Voice of the Heart (97 page)

Estelle shook her head. ‘I can guess though. I think she wants to be friends again. With you and several other people she asked me to contact as well.’

‘Who for instance?’ Nick asked.

‘Her brother, for one.’

‘Good God, the Senator from Illinois! The great white hope of the Democratic Party, the one they’re whispering will seek the presidential nomination in 1984. I’ll be damned! Now that
is
interesting. They were daggers drawn for years. Still must be if she’s seeking to effect a reconciliation.’ His look was questioning.

The journalist merely nodded in agreement.

Nick pursed his lips, his eyes thoughtful. ‘You stayed pretty close to her, Estelle, when everything started to fall apart for her. And presumably the friendship has continued. Have you seen her?’ Nick’s curiosity was getting the better of him and he could not help wondering how
she
looked these days, now that she was in her forties.

‘I haven’t seen her for a while. She ’phones me from time to time, as she did the other day, to ask me to try and reach you.’

‘Where did she call from? Is she still living in Europe?’

‘Not exactly…’ Estelle found herself hesitating, uncertain whether she should divulge Katharine’s whereabouts, tell him she was at the Bel-Air Hotel. Opting for a compromise, Estelle said cryptically, ‘She’s in the States, but that’s all I can tell you at the moment.’ Not wanting to hurt Nick’s feelings, she felt bound to add, ‘Katharine’s sort of travelling around.’

Nick threw her a hard stare, decided not to press. ‘Who else did she ask you to get in touch with, apart from Ryan and myself?’

‘Francesca Cunningham, I mean Avery. I guess Katharine’s trying to pick up the threads with her, and—’

‘That’ll be the day,’ Nick cut in, and laughed hollowly.

‘Yes, I agree.’ Estelle’s face stiffened. ‘Her ladyship was snotty, very snotty.
She
hasn’t changed, she’s still cold and imperious. Anyway, she refused to meet Katharine, and practically threw me out of the apartment.’

Not surprising, Nick commented to himself. After a tiny silence, he said, ‘I’m afraid I have to pass too, Estelle. Tell the lady thanks, but no thanks.’

Estelle had expected him to agree, to fix a firm date, and she blinked rapidly, appeared flustered. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, touching his arm. ‘What harm is there in—’

‘No way, Estelle,’ he interjected in a firm tone.

Not bothering to disguise her disappointment, Estelle
remarked in a saddened and resigned voice, ‘It’s a pity really. You did love her so…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘A long time ago, Estelle. Things are different now.’

‘Yes.’ She knew it was useless to argue, knew this would only anger him. She did not want to risk that. She had always had a soft spot for Nicholas Latimer. Estelle began to edge away, a rueful smile playing around her mouth. ‘I guess I’d better get back to my friends. You know where to reach me, Nicky. You might change your mind, you know.’

‘No, I won’t, Estelle.’ Nick smiled faintly. ‘Nice seeing you.’ He turned abruptly and hunched over the bar, sipping his cognac. And he was shaken and alarmed by the fierce emotions which had seized him, and which he could neither quieten nor dispel.

***

He finished his drink and went home. He found Carlotta sitting up in bed, leafing through the current editions of French
Vogue
and
L’Officiel
. He told her about his encounter with Estelle Morgan, whom she had heard about but not met. Hugging the
Vogue
to her flimsily-covered breasts, Carlotta asked him the reason for the journalist’s innumerable ’phone calls, her dark eyes riveted on him as he undressed.

Nick dropped one shoe, then the other, shook off his pants. Having anticipated the question, he was ready for her with the most plausible explanation. ‘Estelle wants to do an interview with me,’ he said, not daring to mention the name Katharine Tempest. ‘I told her we’d arrange it when the novel’s finished. I promised to have her over for drinks. And to meet you, darling,’ he added diplomatically.

Appearing satisfied, Carlotta immediately launched into a glowing account of her evening, chattering on gaily about the other guests, what they had said and done and eaten, and what the women had worn. Nick listened with half an ear as he struggled into his pyjamas and robe. He went and sat on the edge of the bed, nodding and smiling and curbing his impatience to escape, to be alone, to think.

