Breaking the Rules

Staring across the table at M, he said, ‘Listen, why don’t we watch a film here? We have a small screening room in the back that my father created. It’s simple but comfortable with a big screen, and we have loads of films to choose from.’

‘Oh, Larry, I’d love that!’ M exclaimed, beaming at him. ‘We could watch you in Hamlet. That would be brilliant. I loved you in the movie as much as I did on the stage.’

‘Oh, no,’ he answered, shaking his head with some vehemence, grimacing. ‘I have no desire to stare at myself acting. Actually, I rarely ever do that. I only ever look at the rushes – the film of the day’s shoot. However, you can gape at my siblings doing their stuff, if you wish, and my parents, but not me. Listen, I’ve a better idea. Give me the title of one of your favourites – you can be certain it’s here if it’s a big movie.’

‘Well, there’re a lot I love, so wait, just let me think for a moment. Oh, I know one that’s really special to me. Do you have Julia? Jane Fonda plays Lillian Hellman in it, and Vanessa Redgrave is Julia.’

‘I know it well. It’s a Fred Zinnemann film, and one of my favourites, too,’ Larry told her.

‘I read something once about Zinnemann. A journalist asked him what it was like directing Vanessa Redgrave, and he said, “Driving a Rolls-Royce”. Wasn’t that cool?’

Larry smiled at her. ‘He also said something that was most astute … “the camera’s got to love you”, and oh, boy, was he spot on about that … Come on then, let’s go and look for Julia. I’m pretty sure we have it …’ Larry paused, frowning, obviously listening, his head tilted, and then said, ‘Do you have a mobile in your bag? I can hear one ringing somewhere and it’s not mine.’

‘Oh, God, yes!’ M jumped up, ran out into the entrance hall, where she had left her red Kelly and knitted coat on a chair. Rummaging in the bag, she grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

The voice at the other end was faint, faraway, and she could hardly hear it. ‘Is that you, M?’

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘Caresse.’

‘Oh, Caresse, hi! Have you heard when Frankie’s coming back? Is that why you’re calling me?’

There was a sudden sound of sobbing at the other end, and then Caresse finally said in a mumble, ‘Oh, M, it’s terrible, I don’t know what I’m going to do …’

The voice disappeared and M shouted into the phone, ‘Caresse, I can’t hear you!’

‘Frankie’s … dead!’

‘Oh, my God, no! Oh God, what happened?’ M’s voice wobbled, and she sat down heavily in the hall chair and endeavoured to steady herself. Tears sprang into her eyes. She could hardly believe what Caresse was saying.

‘He was in a car crash. In France. On something called grancornish.’ Caresse’s voice faded for a moment or two and then she started to sob. Almost immediately static and sizzle took over.

‘Caresse, are you still there?’ M asked, pressing her ear to the mobile.

‘Yes.’ Caresse’s voice was back once more on the line.

‘Where are you, Caresse? Tell me where you are.’

‘At Frankie’s. At the studio.’

‘Stay there. I’m coming over. Now.’

Larry had not failed to hear the distressed tone in M’s voice, and he had rushed out of the kitchen. The moment he had seen the dismay on her face, he knew something bad had happened, and he stood in the doorway, staring across at her, filled with concern.

Once she finished the call, he went over to her. She was unusually pale and there was a stricken expression in her eyes.

M got up out of the chair. She said, ‘That was Caresse, Frankie Farantino’s receptionist, and she’s had bad news …’ Her voice faltered. ‘He’s been killed in an accident … Frankie’s dead.’

‘Oh, M, how dreadful,’ Larry responded, his voice quiet, sympathetic. ‘I’m so sorry. Where did it happen?’

‘He was in the south of France. Caresse said it was on “grancornish” but I’m sure she was mispronouncing Grande Corniche.’

‘Yes, she must have meant that,’ Larry agreed. ‘I know that road, it’s treacherous, very dangerous to drive on – and especially so if someone doesn’t know it well.’

M was obviously extremely distressed, and Larry put his arms around her, wanting to comfort her as best he could.

