“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Sometimes I think I’ve fucked too much with her head.”
He laughed. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do, Janette. The one thing your mother and I had in common was our selfishness. We both wanted everything we could get.” He went to the sideboard and took down a bottle of cognac. “You don’t regret what you did. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer as he poured the cognac into two glasses and came back to her. Still silent, she took a glass from him and sipped it.
He swallowed half his drink in one gulp, then put his glass down. “There’s just one thing I never understood,” he said. “Why you pushed Patrick off on Lauren. Wouldn’t things have been simpler if you had married him yourself?”
She took another sip of the cognac before she answered him. “That’s exactly what I intended to do when they came back from Sardinia.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“She said she was in love with him.”
He looked at her. “She was just a child. You could have blown that up.”
“I suppose I could have,” she answered, meeting his gaze. She took another sip of the cognac. “Maybe I should have.”
Deep inside herself she always had known the marriage was doomed. And even while they exchanged wedding vows in the garden of Patrick’s mother’s home in Devon and Patrick’s eyes searched her out as he looked over his bride’s white veil, she knew it was doomed. And that she would be the cause of its destruction.
From her window on the second floor of Reardon Manor, Janette could see the first of the wedding guests arrive. She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. The ceremony was scheduled for noon.
She glanced up at the sky. It was clear blue, not a cloud in it. Happy the bride the sun shines on today. She smiled at the thought. Especially on an English Sunday, she added. She went back into the room and picked up the guest list from the dressing table.
It wasn’t going to be a large wedding, only sixty guests, but the list read like a Who’s Who of British society and industry. Headed by the royal family represented by Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden, there were enough lords and ladies to fill the audience chamber at Buckingham Palace. The Lord Mayor of London would be there. France was represented by the Comte de Paris, her stepfather the marquis, and the French ambassador to the Court of St. James. Johann and Heidi had come from America and the American ambassador would also be there.
She put down the guest list and picked up another sheet of paper. This was her own schedule. Alexandre had flown over from Paris to do the bride’s hair as a favor to her and she had brought Mme. St. Cloud to supervise and dress the bride. According to her schedule they should be in Lauren’s room right now.
She slipped into a pair of pants and went down the hall. Lauren’s room was a frenzy of activity. Heidi was already there and opened the door for her. Janette kissed her cheek. “How’s the bride?” she asked, not seeing Lauren in the room.
“Nervous.” Heidi smiled. “But not as nervous as I am. Right now she’s in the bathroom having her hair washed.”
“Good,” Janette said. “Then Alexandre is already here.”
“Yes,” Heidi nodded. “He came with two assistants. He said that he would do my hair also.”
“Lovely,” Janette said. She looked across the room to where Mme. St. Cloud had just finished hanging the wedding dress on the form. “What do you think of the robe de mariage?”
“I love it!” Heidi exclaimed. “It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”
Janette glanced at her. The sincerity of Heidi’s face convinced her. “Thank you,” she said. “I wanted it to be something special.”
“It is,” Heidi said, following her across the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Janette stopped in front of the dress form. She looked at Mme. St. Cloud. “Tout va bien?”
“Oui, Madame,” she replied. “Trés bien.”
Janette turned back to the dress. In Paris this morning photographs of the dress were being released to the press. Tomorrow the pictures would be in half the newspapers in the world. What Heidi had said was true. There had never been another wedding dress like it.
In its simplest description it was three veils of delicate sheer silk embroidery, ivory thread on white. The first veil fell from the bride’s head over her nude shoulders. The second veil was a strapless camisole top, almost lingerie-like, that gave a hint of nudity beneath it and fell just below the waist. The third veil was a skirt that began at the waist just under the camisole top, then fell in a clean body-clinging line until mid-thigh, where it began to flare out with ruffles of embroidery into a full skirt with a long train. The total effect was one of implied nudity—one thought he saw what he thought he saw, but in reality could see nothing.
She nodded in approval. “Call me when she is dressed,” she said. “I want to make sure that everything is right.”
“Oui, Madame,” the dresser answered.
Alexandre came out of the bathroom and saw Janette. He came toward her and kissed her cheek. “Your sister is lovely,” he said.
“And you are just as lovely to come here and do this for us, chéri,” Janette said. “I am most grateful to you.”
“It is nothing,” he smiled. “My pleasure.”
“Is she still in the bathroom?” Janette asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “My girls are starting to give her a manicure and a pedicure.”
“I’ll pop in and see her for a moment,” Janette said. “Then perhaps you can join me for a coffee.”
“I’d love to,” he answered.
Lauren was sitting in the bathroom, a towel on her head, her feet in a tub of water. She looked up at Janette and smiled. “Nobody told me it would be like this.”
Janette laughed. “Well, you can’t win them all. How are you feeling?”
“A little crazy with these people all over me. I could do with a toke of Harvey number six right now.”