Eventually, Carlotta finished her convoluted recital and Nick said, ‘You don’t mind if I work for a while, do you, darling?’ He held his breath. Expecting protestations, he was both surprised and relieved to hear her ready and friendly acquiescence. He kissed her on the cheek and left before she had a change of heart, or burst into a tirade about his perpetual sexual neglect.

Nick closed the door of his study and exhaled thankfully. He groped for the dimmer, turned it until the room was suffused in a soft warm glow. He stepped up to the small built-in bar, poured himself a cognac. He had reached for the bottle automatically, knew he did not really want the drink, nor did he need it since he was wide awake. He glanced at the snifter in his hand and thought: Oh what the hell, why
not
?

Sitting down on the sofa, he began to brood. Coming home in the taxi, a singular thought had sliced through Nick’s brain, cutting away all his other troubling thoughts, rendering them insignificant. And he could not rid himself of that thought:
For the first time in over two decades the four of them were going to be in the same city and at exactly the same time. Francesca. Victor. Katharine. Nicholas
.

Is it merely one of those odd coincidences? Nick asked himself, frowning deeply. Or is it something beyond our control? A strange and terrible twist of fate? He shivered involuntarily and gooseflesh sprang onto his face. A very long time ago he had believed that their four destinies were so inextricably entwined, their lives so enmeshed that they would always be together. Somehow. Somewhere. It had not played that way. And yet—Perhaps he
had
been right after all. Perhaps the intervention of time had been quite meaningless, of no import in the overall scheme of things. Were the Fates working in some mysterious and incomprehensible way? Were the four of them being propelled inexorably towards each other? To fulfil their destinies finally?

Nick froze as he contemplated this possibility, shrinking
away from it. Apprehension stabbed at him, and he instantly recalled something Victor had once said. ‘What has to happen happens. Nothing can stop it, old buddy.’ Vic had laughed and shrugged lightly, adding, ‘
Che sarà sarà
… what will be will be. Accept it, Nicky. I do. It’s not only the name of my ranch, but my philosophy of life.’

What will be will be, Nick repeated softly, and fell back against the sofa with a peculiar sense of helplessness. Words of his own flew into his head:
The past is immutable
. He had written that in one of his books and seemingly this was one truth which had not been shattered. The past
was
inescapable. It kept coming back to swipe him in the face.

Unavoidably, his thoughts tumbled backwards in time, the years rushing by pell-mell until he was confronting 1956.

1956… the fateful year. The year they had been drawn together, had become involved on innumerable emotional levels. And they had touched and affected and influenced each other so profoundly, so powerfully, so forcefully, none of their lives had been the same thereafter.

And they had separated in that year of 1956. They had each chosen their own path. The wrong paths, as it turned out. They had wandered down them boldly, stupidly, alone and lonely, isolated from one another. And not one of them had understood how blind they were being, had recognized that happiness was there for the taking, within easy reach. They had done what they believed they had to do, their emotions running high. They had acted out the scripts they had written for themselves, motivated by pride and hatred and anger and jealousy. Driven by ambition and self-interest, so self-involved, they had missed the best chance each one had ever had.

How different their lives would have been if they had not behaved so foolishly, if they had done things differently in 1956. It had been the most crucial year in all their lives. But they had not known that then. How could they have known it?

Nick shook his head sadly. Very simple to be wise now, after the fact. Past deeds, past actions always take on wholly new aspects, assume new proportions, when viewed from a great distance through mature and experienced eyes. And memories too are distorted and embellished and changed by time in its flight.

Memories
, he repeated inwardly, then thought: Oh no, I’m not going to sift through
my
memories tonight, struggle with the demons buried deep in my soul. I don’t trust them. I’m afraid of them. This admission startled him, but he knew it was true. Memories usually brought only anguish and yearning and discontent, and frequently anger, for him at least. Another truth gripped him, brought his head up sharply. He was shackled to his past. Shackled to his memories. Shackled to those who had once inhabited his life. Familiar faces flickered in the eye of his mind. Lovers. Friends. Enemies. It seemed he would never slough them off, or absolve them of all they had done to him. They lingered, pale ghosts in his subconscious.

