"It's very nice," she said, as they returned to the library, where a decanter and cheese and fruit were set out before the fire.
Valerie nodded carelessly. She was gazing at the flames. "The first fire of the year," she murmured. "It always makes me melancholy. The
end of summer, everything turning inward, a closing of doors..."
Sybille frowned. "I never heard you talk like that."
"Oh—" Valerie looked up. Giving her head a small shake, she smiled brighdy. "I only do it once or twice a year." She poured sherry into amber glasses and sat in a deep velvet wing chair, lucking off her shoes and curling up in its depths. She wore a cashmere sweater and matching flared wool skirt, comfortable and casual and elegant. Sybille, taking the chair opposite her, sat straight: constrained and severe in her tailored suit. But she wouldn't have curled up no matter what she wore; this was enemy territory.
"Before we talk, I want to say something," Valerie said. "I'm so glad we ran into each other last night; otherwise I'd have gone on stewing over this for years and not been able to tell you..." She got up restlessly, and stood by the fire. "Sybille, I felt terrible when I heard what happened at Stanford; I never would have thought they'd do something so drastic—I still can't believe it—and I owe you an apology. Larry Oldfield told me I said you'd made up parts of that ape story. I can't believe I did, but I don't remember what I told him; it must have been an awfully dull party and I suppose I was making conversation to get through the evening, and if Larry says that's what I said, I'm sure he's right. So it was my fault and I would have undone it if I could—I wanted to do something to help—but by then you were gone."
"How did you know."" Sybille asked coldly.
"I tried to call you. AH I got was one of those death-warmed-over recordings saying your phone had been disconnected. No forwarding number; nothing. I asked at the tv station in Palo Alto, but nobody knew where you were. So I let it go. But I did feel terrible."
"You could have called my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Your seamstress."
"Oh, my God, of course. Mother still uses her, but I haven't for years. How could I forget.> That would have been so simple."
Sybille said nothing.
"I'm so sorry," Valerie said. She came back to her chair and sat cross-legged in its depths. "For all of it. Such a mess... and so awfiil for you. Where did you go?"
"San Jose."
"Because of a job?"
"I found a job once I was there. I went because that's where my husband wanted to live."
"Yes, you said last night you'd been married. Someone from Stanford?"
"Nick Fielding."
"Nick?" Valerie's eyes were stunned. "You and Nick?"
"Why not?" Sybille demanded.
"Well... no reason, I suppose. I was just surprised. I haven't thought of him in such a long time, it was surprising to hear his name. I'd really forgotten about him..."
Liar, Sybille thought, and a surge of triumph swept through her. Valerie Shoreham, wearing cashmere in her fifteen rooms above Central Park, with her butler and her maids and her chef, and even a private secretary, still thought about Nick Fielding. And Sybille, with nothing, had married him. And left him. "What about you?" she asked. "How long have you been married?"
"A little over a year. I can't believe it: you and Nick married And
now you're divorced? What happened?"
"We decided to go our own ways. We wanted different things."
"Did you? I thought you wanted the same thing, and you were both so serious about it, to make it big and to do it in a hurry..,. That wasn't what Nick wanted?"
"Mostly he wanted things to go his way. What does your husband do?"
"Nothing very much." Valerie smiled faintly. "He's vice-president of his father's bank, so he goes to the office every day, and he reads The Wall Street Journal a few times, to make sure he doesn't miss anything. What did you mean, mosdy he wanted—" She stopped. 'Tou haven't told me about yourself. Where did you go to finish college?"
"I didn't bother. I worked in television in San Jose, and I'm at WEBN here. Executive producer of World Watch.'"
"How wonderful! You started at the top. I'm not really surprised, though; you were always so good."
Enemy territory, Sybille reminded herself. Don't forget. But it was hard to steel herself against Valerie's warmth when Valerie was admiring her. Enfolded by the book-lined room, the fire and Valerie's interest, Sybille felt a mellow relaxation spread through her. "It is the top; if s the biggest producing job there, and everybody knows it. There are other things I want to do, but for now this is the best job I could have. It's the most important thing that's happened to me since I left Stanford."
