Lace II (30 page)

Lili screamed in terror as the white and orange Lancia obliquely hit the back of the Spear. Both cars spun off the track and the Spear slammed into a barrier. Ignoring Jack’s shout of warning, Lili set off, running behind the pit area toward the twisted wreckage of the Spear, from which a column of smoke was now billowing upward.

“Get back, get back, you stupid bitch—she could blow at any second.” A paramedic picked Lili up and half-threw her behind the barrier.

The other paramedic yanked open the door of the Spear and pulled out Gregg’s inert body. Within minutes, the medical helicopter, with Gregg aboard, lifted toward Sidcup and St. Mary’s Hospital.

The PA blared, “Eagleton is definitely injured…”

*   *   *

“A stress fracture in these bones, that’s the cause of the trouble.” The doctor waved his pen over the X-ray plate. “As your first accident was several weeks ago, and the injury wasn’t diagnosed at the time, I’m afraid it’s possible that the associated swelling and distortion may have affected the other joints.”

“So how long before I can drive again?” Gregg’s face was bleached and strained.

“Difficult to say. We’ll give you painkillers of course and a series of injections to reduce the swelling, but healing the fracture itself is something that we can’t do much about. Only time will put it right.”

“But how
much
time? I’ve got to race in France again in three weeks.”

“The best advice I can give you is to forget all about racing
for at least two months.” The doctor slipped the X-ray back in the buff file. “Complete bed rest for a minimum of six weeks, and no hard exercise of any kind until you are one hundred percent fit. With this kind of injury, nature must take its course.”

After the doctor had left, Gregg began to work through his letters with his secretary until Jack arrived with a detailed report on the Spear’s condition. “She’s looking good, Gregg—the fuel pump was as clean as a whistle this time. What about you? Shall we get Pete to stand by for Richard?”

Lili waited patiently at the end of the line of visitors. Then, as she bent to kiss Gregg, a young blond nurse popped her head around the door to say, “Time’s up for today, everyone. Doctor’s orders. Mr. Eagleton has to rest!”

As the others moved toward the door, Lili said sadly, “I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you, Gregg.”

“Sorry, darling, but I’m trying to run my business from a hospital bed. I’ve got to see Jack, my secretary, the sponsors, and Dad as well as you, and I’m only allowed visitors for an hour a day. I know you haven’t seen much of me since you met me, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. You’ve met the team, Lili, and you know what my responsibilities are.”

Lili looked down and sighed as Gregg said, “I’m not in business on my own, darling. Everyone in Eagle Motors depends on me and I depend on them. I have to meet a pretty large payroll every month, to feed families. There are men in the Eagle team working for me, for my father, and for the idea of a British privateer outfit in salon racing, who put in twenty-four-hour days on their vacations. I can’t let them down, Lili.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to his side. “I can’t do what I want, or go where I want when I please, or step into that car at less than my best. It would be unfair and irresponsible. You’ve got to understand that the business comes first in my life, and I can’t let anything divert me from it, not even you, darling.”

Silently, Lili bent and kissed him. “I can wait.”

*   *   *

Debra Halifax leaned back against white broderie-anglaise pillows and aimlessly turned the newspaper pages until she reached Liz Smith’s column. Suddenly an item caught her attention and she read it aloud. “Lili to star in charity benefit.…” Debra looked up, instantly alive, and said softly, “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

Early July 1979

T
HE PINK-HYDRANGEA
wallpaper matched the heavy, chintz curtains, which were swagged back by tasseled gold ropes. A maple-framed portrait of Lord Byron hung above Pagan’s desk. The back of the high satinwood desk was lined with tiny drawers and cupboards; silver-framed photographs, small bowls of potpourri, an antique silver calendar, jostled for space with a pile of letters that were weighed down by her long-dead grandfather’s lucky hare’s foot. It looked like a Royal desk, the sort of desk upon which there was no space to work.

