‘Well, that’s me gone to a watery grave. What a shame, I never end up with the girl.’

It was Sunday and the film unit was gathered at the Crowne Plaza pool, having an impromptu farewell get-together for Mickey Robertson. They’d completed filming the death of Mickey’s character, Hugh Blackston, the previous day and Mickey was flying out of Vanuatu first thing in the morning.

It was a hot afternoon, and most of the gang were in their bathing costumes. Sam looked at the lanky actor lounging against the bar, one gangly arm draped around Elizabeth’s naked brown shoulder, and she laughed. Mickey always ended up with the girl. In nearly every production he’d worked on — stage, film or television — Mickey Robertson invariably had an affair with the leading lady. Sam herself had been one of the very few exceptions, but he’d still managed to attract the favours of some other female cast member, and this time was no different. Unlikely looking Lothario though he was, women seemed to find Mickey irresistible. He caught her eye and winked.

The death of the Reverend Hugh Blackston had been spectacular. Mammoth Productions had hired a number of decommissioned US naval vessels from a company in San Diego that specialised in the supply of naval equipment for movie-makers, and the scene had been filmed at sea aboard a US destroyer.

Jason had accompanied Sam and the other two principal actors on the shoot, both Louis Durand and Brett Marsdon also keen to watch the filming, and he’d found the whole process astonishing. Even without the sound effects of heavy explosives, overhead aircraft and machine-gun fire, all of which would be added in post-production, the scene was terrifyingly real. The explosions didn’t appear fake, he couldn’t see where the black smoke was coming from, and the cameras were shooting through walls of flame. The whole vessel seemed ablaze. Everywhere, desperate men fought the inferno, hoses fired blasts of water showering debris into the air, a man ran screaming from out of the flames, his body a fireball.

Then the call for meal break, and it all stopped. The smoke pump, the gas-controlled fires in their safety containers, everything was simply switched off. Suddenly they were sitting peacefully on the aft deck of a destroyer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – all of them: actors, crew, extras, stuntmen and safety officers – and the caterers were serving up lunch. It was sheer madness, Jason thought.

Now, as they partied around the pool, he suggested to Sam that they have an official farewell dinner for Mickey at a little French restaurant where he knew the host well. They could make a private booking, he said, and have the place to themselves.

There was no dawn call for the cast and main crew the following day; Simon would shoot the aerial dogfights with the second unit, and the stunt pilots would bear the brunt of the morning’s work. Sam put the dinner idea to the vote and everyone agreed with alacrity.

The evening at L’Houstalet was a raucous affair, most of the gang boldly choosing the chef’s famous and highly recommended gourmet specialty of stuffed fruit bat. Jason, who knew better, decided on the boeuf bourguignon. Mickey Robertson, in order to avoid a hangover, had determined that he would remain drunk for his early morning flight, and they partied until well after three in the morning. The staff were thrilled by the presence of none other than Brett Marsdon, who good-naturedly signed autographs, and the host was only too happy with the amount of money that was changing hands.

Jason enjoyed the company of the film crowd, but they were not the reason he had changed his plans. His intention had been to remain no longer than a week in Port Vila, as he did each year. He always returned briefly to his childhood home to catch up with his old friends, but since the death of his grandmother, he rarely stayed longer than a week or ten days.

It had been a fortnight since his evening with Samantha at Vila Chaumieres, however, and he was toying with the idea of staying much longer, perhaps for the duration of the filming. Having recently resigned his residency at the medical clinic in Bournemouth where he’d worked for several years, he was undecided upon his future. He had time on his hands, he thought, why not enjoy it?

He was fully aware that it was far more than the world of film-making which attracted him, but he wasn’t sure exactly what it was that intrigued him the most. Was it the portrayal of his grandmother by Samantha Lindsay? Or was it Samantha Lindsay herself? The two had by now become inextricably entwined.

Sam didn’t analyse her feelings about Jason at all; she simply spent every moment she could in his company, dining with him most nights and gravitating towards him during filming breaks. He was her link to the past and Jane Thackeray, and she didn’t look beyond that. There was so much more Jason knew, she thought, and so much more she needed to find out.

Brett Marsdon’s jealousy was patently obvious to all, although he wasn’t prepared to admit it. ‘We’re an ensemble, Sam,’ he complained, towards the end of Mickey’s farewell party. ‘You should be spending more time with the cast.’ He meant him. ‘But you’re always with that doctor guy.’ He pretended to forget Jason’s name. ‘Come on now, we’re a team.’

‘Research, Brett,’ she said diplomatically, ‘that’s all it is. Research. Jason is Mamma Tack’s grandson, remember?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m the one you’re playing opposite,’ he sulkily replied. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘I don’t. I love working with you. You know I do.’

He wished she wouldn’t treat him like some kind of kid brother. He knew he wasn’t going to make it with her, he accepted that, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone else score, least of all a goddamn doctor! What did Thackeray have to do with the movie business? It wasn’t fair.

‘And you’re brilliant.’ She gave him a brief hug. ‘I can’t think of anyone who could play Wily Halliday better.’

It mollified him somewhat. And she was right, he thought, it was undoubtedly his best performance to date. And he’d cut down a lot on the coke and the party pills. But Jesus, he cursed inwardly, that guy Thackeray was a pain in the ass.

 

With the departure of Mickey, the filming concentrated upon the love affair between Wily and Sarah, and Sam, as always, was eager for Jason’s opinion.

‘What do you think of Brett?’ she asked as they sat apart from the others, having a pre-dinner drink, Brett scowling at them from across the hotel lounge.

‘He seems nice enough.’ Jason, like everyone else, thought Brett Marsdon was a spoilt brat.

‘No, I mean his performance.’

‘Well, I’m hardly an expert,’ he said, amused that she should ask, then he realised that she was seriously seeking his opinion. ‘I think he’s an excellent actor, and he’s certainly good-looking.’

‘But is he Wolf Baker? I mean is Wily Halliday Wolf Baker?’

Jason gave one of his loud hoots of laughter. ‘Good heavens above, Sam, Wolf Baker must have been in his sixties when I met him, and I was ten years old. How on earth would I know?’

She looked so disappointed that he felt he’d let her down. She was always intense when she discussed her work, which was probably why she was such a good actress, he thought, but her intensity sometimes seemed at odds with the girl she really was. Jason thought that he’d never met a young woman so relaxed and free of self-consciousness as Samantha Lindsay.

He didn’t like to disappoint her, and he looked across the room at Brett, trying to formulate an opinion, but Brett had heard his laughter and was once again glowering in their direction. The spoilt brat, no answers there, Jason thought.

