Tangled Tapestry

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DEBRA came out of the apartment building into the early warmth of a spring day. The faint mist which shrouded the harbour promised to lift quite soon, and then the magnificent vista from this vantage point would be spread out panoramically below her. When she had learned she was to come to San Francisco on the west coast of the United States she had, at first, been disappointed. She had wanted to see New York and Washington, and all the famous cities crowding the eastern seaboard, but since her arrival here she had forgotten all her earlier misgivings in the satisfying knowledge that she was to live for six months in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. For years poets and writers alike had tried to put into words the beauty of its bays and bridges, clanging street cars, modern skyscrapers and rambling family dwellings, all spreading up and down the almost perpendicular streets of the city. That they had had little success Debra thought was due to the fact that the real thing was so much more warming and exciting and alive. In the three months since her arrival she had learned that every street corner could produce an unexpectedly enchanting scene, and below the geographical curve of the peninsula with the silver lance of its bay slicing a cleft through the land mass provided a constant challenge to the artist. She supposed she had fallen in love with the place, and the thought of returning home to England and Aunt Julia filled her with dismay.

Smiling at the friendly mailman who was passing, she began to walk slowly down the steep slope towards the Filbert High School where she was a teacher. She had come from Valleydown in Sussex on an exchange scheme, much to the annoyance of Aunt Julia, her only relative. For some obscure reason Aunt Julia disliked anything to do with America, and besides she had rarely allowed Debra much freedom in England, despite the fact that her niece was now twenty-two and quite capable of taking care of herself. Debra, not wanting to annoy Aunt Julia unnecessarily, had usually fallen in with her wishes. She was not the kind of girl to want to go out a lot, anyway. She loved books, and reading, and classical music, and although her clothes were modern, she was really quite old-fashioned in many ways due of course to Aunt Julia’s overpowering influence.

But when this chance had come her way to see something of the world, Debra had determined to take it. After all, there seemed little opportunity of her being able to afford to travel far in the normal course of events. Aunt Julia commandeered most of her salary for housekeeping, and as she knew that Aunt Julia only had a pension to support herself with, Debra did not object. But it meant that she had to make all her own clothes, and it was as well that she used little make-up. Fortunately, her complexion was smooth and creamy, and her eyes, green and slightly tilted at the corners, already had sooty lashes to match her thick dark hair. Although her hair was straight, its length and silkiness required no adornment. In the right clothes, with carefully applied make-up, she could have been quite beautiful, but Debra, engrossed in her small world of books and teaching, was completely unaware of herself.

She swung now round the corner of Maple Vine, and entered the tall gates of the Filbert School. Scarcely above medium height, she looked more like one of the students than their teacher, and sometimes her exuberant pupils took advantage of the fact. But whenever she could she made their lessons so interesting that they forgot to be troublesome. This morning, for example, she had arranged a visit to some television studios, where they were filming a new series of detective stories. The studios were in Market Street, a wide thoroughfare that ran diagonally through the city. At the eastern end of Market Street was the long waterfront which curved past the dozens of piers from where hundreds of ships sailed every month. Debra loved this area; the colourful fishing vessels manned mainly by Italians whose home base was there gave the harbour an almost cosmopolitan appearance, and there was always plenty to see. Sometimes, on Sundays, she took sandwiches for her lunch and spent the whole day browsing about the tiny shops that abounded on the quayside, admiring the tourist stores with their stacks of souvenirs, and sometimes joining a trip that was going out in the bay so that she could look back at the city and imprint it firmly in her memory for when she must return home.

The Filbert School was huge and impressive, but surroundings in educational establishments, thought Debra, were only as good as the teachers within them. After preliminary assemblies, she gathered her class of eighteen and said:

‘I’ve arranged for transport to the studios. Are there any questions you wish to ask before we leave?’

A freckle-faced youth in jeans and a white sweater, with a huge ‘F’ imprinted upon it, grinned cheekily, and said: ‘Will we get to meet any of the stars, Miss Warren?’

Debra shrugged. ‘Who knows? I doubt it. We’re very small fry, and we’ve been extremely lucky to be accepted as visitors. The studios are particularly busy, I believe, and of course we won’t be expected to overstay our welcome.’

