Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life) (6 page)

“Not supportive of you? I sublimated my entire life for you!” she cried.

He reached over and ran his fingers over the five carat diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Must have been very hard on you.”

She stared down at the bracelet as if it was something she had never seen before, something ugly. And, in a way, it was. It marked the schism between them. He had given that to her at the premiere of his first film. His biggest success.

“These were trinkets you gave me, not things I asked for.” She shook the bracelet in his face angrily. “The only thing I ever asked for was you.”

“But you didn’t say no when the ‘trinkets’ came.” His tone was scornful.

“You’ll never understand, will you?”

“The only thing I understand is that you’re getting in my way here, Johanna. I have a picture that is already falling behind schedule and those damned bastards back in Hollywood are going to have me cut up and served as an appetizer at their next gathering if I don’t deliver a blockbuster. “

She picked up her purse. There was no point in staying here and arguing with him. There was no talking to him. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was her fault somehow. Maybe he would be more receptive once he came home, came back from England, had this picture wrapped. There was nothing else she could hope for.

“I’ll see you at the hotel,” she said quietly. “By the way, happy anniversary.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He didn’t even bother to watch her walk away. He was relieved that she was going. She was crowding him, all the time crowding him, wanting pieces, just as everyone else did. And he had none to spare. He needed to concentrate on getting this picture done. And he had such trouble concentrating these days.

He began to look around the set for Garrison. Garrison had promised him that he would score this morning and if he didn’t have a hit soon, he knew he couldn’t hold himself together much longer.

Chapter Six

The noise on the set elevated to a roar, swirling all around her as she walked away from Harry. Johanna wanted to cry, needed to cry, but no tears came to her eyes. She was utterly empty inside. There were no tears left for Harold and none for herself. Her marriage, if that was what it could be called, was beginning to make her feel physically ill as well as emotionally drained.

She had to do something else in order to take her mind off this horrible situation. Her marriage had to be denigrated to an insignificant thing if she was going to preserve herself.

She’d go to the Tate Gallery with Jocelyn. Yes, they’d make a day of it. Today. Johanna knew she was grasping at straws, but she had nothing else and maybe one of those straws would lead her out of this valley of despair.

Lifting her chin, she felt a little better. She passed Tommy on her way to the exit and he smiled at her. There was no reason in the world why the smile of an almost perfect stranger should buoy her up and make her feel human again, but it certainly did. After being stripped down and mentally beaten by Harold, it felt good to have someone else look at her as a desirable woman. There was no mistaking the look in the prop carpenter’s eyes. She blessed him for it.

“Hey!” someone yelled behind her. “Did you hear? Those goddamn terrorists did it again! They blew up another plane.”

She had no idea why she knew, but she did. Instantly. Something went cold inside of her. Slowly, she turned around and looked at a square-jawed, tall man shouting the news to a friend of his up in the rafters.

“What flight was it?” The words left her lips in slow motion.

The man looked at her curiously. “Flight 59 out of London.”

For a moment she stood frozen, wooden, and then the rapid beating of her heart overwhelmed everything and blacked it out. She felt hot. The world grew progressively smaller and then disappeared altogether.

When she came to, she was laying on a hard leather couch in a crammed office. Something cold and wet was on her forehead. She looked up into Harold’s very annoyed face.

“Are you pregnant?” he snapped out.

When she had been carrying Jocelyn, there had been a period of time, early in the pregnancy, when she had fainted a lot. Other than that, she had always been sinfully healthy. She didn’t feel very healthy right now. She felt ill, desperately ill.

“Paul,” she managed to get out.

“I knew it.” Harry began to pace, raging at the betrayal, raging not because it was his wife, but because it was his friend who had been the one to do it, to misuse his trust. “I knew that rutting bastard was just hanging around to sniff at your skirts.”

She shut her eyes tight as the tears she had been unable to shed earlier came, sliding through her lids, slipping down her cheeks to her temples. She couldn’t manage the strength to brush them aside.

