Tangled Tapestry. Anne Mather

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in England, any friendships she had made were quickly snuffed by Aunt Julia, and Debra had been loath to bring friends to her aunt’s house after Aunt Julia had been rude to a fellow teacher from the school.

      She had never had a regular boy-friend. She had occasionally attended lectures together with fellow teachers, some of whom happened to be men, but this was all.

      But here, in America, everything was different. There was no Aunt Julia to prevent her making friends, and only the habits of years curtailed her social activities. She was still very shy, and it was difficult to respond naturally to the natural exuberance of her colleagues. And yet she knew that given more time, it would come, if only she had the chance.

      She sighed, and lit a cigarette. She didn’t smoke a lot, not at all at home, but she enjoyed a cigarette with a cup of coffee at this hour of the evening. She wondered idly what her life would have been like if her parents had lived. She didn’t know much about them. As long as she could remember there had only been Aunt Julia, and Valleydown. She could vaguely remember living somewhere else, somewhere nearer London, but always with Aunt Julia. Whenever she questioned her aunt about her parents she received no satisfactory answers. Julia seemed to think the fact that they had both died in a train crash was sufficient to tell a lonely child, not understanding that Debra would have cherished every memory she could relate with avid attention.

      Debra shrugged these thoughts away as being disloyal. After all, had it not been for Aunt Julia she would have been in a children’s home, and Aunt Julia had described them in terrible terms, whenever she wanted to frighten Debra into submission for some misdoing.

      Footsteps on the stairs outside the apartment, loud and frequent, heralded the arrival home of the three boys who lived in the flat above her. A few minutes later the throbbing beat of a current pop song came clearly from above, and Debra sighed again, and standing up walked back into the tiny alcove which served as a kitchen, and replaced her cup on the draining board.

      It was only a little after seven-thirty, and the evening stretched ahead of her. She wondered what she would do. She didn’t much like to go out alone, and she had made no arrangements to meet any of the girls from the High School this evening. She supposed she could go to the movies, but on an evening like this the prospect did not appeal.

      Suddenly the telephone rang shrilly, and Debra almost jumped out of her skin. She was still not used to the ubiquitous presence of the telephone, and in consequence usually felt her nerves jangle when its bell broke the quietude of her thoughts. Stubbing out her cigarette, and wondering who could be calling her, she lifted the receiver.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Debra Warren speaking.’

      An unfamiliar male voice came to her ears. ‘Miss Warren? Good? I understand you took a party of teenagers to the Omega studios a couple of days ago.’

      Debra pressed a hand to her stomach. She had still not quite recovered from that, to her, unpleasant sensation of being thoroughly appraised, and although she had thrust it to the back of her mind, at the man’s words it all came flooding back.

      ‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘But I must warn you that I have absolutely no interest in any further screen tests or auditions, or anything like that. I’m a schoolteacher, and I have no desire to be a film star!’

      The man made a sound which seemed like suppressed humour, and Debra gripped the receiver tightly.

      ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Whoever you are, get off this line!’

      ‘Hold on, hold on,’ he said hastily. ‘Look, my name is Dominic McGill, and I want to see you.’

      Dominic McGill! Debra’s brain buzzed chaotically. Dominic McGill! She knew that name! Who was he? A film star? No! Her brain rejected this. Where had she seen his name? Recently! She ran a hand over her forehead puzzlingly.

      ‘I’m a playwright,’ he supplied, as though reading her thoughts.

      Of course! Debra’s memory clicked. Dominic McGill, the playwright! That was where she had seen his name—on the script that Emmet Morley had given her to read. Dominic McGill had written ‘Avenida’, the play that when filmed had given Elizabeth Steel her most successful role!

      Swallowing hard, she said: ‘I really can’t imagine why you’re ringing me, Mr. McGill.’

      ‘Can’t you? Well, maybe not, at that. Anyway, that changes nothing. I still want to see you.’

      ‘And I’ve explained I want nothing more to do with that screen test,’ said Debra quickly. ‘Look, understand me, Mr. McGill, I’m not some stage-struck teenager. Whatever you have to say doesn’t interest me one bit!’

      ‘Is that so?’ He sounded rather less amicable now. ‘Now, you look, Miss Warren! I have no intention of discussing this matter over the phone. When will it be convenient for me to come round?’

      ‘To come round?’ echoed Debra in amazement. ‘Surely I can’t make it any plainer. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it!’

      ‘Miss Warren,’ his voice was cold now, and for some reason she shivered, ‘I mean to see you. Now tell me when, like a good girl!’

      ‘Don’t patronise me,’ she said angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake! There ought to be laws against this sort of thing. I’m going to hang up now, Mr. McGill. Please don’t ring again!’

      And she did so, slamming down the phone with a sense of satisfaction, a malicious kind of satisfaction which she didn’t know she possessed.

      Then she lit herself another cigarette, and switched on her television, turning the volume up high to drown the wailing tones of the guitars in the flat above. She was annoyed to find herself trembling, and she shook herself violently. Why had she this awful feeling of apprehension suddenly? Just because a producer had taken a fancy to her and had her tested, it didn’t mean that she was no longer in control of her own destiny. And Dominic McGill! She shrugged bewilderedly. Imagine receiving a call from Dominic McGill! It was all quite fantastic, and quite crazy.

      She crossed to the mirror and studied her face seriously for a minute. What was there there to attract such interest? She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Since arriving in San Francisco she had seen dozens of beautiful girls, with much more clothes sense than she had. Besides, surely the fact that she herself wasn’t interested would be enough to put them off.

      She grimaced at herself mockingly, and then picking up the book she was reading, she subsided on to the couch, completely ignoring the television.

      About an hour later her doorbell rang. Frowning, she put down her book and glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Immediately she felt nervous. Who could be calling on her at this hour? She crossed to the door, and without unfastening the bolt, she opened it to the width of the chain catch.

      A man stood outside. He was tall, very lean and tanned, as though he spent long hours in the open air, with hair of that particular shade of ash-blond as to appear silvery in some lights. He was not handsome; his features were hard and craggy, but he had very light blue eyes, fringed by dark lashes, that seemed to penetrate Debra with their intensity, and she felt a shaky feeling assail her lower limbs.

      ‘Y … yes?’ she said, keeping half behind the door.

      ‘I’m Dominic McGill,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Can I come in?’

      Debra’s СКАЧАТЬ