You have to tell them ... and make it not true ...
"Tell them what, Anne?"
She looked as if she were asleep, but her head moved restlessly against the high-backed chair.
"No!" Almost in a whimper: "About her ... floating .. ." Tears started to slip down her pale cheeks.
She was doing something she shouldn't do-something forbidden. She'd been warned that if she went down in the caves, the waves might catch her when the tide came in.
But then it wasn't fair that on pretty days like this one she shouldn't be allowed to go down to the beach. She was scared of the cliffs, but the caves were cool and damp-smelling and a short cut. And Mommy was at the other end. She might be mad for a little while, but afterwards, maybe she would let Anne stay.
She wasn't running anymore but walking, very quietly, pre· tending she was an Indian princess. Pocahontas. Except that her hair was blonde, like Mommy's, instead of black. But in make-believe, things like that didn't matter. She could be whoever she wanted to be; the Voice kept telling her so. She must listen to the Voice, and try to forget that her feet were beginning to drag. She didn't really want to go any further.
Because she could hear the other voices now. Angry, shouting voices cutting into the quiet sounds of the waves running up the sand all white and foamy and kind of melting back again, leaving millions of tiny holes where the sea creatures had dug themselves in.
The voices were the beginning of everything that was bad and frightening. The tidal wave turned itself into dark shadows that blanked out the sunlight coming through the mouth of the cave. This was the part she didn't want to remember-she wouldn't!
"No, no, no! I can't-please don't make me!" Her voice, turning high and shrill, almost brought her out of her trance.
Sighing, Brightman held her wrist, feeling the racing pulse; his voice soothed her quietly until her breathing had become even and steady again.
"It's all right, Anne. It's all right. Come forwards now. But remember, that next time you'll go further back. You' won't be frightened any longer. Take it easy now."
Easy-each time would be easier for her. Brightman was frowning with concentration.
He could have given her sodium pentothal to help her remember, but it was too risky at this point. She had just begun to trust him, and might have balked at the thought of a drug. Whatever the memories were, her mind wouldn't let them be dredged up yet, and it was too risky to try to force her. She had to be ready.
And he had to resist the temptation to play God, in spite of his curiosity. Finding her mother dead was a traumatic enough experience for any child-but had that been all?
Was there something else her mind refused to accept? He wanted to unlock the secret door that her subconscious kept tightly shut. And he would; but he had to be patient.
Meanwhile, he would win her trust by helping her cope with her present problems.
He, and not Yves Pleydel, or even Harris Phelps, would make her an actress.
Svengali and Trilby . . . Recognizing his own vanity, Hal Brightman gave a self-deprecating grimace. But he'd achieved tremendous results with Olympic athletes-even tennis players, championship golfers.
He checked his tape recorder, even though it was always his habit to make written notes during any session with a patient. He disliked that word-he didn't treat invalidism. He tried to help people with certain mental blocks that prevented their complete functioning as individuals-the use of all their potential.
Anne Mallory had turned to him because she wanted to succeed as an actress, and she would. That part was easy. When she played Glory, she would be Glory, throwing herself into the cole as easily as a child slipped into make-believe. And what simpler trigger word than the director's cry of "Action" at the moment before the cameras started rolling?
IT WAS HOT, very hot, in the huge central courtyard with the sunlight and the even fiercer heat of the artificial lights beating down on them all. Anne could feel the sweat trickling down the length of her body, soaking into her tight fitted bodice and dampening layers of petticoats that Yves's insistence on historical accuracy forced her to endure. And yet she could not stop herself from shivering.
It was no use telling herself it was only nerves-she couldn't control the pounding of her heart, nor the sick feeling of tension in her diaphragm that seemed to make breathing difficult. The letters in the section of script she held seemed to blur and run into each other, making no sense at all. Thank God she didn't have many lines to say! In any case, the lines weren't important. She should try to concentrate on what Yves had told her earlier, being very kind and patient.
