Voice of the Heart

‘No,’ David admitted. But he’s going to, he thought.

‘Then in my opinion I think you should play it cool. Ignore the whole thing for the time being. Let it run its course. Kim might change his mind. Or the girl might,’ Doris soothed. Then she asked curiously, ‘By the way, what’s she like, the mysterious young lady from Chicago.’

‘Rather lovely, to be truthful. It’s easy to see why the boy’s smitten. Francesca also seems very sold on her, and I was quite impressed with Katharine myself. She’s certainly an unusual girl, I’ll say that.’

There was a silence at the other end of the telephone and then Doris said slowly, ‘Wait a minute, David, you’re not talking about Katharine Tempest, the young actress, are you? The girl in the Greek play in the West End?’

‘Yes, I am. I say, do you know her after all, Doris?’ His hopes soared.

‘No, afraid not, darling. But she was pointed out to me in the Mirabelle last summer. Stunning girl, I must agree with you there. I didn’t know she was an American, and from Chicago no less … ‘ Doris hesitated, and then said, with a laugh, ‘I can tell you one thing, darling, she’s as Irish as Paddy’s pig.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘The dark hair, the white skin, the bluer-than-blue eyes. She’s very Irish looking, David. I remember thinking that last summer in the restaurant.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘I’ve met enough of the Irish in Chicago to recognize that look of theirs. The women in particular are often extraordinary beauties.’ She chuckled. ‘The men aren’t that bad either.’

‘Then she’s probably a Roman Catholic’

‘Does that matter, David?’ There was a startled echo in her voice.

‘No, I don’t suppose it does, although we’ve always been a Protestant family – ‘ His voice trailed off lamely. He regretted the comment. He found religious and racial prejudice intolerable in others. He hoped Doris did not misunderstand him.

Before he got a chance to clarify himself, Doris exclaimed, ‘Look here, cheer up, darling. I’ll be back in a couple of days and we can discuss this further. In the meantime – ‘ She stopped and, after a moment, went on carefully, ‘I almost hesitate to suggest this, because I know prying is not your style, but if you want me to, I’ll make a couple of calls to Chicago. I might be able to find out something about the Tempest family. Discreetly of course, without mentioning your name, or involving you.’

‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary, Doris. Thanks anyway. If Kim ever discovered we’d done such a thing, he’d be hurt and furious, and understandably so. And you’re right, it’s not to my taste at all. However I will take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. Kim and I will be at Langley together for several weeks, and I’m sure I’ll get an opportunity to go over this with him.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then dashed on, ‘Actually, if anyone asks any questions about the Tempest family, it should be Kim. And of Katharine, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do, darling, and please don’t worry so much.’

‘No, I won’t. I feel better now that I’ve talked to you. Thanks for listening, Doris.’ His voice dropped, became more intimate and tender. ‘Incidentally, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, my darling.’

‘That’s worth a lot to me, you silly man!’

They talked for a few minutes longer, said fond goodbyes, and hung up. The smile she had brought to his eyes lingered there for a moment. Doris had the marvellous ability to allay his anxieties, whatever they might be. Perhaps she was right, too, about Kim and Katharine. Maybe it was merely a youthful infatuation which would soon cool off. Not only that, he was taking Katharine and the children to dinner tomorrow evening. With a bit of luck he might glean more information, especially if he formulated his questions skilfully.

‘Good morning, your grace.’

David looked up quickly, startled to see Mrs Moggs, their daily, hovering in the doorway. He had not heard her come into the house. ‘Good morning, Mrs Moggs,’ he said wondering where on earth she had found her extraordinary hat. It was an exotic creation trimmed with poppies and cornflowers. He then remembered it had been a Christmas present from Francesca, one of her more exuberant flights of fancy into millinery design. He had made unflattering remarks about it at the time, but apparently Mrs Moggs adored it.

‘Now, your grace, ‘ow about a nice steaming ‘ot pot of tea?’ Mrs Moggs suggested, still loitering in the doorway.

‘No, thank you. I’ve had my morning tea, Mrs Moggs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er … er … Mrs Moggs, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this again, but one only addresses a duke as your grace.’

