Lace (70 page)

To Lili’s surprise, Stiarkoz made no attempt to touch her. He didn’t try to detain her after they had finished dinner, although it was barely past eleven o’clock.

“I know you’ve been ill,” he said, “so I don’t expect you want a late night.”

They drove back to Cap Camerat through a silent landscape. Stiarkoz knew that he was no longer young, and he had never been handsome. But a man who has made billions is generally an interesting
man, provided he talks about subjects that interest him. Jo wanted Lili to feel at ease with him. He knew that any man who got the chance probably made a pass at Lili, so he wasn’t going to
try. He wanted her to wonder why he didn’t.

And he wanted her to wonder what it would be like if he did.

The following morning Lili went down to the beach at ten o’clock and swam ten meters to a small speedboat that was waiting to carry her to the
Minerva.
The bay
wasn’t deep enough for the huge yacht to come in close to shore.

As she was helped up to the white deck, Lili suddenly felt as free as a seagull. Strength flooded back into her body. As Stiarkoz showed her over the vessel, she again found herself humming the
defiant tune of the “Marseillaise”, the rallying song of the French Revolution.

According to Stiarkoz, she was a small boat—no swimming pool and only one helicopter. But the
Minerva
could sail across the Atlantic, if Lili wished. She could cruise anywhere in
the world.

He had ordered a cabin to be prepared for Lili’s use. The rosewood-panelled stateroom was somewhat larger than Lili’s bedroom at the villa; two sea-blue bathrooms led off it, both
with the regulation dolphin gold-plated fittings, both stocked with expensive toilet articles, Christian Dior perfumes and a complete, unopened range of Estée Lauder makeup. The walk-in
closet contained a stock of scarlet dress boxes from Joy, the most exclusive beachwear shop in Monte Carlo. Six new swimsuits, six new beach wraps and six couture evening dresses hung from a rail.
On the bed lay a big Christian Dior box, inside which was a cream silk, lace-trimmed negligee, delicate and beautiful as an antique christening robe. “In case you wished to change or
rest,” explained Stiarkoz with a wave of his hand.

They lay on deckbeds on the main deck sipping champagne under the blue awning. They were not entirely alone—a secretary and two aides moved discreetly in and out of the forward cabin and
from behind the door Lili could hear the impersonal clatter of a telex. Two stewards attended them on deck, along with a large, silent sailor with a mole on his left cheek, who followed Stiarkoz
everywhere. “Socrates, my bodyguard,” Stiarkoz explained.

All day they stayed at sea, swimming from the boat or lying in the sun. Jo asked no questions about Lili’s background or her work. (In fact, the evening after he met her, one of his shore
secretaries had handed him a hair-raising dossier on her.) Jo chatted skillfully with Lili; he instinctively sensed her mood and tailored his conversation to suit it. She is the most sensational
woman I have ever seen, he thought. She is young enough to be my granddaughter and I do not give a damn. I am about to make a public fool of myself and I do not give a damn. I am only afraid that
she will make a fool of me, and if she does, then life will not be worth living. Jo knew he wasn’t being prudent; he wondered why he put his private life at risk, but Lili’s presence
drove all prudence from his head.

In a daffodil bikini she was sitting on the edge of a chair with one foot up on the seat and her head thrown back, as she held the last spear of asparagus above her mouth and sucked at the tip.
She looked as natural and unaffected as a charming little animal, totally unaware of anything except the sun, the sea and her own laughter.

Jo watched the butter sauce running down her chin. He thought, she is a beautiful, sensual, ignorant, uncultivated little savage. Why don’t I just give her dinner this evening, say
good-bye nicely, send her home in the Rolls and never see her again? But what he said was, “Do you want more, Lili?”

At dusk they docked in the glittering port of Monaco. The castellated towers of the royal palace topped The Rock to the west of the harbour. Beyond it rose the town, pink and tawny layers
against the lavender mountains. As they slid into harbour, the sky turned from aquamarine to violet, to purple, then to velvet black and strings of tiny lights lit up the town.

Because of the heat, the roof was open in the grill room of the Hotel de Paris. They ate quail stuffed with white grapes, after which they strolled down the hill to the harbour, discreetly
followed by the Rolls.

Jo asked if Lili would care to stay the night on board the
Minerva.

