Goodbye, Janette (40 page)

“I know who I am,” she said, the hurt showing in her voice. “I’m Lauren. Who do you expect me to be?”

He poured the whiskey into his glass and drank it before he answered. “Lady Reardon,” he said snidely. “Or is that too much to expect?”

She stared at him, unable to answer, the choking in her throat forcing the tears into her eyes. Quickly she rose from her seat and went to the couch in the back of the plane.

They completed the rest of the trip in silence and by the time they touched down in Mykonos, Patrick had drunk almost two bottles of whiskey and had to be helped from the plane to the helicopter. When they arrived on board the
Fantasist
all that could be done with him was to put him to bed and let him sleep it off.

She undressed and crawled, naked, into the bed beside him. Tentatively she placed a hand on his shoulder. But he was out. He never moved. An hour later she still hadn’t been able to find sleep. She gave up the struggle, popped two Valium fives, smoked a stick of Harvey’s number four, dream grass, as he called it, and was asleep before she felt her eyes close.

In the morning when she awoke, he was standing, his back to her, slipping into a pair of slacks. Her eyes widened. “My God, Patrick! What happened to your back?” she asked in a shocked voice.

He glanced at her in the mirror. “I slipped on the stone steps in the rear of the Manor yesterday morning,” he answered without turning around.

She sat up in bed. “And you never said a word about it. Not even during the wedding. You must have been in terrible pain. You should have said something.”

He didn’t answer, still watching her reflection in the mirror.

“Now I know why you were drinking the way you did yesterday.” She got out of bed and stood next to him. She looked up into his face. “You should have told me,” she said sympathetically. “Then I would have understood.”

He looked down into her face for a long moment. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he said firmly.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “We’d better find something to put on it.”

He smiled his brave-Englishman smile. “It’s really nothing, darling. It doesn’t hurt that much now.”

***

Two weeks later they were anchored off Corfu and she was lying nude on the sun deck, waiting for Patrick to finish his morning telephone calls. He spoke to his office twice a day, morning and evening. She picked up a spray can of Evian. The misty cool spray felt good against her warm skin. She squinted up at the sun. Patrick had better hurry. Another half hour and it would be impossible to stay in this sun.

She sprayed extra water into her hand and dipped her fingers into the jar of Sun Earth that Harvey had given her. It was Janette who had given it the name, and already she was working on a package design for it, planning to enter the market early next year.

She looked down at herself as she spread the thin layer. It really worked. Her body had never been so dark from the sun, and there never had been the slightest hint of a burn. By contrast, her hair had never been so white-blond, her eyebrows and lashes were practically invisible, even her pubic hair shone whiter than the skin beneath. She heard footsteps on the ladder and looked up. Patrick’s head appeared first. He paused for a moment halfway up the ladder.

“I’ve ordered a drink,” he asked. “Would you like one?”

“No, thanks,” she smiled. “But you’re just in time to do my back.”

She rolled over on her stomach as he knelt beside her. She sprayed some water on his hand and then over her shoulders on her back. He dipped his fingers into the jar and began to apply the thin film of clay. She glanced sideways at his face. He was smiling. “You seem pleased with yourself this morning,” she said.

“I am,” he said. “I’ve finally gotten those bastards on my board of directors to admit that I knew what I was doing.”

“That’s great,” she said. She knew of the skepticism and resentment he had faced upon going into the company. Everything he wanted to do was subjected to microscopic scrutiny and had been fought at every turn. “What made them finally see the light?”

“There were a couple of things but mainly it was the deal with Janette,” he said.

“That makes me doubly happy,” she said, rolling over, sitting up and kissing his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked at her. “Do you know the biggest money-making item in our whole line is Janette Jeans? We’ve netted more than two million dollars in the States in its first year, and we’ve only been on the market eight months. According to projections we’ll do six million next year. And even our experts had to admit that her idea of weaving ten percent of stretch threads into the denim was brilliant and made the jeans fit even better. It even made fat asses look good. Then to top it all off, her collection at the beginning of this week showed Paris and the whole fashion world that last year’s was no fluke. It put everybody away.”

