One Life at a Time

  One Life at a Time

  By

  Natalie Spark

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ONE LIFE AT A TIME

  Ariel couldn't forget the six months she had spent with Kane on her island home in the middle of the Indian Ocean. She had loved him with all the passion of a young girl. But now there was Chris, who was part of her new life in London, whom she also loved…

  Another book you will enjoy by NATALIE SPARK

  ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

  It was three years since Nicholas Hayward had hurt and humiliated Jo so badly, and she had still not forgiven him, nor seen him again. But now, as an aspiring actress, she had landed a big part—in a film to be directed by him. How would she survive the experience?

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow

  © Natalie Spark 1986

  Australian copyright 1986

  Philippine copyright 1986

  This edition 1986

  ISBN 0 263 75387 5

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chris Donahue was thoroughly fed up. He was not a patient man at the best of times but, he thought, this was too much even for the most equable man. He had spent the better part of two days cooped up in his London house, a reluctant referee to several eager candidates who were vying for a job which he considered an unnecessary nuisance in the first place. All of them came highly recommended and were perfectly suitable, of course, but the idea of being stuck with any one of them for weeks, even months, of close collaboration made him squirm with agitation.

  'What a bloody waste of time,' he muttered, turning to his elderly agent who had been conducting the interviews for him. 'How many more do I have to see?'

  'It's really up to you, Chris,' Paul Andrews answered shortly. He too had wasted two whole days, something he would have done for none of his other writers, and he was fast reaching the end of his tether. 'Any one of these script-writers would have been ideal. What the hell are you looking for? A human computer?'

  'The less human the better,' his exasperated client agreed. 'Why don't we forget it, Paul?'

  The elderly literary agent groaned wearily. 'Lay off, Chris. We've been over this time and time again. You may be a computer genius and a thrilling first-time novelist, but you can't just plunge into a film-script without any previous training or experience. You'll just have to collaborate with someone. Unless,' Paul continued cautiously, 'unless you leave the adaptation of the novel to a professional script-writer. That's what any sensible novelist would do if…' He faltered, defeated by the writer's cold blue gaze.

  'I'm not a novelist,' Chris explained patiently. 'God only knows what made me write that one book in the first place. Nevertheless, I refuse to see my creation, pathetic as it is, rubbed and smoothed and polished into the old trite science fantasy formula. I either work on the script myself or we just scrap the film!'

  'Oh all right.' The agent gave in. 'Have it your own way, Chris. I really don't know why I bother.'

  They both knew perfectly well why he did. The Island of the Lost was Paul Andrews Literary Agency's most exciting property in recent years. It had been snapped up practically unread by publishers on both sides of the ocean and film producers had been clamouring for the film rights ever since, topping each other's offers of best directors, most illustrious stars, astronomical fees and unprecedented royalties. In all his years as a literary agent, Paul Andrews had never experienced such a race after a first-time, untried novelist, though both agent and his sardonic client were well aware that it was not the book's unquestionable literary merit which precipitated such a stormy interest but the writer's name.

  Chris Donahue had been something of a legend in the computer world ever since he emerged as a precocious genius of seventeen to become the head of an international computer empire before reaching thirty; an unpredictable, enigmatic whiz-kid forever astounding his admirers and rivals with spectacular business coups as well as the hair-raising adventures in his private life. Nevertheless, as far as the general public was concerned, he remained as anonymous and faceless as most workaholic empire-builders until his private jet crashed somewhere in the Indian Ocean and he was written off for dead.

  The aura of romance and mystery which shrouded the untimely death of the young dare-devil millionaire appealed to the press, and the public soon fell in love with his memory. The supposedly late Chris Donahue became an international celebrity, a subject of numerous articles and one hurriedly concocted inaccurate biography. One resourceful producer was even beginning to work on a film project.

  And then, some six months after the crash, Chris Donahue suddenly re-emerged from the land of the dead, without a word of explanation, contemptuously shunning the public's delighted clamour, refusing to resume his position as head of the Donahue empire and turning his back on his old way of life to retreat to some secret tropical haven. Naturally, the romantic imagination of the public was tickled even further by the curious transformation of the playboy into an enigmatic recluse. It was small wonder, then, that when he came out with a first book, a science fantasy, publishers and film moguls fell over each other in their eagerness to grab it. The Island of the Lost had all the makings of a box-office gold-mine.

  The subject of all this bubbling excitement was utterly unmoved by it all. In fact, he had come to regret his rash decision to have the book published. He was impervious to money and resented the infringement on his privacy which all this hullabaloo had brought upon him. His agent now studied his long, lean, muscular frame sprawled in the Eames lounger, and his heart sank as he saw the clean-cut, handsome features set in an-all-too-familiar mask of cold obstinacy.

  'I'll see only one more candidate,' the writer announced flatly, a steely uncompromising edge dulling the low attractive resonance of his voice. 'And that's that.'

  'And if this one doesn't come up to your vague expectations of the perfect collaborator, what then?'

  'Then you can tell your chap, what's-his-name…'

  'Peter Garland.' The agent supplied the name of the country's most celebrated film producer. 'And most writers would give their right arm just to have him consider their book…'

  Chris wasn't impressed. 'You can tell him he either goes by my own "raw" adaptation or he can forget about the film rights.'