Immediately wary, Lili explained that she had to sleep at the villa, since Serge telephoned every morning. Jo immediately said that she should be driven back at eleven that evening. He made no
attempt to dissuade her.

On the darkened deck of the
Minerva
they sat listening contentedly to Strauss waltzes from the stereo. The odour of seaweed wafted from the cliffs beyond the harbour and mingled with the
fragrance of Jo’s cigar. Blue smoke trembled on the still night air.

Suddenly there was a scuffle at the end of the gangway. Lili heard her name yelled by a voice that she recognised only too well. Suddenly afraid, she jerked upright. Stiarkoz slowly stood up,
looking neither unsettled nor surprised. He put an arm around Lili’s shoulder, touching her for the first time. “There’s no need to be frightened.”

“Lili, Lili! I know you’re there, you bitch, I can
see
you.” Serge was lurching up the gangway toward her. Jo tightened his arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t break his fingers, Socrates, just hold him.” Socrates moved surprisingly swiftly out of the shadows of the quay and Serge’s arms were jerked up behind him.
Stiarkoz, moving toward him, took a puff of his cigar.

“My friend, I regret my lack of hospitality. Why are you here?”

“Because you’ve got my woman, you Greek bastard. When I heard she was with
you
, I caught the next plane to Nice. What do you think you’re doing with that old goat, you
stupid bitch?” he yelled at Lili.

Jo turned to Lili. “Are you his woman?”

“Yes. . . . No. I don’t know.” Lili burst into tears.

“Well, do you
want
to be his woman?”

“Oh no, no, no! But he protects me. I haven’t anybody except Serge.”

Stiarkoz put his arm around her and turned to Serge. “I’m afraid she prefers the old goat. So would you please get off my ship before I have you arrested.”

He spoke softly in Greek. Socrates tightened his grip and Serge screamed. “Aaaagh! You bastard. You oily Greek bastard. Aaaaah!” Socrates had grasped Serge around the waist from the
rear, lifting his feet off the ground, and was carrying him backward down the gangway.

“A perfect suplex,” murmured Stiarkoz. He turned his back on the struggling man, put his hand under Lili’s elbow, and guided her toward the saloon. “I think we will spend
the night at sea.” He reached for the ivory intercom.

Just after midnight, the
Minerva
slowly moved out of the harbour. Standing in the stern, Lili and Jo watched the golden outline of the town etched against the black sky in a billion
golden pinpricks. As the town receded, Jo threw his cigar butt into the phosphorescent wake of the
Minerva.

“You mustn’t worry,” he said. “You mustn’t feel trapped. I don’t want you to feel that you are moving out of one cage and into another. For the moment you are
my guest. Later, when you feel strong enough, we can discuss your future. If you have signed any contracts, they can be renegotiated. That’s what lawyers are for. You have nothing to worry
about.” He broke off for a moment, then continued, “You are a very lovely young woman, with your life before you. You can earn your own living, you can live alone, you can do whatever
you wish. But don’t think about it until the morning.” Then he gently turned her chin toward him and Lili felt the firm pressure of his mouth on hers. She smelled the faint odour of
starch and cigar and clean, warm flesh as she leaned against him, agreeably surprised at the strength of his arm.

Serge stormed into Senequier, drank a bottle of brandy, then drove wildly to Cap Camerat where he strangled the white cockatoo.

F
ROM THE JASMINE-SCENTED
terrace, the view across the valley looked like a Cezanne painting. Rows of silver olive trees
climbed to the blue line where the mountains met the sky of southern France. Dark cypress trees lined the road that wound up to Vence between terra-cotta villas surrounded by orange and lemon
trees.

“It’s unlike Jo to be so late without letting us know,” Lili apologised to Zimmer. “His driver usually telephones from the car. Are you
sure
he said three-thirty,
Constantine?”

“Yes, I’m sure Jo said three-thirty, but really it doesn’t matter. The contracts don’t have to be signed today, we can backdate them.” The big man smiled at her,
but only with his mouth. His heavy-lidded, half-closed eyes never showed any expression. His fleshy beak of a nose hung over a luxuriant mustache and beard. Shoulder-length, silvery locks made
Constantine Demetrios look oddly patriarchal, more like a Greek Orthodox priest than a lawyer.

