“We still have a week to go.” De Belfort stood up. His face had flushed with irritation. “These figures are misleading. I’m convinced there’ll be a drop in the next few days. We just have to sit this out…”
“I don’t intend to do that.”
“It doesn’t seem to me that we’ve a lot of choice in the matter.”
“Oh, there’s always a choice in every matter.” Edouard stood up. He looked at de Belfort, a long hard look. Then, still in a quiet voice, he said, “I’m postponing our bid.”
“We can’t do that. You can’t do that.”
De Belfort’s pale heavy features were suffused with a deep flush, which immediately drained away. He looked at Edouard with his pale, almost colorless eyes, that cold dead-fish stare, which Edouard disliked so much. It took him a second, no more, to regain his control. Then he said heavily, “If we do that, we lose the initiative. The timing will be ruined. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were panicking. It’s ridiculous to do this. You’re undoing everything I’ve been working on for months…”
Edouard did not reply. He turned, and flicked the intercom switch on his desk. He said: “Get me Montague Smythe on the line. Richard Smythe himself.” There was a pause. De Belfort said nothing. He turned away, and began to examine a Rothko painting with great attentiveness. Behind him, in a very calm, a dangerously calm, voice, Edouard said, “Then get him out of the meeting. At once, if you would be so good…”
At the window of his suite at the Hotel du Cap d’Antibes, Lewis Sinclair looked out across the beautiful gardens toward the Mediterranean Sea. Hélène was out, being interviewed yet again, and Thad was ensconced in a chair behind him, reading a newspaper. Every so often, a page crackled. Lewis wished, irritably, that Thad would for once go away.
There was a certain prestige attached to staying at the Hotel du Cap during the Cannes Film Festival. Lesser mortals might fight to get the best suites at the Carlton or the Majestic in Cannes itself; the “big brass,” as Thad put it, stayed here, some forty minutes’ drive away, in this very beautiful—and very expensive—place.
“Sphere is picking up the tab,” Thad had said. “It has to be the Cap. I don’t care, but it’s important for Hélène. She has to be seen in the right place.”
And so they were here. They had been here four days, arriving early, before the festival began, so that Thad could cram in as many meetings as possible, so that Bernie Alberg, Hélène’s indefatigable press agent, could cram in a few more million interviews, and so that Lewis—now what, exactly, could Lewis do? Swim in the pool; have a drink; swim in the pool again.
Thad rustled a page, and Lewis glared at him over his shoulder. Perhaps Thad saw the glare, or felt it, because—somewhat to Lewis’s surprise—he got to his feet shortly afterward.
“Oh, well. A quick shower. Then change. We want to be on time.”
Lewis did not bother to answer him. Thad’s mania for punctuality irritated him. What if they were late? So what? It was just another dinner, given by just another of the innumerable smooth operators who thrived on the edges of festival itself. Some property developer, in this case, who’d tied up the whole Riviera, as far as Lewis could see. He specialized in selling vast villas to Americans, and during the festival no doubt found rich pickings. He reminded Lewis of a fat well-fed shark.
“Susan Jerome’s going to be there.”
Thad sounded smug. Susan Jerome was possibly the most influential film critic in America.
“So?” Lewis shrugged.
“And the head of Artists International. It pays to meet these people, Lewis, you know.”
“It may pay you. It doesn’t pay me. Susan Jerome is a pain in the ass.”
“She likes our movies, Lewis…”
“She likes your movies. I read that last panegyric, and I don’t recall it mentioned me.”
Thad made small distressed humming noises. Lewis swung around to glare at him again, and after a moment or two, Thad stopped.
“You ought to talk about it, Lewis,” he said. “You really should. After all, I’m right next door, and the walls are thin. I can’t help hearing…I’m your friend, you know, Lewis. Who can you talk to if you can’t talk to me?”
There was no answer to that question. Lewis gave a sigh.
“Look, Thad,” he said. “Would you mind? Just fuck off, okay?”
