LITMIR.BIZ

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course! Debra’s memory clicked. Dominic McGill, the playwright! That was where she had seen his name—on the script that Emmet Morley had given her to read. Dominic McGill had written ‘Avenida’, the play that when filmed had given Elizabeth Steel her most successful role!

      Swallowing hard, she said: ‘I really can’t imagine why you’re ringing me, Mr. McGill.’

      ‘Can’t you? Well, maybe not, at that. Anyway, that changes nothing. I still want to see you.’

      ‘And I’ve explained I want nothing more to do with that screen test,’ said Debra quickly. ‘Look, understand me, Mr. McGill, I’m not some stage-struck teenager. Whatever you have to say doesn’t interest me one bit!’

      ‘Is that so?’ He sounded rather less amicable now. ‘Now, you look, Miss Warren! I have no intention of discussing this matter over the phone. When will it be convenient for me to come round?’

      ‘To come round?’ echoed Debra in amazement. ‘Surely I can’t make it any plainer. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it!’

      ‘Miss Warren,’ his voice was cold now, and for some reason she shivered, ‘I mean to see you. Now tell me when, like a good girl!’

      ‘Don’t patronise me,’ she said angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake! There ought to be laws against this sort of thing. I’m going to hang up now, Mr. McGill. Please don’t ring again!’

      And she did so, slamming down the phone with a sense of satisfaction, a malicious kind of satisfaction which she didn’t know she possessed.

      Then she lit herself another cigarette, and switched on her television, turning the volume up high to drown the wailing tones of the guitars in the flat above. She was annoyed to find herself trembling, and she shook herself violently. Why had she this awful feeling of apprehension suddenly? Just because a producer had taken a fancy to her and had her tested, it didn’t mean that she was no longer in control of her own destiny. And Dominic McGill! She shrugged bewilderedly. Imagine receiving a call from Dominic McGill! It was all quite fantastic, and quite crazy.

      She crossed to the mirror and studied her face seriously for a minute. What was there there to attract such interest? She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Since arriving in San Francisco she had seen dozens of beautiful girls, with much more clothes sense than she had. Besides, surely the fact that she herself wasn’t interested would be enough to put them off.

      She grimaced at herself mockingly, and then picking up the book she was reading, she subsided on to the couch, completely ignoring the television.

      About an hour later her doorbell rang. Frowning, she put down her book and glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Immediately she felt nervous. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She crossed to the door, and without unfastening the bolt, she opened it to the width of the chain catch.

      A man stood outside. He was tall, very lean and tanned, as though he spent long hours in the open air, with hair of that particular shade of ash-blond as to appear silvery in some lights. He was not handsome; his features were hard and craggy, but he had very light blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, that seemed to penetrate Debra with their intensity, and she felt a shaky feeling assail her lower limbs.

      ‘Y … yes?’ she said, keeping half behind the door.

      ‘I’m Dominic McGill,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Can I come in?’

      Debra’s fingers tightened on the door handle. ‘No,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘We … we said all we had to say over the phone.’

      ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘We didn’t. Now, open the door.’

      His voice was still quiet, but his blue eyes had narrowed and Debra felt suddenly afraid. After all, who did she really know here, in San Francisco? A few teachers at the High School. Her landlady? Who would miss her if she disappeared?

      ‘Please,’ she said, running a tongue over her dry lips, ‘go away. I … I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey.’

      ‘Open the door,’ he repeated, ignoring her pleas.

      Debra closed her eyes momentarily. ‘And if I don’t?’

      ‘You will.’

      She glanced back at the telephone. ‘I could call the police.’

      ‘You could be dead before they arrive,’ he remarked, as though he was discussing the weather.

      ‘Oh!’ Debra pressed a hand to her mouth.

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, open the door,’ he said coldly. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

      Debra unlatched the door with shaking fingers, unable to resist any longer. She opened it wider, and he stepped inside, into the light. Then, as before with Emmet Morley, she saw his sudden shock of recognition, before he controlled his expression.

      She saw now he was a man in his late thirties, dressed casually in a turtle-necked navy blue sweater over grey pants, a grey car-coat over all. She thought he was very attractive, and stifled the idea. But there was a kind of animal magnetism about him that was hard to ignore. Whatever kind of life he had led, it had not been always easy, she thought. He was no soft-skinned drone; and this was part of his attraction. He would not be a man to play around with—in any way.

      ‘So,’ he murmured, ‘you are Debra Warren.’

      Debra did not reply, but merely stood there rubbing her elbows with the palms of her hands nervously.

      ‘Emmet tells me you made a good test. And you read part of Laura’s script from “Avenida”.’

      Debra shrugged and nodded.

      ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are your parents living?’

      Debra shook her head. ‘No.’

      ‘Don’t give too much away,’ he remarked dryly, lighting himself a cigarette. ‘Who were they?’

      ‘I never knew them. I … I suppose my father was my aunt’s brother, as our names are the same.’

      He studied her thoughtfully. ‘And you never knew Elizabeth Steel.’

      Debra stared at him exasperatedly. ‘Oh, not that again!’ she exclaimed. ‘How would I know Elizabeth Steel?’

      He ignored her question and said: ‘Where do you live?’

      ‘Didn’t Mr. Morley tell you?’ she asked sarcastically.

      ‘Yes. But you tell me.’

      Debra exhaIed irritably. ‘Valleydown, in Sussex. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of it!’

      Again he ignored her outburst, much to her annoyance.

      ‘How old were you when they died?’

      Debra compressed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Come on. When?’

      Debra squared her shoulders. ‘Now look here,’ she said. ‘You’ve come here, practically forced your way in and asked a lot of questions for which you’ve received answers. Now this is all! Do you understand?’ Her green eyes were blazing, and he seemed lost in some speculative study. Then he shrugged, his eyes cold.

      ‘You look here,’ he said, in a quiet voice that emanated suppressed violence. ‘Sure I’ve come here uninvited, sure I’ve asked you questions, and can you say in all honesty you don’t know what in hell I’m talking about?’

      ‘Of course I can!’ Debra felt something suspiciously like tears behind her eyes, pricking uncomfortably. ‘If I knew what it was all about, maybe I’d be able to tell you what you want to know. Because it seems obvious to me that you want something that at present you’re not getting.’

      ‘You’re damn right,’ he

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