Behind them, the villa stretched away, ornate as a wedding cake and large as a palace. The marble terrace where Lili sat was as wide as a ballroom and edged by a classical stone balustrade, upon
which stood stone urns, planted with white geraniums and babies’ breath.

“Well, I’ll tell them to put off tea for another half an hour,” Lili said. “Would either of you like to stroll around the garden?” Demetrios shook his head, but
Zimmer stood up.

“It looks too perfect to be real, Lili, I’m going to check whether those yews are plastic.” He pointed beyond the marble statues that surrounded the splendid baroque fountain
below, to the hedged walk that led toward the thirty-meter swimming pool.

Lili tucked her arm in his and they moved away, toward the curving marble steps. “We grow our own vegetables and fruit here. Everything you ate at lunch came from the estate, it’s
brought in daily by the head gardener. We also produce our own chickens, turkeys and pigs; we press our own olive oil and make our own vin rosé; unlabeled but very good.”

Zimmer laughed. “You make it sound so quaintly rural, but this must be one of the most splendid estates on the French Riviera. Very different from that dank villa I found you in three
years ago.” As they passed one of the statues, he patted its marble fanny.

In fact, he didn’t much care for the huge house, though he had to admit that the pictures were wonderful. No obligatory El Greco, no suspect Rembrandt, no second-rate Degas, no
self-consciously slick Salvador Dali. With the exception of a little Constable river sketch, the pictures had mostly been painted after 1850 and had obviously been chosen by a connoisseur to please
himself. Zimmer’s favourite was a soft, mauve Seurat of a girl picking cabbages, but that Monet was breathtaking.

“Yes, very different from every place I’ve lived in,” said Lili, as they reached the yew walk. “Everything about me is different from three years ago, thank God. We lead
a very quiet life, and if I’m not filming I spend most of my time here.” She was silent for a moment as they strolled toward the aquamarine pool. “The first thing that Jo did was
to free me from my contract with Serge. Constantine handled it—he’s Jo’s chief lawyer and they’re old friends, so we see a lot of him. If any loophole exists in an
arrangement, then Con will find it. He never signs anything that he can’t get out of.” They moved downhill to the left. In front of them, half-hidden by the trees, was a simple, white,
rectangular building. The whole of the north wall was glass. “Did I tell you that I’m studying history with a retired professor in Vence?” Lili asked. “I generally paint in
the afternoon. This is our studio.”

She pressed a button and the wooden door swung open on a twenty-foot-high room lit by overhead skylights. The interior smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, dust and Diorissimo, that
lily-of-the-valley fragrance that Lili always wore. There were four big easels, a couple of donkey stools and two old wooden tables, all spattered with paint.

“I’m not very good yet, but I love painting. I have a teacher twice a week; Jo chose a tough one because he wants me to learn about structure, not just to pat paint on.”

“Jo’s collection certainly is fantastic.”

Lili hesitated before she responded, “It isn’t
his
collection. All the pictures are mine. He gave them all to me on my last birthday.”

Zimmer’s mouth fell open. “
All
of them? That Van Gogh cornfield and the Matisse goldfish bowl?”

“Yes, all of them, his whole collection. You haven’t seen the ones upstairs yet.”

She remembered her birthday. Although it had been October, her bedroom had been filled with lilies and roses. Jo had led her to the big bay window. On a circular marble table stood a large
antique box inlaid with ebony and a design of ivory cupids. She had opened the box expecting to see a piece of jewelry, but instead there had been a mass of legal documents. Jo had explained that
the papers were proof of the authenticity of each painting and proof that she, Lili, was now the legal owner of each one. The gift was a relatively quick, discreet way for him to give her a
fortune. The museums of the world would bid fiercely for most of these pictures. If she wanted a house in Paris or an apartment in New York, she need only sell one picture.

Zimmer whistled. “And they say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend!”

“Oh, I’ve got diamonds as well, and ropes and ropes of baroque pearls. Jo loves to see me in diamonds and pearls. He says I look best in white, with sparkling wrists and throat and
hair.”

Zimmer whistled again. Stiarkoz was obviously still completely besotted. They left the studio and started back to the house up the grassy slope toward the long, low mansion.