Lace II (34 page)

“Don’t you ever stop working, Maxi?”

“If I enjoy work more than pleasure, then is it work or pleasure?”

“Crumbs, don’t ask me. I hate decorating. If the shops have what I want in the right color, then it’s the wrong size. Always. Sophia wants her bedroom redone for her birthday, and I really can’t face it. She wants stripped pine furniture and a Victorian brass bed.”

“I’ll do it for you, if you like,” Maxine offered, “but not in
stripped pine and brass, that’s too passé.” She took Pagan’s arm. “Now let me show you to your room, and then you can tell me why you have to see me so suddenly. What’s so important that you can’t talk about it on the telephone? What is it that can’t wait until our holiday in Cannes?”

“I want to ask your advice. But first I want to talk to Charles.”

“Charles! What on earth do you want to discuss with Charles?”

“Politics. Eastern politics.”

*   *   *

After dinner, Pagan steered Charles to a green leather sofa in the library. She knew that Charles had Middle East associates, and he had known Abdullah as an acquaintance since he had married Maxine.

“Charles, I want to talk about Abdullah,” she started, then felt embarrassed. “You know—Abdi, playboy of the Western world.”

Charles twirled the brandy in his glass. “It’s only in the West that people regard him as a playboy, Pagan. In his own country, and among the Gulf states, he’s considered a brave, devoted leader.” He sniffed his brandy. “Abdi is the most skillful of all the Gulf rulers at dragging his country into the twentieth century, although he’s in such serious trouble at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” Pagan, accustomed to listening with only half an ear while Abdullah talked of his state affairs, suddenly wanted Charles to tell her more. Now that Abdullah and she were apart, Pagan managed to drag his name into every conversation, no matter how odd the context.

“Like every other oil-boom people, the Sydonites are bewildered by the modern world, and confused about their national identity.” Charles took a sip of his Napoleon brandy. “You really want to know more?”

Pagan nodded.

“The Fundamentalist guerrilla army is getting help from the Communists, Pagan. If Abdullah can’t handle that situation, not only will he lose his country, but the red flag will shortly be flying over one of the most strategic positions on the coast.”

“I had no idea … I didn’t realize…”

“Combine that with the Iranian situation and the Ayatollah on the other side of the Persian Gulf and you might end up with Muslim fanatics controlling eighty percent of the world’s oil—and taking their orders from Moscow.”

“No wonder Abdullah’s so grim about it all,” Pagan murmured.

“Sydon is a grim place and it’s a crazy place. In fact, the whole Gulf area is crazy. I’ve done business with Saudi Princes who wear silk shirts, drink whisky and speak better English than I do. But at their homes, their mothers and wives wear long black traditional robes. Then, underneath the robes they wear the latest Paris fashions, and the most wonderful jewelry, Christian Dior and Cartier. The women are never seen in public and only wear these beautiful clothes to drink tea with each other. And that’s about all they’re good for.”

“What do you mean?” Pagan asked, intrigued.

“Because they’ve always been excluded from public affairs, most Arab princesses have no sense of social responsibility. They don’t do a thing to help the poor of their country.”

“How do
you
think a Gulf Princess should behave?” Pagan tried to sound casual.

Aha, thought Charles, so that’s it.

“She shouldn’t be spending her time watching video tapes, gossiping, and eating cakes. She should organize help for the young, the old, and the poor. She should do the sort of work you do for the Research Institute, Pagan.”

“Do you think so?” Pagan didn’t sound as casual as she had intended. She jumped up and fidgeted with a bowl of pink peonies. The library was filled with peonies and pink hydrangeas in blue chinoiserie bowls.

The following morning, Maxine suggested a walk in the park. “I want to get you on your own, Pagan,” she said, as they strolled over the grass behind the bounding, pink-gray Weimaraners. “Now, what’s up?”

Pagan burst out, “Maxine, why do men find it so difficult to say ‘I love you’?”

“Ma chère, they say it, but not in those words. They say, ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?’ or ‘But I married you, didn’t I?’ ”

Pagan stomped across the grass in silence.

