Black Roses Read Online Free PDF Page B

stopped and leant against the wall, as though her knees might actually buckle beneath her. She felt physically stunned. Her entire rationale for coming to Berlin was suddenly dashed. Max Townsend seemed to have vanished and with him her whole reason for being here. The glamour of the studio, which just a few moments ago had seemed to offer a whole new world to her, existed now only to taunt her. How could she have been so naïve as to come all the way here on the word of a complete stranger? Everything Angela believed about her – that she was flighty, unreliable and irresponsible – was being proved true. Clara had a vision of herself returning humbly to Ponsonby Terrace just as Angela poured her evening Martini, and her sister saying, “Never mind. If you really need work I’m sure Gerald can fix you up with something at his office.” Or Dennis’s mother, Mrs Beaumont, with her grim stripe of a smile, declaring, “Least said, soonest mended.” The thought of it ran through her like steel and she braced herself. Whatever happened, she simply couldn’t go home.
    Helga fell into step beside her.
    ‘Max not being here . . . It might just be Max, but it’s more likely something to do with everything that’s going on.’
    ‘You mean politically?’
    At the word, Helga glanced momentarily around.
    ‘It’s a strange time at Babelsberg just now. For the last couple of weeks, since the new government, it’s like everything’s on hold. No one’s looking at new scripts. No one wants to put a foot wrong before they know what the game’s going to be. So many people have gone already. Just this morning I heard Billy Wilder and Peter Lorre took the night train to Paris.’
    ‘Why have they gone?’
    Helga rolled her eyes. ‘Why d’you think?’
    Close up, the elegance of Helga’s appearance was diminished slightly. There was a line of grime beneath her fingernails and the kohl under her eyes was smudged, giving her the look of someone who has stayed up far too late, as she probably had. Clara wondered if she really was twenty-six as she claimed. There was a worldly wisdom in her expression that suggested she had lived longer and seen more than she was letting on.
    ‘Catch me going anywhere though? The talkies are going to be my big break. Everyone says I have the perfect voice for them.’ She reached over and touched Clara’s arm generously. ‘And they’ll be good for you too! They’re crying out for actresses who speak English. You’ll have more work that you can cope with. You’ll see!’
    As they reached the lobby there was a commotion. A man in brown uniform bustled past, and Clara could hear the sound of doors slamming. Outside a fleet of gleaming, black Mercedes-Benz cars had drawn up, from which climbed a group of important-looking men in suits. A palpable tremor ran through the air. Heads craned out of office doors all down the corridor as the group swept in, raising their arms in swift, automatic salutes. At the front was a man in a wide-belted trench coat and a fedora with a thin black band. He was a peculiar figure. Not much over five foot and with his hair swept back in an oiled wave, he mounted the steps with a swift, dipping gait. Looking down Clara saw he had a deformed right foot that turned inwards as he walked, supported by a built-up platform sole. Quickly she dragged her eyes from foot to face.
    It was obvious the man knew exactly what she was thinking. She felt his eyes travel over her, checking her colouring, the bobbed dark hair with its faint haze of chestnut, the heart-shaped face and slender physique, lingering perhaps too long on the swell of her bust. Though she was quite used to being on a stage studied by hundreds of pairs of eyes, there was something in his expression that made her squirm. He held her gaze for a second, eyes cold as a shark, then flipped a swift salute. It was only as he smiled that Clara realized she had seen him before. It was the man in the wedding photograph,