Folly's Child (42 page)

‘Dear, dear. The fur is really going to be flying then,' Paula said.

‘It's flown. Chris Connelly was a sensitive lad – he couldn't face up to the consequences. He's killed himself – took his car out on the freeway and drove it straight into a ten-ton truck.'

‘Oh my God!' Paula said, horrified.

‘Yes – awful isn't it? That poor kid …'

‘Couldn't it have been an accident?' Paula asked.

‘Because he was in such a state, you mean? Well, it could have been, I suppose, but they don't think so. The truck driver said he came straight for him and there was nothing he could do. But whichever it was – accident or suicide – you can say that bastard Zachary Rhodes killed him. It just wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for the garbage he wrote and I only wish I could lay hands on the bastard!'

A nerve jumped in Paula's throat as a terrible thought occurred to her. ‘You don't know where the reporter got his story from, I suppose?' she asked. ‘Did someone tip him off?'

‘I haven't heard but I should think it's quite likely. And whoever did such a thing deserves to be horsewhipped!' Hugo declared.

As she replaced the receiver Paula was trembling. Why the hell had the stupid boy had to go and kill himself! She had never expected anything like that to happen, and now because of what she had done a young man was dead.

She thought of it again, repeating the conclusion in her mind, and as she did so the horror of it, and the feeling of awesome responsibility took on a slightly different hue and gave birth to a spiral of something like excitement. She had been right to feel in control when she had discovered Laddie's secret. In her hands she held the power of life and death!

Suddenly Paula was not afraid of being found out any more. Intoxicated by the sense of her own omnipotence she began to laugh. She was still laughing when Sally found her.

Sally had thoroughly enjoyed her holiday at Shinnecock Bay. After the somewhat austere life she led in London it was a little like being granted a passport to heaven and with the sun on her skin and the sand between her toes all her everyday problems seemed very far away. She swam each day and played tennis whenever she could persuade Paula to join her and she was delighted to see Mark being spoiled with all the little luxuries she was normally not able to give him.

Only her increasing irritation with Paula marred the idyll. The two girls had always sparred, of course, as sisters do, but now Sally found herself becoming furious with Paula's total self-absorption and the condescending manner she used to everyone around her. Had she used to be as bad as this, Sally wondered, or had easy living made her worse? Possible, of course, especially since Hugo spoiled her so. But it could just be that now Sally was older and less mesmerised by her sister's glamour, she simply noticed her faults more and was less inclined to make excuses for her. As for what Hugo had said about her suffering post-natal depression, Sally had noticed no evidence of it at all during the holiday. In fact if anything she seemed to be on something of a high. Why, she had even reacted with something close to hysterical laughter when Hugo had telephoned with the sad news about the death of the senator's son, yet since that day she had given no sign at all of having been upset by the tragedy. If such a terrible thing had happened to someone I knew I'm sure it would have cast a cloud over the holiday for me, Sally thought, but Paula seems totally indifferent to it.

Hugo, on the other hand, had clearly been put under some strain by the tragedy. When he eventually came down to Shinnecock Bay again he looked tired and sad, as if some of the grief and guilt of his friend and assistant had rubbed off onto him. Yet his primary concern was still Paula, and when he and Sally were alone he brought up the subject immediately.

‘I've been really worried about her, Sally. She's been acting so strangely. But you think there is an improvement?'

‘She seems very much herself to me. She's a bit hyper, that's all.' Sally paused, mustering her thoughts and trying to analyse Paula's manner. ‘She's not pregnant again by any chance, is she?'

Hugo looked startled. ‘Good heavens I don't think so! Why should you think that?'

Sally considered. ‘It's just something about her … I don't know, some kind of secret excitement. Oh, it's probably my imagination.'

Hugo smiled. ‘I'd be delighted if she were pregnant, but I don't think excitement would be the way Paula would react if it were that. She's very definite about not wanting any more children – more's the pity.'

‘And you're willing to go along with that?' Sally asked before she could stop herself.