‘He’s very different in front of the camera,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ She was leaning forward eagerly, aware that he was giving some consideration to her query now.

Jason recalled the day’s filming. There had been a strong chemistry between the two of them. It had been completely believable that a woman like Sarah Blackston was attracted by the boyish cheeky charm of Wily Halliday. Could it have been that way between his grandmother and Wolf Baker? He remembered the easy assurance of Wolf Baker’s manner and the air of success that he’d worn like a mantle. Would Wily Halliday be like that as an older man? It was eminently possible.

‘I think it’s quite likely that Wolf Baker was similar to Wily Halliday,’ he said.

‘Do you think so?’ Her face split into the widest grin. ‘Do you really, really think so?’

‘I really, really do.’ He shook his head, bemused. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, this movie business? If you think about things hard enough, fact and fiction can become quite blurred.’

‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, punching the air in her enthusiasm. ‘That’s what makes it so exciting.’

 

Over the next several days, Jason began to feel strangely uncomfortable watching the love scenes between Sam and Brett. He wasn’t sure why; probably just self-consciousness, he thought. Then the morning loomed when they were to shoot in a closed set.

‘What does that mean? A closed set?’ he asked Sam the night before the shoot.

‘We’re doing the sex scenes tomorrow. There’re only two in the whole film, and they’re very tasteful.’ Sam had no inhibitions at all about working naked; she’d done so on stage in two previous productions. The scenes were not gratuitous; they were imperative to the script and she had total trust in Simon’s direction.

‘Oh.’ Jason was taken aback.

‘Simon’s quite happy for you to be there, though. So long as Brett and I don’t mind, of course. I’ve checked it out with Brett, and he doesn’t care.’

Brett had actually liked the idea of Jason being on set. ‘Might give him a few ideas about how it’s done,’ he’d said petulantly, ‘the guy’s a loser.’ Sam had ignored the remark.

‘No, no,’ Jason said hastily, ‘I think I’ll give it a miss.’

‘Oh don’t be such a prude.’ She grinned reassuringly; she’d forgotten how new he was to the film business. ‘It’s only acting and I get to keep my knickers on. No simulated sex, I promise you, just a lot of kissing and heavy breathing. It’ll probably be difficult to keep a straight face.’

But he didn’t return her grin. ‘No, I’ll sit this one out, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh hell.’ The reason for his reluctance suddenly occurred to her. How shockingly crass she’d been. He had always associated the filming with his grandmother – when the cameras were rolling she was Jane Thackeray. ‘I’m sorry, Jason, I wasn’t thinking. I’m really, really sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘Well …’ she said awkwardly. ‘Your grandmother … a sex scene … I’m sorry, how tacky of me.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Samantha, it has nothing whatsoever to do with my grandmother.’

Sam was startled; he sounded quite snappy.

‘Why then? What’s wrong?’

‘I’m a prude, that’s all. You said it, I’m a prude. The others are going into dinner, let’s join them before Brett has some form of fit.’

Jason knew he’d been terse, but he also knew, very suddenly, that the portrayal of his grandmother was no longer of paramount importance. It wasn’t his grandmother he was in love with. It was Samantha Lindsay. His instinctively ‘prudish’ reaction had shocked him with the truth. He simply did not wish to see the woman he loved half naked in bed with another man, and his annoyance, he realised, lay in the fact that she didn’t recognise that.

 

‘We were great, Sam. The A team.’ Brett gave her the thumbs up. The sex scenes had gone very well, he thought. Pity the doctor hadn’t been there, he’d been looking forward to that. I’m the one who’s in bed with her, buddy, he’d have thought, not you, and you never will be. Doc Thackeray didn’t stand a chance, Sam’s only interest in the guy was research.

‘Yep,’ Sam agreed, ‘the A team.’ The scenes had gone well, she thought, although she was becoming just a little weary of Brett’s constant need for assurance. It was a pity Brett Marsdon had so little real confidence in himself as an actor and a man, she thought. She was glad now that Jason hadn’t been on set. He would have been a distraction, and she supposed that she shouldn’t have asked him in the first place.

Simon Scanlon had coaxed the perfect performance out of Brett, who now trusted him implicitly, just as Sam did.

‘It’s an awakening, Brett,’ he’d said from the outset when he’d realised the standard stud performance was about to take over. ‘A gentle awakening. You love her, you’re tender, and she is sexually awakened. You’re the one who makes this happen.’

It made sense to Brett. He had the power. And he gave every bit of tenderness he could, whilst Simon, unbeknownst to him, kept the camera trained on Sam.

‘So how did it go?’ Jason asked when he met her in the hotel foyer. He’d spent the day playing eighteen holes with Louis Durand at the golf course not far from the Mele Bay film location. The two men got on extremely well, communicating more often than not in Louis’s mother tongue. Jason, brought up in Vanuatu, where English and French remained the two principal languages, was bilingual.

‘It went very well, thank you,’ she said coolly. She hadn’t forgotten how snappy he’d been last night and she wasn’t going to offer any details about the day’s filming. She was going to wait for him to ask.

But he didn’t. ‘Louis tells me you’re not called tomorrow. Do you want to go for a drive?’

She hesitated. Tomorrow was Louis’s last day on location. They were shooting the confrontation scene and the fight sequence between Wily Halliday and Phillipe Macon. A pivotal scene, it would show the defeat and subsequent downfall of the plantation owner who had pursued Sarah Blackston following the death of her husband. Sam had intended going out to Undine Bay to watch the shoot.

‘All right,’ she said, aware that her hesitation had lasted for all of two seconds. A drive sounded fun, and she could do with a Brett-free day, she decided.

 

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, the following morning. She noticed that he’d loaded flippers and snorkels into the boot of the car, and he’d told her to bring her bathing costume.

‘Have you done any of the tourist stuff?’

‘No, there’s been no time.’

‘Thought not. Cascades first then, in you get.’

Cascades, true to its name, was a stream of freshwater rapids that coursed its way down the mountain in a series of falls. On his advice she donned her bathing costume in the change rooms at the car park before they started their trek, and then they set off in their T-shirts and walking shoes, carrying a towel and a bottle of water each.

It was a laborious climb to the top of the mountain, but the scenery was spectacular. The narrow track wound its way through luxurious rainforest to emerge at regular intervals upon the picturesque falls, each culminating in a clear blue pool, the rapids then pursuing a rocky course to the next fall and the next pool. Nature’s landscape of terraces was laid out, in all its perfection, down the entire side of the mountain.

They arrived at the top, both sweating profusely. The view was magnificent, Sam thought, sucking the air into her lungs as she looked over the endless sweep of forest that surrounded them. But Jason gave her no time to recover.

