Indiscretions (34 page)

“Jessie?” he yelled. “I’m gonna call Paris Haven. You wanna talk?”

Jessie was in the bedroom trying on the Dior she’d bought yesterday and which had just been delivered. Good, she could wear it tonight for dinner.

“Paris who?”

“Haven … you know, Jenny’s kid.”

“Oh. That Paris. Sure, I’ll say hello … wait a minute,
Stan, are you proposing to take her out to dinner with us?”

“Well, I kinda promised the kid, you know, when she was in L.A. I said we’d take her out to dinner—she’s probably looking forward to it, Jessie.”

Jessie glared at him. She didn’t want to go to Lasserre with Paris Haven, she was too fancy-French for her liking, and she’d never liked Jenny anyway. Stan had always been too close with her.

“I’ve asked the Johnsons,” she snapped. “They’re at the Ritz and I bumped into her today at the Givenchy boutique. I don’t want Paris tagging along, she’ll be too morbid and want to talk about her mother.”

“Bullshit,” said Stan, picking up the phone and asking for the number in surprisingly good French.

He lit a cigar and waited while Jessie glared at him. Those damned cigars always smelled up the whole place.

Paris looked beautiful. She was as thin as a rail, passionately pale, with short-cropped hair and wide-angle cheekbones. Thinness became her, but not starvation. She’d faced that fact after the disaster of her show when her ambitions lay in ruins and her bank balance was zero. Not just
her
bank balance; she’d lost her sisters’ money too. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she felt responsible and had determined to repay them, she might have killed herself that night—especially when Olympe didn’t call.

Olympe had been the one bright spark on the scene, the one possible link between failure and success. Olympe knew everyone; people in the fashion world would listen to her, they respected her opinion. When Didi had told her that she had been there, that she’d caught the end of the show and said it was fabulous, Paris had hoped that maybe Olympe would help. Especially after that night. She shuddered as she remembered … it was better not to remember. There are things in everyone’s life that
they’re ashamed of, she told herself in those low moments when she reran events in her mind—usually in bed, alone, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.

She climbed the steps to her atelier wearily. It had been a long day at Mitsoko’s, where she was working as a model. It had been the only thing left to do, all she was fit for now that she was a proven failure as a designer. The irony was that she had got the job with Mitsoko, when it was because of him that her show had failed—or would it have failed anyway? She slid the key into the lock, still thinking about Mitsoko. That was why her hair was short—all Mitsoko’s girls had to cut their hair, it was his look for the spring. Closing the door behind her she flung her big satchel onto her drawing board, stacked now with books and magazines instead of designs. Then she picked up the little white cat—it had been a sort of consolation gift from Didi—that ran across to greet her, hurling urgent meows into the air.

“Of course, love,” she murmured into its fur, hugging its warm little presence to her; at least she had someone to come home to.

Her only satisfaction from the whole Mitsoko scene had come when Finola, flaunting her position as a star model, had succumbed to Mitsoko’s command to cut off her hair. Without that flowing blond mane she’d looked like a lanky schoolgirl with features about as distinguished as a Barbie doll’s—all the drama was gone. Mitsoko
wanted
drama—elegantly chiseled noses, long, long necks, dramatic mouths, flaring cheeks—he wanted
bones
, and suddenly Finola didn’t have them. He’d never used her since, and it was taking ages to grow back her hair.

Paris gave the cat a kiss on top of its white head and took the packet of chicken from her bag to the “kitchen,” cutting it up small for her hungry friend. “There you go,
Alice.” She put the dish on the floor and the cat crouched over it eagerly. She didn’t know why she called the cat Alice, something to do with a cat in
Alice in Wonderland
perhaps—she remembered Jenny reading it to them and they’d all loved it. She didn’t want to think about Jenny tonight, either, no point in rehashing that again. At least, thought Paris, kicking off her shoes and pouring herself a glass of white wine from the fridge, I’ve learned to face up to the future realistically, instead of crying over the past.

