Tangled Tapestry

‘I do know what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘He’s completely without scruples, either morally or financially. The press can’t leave him alone. He’s news!’ He said the word with vehement dislike, and Debra wondered fleetingly whether in actual fact David Hollister didn’t envy, just a little, the life that Dominic McGill apparently led.

She looked at Hollister uncertainly. ‘If you think he’s particularly interested in me, you couldn’t be more wrong,’ she said. ‘It … it’s not exactly a personal thing.’

This of course intrigued David Hollister even more, and she could tell he was becoming more curious than ever. So changing the subject, she began talking about the sports they had in England, most particularly British football which was becoming more popular in the United States. David Hollister had no choice but to follow her lead, for without labouring the point there was nothing more he could say.

That evening Debra went to the movies with Margaret Stevens, the teacher who took classes in music and drama. Margaret was a girl in her late twenties, unmarried now, although she had been married and divorced several years before. She was a cynic so far as men were concerned, and Debra didn’t take her comments about the opposite sex too seriously.

She had not, of course, heard about Debra’s screen test, and for a few hours Debra determinedly put all thoughts of it out of her mind. The film, a powerful police thriller, was sufficient to occupy her thoughts, although she stiffened when she read in the credits that the screen play had been written by Dominic McGill. Was she to have no peace now? she thought angrily. Until then she had never bothered to read the credits.

Afterwards they called in a coffee bar and had hamburgers and coffee, and discussed the film. When Debra returned to the apartment she felt pleasantly tired, and thought she would sleep without much difficulty. But once she was alone in bed, her thoughts turned back tortuously to the problem at the front of her mind, and she lay for hours puzzling the circumstances of her birth. Eventually, when she did get to sleep, she slept soundly and dreamlessly, not waking until after ten o’clock.

Immediately her thoughts leapt to the remembrance that McGill was arriving at eleven o’clock to take her—where? She shook her head, slid out of bed, and washed hastily while the percolator bubbled appetizingly. She dressed in a slim-fitting suit of orange tweed, that suited her very well. With her dark hair and lightly tanned complexion, it was very attractive, and even the skirt, which Aunt Julia had said was too short, looked all right with her two-inch heels. She left her hair loose, and it curved confidingly round her chin. She was gulping down her third cup of coffee when the bell rang. She swallowed quickly, almost choked herself, and went to the door realising she had forgotten to put on any make-up.

Dominic McGill was waiting outside, looking tall and relaxed in a biscuit-coloured suit, a cream shirt, and a brown knitted tie. His hair, which he wore cut very short on top, was a little unruly from the hectic breeze outside, and lay half over his forehead. He brushed it back with a careless hand and said:

‘Hi. You’re ready after all. I had an idea you’d cry off at the last minute.’

Debra looked at him momentarily, liking what she saw, and then she said: ‘Just a minute. I want to put on some lipstick.’

He raised his shoulders indolently, swinging his car keys. ‘Okay. Make it quick!’

For a moment she resented his tone, then hastily grabbed her make-up bag and extracted the pink lipstick and quickly applied it to her mouth, looking in the mirror to make sure it was not smudged. Then she lifted her black patent handbag, and said: ‘I’m ready!’

He stood back so that she could precede him down the stairs, and she went down awkwardly, overwhelmingly conscious of him behind her. Outside, parked in a ‘No waiting’ area, was a dark green car of generous proportions, twin exhausts heralding the power that Debra was sure was beneath the bonnet. McGill swung open the passenger door, and Debra took a deep breath, then slid in, tucking her skirt round her legs, a little self-conscious of the shortness of the skirt now. But Dominic McGill didn’t even look at her knees as he slid in, inserting the keys casually in the ignition. When he turned on the engine, there was a powerful roar, and Debra tensed a little. If she had been nervous in the buses, what would she be like in this thing!

Surprisingly, though, she could relax with him. He drove fast but expertly, and even the terrifying descent from the heights to the harbour didn’t frighten her. She looked at his lean, tanned hands on the wheel. They were long-fingered, hard hands, which she felt sure could be powerful, too, if their owner desired it. There was nothing gentle about him, and she wondered on what particular stories David Hollister had based his opinion of him. As she spent more time with him she could see that to some women he would be irresistible. Women who liked men to be brutal, and treat them like chattels.

Surprised at her thoughts, she half-smiled to herself, and he glanced at her as she did so, and said: ‘What’s so funny?’

Debra shook her head. ‘Nothing really.’ She flushed. ‘What—what sort of car is this?’

He negotiated a sharp bend and turned the car on to the main highway out of the city, before replying. ‘A Ferrari,’ he remarked casually. ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course.’ Debra swallowed hard. A Ferrari, no less! No matter what happened now, she would certainly have something to remember when all this was over. ‘Does—does it do over a hundred?’

He smiled sardonically. ‘Just about,’ he remarked, and then relented. ‘Sure, it goes much faster than that. Do you want me to show you?’

‘Oh, no! That is—no, thank you.’ Debra looked out of the window. She was interested in where they were going, and wished he would tell her now, instead of leaving her wondering. She had never been far out of the city, and this was an entirely new direction for her. They were driving along the highway that ran beside the ocean, and it was startlingly beautiful. The breakers creamed on to the shoreline below them, while the blue of the sky seemed to melt into the horizon. Dominic McGill had the front windows of the car open, and the fresh breeze cooled the atmosphere in the vehicle. Debra rested her arm on the open window ledge and felt a sense of wellbeing pervade her whole body. It was such a glorious day, and even her eventual facing of this problem that troubled her could not douse her enjoyment of the day.