She clung to him, but after a few minutes she pulled away and straightened up. Looking up at him, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Very sorry.’

‘Don’t be so silly, M, I know how upset you are, and I don’t blame you, it’s tragic, a terrible shock. Listen, I heard you tell Caresse you were going to go and see her. I think I should come with you, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do, Larry. Please.’

It was a nice day and there was a lot of traffic going downtown, but half an hour later M and Larry were ringing the bell of Frank Farantino’s photography studio in the Meatpacking District.

The huge, nail-studded black door was opened almost immediately. Standing there was a tall, thin young man who looked about seventeen, perhaps eighteen. He had a shock of brown curly hair, a saturnine face and hazel eyes that looked sorrowful and somewhat teary.

At once M noticed the strong resemblance he bore to Frankie and, stretching out her hand, she said, ‘Hello, I’m M, and this is my friend Laurence Vaughan. Caresse is expecting us.’

The young man shook their hands, saying as he did, ‘I’m Frankie’s son, Alex. Please come in, Caresse is waiting for you.’

‘We were so upset when we heard about your father’s accident, such a tragedy.’ M touched the boy’s arm lightly, added softly in a warm, caring voice, ‘I’m very sorry, Alex. It was so sudden, so unexpected, you must be blindsided.’

Looking more tearful than ever, he started to blink and muttered, ‘Thank you, thanks very much. Yes, it’s been a shock.’ He pursed his lips nervously. It was obvious he was strained and anxious.

Larry now spoke up. ‘I’m sorry, Alex. My condolences to you. This is an awful thing for you to bear, and if there’s anything M or I can do, or if we can help you in any way, you must let us know.’

‘Thanks, Mr Vaughan, thanks.’

‘Call me Larry, please. I much prefer it.’

The young man nodded, and took them through the reception area, heading in the direction of the main studio. They followed hard on his heels.

M felt slightly dazed, could hardly believe this was happening. The last time she had been in the vast main studio was for her shoot, the day Frankie had announced she was surely Audrey Hepburn’s twin, and promised to launch her career as a model when he got back from the fashion shoot in Morocco. Well, he certainly wasn’t coming back now, except in a coffin.

Sorrow swept over her. Frank Farantino was dead. There would be no launch of her career; her big break had unexpectedly vanished in a flash. But none of that mattered. She could begin again, start all over, find her way somehow. But Frankie wasn’t coming back … and that was the greatest of tragedies. The world had lost a truly good man and a talented and exceptional photographer, a brilliant artist.

A wave of memories assailed her as she followed Alex and Larry into the studio. She thought of the fun and excitement of that special day of photography, and she couldn’t quite grasp that she would never see Frankie ever again … Now she remembered him moving around with such agility, telling her what to do, how to stand, to pose, focusing his camera on her, snapping pictures … encouraging her, praising her …

All of the lights had been turned on and were blazing throughout; sitting in a chair in the centre of the studio was Caresse. She was hunched over, her arms wrapped around herself, her bright red head bent down on her chest.

M’s throat tightened. She stood perfectly still, aware that Caresse was heartbroken, and somehow she understood that there had been something important between Caresse and Frankie and that he had been much more than merely her boss.

Taking a deep breath, M moved forward, went over to Caresse, knelt down next to the chair, and wrapped her arms around the receptionist. ‘Caresse … I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry. What an enormous shock this must be for you.’

Caresse did not answer, just let out a long, strangled cry, and then sighed several times. But finally, after a few seconds, she lifted her head and looked directly at M. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, and she was extremely pale, her skin the colour of bleached-out bone. She leaned closer to M, got hold of her hand, but still seemed unable to speak, or perhaps did not want to say anything at this moment, was trying to recoup somehow.

Eventually, Caresse said in a small voice, ‘We got engaged the night before he left.’ Lifting her left hand, she showed it to M. ‘He gave me this ring. It’s a sapphire.’ Tears slid down Caresse’s cheeks, and she shook her head, suddenly seemed bewildered. ‘Why? Why did it have to be Frankie?’ she asked, peering at M. ‘Tell me why.’