Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Breaking the Rules

Breaking the Rules
Barbara Taylor Bradford


Thirty years ago the world was introduced to Emma Harte. Now meet M, a new woman of substance guaranteed to win our hearts all over again. A new era has begun.When those you love are threatened, there’s nothing you won’t do to protect them… you’ll even resort to Breaking the Rules.Following a terrifying encounter in the quiet English countryside, a dark beauty flees to New York in search of a new life. Adopting the initial M as her name, she embarks on a journey that will lead her to the catwalks of Paris where she becomes the muse and star model to France’s iconic top designer Jean-Louis Tremont.When M meets charming and handsome actor Larry Vaughan they fall instantly in love with one another. Soon they become the most desired couple on the international scene, appearing on the front cover of every celebrity magazine, adored by millions. With a successful career and a perfect marriage, M believes she has truly put the demons of her past to bed.But M’s fortunes are about to take another dramatic turn when a dark figure from her past, someone who she thought she’d never see again, is back and determined to shatter M’s world forever.From the chic fashion capitals of London and Paris, to the exotic locations of Istanbul and Hong Kong, Breaking the Rules is an enthralling story of love and redemption, secrets and survival from the bestselling author of A Woman of Substance.







BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD






Breaking the Rules









COPYRIGHT (#ulink_bd05df05-b733-5a7c-b49f-c17cb29dd96e)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2009

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007304073

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007304202

Version: 2017-10-25




DEDICATION (#ulink_ab2b8ea6-95f9-5639-a0a5-bf92ae377f68)


In loving memory of Patricia Parkin, my British editor and friend for thirty years, who died on March 20, 2009. You told me to listen, and I did. I’m still listening to you, Patricia, and I always will be.

This book is also for my husband, Bob, who knows the many reasons why, with my dearest and abiding love.




CONTENTS


COVER (#u8c192ad3-3c35-5014-8422-59d1754b738f)

TITLE PAGE (#u07e34d20-5d9a-50fb-acc1-338af70e1c7b)

COPYRIGHT (#ulink_3719c120-fbff-55d5-96ae-5fe923d7571e)

DEDICATION (#ulink_75cbc3d7-e6e7-580b-8da2-00e5b4a7d512)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_8cb3b4c1-fc71-59bc-87f7-a0756f8c731d)

March 2006

PART ONE (#ulink_d16bcba4-5289-5f9d-8303-3d66348df732)

Falling in Love

August–December 2006

ONE (#ulink_8e0a998f-710e-58d0-8076-ba52673b0107)

Two (#ulink_d5851655-6762-5bdf-a593-b676387f05f1)

THREE (#ulink_ec0068f8-e3ee-5020-b334-9e780da8e92a)

FOUR (#ulink_e1632150-95e5-506e-976a-9813e2b1b14a)

FIVE (#ulink_7435810e-7509-5e90-bdf3-c42462eb6836)

SIX (#ulink_2f14ac30-20ec-5168-ac15-9e21d010c9ea)

SEVEN (#ulink_be5ad9f9-7a71-5341-bf86-291deef5bbfe)

EIGHT (#ulink_53ac5ede-d08d-542b-9909-bad4ecde446f)

NINE (#ulink_2b979af9-6b40-5f73-abe5-49741addf0df)

TEN (#ulink_ce5e9b5f-b0f0-5322-b3b6-1b4148bd4f54)

ELEVEN (#ulink_d6953a03-1823-572d-b395-1baa846b1e96)

TWELVE (#ulink_6617454d-b0a3-5276-a8a8-c4d6bed48a76)

THIRTEEN (#ulink_732727bd-32a2-5788-a244-1704fef401e7)

FOURTEEN (#ulink_4abc2ba2-4d23-5f2d-aba1-4d916a42abd1)

FIFTEEN (#ulink_9f2b2705-d8bd-544a-9094-e9ca52737b27)

SIXTEEN (#ulink_64a1d7dc-5185-5abf-9a8f-1a88fa9937cb)

SEVENTEEN (#ulink_f48d36f4-146f-58b5-8cf5-f9954caa89ed)

EIGHTEEN (#ulink_868f99e9-8063-5cb0-ac03-212fd0f50113)

NINETEEN (#ulink_20f30bdd-edd4-5f8b-b76b-6540abc26843)

TWENTY (#ulink_024d136d-284a-51b5-a674-56f9ba48410a)

TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_3b3c819f-edd8-5e8b-8f85-a34bf586bd1f)

TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_3ca669cd-37b6-567c-b548-c3bd4f974ac2)

TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_f7480440-b5bd-508c-b082-330d5ca8c3ba)

TWENTY-FOUR (#ulink_093912a4-87de-533a-b050-d0421c951f3f)

TWENTY-FIVE (#ulink_03d8f22a-464d-58ca-9e4a-a45168aba81a)

TWENTY-SIX (#ulink_143c7e25-3e74-5e29-8085-0c448b634531)

TWENTY-SEVEN (#ulink_9a8d70ce-182c-5407-af6a-fbe1ddba6f0a)

PART TWO (#ulink_8c17b9df-7d42-5073-b14d-3f6c428c113e)

Dodging the Enemy

January–April 2007

TWENTY-EIGHT (#ulink_6d864c7d-865f-5d27-bd4e-6bfabd722262)

TWENTY-NINE (#ulink_a3faf3d8-b016-5aa1-b470-1dae9e05077f)

THIRTY (#ulink_1619252f-23a1-5109-9783-cf2f559b0b94)

THIRTY-ONE (#ulink_386d9ea0-40eb-5b83-bdc0-e8bc9fc3bf77)

THIRTY-TWO (#ulink_c6a17633-46bb-5a9c-8ed0-ef95bb417262)

THIRTY-THREE (#ulink_f91af0de-02c0-52d9-a40f-106562730dd6)

THIRTY-FOUR (#ulink_2caab675-54a2-5133-a4a2-e3aacbcd885b)

THIRTY-FIVE (#ulink_2759d71a-21fd-5a75-9220-d7374e89153c)

THIRTY-SIX (#ulink_c8fa76f0-f201-5f8c-923e-cc8e6ce1c87c)

PART THREE (#ulink_93b51c5a-79d9-5c07-a42b-cfd3fbef0858)

Winning the Game

April–August 2007

THIRTY-SEVEN (#ulink_b44abe81-5a44-57db-a901-a8463d30bcd1)

THIRTY-EIGHT (#ulink_5d0b85af-e579-524b-99aa-a2ecc5ed262e)

THIRTY-NINE (#ulink_0895883e-70b4-5a4a-aa56-a6275a76a5ab)

FORTY (#ulink_7cd3d9a9-aa85-5c8a-97dc-b20d7aae908d)

FORTY-ONE (#ulink_7cb90c1b-c93e-5204-b8f5-5874071b0146)

FORTY-TWO (#ulink_c0aeb35f-a9fd-56d8-b8a9-c3a0876538af)

FORTY-THREE (#ulink_356e8146-db1c-5bfc-b2ed-043614d8a919)

FORTY-FOUR (#ulink_5d7f74c7-ebd5-58fc-9a6e-f3f4416c2286)

FORTY-FIVE (#ulink_8e4f1f9e-c413-5178-8c9e-4d8d660d21e1)

FORTY-SIX (#ulink_bd474de6-2112-574e-b1bb-71ed141b7ea5)

FORTY-SEVEN (#ulink_420affee-66b4-59cd-bf5a-38f04de90858)

EPILOGUE (#ulink_7d50b65e-95ea-53b8-9501-c20e8b46e998)

Manhattan

September 2007

KEEP READING (#uea4807ff-a6b2-55d0-ae56-052affb31b98)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ulink_65e7bd9f-2f0f-5fcc-a503-533d352f4d68)

OTHER BOOKS BY (#ulink_5dfd2c55-cb67-5410-bcb2-50c55bce9da5)

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#ulink_c30a62fc-1b0a-5668-afc1-820abc7352f1)




PROLOGUE (#ulink_0f13537f-c72d-5d09-bd2c-80462856eca6)

March 2006 (#ulink_35d723b4-fd73-5bc9-b626-e4c4f8d6bf93)


He was a stocky, slightly rotund man, in his thirties or thereabouts, and he leaned against the van, looking perturbed. He took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering why Bart was taking so long. To his way of thinking, Bart should have done the job already and been back before now. And they should have been speeding away from the scene of the crime. He glanced at his watch; it was just a few minutes past four. They needed to be on their way. Heading back to London.

