Angel

Her main sketches of the costumes for Gavin were pinned on the long wall of the office, and now she walked over and stood looking at them, for a moment studying the designs intently, her head to one side. Then she nodded to herself.

Gavin was right, Kingmaker had been a very demanding film, not only because of its size, elaborateness and huge cast, but also because of the pomp and ceremony and other historical elements in the script, which she had had to take into consideration, and which had naturally influenced her designs. It had been quite a challenge. Nevertheless, she responded well to challenges; they seemed to bring out the best in her. And difficult and backbreaking though the work had been, she was gratified that she had had the opportunity to be part of a picture of such sweep, scope and magnitude.

Right from the beginning, when they had first gone into preproduction, she had been exhilarated about it, brimming with excitement and energy.

Her main focus had been on Gavin, who was cast in the leading role of Warwick. The Earl had been the most powerful man in England during the middle two decades of the fifteenth century. A Yorkshireman of Royal blood, descended from King Edward III, he was the premier Earl of England in his time, and one of the greatest magnates and warrior knights who had ever lived – truly the stuff of legend. It was Warwick who had put his cousin Edward Plantagenet on the throne of England during the civil war between the Royal Houses of York and Lancaster. Commonly known as the War of the Roses, so named because of the emblems of the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster, Warwick had been a major player in that war. He had, in the end, been responsible for defeating the Lancastrians in several bloody battles, and had handed the realm to Edward of York, the legitimate heir.

Because Warwick was the power behind the throne and the chief adviser to his nineteen-year-old protégé, King Edward IV, his contemporaries had dubbed him the Kingmaker. This name had stuck over five centuries, hence the title of their movie. The screenplay, by Oscar-winning screenwriter Vivienne Citrine, focused on Warwick in 1461, when he was in his thirty-third year and at the height of his powers, the action continuing for two more years, with the film ending in 1463.

Rosie’s main concern had been to create costumes for Gavin that were medieval in style, but which also suited him, flattered him, looked good on film, were comfortable to wear and move about in.

As always, her aim was to give the clothes genuine historical accuracy. It was her belief that costuming, like sets, must bring a period vividly to life on celluloid, and thus help to make the movie realistic and wholly believable. She was as renowned for her skill at doing this as she was for her immense talent, and it was one of the many secrets of her success as a theatrical designer. Rosalind Madigan’s costumes had long been noted for their unique sense of period, whether it was a period from the past or of the present, and she also made certain they delineated the rank, class and nationality of the characters in a film or a play.

Her research for Kingmaker had been so extensive she realized at one point that she had done far more than she usually did, and than was necessary. But this was because of Gavin. The film was his idea, and his own personal project. He was one of the executive producers, and had even raised the money to finance it. Hollywood had wanted no part of it, despite the fact that Gavin was as big a star as Costner, Stallone and Schwarzenegger, and at the top of the box-office charts. In fact, Gavin had faced the same kind of situation Kevin Costner had when that actor had tried to get the Hollywood studios interested in Dances with Wolves. None of them had wanted to commit to it, and Costner had gone out and done it all himself, had raised the money required with the help of Jake Ebert, an independent producer based in Europe.

The actual concept for Kingmaker had been entirely Gavin’s – his vision – and he had believed in it with such a fervour he had ignited everyone around him, filled them with his own brand of enthusiasm.

A history buff, and long intrigued by Warwick, he had been seized once more by the drama, excitement, achievement, glory and ultimate tragedy of the Earl’s life when reading yet another biography of him. His imagination fired, and filled with inspiration, he had selected a few key years, when Warwick’s star had been at its apex, and had developed his own story outline for the film. He had then hired Vivienne Citrine to write the screenplay. Together they had worked on it for over a year, until Gavin was satisfied it was as perfect as it could ever be, that it truly was a fine shooting script.

Rosie herself had been very taken with the project from its inception. Gavin had first discussed it with her when she had seen him in Beverly Hills late in 1988, and not unnaturally her excitement had known no bounds when he had finally managed to glue it all together last year.

