Destiny (87 page)

He had already greeted Ghislaine formally. Just the quickest glance down at the place cards.

"Please. You must call me Ghislaine." She smiled. "I must have missed you when you arrived."

"Yes. We were a little late. Helene—my wife—had a number of appointments."

He said this in a flat tone of voice, turning the stem of the martini glass in his fingers. Ghislaine looked at him circumspectly.

A handsome—an extremely handsome—young man, in his mid to late twenties she would have guessed. Well-educated. Well-mannered. Well-dressed. Rich, and used to being so. She made her customary quick little judgments, sniffing him out with all her expertise. She regarded him more closely. He had blond hair, well cut, and worn slightly long in the current English manner. The eyes, which had that odd unfocused look in them that indicated inebriation, were a clear light hazel. Their habitual expression was one of slight anxiety, coupled with defiance. Once or twice he looked up at the fat figure of Thad Angelini, who was seated opposite him, talking busily, and then looked away. He was like a child, Ghislaine thought, checking on parental approval or disapproval. He had looked in the same way at his wife.

Ghislaine bided her time. Sinclair was talking to the Italian actress on his right, in reasonably good French, for she spoke no English. Ghislaine chatted amiably to Gregory Gertz on her left, though she could see he was hardly listening to a word she said, and was longing to engage Angelini. Angelini, meanwhile, was talking to the woman critic, who was questioning him earnestly. The replies Angelini gave her, which Ghislaine could overhear, were not modest. He was going to make two more films this

DESTINY • 535

year, very quickly, five weeks each, back to back, working as simply as possible, with the most minimal crew union regulations would allow. The first would be called Quickstep, the title of the second was as yet undecided —here he glanced across at Lewis Sinclair with an odd little smile. Susan Jerome interjected a question, and Angelini nodded impatiently. Yes, yes, of course, Helene Harte would be in both of them; and then, next year, he was moving on to a quite different project. . . .

Ghislaine looked at him with distaste. A monomaniac, a bore, she decided. He emanated a pecuhar black negative energy, and she could feel him directing it around the table, sucking them all in, sucking them into some maw of his will.

Ghislaine did not intend to be manipulated in this way. She turned to Lewis Sinclair. She had been careful to see Short Cut before she left Paris, and she had disliked it intensely. It seemed to her clever, and cold; it was beyond her understanding that it should be so d la mode. Naturally, she kept these opinions to herself. She turned to Lewis, and began praising the film energetically, inserting into her remarks some phrases from the review in Le Monde.

Lewis Sinclair, who had produced the picture in question, gave her a muted response. He kept looking out the windows to the rocks, and to the sea, which grew dark.

They had eaten caviar, then quails. They were now eating tiny tender pieces of beef, into which strips o{ foie gras had been cunningly inserted; the Burgundy was exceptionally fine, and Lewis Sinclair, having moved on from champagne, was now on his fourth glass.

"Isn't it rather unusual," Ghislaine asked, unsure whether it was or not, "for three people to have such a close association over—what is it now— three films?"

"Four," Sinclair corrected her. "We began in 1959 with a low-budget film. Night Game. ..."

"Oh, but of course ..." said Ghislaine, who had never heard of it.

"So we go a long way back. It's a way of working that's more common in Europe, I suppose. Unusual in Hollywood ..."

"Hollywood is changing. The American film industry is changing. I've changed it," Angelini cut in, making this pronouncement between mouth-fuls of beef. Gregory Gertz gave a small ironic smile. Angelini returned to his conversation with the American critic as if there had been no interruption.

His interjection, and the fact that he had been listening to their conversation, appeared to upset Sinclair. He drained the rest of the Burgundy in his glass.

"As a matter of fact," Lewis went on in a low voice, "I've decided to

536 • SALLY BEAUMAN

break away—just for a while. Thad is very tied up right now, and I have a new project I'm developing. To tell you the truth, I don't find producing entirely satisfying. I feel I could bring more to a project, you know. Just recently, I've gotten very interested in writing. I had an idea—it just came to me in a flash—and now I want to do some work on it. Nurse it along . . ." He paused, slightly dolefully. "A change of direction every now and then. I think it's essential, don't you?"