Wondering whether to go looking for Bart, he suddenly tensed, leaned forward, squinting in the sunlight coming through the trees. He listened acutely, frowning, wondering exactly what it was he had just heard. Scuffling? Branches breaking? Yes, that was it. And also a muffled scream? He wasn’t sure there had been a scream … but maybe there had.

He hoped to God that Bart wasn’t up to his old tricks. They’d be in the shit if he was. And really and truly in it. Like dead.

His impatience spiralled up, dragging with it sudden apprehension. Sam, for that was his name, made an instant decision. He dropped his cigarette on the dirt path, grinding it under his foot. Pulling the key out of the ignition, he shut the door of the van, and hurried down the path into the denser part of the woods. It grew dimmer, sky and sunlight obscured by the density of the trees that formed a dark canopy above him.

Within a couple of minutes, Sam was close to the clearing; sounds became more distinct … Bart cursing and hissing and breathing heavily … and then a female scream cut short by Bart. And more scuffling.

Sam cursed under his breath, began to run, shouting, ‘Bart! Bart! For Christ’s sake, stop it!’

Startled, Bart swung his head sharply, turned his body towards Sam, and in so doing left himself vulnerable.

The young woman pinned under him seized her opportunity. Bringing her right hand up, she bashed Bart hard on the side of his head with a rock, and did so with unusual force. Dropping the rock, she pushed him hard with both hands. Injured, blood spurting, Bart fell backwards.

Scrambling to her feet, pulling up her jeans, the girl ran away, sped deeper into the woods, shouting, ‘Gypo! Gypo! Come on, boy!’

Sam was still frozen to the spot, filled with shock at their failure. A horse whinnying, hooves thudding along the path, told him the girl had escaped. She was gone. They’d never catch her now.

Rousing himself, Sam ran over to Bart, who lay on his back, his eyes closed, his head and face covered in blood. Sam bent over him, found a faint pulse, heard even fainter breathing. Bart was alive. Well, for the moment. Stupid bastard he was, messing with the girl, trying to screw her. Served him right, it did.

Getting hold of Bart under the arms, Sam dragged him along the dirt path, pausing from time to time to catch his breath. He was sweating profusely. It was unusually warm for March. When he finally got him to the van he opened the back doors, managed to drag Bart inside. He hid him under a blanket, closed the doors, raced around to the driver’s seat, then backed the van along the dirt path until he came to the incline. Making a U-turn, he headed down onto the main road, began driving south. He didn’t know whether Bart was now dead or not. All he knew was that he had to get away from this area as fast as possible, before the girl raised the alarm.

His body was taut, his expression grim as he pushed ahead; after a while he began to slow his speed. All he needed was a local traffic cop on his arse.

Bloody hell, this was a disaster. Sam grimaced. The boss would have their guts for garters for messing up the way they had, for failing to eliminate the girl. No, hang on, it was Bart who’d failed. Not him. But understanding the way the boss operated, he was certain they’d both end up dead as a doornail.

Not if I can help it; not me, Sam muttered to himself. But what to do with an injured Bart or Bart’s body? How to deal with it? Dump it outside a hospital in another town? Leave it by the side of the road? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to save himself from the boss’s wrath …




PART ONE (#ulink_fb2d5ea3-29ca-5e34-9a1d-40c8033eba59)

Falling in Love August–December 2006 (#ulink_6015ae4c-ef94-52ee-8ec9-1ad05b81f732)


‘Come live with me, and be my love,

And we will some new pleasures prove

Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,

With silken lines, and silver hooks.’

From ‘The Bait’

by John Donne (1572–1631)




ONE (#ulink_dfe2326c-1e76-520e-b2ed-4b811a01a5d4)


The young woman hurrying down Fifth Avenue was unaware of the stares as she plunged on determinedly through the downpour as though oblivious to it. She was, in fact, too consumed by her thoughts to notice passers-by.

They noticed her. They stared, nodded to themselves approvingly, or smiled with admiration. She drew attention for a number of reasons. She was rather exotic looking, with high cheekbones, black brows beautifully arched on her broad brow above large dark eyes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that fell almost to her waist. Though not beautiful in the classical sense, she was, nonetheless, arresting, and had a unique look about her. Tall, slender, lithe, she moved with grace and had an inbred elegance.

Her clothes were simple; she was wearing a sleeveless black cotton shift and ballet slippers, her only jewellery large pearl earrings and a watch. She carried a battered old black Hermès Kelly bag, well polished, which had obviously seen better days, but looked just right on her arm.

The rain was coming down in torrents and she was already drenched, but she no longer bothered to look for a cab. There was no point; they were all taken. She was heading home and much to her relief she wasn’t very far away now. Two blocks down and three avenues to cross and she would be at West Twenty-Second Street and Ninth Avenue.

A month ago, through her only friend in New York, a young man called Dax, she had found the perfect place: a comfortable room with two good-sized closets and its own bath in a brownstone on this rather lovely old street. Being in Chelsea reminded her of London, gave her a sense of wellbeing, and she felt at home here.

When she had left London, she had left behind her name; she was known as M, and M did not mind the rain today. It was cooling on this blistering August afternoon. Earlier, around lunch time, it had been at least a hundred and one in the shade. Leni, the young receptionist at the Blane Model Agency, had announced with a big grin, ‘Betcha we could fry eggs on the sidewalk today, M. How about giving it a try?’

M had laughed with her, wanting to be nice. Leni had endeavoured to be helpful since the first day they had met. She had gone to Blane’s within days of arriving in Manhattan, two months ago now. Although the agency had not found work for her so far, they had been encouraging, and Leni’s friendliness had helped. M knew she was going to make it as a model. She had to; she had no choice. Not only had she something to prove to her family, but to herself as well, and nothing was going to stop her.

Glancing at her watch, M winced. It was already four o’clock, nine at night in London, and she usually called her sister on Fridays around this time. Although M was in her early twenties and considered herself to be very capable, her elder sister worried about her being alone in New York. But then she worried about everything: that was her nature. M loved her, missed her, but making it on her own had been too compelling to ignore. So here she was trying to be a model, trying to become another Kate Moss. She smiled inwardly at that idea. If only, she thought. Increasing her pace, she crossed Seventh Avenue, striding out towards Eighth, in a bigger hurry now.

The brownstone was in the middle of Twenty-Second, between Ninth and Tenth, and as she drew closer she saw somebody huddled on the top step, leaning up against the front door. At once she realized it was her friend, Dax. They’d met at the Blane Agency when she’d first come to New York. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he was protecting himself with a newspaper, which he held over his head. He was as drenched as she was, and the minute she ran up the steps she saw he was shivering, looked pale, pinched.

‘Dax, what are you doing here?’ she exclaimed, pulling the door key out of her bag.

‘Getting decidedly wet,’ he shot back, grinning at her.

‘So I see, let’s get you inside. You’re shivering … are you sick?’

‘I’ve got a bit of a cold,’ he answered, ‘that’s all,’ and standing up he followed her inside.

The two of them stood dripping water in the tiled entrance for a moment until M took hold of his arm and led him into the small cloakroom, reminding him that Geo, from whom she rented her room, always insisted her house was kept pristine. ‘Get undressed in here and dry yourself, Dax. There’re towels in the cupboard next to the coat rack. I’ll be back with something dry for you in a minute.’

‘Thanks,’ he answered, still shivering, offering her a wan smile.

