Love in Vogue (34 page)

‘What was that about?’ asked Althea, stroking his chest.

‘Vic wants some money from Yolande.’

‘Oh. Do you think she’ll come back?’

‘Probably. I don’t expect I’ll have her, though. Not now I’ve got you. Althea, I could eat you …’

‘Why don’t you,’ she murmured, and sighed as his mouth started trailing down her body.

What a fabulous way to spend the afternoon – in bed with Patrick. Privacy guaranteed. They had decided that her house was too risky with Juanita around. It was absolute bliss here; no one to see them, nothing to do except have endless, glorious, mind-blowing sex. Of course Yolande would never come back. There was nothing left for her now.

Yolande had indeed gone to New York, but she hadn’t given her mother and stepfather a clue as to why; just turned up out of the blue, sure of the offer of a bed. Her ostensible excuse was the need to oversee financial transactions connected with Belco that had to be finalised in New York, but neither Grace nor Tex believed her.

‘It’s Patrick,’ said Grace. ‘Something’s happened.’

‘I hope it’s not a baby.’

That set maternal alarm bells ringing furiously. Grace imagined various unpleasant possibilities before she had the courage to ask Yolande directly. The answer was a categorical denial delivered with a flash of green eyes that put paid to further questions.

‘Are you staying long?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Yolande, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It depends how long things take. Am I in the way?’

‘No, darling, of course not. Corinne and Miles were supposed to come for a weekend, but they’re tied up in France. Corinne’s buying a controlling stake in Elegance Hotels.’

‘Just like Papa – no sooner over one crisis than planning another coup.’ Yolande sighed. She longed to see Corinne. She wanted Paris, her old friends, and familiar places. ‘How’s Marie-Christine, by the way? Tex mentioned something about her operation.’           

‘She had it done in April, and everything’s fine now. She can even walk without a stick. Philippe wrote with all the details. I’ll get you the letter.’

It wasn’t through oversight that enclosed with the letter were several newspaper cuttings about Yves’ fracas with André Hamel. Yolande was absorbed by them for a good half-hour. Surely Yves didn’t still love her? He’d been so offhand on the phone at Easter. But why had he punched a man on the jaw over her? She stared at the pictures of him looking proud and angry. Extremely handsome too. Anger suited him. It gave him the spark she felt he had always lacked. But when she got to details of the quarrel, she was furious. Hamel, an insignificant journalist, claiming he’d slept with her – well, not in so many words, but the insinuations were clear enough. She couldn’t believe her reputation was so bad.

‘Mummy?’

Grace looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Is this all true?’

‘I’m afraid so. Corinne called me about it. She was very upset.’

‘I’ll sue him! How
dare
he! I only met him once. I’ve never even kissed him, and there they all are talking about me as though I were a slut. Who would be best to handle a libel suit?’

‘But darling, what would be the point? He’s only
alleged
to have made and retracted some derogatory remarks.’

‘You know damn well what that means.’

‘But it’s all hearsay, and witnesses would vanish if you took it to court. They’d drag the whole of your private life through the press. Yours, Yves’, perhaps even your father’s.’

‘But he can’t get away with this!’

‘He didn’t,’ said Grace.

Yolande became very quiet. ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said at
last.
‘A gallant baron came to the defence of my honour. But it still stinks. It makes me wonder how many other slimeballs I’ve had the great pleasure of sleeping with.’ She was close to tears.

‘Yolande, please don’t cry.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you feel the same?’

‘But you must realise you’re bound to be a subject for gossip. It’s not exactly something new.’

‘I ought to thank Yves. Perhaps I’ll ring him up. Is he in Paris or Burgundy at the moment?’

‘If his mother’s still convalescing with Philippe and Claire, he’ll probably be at his flat.’

Yolande made a move towards the telephone, then stopped. ‘And you said Corinne was upset?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps she does care about me a little, after all.’

