Angel. Barbara Taylor Bradford

glad to hear it,’ Rosie murmured. ‘I’d have been disappointed if you were away when I’m there. We don’t see enough of each other these days, and I was looking forward to spending some time with you.’

      ‘I know; me too, darling, and there’s no danger of our not seeing each other, Rosie mine. Oh, and before I forget, here’s the spare key to my apartment.’ As she spoke, Nell fished around in her handbag, brought out a key and handed it to Rosie. ‘You know the house rules – make yourself at home and don’t lift a finger. Leave everything to Maria, she’ll look after you beautifully.’

      ‘Thanks, Nell,’ Rosie said, and put the key in her purse.

      The two of them began to make plans for Rosie’s trip to New York, and Gavin took a step backward, wanting to give them space and privacy to talk between themselves for a few minutes.

      Propping himself up against a wall, he took a sip of his wine, hoping he would be feeling better soon.

      Gavin had not wanted to don the surgical collar for the party, because to do so would prevent him from wearing a tie. But at the last minute he had had to put it on when his neck had suddenly begun to bother him. Because of the bulky collar, he had dressed more casually than he normally did for this kind of occasion, selecting a navy silk shirt, worn open at the neck, grey slacks and a navy cashmere jacket. Now he was glad he had chosen these clothes; they were comfortable, and he felt less constricted in them, despite the surgical collar around his neck.

      As he continued to sip his drink, he surreptitiously studied Rosalind Madigan, his best friend and only confidante.

      Earlier in the day he had thought she looked excessively pale and overtired, which was one of the reasons he had made such a fuss about the new projects she was planning to take on, now that Kingmaker was finished. But tonight, surprisingly, she seemed refreshed, and there was a wonderful glow about her. The dark rings under her eyes had disappeared and colour flushed her cheeks to a pretty pink. It pleased him that she unexpectedly looked so much better, and then almost immediately he knew what she had done.

      She made a trip to Make-up, he thought, that’s the real reason she’s acquired such a peachy bloom in the past few hours. Katie Grange, the head make-up artist on the movie, was noted for her very special talent for giving even the most tired-looking actor a healthy and youthful appearance. Undoubtedly Katie had skilfully applied a few cosmetics, and in so doing had instantly camouflaged those tell-tale signs of overwork, long hours, and perpetual worry which had given Rosie’s face such a washed-out tinge of late.

      And she had also visited Hairdressing, he thought, leaning forward slightly, peering more closely at Rosie. She had beautiful hair: it was reddish-brown and fell to her shoulders in glossy, luxuriant waves, and he could see that it had been professionally set and combed by Gil Watts.

      No matter, Rosie had benefited from the bit of help from the professionals, and this pleased him no end. She looked better than she had in months, although he had to admit he didn’t particularly like the wool dress she was wearing, mostly because of the colour. It was dark grey, and although it was superbly cut and tailored it was far too dull for her. But then this was something of an old story these days. Rosie was so busy designing costumes for other people that half the time she didn’t pay too much attention to what she wore herself. He liked her best in the bright colours she used to favour when they were kids – scarlet, yellow, blue, and almost any shade of green, which enhanced the colour of her large, expressive green eyes.

      Gavin stifled a sigh as he considered Rosie’s problems, the burdens she had shouldered in the past few years. Too many for one person. He was forever telling her this, but she would not listen to him, and the stringent response she usually made invariably ended that particular topic of conversation.

      Obscurely, in a remote corner of his mind, there lurked the nagging thought that he ought to shoulder her burdens, indeed must do so, out of love and friendship. But she would not let him; she refused his help, as well as his money. He had made a lot of that from his movies in the last few years, and what was the point of having money if you couldn’t use it to make life easier for someone you cared about. He wished Rosie would take some of it, since it would free her in so many different ways.

      Because of her constant refusal to do this, he harboured a profound and permanent sense of frustration, and deep in his gut there existed a gnawing anger with those irritating people she persisted in calling her family. Bums, the lot of them, he thought, the anger flying to the surface momentarily.

      Rosie was too good for them, that was for sure.

      Rosalind Madigan was the finest, most decent person he knew, had ever known. She did not have one bad bone in her body, was kind, considerate, and generous to a fault. She never said an unkind word about anyone, and was always trying to help those less fortunate than she was herself.

      That’s the basic problem, Gavin suddenly thought. She’s far too good – for her own good. But she had been like that as a teenager, usually seeing only the best in people, expecting the best of them. He suspected she would never change. A leopard didn’t change its spots, did it?

      In his mind, Gavin characterized Rosie as the All-American Girl. A long-stemmed American Beauty rose. She was beautiful. And vital, friendly, open, honest. In particular, he loved her intelligence and enthusiasm. Because she had such a good mind, he could talk to her about anything, and she always understood what he was getting at; and that enthusiasm of hers was a bonus. She was not a bit jaded; in fact, she was the least jaded person he knew. Even though she was sophisticated in many ways, had been exposed to a great deal and was well travelled, she was neither world-weary nor cynical. He considered that to be an extraordinary accomplishment for someone who lived in their world – the glitzy, glamorous, bitchy, competitive, cruel world of show business.

      Suddenly growing conscious that he had been staring too hard and too long at Rosie, Gavin shifted the focus of his eyes to Nell Jeffrey.

      Rosie was of average height, about five feet six, but she looked so much taller and bigger-boned when she was with Nell, who was much smaller, and delicately made. To Gavin she was like a little china doll, with her pink and white English complexion and silver-gilt hair. But he was well aware that her porcelain looks belied great tenacity, one of the shrewdest brains he had ever encountered, and an unusual stubbornness which occasionally bordered on pigheadedness.

      Yes, she’s quite a gal, our Little Nell, he thought, regarding her over the rim of his glass, his expression contemplative.

      In the fourteen years since he met her, which was when she first came from London to New York, Nell had carved out quite an extraordinary career for herself, had become one of the most successful and powerful publicists in America. Apart from representing the bel canto balladeer of the nineties, the immensely popular singer Johnny Fortune, Rosie, himself and all of his movies, Nell also handled the public relations for a major Hollywood studio, a number of other top movie stars, screenwriters, directors, producers and a handful of best-selling novelists.

      After working for several prestigious public relations firms in New York, where she learned her trade and learned it very well, Nell had founded her own company when she was twenty-seven. Over the past four years that it had been in existence it had truly flourished, and now she had a big staff and offices in New York, Los Angeles and London.

      Successful though she was in business, Nell’s personal life was as unfulfilled and as unrewarding as Rosie’s. How he wished the two of them would find a couple of nice guys to settle down with.

      Gavin took a long swallow of his wine, genuinely amazed at himself. And he wondered how he, of all people, could think a thing like that.

      It was Mikey, as far as Nell was concerned, Gavin knew. For a long time now he had been convinced that she had never properly recovered from her youthful romance with Mikey, and then when he had vanished two years ago she had simply switched off. At least as far as men were concerned.

      As for Rosie, that was another matter altogether.

      In a sense, she was in far deeper trouble with her personal life than either him or Nell. But he did