‘Come on, I need a swim.’

And before she knew it, they were starting the climb down.

The pool was icy and inviting, and Sam swam beneath the waterfall. Holding on to the rock face, she leaned her head back, eyes closed, mouth open, and drank the crystal-clear water.

‘It’s like swimming in champagne,’ she shrieked as she rejoined him.

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never swum in champagne,’ Jason replied in his usual wry manner.

They had a dip in several of the pools, laughing and splashing each other, larking about like children, and then, disappointingly soon, she thought, they were at the bottom of the mountain.

‘What an incredible place,’ she said, after they’d changed into their clothes and were about to leave. She looked back at the falls and the forest and the first of the rocky pools. ‘Absolutely incredible.’

‘More to come. I told you we were doing the tourist bit.’

They spent an hour or so at the Botanical Gardens, and then he took her to Hideaway Island. It sat just off the sandy spit in the middle of Mele Bay and she’d seen it often from the film location site.

‘It used to be called Mele Island,’ he said as they sat in the little open tin ferry that ran like clockwork every few minutes from the island to the sandy spit and then back again.

‘Where Godfrey’s ashes were scattered.’

‘That’s right.’ He was glad she’d remembered. But he was also glad that, for the first time in his company, she wasn’t plying him with questions about his grandmother, that she appeared to simply be enjoying his company.

‘Hideaway’s about the most popular tourist attraction on Efate these days,’ he said, ‘apart from the game fishing of course. But it’s worth it.’

It was. They donned their flippers and snorkels and joined the other tourists, of whom there were a dozen or so, despite the fact that it was the off season.

Less than twenty metres from the shore, Sam found herself in a fairyland of coral reef teeming with fish of all shapes, sizes and hues. She was surrounded by every colour of the spectrum. It was an underwater paradise.

She swam out beyond the pontoons, which were moored as resting spots, to where the reef dropped away and the water was deeper. The colours were less vivid now, but the fish were bigger. A huge blue groper followed her inquisitively for a while, and then she decided to head back for the shore.

‘Oh wow!’ she said as she picked her way over the narrow beach of bleached coral to where Jason sat beneath the thatched shade of the restaurant, sipping from a bottle of Tusker. ‘Oh wow!’ It was all she could manage.

‘You’re a very good swimmer,’ he said.

‘I’m Australian.’

They sat amongst the holiday-makers eating poulet fish and drinking Tusker as the clouds gathered and a gentle rain started to fall.

She insisted they have another swim before they left.

‘In the rain?’ he queried.

‘Why not? Frightened you’ll get wet?’

 

The crowd had just returned from filming when Sam and Jason arrived back at the resort in the late afternoon, and Brett was obviously miffed that Sam hadn’t come out to the Undine Bay location.

‘Where did you get to?’ he said. ‘I thought you were going to watch the confrontation scene. Hell, it’s Louis’s last day.’

‘We’ve been to Hideaway Island,’ she said with an apologetic glance to Louis.

‘You went snorkelling?’ Louis asked, his face lighting up. ‘It is extraordinary, is it not? So close to the shore! Amazing!’ Louis wasn’t at all offended. He always took advantage of his days off and he’d visited every tourist spot on the island.

‘And we went to the Botanical Gardens and Cascades.’

‘Marvellous,’ the Frenchman beamed. ‘Did you walk to the top?’

‘Oh yes, and swam in the pools on the way back down.’

Brett scowled as they chattered on; it was unheard of that they weren’t discussing the day’s filming, and it was all because of Thackeray. It appeared that Jason Thackeray was more to Sam now than just a source of research, and Brett didn’t like it one little bit.

But at dinner that night, as always, the conversation revolved around film, particularly the scenes they’d shot that day, and everyone was very complimentary. There was a series of impromptu speeches, being Louis’s last night, and Simon Scanlon announced that the denouement between Wily Halliday and Phillipe Macon had been a triumph. The crew applauded their agreement and Brett, seated beside Louis, basked in the praise.

As soon as Simon sat down, Brett jumped to his feet, eyes bright from the line of coke he’d snorted earlier, and made his own announcement.

Louis Durand, he said, had been his hero for years, and he deemed it a privilege to work with an actor of such stature.

He said it in French, and it went over the heads of most, but when Louis stood and embraced him, there was another round of applause.

The evening continued with much back-slapping and ‘au revoir’ toasts to Louis, who was leaving Vanuatu the following morning.

Simon Scanlon retired early, as he always did, and Sam said her goodnights not long afterwards. The schedule the following day would be a gruelling one. They would be filming the scenes between Wily and Sarah prior to Wily Halliday’s departure on the bombing mission from which he would not return. But she could see that Brett was in full party mode, and decided to give him a gentle reminder.

‘Big day tomorrow, Brett,’ she whispered, after she’d hugged Louis and wished him a fond farewell.

‘Each to their own, babe, each to their own,’ he said with an enigmatic sneer. He could see Jason Thackeray nearby shaking the Frenchman’s hand. So he was leaving too. Brett wondered if they were doing it yet. They probably were, and they’d probably be shagging away half the night. What right did she have to lecture him!

Each to their own? She had no idea what he meant, but he’d obviously snorted a line or popped a pill. He really was his own worst enemy, she thought. Poor Maz would have her work cut out in the morning.

‘I didn’t know Brett spoke French,’ Jason said as he walked her back to her bungalow.

‘He’s a bit more complicated than he appears,’ she said. She had the feeling Jason didn’t like Brett much, which was understandable, most of the others didn’t either, particularly the crew, but she felt the need to defend the American. ‘He’s actually insecure underneath all that Hollywood bullshit. What exactly was it that he said about Louis?’

‘That Louis Durand was his hero and it was a privilege to work with him.’

‘Good on him, he would have meant it too.’ They’d arrived at the bungalow. ‘He’s not a bad bloke really.’

‘You’re a very nice person, Sam, you know that?’

‘Why? Because I stick up for Brett when the others can’t stand him?’

‘That’s part of it.’

She wondered what the other part was, but she didn’t ask.

‘Gosh, that was a fantastic day, Jason. A really, really fantastic day. I loved every bit of it.’

‘So did I.’

He kissed her. Very gently, without their bodies touching, just his lips on hers, and for only a moment. So fleeting she hardly had time to register her surprise.

‘Good night, Samantha.’

