by Jill Mansell
* * *
Sitting curled up on the settee at home, Camilla tore yet another sheet of paper from the pad on her lap and threw it past the waste bin to nestle with the others. Her last letter to Roz had been difficult enough, and that had been the one she had written shortly before bumping into her in Harrods.
This one was proving to be far worse. Yet something within her drove her on. She didn’t like Roz, but felt that sending a short note of condolence was the least she could do. The letters she had received from friends and relatives had helped her so much when her parents had died within a year of each other; she had read and reread them, gaining an amazing amount of comfort from the knowledge that people thought enough of both her and her parents to make the effort to write such difficult words. Roz deserved that much from her at least, she told herself as she sucked the top of her pen and struggled to choose her own words of sympathy.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t bloody hard.
In the end, after over two hours of false starts, she wrote straight from the heart. What had been intended to be a few short lines became a three-page letter from one mother to another, with no mention of the difficulties that had estranged them. Tears welled in her eyes as the grief that Roz must be enduring was shared by Camilla. When she reached the end, she folded the pages and pushed them into an already stamped and addressed envelope without even rereading them for fear that the spontaneity of the deeply felt sentiments would be lost.
Chapter Thirty-Four
November 5. Guy Fawkes Night. Or more appropriately, thought Loulou with satisfaction and mounting excitement as she hugged the secret to herself, bridge-burning night. All systems were go and she could hardly wait for the fire to be lit.
With professional pleasure, she gazed around at the preparations. Christo and her other employees had worked so hard. The now-imminent approach of her baby’s birth had prevented her from helping them as much as she would have liked, but she had done her bit, organizing everything and delegating like mad wherever possible. Until midnight, she had issued instructions from the comfort of the Number One settee, ensuring that no detail, however tiny, was forgotten, and Daisy, Lena, and Christo had cheerfully carried out all the physical work of which she was no longer capable. Feeling like Cleopatra and enjoying herself immensely, Loulou had not even stopped to wonder what would happen after tomorrow night. It simply hadn’t concerned her.
It still didn’t. It was, after all, such a right thing to be doing. And now Vampires was transformed. Hugging her trusty briefcase to her enormous stomach, she allowed herself a smug smile. It was going to be a truly spectacular night.
* * *
“Loulou certainly knows the right people,” Camilla whispered to Matt as they found themselves a small table beyond the bar. “If this doesn’t put Vampires back on the map, nothing will.”
The whole place was buzzing, alive with laughter and excitement. The pop of champagne corks and the clink of glasses mingled with the erratic clatter of the bouncing silver balls at the two roulette tables set up in the center of the room. Around them, less noisy but engendering just as much interest were the smaller tables where croupiers in scarlet satin deftly dealt out the cards for chemin de fer, blackjack, and poker.
Clutching the small stack of chips with which she had been presented upon arrival, Camilla watched with admiration as Loulou, good-humoredly insulting everyone who approached her, sold further bags for twenty pounds each. Anyone could buy as many chips as they liked. At midnight, the player who had amassed the most number of chips won a vacation for two in Barbados, paid for by Loulou herself.
“Come on, you miserable old sod,” she heard Loulou cry as a well-known actor pulled a handful of notes from his wallet. “If Rankin can buy two hundred chips, you can afford twice that amount. Bloody hell, he’s only an impoverished photographer—you’re rich beyond his wildest dreams! Let’s see your gold card, sweetie. Sign over all your dosh.”
And of course he did. Everyone was doing the same. When Camilla made her way over to Loulou’s table, her friend flashed her a wicked grin and waved her bucket of money at her with glee. “Cami, we’re doing so well! I thought that by inviting two hundred of the richest people I know, I’d end up making twenty grand. If this carries on, I’m going to double or triple that amount. Everyone’s spending an absolute fortune.”
“You’re terrifying the money out of their pockets,” said Camilla with affection. “They’re all scared to death of you.”
“Good,” said Loulou, shaking her bucket once more. “That means more money. Have you seen Roz yet?”
