Indiscretions (41 page)

India was a glorious bride, small and slender in creamy silk taffeta designed and made by Paris, with an orange blossom in her hair and happiness in her eyes. Hand in hand with Aldo in her pretty donkey-carriage, she smiled and waved to the crowds that lined the square, tossing flowers to the young girls and laughing as the donkeys
stopped for a quick nibble at the juicy grasses growing by the fountain.

It was a true country wedding, simple, informal, and full of the vigorous warmth of the Italian people, and India was enjoying every minute of it. There had been a pang of sadness and regret as she had left for the church on the arm of the Contessa’s brother—it wasn’t that she had no father of her own to escort her down the aisle, she was used to not having a father, but that her mother wasn’t there to see her married. Jenny would have enjoyed a wedding like this—she would have drunk champagne with the guests and danced tarantellas with the fishermen, and she would have been thrilled by her daughter’s happiness.

The palazzo was crowded with Montefiore relatives. Aldo seemed to be related to half of Italy and most of them had decided to come to his wedding. All the grand, interconnecting reception rooms milled with people greeting each other in a flurry of kisses and loud exclamations of surprise and delight. Champagne flowed, as neatly dressed girls in white aprons threaded their way through the throng with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and photographers busied themselves arranging and rearranging family groups until Aldo and India laughingly called enough.

Venetia and Paris found themselves the center of attraction for the younger male guests, complimented and caressed verbally, with proper Italian appreciation for their charms. They, too, had cast away their cares for the day and were wholly enjoying India’s wedding.

“She’s getting an enormous ready-made family,” commented Paris as India and Aldo cut their wedding cake. “I always thought India was the one who missed not having a family most. You had the Lancasters and I—well, I’ve always been a loner.”

Isolated for a moment in the middle of the crowd, the sisters remembered their mother.

“Poor Jenny,” sighed Venetia. “How she would have loved all this.”

“She should have been here to see India married.” Paris’s face tightened with remembered anger. “I still believe that something was wrong about it all, you know.”

“It’s odd you should say that. I told Fitz McBain what had happened and he felt the same way, just that it wasn’t right. He even said that he would look into it for us. He had people in Los Angeles who could find out things. I’m not sure what he intended to do, or what he expected to find, but …” Vennie shrugged away the memory quickly. “Anyway, this isn’t the place to be talking about such things. We should be enjoying India’s day. Oh, look out, here come some more cousins bearing champagne.…”

India and Aldo were to spend their honeymoon at the palazzo, the first people to use the grand yellow suite that had been hastily finished for them. The Contessa, tactfully, was to spend some time with her relatives in Florence, leaving the young couple alone to enjoy their privacy.

“I should have hated to go away and miss all the fun,” confided India as Paris helped her out of her bridal gown later. Vennie had slipped off her shoes and was sprawled on India’s bed, listening. “There are the fireworks and then there’ll be dancing in the village square. Oh, it’s all so perfect—I just wish you two could be as happy as I am.” She turned to Venetia. “Vennie, what’s all this about Fitz McBain?”

Venetia sat up, blushing, “Oh, that’s all over—at least I suppose it is.”

“Oh, really?” India’s tone expressed disbelief. “Then why’re you going back to the
Fiesta?
”

“I was here anyway, in the Mediterranean, and it was easy somehow.”

“Yeah?” India sat beside Vennie on the bed. “How about some advice from an old married woman? Just think what Jenny would have done in the same situation. It’s the advice Paris gave me. Remember, Paris? And it worked! Vennie, don’t hang around in limbo wondering whether the guy loves you. Think what Jenny would have done—and do it.”

“It’s all so complicated, though.…”

“Why? Because of Morgan? Come on, Vennie, think things through—if it weren’t for Morgan, would there be any obstacle between you and Fitz?”

“He’s already told me to forget him, but I’m not sure if it’s only because of Morgan.”

“Well? Why not find out?” India glanced at her watch. “I must get changed. Aldo will be waiting for me.”

Swept back once more into the circle of India’s happy enthusiasm, Vennie had no time to think about what had been said until the next morning as she waited with Paris for her flight to Nice.

“I’m not like Jenny,” she confessed. “I can’t just go up to a man and ask him if he loves me. What if he said no? And he might. I might have been just a passing fancy, a pretty girl on a warm tropical night.”

“It’s up to you, Vennie. It’s your life.”

Paris was very quiet this morning. She was returning to her lonely life in her studio, thought Venetia, and here I am, selfishly worrying only about my own problems.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

Paris shrugged. “I can’t bear to go back to modeling. Anyway, after all those good Italian meals I’d be no use to Mitsoko—he wants his girls to be all bone. I have a few ideas for resort wear. I thought I might make some things and try to sell them to the boutiques in St. Tropez and Monte Carlo. You know, quick, fun, sporty things.
It’s a long way from couture, but I’ve changed, Vennie. I’m willing to start at the bottom now. Anything, just to get a foot through the fashion door.”

“Don’t think of it as the bottom—think of it as a beginning,” said Vennie comfortingly. “Anyway, good luck, Paris. Keep in touch with me—call me if you’re coming south, I’d love to see you.”

Venetia’s flight was called first and Paris was left alone in a crowded Naples air terminal. She was going to miss India’s company and the gentle days at the palazzo, but work beckoned like a challenge. And Jenny would have expected her to accept the challenge—and win. Paris squared her shoulders. She walked toward the gate where her flight was boarding. Okay. She’d give it another try.

