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  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or .unknown to the Author, and all the incidents

  are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the

  publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by uiay of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. ·

  First published 1981 Australian copyright 1981 Philippine copyright 1981

  This Edition 1981 © Susanna Firth 1981

  ISBN 0263 73491 9

  Set in Monophoto Times 10 on 11 pt.

  Printed in,Australia by The Dominion Press, Melbourne

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE had made a terrible mistake. She should never have allowed them to talk her into coming here tonight. It had been a kind of madness in her to give in against her own better judgment, and Vanessa recognised and cursed her own folly roughly ten seconds after she crossed the threshold of the vast, brightly lit room.

  'Look, love, it's see and be seen in this business, and you know that as well as I do,' Jonathan had told her firmly. 'No one's going to beat a path to your door with the offer of fame and fortune if you spend all your time skulking inside like a frightened rabbit.'

  'Maybe I don't want fame and fortune,' she defied him.

  'Then you're in the wrong trade, darling.' He gave an exasperated sigh and ran a weary hand through his thinning hair. 'Don't try and sell me that one. Save it for the gossip columns where it might be a good gimmick; the shy, retiring actress who never wanted to be a star. Are you telling me that you never dreamt of your name in lights? You're a little liar if you are.'

  Vanessa shrugged. 'No, I'm telling you I don't like the pitfalls that come with it.'

  'And going to the party of the year is one of them, I suppose?' he said sarcastically. 'Look, it's my job to sell you to the right people, and they'll all be there tonight. But how do you expect me to help you if you won't play along with me?'

  'Do go, Van.' Her sister Jill added her voice to theargument. 'You've done nothing but mope round the flat for over a month now. It'll do you good to get out and enjoy yourself for a change.'

  Enjoy herself! Vanessa's mouth curled in a bitter smile. If only Jill knew what torture it was, standing here with a plastic grin on her face, pretending that she was having a lovely time. But, in the face of that double attack, it had seemed easier to give in than to argue and hold out further. Goodness knows, she had caused everyone enough trouble recently. It had seemed tactful to try to make some kind of amends.

  If only someone had thought to warn her that the first person she would recognise in that blurred mass of laughing, chattering faces would be the man whom she would have given the world, if she possessed it, to avoid. She should have realised, of course. She might have known that he would be here at what purported to be the rave-up of the year, thrown by Globe Television to celebrate the launch of their prestigious new drama series on the life and loves of Lord Byron. The famous and the would-be famous had turned up in force: giddy starlets, serious actresses, writers, influential directors, big names of yesteryear and up-and-coming talents. Twenty-five storeys high, with its breathtaking views of the London skyline, the company's penthouse suite was packed to the doors with anyone who could beg, borrow or steal an invitation.

  Not that Max Anderson would need to stoop to such tricks to gain admittance. He was probably number one on the guest list when the powers-that-be had drawn it up, thought Vanessa sourly. Here as of right and all too aware of the fact. There was casual confidence in the tilt of his dark head, arrogant ease in the way he stood there as if he owned the place. He was unmistakable, even in that crush, and, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she reacted sharply, stepping back so quickly that

  she almost knocked over her escort in the process. His hand came out to steady her.

  'Vanessa?'

  'Jonathan, he's here!' It was an agonised whisper,

  'Who's that?' he asked absently, his mind only half on her as he scanned the room for friends of his. A leading theatrical agent, professional interest rather than pure pleasure dictated that he should attend parties like this one and he was already searching the crowd for the faces of those who had been of use to him in the past or who might owe him a favour in the future. At a party like this, with anyone who was anyone attending, there would be plenty of opportunities around.

  'Max Anderson. He's over there,' she told him, and jerked her head towards the other side of the room.

  She had his full attention now. 'Yes, so it is.' He stared across. 'Trust him to collar the best-looking girl in the room! Present company excepted, of course.'

  Vanessa ignored the compliment. It was Jonathan's stock-in-trade to reassure his clients when he felt they needed it. 'You didn't tell me he'd be here.'

  'I didn't know. They didn't think to show me the guest list for my approval. But I suppose it was to be expected.'

  'Why didn't you warn me?''

  'You wouldn't have come if I had,' he pointed out, patiently enough. 'And it's na reason for you to be contemplating instant flight now.'

  'I wasn't,' she said, and could have bitten her tongue out. That had been her first impulse, and what was the point of denying it?

  'Good.' Jonathan's voice was bland. He knew her all too well. 'There's no need to worry, you know. Half the people here will be angling for an introduction to him, so he'll have his work cut out dealing with them. Youshould be quite safe if you want to practise avoidance tactics.'

  'If I want to!' Vanessa laughed bitterly. 'What would you do in my position? Should I make a beeline for the man and thank him politely for ruining my life?'

  She spoke loudly, uncaring of who heard her, and Jonathan frowned his disapproval. 'Hardly that. But you don't have to broadcast your feelings to the entire party. It's neither the time nor the place for it.'

