The
house was big and cool and white. In the early-morning hours, a breeze
came through the terrace doors Chantel had left unlatched, bringing in
the scents of the garden. Across the lawn, hidden from the main house
by trees, was a gazebo, painted white, with wisteria climbing up the
trellises. Sometimes, when the wind was right, Chantel could catch the
perfume from her bedroom window.On the east side of the lawn was an
elaborate marble fountain. It was quiet now. She rarely had it turned
on when she was alone. Near it was the pool, an octagonal stone affair
skirted by a wide patio and flanked by another, smaller, white house.
There was a tennis court beyond a grove of trees, but it had been weeks
since she'd had the time or the inclination to pick up a racket.
Surrounding
the estate was a stone fence, twice as tall as a man, that alternately
gave her a sense of security or the feeling of being hemmed in. Still,
inside the house, with its lofty ceilings and cool white walls, she
often forgot about the fence and the security system and the electronic
gate; it was the price she paid for the fame she had always wanted.
The
servants' quarters were in the west wing, on the first floor. No one
stirred there now. It was barely dawn, and she was alone. There were
times Chantel preferred it that way.
As
she bundled her hair under a hat, she didn't bother to check the
results in the three-foot mirror in her dressing room. The long shirt
and flat-heeled shoes she wore were chosen for comfort, not for
elegance. The face that had broken men's hearts and stirred women's envy
was left untouched by cosmetics. Chantel protected it by pulling down
the brim of her hat and slipping on enormous sunglasses. As she picked
up the bag that held everything she thought she would need for the day,
the intercom beside the door buzzed.
She checked her watch. Five forty-five. Then she pushed the button. "Right on time."
"Good morning, Miss O'Hurley."
"Good
morning, Robert. I'll be right down." After flipping the switch that
released the front gate, Chantel started down the wide double staircase
that led to the main floor. The mahogany rail felt like satin under her
fingers as she trailed them down. Overhead, a chandelier hung, its
prisms quiet in the dim light. The marble floor shone like glass. The
house was a suitable showcase for the star she had worked to become.
Chantel had yet to take any of it for granted. It was a dream that had
rolled from, then into, other dreams, and it took time and effort and
skill to maintain. But then she'd been working all her life and felt
entitled to the benefits she had begun to reap.
As she walked to the front door, the phone began to ring.
Damn
it, had they changed the call on her? Because she was up and the
servants weren't, Chantel crossed the hall to the library and lifted the
receiver. "Hello." Automatically she picked up a pen and prepared to
make a note.
"I wish I could see you
right now." The familiar whisper had her palms going damp, and the pen
slipped out of her hand and fell soundlessly on the fresh blotter.
"Why did you change your number? You're not afraid of me, are you? You
mustn't be afraid of me, Chantel. I won't hurt you. I just want to
touch you. Just touch you. Are you getting dressed? Are you—"
With
a cry of despair, Chantel slammed down the receiver. The sound of her
breathing in the big, empty house seemed to echo back to her. It was
starting again.
Minutes later, her
driver noticed only that she didn't give him the easy, flirtatious
smile she usually greeted him with before she climbed into the back of
the limo. Once inside, Chantel tipped her head back, closed her eyes
and willed herself to calm. She had to face the camera in a few hours
and give it her best. That was her job. That was her life. Nothing
could be allowed to interfere with that, not even the fear of a whisper
over the phone or an anonymous letter.
By
the time the limo passed through the studio gates, Chantel had herself
under control again. She should be safe here, shouldn't she? Here she
could pour herself into the work that still fascinated her. Inside the
dozens of big domed buildings, magic happened, and she was part of it.
Even the ugliness was just pretend. Murder, mayhem and passion could
all be simulated. Fantasyland, her sister Maddy called it, and that was
true enough. But, Chantel thought with a smile, you had to work your
tail off to make the fantasy real.
She
was sitting in makeup at six-thirty and having her hair fussed over
and styled by seven. They were in the first week of shooting, and
everything seemed fresh and new. Chantel read over her lines while the
stylist arranged her hair into the flowing silver-blond mane her
character would wear that day.
"Such
incredible bulk," the stylist murmured as she aimed the hand-held
dryer. "I know women who would sell their blue-chip stocks for hair as
thick as this. And the color!" She bent down to eye level to look in
the mirror at the results of her work. "Even I have a hard time
believing it's natural."
