Winner Take All

by T. Davis Bunn

  When the doors sighed shut, Lloyd’s wife said, “I keep telling myself, if only he would give in to the pain, admit how close he is to death, he would be so much easier to live with. But Kedrick has never been an easy man.”

  Marcus took that as an invitation and lowered himself into the seat beside her. It was still warm from Kedrick’s presence. He offered a hand. “Marcus Glenwood.”

  “Evelyn Lloyd.” A trace of humor flickered across her wounded features. “My husband had some rather choice things to say about you.”

  “You’re American?”

  “From Philadelphia. I met Kedrick at Duke.” Her attention slid back to the burnished doors. “The doctors have given him a month to live four times over the past year and a half. That is the kind of fighter my husband is.”

  “There’s no need to explain anything.”

  Another faint flicker, remnants of a more pleasant time. “Shall we start over?”

  “Gladly. I was hoping to ask your husband about Erin Brandt.”

  “Erin, Erin.” She scanned the foyer, seeing none of it. “Kedrick introduced her to Dale.”

  “So I heard.”

  “And then flew into a memorable rage when they decided to marry. Kedrick did everything but order Dale not to go ahead with it.” She shook her head. “What a vain and stubborn man.”

  Marcus was uncertain whether she was speaking about her husband or Dale. “Erin Brandt’s pictures make her out to be very attractive.”

  “Erin Brandt can’t possibly be captured by photographs. She is the most magnetic creature I have ever come across. I suppose it is what one might call star quality. Even so, I never understood why Kedrick remained so intently focused upon having her sing at the Met.”

  “Your husband was on the board of the opera house in New York, is that right?”

  “He still is. His work for the Met keeps him alive.” Her gaze continued its long-distance roving. “Erin Brandt is two persons. The diva is warm and alluring and utterly captivating, with one of the finest voices I have ever heard. When she smiles at you, you cannot help but return the gift.”

  “And the other?”

  “Ah, that is the question, is it not.”

  “The woman is secretive?”

  “I have never met anyone who could say they truly knew Erin Brandt.”

  Marcus found himself thinking of another lovely woman. One with eyes like an Arctic sunrise, softest indigo and shattered ice. “Maybe Dale came to know the real Erin.”

  “Perhaps so, Mr. Glenwood. Perhaps that is why she left him.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare these documents for overnight shipment to London.”

  “We are at the Wyndham another two nights. Come by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you a little more about the woman you oppose.” She offered a hand long and tapered as a man’s. “It is seldom I meet someone able to shrug off one of my husband’s broadsides.”

  Marcus turned away as swiftly as was polite. “Maybe I’ve just got more pressing matters on my mind.”

  CHAPTER

  ———

  18

  KIRSTEN FOUND IT STRANGE that she had missed the threat until she came out of the dressing room, since people in the shop had already begun casting glances her way. She had entered the Escada boutique on New Bond Street because she knew the place and liked the dark little number in the window. She figured she’d make a quick in-and-out, grab what she needed, and be gone so fast she could pretend it hadn’t really happened. For any moth, however, there was grave risk in flirting with the flame. She opened the dressing room door and aimed for the floor-length mirror on the opposite wall, only to be stopped by a far more ominous reflection.

  The framed poster was a blowup of an ad they had run all over Europe. She was standing in heels and a fluffy hotel bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower, giving a sultry inspection both to the viewer and an array of four Escada dresses and jewels and bags laid out on the bed. The company had made it their trademark ad for three seasons, beyond eternal in the rag trade. Kirsten turned away with the speed of retreating from a white-hot oven. But the salesgirl was there with an old copy of Vogue opened to the same page, asking for her autograph. Which drew over the store manager and another salesclerk and one of the patrons, all of them saying how great it was to meet her, where on earth had she been, the girls these days were just empty faces. Which was precisely Kirsten’s thought as she stared at herself staring back.