Grace waited a while to see if Yolande would in fact pick up the phone, but there was no further action. So she was still besotted with Patrick, too proud to acknowledge that Yves had strength of character that Patrick didn’t; too blind to see that he loved her. Grace went out. It was all so maddening, but she decided to wash her hands of it all. Yolande would wake up one day. She only hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

Yolande toyed with the idea of calling Yves for several days, then dropped it. Her mother would report back to him anyway. That would be enough. He would know she appreciated his friendship, even if she didn’t love him. It was all due to that ancient code of chivalry that he seemed to follow; honour, duty, family. But not love. Certainly not passion. He’d thumped Hamel out of wounded pride, that was all – because she’d been
his
fiancée. If Gabrielle d’Emville had been slandered, he would certainly have done the same thing. Yolande managed to talk herself into a philosophical view of the incident, and continued to sit by the telephone, even though she had invitations everywhere. She was annoyed with herself for having lost her mobile phone at LAX in the rush to escape – and with it her entire contacts list, since she never bothered with an address book. But Patrick knew where she was. He was bound to call and say he wanted her back soon. He had to. She was unbearably lonely without him.

The call came, but not from Patrick. A long, rambling appeal instead from Vic Bernitz, asking her to return to California.

‘What about Patrick and Jayne?’ demanded Yolande. ‘Or is it over already?’

‘Hey, come on, baby, you know there’s nothing in it. Jayne asked me to apologise for snapping at you like that. She’s fixed up long-term with San MacPherson. Patrick’s just been a good boy, sitting at home on his own waiting for you.’

Her spirits soared. ‘Really?’

‘Sure,’ said Vic. ‘His ego’s a bit too fragile for him to ask you back, but I know he’s missing you like mad. Now, I’ve got a little plan. You come back quietly, I’ll pick you up at the airport and then you can give him a surprise. What do you think?’

She agreed enthusiastically. Good old Vic. He knew how to handle everything. It was arranged that she would catch a flight early Sunday morning, have lunch with him at the Beverley Hills Polo Lounge, then go on to meet Patrick at their apartment. He would be back from jogging then. She could hardly wait. The call over, Yolande went straight out to buy Patrick a present, a silver pistol lighter engraved with his initials.

It all went according to plan. Yolande stepped into the VIP lounge at Los Angeles looking, Vic thought, like a million dollars. She even hugged him when he sauntered up to her, grinning broadly. His wife Babs joined them with Ethan for lunch, where talk soon came round to the publicity budget.

‘I’m going all out for an earlier release this fall,’ said Vic, casually pulling some papers out of a briefcase. ‘So we’ll need advance publicity spread out over the next four months.’

Yolande smiled. ‘You want some money. You could have sorted that through Troy or Shelby.’

‘Yes, but I need your autograph. And hell, we need you. I hope you won’t mind doing a few interviews when we kick the campaign off?’

‘I expect I could manage one or two. Give me a pen. Where do I sign?’

Ethan goggled. What a painless way to get a woman to part with her fortune. He wished he knew Patrick’s secret. Still, it was a sure-fire investment, and Yolande probably knew it. Word on the lot was that
Fast and Loose
was set to be a major moneyspinner. Business accomplished, gossip and jokes took over, Vic being the most entertaining. He hurried the dessert up a little in order (as he put it) to reunite Venus and Mars. Yolande was driven to her apartment thirty minutes later.

‘Need a hand with your bags?’ asked Ethan when they arrived.

‘Would you? That’s terribly kind. They’re not too heavy.’

He picked up the two suitcases, told Vic to wait, and followed her through the entrance to the block. They got into the lift. Ethan came right into the apartment with her, dumping the suitcases thankfully in the lobby. Darkness. She switched on the lights.

‘Would you like a drink? I’ll just go and get Patrick. He must be asleep.’

‘No thanks, Yolande. I’d better go. Vic’s waiting.’

She went along to the bedroom as he turned to leave. Ethan heard her open the door.

‘Patrick? Darling, it’s me. My God! What the hell are you doing?’

 Ethan doubled back, took one look over Yolande’s, shoulder and ran. This was not going to be a one-man job.

For a few seconds, Yolande remained stock still, her eyes riveted on Patrick and Althea Pedersen. Naked. Rutting like animals. In her bed.

His behaviour for the last two months instantly became appallingly clear – that scene with Jayne Herford at the studios, his indifference, the deterioration in their sex life. And he wouldn’t say a thing. He just sat up, shielding that woman she had never liked, staring at her provocatively. Yolande picked up a vase on the dressing table and hurled it at him.

‘You cheating bastard!’

