by Anna Maxted
The booze was courtesy of Krug, and Maria, ravishing in a turquoise silk Missoni dress and Givenchy scent, was draped in three million pounds’ worth of De Beers yellow diamonds. They had also lent a bodyguard, which he’d teased her about; he didn’t know whether to be pleased to be OKed by De Beers or pissed off she wasn’t wearing the diamonds he’d bought her. On reflection, he was pissed off. He didn’t need to be sponsored by a shop, but it was hardly meant as an insult so he supposed he’d let it go. His suit was Jermyn Street and his shoes were Hermès. He felt strong, powerful, and he looked even better. Rugged was the word. He was fitter than he’d ever been, with a personal trainer and a nutritionist, as well as a chef.
Jack intended to live for a long, long time, if not for ever.
‘Darling, are you coming down?’ Maria’s gentle voice broke into his thoughts. ‘There’s a massive traffic jam of priceless cars full of famous people. You need to be downstairs to meet and greet. It’s going to be amazing. The place looks just gorgeous, and there’s a good feeling about it. The chocolate sculptures of Marilyn Monroe and Steve McQueen are incredible. And the cigarette girls are so sweet in their outfits. I wonder if everyone is going to end up in the pool, or if they’ll be too precious about their hair. I should be used to them all by now, but I still get a little starstruck. Not with new Hollywood, but with, oh, Kirk Douglas, and Tony Curtis. Old Hollywood are the perfect party guests, they have such good manners and they’ll never turn up to a black-tie event in jeans. Oh God, I’m a mess, can’t you tell?’
He stroked her face. ‘Angel, you’re nervous, but not about the actors and singers and models and rock stars. You chat to them about their problems day in day out; you give them advice; you keep their secrets. They look up to you. You are half the reason they stay here, I’m certain. You, my darling, are nervous because later tonight I am going to introduce you to someone who I know will fall in love with you, just as I have, and will become a very special part of your life.’ That was about right, wasn’t it? The sort of thing women liked to hear?
Her eyes glistened with tears.
Wrong, wrong, totally wrong!
‘You are the sweetest man. Thank you.’
Utter confusion.
She paused, wiped the corner of her eye. ‘I can’t wait. But I will. I think you’re right. By midnight the guests will be taking care of themselves and I won’t be so vital. No one will notice if you and I and Claudia slip out of the room.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Oh my God, look at me, I’m shaking all over!’
He smiled back and linked her arm in his. ‘Shall we?’ he said.
The ballroom was a mass of people, but it looked different to most parties and it took Jack a moment to establish what that difference was. Then he realized: universal beauty. Here was a gathering of human beings who enjoyed the greatest success and wealth that life had to offer, many of them touched with some talent, a few blessed with great talent, but almost without exception they were gorgeous: fair of face, tight of buttock and all the bits in between, and in honour of his celebration, they’d had their people plucking and buffing and primping and perfecting until they looked exquisite. Priceless. He was proud. He didn’t care what the press wrote or said. He was back, he was triumphant. He was in with the in crowd.
Jack took a deep breath and launched into the throng. It was loud with laughter and the deep clink of Italian lead crystal. Business cards were already being exchanged, all the Who Knew Who, and What Do You Do. He squeezed Maria’s hand as they parted – unless he took her prisoner in their suite, she was never off duty at the Belle Époque – and now she would be checking on the waiting staff, keeping an eye on the fussier guests (i.e. all of them), ensuring that no need went unsatisfied, tracking those who were sworn enemies (who had been fired by whom, whose wife had slept with whom): the evening was an assault course in diplomacy.
‘Tom.’ He smiled. ‘How are you? So sorry Nicole couldn’t … And the kids? Thank you so much for the … I haven’t yet had a chance to … Looks very interesting …
‘Madonna, sensational – white rhinestone? … I must get one for myself! I haven’t seen you since … ? Congratulations, she must be … ? Lovely age! Well … how kind. I’m sure Emily would love to, once the baby is born.
‘Mollie, congratulations on all your success, so thoroughly deserved … I admire your choices … and so courageous, lesser mortals would have worn a fat suit … And now, so tiny. Your metabolism, of course … But please, eat, eat!’