"My
grandmother on my father's side." Chantel turned her head a bit to
check her left profile. "I'm supposed to be twenty in this scene,
Margo. Am I going to pull it off?"
With
a laugh, the stringy redhead stood back. "That's the least of your
worries. It's a shame they're going to dump rain all over this." She
gave Chantel's hair a final fluff.
"You're
telling me." Chantel stood when the bib was removed. "Thanks, Margo."
Before she'd taken two steps, her assistant was at her elbow. Chantel
had hired him because he was young and eager and had no ambitions to be
an actor. "Are you going to crack the whip, Larry?"
Larry
Washington flushed and stuttered, as he always did during his first
five minutes around Chantel. He was short and well built, fresh out of
college, and had a mind that soaked up details. His biggest ambition at
the moment was to own a Mercedes. "Oh, you know I'd never do that,
Miss O'Hurley."
Chantel patted his
shoulder, making his blood pressure soar. "Somebody has to. Larry, I'd
appreciate it if you'd scout up the assistant director and tell him I'm
in my trailer. I'm going to hide out there until they're ready to
rehearse." Her co-star came into view carrying a cigarette and what
Chantel accurately gauged to be a filthy hangover.
"Would
you like me to bring you some coffee, Miss O'Hurley?" As he asked,
Larry shifted to distance himself. Everyone with brains had quickly
figured out that it was best to avoid Sean Carter when he was dealing
with the morning after.
"Yes,
thanks." Chantel nodded to a few members of the crew as they tightened
up the works on the first set, a train station, complete with tracks,
passenger cars and a depot. She'd say her desperate goodbyes to her
lover there. She could only hope he'd gotten his headache under control
by then.
Larry kept pace with her
as she crossed the set, walking under lights and around cables. "I
wanted to remind you about your interview this afternoon. The reporter
from Star Gaze is due here at twelve-thirty. Dean from publicity said he'd sit in with you if you wanted."
"No,
that's all right. I can handle a reporter. See if you can get some
fresh fruit, sandwiches, coffee. No, make that iced tea. I'll do the
interview in my dressing room."
"All right, Miss O'Hurley." Earnestly he began to note it down in his book. "Is there anything else?"
She paused at the door of her dressing room. "How long have you been working for me now, Larry? "
"Ah, just over three months, Miss O'Hurley."
"I think you could start to call me Chantel." She smiled, then closed the door on his astonished pleasure.
The
trailer had been recently redecorated for her taste and comfort. With
the script still in her hand, Chantel walked through the sitting room
and into the small dressing area beyond. Knowing her time was limited,
she didn't waste it. After stripping out of her own clothes, she changed
into the jeans and sweater she would wear for the first scene.
She
was to be twenty, a struggling art student on the down slide of her
first affair. Chantel glanced at the script again. It was good, solid.
The part she'd gotten would give her an opportunity to express a range
of feeling that would stretch her creative talents. It was a challenge,
and all she had to do was take advantage of it. And she would. Chantel
promised herself she would.
When she had read Strangers she'd
cast herself in the part of Hailey, the young artist betrayed by one
man, haunted by another; a woman who ultimately finds success and loses
love. Chantel understood Hailey. She understood betrayal. And, she
thought as she glanced around the elegant little room again, she
understood success and the price that had to be paid for it.
Though
she knew her lines cold, she kept the script with her as she went back
to the sitting room. With luck she would have time for one quick cup
of coffee before they ran through the scene. When she was working on a
film, Chantel found it easy to live off coffee, a quick, light lunch
and more coffee. The part fed her. There was rarely time for shopping, a
dip in the pool or a massage at the club until a film was wrapped.
Those were rewards for a job well done.
She
started to sit, but a vase of vivid red roses caught her eye. From one
of the studio heads, she thought as she walked over to pick up the
card. When she opened it, the script slid out of her hand and onto the
floor. "I'm watching you always. Always."
At
the knock on her door, she jerked back, stumbling against the counter.
The scent of the roses at her back spread, heady and sweet. With a
hand to her throat, she stared at the door with the first real fear
she'd ever experienced.
"Miss O'Hurley…Chantel, it's Larry. I have your coffee."
With a breathless sob, she ran across the room and jerked open the door. "Larry—"
"It's black the way you—What's wrong?"
