Leyton Turnbull stood at the front desk of the hotel, waiting to check in. He drummed his fingers irritably on the oak as the man on duty dealt in a leisurely fashion with an elderly couple’s dinner reservation, and wondered where the bar was; half past two in the afternoon was no time to be sober, but he had decided against stopping for a drink on the way, cowed into restraint by the importance of the weekend. There was time for a quick one now, though, and perhaps he could hook up with someone he knew. He scoured the terraces and peered through the doorway into the main building, but could see no one he recognised.
‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
Turnbull grunted impatiently. ‘I’m with Mr Hitchcock’s party.’
The man waited a few seconds, then, when nothing else was forthcoming, said tactfully: ‘Could you just remind me of your name, sir?’
‘It’s Turnbull. Leyton Turnbull.’
‘Of course.’ He glanced briefly down a list of names, and took a key from the board behind him. ‘You’re in Government House, sir, just to the left of the Bell Tower. Your suite’s on the top floor.’ Turnbull followed his gesture and saw an apricot-coloured building with a red hipped roof, the largest and most normal-looking structure on the cliffside. ‘I’ll get someone to take you across now.’
‘Don’t bother – I can see where it is. Just drop my luggage off and make sure my car’s parked safely.’
‘Certainly, sir. The garages are back up the hill on the right-hand side, and she’ll be perfectly safe there.’ He picked up the keys that Turnbull had slid across the desk. ‘We’ll keep these here until you need them. I’m James Wyllie, the hotel’s manager, and if there’s anything I can do this weekend, just let me know.’
‘You could start by telling me where the bar is.’
‘Through the hallway and on the right, just before the stairs. If I could ask you to sign in?’
Turnbull took the pen and was fumbling in his pocket for his glasses when a young girl joined him at the desk. ‘Mr Turnbull? I had no idea you were going to be here. How nice to see you.’ He looked at her face – not strikingly beautiful, but warm and open in a way that made glamour irrelevant – but couldn’t place it. She smiled. ‘Astrid Lake,’ she said. ‘We worked together on
Dancing Days
but I wouldn’t expect you to remember me. I was only fifteen, and hopefully I’ve changed a little since then.’
Certainly, the intervening years had been enough to wipe out any traces of the child he remembered from that film. Her voice no longer had the unpleasant whining quality that signalled immaturity, and the roundness was gone from her features; most importantly, she seemed to have shed the child without losing the innocence, and it was a remarkably attractive combination. ‘More than a little, Miss Lake,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘and definitely for the better. I only wish I could say the same, but at my age another year is rarely an improvement.’ She laughed politely, but hadn’t yet learnt the professional insincerity which a denial would have required, and he noticed the staff at the reception desk exchange a sly smile. He had been about to invite the actress for a drink but something stopped him, something about her freshness and youth that made him feel world-weary, even ashamed. Instead, he simply asked‚ ‘Are you here for the weekend?’
‘Yes. Mr Hitchcock’s office called my agent last week with the invitation. I couldn’t . . .’ The rest of her sentence was lost in a volley of barking from the hallway and a small Jack Russell ran into reception, trailing its lead. Astrid bent down to catch it but the dog slipped through her grasp and made straight for Turnbull’s ankles. Without thinking, he kicked it away, catching the side of its face with his foot, and the girl looked at him in surprise.
‘Still the same old Leyton Turnbull, I see. Preying on children and small animals.’ It was the sort of voice that would have cut through any crowd, even without an insult to help it. There was an embarrassed silence, during which Astrid Lake flushed and excused herself from the room, and the staff at reception glanced nervously at each other. The only person who seemed in control was the woman who had spoken, and Turnbull turned round in astonishment.
‘Bella Hutton,’ he said, recovering quickly and glaring at her. ‘No party’s complete without the bitch.’
Reluctantly, Wyllie started to come out from behind his desk but Bella waved him back. ‘It’s all right. I only ever spare Mr Turnbull one line at a time. It’s all he can cope with, on or off screen.’ She picked the dog up and caught the arm of a waitress who was passing through the foyer with a tray of dirty crockery from the terrace. ‘I’ll have tea in the Mirror Room,’ she said. Already hot and bothered, the waitress seemed about to answer back but caught the eye of her manager and decided against it. Bella Hutton watched her go and put a hand on Turnbull’s arm. ‘Try that one,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘She’s more your type.’