Long before they had started preproduction in England, she had begun her research for the costumes, reading biographies of Warwick and Edward IV, as well as history books about England and France in the Middle Ages. She had studied the art and architecture of the period in order to have a total visual picture of the times, and once she was in London she had spent long hours in the historical costume departments of various museums.

When the assistant director, production designer, production manager, several other members of the unit and Gavin had left the studios to go scouting locations, she had gone with them.

They had first visited Middleham Castle on the Yorkshire moors, once the great Northern stronghold of Warwick, which still stood but had long been a desolated ruin, its broken towers and shattered chambers windswept and open to the elements. But Gavin had felt it was important to see the castle and the terrain where Warwick had grown up and had lived out a large portion of his life.

Together she and Gavin had walked through the vast empty space that had once been the Great Hall. It was roofless now, its walls crumbling into further decay. Under a sky of piercing blue, they had stepped across a stone-flagged floor partially grown-over with grass and with tiny spring wildflowers sprouting up between the cracks. Despite its tumbledown appearance it had been impressive and had captured her imagination, and Gavin’s also. Later they had driven over the sombre implacable moors where Warwick had fought some of his most decisive battles.

At the end of their trip they had travelled farther afield, had pushed on towards the East Coast. Gavin had wanted to visit York Minster, the magnificent Gothic cathedral in the ancient walled city of York. It was here that Warwick and Edward IV had once marched in soaring triumph and glory, moving across the plain of York on their caparisoned horses, at the head of their great armies, their silken armorial banners blowing in the wind, the two of them heroes to all of England – the valiant young King and the Kingmaker. To Rosie, this was one of the most colourful and effective ceremonial scenes in the script, and she had been excited about designing the costumes for it.

Between several more trips to Yorkshire, and many more hours spent cloistered in libraries and museums, she had eventually acquired enough knowledge to start all of her designs, confident that she knew more about medieval England than most people.

As it turned out, the only real problem Rosie encountered was the designing of the armour. Recalling the worry and anxiety of that now, she eyed the suit of armour standing in one corner of the room, and winced. She would never forget the terrible struggle she had had in creating the prototype.

There was one big battle scene in the script, which, despite the difficulty of shooting it and the costs involved, Gavin was determined to keep. And so she had had no alternative but to make a stab at designing the medieval armour plate.

In the end she had been able to overcome her many problems with it, but only because of Brian Ackland-Snow. Brian was their immensely talented production designer, another Oscar-winner – for the movie A Room with a View – who at the time had been in the process of bringing fifteenth-century England to life on the sound stages of Shepperton.

As far as Rosie was concerned, Brian was a genius, and she was well aware that she would be eternally in his debt. He had introduced her to a manufacturer of underwater diving suits who was able to copy her design for the suit of armour using a strong and rigid neoprene with a silver coating which cleverly simulated the iron used for armour in the Middle Ages. This synthetic rubber was light in weight and comfortable for the actors to wear, yet on film it looked exactly like the real thing.

Swinging around, Rosie walked over to the large table at the other end of the room, knowing she must assess the massive piles of research stacked there.

Immediately, she realized she would need as many as six large tea chests in which to pack everything. Apart from the books, sketches and photographs, there were swatches of specially-dyed fabrics, such as tweeds, wools and broadcloths; samples of suede and leather for boots, trousers, jerkins and doublets; pieces of fur, plus a vast array of velvets and silks. Baskets and trays held a fantasy collection of brilliant, glittering costume jewellery – brooches, rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, fancy buttons, belts, scabbards and gilded-metal crowns. All the stuff of pomp and ceremony and majesty needed for an historical movie of this nature.

What a production it has been, she thought almost wonderingly – costly, elaborate and complicated beyond anything they had ever imagined at the outset. And it had been so fraught at times. Tempers had flared, angry words had been exchanged, and there had been a few temperamental scenes, quite apart from the genuinely serious problems they had had to contend with: bad weather and illnesses, to mention only two, which had caused delays and spiralling costs. On the other hand, filming had never been anything but thrilling, that really was the only word to use, and it had turned out to be the most splendid production, the likes of which she had never before worked on. And perhaps never would again.

