Fancy Pants (7 page)
Francesca Day, the beautiful
daughter of international socialite Chloe
Day and granddaughter of
the legendary couturiere Nita Serritella, is
breaking hearts again. The tempestuous Francesca's
latest victim is her
frequent companion of late, handsome Nicholas Gwynwyck,
thirty-three-year-old heir to the Gwynwyck brewery fortune. Friends say
Gwynwyck was ready to announce a wedding date when Francesca suddenly
began
appearing in the company of twenty-three-year-old screen newcomer,
David Graves. . . .
"Next weekend, then?"daughter of international socialite Chloe
Day and granddaughter of
the legendary couturiere Nita Serritella, is
breaking hearts again. The tempestuous Francesca's
latest victim is her
frequent companion of late, handsome Nicholas Gwynwyck,
thirty-three-year-old heir to the Gwynwyck brewery fortune. Friends say
Gwynwyck was ready to announce a wedding date when Francesca suddenly
began
appearing in the company of twenty-three-year-old screen newcomer,
David Graves. . . .
She swiveled her hips in the chair, turning away from the sight of the
tabloid to repair her fingernail.
"I don't think so, Nicky. Let's not
make this difficult."
"Francesca." For a moment Nicholas's voice seemed to break. "You—you
told me you loved me. I believed you. . . ."
A frown puckered her forehead. She felt guilty, even though it was
hardly her fault he had misinterpreted her words. Suspending the nail
varnish brush in midair, she tucked her chin closer to the receiver. "I
do love you, Nicky. As a friend. My goodness, you're sweet and dear. .
. ."
And boring.
"Who
wouldn't
love you? We've had such wonderful times
together. Remember Gloria Hammersmith's party when
Toby jumped into
that awful fountain—"
She heard a muffled exclamation from the other end of the telephone.
"Francesca, how could you do it?"
She blew on her nail. "Do what?"
"Go out with David Graves. You and I are practically engaged."
"David Graves is none of your business," she retorted. "We're not
engaged, and I'll talk to you again when you're ready to converse in a
more civilized fashion."
"Francesca—"
The receiver hit the cradle with a bang. Nicholas Gwynwyck had no right
to cross-examine her! Blowing on her fingernail, she walked over to her
closet. She and Nicky had had fun together, but she didn't love him and
she certainly had no intention of living the rest of her life married
to a brewer, even a wealthy one.
As soon as her fingernail was dry, she renewed her search for something
to wear to Cissy Kavendish's party that evening. She still hadn't found
what she wanted when she was distracted by a tapping at the door, and a
middle-aged woman with ginger-colored hair and elastic stockings rolled
at the ankles
entered the bedroom. As the woman began putting away the
pile of neatly folded lingerie she had
brought with her, she said, "I'll be leavin' for a few hours if it's
all right with you, Miss Francesca."
Francesca held up a honey-colored chiffon Yves Saint Laurent evening
dress with brown and white ostrich feathers encircling the hem. The
dress actually belonged to Chloe, but when Francesca first saw
it she
had fallen in love with it, so she'd had the skirt shortened and the
bust taken in before transferring
it to her own closet. "What do you
think of the chiffon for tomorrow night, Hedda?" she asked.
"Too plain?"
Hedda put away the last of Francesca's lingerie and slid the drawer
shut. "Everything looks grand
on you, miss."
Francesca turned slowly in front of the mirror and then wrinkled her
nose. The Saint Laurent was too conservative, not her style after all.
Dropping the gown to the floor, she stepped over the pile of
discarded
clothes and began digging in her closet again. Her velvet knickers
would be perfect, but she needed a blouse to wear with them.
"Would you be wantin' anything else, Miss Francesca?"
"No, nothing," Francesca answered absently.
"I'll be back by tea, then," the housekeeper announced as she headed
toward the door.
Francesca turned to ask her about supper and noticed for the first time
that the housekeeper was stooped forward farther than normal. "Is your
back bothering you again? I thought you told me it was better?"
"It was for a bit," the housekeeper replied, resting her hand heavily
on the doorknob, "but it's been
aching so these last few days I can
hardly bend over. That's why I need to leave for a few hours—to
go to
the clinic."
Francesca thought how terrible it would be to live like poor Hedda,
with stockings rolled at the ankles
and a back that ached whenever you
moved. "Let me get my keys," she offered impulsively. "I'll drive you
to Chloe's physician on Harley Street and have him send me the bill."
"No need, miss. 1 can go to the clinic."
