Beauties and the Beast (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Mickey slid the final piece of lobster down his throat. He sighed with contentment, but then the picture of the cake loomed mouth-wateringly into his mind; the whirls of spun chocolate on the top of crunchy chocolate icing; the thin layers of cake, intersected by wedges of chocolate-flavoured butter cream. The contentment disappeared and the craving surfaced as paramount.

He stood and pushed back his chair. He looked at the bulge that was his stomach and patted it gently, proudly almost.

His father had never grown a layer of fat well-being. His body had been lean until he turned to bone in the week before he died. But the leanness had nothing to do with fitness. It was simply a matter of drinking more and eating less and less of spending the money beer and the constant stream of cheap cigarettes that hung like elongated warts from his yellowed lips. There was little left to buy the food that would put a bolster of comfort around his body.

But he had his pride, until bitterness claimed him as the son he wrote off as effete and worthless became rich and famous.

Mickey remembered the deathbed. His father's yellowed face, huge, feverish eyes glaring to the last, the gasping wheeze that passed for breathing and the proud eagle tattoo, shrunk to the size of an undernourished urban sparrow on his fleshless arms.

His mother sat by the bed, eyes empty, as she stared into nothing. She was there for duty, for her earthly suffering, which she was convinced would lead to a blissful eternal life in a Heaven filled with angels, green fields, blue skies and unicorns.

When she was a small child, living in inner-city squalor she saw a picture of a unicorn in a magazine in a doctor's waiting room. It was pure white, with golden hooves and a glistening, twirled, golden horn. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. When her mother went into the surgery and the receptionist was searching her filing cabinets, she tore the pictures carefully from the magazine.

It was then that she decided that an animal as beautiful as a golden-horned unicorn could only live in God's personal paddocks.

She turned her empty gaze on the man and the black-robed priest with his white and gold cassock, muttering words of comfort into ears that heard nothing, touching the head that felt nothing, and absolving a soul that had hardened to leather.

Mickey remembered vividly the squelch and the foul smell as his father's bowels emptied into the bed and that final look of humiliation from a man who had lived for pride, and then the closing of the eyes and the soft sigh of emptying lungs.

He also remembered the impatience of his time being wasted. He had no communication with the man when he was alive and yet hypocrisy declared he be at his bedside when he died. Mickery was acutely conscious of time, the T20 game of life, just as he was conscious of success and failure.

Failure was a word he wanted no part of. He surrounded himself with the trappings of success. He built a wardrobe of finely cut clothes and ate himself expensively into his famous rounded figure. His life floated on a river of champagne dotted with rafts of caviar, even though he never acquired a taste for the expensively salted fish eggs. He did acquire a taste for the other fruits of the sea and food exotica from faraway places.

And yet the spectre of failure always haunted him. Sometimes he woke in a sweat from the recurring dream in which his father, shrunken and yellow-faced, coughing up cancerous phlegm, tried to drag him into a monstrous pit filled with eagled-armed dead men crawling with worms.

Mickey halted his wandering mind and licked the bead of sweat that had formed on his upper lip. He tried to bring his focus back to the chocolate cake, but suddenly the ancient door flickered into vision at the corner of his eye and grabbed his attention and drew him to it.

He held out his to touch the wood. He did not know what the door would reveal. Heat? Comfort? Discomfort? Sedation? Exultation? He hesitated, but the door was coyly seductive. He saw in the patina of the beeswaxed oak the white hot lust of Angela and the cold- eyed passion of Diana. He heard something. The muffled murmur of party voices, the tinkle of a barrel house piano, muttered Rosaries prayed by the faithful and subdued laughter at a graveside.

Green Door. What's the secret you're keeping?

Something was there. The music stopped and rustlings came. He heard the sound of starched petticoats lifting, a silken dress slipping from flawless skin? Or was it rats, or even something even more unspeakable? Mickey felt a shiver down his spine, but his hand still reached out for the greening brass handle

As he turned it he felt a rush of adrenalin. Something
was
in there. The handle moved smoothly and the door opened. There was no horror-movie creaking, just soundless movement. It was space-ship smooth; alien efficient. He pushed it wide open. Where were the intergalactic travellers? He stepped into the room, adrenalin still rushing.