She’d been about to ask him in for a nightcap or a coffee, but he was already walking briskly down the path, and she felt a bewildering sense of disappointment. Had the kiss meant anything? It had been so brief, so polite, as if he’d simply shaken her hand in bidding her good night. Had their relationship just taken on a new significance, or was she imagining it? Was she perhaps hoping that it had? Sam was very confused as she closed the bungalow door.

 

Sam didn’t see Jason the following day, and she had no time to ponder the subject further. His absence on set was, however, commented upon.

‘The good doctor’s not fronting up today, I take it?’ Brett said when he emerged from the makeup van to join her. She’d been waiting for half an hour whilst Maz did the repair job.

‘It would appear not.’ She refused to respond to the edge in his voice.

‘Goddamn it, how the hell will we cope?’

‘Don’t be bitchy, Brett,’ she said pleasantly.

He took the hint. It wasn’t productive to start the day off on a sour note. He gave her one of his special grins.

‘Missed you at the party,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know there was one, but you obviously created your own.’ She didn’t make it a dig and she smiled as she said it.

‘Don’t I always?’ Then he dropped the grin and asked anxiously, ‘It doesn’t show, does it?’

‘No, Brett,’ she laughed, ‘it doesn’t show, you’re looking good, really good.’ It was amazing, she thought, but he did. Maz, the miracle worker again.

The second assistant director arrived. ‘Miss Lindsay, Mr Marsdon, you’re required on set.’ And the long day began.

Sam was exhausted during the drive back from location. She sat in the front of the Landcruiser with Bob Crawley who chatted on nineteen to the dozen, whilst Brett slept in the back. In the mornings, Bob was very considerate when driving the actors to location; he always kept quiet, knowing they were preparing for their day’s work, going over their lines, getting into character. Bob was proud of the way he understood actors. But on the way back, he liked a good chat. Sam, drained, wanted to sit quietly and she wished he’d shut up.

Jason was nowhere in sight when they pulled up at the Crowne Plaza and she made her apologies to Simon and the gang. She wouldn’t join them for dinner, she said, she was knackered.

She had a hot shower and ordered room service in her bungalow, half expecting a tap at the door. Then she went to bed early, but, tired as she was, she lay for some time, unable to sleep.

Sam felt a bit down, and she knew why. The feelings Jason evoked in her were unsettling. Was it a relationship she was seeking? After all these years? She’d had the odd affair now and then, but she’d avoided any heavy involvement: her career had always been her first priority.

She chastised herself for overreacting. It was just fatigue, she thought, as she urged herself to go to sleep. Jason was intriguing, certainly, but she had no idea where she stood with the man, he was an enigma. She must stop over-dramatising the situation, she told herself.

 

The following day, the main unit was relocating to Quoin Hill on the opposite side of the island to shoot the scenes in the POW camp, and they would remain there for a week. The location manager, having decided that the original plan to commute daily from the Crowne Plaza would prove a logistical nightmare, had come up with the perfect solution. On the wild northern coast of Efate, the only accommodation available was the remote and rundown Beachcomber Resort, and he’d booked the entire place out for the week. It would suffice, he said. The film unit would supply their own caterers; all they needed was a roof over their heads, clean beds and decent toilet facilities.

The lonely Australian who ran the Beachcomber had ordered in dozens of crates of Tusker and was eagerly awaiting the film unit’s arrival.

The supporting actors, who were to play the prisoners of war befriended by Wily Halliday, arrived from Brisbane that morning, and there was a buzz in the air. It was a lay-off day, the unit wasn’t to depart for Quoin Hill until mid-afternoon, and even the tired crew felt a renewed boost of energy, as if they were about to embark upon a new adventure.

The crew of the second unit, who had been busily filming background shots, the ships in Mele Harbour and aerial stunt sequences, were to remain in Port Vila and shoot a montage involving Sam, Elizabeth and the islander extras. The filming was scheduled for two days only, and Brett tried to persuade Sam to come out to Quoin Hill when she was free.

‘You’ll have a whole five days off, Sam,’ he said, ‘come and watch the POW stuff.’

It was lunchtime and they were welcoming the new members of the cast with a barbecue lunch by the pool, although clouds were gathering and any minute they’d have to run for cover.

‘I’d like to, Brett,’ she hedged as gracefully as she could. ‘I’ll see how I go after we shoot the montage.’

Brett cast daggers in Jason Thackeray’s direction. Jason had arrived an hour ago and was chatting to Nick by the barbecue, but Brett had noticed him in earlier conversation with Sam. Something had happened, he thought.

‘Yeah, well don’t put yourself out, will you?’ he muttered, and he left to join his new buddies who were all suitably impressed to be working with a Hollywood star.

Sam had been unable to disguise her pleasure when Jason had arrived, although she’d kept her greeting casual. She hadn’t seen him since the night before last, and the kiss, which she’d found so distracting.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she’d said.

‘Fancy a drive after lunch?’ His response had been equally casual.

‘Great. Will I bring my bathers?’

‘Why not?’ A look up at the threatening clouds. ‘You like swimming in the rain.’

There was nothing at all different in his manner, she noted, not that she’d expected there would be, but she was beginning to think she’d imagined the kiss.

‘Why didn’t you come out to location yesterday?’ She couldn’t help asking, although it was none of her business.

He didn’t mind. ‘I visited some friends. We talked a lot like we always do. I didn’t get back until late, everyone had gone to bed. Did you have a good night?’

‘Yep,’ she nodded brightly, ‘had a great night.’

There was a moment’s pause and she hoped he wasn’t awaiting an account of the evening’s events. She’d feel like an idiot saying her ‘great night’ was a hot shower and room service.

But he wasn’t expecting her to say anything at all. ‘My friends are very dear to me,’ he said. ‘They’re the reason I come back to Port Vila every year. They were dear to Mamma Jane too, and I thought, perhaps, you might like to meet them.’

Friends of Jane Thackeray’s! Did he need to ask? ‘Is that where we’re going on the drive?’ she asked eagerly.

‘No, I’d prefer to give them a bit more warning. They’ll want to ask us to lunch.’

‘I’ve got five whole days off soon.’

‘Good. We’ll make it a date then, shall we?’ And he’d drifted off to chat to Nick.

Poor Brett, Sam now thought as she watched him at the bar regaling his new friends with Hollywood stories, he thought it was disloyal of her not to want to come to Quoin Hill. And possibly it was. But her loyalties lay in a different direction. She was about to meet people who had been dear to Jane Thackeray. People with a link to the past. Yesteryear was beckoning, and Sam was unable to resist. She didn’t dwell on the fact that she was also looking forward to Jason’s company.

They left for their drive not long after the barbecue, whilst the others were packing for the trip to Quoin Hill. It was Sam’s idea.