‘Dukes, earls, viscounts, marquesses, lords, barons, they’re all the same to me, your grace, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she beamed. ‘Fair makes your blinking head swim, it does, having to call ‘em all by different things, as I was saying to my Albert the other day. An’ my Albert says – ‘

‘Quite so, Mrs Moggs,’ David murmured hurriedly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.’

She beamed at him again, hitched her shopping bag onto her arm, and then did a little pirouette and disappeared. He shook his head in exasperation, but nevertheless a smile of amusement flew across his face. Mrs Moggs was impossible, and an infernal nuisance, always ‘popping in’ as she called it, when he was deep in work. But Francesca thought she was marvellous and continually refused to get rid of her. How fortunate he was in having Francesca. She had turned out very well, that girl, and he had no doubts about her.

He pulled his address book towards him, found Giles Martin’s number in Yorkshire and dialled it, ready to start haggling about the price of the two prize heifers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wherever she went Katharine Tempest invariably created a flurry of excitement, for there was a magical quality about her, one that evoked the most romantic of images. It was compounded of a variety of ingredients: the spectacular looks that startled with their impact; the innate sense of personal style; the instinctive flair for selecting and wearing with great panache the most eye-catching of clothes, and finally, but by no means the least, the dignity in her bearing. All of these added up to the kind of magnetism that was spellbinding, and so, not unnaturally, attention was centred on her when she entered the Arlington Club. And, as always, she eclipsed everyone present, especially the women, who all paled in comparison.

Katharine did not slavishly follow current fashion trends, except for skirt lengths, and all her clothes reflected a very personal and individualistic taste; they were made by a dressmaker, mostly from Katharine’s own designs. Her choices might have looked outré, even ridiculous, if worn by others, but on her they simply added to the ravishing looks and underscored her appeal. Today she cut quite a swathe in her newest outfit, and more than a few women in the club envied her ability to carry it off with such aplomb. She was wearing a full flared cape, cut like a highwayman’s cloak, and made of the softest wood in the brightest of scarlets. Underneath the cape was a matching skirt, full and gathered at the waist and cinched by a wide black suede belt. Her sweater, made of the finest, silkiest cashmere, was also black, and against this gleamed a heavy gold chain holding a large gold Maltese cross. Black suede boots and a matching bag, plus her white kid gloves, completed the outfit, which was elegant yet youthful and dashing and a dramatic counterpoint to her altogether dramatic looks.

Her thick, dark-chestnut hair, pulled back severely from her face and held firmly in place by a red-velvet hair band, fell almost to her shoulders in a soft page-boy style. After her brisk walk to the club, her usually pale complexion had a tinge of natural colour across the high cheekbones, and the luminous eyes were set off by a touch of turquoise eye shadow so that they looked even larger and more compelling than ever.

Katharine was early for her luncheon date and so she swept up to the small bar adjoining the restaurant and slid onto a stool. Joe, the bartender, raised a hand in greeting and waved from the other end of the bar, where he was serving a customer. Katherine proffered him one of her most dazzling smiles, as always the glittering and vivacious actress in public. Years before she had made her stage debut in the West End in 1955, she had begun to mentally perfect the image she would project when she was a star. This image sprang from her own inner vision of herself, along with her idealized conception of how a star should look and behave. In essence, this was based on the Hollywood screen goddesses of the late ‘thirties and early ‘forties, those legendary ladies who were the embodiment of glamour and allure, with their gorgeous clothes, exquisite grooming and ineffable charm. Although not particularly vain personally, Katharine, nonetheless, consciously set out to create that identical aura of glamour for herself. She did so very simply because she thought it was an essential element in the persona of a star, and therefore professionally desirable, if not, indeed, an imperative.

‘Hello, Joe,’ she said gaily, as the bartender positioned himself in front of her.

‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Tempest.’ After giving her an appreciative glance, he asked, ‘And what’s your pleasure today?’

Katharine wrinkled her nose. ‘I think I’d like one of your special concoctions, Joe, please.’

‘What about a mimosa, Miss Tempest? It seems to me it’s just the thing on this lovely day.’

‘That sounds delicious. Thank you, Joe.’