There were no aliens. In fact there was no-one. Just silence, which was strange because the room behind the mysterious door was a bar-room - an expensive bar room. There was the sniff of aromatic cigar smoke, Havana, hanging gently in the air. The walls were panelled and gleamed with polish and like the door, redolent with the smell of ancient wax. The furniture was solid, richly cushioned and covered with fine leather. The lingering aroma of after shave was Paco Raban, Gucci, Yves St Lauren, Dior... rich man's perfume. There was no hint of femininity.

The smell of beeswax wax mingled with the other ambrosial smells.

Mickey pushed his battered hat to the back of his head and smiled. This was a rich man's club. Success crept from every crease in the aged leather. He was too absorbed by his new surroundings to notice the door close silently behind him.

He moved to the bar. It was dimly lit, the bar top was mahogany, and a canopy of carved wood reached down from the ceiling. He squinted at the carvings, but they were too indistinct, just patterns to his inexpert eye. Leather cushioned stools stood sentinel silent. Each shelf was filled with the finest liquor; imported 20 year malt whisky, Napoleon Brandy, the oldest and rarest, 1934 Cockburn port, twelve bottles shining in a row.

Mickey examined the shelves with the interest of a booze connoisseur. There was a million dollars worth of alcohol at least - including his favourite Glen Livet malt. He licked his lips as he spotted the old 20 ounce decanter bottle. Highlights of liquor showed through the crafted crystal. This he had to taste. Or did he?

He saw the brass bell, spotless, cleaner than polished gold. “Ring Me” said the hand written sign that rested on it. Mickey smiled wryly. Who was he Alice? Where was he, Wonderland?

He picked up the card and turned it over. “If there is no-one in attendance help yourself and please record it on your account.” It was a rich man's club indeed where Honour was paramount. He rang the bell, but no sound came. He looked underneath. No clapper. He laughed. What was this? He walked round the room, touching, just to ascertain reality.

He had visions of
Star Trek.
Was this a holodeck, or the aliens again? Where was this place? He felt the stirrings of panic and he moved quickly to the door, or where the door had been. There was nothing. He was surrounded by panelled walls. No entrance, no exit, just the rows of drink. He blinked and instantly saw two bars; one stretched the length of the rear wall. There was no mahogany there just dark-stained local hardwood, pitted with cigarette burns, initials were carved willy-nilly.

The shelves rode heavy with bottles - dark rum, mainly. A cigarette, hand rolled, burned lazily in a wooden bowl. Obviously someone had been there recently. He walked to the long bar. It smelt of sweat and wet oilskin, Outback hotels in country towns.

It was two sides of the same coin. It was the beginning and the end of his career road, from the days of sweat and honest toil, to the high life and sweet success. He knew which he preferred. He walked quickly back to the club chairs and the Havana cigars. Easy street had it all over the hard road.

He fingered the card again. Help yourself. He studied the bottles. Why not? He moved behind the bar and reached up for the golden Glen Livet. But he poised, hand inches away. His fingers were straight and steady as a brain surgeon's. He drew back as a revelation hit him. This was a test! They knew about his reputation as a drinker. Let's face it. They knew everything about him. Somehow - his eyes swept searchingly round the room - they were checking up on him. Where was the CCTV?

Well, he could pass any test they could devise. After the torture they'd put him through on that stage,
not
drinking was easy. The funny thing was that he no craving for alcohol.

Last week he couldn't go four hours without a drink. Sometime he even woke up in the night. The sight of all those glinting, expensive bottles would have had him slavering like he had been in the other... he pulled his hand down. If this was a test had the food been one too? He smiled again. If it was he'd failed that one - badly. But then, so had Thornton and Winter so there was no problem.

Then he saw something new. A neat blue folder, tied with blue ribbon. It lay on the bar top. It had appeared from nowhere. Or had it been there all the time, sitting in a blind spot?

He picked it up and untied the ribbon. Inside were four laser-printed sheets of pink paper. Curious, he looked at them. His heart hammered and he looked guiltily around. It looked like part of a script. He stared at the door and felt fear. Was this another trick?

He fingered the paper. Not his fault if someone left part of a script lying around. He then started to read the words. It was a script all right. He began to chuckle. Then the laughter grew. It was the funniest set of words he had ever read. Even... No forget it.