“Any other business?” Pagan looked around her drawing room at the eleven other members of the fund-raising committee that was planning Lili’s Gala for the Anglo-American Cancer Research Institute. They had discussed the rehearsal costs and the extra time demanded by the stagehands’ union for working on Sunday; they had approved the program design and the seating arrangements for the Royal Box. Pagan had joyfully announced that the theater was sold out, and now her chewed yellow pencil was poised above the last item on the agenda.

“One final matter.” The organizing secretary passed her a
letter on the blue writing paper of the Grosvenor House Hotel. “Someone has offered to give a pretheater party for us.”

“How very thoughtful. Who is it?”

“Another anonymous benefactor, Lady Swann.”

Pagan skimmed the letter quickly, “A champagne reception for two thousand guests! That’s wonderful news.”

“Someone must think a lot of the Foundation.”

“Or of Christopher,” said Pagan, momentarily sad.

“Or of Lili?” the wife of the chainstore millionaire suggested. “Perhaps it’s one of her admirers?”

“He must have a bob or two, to lay on champagne for two thousand people,” said the gray-haired merchant banker, who was smoking a cigar.

“We’ll send the invitation out with the tickets.” Pagan leafed through her file.

“But is there time to print invitations?” The Scottish Duchess looked anxious.

“Yes,” said the secretary. “I’ve already checked with the printers.”

Pagan, notorious for the tight financial control with which she organized her fund raising events, flipped through her file. “Have we got the check?”

“The Grosvenor House Hotel has been paid direct, by banker’s draft.”

“How
very
thoughtful,” Pagan said. She stood up and opened a window, because she hated a room to smell of cigar smoke and it took at least two weeks to get rid of the smell. She walked back and leaned against the rather ugly black marble fireplace, which was covered by a jumble of blue chinoiserie plates, a ginger jar, a Regency biscuit box, and a small blue-enamel clock with a diamanté-encircled face, that had been given to her grandmother by Queen Alexandra.

Pagan smiled at her committee. “I’m sorry we’ve run a little over time, today, but this unexpectedly generous offer had to be discussed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash or I’ll miss my flight to Venice.”

*   *   *

The wind whipped at Pagan’s hair as the high-powered speedboat raced across the lagoon toward Venice. In the
distance, she could see the gray domes of the Cathedral, the ornate bell tower in St. Mark’s Square, the candy-striped mooring poles sticking at crazy angles out of the water, and clouds of pigeons fluttering in the hazy blue sky.

Abdullah’s private jet had flown them to Marco Polo airport, and they were now heading for the Cipriani Hotel. In the launch behind them traveled Abdullah’s four bodyguards and a great deal of luggage, most of which belonged to Abdullah.

Pagan looked at the enticing city rising straight out of the water. She was excited. “Oh, Abdi, it’s so beautiful. It’s floating in the sea like a shimmering, gold mirage!”

“Don’t expect too much romance,” Abdullah warned her. “A lot of people loathe Venice.”

“Why, for Heaven’s sake?”

“The smells, the crowds, the claustrophobia and that dreadful, vulgar glassware.”

Pagan laughed. “In that case,” she said, “I won’t expect any golden gondolas!”

“The golden gondolas only come out once a year, for the gondoliers’ festival races.”

*   *   *

The battered, green crocodile suitcase, that had once belonged to Pagan’s grandmother, was deposited on the pale-coral carpet of the suite. The walls looked hand painted with an airy green forest, which blended with the green sofas and the green and silver Fortuny curtains. Pagan rushed through glass doors that led onto a terrace lined with miniature cyprus trees; it overlooked the orange trees that surrounded the hotel swimming pool, and beyond that, the entire panorama of Venice.

“Do you like it?” She heard Abdullah’s voice behind her.

Pagan looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. She didn’t know whether Abdullah was planning to share her suite.

Abdullah grinned. “I shall be in the next suite … if you need me. Sadly, there is no billiard room in this hotel. Space is at a premium in Venice.”

