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‘We might leave Scene 5 until later,’ Harriet murmured. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out. I’m getting used to re-jigging Mike’s shooting schedule.’
‘I warned you what he was like, you can’t say I didn’t.’
‘Oh, but he’s so damned good, he’s worth all the trouble he causes.’
Was Harriet in love with Mike Waterford? Annie had a suspicion she might be and was worried. Harriet might be tough and capable but she was also warm-hearted and emotional. That was why everyone on the crew adored her. She always noticed if someone was upset, and did something about it; Annie had grown very fond of her, and would hate her to get badly mauled by someone like Mike. Watching her in the mirror, she tried to read Harriet’s eyes, but they gave nothing away. Annie’s stare moved on to her own reflection, her mouth twisting.
She gave nothing away, herself, did she? Well, she hoped not. Anyone from the press who interviewed her always asked about her love life and tried to surprise some telltale reaction out of her. They never got one, because she didn’t have a love life. Oh, she had dates, now and then, but she hadn’t been in love since … oh, who knows when?
You know, she thought, staring at herself in the mirror. – Stop pretending you don’t remember his name. Johnny. You’ve never been in love with anyone else.
Just saying his name brought it all back, those hours in the old house, making love in front of the fire, the laughter and the poetry, and then the black plunge into misery and grief.
She had never seen him again. He had vanished off the face of the earth and she still didn’t know why, not for sure. She had been too ill to think straight at the time, and for a long time afterwards she had been in a state of numbed trauma, but later she had tried looking at it from Johnny’s point of view. He must have been so appalled by what she told him that he never wanted to see her again. Johnny had been a romantic, an idealist; his image of her would have been tarnished forever when she confessed what Roger Keats had made her do – she shouldn’t have told him.
She had kept thinking he would come back when he got over his first horror, but he hadn’t, so eventually, many months later, she had gone to see his lawyers, but got nothing out of them.
‘I need to see him,’ she had pleaded, and the partner who had agreed to see her had looked faintly curious, but had shaken his head.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘But you do know where he is?’
‘I’m sorry, I can tell you nothing at all about him.’
‘But he is still your client?’
She had tried to read the man’s smooth, bland face and got nowhere. He looked, she thought, like a spoon with a suit on: a bald head, narrow shoulders, a thin body and long legs, and that empty face.
He had paused to decide how to answer her question, then murmured, ‘We do look after his affairs, yes.’
There had been something evasive in the answer – what was he holding back?
‘His house … in Epping forest … has it been sold?’
‘I’m sorry, but I am not at liberty to discuss a client’s private affairs. I am very busy this morning, and I really cannot tell you anything else. Good morning, Miss Lang.’
She had stood up, hesitated. ‘If … if he gets in touch with you, will you tell him that I’d like to hear from him?’
She had learnt to drive by then, and had come there in her small red secondhand Ford. She had driven away from the office trying to assess what she had learnt – only to wonder if she had learnt anything at all.
Was Johnny even alive? Why hadn’t that house been sold? Why wouldn’t his solicitor tell her anything about him? There had been something furtive in his face when he talked about the Epping house. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all. Why?
A blinding light struck her. What if Johnny was living there? Why else wouldn’t the house have been sold?
She had been on her way home but she had turned the car round and driven back to Epping there and then, her heart beating painfully inside her breast. All the way through the winding forest roads, she had felt feverish, possessed, imagining walking up that path, knocking on that door. She refused to think any further than that.
If he came to the door she didn’t even know what she was going to say, what she could ask.
‘Why, Johnny? Why? Why did you go away and never let me know where you were?’
That was what she had to ask, but how could she bear it if he looked at her blankly and just answered, ‘I stopped loving you. When I heard what you had done with that man I didn’t ever want to see you again.’
Could she blame him? She hated the memory, too, didn’t she?
She had had no problem finding the house, although it was almost hidden on a rarely used road through the forest. She had stopped her car just short of the house and stared at it through the crowding trees.
It was spring and new leaves were unfolding on the branches, vivid green spirals of life exploding into air. The first time she saw it, it had been winter, the forest shadowy and quiet; now there were birds all around the house, busy and important as they built their nests, pausing breathlessly on a post or a tree to flute a few phrases before they got on with their work. The air was sharp with hope and anticipation.