"Absolutely essential. Invigorating," said Ghislaine. She glanced up, saw that Angelini was watching them again, and lowered her eyes. A triumvirate, she thought—and Lewis Sinclair was being eased out of it; interesting.

A waiter removed their plates, and Ghislaine decided to find out a httle more. She talked on, while the waiters fussed around them, making quite sure that Sinclair first knew who she was, and what she did. He listened dutifully, politely, without great animation.

"It's fun," she said, having dropped the names of some of her more substantial clients, including that of Louise de Chavigny, to which he did not react at all. "Fun—but not truly creative, of course. Not like your wife's work. Or yours. To make movies now, that must be—"

"You're belitthng yourself." He interrupted suddenly, with a sharp glance. "I know your work. I admire it. I've stayed at the Cavendish place in England. You did that, didn't you?" Ghislaine swiftly revised her opinion of him. Not as gullible as she had thought. Not as drunk. And well connected. She proceeded more carefully, spooning up a cold peach which had been laid in a perfect little sea of hot raspberry sauce.

She asked as many questions as she dared. Where they lived—a house in the hills above Los Angeles; built for Ingrid Nilsson, the great star of silent movies, and transported to Hollywood from England, brick by brick.

"It's pretty preposterous, I suppose. But Helene hkes it." No, they had not employed an interior designer; his wife had done it herself; very successfully—it was about to be featured in various magazines. . . . Ghislaine listened carefully. This information irritated her—she disliked talented amateurs above all things. Lewis Sinclair, she noticed, seemed to find it difficult to begin a sentence without the use of his wife's name.

"And are you interested in property here?" Ghislaine asked. She smiled. "I'm sure Gustav will try to tempt you."

"You must ask my wife. It's Helene who's interested in investing in property. She has a highly developed business sense."

This was said, quite suddenly, with detectable malice. As if he realized that himself, he immediately became contrite. "That is, well, she's very clever in that respect." He had corrected himself quickly, making his tone more gentle; still, for a moment, the resentment had been palpable.

DESTINY • 537

"How clever. How remarkable. And she looks so young. ..."

"Not so remarkable. She works at it." He gave a small bitter smile. "I help her, of course. Or I used to."

"And tell me—do you have a family, children?" Ghislaine gave him a warm smile.

"We have one daughter. Yes. She's just two."

"How charming! A little girl. And does she take after her mother?"

"I'm sorry?" He was looking at her blankly, as if he hadn't heard what she said. Ghislaine was slightly thrown for a moment.

"I meant ..."

"Oh, I see. No, not really. No. She doesn't look hke Helene at all. I'm sorry. It's very noisy in here, and ..."

He was looking around again for a waiter, one hand grasping the stem of his empty wineglass. His need for another drink was suddenly so naked and so obvious that Ghislaine almost felt sorry for him.

To ease the moment, as much as anything else, Ghislaine leaned forward slightly and pressed his arm. "You are a fortunate man. To have a wife who is beautiful, and so accomplished. I can't think how—" She broke off. Lewis Sinclair had turned back to her; he appeared distressed, though whether because of the need for a drink, or the compliment to his wife, Ghislaine could not tell. Across the table, Thad Angelini had lifted his heavy head; he was looking directly at them once more. The light winked and blinked against his spectacles; Lewis glanced at him, glanced back at Ghislaine.

"Oh, Helene can do anything," he said in a throwaway tone. He tossed his napkin onto the table, pushed aside his coffee cup, and lit a cigarette.

"Almost anything," he added as if it were an afterthought, and across the table Thad Angelini smiled.

Ghislaine waited until it was almost the moment to leave. They had all returned to Nerval's suite for cognac; she had had, as promised, a long conversation with Rebecca Stein, had reassured her on the question of French plumbing, and had overwhelmed her, she devoutly hoped, with her own chic. She would go to inspect the Maison Jasmine with the Steins and Nerval the next day—she might even take them to look at the work being done on Louise's villa, which should impress them, and then she would fly back to Paris for the meeting, the great meeting, with Edouard.

Should she tell him she had met Helene Harte? No, she thought not. It was better not to remind him. Should she even speak to her as she had planned, or should she just forget the whole thing, and go? After all, what

538 • SALLY BEAUMAN

was she? Just one of Edouard's ex-mistresses, and there were many of those.