He was polished, suave, and not too pleased with himself – at least, not that he let it show. He was as good an actor as any of them. Madonna especially. Ah, there was Emily, looking fit to burst, feeling Bruce Willis’s bicep. Bruce didn’t look too troubled. And right in front of her husband – he didn’t look too troubled either. Ah, the wonder of meds. And Claudia, she looked rough as hell. Plainly, the revelations had shattered her. He swallowed and turned away. Maria was far across the other side of the ballroom, no doubt scanning the crowd every second for her long-lost daughter, but this wretched creature was hardly recognizable as a person. And yet, even with his feeble grasp of the workings of human emotion, Jack knew that when Maria’s gaze did fall on her girl, she would see the most beautiful woman in the world.
He hoped the introduction to Maria would be a happy shock for Claudia. Jack wasn’t the greatest father, but he could put the offer of a good mother on the table. It was the best he could do. He couldn’t afford to grieve with her. Instead he would give Claudia the tools to cut short her pity party and move on.
There was a murmur, and he turned to see Innocence poised at the door. She was witchy in a bright red flamenco-style dress, which somehow complemented her pink hair. Rubies glittered at her throat and disappeared into her bulging cleavage. She was smoking, as usual, from a long black cigarette-holder – for a second he imagined it as a wand – and her heavily kohled eyes were slits. Her venomous gaze fell on Maria. Then, chin jutted in defiance, she turned towards him.
Anxiety rose in his chest. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows arched and he was treated to a provocative pout. She tossed her hair and strode fast across the dance floor towards him. He noticed – and another time it might have made him smile – De Niro step hastily out of her way. There was a hush. For a crazy second, he imagined she had a gun on her and, despising himself, glanced around for his detail.
They were on her in seconds. So discreet, and his guests would have imagined, had they managed to wrench their attention from themselves, that this stunning creature was simply arm in arm with a couple of solicitous friends, keeping her warm as she swept outside to retrieve her mobile from the limousine, and, perhaps, list the origins of her shoes, dress and bag to People magazine. Did she have a gun? Had he forgotten his meds? Of course not and it didn’t matter: the point was, while she still considered herself his wife, their relationship was long dead and he did not want her poison and spite to destroy his glorious evening.
He saw Maria place a friendly hand on Robert Downey, Jr’s arm; she felt Jack’s gaze and looked at him and smiled. And then her smile was frozen in time, as an ear-ripping bang filled the room with blinding fire and he felt himself hurled into the air with an almighty force. He gasped as a flying object hit him hard in the face – the bloody stump of an arm, a delicate diamond bracelet encircling the still-warm wrist. He stumbled on broken glass, smoke filled his nostrils and his mouth was dry with dust. The room fell into darkness; there was a deep rumble, a terrible crack and great chunks of cement rained down, a deadly hail. And then, in the crackling heat, he lost consciousness, and the screams of terror and pain of the great and the good and the beautiful subsided into black.
BOOK TWO
SUFFOLK, ENGLAND, 1969
Jack
‘You posh git, Cannadine,’ said Jack. ‘This house is the size of Sweden.’
Harry laughed. God, his teeth were white. Jack decided he would only smile if the rooms were dimly lit. This place was built to make you feel small
. Everything – the black and gold wrought-iron gates, the primly manicured gardens, the blue turrets and the yellow stone walls – boasted centuries of self-importance and snootiness.
An ancient bloke in a black suit was standing at the foot of the stone steps that led to the wide arched front door. The man nodded, humble, as the white Aston Martin screeched to a halt an inch from his polished shoes. Jack was embarrassed. An old man, bowing to him and Harry. He wanted to fetch the bloke his slippers and park him in front of the telly with a paper and a pipe.
‘The old girl’s a bit of a dragon,’ said Harry in a loud, cheerful voice. He winked at Jack. ‘You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s. But the totty will make up for it. You’ll see.’
He glanced at Jack’s suitcase. ‘I’d leave that for the house steward, old chap,’ he said.
Jack dropped it like a hot coal. He was sweating in his suit. His tie was too thin, too mod. Harry was wearing his tweed blazer the colour of puke. It had holes in one sleeve and the cuff was frayed – how come that wasn’t a social blunder?
