Angel

‘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, a square jawline. Sunny was robust and healthy, her pink and white skin fresh and dewy, the unique amber-coloured eyes flecked with gold - and full of life. Her appearance signalled that she probably came from peasant stock, and this was true, she did; her parents were first-generation Americans of Polish extraction. Poor Sunny. She had turned out to be made of spun glass and just as fragile and as easily shattered. Yes, poor Sunny indeed. Living out her days in that awful place, her mind gone somewhere far away, far away from all of them, and from reality.

Kevin stood next to Gavin. Darkly handsome, black Irish eyes brimming with laughter and mischief. In his own way he was lost to them too, living his life in the belly of the beast, living on the edge, forever running from danger zone to danger zone, caught up in a horrific netherworld that one day might cost him his life.

And there was Mikey, towering over Kevin and Sunny in the picture, another victim of the era they had grown up in, another one they had lost. In this photograph his sandy hair looked almost golden, was like a shining halo around his face; she had always thought Mikey had the nicest of faces, pleasant and friendly. He was handsome in a reserved, quiet way, and he dwarfed them all with his height and broad shoulders.

They did not know where Mikey was. He had disappeared, literally vanished, and try though he might, Gavin had been unable to come up with any valid information about him, or a hint of his whereabouts. Neither had the private detectives Gavin had hired.

She and Nell and Gavin were the three who had turned out all right, who had made it to the top, had fulfilled their youthful dreams: although her brother Kevin might disagree that they were the only ones who had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Kevin Madigan had also made it – in his own way. Certainly he was doing what he wanted, and was doing it well, she supposed.

Rosalind reached for the picture and held it up in front of her eyes, studying their faces intently for the longest moment. They had all been so close once, loving and caring, their lives intertwined.

After a while her gaze settled on Gavin’s image. How famous it was these days – that bony face, all planes and angles, with its high, sharp cheekbones and deeply clefted chin. His eyes, of a clear grey-blue the colour of slate, were wide apart but deeply set. Cool eyes, that was how she thought of them. Long-lashed, they gazed out from under black brows that matched his hair. Appraising, honest and unflinching, they were the kind of eyes the crafty did not care to meet. His mouth was sensitive, tender almost, and the curious, crooked smile she knew so well was now as famous as his face: his trademark, in a sense.

Women the world over had fallen in love with that face, possibly because it was a poetic face, one which seemed touched by heartbreak and suffering, a romantic face. And medieval, perhaps? She pondered that, asked herself if she was getting the actor confused with his most recent role, and she knew she was not. Gavin did have the type of face so often depicted in fifteenth-century paintings – old-world, European. That was no wonder, since he was Scottish on his mother’s side, hence his first name, and Italian on his father’s, his surname having been Ambrosino until he had altered it ever so slightly for the stage.

Despite his fame, fortune and success, Gavin Ambrose had not changed much deep down inside, that she knew. In countless ways he was still the same young man he had been when they had first met in 1977. She had been seventeen and so had her friend Nell; Gavin had been nineteen, Kevin and Mikey both twenty, and Sunny had been the youngest at sixteen. They had come together as a group for the first time one balmy September evening during the Feast of San Genarro, the Italian festival that took place on Mulberry Street in Little Italy in lower Manhattan.

So very long ago, she thought. Fourteen years, to be exact. In the intervening years so much had happened to them all…

Loud knocking startled Rosie, brought her up straighter in the chair, and before she could say a word the door flew open to admit one of her assistants, Fanny Leyland.

‘My apologies for not being here when we wrapped!’ Fanny exclaimed breezily, flying up to the desk in a flurry of rustling skirts. Small, slender and neat as a new pin, she was smart, talented, a bundle of nervous energy and a genuine workaholic.

Fanny was devoted to Rosalind, and with an apologetic smile she continued, ‘I’m afraid I got delayed by a difficult actress. You haven’t needed me for anything, have you?’ She hovered in front of the desk looking slightly worried.

‘No, not really, although tomorrow I will,’ Rosie answered. ‘We’re going to have to buckle down and get my research into boxes.’

‘No problem. Val and I will pitch in like the devoted slaves we are, and we’ll have you all packed up by the end of the day.’

I’m not so sure about that,’ Rosie responded, and began to laugh. ‘I’m certainly going to miss your smiling face, your boundless energy and cheerfulness, Fanny. Not to mention that efficiency of yours. I’ve grown very used to you, and let’s face it, you’ve spoiled me.’

‘No, I haven’t, and I’ll miss you, too. Think of me, Rosalind, please, when you do another movie or a play. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail…wherever it is you are. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to work with you again!’

Rosie smiled at the younger woman, and nodded her assent. ‘Of course you can work on another project with me, Fanny. And Val as well. I’d love that. You two are the best assistants I’ve ever had.’

‘Oh gosh, thanks, that’s wonderful to know! Just super! By the way, the reason why I was not loitering around here, waiting to be of service to you when you came back from the set, was Margaret Ellsworth.’ Fanny pulled a face and continued, ‘She’s absolutely determined to get that gown, the one she wore for the Coronation scene in Westminster Abbey. She’s ready to kill for it.’

Puzzled, Rosie frowned. ‘Why would anyone want a medieval dress, for God’s sake? It’s not even all that beautiful…certainly it was never a particular favourite of mine, even if I did design it.’

‘Actresses are actresses, a breed apart. Well, at least the difficult ones are,’ Fanny muttered, and then she flashed Rosie a bright smile. ‘But of course there are those who are very special, and they far outnumber the miserable ones like the Maggie Ellsworths of this world.’

‘They do indeed,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Anyway, you’d better take this matter up with Aida. If Production wants to sell the dress, or give it to Maggie, it’s fine with me. I mean, I don’t own it, you know, nor do I want it for my archive. Why don’t you go and see Aida now? Sort the matter out with her, and then come back as quickly as possible. I’d like to start cataloguing the sketches this afternoon.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back in a minute, and Val’s on her way here from Wardrobe right now, so don’t worry, the three of us will make light work of all this.’ So saying, Fanny swung around and darted out, carelessly slamming the door behind her so hard the light fixture rattled.

Smiling to herself, Rosie reached for the phone, shaking her head as she did. Fanny was such a character; she really was going to miss her and Val. Opening her address book, she found the number of the Broadway producers who had contacted her about their new musical, and then glanced at her watch.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon here in England. With the five-hour time difference that made it ten-thirty in the morning in New York. The perfect time exactly to make this call.

THREE

Almost three hundred people had been invited to the wrap party, and to Rosie, standing in the doorway, it looked as if everyone had shown up.