The phone rang. That would be either Didi, checking in as he did every night, just to chat and see that she was okay, or Alain Marcus, a young and talented photographer with whom she had half promised to go to a gallery opening and possibly dinner afterward.

“Paris? How the hell are ya?”

Stan Reubin’s voice ran like drops of cold water down her spine. She hadn’t expected the past to sneak up on her tonight in the form of Stan Reubin, and for a minute it threw her.

“Stan. I’m fine.”

“Great. Listen, Jessie and I are here and I remembered I’d promised you dinner at Lasserre. Well, tonight’s your lucky night, Paris. Put on your best dress and get yourself over here—we’re at the George Cinq, ready and waiting to buy you the best dinner you’ve ever tasted.” Stan puffed at his cigar happily—he always felt good when he kept his promises.

Paris was silent, struggling with the anger she felt boiling up in her. It was anger against everything that had happened to her, anger at her failure, anger at the reasons behind it, and the bottled-up anger at her and her sisters’ treatment at the hands of Bill and Stan. She could hold it back no longer and it focused in on Stan as she let the words pour out in a low, even tone.

“Listen, you thieving old bastard,” she began. “If you
think you’re offering me a big treat taking me out to expensive restaurants and buying me dinner with my mother’s money, you’re wrong. You made enough money from Jenny to live on comfortably for the rest of your life and then ditched her when things weren’t going too good. You didn’t give a fuck about her, or about us. You were there to
prevent
what happened from happening—
you
, Stan, the smartest lawyer Beverly Hills possesses, right? So how was it the smart lawyer didn’t see his client being fleeced and didn’t take care of his client’s money properly? You didn’t give a damn about us—any of us—did you, Stan? In fact, I doubt if you even gave us a thought—until you had to when Jenny was dead. Quite
conveniently
dead, wasn’t she? I mean, what would have happened if she’d stayed alive? There would have had to be some explanations made, wouldn’t there?
Public
explanations. You know how Jenny
loved
publicity!”

Stan’s jaw had dropped and his cigar smoldered, clamped between rigid fingers. Jessie looked at him in surprise.

What the hell had got into the girl? wondered Stan, as her words assaulted his ear. She was threatening him now, threatening a court case—she was gonna sue on behalf of her sisters! Jesus Christ! Stan swallowed hard. “Now, Paris, I know you’re a bit upset …” There she went again. She couldn’t possibly
know
anything, could she? How? No, no, it wasn’t possible.

“Aw, come on, now, Paris, let’s have a nice dinner and talk it over. You’re still upset.”

Paris felt better; for once she had the upper hand, and Stan Reubin was cracking. It was when she’d threatened to sue that he’d suddenly come to life and tried to placate her. Maybe she
should
sue, maybe the bastard really
was
hiding something. “And that goes for Bill Kaufmann too,” she said, raising her voice excitedly. “You can expect a lawsuit,
Mr
. Reubin. Oh, and by the way, you can
tell Jessie that there’s a sale at Chloe tomorrow—she can easily drop a few thousand of Jenny’s money there, while you still have it!”

She slammed down the phone and took a swig of the white wine. God, she felt good, better than she’d felt in ages.

Lasserre was everything they’d said it was, everything a good restaurant should be, thought Stan, toying with his pâté de foie gras with white grapes. Then why wasn’t he enjoying it as much as he should? Jessie was busy chatting with the Johnsons, a nice enough couple from New York whom Stan met up with now and then on the legal circuit, but Frank Johnson had annoyed Stan by insisting that this was the restaurant where you had to order the duck. “Every duck is numbered,” he’d said, “just like good wine. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Stan had tried to tell him that it was the Tour d’Argent for duck, but Frank Johnson wasn’t having any of it and Stan had given in without a fight. And now they were all stuck with the goddamn duck.

