All That Glitters

by Danielle Steel

  “I’ve been sending photographs of the kitchen to my architect in New York,” he said to her. “I want him to duplicate it exactly. I looked up the chef who lives there when I was in Rome last week. He’s a terrific guy. I had dinner at his family restaurant, and warned him that he may end up homeless if I refuse to move.” Leslie and Coco were both pleased to know he was so happy. He said they were starting to film the movie of his book in a few days, and it was chaos on the set. But once things settled down, he could go back to writing the new book he had already started.

  He didn’t stay long, but his visit made a powerful impression on both women. He was one of the top two or three writers in the States. His huge success had given him movie star status, and his looks didn’t hurt. He was sexy more than handsome, and there was an aloofness to him which made him seem just out of reach. He looked like a storm cloud, and then he smiled and the ice around him melted.

  “Wow, he’s a looker, isn’t he?” Leslie said after he left and Coco agreed. Women couldn’t help but be affected by him. He was a powerful presence.

  “Did you see the way he looked at you?” Leslie asked Coco. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.” She would have been jealous of Coco if she didn’t like her so much. She worked so hard that one forgot how beautiful she was, or became inured to it, since she was oblivious to it herself and never played on her looks.

  “He looked at you exactly the same way,” Coco insisted.

  “No, he didn’t.” Leslie smiled. “Guys like him always go after younger women. I’m nearly his age.” She was pretty, but nothing like Coco, who was stunningly lovely and unconsciously sexy. It didn’t bother Leslie. She was finally recovering from her own divorce and dating a new man, who was crazy about her, and she liked him a lot. She had an easy, uncomplicated nature, and was not given to jealousy. They were work partners and friends and not in competition with each other.

  Coco was surprised when Ian Kingston called her later that afternoon.

  “I wanted to thank you again for finding me the perfect home,” he said in a deep voice that added to his mystique. “Can I buy you a drink sometime?”

  “Sure,” she said casually. She didn’t imagine for a minute that he was attracted to her. She wasn’t in his league. He was much too glamorous, very famous, and could go out with anyone he wanted. She was five months pregnant now, so he thought she was either fat, or off-limits and probably married. Leslie had read a lot about him, since she loved his books, and she said he was omnivorous and dated everything from teenagers to sixty-year-old movie stars, who were twenty years older than he was. But most of the time, he dated beautiful young girls like Coco.

  “How about tomorrow?” he suggested, and they agreed to meet at a trendy bar in Notting Hill that Coco had heard about and never been to. Writers, models, photographers, and movie stars went there.

  She told Leslie about it the next day. She was impressed and raised an eyebrow to tease her.

  “Hardly,” Coco said, patting her slightly protruding belly. She had worn black jeans, and a pink sweater, and her own motorcycle boots that she had brought with her but hadn’t worn since college. She had dressed like an adult for Nigel, in fancy cocktail dresses when they went out. She could be more casual now, which suited her better and was more familiar. It was a relief not to be at parties all the time, or a houseguest somewhere every weekend.

  She had read in the gossip columns that Nigel was entertaining in his fabulous new country estate in Sussex, and invitations to spend a weekend there were in high demand. She wondered how he was paying for it on his five-thousand-dollar-a-month spousal support the judge had awarded him instead of three million a year.

  She met Ian at the bar in Notting Hill on Friday night at seven. The place was jammed with lots of people from the neighborhood, and a smattering of models and well-known trendies in jeans and T-shirts. He was waiting at the bar for her when she arrived, and she walked over to him with a smile. Her sweater was loose enough that her pregnancy barely showed, and he didn’t seem to notice, and probably didn’t care. It was just a courtesy drink, but she thought it was a nice gesture on his part to thank her.

  “Is that your dog outside?” she asked him, after they ordered beers. Her doctor said she could have two a week and an occasional glass of wine. They were more relaxed about pregnant women drinking moderately in Europe. She had seen a huge cinnamon-colored bull mastiff sitting politely next to the entrance. He was massive and no one was going to bother him.

  “That’s Bruce. He likes it here. He’s my best friend. He’s my alter ego. I’m not so good with people,” he confessed, with his dazzling smile. “Most writers aren’t. That’s why they become writers. Because they’re afraid to talk to people, so they write. We’re born observers, but poor participators.” It was an interesting analysis of the breed. His mind was quick and sharp, and she suspected that his tongue could be as well. She could easily imagine him getting angry. He exuded brooding inner tension, and then he smiled and the sun came out. He made you want to work for one of those smiles, like winning a trophy for a game well played. “How did you wind up in London? Did you grow up here?” he asked her.

  “The reason I’m here is boring and complicated,” she said quietly.

  “Like life.” He nodded.

  “I dropped out of school in New York, Columbia, journalism major, got an internship at Time over here, worked there for about eight months, and got a job offer from Leslie, who was my boss at Time and started the relocation business, so here I am.”

  “I have a feeling it’s more complicated than that,” he said, pointing to her belly. He had noticed.

