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the unaware, vulnerable beauty of a flower. Now the flower had grown thorns to defend itself.
    What had happened to her since they had last met? He knew what could happen to beautiful women in the film world: there were so many predators waiting in those deep waters to drag them down into the murky depths.
    The air outside flickered in front of his eyes as if something had fallen through it.
    Something – or someone.
    She had screamed all the way down. Everyone for miles had heard her. People had stood and watched, as if it was a publicity stunt, not real. All the newspapers had commented on that. Even in her moment of death Clea had been performing, and in a sense that had probably been true, because she had always been conscious of being on display, night and day. Since she became a child star at the age of ten Clea’s whole life had been one long performance in front of an audience.
    Nothing in her life had been natural, spontaneous, truthful. Like the princess in the old tale, she had been endowed – by fairies, or Fate, or nature – with blonde curls, enormous eyes like violets, a beauty that could stop traffic. She was irresistible to every man she met – from the age of twelve when the powerful, wealthy producer who saw that she got the part she wanted made sure he got her in exchange.
    Clea had yelled it at Sebastian when he asked her to marry him, the morning after the first night they slept together. ‘What are you – crazy? You don’t have to marry me because we had sex, stupid! Where’ve you been all your life? Oh, grow up. You think you’re the first dirty bastard to fuck me? Don’t kid yourself. Old Buck Ronay, remember him? The great studio boss, the family man who was so hot on old-fashioned moral values? Fifty years old, bald and sweaty, and he had me on the couch in his office before he signed my first contract.’
    Sebastian could remember the shock of that moment. He was in love with her: she was so beautiful, with the face of the Madonna, a smooth oval, creamy skin, blue eyes wide and radiant, pink mouth an innocent curve. He could not bear to think about what she had just said.
    She had delighted in his pain and disbelief: she loved to get a strong reaction to anything she said or did. She was acting even when she was hurt or sad, her quick, intuitive mind instantly working out how to express what she experienced and get a powerful response from an observer. Later, Sebastian decided that she could not feel anything, unless she had an audience. When she was utterly alone would she sag like one of the puppets in
Coppélia
, face blank and wooden, body collapsed? He only knew that she could not tolerate solitude, would ask the room-service waiter in a hotel to stay and drink with her if nobody else was around to talk to, would ring friends or acquaintances, anybody who would answer their phone, in the middle of the night, beg them to come over, there and then, never mind if it was three in the morning. She was moody, difficult, charming, enchanting, a world full of women wrapped up in one troubled human being.
    That night, in response to his shocked face, her mood had changed. She had laughed at him, boasting, ‘Sure! Old Buck always liked to try out the new kids on the block, and he liked ’em young. Twelve years old, never even had a boyfriend, because my mother wouldn’t let me go anywhere she didn’t come too. Buck told me, “Come, sit here by me on this couch. You’re a pretty little girl. I hope you’re a good girl and do what you’re told,” and I was dumb enough to say, “Yes, sir, I’ll do whatever you want, sir.” Well, that was what my mother had told me to say, so I did, and the next minute he was pushing me backwards and climbing on top of me.’
    ‘Stop talking like that!’ Sebastian had burst out, feeling sick.
    ‘It happened! Why the hell shouldn’t I talk about it?’ she yelled back.
    Then her voice became a soft dovelike coo. ‘Gee, what’s the matter, honey?