Patrick was there, standing in a group of about nine people. He was holding a bottle of champagne in his hand and a glass in the other. She came up behind him and touched his arm.
He turned to her and smiled. “I was waiting for you to come,” he said thickly. He held the champagne glass toward her. “Have a drink and watch the show.”
She shook her head. “I’ve had enough to drink. I think maybe you have too.”
“Don’t be a party pooper,” he said, pushing her in front of him. “Then just watch.”
At first she thought it was just three naked girls rolling over each other on the ground, but then she realized there was someone else. Maybe it was because he was so black that he blended into the semidarkness that she didn’t see him immediately. Or because the naked girls were all over him almost hiding him.
“How did he get here?” She turned to Patrick angrily.
“I sent for him,” Patrick said. “Even niggers are entitled to have a little fun.”
She started to move away from him but he held her fast. “Look at that,” he said laughing. One of the girls was lowering herself on Noah. “A hundred pounds she can’t take him. He’s too big for her,” he shouted.
“You’re on,” one of the men said.
Patrick looked down at her. “How’s that for a fantasy? Wouldn’t you like to join them?”
“I want to go back to the boat,” she said, pulling herself free angrily. “I don’t feel well.”
He stared at her. “The car and chauffeur are out there. You can go if you want to but I’m staying. I’m having the first good time I’ve had in a month.”
She half ran back to the house, blinking back her tears. She would have to go through it to get to the parking area out in front. But when she got into the house, the body heat and the noise hit her and she felt the nausea rising in her. She knew that she could never make it to the car if she had to go through the crowd. She ran up the staircase into the room she had occupied last year and through it into the bathroom.
Kneeling on the floor, her hands supporting her by holding the rim of the toilet, her body was wracked by spasm after spasm as she vomited into the bowl. It seemed as if she were throwing up everything that she had eaten in the last week. Finally, it was over and she sank back, exhausted, to her haunches.
For a moment she rested until she felt strong enough to get up. She made her way to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible, her makeup running, her face pale with sweat. She turned on the cold water and taking a washcloth began to clean her face. Afterward she held the washcloth to the back of her neck and rinsed her mouth to get rid of the awful taste.
Wearily she opened her bag and began to repair her makeup. But it was slow going. She still felt weak and exhausted. It had to be all the champagne she had drunk. She had never been this sick before. It even seemed to be an effort to put on her lipstick.
Even when she had finished with the makeup and started from the bathroom, she felt as if she had no strength, her body still trembling. She went into the bedroom and stood there a moment looking down at the bed. A few minutes’ rest and she was bound to feel better.
She sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes, then stretched out. She was right—she was beginning to feel better already. Gratefully she closed her eyes. Gradually the trembling ceased. Much better, she thought. Then she was asleep.
She awoke to the sound of voices in the next room. It took a moment for her to remember where she was. It was still dark in the room but there was a faint hint of the coming daylight at the windows. Slowly she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She washed her face again with cold water and looked in the mirror. The color had returned to her face. It was just as well she had fallen asleep. She had needed the rest.
She opened her purse. What she needed now was an upper to get her moving. Then she remembered that she had left her pillbox on the boat and had given the coke to Patrick to carry. She heard the voices in the room next door again. Janette was still awake. She could get some from her.
She went into the bedroom and stepped into her shoes. She opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The house seemed strangely silent. She went to the railing and looked down. Through the archway she could see into the living room. It was still a shambles but no one was there.
Again the sound of voices came from Janette’s room. She went to it and knocked softly. The voices continued as if they hadn’t heard her. Tentatively she opened the door slightly and looked through. One whole wall of Janette’s bedroom was completely mirrored and from where she stood she could see the whole room reflected in it. A numbingly cold wave ran through her, freezing her into momentary paralysis.
Three naked figures were framed in the mirror as if on a giant screen. Patrick, on his knees before the African, was masturbating himself violently while with the other hand he held Noah’s phallus in his mouth. He writhed in pain as Stéphane, lashing his back with a riding crop, her face contorted with a strange hatred, snarled, “Plus dur! Scum! Pig! Suce plus fort!”
For a moment she felt as if she would faint, then her anger brought an unsuspected strength from somewhere inside her. Slowly she closed the door and leaned against it, fighting to regain her self-control. Suddenly she understood many things. The welts on his back the day after they were married. Why he always wanted her in the dominant position whenever they were making love. Why he refused to part with the African. It all came together now. She had been a fool not to see it before.
Then the hurt came up in her and her eyes began to fill with tears. She moved toward the staircase and went slowly down the steps and toward the front door.
It opened just as she reached it and Janette came in through the door. She stopped and stared at Lauren in surprise. “I just came back from breakfast at La Gorille,” she said. “I was told that you went back to the boat early.”
Suddenly Lauren felt ashamed. Her eyes dropped. “No,” she said.
“Then where were you?” Janette asked.
“I fell asleep in my old room,” she said, still looking at the floor.
“Oh,” Janette exclaimed.
Lauren raised her eyes. “Did you know that Patrick is up in your room with the nigger and your girlfriend?”