He laughed so hard the tears streamed down his face. Then it ended in mid sentence. There were just four pages, but four pages of comedy magic. Mickey's hand trembled. If this was what the script was like, he had to be in the show. And, more importantly, find the writer. Anyone who could be that funny could put him on top. He put the pages carefully back inside the folder and retied the ribbon

His heart felt nostalgically full. He closed his eyes, smiled and tried to remember the lines, but they were evasive, just under the surface of his mind. He reached for the folder to take another look, but as he opened his eyes, he saw an empty bar top. The script fragment had gone. He looked to the floor, wondering, hoping that maybe he had dropped it. He looked under the bar: nothing. He tried frantically to remember the lines, the brand new jokes. Original comedy, but they remained elusive. The more he struggled, the further away they went until they were misty wisps of memory.

He moved to the front of the bar and sat on a stool, furiously thinking. The magically appearing long bar was still there and the cigarette was still burning. What was this, reality or magic? Magic was an illusion. Therefore, this was all an illusion and yet he could smell the smoke, touch the bar, touch the bottles, read the card. He bounced on the stool. It was solid. So it must be real. Or was it?

Mickey began to feel the edge of fear creeping closer. Instinct told him that something was terribly wrong. Claustrophobia began to grip him. He was enclosed, trapped. His mouth dried. If ever a situation demanded a drink, this was it, but he still didn't want one. He leapt from the stool and ran behind the bar. “Where is everybody?” The voice had panic scripted into it. There was a light down a corridor. He thought he saw someone; a small man, dressed in white. “Hello,” he called. “Is anybody there?” He ran to the corner and turned it, and all he could see was another corner. He knew then there was no way out.

He walked slowly back, his heart pumping as if he'd done a four minute mile. He slumped into a chair and felt the comfort of the leather. This was no alien creation, no magical apparition. This place was real. He closed his eyes wearily. When was this nightmare going to end?

Chapter Thirteen

In the room in the darkness on the edge of the stage, Joshua Lucy, chin resting thoughtfully on his hand stared into the security monitor. The screen sat on a shelf to the left of his desk, the ancient wood of which was scarred with burn marks.

The multi-media computer set, with a PC riddled with CD and USB slots, was as tall as a CD tower. It looked incongruous on the smoky timber of a desk as ancient as Sodom.

He was satisfied with what he saw. Mickey Finnegan had passed the test, but it was not one the comic could imagine even in his wildest dreams. Lucy wondered, would the other two do as well? Hopefully, unless... Finnegan had not been accosted by the ridiculous little... he sighed. Someone would suffer for the security slip-up and very painfully. He smiled at the thought.

The smile left his face. He leaned forward and picked up his mouse. He clicked on onto J Drive and selected a program.

***

When Mickey opened his eyes he shot to his feet instantly. The bush bar had gone and the door, glowing with polish, had returned. He gave no thought to anything else. He rushed to oaken symbol of freedom and grabbed the handle. It turned as smoothly as it did when he first touched it and opened just as easily.

He waved the door open and shot through into the Green room at Olympic speed. Then he slammed the door shut and leaned on it. His heart was pulsating like an over-heated steam valve. He had a deep-seated feeling that he had escaped something that did not bear thinking about. But the hunger for those comedy lines remained. They had delivered the coup de grace. He had to be in the production.

***

Billy didn't hear the resounding bang of the door. He was still wondering about the little man who had disappeared so quickly and completely. When he did notice Mickey, the comic was sitting slumped over a table, his head in his hands.

“Greedy bastard,” Billy muttered. “You've eaten too much.” He turned his attention to the tubs of ice cream, but then the oak door took on a life of its own. It grew magically to dominate everything. The tarnished brass handle beckoned him with a siren call. He put down his bowl and walked slowly towards it.

Thornton headed down the passageway with a mixed feeling of apprehension and curiosity. He paused briefly at the door near the stage, the one with the beacon of light seeping from the gap at the bottom and wondered what lie behind it. But his stomach was too full and he was feeling too benevolent to worry about it.

The bright stage lights made him blink and it was a second or two before he regained his bearings. When he did the scene was all too familiar and intimately intimidating. The feeling of well-being in the pit of his stomach dissipated into a gnawing of fear.

The women were looking intently at him. Then they turned their attention to the computer screens. Thornton stood for a full minute while they conferred until he could stand the silence no longer.

“Well?” he boomed.

Diana slowed turned her fiery head. “Yes?” The question was as soft as Thornton's was hard. But the subtlety went right over the actor's head.

“I'm here,” he said, pompously, “and now we are alone, without the company of the morons, I assume we will discuss the play?”

Diana smiled at him and he immediately knew that the play was not about to be discussed.

“Do you remember a young actor in Hollywood?”