“Words don’t matter,” Maxine encouraged. “It’s the actions that count. Any Latin con-man can say ‘I love you.’ You must judge men by what they do, not what they say.”

Pagan was silent until they reached a little arbor. They sat down under the lichen-covered statue of Apollo. Pagan said, in an off-hand voice, “What do you think the world would say if I married Abdi?”

Maxine jerked her head around so suddenly that her sunglasses almost fell off. So Charles was right. “You mean—he’s asked you, Pagan?”

“Yes, but I haven’t said yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You remember how he behaved … when we were young. That’s why I haven’t said yes.”

“Why not?” Maxine couldn’t believe her ears.

“Because, if I married Abdullah I’d also be marrying his country, his people, his oil fields, his seat at OPEC, his Communist guerrillas, his backward people, and his oppressed women.” Pagan bit her bottom lip. “I can’t
cope
with all that, it scares me to death.”

“Rubbish! You coped with that audience at the Theater Royal all right. You coped with Christopher’s illness, you’ve raised thousands of dollars for the cancer institute. You have a positive genius for coping—except when you’re in love. Maxine took off her sunglasses and stared at Pagan’s worried face.

“But suppose he dumps me, like he did before?”

“So few women realize that there
is
life after humiliation. And why should he dump you?”

Pagan jumped up nervously. “Let’s keep walking.”

They sauntered in silence along the seven-foot-high box hedge that bordered the estate. Eventually, Pagan burst out, “I asked him if he intended to be faithful. The rotter said … well, he indicated … Maxi, the silly bugger said, ‘I cannot promise you fidelity because I do not know if it is possible, I simply don’t know.’”

Maxine laughed at Pagan’s imitation of Abdullah’s most pompous manner. “But that’s very sensible of him. It doesn’t mean that he’s going to dump you. It means just the reverse. He’s being very honest.”

Pagan looked anxiously at Maxine, as if asking a fortuneteller
to read the future. “But I don’t think my pride would let me turn a blind eye to a crowd of young blondes with big tits. In theory, perhaps, but in fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.”

“Pride has always come between you and Abdullah. Abdullah’s fierce pride and your stubborn pride. You’ll learn that one of the good things about getting older is that one learns to compromise, to give and take.”

“So I’ve noticed with you and Charles. You give and Charles takes.”

Reaching the curlicued, wrought-iron gates, they turned to walk back on the grass at the side of the drive. “Charles is very careful of my dignity,” Maxine said, with dignity. “Well, nearly always. He has his little affairs, but he is very discreet, he never humiliates me. Well, hardly ever.”

“That’s what
you
settle for—your dignity and a quiet life. What is the difference between your dignity and my pride, Maxine?”

“I have decided to settle for ninety percent of the cake instead of fifty percent of the alimony.” Maxine crossly removed her sunglasses.

“You see, here we are talking about divorce and I haven’t even got married yet,” giggled Pagan. Maxine began to understand how Abdullah might sometimes be exasperated by Pagan’s flippant charm.

“Oh, Pagan,” she sighed. “Abdullah is what you’ve always wanted. I can’t understand why you don’t jump at the chance of marrying Abdi, when you’ve been in love with him for years.”

“Being in love is different from loving!” Pagan said. “I can’t imagine loving Abdi in the way I loved Christopher. Christopher really cared about all of me; we trusted each other, so we could expose our vulnerability. I wouldn’t like to risk exposing my vulnerability to Abdi. And he’ll never trust anyone.”

In the distance, the eighteenth century turrets of the chateau shone purple in the sun.

“But what about all the wonderful things that the hakim taught him when he was sixteen?” Maxine reminded Pagan.

Pagan hesitated. “When we’re in bed, it’s physically wonderful, but Abdi’s not emotionally involved. That love doctor
in Cairo taught him everything about eroticism and nothing about love. I don’t want only a sexual relationship. I want warm intimacy and mutual concern.”