‘Hate to be pushy,’ she said, ‘but why don’t we go now?’ She didn’t want Brett to see her leaving with Jason – she could live without the withering looks.

‘Sure.’

She’d give her bathers a miss, she decided, it really wasn’t a good day for a swim, and she met him at the car with her wet-weather Drizabone.

‘Good thinking,’ he grinned, his own anorak slung over his shoulder as he waited for her.

The shower that had threatened during lunch had broken and been brief, but the wind was picking up now, and darker clouds were rolling in.

‘Looks like bad weather,’ she said.

‘It’s always unpredictable this time of year,’ he replied. ‘If you try to wait for the right moment during the monsoon season, you could be hanging around for days. Oh,’ it suddenly occurred to him, ‘would you rather not go? You’re quite right, there might be a storm.’

‘A storm! Hell yes, all the more reason.’

‘Good. Tamanu’s wonderful in a storm.’

Jason turned the car around and they headed off in the opposite direction to the one Sam was used to, south-east, away from Port Vila and the area of Mele Bay which she’d come to know so well.

‘Where did you say we’re going?’

‘Tamanu Beach Club. A little resort. It’s a pity we’ve had lunch, the food there’s excellent.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t you think about anything else?’ For someone so lean and fit, Jason seemed obsessed with eating.

He took her remark quite seriously. ‘I love good food,’ he said. ‘Quite frankly I’d rather not eat at all if the food isn’t good. It’s such a wonderful thing to share, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Sam hadn’t really analysed the social aspect of eating, she just ate when she was hungry, preferably a large steak. Pity they were going to a resort, she thought, she’d have liked to have seen a different aspect of the island.

The rain held off as they drove, but the clouds continued to gather and the sky looked ominous.

‘Simon’s been very lucky over the past two months,’ Jason remarked, ‘but his luck could be about to run out.’

‘Oh no it’s not, it’s all going his way.’ She smiled in response to his querying look. ‘Simon’s hoping the weather will be ghastly. He wants the Japanese POW camp to be a quagmire of muck. If there’d been big storms earlier, he would have altered the schedule and shot the POW stuff then.’

‘How adaptable of him.’

‘That’s Simon, he’s a genius.’

Tamanu Beach Club was nothing like she’d expected. It was like nothing she’d seen before in her life, and Jason smiled at her astonishment, having registered her reaction when he’d mentioned the word ‘resort’.

They’d left the road and driven along a track to a remote part of the island’s shore where, scattered amongst the hardy scrub, on a coastline of extraordinary beauty, five small cottages sat. Their tiny verandahs looked out across the sand to where low surf rolled over reefs onto a broad, white coral beach. Three of the cottages were constructed of wood, brightly painted and attractive, the other two were made entirely of coral. The small pieces of uncut coral, in their natural state of varying shapes and sizes, were cemented together, and the result was ornate and unbelievably pretty. Pandanus trees leaned in the wind, and strung between two swayed a hammock. On a grassy mound stood a restaurant, wooden-roofed and open to the elements. Tropical flowers adorned its white-clothed tables and a menu board leaned against a wooden post.

‘I’ve stepped into a picture book,’ Sam said. ‘This isn’t real, it can’t be.’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Understatement of the year!’

He introduced her to his friends who ran the private resort, a middle-aged Dutch couple to whom Sam took an instant liking. Jan was a burly man with twinkling eyes and a beguiling smile; his vivacious wife, Gerry, a strikingly attractive woman of Dutch-Indonesian descent.

Gerry was appalled that Jason hadn’t brought Sam to Tamanu to dine. ‘You have eaten?’ she said with mock horror, although it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and hardly surprising. ‘Then you will stay for dinner of course.’ She clasped Sam’s hand as though they’d been lifelong friends. ‘And you must stay for the night, it is the off season, we have very few guests, and then you must have eggs benedict in the morning.’

Sam shared a smile with Jason; he was obviously not the only one to whom food and conviviality were inextricably linked.

‘I’m afraid we can’t,’ Jason apologised. ‘Sam has a very early call in the morning.’

‘A call?’ Gerry still maintained her hold on Sam’s hand, and in her brown eyes was a look of humorous bewilderment. ‘What is this call?’

‘It’s movie speak,’ Sam said, finding the woman utterly engaging.

Jason explained that Sam was playing the lead in the film that was being shot in Port Vila, and Gerry was most impressed.

‘You are a movie star! All the more reason for you to stay at Tamanu. Tamanu is the perfect place for movie stars, no-one around to give you all that hassle. Isn’t this right, Jan?’

Jan dutifully nodded agreement and gave Sam a wink, which said Gerry was being Gerry, and Sam thought what a wonderful relationship they appeared to have.

‘Next time, I promise,’ Jason said reassuringly. ‘For the moment I’ve just brought Sam out to show her around,’ and before Gerry could get another word in, he added, ‘and now we’re going for a walk.’

They left Jan and Gerry unfurling the plastic walls of the restaurant in preparation for the storm that was threatening, and, donning their wet-weather gear, they walked up the coast away from the beach club.

The sand soon turned to rocky reef right up to the shoreline, and they left the beach to wander along the well-worn track that wound through the coastal grass and shrubs. After ten minutes or so, they came to a tiny sandy inlet that led into a deep, wide well amongst the rocks, the surf breaking twenty metres beyond, a perfect natural swimming pool.

‘I used to come here with my parents when I was a child,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the clearest memories I have of the times we shared.’

They sat on the patch of beach, Sam taking off her sandals and digging her feet into the coarse sand.

‘There were no buildings out here at all then, and the road was even worse than it is now, but Dad always indulged us. My mother loved swimming here too,’ he added. ‘She was like you, an absolute dolphin in the water.’ He smiled, breaking off midway through his reminiscence, a little self-conscious. ‘You should have brought your costume despite the weather,’ he said, ‘it’s the ideal place for a swim.’

But Sam wasn’t interested in swimming. She was intrigued. It was the first time he’d spoken intimately of his parents. He’d mentioned them that night at Vila Chaumieres, which now seemed so long ago, but only briefly. He’d said that his father had died in an accident and that his mother had left not long afterwards, and then he’d continued with the story of Mamma Jane.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said, hugging her knees to her chest and leaning forward expectantly.

‘Who?’

‘Your parents.’

He hesitated. Did she really want to know? She’d only ever been interested in his grandmother, and how the story of Mamma Jane related to Sarah Blackston. But huddled there in the oilskin coat that seemed far too big, eyes wide, fair hair blowing untidily in the breeze, she looked engagingly childlike, and he found her eagerness gratifying. It was he whom she now wanted to know about, and the thought pleased him.