But Francesca wouldn't hear of it. She hated seeing people suffer and
couldn't bear the thought of poor Hedda not having the best medical
care. Instructing the housekeeper to wait in the car, she traded in her
silk blouse for a cashmere sweater, added a gold and ivory bangle to
her wrist, made a telephone call, spritzed herself with the peach and
apricot scent of
Femme, and left her room—giving no thought at all
to the litter of
clothes and accessories she had left behind for Hedda to bend over and
pick up when she returned.
Her hair swirled around her shoulders as she tripped down the stairs, a
tortoiseshell cross fox jacket dangling from her fingers, soft leather
boots sinking into the carpet. Stepping down into the foyer, she passed
a pair of double-ball topiaries set in majolica pots. Little sunlight
penetrated the foyer, so the plants never flourished and had to be
replaced every six weeks, an extravagance that neither Chloe nor
Franceses bothered to question. The door chimes rang.
"Bother," Francesca muttered, glancing at her watch. If she didn't
hurry, she'd never be able to get Hedda to the doctor and still have
time to dress for Cissy Kavendish's party. Impatiently, she swung open
the front door.
A uniformed police constable stood on the other side consulting a small
notebook he was holding in his hand. "I'm looking for Francesca Day,"
he said, coloring slightly as he lifted his head and took in her
breathtaking appearance.
A picture sprang into her mind of the assortment of unpaid traffic
tickets scattered in her desk drawer upstairs, and she gave him her
best smile. "You've found her. Am I going to be sorry?"
He regarded her solemnly. "Miss Day, I'm afraid I have some upsetting
news."
For the first time she noticed that he was holding something at his
side. A sudden chill of apprehension swept over her as she recognized
Chloe's ostrich-skin Chanel handbag.
He swallowed uncomfortably. "It seems there's been a rather serious
accident involving your mother. . . ."
Chapter
5
Dallie and Skeet sped along U.S. 49 headed toward Hattiesburg,5
Mississippi. Dallie had caught a couple
of hours' sleep in the back
seat while Skeet drove, but now he was behind the wheel again, glad
that he didn't have to tee off until 8:48 in the morning, so he would
have time to hit a few balls first. He hated these all-night drives
from the final round of one tournament to the qualifying round of the
next about as much as he hated anything. If the PGA fat cats had to
make a few overnight runs across three state lines and past a few
hundred Stuckey's signs, he figured they'd change the rules pretty
damned quick.
On the golf course, Dallie didn't care how he dressed—as long as his
shirts didn't have animals on them and nothing was pink—but he was
particular about his clothes off the course. He preferred faded
skin-tight Levi's worn with hand-tooled leather boots run over at the
heels and a T-shirt old enough so that he could whip it off if the mood
struck him and use it to polish the hood of his Buick Riviera without
worrying about scratching the finish. A few of his female fans sent him
cowboy hats, but he never wore them, favoring billed caps instead, like
the one he was wearing now. He said that the Stetson had been ruined
forever being worn by too many potbellied insurance agents in polyester
leisure suits. Not that Dallie had anything against polyester —as long
as it was American made.
"Here's a story for you," Skeet said.
Dallie yawned and wondered whether he was going to be able to hit his
two-iron worth a damn. He'd been off the day before, but he couldn't
figure out why. Since last year's disaster at the Orange Blossom Open,
he'd been playing better, but he still hadn't managed to finish higher
than fourth place in any big tournament this season.
Skeet held the tabloid closer to the glove compartment light. "You
remember I showed you a picture a while back of that little British
girl, the one who was goin' around with that prince fella and those
movie stars?"
Maybe he was shifting his weight too fast, Dallie thought. That might
be why he was having trouble
with his two-iron. Or it could be his
backswing.
Skeet went on. "You said she looked like one of those women who
wouldn't shake your hand unless
you was wearin' a diamond pinky ring.
Remember now?"
Dallie grunted.
"Anyway, seems her mama got hit by a taxicab last week. They got a
picture here of her comin' out of the funeral carryin' on something
terrible. 'Bereft Francesca Day Mourns Socialite Mom,' that's what it
says. Now where do you think they come up with stuff like that?"
"Like what?"
"
Bereft.
Word like that."
Dallie shifted his weight onto one hip and dug into the back pocket of
his jeans. "She's rich. If she was poor, they'd just say she was 'sad.'
You got any more gum?"
"Pack of Juicy Fruit."
Dallie shook his head. "There's a truck stop coming up in a few miles.
Let's stretch our legs."
They stopped and drank some coffee, then climbed back into the car.