  'Forgive me if I don't agree with you. From where I'm standing it seems exactly that,' she snapped at him. 'Don't expect me to gush over him the way everyone else will obviously do. I'd rather stick a knife in his heart! If he has one, which I very much doubt. And I've a good mind to go over and tell him as much!'

  'You'll do no such thing! Look, Vanessa, calm down, will you? You're building this up beyond all proportion. He was only doing his job, after all.'

  'And what about my job? I've got a living to earn too, you know.'

  'I'm glad you've remembered. It's about time you pulled yourself together and stopped this brooding over Max Anderson. It won't get you anywhere except the scrap heap. He eats little girls like you for breakfast.' 'So I've heard. But——'

  'But nothing. If you want to commit professional suicide, go ahead. I won't stop you.' Jonathan sounded annoyed. Usually the mildest pf men and all too used to displays of artistic temperament, he had argued round this issue too many timss in the last few weeks. 'But I'm telling you to forget it. The future is what counts. Do you think Glenda Jackson got to the top by brooding over her failures?' 'Maybe she didn't have any,' Vanessa countered

  mutinously.

  'Of course she did.' He gave her an irritable look. 'Sometimes, darling, I wonder if you're too soft for this business. It's a tough slog to the top, you know, and what you've suffered so far is a fle
abite compared with the sort of thing you might have to face in the future.'

  She wasn't being fair to Jonathan and she knew it. It wasn't his fault, after all. Vanessa took a grip on herself and admitted it.

  'I've been a pain in the neck recently, haven't I?' she asked him.

  'Well——' he began cautiously.

  'I'm sorry. I'll-do my best for you, whatever it takes.' She pulled a wry face. 'But being polite to Max Anderson is beyond even my acting ability for at least the next fifty .years, so don't ask the impossible, will you?'

  Wisely he did not argue the point, but instead took her hand and squeezed it encouragingly. 'Good girl! I've a feeling you may be lucky tonight.'

  'You always say that.'

  'And sometimes I'm proved right. Come along in, we've wasted enough time already.' He propelled her firmly in the direction of the bar. 'Champagne?'

  'Why not?' She accepted recklessly. 'Although goodness knows what I've got to celebrate.'

  'That's defeatist talk,' said Jonathan, thrusting a glass into her hand. 'Go in and win, girl. Or at least go down fighting.' ,

  And she felt as if she was doing just that at the moment, as she stood there with the barely touched champagne in her hand, wishing desperately that she was a million miles away. Above the chatter and laughter of hundreds of people determined to have a good time on someone else's expense account the beat of the latest pop hit pulsed urgently. Fashionable couples gyrated as the mood took them in the area that hadbeen cleared for dancing, while strobe lights flashed with manic abandon. It was a wonderful party and the whole giddy throng was having a tremendous time.

  Everyone except me, reflected Vanessa dismally. She had always hated the trivial, tinselly side of her chosen profession, the fake bonhomie and insincere praise that often passed for genuine praise and was dished out ^n occasions such as these. As far as possible she had avoided them.

  Not that a young, struggling actress like herself got invited to such grand affairs as this every day of the week. Social gatherings in the world of provincial theatre that she had inhabited until recently were limited to the occasional wine and cheese party to boost funds and foster good relations with the local community. Then the cast of the play mingled uneasily with the town's dignitaries and heaved sighs of relief when they were allowed to escape.

  Of course there had been the more raucous times after first nights, celebrations of the 'bring your own bottle' variety. They had been fun, those parties, spontaneous outpourings of relief after the evening of shared tension that they had suffered, the climax to weeks of hard slog at rehearsal. They had let their hair down and enjoyed themselves. THey were young and irresponsible and nobody blamed them for it.

  But this party was different. Vanessa did not know a soul here that she could count as a friend, although she had recognised quite a few famous faces. She had never felt quite so alone and isolated as among this great mass of people.

  Not that anyone glancing at her would have guessed what she was going through. There was that compensation at least. Her drama school training had come to her rescue and outwardly she showed every indication of enjoying herself. It would have taken a very percep-

  tive observer to note the strained look about her eyes and the total absence of spontaneity about her smile. And no one here cared enough for that.

  'I want you to look stunning tonight, darling,' Jonathan had commanded her. 'After all, I've got my reputation to think about. I can't have people saying that my taste in women is less than impeccable. I want every man at the party envying me.'

  He was trying to boost her morale, and she smiled, grateful to him for making the effort. She bit back the instinctive question, 'Are you sure you want to be seen out on the town with a failure1 like me?' and had laughed dutifully instead, promising not to disappoint him. As far as she knew Jonathan's eyes had never strayed from his plump, homely wife, whatever temptations had been offered him, but he liked to assume the air of a man of the world for the benefit of his clients and contacts on occasions.

  She had elected to wear the most daring outfit in her wardrobe; a silky midnight blue jersey dress which matched her eyes and clung to every curve of her slender body. At the front it was deceptively simple, demure, with a high neck, but it plunged past the waist at the back, leaving exposed a tantalising expanse of creamy skin. With her jet-dark hair secured in a severe chignon that emphasised the beautiful bone structure of her face, she looked every inch a cool, sophisticated woman of the world.