‘Auntie!’ boomed Harry as an elderly woman strode towards them. Christ, this must be Lady Templeton: the Ice Queen in a crazy hairdo, mad make-up and a knitted suit. The woman looked as if she was living in the 1860s. He went briefly deaf with fright as Harry introduced them. She welcomed him graciously: all the right words, not one ounce of emotion. He admired it.
The old guy showed them to their rooms – the Bachelor Wing. Yeah, not for long!
Jack assumed his poker face. The huge painting of the general looked familiar. Fuck, that was a Gainsborough!
‘Dinner is served at eight sharp, in the Red Dining Room. Drinks will be served in the Blue Room at seven fifteen. Please ring the bell if you need further assistance.’
Jack felt sick. He must not make a fool of himself. This was his big chance – his only chance. He wasn’t going to screw up.
They’d been sitting in the meeting room at work. Jack was staring at a monstrous oil painting of a flotilla of ships, all grey, battling their way through a storm – the sky was also grey with a tinge of yellow. This was some pompous old fart’s idea of optimism. He’d stick a Lichtenstein up there. Wham! That one with the fighter jet exploding: modern, dynamic, cool.
It’s the end of the Season, Harry had said, interrupting his thoughts.
Jack had stopped himself from joking, ‘What, autumn?’
Harry’s aunt, Lady Templeton, was giving a dinner party for her younger daughter, and needed a few extra boys. It would be a hoot. ‘Bit of a change for you, hanging round Carnaby Street with your dolly birds, then off to a Which concert.’
‘The Who, you prat,’ Jack had said, laughing. He’d been to a Who concert once, and Pete Townshend had smashed his guitar into an amp at the end of the show. He, Jack, was all for senseless violence, but it left him feeling weird. Maybe he just didn’t like … waste. ‘Go on,’ he’d said to Harry.
This would be black tie. The daughter had a face like a gargoyle, but some of the other debs might be tasty.
‘Sure she won’t mind you showing up with a Yid?’ asked Jack.
‘Our family has many friends who are Jewish,’ Harry had replied stiffly.
Jack shrugged, saying, ‘Why not?’ but actually, he was made up.
He didn’t fancy any of the girls his mother introduced him to – all so boring, so familiar, like shagging your sister. Jack had plans. He only had a junior job at the broker’s, but it was still the City. And considering that, unlike his colleagues, he’d gone to a grammar school, was terrified of rugger and didn’t have a client list padded with ex-classmates, he’d done bloody well. Thank Christ for his key to society: the Hon. Harry Cannadine, that big friendly Labrador of a man on the next desk.
Harry was right, the cousin’s face was not her fortune; her fortune was her fortune. She looked a state: white gloves; dress like a toilet-roll doll, shiny white material all gussied up with gold lace. She wore diamonds everywhere you could stick a diamond – there was one up her burn, if her posture was anything to go by. She spoke softly but clearly, sitting a chaste distance from him on the overstuffed sofa, kindly enquiring about bugger-all. But, of course, old Bat Features didn’t want her daughter wasting time on a social zero like him, and whipped her away after eight minutes.
Two of the men strolled up and introduced themselves. They were both larger than him – superior stock, raised on hearty cooked meals and bracing exercise over hill and dale. They chatted smoothly around the confines of their patch: the markets, the racing, current mode of transport. Jack smiled to himself, because it wasn’t any different, really, to his Uncle Ted from the East End, making small talk in the pub, asking the next bloke over his pint of bitter, ‘What you driving?’
Jack had all but convinced himself that, posh as nuts or salt of the earth, they were all the same at heart, when one of the men – Charles, Tom, Dick, one of those jolly, dependable names – said, ‘I walked from the station rather than pay for a cab, I’m such a Jew.’
Jack choked on his vodka. His face was red, as if it was his shame. As if, by being an actual Jew, he’d made the blunder!
The etiquette was probably to ignore it – not make the prick feel bad about being a prick. He would say nothing. He would rise above it.
‘I’m Jewish,’ he said.
‘A turn of phrase, old chap,’ replied one of the Titans, showing his back like a wall. ‘Keep your hair on.’