‘I love her, Sally,' Hugo said simply. ‘All I want is for her to be happy.'

‘I know that, Hugo,' Sally said, and thought, not for the first time, that her sister was a very fortunate lady.

By the time the holiday was over the nine-days' wonder over the scandal of Chris Connelly's suicide had died down and Laddie had returned to work in an effort to bury his sorrow.

Paula bid Sally a theatrically tearful farewell but in fact she was not sorry to see her sister go – four weeks was quite long enough to spend cooped up with any one person, especially one who knew her so well and was liable to see through her little charades. Besides this Sally was a constant reminder of the past and the perfectly ordinary council-house girl she had once been. Paula had no fond memories of her humble origins; she had long since put them behind her, wanting only to be known as the successful former model and wife of an acclaimed fashion designer.

New York was still a little empty – many of the socialites of the Shiny Set had gone on from their summer vacations at the beach to villas in France, Switzerland or Tuscany, or sailing on the luxury yachts they referred to as ‘boats', but there was still a pile of invitations to lunches and private parties awaiting Paula's attention – and an enormous bouquet of flowers from Greg with a card inscribed ‘Welcome Home'.

Paula was elated at the gesture, especially when Hugo told her that Greg's long-time girlfriend, the Texas beauty, had finally tired of trying to tie him down and gone to France for an extended holiday with friends of her father's family. With the coast clear perhaps she would be able to make some impression on him at last, she thought delightedly, and turned her attention to the invitations.

In view of her own lack of popularity it never failed to surprise Paula how much in demand she and Hugo were. Such a short time ago fashion designers had had no more social standing than tradesmen – now it seemed everyone felt that their party would be more significant if it were graced by the presence of Hugo Varna. The fact that she was English helped of course – there was a certain snobbery among those with new money but no history where the ‘old world' was concerned. But their enthusiasm stemmed in the main, she knew, from the hope that their photograph would appear in
Womens Wear Daily
with the telling caption: ‘The hostess, who elected to wear Varna, pictured sharing a joke with the designer himself.'

The invitations had been even more numerous in the days before he had married her, she imagined. So many of these society ladies were grass widows whose husbands sweated long hours at their banks or oil fields to make the fortunes they so loved to spend and spare men were invaluable. But even now that he was no longer a free agent the invitations still rolled in and Paula knew it was only sensible to accept at least some of them. Those same pictures that pleased the publicity hunting ‘poor little rich girls' were also beloved of the presidents of the Fifth Avenue stores that stocked Hugo's ready-to-wear collections for as advertising they were worth a great deal more than any picture posed by a model. Where the Shiny Set led, American womanhood would follow, hoping to emulate their glamour.

Paula sorted through the invitations, a little annoyed that Hugo had simply left them all for her to deal with. A few were already out of date and she thought glumly of the apologetic letters she would have to compose. They were sure to blame her – didn't they always? Even now she seemed to hear their voices whispering at her from the corners of the room: ‘How rude! I can't imagine what Hugo Varna ever saw in her!' She closed her ears to the whisperings and ploughed on through the invitations.

Almost at the bottom of the pile was one that pleased her. Robert Dudley, a prominent attorney, was giving a party for his fiancée, Cassidy Wells. Now that one certainly looked interesting!

Cassidy was an actress with a string of box-office successes to her credit. She had even been nominated for an Oscar this year. Besides being a wonderful actress she was stunningly beautiful, with flaming red-gold hair and eyes green as a cat's. She looked good in everything she wore – as a heroine of pre-historic times she had even looked good enough in mud-coloured sackcloth to have the entire world-weary crew fall in love with her – but when she wore Varna she looked marvellous and Hugo, on learning she had a particular liking for his clothes, had decided to cash in on the fact, allowing her enormous discounts on couture garments and even loaning her special gowns so that she was a constant living advertisement. Paula had met Cassidy several times and liked her – in spite of her success she was unspoiled with a wicked sense of fun and unlike so many actresses she was not conceited or self-centred. Even wearing Hugo's clothes was a game to her – she chose them with all the excitement of a small girl let loose in her mother's wardrobe.