“No.” The single word was forced out through a throat that tears had managed to tightened. “Paul was—he was on that flight.”

Harold blew out an impatient breath. “What flight, for Chrissakes? I’ve got a picture to film.”

Shakily, she drew in air, forcing herself to pull her thoughts together. Everything in her mind felt like it was tangled with everything else. She couldn’t make sense of anything.

“The one that was just blown up. Someone, someone on the set just came shouting that the terrorists blew up flight—Oh God, poor Denise.” She covered her mouth with her hands to keep a sob back. “Poor Paul.”

She felt bereft, as if she had been irrevocably stripped of her last means of defense. Paul was the closest thing she had to a best friend and she knew that if she needed a word of support, of encouragement, or just a shoulder to lean on, he would be there. There was no need to say anything to him. He understood. The two of them had been there in the beginning with Harry and they shared that between them.

And now he was dead.

And so was she. It kept coming back to that. Always to that.

She looked up at Harry. He looked stricken, lost. Forgetting her own pain, she reached out and squeezed his hand. And for just a moment, Harry held on to her. He sank down on the couch as if his legs couldn’t support him any longer.

“What do you mean Paul was on that flight? He’s right here.”

Slowly she shook her head. “No, Paul left England this morning.”

“But he can’t leave. He’s the writer. This is his story. He always hangs around the set when we’re filming his stories.”

She wished it was true. She wished that when she turned around, she could see Paul, tall, angular Paul, with his hands in his pockets, shaking the shaggy mane of blond hair and biding his time until he could form the right words with which to ease Harry along in the right direction. But she knew she never would again.

“You fired him.”

Harry rose, agitated, lost. “I didn’t fire him,” he shouted, a child denying an accusation for an action he couldn’t remember. He ripped both hands through his hair, tugging so hard he pulled several strands out, then dragged his hands over his face.

In defeat, he let them drop. They hung at his sides, useless. There was nothing to hold onto anymore. Paul had been his rock, his steadying force. They had fought, he had railed, but there was always Paul to make things safe. Paul was home base.

“And even if I did, I was always firing him.”

“This time, it stuck.”

He dropped down beside her on the couch again. The voice was small, hopeful in the midst of hopelessness. “Maybe he missed the flight.”

She shook her head slowly. “No, he was on it. I feel it.”

Johanna reached out for his shoulder to support herself as she tried to rise, but Harry had shifted away from her, away in his frustrated confusion. She sighed and let her hand fall. Bracing herself, she swung her legs off the couch and tested to see if they had regained their strength. Her legs felt shaky, but this was no time to think of herself. She had to call the airline, find out if there were any survivors. She already knew that there weren’t, but a small part of her always remained infinitely hopeful. Her sisters had always teased her about her optimism and called her Pollyanna.

Well, Polly had just about reached the end of her road
, she thought sadly.

Smoothing back her hair, she looked down at her husband. He was sitting there, looking like a broken man. She hardly knew him. She’d lived on memories the last few years but what she saw before her over and over was transforming those memories into nothing more than self-deluding fantasies, something that had never been, had never happened.

“I’m going to call Denise as soon as I hear all the details. She’s—she’s going to want to have someone to talk to.”

Harry nodded, not hearing what Johanna said, only the drone of her voice.

Johanna eased herself out of the room. She turned as she closed the door and saw Harry huddled on the couch. She felt sorry for him, but had no words to offer. The loss she felt choked them off.

She had reached her car when someone called out her name. She turned and saw the props carpenter who had saved her life striding toward her. He moved with the sure, light stride of someone who was master of the world in which he lived. She envied him that, envied him the illusion. There were no masters. She thought of Paul. There were only victims in the end.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Whitney?” Tommy asked when he was beside her.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Yes, you saw to that.”

“No, I meant that I saw that you had fainted. Was it just the shock of almost getting beamed?” When she didn’t answer right away, he looked at her car. “Do you need someone to drive you home?”

She looked back at the sound stage door. “Don’t you have work to do?” She didn’t want to talk about Paul with anyone. His death was too personal, too hurtful. God, she hadn’t felt this awful since her mother had died.

