Goodbye, Janette (32 page)

She was back behind the desk before he had a chance to reply. His hand touched his own cheek. He stared at her. “You’re crazy!”

“Get out!” she screamed suddenly. “Or I’ll kill you!”

Abruptly he turned and went to the door, then looked back. “Philippe, Marlon,” he said. “Let’s go!”

Awkwardly the designer and his friend got to their feet. Silently they moved toward the door, neither of them meeting Janette’s eyes.

Carroll smiled back at her. “You’ve really blown it. Philippe has already signed a contract with me starting next year. I thought you might try to screw me so I took no chances.”

Without a word, Janette watched the door close behind them, then looked up at Lauren. “Do you mind if Patrick takes you home?” she asked in a calm voice. “Jacques and I have some business to finish off tonight.”

“I can wait,” Lauren said.

“No,” Janette answered. “It would be better if you left. We might be the rest of the night. “And you can use some sleep before Patrick takes you down to Saint-Tropez.”

Lauren came around the desk and bent to kiss Janette’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about
chérie
. None of it is your fault.”

“If it will help, I can talk to Daddy,” Lauren said.

Janette managed a smile. “Thanks,
chérie
, but that won’t be necessary. I can take care of that worm on my own. Now, you go and get some rest.” She looked up at Patrick. “You see that she goes right home to bed.”

Patrick smiled. “Yes, Mother.”

Janette laughed. “That’s a good boy. That’s the right way to talk.” She turned and kissed Lauren again. “Good night,
chérie
. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Another quick kiss on the cheek and they were gone. Janette turned to look at Jacques. “Well, here we are again. Nothing’s changed. Just the two of us.”

Jacques hit the open palm of his left hand with his right fist. “The slimy little bastards! They never said a word to us. I’ll ruin the little creep. Wait until I get the word out that the collection was your idea, not his. They’ll all jump on it. They already know that you rejected his original presentation.”

“Philippe is the least of my concerns,” Janette said. “We can always take care of him. Right now I have to get the money for Carroll.”

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Jacques said hopefully.

“Even if he does, I don’t want him. If nothing else, this collection proves that we can make it. Once I pay him off, I’m sure there’s a better deal somewhere.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Jacques said. “Where are you going to find a million francs in six hours?”

“A million francs,” Janette said thoughtfully. She looked at him. “Isn’t that the figure Maurice mentioned that he had to invest?”

Jacques nodded.

Janette got to her feet. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the Ile Saint-Louis, wake him up and see if he meant what he said.”

“You know Maurice,” Jacques said. “He’s not an easy man to deal with. You’ll have to pay for that money. One way or the other.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“What about your friend Patrick? His family company just bought Kensington Mills in the States. I’ve heard rumors that they may go into retail. They’ll know a good deal when they see it.”

“Patrick has nothing to do with the family business. He goes his own way and they go theirs. Neither of them wants to have anything to do with the other. Patrick is out. It has to be Maurice.”

She started for the door, then suddenly stopped and looked at him. “Where did we go wrong, Jacques?”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I can’t figure it out. Did we win—or did we lose?”

***

It was only a ten-minute drive from the Lido on the Champs-Elysées to the house and it wasn’t until they were almost there that Patrick spoke. “Do you have to go to bed?” he asked. “I’m wired. I can’t sleep.”

“I’m beat,” Lauren said. “Besides, you heard my sister.”

“Yes.” There was an admiring sound in Patrick’s voice. “Did you ever see anything like that? The way she slapped Carroll’s face? I thought she would knock his head off.”

Lauren laughed. “I wish she had. My sister’s got a lot of guts.”

Patrick nodded. “She’s a very tough lady. I wouldn’t like to get on her wrong side. She could really kill a man.”

Lauren laughed as the car pulled to the curb in front of the house. “I don’t think she would go that far.”

The chauffeur jumped out of the car and opened the door of Patrick’s big silver Rolls. Lauren leaned over and kissed Patrick’s cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

Patrick looked at her. “How about letting me touch your quim for just a second? Then I can lick my fingers all the way home and I’ll be happy.”

