Nick sat up and looked at Victor’s face. The worry was now clearly revealed, no longer concealed by the actor’s mask. He knew without a doubt that Jake had not imagined anything after all. ‘You should have told me before,’ he began, and stopped when Victor held up his hand.
‘The wrap party was about to begin. I didn’t want to cast a cloud over the celebration.’ Victor leaned forward. ‘Sure I’m heavily involved with Francesca. You weren’t wrong there, kid. However, until I resolve my difficulties with Arlene, I can’t do much about Ches. Look at the facts, Nicky. She’s barely twenty, a baby in so many different ways. Her life is just beginning, there’s so much ahead of her. She comes from a distinguished background, is therefore highly eligible on the marriage market. And with her looks and brains, I’ve no doubt her father expects her to make a spectacular match. With a young man from their echelon of society. I don’t want to ruin her chances for a good life, should I be unable to unravel my mess. So you see, I must handle the situation with care, extreme caution.’ He took a swallow of his Scotch and continued: I can just see the Earl’s face if his only daughter, not yet twenty-one, is dragged into a sensational and scandalous divorce, because of her involvement with me. A movie star, and one who’s had three wives, has grown sons her age. Jesus, Nicky, I’m almost her father’s contemporary, twenty years older than she is, and something of a reprobate. So I don’t know that David Cunningham would approve of me, even if I weren’t so damned entangled.’
Distressed that he had misjudged Victor, Nick chided himself for his lack of faith. ‘So the divorce is going through?’ he asked.
‘No, not at this moment.’ Victor’s tone was as gloomy as his expression, and he explained, ‘Arlene is being contentious in every conceivable way. And she’s just pulled something so outrageous, I’m floored. She and her goddamn fancy lawyers are out to ruin me, skin me alive if they possibly can.’
‘Are you talking about the settlement, Vic?’
‘Among other things. You know the law in California… community property being the key phrase. She’s after property all right, everything I own practically. She wants the ranch, and fifty per cent of Bellissima Productions.’
‘Holy Christ!’ Nick gasped, understanding everything clearly for the first time. No wonder Victor was troubled, angry and hurt. Arlene Mason was stretching out her greedy hands to grasp two of the things he loved most, and which he had worked long and hard to build. ‘I’ll be a son of a bitch,’ Nick cursed. ‘But what the hell, Vic, she doesn’t stand a chance. No judge would grant her—’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Victor exclaimed, ‘I’m not going to speculate, or attempt to second guess any judge, or a court of law. Anything could happen.’
Nick racked his brains for a possible solution. ‘What about offering her a hunk of dough. Surely that—’
‘We did,’ Victor cut in. ‘Last week my lawyers made a counter offer. Three million dollars as a cash settlement, plus ten grand alimony per month, for five years. That comes to another six hundred thousand dollars. And she gets the alimony for the full period, even if she remarries during that time. She turned it down, and I thought I was being pretty generous.’
Nick shook his head in dismay. ‘What a bitch she is, Vic, and she’s being inordinately spiteful. My God, Arlene always hated the ranch, never wanted to spend any time there with you. And as far as the company goes, why the hell would she want to own half of that, except to hurt you.’
‘Don’t I know it. She says she’s going to expose me to the world as a cruel and heartless husband, a sex fiend who flaunted his many love affairs with other women when we were still living together as man and wife, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Not strictly accurate, as you well know. She’s twisting the truth to suit her own ends. Furthermore, she’s attempting to use the threat of bad publicity as a weapon, so the spectre of Confidential still hovers over my head. Charming, isn’t she? Not that I care about myself, Nick, but I do have to protect Ches.’
Nick said swiftly, ‘But Arlene doesn’t know about Francesca. You’ve been so careful.’ He bit his lip, then asked worriedly, ‘You have, haven’t you? I mean Arlene couldn’t have anything on you, could she?’
‘No. I’ve been scrupulous, and I’ve never been seen alone in public with Francesca.’
‘What about your trip to Königssee?’