"It is mostly reaction I want from you in this scene, Anne. The words, if you have memorized them, will come easily. There will be the cue cards, if you need them. For the rest-you will imagine that you are a model again, eh? The photographer told you,
'Look happy,' or 'Look pensive'-is that not how it was? Imagine that I am the photographer, and do exactly as I tell you." He had smiled, patting her apprehensive face lightly. "Don't worry, petite. Just react naturally to what is happening. You are a pampered little rich girl, face to face for the first time with ugliness. With pain and disillusionment and fear. Try to think yourself into the role, and let your face mirror all these emotions. The others will help you." .
The trouble was, Anne thought resentfully now, that all the time Yves was talking, being sweet and soothing, she had not been able to stop herself from being too conscious of Webb's presence-the knowledge that he was there in the same room, lounging across from her in a chair with his booted legs crossed and looking bored and cynical.
Why did he have to make his resentment of her so obvious? She didn't want this any more than he did, but they were both stuck with it. And she wouldn't back off and run.
Why should she?
And yet, she'd felt unaccountably annoyed by the fact that he'd acted as if he would rather have ignored her-acknowledging her presence with only the briefest of nods and not a single word. He'd smiled at Sarah, though, whispering something in her ear that made her smile and touch his arm. Why did she have to notice all over again how a smile could change the saturnine hardness of his face, bringing out the creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth? Why did she have to remember that once he'd smiled at her that way?
They were all closeted in a hot little room for a short run-through of the scene that was to follow, and it was a tense and miserable experience for Anne; showing up her inadequacy, especially since she was matched against two very experienced professionals.
Perspiring and uncomfortable even before she had to go out into the sun-baked courtyard, Anne tried to concentrate as Yves had them go through their lines. The first short preliminary scene with Sarah and Anne. And then he told Webb what he was supposed to be doing when the cameras switched to him.
She watched him-not wanting to, not being able to stop herself. He hadn't shaved since he had arrived here-his whisker stubble was growing into the beginnings of a beard. She hadn't seen too much of him since she'd watched him do that scene with Sarah Vesper, except to notice that he seemed to have dropped Claudia for Sal Espinoza's girlfriend, Anna-Maria. And it hadn't seemed to bother Espinoza, whom she rather liked. Anna-Maria of the arrogant voice. Anne hadn't met her officially yet, but she didn't think she would like her.
Webb looked every inch the renegade he was supposed to be playing-a leather vest with crossed bandoliers worn over it, a pistol and knife stuck in his belt. He had given her a cynical "I told you so" look when her dialogue came out sounding stilted and forced. Yves had been encouraging, though, and Sarah understanding and sympathetic.
"It'll be quite different and so much easier when we're actually on the set, my dear.
You can't really feel the words you're saying when we're sitting across from each other in a little room like this, knowing it's only a rehearsal! You'll be just fine, just as you were the other morning."
"Of course you will be!" Pleydel's eyes had twinkled at her. "And how can you learn to swim if you don't jump in the water first?"
Again that flat, measuringly sardonic look from Webb-why did he look at her that way? She wouldn't think about him until she had to-and remember then that everything that happened between them was only acting.
It was hard to cling to that thought when outside the sun grew hotter and Anne's nerves crawled under her skin. She stood there clutching her script. There was utter confusion around them-the usual trailing wires, the testing of the camera tracks, arguments when Yves and the director of photography couldn't agree on what kind of filter to use.
She felt like a marionette, or a store-window dummy. "Stand here . . . now try walking forwards . . . check that lighting on her face!"
Why didn't they start, and get it over with? It hadn't seemed half so bad the last time.
Someone handed her a drink-something very cold and very strong. Anne swallowed it down without thinking, noticing that Sarah did the same; and now at last she was able to relax better. She couldn't see Webb-and Sarah came to stand beside her, whispering comfortingly, "It's always like this, you know! You'll get used to it soon enough." And then, wrinkling her nose, "Isn't this heat just appalling? I didn't think it could get so hot in this part of the world!"
And then at last there was no more waiting. First take-action. Suddenly, Anne could have laughed at her earlier fears. Sitting in the carriage beside Sarah she could feel herself become Glory...
