Indiscretions (46 page)

It had been a while since Margie had been to Rory’s place. She let herself in with the key she’d stolen from him months ago, wondering if he was home and, if so, whether he’d be glad to see her. They hadn’t exactly parted the best of friends; in fact, he’d told her to get lost. Still, knowing Rory, he’d probably forgotten that by now, and if he hadn’t, well, she could just remind him that she was a
true
friend! Anyway, she wasn’t here for his company.

Closing the door softly behind her, Margie glided across the hall into the galleried living area.

“Hello?” she called tentatively.

No response. Crossing to the staircase that spiraled up
from one corner to the gallery, she called again, louder this time. Still no response.

No one at home. Good. Margie ran up the curving stairs, laughing out loud as she reached the top, shaking her shaggy blond head to relieve the dizziness—there must be something left from last night’s high after all. Now, where did Rory keep his stuff? Was it still the bathroom cabinet, or had he moved it? She didn’t have to look too far. An old crystal bowl, once used for the sort of face powder that came with a swansdown puff to flick across some pretty twenties face, waited on the bedside table. The white powder it now contained needed no swansdown, and Margie sniffed at it deeply. Trust Rory—whenever she ran out of money to buy it herself, or out of friends who had some, Rory always had plenty. And he wasn’t stingy with it either. God knows who had paid for it; it must have cost a fortune. He served it the way other people offered drinks. Margie pulled off the red suede French boots she’d bought at Joseph Magnin’s last week, and lay back comfortably on the bed to wait for Rory. Sure, he’d be glad to see her, why not?

The black Ferrari ate up the miles as Rory covered the distance between Palm Springs and L.A. in a record two hours. It would have taken him less if the patrol car hadn’t stopped him outside Bakersfield doing 130 miles per hour—that’d be a couple of hundred dollars’ speeding ticket. A couple of hundred! Jesus, that was
nothing!
Three quarters of a million was the amount he had on his mind! Three quarters of a million dollars! Shit!

Rory slowed down as he entered the city’s stream of traffic, weaving in and out of lanes impatiently, oblivious to the anger of those drivers he cut in front of, intent on his own problems. He hadn’t believed it when Bill had told him. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure he believed him now. How did he know that Bill wasn’t conning him,
just telling him that “someone” knew—and that “someone” was going to the police unless he handed over three quarters of a million dollars? Bill was supposed to pay the same, of course, or so he said, and Stan too. That would make a total of two million and a quarter.

It was blackmail, he’d protested. “Sure,” Bill had said, “and what’s your alternative? Ya want them to go to the police? I’ll tell you, kid, you don’t mess around with these guys.”

A prickle of fear ran along Rory’s spine;
“these guys”
 … who had Bill meant? Jenny had been friends with all sorts of people, and Bill had let it fall that the money was for those daughters of hers. He’d said that they were “protected.”

Rory was trapped and he knew it. Not only trapped, he was in hock. The studio would have to come up with a good part of the money as an advance on his salary, which meant he’d be in their power and unable to demand the raises he’d had in mind. Worse, he would have to cancel the purchase of the house on Benedict; in fact, Bill had already done it. Rory had been forced to sit there while Bill got on the phone and told the real estate woman that he’d changed his mind. He’d talked her into returning the deposit, saying that Rory had decided he wanted something bigger, maybe in Bel-Air. Bel-Air! My God, he’d be lucky if he ended up with a condo in North Hollywood!

Who, he wondered, slamming through the gears at the lights and heading toward Newport Beach, who
were
“they”? And how did “they” know? He still wasn’t sure that Bill wasn’t conning him, that he wasn’t just taking the money and pocketing it, now that Stan wasn’t there to double-check every detail. There was just one thing, though—Bill had mentioned a tape. Rory swung the car through the courtyard and into his garage, turned off the engine, and stared blankly through the windshield. There
were only three people who knew: Margie, because she’d been around that night, but even she didn’t know everything, he’d never told her what happened; Bill, who could be inventing the tape as the evidence for his own blackmail; and Bob Ronson, the friend to whom he’d confessed all.