“I remember many,” he retorted curtly.

Diana ignored the retort. “He was just making a name for himself. A rising star they called him.” The smile turned into a wolf's grin. “His luck ran out though, when he crossed your path.”

Thornton suddenly felt stark naked, as if he had been instantly tripped of his clothes; stripped of everything. He blustered. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Thornton stared at the woman and then at the computer monitor. Then he looked around. Objects, bright objects, were flying round his head. He dodged them, but more kept coming. He veered left, then right. They were computer created, but so real. Then full realisation hit him. He was in the middle of a computer game! He knew the rules and he settled down to play. The objects turned into obstacles on a road. It was a road race game. He held his hands out in front of him and felt the comforting sensation of the leather covered steering wheel. He was in a classic sports car. A red convertible Mustang with the creamy white leather top fastened down. Not his car but it was familiar, yet strangely unfamiliar. He concentrated. There was a passenger. She was beautiful. His heart began to race. It was her -
the
woman.

The studio arranged the first date. She was to be his official love interest. A marriage was even planned. It had happened before, such a match, and it would happen again. Joe Public could not know about a star's inclinations.

But strangely she had become a friend and then a lover. She had a quality he could not define. For once in his life he began to feel that there was more to love than the hardness of a male body. He enjoyed the softness of her flesh, the warmth of her love, the hot internal lubrication; the smell and sensation of her. He chuckled at the memory. Belvedere Thornton was in love - with a golden haired woman!

Fast moving obstructions careered towards the car. Thornton had to concentrate. It was exhilarating; the speed; the danger. He dodged, weaved, found a firing button in place of the horn and he blasted solid objects to pieces as he came close. He laughed at the sheer joy of adventure.

Then he looked into the rear-view mirror, saw the road racing away behind him. He moved closer to check his hair. He gripped the wheel in shock. It was not his hair. It was fair. The face was not his either. It was younger and classically handsome. It was the face of Troy Monahan, rising star, Hollywood stud, self-opinionated and self obsessed, and the one who stole the only woman he ever loved.

Thornton's throat parched. She was too good for him, he told her. He threatened her, hurt her. But warnings were no good. Thornton returned to his young men and punished them for his own hurt. Monahan moved onwards and upwards in his career and his women. Thornton could forgive neither him nor her.

The car went into automatic as Thornton's mind wandered into recall - the message from his agent. He had to do a film test.
A film test!
Belvedere Thornton did not do film tests. Apparently when the competition came from Troy Monahan he did.

Trees zigzagged across his vision and brought Thornton back to virtual reality. His hands reached out in front of him. Angela and Diana watched. Amused smiles played at the corner of their mouths. Thornton's face twisted into a grimace when his body swung violently to the left.

Suddenly he was driving for his life now. He looked in the mirror. Then he knew. It was not him. It was Troy Monagan who was driving and
she
was with him.

The steering was impossible. Thornton had whispered the word. Things had to be done. He needed the role to restore his flagging fortunes. Monagan was too close for comfort.

The car screeched across the road and the trees loomed larger. Then the game was over. The windscreen split open and red pixels overflowed and filled his vision. Thornton blinked his eyes rapidly and when they adjusted Angela was inches away from his face. He could see two of her she was so close. He stepped back.

“His face was badly mutilated wasn't it?' she murmured.

Thornton turned away from her. He was shaken by the experience, but he controlled his voice. There was hardly a tremor. Admit nothing. Ever.

“Accidents happen.”

Angela's eyebrow rose. “An accident, a severed brake cable was an accident? Please Mr Thornton. We are not as foolish as he was?”

Thornton turned and smiled. They knew, but they didn't care.

“He was foolish, and not particularly talented. He was warned not to audition, but he ignored sound advice, as he often did.”

“He wasn't up to standard then?” It was Diana's silken voice.

“Not up to mine.” snapped Thornton.

“You were the better man?”

“I proved that when I made the picture.”

“He wasn't the only one was he?” Angela coaxed.

“The only one what?”

“Several would-be competitors had more than their share of - bad luck.” She made the last two words sound like a curse.

Thornton looked thoughtful, reminiscent, and ruminated over the truth of her words. “That's Hollywood,” he said finally, in a voice tinged with a fine edge of sorrow. “Dog eat dog.”

The women exchanged a worried glance, wondering at the softness of Thornton's tone. But they relaxed the moment he continued.