Thad did, and Lewis stayed where he was at the window. A long time went by. He could have gone down to the pool; he could have gone for a walk in the gardens; he could have gone down to the bar; he could have read a paper, had a nap. All these possibilities went around and around in Lewis’s head, and since none of them tempted him very much, he found it impossible to choose between them. Inertia was preferable.
After a while, he poured himself a gin, to which he added a lot of tonic and a lot of ice. He went back to his station at the window. In the gardens below, a spectacular figure teetered across the lawns on spike-heeled shoes. The figure was clad in a semi-transparent white dress, which appeared to have been sewn on around her luscious curves. Her face was crowned by a blaze of blond hair, and she leaned on the arm of a wizened little man who was a big wheel among Hollywood agents. Stephani Sandrelli, the new Monroe lookalike. Lewis had been introduced to her, too, and the agent, at some point, in some place. He couldn’t remember where, and he certainly didn’t care. One long blur of faces and names. He poured himself another drink. Hélène was late.
When she came in finally, she stopped in the door, took one look, and said, in that voice he had come to hate, “Oh, Lewis.”
The reproach in it was soft, but Lewis could hear it, and it suddenly made him furiously angry—it always did.
He turned, and advanced toward her. Hélène shut the door; then she said, “Lewis, I’m late. I have to change. There isn’t time. Lewis—please—don’t. Not now…”
Lewis did not listen to her. He was suddenly completely certain that this time it was going to be all right. If he was quick, and she was quick; if she didn’t goddamn well argue…
She gave in, and she did not argue very much. Lewis tried not to look at her face. He kept his head buried against her neck, and it was going well, it was going to work, this time…
And then, just then, he forgot to look away. He looked down at Hélène, and there it was, the way it always was, the pity in her face. After that, it was hopeless: he knew, and she knew. She tried to put her arms around him, and that made it worse.
He stood up; quite suddenly he was shouting. “It’s your goddamn fault. You hear me? Your fault. You can do it on screen, but you can’t fucking well do it in bed.”
Next door, Thad heard. Lewis was absolutely certain that he heard. He wanted him to hear; it was why he had shouted.
After all, he had to tell someone, and it was true—Thad was his best friend.
Who could he tell, except Thad?
“…Susan Jerome. Gregory Gertz—a new director. American. Coming up fast. Joe Stein, head of Artists International. Mrs. Joe Stein—very interested in the Maison Jasmine. I told them it had belonged to Colette—well, she spent a weekend there once, I believe…”
The eyes of Gustav Nerval, real estate developer extraordinary, twinkled with delight. They sat on the balcony of his suite at the Hotel du Cap, and Nerval, enjoying himself, was listing his dinner guests that evening for the benefit of the charming Madame Belmont-Laon, and, like the good storyteller that he was, he had saved the best for last.
“Thaddeus Angelini—you’ve seen Short Cut?—it will win the Palme d’Or, that’s a certainty. And Hélène Harte. The quite beautiful, the quite gracious, and I think the quite clever, Miss Harte. And her husband, of course.”
“Mmmm. Very good.” Ghislaine looked at him with amusement. A short stocky dark man, blessed with considerable charm, and—when it came to making money—with prodigious energy. She had heard of him, of course—his name had been a byword on this part of the Riviera for years. And he had heard of her.
/> She suspected, though she was not sure, that he had arranged their meeting, a few days before, at the house of friends they both shared. She suspected, though she was not sure, that he had his eye on the villa belonging to the Baronne de Chavigny. She suspected, though she was not sure, that she and Nerval could do business together, and that he knew that as well as she. After all, what could be a better combination than a man like Nerval, who specialized in the sale of beautiful, large, and often sadly dilapidated villas, and Ghislaine Belmont-Laon, who could decorate them so exquisitely?
“You think Joe Stein will buy? Do you always oil your deals this well?”
Nerval laughed. “But of course. If a key will not turn, you must oil it before you can put on the pressure.”
“And the others?”
“Decoration. Flattering decoration. Big fish like to meet other big fish. No one of any interest to us. Except Hélène Harte. She won’t buy this time, but another year, two years—then I think she might be interested. Here, let me freshen your drink…”
He liked American expressions—perhaps he found they put Americans at their ease. Ghislaine watched him as he crossed from the balcony of his suite to fetch the bottle on ice. They were both drinking Perrier. Ghislaine smiled, and stretched, and tilted her face to the sun.
