The Midnight Rose (4 page)

She felt a certain satisfaction that no one, not even her agent or Jack, knew where she was. Jack had left her apartment that afternoon to catch his flight back to Los Angeles. She’d been unable to give him the answer he wanted, had told him she needed time to think.

Rebecca rifled further through her bag for the red velvet box and opened it. The ring he had given her was certainly substantial, if too ostentatious for her taste. But Jack liked doing things big, as befitted his status as one of the world’s most famous and highest-paid film stars. And he could hardly present her with anything less, given that, if she said yes to his proposal, the ring would be pictured in newspapers and magazines around the world. Jack Heyward and Rebecca Bradley were Hollywood’s hottest couple and the media couldn’t get enough of them.

Rebecca closed the velvet box and numbly stared out of the window as the plane prepared to touch down. Since she and Jack had met a year ago on the set of a rom-com, she’d felt as if her life had been taken hostage by those who wanted to live vicariously through not only the films she starred in but also her private life. The truth
was—Rebecca bit her lip as the plane continued its descent—that the “dream” relationship the world imagined the two of them had was just as much make-believe as her films.

Even Victor, her agent, was encouraging her in her relationship with Jack. He had told her countless times that it could only benefit the trajectory of her rising global star.

“There’s nothing the public likes better than a real Hollywood couple, honey,” he had said. “Even if your film career takes a dive, they still wanna take photos of your kids playing in the park.”

Rebecca thought back to the amount of time she and Jack had actually spent together in the past year. He was based in Hollywood, she in New York, and often their hectic schedules had meant that they wouldn’t see each other for weeks on end. And when they
were
together, they were hounded wherever they went. Even yesterday lunchtime, they had eaten in a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant and had been besieged by customers wanting pictures and autographs. Jack had ended up taking her for a walk in Central Park to propose in peace and quiet. She only hoped no one had spotted them there . . .

The overwhelming claustrophobia she’d felt as they had taken a cab back to her SoHo apartment and Jack had pressed her for an answer had resulted in her sudden decision to take an earlier flight to England. Having the world scrutinize your every move, to be hounded on a daily basis by strangers who all felt that somehow they owned a part of you, was, Rebecca felt, unsustainable. The lack of privacy which came with conducting a high-profile relationship, let alone not being able to grab a bagel and latte from the local coffee shop without being mobbed, was slowly taking its toll.

Her doctor had prescribed Valium a few weeks ago, when she’d been waylaid by photographers at the entrance at her apartment block and had ended up locking herself in her bathroom, crouching on the floor and crying hysterically. The Valium had helped, but Rebecca knew it was a road to nowhere. The slippery path to dependency to enable her to cope with the pressure she lived under loomed before her. Just as Jack knew all too well.

He’d assured her in the first heady days of their romance that the cocaine he used was not a regular habit. He could take it or leave it. It simply helped him unwind. But as she’d come to know him better, Rebecca had discovered this wasn’t an accurate assessment. He had
become defensive and quarrelsome when she questioned his continual heavy usage and the amount of alcohol he was drinking. As someone who didn’t take drugs and very rarely drank, Rebecca loathed it when Jack was high.

At the beginning of their relationship, she had thought that her life could not be any more perfect: a hugely successful career and a handsome, talented life partner to share it with. But between the drugs, the absences and the slow unveiling of Jack’s insecurity—which had culminated in a show of rage toward her when she’d been nominated for a Golden Globe six months before and he hadn’t—the rose-tinted glasses had begun to turn gray.

The offer of a great part in a British film,
The Still of the Night
, set in the 1920s and focusing on an aristocratic English family, could not have come at a more opportune moment. Not only was it a move away from the lightweight parts she’d played so far, but it was also a huge honor to be chosen by Robert Hope, the acclaimed British director. Jack had even managed to put a damper on that, citing the fact that they needed her to be the Hollywood “name” in the film to satisfy the money men. He had then proceeded to tell her that her biggest attribute would be looking great in the array of period costumes she’d wear, and that she shouldn’t really get any ideas about her talent having won her the part.