“Perhaps you can change him?” Maxine made the female’s fatal error of believing this to be possible.

“At least I’m not stupid enough to think that!”

“But if he’s asked you to marry him and you’re not certain, why not ask for a six-month engagement, a secret engagement that the world will never know about, to give you time to get used to the idea? You have nothing to lose with a secret engagement.”

On the distant stone building, row upon row of windows glistened in the sunshine. Pagan turned the idea over in her mind. The most attractive aspect of Maxine’s suggestion was that Pagan would now be able to put off her decision.

“Maxine, I think you’ve solved the problem,” she said, looking at the row of fountains in front of the chateau terrace, where the July sun formed rainbows in the dancing water.

August 1979

L
AYER UPON LAYER
of swan-white lace swayed softly as Sandy moved her hips, and the half-hidden diamanté brilliants twinkled like the stars in a Walt Disney sky. Sandy crossed her wrists in front of her, which pushed her breasts together and upward. The flounces helped as well, she thought, but she sure wished her tits were bigger.

“How much is it, Ken?”

The dress manufacturer’s plump pink hand carefully smoothed the satin petals of the ice-pink rosebud between her breasts. “Let’s not talk about the price, Sandy, just tell me what you think of it.”

Sandy knew that when a man said “let’s not talk about the price,” the deal was going to be very expensive. However, the circuit gossip was that Ken liked it straight and came fast.

“Why it’s just beautiful, Ken,” she cooed, right into her Southern belle act. No girl got to be a beauty contest finalist in a dress run up by her mother, in spite of the rule that no evening gown could cost more than two hundred dollars. Which is why Ken Sherman loaned his dresses for publicity value, if he thought a girl had a good chance of winning the beauty pageant. And, of course, a girl had to be nice to Ken.

“I could not imagine a finer antebellum gown in the whole
world,” Sandy smiled her gleaming, wholesome smile. In the gloom of the deserted showroom, Ken twitched the pink satin sash into place, stood back from the spotlight and slowly nodded. No girl could lose in that dress. “Right,” he said briskly. “Care for a cocktail at my place?”

“Why Ken, I would be honored,” Sandy breathed. The bullshit level had to be higher, the closer you got to the top.

*   *   *

The bedroom floor and walls were covered by white fur. The lamps were Lalique crystal seashells and the circular bed was covered with a white leather spread, upon which lay Ken with his legs apart while Sandy cheerfully sucked his stiff little cock. The girls were right about Ken, this was the cheapest dress she’d ever acquired. But Sandy was merely making her down payment; Ken wanted more for his money, and he knew that he wouldn’t have another chance after tomorrow’s contest.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Ken pushed a white fur bolster behind her head and spreading out her waterfall of pale blond curls, he felt for the zipper of her silver lamé boiler suit and yanked at it. “Listen, baby, you got nothing to worry about, tomorrow.” He took a look and thought they’d hardly make a 34B, as he ripped off the silver lamé. “Like some music?” He pushed a couple of buttons on the bedhead console that looked capable of flying a 747. Dolly Parton started to wail “Stand By Your Man” and, overhead, the remote control videocamera started to roll as Ken purred, “Why, you’re as bald as a baby down there,” and pushed Sandy onto her back.

Who did he think he was fooling with that mirrored ceiling, thought Sandy, as Ken squeezed gobs of her body lotion over her breasts. Obediently, she massaged the translucent white goo over her breasts; no wonder the bedcover was easy-wipe white leather. “Honey, you are amazing,” she breathed as she thrust one immaculately manicured finger inside her pink gauze panties, then stuck her rump in the air and pulled at the bows which held the pink gauze in place.

Half an hour later, Sandy had been squeezed and shoved and pulled, pushed and arranged in a hundred different poses. She realized that the videotape must be running out, because Ken squeezed her breasts together, felt around her clitoris for a few moments, missed it, poured body lotion on
his penis, shoved it inside her, gave ten very careful thrusts, gasped, rolled off, felt around for his cigarettes, and said, “What happened to the thatch, honey?”