The Slipper (30 page)

“You have a charming son,” she told him.

“Cliff's a good boy. I'm very proud of him.”

“I—he didn't tell me his name. I didn't know you were going to be here. He just said you were a big fan of mine and asked me to join the two of you for a drink and—on impulse, I agreed to come.”

“I'm glad you did.”

“This kind of coincidence—Gaby would never use it in one of her novels. It would seem much too farfetched.”

“Real life is full of such coincidences.”

“What are you doing in Paris?” she inquired.

“We've opening a French boutique in both our department stores—perfumes, gloves, scarves, handbags and such—and Cliff wanted to come over and speak to the manufacturers directly. He's a brilliant businessman. He's taken over everything in Wichita, the business, the foundation, runs it all much more efficiently than I ever did.”

“He seems so young.”

“Cliffs twenty-seven. Don't let that exuberant exterior fool you. He's got a mind like a steel trap when it comes to business.”

“Married?”

“Engaged. A lovely girl. They'll be taking over the big house after they marry. I—it's a little large for me. I'll move into an apartment in town, I imagine. Would you care for another glass of wine?”

She shook her head. “Your son told me your wife died recently.”

“It was inevitable,” Philips said. “Her doctor told her she'd die within a year if she didn't stop drinking. Clarisse continued to drink.”

“I—I'm sorry,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Oh, Clarisse was a well-behaved drunk, and if you're going to be an alcoholic, it's best to have several million dollars. You can go to the most luxurious sanatoriums to dry out before your next toot, and somehow your friends are much more tolerant if you're wearing diamonds and a Dior original when you pass out in their pantry. I resigned myself to her drinking years ago.”

He's suffered, she thought. He's suffered far more than I ever suspected. With a marriage like that, no … no wonder he needed someone to love when he took me home with him. She had sensed his strength immediately, but there had been a curious vulnerability as well. It was a combination most women found irresistible, particularly when the man was so attractive. He's lonely, and he's unattached now, and that's a dangerous combination, she told herself. He has a beautiful mouth, perfectly shaped, and those fine, dark brows … You'd best watch yourself. Carol looked up. Their eyes met.

“I've thought of you often,” he said.

“And I've thought of you.”

“I've been following your career. You got a bum rap on the Eric Berne movie. The movie was awful, but you were good.”

“Thank you.”

“
And the Sea Is Blue
was a superb film. You did a wonderful job. Maurice Ronet was excellent, too. I saw it three times.”

“They showed it in Wichita?”

“At a drive-in,” he confessed, “on a double bill with
Mam 'zelle Pigalle
, a Bardot movie. Two sizzling French flicks, adults only. I felt silly as hell sitting there alone in my Cadillac surrounded by hot rods full of amorous teenagers.”

“You went three times?”

He nodded, smiling. It was a lovely smile.

“I'm very flattered,” she said.

Their eyes met again, and there was a long silence as both remembered that night four years ago. There had been a magical chemistry between them from the beginning, and the chemistry was stirring anew. Carol felt it with every fiber of her being. She was twenty-one years old now, a grown woman, and she had met some of the most attractive, most exciting men in the world. None of them had awakened the taut, tender feelings she felt swelling inside her now. He wasn't a famous actor, a notorious womanizer, no, but he had a special appeal that was overwhelming. Every instinct warned her to draw back, to resist, to thank him for the drink and politely withdraw. She didn't want the main course, her career was much too important to her, and this man could never be just a pleasant diversion.

“Are you involved?” he asked.

Carol shook her head. “Not at the moment.”

“But there have been men?”

“None like the first,” she said.

She hadn't meant to say that. It just came out.

“I want to see you again, Carol. There is an important dinner appointment tonight with one of Madame Chanel's representatives. As Cliff won't be able to make it I'll have to fill in for him, but tomorrow night—” He hesitated, looking into her eyes again.

“I'm afraid I'll be busy tomorrow night,” she told him.

“I see. I—I suppose it was a rotten idea.”

“My friend Gabrielle Bernais has a play opening tomorrow night. I have to attend—Gaby would never forgive me if I missed it. I have an extra ticket,” she added. To hell with her instincts. Danger be damned. “If you'd like, we could go together.”