“Is she here?” Camilla knew that Loulou had invited her, and the news had made her edgy, but she was determined not to allow it to spoil her enjoyment of the evening. There was, after all, no longer anything Roz could do to hurt her.
“I haven’t seen her,” replied Loulou, deftly sorting chips into even piles, “but she told me she would definitely be coming. It’s the first time she’s been out since Nicolette died, so we’ll have to look after her.”
“Mmm,” said Camilla noncommittally. Writing to Roz to express her sympathies had been one thing; somehow, she couldn’t imagine herself looking after her. That was a different matter entirely.
“Lena,” Loulou called out, waving a slender arm in the air, “can you come take over? I’m going to mingle and help everyone lose all their money. Where’s Mac?”
“Helping everyone lose all their money,” said Lena, sliding into Loulou’s seat. “And someone named Poppy’s just come in. She wondered where you were.”
“Poppy!” Loulou exclaimed, clapping her hands. “That’s great. But how could she possibly have missed me? Aren’t I the biggest woman in here?”
“The second biggest,” observed Matt, appearing at Camilla’s side and helping Loulou through the gap between her seat and the table. “There’s an enormous opera singer playing blackjack. I swear she’s sitting on three chairs pushed together.”
“Thank you, Matt,” said Loulou gravely. “In fact, I only invited her because she makes me feel positively sylphlike.”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” declared Poppy, when Loulou found her at the bar with Jamie, the boyfriend who had unwittingly caused so much trouble at the Easter Ball. “A lot can certainly happen in nine months, darling.”
“More than you think,” said Loulou as she leaned forward and kissed her. “It’s lovely to see you again. I didn’t even know if you’d remember who I was.”
“It was a memorable night.” Poppy laughed. “Jamie and I are married now, and I’ve already spotted your gorgeous man here. Have you two tied the knot?”
“Still unraveling the old one,” whispered Loulou. “It’s all a bit complicated, but I’m very happy and that’s what matters at the moment. I’ve got to say hello to a few people but I’ll join you in a minute. We’ll have a good gossip, and this time it won’t be in the ladies’ loo.”
Camilla, having bet cautiously at the roulette table and lost while Matt consistently piled chips on single numbers and won, paused to take a drink and saw Roz arrive. The chilled wine froze in her throat as she realized who was with her.
Jack.
And Roz certainly didn’t appear as if she needed looking after. Her short, dark hair was spikily elegant, her gypsyish eyes heavy with makeup. Impossibly slender in a plunging, emerald-green satin dress that shimmered with a life of its own, she sauntered on Jack’s arm through the mass of people, flashing her crimson-and-white smile at faces she recognized and graciously acknowledging their greetings as she passed them. The news of Nicolette’s tragic death had been well publicized in the press, and Roz had received the public’s sympathy. Exonerated for her “sins” of just a few months ago, she had been forgiven and welcomed back to the charmed celebrity fold. And since she was no longer a single mother, her job had been returned to her, and her new TV series, Camilla had
read, was about to go into production.
Well, she thought with a trace of bitterness, Roz certainly didn’t look like a grieving mother tonight. And she was back with Jack. It was like a cruel, double betrayal.
Jack, she had to admit, was also looking good. Following the breakup of their marriage, he had put on a fair amount of weight, which hadn’t suited him. She had seen him from time to time since then, of course, when she was picking up the children or when he dropped them off to her, but now, dressed in a well-tailored dinner jacket and with his light-brown hair combed severely back from his face, she realized that he had improved a lot in the last few months. The extra weight was gone and he had a good tan. And he certainly looked happy enough to be here with Roz tonight.
Selfish lover, unfaithful husband, deceitful man, she told herself, deciding that she didn’t want to speak to him tonight and reaching for the reassuring contact of Matt’s hand. He turned and winked at her. Jack bothered him not at all.
“We’re doing pretty well, sweetheart. Fancy a vacation in Barbados?”
