Araluen (49 page)

‘Good, good.’ He apparently failed to notice her defensive tone. Or if he did notice, he chose to ignore it. ‘This is good.’ He bit into a croissant. ‘I like it.’ He tapped the tabletop and she realised that he meant the script. She was about to reply. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. And she changed tack. She was quickly realising that the way to get through to Marcel Gireaux was to be flexible. She was aware she was being tested and she was quite prepared to go with the punches.

The attention he’d previously directed to the script, Marcel now turned upon her. She was under scrutiny and was obviously expected to discuss her personal life in detail. With the exception of her relationship to Michael and Franklin Ross, she did. She even touched upon the death of her fiance, Malcolm O’Brien, four years ago. At which point, Emma decided to put an end to the examination.’

‘What about you, Marcel? You’re married, aren’t you? For how long? You have children, don’t you? How old?’

He stared back at her and she wondered if she’d
overstepped the mark. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Yes, fourteen years, two children, twelve and ten.’ Despite the compulsion of the tabloid press to spread rumours and to insinuate affairs with leading ladies, it was known amongst the profession that Marcel was a happily married man, as deeply committed to his family as he was to his causes.

An hour later, he excused himself. ‘I must have my rest before the evening performance,’ he said. ‘You will come and see me?’

‘Yes, I’d love to.’ Emma had done her homework. She knew he was playing the title role in
Tartuffe
and that all of Paris was raving about his performance.

T will arrange tickets. You wish to bring someone?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know anybody in Paris.’

‘Ah, in that case, Jean-Pierre will … ’

‘No thanks. I’m quite happy to come along on my own.’ He was about to insist. ‘Really,’ she assured him. ‘I enjoy going to the theatre alone.’

What a peculiar thing for a woman to say, Marcel thought. Peculiar and very interesting. No French woman would say it. Well, she might say it, but she wouldn’t mean it, and this young woman obviously meant it. The American women he’d known, and there had been many, wouldn’t say it or mean it either. He supposed it must be because she was Australian. Very interesting.

‘You know
Tartuffe}’
he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a Moliere play. I saw a production of
The Miser
once.’ Marcel laughed
out loud. The girl was truly delightful. ‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘To be honest, I’m not that crash hot on the English classics either. Well, I’m fine on the literature side,’ she added, aware that she mustn’t sell herself too short. ‘But the theatrical classics I’m afraid I … ’

‘No matter. You write a good movie.’ He pushed the script across the table to her.

‘But you haven’t finished reading it.’

‘My mind is in
Tartuffe
now. I will read it tomorrow.’ He rose from the table. ‘And I will see you after the performance, yes?’

‘Yes. Thank you for the coffee and croissants … ’ But he was gone.

Emma understood barely a word of
Tartuffe
. She tried to apply her schoolgirl French but the actors spoke at such speed it was impossible to discern anything more than the occasional phrase. She vaguely followed the plot and she bought a programme hoping that it would help her fathom the intricacies which clearly abounded, but it didn’t. The words off the page were just as confusing to her as the words in the air. But there was one thing of which she was certain. One thing which transcended the language barrier. Marcel Gireaux. He was magnificent.

‘You were magnificent,’ she said as he poured her a glass of champagne in his dressing room. A group of admirers had just left and he’d insisted she stay with him while he take his make-up off.

He looked at her for several seconds. She meant it. Many people told him he was magnificent. The word was easy for them. But it wasn’t a word which sat naturally with this young woman. And that made it valuable. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You will have croissants with me tomorrow? At noon?’

‘Yes. Thank you, and I’ll bring the script, you can – ’

‘I will make your film.’

‘But you haven’t finished the script, how can you – ?’

‘I like it. I will make your film. Tomorrow? Noon?’

For three-quarters of an hour she watched the passers-by in the Rue Lafayette and cast surreptitious glances at Marcel as he gulped his coffee, bit into his croissants and assiduously studied the script of
Earth Man
.

‘Yes, it’s good, I like it,’ he announced finally. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

‘Well, I thought I’d go to the Louvre. But don’t you think we should discuss business? My partner and I – ’

‘The Louvre. An excellent idea. I shan’t accompany you, I must rest for this evening’s performance, but perhaps a walk in the Tuileries Gardens before you visit the galleries?’