‘I worshipped my father,’ he said. ‘He was a man of principle, everyone respected him, but what I remember most was the fun that we had. To everyone around him, Ron Thackeray was strong, he was a leader, they listened to his opinions, but to me he was like a big kid, full of energy. God, I loved him.’ He smiled at his memories as he looked out to sea.

‘And your mother?’ Sam asked after a moment’s pause.

‘I barely knew her really. Oh I wanted to, but she didn’t seem to have much time for me. All of her life was focussed on my father. I suppose she must have loved him very much.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, she disappeared three months after he died. She didn’t say goodbye, and I never saw her again.’

How extraordinary, Sam thought, for a woman to abandon her child like that. ‘Weren’t you angry?’

‘I suppose so, but I think Mamma Jane knew it was going to happen. Not that she ever told me she did, but she prepared me for it. I realised that a long time later.’

‘Prepared you? How?’

‘My mother told me she was going away for a while, I remember it quite clearly.’ He looked out to sea again as he recalled the day, still vivid in his mind. ‘She hugged me and said all the right things, that I was to be a good boy for Mamma Jane while she was gone. I believed she’d come back. There was no reason not to. Then Mamma Jane took me on a month’s trip to Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’d never been away from the islands, so it was pretty exciting. I was to go to boarding school in Brisbane when I was twelve, just like my dad had, so she was probably preparing me for that. And she was certainly trying to distract me. I missed my father terribly. It helped, I must say. We had a wonderful time together.

‘But when we came home, just before the independence celebrations, my mother was still gone. I was amazed that she wasn’t going to be there for the celebrations. Even at that age I knew it was going to be the biggest thing that had ever happened on the island. “Mami’s going to miss the party,” I said to Mamma Jane. That was all I could think about,’ he gave an ironic smile, ‘poor Mami, not getting to see the fireworks and everything, typical kid. And that’s when Mamma Jane told me. I remember she was quite brutal. “Your mother’s never coming back, Jason, and you have to get used to it,” those were her exact words.’

‘How awful,’ Sam breathed.

‘Not really, she didn’t want me to live with false expectations.’ Jason grinned. ‘I told you she was tough. I asked if my mother was dead and she said no. She didn’t offer any explanation, but she said it was just us now, that we’d have to look after each other. “We’re a team, you and me,” she said. She’d said the very same thing to me soon after Dad’s death, so I think she knew right from the start that my mother would leave.’

Sam was enthralled, but one thing remained a mystery, and she felt compelled to ask. ‘When you told me about Wolf Baker and your grandmother, you said that Wolf visited her because he’d heard about your father’s death.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you never said how your father died.’ She hoped she wasn’t being presumptuous, but he was speaking so openly.

Jason didn’t find the query presumptuous, but he paused for a moment’s consideration before answering. Would he tell her the truth? Yes, he decided.

‘It was a car accident. At least that’s what they said. Late at night, he drove off the road, into a tree. A broken neck. His death was instant. I found out later that they said he was drunk, which was strange because according to Mamma Jane, my father rarely drank. But there was grog in the car, and all over him evidently, so they said it was an accidental death. That’s how it was recorded anyway.’

‘They said?’

‘Yes, “they”. Mamma Jane told me the truth fourteen years later, not long before she died. It wasn’t an accident at all: my father was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Sam was shocked. ‘Murdered, good God, why? I mean, who? How do you know?’

As if to mirror the drama of Jason’s story, the day had turned bleak, and the storm was about to break.

‘I think we should be heading back,’ he said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She’d gone too far, she thought, she’d badgered him with questions and he found her intrusive. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, really I didn’t. I’m terribly sorry, it’s just that you were talking so …’

Her instant concern was guileless and charming, he thought. ‘You’re not prying at all,’ he laughed, ‘I’m enjoying myself, I’m indulging in the past.’ He was, he realised. He’d never spoken to anyone as he was now speaking to Sam. ‘But the storm’s going to break any minute, we’ll get drenched.’

‘Bugger the storm, I want to get drenched.’

‘You’ll catch pneumonia and Simon Scanlon will kill me.’

‘You don’t catch pneumonia when you’re wearing a Drizabone, that’s what they’re for. Go on, Jason.’

But he grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet instead, and just as he did, a distant bolt of lightning streaked the horizon, flaring across the blackening clouds that rolled overhead.

‘Quick! Put your sandals on.’

She did as she was told and together they started sprinting back along the track, Sam still protesting.

‘I don’t mind getting wet, I want to hear what happened.’

‘You won’t be able to hear a thing in a minute.’

He was right. They were fifty metres down the track when the storm broke in all its tropical magnificence, swift and ferocious.

They stopped running. What was the point? Beneath their protective clothing, their chests and backs were dry, but the rest of them was drenched.

‘It’s wonderful!’ Sam yelled above the thunder’s roar and the crack of the lightning that so brilliantly illuminated the now black sea. She hadn’t bothered with the hood of her Drizabone, and she raised her face to the pouring rain.

Jason again grabbed her hand. ‘Yes, yes, it’s wonderful,’ he said, ‘come on now, hurry up.’

Fifteen minutes later, back at the beach resort, they dried off, Gerry insisting upon lending them a pair of tracksuit pants each, Jan’s swimming on Jason’s slim frame quite ridiculously. They drank steaming mugs of coffee and then they left, promising faithfully to return after the two days’ filming.

On the slow drive home, over the rhythmic beat of the windscreen wipers, Sam was determined to pick up where they’d left off.

‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘With your father?’

He didn’t regret telling her, but how could he put it succinctly? he wondered. There was someone else who could tell it all so much better. But he would give her the background, he decided. The background that he’d heard from Mamma Jane.

‘My father inherited my grandmother’s love of the islanders,’ he said. ‘Well, like Mamma Jane, he was quite simply one of them. He spoke their language, not just Bislama, but several dialects, and he married an islander. Although not from Melanesia,’ he added, ‘my mother was half Polynesian.’

Sam was surprised. He hadn’t told her that before, but it certainly explained his intriguing looks.

‘The local authorities, both the French and the English, didn’t much approve of my dad. It was the 1970s and the Melanesians were starting to insist they could run their own country. The French, particularly, wanted to maintain some control in the islands after independence, and Dad was too free with his legal advice on how they should go about setting up the new constitution. By the late seventies he was a positive menace.’

Jason swerved to avoid a pothole; the road was treacherous, particularly in this weather. He slowed the car down to a crawl.