“I feel stupid,” she said. “All I thought about was the wedding. I forgot completely that it was collection time. She must think that I’m a real shit.”

“I’m sure she understands,” he said.

“Did she do it at the Lido again?”

“No. This time she had a circus theme. She took over a small circus and did it in a tent in Montmartre complete with ringmaster, clowns, acrobats, lions and elephants, the whole works. And this time it was all her own designs. It proved once and for all that she didn’t need a Philippe Fayard or anyone to help her, that she could take her place along with St. Laurent, Givenchy, Bohan and all the rest of them as one of the top couturiers. In just the first three days after the showing, she had over a million dollars’ worth of orders.”

Lauren laughed happily. “I bet that son of a bitch Carroll is really kicking his ass.”

Patrick laughed with her. “I’ll bet.”

“
Bwana.
” The Negro’s voice came from the ladder. Lauren grabbed a towel to cover herself as he came up the ladder, the tall frosted glass of orange juice and vodka on a tray.

Patrick took the drink. He glanced down at Lauren. “Sure you won’t change your mind, darling?”

She held the towel close to her. “No, thanks,” she answered.

“That will be all, Noah,” Patrick said.

“Yes,
Bwana
.” The African turned and went down the ladder.

Patrick sipped at the drink. “This is good,” he said, holding it out to her. “Have a taste.”

She shook her head.

He looked down at her. “Christ, you’re almost as black as he is.”

She sat up, throwing the towel around her shoulders. “I wish you’d get rid of him,” she said. “He makes me uncomfortable.”

“That’s just your American prejudices,” he laughed. “You don’t like niggers.”

“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “He’s always staring at me. I can almost feel his eyes crawling all over me.”

He laughed again. “What do you expect, walking around naked all the time? What do you think the rest of the crew does? The same thing. Only they’re better at concealing it than he is.”

“He’s like an animal,” she said. “You ought to tell him to wear underwear or something. You can always see the shape of his cock in those tight pants he wears.”

The smile disappeared from Patrick’s face. “You don’t have to look.”

“I don’t look,” she said. “You don’t have to, it’s so obvious.”

Patrick put down his drink and unexpectedly slipped his hand between her legs, then raised his fingers to his lips and tasted them. “You’re soaking wet,” he said, excitement coming into his voice. “Admit it, his big cock turned you on.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, annoyed. “I got turned on the minute you began rubbing my back.”

“I want to eat you,” he said.

“Then stop talking about it and do it,” she laughed, pulling his face down to her.

***

She was lying in bed, watching him undress when she felt the vibration of the engines and the boat begin to move. She sat up and reached for the small traveling case in which she kept her stock of Harveys. Without looking up she asked, “Where are we going now?”

“Hydra,” he answered.

“Another island?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s about one hundred and fifty miles from here. We’ll be there in the morning.”

“Greek?” she asked, picking up each cellophane bag, squinting at it, then putting it down.

“Of course,” he said coming to the edge of the bed and looking down at her. “That’s all they have in the Greek islands.”

“What’s so special about this one?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s supposed to be very beautiful.”

“All Greek islands look alike to me,” she said, still picking and discarding cellophane bags. “I’ve got calluses on my feet from dancing the
sirtos
, and if I hear another chorus of ‘Never on Sunday’ I’ll be willing to go deaf.”

“Sounds like you’re all ouzo’d out,” he punned. It got no reaction from her. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Harvey said he put a package of a new kind of grass,” she said. “I found it,” she said, holding it up triumphantly. “Number sixteen.”

“What does he call that one?”

“Fantasy grass,” she answered, already rolling a joint. “He said that gives you almost the same kind of high you get from mescaline or peyote.”

“Fantasy,” he repeated, intrigued by the thought. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her lick the cigarette paper. “That’s what every honeymoon should be. A time for fantasy.”

“I’m not complaining,” she said, lighting the cigarette. She drew two deep tokes, then passed it to him. “Try it,” she said. “I can feel a buzz already.”

He took several tokes. “Do you ever fantasize?” he asked, holding the cigarette.