“Lovely,” said Camilla, relaxing and squeezing his warm hand, the realization of how little either Jack or Roz now mattered to her flooding through her like a drug. “But whoever would I choose to take with me?”
* * *
“Who on earth is that?” she whispered to Loulou half an hour later, as a man standing a few feet away turned and stared coldly at them for several seconds without smiling. Then, with slow deliberation, he turned away once more, resuming his scrutiny of the roulette table at which Matt was still amassing vast quantities of chips.
“Laszlo de Lazzari,” said Loulou loudly and with mild contempt. “He’s a mean bastard, but loaded. I’m amazed he even turned up.”
“Sinister,” observed Camilla with a shiver. The man was tall, fortyish, elegantly constructed, and immaculately dressed, but his face was decidedly piratical. A black eye patch covered his right eye. His thick black hair was shot through with silver, and his cheekbones were twin scimitars, incredibly prominent and as sharply defined as the hard, uncurving line of his mouth. His large nose was Roman in design, and when he lifted his glass to drink, Camilla saw that he was wearing the largest diamond ring she had ever seen.
“Italian?” she asked, wondering why such an openly hostile stare had been directed toward them. Loulou shrugged. “God knows, but it’s a dangerous mixture. If you value your virginity, keep away from him. I wish Nico could have been here tonight,” she said, changing the subject. “I hope he gets back from Italy before I drop the lump. Did I tell you that he’s going to be godfather?”
Camilla smiled. “He’ll spoil it to pieces.”
“That’s why I need a sensible godmother to make sure my child doesn’t end up a complete brat. Did I tell you, by the way, who I wanted to be godmother?” Wincing slightly, she placed her hand over her stomach as the baby kicked out.
“No.” Camilla had assumed she would choose Roz.
“You. If you’d like to be, of course.”
“Oh, Lou…” So overwhelmed by the compliment that she could hardly speak, Camilla embraced her friend. “I’d love to.”
* * *
Laszlo de Lazzari was definitely a man to be wary of, Camilla decided as she watched him at the roulette table. During the course of the evening, she had caught him favoring Loulou with several more of those intimidatingly icy stares. Now he was betting heavily, and winning.
His one visible eye, she realized, was of the shade that under any other circumstances she would have described as baby blue. Instead, she shivered inwardly at the unblinking intensity of that steadfast gaze and could only liken it to the deadly eye of a cobra.
Matt, seated opposite him, roared with laughter whenever he lost a bet, but de Lazzari remained virtually silent throughout, ignoring the spinning wheel, moving only to place and replace his chips after each game.
By eleven fifty-five, they had roughly equal numbers of chips and everyone who had long ago lost theirs was crowding around the table to watch the game.
Finally, Laszlo de Lazzari spoke.
“You are clearly a gambling man of good fortune and good humor,” he announced, addressing Matt. “Would it not be interesting to settle the game on a single spin of the wheel? Rouge or noir. You may choose your color, sir.”
Camilla, standing behind Matt, watched her fingers dig into the shoulder of his dinner jacket and heard him drawl “Sure. Why not?” with lazy amusement as if the man had offered nothing more than a cigarette.
The atmosphere grew tense. Camilla held her breath. With an economical gesture, de Lazzari indicated that Matt should make his choice of color and Matt in turn twisted around in his seat to smile at Camilla and lightly run his finger over the crimson silk taffeta of her dress. Across the room, she was aware of Jack’s eyes upon her and determinedly didn’t look back at him.
“My lady is wearing red,” said Matt, slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her against him, “so I guess that’s what I’ll go for. Will you spin the wheel, Lou?”
“With pleasure. Good luck, Matt,” she said, flashing a look of disdain in de Lazzari’s direction. “Here we go.”
Two hundred and fifty people held their breath as the winner of the evening’s prize was decided by a small, spinning, clattering silver ball racing around inside a wheel. Loulou stared at it, utterly mesmerized. Camilla closed her eyes. Matt winked at one of the journalists balancing precariously on a chair at the back of the room and said, “Bernie, are you sure you want to be a tightrope walker when you grow up?”
