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get depressed about that joker. I’ll find a way to pull the deal together. Now, why don’t we get out of here? I’d like some fresh air and a brisk walk. Shall we mosey on up to the Connaught Hotel for lunch? It’s the whole enchilada on Sunday.’

      ‘That’s a great idea,’ Nick said, trying to sound cheerful.

      ‘Give me five minutes to get dressed. And help yourself to another drink while you’re waiting.’

      ‘Thanks, I will.’ Nick stood up and walked over to the bar cart, deep in thought. He turned. ‘I say, Vic, can I ask you something?’

      ‘Sure.’ Victor paused at the bedroom door, his hand resting on the knob, conscious of the gravity in Nick’s tone.

      Nick’s face was unusually solemn. ‘Assuming you definitely decide not to go ahead with Mike Lazarus as your main backer, what will you do if you can’t get financing from one of the majors, such as Metro, Twentieth or Warners?’

      A thoughtful look drifted across Victor’s face, and he cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have to abort the production. Cancel the picture. I’ll have no alternative,’ he said with some deliberation, having already confronted this possibility and made his decision. ‘The pre-production money will go down the drain unfortunately, but there’s not much I can do about that. And thank God it won’t cripple Bellissima Productions. It can be written off as a tax loss.’ He sighed lightly. ‘C’est la guerre, old buddy.’ He gave Nick a lopsided grin and went through into the bedroom.

      Cancel the picture, Nick thought, staring after him, staggered, disbelieving. After all the hard work they had put into it. Jesus Christ! Not only the pre-production money would go down the drain, but a year of their lives as well. Yet Nick knew Victor meant every word. Things were always carefully evaluated and well thought out before he made a judgment. His decisions were nothing if not judicious and pragmatic.

      Nick felt his own sharp disappointment as he considered the screenplay he had laboured on so diligently and with such love these past endless months. He knew it to be one of his best pieces of writing, and he suddenly felt sick at heart at the idea of its never seeing the light of day.

      You’re being selfish. You’re only thinking about yourself, he muttered, carrying his drink over to the window. He parted the curtains and looked out, but saw nothing except a dim blur of grimy buildings washed in wintry sunlight. But a lot of other people will be disappointed too, thought Nick sadly, not the least Victor, who had dreamed of making Wuthering Heights for the longest time, was aching to play Heathcliff for the sheer challenge the role offered to him. Nick knew Victor wanted to stretch his talent, was weary of being thought of simply as an immense presence on the screen.

      He and Victor would recover from their disappointment relatively quickly, as would the production team, and move on to other projects. Victor had several offers for future films lined up, and he himself had a new novel fermenting in his head, and was anxious to start working on it as soon as possible. Yes, he and Victor were lucky in that respect. They would cut their losses, lick their wounds and walk away reasonably unscarred. But what of Katharine Tempest? She was staking everything on the screen test and the role in the film. It was a rare chance for her to catapult herself into the big time with unusual speed. Without Victor and this film it could be years before she was offered another such incredible break. If ever. Undoubtedly Katharine had put all her chips on this roll of the dice. She could win big. Or lose hard. And if she lost she would be devastated. Nick knew all of this although he had never been the recipient of any confidences from her. He simply knew it through intuition.

      Nick let his thoughts dwell on Katharine. He understood why Victor saw great potential in her as a movie actress. Nick was not blind to Katharine’s attributes, which were manifold. However, conversely, his personal reaction to her was quite different from everyone else’s. Her extraordinary beauty had not beguiled him, nor had her enormous charm captivated him. In essence, she had failed to touch him as a man, and very simply he was not sure of her as a woman. Nick had detected an inherent coldness in her personality. It was a frigidity really, and, to him, this seemed all the more peculiar in view of her apparent sensuality. Except that instinctively he felt this was a façade she presented to the world, was bound up with her looks and had nothing to do with her true nature. The sensuality was on the surface. It did not run deep in her. On the few occasions he had been in her company, he had become increasingly aware of other traits which disturbed him. It struck him, unexpectedly, that there was a dichotomy in Katharine’s makeup. There was no denying her warmth and gaiety. Yet at other times she appeared strangely removed, to him, as if she had the ability to stand away from herself, as though she viewed everthing with cool indifference. No, immense detachment. He thought now: She is isolated and uninvolved with anyone on a human level.

      He shook his head in bewilderment. Oh, Christ, I’m being over imaginative, he decided. There’s nothing wrong with the girl really. She’s excessively ambitious perhaps, but then who isn’t in this business. With a small shock Nick admitted he did not particularly like her, and this revelation astonished him. There was no real basis for his active dislike, and yet dislike her he did.

      As he stood, sipping his drink and staring out of the window, striving to analyse his feelings, Nicholas Latimer did not know that it would take him years to fully comprehend his complex emotions in regard to Katharine Tempest.

       Chapter Eleven

      Katharine stood in the tiny kitchen of her flat in Lennox Gardens, waiting for the kettle to boil for her morning tea. She put a piece of bread in the toaster, and then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up into the cupboard, taking out a cup and saucer, and a plate. She opened the refrigerator door, removed the butter dish and a stone jar of Dundee marmalade, and placed them on a tray with the other china, her movements swift yet graceful.

      The kitchen was so small that there was only enough space for one person in it, but because it was so sparklingly fresh and neat and free of the unnecessary clutter Katharine detested, it seemed much less claustrophobic than it actually was. When Katharine had taken the flat two years earlier, she had had the walls and the cabinets painted a pale duck-egg blue, and this delicate colour helped to open up the confined dimensions, as did the matching marbleized linoleum on the floor. Blue cotton curtains, gauzy and weightless, framed the small window, and on the windowsill itself there was a selection of red geraniums in clay pots, and these introduced a spark of vivid colour and springlike greenery.

      Katharine stepped to the window and glanced out. The flat was on the top floor and had once been the attics of the house, before it had been converted into flats. Consequently, she had a charming bird’s eye view from her little eyrie, and one which faced onto the enclosed gardens situated in the centre of the semi-circular terrace of imposing Victorian mansions. In the summer months she looked down onto great leafy domes and cupolas shimmering with iridescent green light as the sunshine filtered through the lacy texture of the interwoven branches weighted with verdant leaves. On this February morning, the gardens were bereft, the trees stripped of beauty and life. But their black and bony branches did reach up into the prettiest sky she had seen in a long time. The dark and tumescent clouds which had shrouded London in perpetual greyness for weeks had miraculously been blown away. For once it was not raining.

      It’s almost like an April morning, Katharine thought with a happy smile, and she decided there and then that she would walk to the restaurant for her luncheon appointment at one o’clock. She debated what to wear and settled on the new outfit her dressmaker had delivered last week. She was mentally reviewing the accessories which would best go with it, when the kettle’s piercing whistle cut into her musings, and she turned off the gas, filled the teapot, put the toast on the plate and carried the breakfast tray into the living room.

      Despite the sunlight flooding in through the windows, this room had an air of overwhelming coldness. Essentially, this was induced by the colour scheme and the overall style of the decoration, which was austere. Everything in the room was of the purest white. Gleaming white-lacquered walls flowed down to meet a thick white carpet covering

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