“I'd like that very much,” he said.

“I live at Number Ten Avenue Ingres, on the eighth floor. I'll leave your name with the concierge. Most of the men will be in black tie, but you needn't bother. We should leave around seven, the theater's on a small back street and quite difficult to find.”

“I'll be there on the dot.”

Norman Philips walked her to the lobby and helped her on with her raincoat and held her package of books while the doorman whistled for a taxi. He helped her into the backseat of the taxi and held her hand a moment longer than necessary, and as the taxi pulled away she looked through the rain-streaked rear window and saw him standing there on the wet pavement in front of the grand hotel, a tall, strikingly handsome older man watching the taxi depart and oblivious to the rain that spotted his dark suit and wet his auburn hair. You're a fool, a fool, a fool, she told herself. You should never have agreed to see him again. But as horns blared and tires hissed and the taxi hurtled her through congested streets there was a smile on her lips she wasn't even aware of, and a delicious anticipation glowed inside.

Although Carol had acquired a cool patina of sophistication these past two years in France, the next evening, as she was dressing, she felt exactly like a girl getting ready for her first prom. What to wear? The scarlet chiffon was stunning, but, well, perhaps a bit too dramatic. The blue Chanel suit was nice but not quite dressy enough. She finally settled upon a sleeveless black Dior, simple and clean-lined, with a black cord sash at the waist and a straight skirt that fell just below the knees. The matching black cloak was lined with gleaming white silk. She used perfume sparingly, applied just a suggestion of rouge and gray eye shadow and brushed her hair until it clung to her head like a short, tight dark-gold cap.

The doorbell rang at six-fifty-seven. Her nerves were in shambles, but he hadn't the least inkling when she opened the door. Beautifully composed on the surface, she greeted him with a polite smile and graciously accepted the lovely bouquet of pink roses. He was wearing a superbly cut tuxedo with black tie and gleaming white shirtfront and black satin cummerbund and looked so handsome she felt her heart leap. Norman Philips was fifty years old and looked a good ten years younger, like one of those mature, distinguished male models one found in
Gentleman's Quarterly
.

“The roses are lovely,” she said. “I'll just take a minute and put them in water.”

“Nice apartment,” he remarked.

“I was lucky to get it.”

“Did you decorate it yourself?”

“One of Gaby's friends helped. I wanted something elegant yet warm and inviting. Pale blues and grays and whites. Lots of plants, books, carefully selected paintings.”

“It suits you,” he said.

Carol placed the roses in a tall crystal vase and added water. He stepped over to the balcony. It was a pleasant evening and the French doors were open. Below and beyond he could see the treetops of the
bois
, shadowy now at twilight. The multilevel rooftops of Paris with their tilted angles and chimney pots and skylights caught the last fading rays of sunlight. Seeing him standing there, Carol felt a tightness in her throat. She had dreamed of him last night—she had dreamed of him countless times during the past four years—and now he was actually here. He turned, smiled, and she smiled back, polite, rather reserved, in perfect control. She had no intention of becoming involved. A pleasant evening together, that was all. There was no place in her life at the moment for the kind of relationship involvement with this man would mean.

“Ready?” he inquired.

Carol nodded. He helped her into her wrap. She picked up her small black satin purse, and they left the apartment, silent on the way down in the elevator. She wondered if he was as ill at ease as she was and if, like her, he was concealing it behind a polite, careful facade. She noticed his hands, lean and brown, strong. Beautiful hands. He curled one of them lightly around her elbow as they left the elevator and passed through the foyer. He had hired a car for the evening, long and black and sleek, terribly expensive. She remembered that he was a very wealthy man. He might be from Kansas, but he had a relaxed, cosmopolitan air rare in any American male.

“How is Cliff?” she asked as he helped her into the backseat.

“Better. I insisted he stay in his room all day. When he found out I was taking you to the theater he felt very left out. Envious, too.”

“The two of you seem to have a wonderful relationship.”

“Cliff and I spent a lot of time together when he was growing up. If his mother wasn't traveling, she was at some swank sanatorium, drying out. I tried to compensate. We've always been close.”