A girl with a ponytail grimaced. ‘Oh, I thought we might be televised ourselves,’ she said dejectedly. ‘And Ross Madison is there, and we all think he’s dreamy, Miss Warren.’

‘Oh, Sheralyn!’ Debra had to smile. ‘This is an educational visit, to demonstrate the techniques of ciné-photography and video-tape recording. Not the annual visit of Ross Madison’s fan club!’

There was an outburst of giggling, and Debra relaxed. She would miss this class when she returned to England. Whether it was because most of them came from families in the lower income bracket she wasn’t certain, but they seemed to appreciate everything she did for them with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Later they all piled into the coach which was to take them to the studios. The automobile negotiated the steep hills and turns with ease, while Debra sat on the edge of her seat, still a little nervous of the apparent lack of concern displayed by the city’s drivers. She was sure that if she could drive she would never dare exceed ten miles an hour down the precarious slopes.

The Omega Studios were large but completely unimpressive outside. It wasn’t until they entered the massive reception area which gave on to a flight of stairs leading up to various studios that the full impact of its size and opulence was felt. There were lifts, of course, some of them large enough to carry an elephant should that be necessary, while others were small and self-operable. Several attractive girls were employed as receptionists, used to dealing with every kind of personality from stage, screen and government.

Debra approached the desk, introduced herself, and was put into the charge of a Miss Powell, one of the attractive girls she had noticed at first. The children were staring about them with interest and curiosity, all hoping to see someone of importance. A lift transported them to the tenth floor, where Miss Powell led the way towards one of the larger studios. Debra had a muddled impression of lights and cameras and cables everywhere, before Miss Powell turned to her and said:

‘The director here is Emmet Morley. Have you heard of him?’

Debra shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Miss Powell smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not important. Around the studios he’s extremely well known, of course. He has directed quite a lot of movies, but your being English makes quite a difference, of course. You may get to meet him. He’s a nice man.’

Debra nodded, and they continued with the tour. The children were shown the various cameras used for different shots, the instant video-tape recording machine, and one or two of them even rode on one of the camera dollies. At the moment nothing was happening, but Miss Powell explained that later in the morning some filming would be taking place. The children were fascinated with seeing themselves on the closed-circuit television screens, while from time to time they recognised a familiar face walking across the sets. Much to Sheralyn’s and the rest of the girl’s disappointment, Ross Madison, the star of the detective series, did not appear, although his leading lady, Marcia Wayne, did, and she signed some autographs before retiring to the control office.

Miss Powell suggested they went along to the restaurant for some coffee, and cokes for the children, and Debra agreed. In the restaurant there were many more familiar faces, and even she recognised a star of his own variety show, Barry Willis. It was around this time that Debra became aware that she was attracting a great deal of attention.

It wasn’t so much the fact of being stared at that troubled her, but rather the sensation of being discussed, rather thoroughly. Some of the older men, who she presumed were camera crews, seemed to find her positively magnetising to look at, and she flushed with embarrassment and said to Miss Powell:

‘Is it my imagination, or are all these people staring at me?’

Miss Powell glanced around. She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’

Debra sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound ridiculous. It’s just a feeling I have. Maybe they don’t see parties of children and their teacher visiting the studios every day.’

Miss Powell laughed. ‘Heavens, there are frequently visitors coming round. I think you’re probably imagining it.’ She looked critically at Debra. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. Has no one ever told you so?’

‘Oh, heavens, no!’ Debra felt worse than ever.

Miss Powell narrowed her eyes. ‘Are there no men in England? Or do you live in a convent there?’

Debra twisted her fingers together. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I don’t have much time … for that sort of thing.’

‘I thought London was the swingingest city in the world,’ remarked Miss Powell mockingly.

‘Valleydown, where I live, is thirty miles from London,’ returned Debra swiftly. ‘Anyway, this is hardly the kind of conversation we should be having. Will we be returning to the studios?’

Miss Powell smiled and accepted the rebuff with good grace. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’ll go back. I promised Mr. Morley that the children should see a little of the actual shooting going on.’

Back in studio seven, Emmet Morley was already on the set giving final instructions to his cast. When the sound of the children entering came to his ears, he came over, smiling expansively, a huge cigar hanging from his mouth. Debra looked at him with interest. He was the first director she had seen, and the fact that he had directed films pointed to his being more important than she had imagined. He was of medium height and veering to plumpness, but he had a charming smile, and used it to good effect. He grinned at Miss Powell, said, ‘Hi, Lucy,’ and then looked at Debra.

