and had apparently been groomed to go anywhere, meet anyone, and at any time; there was no doubt in his mind that she would conduct herself with great aplomb and lots of charm. She was unusually engaging.
The whistling of the kettle broke into his thoughts, and he made a move to get up, but M shushed him down, exclaiming, ‘No, no, no! I’ll do it. Do you have a brown teapot?’
‘I’m afraid not, love, only my mother’s antique silver pot.’
‘Then I’ll have to buy you one.’
‘Thank you. I accept,’ he said, smiling across at her. Suddenly he was no longer hungry, had lost interest in food. What he wanted was to take her to bed and slowly and tenderly make passionate love to her.
‘You’ve got a funny look on your face,’ M said as she carried over the teapot and a jug of milk, peering at him as she put them down on the table.
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugged, laughed and said, ‘You were sort of ogling me, I guess.’ And she laughed again and walked away, murmuring, ‘Perhaps “leering” would be a better word.’
He made no response, amazed at her keen powers of observation. I’m going to have to watch myself when I’m around her, he thought. I’d better put on my actor’s mask, and prepare to dissimulate.
Lunch in the kitchen had been a splendid success as far as Larry was concerned – warm, cosy and intimate, and he was loath to break this unique mood by going out to the movies. He wanted it to continue, wanted to know more about her, to get even closer to her.
Staring across the table at M, he said, ‘Listen, why don’t we watch a film here? We have a small screening room in the back that my father created. It’s simple but comfortable with a big screen, and we have loads of films to choose from.’
‘Oh, Larry, I’d love that!’ M exclaimed, beaming at him. ‘We could watch you in Hamlet. That would be brilliant. I loved you in the movie as much as I did on the stage.’
‘Oh, no,’ he answered, shaking his head with some vehemence, grimacing. ‘I have no desire to stare at myself acting. Actually, I rarely ever do that. I only ever look at the rushes – the film of the day’s shoot. However, you can gape at my siblings doing their stuff, if you wish, and my parents, but not me. Listen, I’ve a better idea. Give me the title of one of your favourites – you can be certain it’s here if it’s a big movie.’
‘Well, there’re a lot I love, so wait, just let me think for a moment. Oh, I know one that’s really special to me. Do you have Julia? Jane Fonda plays Lillian Hellman in it, and Vanessa Redgrave is Julia.’
‘I know it well. It’s a Fred Zinnemann film, and one of my favourites, too,’ Larry told her.
‘I read something once about Zinnemann. A journalist asked him what it was like directing Vanessa Redgrave, and he said, “Driving a Rolls-Royce”. Wasn’t that cool?’
Larry smiled at her. ‘He also said something that was most astute … “the camera’s got to love you”, and oh, boy, was he spot on about that … Come on then, let’s go and look for Julia. I’m pretty sure we have it …’ Larry paused, frowning, obviously listening, his head tilted, and then said, ‘Do you have a mobile in your bag? I can hear one ringing somewhere and it’s not mine.’
‘Oh, God, yes!’ M jumped up, ran out into the entrance hall, where she had left her red Kelly and knitted coat on a chair. Rummaging in the bag, she grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. ‘Hello?’
The voice at the other end was faint, faraway, and she could hardly hear it. ‘Is that you, M?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘Caresse.’
‘Oh, Caresse, hi! Have you heard when Frankie’s coming back? Is that why you’re calling me?’
There was a sudden sound of sobbing at the other end, and then Caresse finally said in a mumble, ‘Oh, M, it’s terrible, I don’t know what I’m going to do …’
The voice disappeared and M shouted into the phone, ‘Caresse, I can’t hear you!’
‘Frankie’s … dead!’
‘Oh, my God, no! Oh God, what happened?’ M’s voice wobbled, and she sat down heavily in the hall chair and endeavoured to steady herself. Tears sprang into her eyes. She could hardly believe what Caresse was saying.
‘He was in a car crash. In France. On something called grancornish.’ Caresse’s voice faded for a moment or two and then she started to sob. Almost immediately static and sizzle took over.
‘Caresse, are you still there?’ M asked, pressing her ear to the mobile.
‘Yes.’ Caresse’s voice was back once more on the line.
‘Where are you, Caresse? Tell me where you are.’
‘At Frankie’s. At the studio.’
‘Stay there. I’m coming over. Now.’
Larry had not failed to hear the distressed tone in M’s voice, and he had rushed out of the kitchen. The moment he had seen the dismay on her face, he knew something bad had happened, and he stood in the doorway, staring across at her, filled with concern.
Once she finished the call, he went over to her. She was unusually pale and there was a stricken expression in her eyes.
M got up out of the chair. She said, ‘That was Caresse, Frankie Farantino’s receptionist, and she’s had bad news …’ Her voice faltered. ‘He’s been killed in an accident … Frankie’s dead.’
‘Oh, M, how dreadful,’ Larry responded, his voice quiet, sympathetic. ‘I’m so sorry. Where did it happen?’
‘He was in the south of France. Caresse said it was on “grancornish” but I’m sure she was mispronouncing Grande Corniche.’
‘Yes, she must have meant that,’ Larry agreed. ‘I know that road, it’s treacherous, very dangerous to drive on – and especially so if someone doesn’t know it well.’
M was obviously extremely distressed, and Larry put his arms around her, wanting to comfort her as best he could.
She clung to him, but after a few minutes she pulled away and straightened up. Looking up at him, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Very sorry.’
‘Don’t be so silly, M, I know how upset you are, and I don’t blame you, it’s tragic, a terrible shock. Listen, I heard you tell Caresse you were going to go and see her. I think I should come with you, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, Larry. Please.’
It was a nice day and there was a lot of traffic going downtown, but half an hour later M and Larry were ringing the bell of Frank Farantino’s photography studio in the Meatpacking District.
The huge, nail-studded black door was opened almost immediately. Standing there was a tall, thin young man who looked about seventeen, perhaps eighteen. He had a shock of brown curly hair, a saturnine face and hazel eyes that looked sorrowful and somewhat teary.
At once M noticed the strong resemblance he bore to Frankie and, stretching out her hand, she said, ‘Hello, I’m M, and this is my friend Laurence Vaughan. Caresse is expecting us.’
The young man shook their hands, saying as he did, ‘I’m Frankie’s son, Alex. Please come in, Caresse is waiting for you.’
‘We were so upset when we heard about your father’s accident, such a tragedy.’ M touched the boy’s arm lightly, added softly in a warm, caring voice, ‘I’m very sorry, Alex. It was so