“You’re far too beautiful to be taken seriously, sweetheart,” he’d added as he’d slopped more vodka into his glass.

After the plane touched down at Heathrow and taxied to a halt, Rebecca undid her seat belt as the lights came on in the aircraft.

“Are you ready, Miss Bradley?” asked the stewardess.

“Yes, thank you.”

“They should be no longer than a couple of minutes.”

Rebecca ran an urgent comb through her mane of long, dark hair and fixed it into a coil at the nape of her neck. Her “Audrey Hepburn” look, Jack called it, and indeed, the media constantly likened Rebecca to the iconic star. There was even some talk of remaking
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
next year.

She mustn’t listen to him, mustn’t let her self-confidence as an actress be broken any further. Jack’s last two films had been flops and his star was not shining as brightly as it used to. The dreadful truth was that he was jealous of her success. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Whatever Jack had said to her, she was determined to prove
that she was far more than a pretty face, and the meaty script gave her a real chance to do just that.

And at least, tucked away on location in a rural part of the English countryside, Rebecca hoped she’d have some peace and space to think. Underneath all his problems, she knew there was a Jack she loved. But unless he was prepared to do something about his growing dependency, she knew she couldn’t say yes to his proposal.

“We’re taking you off the aircraft now, Miss Bradley,” said the dark-suited airline security officer who’d appeared at her side.

Rebecca donned her sunglasses and left the first-class cabin. Sitting in the VIP lounge waiting for her luggage to be collected, she reflected that it was a road to nowhere with Jack unless he admitted his problems. And perhaps, she mused, taking her cell phone from her bag and staring at the screen, that was exactly what she should tell him.

“Miss Bradley, your luggage is being taken to your car,” said the security guard. “But I’m afraid there’s a barrage of photographers waiting for you outside.”

“No!” She looked up at him in dismay. “How many?”

“
Many
,” he confirmed. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you safely through.”

He indicated that they should make a move and Rebecca stood up.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she commented as she walked with him toward Arrivals. “I took a different flight to the one I’d originally planned.”

“Well, you’ve hit London on the morning your big news has broken. May I offer my congratulations?”

Rebecca stopped dead. “What ‘news’?” she asked him bluntly.

“Your . . . engagement to Jack Heyward, Miss Bradley.”

“I—oh Jesus,” she muttered.

“There’s a lovely photo of you in Central Park with Mr. Heyward putting a ring on your finger. It’s on the front pages of most of our newspapers this morning. Right”—he paused in front of the sliding doors—“are you ready?”

Behind her sunglasses, tears pricked Rebecca’s eyes and she nodded angrily.

“Good, we’ll get you through as quickly as we can.”

•  •  •

Fifteen minutes later as the car nosed its way out of Heathrow, Rebecca gazed helplessly at the photograph of her and Jack taking pride of place on the front of the
Daily Mail
and the headline:

The grainy image was of Jack placing the ring on her finger in Central Park. She was gazing up at him with what
she
knew was an expression of panic, but what the journalist had described as one of delighted surprise. Worst of all, there was a comment from Jack, obviously given after he’d left her apartment yesterday afternoon. He had apparently confirmed that he’d asked Rebecca to marry him, but they were yet to name the date.

She reached with shaking hands into her bag and drew out her cell phone again. Seeing there were numerous messages from Jack, her agent and members of the press, she switched it off and returned it to her handbag. She couldn’t cope with responding to any of them at present. She felt furious with Jack for making
any
comment on what had taken place in the park.

By tomorrow, the world’s media would be speculating on who would design her wedding dress, where they would hold the ceremony and, probably, whether she was pregnant.

Rebecca closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was twenty-nine years of age and up until last night, the idea of marriage and kids had been but a fleeting thought, something that might happen in the future.

