It was even harder to walk up the familiar staircase under the blank stare of the desk clerk, than to let herself into the suite with her key. Tactfully, Craig had stayed in the lobby. But what was she supposed to do now? Suddenly it all seemed overdramatic, a decision she'd somehow been pushed into. Webb hadn't called ... but suppose he had, and got no answer? Anything could have come up. The fact that Venetia just happened to be visiting relatives in Ireland at the same time was a coincidence. Why was she letting herself be influenced by everyone else?
Looking around the room, so impersonal now the maid had made the rumpled bed, Anne had to sit down, her knees suddenly weak. There was no one to turn to for advice now. Just herself.
"For a change, be the one to do it to him first, Anne. Break off with the bastard!"
Carol (hadn't she been right before?) and Craig. All the examples she'd seen of the contemptuous way Webb Carnahan treated women; sloughing them off without even the sop of an excuse when he was tired of them, to move onto someone new. The typical Don Juan. Readings in Abnormal Psychology.
The phone rang then, saving her. Or was it?
Craig-his voice urgent. "Anne? Look-keep the door locked and don't open it. Don't answer any knocks, do you hear?"
"But .. ."
"It's that photographer fellow. He's as slippery as an eel.
I wonder how he got back down here so fast? But I'll get rid of him, and then I'll explain. Just hold on .. ."
Craig's explanations were what decided her in the end. Stubborn pride won out over anger and hurt.
Johnnie Bardini (who had knocked a long time and even tried to pick the lock on the door before the hotel detective got rid of him) had flown to Ireland, too, on a hunch.
On the same flight as Venetia Tressider. And Webb had spent the night with Venetia-Johnnie had even taken pictures of them strolling hand in hand down the streets together this very morning, before he left. Naturally, after all the publicity that the hot romance between Webb Carnahan and Anne Mallory had gleaned, Johnnie wanted to be the first to photograph Anne's reactions when he told her.
That he didn't get them was thanks to Craig, of course. And thanks later to Harris, who had offered Johnnie a scoop. Pictures of Anne Mallory, who was to be the star in his latest picture, with her other co-star, Karim. Hints that she found the handsome Egyptian even more fascinating. More pictures, with Harris and Yves Pleydel, both smiling. Yves with his arm about Anne's shoulder, whispering in her ear. And a quote that he found her a fascinating enigma-with much more potential than any of his ex-wives had possessed!
And so Anne's pride was salvaged and she was grateful to Harris, who had stepped in again. But Webb? How would he react?
It was Carol who answered her unspoken questions when she said shrewdly, "I wouldn't worry about Webb, if that's what you're doing, sweetie! He does have a contract with Harris, and he wants to do this movie. He can't back off now without making himself look silly-or jealous! I mean, I do know our darling Webb, and he's an actor, a professional." Her eyes gleamed maliciously for a moment. "Maybe he'll take up with Claudia again-if he doesn't find someone else among the extras. Just be glad you finally learned, love!"
Stung, Anne retorted lightly, "Learned? But, Carol darling, I was just practicing, and Webb's such a good teacher, you know!"
Again she caught Carol's surprised, reappraising look, and it helped to quiet the strange mixture of emotions inside her.
She was almost ready to face Webb again. Hoping, beneath her insouciant exterior, that he would act at least halfway civilized. Knowing in her guts that he wouldn't, that he'd make it hard for her. But in order to act torrid love scenes with Webb, she had to get him out of her blood. Like Carol, she should cling to hate and disillusionment.
Brave words she'd told herself before. But with all of her preparing, Anne was caught off guard by Webb's total non reaction when they met again.
He walked in late as usual; into the middle of the crowd and the fuss that was going on in Harris's suite at the Dorchester. Wearing his favorite faded-blue levis and a rough-textured shirt that had to be new-she hadn't seen it before. Alone. She had half-expected him to flaunt Venetia on his arm as he had Claudia less than two weeks ago.
"Hi, Harris. Christ, the traffic coming from· the airport was fucking murder! I need a drink. A damn long one."