Lauren giggled. “Don’t be silly,” she said, getting out of the car.

Patrick followed her up to the door and waited as she rang the bell. “I wonder what Jacques and Janette are doing right now?”

“She said they still had work to do,” Lauren replied.

“I wonder if he has a big prick,” Patrick said.

“I don’t know. And I don’t really care,” Lauren said. The door swung open. Quickly she kissed his cheek again. “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute,” Patrick said as she started through the door. “What time?”

She turned and looked back at him. “Noon, okay?”

“Noon will be fine,” he said. “I’ll have the car here to pick you up.”

She closed the door behind her and started up the staircase. She turned as the butler called after her.

“Did everything go all right, Mademoiselle Lauren?”

“Beautiful,” Lauren answered. “It was the most beautiful evening ever.”

***

Harvey rolled from his mattress out of the blazing August sun into the shade of the umbrella. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

Lauren turned her head toward him. “Now, what?”

“Thirty francs for a mattress and an umbrella,” he said. “That’s robbery.”

Lauren laughed. “That’s French.”

“What if you just wanted to lay on the sand? Without anything?”

“Where?” she asked, gesturing to the crowded beach completely covered by people on mattresses.

“I saw a beach further down. People brought their own mats and umbrellas.”

“You can do that if you want to. That’s the public beach,” she said.

“Why don’t we do it?” he asked. “At least, we won’t feel we’re being clipped.”

“We can try it tomorrow,” she said.

“It’s the same sun, the same sand, the same water.”

“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

He looked at her. “Your tits are getting fried.”

She sat up, reaching for a sun lotion in her beach bag. “I’ll put some more gook on.”

He stared at her. “I guess I’m still not used to it. I never saw so many tits in my life. Jesus, I wonder what they do with all the bathing-suit tops they never use.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Maybe someone ought to go around buying them up.” He grinned suddenly. “Think of it. I can get a corner on the bikini-top market.”

She laughed. “What would you do with them?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have to think of something.” He looked at the can of sun spray she took out. “Wait a minute. I have something better you can use.” He fished in his carry bag and came out with a clay jar. He took the cork top from it and held it toward her. “Here, try some of this. But put some water on yourself first.”

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the jar.

“Humboldt clay, mixed with some jojoba oil. The Indians use it to heal their skins. It also makes you tan quicker and you won’t burn.”

She sniffed at the open jar. “Smells funny.”

“It’s natural,” he said. “All that crap you buy has perfume in it.”

“Where’d you get it?” she asked.

“It’s all over the place up at the farm. Johnny’s mother mixes it up herself. They use it for everything. Cuts, insect bites, you name it.”

“Does it really work?” she asked skeptically.

“I use it,” he said. “And I’ve only been here two days and I’m darker than you are.”

“Okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll jump into the water for a minute, then I’ll be back and put it on.”

He leaned on one elbow and watched her walk down to the water. She seemed different here somehow. It was strange hearing her rattle away in French. In California, the fact that she was French had never even entered his mind. She was just like all the other girls there. But so many things about her had changed in just the month she had been gone.

She even walked differently. Sort of straighter, more of a swing to her hips. Before she would stride, now she walked as if her hips were attached to her legs instead of her waist.

And she was thinner, her rib cage more clearly defined, her pelvic bones thrust forward so that the curve under her belly seemed to flow between her legs in a mound that seemed to rise from her thighs. Suddenly it dawned on him. He knew what it was. She was sexier. In California she had been a girl. Here she was a girl-woman.

Automatically he began fishing in his carry bag for a joint. Then he remembered. This was France. You couldn’t smoke joints on the beach. Not only was the law rough but the people were too uptight. Nobody said a word if you drank yourself insensible or fucked your head off, and neither did they care. Neither did they give a damn whether you were gay or not. But if you were going to dope, you stayed in the closet to do it.

She came out of the water and dropped to the mattress beside him. “What do I do?” she asked. “Sprinkle it on me?”

He shook his head. “Put a little on your hands, rub them together until it’s a fine paste, then apply it. Spread it very thin. A little goes a long way.”

“Okay,” she said.

