aurence Vaughan’s face was wreathed in smiles as he opened the door, greeted M, and added, ‘I just knew you’d be punctual, and thank God you are! I couldn’t wait to see you.’

She smiled back at him. ‘I know what you mean…and good morning, Larry.’

Taking hold of her hand, he brought her into the front hall of the apartment swiftly, drew her into his arms and closed the door with his foot, all of these movements executed with a smooth and agile fluidity.

He held her close, kissing her on the cheek, taking in the perfume of her—lilies of the valley, he decided—and the fresh lemony tang of her newly washed hair. She was wearing it loose today and it fell around her face like a sleek black veil.

A crooked smile lurked around his mouth. ‘You are beautiful, M, simply perfect.’ His eyes narrowed slightly, held a mischievous glint as he finished. ‘And, just imagine, you’re not even half an Audrey today. You’re just M, and that’s good enough for me.’

‘I’m glad you like me.’

‘You bet I do.’ Taking hold of her arm he led her into the living room, walking her through to the library. ‘This is my favourite room,’ he explained, and immediately took her over to the bay window. ‘Just look at this view, isn’t it great?’

‘It’s fantastic, I feel as if I’m on a ship,’ M responded, looking up at him. She was wearing flat shoes today, which made her a couple of inches shorter than Larry, who was six feet tall. She was five-ten in her stocking feet. We’re a perfect fit, she thought, most probably in every way. I hope we are.

‘You really ought to see the view at night, then you’ll realize how spectacular it actually is,’ Larry told her. ‘How about staying for dinner?’

M couldn’t help laughing. ‘We haven’t even had lunch yet. But yes, you’re right, I shouldn’t miss this view at night. So of course I’ll stay for dinner, I’d love it.’

‘That’s a big relief.’ He grinned at her. ‘I thought you’d be fleeing after lunch, leaving me alone again.’

‘Aren’t we going to the cinema?’

‘We’ll do whatever you want. In the meantime, how about a Bloody Mary?’

‘Thank you, yes, that’d be nice.’

‘Coming up in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ He strode across the floor to a chest that held a silver tray filled with bottles of liquor, a jug of tomato juice and various other important ingredients for drinks.

She smiled to herself, remembering a nanny she’d once had who had constantly used that old and rather curious phrase: three shakes of a lamb’s tail.

Larry busied himself with the drinks, and M turned to look at the amazing collection of silver-framed photographs lined up on another chest, positioned to one side of the sofa. What an array it was.

Taking pride of place was an eight-by-ten of Larry’s father when he had been a much younger man. How devastatingly handsome Nicholas Vaughan was, truly glorious looking in this particular picture by Patrick Lichfield. It hit her then. Larry, as he was today at thirty-five, was the spitting image of his father in this photograph. Except for the hair. Larry’s was as dark as a raven’s, like hers, whilst his father’s was a light brownish-blond, almost nondescript. It’s the eyes, she thought, they’re exactly the same blue, the colour of cornflowers, and they’re powerful, mesmerizing. And both men have the same classical features, the same straight nose.

Her eyes moved on and she gazed at the picture of Larry’s father and mother, standing together on a stage dressed in the costumes they wore as Antony and Cleopatra. Next to this was a portrait of Pandora Gallen alone—so blonde, so beautiful; Larry’s exceptional mother, a talent beyond belief. And then came a collection of smaller photographs of Larry with his various siblings. My God, they were a good-looking bunch. Just like her lot were.

‘Sorry the drinks took so long,’ Larry said, walking across the room with two glasses. Handing one to her, he lifted his Bloody Mary. ‘Cheers!’ he said.

‘Cheers, and thanks.’ M took a sip, and exclaimed, ‘Wow, oh wow, that’s very strong! But great.’

Larry glanced at the photographs arranged on the chest, and then at her, a brow raised quizzically. ‘Since you know so much about me, and you did claim that, then you don’t need me to explain who all of these disreputable ruffians are.’

‘You don’t have to do that, no, I can reel off their names to you. But I would like to know about them. I’m very curious about your siblings.’

‘Take your pick, and I’ll give you the low-down.’

‘This is Horatio, isn’t it?’ She pointed a finger at one of the men in the photograph.

‘Yep. And my favourite brother. He’s a good guy, a good friend, always on my side, as I’m on his. You’ll like him a lot.’

‘Named for Hamlet’s friend Horatio, correct?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And Portia is named for another favourite Shakespearean character of mine…straight out of The Merchant of Venice.’

‘On the nose, babe. And Portia’s a friendly sort. No agenda.’

‘And you like her, I think—more than like, actually. You love her.’

‘How did you guess?’

‘It’s the expression on your face, Larry. Your eyes are warmer, you smiled when I mentioned her name, and your face is relaxed.’

‘My favourite sister. I certainly don’t like the other one, Miranda. A pain in the ass, that one. Don’t worry, you won’t have to meet her.’

M burst out laughing. ‘And Thomas? Tell me about him.’