M went out, took off her wet ballet shoes and ran upstairs to her room. Within seconds she had shed her soaking dress and underwear, thrown them in the bathtub, rubbed herself dry and put on cotton trousers, a cotton T-shirt and dry shoes. Taking a large towelling robe out of the wardrobe, she went downstairs, knocked on the door of the cloakroom, and when it opened she put the robe over Dax’s outstretched arm. ‘That should fit you, Dax. You’ll find me in the kitchen … I’m going to make us a pot of really hot tea.’

‘The English cure-all for everything,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t knock it,’ M said, hurrying into the kitchen. Once the kettle was on the stove, she pulled her mobile phone out of her trouser pocket and dialled her sister in London. ‘Hi, it’s me!’ she exclaimed when the phone was answered at the other end. ‘I’m alive and well and kicking! How are you, Birdie?’

‘I’m fine, darling, very okay this week, and listen to me. You know I hate that nickname you gave me when you were little. Let’s forget it, shall we?’

Hearing the laughter in her voice, M chuckled, then went on, ‘How’s business? Has everything been going well?’

‘Yes, it has, and I heard from Mummy and Dad. They send their love. So does Gran.’

‘How is Gran? Is she feeling better?’

‘Loads, yes, and I’m sure it’s because Mummy and Dad are in Australia. You know how our mother cheers everyone up; makes them instantly feel better. And Gran’s no exception to the rule: having her much-loved daughter there has really helped.’

‘I’m glad to hear Gran’s better. I’ll give her a call over the weekend. Any other news?’

‘Not really …’ The sisters talked for a few minutes longer, and then said their goodbyes. Putting her mobile phone on the counter top, M opened the cupboard and took out her large brown teapot, which she had bought when she had moved into the brownstone.

After putting six English breakfast tea bags into the pot, she poured the boiling water over them. Her thoughts remained with her sister; M was concerned about her constantly now that she was on her own, a widow. Tragically, her sister’s husband had died of a heart attack two years ago and M was well aware she was still grieving. But that was natural. They had been so close, so very much in love, joined at the hip to M’s way of thinking. Then suddenly, unexpectedly he was gone … just like that, in the flicker of an eyelash. He had been only thirty-three, far too young.

At the time, her elder brother had said life was full of surprises, 75 per cent of them bad. She had disagreed with him, chiding him, calling him a cynic, but now she wasn’t so sure that he was wrong. Life did have a way of coming up to hit you in the face. Her father’s comment during this conversation had been typical of him. He had reminded her, and her brother, that what was meant to be would be, and that life had its own rules, and they were rules no one could change. M sighed under her breath, stood with her hand on the teapot, thinking about her sister, missing her more than ever at this moment. They had always been close, best friends.

‘Did I offend you, M? About the tea, I mean?’

M jumped, startled, and swung around to face Dax, exclaiming, ‘I didn’t hear you come into the kitchen. You made me jump.’

‘Sorry.’

M grinned at him. ‘Of course you didn’t upset me, Dax. I’m not so easily offended, you know.’ She frowned at him, added, ‘You still look chilled to the bone. This hot tea will help.’ She reached into the cupboard as she spoke, took out two mugs, poured the tea and added milk. Carrying the mugs to the table under the window, she went on, ‘Come along, Dax, come and sit with me here.’

Tightening the belt of the towelling robe, shrugging into it for warmth, he joined her, sat down opposite and put his hands around the mug. ‘I came looking for Geo,’ he volunteered after a few seconds. ‘But I’m glad she’s not here. I realize it’s you I want to talk to … I feel more comfortable with you when I need to discuss my problems.’

‘You know I’ll help if I can,’ M murmured, eyeing him carefully, thinking that perhaps it was Geo he wanted to talk about. She couldn’t imagine why he said he felt more comfortable discussing his problems with her, when he had never done such a thing in the past. It’s just his way of getting around his awkwardness, she decided, and said, ‘Go on, then, Dax, tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Everything,’ he answered after a moment or two of thought. ‘And because nothing is going right for me here, I’m seriously considering going to LA.’

‘Do you mean permanently, or simply for a visit?’ she asked.

‘Permanently. You know I want to be an actor, not a male model, and I think the only way I’m going to make it is by moving to LA, taking a chance out there.’

M’s dark eyes narrowed, and she said, very slowly, ‘But Dax, you’d just be changing one city for another. You’ll take your problems along with you.’

‘Not all of them. If I do move, I will be leaving Geo behind, and that will certainly solve one problem.’

‘It will? Which one?’

‘My muddled-up love life.’

‘Is it muddled? Really and truly?’ She sat back, took a sip of tea, and looked at Dax over the rim of the mug, waiting for a response.

‘I think it is. Look, my relationship with Geo has stalled. Actually, if you want the truth, it’s stagnant. I do care about her, and I thought I’d connected with the love of my life when we first got involved. But it’s just not going smoothly, and I think she’s lost interest in me … and I’ve got to confess my passion for her has been diluted.’ He sat back in the chair and took a long swallow of the tea, relieved to unburden himself.

‘Perhaps that’s because you think she’s lost interest in you, and I’m certain she hasn’t … she’s always happy when you call her, I can attest to that. I live here, remember.’

‘There’s another problem, actually,’ Dax volunteered and, leaning closer across the table, he whispered, ‘I’ve fallen for someone else … Geo’s been away a lot lately, and I’ve been on my own, and well, look, I met someone who really turns me on, and who’s crazy about me.’

‘Oh.’ Taken aback, M stared at him, suddenly at a loss for words.

Dax said, ‘He’s just great, really special.’

‘Oh, I see,’ M muttered, and put down the mug of tea.

‘Don’t look so startled, so upset.’ Dax drew closer once more as he added, ‘I’m a member of both churches, if you know what I mean. And I’m quite happy in her church. And also in his.’ He smiled suddenly, his face lighting up. ‘But I don’t want to get too deeply involved with him, and so I think I should go to LA. Follow my life-long dream, so to speak, try and make it as an actor, and put my love life/sex life on hold, if you get my drift.’

‘Yes, I do, and I’ll say it again. You will still take your problems with you wherever you go to live.’

‘No, I won’t. I’ll be leaving Geo and Jason behind. Two problems dealt with! I’ll only have my career to worry about.’ He suddenly started to cough, jumped up, excused himself and hurried out of the kitchen.

M stared after him, frowning. Although she had been surprised when he had confided he was bisexual, she was neither troubled by it nor judgemental. But she was worried about his health. He looked genuinely ill to her. A moment later he was back, blowing his nose on a tissue.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, sitting down at the table.

‘You’ve got a really nasty cold, you know.’ She stood up, went to one of the cabinets, took out a bottle of Tylenol, gave it to him. ‘Take some of these, and drink your tea.’

‘Yes, Mom,’ he said, grinning at her, and took three of the pills. ‘Well, thank God it’s stopped raining at last,’ he murmured, staring out of the window. ‘So, tell me, M, should I go to LA or not?’

‘I don’t know how to answer that, not really,’ M responded quietly. ‘I suppose it might be easier out there – to get an acting job, I mean. On the other hand, I keep hearing that actors are two a penny in Hollywood, and that all of them are gorgeous and talented, male and female alike.’ She gave him a probing stare and finished, ‘Maybe you’re just running away from Geo and Jason? Do you think that might be it?’

‘Not at all. I’m only thinking about my future … in films. And you know I’ve been to so many auditions, looking for parts, trying to get an acting job. I’ve been doing that since long before we first met.’

‘Then think about this move just a little longer. Don’t do anything hasty, or rash. Give it a few weeks, try to find something here in New York, an acting job in television or maybe in the theatre. And as for Geo, tell her it’s over, if it really is. She’s a big girl, she’ll understand; and, anyway, you said she’d sort of lost interest in you. As for Jason, you have only two choices. You can stay with him. Or tell him goodbye as well. So that you can concentrate on your career.’

Dax gaped at her for a long moment, and then began to laugh hilariously, ending up coughing into his tissue. When he had settled down, he said, with a knowing grin, ‘If nothing else, you’re certainly outspoken, tell a guy what you really think.’