  Paul Andrews shrugged his heavy body into a dark blue cashmere coat. 'I give up. It's useless arguing with you. And I must be off now, you'll have to conduct the next interview without me.'

  'I'm damned if I will, Paul,' Chris Donahue fumed. 'You don't expect me to ask all those ridiculous questions myself, do you?'

  'Sorry, but I must. I've been holding your hand for two days now and I can't keep away from the office any longer. You're not the only writer in my agency, you know. Just give me a call later on and tell me how she came out.'

  'Oh, so it's a she, is it?'

  Paul Andrews bristled, piqued by the writer's disdainful tone. 'What if it is? She's a perfect gem. What's more, she has no pretensions to being a scriptwriter. In fact, she's a production secretary who's specialised in working with script-writers, so that she knows all the technical ins and outs but won't bother you with her creative aspirations. Isn't that what you wanted?'

  The hard, handsome face remained impassive. 'Young?'

  The agent shuffled uneasily. 'Well, yes. Twenty-one, or thereabouts.'

  'Married?'

  'No, she isn't but I think she's got some chap stashed away som
ewhere and…' He went on hurriedly, prompted by the ominous silence. 'She's utterly professional, Chris. I can vouch for her, Chris. She won't give you any trouble…'

  'Forget it, Paul.' Chris cut him short. 'You can cancel the interview. I thought I made it perfectly plain after the episode with that last "typist" you sent me that I won't have another hysterical beauty using typewritten pages instead of the proverbial bed sheets to creep into my life.'

  'She isn't that sort, Chris!' The agent was genuinely angry now. 'She has been working with several of my writers and the only complaint I ever heard was that she was extremely uncooperative outside working hours. I just won't have you talk about her in that manner.'

  Chris Donahue studied his agent's angry countenance, his well-shaped, firm mouth twisted into a crooked smile which hinted at the man's natural charm. 'Do I detect a chink in that old granite heart of yours?'

  Paul Andrews didn't smile back. He liked Chris Donahue and admired him deeply but at times he found the man's hostile, contemptuous attitude to women hard to take. Not that it was an unjustified male arrogance. Even without his millions and his fame, the man was devastatingly attractive and naturally considered a most coveted prize by every ambitious predatory beauty. Once he seemed quite happy to take advantage of this untiring assault on his confirmed bachelorhood, changing girls more often than he had his hair cut and good-naturedly taking what they had to offer, giving very little of himself. But ever since his return from that journey of his, he had been rejecting them with an indifference which bordered on contempt. 'I find that attitude of yours quite worrying at times, Chris,' the agent said quietly. 'Not every girl you meet harbours a secret scheme to trap you into marriage, or an affair, you know.'

  'Not every girl, no…' Chris Donahue's crooked grin soothed the older man's ruffled feathers.

  'Anyway, it's too late to cancel the appointment. She should be here any moment now. You'll just have to see her.'

  'All right, Paul, I will see her. But as I said, she's the last one. And just to make sure you don't force any more interviews on me, I'm leaving next week for the Seychelles and will spend the next few months on my yacht. Incommunicado and alone!'

  The agent sighed, resignedly. 'I suppose I'll be wasting my breath asking you to give the girl a chance.' A curt nod confirmed his assumption. 'Oh, well, she'll survive, I guess. Ariel Stewart is a very resilient girl.'

  'Ariel Stewart?' the writer's voice rose threateningly. 'Isn't she the one you have been trying to thrust on me ever since I came to you with my book?'

  'Have I really been doing that?' Paul Andrews stopped at the door and turned an innocent face on his inquisitor. 'Perhaps. I don't remember. She's been working with so many of my writers, you see.' And not waiting to hear the younger man's explosive reaction, he hurriedly left the room, slamming the door shut after him.

  Ariel Stewart was hopelessly late, as usual. Even today, facing the most important interview of her life, she couldn't manage to be on time. Somehow, though, she didn't think that would be too much of a set-back with the writer. He was far more likely to judge her potential usefulness by her wit and intelligence rather than her punctuality.

  Paul Andrews, looking harassed and extremely agitated, was leaning against his black Jaguar. 'Good Lord, Ariel,' he called out, as her slim, long-legged body emerged out of the small Renault. 'You're even more exasperating than Chris Donahue. Do you realise I've been waiting down here for you for over half an hour?'

  'Sorry, Paul.' The girl's lovely elfin eyes crinkled in a smile. 'I can't help it. I did try, honestly.'

  The agent suppressed an involuntary smile. There was something about Ariel's natural, sprightly charm and good humour which made her irresistible even to cynical old horses like himself. 'Never mind now,' he said roughly. 'Let me look at you.'

  His experienced eyes ran quickly over the girl's slender, tallish silhouette, noting the deceptively severe cut of the Armani suit which stressed rather than flaunted her feminine fragility. She seemed to have taken great care to create an impression of cool subtle trendiness. Even the long, auburn, flowing hair had been cropped fashionably short, framing the somewhat impish features and stressing the transparent complexion and the sparkling depth of the large, almond-shaped eyes. Anyone who had known her when she first came to London, some three years previously, would have found it hard to associate the beach-combing waif from the Seychelles Islands with this immaculate Sloane Ranger image.