Anne watched, fascinated, as Johnnie Bardini edged up closer, his camera held protectively. Webb raised one eyebrow, saying without rancor, "Johnnie, you bastard, I ought to kick you right in the ass. You sure get around, don't you?"
"It's my thing, Carnahan, you know that." "Sure. So you can take my picture now I've got my drink and tell all your avid followers I'm a drunken bum."
"I'd like to take your picture with Anne." Bardini's voice sounded bolder. "How do you feel about having her for your leading lady?"
Webb shrugged. "So how should I feel? I think it's great. Annie's going to make a great actress. She's got everything it takes."
He walked over to her then, brushing an impersonal kiss across her cold lips. "You enjoying all the publicity, baby? Having fun?"
There was no way she could tell what he was thinking or feeling. He might have been a stranger, like Karim, who stayed close to her, touching her possessively when he wasn't posing for the cameras. She had the wierdest sensation that this was part of a movie-everyone acting their parts. Dress rehearsal for the real thing.
Annie's going to make a great actress. She's got everything it takes.
Webb had been a warm stranger, using her. And now he was ... more like a detached acquaintance. No questions, no explanations, nothing.
And that's the way it is. Who was it who always ended his newscast that way?
AND THIS IS THE WAY IT IS, and is going to be for a long time to come-better get used to it, Anne.
California. Los Angeles was hot and humid. Layers of smog made the sun seem like an angry red eye, and everyone saying, "Well, you ought to have been here last week! It was beautiful then. This fog will soon burn away."
She missed cool, green England, the unhurried pace of life. But now Anne felt as if she had been taken over, to be pulled apart and carefully put together again until she wasn't really herself but an Image.
She had seen some of the advance publicity already. "Anne Mallory-Top European Model-to Play Lead in Greed for Glory, the Best-seller That Has Everyone Talking."
She was seen and photographed at all the in places. As she came out of the Palms on Sunset on Harris Phelps's arm, there was old friend Johnnie Bardini waiting outside with the other photographers, giving her a friendly wink before his flash went off, almost blinding her. She became used to the personal, probing questions, too.
"Miss Mallory, is it true you're engaged to Harris Phelps?" "Your name was linked with Webb Carnahan's in England, wasn't it? How will you feel having him as your leading man?"
And she learned to parry the questions, to keep smiling, giving the appearance of being sure of herself, even when she felt herself crumbling inside.
Anne and Harris had twin suites, with a connecting door, at the Beverly Wilshire. It had become a routine for him to knock gently before he opened it, then come in to make sure she was settled in for the night and had everything she needed.
Sometimes he stayed for a while. She was used to his undemanding, almost comforting lovemaking by now. And sometime she would only kiss her and leave her alone.
The trouble was, she didn't like being alone, and had taken to swallowing a Valium to put her to sleep after Harris left. Harmless-everyone did it! At least, she wouldn't dream then; wouldn't lie awake moving uneasily, pushing the covers away and pulling them about her shoulders the next moment while myriad unwanted images crowded her mind. Webb ... why did his name keep coming up? The female reporters studied her enviously and curiously as they asked their questions. Oh, damn him!
Why did she have to arm herself against meeting him again? Webb and Venetia-and from there, inevitably, her thoughts would take her to Violet, veering away, not wanting to answer any questions, even to herself.
Two weeks in Los Angeles and then a week at a "cottage" in Malibu-loaned to them by a friend of Harris's. Lying half the day on a private sundeck overlooking the ocean, Anne got an all-over tan that turned her pale skin to gold. No reporters and no public appearances for a change; she had time to study the bulky script that Harris had handed her.
"It's only a draft. We're going to have to cut quite a bit, I'm afraid, to keep within three hours. But it'll give you some idea of how we're adapting the book for the screen. And if some scenes seem a bit ... risque, perhaps, you must keep in mind, love, that we'll be doing two versions. One for Europe and one for the States, where it should get an
"R" rating."
Why did Harris have to shoot his movie here? But of course his reason was logical: realism. The final and most exciting chapters of Greed for Glory were set in Spanish-Mexican California. The old presidio of Monterey, a mythical rancho covering hundreds of acres along the Sur coast. And Harris was determined to have authenticity at all costs, as he had explained at a conference he'd called just before they'd left London.