They made it to Hattiesburg in plenty of time for Dallie to tee off,
and he easily qualified for the tournament. On their way to the motel
later that afternoon, the two of them stopped off at the city post
office to check General Delivery. They found a pile of bills waiting
for them, along with a few letters—one of which started an argument
that lasted all the way to the motel.
"I'm not selling out, and I don't want to hear any more about it,"
Dallie snapped as he ripped his cap off and threw it down on the
motel-room bed, then jerked his T-shirt over his head.
Skeet was already late for an appointment he'd made with a curly-haired
cocktail waitress, but he looked up from the letter he held in his hand
and studied Dallie's chest with its broad shoulders and well-defined
muscles. "You're just about the stubbornest sumbitch I ever knew in my
life," he declared. "That pretty face of yours along with those
overdeveloped chest muscles could make us more money right now than you
and your rusted-up five-iron have earned this entire season."
"I'm not posing for any faggot calendar."
"O. J. Simpson's agreed to do it," Skeet pointed out, "along with Joe
Namath and that French ski bum. Hell, Dallie, you were the only golfer
they even thought to ask."
"I'm not doing it!" Dallie yelled. "I'm not selling out."
"You did those magazine ads for Foot-Joy."
"That's different and you know it." Dallie stalked into the bathroom
and slammed the door, then yelled from the other side. "Foot-Joy makes
a damn fine golf shoe!"
The shower went on and Skeet shook his head. Muttering under his
breath, he crossed the hallway to
his own room. For a long time it had
been obvious to a lot of people that Dallie's looks could have given
him a one-way ticket to Hollywood, but the fool wouldn't take advantage
of it. Talent agents had been placing long-distance calls to him since
his first year on the tour, but all Dallie did was tell them they were
bloodsuckers and then make generally disparaging remarks about their
mothers, which wouldn't have been so bad by itself, except he pretty
much did it to their faces. What was so terrible, Skeet wanted to know,
about earning some easy money on the side? Until Dallie started winning
the big ones, he was never going to pick up the six-figure commercial
endorsements that guys like Trevino could get, let alone the sweetheart
deals Nicklaus and Palmer made.
Skeet combed his hair and exchanged one flannel shirt for another. He
didn't see what was so damned wrong with posing for a calendar, even if
it did mean sharing space with pretty boys like J. W. Namath. Dallie
had what the talent agents called
sexual magnetism. Hell, even somebody who was half blind could see
that. No matter how far down in the pack he was, he always had a full
gallery following him, and eighty percent of that gallery seemed to be
wearing lipstick. The minute he stepped off the course, those women
surrounded him like flies after honey. Holly Grace said women loved
Dallie because they knew
he didn't own any color-coordinated underwear
or Wayne Newton records. What we have with Dallas Beaudine, Holly Grace
had insisted more than once, is the Lone Star State's last genuine
All-American he-man.
Skeet grabbed the room key and chuckled to himself. The last time he'd
talked to Holly Grace on the telephone, she'd said that if Dallie
didn't win a big tournament pretty soon, Skeet should just go ahead
and
shoot him to put him out of his misery.
* * *
Miranda Gwynwyck's annual party, always held the last week ofSeptember, was in full swing, and the hostess surveyed the platters of
Mediterranean red prawns, baby artichokes, and lobster in phyllo with
satisfaction. Miranda, author of the well-known feminist work Woman as
Warrior, loved to entertain
well, if for no other reason than to prove
to the world that feminism and gracious living weren't mutually
exclusive. Her personal politics would not permit her to wear frocks or
makeup, but entertaining gave
her an opportunity to exercise what she
referred to in
Woman as Warrior
as
the "domestica"—the more civilized
side of human nature, whether male or female.
Her eyes swept over the distinguished group of guests she had gathered
between the stippled walls of her living room, newly redecorated that
August as a birthday present from Miranda's brother. Musicians and
intellectuals, several members of the peerage, a sprinkling of
well-known writers and actors, a few charlatans to lend spice—exactly
the kind of stimulating people she loved to bring together. And then
she frowned as her gaze fell on the proverbial fly in the ointment of
her satisfaction—tiny Francesca Serritella Day, spectacularly dressed
as always and, as always, the center of male attention.
She watched Francesca flit from one conversation to another, looking
outrageously beautiful in a turquoise silk jumpsuit. She tossed her
cloud of shining chestnut hair as if the world were her personal
pearl-filled oyster when everyone in London knew she was down to her
last farthing. What a surprise it must have been for her to discover
how deeply in debt Chloe had been.
