and enchant them.
And as the dinner progressed Katharine took over. She was the true star. And she gave a stunning performance. She glittered. She dazzled. She captivated. She entertained. Without really seeming to do so, she dominated the conversation, discussing everything from the theatre and the movie business, to British politics and blood sports, and she did so with charm, élan, grace and intelligence. She also managed to successfully bridge the brief but acute sense of awkwardness which had prevailed at the outset of the meal, and she created an atmosphere that was light yet stimulating.
Slowly Victor found himself being drawn into the conversation quite naturally. He sipped the excellent Mouton Rothschild Kim had poured, savouring its smooth velvety texture, and he began to relax again. He discovered in Kim an unusual warmth and empathy, and a genuinely sympathetic and interested listener. Almost against his own volition, he opened up and spoke about his ranch in Southern California, his horses and his land, and the latter proved to be of common interest to the two men. Yet, withal, he was conscious of Francesca’s thoughtful manner, her silences, unbroken except when she served the various dishes and attended to their needs. She did not even bother to participate in the general small talk, and he thought this decidedly odd.
Francesca knew that she was being remiss as a hostess, that the burden of the conversation had fallen on Katharine. She had not purposely set out to behave this way, nor was her coolness and reticence specifically directed at Victor. Very simply, she felt she had nothing of importance to contribute, and she had withdrawn into herself. Also, serving the meal had preoccupied her. Yet whilst she had not been rude, neither had she been very gracious, and she chided herself for this lapse in etiquette. It was inexcusable.
With an effort she turned to Victor and said, ‘Are you going to be making a film here?’
He was so startled to hear her voice he temporarily lost his own. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Why, yes, I am.’ She was regarding him with keen interest and her expression was friendly, and so he was encouraged to continue. ‘I’m not only starring in it, but producing it as well. It’s my first time out in charge, so to speak, and I’m looking forward to it. Obviously it’s quite a challenge.’
Katharine, whose eyes had flown to his face when he started to speak, held her breath, not daring to say a word, waiting for him to go on. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest.
Francesca spoke again. ‘Can you tell us about it? Or is it a big secret?’
‘Why sure I can. I’m about to remake the greatest love story ever written in the English language. And I hope it will be as good as the original, which has become something of a classic. I’m doing a remake of Wuthering Heights. We start shooting in two months.’ Victor relaxed in his chair. Now that he was on his own ground he felt more comfortable.
‘Love story!’ Francesca spluttered, staring at Victor in astonishment. ‘But Wuthering Heights isn’t a love story, for God’s sake! It’s a death-obsessed novel about hatred, revenge, brutality and violence. But mostly it’s about revenge. How on earth can you think it’s a love story? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!’ Francesca had spoken with such extraordinary vehemence everyone was startled. Kim looked discomfited. Victor seemed stunned. Katharine’s face had turned the colour of bleached-out bone, and she was seething. Victor might easily be influenced by these comments, especially since they emanated from Francesca. Like so many Americans, he thought anything English was classy and superior, even a little intimidating. And Francesca had sounded so authoritative. Supposing he decided to abandon the project? Damn, she thought, and not trusting herself to utter a civil word, she stared at her plate – and prayed.
Kim found his voice first. ‘Really, Francesca, you’re being a bit strong, aren’t you? And frightfully rude, if you ask me!’ Whenever she had occasion to speak about English literature, her pet subject, she became impossibly opinionated, almost overbearing, as he and his father knew only too well. Kim glared at her, hoping to convey his annoyance.
Francesca swung to face Victor. ‘I do apologize. I really didn’t mean to be rude. Truly I didn’t,’ she said, but a faint hint of defiance flickered in her eyes. ‘However, I’m afraid I can’t apologize for my opinions, particularly since I believe my concept of the book to be correct. And by the way, it is a concept shared by many scholars of English literature, and a number of well-known critics. Of course, there is no denying it is a book of great genius, but nevertheless, it is a paean to death. Emily Brontë was obsessed with death all her life, you know. Anyway, if you don’t want to take my word for it, I will be happy to lend you some books about Emily Brontë and her work, and also some critical studies of Wuthering Heights. Then perhaps you’ll understand it’s not a love story after all. Honestly, it really isn’t. You see, I read English literature, and did a thesis on the Brontë sisters, so I do know what I’m talking about.’
Katharine could not believe her ears, and she desperately wished Francesca would shut up. She could cheerfully strangle her. Didn’t the girl know she was being tactless and inflammatory? For once in her life Katharine was speechless. Her agile, inventive mind raced as she sought a way to smooth the situation over again, to break the deafening silence at the table. Yet unaccountably, she remained at a loss to know what to do or say, and so she picked up her glass and sipped the wine, staring fixedly at the wall opposite, her face stony. Kim fiddled with his fork, poking at the fruit on his plate. Victor continued to frown, musing thoughtfully, and only Francesca appeared tranquil, apparently oblivious to the impact she had made.
However, although Victor was frowning, he was not angry or upset. Oh, the terrible arrogance of the young, he thought. They are so sure. So absolute. So certain they have the answers to everything. He was astute enough to recognize Francesca had not intended to be rude, or to offend. Quite simply, she was too straightforward and too honest a girl not to speak her mind about a subject seemingly of great importance to her. She had been in earnest and had meant every word in all sincerity, without realizing she was being provocative. And she was so very young. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, and I respect your opinion. In fact, you could be right about the book. But the original movie of Wuthering Heights was made as a love story, and that is the way I aim to film it. I would be foolish not to do so. I just hope I can make as good a picture as Sam Goldwyn did in 1939.’ He spoke with an assurance that absolutely forbade argument.
‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Francesca said hurriedly. In the last few seconds she had noticed Katharine’s stricken face, the panic in her eyes, and Kim’s glowering expression had also registered, and most forcefully. Somehow, and quite unintentionally, she had upset them both, although she was not sure why. Curiously enough, Victor seemed unconcerned.
Francesca lifted her glass. ‘I’d like to make amends for my hasty comments by proposing a toast.’ She smiled weakly at Katharine and Kim, who lifted their glasses silently, still put out with her. ‘To the remaking of Wuthering Heights, and to your success, Victor.’
‘Thank you,’ Victor said and touched his glass to hers.
Wishing to be even more friendly Francesca rushed on, ‘And who is going to play Catherine Earnshaw to your Heathcliff, Victor?’
‘The role hasn’t been cast yet. Naturally every actress worth her salt wants it. But –’ He stopped mid-sentence and chuckled. ‘I’m hoping it’s going to be the young lady sitting right here.’ His eyes rested fondly on Katharine. ‘I’ve arranged a screen test for you. And in colour. You’re getting the whole enchilada, honey. And if it’s good I know my partners will go along with me, and give you the part.’
Katharine was not sure whether she was going to laugh or burst out crying. For a split second she was unable to say anything. She felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She pushed them back, said in a quavering voice, ‘Oh, Victor! Thank you! Thank you!’ Radiance flooded her face and those matchless eyes shone with excitement. She was thrilled, almost beside herself with happiness. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘By making a terrific test, honey.’
Francesca, who was now beginning to understand everything, was