‘Do I? And what do I think?’

‘That I’m full of b.s.’

‘No, you’re wrong, I don’t think badly of you, Dax, honestly. But my sister always says I have a way of getting to the heart of the matter. And that’s what I’ve done with you …’ She broke off as the phone rang, and leaning over she picked it up. ‘Hello?’ After a moment listening, she went on, ‘That’s fine, and you’ll be staying there all weekend?’ Another pause as M listened again, and she silently mouthed, ‘It’s Geo. Do you want to speak to her?’

He shook his head vehemently.

M said, ‘Okay, Geo, I’ll do that, and I’ll be here all weekend. I’ll see you on Monday. Bye.’ Placing the phone in the cradle, she explained, ‘Geo’s at her sister’s in New Jersey. For the weekend, as you’ve no doubt guessed.’

‘I’m right, you know, she is cooling it with me.’

‘And you’ve done the same. You’ve even moved on a step or two, wouldn’t you say?’

He nodded, knowing she had called it correctly.

‘I’m thinking of making a big soup, a healthy French soup,’ M now announced. ‘Do you want to stay for supper?’

‘What’s a big French soup?’

‘You know, with vegetables and pieces of chicken … one of those soups that’s always on the hob in French kitchens.’ She smiled at him cheekily. ‘I’m a good cook, you know.’

‘I’m sure. And I’d love to stay for supper. And perhaps we can talk some more.’

M groaned. ‘Just as long as we don’t talk about your problems.’

‘Absolutely not. Anyway, it looks as if you’ve just solved them for me, M. There’s nothing like a bit of straight-talking.’




TWO (#ulink_a6b75891-87be-5ba9-9884-d7190e7cd231)


He had known her for only a few weeks but he trusted her, and his trust was implicit. Dax had never experienced this feeling with anyone else before, and he had quickly come to understand M was rather unusual. She was a very special person, one who had strolled into his life unexpectedly and had had a tremendous impact on him.

It was neither romantic nor sexual. Although she was beautiful, she was just not his type … too tall and dark of colouring, and also just a little too exotic to suit him. He had always had a predilection for blue-eyed blondes who were petite, and he did not mind at all if they weren’t very bright. He preferred them to be a bit dumb, actually.

M, on the other hand, was extremely intelligent, practical and straightforward. She fairly took his breath away with her blunt-ness, her incredible honesty. It seemed to him that M thought more like a man than a woman, got straight to the point in a flash. There were no holds barred: she just spat out what she had to say without any frills. Well, she had said that herself, in fact; that her elder sister believed she got right to the heart of the matter.

Dax knew where he stood with her, and he liked that. She didn’t seem to have any special agenda, except for wanting to be a model, and there was no deviousness in her. Too many people he knew played both ends against the middle, and were shifty, even double-dealing, and some even ended up being treacherous.

Now, as he watched her moving swiftly around the kitchen, preparing the soup for them, he couldn’t help thinking that she moved fluidly and rhythmically, with the lightness and grace of a dancer. Before he could stop himself he blurted out, ‘You must be a dancer, M, the way you move.’

M swung to face him, a smile lighting up her dark eyes. ‘I am a dancer, Dax, but not a professional one. I took a few lessons when I was little, and then got more interested in sports. But I do think I have the spirit and soul of a dancer … I just love it. I prefer dancing to exercising, and running ruins the hips, so I dance all the time. When I’m alone.’

She turned back to the counter top, began pouring cartons of College Inn chicken broth into a large pot, adding chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions and parsnips that she had prepared, then reached for the jar of herbs of Provence and threw a handful into the soup along with some bay leaves. ‘There, that should do it,’ she murmured, turning on the gas. ‘All I have to do now is chop a few sticks of celery,’ and she reached for this, cutting off the leaves as well as the hard nut at the other end.

‘There seems to be no limit to your talents,’ Dax said, still watching her. ‘It strikes me that you’re a good cook; certainly you look as if you know what you’re doing.’

Her cheeky grin flashed. ‘I know how to cook a few dishes but I don’t have a huge repertoire. I can almost prepare this chicken-in-the-pot with my eyes closed, and I’m even better at it since I came to New York. I always make it on Friday evening, and it lasts me all weekend.’

‘You are practical, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ she agreed, and threw the celery into the pot. ‘Do you cook?’

‘Not me, no,’ he said, and sat back in the chair, sipping the second mug of scalding hot tea she had pressed on him a short while ago.

His light grey eyes rested on her as she cleaned the counter tops, put the lid on the pot, lowered the gas, carried dirty items over to the sink. She intrigued him, and also mystified him sometimes.

Leaning against the sink, the wet sponge in her hand, M said, ‘What does Dax stand for? It’s unusual.’

‘Derek Alan Kenneth Small. That’s what it is. Ugh!’ He made a face, and explained, ‘At school the kids called me Daks, because I told them to, and when I got older and went to college, I changed the spelling. I thought Dax was more … sophisticated.’ He grinned. ‘Are we all dumb at times?’

‘I guess so. But you know, I like it. Dax, I mean. It sort of suits you, and your personality. Not to mention your blond good looks. Matinee idol looks, I might add.’

‘My mother always told me I resembled Leslie Howard.’ Placing the mug on the table he murmured, ‘If you know who he was?’

‘Do you think I’m an ignoramus, for heaven’s sake! Of course I know who he was. He played Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind. And guess what, since I’m Marie Marsden, they called me M and M at school. How about that?’

Dax chuckled, and then stood up. ‘I think my clothes must be dry by now. I’d better go and get dressed. See you in a minute.’

In Dax’s absence, M set the table for supper, checked the chicken, tasted the broth, added a few extra shakes of pepper and lowered the heat under the pot. Then she went out into the little entrance foyer and down the corridor that led to Geo’s studio at the back of the old brownstone.

On the phone earlier, Geo had asked her to check that all the blinds were pulled down and also to make sure that the air conditioner was on low. When M walked into the vaulted studio she saw that the room was properly shaded and cool: the paintings stacked here and there against the walls were well protected from the daylight. She glanced at the thermostat on the wall; Geo had turned it to low earlier, but perhaps she had forgotten.

Moving forward, M stood in the centre of the floor for a moment, thinking what a perfect studio this was. There were three windows, all of them large; a skylight had been installed at one end, where a portion of the room jutted out into the back yard. No wonder Geo loved this place so much and painted so well in here. M had been captivated by Geo’s paintings when she’d first seen them, and she admired her talent. Geo had an uncanny way of capturing light on canvas and in a way only a few artists could.

M thought suddenly of an extraordinary painting, which she knew intimately since it was a family heirloom. It was a breathtaking picture by J. M. W. Turner, the great artist, who flourished in the first half of the nineteenth century. His forte had been capturing light on canvas, and nobody had ever excelled this master, and perhaps no one ever would.

M unlocked the back door, and stepped out into the yard. There was a wrought-iron seat, two chairs and a small table on the tiny flagged patio, and, beyond, a minuscule lawn and some flowering shrubs. M took a deep breath, sniffed the air. Earlier the rain had stopped and it had cooled off; the stifling heat of the afternoon was thankfully diminished. Returning to the patio, she sat down on the wrought-iron seat, thinking that this tiny verdant patch in the middle of Manhattan was like a miniature oasis that truly pleased the senses.

A moment later, a rush of sadness engulfed her as she thought of her mother’s garden in England. Closing her eyes, she saw it in her mind’s eye; saw all of its wondrous glory, walked along its winding paths. And for a few moments she was transported back to her favourite place on this earth, the place that was always in her heart, would always be embedded there, the place where she had been her happiest. Go back home, go back straight away, a small voice whispered at the back of her head. You’ve nothing to fear.

A second later M heard the sound of Dax’s feet clattering across the terracotta floor of the studio. She roused herself from her reverie and brushed a hand over her eyes, blinking back unanticipated tears that momentarily blinded her.