“Do you have any?” Janette asked.
Lauren nodded, indicating a cigarette case lying on the counter next to the sink. “Right there. But with Mother in the room outside and all these people around. You know.”
Janette smiled. “We can take care of that.” She spoke to the two girls. “Could you excuse us for a moment. My sister and I wish to talk privately.”
“Oui, Madame,” the girls replied.
They left the room and Janette locked the door. “See how easy it is,” she said. She opened the cigarette case and took out a joint. Handing it to Lauren, she turned to the window. “Let me open this before you light up. It wouldn’t do to have the smell of marijuana floating down the halls of Reardon Manor.”
Lauren giggled. “That’s right. Half those old fogies wouldn’t know what hit them.” She lit the cigarette and drew a deep toke into her lungs. She let it out slowly and handed it to Janette.
Janette took a toke and passed it back. “It’s good.”
Lauren nodded. “Harvey never misses. You’ve got him all excited about the clay cosmetics. Are you really going to do it?”
“I’m going to try,” Janette said.
“I’m glad,” Lauren smiled. “Harvey’s a sweet boy.” She took another toke. “I still can’t believe it. I’m really getting married. It’s like a dream.”
Janette looked down at her, a strange sadness coming over her. “Yes,” she said gently. “It is like a dream, isn’t it?”
She was back in her room less than an hour later when there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Lord Patrick’s valet, ma’am,” came the answer.
She opened the door and peeked out through the crack. “What is it?” she asked.
“Lord Patrick would like to see you, ma’am,” the man said.
“For God’s sake, I’m not even dressed yet,” she said. “Tell him I’ll see him downstairs.”
The valet’s face was expr
essionless. “I think you’d better see him right now, ma’am.”
Janette stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be right with you.” She went back into the room and put on her slacks again and opened the door. She started down the hall.
“I think it would be better if we went the back way, ma’am,” the valet said quickly.
Janette followed him through a door at her end of the hall, then through a long gray-painted corridor to the other wing of the building. He stopped in front of a door and opened it. “Lord Patrick’s room, ma’am,” he said.
She entered a small dressing room between the bedroom and the bathroom. “To your left,” the valet said.
She went through an archway into the bedroom. He was seated, wearing nothing but his briefs, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring into it. He looked up as she came into the room. “The wedding’s off,” he said. “You tell them.”
“Have you gone mad?” she asked. “Why?”
He took another drink from his glass. “I changed my mind.”
She stared at him for a moment, then turned to the valet. “Would you excuse us, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man replied and left the room.
When she heard the door close behind him, she walked over to the chair and looked down at Patrick. “Now tell me why,” she said in a cold voice.
Patrick looked up at her. “Because she wants to have a baby right away. She said that she would throw her pills away on the day we were married.”
“That’s no reason at all,” she said.
“It’s enough reason for me,” he said. “I don’t want any squalling brats around.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. She turned and went back to the dressing room.
He got to his feet and followed her. “You can tell them that I got sick.”
She spun back toward him. “I’m not going to tell them anything,” she said coldly, taking a cane from the umbrella stand and moving toward him.
He dropped his drink, backing away, holding his hands in front of him to protect his face. “It won’t work. You can’t make me.”
“No?” she asked, her voice cold as ice. The cane whistled down on his shoulders. He yelped in pain and tried to escape her but relentlessly she followed him, beating him across his back and shoulders, where red welts were springing up on his white skin.
He threw himself on the bed, sobbing. “Please, stop.”
She dug the tip of the cane into his shoulder, forcing him to roll over and look up at her. He was already masturbating violently. Angrily she hit his hand away from himself with the cane. “I didn’t give you permission to do that, slave.”
“Yes,” he sobbed.
“Now what are you going to do?” she asked.
He stared up at her. “Whatever Mother wants. Only I don’t want her to go away from me just because I’m married.”
“Mother won’t leave you,” she said. “She’ll always be here. Now be a good boy, go in and shower and get dressed.”
“But I haven’t finished,” he whined.
“If you’re a good boy, I’ll come back after the ceremony and give you permission to finish.”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “Does Mother promise?”
“Mother promises,” she said. “Now, get started.”
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. She stood there a moment and watched him turn the water on in the shower, then went out into the back corridor. The valet was waiting outside the door.
“Lord Patrick is taking a shower,” she said. “You can go in now and help him dress.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the valet said. “Thank you, ma’am.” He hesitated a moment. “Is the wedding still on, ma’am?”
“It is,” she said.
An expression of relief came over his face. “Thank you, ma’am. It would have been turrible scandal what with Princess Margaret here and all.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Can you find your way back, ma’am?”
“I’m sure I can,” she said. “You go inside and look after Lord Patrick.”
It was an hour and a half later, as the ceremony ended, that Patrick looked at her. There was a strange smile on his lips as he lifted the veil from Lauren’s face and bent to kiss her. The guests surged forward with cries of congratulations and Janette dropped back from her position as maid of honor to allow them to pass.