  “Yes, it is. I thought I’d spare you the long version. Bad romance in New York, with a married man, after I dropped out of school. I was an idiot. Lesson learned, so I got that out of the way. Fell for someone else when I got here, got married too quickly. It lasted for eleven months, now I’m getting divorced. And I’m having a baby. He gave up his rights, so my daughter and I will be on our own, which is fine.” At least she hoped it would be. She wasn’t as confident as she appeared, but she didn’t know him.

  “Well, it sounds like you got all your big mistakes out of the way quickly. Married man, bad guy. I’m sure the next one will be a good one.”

  “I’m not looking. I’m taking a breather.”

  “Is your family in New York?” She hesitated at the question, and he noticed that too. He was an observer of people and the human condition, and good at it. It was what he did for a living. “Bad question? Didn’t like your husband? Angry about the baby?”

  “No, they died almost three years ago. In the attack in Cannes. Two of the eleven Americans who were killed.”

  “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” He winced. “Terrible question. Writers always think they can ask whatever they want to get to the truth. It must have been awful for you when it happened?”

  “We were very close. They were wonderful.” She managed not to cry when she said it. She was better at that these days. Time had helped, although she still missed them every day.

  “I lost my parents young too. You grow up fast after that. My mother was fantastic, a saint, and my father was a devil. He was a drunk, and violent. He killed my mother and then shot himself. I was seventeen, in high school. I dropped out too, hitchhiked my way around Europe, wound up in Turkey, and then in North Africa, Morocco, Tangiers, Libya for a while, then lived in Paris, and eventually went back to New York, when my first book was published. I wrote it at eighteen, dragged it around in my backpack for a couple of years, finally sent it to a publisher, and presto magic, became a writer.

  “I come to London a lot. I like it here. I eventually wind up back in New York for a while, and then leave again. I find it hard to stay in one place, and stay connected. I disappear when I write, which most people find difficult, particularly women. I’ve been married twice, to two very nice
women I made miserably unhappy, but they seem to have forgiven me, since they’re better people than I am. I spend a lot of time with Bruce. He understands me. I don’t have kids. I’d be afraid to turn out like my father. I like being alone, until I get tired of it, and then I surface, and discover that everyone is pissed at me because I disappeared.” He smiled, without remorse. He was warning her of just how difficult he was. He was more than complicated, but utterly fascinating. “I hate the idea of being responsible for another human being, and I’m allergic to commitment of any kind. So at the risk of sounding rude, if you’re looking for a father for your baby, it won’t be me. I get hives thinking about it. But I think you’re terrific, and I’d like to spend time with you, if you don’t mind my disappearing act, and don’t count on me. I believe in truth in labeling. I’m a nice guy, but I’m an asshole too, as my ex-wives would be happy to tell you, but they love me anyway. I love them too. We’re very devoted to each other.” She laughed. He was certainly an honest person, and a little bit odd, or even a lot, and didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was. As he finished his full disclosure, two women came up to him and asked for an autograph. He was polite to them but not warm. He looked at Coco intensely after they left. “And I’m not good with strangers,” he added. “I find being famous a pain in the ass. Sometimes I pretend I’m not me.”

  “I’m not looking for a father for my baby,” she told him just as bluntly. “She was an accident, and the day I found out and rushed home to tell my husband, I found him having sex with someone else, for the second time in four months. So that was the end of it. He suggested giving up his parental rights, which sounded good to me. I traded him a country estate for her. I think it was a good trade. I’m planning to do this on my own. I think I can manage it.”

  “He sounds like a real asshole,” Ian said sympathetically, “not a lovable one like me.” She laughed. She could easily imagine him being difficult, and even disappearing. His father murdering his mother had to have left him with some serious damage. He had put it to good use in his books, which were extremely violent, but sensitive too. He had an uncanny understanding of people, and clearly had his own demons. “I think we’ve gotten the introductions pretty well covered.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to have dinner with me? I’m not a vegetarian, or a vegan, and I like fast food, the greasier the better. I love cheeseburgers.”

  “So do I.” She smiled at him. She was enjoying his company, and his frank, outrageous brand of honesty and revelation about himself. He was the modern day James Dean, angry, brooding, and even at forty-one, much more handsome.

  “How old are you, by the way? Will I get arrested having dinner with you?” She looked very young to him.

  “I’m twenty-four,” she said casually.

  “That works. I’m only old enough to be your father, not your grandfather.” Nigel had been ten years older than she was. Older men didn’t scare her. In fact, she liked them, and sometimes thought she had more in common with them, except for Sam, who was her family and wise for his years, as she was. Even Ed had seemed immature to her at times, and irresponsible. “Where should we go to dinner? I know a hamburger joint nearby. The burgers are pretty good.”

  It turned out to be an American style diner she’d never heard of, and the burgers were delicious. She had come in a cab, and they walked to the restaurant, with Bruce loping along beside Ian.

