Barbara Taylor Bradford - Angel

‘I need the money.’

‘I’ll give you as much as you want. Haven’t I always told you, anything I have is yours.’

‘Yes, and thank you, Gavin, you know how much I appreciate that. But it’s not the same – what I mean is, money from you is not the same as the money I earn myself. Besides, it’s not really for me. I need the extra money for my family.’

‘They’re not your family!’ he shot back with uncharacteristic vehemence, and a look of irritation crossed his face.

Rosie gaped at him, taken by surprise, and bit back the words that had instanly sprung to her lips. She remained silent, baffled by the flash of anger, so transparent, the strong reaction, so unexpected.

Swinging around abruptly, Gavin seated himself in the chair facing the dressing table, reached for a jar of cold cream and a box of tissues, obviously intent on taking off his theatrical make-up.

‘They are my family,’ she said finally.

‘No. We’re your family. Me and Nell and Kevin!’ he exclaimed, pushing the tissues and cream away with a sudden harsh movement of his hand.

Ignoring his impatience, she thought: And Mikey. He is family too, wherever he is. And Sunny. A faint shadow fell across her heart, and she sighed under her breath, thinking of them, concern surfacing.

A split-second later, pushing herself up from the sofa, Rosie walked over to Gavin and stood behind him, resting her hands on the back of his chair. Her burnished chestnut head hovered above his darker one, and her green gaze was questioning as it met and held his grey-blue eyes reflected in the mirror.

As if in answer to her unspoken question, he murmured in a gentler voice, ‘We said we were a family, remember?’ and then he lowered his eyes and focused on the photograph on the dressing table.

Rosie followed the direction of his glance, her own settling on the images in the silver frame. There they all were. She and Nell, Gavin, Kevin, Mikey and Sunny, arms looped, shining faces smiling, eyes bright with expectation and hope. It had been taken such a long time ago. They had been so young…and orphans, each one of them.

‘We promised we’d always be there for one another, no matter what, Rosie. We said we were a family,’ Gavin persisted. ‘And we were. We are.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘a family, Gavin.’ She pushed back a sudden rush of sadness that threatened to overwhelm her…the tragedy was that they had all broken their promises to each other…

Gavin lifted his head, caught her eye in the mirror again, and his familiar crooked, and now famous, smile flashed endearingly, lighting up his face. ‘If you’re so hell-bent on killing yourself, then it had better be on one of my movies, where I can at least pick up the pieces, if needs be. How about it, will you do my next picture?’

Her serious expression dissolved, the solemnity in her eyes vanished, and she started to laugh. Then she exclaimed, ‘It’s a deal, Mr Ambrose. You’ve got yourself a deal!’

There was a sudden knocking on the door, and Will Brent came in. Will was from Wardrobe, and he said quickly, ‘I came to help you get out of your costume, Gavin, but I see you’ve already done so. Sorry to be late.’

‘No problem, Will, I’ve only taken off my doublet. Perhaps you’ll help me with the rest of my stuff, especially these boots.’ Gavin grinned at Will and stuck out a leg.

‘Right away,’ Will said, loping across the room.

‘I’ll see you at the wrap party,’ Rosie murmured, kissed Gavin lightly on top of his head, and went over to the sofa to retrieve her bag.

‘Remember what I said, Angel Face. You’re on for my next picture,’ Gavin called out before turning his attention to the surgical collar. Gingerly, he adjusted it on his neck, grimacing as he did.

A blast of cold air hit Rosie in the face as she stepped outside. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer around her and looked up.

Above her the sky was bleak and unremitting, filled with clouds the colour of lead. Even though it was still afternoon it was already gloomy and growing darker, the kind of English winter’s day to which she had grown accustomed of late.

There was a hint of drizzle in the wind, and she could not help wondering what the children of England would do if it rained after all.

Today was November the fifth. Bonfire Night, they called it. Aida had told her this over lunch last week, and the producer had recited the ancient verse, passed down over the centuries, which she had learned as a child: ‘Please to remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot.’ Bonfires would blaze throughout the British Isles tonight, effigies of Guy Fawkes would be tossed into the flames, fireworks exploded, and potatoes and chestnuts roasted in the fire, as was the tradition – providing it didn’t rain, of course.

‘All being well, we’ll be wrapping the picture on the fifth,’ Aida had said to her, over their snack in the studio restaurant last Tuesday. ‘But I’m afraid we won’t be allowed to have a bonfire. For security reasons, obviously. However, maybe we can come up with something appropriate – to celebrate Bonfire Night as well as the end of the film.’

She had not been able to determine exactly what Aida had meant by appropriate, but she and everyone else would soon know. The wrap party was scheduled to take place in a few hours.

Rosie glanced around as she hurried across the deserted back lot of Shepperton Studios, walking in the direction of her office in the production building.

She had been based here for the past nine months, and the territory had grown so familiar to her it now felt like home. Also, she had enjoyed working with Aida and the crew, who were all British, and with whom she had felt comfortable and at ease from the start.

Quite unexpectedly, it hit her how much she was going to miss Shepperton and everyone connected with the movie. That was not always the case; sometimes she was relieved and thankful when a film was finally in the can, so that she could make a fast escape, fleeing without looking back. But an enormous camaraderie between the cast, crew and production people had built up on Kingmaker, and over the long months of working together the feelings of closeness and intimacy had become more pronounced than ever. Perhaps that was because this particular production had been troubled right from the outset, and in consequence everyone had hung together to fight for it, determined to make it succeed. She was sure it would. In the picture business it was something of a given that a difficult film frequently turned out to be the best, once it was cut, edited and scored, and up there on the screen.

They had all worked incredibly hard, extending themselves beyond the call of duty, even when they were almost too exhausted to continue. Yet somehow they had. And Gavin, who had put his heart and soul into the role of Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, had given a stellar performance, an Oscar-winning performance. At least that was her opinion, but, no doubt about it, she was prejudiced.

Pushing open the double glass doors of the production building, Rosie went down the narrow corridor and into her office. After closing the door behind her she leaned against it for a moment, her eyes sweeping around the room, taking everything in: the drawings lining the walls, the racks of costumes, the huge table covered with research and the many and varied accessories she had designed.

During the nine months she had been camped here she had accumulated innumerable possessions, and it struck her that she was facing a great deal of packing in the next few days. It was a relief to know she had her two assistants, Val Horner and Fanny Leyland, to help catalogue her drawings, pack them along with the costumes she wanted to keep for her archive, and box up the books and photographs which had been used for research.