"I'm not going to say that Greed for Glory will be another Gone with the Wind. I am saying that it will be a landmark motion picture with a modem message, in spite of its historical setting. And I'm going to insist on absolute realism, in every way. We're sticking to the story, too-no changes." He smiled.
"I promised Ms. Savage that when I bought her book. Her readers are not going to be disappointed when they see this movie!"
There'd been more-questions and answers. Johnnie Bardini protested because most of the filming was to be closed to the press and the public.
"Is that because of those explicit fuck scenes in the book? You going to keep them all in, Mr. Phelps?"
"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" Harris had countered blandly.
Actually, Anne hadn't paid too much attention. She'd felt herself drawn tightly up inside a brittle shell that could break far too easily. Too conscious of Webb across the room from her, lounging in his chair with his legs stretched before him. But for all his lazy attitude, Anne could almost tangibly feel the anger inside him. For some reason, he was furious with her!
Johnnie Bardini had given her a clue when he questioned her slyly: "This big romance between you and Carnahan-was it the real thing gone sour, or just another publicitygimmick?"
Anne had looked back at him without answering before she turned on her heel and walked away, hearing his jeering laughter behind her.
"I have my ways of finding out, Miss Mallory!"
Well, let him! Let him follow her around with his telephoto lens-for as long as he could.
"Don't worry, Anne," Harris had said soothingly. "No one knows exactly where we're going to start filming." He chuckled. "I've let rumors leak that it'll be Mexico-or perhaps Nevada for the desert scenes."
Oh damn, forget it, she thought. Stop going over it!
Harris had been busy this last week, and Anne almost enjoyed being alone and on her own with just the sun and the faint sounds of the ocean, safely far below. While she acquired her tan and let herself laze, she tried not to think too far ahead. Wasn't it enough that she was away from the unpleasantness of her last few months in England, not having to worry about being watched and followed? Let Harris take care of everything; he had a knack for it. And he was good to her-protective, taking care of all the little details, caring. Uncomplicated.
Anne shifted position, turning onto her stomach to feel the sun warm her back and shoulders. The letters on the page she was reading blurred as she blinked her eyes.
A love scene that she would have to play with Webb. Tender, savage, explicit.
Dammit, and damn her own memories of him! She must try to remember that this was only a story-a piece of make-believe. He was so good at it. She would show him that she was, too.
Why then, with the heat of the sun penetrating her very bones, did she have to keep remembering? His hands on her, his lips on her. Tawny-gold of his eyes; the way he squinted them at her. Feel of him-harshness of short, curling hair against her breasts-huskiness in his voice when he whispered, "Annie ... God, Annie, you're so beautiful!"
He hadn't meant any of it. Why was it still so hard for her to accept this? Oh, maybe for a little while, when he'd thought her out of reach. But then there'd been Venetia, a new conquest, another "engagement." How many others had there been since Venetia?
He's consistent in that much at least; he never stays pinned down for long. Thinking that, Anne realized that she had closed her eyes, forgetting the script. Harris's voice brought her back to reality.
"Darling, you're not asleep, are you? You don't have the kind of skin that can take the sun for too long, you know. And you're a temptation, lying there like that, so unaware
..."
Why did she have to snatch at her towel, spreading it across her thighs as she rolled over? Harris, as understanding as usual, only laughed softly.
"And you're still as modest as a kid of seventeen, aren't you? Never mind, love. I've got good news for you. Everything's set at last and we're leaving tomorrow."
Leaving for where? Harris wouldn't tell her. It was part of the "surprise" that he still hinted at. Like an obedient child, she didn't try to spoil it with too many questions.
Harris Phelps's private Lear jet took off from Los Angeles Airport the next evening; just the two of them as passengers and a uniformed, impassive young man who served drinks and hors d'oeuvres while Harris talked, keeping Anne's attention fixed politely on him so that she didn't have too much time to wonder where they were going. Harris was a dear. Why hadn't she seen that right at the beginning? Why had she wanted forbidden fruit instead? Webb ... but she was being silly, childish, stupid.