How well everything was turning out—so well she could hardly believe it. She was ensconced in the guest wing of Louise’s villa some sixty kilometers from here; it cost her nothing, she lived and was waited on in luxury. She had innumerable friends in the South of France, and plenty of time to see them while her people got on with the work. She had met Nerval, who might launch her on an entirely new phase of her career. She had, with the profits from her Rothschild commission, put the equivalent of fifteen thousand pounds into stock in the Rolfson Hotels Group, and had watched that stock rise, like a meteor. She had information for which, she felt certain, Edouard would be everlastingly grateful, since he loathed de Belfort, and would be furious to hear he had been advising his mother on her financial affairs; and now, tonight, she was to meet Hélène Harte, about whom she was deeply and jealously curious.
How fortuitously everything had turned out! Most of it unplanned, and yet quite perfect. She would meet Edouard when she next flew back to Paris, ask his advice about her investment in Rolfson, confess to a certain concern about Louise…and then time it so that the work in St. Tropez was a little delayed, and she was still there, in situ, later in the month, when Louise and Edouard were due to arrive…
Perfect indeed! She had rarely felt happier.
“Tell me,” she said, as Nerval returned to his seat—he was such a useful person, she was realizing, because he knew everything about everybody. “Tell me about this Hélène Harte. Who is she? Why is everyone suddenly so carried away by her?”
“Ask Joe Stein what her last movie grossed. He’s been trying to get her for A.I. He’ll tell you.”
“How many films has she made? Until this year, I never heard of her.”
“Three. Four maybe, I’m not sure. Yes, four, I think. Two little ones and two big ones.” He smiled. “You didn’t see her in Summer? That was the second, I think. Then there was A Life of Her Own—that didn’t do so well in Europe, but it was very big in America. And now there’s Short Cut, and if she’s got a percentage of that, well…”
“You think she would have a percentage?” Ghislaine gave him a sharp look.
“I think she wouldn’t miss a trick. Put it that way.” Nerval smiled. “A woman who likes the best hires the best lawyers in town—yes?”
For some reason this irritated Ghislaine. She did not like to think of Hélène Harte as astute; she preferred to think of her as mercenary.
“And the interesting thing…” Nerval was continuing to speak, his voice thoughtful. “The interesting thing is—no scandal. Not a breath of it. No nude photographs from the days when she was still struggling. No ex-lovers eager to tell all. No current lovers, come to that. Just the husband.” He smiled again. “Maybe they’re all just waiting to come out of the woodwork—who knows? Her publicist makes a mystery out of her—and it’s worked so far…You know the press. They love that kind of thing.”
He broke off; Ghislaine was smiling quietly to herself. It was nice, she thought, to know a little bit of scandal that no one would print—even Jean-Jacques, supposing he had the wit to recognize this Hélène Harte.
No, even he would make sure his magazines didn’t take a step out of line—after all, Edouard was a major shareholder.
Nerval stood up. He returned, as always, to the matter at hand. “Anyway,” he said, “you don’t need to bother with her—not yet. Hélène Harte is just the icing on the cake…”
“And the cake is Joe Stein?” Ghislaine asked innocently. Nerval leaned across; he rested his hand lightly over hers. He clicked his tongue reproachfully.
“Come now, Ghislaine, don’t be slow. Mrs. Joe Stein.” He smiled. “The husbands earn the money. And the wives spend it.”
Delightful; fortuitous; perfect, Ghislaine thought.
Twenty-four people in the Nerval party. Twenty-four people divided among four circular tables, six to a table, in the Pavilion Eden Roc, the restaurant of the Hotel du Cap, overlooking the celebrated swimming pool and the sea beyond the rocks.
