Gloria rolled her eyes. 'No, Mother Winslow.'
'You haven't begun drinking yet,' the old lady asked suspiciously, 'have you?'
Gloria felt the familiar surge of resentment. The old coot just couldn't leave it alone. She had to keep needling her.
'No, Mother Winslow. I skipped breakfast, and I can't take alcohol on an empty stomach.'
'Good. Then we'll be able to enjoy a nice cocktail each.'
Jesus H. Christ! Gloria stifled the urge to burst into peals of wild laughter. A nice cocktail each!
Would the old bitch never get it? Just seeing her was reason enough to get smashed beforehand. In fact, it was essential—like getting inoculated before traveling to Africa or the Amazon.
No way was she going to face that old dragon sober. It was bad enough doing it wrecked.
'I'll see you at the restaurant, Gloria. We'll have a nice lunch,' her mother-in-law said crisply in parting, and rang off.
Gloria blinked. A nice lunch? Who was the old bat kidding?
Slamming down the phone, she decided to inaugurate her new Chanel suit just for spite. The lavender one with the baby blue trim and micro-mini. No blouse.
That'll teach her to tell me what to wear!
Suddenly Gloria felt the overpowering craving for a drink. And not champagne, either. A real drink. Something with a bite. Something, say . . . eighty proof.
Yes. Eighty proof would do nicely.
Why was it that talking to Althea always had that effect on her? No matter how high she might be, the Queen of Toad Hall inevitably brought her crashing back down.
Well, no matter. Mrs. Gloria Winslow was nothing if not prepared.
Vodka. She had pint bottles stashed in the pockets of all her fur coats—as well as in a dozen other hidey holes.
Vodka. It was just what the doctor ordered to see her through the ordeal ahead.
Humming to herself, Gloria went back into the walk-in closet, grabbed the Chanel suit by the hanger, and tossed it onto the big center island, under which Lucite-fronted drawers were filled with no end of accessories; scarves, gloves, belts, hair bows, sunglasses. All carefully folded or rolled and systematically lined in neat rows by category, color, and designer.
But orderliness was not on Gloria's mind as she made a beeline for the ranks of fur coats and her objective, the first flask-shaped bottle of Smirnoff she came across. With shaking fingers, she unscrewed the cap and hoisted the bottle in a sardonic toast.
'Here's to you, Althea, you old bitch!' she mumbled. Then she put the bottle to her lips, threw back her head, and drained a third of it in a single long swig.
It burned its way down her throat and exploded in her stomach. She screwed up her face in revulsion and nearly gagged; involuntary shudders racked her body and she doubled over, hugging herself tightly. Then the sick, queasy feeling passed. A radiant warmth rushed through her bloodstream and the sun came out and shone brightly.
All her cares had evaporated.
Suddenly everything was right with the world.
Ahhh! She set the bottle down with a bang and beamed. There. That's a helluva lot better, isn't it? Goddamn right!
She'd be able to face Althea without difficulty. Hell, she'd be able to endure an atomic blast and feel absolutely no pain.
As she unbuttoned her blouse, she caught sight of her reflection in one of the six-foot-tall mirrors. Still fiddling with the tiny gold buttons, she found herself drawn toward it.
She shrugged herself out of the blouse and let it drop to the carpet. Ditto her brassiere.
Clad only in panties, she studied her body.
All things considered, not bad for a thirty-five-year-old, she decided, luxuriating in the pleasure of her reflection. No, not bad at all . . .
Gloria Winslow had the long-waisted, bone-thin figure of a model. Gravity had yet to take its toll. There wasn't an ounce of excess fat on her lean hips or smallish but well-shaped breasts. Her belly was concave, her buttocks firm.
She leaned in close to peruse her face. She was strikingly beautiful, with shiny shoulder-length hair the color of moon-licked mink, and eyes the precise shade of Ceylonese sapphires. Her skin was still smooth, without a crow's foot in sight.
Little things like that made all the difference.
Gloria nodded to herself. Turned her head this way and that. Said aloud, 'Hey, beautiful.'
Unfortunately, Gloria also noticed that she'd have to start taking better care of herself. Her eyes were beginning to look just the teensiest bit puffy from drinking. But Visine had cleared up the rheumy redness, while ten uninterrupted hours of sleep had gotten rid of the hollows beneath.
