Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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 relationships 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 luce 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 Cincinnati, Ohio, he had laughed disbelievingly when he had heard someone mouth that cliché. Now he knew it to be true.

      Victor realized for the thousandth time how empty his life was without Ellie, and in so many different ways. His other two wives did not count at all, except for the aggravation they had managed to cause him, and neither had ever been able to expunge the memory of his lovely Ellie, or even remotely take her place. But, at least he had the twins. He thought of Jamie and Steve, back home in the States, and instantly the pain lessened, as it always did. And wherever Ellie was now, if there was such a thing as an afterlife, then she knew their boys were loved and safe and protected, and would be for all the days of his life. His mind lingered on his sons and then he made an effort to rouse himself, attempting to push aside the despondent mood which had descended on him so inexplicably.

      After a while he felt more composed, and he started to check the figures in front of him, but he had no sooner begun on the second column than a loud knocking on the door disrupted the silence. Surprised, he looked up and frowned. That’s the fastest room service I’ve ever had in this hotel, he thought, striding to the door. He jerked it open, and his jaw dropped.

      Nicholas Latimer was standing there, propped up against the door frame, grinning from ear to ear.

      ‘Sooner than I think indeed!’ Victor exclaimed huffily, glaring at Nick. But his mouth began to twitch with laughter.

      ‘I know, don’t say it! I’m a bastard and a childish one at that, pulling this assinine trick on you,’ Nick declared. They grasped hands and embraced roughly, and Victor said, ‘Well, don’t stand there, you clown. Come on in.’

      ‘I took the first plane from Paris this morning. I just checked in a while ago,’ Nick said, his wide grin intact. ‘When I called you I was already in the suite down the hall, as you’ve probably guessed. Couldn’t resist it, kid.’ He ambled into the sitting room and glanced around. ‘Mmmm. Not bad. I like this better than the other suite you had, it’s more your style.’ Nick lowered his long, lanky frame into the nearest chair, slumped down into it, and threw a manilla envelope onto the coffee table with casual grace. ‘I tried to call you last night, but you were out. So – ‘ He shrugged. ‘Well, I decided to fly in. I thought I’d surprise you.’

      ‘You succeeded. And I’m glad you’re here. I just ordered coffee. Do you want some? How about breakfast?’

      ‘Just coffee. Thanks, Vic’

      Victor went to the telephone and Nick stood up and took off his sports jacket. He draped it over the back of a chair and sat down again. His icy-blue eyes, usually twinkling and full of mischief, were contemplative, and the grin that gave his boyish face a puckish quality, was missing. He looked across at Victor, and his face softened with fondness. He had been right to pack up in Paris and come to London. This was too important to discuss on the telephone. And two heads are infinitely better than one in this kind of situation, he thought. He lit a cigarette and stared at the burning tip, wondering how Victor would receive the news he was about to impart. With equanimity? Or would his Latin temperament get the better of him, as it sometimes did when he was thwarted. Of course, Victor would be angry, and with good reason, but he had a reservoir of self-control and the ability to sheath his emotions when he so wished. Nick decided it could go either way.

      Victor sat down opposite Nick, his eyes focused on the envelope. ‘Is that the second draft of the screenplay?’ he asked.

      ‘It sure is, kid. It’s more or less finished. I have a few changes to make on the last six pages, but I can do that tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s all yours. You can read it later.’ He