21

It had been a long day. The set of
Chelsea’s Game
had been crowded with visitors, and that always bothered him. It was tough enough to get through the day, remembering everything, looking good and doing your best, thought Rory irritably, without a bunch of visiting bankers
or accountants, or whoever they were, getting the VIP treatment with him thrown in as the cabaret.

“You tired?” asked Bob, sitting with him in the back of the limo, driving back from the studio to Rory’s place.

“Beat.” Rory closed his eyes.

He looked it. Without the makeup his face looked puffy and slack. Bob had spent the day on the set with Rory and had been amazed by how much time was spent waiting around. There was always something that needed adjusting, or a new setup to be arranged, and then they just shot the disjointed bits and pieces of scenes, or did close-ups, repeating the lines they’d just said in the long shot … and yet each week they churned out another episode of
Chelsea’s Game!
It was not, decided Bob, a business that would suit him. And he was getting very restless playing at being Rory Grant’s “hanger-on”. He hoped Fitz McBain would understand what he was going through and be suitably rewarding afterward, and not just with money. He wanted a leg up to the next level in the corporation.

“Okay, Rory, we’re here.”

The driver leapt out to open the door. “G’night Mr. Grant. See you tomorrow.”

“G’night.”

Rory fiddled with his keys, found the right one, and let them in. The house was hot from the day’s scorching sun.

“Aw, shit!” he grumbled, switching on the air-conditioning.

“You should have a housekeeper,” said Bob, going to the refrigerator and getting out a bottle of Mondavi Chablis. “Here, have a glass of this.”

Rory looked at it in disgust. “I’d rather have a beer.… I know, I know, it’s a million calories and I shouldn’t. Fuck you, Jenny Haven,” he called to the empty house. “You got me on this calorie kick and I can’t goddamn stop.” He looked at Bob. “If I have a beer,” he
complained, “I’ll gain two pounds and tomorrow those goddamn tight jeans won’t fit and my belly’ll hang over the top.”

“You’re exaggerating, Rory,” soothed Bob. “Have the beer—one won’t do you any harm.”

Rory pushed his hands into his pockets and slouched moodily to the window, staring at the glossy cruisers and speedboats bobbing at their moorings.

Bob watched him silently. He’d never seen him down like this before; he was nervous and tense as well as tired.

Rory turned from the window and headed for the stairs.

“What’s happening?” called Bob. “We gonna eat, or what?”

“Wait there,” called Rory. “I’ll be with you in a bit. I’ll just take a shower.”

Bob waited. He flipped through the pages of
Esquire
, and then
Playboy
. He poured himself another glass of the Chablis. He stared out over the darkening sea. What was going on? He’d been an hour.

“Hey, Rory, you all right?” he called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Sure.” Rory appeared on the landing. “Why shouldn’t I be?” His grin was wide and his step jaunty as he ran down the stairs. He was more “up” than Bob had ever seen him. “I see you’re admiring the Playmate of the Month. Tell you what, Bob, we’ll go around to the Mansion—there’s always something going on there. We can shoot some pool, dance a little—those pictures don’t lie, you know, they really look like that.”

“I thought you were wiped out.”

“I was. But I’m not anymore.” Rory laughed. “Just a little extra boost, man, no sweat. I’m okay. Come on, then, let’s go.”

“What about work? You have to be up at five-thirty.”

“I’ll be okay.” Rory grabbed his car keys and headed
for the door. Bob followed, slamming the door behind him. He had the feeling it was going to be a long night.

It was four-thirty when they got back home. They were sitting on Rory’s sofa. Bob was into his second wind and Rory had crashed, plummeted from some lofty peak to white-faced misery. He sat, head in hands, staring at the pattern on the marble table.

“Something’s really bugging you, Rory,” said Bob, rolling a joint. “I mean, I can tell. It’s like you’ve got something bottled up inside you, something that really worries you.”

Rory lifted his head and stared at Bob.

“You’re right,” he said.

“It’s no good, you know,” Bob went on, dragging at the joint, “keeping things locked away inside you like that. You’ll end up doing ten years on a psychiatrist’s couch … cost you a fortune, and at the end what have you got? Nothing you couldn’t get talking to a friend.”

Rory put his head back in his hands, staring at the table again, wishing he didn’t feel so down. He had everything going for him, he was the hottest success in a town where only this year’s success counted. He was coining money—more than he’d ever dreamed of making. He didn’t need Jenny’s money now. There she was again! Always at the back of his mind, ready to sneak up on him when he was feeling low. Always there, her blue eyes wide and accusing. And frightened. The way they had looked that night.…

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Bob, I need someone to talk to, and you’re my closest friend. But it’s not all the way it sounds. I mean, I was a young guy trying to get on in a tough world. You understand what I mean, don’t you, Bob?”

Bob switched on the micro-tape recorder in the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim jacket.

“Sure,” he agreed, “I understand.”

22

The
Fiesta
was the gayest, most social yacht on the Mediterranean that season, cruising lazily along the coast, from Monte Carlo to St. Tropez, and across to Porto Cervo in Sardinia, anchoring occasionally at tiny Calvi in Corsica, or, for a change of pace, drifting westward to Puerto Banus at Marbella. With a constant flow of guests spilling from every cabin, Venetia found herself thrown in suddenly at the deep end. In a way it was good; it left her little time to brood, and even with the help of the two girls whom she had found it necessary to recruit from London to help her she was usually too tired at night to crave anything but sleep.