“About what?” she asked, leaning back against the pillows.

He drew on the cigarette again, then passed it back to her. He let his fingers play with her pubic hair. “Like about shaving your quim and having it all soft and pink like a little girl’s.”

She dragged on the joint. Harvey was right as usual. This grass did numbers on your head. She was really getting a buzz on. She giggled. “Would you like to do that?”

He nodded.

She gave him the cigarette, jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom. A moment later she was back, her pubis all covered with shaving foam, his razor in her hand. “Okay,” she said. “Do it.”

A few minutes later she was standing in front of the mirror, examining herself. She giggled. “My clit’s like a little pink tongue sticking out between my lips.” She turned to him. “Do you like it?”

“I think it’s beautiful.” He took another toke of the joint and passed it to her. “What do you fantasize about?”

She drew on the cigarette and giggled. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“Try me,” he said.

“What you look like without your beard,” she said. She giggled again. “Funny. Here I am married to you and I don’t even know what you look like. Really.”

He paused for a moment trying to gather his thoughts. He was having trouble remembering them long enough to speak them. “I look the same,” he finally said.

“What is the same?” She giggled.

“The same as I always looked,” he said. He began to laugh. “That’s funny, isn’t it? I mean. The same.”

“It is funny.”

“I’ll show you what I mean,” he said, going into the bathroom. She followed him and watched as he rubbed the foam into his beard. When he had shaved half his face, he turned that side to her. “See?” he asked, putting down the razor. “I look the same.”

“Patrick, you’re really beautiful,” she said.

“I told you,” he said, reaching for the towel to wipe his face.

“You can’t stop now,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“You can’t go around with a beard just on one half of your face,” she said, giggling. “That’s silly.”

He turned and looked at himself in the mirror. He laughed. “You’re absolutely right. That would be silly.” Quickly he added more shaving foam to his beard and shaved the rest of it off. He rubbed his fingers thoughtfully over his cheeks. “It feels strange,” he said. “I’ve had that beard for eight years. I’d almost forgotten what it was like without it.”

“You look younger,” she said.

“Do you really like it?”

“I really do. I never knew it but you’re very handsome. Now I’ll have to worry. All the girls will be after you.”

He turned back to the mirror, rubbing his face again. “It still feels strange.”

“So does my pussy,” she giggled. “What do you say we introduce the two strangers to each other?”

A few minutes later she held his face away from her. “I can’t wait anymore,” she said breathlessly, trying to pull him over her. “I want you inside me.”

He rolled over on the bed so that she was over him. “Get on it.”

“Yeah,” she said, rising to her knees. Then guiding him into her with her hand, she slowly lowered herself on him. The breath rushed out of her with a sigh. “Oh, that’s good.” Slowly she began to move on him. “Oh, man, I can feel it. It’s like a hot rock in my pussy.”

“Harder,” he said. “I want you to beat it!”

She began to move faster, her body slamming down on him. She leaned over him, shaking her breasts in his face. “I’m beating you with my titties,” she said.

“They’re black like a nigger’s,” he said.

“You like that?” She pinned his arms to the bed. “Now you can’t move. I’m going to nigger-rape you.”

“Please don’t!” he almost shouted, feeling his orgasm rising inside him.

“You can’t stop me!” she said fiercely. Then her own frenzy caught up with her. “I can feel your cock shooting inside me!” Her body began to wrack with orgasms. “I’m coming and coming and coming!”

She slumped over him while they both caught their breath. After a moment, he made a gesture as if to move. She stopped him. “Leave it in there. Don’t take it out yet.”

“I want a cigarette,” he said.

“In a moment.” Her eyes looked into his. “Did you really fantasize that I was a nigger?”

He nodded without speaking.

“What else do you fantasize?”

“Lots of things,” he said.

“Like what?”

“I want a cigarette,” he said. She moved away from him and he got out of the bed and went to the dressing table for his cigarettes. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and stood there for a moment staring at it. Then he touched his face with his fingers. “Oh, shit!” he said, turning to look at her. “What the hell did Harvey put in that grass? I really did shave off my beard.”