*   *   *

The following morning, as Pagan waited by the two black-and-white-striped mooring poles of the Cipriani jetty, she clutched at Abdullah’s arm. “Look! You were wrong!” A
golden gondola bobbed toward them, over the scummy green water.

Abdullah said, “As a matter of fact, it’s yours. I hope it’s not too ostentatious for you.”

Under the golden, arched canopy, sitting on the faded, purple cushions, Pagan gazed up at the naked, golden backside of Neptune, as he wielded his trident over the poop of the boat. To her disappointment, this glorious vessel was motorized, with a spluttering engine more appropriate to a fishing smack than a ceremonial barge.

The gondola chugged down the Grand Canal between boats delivering coal, Coca-Cola, Japanese tourists, and gangs of workmen to their appropriate destinations. They passed pink-and-ocher baroque palaces, tidemarked by water, with ferns twisting their bricks apart, and cobwebs veiling their patchy, peeling plaster.

“Don’t ask the gondolier to sing Santa Lucia,” murmured Abdullah, “because it is a Neapolitan song and he will grind his teeth.”

Pagan sniffed happily, “I love everything about this place, even the smell.”

“The smell is decay and water rot, which smells fascinating so long as it is not in your home.”

Later they landed and explored a little of the town on foot, but as soon as they left the large, crowded streets for the narrow, winding alleys behind them, Pagan looked puzzled and stopped. “All these alleys look the same. I’m confused.” One of the bodyguards stepped forward and muttered a few guttural words to His Majesty. They followed the man until they again found themselves at the small wrought-iron bridge where the golden gondola awaited them. Abdullah said, “Although Venice is such a small town, it’s very easy to get lost here. It’s a well-known hazard. All the bridges and buildings look different according to whether the tide is in or not. The streets are a twisting maze, so you can’t look back and get a sense of direction.”

Abdullah then insisted that Pagan do some shopping in the shops round St. Mark’s Square. She was measured for a pair of silver snakeskin shoes and then chose a classic shoe in red. Abdullah said, “They’re very elegant. Order them in every color they have.” He waved his hand at the excited young
shoemaker and strolled out of the shop, as Pagan mused, “What on earth will I do with twenty-seven pairs of pumps?”

By the time they were drinking their lunchtime Bellinis (the mixture of champagne and peach juice that was invented in Venice), the bodyguards were also guarding a second launch, laden with a complete set of calf luggage, with golden clasps, twenty meters of handmade lace, which Pagan planned to keep for Sophia’s wedding dress, and more clothes than Pagan had ever possessed in her life, including three antique Fortuny dresses, in coral, brown, and dark green, and an opera cloak in canary yellow silk.

*   *   *

They spent an unforgettable afternoon in bed.

*   *   *

“Your Majesty, this is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the very cradle of Western democracy, where the Great Council of Venice met to elect representatives to the governing committees.” Pagan and Abdullah obediently followed the curator’s finger with their eyes, as he pointed up to the painted ceiling, where the nacreous light from the lagoon outside played on the rich colors of the panels. “Notice the frieze of the seventy-six Doges, the painting of Paradise by Tintoretto, and here the Apotheosis of Venice, by Veronese.”

“Cradle of democracy!” muttered Abdullah, amused. “How can they make such a claim when Renaissance Venice was a corrupt state, run by spies and assassins, with dungeons, daggers, and poison.” He and Pagan were both tired, after hours of pacing through the richly ornamented palace, followed at a respectful distance by Abdullah’s two bodyguards. Pagan’s neck ached from looking at the sumptuous stuccoed ceilings and her feet were sore from the hard marble floors.

“At least only the Venetians elected their rulers,” Pagan argued.

“They elected them from the aristocratic elite. That is not a free election in the democratic sense,” Abdullah corrected her.

Stung by his patronizing tone of voice, Pagan retorted, “Five hundred years ago, Venice was still more democratic
than Sydon is today. Your Council of Five isn’t elected by a free ballot of all your citizens.”