‘Yes, I’d enjoy that, but shouldn’t we get the business – ’

‘I never discuss business. We leave that to your Mr Ross and Jean-Pierre. Shall we go?’

They did, however, discuss the film as they
walked through the Tuilleries Gardens. Emma was not only impressed by Marcel’s comprehension of the script – he saw angles which even she and Michael had not envisaged – but by the man’s perception as to his role in the casting of the film.

‘You are obviously aware of my involvement with Greenpeace and other environmental organisations,’ he said. ‘That is good. It is clever: it will work in the selling of the film.’ She gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was not offended by such a commercial aspect and she was rather surprised. He caught her glance and smiled back.

‘I have to warn you,’ he said, ‘that not all your press will be necessarily good. There are factions, quite a number, I can tell you, who do not approve of me because I am so vocal about my causes. There are many critics who think actors should be dumb and pretty, yes?’

She laughed. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And there are many producers who think there is no such thing as bad publicity. I’m afraid I should warn you that my partner is one of them.’ Emma didn’t even question the risk she might have taken. The man was being honest with her, he deserved honesty in return.

Marcel studied her shrewdly for a moment. No, it wasn’t a trick. There was no conscious attempt on the girl’s part to beguile him. But beguile him she did. ‘I shall look forward to working with you, Emma.’ He took her hand and pressed it gently to his lips. ‘Very much.’

Emma didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or to feel embarrassed. She wasn’t sure whether the gesture of mock-chivalry was intended
to be humorous or serious but fortunately Marcel’s timing was as impeccable offstage as it was on and he didn’t leave her time to ponder the question. ‘Enjoy the Louvre,’ he said. ‘See you on location.’ And he waved to her as he walked briskly off across the lawns of the Tuileries Gardens, neatly avoiding a ‘Do Not Walk on the Grass’ sign.

‘We’ve got him. He’s ours!’ announced Emma’s triumphant fax to Michael. She’d booked herself back into the Hilton for the last two days of her stay. Michael was right; it was easier for business. She started negotiations with Jean-Pierre Marchand and sent endless faxes to Michael.

‘Paris is everything I’d hoped for, and more,’ she wrote. ‘Al1 the things one expects will disappoint, don’t. The Eiffel Tower is as outrageous and modern as it was over a hundred years ago and the Arc de Triomphe is as timeless and Sacre Coeur as awe-inspiring. And Notre Dame … Strange, bald-spired Notre Dame. I’d always thought it was quite ugly on postcards. Mammoth certainly, but – those nasty cut-off towers that look as though they should have delicate spires on top. Well, you should see it! All around the building are the statues of the saints. And they’re standing on the sinners. It’s not fair – these pathetic, twisted little creatures with these hefty great saints perched self-righteously on top. You want to yell, "Get off!" But they’re wonderful. So wonderful. I could look at them for hours.’

‘Anyway, I had another meeting with Jean-Pierre
this afternoon. Evidently Marcel is mad keen to do the movie. Of course Jean-Pierre is insisting that he must have total choice of director, right of veto over any script changes, and he won’t work in New York for more than a fortnight. All of which we’d anticipated, of course. And I don’t think he’ll cost nearly as much as we’d expected. Isn’t that great?’

‘We’ve got Marcel Gireaux,’ Michael announced. ‘Had a fax from Emma this morning.’

It was one of those occasional family dinners with Helen and Franklin in their apartment and Michael was delighted at the opportunity to steer the conversation into a positive business area. He knew only too well that Franklin was scrutinising him closely, assessing him all the while.

‘How’s your new project coming along?’ the old man had asked. So Michael pulled Emma’s fax out of his pocket and made the announcement.

‘Marcel Gireaux, really?’ Franklin was impressed.

‘He’s ours, Grandpa. Ours for the asking.’ Michael handed Franklin the fax. ‘Take a look. Emma’s sure of it. And she never exaggerates. Not the facts, anyway.’ He grinned at Helen. ‘She waxes a bit poetic about Paris, mind you.’

As Franklin started to scan the three pages of fax paper, his attention was caught. He had heard this before. Where? Then he remembered. Catherine. He could hear Catherine. ‘Paris is a glorious city, Franklin. A city designed for those who love beauty. There’s space to stand back and admire
the light on the buildings and the statues. And the churches. Ah! The churches. Notre Dame with its saints and sinners.’