He didn’t feel like a fight tonight, he was happy to let Frank and Jessie keep the conversation flowing around him. Jesus, that little Paris Haven had upset him, she’d really upset him; imagine threatening to sue! Of course she wouldn’t, she couldn’t afford to. He wondered if she was smart enough to take her case to a big lawyer and get him to take it on for a percentage of the damages. She’d have a good case, as a lawyer he knew it, and even if she didn’t win, she’d damage his reputation. He’d better call Bill when he got back. Stan took another gulp of the Meursault he’d ordered with the foie gras—that was good wine. Ah, what the hell, he thought, look at him getting all upset over a little nothing like Paris Haven. He could take care of her with his hands tied behind his
back. Shit, he should be
enjoying
himself, he’d come all this way to
enjoy!

The waiter brought the duck and Stan waved it away.

“I don’t want that,” he commanded, back on form, “I’ve changed my mind. Bring me the grouse instead.”

“But, Stan,” objected Jessie, “they’ve brought it and we’re all ready to eat. It’ll take ages to get you something else.”

“Fifteen minutes, madame,” explained the waiter.

“That’s all right.” Stan leaned back and felt in his pocket for his cigar case. “You go ahead and eat. I’ll wait for my grouse. And after that, waiter, I think we’d all enjoy the iced mango mousse.” He winked at Mrs. Johnson. “You’ll love it,” he promised. “It’ll cool you down after all that flaming duck.”

Stan had finished two glasses of the Leoville Las Cases by the time the grouse arrived. It smelled delicious, and rested neatly on a round of toast and pâté.

“Pâté twice, Stan,” noted Jessie reprovingly, inspecting his plate.

“Good,” said Stan, digging in, “I’m starving.”

They had finished their duck—Jessie privately felt that Stan had been right, they should have ordered something else—and were sitting, drinking wine and watching Stan eat. That’s why it came as such a surprise, seeing him turn suddenly purple in the face like that, unable to speak, just gasping as if he couldn’t get enough air. He was dead before they knew it.

17

It hadn’t taken as long as Bob Ronson thought it would to infiltrate Rory Grant’s entourage; in fact, it didn’t take much to crack the scene at all, just the right clothes, the right car, an endless supply of money in your pocket, and the name of a good dealer.

The fact was that Rory was a simple soul, not as well endowed in the smarts department as in the physical, and he was, by nature, friendly. And unquestioning. You claimed you knew so and so, who knew so and so, you showed up at the right places often enough, and he figured he’d known you for years. Even so, thought Bob, tying the laces of his Nikes, ready for a tennis game with Rory, the guy was physically impressive off screen as well as on. He had the body of an athlete and in fact was a good one—he would sure as hell trounce Bob on the court today. Rory moved like an animal whether he was dancing or simply sauntering down the street, and yet he had the clean-cut appearance and wide grin of an engagingly innocent boy. Until he’d had enough coke and paranoia took over. It always hit him like that—old friends
became instant enemies, people at the studios were accused of “spying” on him or plotting against him. His wide blue eyes grew narrow and flickered restlessly from side to side, as if he were trying to spot his enemies in the act of bad-mouthing him. And, of course, new friends became his confidants. There was no doubt about it, Rory’s bad coke habit would make Bob’s task easier.

Bob picked up his Gucci tennis bag and checked its contents. Tucked in with his racket, towel, sun visor, clean shirt, and shorts was a neat little package—gift wrapped. It was time to move in on Rory.

“Good game, Bob,” called Rory, jogging up to shake hands.

Bob gave him credit mentally for
not
having leapt the net.

“Beat me hands down.” He grinned. “I can’t keep up with you, Rory.”

“Just need a bit more practice, that’s all.” Rory toweled his sweat-soaked hair as they sat on a bench by the court, catching their breath. “How about a swim to cool off?”

“I thought I’d go to the club and steam my aching muscles.” Bob slid his racket into the bag and zipped it up. “What y’doing tonight, though?”

“Nothing much—why don’t you come around? We’ll call a couple of girls, have a party.”

“Okay. That reminds me.” Bob unzipped his bag again. “Got a little present for you. You can tell me what you think of it tonight.” He got up, wrapping his white sweater around his shoulders casually, Rory style, smiling as he headed for the gate.