Over the polite noise of the party, Miranda heard Francesca's generous
laughter and listened as she greeted several men in that breathless,
wait-until-you-hear-this voice, carelessly emphasizing the most
unimportant words in a manner that drove Miranda wild. But one by one
the stupid bastards all melted into warm little puddles at her feet.
Unfortunately, one of those stupid bastards was her own beloved brother
Nicky.
Miranda frowned and picked up a macadamia nut from an opalescent
Lalique bowl printed with dragonflies. Nicholas was the most important
person in the world to her, a wonderfully sensitive man with an
enlightened soul. Nicky had encouraged her to write Woman as Warrior.
He had helped her refine her thoughts, brought her coffee late at
night, and most important, he had shielded her from their mother's
criticism over why her daughter, with a yearly income of one hundred
thousand pounds, had to meddle with such nonsense. Miranda couldn't
bear the idea of standing idly by while Francesca Day broke his heart.
For months she had watched Francesca flit from one man to another,
running back to Nicky whenever she found herself between admirers. Each
time he welcomed her return—a little more battle-scarred, perhaps, a
little less eagerly—but he welcomed her just the same.
"When we're together," he had explained to Miranda, "she makes me feel
as if I'm the wittiest, brightest, most perceptive man in the world."
And then he added dryly, "Unless she's in a bad mood, of course, in
which case she makes me feel like a complete shit."
How did she do it? Miranda wondered. How did someone so intellectually
and spiritually barren command so much attention? Most of it, Miranda
felt certain, was her extraordinary beauty. But part
of it was her
vitality, the way the very air around her seemed to crackle with life.
A cheap parlor trick, Miranda thought with disgust, since Francesca Day
certainly didn't have an original thought in her head. Just look at
her! She was both penniless and unemployed, yet she acted as if she
hadn't a care in the world. And maybe she didn't have a care, Miranda
thought uneasily—not with Nicky Gwynwyck and
all his millions waiting
patiently in the wings.
Although Miranda didn't know it, she wasn't the only person brooding at
her party that evening. Despite her outward show of gaiety, Francesca
was miserable. Just the day before, she had gone to see Steward
Bessett, the head of London's most prestigious modeling agency, and
asked him for a job. Although she had no desire for a career, modeling
was an acceptable way to earn money in her social circle, and she had
decided that it would provide at least a temporary answer to her
bewildering financial problems.
But to her dismay, Steward had told her she was too short. "No matter
how beautiful a model is, she simply has to be five feet eight inches
if she's to do fashion," he had said. "You're barely five feet two.
Of
course, I might be able to get you some beauty work—close-ups, you
know, but you'll need some
test shots done first."
That was when she had lost her temper, shouting at him that she had
been photographed for some of
the most important magazines in the world
and that she hardly needed to do test shots like some rank amateur. Now
she realized that it had been foolish of her to become so upset, but at
the time she simply hadn't been able to help herself.
Although it had been a year since Chloe's death, Francesca still found
it difficult to accept the loss of her mother. Sometimes her grief
seemed to be alive, a tangible object that had twisted itself around
her. At first her friends had been sympathetic, but after a few months,
they seemed to believe that she should
set her sadness aside like last
year's hem length. She was afraid they would stop issuing invitations
if she didn't become a more cheerful companion, and she hated being
alone, so she had finally learned to tuck her grief away. When she was
in public, she laughed and flirted as if nothing were wrong.
Surprisingly, the laughter had begun to help, and in the last few
months she had felt that she was finally healing.
Sometimes she even experienced vague stirrings of anger against Chloe.
How could her mother have deserted her like this, with an army of
creditors waiting like a plague of locusts to snatch up everything they
owned? But the anger never lasted for long. Now that it was too late,
Francesca understood why Chloe had seemed so tired and distracted in
those months before she had been hit by the taxi.
Within weeks of Chloe's death, men in three-piece suits had begun to
appear at the door with legal documents and greedy eyes. First Chloe's
jewelry had disappeared, then the Aston Martin and the paintings.
Finally the house itself had been sold. That had settled the last of
the debts, but it had left Francesca with only a few hundred pounds,
most of which was gone now, and temporarily lodged at the home of Cissy
Kavendish, one of Chloe's oldest friends. Unfortunately, Francesca and
Cissy had never gotten along all that well, and since the beginning of
September, Cissy had made it clear that she wanted Francesca to move
out. Francesca wasn't certain how much longer she could hold her off
with vague promises.