Joe moved off to mix the drink and Katharine looked around, pulling off her gloves in the process. She nodded to a couple of Fleet Street journalists she knew, who were propping up the bar, and then tucked her gloves in her bag to keep them clean, as she always did. She was glad she had chosen the Arlington Club, commonly known as ‘Joe’s’ after the bartender, who was something of a character and had a large following. It was an intimate and congenial spot, patronized by well-known newspapermen, writers and film people. Also, being located in Arlington Street, directly opposite the Caprice, it was a popular watering hole for stars, directors and producers, who dropped in for a drink either before or after lunch at the Caprice. For all these reasons, Katharine thought it was an excellent place to be seen, and also to observe.

‘Here you are, Miss Tempest,’ said Joe, placing the mimosa before her. ‘And thanks again for the tickets. I loved you in the play. You were right smashing.’

‘Why thank you, Joe. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Katharine said.

Joe went to take orders from two new arrivals, whom Katharine knew to be the editor of the Sunday Express and the paper’s show business columnist, John Logan. The latter had interviewed her and written a glowing story, and he was something of a fan, both professionally and personally. She returned their friendly waves and smiles, and then shifted her position slightly on the stool and took a sip of her drink. She reached into her handbag for a cigarette and immediately changed her mind, thinking of her throat.

Katharine worried a great deal about her health, since she had a somewhat delicate constitution, and was particularly prone to chest colds and bronchial attacks. Her throat was no longer sore, but she did not want the condition to recur, especially with the screen test imminent; smoking was hardly conducive to the crystal-clear tones she had perfected so assiduously.

At the age of twenty-one Katharine was already a highly complex young woman, and there was a curious duality in her personality, as Nicholas Latimer suspected. Talented to a point of true brilliance, she nonetheless strove endlessly to perfect her craft in ways not always necessary, and despite her immense belief in herself there were times when she was in need of reassurance about her acting ability. Sweet of nature, she had an understanding heart and great generosity of spirit, and would go to extraordinary lengths to help a friend or colleague. She was loyal, devoted and considerate almost to a fault, and nothing was ever too much trouble for her. Yet cold calculation, self-interest, and a ruthless determination to get her own way at all costs, stamped the reverse side of this otherwise glittering medallion, and she had no qualms about using anyone to suit her own ends.

And now, as she sat at the bar, toying with her drink, her mind turned once again to the material she would use for the test, the words she would say. She knew she had to compel and convince in a way she never had before. Everything depended on that. Damn, she thought, if only Nicholas Latimer hadn’t been so difficult and indifferent, I wouldn’t be facing this problem today. She was wondering what stratagem to use, to get the material adapted, when a voice behind her said, ‘You’re Katharine Tempest, aren’t you?’

Katharine swung her head swiftly, and found herself staring at a heavy-set girl with a florid complexion and the brightest of carrot-red hair. She was a vision, if a somewhat eccentric one, in a suit of violent purple and a small emerald felt hat with a long purple feather. What a strange outfit, Katharine thought, but said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ A crease puckered her brow. For a moment she was at a loss, and unable to identify the girl. Then she exclaimed. ‘And of course, you’re Estelle Morgan! How are you?’ Katharine extended her hand, smiling warmly. Adept at self-promotion, she was never one to slight a journalist. Even those she considered to be insignificant were treated to a very large and compelling dose of the inimitable Tempest charm, since they might be important one day and therefore useful.

The carrot-haired girl took hold of Katharine’s hand and squeezed it tightly, grinning with delight. ‘I’m feeling pretty dandy. And how lovely of you to remember me, a famous actress like you.’

How could anyone possibly forget you, Katharine thought to herself. But she wisely bit this back, and murmured sweetly, ‘You’re very striking, you know.’

Estelle positively glowed. ‘Didn’t we meet at Lady Winner’s bash, or was it at the Duke’s? Bedford, that is.’

Katharine laughed, inwardly tickled at the unabashed name-dropping, and shook her head, still laughing, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I think we were introduced at the party John Standisti gave for Terry Ogden a few months ago.’

‘That’s right! And you looked absolutely ravishing in a little black number and lots of pearls. In fact, I said so to Hilary Pierce, and she agreed you were the chicest, most beautiful woman there. I like Hilary, she’s a lovely girl, although I thought she was behaving in a dippy way that night, didn’t you?’