Overall, she knew she still had the stuff that made heads swivel. And as long as they swiveled, she was far from over the hill.
Yup. She not only looked good—she looked damn good. And, if men's eyes were any indication, the opposite sex found her exceedingly attractive—even if Hunt didn't.
The bastard.
She thought of him now as she got dressed. Huntington Netherland Winslow III. Mr. Charisma. Mr. Shit. The hottest new star in the political firmament, if you believed the news media.
How the public loved him.
And God, how she loathed him! She was sick and tired of playing the part of the adoring wife. She was sick and tired of his do-gooder attitude. She was sick and tired of his trying to get her to some alcohol rehab place. Sick and tired of his going to AlAnon and trying to get her to go to A.A. She wanted out of the marriage so badly she could taste it.
Sad to say, divorce was not in the cards. When she'd first broached the subject, all hell had broken loose.
Gloria tried to ward off the memory, but she was already spinning two years backward through time, to Althea's formal French drawing room in the greystone mansion at the top of Nob Hill . . . to the day she discovered her marriage to be little more than a gilded prison . . .
'Mrs. Althea is waiting for you, madam,' the butler told Gloria as he held open the door of Althea's drawing room.
'Thank you, Colin,' she said, and stepped inside.
Northern light and undiluted sunshine, intensified by being refracted from San Francisco Bay, streamed through the tall windows, conspiring to give the richly paneled room a crisp-edged, Scandinavian kind of clarity. The eggshell blue of the elaborately carved paneling glowed, and the parquet floor shone like the surface of a frozen lake. Anchored in the middle of it, the big Savonnerie was like an island of color, and centered directly above it, the great thirty-light crystal chandelier sparkled like a stalactite of pure clear ice.
It was cold perfection, that twenty-foot-tall double cube of a room, an intimidating, grandiose museum of the very, very fine and the exceedingly rare. Everything—the Gobelins tapestries, the gilt bronze cartel clock over the marble mantel, the Louis XV bergeres by Georges Jacob, upholstered in almond cut velvet; the marble-topped, giltwood console tables; the gargantuan pair of intricately carved, Dieppe ivory mirrors; the inlaid amaranth and satinwood tables and Riesener commodes; the priceless Renoir, Gauguins, and Van Goghs—all had been collected to create a setting worthy of Althea Magdalena Netherland Winslow.
She seemed so right seated there, enthroned like an empress on a Louis XV canapé, one hand stroking Violetta, her favorite Pekingese, which had pride of place on her lap. Two other ginger-colored, silken- haired Pekes, curled on the seat cushion on either side of her, raised their flat-faced heads and sniffed the air disdainfully before settling their chins back down onto their paws, ignoring Gloria as not worthy of a tail- wagging welcome.
'My dear child,' Althea greeted smoothly, with barely subdued sarcasm. 'I'm so glad you could come.' She paused and inspected Gloria with an unsmiling, unblinking gaze. 'Especially at such short notice.'
Gloria dutifully bent down to kiss the proffered cheek. 'Hello, Mother Winslow.'
The unpleasant scrutiny continued a few seconds longer, then Althea gestured to the nearest fauteuil. 'Do have a seat, my dear.'
G
loria did as she as told. Whether she liked her mother-in-law or not, one couldn't help but admire her. Althea had to be in her sixties, but didn't look a day over fifty. Unlike her daughter-in-law, she had never been a beautiful woman.
Not that it mattered. Althea was regal and patrician and elegant, with good, clean bone structure, willful, intelligent eyes, and a presence that made her stand out in a crowd. Gloria had never seen her when she hadn't been groomed to perfection. From her sardine-silver helmet of a meringue hairdo to the polished soles of her shoes, Althea Magdalena Netherland Winslow was prepared for any eventuality.
'Would you like a cup of tea, dear?'
On the low table between them was a silver tray with all the accoutrements: a flowered Meissen teapot with a cut-lemon finial and branch handle, matching creamer, sugar bowl, a plate with lemon wedges individually wrapped in cheesecloth, and two cups and saucers. Plus the requisite monogrammed napkins and heirloom spoons.