Whenever she had been able to, she had gone with Gavin to see the rushes – the footage shot the day before and processed overnight in the lab. Every scene she had watched in the studio screening room had taken her breath away. The ‘look’ was there, vivid and visually arresting; the unfolding drama was spellbinding; the acting superb.

Gavin was forever worried about the film; they all were, in one way or another. But just a short while ago, as the last scene was shot and the movie wrapped, she had known deep in her bones that they really did have a winner. A sure thing. She was convinced that Gavin had made a movie that was of the same quality, calibre and importance as The Lion in Winter, and that it would win a clutch of Oscars.

Eventually, she roused herself from her meanderings about her work and the film, realizing how much she had to accomplish in the next three days.

And so she went and sat down at her desk in front of the window and, pulling the phone towards her, she dialled. The number rang and rang until finally it was picked up, and a familiar girlish voice said, ‘Hello, Rosalind, sorry I took so long to answer. I was up on the ladder, putting your boxed files on the top shelf.’

‘How did you know it was me?’ Rosie asked, laughter echoing in her voice.

‘Don’t be so silly, Rosalind, nobody else phones me on this number, you know that.’

‘Only too true. I’d forgotten for a minute. Anyway, Yvonne, how are you?’

‘Fine, and so is everyone else. Collie and Lisette are out, though. Did you wish to speak to Collie?’

‘Well, yes, I did, but it’s okay, really it is. I was just touching base, and I wanted to tell you that I mailed two cheques last night. One each for you and Collie.’

‘Thanks, Rosalind.’

‘Listen, honey, I’m leaving for New York on Saturday and I –’

‘You told me you were flying on Friday when we spoke the other day!’ Yvonne exclaimed, her tone rising ever so slightly.

‘I’d planned to, but there’s a lot to pack up here, and so I’ve decided to take the plane on Saturday morning. Incidentally, I’ll be sending quite a few boxes over to you, so just pile them up there in a corner of my studio when they come. I’ll deal with them when I arrive.’

‘When will that be?’

Recognizing the sudden plaintive note in the young woman’s voice, and wishing to reassure her, Rosie said quickly, ‘December. I’ll be there in December. That’s not so far away.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘It’s not the same here when you’re away. And I miss you.’

‘I know, and I miss you, too. But I’ll be there soon.’ There was a moment’s hesitation on Rosie’s part, and then she said, ‘By the way, did Guy come back?’

‘Yes. But he’s not here. He went out with Collie and Lisette. And his father.’

This was so surprising to her, Rosie exclaimed, ‘Where have they gone?’

‘They went to see Kyra. It’s her birthday.’

‘Oh.’ Rosie paused momentarily, then clearing her throat she continued, ‘Give them my love, and lots of love to you, Yvonne. Thanks for looking after everything for me, I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘It’s nothing. I enjoy it, Rosalind.’

They said their goodbyes, and Rosie put the receiver back in the cradle, sat staring into the distance, her mind focused on Guy. How curious it was that he had gone with the others to see Kyra. It was so out of character. But then rarely, if ever, did she understand his motivations. He was a mystery to her; she supposed he always had been, really. There was one thing she was certain of, though. His scrupulous politeness to Kyra was merely a mask he donned in order to conceal his bitter loathing of her. He was jealous, of course. She had detected that unfortunate emotion in him long ago. Jealous of Kyra, and of his father’s friendship with the Russian woman and his deep affection for her.

Rosie sat back in her chair, glancing at the photograph of Guy, Lisette and Collie resting on the corner of the desk. She had taken it herself last summer, and there had been something so carefree and happy about that snap she had had it enlarged and framed. But their insouciant smiles hid turmoil and pain and unhappiness – at least these were the feelings lurking in Guy and Collie, she knew that far too well. Lisette was still too young, at the age of five, to have any knowledge of such painful things. Guy was a problem, there was no longer much doubt left in her mind about that. Not only to his father, but to everyone else, most especially her and Collie, whom he blamed, unreasonably, for most of his troubles.