  They had a great time talking over dinner, about Marrakesh and Tangiers, and some of his other travels. He had loved Turkey too. He admitted that it was hard to settle down in the States after that.

  “I’m a nomad. But I have to say the tent you found for me is the nicest one I’ve ever had. The guy who lives there is great. It was fun looking him up in Rome and having dinner in his restaurant. He’s cool.” And so was Ian. Almost too cool. She thoroughly enjoyed her evening with him.

  He sent her home in a cab, as she mulled over the evening, and called her two days later.

  “Are you ready for another burger? They’ve been driving me crazy on the set, with a bunch of divas. I need to talk to a sane person. You’re the only one I know here.”

  “I’m flattered. I’d love it.” They went to his house afterward, and it looked even better with some of his own things spread around here and there. Their age difference didn’t bother her, and he was fascinating to talk to. His mind raced at a million miles an hour, and she was breathless listening to him.

  They started seeing each other two or three times a week after that, for coffee or a drink, or dinner. He cooked her a Moroccan meal at his house one night, and it was exquisite, lamb and couscous with delicate spices. She noticed that he drank very little, which surprised her. He went to the gym at five o’clock every morning, and was in remarkable shape.

  The first time he kissed her in May, she was six months pregnant, and he didn’t seem to care. She was self-conscious about it, and he said he thought she was beautiful, and the baby didn’t bother him, as long as he didn’t have to bring it up or deal with it as a teenager, which made her laugh. Their lovemaking was as easy and natural as though they had always been together. She spent several nights with him, and then he came to her house, and was stunned by how huge it was.

  “Was this place your husband’s idea?” he asked her and she nodded. “I thought so. It doesn’t look like you. This house is going to give you a lot of trouble,” he warned her. “It’s going to attract all the wrong guys like bees to honey. It screams money. You should tell them you’re housesitting. If they know it’s yours, you’re going to have every fortune hunter in London on your doorstep.”

  “I know. I married one of them,” she said simply.

  She didn’t have to worry about it with Ian. He was one of the most successful writers in the world. And she loved being with him. She kept reminding herself not to fall in love with him, or she’d get hurt. He didn’t promise her any kind of future or even suggest it. He lived in the moment, but he was so sexy and smart and easy to be with. She was falling in love with his mind, and he was happy with her.

  In June, he warned her that he was going to start writing and he would disappear for a while. Things had calmed down on the movie set. He didn’t know when he’d surface again, and told her that sometimes it took months. He could never predict it. He was at the mercy of the book he was writing.

  “At least I warn people now. I used to just disappear and surface six months later, and everyone was pissed.”

  “I’ll miss you,” she said softly, and he wagged a finger at her.

  “Don’t. I’ll miss you too, but that’s not what I’m about. I come and go, that’s who I am. Like birds, or the seasons, or a stray cat who shows up, hangs around for a while, and then disappears. I’ll probably miss you more than you miss me. I get addicted to people, and then I need to break the habit. And the writing always comes first with me. It has to, or I wouldn’t be good at it.”

  She saw him one more time after that, and then he was gone. She’d had two wonderful months with him, and realized that it might be all she’d ever get. She might never hear from him again. But he had been one of those incredible comets flashing through the sky in a shower of stars. Just being with him was exciting.

  She told Sam about him when she called him before his wedding.

  “There you go again. Coco, please don’t get hooked on this guy. He told you he’s not reliable. Believe him. I love his books too, but he has to be a little whacko to write like that.”

  “He’s not whacko. He’s brilliant,” she defended him.

  “That’s the point. He’s the flash again. You have to give that up, and find a real one.”

  “He’s about as real as it gets.”

  “No, he’s not. That’s not real. It’s excitement again. Real is something very quiet that you can come home to at night, and know will still be there. Ian Kingston is never going to be there for you. He t
old you that in the beginning.”

  “Yes, he did,” she admitted. “Is that what you have with Tamar?” Something quiet that would always be there. Maybe he was right.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I know she’s always going to be there for me. I won’t have nights with her like you’ve had with Ian Kingston. But she won’t disappoint me either.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You never are in life. But with the wild ones, the flashy ones, you know they’re going to burn themselves out and disappear in the heavens somewhere. They can’t help it, and they burn you in the process. That’s who they are. I know how appealing they must be. But one day you reach for them, and your hands are empty. You need someone with you, Coco, especially now with the baby. But you’ve got me.” He was getting married in a week. And now he would belong to Tamar too. Coco wasn’t sure she liked that.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him again.

  “Yes. I’m okay about it now.”

  “Is that enough? Okay?”

  “It has to be. It’s where my life is.” Working in his father’s business, marrying a plain, reliable woman who was the kind of woman his parents wanted him to marry. Coco wanted more for him, but Sam didn’t. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe reaching for the flash of brilliance in the sky, she’d have glorious moments he would never know that brought her soul alive, but in the end she’d always come up empty-handed. And Ian was the flash, more than any man she’d ever known.