Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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of Victor Mason. She was afraid of herself in relationship to him. And her judgment of Victor was flawed. She was accurate in her assumption that he was a man who wielded power, and a great deal of it, but mistaken in her belief that he was arrogant and conceited. He was neither. What he did possess, though, was great presence, that rare and curious combination of authority and savoir-faire, mingled with a vital charisma. In essence, these ingredients created in him an animal magnetism that was quite magical, and it was this which came across on the screen with such force. It had made him one of the biggest box-office names in the world. Victor was the first to admit this, since he did not believe himself to be a great actor in the grand tradition of the theatre. In this he did himself something of an injustice, for he was a well-rounded, well-seasoned and disciplined performer, a real professional whom few of his peers in Hollywood ever underestimated. Especially those who had worked with him. Having seen him on the set, they were aware of how brilliantly and skilfully he used the camera to his own enormous advantage, thereby diminishing any other actor or actress who happened to be on the screen with him at the same time.
Victor was also a man of sensitivity and understanding. Now he was very much aware of Francesca seated at the opposite end of the room, and he knew she had carefully and minutely appraised him from head to toe. Although he could not see her face, intuitively he sensed that somehow he had not fared well in her estimation, that he had received bad marks, and this made him smile. He stood and sipped his Scotch, chatting to Kim and Katharine about art for a few seconds longer, and then he excused himself and headed back to the fireplace.
When she saw him approaching, Francesca leapt up. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude, but I do have to attend to the food. Excuse me for a few minutes.’
He did not miss the crisp tone. He seated himself in the chair she had vacated, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. Settling back, he smiled and with a vast and secret amusement, although he was not truly certain who amused him the most – himself or Francesca. She had just bolted like a frightened filly, obviously to avoid him. On the other hand, he had behaved like a dumbstruck schoolboy on first meeting her. And now that the initial impact had dissipated, he was damned if he knew why. Francesca was lovely in a fresh, girlish way, but not exactly his type. And in any event, beautiful women were the norm of his life, not the exception and, as his friend Nicky Latimer was always saying, were a dime a dozen for a man of his calibre and looks and unquestionable fame. And money. He sighed. Two new wives and countless other less legal liaisons in the past few years had left him immune to beauty, and these days he felt jaded and weary of the emotional turmoil women invariably created in his life, once they became entangled with him. He had sworn off ‘les girls’, as he laughingly called them, six months ago, and when he had come to England he had determined to concentrate on his career. He had no intention of breaking this rule. Not even for Francesca Cunningham. Victor was not given to self-delusion, and he was always brutally honest with himself, and so he readily admitted the attraction had been powerful, that he had momentarily been bowled over by her. But apparently she had not responded in the same way. He shrugged. He was not in the mood to pursue.
Another thought struck him and he nearly laughed out loud. He was thirty-nine years old, almost forty, and Francesca could not be more than eighteen. A baby. Was it possible he had suddenly become susceptible to young girls? Was he afflicted with the nymphet syndrome? Not long ago, dear old Nicky, the soothsayer, had told him he was suffering from a terminal Don Juan complex. This had made him roar with laughter, considering the lustful mouth from which this caustic little comment had issued forth, even though it was based in truth. After his first wife’s tragic death Victor had gone haywire with grief. And then, in the intervening years, he had become something of a womanizer, and he didn’t mind who knew it. Conversely, he did not relish the idea of being dubbed a dirty old man.
Katharine sat down on the sofa, struck an elegant pose and said, ‘What are you doing on Monday night?’
Victor threw her a questioning look. ‘Nothing. You should know that, considering you’ve completely taken charge of my social life. Do I ever make a move without you? But why do you ask?’
‘Because I’ve invited Francesca, Kim and their father to be my guests at the play. I’m sure you don’t want to see it again, but I thought it would be nice if you took us all to dinner afterwards, to reciprocate this evening.’
‘Sure, why not,’ he said amiably. He took out a packet of mentholated cigarettes and lit one, drawing on it deeply.
Kim, who had seated himself next to Katharine, looked at her askance. ‘Oh, I say, darling, that’s not necessary. Victor doesn’t have to reciprocate,’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t want to be saddled with our tribe – ‘
‘Sure I do,’ Victor interrupted. ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. I’d love to take you all to dinner. Now, where do you want to go, Katharine? Ziegi’s Club, the Caprice, Les Ambassadeurs, the Casanova or the River Club?’
‘Why, Victor, I wasn’t thinking of such ritzy places,’ cried Katharine, who had indeed had one of them in mind, considering it essential for her career to be seen in smart restaurants. She looked across at him, her eyes wide with innocence, and smiled winningly. ‘But since you did ask my preference, I think it would be super if you took us to Les A. I haven’t been there for ages, and it’s one of my favourite places. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Kim?’
Kim, who had never set foot in Les Ambassadeurs, but frequently read about it in the columns, nodded slowly. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you, Victor,’ he said. He lifted his glass, wondering what his father would think, whether he would approve of such goings-on with show-business folk in a fancy supper club. But then, why not? After all, the old man was squiring Doris around, and she was a leading light in international café society. It also struck him that Victor’s presence might make the evening less tense. This cheered him up and helped to dispel his mild irritation with Katharine for placing Victor in such an awkward position. Perhaps she, too, had considered this point.
Katharine said, ‘Should I get a ticket for you, Victor darling?’
‘No. Thanks anyway, honey. I’m afraid I have to do some work on Monday night. I have a number of calls to make to the Coast and New York, and because of the time differences I can’t really start until five or six o’clock. I’ll make a reservation for around eleven and meet you there.’
Francesca poked her head around the door. ‘Supper’s ready, if you’d like to come in,’ she said.
Katharine joined Francesca, and the two girls crossed the hall to the dining room. In a confiding voice she told Francesca about the newly-made plans. ‘I do hope your father is going to be free. I just know we’ll have lots of fun.’
Francesca drew in her breath sharply. After a short pause, she said, ‘I’m sure he will be.’ And then, hearing the echo of Victor’s voice behind her, she hoped her father had another engagement. She had been looking forward to seeing Katharine in the play, but unexpectedly the whole idea of the evening had now lost its appeal.
The dining room was impressive, both in its dimensions and its decoration. Tonight the room was dimly lit, but attractively so. Tall white candles flickered in the heavy, chased-silver candelabra placed at each end of the sideboard and in the centre of the dining table. In this warm and golden light the mahogany table gleamed with dark, ripe colour, and its highly polished surface had the glassy sheen of mirror. Reflected against it was the gutter of Georgian silver and hand-cut lead crystal wine goblets, the sparkle of white bone china plates, rimmed in gold and bearing the Langley family crest, also in gold.
The fir green walls, as cool and dark as a bosky forest, gave the room its restful tranquillity, made a superb muted backdrop for the incomparable oil paintings. Each one was mounted in an ornately carved and gilded-wood frame, and effectively illuminated by a small picture light attached to the top of the frame. The fluttering candles and the picture lights, the only illumination in the room,