‘We’re not so close. He is the eldest, but you’re aware of that, if I know you. He’s serious, a little bit dull, but hugely talented, and we’re friends, respectful of each other, but no, we’re not close.’

‘And that leaves us with Edward.’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Don’t you like him?’

‘He bloody well beat me up when we were kids, so I’m always

wary of our crafty Edward, but we’re pals, at least to some extent, these days. And he’s aimed to please me for years. We have a sort of truce, I guess you’d call it. Edward’s okay, in small doses. But questionable.’

‘He’s probably suffering from terrible guilt for smacking you around when you were little, don’t you think?’

‘Possibly. One never knows with Edward. Cagey bugger that he is, and a past master of the art of dissimulation.’ He took a swallow of the Bloody Mary. ‘And he can be a real bastard with women.’

M said, ‘I love this photograph of your mother and father as Antony and Cleopatra. They became legends after that play, didn’t they?’

A huge smile lit up his face and he nodded enthusiastically. ‘They sure as hell did! The greatest stars of the English theatre, that was them in their heyday. And it’s a tough part, Cleopatra. Most actresses are scared to touch it; you need quite a range to play Cleo. My mother did it to perfection. It’s Shakespeare’s greatest play, at least in my opinion, and still very modern…politicians, politics, tragedies, failures, celebrities hitting the dust.’

‘Fallen heroes all,’ M announced.

He gave her a swift look, and frowned. ‘Someone else once said those exact words to me, but I can’t remember who.’

A feeling of sick dismay swept over her, and she chided herself, aware that this was one of her brother’s standard comments about the play. Changing the subject swiftly, she said, ‘I’m getting hungry, Larry. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and make lunch?’

‘Brilliant,’ he replied, walking back to the chest and the jug of tomato juice and vodka. ‘I’ll make us another, shall I? To help us through the cooking.’

‘Why not?’ she said, and went to join him, relieved she’d distracted him.

‘I think I’d better make lunch,’ M announced after five minutes of moving around Larry, bumping into him as he skirted her. ‘It’s a great kitchen, but it’s not big enough for two cooks. Anyway, too many cooks spoil the broth, so my mother says.’

‘But I really want to do it,’ Larry shot back, turning to her, frowning. ‘After all, I invited you here, not to a restaurant, and I am your host, you know.’

M swallowed her amusement at his seriousness about this, and exclaimed, ‘No, no, no, it’s better if I do the cooking. And do be careful, don’t drop those eggs.’

He was now leaning towards a counter top, and the box of eggs was precariously balanced in one of his hands.

Hurrying across the floor, she took the eggs from him, placed them on the counter, then untied the white chef’s apron he was wearing over his black cashmere sweater and black jeans. ‘I shall put this on instead of you, and that means I’m now in charge.’

He grinned. ‘Yes, General, as you say, General.’ He saluted her, grabbed her arm, pulled her to him and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His eyes were appraising when he asked teasingly, ‘Have I fallen for a bossy Margaret Thatcher?’

‘I’m afraid you have.’ She eyed him flirtatiously, laughter making her black eyes sparkle. ‘It’s easier if only one person cooks. Now go and sit at the table,’ she ordered. ‘We can chat as I cook. What kind of eggs would you prefer?’

‘Poached, fried, scrambled, I don’t care. There’s streaky bacon in the fridge, and Canadian bacon as well. The tomatoes are over there in that bowl. We could have a real fry-up, if you’d like that.’

‘I do, and we could, but hey, Larry, what about bacon butties? Don’t you just love them?’

‘I do indeed, they’re my favourite, and I always make a beeline for them on an early morning shoot. The film caterers usually serve them for breakfast. And what about fried egg sandwiches as well?’ He grinned at her, enjoying being with her; she was a good sport, and he liked that about her. He couldn’t stand pretentious women who put on airs and graces.

‘It will be a fantastic repast,’ she confided, sounding sure of herself, and began to move around the kitchen, taking food out of the refrigerator, and getting organized, looking across at Larry, listening to him when he told her where to find the things she needed. She loved hearing that marvellous voice of his, so rich and full of cadences, an actor’s beautiful voice.

For his part, Larry was thinking that she was probably one of the more adorable women he had met in his life. This morning she looked young and delectable, wearing very little makeup, her hair now pulled back in a ponytail. Yes, she did have a look of Audrey, that was true, but she was also herself and highly individualistic. It suddenly struck him there was something rather exotic about her looks, and he was absolutely certain she was photogenic. It was the high cheekbones, of course, the broad brow and hollow cheeks, the perfectly arched brows. Yes, she probably photographed like a dream; no wonder that photographer had been entranced.

He sat back, scrutinizing her as she moved around, energetic, lithe, and so graceful in her movements. She paused for a moment to roll up the sleeves of her white cotton shirt, and it occurred to him that she had an elegance about her that was unusual in somebody so young. This led him to ask himself a question: Was she too young for him? He answered himself immediately with a resounding no. He was twelve years older than her, as she had pointed out, but then she had also said that numbers didn’t matter. This was true; he’d always believed that. And M was confident, truly self-assured, 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.