When she had become engaged to the attorney a few eyebrows had been raised, but Cassidy's past seemed to be as free of blemish as her lovely face and soon the gossip columnists had given up trying to dish the dirt and accepted that she was set to become the wife of a very influential man.

Oh yes, this was one invitation well worth accepting, Paula decided, for the combination of Hollywood glamour and the law was irresistible. She entered the date in her diary and set the invitation on one side. Busy as Hugo might be, she was going to make quite sure he was free to take her to Cassidy and Robert's party.

‘Honey, we can't possibly go,' Hugo said. ‘ Surely you must know it's on my mother's birthday.'

‘Your mother's birthday,' Paula repeated flatly. ‘ The very same day as Cassidy's party.'

‘There's no need to sound so disbelieving. I'm not inventing it to be awkward,' Hugo said patiently. ‘Surely you knew it was Mom's birthday?'

‘I suppose so, but I forgot. Why should I remember for goodness' sake? It's nothing to me.'

‘I realise that, Paula.' Hugo's voice had become a little starchy. He had never really reconciled himself to the fact that his wife and his mother had so little love for one another. ‘But nevertheless I should have thought you would have known. Just as you should know I always have dinner with Mom on her birthday. A family dinner. Honey, this is just another party. We go to plenty of them.'

‘It's not just any old party – it's Cassidy's. Anyway, I've accepted now. We'll have to go.'

Hugo's mouth tightened. ‘I'm sorry, but this is one occasion when I intend to stand fast.'

‘Choosing your mother instead of me.'

‘Don't be ridiculous. But I am not going to upset her for the sake of some black-tie bash. She's not well, Paula. This could be her last birthday. I intend to make it a happy one for her.'

Paula snorted impatiently. ‘She's a creaking gate if ever I saw one. She'll still be manipulating you ten years from now.'

Hugo's eyes turned cold. Like any good son he deplored criticism of his mother.

‘I assume you won't be joining us for dinner.'

‘Too true I won't.' But his icy glare was making her nervous. Disapproval did that to her these days. Pleadingly she wound her arm through his. ‘Well, if you must go to dinner, couldn't you leave a little early? Your mother isn't a late bird. By the time she's ready for bed the party will only just be starting.'

He looked down into her ingenuous face and weakened. How he loved her! It didn't matter how outrageously she behaved, he only had to look into her lovely blue eyes and he was all too ready to make excuses for her. He'd do anything in the world for her – except disappoint his mother on her birthday. But Paula was quite right. Dinner would be at seven and his mother would be ready for bed by eleven at the latest. He could always wear his tuxedo – his mother would probably be flattered. Then he would simply drive round the block, pick up Paula, and they could go on to the Senator's home where the party was to be held.

He put a hand on Paula's arm, resisting the urge to crush her to him and cover her with kisses.

‘All right, honey, I'll meet you on that one. If you don't mind being a little late …'

Paula beamed. The sun always seemed to come out when she got her own way.

‘It's called making an entrance, Hugo,' she teased.

When she was dressed and ready for the party Paula went to the nursery to say goodnight to Harriet.

The child was tucked up in bed, her hair still damp and her face rosy from her bath, but she was not yet asleep and Paula sat down on the edge of her bed, drawing her close so that her head rested against the green silk that draped toga-style over Paula's small breasts leaving one shoulder bare.

‘Nice smell,' Harriet murmured, wrinkling her nose contentedly.

Paula smiled. The closeness of the firm little body made her feel quite maternal, though she knew it was not an emotion that would survive long if she had not been able to leave Harriet in the care of her nanny the moment the fancy left her.

‘Mummy is going to a party. Do you like my dress?'

‘Pretty!' Harriet approved, snuggling closer.

Paula was suddenly overcome with fear that Harriet might dribble on the green silk or make fingermarks.