“Always, but I’m ahead of myself at the moment. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a bit pale looking at the moment.”

She touched her cheek. “Pale’s my natural color,” she said, trying to maintain the painful smile. How could she smile, talk, when Paul was dead? “There are usually seven little men following me wherever I go.”

“Then you’re all right?”

No, I’m far from that. I’ve just lost my best friend and now I have to call and tell his wife that he won’t be coming back to her.

“Yes, I’m all right. Thank you for being so kind, Tommy.”

“No hardship when the lady’s one the likes of you.”

Was he flirting with her? Or was he too open to realize that he was doing it? She didn’t know. She only knew that she liked him instantly, liked his kind, open manner. She always responded well to kindness. It gave her hope for the world, for herself.

She even managed to wave goodbye after he helped her into the car and closed the door for her.

Chapter Seven

“Telephone, Mrs. Whitney,” Megan said in a sing-song voice as she held the telephone receiver aloft and waved it from side to side.

She was becoming more irritating with each passing day. Megan was dressed in a vivid purple spandex skirt and white tee-shirt top. The neckline dipped low, bringing attention to her breasts. The shirt was one size too small and Megan wore no bra. Johanna frowned. Megan was Jocelyn’s idol. She wished Megan would keep that in mind. As it stood, Johanna definitely didn’t want Jocelyn emulating the young woman.

Johanna pushed the newspaper she was paging through aside on the sofa, registering annoyance. Megan constantly addressed her in that irritating voice. She had already brought it to Megan’s attention several times to no avail. The au pair girl had just stared at her and nodded and gone on doing it. Johanna felt that this was Megan’s childish way of letting her know that she held one over her.

Well,
Johanna thought,
if going to bed with my husband makes you feel superior to me, you have a low threshold of superiority.

She couldn’t wait until this “holiday” was over and Megan was a thing of the past.

“Who is it, Megan?”

“It’s that boutique where you bought your gown.” Her voice barely hid her insolence. “They say they need to know when you’re coming in for another fitting. Otherwise the gown won’t to be ready by Friday.”

The party. Johanna had totally forgotten about the party she and Harry were supposed to attend. Of course they would go. Harry wouldn’t allow a small thing like the death of his closest friend and associate to interfere with business.

No, he was hurt, she relented. She had seen that look in his eyes. Somewhere, beneath that veneer of false bravado, he did hurt over the loss of Paul. But it wouldn’t stop him from attending Alicia’s party. Business, however dirty, was business.

“Tell them I’ll wear it as is.” The fit had been good enough, she remembered. Besides, what did it matter, anyway? It was all meaningless. “It doesn’t have to look as if I was poured into it.”

She saw Megan’s long, lazy appraisal as the young woman’s hazel eyes slid over her from head to foot. For a split second, Johanna was tempted to look away, then something refused to let her. She returned the girl’s look and it was Megan who finally dropped her gaze, her lower lip curling.

“She said never mind,” Megan told the woman on the other end. “Send it over as is. Yes, I see.” Megan hung up. “They’re not happy about this, Mrs. Whitney.”

“That makes two of us,” Johanna answered. She glanced at her wrist watch, as she had done a half a dozen times in as many minutes. There was no more putting it off. If she did, she would be late.

Johanna squared her shoulders. It was time to leave. A wave of panic hit her stomach and she unconsciously pressed her hand there.

“Sure you won’t change your mind about coming with me, Jocey?”

She looked toward her daughter. Jocelyn was sitting on the floor, paging through a fashion magazine Megan had gotten for her. In the background, the television played on. No one was bothering to watch it.

Jocelyn gave her mother an impatient look. The question had been put to her before. “No, Megan and I are going out.” She giggled behind her hand before she managed to compose herself.

She was behaving very oddly lately, Johanna thought. Maybe it was all a phase. Maybe it was because they had taken her away from her friends and forced her to spend her summer in a foreign country with only eight channels, Johanna thought.