But Jack was pushing forty, had bedded most of his costars and, as he had told her, felt it was time to settle down. Whereas for her, this was only her second serious relationship, after many years of being with her childhood sweetheart. Her burgeoning career and eventual fame had destroyed that love story too.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take a good few hours to get down to Devon, Miss Bradley,” said her friendly driver. “My name is Graham, by the way, and you let me know if you need to stop for any reason on the way.”

“I will,” said Rebecca, feeling at this moment that she’d rather he drove her to a vast desert somewhere in Africa, someplace where there were no photographers, newspapers or cell phone signals.

“Pretty isolated where you’re going, Miss Bradley,” commented Graham, mirroring her thoughts. “Not a lot of bright lights and shops on Dartmoor,” he added. “Magnificent old place you’re filming in, mind you. Like going back to a totally different era. I didn’t think anyone still lived in grand places like that anymore. Anyway, the countryside
makes a pleasant change for me, I can tell you. Normally I’m ferrying actors to the studios through the London traffic.”

His words comforted Rebecca somewhat. Perhaps the media would leave her alone if she was out in the middle of nowhere.

“Looks like we’ve got a bike on our tail, Miss Bradley,” said Graham, looking in his rearview mirror and abruptly destroying her hopes of privacy. “Don’t worry, we’ll lose him as soon as we’re on the motorway.”

“Thank you,” said Rebecca, trying to calm her fraught nerves. She sank back into her seat, closed her eyes and did her best to try to sleep.

•  •  •

“We’re nearly there, Miss Bradley.”

After four and a half hours in the car, dozing intermittently, Rebecca was feeling the disorientation of jet lag. She looked blearily out of the window. “Where are we?” she asked as she gazed out at the rugged, empty moorland surrounding them.

“On Dartmoor. It looks pleasant today with the sun shining, but I bet it’s pretty bleak in the winter. Excuse me,” Graham said as his phone rang, “it’s the production manager. I’ll just pull over to take the call.”

As the driver answered his cell phone, Rebecca opened the door and stepped out onto the rough grass at the side of the narrow road. She breathed in deeply and smelled the sweet freshness of the air. There was a slight breeze blowing across the moorland, and in the distance she could see clumps of jagged rocks silhouetted against the skyline. There was not a single human being to be seen for miles. “Heaven,” she breathed as Graham started up the engine and she climbed back in. “It’s so peaceful here,” she commented.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but unfortunately, Miss Bradley, the production manager phoned to say there’s already a collection of photographers gathered outside the hotel the cast are staying in. They’re waiting for you to arrive. So, he suggests I take you straight to Astbury Hall, where you’re filming.”

“Okay.” Rebecca bit her lip in further despair as they drove off.

“Sorry, Miss Bradley,” he offered sympathetically. “I’m always telling my kids that being a rich and famous movie star isn’t quite what it’s made out to be. It must be hard for you, especially at moments like this.”

His sympathy prompted a lump in Rebecca’s throat. “It is, sometimes.”

“The good news is that while you’re filming, no one can get near you. The private land surrounding the house is a good few hundred acres, and it’s about half a mile or so from this entrance to the house itself.”

Rebecca saw that they had arrived at a pair of vast wrought-iron gates with a security guard on duty beside them. Graham signaled to him and the guard opened the gates. Rebecca looked in wonder as they drove through parkland dotted with ancient oak, horse chestnut and beech trees on either side of the road.

Up ahead was a vast house, more of a palace, really, the kind she had only seen in books or on historical programs on the television. A baroque confection of carved stone and fluted columns.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it? Although I’d hate to think what the heating bills are like,” Graham commented.

As they drove closer and Rebecca saw the vast marble fountain at the front of the house, she wished she knew enough correct architectural terms to describe the beauty in front of her. The graceful symmetry of the building, with two elegant wings on either side of a crowning central dome, made her catch her breath. Sunlight was glinting from the perfectly proportioned paneled windows set like jewels along the entire front, the stonework between them interspersed with carved cherubs and urns. Under the massive central portico, supported by four enormous columns, she glimpsed a magnificent double-fronted oak door.