  She returned to the hotel and pretended to sleep. But the internal din was resettled now into audible confines. This was not a random series of events. The game was stalking her. She was being drawn back, and to a new level whose appeal was so strong she could feel it grip her middle and twist with exquisite pain.

  The early evening traffic was so bad Kirsten finally had the taxi let her off halfway down Piccadilly. The late July evening held an almost autumnal chill, particularly in her new sleeveless number of midnight blue silk. Walking was sweetest anguish. Everything was tainted by earlier memories. She passed swiftly through Leicester Square, skirting the grifters and the crowds. A cluster of Persian boys caught her by the tube stop and chased her with lewd offers. Who’s your daddy, they cried repeatedly as she fled. The litany bit deep.

  She walked the length of Garrick Street, past the fashionable spots she knew so very well. The Covent Garden market was alive with its nightly theater when she entered, the first-timers agog over the spice-laden air and the multitude of street performers. Kirsten slipped through the knot of autograph hounds waiting by the stage door and gave her name to the very attentive guard. She was buzzed inside, then had to wait while someone was called from upstairs. Over the guard’s loudspeaker came the sounds of the orchestra warming up. The preperformance bustle and electric tension squeezed her into the far corner.

  “Ms. Stansted?” A bony middle-aged woman with a dancer’s stance offered her hand. “Hillary Crampeth. So nice, so nice. Would you care to come this way?”

  The guard buzzed them through a second locked door. The hostess led Kirsten past the backstage entrance and hurried up the winding stairs. “We’re so delighted to have Ms. Brandt singing tonight. We’d do absolutely anything for her. Naturally we try to anticipate a star’s every whim in advance, but when she asked us for a prime seat for tonight’s performance, well, it gave us quite a start. Thankfully, sold out never actually means sold out. There are always one or two seats which the house management hold back.”

  She knocked smartly on a door with a brass plaque proclaiming it to be the director’s box, then opened it and said, “Your seat is there on the left. Enjoy the performance. I’ll be back to gather you at the intermission.”

  The alcove held the feel of a velvet-lined jewelry case, with a high-ceilinged balcony directly overlooking the stage. Kirsten nodded to the two older couples in formal evening wear, who responded with haughty British curiosity.

  The performance opened with a number by the orchestra, chorus, and ballet. Kirsten was so close to the stage she could see the dust fly off the dancers’ feet. She observed the cords in the singers’ necks tense up with carefully masked effort. She felt their talent and power in her chest.

  Erin Brandt appeared to a spontaneous burst of applause. The diva was stunning. The two women to Kirsten’s left used the word to death as they applauded her opening aria. Kirsten could think of nothing else which described her. Erin was captivatingly small, certainly not the standard big-boned, lard-encased soprano. She floated, she trilled. She spun her magic and carried the house. Every eye was upon her for every instant she remained upon the stage.

  At the intermission the aging hostess was back to lead Kirsten away. She ignored the caustic stares of others who wished for such personal treatment and asked, “How do you find the performance so far?”

  “Stunning.”

  The woman nodded matter-of-fact agreement. “We’ve arranged for you to have a table in the Vinson Floral Balcony. I hope that’s adequate
.” She did her best not to appear to hurry Kirsten along while slipping easily down the cramped hallway. She pushed through a side door, marched down a private hallway, and entered a massive chamber awash with noise. “This was originally a Victorian floral market attached to the theater. It was then used for storing stage sets before the changeover.”

  They traversed a balcony-restaurant overlooking a main hall with a seventy-foot domed ceiling. The hostess led Kirsten to a table by the balcony’s railing, where an iced bucket and a split of champagne awaited. She signaled to the head waiter, gave Kirsten a tight smile, and departed with “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  As the waiter was opening her champagne, a bulbous little man with cat’s-eye glasses of electric blue came rushing over. “Ms. Stansted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reiner Klatz. I am Ms. Brandt’s manager.” He clipped his heels together and bowed such that his jacket bunched over his belly. “You are most welcome, I am sure.”