He watched her for a moment. “I’ll do your tits if you like.”

She laughed. “I can do those myself. But you can do my back if you want.”

“Some people are always taking the joy out of life,” he grumbled. “Jesus, I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?”

“Patrick should be here any minute,” she answered. “He said he would join us for lunch.”

“He’ll never make it,” Harvey said, “the way he was when we left him last night. He was so far out of it that he’ll be lucky if he wakes up by the weekend.”

“He’ll make it,” she laughed. “But I still think you shouldn’t have laid some of that number eight on him.”

“He was asking for it,” Harvey said. “He kept saying that none of our shit held a candle to that Moroccan hash he had.” He laughed. “Did you see his face after he had just two tokes? He was out to lunch.”

She laughed with him. “He sure was. I never saw him like that. But he’ll get up and do a few lines. He’ll be here all right. “She turned away from him. “Now do my back.”

***

Patrick struggled up from sleep. He opened his eyes slowly to the dark of the master cabin. Not a sliver of light slipped through the double curtains hiding the portholes. He reached behind him, pressing a button on the wall behind the giant circular headboard of his bed. Slowly the light began to seep in as the curtains drew back on their electric tracks.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his head, staring at the bare bottom which was all that was revealed by the blankets covering the girl sleeping next to him. He slapped it gently. “Wake up, Anne.”

The bottom wiggled at him and the voice came from under the blanket. “It’s not Anne, it’s Meg.”

He slapped the bottom again. “Wake up anyway.” He reached for the telephone on the bed stand.

The steward answered. “Good morning, milord.”

“Good morning. What time is it?”

“One p.m., milord.”

“I’ll have some tea,” he said.

Meg’s voice came, still muffled by the covers. “I’d like some orange juice and coffee.”

“And orange juice and coffee,” Patrick added.

“Yes, milord. Right away.”

Patrick put down the telephone and stared at the girl’s bottom. “I say, you have a really cute little bum.”

The girl stirred, turning, then sitting up in bed beside him. She shook her head, the long curling ringlets of red hair framing her face. Even her smile betrayed her Irish ancestry, crinkling her freckled white face and the corners of her blue eyes. “That’s what you said last night, but then you were asleep before I came out of the loo.”

He laughed. “That American friend of Lauren’s seems to be handing out time bombs.”

“It was your fault,” she said. “You kept saying that you wanted a toke.”

“I don’t remember,” he said. “What happened to Anne?”

“She got up early. She said she wanted to go to the beach.”

There was a gentle knock at the door and the steward entered with a breakfast tray. “Good morning, milord. Good morning, miss.” He placed the tray on the bed between them.

Patrick looked up at the man. “Any messages?”

“Yes, milord. Miss Janette called. She said she would be arriving at the Nice airport on the six o’clock flight this evening with a friend and would you be kind enough to send the helicopter for her.”

Patrick nodded. “Do that.” He reached for the pot of tea. “Tell the captain to take the boat out to Maurea Beach. I promised some people I would meet them there at two o’clock.”

The steward left the stateroom and Meg sat up in bed, the sheet that had been covering her falling to her waist. “May I pour your tea?”

“Please.” He watched her pouring the tea, her firm full breasts swelling against her arms as she leaned over the teapot.

“Milk?”

“Yes, thank you,” he answered, still looking at the richness of her breasts.

“That all right?” She glanced at him, still holding the small pitcher of warm milk. “You have a funny expression on your face.”

“I’m slightly surprised.” He smiled, throwing the coverlet from him, revealing his erection. “I have a hard on.”

She put down the pitcher and then patted his penis lightly. “That’s lovely,” she said.

He smiled again. “How about giving me a little head?”

“Of course,” she answered. “But you can hold it for just a minute? I can’t eat a thing until after I’ve had my juice and coffee.”

***

Everything seemed to change the moment Janette stepped out of the helicopter on the front lawn. The sun was falling to the mountains in the west behind Sainte-Maxime and it seemed to Harvey as if she had suddenly sprung from the earth beneath her feet as its golden rays shot through the thin white dress whose skirt she held against her thighs as she ran from the downdraft of the slowing rotors.