Janette’s eyes never wavered as she lied. “No.” But she did know, because she had arranged it. She started for the staircase. “I’ll throw them out.”
Lauren stopped her. “Don’t bother,” she said dully. “It won’t change anything.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” Janette asked.
“Take me to the boat,” Lauren said. “I’m going to pack and go home.”
Silently they went to the car and got into it. It was almost daylight as they turned out of the driveway onto the narrow road leading to the village.
Lauren looked at her sister. Janette’s eyes were squinting against the sun as she watched the road. “Why didn’t you tell me he was like that?” she asked.
“He promised me he was going to change,” Janette answered without taking her eyes from the road. “After all, he did go back to work.”
Lauren began to cry, the hurt rising even more in her. “You still should have told me. I feel like an idiot. Everybody had to know but me. I bet they all think I’m the jerk of all time.”
“They’re all jealous of you,” Janette said. “There isn’t one of them that wouldn’t exchange places with you, even right now.”
“I don’t understand it,” Lauren cried softly.
“When you get older you will,” Janette said. She glanced at Lauren. “Things like this happen all the time. Men are strange animals, they act in strange ways, but eventually they straighten out.”
“He won’t,” Lauren said with conviction. “He’s not only kinky, he’s a closet queer. They never get over that.”
“Half the women in Europe wouldn’t be married if they objected to that,” Janette said. She glanced at Lauren again. “Patrick’s
father and grandfather were noted pedes in their day. Their wives knew it and accepted it. It didn’t keep them from making a successful marriage and raising a family.”
Lauren had stopped crying and stared at the road in silence.
“Perhaps Patrick didn’t hate his father as much as he hated his father in himself. At least, he tried to break the pattern.” Janette slowed the car to allow a farm truck loaded with just-picked corn to turn onto the road in front of them, then crawled slowly along the road behind it. “You waited a year to get married. Do you think you’re being fair to yourself deciding to destroy it so quickly?”
“Then you think I should stay married to him?” Lauren asked directly.
Janette hesitated a moment, then glanced at her sister. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it could be a good marriage. Patrick’s family is one of the best in Britain, the title has spanned four generations. And when his mother dies, Patrick will be one of the richest young men in the world.”
“If it’s really that good, why didn’t you marry him? He asked you first.”
Janette glanced at her quickly then back at the road. She answered in a low voice. “Because I couldn’t give him what the marriage would eventually require to be successful. Heirs. I had an accident when I was a young girl and I can’t have any children.”
Impulsively, Lauren touched her sister’s hand. “I didn’t know, Janette. I’m sorry.”
“C’est la vie.” Janette shrugged, then glanced across the car. “But you’re all right. You have choices. You can make it work if you want to.
Lauren met her gaze. “Maybe you’ll think I’m naive. Or stupid. Or both. But the money and the title never meant anything at all to me. They still don’t.” She was silent for a moment as the car entered the narrow streets of the village leading to the port. “I guess I’m more American than I thought. I can’t play the games that you Europeans play. To me, a marriage without love is no marriage at all.”
She made the seven thirty morning flight from Nice to Paris and the ten o’clock polar flight from Paris to California. And it wasn’t until six weeks later, two days after she had received her interlocutory decree of divorce in the courtroom at Santa Monica, that she found out she had been pregnant for two months.
The doorman at Maxim’s opened the door of the Rolls. He touched his cap. “Bon jour, Madame,” he said, then hurried to hold the restaurant door for her. She went inside, pausing for a moment as the maitre d’ hurried up to her.
“Madame de la Beauville.” He bowed. “Monsieur Caramanlis is waiting for you. Please follow me.”
She walked through the corridor into the restaurant, her eyes adjusting to the dimness from the bright sunlight outside. Maxim’s at luncheon was very different from Maxim’s at dinner. At luncheon, all the important regular clients occupied the front room, many of them at the same table each day, while the tourist and occasional client were seated in the backroom, the dance floor of which was also covered with tables. At night, the opposite was true—the important clients were seated in the backroom near the orchestra, while the others were seated in the front room.
Caramanlis was one of the regulars. He was seated alone at a large round table near the window in the far corner, not far from Robert Caille, the editor of Vogue, who always had the center table, who was deeply involved in conversation with several men and did not see her as she walked by. Caramanlis rose as she approached the table.
He kissed her hand and gestured to her seat, then turned to the maitre d’. “You may open the champagne now.”
Janette smiled and sat down as the maitre d’ held the chair for her. She looked at Caramanlis without speaking. After what had happened between them last night, she had not expected to hear from him again.
It had begun that morning, as she was sitting down to breakfast at home. Promptly at eight o’clock she heard the chime at the front door. A few minutes later, the butler came in with a box of roses and held them while she removed the card and read it. There was no message, just the handwritten name. Caramanlis.
Then, exactly at ten o’clock, as she sat down at her desk in the office, Robert, her secretary, came into the room. He, too, was bearing a box of red roses. This time there was a velvet-covered jewel box inside as well as a card. She opened the jewel box first.
Inside the box, lying on black silk, was a choker of square-cut emeralds, set in gold and linked to each other with small round white diamonds. She stared at it silently. After a moment, she snapped the box shut and reached for the card.