‘We flew separately, there and back, and we stayed close to the house, never went to restaurants or public places. And when we were on location in Yorkshire, Ches and I hardly saw each other, and when we did, we were always surrounded by other people. I know what you’re intimating, Nicky, but even if Arlene is having me tailed by a private eye, or two or three, there’s been nothing to spot. I’m safe on that score. And as long as I move in the midst of a group at all times when we’re in the South of France, my relationship with Francesca will still be under wraps. But it’s tough, sneaking around corners all the time, especially on the little one.’
‘Francesca’s a smart girl, Vic. I’m sure she understands.’
‘More or less.’
‘What’s your next move, regarding Arlene?’
‘Negotiate. That’s my only course. Listen, kid, just between us, I’m prepared to go up another million on the settlement, and let the alimony stand. I’ll even throw in the Bel-Air house. But I can’t let her get her hands on Che Sarà Sarà, or on Bellissima Productions. It’s out of the question.’
Nick caught the desperation in his voice. ‘And I always thought Arlene was a dumb, redheaded starlet, with nothing but air space between her neck and the top of her head. I’m pretty stupid!’ he announced.
‘I haven’t been much smarter myself. Taken in by a gorgeous face and the greatest legs since Betty Grable’s. I think I need a frontal Iobotomy,’ Victor laughed. ‘As for Arlene, she makes Mike Lazarus look like a babe in arms. Jesus, I wish I could dump her as easily as I dumped him.’
‘I second that. And let’s stay away from actresses from now on. But getting back to you, I’ll do anything I can to help, Vic.’
‘Thanks, Nicky. Right now all we can do is sit back and wait for Arlene’s next move. And there’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on the problems. Mainly, I wanted to clear the air with you, as well as fill you in.’ Victor leaned back, puffed on his cigar, remarked carefully, ‘Incidentally, I haven’t told Francesca anything about the trouble I’m having with Arlene. I would rather she didn’t know. Ches would only worry. So, under the circumstances, the less she knows the better.’
‘Sure, Vic, I understand.’
Nick jumped up as the telephone rang, and went to answer it. ‘Hello? Hi there. Yes, sure he is. Just a minute.’ Nick put the ’phone down, said, ‘It’s for you, maestro. Your lady.’
Victor covered the floor in three quick strides. ‘Hello, darling,’ he said, pressing the receiver to his ear. His worried expression was dislodged by a happy smile as he listened to her voice.
Suddenly the scowl reappeared. ‘I see. No, I didn’t know anything about it, Ches,’ he exclaimed. Then his delivery increased in rapidity. ‘No. No. I don’t want you to do that, baby. Under no circumstances. Too hard on you. Not very safe. Dangerous. Yes, I think it would be dangerous.’ There was a small silence as Victor heard her out, then he said, ‘Look, let me think about it for a while. And don’t call Doris yet. There’s plenty of time to tell her. Now please, relax, baby. We’ll discuss it at dinner tonight.’ Another brief pause on Victor’s part, before he finished, ‘Yes, I will, Francesca. So long, baby.’ He replaced the receiver thoughtfully.
Having heard one side of the conversation, and now observing the look of disquiet on Victor’s face, Nick asked quickly, ‘What could be dangerous, Vic?’
‘Francesca driving Doris Asternan’s Rolls-Royce to the South of France by herself. It’s a long journey as you know, having driven it with me. I can’t let her go all that way alone… through the Loire Valley, and miles and miles of other equally lonely and deserted countryside. There�
�s no way I’m going to sanction that idea.’
Nick nodded. ‘I agree with you. But I thought Katharine Tempest was making the trip with her, sharing the driving.’
‘Yes, that was the plan, However, Katharine has just backed off. A few minutes ago. She called Ches to tell her she can’t leave on schedule this weekend as agreed, that she has to stay in London for a couple of weeks. Because she has important meetings on her new picture. With Hilly Steed. And Beau Stanton.’
‘Does she?’ Nick asked, his eyes glued on Victor’s face.
‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’ Victor picked up his cigar and put it in his mouth, taking a long draw, and he could not help wondering what Katharine’s game was now. He had no way of knowing that Nicholas Latimer was posing the identical question to himself.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Doris Asternan walked along the white marble terrace of the Villa Zamir with graceful precision, veering neither to the right nor the left, placing one foot carefully after the other, as though she were following some chalked-in line.