No, it couldn’t be Bob, he was a
good
friend; look how he’d helped him. Then that left Bill Kaufmann as the blackmailer, or Margie, but surely she was too dumb and too coked out even to try?

Slamming the car door, Rory walked wearily across to the house. He hated this place now. Funny, he’d liked it so much at first, he’d thought it so smart, exactly the right sort of place for an up-and-coming actor, a chic wood-and-glass duplex condominium on Newport Marina. But now he was a star, now he needed a place where he could entertain, a fancy drawing room and a screening room of his own, a pool and a court … 
goddamn Bill Kaufmann!

Margie heard him come in and sat up, cross-legged on the bed, waiting.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Rory stared at her angrily. She looked terrible, she was so thin she was scrawny! Her face was puffy and her eyes nervous as she smiled at him. Well, at least she was a friendly face! Or was she?

“I let myself in,” said Margie sweetly. “I thought you might be pleased to see me.”

“You came to see me?” Rory pointed to the crystal bowl, its lid off. “Or you came for that?”

“Both,” admitted Margie. “It’s been a while, Rory. Haven’t you missed me?”

“No,” said Rory, pulling off his shirt and throwing it on a chair. “I can’t say that I have.” Tugging off his loafers he stepped out of his jeans. He kicked them out of his path as he headed toward the shower.

He looked good, thought Margie, admiring the broad-shouldered, sleekly muscled body of the nation’s number-one television star, he really was terrific.

“Wait a minute.” Rory turned and retraced his steps. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”

He stood by the side of the bed, staring angrily at her. Margie put out a tentative hand to stroke his thigh. He surely was mad at her. What had she done that was so bad? All she’d taken was a little coke.

“Who’ve you been talking to about me?” demanded Rory. “About me and Jenny?”

“Jenny?” Margie stared at him, puzzled. “I haven’t talked to anyone. What is there to say? Oh,” she remembered, “that is, no one except Bob, and he already knew you were with her that night—”

“Bob!” Rory felt his knees go weak as he sank into the bed next to her. “You told Bob?”

“
I
didn’t tell him,” she corrected, “
you
did. He told me so, and then I asked him how he knew—”

“When?” demanded Rory. “Tell me
when
, you dumb bitch!”

Margie shrank back from the violence in his voice. “It was that night you all went to La Scala and wouldn’t take me. You forgot to bring me back a pizza and I was hungry, so Bob took me to Du Par’s on the way home. But he
knew
, Rory, I swear he knew.”

Rory’s hand itched to slap her stupid burned-out little face, and with an effort he drew back; he was in enough trouble without being accused of beating up teenage girls. Shaking, he made his way back to the bathroom. So it
was
Bob. The bastard had tricked Margie into telling him, and then he’d tricked
him
into confessing. “It’s no good keeping things locked away inside you, you should talk to a friend”—wasn’t that what he’d said? Then was it Bob who was blackmailing him? The money was for the Haven girls. So who was Bob working for?

Rory turned the shower to cold, and stepped under the stinging jets that spouted from all four sides as well as the top, gasping as they hit. He didn’t want to think anymore about who Bob was working for. God damn, he was a fool, a stupid fucking fool.

Margie had pulled on her red suede boots and was sitting nervously on the side of the bed. She hadn’t even dared to touch the coke in case he got mad at her.

Rory ignored her as he opened and shut drawers, slamming around finding clean shorts, a black track-suit, sneakers. He wanted to get out of here, he couldn’t stand this place any longer. Goddamn everybody. That house in Benedict was
his
, he had
earned
it.