Angrily, he shook her off. ‘Tell Mr Hitchcock I’m here,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he headed for the bar. ‘He’ll want to know.’
Bella started to leave but Wyllie cleared his throat. ‘Dogs aren’t strictly allowed in the hotel’s public rooms, Miss Hutton.’
She turned and beamed at him. ‘And I’m not strictly inclined to pay my bill, Mr Wyllie. Shall we both see how we feel in the morning?’ The Mirror Room was next door, and Bella hesitated in the doorway before going in. It had been such a long time since she was last in this house – nearly twenty years – but she was less disoriented by what had changed than by how much had remained the same. These days, the room was used mostly for coffee after dinner. Its jade and gold decor was new and immaculately presented, if far too fussy for her taste, but – unlike much of the hotel – the fundamental structure of the space was exactly as it had always been, and its main feature was as startling and impressive as ever: the enormous, gilt-edged mirrors covered most of the walls, making the room seem much larger than it really was and filling it with light. There was no one else about and Bella walked across to the fireplace, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor just as they had on her last visit. The stone surround was elaborate and a little incongruous, with the solemn figure of a monk on either side and a frieze of cherubs and angels along the mantelpiece. She bent down to look more closely at the carving on the left and ran her finger over the damaged stone. Such a small mark for so much anger, but still there – lasting and hidden like the pain it represented. Was she the first to seek it out this weekend, she wondered, or had other fingers traced that scar, remembering?
The dog in her arms struggled to be put down, and Bella took a table by the window. She looked out across the estuary to a substantial house on the opposite shoreline, separated from Portmeirion by a mile and a half of water, but linked to the old mansion by memory. The village’s distinctive skyline was reflected in the mirror to her right, but she was more interested in the image of Astrid Lake, sitting alone at the edge of the terrace. She seemed lost and suddenly very young, and Bella realised that her anger in reception had had unforeseen casualties. She remembered how she had felt when her own career was new and uncertain, how difficult it had been to maintain an air of confidence whilst desperately looking for a friend on every set, and she went outside to make amends. ‘Miss Lake, I owe you an apology,’ she said. ‘Leyton Turnbull deserves to be humiliated, but you don’t. Will you join me for tea?’ Astrid hesitated, and Bella added. ‘I don’t blame you for thinking twice about it, but – contrary to what some people will tell you – I’m not always a bitch.’
The girl smiled. ‘I’m sure there are times when you have to be and secretly we all admire you for it, so please don’t disillusion me.’
‘You’ll risk it, then?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you mind if we go back inside? I hate the heat.’
Astrid shook her head and followed Bella into the hotel. ‘How’s your dog?’ she asked.
‘Chaplin? More robust than he looks. He’s like most men – never learns from past disappointments and has a rather distorted view of what he can take on, especially in hot weather.’ They sat down, and the waitress arrived with the tea. ‘Another cup,’ Bella said without looking at her. She wiped her brow and pointed across the water to the hills in the distance. ‘There’s a storm coming. The sooner it gets here, the better.’
‘Not for a while, surely? This heat feels as though it will go on for ever.’
‘It’s always like that. Then the clouds appear from nowhere, and the storm is as fierce as you’ll see – biblical, almost.’ She poured tea and handed the cup to Astrid. ‘And there’s nothing like the morning after. If you think this place is beautiful now, you should see it immediately after rain: the colours are so intense, the landscape so fresh and – well, cleansed. If I were a religious woman, I’d read something into that.’
‘It sounds like you know it well.’
‘We go back a long way, although I’ve neglected it recently.’ It was ironic, she thought, that this resort – used by so many as a sanctuary from their everyday lives – should be the burden that refused to leave her. ‘My family had connections with this part of the world.’ She could have used a more emotive word, but she had no wish to allow a stranger into her past.
‘Lucky you. It’s beautiful. I went for a walk in the woods this morning and they’re stunning – except for the graveyard. That strange place where they buried dogs?’