Althea cowered in terror. The vase smashed against the wall above her head, and fragments fell on the pillows. Yolande then picked up a bronze statuette and advanced, eyes blazing. Patrick took one blow on his arm and shoved Althea off the bed.

‘Althea, get out! Quick!’

He sprang up and seized Yolande while Althea fled, snatching her clothes from a chair. Then he prised the statuette out of Yolande’s hand and slapped her several times across the face; hard, vicious blows, meant to hurt. She began to cry, but she was too enraged to feel the pain. She tried to claw his face, writhing violently as he grappled with her. He crushed her in his arms, pressing both her hands into the small of her back, and she began to bite his chest.

‘You bitch!’

Patrick pushed her down onto the bed and sat on top off her, pinning her arms under his knees. She twisted from side to side, kicking her legs, hurling insults at him, hoping to push him off and retrieve the statuette, lying on the floor a few feet away. Patrick caught her by the neck, and suddenly she froze. His fingers were pressed against her throat, flexing threateningly over her vocal cords. Leaning over her, he looked so vicious she could hardly recognise him.

‘Patrick – no! No!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. It wouldn’t look good on my CV. I’ll give you five minutes to get out of here, and I mean for good. Understand?’ He smiled maliciously, enjoying her impotence. ‘You’re washed up, Yolande. I got bored with you a long time ago, but I needed the money. Go back to your prissy baron! He’s perfect for a stuck-up bitch like you.’

She managed to free one arm and hit him across the face, then decided to attack where it really would hurt and squeezed his balls as hard as she could. Patrick roared with pain, and struck her violently on the head. Yolande saw the room in a blur, there was a sick feeling in her stomach. Another blow, then another. She hit back at him again but missed. Anything to get him off, to stop that thumping on her skull …

Then suddenly it was over. She lay dazed and gasping on the bed, Vic Bernitz leaning over her anxiously.

‘Jesus! Yolande, can you hear me? Ethan, leave him and come here.’

‘But Vic, suppose he …’

‘I’m going out.’ Patrick groaned as he staggered from the room. ‘Have her gone before I get back.’

‘The bastard!’ said Vic once he was out of earshot. ‘Yolande, whatever happened? Here, come to Vic.’

He cradled her in his arms, rocking her to and fro like a baby as she sobbed. Ethan came over with some towels soaked in cold water, and applied them carefully to her temples. The door slammed a few minutes later as Patrick left the apartment. They managed to get Yolande into the lounge, where she lay on the sofa, convulsed with sobs, unable to answer their questions. Why did they need to know so much? She wanted to die.

‘I’d better call the cops,’ said Ethan, picking up the phone.

‘No!’ she shouted. ‘No police. This must never get out. Just help me. Oh God.’

‘We are helping you, honey,’ murmured Vic soothingly. ‘How are you now?’

‘I’ll be all right. But my head. Everything hurts so much.’

Ethan found some painkillers in the bathroom cabinet and brought them in with a glass of water. She struggled to get them down her throat.

‘You’re going to have bruises,’ said Vic. ‘I’ll take you back to my place. Babs will get our doctor.’

‘No, no.’ She tried to sit up, hating even the room. It was so full of Patrick. ‘There’s only one thing you can do for me, Vic. Get me home – please!’

‘To New York?’

‘No. France! Please, Vic. I can’t stand it here. I can’t bear it. I …’ She started sobbing, and it was painful to hear.

‘But the movie! Don’t you want to …?’

She clutched her head. ‘You’ve got the money. You don’t need me.’

Vic gazed at her, pity mingled with a total lack of understanding. So Patrick had knocked her around, but that was no reason to quit the movie business.

‘Just do as I say. I hate Patrick! I hate the film! I’ll hate you too if you don’t get me home.’

‘OK. If that’s what you want. I’ll deal with the Belco office, but we’ll keep in touch. You’re going to make a pile on this one, baby.’

She didn’t care. ‘Will you get me a cognac?’

‘No. You’ve got a mild concussion. Have some more water.’

She gulped it down, but when she tried to light a cigarette, her hands shook so much that Vic had to do it for her. Yolande left California on a flight for Paris that evening.

Ethan took some trouble to explain to Vic exactly what he had seen in the bedroom, but not a whisper of the afternoon’s events reached the press. It was the kind of publicity
Fast and Loose
could certainly do without.