  'You'll do,' Paul Andrews conceded ungraciously. 'Slightly over the top, but you could be mistaken for a top executive secretary. Just remember to behave like one. He's expecting an efficient, unimaginative technician. Whatever you do, don't let him suspect that you're a script-writer.'

  'Yes, I know. We've been over that dozens of times, Paul. You can trust me.'

  The agent nodded. If anyone could carry out a convincing deception it would be Ariel Stewart. The girl's rich imagination was always ready to come up with ingenious details which made the most implausible story utterly believable. 'Listen, darling.' He concentrated now on cramming his young accomplice with as much information as he could. 'He's agreed to see you but that doesn't mean we've got him yet. I know you can turn most of us men around your little finger but don't underestimate him. He can see through people like a laser, Chris can. You'll have to use everything you've got to land the job.'

  'I'll get it, Paul,' she assured the anxious agent, displaying a confidence which she certainly didn't feel.

  'I wouldn't be too sure, darling. He's a hard case.' He studied the girl's guileless face thoughtfully, torn between affection and puzzlement. The girl had been pleading with him for months to get her a job, any job, with Chris Donahue, regardless of her growing success as a script-writer in her own right. For all he knew, the man was a total stranger to her and yet she seemed almost obsessed by a determination to get near him. But knowing the girl's baffling indifference to men, he was certain it was not a simple case of infatuation. 'Hang me if I understand why you want to do it, Ariel,' he said. 'It's such a giant step back for you. It'll mean cancelling your contract with Globe TV and you'll probably lose several other script commissions. I wish you would tell me why you're so keen on working with Chris Donahue.'

  She turned away from his close scrutiny. 'I will, Paul. One day,' she promised and briskly walked to the gates to ring the intercom bell before he could pursue the subject further. The metallic sound of a female voice wafted through, asking for identification, and then instructed her to come on in. She was expected.

  'I'll call you later, Paul,' she called out as the gate slid open to let her in. 'And thanks for getting me this interview.'

  Paul Andrews watched her disappear beyond the gates and then turned away, sighing.

  He had become her agent soon after her arrival in England having read some of her short stories. His literary agency, one of the oldest and most respectable in England, was not in the habit of taking on young, inexperienced writers, but he couldn't ignore the promise of her talent nor resist her warm, trusting charm. So he helped her break into the enclosed, tough world of film and TV and proudly watched her make a success of it. Over the years he had come to love her as a daughter but as such she had become a source of perpetual bewildered concern. For all her friendly, irresistible charm, there was something oddly secretive about her. She would happily chat about herself, her ambitions and her work, yet she hardly ever mentioned her life before she settled in England. All he managed to learn from her was that she came from an obscure little island in the Seychelles where her family had been settled for many generations. She spoke with amused affection of her strict, almost Victorian upbringing, of her colonial family, an almost extinct species of the old Empire days, but firmly refused to explain why she had left what she affectionately kept referring to as 'her island'.

  'I wanted to write scripts,' was the only reason she gave him when he asked her. 'Besides, Michael needed someone to keep house for him.'

  Michael was her ol
der brother, a successful psychiatrist, who like her had decided to make a career in England, and with whom she shared the large Victorian house in Dulwich. Except for him, she seemed to be all alone in England and Paul couldn't help feeling that she was a fish out of water away from the sandy, sun-drenched beaches of her island. There was a sense of a caged bird about her, as if her natural bubbling joy of life was held by a leash. She seemed to be living on the fringe of life, waiting or looking for something or someone, and refusing to live fully until she found it. Well, he sighed softly as he stepped into his car. It seemed as if she had found it in Chris Donahue.

  Oblivious of her agent's speculation, Ariel was hurrying along the path, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs as she approached the house.

  It was as unconventional and striking as its owner: a clean-lined, ultra-modern white villa, the kind one would expect to find in very exclusive sunny resorts, certainly not against the very English country-like backdrop of Hampstead Heath. Yet, even in her panicked state, Ariel couldn't help wondering at how curiously well it merged with the lush landscape.

  The wide oak front door opened into a spacious, sparsely furnished hall and a young girl, her bright red hair framing a small freckled face in wild disarray, was there to greet her. Dressed in the studied slovenliness which was very much Ariel's usual style, she was a far cry from the iron-maid Ariel had expected, having heard the cold metallic voice over the intercom.

  'Miss Stewart, right?' The redhead was grinning up at her, not expecting an answer and went on to inundate Ariel with a flood of friendly, totally uncalled for information. 'I'm standing in for Chris's receptionist. He doesn't have one, incidentally. Only old faithful Marjorie and she's out, shopping. That's the housekeeper, by the way. She's been with the family for ages.' Her light blue eyes were scanning Ariel with a disarming friendly curiosity. 'I adore your suit. Armani, isn't it? Can you afford it on a secretary's salary?' And before Ariel could think of a cool retort, she continued, disarmingly, 'Sorry, am I being insufferable?'