Katharine’s eyes widened, and she stared back at Estelle, a blank expression on her face. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

Estelle volunteered, with considerable glee, ‘Oh, but I saw it all! Why, Hilary spent the entire evening drooling over Terry. Mind you, I can’t say I blame her. He’s something to drool over. But I thought, at the time, it was a good thing Mark was off shooting a film somewhere in darkest Africa or India. I think he would have been pretty jealous if he’d witnessed their performance.’

Katharine’s ears had pricked up at the mention of Hilary Pierce in connection with Terry Ogden. An unlikely combination, she said to herself. She was riddled with curiosity about the incident, but she thought it wiser to curb her inquisitiveness and not probe Estelle for further details. Instead she tucked the information away at the back of her mind, for future reference, and said, ‘I’m afraid I missed that particular scene. Still, I do remember one thing. If I’m correct, you’re a columnist for an American magazine, aren’t you?’

‘What a fabulous memory you do have! Yes I write for several American magazines. I’m the roving European correspondent for them, on a freelance basis. I’m mainly covering café society, the beau monde, you know, and show business as well.’

It had become apparent to Katharine that Estelle Morgan was intent on hovering and not about to budge, and so she said pleasantly, ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Oooh! How super-duper of you. Yes, thanks.’ She heaved herself on to the next stool and, pointing an emerald-gloved hand at Katharine’s drink, cried, ‘What’s that?’

Katharine winced inside at her gaucherie, and said, ‘It’s a mimosa. Mainly champagne and orange juice. Why don’t you try it. It’s delicious.’

‘That’s a fab idea. I think I will.’

Katharine motioned to Joe for two more of the same, and then she focused all her attention on Estelle, radiating charm. She gave her the benefit of that most glittering of smiles, and said, ‘Your job must be lots of fun. Do you find plenty to write about in London?’

‘Sure. But although this is my base for the moment, I do a lot, of flitting around.’ She giggled. ‘Gay Paree. Monte. Biarritz. Rome. Venice. I hit all the high spots, in the appropriate season of course. Chasing the beau monde, Katharine.’ She emitted another high-pitched giggle, and asked, ‘I can call you Katharine, can’t I?’

‘Naturally, Estelle,’ Katharine replied quickly, deciding it would be smart to cater to the journalist’s most patent desire to be chummy.

‘I thought you were divine in Trojan Interlude. Absolutely divine!’ Estelle exclaimed. Her manner was fawning, and she kept giving Katharine admiring glances. ‘I expect you’re going to have a long run in the play, but I must tell you, when I saw you on stage it occurred to me you ought to be in pictures.’ She peered myopically at Katharine, and asked, ‘Any films coming up in the near future?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But then one never knows in this business, does one?’ Katharine murmured. Inwardly she cautioned herself to be cagey with Estelle.

‘No, one doesn’t.’ And unexpectedly Estelle winked in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘I saw you dining with Victor Mason at the River Club a few weeks ago. I wondered at the time if you might be going to make a picture with him. Are you his next co-star? Or is this relationship strictly personal?’

Katharine stiffened slightly, irritated by this last remark, but she kept her voice pleasant and neutral. ‘We’re just good friends,’ she answered with a small off-handed smile.

‘That’s the stock remark everyone makes,’ Estelle chortled. ‘I can’t help being nosey, I’m afraid. Occupational hazard. However, I don’t work for Confidential, so you don’t have to worry about little old me.’

‘I’m not,’ Katharine replied, a frosty note edging into her voice. ‘And Victor and I really are only good friends, that’s all. Oh, thanks, Joe,’ she added as the drinks materialized in front of them.

Joe moved away, and Estelle picked up her mimosa. ‘Skol!’

Katharine said, ‘Cheers, Estelle.’ She took a small swallow and gave the journalist a long look that was quizzical. After a short pause, she asked cautiously, ‘What made you mention Confidential} That’s an awful magazine, devoted to exposés of movie stars and celebrities. There’s nothing to expose about me. Or Victor for that matter. Or the two of us together, I might add.’ The second this last sentence left her mouth, Katharine silently chastised herself. I’ve said too much, she thought.