About an hour from San Francisco, he turned off the main highway on to a lesser road that wound up into the hills. A private road curving to the left was tree-lined and shady, and it was on to this that Dominic turned the powerful automobile. Debra glanced at him.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked at last, unable to prevent her curiosity.

He glanced at her. ‘I thought you were the girl who didn’t want to know,’ he said lazily. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve aroused your interest at last!’

Debra half-smiled. ‘Actually, you have. Where are you taking me?’

‘Wait a few minutes longer, and you’ll find out,’ he said, grinning, and she was caught again by the boyish quality of his smile. She looked away from him. This was no good, she was behaving foolishly, allowing him to get under her guard like this. Heavens, she had hardly known him five minutes; she must control her enjoyment of trips like this. She was as susceptible to charm as the silliest teenager.

The road wound between cyprus trees, through wrought iron gates, hanging wide, and up a drive overgrown with weeds arid flowering shrubs. It had once been beautiful, and there were still evidences of the landscaped gardens, and an empty swimming pool, moss-covered, was surrounded by the most expensive mosaic tiling.

Then the house came into view; an old haciendatype dwelling, with a fountain standing idly in the courtyard before the front verandah. Dominic stopped the car, slid out, and before Debra could get out he had opened her door and helped her to her feet. She looked at Dominic and said:

‘Please, tell me now. Where are we?’

Dominic McGill mounted the verandah, and pulling open the mesh door he pushed open the inner door into a wide hallway. Then he beckoned to Debra to follow him, smiling rather sardonically now.

‘Welcome to the Hacienda Elizabetta!’ he said mockingly.

Debra looked a little puzzled. ‘The Hacienda Elizabetta?’

‘Yes. This used to be Elizabeth Steel’s private hideaway!’

Debra shivered a little in spite of the heat of the day. Then she walked reluctantly up the steps and across the verandah. Hesitating only momentarily, she passed Dominic McGill and walked into the dimly lit hallway. All the windows were still shuttered, but McGill walked round, opening them, letting in the brilliant sunshine to flood away all the shadows of the past.

‘I … I always thought film stars lived in Hollywood—you know, Beverly Hills, and all that.’

Dominic McGill shrugged. ‘So they do. Even Elizabeth had a house on Wilshire Boulevard. But this was where she came when she wanted complete privacy. Very few people knew this address. Come through here, and I’ll show you why she liked it.’

He pushed open the double doors of a long lounge; a ghostly place, shrouded with white-sheeted furniture, and thickly covered with dust. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and Debra brushed them aside, grimacing. She had never liked spiders. McGill flung open the shutters of wide french doors that opened on to the verandah at its western elevation. Then Debra saw the view; the height of the hacienda was deceptive, for from here they had a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean, stretched out below them like blue silk edged with white lace. Crumbling bamboo chairs on the verandah here were positive proof that at some time someone had sat here, looking at the view in all its glory. Debra had no doubt that in the evening, with the sun setting into the ocean, it would be even more beautiful than it was at present. It was a strange and eerie thought; that the woman who had rested on this verandah might well have been her mother.

Dominic McGill seemed lost in thought, too, staring out at the view himself, as though recalling a time when things had been different. It crossed her mind momentarily to wonder how well he had known Elizabeth Steel. Of course, she would have been much older than he was, fifteen years at least, so she presumed that they had been merely acquaintances in the same business. At least, it appeared, he had been one of the very few people who had known this address.

He looked at her now, seeing the tautness of her features. ‘Does it bother you?’ he asked softly. ‘Coming here, I mean.’

Debra looked at him. ‘Should it? After all, if she was my mother, which I doubt, she never cared about me, so why should I care about her?’

‘Why do you doubt it so much? The more I see of you, the more convinced I am that Morley was right. You are like her, incredibly like her.’

‘How do you know what I’m like?’

He looked bored. ‘Come on, come on! I don’t know what you’re like—as a person. You naturally have your own personality. There are other things, less tangible things, that connect, somehow. The way you look when you’re angry, the way you twist your fingers together, the way you walk, and move your head. It’s no good, Debra. You have too much going for you.’

Debra compressed her lips, annoyed that he had called her by her Christian name, without her consent. She walked back into the hall, and looked up the flight of stairs to the floor above.

Without her being aware of it, he came behind her, and she jumped when he said: ‘Do you want to see your mother’s room?’

Debra glared at him. ‘She might not have been my mother! And no, I’ve seen enough. Why did you bring me here, anyway? It’s a horribly gloomy place.’

‘It didn’t used to be,’ he remarked, closing the shutters again in the long lounge. Then he closed the hall shutters, and Debra thankfully pushed open the mesh door, and emerged into the sunshine. ‘When Elizabeth was alive, it was never gloomy.’

‘Why hasn’t it been sold?’ asked Debra, kicking a stone.

Dominic locked the doors. ‘Who would sell it? She had no heirs. Everything has been left as it was, mainly I guess because Aaron is such a sentimentalist.’

Debra leaned against the bonnet of the powerful car, but straightened when Dominic McGill remarked that it was dusty after the journey. Brushing down her skirt, she accepted a cigarette from him with ill grace. Then she said, through a cloud of smoke:

‘Tell me something: if Elizabeth Steel was my mother, who was my father? Am I illegitimate?’