Doris was thinking; and when she thought she walked. Her mind was ticking over with the same precision as her evenly balanced paces, analysing the information currently stored in her not inconsiderable brain, selecting and evaluating, and sometimes discarding, the different approaches she could take. Doris was troubled.
It was late afternoon, early evening almost, that peculiarly hushed and gentle hour which hovers between declining day and impending nightfall when the earth is still and every living thing seems temporarily at rest. The August fireball of a sun had long since dropped down behind the hills above Roquebrune, its last rays fluttering streamers of saffron and gold at the edge of the cobalt sky, and soon the diffused fight would prevail. But the breeze was soft, hardly a breeze at all, and the balmy air held the warmth of the sun.
The great white villa slumbered and there was a sense of peacefulness everywhere, the atmosphere redolent of honeysuckle and frangipani, roses, heliotrope and carnations. Nothing broke the silence except the click of Doris’s gold sandals against the hard marble, the faint swishing of her pale green silk caftan as it swirled around her long legs. The sounds of irrepressible laughter, cheerful young voices, popular music blaring from the record player, the plop-plop of tennis balls, whoops of enthusiasm echoing up from the pool—all were absent for once. The villa was relatively deserted, apart from the servants, and Doris welcomed the solitude. Kim had driven up to Grasse to visit an old school friend and would be gone until tomorrow. Francesca had disappeared at noon, with Diana in tow, murmuring something about a picnic with Nicholas Latimer, who was helping her with her book on Chinese Gordon. David was taking a nap, and Christian had also retired to his room. Both had claimed fatigue after they had returned from a luncheon party at the home of friends in Monte Carlo. A luncheon that had been rather heavy on champagne and light on food, in Doris’s opinion.
A slight noise distracted her, and she came to a standstill, peered over her shoulder, Yves, the butler who was head of the staff attached to the villa, had opened the French doors leading from the main salon to the terrace.
‘Bonsoir, Madame,’ he said, nodding politely.
‘Bonsoir, Yves.’
The butler proceeded to wheel out the large brass and glass trolley that served as an outdoor bar. It was loaded with all kinds of apéritifs, liquor, mixes, soft drinks, and crystal glasses that rattled as he trundled the cart to the far corner, near the seating arrangement of terrace furniture. Once he had positioned it to his satisfaction, he asked her if she had finished with the tea tray. Doris told him she had, thanked him; with a brief deferential smile Yves lifted the tray from the glass coffee table and departed.
Doris looked at her watch. Soon the girls would return. David and Christian would appear, the cocktail hour would commence, and she would be submerged in people. Fifteen minutes, she thought, fifteen more minutes to think things out clearly. Decide on my strategy. She moved across the terrace and sat down on the two-seater hammock, sinking against the upholstered yellow cushions, not bothering to stop its motion, letting the sofa swing backwards and forwards. The canopy cast shadows across her face, freckled and bronzed by the sun, and they underscored its brooding aspect as she fell into further contemplation. Excessive ambition, she said inwardly, how it drives people to extremes, causes them to do the most extraordinary, and often unthinkable, things.
Doris herself was ambitious, but not to the point of damaging others, or sacrificing personal happiness on the altar of ambition. She was a giving and loving woman; love was her whole life really. She had married Edgar for the man himself, not his millions; by the same token she was about to marry David Cunningham, the 11th Earl of Langley, for reasons of the heart not the head. Money and tides do hold a certain intrinsic appeal, Doris was honest enough to now acknowledge, but she also knew that neither had been determining factors in her decisions at any time in her life.
Doris Asternan’s ambition sprang from the intellect, was rooted in the desire to be associated with people of calibre and superior character, who were educated and civilized. Men and women from whom she could learn—and thus grow. My ambition is abstract in nature, she thought, and has been tempered by reason and judgment. Whereas she is driven solely by ambition, to the exclusion of all else, and therein lies the clanger.
