Page 13 of The Love Letter

He’d then met an old school friend who told him of an eco film project that he and a few other chaps in the City were backing. He’d offered Marcus the chance to produce it. Still smarting from Harriet’s biting assessment of him and his career, he’d taken out a large overdraft for the necessary capital. Then he’d spent six months filming in Bolivia and had fallen in love with the isolation and grandeur of the Amazon rainforest, and the determination of the people who had lived in it for thousands of years.

The film had been a huge and terrifying flop and Marcus had lost every penny of his investment. In retrospect, he had to acknowledge that the script hadn’t been up to much, that whatever the moral value of the film itself and what it ‘said’, it also needed a great story – as his grandfather had once commented. So when he’d been sent a script a few months ago from a young Brazilian writer, and actually wept at the end, he’d known this was the film with which to make his mark.

The problem was that none of the banks would now touch him because of his appalling financial track record and his father had refused point-blank to ‘throw away’ any more money. Everyone had lost their faith in him – just as he’d started to realise what it took to make an ethical but beautiful film, which he was sure would fill cinemas around the world, and might even win awards. The audience would be moved by the central love story, and would learn something in the process.

He was at his wits’ end to know how to change everyone’s attitude, and wasn’t ashamed to admit how excited he’d been when his grandfather had finally popped his clogs. Even though it was obvious that all Sir Jim’s affection had been for Zoe, Marcus was, after all, one of only two grandchildren.

But the reading of the will had not gone as expected. And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt real bitterness. His inner confidence and his optimism had disappeared in a puff of smoke. He felt like a failure.

Am I having some kind of breakdown?he wondered.

The telephone rang, breaking into his thoughts. Marcus picked it up reluctantly when he saw the caller ID flash up. ‘’Lo, Zo. Look, I’m really sorry about the other night. What I said was out of line. I . . . haven’t been myself lately.’

‘That’s okay.’ He heard her sigh heavily down the line. ‘None of us have. Did you get the text I sent you a few days ago? You have remembered you’re taking me to this premiere tonight?’

‘Erm . . . no.’

‘Oh Marcus! Don’t say you can’t come now! I really need you.’

‘I’m glad someone does.’

‘Stop moping, have a shower and meet me in the American Bar at the Savoy in an hour. My treat.’

‘That’s big of you,’ he quipped, then added, ‘Sorry. I’m just a bit down, that’s all.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you at seven. We can talk then. Iwaslistening to you the other night, you know.’

‘Thanks, sis. See you later,’ Marcus muttered.

That evening, with a second whisky in front of him, Marcus sat at the bar in the dimly lit art deco lounge. When Zoe finally entered, wearing a black strapless evening gown with diamond drop earrings, every head – male or female – turned to admire her.

‘Wow, Zo. You look radiant tonight,’ he told her, subconsciously brushing a hand over the wrinkled suit trousers he’d dug out of the laundry pile.

‘Do I?’ she asked nervously as she kissed him and sat down. She put a hand to her hair. ‘What do you think? I don’t look too old-fashioned, do I?’

Marcus appraised his sister’s sleek golden hair, which had been pulled back into some kind of fancy up-do.

‘You look like Grace Kelly, elegant and classy. Okay? Can I stop now?’

‘Yes,’ she said with a smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re not usually paranoid about your looks. What’s up?’

‘Nothing, it’s nothing. Get me a glass of champagne, will you?’

Marcus did as he was bid. Zoe raised the glass to her lips, drained half of it and put it down on the table.

‘God, I needed that.’

‘You sound like me, Zo,’ he said with a grin.

‘Well, let’s hope my half-glass of champagne doesn’t have the same effect on my appearance as that whisky seems to have had on yours. You look dreadful, Marcus.’

‘To be honest, I feel it too. Any more thoughts on lending me that hundred grand?’

‘Until probate’s through, I simply don’t have the cash.’

‘Surely you could borrow money on the strength of what’s coming to you? Please, Zo,’ he urged her again. ‘If I don’t stump up soon, the project’s going to disappear from right under my nose.’