At Nerval’s table, of course, were Joe Stein and his wife; Ghislaine’s turn with them would come at the end of the meal. Next to Joe Stein, Hélène Harte. She had arrived late, and was now sitting with her back to Ghislaine. In the press and flurry, Ghislaine had been able to avoid an introduction; she felt fairly certain the actress had not noticed her, and that suited her purposes. She intended to speak to her before the evening was out; meanwhile she was content to bide her time.
At her own table, the up-and-coming American director, Gregory Gertz; a leading Italian actress; Susan Jerome, the American critic; Thad Angelini, a small fat toad of a man, already on his third roll; and best of all—Lewis Sinclair. The husband. Sitting right next to her. Ghislaine had already noticed a certain glassiness in his gaze, a certain care in his gait. She had concluded he was already drunk, and at pains to disguise it.
She allowed her eyes to linger, speculatively, on Hélène Harte’s back and neck; she had already inspected her thoroughly, from a safe distance, when she came in.
She would have recognized her immediately, of course. Some faces, unfortunately, you never forgot. Clearly, the short dark hair of Short Cut had been a wig; now she wore her hair much as she had that night in the Loire, drawn back from her brow, and fastened in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck with a wide black silk bow. She was wearing a long, narrow, black grosgrain dress, which left her throat and shoulders bare, and hid her breasts completely. Around her throat was a rope of the most exquisite pearls Ghislaine had ever seen. She looked breathtaking, and she still possessed that curious quality of stillness which Ghislaine remembered from the Loire.
She had changed though. She looked much older, totally a woman, not at all a girl. She was poised, confident, apparently quite assured. Her voice had altered, and—Ghislaine thought—her accent had changed. Now it would have been difficult to have assigned her a nationality: English? American?…no, European, a European who had lived outside Europe for a long time.
Her self-possession was now enviable, but there was one thing Ghislaine had noticed, and it had interested her. Hélène Harte kept her eyes on her husband all the time they were having drinks. There had been a little moment, a tiny one, of hesitation, when she realized they were seated at separate tables. A second of dismay, quickly hidden. Lewis Sinclair, realizing the same thing at the same time, had looked pleased.
As soon as they were seated, and before the wine arrived, he discreetly called over a waiter and asked for a dry martini. “Very dry.”
He had a clipped expensive Boston accent; the drink disappeared very fast.
He had already greeted Ghislaine formally. Just the quickest glance down at the place cards.
&nbs
p; “Please. You must call me Ghislaine.” She smiled. “I must have missed you when you arrived.”
“Yes. We were a little late. Hélène—my wife—had a number of appointments.”
He said this in a flat tone of voice, turning the stem of the martini glass in his fingers. Ghislaine looked at him circumspectly.
A handsome—an extremely handsome—young man, in his mid to late twenties she would have guessed. Well-educated. Well-mannered. Well-dressed. Rich, and used to being so. She made her customary quick little judgments, sniffing him out with all her expertise. She regarded him more closely. He had blond hair, well cut, and worn slightly long in the current English manner. The eyes, which had that odd unfocused look in them that indicated inebriation, were a clear light hazel. Their habitual expression was one of slight anxiety, coupled with defiance. Once or twice he looked up at the fat figure of Thad Angelini, who was seated opposite him, talking busily, and then looked away. He was like a child, Ghislaine thought, checking on parental approval or disapproval. He had looked in the same way at his wife.
Ghislaine bided her time. Sinclair was talking to the Italian actress on his right, in reasonably good French, for she spoke no English. Ghislaine chatted amiably to Gregory Gertz on her left, though she could see he was hardly listening to a word she said, and was longing to engage Angelini. Angelini, meanwhile, was talking to the woman critic, who was questioning him earnestly. The replies Angelini gave her, which Ghislaine could overhear, were not modest. He was going to make two more films this year, very quickly, five weeks each, back to back, working as simply as possible, with the most minimal crew union regulations would allow. The first would be called Quickstep, the title of the second was as yet undecided—here he glanced across at Lewis Sinclair with an odd little smile. Susan Jerome interjected a question, and Angelini nodded impatiently. Yes, yes, of course, Hélène Harte would be in both of them; and then, next year, he was moving on to a quite different project…
Destiny Page 69