Gloria shook her head. 'No, but thanks all the same.'
Althea nodded and poured herself a cup, used silver tongs to add a lump of sugar, and squeezed a few drops from a cheesecloth-wrapped wedge of lemon. She stirred it briskly, then lifted the cup delicately to her lips and sipped. She put the cup down. 'Hunt came by for lunch,' she began. Her voice was distinctly crisp, cultured, and disapproving.
'H-He said he would . . . .' Gloria murmured, unable to control her stammer. Althea could do it every time. Reduce her to the nervous fiancée again. All tensed and flustered and tongue-tied.
Althea continued to stroke Violetta, her eyes fixed on Gloria.
'Now, just what seems to be the problem, dear—'
Oh, but how those sarcastic 'dears' and 'my dears,' and 'my dear childs' grated!
'—and don't tell me there aren't any. If there weren't, you wouldn't have approached my son for a divorce.'
My son. Not Hunt. Not your husband. My son.
'It's just . . . ' Gloria started.
Althea cut in softly. 'Let me guess. You've grown apart. Is that it?'
Gloria looked at her in surprise. 'Why, yes! How did you . . . ' Then her surprise faded. 'Oh. Hunt must have told you.'
Althea snorted. 'He did nothing of the sort. But then, he didn't have to, my dear.' She sat ramrod straight and tall—boarding school posture—and everything about her brought to mind a polished, razor-edged sword.
'I realize that divorce has become epidemic these days,' Althea went on, 'but when I was young, marriage vows stood for something. And you know what? To me, they still do. Marriage is a sacred sacrament, forever binding.' She raised a hand, anticipating a response from Gloria, and adroitly headed it off. 'I know, I know. Call me terribly old-fashioned if you will. Or incurably dated. However, that should come as no surprise. You are well aware that divorce is unheard of in this family. Neither the Netherlands nor the Winslows have ever stooped to marital breakups. Oh, there has been discord here and there, true. But those problems have always been settled within the family. We never aired our laundry in public.' Nor, I assure you, my dear child, do I intend to permit it to happen now!
Gloria bit her lip and shifted uneasily in her chair.
'In fact, I distinctly recall discussing this very subject with you before I reluctantly gave you and Hunt my blessing. Remember? We sat right here . . . in this very room.' Althea's cobalt eyes were cold and penetrating. 'Surely you haven't forgotten that little talk?'
How could I? Gloria thought bitterly, but said: 'No, Mother Winslow,' and gave a weary sigh. 'But don't you see? I was so young and naive then!' Suddenly impassioned, she sat forward, gripping the arms of her chair. 'I couldn't possibly realize what I was getting myself into—'
'Which is precisely why we had that discussion—so you'd fully understand beforehand what to expect. Surely you don't think I talked just to hear myself speak?'
'No, but—' Gloria pleaded.
'And did I not tell you then that divorce would forever be out of the question?'
Gloria was silent.
'And did you not assure me that you were marrying for life? For richer and for poorer? For better and for worse?' Althea's cobalt eyes became piercing drill bits.
'But that was then, Mother Winslow! And this is now . . .'
It was the tone that Althea seemed to have been waiting for, and she snapped: 'Stop sniveling, and pull yourself together, child! You are exhausting my patience!'
So saying, she lifted Violetta from her lap and rose, setting the fluffy creature gently on the canapé before drifting toward the windows, where, outlined against the shimmering blue sky, she stopped briefly to admire the view framed by the bobble-fringed, blue brocade curtains. It was a favorite device of hers, this calculated habit of putting a conversation on hold, a way to flex the muscles of her authority by letting it be known that the panorama deserved at least as much attention as the subject at hand.
Granted, it was a spectacular view, what with the city rolling like great white swells over the dramatically shaded, plunging hills, the immense blue bay below daubed with tufts of whitecaps and regattas of triangular sails tacking into the wind.
With a sigh Althea turned away from the view, retraced her steps, and sat back down. 'Now then,' she began, pausing as Violetta hopped back onto her lap and made herself comfortable.
'Yes?' Gloria's eyes shone with fervent hope—hope that died the instant Althea resumed speaking.