"The most important... ?" Valerie paused, but Sybille was taking a crimson grape from a cluster and did not respond. "Well, it's wonder-
fill that you're still so excited about television. I think it's a lot of fun, but I can't get very worked up about it."
"You don't know anything about it. You only did those few spots in college."
"Oh, I still do that sort of thing. Not a lot, just now and then, for friends."
Sybille's fingers tightened on her glass. "I haven't seen you."
Valerie laughed. "Fm not surprised. Mosdy they're public-service announcements that get stuck between commercials, while people are raiding the refrigerator. I did one a few months ago for the MS hind drive—that got a fair bit of attention, but maybe you weren't here yet—and I've done pitches for money to sponsor hungry kids around the world, and I was one of the hosts for a public-television pledge week..." She gestured with her hand. "Nothing special, just helping people out. It's something to do, and I like to do different things. I remember you used to talk about being on camera; whatever happened to that?"
"I haven't thought about it for years," Sybille said flady. Nothing special ... ifs something to do. Stupid, she thought. Shallow. As flighty as ever. She hasn't changed at all; she never was anything; she'll never be anything. But she gets what she wants, without even trying. How the hell does she do that? "Ifs not nearly as important as producing; I'd much rather make things happen behind the camera than sit at a desk and wait for everybody to tell me what to do and what to say and when to say it..."
"Goodness," Valerie said with another laugh. "I'd better stop doing it right away; you make me sound like a trained monkey."
"Notreally; ifs..."
Valerie jumped up again, her skirt swirling, and walked about the room. She stopped at a table near the door, fingering some of the small vases on it. "You've got so many opinions on everything," she murmured. "And you're so busy.'"
What does that mean? Sybille wondered. Does she admire me for being busy or does she think I'm a fool?
"Do you ever talk to Nick anymore?" Valerie asked.
"Every couple of weeks."
"Do you? Then you're friends."
"We talk about money and about Chad." She watched Valerie closely. "Our son."
'Tour son? You have a child?" Valerie whirled around and came back to her chair, sitting on the edge. "Sybille, you didn't say a word! How
could you not talk about him? His name is Chad? Chad Fielding. I like that. How old is he?"
"Almost two."
"I can't believe it. Nick always said he wanted children, but it doesn't seem possible..."
"What? What doesn't seem possible?"
"Oh—" Valerie gave a small laugh. "I think of all of us as so young; it seems as if we just graduated and we're still looking around, wondering what to do with ourselves."
"I never wondered what to do with myself," Sybille said coldly.
"No, you were different. You always knew. And so did Nick. Did he start his own computer company?"
'Tes."
"And? Is he a great success?"
"No. It's a tiny company—there's just two of them, and they work in a garage."
"But they just got started; it must take awhile."
&nb
sp; "It's been years."
"But it takes years, doesn't it? He'll probably have a breakthrough one of these days and get everything he wants."
"I doubt it. They're not designing anything; they're just consultants."
"That wasn't what he was planning." Valerie shook her head. "Poor Nick. He had such big dreams. And he never doubted..."
The butler stood in the doorway, glancing swifdy at the sherr^ decanter to make sure it was sufficiendv full, and at the trav of cheese and fruit which had barely been touched. "Mr. Shoreham called, ma'am. He's working late and asks that you meet him at the Walmsleys' at eight-thirty."
Valerie nodded. "Thank you, Morton."
How civilized this is, Sybille thought as the butler vanished as noiselessly as he had arrived. She sipped from her glass while Valerie shifted in her chair and absentmindedly nibbled a slice of Gruyere. Sherry in the library, a nice fire, a buder to make sure we have plenty of everything, and the chitchat of old friends, catching up after a long separation. Old friends, good friends. Such good friends.
"This has been very nice," she said, putting down her glass. "I have no one to talk to in New York and this has been... nice."
"You're not going," Valerie said quickly. "Stay awhile. You do have someone to talk to: you have me. And I'll introduce you to people.