Dax did not appear to notice anything amiss as he came to a halt in front of her and said, ‘My clothes were dry, and I had a quick shower in Geo’s bathroom before I got dressed. I feel much better, as good as new, and my cold seems to have gone.’

‘I hope so,’ M answered, wondering whether he ought to be using Geo’s shower, and then decided she must clean it later. She didn’t want to go into a lot of explanations about Dax’s presence here this afternoon. Who knew what kind of relationship they now had?

He went on, ‘Geo’s lucky to have this back yard, even though it’s the size of a postage stamp. And the studio is awesome, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is, and you would be really awesome if you went back to the kitchen and poured us both a glass of wine. I bought a bottle of Sancerre the other day, and it’s in the fridge. You can’t miss my bottle, it’s got a big red M on the label.’

‘At your service,’ he said, grinning, and went back into the brownstone.

Leaning back against the wrought-iron seat, M closed her eyes once more and pictured her room at home, full of her special possessions, all the things she treasured, and she mentally walked through her parents’ house, opening doors, peeking inside other rooms. Inwardly she smiled; how she loved her family home … one day she would go there again … in a year or two … when she was sure it was safe … when she knew for a certainty that no one could harm her …

‘Here I am!’ Dax exclaimed, handing her the wine glass, sitting down next to her.

‘Thanks,’ M said, and touched her glass to his. ‘Down the hatch.’

He chuckled, looked at her, and chuckled again.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘It’s such a masculine toast. My father always says that.’

‘So?’ She gazed at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Nothing really, it just struck me that it’s a man’s toast, that’s all.’

Finally, M gave him the benefit of a wide smile. ‘I suppose I picked it up at home. Like your father, mine often uses those words, too.’

Dax took a long swallow of the wine and said, ‘I know you don’t want to hear my problems, but there’s just one thing I’d like to say … okay?’

‘Shoot,’ she responded and sipped her wine.

‘I’d like you to explain why you’re so against my going out to LA? I mean, what do you have against Hollywood?’

‘I don’t have anything against it, nor am I against you going, actually. I was just trying to point out, earlier, that moving to another city doesn’t solve problems. Not for anyone. Because the problems are inside the person … a new city won’t change a thing, Dax. Anyway, I was always led to believe that Hollywood was a bit … well, overcrowded, especially with young talent.’

‘I hear you, and you’re right, M. But I haven’t been able to get acting work here, and I do want to be an actor … I’ve been acting since I was a kid, you know. I thought I ought to go out to the Coast and give it a try, take my chances.’

‘I understand. I suppose if you don’t go you might end up regretting it one day.’

‘Does that mean I have your blessing, M?’

‘Not really. Because I do think you should try again, have a go at getting a job here. But I do understand why you want to go to the Coast.’

‘Thanks for saying that. And listen, it will remove me from the scene here. I think I’d like to make myself scarce, if only for a few months.’

M nodded, pursed her lips together, and then said softly, ‘I’ll miss you, Dax.’

He was an observant young man, and he noticed the sadness flickering in her eyes. Reaching out, he put an arm around her, pulled her closer and held her tightly against him. ‘I’ll stay in touch. And you know what, I’ll miss you too, babe, I will indeed.’ He turned her face to his and kissed her on the cheek. ‘We can call each other, text all the time.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she murmured and, putting a brave face on it, she went on, ‘I think we’d better go in. The soup must be ready by now, and I don’t want it to burn.’

‘What do you think is wrong with us, Dax?’ M asked a little later, sitting back in the chair, eyeing her friend across the kitchen table.

Frowning, he said, ‘What exactly do you mean?’ As he spoke he put down his soup spoon and, with his head on one side, threw her a quizzical look.

‘Not being able to get work. Look, you’ve been trying hard to find an acting job, and I’m striving to be a model, but no one seems interested in us, do they?’

‘True enough, but it’s more to do with the time of year than anything else, at least as far as modelling is concerned. And, let’s face it, you’ve only been in New York two months. But things are bound to pick up in the fall. As for me, I just explained why I’m seriously considering going to the West Coast. I want a change of scenery, new contacts, and I do think there are opportunities there.’

M nodded, picked up her spoon and finished the soup. For a moment her mind focused on her eldest brother, who had often taken her under his wing, and tried to guide her in many different ways. He had once said that looks and talent weren’t always quite enough, that other factors frequently came into play in a successful career. Such vital things as timing, being in the right place at the right time, and, most importantly, having Lady Luck on one’s side. Although she sometimes disagreed with her brother about certain things, she was well aware he was wise and scrupulously honest. He told it the way it was, and she trusted him.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Dax said, peering at her.

After a small silence, M responded, ‘I haven’t seen you act, but I’m assuming you can, and you’re certainly good looking, and you photograph well. But you’ve got to really want it – to be an actor, I mean. It’s really got to be the most important thing in your life, and you must have immense drive, discipline and determination. And total dedication. There are a lot of good-looking, talented young men out there, and you’ve just got to want it more, be better than them. If you’re going to succeed, that is.’

He leaned forward. ‘But that is the way I feel, and I am very dedicated and determined, M, honestly. I just need one break.’

‘I know that. Sometimes it’s just a question of being in the right place at the right time. And of course, there’s another vital element involved—’

‘What’s that?’ he asked, cutting in.

‘Luck. You’ve got to have Lady Luck on your side.’

He grimaced. ‘So far she hasn’t been anywhere in sight.’

‘Listen, go to Hollywood, Dax! Do it! Don’t listen to me and other nay-sayers. Take a chance, go out there and make it. I’m certainly behind you. Forget what I said about it being crowded with good-looking young talent … go and compete, and I wish you lots of luck!’ She laughed. ‘Just don’t forget me, will you? You’re the only friend I have in the whole of America.’

‘How could I ever forget you? You’re an original, M.’




THREE (#ulink_52a35864-2f05-50e2-a90e-8c8e9addd9a2)


M was dozing, almost asleep, when she heard the noise. It brought her up with a start, and she tensed, straining to hear. There it was again … fainter now, but nevertheless quite a distinct sound, like metal falling on a hard surface.

There was somebody in the house. Alarmed, she remained very still, her mind racing. It couldn’t be Geo. She was in New Jersey, and Annette Lazenby, who rented the small attic apartment above her, was in Afghanistan on one of her journalistic assignments.

But there was somebody down there in the entrance hall, somebody who had obviously broken into the brownstone; how they had done this she wasn’t sure. M knew she had locked the door of the studio, which led to the garden, and later, when Dax had gone home, she had definitely double-locked the front door. But the alarm system was on the blink again, and she hadn’t been able to turn it on.

Was there a window open somewhere?

She swallowed, sudden fear rushing through her, and for a split second she was totally paralysed, unable to move, wondering what to do. Then, taking a deep breath, endeavouring to steady herself, M threw back the bedclothes and slid out of bed. Quickly taking off her nightgown, she dressed in the clothes she had shed a short while before, suddenly noticing that her hands shook as she zipped up her cotton trousers.

After stepping into her loafers, she found her old Louis Vuitton shoulder bag in the cupboard, took it out, dropped in her mobile phone, wallet and door key, then slung it over her head with the strap across her chest. That was always the safest way to wear it, and especially right now. She might well get into a tussle with whomever it was downstairs.

Moving closer to the bedroom door, she stood listening for a split second; the silence was deafening. Her umbrella was hanging on the hook behind the door, and she decided to take it with her. It was the only weapon available.

Trying to be scrupulously quiet, she opened the door an inch or two and peered out. Everything was in darkness and very still; nothing moved. Summoning all of her courage, she went out into the corridor, and crept the few short steps to the head of the staircase; slowly, carefully, she began to walk down the stairs, holding on to the banister.

M was almost at the bottom of the stairs when a strong hand grabbed hold of her arm, pulled her forward. Startled and frightened, she opened her mouth and began to scream, struggling to free herself. At the same time she lifted the umbrella and began hitting the intruder over and over again.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Geo shouted, instantly letting go of her. ‘It’s me. Geo! Stop hitting me, M.’ As she spoke, she ran across the hall and switched on the light.

