Good Sister, The

by Diana Diamond

  Catherine worked the crowd with the confidence that only a billion-dollar trust fund can bring. She managed to be more conservative than the bankers, more daring than the producers, and more glamorous than the actors. The bankers whispered to one another, wondering about her financial connections, while the fashion designers wondered what she really was wearing under her officer’s jacket. In a photo with Robert Redford, she managed to make him look short. Julia Roberts was a skinny child beside her, and the headman at Miramax was simply fat and bald. But despite her gleaming smiles and her constant tinkle of laughter, Catherine’s small talk was deadly serious and precisely attuned. Electronic communications would remake the entire industry. She and her company were the future.

  As always, she managed to project the undercurrent of promise about a romantic future. No list of the world’s most eligible heiresses was complete without her picture, which was generally the most provocative on the page. The Norwegian princess was tall, thin, and angular, the Greek shipping magnate had too big a nose, the middle European pretender’s daughter was visibly overweight, and the media baroness was suspected of being a lesbian. And then there was Catherine, sophisticated, sexy, and with a fortune that grew hourly out of thin air. Even the industry’s heaviest hitters wondered if they had a chance.

  Catherine had mastered the art of indicating to everyone that they might just get lucky. A subtle smile for a passing gentleman while she was involved with a group would leave him wondering if the gift had greater meaning. A man drawn aside for a private compliment would wonder if he was the only one so honored. A touch on the arm might be mistaken for the prelude to an embrace or a small aside that might be an invitation to a private conversation. If it was teasing, it certainly wasn’t a game. If it was flirting, then the mating call had been raised to the dignity of an operatic aria. But any important man who spent more than a moment with Catherine was certain that he had made an impression and could swear that he had heard her heart miss a beat. There were thousands who thought they were “more than friends,” but not one who could explain exactly why. Everyone knew that she had lovers. But no one knew who they were.

  Jennifer’s performance wasn’t nearly as accomplished. She was outgoing, friendly, and interesting. She sought out lost souls and coaxed them into conversational groupings. She spotted empty glasses and pointed waiters in their direction. But nowhere on deck was she the center of attention. Groups greeted her and welcomed her into their circle, then continued with the conversation she had interrupted. Starlets seduced men away from her grasp. Conversations shifted before she had answered the question she had been asked. “Great party,” she was told over and over again. “I hope you’ll be coming to our affair,” she was frequently invited. As she passed one group she heard a knowing voice say, “That’s Catherine’s sister.” At another place on deck she overheard, “I understand she’s the real brains of the outfit.” By eight bells, when she took a glass of champagne and wandered back to the fantail, she really didn’t expect to find Padraig O’Connell. But there he was, holding a full bottle in one hand and two champagne glasses in the other.

  “Pack of savages,” he said, nodding at the riotous party she had just left. “You’re lucky to have escaped with your skin. These people often boil and eat their hosts.” He took her glass and casually dropped it over the rail. “Start with a fresh one,” he said, and poured two bubbling glasses.

  “Where is your friend?” Jennifer asked, referring to the willowy model.

  “Long gone. An hors d’oeuvre for one of the producers. I turned my back for an instant, and chomp! She had vanished.”

  “And what have you eaten?” Jennifer wondered aloud.

  “I’ve been saving my appetite.”

  They made small talk and exchanged laughter that Jennifer found surprisingly genuine and easy. Of all the guests aboard, he seemed the one most real. Outrageous, to be sure, but honest in admitting his own culpability. And, Jennifer thought, surprisingly frank in assessing his Hollywood future.

  “I’m near forty,” he told her, “but I’m getting less near to it every day. Do you know that they’re planning on using a body double for my love scenes?” She spit out champagne in her laughter. “Oh, yes, funny for you. But it’s damn humiliating standing on the sideline while someone else’s ass bounces on top of the heroine.” She found his feigned indignation hysterical and had to hold up a hand to stop his act. “I’ve got stuntmen doing my fighting, professional pilots doing my flying, and a whole squad of Navy SEALs doing the scuba shots. I’m drinking tea out of wineglasses and water out of martini glasses, and they tell me they’re planning on using a telephoto lens for anything that involves frontal nudity. Now stop and think for a second. I’m becoming a creature of special effects. The real me is just an expensive bit of overhead that they’d love to do without.”

