Passion's Promise (5 page)

How much better was SoHo than this? It was zabaglione instead of soufite Grand Marnier. But neither was very nourishing. What she needed was good, wholesome steak. Counting on Mark's world for sustenance was like hiding with a six-month supply of Oreo cookies and nothing else. She simply had one world to offset the other, one man to complement another, and the worst of it was that she knew it Nothing was whole. . . . "Am I?" She didn't realize that she had said it aloud.

"Are you vat?" the Baron cooed in her ear.

"Oh. Sorry. Am I stepping on your foot?"

"No, my beauty. Only my heart. And you dance like an angel"

Nauseating. She smiled pleasantly and swirled in his arms. "Thank you, Manfred."

They swept gracefully about once more, and at last her eye met Whit's, as the waltz drew to a merciful close. She stood slightly apart from the Baron and thanked him again.

"But perhaps they play another?" His disappointment was almost childlike.

"You dance a very handsome waltz, sir." Whitney was at then* side, bowing slightly to the perspiring German.

"And you are a very lucky man, Vitney." Kezia and Whit exchanged a beatific glance and Kezia bestowed a last smile on the Baron as they glided away.

"Still alive?"

"Very much so. And Tve really been hopelessly lazy. I haven't talked to a soul tonight" She had work to do and the evening was young.

"Want to stop and talk to some of your cronies now?"

"Why not? I haven't seen any of them since I got back."

"Then onwards, milady. Let us throw ourselves to the lions, and see who's here."

Everyone was, as Kezia had observed upon entering. And after a round of a dozen tables, and six or seven small groups standing near the dance floor, she was grateful to spot two of her friends. Whitnev left her to them, and went to share a cigar with his senior partner. A little congenial talk over a good Monte Cristo never hurt He waved her on her way, and vanished in a cluster of black and white emitting the pungent fumes of Havana's finest.

"Hi, you two." Kezia joined two tall thin young women who seemed surprised to see her arrive.

'1 didn't know you were backl" Cheeks almost met as kisses flew into midair, and the three looked at each other with pleasure. Tiffany Benjamin was more than a little drunk, but Marina Walters looked bright and alive. Tiffany was married to William Patterson Benjamin IV, the number two man in the biggest brokerage house on Wall Street. And Marina was divorced. And loved it that way, or so she said. Kezia knew otherwise.

"When did you get back from Europe?" Marina smiled at her, and appraised the dress. "Hell of a neat dress, by the way. Saint Laurent?"

Kezia nodded.

"I thought so."

"And so's yours, Madame Hawkeye." Marina nodded pleased assent, but Kezia knew it for a copy.

"Christ, I got back two days ago, and I'm beginning to wonder if I was ever away." Kezia spoke while keeping a casual eye on the room.

"I know the feeling. I got back last week, in time to get the kids back to school. By the time we'd done orthodontists, shoes, school uniforms, and three birthday parties, I forgot I'd ever been away. I'm ready for another summer. Where'd you go this year, Kezia?"

"The South of France, and I spent the last few days at Hilary's in Marbella. You, Marina?"

"The Hamptons all summer. Boring as hell. This was not my most glowing summer."

Kezia raised an eyebrow. "How come?"

"No men, or something like that" She was creeping toward thirty-six and was thinking about having something done about the bags under her eyes. The summer before, she had had her breasts finned up by "the most marvelous doctor" in Zurich. Kezia had hinted at it in the column, and Marina had been livid.

Tiffany had been to Greece for the summer, and she had also spent a few days with distant cousins in Rome. Bill had had to come home early. Bullock and Benjamin seemed to require the presence of its director almost constantly. But he thrived on it He ate it and slept it and loved it. The Dow Jones ticked somewhere in his heart, and his pulse rate went up and down with the market. That was what Martin Hallam said in his column. But Tiffany understood; her father had been the same way. He had been the president of the Stock Exchange when he finally retired to a month of golf before the fatal heart attack.

What a way to go, one foot on the Exchange, and the other on the golf course. Tiffany's mother's life was less dramatic. Like Tiffany, she drank. But less.