Still trembling and visibly upset, M sat down heavily on one of the stairs, gaping at the other woman. ‘My God, what on earth were you thinking about, Geo? Creeping into your own home in the dead of night, frightening me to death. I thought you were an intruder.’

‘I felt a bit distraught … I rushed back home in quite an emotional state.’ A deep sigh escaped her, and she shook her head.

M was baffled. ‘Distraught and emotional? Why? Is something wrong?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

M’s dark brows drew together in a frown. ‘I don’t understand …’ Her voice trailed off and she gave Geo a curious look, genuinely puzzled.

Without saying another word, Geo stepped around M sitting on one of the stairs and flew up to the first floor, rushed into M’s bedroom, glanced around and then came back downstairs, moving more slowly.

Perceptive and bright, M knew at once what this was all about, and she said softly, ‘You thought Dax was here, didn’t you? With me. That’s what this is all about.’

Geo nodded, suddenly looking sheepish. ‘My next-door neighbour, Alice Foley, called me in New Jersey … she’s kept an eye on the house for me for years and often calls me at my sister’s. She saw Dax huddled on the steps earlier this afternoon, and then later noticed the two of you in the garden. He had his arm around you, she said, and was kissing you. I thought you were the other person he was seeing. Because he is involved with someone else. That I know.’

M was silent; she just sat staring at Geo, who was standing in the middle of the hall again. After a moment, M said, ‘He’s certainly not involved with me, and I don’t know whether he’s seeing anyone or not. All I know is that he and I are simply friends – pals. When I got home this afternoon he was on the steps, soaked to the skin and looking really ill. I brought him in, and told him to dry himself off. I did the same, and then I made us hot tea.’

‘But she saw the two of you making out in my garden,’ Geo protested.

‘No, she did not!’ M shot back swiftly, glaring at Geo, suddenly angry. ‘What your neighbour saw was Dax giving me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. There is nothing between us except friendship and, frankly, I rather resent you suggesting otherwise. Anyway, what kind of woman do you think I am? The kind that goes sneaking around, stealing other women’s boyfriends? That’s not my style. I think you should apologize.’

Geo wore a shamefaced expression, and she slowly walked across the hall, pushing back her long blonde hair, shaking her head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry, M, really sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you, shouldn’t have paid attention to Alice. She is a bit of an old busybody, I suppose. But I’ve been perturbed about Dax and our relationship. I think he’s lost interest in me, and I really do care about him.’

‘Apology accepted, Geo. Are you in love with him? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes, I am. And I thought he felt the same. Now I’m not so sure. Has he said anything to you? About me, or us?’

M shook her head, and quickly changing the subject she asked, ‘Did you knock something over when you came into the house? I heard a crash, like metal hitting a hard surface.’

Geo nodded and gestured towards the wrought-iron coat stand. ‘I walked slap-bang into that, and I reckon it woke you up, right?’

‘Yes, it did, and then I heard a fainter sound of something metallic hitting the floor. What was that?’

‘My flashlight.’ Geo began to laugh unexpectedly. ‘I’m an idiot, creeping into my own house like this, walking into the hat stand, dropping a flashlight, and wondering, somewhat worriedly I might add, if I was going to catch you and Dax in a hot clinch in your bed. And wondering how I would handle that.’

M joined in her laughter, and stood up. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d like a cup of tea, or hot milk, or something like that. What do you fancy?’

‘To be honest, a vodka. How about you?’

‘That sounds great … it’ll help to calm me down.’

Geo glanced at her swiftly, frowning. ‘I really frightened you, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. I knew someone was here in the hall. I was prepared to knock him down and get out into the street.’ She patted the old Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. ‘I stuffed this with a few essentials, like my phone and wallet, as well as the door key, just in case I had to run.’

‘That was smart of you.’ Turning, Geo walked towards the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, ‘Come on, M, let’s have that drink. I think you might need it more than me. You’re as white as a sheet.’

Geo moved around the kitchen swiftly, taking a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, then filling a glass bowl with ice. As she arranged these items on a tray and went back to get a lime out of the refrigerator, her thoughts settled on M for a few moments. She liked her tenant, or ‘paying guest’ as M preferred to call herself, and she was filled with chagrin for having even considered the idea that M might be having a relationship with Dax.

How truly stupid she had been to think such a thing; even more stupid to have crept into her own house at such a late hour, expecting to find them together. She must use much better judgement in the future; certainly she must question Alice Foley more carefully whenever she called her in New Jersey. Her next-door neighbour meant well, but she had jumped to silly conclusions earlier this evening.

Taking two glasses out of the glass-fronted cabinet, Geo stole a surreptitious look at M, who was sitting at the kitchen table, lost in her own meandering thoughts and looking forlorn.

There was no question in Geo’s mind that M had been frightened to death when she had crept downstairs clutching the umbrella. The girl’s face still remained pale – was almost translucent – and apprehension lingered in those dark eyes. Poor kid, Geo thought, she has enough problems without me adding to them, scaring her when she was asleep.

Geo was a smart and intelligent young woman, and at twenty-eight she had lived life to the hilt; she’d seen enough to have certain insights into people. And she had recognized right from the start that M, full name Marie Marsden, had class, came from a good family, and had obviously had a superior upbringing. She had impeccable manners, a cultured, rather beautiful speaking voice, and refinement. Even though her few possessions were well worn, they were of the best quality. On several occasions Geo had seen her carrying different-coloured antique Kelly bags, and the old Louis Vuitton she was using tonight. They were more than likely hand-me-downs from her mother or her older sister, whom she had referred to once. Otherwise Geo knew very little about this reserved, polite young Englishwoman who had breeding and self-confidence – oodles of the latter, in fact. Not to mention looks to die for.

Georgiana Carlson, artist by profession, landlady by necessity, had never met anyone quite like her. There was something mysterious about M and Geo couldn’t help wondering, yet again, what the real story was.

Turning around, picking up the tray, Geo announced, ‘Let’s have our nightcap in the den. It’s much cosier than sitting at the kitchen table, isn’t it?’

M nodded and jumped up. ‘I’ll go ahead and put on the lights.’ Hurrying across the hall and into the den, she switched on the desk lamp, and made space on the coffee table for the tray, then dropped her shoulder bag on a chair.

The two young women sat down opposite each other; lifting the vodka bottle, Geo filled two glasses, put in ice, and added a chunk of lime to the glasses.

‘Thanks,’ M said, and gave her a faint smile as she took the drink from Geo.

Sitting back in the chair, Geo said, ‘Cheers.’

M repeated the toast and took a sip of the vodka, made a face. ‘That’s strong. Wow!’ Placing the glass on the coffee table, she stared at Geo for a long moment, and finally said, apologetically, ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you … obviously I didn’t know it was you I was bashing so hard with the umbrella.’

Geo grinned. ‘I deserved it, though. I behaved like an imbecile tonight.’ She shook her head, looking bemused. ‘Men! Honestly, they sure can drive us crazy, can’t they?’

M was silent. Her fear and anger had now subsided, but only slightly. There was still a hint of resentment lingering. That Geo believed her to be capable of duplicity was annoying. Slowly, she said in a quiet voice, ‘Well, I suppose they can get a rise out of us … although I haven’t had that experience, because I haven’t had many boyfriends. And those I have had I haven’t had to steal from another woman.’

Geo caught the hint of sarcasm, and realized at once that M continued to be somewhat miffed, and she answered swiftly, ‘Please, M, let’s get over this … I told you I was sorry, and I am. Tonight has taught me a lesson. I mustn’t jump to conclusions, and I’ll have to question Alice more diligently, should she ever call to tell me there are strange goings-on at my house.’ Geo took a sip of vodka, and asked, ‘How is Dax? I haven’t seen him for ten days.’

‘He’s got a terrible cold, and sitting on the steps here didn’t do him any good. Otherwise, he’s just the same, trying to get an acting job, or a fashion shoot. Neither of us have been lucky about finding work.’ M peered at Geo, and murmured, ‘He was waiting for you, actually. He certainly hadn’t come over here to see me.’