‘Out of sync,’ was how Gavin described him. He had never liked Guy, and was fond of saying that he should have lived in the 1960s in Haight-Ashbury. ‘That bum’s an ageing hippie, out of place, and way out of his time frame,’ he had said to her only the other day, an acerbic edge to his voice. There was a grain of truth in Gavin’s remark; more than a grain, actually. But there was nothing she could do to change Guy; sometimes she thought he was on the road to self-destruction.

However, whatever Gavin said about Guy and the others, they were her family, and she was very involved with them, cared about them. She even cared about Guy to a certain extent, even though he did not deserve it.

A sigh of dismay ran through her. He was not very good at reading character, had no insight into people, otherwise he would know better how to deal with his father and Collie and her. His irresponsibility had seemed only to grow as he himself had grown older; she had always known he was weak, but lately she had come to believe he was the most selfish human being she had ever met.

Now her eyes strayed to the other photograph on the desk. It was identical to the one which sat on Gavin’s dressing table; even the Tiffany frame was the same. Nell had given each of them one for Christmas years ago and had kept one for herself.

Leaning forward, she peered at Nell’s face. How fragile she looked with those finely-chiselled features, shining hair the colour of silver-gilt, and dreamy eyes as blue as a perfect summer sky. Petite, small-boned and delicately made though Nell was, she was strong. The strongest of all of them is how it seemed to her sometimes. Guts of steel and an iron will, that’s how she characterized her Little Nell these days.

Smiling out of the picture was their beautiful Sunny, their Golden Girl. She was as fair-haired as Nell, but hers was a golden blonde, and she was taller and more solid in build, very good-looking in a Slavic kind of way: slanted, almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones, a square jawline. Sunny was robust and healthy, her pink and white skin fresh and dewy, the unique amber-coloured eyes flecked with gold - and full of life. Her appearance signalled that she probably came from peasant stock, and this was true, she did; her parents were first-generation Americans of Polish extraction. Poor Sunny. She had turned out to be made of spun glass and just as fragile and as easily shattered. Yes, poor Sunny indeed. Living out her days in that awful place, her mind gone somewhere far away, far away from all of them, and from reality.

Kevin stood next to Gavin. Darkly handsome, black Irish eyes brimming with laughter and mischief. In his own way he was lost to them too, living his life in the belly of the beast, living on the edge, forever running from danger zone to danger zone, caught up in a horrific netherworld that one day might cost him his life.

And there was Mikey, towering over Kevin and Sunny in the picture, another victim of the era they had grown up in, another one they had lost. In this photograph his sandy hair looked almost golden, was like a shining halo around his face; she had always thought Mikey had the nicest of faces, pleasant and friendly. He was handsome in a reserved, quiet way, and he dwarfed them all with his height and broad shoulders.

They did not know where Mikey was. He had disappeared, literally vanished, and try though he might, Gavin had been unable to come up with any valid information about him, or a hint of his whereabouts. Neither had the private detectives Gavin had hired.

She and Nell and Gavin were the three who had turned out all right, who had made it to the top, had fulfilled their youthful dreams: although her brother Kevin might disagree that they were the only ones who had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Kevin Madigan had also made it – in his own way. Certainly he was doing what he wanted, and was doing it well, she supposed.

Rosalind reached for the picture and held it up in front of her eyes, studying their faces intently for the longest moment. They had all been so close once, loving and caring, their lives intertwined.

After a while her gaze settled on Gavin’s image. How famous it was these days – that bony face, all planes and angles, with its high, sharp cheekbones and deeply clefted chin. His eyes, of a clear grey-blue the colour of slate, were wide apart but deeply set. Cool eyes, that was how she thought of them. Long-lashed, they gazed out from under black brows that matched his hair. Appraising, honest and unflinching, they were the kind of eyes the crafty did not care to meet. His mouth was sensitive, tender almost, and the curious, crooked smile she knew so well was now as famous as his face: his trademark, in a sense.

