of pomp and ceremony and majesty needed for an historical movie of this nature.
What a production it has been, she thought almost wonderingly – costly, elaborate and complicated beyond anything they had ever imagined at the outset. And it had been so fraught at times. Tempers had flared, angry words had been exchanged, and there had been a few temperamental scenes, quite apart from the genuinely serious problems they had had to contend with: bad weather and illnesses, to mention only two, which had caused delays and spiralling costs. On the other hand, filming had never been anything but thrilling, that really was the only word to use, and it had turned out to be the most splendid production, the likes of which she had never before worked on. And perhaps never would again.
Whenever she had been able to, she had gone with Gavin to see the rushes – the footage shot the day before and processed overnight in the lab. Every scene she had watched in the studio screening room had taken her breath away. The ‘look’ was there, vivid and visually arresting; the unfolding drama was spellbinding; the acting superb.
Gavin was forever worried about the film; they all were, in one way or another. But just a short while ago, as the last scene was shot and the movie wrapped, she had known deep in her bones that they really did have a winner. A sure thing. She was convinced that Gavin had made a movie that was of the same quality, calibre and importance as The Lion in Winter, and that it would win a clutch of Oscars.
Eventually, she roused herself from her meanderings about her work and the film, realizing how much she had to accomplish in the next three days.
And so she went and sat down at her desk in front of the window and, pulling the phone towards her, she dialled. The number rang and rang until finally it was picked up, and a familiar girlish voice said, ‘Hello, Rosalind, sorry I took so long to answer. I was up on the ladder, putting your boxed files on the top shelf.’
‘How did you know it was me?’ Rosie asked, laughter echoing in her voice.
‘Don’t be so silly, Rosalind, nobody else phones me on this number, you know that.’
‘Only too true. I’d forgotten for a minute. Anyway, Yvonne, how are you?’
‘Fine, and so is everyone else. Collie and Lisette are out, though. Did you wish to speak to Collie?’
‘Well, yes, I did, but it’s okay, really it is. I was just touching base, and I wanted to tell you that I mailed two cheques last night. One each for you and Collie.’
‘Thanks, Rosalind.’
‘Listen, honey, I’m leaving for New York on Saturday and I –’
‘You told me you were flying on Friday when we spoke the other day!’ Yvonne exclaimed, her tone rising ever so slightly.
‘I’d planned to, but there’s a lot to pack up here, and so I’ve decided to take the plane on Saturday morning. Incidentally, I’ll be sending quite a few boxes over to you, so just pile them up there in a corner of my studio when they come. I’ll deal with them when I arrive.’
‘When will that be?’
Recognizing the sudden plaintive note in the young woman’s voice, and wishing to reassure her, Rosie said quickly, ‘December. I’ll be there in December. That’s not so far away.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘It’s not the same here when you’re away. And I miss you.’
‘I know, and I miss you, too. But I’ll be there soon.’ There was a moment’s hesitation on Rosie’s part, and then she said, ‘By the way, did Guy come back?’
‘Yes. But he’s not here. He went out with Collie and Lisette. And his father.’
This was so surprising to her, Rosie exclaimed, ‘Where have they gone?’
‘They went to see Kyra. It’s her birthday.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie paused momentarily, then clearing her throat she continued, ‘Give them my love, and lots of love to you, Yvonne. Thanks for looking after everything for me, I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘It’s nothing. I enjoy it, Rosalind.’
They said their goodbyes, and Rosie put the receiver back in the cradle, sat staring into the distance, her mind focused on Guy. How curious it was that he had gone with the others to see Kyra. It was so out of character. But then rarely, if ever, did she understand his motivations. He was a mystery to her; she supposed he always had been, really. There was one thing she was certain of, though. His scrupulous politeness to Kyra was merely a mask he donned in order to conceal his bitter loathing of her. He was jealous, of course. She had detected that unfortunate emotion in him long ago. Jealous of Kyra, and of his father’s friendship with the Russian woman and his deep affection for her.
Rosie sat back in her chair, glancing at the photograph of Guy, Lisette and Collie resting on the corner of the desk. She had taken it herself last summer, and there had been something so carefree and happy about that snap she had had it enlarged and framed. But their insouciant smiles hid turmoil and pain and unhappiness – at least these were the feelings lurking in Guy and Collie, she knew that far too well. Lisette was still too young, at the age of five, to have any knowledge of such painful things. Guy was a problem, there was no longer much doubt left in her mind about that. Not only to his father, but to everyone else, most especially her and Collie, whom he blamed, unreasonably, for most of his troubles.
‘Out of sync,’ was how Gavin described him. He had never liked Guy, and was fond of saying that he should have lived in the 1960s in Haight-Ashbury. ‘That bum’s an ageing hippie, out of place, and way out of his time frame,’ he had said to her only the other day, an acerbic edge to his voice. There was a grain of truth in Gavin’s remark; more than a grain, actually. But there was nothing she could do to change Guy; sometimes she thought he was on the road to self-destruction.
However, whatever Gavin said about Guy and the others, they were her family, and she was very involved with them, cared about them. She even cared about Guy to a certain extent, even though he did not deserve it.
A sigh of dismay ran through her. He was not very good at reading character, had no insight into people, otherwise he would know better how to deal with his father and Collie and her. His irresponsibility had seemed only to grow as he himself had grown older; she had always known he was weak, but lately she had come to believe he was the most selfish human being she had ever met.
Now her eyes strayed to the other photograph on the desk. It was identical to the one which sat on Gavin’s dressing table; even the Tiffany frame was the same. Nell had given each of them one for Christmas years ago and had kept one for herself.
Leaning forward, she peered at Nell’s face. How fragile she looked with those finely-chiselled features, shining hair the colour of silver-gilt, and dreamy eyes as blue as a perfect summer sky. Petite, small-boned and delicately made though Nell was, she was strong. The strongest of all of them is how it seemed to her sometimes. Guts of steel and an iron will, that’s how she characterized her Little Nell these days.
Smiling out of the picture was their beautiful Sunny, their Golden Girl. She was as fair-haired as Nell, but hers was a golden blonde, and she was taller and more solid in build, very good-looking in a Slavic kind of way: slanted, almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones,
