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  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 Ambrosini 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 Gennaro, 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.

  The entire unit was present, along with the cast, some of the studio executives, and quite a few civilians. The latter were the people only associated with the movie through their spouses, or nearest and dearest, and whom the produce
rs had included on the invitation list as a courtesy.

  Holding drinks in their hands, all were chatting animatedly, mingling together on the biggest sound stage at Shepperton, where the Great Hall of Middleham Castle had been re-created.

  Moving forward to join the throng, Rosie saw that the set looked a little different than it had a few hours earlier, when the movie had finally wrapped. The large pieces of medieval-style furniture had been removed, a small combo played popular music in one corner, and the caterers had placed long trestle tables around the sound stage. Covered with starched white cloths, these were laden with food: smoked salmon and poached salmon from Scotland, roast chickens and turkeys, glazed hams, legs of lamb, sides of roast beef, and all manner of salads and vegetables, assorted cheeses, and fancy desserts ranging from French pastries and chocolate mousse with whipped cream to fruit salad and English trifle.

  Two similar tables had been set up as bars and were being serviced by a string of bartenders, while dozens of waiters and waitresses were circulating with trays of drinks and appetizers.

  A waiter glided past her, and Rosie whisked a glass of champagne off the tray, thanked him, and sallied forth into the crowd in search of Aida, and her assistants, Fanny and Val.

  Within seconds she found the producer in conversation with some of the studio brass, and when Aida saw her approaching she excused herself and hurried forward.

  Rosie exclaimed, ‘This is some wrap party. Congratulations!’

  ‘Oh, but I didn’t do anything,’ the producer demurred quickly, ‘except pick up a phone and call the caterers.’

  Rosie grinned at her. ‘Of course you did something. You planned all this, so don’t be so modest. And incidentally, what do you have up your sleeve for later?’

  Aida gave her a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Last week, over lunch, you told me you’d think of something special, something appropriate, to celebrate Bonfire Night, as well as the wrap.’

  ‘How about burning an effigy of Margaret Ellsworth?’ Fanny muttered in a low voice, as she sidled up to them with Val in tow.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ Rosie chastised, but her voice was mild and there was an amused glint in her eyes. Glancing at the producer, she went on, ‘What happened about the medieval dress? Did you sell it to Maggie?’

  Aida shook her head. ‘No, I gave it to her. And if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never know why on earth she wanted it.’

  ‘Perhaps to play Lady Macbeth,’ Fanny suggested. It’s the ideal role for her.’

  ‘Or Vampira,’ Val added, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, faking horror. ‘She’d be perfect for that part, too.’

  ‘Thanks very much, the three of you!’ Rosie said. ‘That certainly says a lot for my costumes.’

  ‘Your costumes are never anything but great, the greatest,’ Gavin said behind her, put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. Then he added softly, with a chuckle, ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’

  ‘I knew I’d find you somewhere around here, Rosie, swilling champagne and living it up,’ an unmistakable English voice said.

  Instantly pivoting, her eyes opening wider, Rosie came face to face with Nell, who was beautifully made-up and coiffed and looked band-box smart in a black suit and pearls.

  ‘You made it, Nellie! How wonderful!’ Rosie exclaimed in delight.

  The two women, such close friends for years, hugged each other fiercely, and when they finally drew apart, Nell said, ‘How could I miss this wrap party? It’s my picture, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Aida asserted, and stepping forward she shook Nell’s hand. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Thanks, Aida, and I must say it’s nice to see all of you again,’ Nell responded, and she smiled warmly at Fanny and Val, including them in this statement.

  Rosie’s assistants greeted her affectionately, returned her smile, and then quickly slid away.

  Aida also made a move to take her leave, explaining, ‘I think I’d better go and check on everything. And persuade that combo to play something a bit livelier. Oh, and regarding Bonfire Night, Rosie, I did come up with something. But it’s a surprise. See you later.’ With this comment she hurried off.

  Gavin took two glasses of champagne from a passing waitress, handed one to Nell, and immediately the three of them moved into a corner of the sound stage where it was a bit quieter.

  Rosie took hold of Nell’s arm affectionately. ‘It’s great to see you. When did you arrive in London?’

  ‘A short while ago. From Paris.’

  ‘Oh. What were you doing there?’