“Wouldn’t Madame like to wear it?” Robert’s voice was almost shocked.
“No,” she answered shortly. “It’s too Greek.”
This time there was a message on the card. “Luncheon. Maxim’s. One o’clock.” But no name. Only the initial “C.”
She shook her head. For a moment, she was tempted to send it back to him without even a note, but the subtlety would be lost on him. An ego such as his had no limits. She would meet him for lunch and see for herself the expression on his face as she gave it back to him. She looked up at her secretary, still there, the box of flowers in his hands.
“Stop standing there with that silly expression on your face,” she said in an annoyed voice. “Go and put the roses in water.”
“Yes, Madame.” He began to hurry from her office.
“And, Bobby,” she called after him, stopping him at the door, “have them placed on the reception desk outside. I don’t want them in here.”
The maitre d’ placed the chilled champagne glasses in front of them and poured a little in Caramanlis’ glass for him to taste. Caramanlis nodded without tasting the wine. Bowing, the maitre d’ filled both glasses and left.
Caramanlis raised his glass to her. “I owe you an apology and an explanation.”
She didn’t touch her glass. “You owe me nothing,” she said quietly, taking the jewel box from her purse and pushing it across the table to him. “Especially trinkets like this.”
“But—but you don’t understand,” he said, almost stammering in surprise. “I wanted you to know—that after last night—there were no hard feelings.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” she said sarcastically. “It never got hard enough last night for me to feel anything.”
A veil seemed to drop over his eyes. “You bitch!” he said, unsmiling.
She knew she had scored. She was smiling sweetly as she rose from the table. “Goodbye, Monsieur Caramanlis,” she said and walked away.
He didn’t turn to look after her. He felt the flush creep up over his collar into his face, and he kept his eyes down, looking at the jewel box lying on the tablecloth. He was sure the sudden silence in the restaurant meant that their conversation had been heard throughout the room. He picked up his champagne glass, his hand almost trembling with the anger surging through him.
As quickly as it had stopped, the conversation level in the room went back to its normal heights. Slowly he sipped the champagne. Through the window he could see the doorman holding open the door of the Rolls as she entered. Then he closed the door and the car moved away.
A waiter appeared and quickly removed Janette’s glass of champagne and place setting. A moment later, the maitre d’ was standing next to him. “Is Monsieur Caramanlis ready to order his lunch now?” he asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“I’ll have the grilled Dover sole, lemon, no butter, no potatoes, and plain green salad with just lemon.” The maitre d’ left and he picked up the jewel box and slipped it into his jacket. He felt his lips tighten again. This trinket, as the bitch had called it, cost him a quarter of a million dollars. For the first time since she had left the table, he lifted his eyes and gazed around the room.
No one seemed to be watching him; they were talking to each other with their usual animation. But he knew better. By cocktail time, all Paris would be talking and laughing about him.
The champagne suddenly tasted bit
ter in his mouth. He put his glass down. She was like every other French whore that he had known, playing out their games in front of an audience, thinking that their cunts made them inviolable.
But this one would discover that she was wrong. In the small Greek village in which he had been born they knew how to take care of whores who had overstepped their privileges. It was a lesson they usually never forgot for the rest of their lives.
“You’re getting old, Jacques,” she said, looking across her desk at him. “At one time you were always urging me to push—now all I hear from you is ‘Slow down.’ What could be wrong with owning all the results of our work ourselves?”
He returned her gaze, not allowing his face to express the hurt her words had given him. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Janette,” he said. “But I’m not saying there is anything wrong in wanting to own it all. What I’m asking you to consider is whether it is worth ten million dollars.
“Right now, without any investment at all on our part, we’re earning between four and five million dollars a year and most of it just on licensing agreements and royalties. Kensington had to make the investment in stores, inventories, manufacturing facilities, sales organization and advertising. All we contributed was our name and designs.”
“My name and designs,” Janette said sharply.
“That’s right.” He nodded. “That’s our real investment and I think we should stick with it and protect it. Just look at what it cost us just to get Soie on the market. Twenty-five million of our own hard-earned francs. And it will be three years before we can even hope to see a significant profit. And that is a successful promotion.
“Also take couture, where we also own it all. We are doing more business than we ever dreamed. We are as successful as any of them—Dior, St. Laurent, Givenchy. Still, operating expenses manage to eat up everything we make. If we break even each year, we’re happy.
“It’s not just the ten million dollars which at the moment we haven’t got that I’m objecting to, Janette. It’s what lies beyond that. More money will be needed to create and operate all the various services that Kensington now performs for us. That could be another ten million dollars. And what I am saying is that even if we had the twenty million dollars to do it, are we equipped for it? What do we know about manufacturing in South America and Asia? About operating a chain of retail boutiques in America? Nothing. We’d be worse than amateurs. Even the professionals run into trouble where they never expected. Look at Agache-Willot, one of the most successful retail operators in France. Just a short time ago they bought Korvettes in the States, also a most successful operation. But something went wrong. Almost in no time at all they managed to lose forty million dollars, and because of it, they face the possibility of losing control of their own company here at home to the banks.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath.
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