Estelle had detected a mixture of concern and genuine puzzlement in Katharine’s manner, and she said in a confiding whisper, ‘I guess you didn’t know, but Arlene Mason is suing Victor for a divorce. I understand she’s the bitch of all time. Anyway, she seems out to make trouble and is demanding a fortune. And I mean a fortune. Under California law she might just get it too. Community property and all that. It seems she has a lot of juicy things to say about Victor’s extra-marital love affairs with a number of delectable ladies, and I do mean juicy! She’s babbling away to all and sundry who will listen, particularly journalists. As I said, most of us think she’s a bitch on wheels, and that she’s out to embarrass Victor by creating a public scandal. But he does happen to have a lot of loyal friends in the press, so she won’t get to first base. But you might warn him that Confidential seems to be paying attention to her. In fact, I heard on the grapevine that they’re looking for a journalist to do a piece on him and his romantic activities in merry old England.’

Although Katharine knew Victor was having trouble with his divorce, she was both taken aback and troubled by this additional information. However, uncertain of Estelle’s motives, she concealed her reaction behind a bland façade, and said, after a slight hesitation, ‘I knew about his divorce, but not the details. And I must say, it’s very nice of you to pass on the information about the magazine. I will warn Victor. I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative.’

‘My pleasure,’ Estelle said, lifting her drink and glancing about, looking star struck, as indeed she was.

There was a soft disarming smile on Katharine’s lovely face as she regarded Estelle, but her mind was working with icy precision. She was considering the journalist with great objectivity at this moment. Was Estelle sincere in wanting to warn Victor? Or was she dissembling to cover her own tracks? Estelle might very well be working for Confidential herself. Suddenly, instinct and her well-honed perception, told Katharine otherwise. She had already discerned that Estelle was a flatterer, and unctuous, and, very transparently, a sycophant who preferred to make the famous her friends rather than her enemies. She was also a bit dim. Without deliberating further, Katharine made a snap judgment and decided to take a chance on Estelle. It also struck her that if possible she ought to find a way to totally neutralize her, whilst making use of her if she could. Girls like Estelle, who fed off their associations with the famous, were often invaluable, and they never really minded being used. The flatterers feel flattered, Katharine thought sardonically. It appeals to their diminished egos. Makes them feel important.

Shifting her position on the bar stool, and crossing her legs, Katharine drew closer, pinning the other girl with her hypnotic gaze. She said, in a voice as sweet as honey, ‘You know, Estelle, I’ve been thinking about the things you’ve just told me, and perhaps you ought to talk to Victor yourself.’ She paused, and improvising quickly, went on, ‘He’s giving a small supper this coming Sunday. I know he would be delighted if you came with me. Also, you might meet some interesting people you can write about.’ Katharine did not know who these would be, since she had only just thought up the idea of the supper, but she would worry about the guest list later.

Estelle positively glowed. ‘I say, that’s really great of you, Katharine. I’d love it.’ Her dark and avid little eyes glittered like chips of jet. ‘Actually, I think I should write a story about you. I heard somewhere that you’re an American. Is that true? You don’t sound as if you are.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ Katharine assured her. ‘It’s nice of you to want to write about me, but I have a lot of other commitments just now. Perhaps in a few weeks.’ Seeing the crushed look on Estelle’s face and deeming it necessary to appease, she suggested hurriedly, ‘But listen, why don’t you interview Victor? He’s about to remake Wuthering Heights. I could arrange an exclusive for you, if you want, Estelle. Since Victor hasn’t made any announcements about the film as yet, it could be quite a coup for you. A scoop,’ she finished with a gay laugh.

‘Hey, that’s a terrific idea!’ Estelle fished around in her bag and brought out a card. ‘Here’s my number. Do let me know about the dinner party. What time is it, and where, and all the other details – ‘ She stopped, staring at the entrance to the club, and then said, ‘I think your lunch date has just arrived. At least, the girl standing over there is looking this way.’

Katharine turned and spotted Francesca near the door. She waved, slipped off the stool and went to meet her. Francesca stepped forward, smiling broadly.