Geo nodded. ‘He’s left several messages on my cell phone, but I haven’t called him back yet. Unfortunately, I’ve had to make these sudden trips to New Jersey to help my sister. She lives with our Aunt Gerry, who isn’t well at the moment.’

‘I’m sorry, is it something serious?’

‘She has a heart condition, and we have to keep an eye on her. She’s in her eighties, and has nobody else; no other family but us.’

M gave Geo a sympathetic look. ‘I hope she’s going to be all right.’

‘So do I. My sister Joanne is very loving and caring, and she’s lived with our aunt for a few years now. She moved in after she was widowed. She used to be a booking agent for fashion photography, but after she lost her husband it was too much. And having something to do now, someone to care for, has really helped her to cope with her grief.’

‘I know what you mean. My sister is a widow,’ M volunteered, and could have bitten her tongue off. Why had she suddenly confided something to Geo? She didn’t want anyone to know one thing about her. Anonymity, that was her goal. Her past was blotted out. Only the future mattered.

Geo looked at M alertly, and said, ‘You never mentioned that. What did he die of?’

‘A heart attack,’ M answered laconically.

‘So did Joanne’s husband. Dick was fifty-nine when he passed. How old was your brother-in-law?’

‘Young, in his thirties,’ M muttered. Changing the subject, she went on quickly, ‘Dax isn’t seeing another woman, I’m sure of it. He’s very focused on his career. He’s got the acting bug, you must know that.’

‘Yes, I do, of course. And I have a feeling he’s hankering to leave New York, go out to the West Coast. What do you think?’

‘It’s possible – he has mentioned it, I must admit. But why don’t you tackle him about it? That’s what I would do, anyway. You and he should talk it out, have it out, clear the air between you.’

‘I think I’ll do that tomorrow. I’ll call him, go over and see him, look after him if he’s still sick. He’s awfully neglectful of his health, that I do know. Now, what about you, M? Is there anything I can do to help? I do know a few fashion photographers, and I could call them up, introduce you, and maybe they’ll see you.’

M sat up straighter in the chair and nodded. ‘That would be wonderful if you’d do that, Geo! How sweet of you to offer. Personal recommendations are the best.’

‘Consider it done,’ Geo responded. ‘I’ll get in touch with two of them on Monday. I know Hank George and Frank Farantino are in town, and let’s see how they respond. It’s certainly worth giving it a try. In my opinion, you’d be very photographable.’




FOUR (#ulink_39616128-d643-5d12-84b4-1f4472fd1893)


She could not fall asleep; she lay there in the dark, as still as a mouse, listening to the house, listening to its many voices.

She had grown up in old houses, and she knew them intimately. To her, they were living things … they breathed and sighed, and groaned or moaned, especially in winter. And they frequently rattled their ancient bones, and sometimes shifted on their poor old feet. Her grandfather had once told her that the foundation of a house was like a pair of feet, and she had never forgotten this. She smiled to herself now, remembering him. Popsi, she had called him, remembering how he had confided that it was merely the wood used in the structure of the house that was expanding and contracting, and that she mustn’t be afraid of the noises. ‘A house is a safe harbour,’ he had said that day. ‘The one true haven.’

M was well aware it was not the creaking house that was keeping her awake, but her many anxieties. Earlier that evening, she had been scared out of her wits when she had heard those noises downstairs, and had instantly understood there was an intruder on the prowl. How thoughtless Geo had been – and yes, stupid – to come into the house with such stealth. And all because of a man. Dax.

M turned over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly thinking of the house where she had grown up and had lived, until very recently, with her parents. She and her siblings had been assiduously schooled to always put the alarm system on, and especially at night, and with such constant and nagging persistence it was forever engraved on her mind.

She had broached the subject of the alarm system here in the old brownstone before coming up to bed tonight. Only when she had finally volunteered to split the cost of having it checked out and properly fixed, if this was necessary, had Geo reluctantly agreed.

This decision had brought a degree of relief to M, and she was determined to make sure it was carried out. Certainly she had no intention of leaving this job to Geo, who, once she was lost in her painting, was lost to the world, with all practical matters obliterated from her mind.

M was a pragmatist by nature, and she believed she had inherited her wonderful practical mind-set from her mother, who had always had her feet firmly planted on terra firma. Her mum was diligent, disciplined, a stickler for work, and shrewd to boot. She loved her mother and father; they were extra special. She knew no one else who had fabulous parents like hers, and she missed them tremendously. But even if she had been in London at the moment, it would have been the same state of affairs. They had gone to Australia for six months, mostly to see her grandmother, her mother’s mother, and M knew she would have been alone in London, except for her favourite sister, which wasn’t a bad thing, after all; but all of her other siblings were abroad, living the life, or so she supposed. And working, of course. That was a certainty.

The Protestant work ethic had been drilled into them, force-fed into them by a couple of crazy zealots, their parents, who believed they were all going to be struck dead if they didn’t work their bums off.

She and her siblings knew that if they didn’t work they wouldn’t get breakfast, lunch, supper, or whatever. ‘You’re positively Dickensian in your attitudes!’ M would yell at her parents, and they would simply laugh and give her the famous V for Victory sign, a la Winston Churchill. And then, relenting, they would cuddle her, spoil her, and congratulate her, telling her she truly was a chip off the old block and was really earning her stripes. And then they would take her somewhere special or buy her a unique gift.

And now here she was, in Manhattan, doing sweet nothing, and getting bored. Dax would go to the Coast, M was convinced of that, and she must endeavour to get a job of some kind. She was not used to lolling around – that was the way she thought of it. Tomorrow she would make an effort to get a part-time job as a waitress. Or a shop assistant. No, waitress. Easier in so many ways. They were looking for somebody at the All-American Cheese Cake Café, not far from West Twenty-Second Street, and it would be something to do and it would give her extra money. Yes, she would go there tomorrow. Talk to the manager. He liked her. Always gave her a big smile.

M turned restlessly in her bed, suddenly focusing on her plans to become a model. Well, she would, she knew she would. After all, she had come here to reinvent herself, to become someone else.

She was seeking obscurity and anonymity, and now she laughed out loud. How truly ridiculous she was. Seeking to go unnoticed, yet she would put herself on a runway. Or in front of a camera to be featured in a magazine fashion spread. A contradiction? Surely.

On the other hand, perhaps not. She was a different person now, no longer the young woman she had been when she first arrived in New York. Anyway, reinvention was exactly that – taking on a new persona. And how simple it was to accomplish. A new name, first off, that was essential, but one close enough to the old to be easy to respond to it instantly, without hesitation. A new set of personal facts about one’s life, also as close to reality as possible, so as not to get into a muddle.

And then reinvent … adding new facts to the best parts of the previous earlier life. This is what she had done; she had even been able to obliterate the bad things, and most especially the one true Bad Thing. She never thought about that; it was currently buried deep, very deep indeed. She would never speak about it, she had never done that, never told anyone anything. It was her big secret. Private, extremely personal, and therefore verboten. Nobody would ever know. Gone. It was gone. It had never happened … push it away. A deep sigh escaped, and then M turned on her side, closing her eyes.

Sudden and unexpected things happening without rhyme or reason still tended to alarm her. And yet she had always been intrepid, even as a child. Nothing had ever fazed her, then or later, when she was growing up. Her brothers said she had total courage and fortitude, and neither of them was prone to pay her compliments needlessly. She had lost her courage for a while, but it had come back in Manhattan. To her surprise she felt extraordinarily safe in this great metropolis, was at ease in this glittering city. Furthermore, it was not very hard to reinvent oneself here.

No one bothered about where you’d been to school, what your parents did, whether or not you had a pedigree, an aristocratic background, or came from wealth. It was truly a classless society, that’s what she liked about it. In fact, this was a society of achievement. Brains, brilliance, talent and tenacity, drive, ambition and success. Those were the things that made the biggest impression in Manhattan, and made it the place to be, as far as she was concerned. She had been content here.