She forced herself to laugh at Talmedge Butler's joke and tried to find
comfort in the idea that being without money was a bore, but merely a
temporary situation. She caught sight of Nicholas across the room in
his navy Gieves and Hawkes blazer and knife-pleated gray trousers. If
she married him, she could have all the money she would ever possibly
need, but she had only seriously entertained the idea
for the absolute
briefest of moments one afternoon a few weeks ago after she'd received
a telephone call from a perfectly odious man who had threatened her
with all sorts of unpleasant things if she didn't make a payment on her
credit cards. No, Nicholas Gwynwyck wasn't a solution to her problems.
She despised women who were so desperate, so unsure of themselves, that
they married for money. She was only twenty-one. Her future was too
special, too bright with promise, to ruin because of a temporary upset.
Something would happen soon. All she had to do was wait.
". . . is a piece of trash that I shall transform into art." The snag
of conversation spoken by an elegant Noel Cowardish man with a short
cigarette holder and manicured hair caught Francesca's attention. He
broke away from Miranda Gwynwyck to materialize at her side. "Hello, my
dear," he said.
"You are incredibly lovely, and I've been waiting all evening to have
you to myself. Miranda said I would enjoy you."
She smiled and placed her hand in his outstretched one. "Francesca
Day," she said. "I hope I'm worth
the wait."
"Lloyd Byron, and you most definitely are. We met earlier, although you
probably don't remember."
"On the contrary, I remember very well. You're a friend of Miranda's, a
famous film director."
"A hack, I'm afraid, who has once again sold himself out for the Yankee
dollar." He tilted his head back dramatically and spoke to the ceiling,
releasing a perfect smoke ring. "Miserable thing, money. It makes
extraordinary people do all sorts of depraved things."
Francesca's eyes widened mischievously. "Exactly how many depraved
things have you done, or is one permitted to inquire?"
"Far, far too many." He took a sip from a tumbler generously filled
with what looked like straight scotch. "Everything connected with
Hollywood is depraved. I, however, am determined to put my own stamp
on
even the most crassly commercial product."
"How absolutely courageous of you." She smiled with what she hoped
would pass for admiration, but
was actually amusement at his almost
perfect parody of the world-weary director forced to compromise his art.
Lloyd Byron's eyes traced her cheekbones and then lingered on her
mouth, his inspection admiring but dispassionate enough to tell her
that he preferred male companionship to female. He pursed his lips and
leaned forward as if he were sharing a great secret. "In two days,
darling Francesca, I'm leaving for godforsaken Mississippi to begin
filming something called Delta Blood, a script that I have
single-handedly transformed from a wretched piece of garbage into a
strong spiritual statement."
"I simply adore spiritual statements," she cooed, lifting a fresh glass
of champagne from a passing tray while she covertly inspected Sarah
Fargate-Smyth's barber-pole-striped taffeta dress, trying to decide
whether it was Adolfo or Valentino.
"I intend to make Delta Blood an allegory, a statement of reverence for
both life and death." He made
a dramatic gesture with his glass without
spilling a drop. "The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you
understand?"
"Enduring cycles are my particular specialty."
For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed
his eyes shut dramatically. "I can feel your life force beating so
strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible
vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head." He pressed
his hand to his cheek. "I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel
my skin. It's positively clammy."
She laughed. "Perhaps the prawns are a bit off."
He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Love. I've fallen in
love. I absolutely have to have you
in my film. From the moment I saw
you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda."
Francesca lifted one eyebrow. "I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you
that idea?"
He frowned. "1 never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you
to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film
without you."
"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" she said with a smile.
"You've known me less than five minutes."
"I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's
what separates me from the others." His lips formed a perfect oval and
emitted a second smoke ring. "The role is small but memorable. I'm
experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time
travel—a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth-century
prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to
use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable
scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the
plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the
screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested
in a serious career."
For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly
irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect
answer to all her financial difficulties, and the drama of performing
had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson,
who seemed to be having a
perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly
laughed aloud at her own naivete. Legitimate directors hardly walked up
to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.
Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket
and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. "I have to leave
London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon.
This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire
future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the
chance to appear in a major American film."
As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she
restrained herself from commenting that
Delta Blood
hardly sounded like
a major American film. "It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm
afraid I'm not an actress."
He pressed both hands—one containing his drink and the other his
cigarette holder—over his ears so that he looked something like a
smoke-producing space creature. "No negative thoughts! You are what I
say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative
thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!"
With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca
felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear,
"He's not the only one who has to have you."
"Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend," Francesca said, turning to
plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. "I just met the most
amusing little man. Do you know him?"
Nicholas shook his head. "He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the
dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning."
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