  'Classy.' Jonathan's voice held approval when he saw her in it. He realised how fragile that elegant veneer was, of course. But it had not kept him by her side. He knew how she felt about attending this party, about socialising at all just now. It had taken him long enough to persuade her to come with him. He had promised faithfully to look after her. 'Don't worry, love. I'll be holding your hand all evening.'

  Damn Jonathan! When did he ever keep his word once he had manipulated you into doing exactly what suited his purposes for you? She should have known that it was all flannel on his part. Scarcely five minutes after they had arrived and he had done his duty by her in securing a drink for her, he had deserted her with a muttered excuse and a command that she should circulate to go to an attractive blonde who was holding court on the other side of the room. Vanessa recognised her as Charlotte Carr, whose short but glittering career in films and television she had followed with envy. She had a leading role in the Byron series and she was surrounded by people eager to congratulate her. As her agent Jonathan bathed in reflected glory at her side. And rightly so, for he was the man whose efforts on her behalf, combined with her own talent, had secured her the sought-after part. She was talking animatedly to him with a pretty air of deference that fooled nobody, least of all Jonathan, into thinking that she was modestly diffident about her success.

  'Damn Jonathan!' Vanessa muttered the words aloud this time, letting her icy control slip for a second. Still, she supposed she could hardly blame him. Success was self-generating. No one wanted to be associated with a failure and, after the way she had let him down, it was good of him even to invite her here tonight. He could have taken any one of his successful clients rather than the newest girl on his books who had repaid his hard work in getting her a West End part by fouling up the whole thing.

  He had picked her out when he had seen her working in a dreary Midlands repertory theatre that he had chanced to visit on the lookout for new talent. He had promised to be in touch and she had dismissed that as pie in the sky, aware of how easily such promises were

  broken. But Jonathan had kept his word, summoning Vanessa to London to audition for a new play.

  'It's got all the right ingredients for success,' he explained to her, when she visited his small office near Shaftesbury Avenue, the heart of London's theatreland. 'If I'd tried, I couldn't have come up with a more perfect vehicle for your West End debut. The cast reads like Who's Who in the Theatre and the guy who wrote it has four other smash hits in town at the moment, all with sell-out audiences. If you get it, you're made, my girl.'

  "If I get it,' Vanessa warned him, trying to strike a cautious note although everything inside her was blazing with optimism and she was already working out how to break the news to her sister Jill that she had finally made it to the big time. 'Don't expect miracles, will you?'

  'You'll get it,' he told her confidently, the shrewd grey eyes taking in her excitement. 'You're good. But surely you know that?'

  She disclaimed, laughing as she did so. 'Self-praise is no recommendation, Mr West.'

  'Make it Jonathan—everyone else does. And remember, in this business modesty doesn't pay the rent. You should have discovered that by now. It's a tough profession. You've got to sell yourself all the time to the right people. Don't ever expect anyone else to sing your praises. They'd rather cut your throat.'

  'Even a good agent like yourself?' she queried, half flattering, half serious.

  'Especially a good agent like myself. I've a
hundred good actresses on my books and I get my cut whichever one of them gets the part,' he said. 'Remember that, Vanessa, and you won't go wrong. A hundred actresses for every part that comes along and ninety-nine of themare prepared to tell every lie in the book about themselves so that they can clinch that part. It's the law of the jungle and, if you want to survive, don't ever forget it.'

  'I won't,' she told him obediently. Til do my best for you, Jonathan.'

  And she had, defeating fifty other girls short-listed for the part. How she had revelled in it all! She was young, ridiculously young at twenty-two, to be starring in such an important play, and suddenly the world was her oyster. With her dark, slightly exotic looks and her naive willingness to talk about herself and her career to any journalist who cared to take an interest in her, she was attractive enough fodder for the gossip columns. One of the last features on her before the play had opened had been a spread in one of the colour supplements. It had included a charming photograph of her, carefully posed by a'flowering cherry tree in full bloom, the pale blossoms making an enchanting frame for her. 'Vanessa Herbert, the theatre's newest star, relaxes between rehearsals for her latest play, Pontoon.' The eyes that stared out of the picture were careless, laughingly aware of their owner's self-importance. She had learned Jonathan's lesson of never under-valuing herself all too well by that stage.

  'Stupid fool!' Vanessa categorised herself, closing her eyes in sudden pain at the memory. She had been an idiot to accept as truth the flattery heaped on her, to believe the bright promises that they had all made concerning her future. Yet the play that everyone said could not fail had been a resounding flop. And she blamed herself for that almost as much as she blamed the man who had noticed her inadequacy and had blazoned it forth to the world, branding her publicly as totally lacking in talent of any kind. The other reviewers were reasonably kind, making

  light of her inexperience and sheer panic on the first night when she had given the impression that she was all kinds of fool by actually forgetting her lines. Some writers had tactfully ignored her performance and praised her looks.