‘The colonial administration had corrupted many of the local leaders. They’d appointed them as ministers, given them chauffeured cars and servants, and these chaps swanned around in luxury while their own people lived in miserable huts without electricity. The authorities were trying to sneak in a dodgy constitution that wouldn’t allow freedom of the press, and would guarantee the corrupt islanders jobs in perpetuity. Dad was very vocal about the whole situation, and there were honest people around who listened to him, so the government couldn’t do much about it, except agree to take him on board as a legal adviser in the drawing up of the new constitution. But there were others who saw him as a very serious threat. Those from the private sector with business interests in the islands wanted to keep the locals in their pocket. So …’ Jason gave a shrug and avoided another pothole.

‘So they killed him?’ Sam was surprised by the detached way he spoke of his father’s death. It was as if he was talking about a historical figure from the past, she thought, as if there was no personal link.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Who? Do you know?’

‘No. But I believe Mamma Jane did. When she told me, just before she died, that my father had been murdered, she said I mustn’t live with any bitterness. She said that justice had been done, and his death had been avenged. Which I found rather strange at the time,’ he added, ‘because Mamma Jane wasn’t a vengeful person.’

He glanced at Sam, who was willing him to continue. ‘That’s about it, I’m afraid. She didn’t tell me any more.’

‘So you don’t know who killed your father, or who avenged his death, or how it was done?’

‘Nope.’

Sam was astonished. Why wasn’t Jason driven to discover the truth? She certainly would have been.

Jason was aware that his apparent nonchalance surprised her. He was willing to share the whole story with her, but the rest of it wasn’t his to tell. She would find out soon enough, he thought.

The storm had abated a little when they got back to the Crowne Plaza, and they went to their respective bungalows to shower and change. That night they dined with the crew members; and the second unit director, an efficient young man called Steve, announced that if the weather hadn’t cleared by morning, they’d postpone filming.

Jason walked Sam back to her bungalow, along the path that wound among the coconut trees, the two of them huddled beneath the huge umbrella provided by the resort. The wind had dropped now, and the rain was little more than a steady drizzle.

‘If you’re not working tomorrow,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll arrange lunch with my friends, shall I?’

‘Great, I’d love it.’

She was thoughtful when they arrived at the bungalow door. ‘You know, it amazes me that you can be so …’ she searched for the word ‘… so objective, so detached about everything, Jason.’

‘About my father’s murder, you mean?’

‘Yes. Oh please don’t get me wrong,’ she hastily added. ‘I don’t mean to be critical, I’m just surprised.’

‘It was twenty-four years ago, Sam, and the past is the past.’

‘Yes of course it is.’ She shook her head, perplexed. ‘I suppose it’s being here … making this film … Somehow the past seems so immediate, so tangible. I feel I’m a part of it.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, that sounds silly, doesn’t it.’

‘It doesn’t sound silly at all.’ He enjoyed very much sharing his past with her, he thought, but he’d far rather share his future, and beneath the umbrella he leaned down to kiss her.

This time there was no mistaking the kiss for a polite gesture. Their bodies were close, his arm was about her and, as his lips lingered on hers, she returned the kiss. But she was astonished when, as they parted, he handed her the umbrella.

‘Good night, Samantha,’ he said, and he walked off through the rain.

 

In the morning, the debris of coconuts that lay scattered about the lawns of the resort was the only evidence that the storm had ever been. The morning was bright and clear and perfect for filming.

They were shooting in an actual village, which was just up the street from the Crowne Plaza. The film unit, for a hefty fee by local standards, had the official permission of the local government, and the village itself was to be well remunerated. The villagers, who would be used as extras, were to receive a cash payment at the end of the day, and everyone was very happy with the arrangement.

The principals’ makeup van had accompanied the first unit to Quoin Hill, but Maz had remained in Port Vila to tend to Sam and Elizabeth. She did their makeup and hair at the resort and then, in costume, the women were transported to the nearby village in the Landcruiser.

‘Geez, you’re a blast from the past, eh?’ Bob Crawley was impressed. He was accustomed to seeing Sam in shorts and a T-shirt; she looked quite different in her wig and the 1940s blouse and skirt.

Whilst the crew was setting up for the first shots of the day, Jason arrived. Sam was sitting in one of the canvas director’s chairs near the catering truck, which was parked in the street by the wide, muddy drive that led into the village. Elizabeth was chatting to the cameraman nearby.

‘When you weren’t in the foyer I thought you weren’t coming,’ Sam said, pleased to see him, remembering last night’s kiss.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Again his manner, so casual, was in no way different, and Sam once more decided that Jason Thackeray was a bloody enigma. He ran hot and cold and she had no idea where she stood.

‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ Jason called.

‘Hello, Jason,’ Elizabeth called back, then she returned her attention to the cameraman. She’d been having a steady affair with him since Mickey had left.

A runner arrived with mugs of coffee, and Jason sat in one of the director’s chairs.

‘How bizarre,’ he said, looking up the muddy drive to the village square where, amongst the squalid huts, the grips were laying camera tracks and the sparkies were rigging lights and reflector boards. ‘Today meets yesterday, how truly bizarre.’

‘Yes it is, isn’t it,’ Sam agreed. The director, Steve, had shown her the village square, and the particular hut where they’d be shooting, and she’d commented upon the excellent work of the art department. Although the location was an ‘actual’, she’d presumed that the set designer’s additional dressing had created the authenticity of a 1940s village.

‘We didn’t add a thing,’ Steve had said.

The fact had amazed her, and she told Jason so. ‘I can’t believe how primitive it is,’ she said.

‘How long before you’re needed?’ he asked.

‘Oh.’ The non sequitur surprised her. ‘About twenty minutes, I suppose.’

‘Let’s go for a walk.’

He took her arm as they picked their way through the mud created by the storm, and they walked into the heart of the village.

The walls of the ramshackle pole huts were principally of corrugated iron that had seen better days, the roofs also, although some were thatched. Hessian was draped over open doorways, and children played in the central square where there were the remnants of a cooking fire.

‘Just as it was in my grandmother’s day,’ Jason said.

They wandered amongst the huts, the children gathering happily around them, several taking Sam’s hands, enchanting her with their smiles. Jason chatted in Bislama to the villagers, and Sam, proud that her lessons with Elizabeth had paid off, was able to understand much of what they said, despite the speed with which they said it.

She made a tentative attempt to join in now and then, and the villagers grinned, applauding her efforts even when she got it wrong. It seemed the adults were just as excited as the children that the ‘pipol blong filem’ had chosen their village.