As she lay contemplating the future, and what she was going to do, M suddenly thought of her rules: Be brave, be true to yourself, and realized she had broken one of her most important rules, rule three in her book: KEEP BUSY. Quite unexpectedly, she understood how much time she had wasted with Dax … going to coffee shops, taking in movies, listening to him pontificate about his life, watching TV shows with him, keeping him company. Because he was lonely. And so was she, if she was truthful.

Being a member of a big family, with a number of siblings, meant she had been brought up in a crowd, always surrounded. And she had been teased, applauded, sometimes taunted and shouted at, but always very much loved … and rarely alone.

I’m going to go out and get a job, she promised herself now. It would keep her busy, fill up her spare time, and the money would be useful. When she had arrived in New York she had brought enough money to last her for a year, providing she was careful. She had opened a bank account and used the money very sparingly, for rent, food and transportation, although mostly she walked everywhere. Locked up in the suitcase under her bed was an envelope of traveller’s cheques that her sister had forced on her before leaving London. She hadn’t wanted to accept them, but knew only too well not to argue with her darling Birdie, who termed the envelope of cheques ‘your safety net’ – and that’s how she thought of them. They were meant to be used only in extreme emergency.

Starting tomorrow, she would find a job, a part-time job, so she could continue to haunt the modelling agencies, and hopefully Geo would keep her promise and contact the two photographers she said she knew. They were old friends Geo had known through her sister.

Fingers crossed, M thought, and very shortly she fell asleep. It was an exhausted sleep, and dreamless.




FIVE (#ulink_fa55e529-84c8-5cf7-be6f-30d7ec373ddf)


M was filled with excitement and anticipation, and there was a spring in her step as she walked down West Twenty-Second Street. She was on her way to see Frank Farantino, the photographer, who had told Geo to send her along to his studio today.

In one sense she had lost a friend with the departure of Dax to Los Angeles; on the other hand, she had gained a friend in Georgiana Carlson.

After that debacle in the middle of the night, a few weeks ago now, Geo had tried her hardest to make amends. Keeping her promise, Geo had spoken to Hank George and Frank Farantino about her, and several days ago both photographers had at last been back in touch with Geo, and appointments had finally been made.

The first was with Farantino, at his studio in the Meatpacking District, which was an easy walk for M from Geo’s brownstone, and especially on this beautiful September day. The sky was a soft pale blue, puffed up with wispy white clouds, and it was sunny and balmy, but not too hot because of the light breeze blowing off the Hudson River to the west.

Ever since she had come to live in Manhattan, M had done a lot of walking, wanting to get to know the city, to become well acquainted with some of her favourite areas. In particular, she loved West Chelsea where she lived, was captivated by its art galleries and cafés, and those lovely tree-filled streets in the West Twenties.

But to M there was something extra special about the Meatpacking District. Now considered the most fashionable part of New York, it had recently been named a Historic District. Over a hundred years ago it had been full of slaughterhouses and meatpacking warehouses, some two hundred and fifty of them. Almost all of those buildings had gone, and in their place were some of the most elegant stores belonging to top fashion designers, as well as nightclubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and spas. It had become a chic place for the young, the hip and the upwardly mobile, and it was littered with celebrities day and night.

M smiled to herself at that thought. Some of her family were quite well known, and certainly she didn’t need to meet strangers who were famous. Dax loved to party with them, and although she liked to hang out with him in the MePa, as it was called, she had managed to slip away when he set his sights on movie stars and the like, becoming oblivious to her.

Dax had gone, taken a plane to the West Coast to seek his fame and fortune, and she wished him well. Deep down she felt a gloomy, gnawing feeling inside; she knew enough about Hollywood to understand it was a world of pain and heartbreak, disappointment and disillusionment.

He had come to say goodbye, her lovely friend Dax, with his eye-catching blond handsomeness, quirky personality and flashing smile. And his rather childlike innocence. He had also had dinner with Geo before flying away, and later Geo had confided that their romantic relationship was indeed over, but they remained friends, and Geo seemed relieved about this.

M was well aware that Dax had gone alone to the West Coast; his entire being was now fully concentrated on his career. He, too, had confided in her … about his love life. Apparently he had not only said farewell to Geo, but also to his new love, Jason. He wanted a fresh start, he had told her; wanted to concentrate wholeheartedly on his career.

Giving her a big hug he had whispered against her hair, ‘I took your advice to heart, M. The only thing I am going to think about is becoming a movie star. Nothing else matters.’

She thought about this now as she continued to walk towards the Meatpacking District, heading in the direction of Frank Farantino’s studio for her appointment at noon. ‘Movie star.’ If that was what Dax wanted to be, and wanted it enough, then he might well get it. Certainly he had the looks, and a unique kind of charisma, a presence. But could he act? Well, that didn’t really matter, did it? Some movie stars were great actors; others couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag. Yet this didn’t seem to prevent them getting work. He had willpower, and that would help him. But was he ruthless? She pondered that. And was he tough enough to withstand the battering, the rejections, and perhaps, most important of all, the competition? She wasn’t sure; she could only hope that he was, for his sake.

Someone she knew very well had once done a stint in Hollywood, and had explained that one needed the stamina of a bull, the skin of a rhinoceros, the brain of Machiavelli and the looks of a Greek god to make it in Dreamland, as he had called it. Perhaps her brother was right … and so she would say a prayer for Dax. He would need lots of prayers. And luck.

Frank Farantino’s photographic studio was on the second floor of what had once been a meatpacking warehouse. The huge black wooden door, decorated with brass nailheads, had FARANTINO painted on it in bright red, and there was a bright red arrow painted above the doorbell. RING IT had been written out in brass nailheads, and she did as she was instructed.

A moment later the door was pulled open by a petite, very pretty woman with startlingly blue eyes and bright red hair cut in a short spiky style. She was dressed entirely in red: T-shirt, tights and cowboy boots.

‘Hi!’ she exclaimed, craning her neck, staring up at M. ‘You’re the appointment, right? The friend of Geo’s?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Opening the door wider, the girl said, ‘Come on in then, don’t stand there. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten it.’

M laughed. ‘It’s very simple … I’m called M, as in a capital M.’

‘I see. What’s it stand for? The M, I mean.’

‘Marie.’

‘So why don’t you call yourself Marie?’

‘I prefer to be called M.’

‘I guess a lot of girls are calling themselves by an initial these days. So it must be the “in” thing. My brother saw it on YouTube, or some such thing. Maybe it was on Facebook. Or MySpace.’

‘Actually, it’s not something that’s particularly new. The Duchess of Devonshire, who lived long ago, was called G. That was G for Georgiana, by the way.’

‘Who?’ The girl stared at her, a look of puzzlement flashing across her delicately boned face.

‘Never mind, it’s not important. And may I know your name?’

‘Caresse.’

‘It’s pretty, very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.’

‘I hope not, because I invented it. I didn’t like my own name, so I came up with my … invention.’

‘What was your real name before you changed it?’

‘Helen. Ugh. So dull.’ She made a face.

‘Helen,’ M repeated softly. ‘The face that launched a thousand ships. A very famous name, in fact.’

‘What do you mean?’ The red-headed pixie gave her a hard stare.

‘Helen of Troy … she was so beautiful her husband and her lover fought a terrible and ultimately tragic battle over her … it was known as the battle of a thousand ships.’

‘When was that then?’

‘Twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus.’

Caresse gaped at her, slowly shaking her head. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I learned it at school.’ Clearing her throat, M went on quickly, ‘Anyway, here I am to see Mr Farantino.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I’m on time. It’s exactly noon.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ Caresse announced, and hurried away.

M watched her go, frowning to herself. Caresse had seemed very young at first glance, but now she thought this pretty, pixielike creature was nearer to thirty than twenty. But she seemed so nice, and M had taken an instant liking to her.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barbara-taylor-bradford-2/breaking-the-rules/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.