Playing Dead. Jessie Keane

erotic effect against her slender tanned arms and belly. Her nipples were small, hard and rosy-pink.

      Fredo made a half-strangled noise in his throat.

      ‘Next time,’ said Cara, putting her hands brazenly on her hips, ‘I’ll let you touch them. Would you like that?’

      Fredo could only nod. The front of his trousers was tenting up so much it was painful.

      ‘And when you’ve helped me with the secret thing,’ said Cara, ‘I’ll let you do more. Touch me anywhere. Here on my breasts, or even down there. Fredo, I’ll let you have sex with me. When you’ve done it. You understand?’

      Fredo nodded again, then clutched desperately at his groin. He came in his pants.

      Chapter 14

      Rick told Frances about blowing up German emplacements with the grenades, then he set up a little demonstration and blew up an old tree root in the garden.

      The noise of the explosion was one Frances would never forget. The old tree had rocked and then collapsed sideways, revealing a tangle of blackened root.

      ‘See? Easiest thing in the world,’ said Rick.

      It was. Frances could see that it was, but he wasn’t greatly interested. He just wanted to be gone. His father was a deranged egotistical monster, twisted first by fame and then by a spectacular fall from grace.

      As soon as he’d finished school at eighteen, Frances picked his moment and told his dad that he was going to New York to try to get an agent, try to get some parts on Off Off Broadway if he could.

      ‘You’re going back to that place?’ said Rick, hearing his son’s words with disbelief. ‘It’ll kill you, boy. I’m telling you.’

      ‘I’m not talking about Hollywood, I don’t want to go there. I was never happy there, I don’t have good memories of it. I’m talking about the Big Apple. Broadway.’

      Rick was watching him, his mouth moving querulously, his eyes astonished.

      ‘But do you think you have the talent?’ he asked.

      ‘Yeah. Actually, I do.’ Frances felt his face colour as his father smashed his ego yet again, with his usual casual indifference.

      But this time he was fighting back. He did have talent; he knew he did. It wasn’t as great a talent as his father’s, but what could you do? Stay at home and weep? He wanted to act. He was going to do it.

      ‘I’d like to think I have your blessing,’ said Frances.

      ‘Well you haven’t,’ said Rick, eyes darting. ‘I think you’re mad.’

       Ha! Coming from the fruitloop of the year!

      ‘Next time I come home, I’ll show you. I’ll prove you wrong.’

      And maybe even make you proud of me, thought Frances, but he doubted such a miracle could ever occur. Frances knew that he could come back here with a bunch of plaudits from the critics, with a sodding Oscar, and his father would still dismiss his son’s achievements with a shrug of his shoulders. In Rick’s eyes, Frances knew that he would always be a failure.

      Broadway wasn’t an easy nut to crack. Frances had to work long hours in delis and restaurants to make ends meet, to pay for the modest – actually pretty tatty – apartment in Lower Midtown.

      He loved New York. He found an agent – not the best, but Solly was the first agent in a list of twenty who would even meet him. He told him he was Rick Ducane’s son. He didn’t want to, but he knew that agents and PR firms always craved an angle and, if you had one, you’d be damned stupid not to use it.

      Solly’s hawklike eyes sharpened to pinpricks over his squashed nose.

      ‘You’re Rick Ducane’s boy? Hey, that’s good.’ Solly wrote it down. Then he looked up with a frown at his new client’s face. ‘Wasn’t there a scandal with him? A dead woman, something like that?’

      Frances nodded. ‘My mother.’

      ‘Oh – hey, sorry.’ Solly paused and delicately cleared his throat. ‘Would you mind if I mentioned it?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘After all, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Did you see anything . . .?’

      ‘No. I didn’t.’ Hey, why don’t you just cut a hunk of flesh out my arse, you fucking hyena?

      ‘I have to ask these things,’ said Solly.

      ‘Of course.’ Frances smiled.

      Solly worked hard for him after that, pushing the name forward, Rick Ducane’s son, getting him bit parts. It was a start. It was the most fun he had ever had in his life, although it was – admittedly – tough. He worked the years away and tried to believe he’d make it big one day. And he had his admirers: the critics were kind and people loitered at the stage door sometimes, pretty young girls, hormonal matrons, stylish young men, to say how much they’d loved his performance, he had pitched it just right, and would he just sign this . . .?

      When Frances signed his first batches of autographs at the age of twenty-four, he felt powerful, delighted. The two-week run was slow to start, but eventually packed out by people who’d read favourable reviews. He’d even got a mention from one of the critics best known for his harsh, unforgiving words. So what if all the posters proclaimed him to be the son of Rick Ducane, the once-great Hollywood star? He had got a good review.

      Time went on. The admirers still came, and he was easy now about signing the autographs – he was casual, he smiled and was charming. He noticed the tall, thin, sallow-skinned and handsome young man waiting outside the theatre for three evenings on the trot, and when he moved forward to shake the man’s hand, he said: ‘Good grief, you must really like this play.’

      The stranger went red in the face. ‘I do like the play,’ he said earnestly. ‘But your performance was the thing that drew me back. You were wonderful in it.’

      ‘Oh! Well . . . thanks. You’re very kind to say so.’

      ‘Just truthful,’ said the man. He looked down. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t . . .’ said Frances nervously. He’d met his fair share of crazies since coming to the city; he didn’t know this man from Adam.

      ‘Just a drink,’ the stranger persisted, and he looked up and smiled straight into Frances’s eyes.

      He was very handsome, almost Latin in appearance. Frances distinctly felt his stomach do a little back-flip of excitement.

      ‘Well . . . I don’t see why not.’

      ‘Excellent,’ said the man. He held out a hand. ‘I’m Rocco Mancini, by the way. Is it true you’re Rick Ducane’s son?’

      Within days they were lovers, meeting up at every opportunity. Frances even found he could forgive Rocco for the Rick Ducane question. It seemed to Frances that Rocco avoided the more populated areas of the city whenever they were together. But he didn’t care. They were together, and delighted in the time spent strolling in quiet places, or eating bagels bought from a street-corner vendor. When they were in bed together, it was as if it was always meant to be.

      It was bliss.

      ‘I love you,’ said Frances, as Rocco and he lay entwined in a hotel room one afternoon.

      ‘I love you too,’ said Rocco, although he didn’t.

      He had a real weakness for beauty both in men and women. His own wife Cara was exquisitely lovely and he’d fallen in ‘love’ with her on sight. Only later had he discovered what a spoiled, controlling bitch she was.

      If he saw another beautiful boy, another lissom woman, in the next week or so, then – Frances or no Frances – would he have the willpower