What abominable things we do to each other in the name of love and friendship, Nick thought. To protect ourselves, no doubt, because love in particular has its own nameless terrors as well as its joys and ecstasies. He rubbed his aching face. Don’t we ever do good to each other? Yes, sometimes, he answered. But, regretfully, far too rarely. We give so little, take so much. Every relationship has its small treacheries and betrayals, and we continually justify our ugly acts, see the manifold imperfections in others, disregard those in ourselves. Noble thoughts we may have, but nothing any one of us has ever done has been ennobling. No, none of them was without guilt, not even he himself.

Straightening up on the sofa, he lit a cigarette, tried to shake off this reflective and melancholic mood which had descended on him after his chance meeting with Estelle. Unwittingly, she had triggered all the switches, turned on the computer that was his brain. Lifting the snifter he rolled
the cognac around on his tongue, enjoying the drink he had thought he did not want. Nick suddenly began to chuckle to himself as his eyes roamed around his study. How could he possibly expect to flee the past when so much of it was rooted in this room? The mementos it contained appeared more potent tonight, taunted him unexpectedly, reminded him of all which had gone before, all that might have been.

He put the glass down and, almost against his own volition, he walked over to the bookshelves. They housed years of his life as well as books. He touched the scripts he had written, bound in burgundy Morocco and tooled in gold. Below them stood his three Oscars, two of them rubbing shoulders. The Siamese twins, he called them. Both had been awarded to him for best screenplays adapted from another medium. One for
Wuthering Heights
, the other for his script based on Francesca’s biography of Chinese Gordon. He trailed his hand along the shelf, let it rest on
The Sabres of Passion
before lifting down the volume. He turned the pages, his eyes settling on the dedication, set in black type.
To Nicholas Latimer, my friend, my mentor, with love and gratitude
. He closed the book with a sharp slap, stared at her photograph on the jacket. He touched the imprint of her face, and lovingly so, remembering her as she had been then.

Involuntarily, Nick found himself focusing on the late fifties, that span of time after they had left England—he and Vic and Katharine. Hard years, he recollected, especially for Francesca. It seemed astonishing to him now that she had immured herself behind the grey walls of Langley, had lived like a cloistered nun, sustained only by her writing and her inner strength. He had gone to Yorkshire to see her whenever he was in Europe, and Katharine had been unwavering in her devotion to her friend. But they had been the only ones permitted to enter Francesca’s private world. If they had not been wasted years exactly, they had been lost years for her… years spent mourning Victor Mason.

But Vic did his own penance, Nick reflected. He played Abelard to her Heloise. And he lived like a man on a rack, tortured and desperate in his loneliness and his longing for Francesca. But oh how he worked, Nick thought, remembering those specific years in Hollywood. Vic had made nothing but blockbusters in those days, and had consolidated his position as the biggest box-office star in the world. He had also been caught up in the maelstrom that rocked Monarch, and trapped in that grievous marriage with Arlene. There had been no respite, no resolution for Victor until 1960, when everything had levelled off and Arlene had finally divorced him.

Yes, emotionally troubled years for Vic, for all of us, Nick thought. Arid years in their personal lives, yet professionally they had not been able to put a foot wrong. Success and wealth and fame had showered down on them, but a price had been exacted. Even Katharine had not gone unscathed. She had won the Oscar she coveted, for her portrayal of Cathy Earnshaw, and had become an international star, as they had predicted she would. She had captured and enraptured the public, with her unique talent, her mesmeric magic, her startling looks. But turbulence and unhappiness had taken its toll on her too. She had married Beau Stanton in 1957, surprising everyone, himself included. He had attended that fairytale marriage, conducted by the side of the Swan Lake in the bucolic and picturesque gardens of the Bel-Air Hotel. But the fairy tale had not had a happy ending. The union had foundered on the rocks of Hollywood, and Katharine had divorced Beau several years later.

And what did I do in those disastrous years? Nick questioned himself, and then laughed ironically. He had run foul of emotional upsets too, had wasted his time and energy endeavouring to win Diana, to make her his wife, to no avail. He had been exceptionally prolific, despite his woes, had written two novels and two screenplays in between the countless transatlantic trips. Trips to see Diana.