Women the world over had fallen in love with that face, possibly because it was a poetic face, one which seemed touched by heartbreak and suffering, a romantic face. And medieval, perhaps? She pondered that, asked herself if she was getting the actor confused with his most recent role, and she knew she was not. Gavin did have the type of face so often depicted in fifteenth-century paintings – old-world, European. That was no wonder, since he was Scottish on his mother’s side, hence his first name, and Italian on his father’s, his surname having been Ambrosino until he had altered it ever so slightly for the stage.

Despite his fame, fortune and success, Gavin Ambrose had not changed much deep down inside, that she knew. In countless ways he was still the same young man he had been when they had first met in 1977. She had been seventeen and so had her friend Nell; Gavin had been nineteen, Kevin and Mikey both twenty, and Sunny had been the youngest at sixteen. They had come together as a group for the first time one balmy September evening during the Feast of San Genarro, the Italian festival that took place on Mulberry Street in Little Italy in lower Manhattan.

So very long ago, she thought. Fourteen years, to be exact. In the intervening years so much had happened to them all…

Loud knocking startled Rosie, brought her up straighter in the chair, and before she could say a word the door flew open to admit one of her assistants, Fanny Leyland.

‘My apologies for not being here when we wrapped!’ Fanny exclaimed breezily, flying up to the desk in a flurry of rustling skirts. Small, slender and neat as a new pin, she was smart, talented, a bundle of nervous energy and a genuine workaholic.

Fanny was devoted to Rosalind, and with an apologetic smile she continued, ‘I’m afraid I got delayed by a difficult actress. You haven’t needed me for anything, have you?’ She hovered in front of the desk looking slightly worried.

‘No, not really, although tomorrow I will,’ Rosie answered. ‘We’re going to have to buckle down and get my research into boxes.’

‘No problem. Val and I will pitch in like the devoted slaves we are, and we’ll have you all packed up by the end of the day.’

I’m not so sure about that,’ Rosie responded, and began to laugh. ‘I’m certainly going to miss your smiling face, your boundless energy and cheerfulness, Fanny. Not to mention that efficiency of yours. I’ve grown very used to you, and let’s face it, you’ve spoiled me.’

‘No, I haven’t, and I’ll miss you, too. Think of me, Rosalind, please, when you do another movie or a play. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail…wherever it is you are. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to work with you again!’

Rosie smiled at the younger woman, and nodded her assent. ‘Of course you can work on another project with me, Fanny. And Val as well. I’d love that. You two are the best assistants I’ve ever had.’

‘Oh gosh, thanks, that’s wonderful to know! Just super! By the way, the reason why I was not loitering around here, waiting to be of service to you when you came back from the set, was Margaret Ellsworth.’ Fanny pulled a face and continued, ‘She’s absolutely determined to get that gown, the one she wore for the Coronation scene in Westminster Abbey. She’s ready to kill for it.’

Puzzled, Rosie frowned. ‘Why would anyone want a medieval dress, for God’s sake? It’s not even all that beautiful…certainly it was never a particular favourite of mine, even if I did design it.’

‘Actresses are actresses, a breed apart. Well, at least the difficult ones are,’ Fanny muttered, and then she flashed Rosie a bright smile. ‘But of course there are those who are very special, and they far outnumber the miserable ones like the Maggie Ellsworths of this world.’

‘They do indeed,’ Rosie agreed. ‘Anyway, you’d better take this matter up with Aida. If Production wants to sell the dress, or give it to Maggie, it’s fine with me. I mean, I don’t own it, you know, nor do I want it for my archive. Why don’t you go and see Aida now? Sort the matter out with her, and then come back as quickly as possible. I’d like to start cataloguing the sketches this afternoon.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back in a minute, and Val’s on her way here from Wardrobe right now, so don’t worry, the three of us will make light work of all this.’ So saying, Fanny swung around and darted out, carelessly slamming the door behind her so hard the light fixture rattled.

Smiling to herself, Rosie reached for the phone, shaking her head as she did. Fanny was such a character; she really was going to miss her and Val. Opening her address book, she found the number of the Broadway producers who had contacted her about their new musical, and then glanced at her watch.