Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
an outside independent producer to make the films he starred in, and which his company, Bellissima Productions, partially financed. With this remake of the old classic he would not only be on the screen but at the helm.
My first real freedom, he thought. But freedom does bring its own responsibilities.
The telephone rang. He turned around and stared at it in irritation, realizing he had forgotten to ask the hotel switchboard operator to monitor his calls. It shrilled again, insistently, and cursing himself for being so remiss earlier, he went to answer it.
‘Hello,’ he said in a gravely, muffled tone, attempting to disguise his voice.
‘You sound as if you were out on the tiles again last night, you old reprobate. I hope I’m not disturbing you, that this is not an inopportune moment. You sound half asleep for God’s sake. Disgusting at this hour. Are you not alone, perchance?’
Victor chuckled, recognizing Nicholas Latimer’s voice. This was standard dialogue between them, an old joke. They were both early risers, no matter what time they had gone to bed, or with whom. ‘Nicky, you son-of-a-gun, it’s great to hear from you. And of course I’m alone. What else. How’s Paris? How’s it going?’
‘Paris! You must be kidding. All I’ve seen of Paris are the walls of a hotel suite. And it’s not going badly. Quite the opposite, I’d say.’
‘That’s swell. When are you coming in?’
‘Soon,’ Nick replied laconically.
‘What the hell does that mean? Come on, give me a date, Nicky. I want to see you, to talk to you. It’s not the same when you’re not around. I miss my sparring partner.’
Nick said, ‘You all right? I detect a hint of – dejection maybe?’
‘I’m fine, not a bit dejected,’ Victor answered. ‘When can I expect you?’
‘I told you. Soon. When I’ve finished the second draft. It’s rolling pretty well. I’ve licked all the problems, and I think you’ll like the changes. Minor ones, really, but I believe they bring additional drama and effectiveness to the last few scenes.’
‘I’m certain I’ll like the new draft, Nick. There wasn’t much wrong with the first one, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I know you were fairly well satisfied, Vic, but I felt it didn’t move quickly enough, that the pace was slow at the end. Anyway, I’ve sharpened it up in parts, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track now. Incidentally, have you heard from Mike Lazarus?’
Victor caught the subtle change in Nick’s tone, the worried intonation. ‘No, not for a few days. Why?’ he asked, instinctively alerted.
‘No real reason. I just wondered, that’s all. He’s a difficult bastard, and I know he’s been on your back for the second draft.’
‘Don’t worry about Lazarus, Nicky. I’m not. I can deal with him. And take all the time you need with the screenplay. We can’t start shooting for at least two months, you know.’
‘Points well taken, Victor. Listen, I’ve got to run, I have an appointment. It was nice talking to you, and I’ll be seeing you soon. Sooner than you think, kid.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Victor replied with a laugh, and they both hung up. He immediately lifted the receiver, told the operator to screen his calls and asked for room service. He ordered coffee, and then turned his attention to the production sheets again, wanting to make a final check of the new figures in readiness for the meeting with the production manager the next day. But his concentration had fled. He found himself thinking instead of Nicholas Latimer, and with not a little affection. He missed Nick and would be glad when he returned from Paris, where he had insisted on going, ‘To hole up and do the rewrite in peace and quiet, with no distractions,’ Nick had explained. Victor missed the younger man, for he had come to rely on his friendship, his companionship, his sharp wit and his incisive mind.
They had first met six years ago, when the writer, then only twenty-three, was being acclaimed as the bright new star on the American literary scene, after publication of his first novel. They had been at a chic party in Bel Air, and had taken to each other immediately. Discovering their mutual boredom with the other guests and the banal movie industry chit-chat, they had made their escape to a bar in Malibu, where they had quickly exchanged confidences and laughed a lot, slowly and diligently getting roaring drunk in the process. Within the space of the next few days, most of which were spent roistering and drinking, they had become firm friends. There were some of their intimates who thought the relationship between the glamorous macho Hollywood movie star and the East Coast intellectual novelist a trifle improbable, even ludicrous, in view of the many diversities in their personalities and backgrounds. Victor and Nicky cocked a snook at these gratuitous opinions.
They knew the reason for their friendship, the foundation for their growing closeness. Quite simply, they understood each other on a fundamental level, and they recognized, too, that this closeness actually sprang from those very disparities in their characters, backgrounds, upbringing and careers. ‘And let’s face it, we do share one common denominator. Neither of us is a wasp. But then I happen to think a wop and a yid make an unbeatable team,’ Nick had said sardonically at the time. Victor had roared. Nicky’s irreverence and his ability to laugh at himself were traits the actor appreciated. Nicholas Latimer and Victor Mason might have been tipped out from the same mould, for both were mavericks at heart.
Nick had rapidly become a permanent fixture in Victor’s life. He was a constant visitor at the ranch near Santa Barbara, he often travelled with Victor to the foreign locations of his movies, and he wrote two original screenplays for him, one of which turned out to be a smashing critical and commercial hit, and earned the two men an Oscar each. Nick also advised Victor on which movie properties to buy, and became a partner in Bellissima Productions. When they were not working, they took trips together. They went up to Oregon, to shoot duck, or fish for salmon at the mouth of the Rogue River; they went skiing in Klosters; they drank and womanized their way from Paris down to the French Riviera and on to Rome, leaving behind a trail of empty champagne bottles and a string of broken hearts. They had fun, they laughed a lot, and, in short, they became inseparable. As the years had passed they had grown to care for each other deeply, in that special way two completely heterosexual men can.
Nick is the best friend I’ve ever had, Victor said to himself, as he sat reflecting. The only real friend I’ve ever had. He instantly corrected himself. Except for Ellie. Yes, Ellie had been his truest and dearest friend, as well as his devoted wife, and he still missed her after all these years.
The numbing ache, which had dwelt in him since her death, flared savagely, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Would he never be free of that terrible sense of loss, this perpetual ache in his gut? He doubted it. Ellie had been the one real miracle of his life, the one thing of true value, and she had possessed that rarest of all human qualities – absolute goodness. There never would be another woman like Ellie, not for him at least. No man was ever fortunate enough to have two such perfect relationship in a lifetime. It just wasn’t in the cards.
Ellie was the only one who deserved to share his fame, the comfort and privilege which came with his wealth, for she had worked like a dog to help him achieve it. But she had not lived to see him make it into the big time, to enjoy her well-earned rewards. There were times when it seemed to him that his fame was hollow without her beside him. In a sense, he thought of his success as an anomaly. Once the initial euphoria wore off, it had little real meaning, because there was no one to enjoy it with him, no one special who had been there at the beginning, who truly knew the heartache, the sacrifice, the struggle and the immense work it had taken to grasp it. And later, the effort expanded to hold onto it firmly with tenacious hands. That was perhaps the hardest part of all – holding onto the success. In reality it was so ephemeral. And it was lonely at the top. Hellish lonely.
Years ago, when he had been Victor Massonetti, construction worker, the simple Italian-American kid from Cincinati, Ohio, he had laughed disbelievingly when he had heard someone mouth that cliché. Now he knew it to