Doris shivered, even though there was not the slightest chill in the air, and glanced around, became conscious of the dimming light. The sky was losing the last of its colour, the blue draining away into pearl and opalescent tints, and the terrace was suddenly murky with shadows, and gloomy. She bent forward, lifted the glass chimney off the lamp, found the box of matches next to it on the table. Cupping her hand around the wick of the stout white candle, she lit it, blew out the match. She sat back quickly, and so forcefully that her movements started the hammock swinging again. As she rocked gently to and fro, fragmented thoughts intruded, decimated her concentration, tore her mind away from her dilemma.
She remembered another hammock, in another place, at another time in her life. On her grandmother’s porch of the trim white house in Oklahoma City. The house where she had been raised by a doting mother and equally devoted and adoring grandparents. A house full of love and humour and honesty and solid values, although not a great deal of money. She closed her eyes and saw that porch in minute detail; with its vivid pots of flowering plants, wicker furniture, the old Victrola, the pitcher of lemonade and cookies in a silver dish, set on a white-painted table with a blue checked cloth.
The porch had been the gathering spot in the hot summer months and on lovely fall evenings throughout the years of her growing up… a place of laughter and good talk, of wisdom and gentleness… those were the things it spelled to her, and so much more besides. Grandpa smoking his pipe and rocking as she was rocking now, and reading wondrous stories to her from his many books when she was a small child; her school friends congregating there; and then, in later years, it had become the corner for conspiratorial whispers and stolen kisses when the boy of the moment had dropped her off after the Saturday night dance at the church.
Edgar Asternan had sat on that porch the first day they had met, rocking, talking to her grandfather, calling him Doc as if he had known him all of his life. Two men wholly different yet curiously alike in so many respects, one dedicated to the practice of medicine, the other to big business. Dedication and similar beliefs: perhaps those had been the link. Certainly they had understood each other, instantaneously.
How odd life is, Doris mused, recognizing that she might never have met Edgar Asternan if she had not been downtown, shopping for a new dress; if she had not stepped off the sidewalk at the precise moment she had done so. Edgar had almost run her over. Distraught and apologetic, even though it had not been his fault, he had insisted on driving her home in the Buick convertible that belonged to the manager of his Oklahoma City meat-packing plant.
It had been a Saturday afternoon, sultry, with not a brea
th of air. Edgar had been pressed into staying for a cool refreshing glass of Grandma’s lemonade. When Grandpa had returned from a confinement a short while later, he had shaken his head, replaced the lemonade with good sour mash whiskey and informed them that this was the only real drink for a man. The time had passed quickly; it was suddenly supper time. Grandpa, having already established that Edgar had no pressing engagement, would not allow him to leave, nor had Edgar wanted to go. Her grandmother had brought out one of the best lace cloths and their finest china, and they had eaten chicken and dumplings followed by freshly-baked apple pie and homemade ice cream, and the dining room had reverberated with laughter throughout the entire meal. Edgar had stayed until midnight, relaxed and at ease, enjoying the lazy evening with his new friends, interested in everything about them. That night was entrapped in Doris’s mind like one of those miniature scenes set in the centre of a glass ball: the two men on the hammock, Gran in the rocking chair. Her mother’s bright auburn head bent over the tapestry she was working, her needle flying, and Doris herself curled up on the wicker chaise, chin in hands, listening in fascination to Edgar and Grandpa. Smoke curling up from the men’s cigars; the clink of their coffee cups; Sinatra’s young emotional voice crooning ‘All or nothing at all’ on the radio; the low murmur of deeply masculine voices talking of many things, but mainly of the war in Europe. And none of them had realized that only a few short months later America would be plunged into the fray, following the attack on Pearl Harbor.
She had been twenty-one that September, a kindergarten teacher, and extraordinarily pretty. Sweet, virginal, and yes, something of a country girl. Edgar had been fifty-seven, widowed and childless, a dynamic, sophisticated, multi-millionaire from Chicago, who was bored with making money inasmuch as he had no one to leave it to or spend it on; a busy man, yet lonely. He had fallen in love with her All-American college girl good looks, her wholesomeness, her quick, inquiring mind, her intelligence, and the potential he saw in her. Three months later, on a sunny December afternoon a few days after President Roosevelt had made formal declaration of war on Japan, Doris Halliday became the second Mrs Edgar Asternan. Her life had never been the same since.
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