Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

Come to think of it, Mark would be delighted too. His last movie had not been all that well received. Even though he might not at first realize it, he actually needed Wuthering Heights. It was going to be an artistic triumph for him. Why, he might even win an Oscar, just as she herself might. As she continued to gaze at herself in the mirror a beatific expression crossed her face and settled there, and she was filled with such enormous self-gratification it bordered on smugness. This new emotion, so suddenly induced, sprang from the genuine conviction that she was being a wonderful friend, loyal and loving and concerned. A Good Samaritan to Terry, a benefactor to Hilary and Mark Pierce. In her eyes, her actions were so unselfish that they were all the more commendable, and would earn her friends’ undying gratitude.

      Katharine Tempest had always had the curious knack of justifying everything she did, especially when other people were involved. She usually managed to convince herself, somewhat misguidedly, that she was motivated out of the sheer goodness of her heart and by the selfless desire to help everyone solve their insurmountable problems. She did not seem to comprehend that she was driven chiefly by self-interest and the need to gain her private ends. And so, with blithe indifference to the consequences, and prodded along by her egotism, she constantly meddled in others’ lives. A most dangerous game.

      By the time she climbed into bed and snapped out the light, Katharine had become the heroine of the hour, and holding this thought she contentedly fell fast asleep.

       Chapter Nineteen

      In a few minutes the lights would dim in the private screening room and Victor Mason would run the test of Katharine Tempest playing Catherine Earnshaw in a scene from Wuthering Heights.

      Francesca sat in the next seat to Katharine, filled with a complex mixture of excitement and anticipation underscored by apprehension, and as the seconds ticked by her apprehension accelerated. Her anxiety was not for herself, nor was it in any way linked to the scene she had written for Katharine.

      In all truth, Francesca did not feel she had contributed very much to the test, for there was little or no conceit in her. As far as she was concerned, she had simply taken some of those immortal words from Emily Brontë’s monumental masterpiece and arranged them as straight dialogue, without adding or subtracting anything. In consequence, her ego was not on the line. She was not about to be judged. But Katharine was, and therein lay the root of her fear, and her concern was solely for her friend. The points Victor had made to her about the technique of acting in front of a camera now echoed ominously in her ears, and she prayed that Katharine had not been tempted to over-act or be histrionic; or that she had not swung in the other direction and been too low key to make the proper impact; that Katharine had, in fact, hit just the right note and given a balanced performance.

      In the past few weeks Francesca and Katharine had become the closest and most intimate of friends. There was a shared trust and empathy and understanding between them, all of which had developed without benefit of time. It had been thus since that first meeting, when they had instinctively reached out in silent communication, striking chords in each other to which they had both responded from their innermost hearts.

      And so, not unnaturally, the success of the screen test meant as much to Francesca as it did to Katharine, and she had lived through every single moment of it with her new friend, was living it now, on tenterhooks. Moving her head slightly to one side, Francesca stole a look at the other girl. That beautiful profile appeared more spectacular than ever. But Katharine sat straight-backed and rigid on the seat, and Francesca detected her tension, her extreme nervousness, controlled though it was. Impulsively she reached out and touched Katharine’s hand. It lay immobile in her lap, and it was icy.

      Katharine looked at Francesca swiftly, gave her a small weak smile and shrugged.

      ‘It’s going to be all right. I know it is. Don’t worry,’ said Francesca quietly, her smile confident and full of love. She squeezed Katharine’s hand again and held on to it tightly, wanting to warm those icy fingers, to reassure, to alleviate the other girl’s anxiousness if she possibly could.

      Katharine nodded and turned back to stare at the darkened screen. She was mute with nerves. All the worries she wanted to voice to Francesca were strangled in her throat. She had been supremely self-confident since making the test, filled with absolute certainty about the final result. She knew she had done a superlative job, and Bruce Nottley, the director hired for the test, had been wonderful to work with. He had been patient and kind, understanding her initial nervousness of the camera, encouraging and complimentary afterwards. But in the last few days that overriding self-confidence had ebbed away, leaving her riddled with the most awful self-doubt, and mounting disquiet.

      Katharine was well aware that Victor had induced these feelings in her. He had already seen the test, yet when she had questioned him about it, he had been noncommittal, even vague, and this worried her. Surely, if it was good he would have been excited and would have hired her at once. On the other hand, she reasoned, if it was bad, why had he bothered to invite half a dozen other people to view it with him today? Unless, of course, he was uncertain and wanted other opinions. Victor’s attitude puzzled Katharine, and so much so she no longer knew what to make of the situation. She sighed wearily. In desperation and misery, she broke her recently-made rule about not smoking during the day, and took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it.

      Francesca was glancing around the room with interest. This was the first time she had ever been to a private screening, and she was fascinated. In fact, she had discovered that many areas of film-making intrigued her, and she had gained a wealth of knowledge in the past few weeks. Victor and Nicholas Latimer were seated in the row behind them, several places along, and both of them were talking to the man Victor had introduced as Jake Watson, the line producer, who had flown in from Hollywood recently. Francesca had not understood the meaning of the title line producer, and had asked Nicky for clarification. He had told her it meant the working producer, the person who was on the set at all times, ‘On the line, so to speak, making sure everything works, that nothing goes wrong with the production on a day-to-day basis.’ He had further explained that Victor was the executive producer, ‘Who’s not so much concerned with the daily details but more with the overall aspects of the project. Financing, casting, script, director, and distribution. But making a film is teamwork essentially, and it’s up to the executive producer to put the best team together,’ he had finished, adding with a sly grin, ‘And let’s hope the kid has done so.’

      A few rows in front, Jerry Massingham, the English production manager, was slumped down in his seat, biting on an unlit briar pipe, and nodding from time to time to his assistant. Jerry, a rumpled-looking man, heavyset and with shaggy red hair, invariably spoke in statistics, or so it seemed to Francesca.

      Francesca shifted in her seat, making herself more comfortable, and stared at the lifeless screen, momentarily drifting with her thoughts. She had been thrilled when Katharine had announced that Victor had given his permission for her to come along this morning, and had accepted immediately. She was only sorry Kim was not present. Katharine had wanted him to attend as well, but he was in Yorkshire, running the Home Farm and also coping with the problems of the burst pipes at Langley Castle. There had been several more leaks at the concave end of the Widow’s Gallery this past week. Fortunately these had been caught in time, and the Turner and Constable landscapes on display there were safe, but additional sections of the centuries-old panelling had been completely ruined. The damaged panelling was currently being replaced, slowly and painstakingly. According to Kim, their father was still plunged in gloom because the repairs and the new panelling were going to cost a fortune. Her father had deemed it necessary to engage a master cabinetmaker, a craftsman from the old school, since he insisted that the reproduction panelling be a fascimile of the original, and authentic down to the last detail. Apart from carefully treating the new wood so that it looked aged, the craftsman was going to use the old-fashioned method of pegging the panelling into position, a process that was slow, not to mention difficult.

      Poor Daddy, Francesca thought, remembering his distress on the day they had received the upsetting news. But at least Kim is there to give him moral