  “You’re a star,” Jennifer reminded him.

  “A brown dwarf at best, and I’m about to be sucked into a black hole.”

  They talked for nearly an hour, the most relaxed hour that Jennifer had enjoyed since her arrival on the Riviera. O’Connell explained the painful final fade of movie stars who often end up doing cameos on television sitcoms, and he outlined his plans for salvaging his dignity. His production company would avoid the legendary errors of the industry. “Good scripts,” he said. “If I have to wait a year to find an original piece of good writing, it will be a year well spent.” He would keep low budgets, achieved by shunning the outrageous demands of the top stars in favor of the more modest cost of “real actors.”

  Jennifer responded, untypically, by talking about herself. She wasn’t comfortable, she admitted, in the limelight and preferred her part behind the scenes. Yes, it was sometimes galling to be permanently cast in her sister’s shadow, and she often envied Catherine’s celebrity status. But in all honesty, she hadn’t been blessed with her sister’s looks and outgoing personality and couldn’t possibly fill Catherine’s shoes. “It’s really worked out well with Catherine on the outside and me on the inside. As kids we were terrible rivals, but now we each have our own roles. So we don’t tear each other’s hair out anymore.”

  “Well, if you don’t like clothes and jewelry, what does tickle your fancy?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” She enjoyed her work, she explained, and didn’t mind the long hours. She had liked the bit of yacht racing she had done with Peter Barnes and, of course, her few turns in his sports car.

  “Automobiles!” Padraig interrupted. “My one true passion. Women are fine, of course. And I am a bit too fond of the grape. But an overpowered car with tires that are barely able to restrain it … that’s the secret to great orgasms.” Then he added, “Would you like to try one?”

  “An orgasm?”

  “A car. I’ve been thinking of renting something gorgeous and taking it up to Monte Carlo. I’d like to drive the Grande Prix route. There will be pedestrians in the way, of course, but we could simply run them over. And dodging the other traffic will be part of the fun.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. There are great roads all through the Maritime Alps. You can spend a whole day without coming across a single straight stretch. And I won’t bring a stuntman … or a body double.”

  “I’m not sure—” Jennifer began.

  “And that’s your most addictive trait. You’re not so damn sure about everything. You’re wondering whether you ought to take a chance. Well, I say take a chance. What’s the worst that can happen to you? You’ll be killed doing one-twenty in a brilliant red Ferrari with a handsome leading man by your side. Beats the hell out of dozing off in some old-age home with the oatmeal running down your chin.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please,” he said in a tone that suggested he wouldn’t waste the money on the gasoline without her.

  “Sure. Sounds like fun. Just tell me when and where.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said.

  “And I better get back to
my guests.”

  Catherine was stretched across her enormous bed, wide-eyed, her chin resting in the palms of her hands. “Padraig O’Connell,” she said, and smiled at just the mention of his name. “The secret agent from Interpol?”

  “That’s the one. Except he says that we may have been lusting after his body double,” Jennifer said from her place on the floor where she sat with her legs folded and her toes in her hands. They were like girls at a pajama party the night after the prom, sharing their experiences, and neither could remember when they had ever felt this close. Jennifer had finished the day in the Jacuzzi in Catherine’s suite and wandered out in a towel only to find her sister coming in from the day’s wars.

  “How’d it go?” Jennifer had asked.

  “Great! Better than I hoped.” Then Catherine had delivered a business report as she undressed and slid into her silk pajamas. “How about you?” she concluded.

  “Not bad,” Jennifer had answered, then added, “I got a date with Padraig O’Connell.”

  She described every moment of the encounter and repeated nearly all the conversation. “He loved the fact I wasn’t sure of myself. He could sense me wondering whether I ought to take a chance …”

  “He really said that?”

  “Pure blarney, of course. Probably a line from one of his movies.”

  “Maybe not,” Catherine warned her sister. “Padraig’s come-ons aren’t nearly that subtle.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Several times. And I always found him surly and drunk. Except once, when he tried to put a move on me.”

  Jennifer feared that her bubble was bursting.

  “He wasn’t quite as tender as he seems to have been with you. I don’t remember his exact words, but the gist was that my nipples were showing and giving him an erection, and exactly what did I plan to do about it?”