'What you're asking, my dear, is out of the question. For better or for worse, Hunt is your husband.' Anticipating an objection, she again waved a hand to forestall it. 'I am not a prude, you know. Nor am I a fool who believes that any marriage is perfect. In short, I don't care what you do, or do not do . . . or with whom . . . behind closed doors. All I demand is that you and Hunt observe discretion and, whatever your arrangements, keep up appearances. If that means having affairs, fine. But in public, I expect you both to be the perfect couple. The very picture of propriety.'
Arrangements . . . discretion . . . appearances . . . affairs . . .
Gloria stared at her mother-in-law. Her head was spinning with the implications of what had been said, and even more, with what had been left unsaid.
'I . . . I can't cheat on Hunt,' she managed to say.
'How charming.' Althea gave a brittle laugh. 'My dear, you can do anything you like—so long as you and Hunt remain married. However, what I will not tolerate is so much as a whiff of scandal. Hunt has a brilliant career ahead of him, and anyone who tries to derail it will have to answer to me.' She paused, drilling Gloria with eyes that would have cracked marble. 'Do I make myself clear?'
'Perfectly. But wouldn't divorce be simpler and . . . well, cleaner?'
'It certainly would not! Voters put much stock in marital stability.'
'But other politicians have gotten divorces,' Gloria pointed out. 'Look at Ronald Reagan and Jane Wyman! And Reagan made it to the White House.'
Althea's expression was glacial. 'I don't care if Reagan was divorced. That was long before he entered politics. Must I remind you, dear—'
There she went again, twisting the dagger deeper in the wound!
'—of the promise you made to me twelve years ago? That if you could marry Hunt you would always stick by him publicly . . . no . . . matter . . . what? Even if it meant keeping up appearances for a lifetime?'
Gloria sighed. 'Yes, of course I remember,' she said testily.
I should have known, she brooded. Pleading for my freedom was hopeless, as I'd feared it would be. Althea wouldn't be swayed so long as she has one breath left. For her, the sun rises and sets on her son's political career; no doubt she believes all the planets in the solar system revolve around it, too.
Hunt and his damn political future! Christ. If she heard about it one more time, she'd really let go and start screaming. She was sick and tired of hearing nothing but endless talk of Hunt and politics.
Althea reached for her teacup and lifted it to her lips. Then, glancing over the rim at Gloria, she feigned a loo
k of surprise. 'I said, that will be all, my dear,' she emphasized, dismissing Gloria as coldly as she would a servant.
Gloria rose to her feet. For a moment she just stood there, girding her strength. Then, surprising even herself, she clenched her fists at her sides and blurted: 'I have the right to sue for a divorce. You can't stop me, Mother Winslow! Nobody can! I have every right!'
'Why, of course you do, dear,' Althea said, laying on the honey. She smiled, but her eyes were frighteningly icy. 'But do bear in mind the prenuptial agreement you signed. I suggest you read it thoroughly. Or better yet, seek legal counsel before you come to any hasty decisions.'
The air between them hummed and thrummed with bad vibrations.
After a moment Althea set down her teacup and rang for the butler. The door opened shortly.
'You rang, madam?'
'Yes, Colin,' Althea said. 'The other Mrs. Winslow was just leaving. Could you kindly show her out?'
'Of course, madam.'
Gloria pulled herself together. 'That won't be necessary,' she said stiffly. 'God knows, I've been here often enough.'
She glanced at the butler and then back to Althea. Her eyes were bright and challenging.
'I'll find a way out,' she said quietly, her voice heavy with menace.
Althea held her gaze. 'You do that, dear.'
But of course, Gloria never did. What chance did she have? That prenuptial agreement was almost as thick as the telephone directory, and as precise as a law volume.
The Winslow attorneys had been nothing if not thorough. They'd anticipated every eventuality. Even Raoul Mankiewicz, the big-gun L.A. divorce lawyer Gloria retained, couldn't find a single loophole.
What it boiled down to was that a divorce would buy Gloria her freedom—period.
Unfortunately, it wouldn't buy much else. Both the controlling interest in Winslow Communications, Inc., and the entire Winslow fortune, were owned outright by Althea.
As was everything else.
Second Love Page 9