She had almost decided to go; her mind was very nearly made up; and then Rebecca Stein made her remark.

"Isn't she beautiful?" she said in a wistful voice. She looked across the room to where Helene Harte stood, her husband, looking bored and morose, on one side of her, Thad Angelini on the other, all smiles.

"5(0 lovely." Rebecca Stein shook her head. "Wouldn't you give just anything to look like that? I know I would."

For a moment Ghislaine could hardly believe her ears. She shot Rebecca Stein a venomous glance, but the stupid woman seemed entirely unaware of her lack of tact.

"Of course, she's young." Rebecca Stein smiled. "I guess that helps. After all, neither of us will see forty again, right?"

Forty? Rebecca Stein looked fifty-five if she was a day, and the fact that she had estimated Ghislaine's age with such casual certainty filled Ghislaine with impotent rage. She wished the woman good night curtly, and crossed the room.

She approached from the side, so Helene Harte did not see her until they were next to each other, and Ghislaine was shaking hands with Lewis Sinclair. Ghislaine murmured a few pleasantries and then turned to Helene Harte with what she felt was the perfectly calculated tone of innocent surprise. She spoke half to Sinclair, half to his wife.

'''Quelle betise. I'm so sorry. You must think me very rude—but I've only just this moment realized. Your wife and I have met before. ..."

Helene Harte turned her head; their gaze met, and Ghislaine gave her a warm smile.

"You don't remember—well, why should you? It was some years back. Nineteen sixty? No, fifty-nine, I think. At dinner one evening in the Loire. You were staying with Edouard de Chavigny—now do you recall?"

There was a little silence. Helene Harte frowned, then smiled and shook her head.

"I'm sorry. I think you must be mistaken. We've never met—I would remember, I'm sure."

"Oh, but you must! It's not so long ago—it all comes back to me now. You were wearing the most wonderful white dress, Givenchy, I think. Alphonse de Varenges was sitting next to you, and Edouard had been teaching you to ride, was that it? Yes, I'm sure it was, because I remember, Edouard said—"

"I must have a twin. Or a double." Helene Harte laughed. "It sounds lovely, but I'm afraid you're mistaken. I've never stayed in the Loire."

It was perfectly done. She spoke so naturally, and with such an air of

DESTINY • 539

easy amusement, that for one insane moment Ghislaine herself nearly be-heved her. She opened her mouth to say something more, and before she could speak, the director, Angelini, took a little step forward.

"Helene. I'm sorry—I think Joe Stein wants a word ..."

With that he extricated her; it seemed almost done deliberately. He led the actress away; she looked back with a quick apologetic smile and a lift of the hand; Ghislaine's opportunity had gone.

She and Lewis Sinclair were left alone. They looked at each other. Had he believed his wife? Ghislaine couldn't be certain, but she thought not. He glanced away in her direction, and his face looked crumpled, pinched, like a child's about to cry. Ghislaine almost regretted, then, what she had done.

"How stupid of me," she said quickly. "How could I have made a mistake like that?"

"We all make mistakes," he said dully. He turned back to her, and then, like a child suddenly remembering its manners, offered her his arm.

"You're going now?" he said politely. "Please, let me show you to your car."

I lo you have a twin?" J_y "Lewis . . ."

"Or a double?"

"This is silly, Lewis. . . ."

"Of course you don't. You're unique. We all know that. Helene Harte— the most beautiful woman in the world. They're calling you that now, did you know that? I read it in your clippings just the other day. Ts this the most beautiful woman in the world?' it said. And there was a picture of you underneath. They were inviting readers to write in and vote. I'm sure they all voted for you. I would. I'd have sent in the coupon, there and then, only it was an Italian magazine and I didn't have the right stamp."

"Lewis. It's late, and you're tired." Helene lifted her hand to him. "Come to bed."

"I don't think I will, thank you. Not just yet. And it's kind of odd you should think I'm tired, because I don't feel tired in the least. I feel fine. I've been enjoying myself no end. A Givenchy dress. I never knew you had a Givenchy dress—before you met me."

"Lewis. I keep telling you. She made a mistake. ..."