  The man was so familiar she could have drawn him from a hundred different scenarios. “Thank you.”

  “This hall, it is so very British, is it not? It reminds me of a Victorian train station, all glass and steel and noise and bad air.” Klatz found reason for disdain in everything he saw. Another common trait of such hangers-on. “Do you know, they held the final topping out ceremony here when the house’s reconstruction was completed. But the week before, they discovered pigeons nesting in the steel railings. How were they to get them out? Of course with all this glass they could not use guns.” He gave her a tight smile. “So they brought in sparrow hawks. Very hungry ones. Ingenious, no?”

  If there was a message intended for her, she missed it entirely. “Ms. Brandt sings beautifully.”

  “Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a reception by one of the corporate sponsors after tonight’s performance. Ms. Brandt has agreed to make a brief appearance. Naturally you’d be welcome to join her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” He bustled away. Kirsten watched him stop at one table after another, hovering like a well-padded moth, but never landing.

  The second and third acts were endless and timeless both. Just before Erin began her final aria, she seemed to turn and look directly at Kirsten. The electric quality of her singing intensified to where it left Kirsten breathless. Forget the spotlights, forget even the sun. Erin gestured, and there was such a joy to the movement and the song the audience accepted the invitation and flew with her. Erin gave everything to the crowd, and did so with an abandon that was both ethereal and grippingly erotic.

  There came the crescendo and the curtain. The crowd responded with a frenzy. Kirsten could not help but join in—watching them, watching Erin, watching herself.

  After the performance she was collected once more by the hostess, who gave her the hasty grimace of one whose night was only gathering steam. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “Very much.”

  “I’m so glad. This way please.” Down the same hallway, then a jink to the left, and the hostess held open a leather-padded door. Beyond stretched a golden Raphaelite chamber illuminated by a tier of mammoth chandeliers. Thirty-foot-high walls were adorned with Renaissance-style paintings of stage performances. The chamber was aswirl with chatter and jewels and perfect makeup and people who pretended not to observe Kirsten’s entry.

  Before the hostess could depart, a voice behind them announced, “I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind.”

  The hostess became a fluttering bundle of nerves. “Oh, Ms. Brandt, forgive me, I didn’t see—”

  But her apology was swept aside by the throng pressing in from all sides. Erin slipped her hand around Kirsten’s elbow, smiled a benign acknowledgment to the crowd, then said softly, “There are a few people I must speak to here, darling. Then we’ll be off to somewhere more delicious.”

  Erin released Kirsten and permitted herself to be drawn into the milling throng. People made room for Kirsten, a glass was offered, a few polite words spoken by those to either side. Kirsten was granted entry because the diva clearly wished it. Just one more courtier.

  Eventually Erin waved the others aside and said to Kirsten, “There is a horrid little man over by the bar. He’s the intendant of the Berlin opera. I must go over and pay homage. Would you mind terribly being my support?”

  “All right.”

  Erin’s fairy-like movements granted her a miniature quality. Walking beside her, Kirsten had the impression that the woman never left her toes, never truly connected with the earth at all. Erin asked, “You’re not surprised a star must still bother with the unpleasantries and the mundane?”

  “I was a model.”

  “But of course you were, darling.” The hand returned to Kirsten’s arm. “How else could all this be so perfect?”

  The intendant stood beside Reiner Klatz, Erin’s manager. He was a toothpick in gray gabardine. A silk foulard tickled the bottom of his silver goatee. He observed their approach as a gourmand would the presentation of his fantasy meal. Erin did not bother to introduce Kirsten. Reiner Klatz’s blue-clad gaze never left her. Erin sparkled for the man, then mentioned casually, “I’ve heard you’re doing Rosenkavalier next season.”

  The intendant’s gaze traversed Kirsten’s form once more. “That is correct.”

  Erin continued to stroke Kirsten’s arm, her hand out where the intendant could observe. “Do you have your Marschallin cast yet? I haven’t sung it in four years and I miss it terribly.”