They laughed, and he felt small, inferior, the sad little outsider turned away at the door. You wait, he thought. I’m as good as you. I’m better.
Then a great gong clanged, like at the start of a Carry On film, and he found himself walking into dinner next to a horse-faced girl in a shawl. He was still too hurt, too angry to speak, but he managed a tight smile. The room was vast and ornate. The table was crowded with silver cutlery, crystal glasses, pink roses and a porcelain sheikh holding a china seashell – for what? Fag butts?
The rest of the country was sitting in front of The Avengers with a plate of Birds Eye beef burgers on its lap.
Then he saw her and his anger melted.
She was a goddess. She had big dark eyes with long black lashes, a babyish roundness to her cheeks, and a red, pouty mouth – my God – and long blond hair, all wild corkscrew curls.
She was sitting next to him. He pulled out her chair. He couldn’t stop staring.
She had on a fuck-off necklace and was wearing some dress … tits. He couldn’t stand the vogue for skinny birds; it was like getting it on with an ironing board. Shit. Not here! He sat down, grabbed his napkin and covered his lap.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the goddess. ‘You are too kind! I’m Miss Felicia Love. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’
An American! Of course. She had an open look. The English women were all so covert.
‘Jack Kent. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Mr Kent, I can tell.’ She darted a glance at the napkin and sucked her lower lip. She knew what she was doing. He thought young ladies were different. He was shocked!
He couldn’t swallow, which was a shame because it was the best food he’d never eaten: clear soup and crayfish, veal and beef. He’d planned to copy Cannadine’s every move so as not to embarrass himself, but it was impossible to tear his gaze from her face.
‘Are you … are you … ?’ God, what was wrong with him? He couldn’t speak!
‘Am I somebody?’ she said. She was teasing him. Everything she said, in that slow drawl, sounded suggestive.
‘No! No – of course not. I mean, are you a friend of the family?’
She was from Minnesota. Her father worked in iron mines. She scrubbed up well for a miner’s daughter. He had to laugh. He’d come here, hoping to land a posh bird, preferably titled, who would be a social asset, in life and in business, who would sneak him into the Establishment through the back door.
And, after three courses, he was in love – he was, flash of lightning, the whole deal
– with a miner’s daughter from Hicksville USA.
The butler (hatchet-face, never seen sunlight) stopped by Jack’s seat with a tray. He supposed he had to take the plate – some pointless lace mat on it – the glass bowl, and the little knife and fork, to eat a bloody apple!
He took the lot and turned back to Felicia. She’d never heard of the Rolling Stones! Suddenly aware of a tension, he glanced up and saw the whole table staring at him while pretending to sip their vintage booze. The Old Bat looked furious; as if she might flap across the table and bite his neck. He was cutting up his apple, so what? He glanced at Harry.
Harry was murmuring lies to a girl with knockers the size of barrage balloons. He was also cutting up his apple, but Cannadine, the big poof, had taken his lace mat off his plate and arranged it neatly under the glass bowl.
Jack was cutting up his apple on the lace mat!
He felt his face flush purple. He wanted to shrivel up.
Felicia Love locked eyes with the Old Bat. Deliberately, she grasped her apple and sliced it ferociously down the middle on the lace mat.
There was a pause. And then, slowly, the man on Felicia’s left took his apple and, with a flourish, cut it open on the lace mat. And so it went on, around that stiffly starched table: a glorious ripple effect of rebellion, a sweet apple-slicing show of solidarity. Finally, as Jack suppressed a grin, Lady Templeton sliced her apple directly – if violently – on to the lace mat.
He didn’t flatter himself. This surprising display of class was nothing to do with him: it was in honour of the gentle goddess from Minnesota. He resented the Titans no less. But he loved Felicia more.
‘Felicia’s a doll,’ said Cannadine on the drive home the next day.
Harry was in a great mood because he’d fucked the girl with the massive knockers (daughter of some earl who owned half of Wales). But he knew how to eat an apple, so presumably, when the Old Bat found semen stains all over her seventeenth-century Persian textile bedcover in the Academic Room, the obvious culprit would be excused.