From behind the camera it was a long shot. Dusty carriage, escorted by armed soldiers. Zoom in to closeup as they waited for the massive wooden gates to swing open. Cut to interior of carriage . . .
Six takes before Yves grudgingly pronounced himself satisfied. Sarah Vesper glanced sideways at Anne. "You're not nervous any longer, are you? You did just fine!"
Anne laughed, surprising herself. "Thank you! And you were right earlier, you know.
Now that we've started, I don't feel nearly so apprehensive!"
Sarah smiled understandingly. "I know. Before I started learning to relax, I used to get all nervous and tensed up before every single scene."
They were waiting for Yves to get the courtyard scene set up, and Karim, handsome and dapper-looking in his Mexican Army uniform, quite at ease on horseback, leaned in the carriage window, flirting with both women. He really could be quite charming at times, Anne thought-if only he wouldn't come on so strong at others!
She was still hot, perspiration dripping down her body, between her breasts, making her thighs feel sticky. But now the heat from outside seemed concentrated within herself, reaching out in waves to flush her face.
"Hot weather suits your blonde-and-white beauty. You should give yourself more often to the sun. Maybe it will melt away the shell of ice around your heart."
This time, instead of drawing away when he reached in to touch her arm caressingly, Anne surprised him by smiling up at him. "Isn't it a woman's prerogative to blow hot and cold? Think how dull too many easy conquests would be."
What he didn't know was that she was still being Glory, not Anne. Glory-heroine.
Strong-willed and determined. Winning out in the end. Glory was a flirt, enjoying the kind of game that Karim played so well.
There was a flare of something-surprise? calculation?-in his eyes, and he started to say something else, only to shrug resignedly when Pleydel's voice brought them all to attention.
The carriage began to roll forward-stopped. The bright sun and artificial light blended until they were almost dazzling, making every shape of every other person clearly etched shadows against the background of blinding luminescence.
She climbed out, remembering to lift her long skirts gingerly as she did; laughing up into the face of the handsome young officer who had helped her and letting herself lean against him for an instant. Why not? He was the man her father wanted her to marry, and in addition to his charming manners, he was undeniably handsome. He wanted her. Perhaps "She wanted him, too; she wasn't certain. But she had the feeling of waiting. For something else-or was it someone else?
The cameras kept rolling-Yves Pleydel hadn't yelled "Cut!" yet. Tom, the assistant director, glanced at him once, but Yves was concentrating-chewing his fingernails as he did when he was really excited.
Jesus, Tom thought, she's good this afternoon! That little bit of flirtation as she got out of the carriage-perfect improvisation.
It was one of those things that sometimes happened. The perfect take, when everyone became caught up in the action and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong. But how long would it last?
So far, no false moves anywhere. Pleydel was conducting now, with his eyes and his gestures, although it seemed unnecessary. Every element blended into a perfect meld; and God help the film editor afterwards!
There was a staccato explosion of shots. The action froze for an instant and then picked up. From the false-fronted adobe building the prop men had painstakingly erected, figures erupted. Sarah Vesper-Sophie-was screaming, flattened against the side of the carriage.
And make-believe turned into reality under the hot blue sky.
Anne, still being Glory, found the shock she had been waiting for almost without realizing it when she recognized the man who came to stand in front of her and heard his familiar, mocking laughter. Her disillusionment was real, feeding her fury.
"You!" she panted. "You!"
She clawed at his face, taking him by surprise; and scratched like a wildcat again, her rage perversely fed when she drew blood. She wanted to hurt him! Webb, who had lied to her and deceived her and humiliated her-she could very easily kill him at this moment!
She heard the material of her bodice rip under his hands, baring her to the waist, and didn't care, not then. She wanted to scar him, to maim him so that he'd never be able to cheat with another woman again. The script was forgotten, even the cameras and all the watching people. There was only him, and the heat of passion and anger that drove her against him, unthinking and uncaring. Over and over until she saw an answering rage in his puma-gold eyes and he struck her viciously the force of his open-handed blow numbing the side of her face and sending her sprawling to the ground.