  “Your last time was in Wien, neh?”

  “How nice of you to remember,” Erin purred.

  “The papers gave you rave reviews.” He could not force his gaze to settle anywhere for long. “Perhaps we should meet and discuss this.”

  “Speak with Reiner, why don’t you?” She drew Kirsten around. “Come, darling. Our night awaits.”

  The halls were filled with staff and singers who wanted to exclaim over the diva and her performance. Erin glided through, smiling for all and seeing none. Even the stone-faced guard by the rear door stood to pay her homage and help her with the silk summer mantle. Outside, the purple Rolls was still waiting, a uniformed chauffeur by the open rear door.

  “On loan from an admirer who was made positively livid by your arrival,” Erin said, sliding in beside Kirsten. When the chauffeur slipped behind the wheel, she ordered, “Take the long way to the Savoy.”

  “Very good, Madame.”

  “I love being driven through London in a Rolls. In Germany it looks outrageous. Here it is merely good taste. The house assigns me a car, of course. I couldn’t possibly ask for a Rolls, not when I could have a week of five-star luxury in Malaysia for the same price.” Erin snuggled deeper, her pleasure so complete it bordered on the obscene. “Isn’t this divine?”

  Surrounded by Erin’s scent and her voice and her eyes, Kirsten decided this was how an alcoholic must feel passing a bar. There was no reward for taking the clean road. No feeling of goodness or rightness. And afterward, the unsatiated desire remained a bare and shrieking nerve. She had never thought of herself as a potential addict until that very moment. “Why Malaysia?”

  “The beaches. White sand, coral atolls, perfectly empty. The hotels are very Asian, very discreet, a hundred smiling young men eager to make this a perfect day.” Eyes turned obscure by the night studied Kirsten. “Do you have a perfect beach?”

  For reasons only half formed, she responded, “Wrightsville.”

  “Now that wasn’t nice.” She traced a fingernail along the back of Kirsten’s hand. She leaned closer, such that her lips all but flickered over Kirsten’s ear. She breathed, “This is your thousand and one nights, sister. The genie is out of the bottle and at your command. Do you really wish to vanquish the spell, and make the magic vanish like smoke?”

  She replied overloud, “Yes.”

  Erin smirked down at Kirsten’s hand. She said nothing more, merely continued the soft stroking, until they pulle
d past Simpson’s and entered the Savoy cul-de-sac. When the doorman opened Erin’s door, she whispered, “Let’s go see what we can find.”

  CHAPTER

  ———

  19

  STRIPED MARBLE COLUMNS with gilded caps marched stolidly down the center of the Savoy lobby. The tray ceiling was frescoed in gold leaf and framed ten brass and smoked-glass chandeliers. Kirsten knew because she counted them as she waited. Three steps away, Erin stood surrounded by fans and photographers and chatter. Twice Erin looked her way, imploring her to join in. But Kirsten felt no desire to be a star by proxy. As she watched Erin revel in the diva’s role, Kirsten almost wished she could resign herself to falling tonight and never rising again. At least then she would end the terror of being wounded anew by myths of love and hope.

  Erin returned then, slipping her arm around Kirsten’s waist and smiling as photographers trapped the pair of them in electric epoxy. Another soft grip of her hand, an even softer “Come.”

  Erin led her to the side hall, away from the lower lounge with its live jazz quartet and smoky elegant din. They entered what was more of an alcove than a restaurant, one named merely “Upstairs.” A dozen stools lined the narrow bar, with nine tables set along the windows overlooking the hotel’s front entrance. The talk was as muted as the illumination from the Savoy sign over the hotel portal.

  Erin stopped by a table where a bottle of champagne already peeked from a glistening bucket. “I only drink champagne and I never smoke. Those are the only traits I covet of the baritones and their breed, how deep-voiced men can have whiskey and cigarillos and still sing. I have tried both and love them too much for a fragile-throated woman.” She waved Kirsten into a seat. “Are you always so quiet?”