At once his expression changed. His amiable approach gave way to a disbelieving glare, and something like recognition flickered in his small eyes. He swept the cigar out of his mouth and narrowed his lids, then ran a hand over his forehead, up to the receding line of his hair. Then he said:

‘Your name. What’s your name?’

Debra was taken aback, and glanced desperately at Lucy Powell. But Lucy merely looked surprised too, and Debra answered: ‘Debra Warren, Mr. Morley.’

He studied her appraisingly, replacing the cigar in his mouth and gnawing at it abstractedly. The children were staring too, now, all wondering what was going to happen, and hoping for some excitement. Debra felt terrible. In the restaurant she had felt as though she was being stared at, but this—this was much worse. Why on earth did Emmet Morley stare at her like that, and why didn’t he hurry up and say something and get it over with? The whole studio seemed conscious of the small scene being enacted just inside the wide doors, and a strange hush had descended.

Lucy Powell eventually broke the silence by saying: ‘This is the schoolteacher from Filbert, Mr. Morley. The English girl who is over here on the exchange scheme.’

Morley drew heavily on his cigar, gathered his thoughts, and lifting his shoulders in a helpless gesture, said: ‘Yeah, the English teacher from the High School.’ He glanced round thoughtfully. ‘Go on looking around, kids! Lucy, do me a small favour, will you? Take charge of these kids for five minutes. Give me a moment to speak to Miss … er … Warren, in private.’

Lucy looked taken aback, and not particularly pleased. ‘Mr. Morley, I have other visitors to show round after this party has left——’ But she was left talking to herself, for ignoring her protests, Emmet Morley had determinedly taken Debra’s arm, and was propelling her across the studio floor, past the interested eyes of the camera men, to a small office at the back of the studio. Debra herself tried to protest, but Morley merely said:

‘Relax, kid, relax! No one’s going to frighten you. I only want to have a small talk with you. Right?’

‘I suppose so.’ Debra could hardly refuse without causing an embarrassing scene. Besides, what could happen to her? The office was glass-panelled, and all eyes would be on them, anyway.

The office held a couple of easy armchairs, a low desk and several telephones. Emmet Morley seated himself behind the desk and waved to one of the armchairs. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’m not going to eat you! You look positively petrified!’

‘Well, quite frankly, I am rather nervous,’ she said, subsiding on to an armchair, and then seeing that by doing so she was out of sight of the rest of the studio because the glass panelling only started some three feet from the floor, standing up again.

‘You’ve no reason to be so,’ remarked Morley impatiently. ‘Good God! Sit down. What on earth experience has made you act like this? Did some guy attack you, or something?’

Debra stiffened her shoulders. ‘Of course not. It’s merely that all this is beyond me, and I wish it were over and done with. I can’t think what we have to say to one another. Everybody is staring at me as though I were a freak or something! Do I look like a freak?’

Morley’s hard features relaxed into a smile. ‘Anything but! You’re a particularly attractive girl. Surely you know that without me telling you? Sure you do. Even a girl like you couldn’t be so dumb!’

‘And is that all this is about?’ exclaimed Debra disbelievingly.

Morley hesitated. ‘More or less,’ he muttered evasively. ‘Now, will you sit down?’

Debra did so unwillingly, and accepted a cigarette from the box he offered to her. After it was lit, Emmet Morley studied her silently for a while before saying:

‘What part of England do you come from, Miss Warren?’

Debra shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have heard of it. It’s a place called Valleydown, in Sussex. It’s actually about thirty miles from London.’

‘I see. And your parents? Do you live with them?’

‘No. My parents are dead.’

Emmet Morley leaned forward interestedly. ‘Is that so? How did they die?’

Debra frowned. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’

‘Just answer the question, Miss Warren,’ muttered Morley impatiently.

Debra compressed her lips in annoyance. What right had this man to speak to her so peremptorily? But she still answered him, albeit a little sulkily. ‘They were killed. In a train crash. When I was just a baby.’

‘So? Go on, who brought you up?’

‘You want my life history, Mr. Morley?’

‘More or less, Miss Warren. Go on … please.’

Debra sighed. ‘I was brought up by my aunt, Aunt Julia, that is.’