He stared into the mirror, suddenly transfixed. He could hear Jenny’s voice as clearly as if she were in the room … saying it, saying those words that haunted him every night: “I
earned
that money,” she’d screamed. “I got up at five-thirty every morning for twenty-five years. I sweated under those lights, I had my legs waxed, my hair bleached—I stayed
thin
for that money.
And I gave up my kids to stay here and earn it
. Goddamn you, Rory Grant!”

A sigh shuddered through Rory’s tense body. Okay, okay, then, he’d give it back. He knew what she meant now, she’d played the Hollywood game and almost won. So he’d pay his dues, but he’d make sure
he
came out a winner. He’d pay Bill the money, but he’d get a guarantee that every cent of it went to the Haven girls. It was going to cost him the Bel-Air house, but what the hell—maybe he’d be able to sleep nights again. And then Bill Kaufmann would have nothing on him anymore. In fact, Bill Kaufmann was in it just as deep as he was.

Snatching up his car keys Rory strode toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Margie’s plaintive voice followed him as he headed down the curving staircase.

Rory paused at the foot. Looking up he grinned at her.

“I’m gonna fire Bill Kaufmann,” he said.

26

The first mistral of autumn blew across the Côte d’Azur, scudding heavy, gray clouds before it in a thin spatter of rain as Venetia, shrouded in a serviceable Guernsey sweater and blue jeans, hurried through the quiet streets of St. Tropez. The last of the summer visitors had gone—departing that weekend like migratory birds for warmer winter quarters, leaving the resort a ghost town. Tired summer awnings flapped in the wind outside empty terrace cafés and
SALE
signs hung hopefully in the windows of silent boutiques.

Venetia shivered, clutching her parcels closer as the wind tugged at her. Summer was dead and London and the prospect of a lonely winter lay ahead. The only good thing she could see on the horizon was the reunion with Kate and the Lancasters. She’d been out buying presents for them all, spending a good deal of her accumulated
salary on extravagances she knew they would love, and all that remained now was to pack her things in readiness for an early departure in the morning. The crew had asked her to dine with them that night as their guest of honor and she had made an enormous iced cake, inscribed with their names and a little boat—and “Farewell
Fiesta
.” On an impulse Venetia stopped at the store that sold wines and picked up a magnum of champagne as her contribution to the festivities—maybe it would help to cheer her up tonight. Laden with her parcels she staggered back to the
Fiesta
to find it in a state of surprising activity.

“It’s Mr. McBain,” said Masters, meeting her at the top of the stairs. “He’s back unexpectedly—and he’s been asking for you.”

Fitz was here! Her heart was jumping as she followed Masters along the deck. Why? Why had he come back? It must be to check on his beautiful boat before she sailed tomorrow for Rotterdam and her annual overhaul—of course, it could only be that.

“You’d better go along there, miss,” said Masters, relieving her of her parcels. “I expect he wants to give you your bonus—we all get one at the end of the season.”

So that was it. Venetia sought around desperately for an excuse not to go, but found none. She was still a member of his crew, and if the captain summoned, you went. She smoothed her hair futilely with her hands as the wind snatched at it again—she hadn’t even put on any makeup this morning, she must look about fifteen and just as silly in this old blue jersey. Stop it! she told herself angrily, there’s no use pretending you’re the most sophisticated woman on the Riviera—you are what you are! Squaring her shoulders she marched off to his study.

Fitz, in jeans and a windbreaker, was at his desk reading some papers, and he glanced up as she came in. He looked just as she remembered—his eyes were just as
deep and dark a blue and they met hers in that familiar penetrating way, as though he could read her thoughts, and his hand had that remembered rough firmness as it held hers.

“Venetia. How are you?” He held on to her hand for a moment longer.

“I’m fine.” Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears, and she coughed. “Just fine,” she repeated, louder.

Fitz sat back in his chair, his eyes on her, saying nothing, and Venetia glanced away uncomfortably.… She couldn’t bear this. She had thought she’d got over the worst—why did he have to come back and remind her all over again?