Traffic was heavy, and their progress was slow, and they chatted politely, both ill at ease and pretending not to be. Carol longed to question him about his life, his marriage, his women, for surely there had been other women. She asked instead if he was enjoying his stay in Paris, if their business was going well. The luxurious car moved grandly and at a snail's pace through a twisting labyrinth of streets, finally arriving at the Theatre Edouard VII, trickily located in a blind alley between the Bar du Cyros and a Russian restaurant. Norman took the tickets from her and escorted her into the lobby crowded with glittering people. Carol saw Jeanne Moreau and Serge and Christian Marquand, Irwin Shaw, Ann and Art Buchwald, Roger Vadim and Annette Stroyberg, the breathtakingly beautiful Swede who had taken Bardot's place in his bedroom. There were reporters and photographers galore, for a Bernais opening was always an occasion. While America knew Gaby only as the author of short, affably cynical novels, in Paris she was also celebrated for her work in the theater. Her first two plays had been extremely successful, her third had a modest run and this, her fourth, raised great expectations.

“Here you are!” Gaby cried, rushing over to them. “And this is your gentleman friend. Introduce me later, darling. I'm a wreck at the moment. We're having a get-together at the Russian restaurant after the play—I have a feeling everyone is going to need a lot of vodka. Do bring him over.”

She hurried away, looking like a nervous little girl playing dressup in a moss-green velvet Balenciaga. Gaby had reason to be nervous, for, as it turned out, the play was a big disappointment. Abandoning her usual chic milieu, Gaby had set it in turn-of-the-century Paris, with two brothers, one a roue, the other a scholar, vying for the favors of a capricious courtesan. Jean-Claude Brialy and Jean-Louis Trintignant were excellent as the brothers and Michèle Morgan made a sumptuous courtesan, but the story was trite, the pace leaden and the entire production suffered from an excess of red plush. The audience was polite, but Carol felt sorry for Gaby as she and Norman moved up the aisle, just behind Vadim and his beauteous Swede.

“Bernais as Bernais is unique,” Norman remarked. “But Bernais as Jean Anouilh doesn't work.”

Carol was surprised by his insight—and his knowledge. The play
had
been like a poor imitation of Anouilh, who, she knew, was one of Gaby's idols. That Norman was conversant enough with French drama to perceive this underscored the fact that, Kansas or no, he was a literate, sophisticated man second to none in cosmopolitan savoir faire. She was quite impressed, and she was very proud to be seen with him.

“Shall we go to the get-together next door?” he inquired.

“Gaby would be crushed if we didn't.”

“It's bound to be a wake.”

Carol smiled. “You don't know Gaby!”

And, indeed, when they entered the restaurant Mlle. Bernais was perched on the edge of a table, downing a vodka, surrounded by friends and chatting vivaciously with Christian Marquand. Her latest youth, blond, muscular, thin-lipped, stood nearby looking both hostile and impatient. Gaby waved to them, and Roger Hanin came over and gave Carol a gigantic hug and a sultry Jeanne Moreau tapped Norman on the arm and asked if he had a light. He lighted her cigarette with a platinum lighter and Moreau smiled the sulky-provocative smile of hers and inquired if he was in the theater. Hanin swept Carol away, dragging her over to meet some of his buddies and reminisce about Morocco. The restaurant grew more and more crowded. Vodka flowed profusely. Piroshki, caviar and blinis were in abundance on the buffet tables. The atmosphere grew heated and riotous, no one enjoying it more than the playwright herself.

“They call it the New Wave,” a journalist was saying. “A group of young, inventive, revolutionary new filmmakers who couldn't care less about traditional values. They want to experiment, to astound. Truffaut, Godard, Guy Masson, they're the lads to watch. They're going to make a great noise, mark my words. Film as we know it in France will be changed forever.”

“Guy Masson?” Hanin said. “Never heard of him.”

“He hasn't made a full-length film yet, he's spent most of his youth writing film criticism, but he's a genius—the most exciting of the lot. Some of his ideas are startling. He's an intellectual, a radical, looks like an emaciated Apache, but he can hold you spellbound when he talks about film. He's trying to get financing for his first film now, and if it's made, it's going to be a landmark, I assure you.”