Tiffany was proud of Bill. He was an important man. Even more important than her father. Or her brother. And hell, her brother worked just as hard as Bill did. Gloria said so. Her brother was a corporate lawyer with Wheeler, Spaulding, and Forbes, one of the oldest firms on Wall Street. But the brokerage house of Bullock and Benjamin was the most important on the Street. It made Tiffany someone. Mrs. William Patterson Benjamin IV. And she didn't mind vacationing alone. She took the children to Gstaad at Christmas, Palm Beach in February, and Acapul-co for spring vacation. In summer, they spent a month at the Vineyard with Bill's mother, and then off they went to Europe; Monte Carlo, Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, Cap d'Antibes, Marbella, Skorpios, Athens, Rome. It was divine. Everything was divine, according to Tiffany. So divine that she was drinking herself to death.

"Isn't this the most divine party you've ever seen?" Tiffany was weaving slightly and watching her friends.

Marina and Kezia exchanged a rapid glance, and Kezia nodded. She and Tiffany had gone to school together. She was a nice girl too, when she wasn't drunk. It was something Kezia would not put in the column. Everyone knew she drank, and it hurt to see her like that It wasn't something amusing to read at breakfast, like Marina's boob lift. This was different, painful. Suicide by champagne.

"What's next on your agenda, Kezia?" Marina lit a cigarette, and Tiffany faded back into her glass.

"I don't know. Maybe I'll give a party." After I write that article I landed today. . . .

"Christ, you've got courage. I look at something like this and I cringe. Meg spent eight months planning it. Are you on the Arthritis Committee again this year?"

Kezia nodded. "They asked me about doing the Crippled Children's Ball too." Tiffany awoke at the mention of that.

"Crippled children? How dreadful!" At least she hadn't said it was divine.

"What's dreadful about it? It's as good a ball as any of the others." Marina was quick to the fiesta's defense.

"But crippled children? I mean really, who could stand to look at them?" Marina looked at her, annoyed.

"Tiffany darling, have you ever seen an arthritic at the Arthritis Ball?"

"No . . . I don't think so. . . ."

"Then you won't see any children at the Crippled Children's Bafi either." Marina was matter-of-fact, and Tiffany seemed appeased, while something slimy turned over in Kezia's stomach.

"I suppose you're right, Marina. Are you going to do the ball, Kezia?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't decided. I'm a little tired of the benefit circuit, frankly. I've been doing that stuff for a hell of a long time."

"Haven't we all," Marina echoed ruefully and nicked ashes into the waiter's silent butler.

"You should get married, Kezia. It's divine." Tiffany smiled delightedly and lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. It was her third since Kezia had joined them. A waltz was beginning again at the far end of the room.

"And that, my friends, is my bad luck dance." Kezia glanced around and inwardly groaned. Where in hell was Whit?

"Bad luck? How comer

"That's how come." Kezia nodded quickly in the direction of the approaching Baron. He had requested the dance, and had looked high and low for her for half an hour.

"Lucky you." Marina grinned evilly, and Tiffany did her best to focus.

"And that, Tiffany my love, is why I don't get married."

"Kezia! Our valtzl" It was useless to protest. She nodded gracefully at her friends and departed on the arm of the Baron.

"You mean she likes him?" Tiffany looked stunned. He was really very ugly. Even drunk she knew that much.

"No, you idiot. She means that with creeps like that hounding her, who has time to find a decent guy?"

Marina knew the problem only too well. She had been scouting a second husband for almost two years, and if someone halfway decent didn't hurry along pretty damn soon, her settlement would fizzle out and her tits would fall again, and she'd get waffles on her ass. She figured she had about a year to hit it lucky before the roof fell in.

"I don't know, Marina. Maybe she does like bun. Ke-zia's a little strange, you know. Sometimes I wonder if all that money coming to her so young affected her. I mean, after all, it would affect almost anyone. It's not like you can lead a normal life when you're one of the wealthiest . . ."

"Oh for chrissake, Tiffany, shut up. And why don't you go home and sober up for a change?"

"What a rotten thing to say!" There were tears in Tiffany's eyes.

"No, Tiffany. What a rotten thing to watch." And with that, Marina turned on her heel and vanished in the direction of Halpern Medley. She had heard that he and Lucille had just broken up. That was the best time to get them. Frightened and bruised, scared to death to manage life on then- own, missing the children, lonely at night. She had three children and would be more than happy to keep Hal-pern busy.