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘It’s such a shock when you come across it unexpectedly. One of the staff told me that the old woman who used to live here started it.’
‘That’s right.’
‘They say she was a recluse and had nothing to do with anyone except her dogs. All I could think about was her up there alone, digging those graves.’ She shuddered. ‘What would drive you to that, I wonder?’
The second cup was delivered, this time by a different waitress, and Bella thanked her. ‘I dare say she had her reasons,’ she said, pouring her own tea. The legends that had grown up around the house were well known to her and, when told in a particular way, could easily have been borrowed from the strangest of fairy tales; sometimes, though, the idea of shutting yourself off from the outside world seemed to Bella to be remarkably sane, and she saw nothing intrinsically odd in preferring the company of dogs and creating a cemetery in their honour at the heart of your land. ‘Is this your first visit here?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Yes. I didn’t even know where it was when I got the invitation.’
‘You mean the summons,’ Bella said dryly, and Astrid smiled.
‘I suppose it was more like that. It’s not the sort of offer you turn down, is it?’
‘That depends. At your age, with so much ahead of you, probably not. It’s different for me. Those days of jostling for position are over, thank God, and being old has its compensations. Not giving a damn is one of them. There’s something very liberating in having nothing left to prove.’
Astrid looked at her curiously. ‘You’re still here, though. You didn’t turn the invitation down.’
Bella smiled. ‘Oh, I have my own reasons for being in Portmeirion this weekend and they have nothing to do with Hitch, as much as I enjoy working with him. I suppose you could say I invited myself.’
‘And I’m sure you can have your pick of scripts. Mr Hitchcock would be lucky to have you.’
There was no calculation behind the remark, and Bella – who had reached a stage in her career when very few people were brave or generous enough to pay her a genuine compliment – was touched. ‘Tell me, Miss Lake – what do you hope to get out of being here?’
‘The chance to learn something,’ she said, without having to consider the question. ‘Obviously, I’d love to land a part in a Hitchcock film – he’s the greatest director we have, and I know what that would mean for my career. But just to be around him and the people he works with, even for a couple of days – that’s a fabulous opportunity.’ Bella nodded approvingly. ‘It’s an odd sort of audition, though. To be honest, I’m not really sure why any of us are here.’
‘There’s no such thing as a straightforward audition where Hitch is concerned. He’ll reveal his plan when he’s ready. The people who get on best with him are those who can cope with that.’
‘So what advice would you give me?’
‘Be yourself. He’ll either like you or he won’t, but there’s no point in
trying
to be what he likes.’ She would have told Astrid to hang on to that unassuming quality for as long as possible, but it would disappear the moment she became conscious of it. Innocence was one of the few qualities that could never be faked. That was what made it so precious. ‘There’s something real about you, something very English, and women will like that. Women like any star who reminds them of their daughter – or rather, of the person they’d like their daughter to be – and women buy the tickets. All directors know that.’ A young man walked past the window and winked when he saw Astrid. ‘Of course, men aren’t immune to those charms either,’ Bella added with a wry smile. ‘Just be careful.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t . . . That’s Daniel Lascelles. We’ve worked together a couple of times, and I was so pleased to bump into him. We both felt a bit out of our depth, but . . .’
‘Look, I don’t care about your honour,’ Bella said, laughing. ‘I know what it’s like when you’re young and you want to get on and everyone’s telling you what’s good for you and what isn’t. Believe me, when I was your age, I sometimes thought I’d have more freedom to do what I wanted if I signed up with her lot.’ She pointed over to the coastal path, where a nun was strolling out towards the headland. ‘A film set can be worse than a convent – financers, directors, producers, all telling you what to do and what to be, and every single one of them looking out for themselves and their investment.’ Astrid smiled wearily, and Bella realised that the pressures of the studios were already beginning to threaten the very qualities that gave her potential in the first place. ‘You remind me of myself, a long time ago,’ she said, ‘and there’s nothing wrong with having some fun and making your own mistakes. I’m not saying don’t do it – just don’t get caught. Apart from anything else, Hitch doesn’t approve of fraternisation among his chosen ones, so be discreet about it.’ She put her cup down and added more seriously‚ ‘And whatever you do, stay away from Leyton Turnbull.’