Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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looking at Victor, she exclaimed, ‘Thank you for the champagne. It’s lovely. Look, Katharine. Kim. Victor brought this.’ She held out the bottle and went on, ‘I’ll go and put it in the refrigerator. And turn the oven on, otherwise we’ll never get supper tonight.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
When Francesca returned a few minutes later, she was surprised to see Victor standing at the far end of the drawing room, quite obviously admiring the paintings that graced the walls. He and Katharine were listening attentively to Kim, who was giving them a long dissertation on the Constables and Turners in the room. Francesca chose not to join them. She went to the fireplace, picked up the brass fire tongs, plopped a couple of logs on the diminished embers, sat down in the chair and picked up her glass. She peered at Victor over the rim. A faint image of him from his films had apparently lingered at the back of her mind, for it surfaced suddenly. It was the image of an excessively handsome man, glossy and too sleek, who looked as if he had been patted and pummelled and polished, and then varnished into smooth and characterless perfection. She sneaked another look at him, and saw how utterly false this image now proved to be.
He was handsome, there was no quarrelling with that, yet in reality he was rough-hewn and rugged. His face was more craggy and raw-boned than she had remembered and, far from lacking character, it had a virility and strength, and was webbed around the eyes with those faint tell-tale lines of experience which are the real evidence of a life well-lived, and to the fullest. His skin had a leathery, almost weather-beaten texture, and she knew that his deep sunburn was the type acquired only by a man who is always out of doors. His features were more sharply defined than she had recalled, from the strong Roman nose and the prominent black brows above those black and forceful eyes, to the wide humorous mouth and the large white teeth. Even the thick black hair, brushed smoothly back from the furrowed brow, seemed to have a vitality and life of its own. He was powerfully built, broad-shouldered and massive across the chest and back.
In all truthfulness, the only sleek things about Victor Mason were his clothes. They were of the finest quality and appeared to have been assembled with unerring precision. And they’re just a little too perfect, Francesca thought. She noted the excellent cut of the black cashmere jacket, the grey flannel slacks with their knife-edge creases, the pale blue cotton-voile shirt, the darker blue silk tie, the grey silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket, the velvet-soft brown suede loafers on his feet. He lifted his hand at this moment and put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, and she caught the gleam of sapphires in the French cuff, the flash of gold on the wrist. Poor Kim, he looks positively shabby in comparison, she said to herself, even though he is wearing his new suit. Unaccountably, this had a crumpled and well-lived-in appearance. Francesca had to smile. Victor Mason’s clothes would never look crumpled, of that she was quite positive.
Watching them, or more precisely, watching Victor, Francesca was struck by a sudden and unsettling thought. There was something about Victor which disturbed her, something she could not put her finger on. It came to her. She felt curiously threatened by him. But why? She did not have to do much analysing to define the reasons. Because he is extraordinarily good looking, a famous celebrity, and very, very rich, she said to herself. And all of these so-called assets add up to one thing – power. Yes, he had immense power, albeit of a somewhat special nature, and powerful men, whatever the roots of their power, were eminently dangerous to know. He is also arrogant and so … so … sure of himself, and filled with a conceit that is quite insufferable. She shivered involuntarily and goose-flesh ran up her arms. He also frightens me, she thought, and she resolved, at once, to be on her guard with him.
Francesca Cunningham was not really afraid 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.