New York is a terrible place to be alone. What about Quentin En-derby? Do you spend much time with him?"
Sybille hesitated, then decided she had to confide something if Valerie was to believe they were friends. "Not yet."
"You don't really want him, do you? He's old enough to be your grandfather."
"He can take care of me," Sybille said.
"Well, but if that's what you want, there are men nearer your age who can do it."
Sybille shrugged. "I don't know any other men. And he's fun to be widi."
"Is he? He didn't strike me as the fun type. Domineering is more like it. I know a lot of men like that, Sybille, and I'd be careful not to confuse it with strength. When you're alone in a place like New York it's too easy to latch onto the wrong kind of person. You're so young and independent, I think you'd go crazy with... well, I don't really know him. Let me introduce you to some men who really are strong, and fun too. You don't have to make compromises."
"Thank you," SybiUe said, and looked down, to hide the contempt in her eyes. She didn't need condescending advice on Enderby; she'd been studying him for weeks. And of course she had to make compromises; that was the only way she'd get anywhere. How the hell did rich, spoiled Valerie Shoreham think most people got along in the world? "What did you do before you got married?" she asked.
"Traveled." Valerie drained her glass: her third, Sybille thought, or maybe her fourth. "Europe, of course, a few times a year; somebody was always having some kind of party. Then there were a couple of African safaris, the Far East for almost six months, and touring Alaska in a friend's plane—the only way to see it, by the way, you'd love it. And Rio; I have friends there and they gave a nonstop party that lasted all of Carnival."
"And then you got married?"
"About halfway through Carnival. Someone suggested that the part^ needed a little something to keep it going, so Kent and I provided it."
Sybille looked uncertain. "That's why you got married?"
Valerie gave a small smile. "No, I shouldn't have said that. We were good friends and I couldn't see any reason not to. I thought it couldn't do any harm."
"And did it?"
"No, of course not. Kent is very sweet and he doesn't bother me."
Sybille wondered if that would describe Enderby after they were married.
"The problem is, he doesn't do much for me either," Valerie added. "So I can't imagine what would keep us together."
She said it lightly, but Sybille heard something else, a darker note that made her think of loss and loneliness. So much for all that money, she thought, and her looks; they haven't made her immune.
"What will you do if you get a divorce?" she asked.
Valerie gazed at the fire and turned her wine glass around and around in her slender fingers, "I have no idea. I could always keep on doing the same things: there are a few countries I haven't seen yet. Burma and Australia, Greenland... and I haven't trekked in Nepal. Or I might just hang around here and do more television. What do you think.> Maybe one of these days I'll come to you and ask for a job." She laughed. "You'd hire me, wouldn't you, Sybille? If I asked nicely?"
"Of course," Sybille said smoothly. "Can you type?"
Valerie smiled. "No. Maybe I'd better learn."
The butler appeared again in the doorway, and somehow Sybille knew it was the signal that her time was up. Instantly, she was on her feet. "I meant to leave long ago," she said, almost angrily.
"My fault," Valerie said gently. "I asked you to stay." She stood and took Sybille's hand between hers. "Will you come again? Often? Let's set a date. I know, I'll have a few people for dinner. I did promise you some introductions. Morton, where is my calendar?"
The butler walked across the room to the desk and brought a leather-bound book to her.
"Damn," she said, perusing it. "Damn and damn. Well, I'll cancel something. The zoo benefit. They'll never miss me; they've got all those animals. And they've already got my check." She looked up. "Two weeks from tonight. But we ought to have lunch before that; next week sometime."
"I don't go out for lunch," Sybille said.
"Oh, that's right. Work. Well, then, we'll have drinks again. Or tea, if you'd like. My chef is a wonder with tea and scones. Next Thursday? A week from tonight. But come a little earlier. Five o'clock." She saw Sybille hesitate. "Please," she said, the first time, Sybille noted, and held out her hand. "Let me do what I can to help you."
"All right," Sybille said after a moment. "Next week."