‘I see.’ He lay back in his chair. ‘Tell me, kid, what do you know about Elizabeth Steel?’

‘Elizabeth Steel?’ Debra shook her head. ‘Why, hardly anything. I mean, I know she was very famous, and that she was killed in a plane crash, but that’s about all. Why?’

Morley did not answer her. Instead he said: ‘She was famous, very famous, as you say. And very popular, too, if a little conceited sometimes. Her death was a tragedy for us all. She was only forty-three, and no one could have guessed even that. She was at the peak of her career.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That happened a little over ten years ago, when you’d have been—how old?’

Debra thought for a moment. ‘Twelve, I suppose.’

‘Hmn! Interesting, very interesting.’ Morley’s eyes were uncomfortably intent.

Debra lifted her shoulders. ‘Mr. Morley, what is all this about? I mean, you invite me in here, you want to know my life history and now you start asking me about some film star who’s been dead over ten years! I mean, it just doesn’t add up. I’m sorry this Steel woman is dead, of course. But I don’t see what I have to do with any of it.’

Emmet Morley stubbed out his cigar. ‘Okay, okay, Miss Warren. Don’t blow your top. We’ll leave it—for now at any rate. Just out of interest, do you remember your parents?’

Debra frowned. ‘Not at all. Why?’ She sounded distrait.

Morley shrugged. ‘Cool it, Miss Warren,’ he advised her sardonically. ‘I have my reasons, believe me, for this interrogation. But I don’t think it would be fair at this time to voice them. I’m sorry, kid, but there it is.’

Debra stood up and walked to the door. ‘Can I go now?’

‘I guess,’ he replied lacontcally, and standing up as well followed her out of the office and across the studio floor again to where Lucy Powell was waiting with the children. She looked bored and impatient, and relinquished her charges with some relief. Then, as Debra was about to suggest it was time to leave, Emmet Morley said:

‘Say, you kids, how’d you like to see your Miss Warren take a screen test?’

Debra turned to him, compressing her lips angrily. ‘Oh, really—’

‘We sure would!’ exclaimed Pete Lindsay, her freckle-faced pupil.

‘That’s for sure!’ echoed the others.

‘Go on, Miss Warren, be a dare-devil!’

‘They may make you a television star,’ exclaimed Sheralyn dreamily. ‘Oh, Miss Warren, fancy working with Ross Madison!’

All the children were enthusiastic, seeing this as an excuse to stay away from school a bit longer. Debra herself was convinced Emmet Morley had deliberately appealed to the children on her behalf because he knew she would have refused had they been alone. As it was, she felt she would look small and petty if she refused. And also she was sure that this was what Morley had wanted all along, but like the shrewd man he was, he had waited until the perfect opportunity presented itself so that she could not refuse.

‘Mr. Morley,’ she began slowly, ‘I really think it’s time we were leaving. I’m sorry, but—’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Emmet Morley, his faint frown an indication that she was annoying him too. ‘What are you so scared of here, Miss Warren? We’re not monsters, we’re only human beings, the same as everyone else.’

‘I … I’m not scared!’ exclaimed Debra furiously.

‘Then what have you to lose? Take the test!’

Debra clenched her fists. ‘You’re … you’re making it practically impossible for me to refuse.’ She glanced round at the children. ‘You know perfectly well that if I do refuse it will seem churlish. Besides disappointing the children!’

‘Exactly. So what are we hanging about for?’ he remarked dryly.

Debra’s eyes met his for a moment, and then she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. But I still think it’s all rather ridiculous!’

Lucy Powell, who had been standing close by listening, moved nearer to Debra as Morley walked away to arrange for the test. She gave Debra a studied glance, and then said: ‘What gives? Are you some relation of his?’

‘Of course not,’ exclaimed Debra, rather shortly, and then added contritely: ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on. Do many people take tests?’

‘A fair number. But not like this, straight off the cuff, so to speak. There are always hundreds of people, men and women, all hanging around waiting to get “discovered” as they say. But in your case you have the satisfaction of knowing that what’s happening to you is practically a unique experience.’

‘But why?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve never known Morley interest himself in unknowns before, except when he expects to make a deal of money out of it.’

Debra sighed weakly. ‘It’s fantastic! Oh, well, I hope it’s soon over.’