  ‘I had a business meeting this morning. I came in last night on the French Concorde from New York… with Johnny Fortune. He’s in the midst of planning a concert for next spring—the French adore him, you know. Anyway, we had to get together with the impresario involved, but once everything was clarified and the meeting more or less finished, I rushed out to the airport and grabbed the first plane to London.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘Just a few days. Johnny’s coming in on Thursday morning. He has a concert at the Albert Hall on Saturday night, so I’ve got my hands full. After that I’ll be heading back to New York, once I’ve seen Aunt Phyllis. I’ll probably go on Monday or Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Rosie murmured. ‘I’d have been disappointed if you were away when I’m there. We don’t see enough of each other these days, and I was looking forward to spending some time with you.’

  ‘I know; me too, darling, and there’s no danger of our not seeing each other, Rosie mine. Oh, and before I forget, here’s the spare key to my apartment.’ As she spoke, Nell fished around in her handbag, brought out a key and handed it to Rosie. ‘You know the house rules—make yourself at home and don’t lift a finger. Leave everything to Maria, she’ll look after you beautifully.’

  ‘Thanks, Nell,’ Rosie said, and put the key in her purse.

  The two of them began to make plans for Rosie’s trip to New York, and Gavin took a step backward, wanting to give them space and privacy to talk between themselves for a few minutes.

  Propping himself up against a wall, he took a sip of his wine, hoping he would be feeling better soon.

  Gavin had not wanted to don the surgical collar for the party, because to do so would prevent him from wearing a tie. But at the last minute he had had to put it on when his neck had suddenly begun to bother him. Because of the bulky collar, he had dressed more casually than he normally did for this kind of occasion, selecting a navy silk shirt, worn open at the neck, grey slacks and a navy cashmere jacket. Now he was glad he had chosen these clothes; they were comfortable, and he felt less constricted in them, despite the surgical collar around his neck.

  As he continued to sip his drink, he surreptitiously studied Rosalind Madigan, his best friend and only confidante.

  Earlier in the day he had thought she looked excessively pale and overtired, which was one of the reasons he had made such a fuss about the new projects she was planning to take on, now that Kingmaker was finished. But tonight, surprisingly, she seemed refreshed, and there was a wonderful glow about her. The dark rings under her eyes had disappeared and colour flushed her cheeks to a pretty pink. It pleased him that she unexpectedly looked so much better, and then almost immediately he knew what she had done.

  She made a trip to Make-up, he thought, that’s the real reason she’s acquired such a peachy bloom in the past few hours. Katie Grange, the head make-up artist on the movie, was noted for her very special talent for giving even the most tired-looking actor a healthy and youthful appearance. Undoubtedly Katie had skilfully applied a few cosmetics, and in so doing had instantly camouflaged those tell-tale signs of overwork, long hours, and perpetual worry which had given Rosie’s face such a washed-out tinge of late.

  And she had also visited Hairdressing, he thought, leaning forward slightly, peering more closely at Rosie. She had beautiful hair: it was reddish-brown and fe
ll to her shoulders in glossy, luxuriant waves, and he could see that it had been professionally set and combed by Gil Watts.

  No matter, Rosie had benefited from the bit of help from the professionals, and this pleased him no end. She looked better than she had in months, although he had to admit he didn’t particularly like the wool dress she was wearing, mostly because of the colour. It was dark grey, and although it was superbly cut and tailored it was far too dull for her. But then this was something of an old story these days. Rosie was so busy designing costumes for other people that half the time she didn’t pay too much attention to what she wore herself. He liked her best in the bright colours she used to favour when they were kids—scarlet, yellow, blue, and almost any shade of green, which enhanced the colour of her large, expressive green eyes.

  Gavin stifled a sigh as he considered Rosie’s problems, the burdens she had shouldered in the past few years. Too many for one person. He was forever telling her this, but she would not listen to him, and the stringent response she usually made invariably ended that particular topic of conversation.

  Obscurely, in a remote corner of his mind, there lurked the nagging thought that he ought to shoulder her burdens, indeed must do so, out of love and friendship. But she would not let him; she refused his help, as well as his money. He had made a lot of that from his movies in the last few years, and what was the point of having money if you couldn’t use it to make life easier for someone you cared about. He wished Rosie would take some of it, since it would free her in so many different ways.

  Because of her constant refusal to do this, he harboured a profound and permanent sense of frustration, and deep in his gut there existed a gnawing anger with those irritating people she persisted in calling her family. Bums, the lot of them, he thought, the anger flying to the surface momentarily.

  Rosie was too good for them, that was for sure.

  Rosalind Madigan was the finest, most decent person he knew, had ever known. She did not have one bad bone in her body, was kind, considerate, and generous to a fault. She never said an unkind word about anyone, and was always trying to help those less fortunate than she was herself.