Catherine had said that. He’d been ten years old and they’d sat looking over the valley and she’d sketched the vineyards in charcoal.

‘I’m delighted to see things are progressing so well,’ was all he said as he handed the fax back to Michael.

It proved to be a companionable evening. Just the three of them. Karol Mankowski was absent, Michael was at his entertaining best and Franklin, charmed by his grandson, was far less acerbic than usual. Helen was pleased to see the two men openly displaying the fondness they had for each other. Surely it meant Franklin’s worry that Michael might be ‘going off the rails’, as he put it, was unfounded.

But two weeks later, news reached Franklin which confirmed his worries were far from groundless.

‘What comment do you have on the allegations that your grandson is a rapist, Mr Ross?’ the voice asked down the line.

‘What allegations? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ The voice had a cockney accent and dripped hypocritical concern. It was a British tabloid journalist – the worst of the gutter press. ‘I was sure you would have heard by now. You see, the victim, Miss Waverley, has granted me an exclusive and my story hits the stands next Tuesday, so I naturally assumed your grandson
would have warned you. I mean, it’s under just such unpleasant and upsetting circumstances that families like to stick together, isn’t it?’

‘Listen, you obsequious piece of shit,’ Franklin snarled, ‘you’ll get nothing out of me. Not one cent.’

‘I assure you, Mr Ross … ’ The voice was grovelling now, but not frightened. The journalist was unperturbed, obviously used to such reactions. ‘I was merely after a comment from you regarding – ’

‘And if you attempt to print one word of such slander, you’ll be hit with far more than a libel suit.’

‘Mr Ross,’ the voice sounded a little less sure of itself now. ‘I’ve already started writing the article … ’

‘Then stop. And start worrying about your health.’ Franklin hung up. Then he telephoned Michael.

‘What the hell’s going on, boy?’ he asked. ‘What have you got yourself into? Do I need to pay this worm off or not?’

Michael assured him that he didn’t, that it was pure tabloid fiction, and that there was nothing to worry about. But Franklin wasn’t satisfied with that.

‘Get yourself around here this instant and explain yourself,’ he ordered.

It had happened at a basement party in The Village. Michael related the story as patiently as he could. A girl had been coming on strong to him,
so he’d taken her into one of the bedrooms and obliged.

‘Yes, I know, I should have been more discreet,’ he added hastily before Franklin could interrupt, ‘but it was one of those parties – everyone was playing up. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the girl called rape on me. She raced out of the bedroom and started screaming that
I’d
attacked her. She was off her brain, of course.’

‘Honestly, Grandpa,’ he insisted as Franklin said nothing but scowled back at him, ‘she’s just after publicity, she’s renowned for it. Rebel Waverley, that’s her name – she’s always in the papers for one thing or another. Trying to kiss Prince Charles, or arriving topless at a movie premiere. She’s a weirdo.’

Franklin realised that he had to accept Michael’s story at face value, there was nothing else he could do. ‘Temper your behaviour from now on, boy,’ he warned. ‘You have the Ross name to think of.’ And Michael left, relieved.

‘Keep your eye on him, Karol,’ Franklin instructed ten minutes later. ‘And get me the girl’s side of the story.’

As it turned out, Rebel Waverley’s story backed Michael’s word for word. ‘So I was a bit bombed,’ she shrugged. Michael had told her that his grandfather would have her investigated. ‘I just thought it was a funny thing to do at the time. Then a journalist friend of mine decided to take it a bit further. No harm done.’

Michael had paid her off handsomely. And the
fact that her head still hurt where he’d ripped at her hair and that she still had a vivid bruise on her shoulder where he’d sunk his teeth into her was a fair enough price to pay for ten thousand dollars, she decided. But she’d certainly never set her sights on Michael Ross again.

Michael had shocked himself that night. When they’d gone into the bedroom together, giggling and teasing each other, he’d had no intention of being so rough with Rebel. But when they were actually doing it and she was moaning and begging for more, he couldn’t help himself. Rebel Waverley looked so very like Emma. That’s what had attracted him from the outset of the evening. When he was at the peak of his passion, he had wanted her to scream that she loved him. The woman he had worshipped for seven years. ‘Love me, love me,’ he said over and over as he tore at her hair and sank his teeth into her shoulder. That’s when Rebel had pushed him from her and run screaming from the room.