“Can you imagine what it's like to see a great role go to some inferior actor? Can you understand the feeling of seeing someone crucify a role you could have turned into a masterpiece; someone without the touch of necessary genius winning the role simply because they knew somebody?” He stopped, savouring. “It did not happen in that case.”

“You hired guns eh?” Angela was jocular. “Was your talent not enough?”

“My talent was never in question. People were being difficult - political. Things... had to be done.”

Diana sighed melodramatically. “It's a hard road to the top isn't it?”

Thornton nodded his head in acquiescence. “It is indeed,” he said.

“And you were completely ruthless in your pursuit of fame?”

“Ruthless enough to fight for what I wanted,” he admitted. “A man with my talent would have been stupid not to.”

He saw the glint of pleasure in the eyes of the women and he stopped. What was going on? He changed tack. “Look. I assume you intend to let me see the play eventually, so why not do it now and I'll decide if I will be available.”

Angela and Diana exchanged an amused glance, a mischievous, malevolent amusement.

“I think we can count on your availability,” said Angela. “You'll be begging to be involved.”

“My dear girl,” Thornton retorted. “I am in the middle of a run of capacity houses. The theatre is pre-booked for a month - and I have a run of play contract. I think my availability for anything is in question.”

Diana purred her reply. “Contracts can always be renegotiated.”

Thornton sighed in exasperation, “Are auditions always like this these days?”

“No,” admitted Diana. “They are not - but then neither are the roles on offer. They come but once in,” she paused, “ a lifetime, and then not to everyone.”

Thornton's eyes gleamed. The adrenalin began to surge. This was so secret, so deliciously devious that it had to be something out of this world. The strange place chosen for the auditions, the direct contact and the odd, but he grudgingly had to admit, strangely charismatic people who shared the stage with him. The un-nerving cross-examination he and the others received. This had to be something so sensational it defied thought. He licked his lips. “You certainly know how to whet a man's appetite.” he said.

Diana gave a brief, uninterested smile and consulted the monitor again. “Now,” Mr Thornton,” she murmured. “These people who, shall we say, fell by the wayside during your ride at the top. How do you feel about them?”

Thornton was brought back to earth with an almost physical thud. “What?” was all he could manage to say. Diana smiled and repeated her question. The astonished Thornton replied without even thinking. “I don't feel anything. I don't think about them.”

“Even if you hurt them?”

Thornton sneered. “Come off it girl,” he said derisively. “I simply played the survival game in a very dangerous jungle.”

“Just that, never anything you might call - bad?”

Thornton burst into gales of laughter. “Bad? What on earth is bad - or good? Actions create reactions. I either acted or reacted to circumstances like anyone else.”

“Oh,” Diana seemed subdued. “So you feel that in your life you have never - er transgressed?”

Thornton sighed impatiently. “This is getting exceedingly tedious. Of course one transgresses on occasion. I once made a movie that was a colossal flop. Sometimes I have even been late for rehearsals - and have even been known to miss a matinee performance.” The sarcasm in his voice dripped like acid, but the women didn't seem to notice.

“So,” said Angela, “you were well loved, had lots of admirers, friends?”

“Modesty forces me to admit it,” he huffed.

Diana moved towards him as smoothly as a geisha girl. “Friends, Mr Thornton?” She smiled. Such huge canine teeth: the thought flickered through Thornton's mind, ‘all the better to eat you with my dear.'

She closed in. “Were they friends, really or just people who fawned round you because they recognised your power; the hangers-on, the sycophants?” She was so close he could feel her breath. Musky, warm, sweet and yet a touch of sourness. He turned away.

“Why are you persecuting me like this? What is the point? I had lots of friends, true friends. I had power, of course I had. I still do.”

“And of course you used it didn't you?”

This was a trap and Thornton knew it and yet he couldn't stop himself from walking right into. “Power is like that, if you have it, you, use it, if you don't have it you work to get it.”

“And of course you never misused it?” The voice was sweet as the breath with the same hint of sourness.

“I never felt the need.” Thornton's answer was peremptory.

“Not even to satisfy your lusts?”

“There never was a man woman nor beast entered by bed unwillingly. “ As soon as he said the words he knew he was wrong. He felt his stomach churn and then, there he was.

Virtually real three-dimensional figures romped round him in a strangely familiar room. It was bright, prime colours dazzled him. Then they became subdued and he felt himself gasp as he saw who walked into the room. It was his Hollywood bedroom.