It was not only the art designer whose labours had proved unnecessary in recreating the past; the costume department had also had it easy. Several villagers had been instructed to divest themselves of their brand-name shoes and logo-emblazoned T-shirts, but for the most part, sloppy shorts, shirts and bare feet or sandals were favoured by the men, and the majority of women wore Mother Hubbard dresses, just as they had in the colonial days.

‘How extraordinary,’ Sam said to Jason when they finally returned to the caterer’s truck. ‘It’s as if time’s stood still.’

‘It’s also rather shocking, don’t you think?’

Yes, she supposed that it was, although the people seemed very happy, she thought. She waited for him to continue.

‘This is actually quite a well-to-do village by some standards. A lot of these people are employed at the Crowne Plaza.’

She nodded. Even with her limited Bislama she’d gathered as much from the villagers’ conversations. It had surprised her to think that they worked in such modern and opulent surrounds, and then returned to homes so primitive.

‘There are many other villages that still don’t have electricity or running water,’ Jason continued, ‘it’s a disgrace. The Melanesians remain subjugated, and the corrupt ones amongst them continue to live the life of Riley. My grandmother had hoped that independence would achieve something better, but it actually created a monster worse than colonialism.’ In his eyes there was a wealth of anger. ‘And it was that monster that killed my father.’

Sam was silent, realising the inadequacy of any response. She also realised that she’d been wrong. Jason Thackeray was far from detached about his father’s murder. And about those who had perpetrated it.

The second assistant director appeared, Sam was called to the set and the day’s work began. Jason didn’t stay to watch the filming and, to Sam’s disappointment, he wasn’t at the Crowne Plaza upon their return in the late afternoon. She showered and changed, eagerly awaiting his company in the dining room that night, she had so much to tell him.

The day in the village had had a profound effect upon Sam. She had made friends amongst the villagers, particularly the children, who had instantly adopted her. During the filming, the children had been instructed to mill about and call her ‘Mamma Black’, which they obediently did. But when ‘cut’ was called and a break was taken, they didn’t stop. She continued to be Mamma Black and they displayed even more affection, the little ones vying to climb up on her lap, the others holding her hand or nestling against her. The children adored her, and she adored them in return. It was little wonder, Sam thought, that Jane Thackeray had formed such a bond with these people, and more and more, as the day progressed, she felt as if she had actually become Mamma Tack.

She longed to tell Jason what had happened, but he didn’t appear that night, he was obviously dining elsewhere. Sam felt rather let down, there was no-one else with whom she could share her feelings.

He arrived on set the second day, however. Work was well under way, and he simply gave her a wave. They were standing by, Steve had not yet called ‘action’, but the children were already milling about playing with her. ‘Action’ meant nothing to them. Sam noted that, as Jason watched, his expression, although enigmatic as always, was somehow fond. Fond and distant. He was reminiscing, she thought. Aware of her appearance in full costume and wig, she presumed that he was thinking of the past and his grandmother. She was right, but only to a certain extent.

‘Action!’ Steve called, and Sam concentrated upon her performance. He was watching Mamma Jane, Jason was thinking. He was a child again, and he was visiting a village with Mamma Jane, watching her whilst she played with the children. He smiled at his indulgence. It wasn’t Mamma Jane at all, he reminded himself. It was Samantha Lindsay, the woman he loved. And, very soon, he intended telling her so.

Jason didn’t stay long. During a brief break in filming he said to Sam, ‘See you at dinner’, and disappeared.

At the end of day, the crew packed away the gear, the two-day shoot over. Sam hugged the children one by one.

‘Siyu Mamma Black,’ they said.

The villagers gathered around, many of them chanting the same farewell, having also taken to calling her ‘Mamma Black’ when the camera was no longer rolling. She promised them all that she would visit the village again before she returned to Australia.

Less than a week to go, Sam thought. In just six days they’d be heading home for Christmas. There was to be a ten-day break before they shot the final scenes at Fox Studios, and then it would all be over. The past two and half months on location seemed to have flown, and she was already sad at the thought of leaving.

That night, over dinner in the Crowne Plaza dining room, she let it all pour out to Jason. Her feel for the past, her affection for the islanders, her identification with Jane Thackeray.

‘I felt as if I became her, Jason,’ she said. ‘As if I actually became Mamma Tack!’

He smiled. She hadn’t drawn breath for twenty minutes and her meal was congealed on her plate.

‘Well, you certainly looked like her,’ was all he said.

After dinner, he once again saw her to her bungalow door.

‘It’s all arranged with my friends,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, we’re invited to lunch.’

‘Great.’

She waited for him to kiss her. He did. And this time she sent him the strongest of signals in her response. Then, as they parted, she jumped in quickly.

‘Would you like a nightcap?’ she asked, and the offer was plainly for far more.

He didn’t even hesitate. ‘No thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.’

 

‘So where are we going?’ she enquired as he held the car door open for her. ‘I didn’t bring my bathers.’

There was a frosty edge to her voice, which didn’t seem to bother him.

‘You won’t need them.’

He climbed into the driver’s side. ‘You’ll like these friends of mine,’ he said. ‘And I think you’ll find out some answers today.’ Answers to what? she thought.

‘I do pry a lot, don’t I?’ she said with a touch of irritation.

‘Yes, but I don’t mind.’

Why did she find his manner patronising? Was it because he made a habit of kissing her and then disappearing into the night? Three times in a row now. And the last time, she couldn’t have sent a stronger signal. She found it very insulting.

‘Well, it’s my job to pry,’ she said, ‘it’s called research. After all, I am playing your grandmother.’ She sounded scathing, and she meant to.

‘I thought this film was only based upon my grandmother,’ he said with a smile.

She’d been pedantic about the fact often enough, and the realisation that she was being hoisted on her own petard only irritated her all the more.

‘Even based upon is enough to make it ironic, don’t you think?’ she said archly.

He realised that she was annoyed because he’d left without accepting her offer of a nightcap and all that it inferred. It was good that she was annoyed, he thought, he needed to be sure of how she felt about him.

‘Don’t be cross, Sam,’ he said gently. He flashed a glance at her and smiled, then returned his eyes to the road ahead. ‘There’s a reason for everything, and we’re just about to close a door on the past. I think that’s right, don’t you? With the film drawing to a close?’

He looked at her again. Bright green they were this time, she thought, those amazing eyes.

‘When we’ve put the past to rest, we can get on with the future.’

Sam was confused. What was that supposed to mean? What was she supposed to say in response? She was at a loss, but she realised her irritation had completely disappeared.

‘So who am I going to meet?’ she asked, her interest piqued.

‘My dad’s best friend,’ Jason replied. ‘He’s a retired school teacher, and he’s been like a father to me since I was ten. His name is Pascal Poilama.’