘Hers was the fate of many women in those days; she died in childbirth . . .’ Anthony’s voice trailed off miserably.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Rebecca, at a loss.
Recovering himself, Anthony continued. ‘Subsequently my poor, sainted mother, Daisy, grew up an orphan, in the care of her grandmother. That’s my mother there.’ He indicated another portrait, showing a stern-lipped, middle-aged woman. ‘I apologise for sounding maudlin, but it’s strange that the Astburys have been blighted, one way or the other, ever since Violet’s death.’ He turned his attention suddenly from the portrait to Rebecca. ‘You’re not in any way related to the Drumner family of New York, are you? They were a very rich and powerful clan in the early twentieth century. In fact, it was Violet’s dowry that saved this estate from ruin.’
Anthony looked at her, waiting for an answer. Her past was not something Rebecca wished to reveal to anyone, and certainly not to a stranger.
‘No. My family hails from Chicago, and I’ve never heard the Drumner name mentioned. The likeness must be simply coincidence.’
‘Still –’ Anthony offered her a tight smile – ‘odd all the same to have you here at Astbury, playing a character from the era Violet lived in. And resembling her so strongly.’
‘Yes, it is, but I can assure you there’s no family connection,’ Rebecca repeated adamantly.
‘Well, there we are. As you can imagine, it was rather a shock to see you in the hall this morning. Please do forgive me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I won’t hold you up any longer, but I felt I must show you Violet’s portrait. And perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me for dinner tonight?’ he added.
‘Thank you, I’d be delighted to. And now I really have to go. I’m due back on set in an hour.’
‘Of course.’ Anthony walked to the door, opened it and let Rebecca pass through ahead of him. They walked in silence back to the entrance hall. Rebecca smiled goodbye and once again mounted the stairs to retrieve her cellphone. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, she closed the door, her legs suddenly feeling weak underneath her. She sat down quickly in the armchair next to the fire, put her head forward to rest on her hands and took some deep breaths.
She had lied to him. The only thing she knew about her parents was her mother’s name – Jenny Bradley.
And the fact that Jenny had put her daughter into foster care when Rebecca was five years old.
The people she regarded as her parents were Bob and Margaret – a kind couple who had fostered Rebecca when she was six. Over the years, they’d tried to adopt Rebecca, but her mother had always refused to sign the paperwork, assuming that one day she would be well enough to care for her daughter herself.
Emotionally, the situation had been difficult for her to cope with; the permanency and security she so craved were not available to her. When she’d been a young girl, fear had coursed through her on many a night at the thought of her mother coming to claim her, taking her back to the life she dimly remembered before she’d gone into care.
Finally, when Rebecca was nineteen, Bob and Margaret told her gently that her mother had died of an overdose.
She’d never known who her father was. She had no idea whether Jenny had either. She guessed she’d probably been conceived when her mother was turning tricks to buy alcohol and drugs.
Rebecca stared forlornly across the room. Who knew if her father had been related to Violet Drumner? It was as good a possibility as any. But as there was no name for him on her birth certificate, she would never be able to investigate.
Rebecca felt the first pang she’d experienced since her arrival here for the familiar comfort of Jack’s arms. She grabbed her cell, which contained his number, and took herself down to Anthony’s study to call him on the landline.
Yet again she got his voicemail, but knew that Jack never answered calls from numbers he didn’t recognise, for security reasons.
‘Hi, honey, it’s me. There’s no signal here so I’m using the landline again. I’ll try again later. I’ve got an hour until I’m back on set. Hope you’re okay. Bye.’
Ending the call, she then dialled Victor’s number; this time he answered.
‘How are you, sweetie? I was about to send the CIA to hunt you down.’
‘I’m good. We’re filming in an amazing old house and, because of all the media attention, the guy who owns it, Lord Astbury, has let me stay here. Don’t worry at all, Victor, I’m perfectly safe,’ she reassured him.