De Lazzari, for the first time that evening, watched the wheel turn.
The ball slowed, skipped, jumped, and finally settled. Everyone in the room exhaled in unison. Camilla opened her eyes.
“I guess you should have worn your black dress tonight, honey,” said Matt, giving her waist a squeeze. “Never mind. Maybe we can afford a weekend in Yorkshire instead.”
“My game, I believe,” commented de Lazzari, his inscrutable blue eye fixing upon Loulou and ignoring Matt totally. “But I would be happy to play another, Miss Marks. With you.”
“You don’t say,” she replied shortly. “I know you’re new to this country, Mr. de Lazzari, but you really should know that we don’t play those sort of games over here.”
“Not even for your beloved charity?” he questioned, his voice dry with irony. “Come, come, my dear. I wonder how concerned you really are beneath your charmingly benevolent facade. Double or nothing, that is my proposal. For two wealthy people such as ourselves the risk is hardly—”
“OK,” blurted out Loulou, her fists clenched at her sides, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. “OK, we’ll play. Double or nothing. That’s ten grand.”
“She must be mad,” muttered Mac, appearing beside Camilla and Matt. “Lou’s the worst gambler in the world. Every horse she’s ever laid a bet on in her life has run backward.”
Matt grinned, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “Well, she’s playing with a dark horse now, that’s for sure.”
“Tell her to stop,” said Camilla, and Mac threw her a meaningful look, his dark eyes signaling despair.
“Since when did Loulou ever take notice of anything I said?”
Seconds later, they watched once more as the wheel spun with the ball.
When it stopped, Laszlo de Lazzari permitted himself a small, terrifyingly controlled smile. “Well done, my dear,” he said to Loulou. “You are very lucky. Your precious money is safe.”
Camilla, feeling almost sick with relief, turned hurriedly away and headed for the toilets. By the time she returned, Laszlo de Lazzari would hopefully be gone and the party could continue happily through the night without him.
When she emerged from her cubicle, however, she found Roz redoing her lipstick in the mirror that stretched across the length of the four ivory-marbled
basins. By the deadpan expression in her eyes, Camilla realized that she had come here purely to speak to her. Her dark eyes reflected in the mirror, Roz watched her without turning, then slowly recapped her lipstick and dropped it into the evening bag that lay open beside her. Whenever she wished to do so, Roz had always been able to veil her true feelings behind an inscrutable outer mask. Camilla, she thought with a trace of scorn, had never possessed that facility; her thoughts and emotions were there, plastered all over her face, and Roz took pleasure in registering each one in turn. The initial shock—almost fear—had already given way to uncertainty, and this in turn was now replaced by a wavering anxious smile, the overtures of a nonexistent friendship. Finally, as Roz watched her remembering the letter she had written a few weeks ago, came the expected flicker of sympathy. Typical of Camilla, she thought, to have written such a gushing, all-girls together letter. And typical, too, that she was now moving toward her, forgiving her for the past to sympathize with her in her present grief.
“Roz, how are you?” Camilla said, and Roz registered that the anxiety in her voice was due to a mixture of genuine concern and uncertainty as to how she would react.
“I’m very well, thank you,” she replied evenly, and watched Camilla hesitate.
“Did you get my letter?”
“I did.” Lighting a cigarette, she blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it drift toward the door.
“I can’t tell you how I felt when I heard about Nicolette. It must have been so terrible,” continued Camilla, warming up. “Are you coping all right? If there’s anything at all I can do, you know, of course, that you only have to ask…” Her voice trailed away beneath Roz’s blank stare and the sympathy died from her eyes to be replaced by that scared-puppy expression Roz remembered so well from school. Camilla might have changed, she thought with cold triumph, but she hadn’t changed that much.
And it was both fascinating and reassuring to know that she could still set her on the edge of that precipice of self-doubt and inferiority.