He was an excellent catch.

On the dance floor, Kezia was whirling slowly in the arms of the Baron. Whitney was engaged in earnest conversation with a young broker with long, elegant hands. The clock on the wall struck three.

Tiffany went to sit dizzily on a red velvet banquette at the back of the room. Where was Bill? He had said some-thihg about calling Frankfurt. Frankfurt? Why Frankfurt? She couldn't remember. But he had gone out to the lobby . . . hours ago? . . . and things were beginning to whirl. Bill? She couldn't remember if he had brought her tonight, or was he out of town and had she come with Mark and Gloria? Had she . . . damn, why couldn't she remember? Let's see, she had had dinner at home with Bill and the children . . . alone with the children? . . . were the children still at the Vineyard with Mother Benjamin? . . . was. . . . Her stomach began to spin slowly with the room and she knew she was going to be sick.

'Tiffany?" It was her brother, Mark, with that look on his face, and Gloria just behind him. A wall of reproach between her and the bathroom, wherever the hell it was at whatever goddamn hotel they were hi, or was this somebody's house? She couldn't remember a fucking thing, dammit.

"Mark . . . I . . ."

"Gloria, take Tiffany to the ladies' room." He didn't waste time speaking to his sister. He simply addressed his wife. He knew the signs too well. All over the seat of the new Lincoln last time they'd driven her home. And deep within Tiffany something withered further. She knew. That was the trouble.

No matter how much she drank, she always knew. She could hear the tone in their voices so clearly.

That never faded.

"I ... I'm sorry . . . Mark, Bill is out of town and if you could just drive me . . ." She belched loudly and Gloria rushed forward nervously while Mark shrank backwards with a look of disgust.

"Tiffany?" It was Bill, with his usual vague smile.

"I thought . . . you were . . ." Mark and Gloria faded into the background and Tiffany's husband took her arm and escorted her as swiftly as possible from the halls where the last of the party was fading. She was too noticeable in the thinning crowd. "I thought. . . ." They were moving through the lobby now, and she had left her bag on the banquette. Someone would take it. "My bag. Bill, my . . ."

"That's right, dear. We'll take care of it."

"I ... oh God, I feel awful. I have to sit down." Her voice was barely a whisper, and her bag was forgotten. He was walking too fast, it made her feel worse.

"You just need some air." He kept a firm grip on her arm and smiled at passersby, the director on the way to his office . . . good morning . . . morning . . . hello . . . nice to see you. . . . The smile never faded, and the eyes never warmed.

"I just ... I ... oh." The cool night breeze slapped her face and she felt clearer, but her stomach rose menacingly toward her throat. "Bill. . . ." She turned and looked at him then, but only for a moment. She wanted to ask him a terrible question. Something was forcing her to say it. To ask. How awful. Oh God, she prayed that she wouldn't. Sometimes when she was very drunk she wanted to ask her brother the same thing. Once she had even asked her mother, and her mother had slapped her. Hard. The question always burned in her when she was this drunk. Champagne always did it to her, and sometimes gin.

"Well just get you into a nice cozy cab, and you'll be all set, won't you dear." He gently squeezed her arm again, like an overly solicitous headwaiter, and signaled the doorman. A cab stood with open door before them a moment later.

"A cab? Aren't you . . . Bill?" Oh God, and there was the question again, trying to fight its way out of her mouth, out of her stomach, out of her soul.

"That's right, dear." Bill had leaned over to speak to the driver. He wasn't listening. Everyone spoke over her, around her, past her, never to her. She heard him give the driver then- address and she grew more confused by the moment. But Bill looked so sure. "See you in the morning, darling." He pecked her cheek and the door slammed shut, and all she could see was the doorman's face smiling at her as the cab pulled away. She reached for the knob to open the window and frantically rolled it down . . . and the question ... the question was fighting its way out. She couldn't hold it back any longer. She had to ask Bill . . . William . . . Billy . . . they had to go back so she could ask, but the cab was lunging away from the curb and the question sailed from her mouth with a long stream of vomit as she leaned out the window.

"Do you love me? . . ."

The driver had been paid twenty dollars to get her home, and he did, without a word. He never answered the question. Nor did Bill. Bill had gone upstairs to the room he'd reserved at the St. Regis.