"And bring Chad with you," Valerie said. "I'd love to see him, and we'll find things for him to play with while we talk."
"He's not here; he's with Nick." She saw the surprise in Valerie's eyes and became angry. Valerie hadn't even bothered to have a son; who was she to judge.> "I'm going to send for him v/hen I'm settled. Nick thinks it's fine."
"Does he?" Valerie smiled, her eyes far away. "I'll bet he's a wonder-flil fadier."
"He likes being one."
"Well, since you can't bring Chad, show me some pictures."
"I don't have any. I mean, not with me. Nick sent some, but they're at home."
"Well, then, bring them next week. I'd really love to see them."
Sybille nodded and left the room, following the buder's erect back. She was torn between wanting to get out of there and wanting to stay forever. There was something powerfully seductive about Valerie and her warm apartment and her buder, as capable of keeping outsiders away, to protect the perfect privacy they had had for an hour and a half, as he was of shepherding Sybille out of there at exactly seven o'clock so his employer could bathe and dress in her feminine frills and fanciful furbelows for a festive feast with friends.
Sybille smiled as the mahogany-paneled elevator doors closed behind her and she descended to the lobby. Quentin would be proud of me, she thought. How quickly I learn.
Nick brought Chad to New York for Christmas. They stayed in a suite at the Algonquin, which made Sybille's eyebrows rise. "You didn't tell me you'd won the lottery."
"I did better than that," he said. "We were the stars of the trade show."
"Stars," she repeated. "Enough to get you out of the garage?"
"We moved out a month ago." He let her go ahead as they followed the maitre d' to one of the Victorian velvet sofas in the lobby lounge. He was surprised at how much she had changed. Her hair was tied back at her neck, an old-fashioned style that looked modern and right on her. She was dressed with more assurance than Nick remembered, both in the suit she had worn that afternoon and in the black silk dress she wore now, with small rhinestone buttons down die front, the ones at the top left open, and dangling rhinestones at her ears
. She seemed to be deliberately provocative and sexually attractive. A hunter, he thought involuntarily.
He walked around the sofa where she sat and took an armchair at her left. A small marble table stood between them. "Out of the garage
and into a rented space, half a floor, in a renovated wareliouse," he went on, though she had not asked, and then sat back, looking around. He had never been in the Algonquin; Pari Shandar had recommended it.
Most of the lobby, set off" from the reception desk by a large folding screen, was a lounge crowded with Victorian furniture, famous for over fifty years as a literary and theatrical gathering place. Nick had reserved a table for ten-thirty, when SybiUe had said she could meet him, but even so they had had to wait; the room was ftiU and the lobby door regularly swung open as people came for late-night suppers or after-theater drinks. In a corner, a pianist played show tunes and Christmas carols; conversations and laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the genteel clatter of silver and china; and a cacophony of automobile horns and doormen's whistles sliced through the lobby each time the hotel doors were opened. Sybille seemed unaware of the noise, but raised her voice. "Warehouse? What does that mean?"
"It means we'll be going into production in a few months." Nick looked up as the waiter stood beside him, but still he saw the quick narrowing of Sybille's eyes. "Cognac," he said.
"The same," Sybille said.
Nick looked surprised. "You never liked it."
"I've learned to." Her eyes flicked away from him as her thoughts shifted; then she was back. "Production of what?"
"Computers," said Nick. "That's my specialty."
Missing his irony, she nodded absently. "Who's backing you?"
"We're talking to some people."
"Venture capitalists," she said, liking the sound of the words. "Did they come to you?"
"Yes." Their drinks arrived and Nick turned away from Sybille as the waiter set them down. He wasn't really surprised that she was more interested in his new company than in their son; if she were any different they might still be married. Chad, asleep now in their suite upstairs, with a sitter provided by the hotel, had greeted his mother that afternoon with outstretched arms and a cry of joy that almost broke Nick's heart. So much need, he had thought. No matter how much he and Chad did together, how much love they shared, how naturally and happily Chad came to him for comfort and approval, Chad wanted his mother.
A Ruling Passion Page 18