“You’ve surpassed yourself, Janette. It’s a most beautiful dress.” The woman’s voice speaking French came from behind her.
Janette turned. It was Hebe Dorsey, the famous columnist of the International Herald Tribune. The attractive dark-eyed, perennially tanned woman with reddish-blond hair was one of the most important fashion reporters in the world, syndicated in many newspapers; she also contributed a monthly article to French Vogue. The Reardons hadn’t wanted any press, but because she was a close friend of Janette’s, an exception had been made in her case. “Thank you, Hebe,” Janette said.
“Wherever did you get the idea?” Hebe asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The ruffles on the skirt seemed to ripple and flow as she walked.”
Janette smiled. “That’s the effect I wanted to get. Actually I got the idea when I was in California several months ago and I watched Lauren surfing. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could capture the whitecaps of the waves as they sprayed around her.”
“Do you have a photograph of the dress that I could use?” Hebe asked.
“There’s probably one in your office right now,” Janette answered.
“Good.” Hebe looked at the crowd surrounding the bride and groom, then turned back to Janette. “I’m an incredible romantic,” she said. “Is it really true that they first met at your collection last year and that it was love at first sight?”
Janette laughed. “Yes.”
Hebe sighed, then smiled. “I think I have the heading for my story.”
“Tell me,” Janette said.
Hebe looked at her. “A fairy tale… come true.”
Lauren was bewildered. The reality of the honeymoon was nothing like the promise. It began like a beautiful dream. After the wedding they had flown in Patrick’s plane to Mykonos. The helicopter was waiting there to take them to the Fantasist, lying at anchor off the island. The whole idea had seemed like a romantic movie. A month-long honeymoon cruising the Greek islands. But something seemed to go wrong the moment they boarded the small jet at Devon.
The steward brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses as soon as they had taken off. He filled the glasses and went forward, disappearing behind the galley curtain.
She turned from the window, gave him a glass and picked up her own. “To us.” She smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
He made no move to taste his champagne, just looked at her silently as she drank, then placed his glass back on the table between them and turned back to the window.
“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t touch your champagne.”
He seemed almost angry as he turned to face her. “I’ve drunk enough of that piss to last me a lifetime.” He pressed the call button. The steward appeared immediately. “Bring me a whiskey neat.”
“Yes, m’lord.” The steward returned in a moment, a glass of whiskey on the tray.
Patrick glanced at it. “How many times do I have to tell you that when I order a whiskey to bring a full bottle?” he snapped.
“Sorry, m’lord,” the steward apologized. “Right away, m’lord.” He went to the galley and returned with the bottle, which he placed on the table, then disappeared again.
He swallowed his drink in one gulp and refilled his glass without speaking.
He turned his face to the window without glancing at her as he lifted the glass again to his lips.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in a puzzled voice. “Did I say or do anything wrong?”
He swallowed the drink and refilled his glass again before he answered her. “No,” he answered shortly.
“You don’t seem happy,” she said.
He looked at her balefully. “What am I supposed to be doing? A tap dance on the ceiling?”
“You could at least act as if we’re going on our honeymoon,” she said.
“Middle-class shit,” he snapped.
“You made the arrangements,” she said. “I didn’t ask for it.”
He emptied his glass and began to refill it. She reached across the small table and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t drink anymore, Patrick,” she said gently.
He stared at her. “What else is there to do?” he asked truculently.
“We could move to the couch in the back and fuck. I always wondered what it would be like to make it on a plane.”
“I’ve done it,” he said. “It’s not that great.”
“But I’ve never done it,” she said. “First, I can give you a little head, then you can give me a little head.” She grinned suddenly, taking his hand. “Feel my pussy. It’s soaking wet. I got all horny just thinking about it.”
“Stop talking like a common whore,” he said coldly, pulling his hand away. “Remember who you are now.”
“I know who I am,” she said, the hurt showing in her voice. “I’m Lauren. Who do you expect me to be?”
He poured the whiskey into his glass and drank it before he answered. “Lady Reardon,” he said snidely. “Or is that too much to expect?”
She stared at him, unable to answer, the choking in her throat forcing the tears into her eyes. Quickly she rose from her seat and went to the couch in the back of the plane.
They completed the rest of the trip in silence and by the time they touched down in Mykonos, Patrick had drunk almost two bottles of whiskey and had to be helped from the plane to the helicopter. When they arrived on board the Fantasist all that could be done with him was to put him to bed and let him sleep it off.
She undressed and crawled, naked, into the bed beside him. Tentatively she placed a hand on his shoulder. But he was out. He never moved. An hour later she still hadn’t been able to find sleep. She gave up the struggle, popped two Valium fives, smoked a stick of Harvey’s number four, dream grass, as he called it, and was asleep before she felt her eyes close.
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