  They shared a laugh and then Catherine went on, “I understand that he’s a lot of fun. Outrageous but genuine. Not that he would be a great catch, but don’t discount that he may have fallen madly in love with you. At least for a week or two.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “What’s the old saying about rich girls being wary of compliments from men?”

  “That only applies to poor men. O’Connell probably has as much as you do. What’s he get … a billion dollars a film?”

  “Ten million.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah, and he’s afraid he won’t be getting it for much longer.”

  Catherine sat up and slipped under her covers. “Well, don’t run an audit before you let yourself have a bit of fun. You didn’t even want to come to Cannes, and now it looks as if you’re going to be the star of the show. Don’t blow it. You might find you like your picture in People magazine.”

  He picked her up in a red, mid-engine Ferrari rocket with six forward speeds. He held the door until she was safely strapped in and then vaulted over the other door and into his seat. “Did that getting onto a horse once,” he said. “Extremely painful, particularly with a western saddle.” He ground his way through a few gear shifts, wincing each time the metallic twang sounded, and eased his way in and out of the waterfront traffic. Minutes later, they were on the national highway, heading east around the Nice airport, and on their way to Monaco. At about 140 kilometers an hour, the Ferrari found its throat and settled into a blissful murmur. Padraig made a great show of draping one arm around his woman while he steered casually with the other.

  He was truly a rakish figure, red hair ruffling in the wind, steely blue eyes panning the scenery, the first hint of a smile playing across his lips. Indeed, he was on the far side of forty, and there were crow’s-feet around his eyes, small skin blemishes, and softness under his chin to prove it. But his expression was one of pure joy springing from a hidden hedonism rather than from any of the virtues. It gave the crow’s-feet strength of character and the blemishes an outdoor patina. Even the soft chin could be excused as the very small price of his fabled excess.

  “I suppose you’ve been properly warned to be on your guard,” he said over the rush of the wind. “The fathers, mothers, and siblings of all the world’s attractive women are in conspiracy against me. Virtue is their goal, lies and exaggerations their weapons.”

  “Indeed I was,” she said, falling into his theatrical Irish cadence. “But I was also told that you might be a breath of fresh air, and that by a woman you once gravely insulted.”

  “I? An insult? Never, unless she was slow getting out of her knickers.”

  “It had more to do with nipples,” and then she retold Catherine’s story.

  “I said that?”

  “In substance. She couldn’t remember the exact words.”

  “Then it wasn’t me. Everyone remembers my exact words.”

  He turned abruptly onto a side road, downshifted without a clank or a shudder, and aimed the car up a narrow road where no one had bothered to paint a dividing line. A minute later and they were into switchbacks, using just the bottom of the gearbox as they climbed into the mountains. The hint of a smile grew into a wide boyish grin. Each time the back wheels skidded out toward the edge, caught a bit of traction, and fired the car up toward the next turn, O’Connell burst into laughter. “They should break the knuckles of anyone who tunes a car without being Italian,” he said. Jennifer could only peer down over the edges and wonder how far the car would fall before it hit the wall of the cliff and began tumbling.

  They crested the top and came to a long road that wandered along the seam of the mountain. They could see ahead for at least a mile, where another series of switchbacks would take them up to the next peak. O’Connell downshifted, slowing the convertible until it seemed to be standing still at forty. Then he touched the brake and pulled to the side, a few feet from the edge of the steep slope. “Here, you try it. It will drive you mad with pleasure.”

  “Me? No way.”

  “Well, then, we’ll have to walk back, won’t we? Because my heart can’t take another minute. The thrill is killing me.”

  He bounded over his door into the road and around to Jennifer’s door. “Nothing to it, really,” he said, helping her out, “once you get used to the clutch.”

  She opened the door to get in, then adjusted the seat. “How long does it take to get used to the clutch?”

  “Maybe an hour. You’ve probably noticed that Italians have one leg bigger than the other. That’s why they walk around in circles.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes as if planning a nap.

  Jennifer tried the clutch. It didn’t go down easily. Then she went through the gears. They were as precise as clockwork, and the lever had to be fitted carefully. She turned the key and tried to settle herself into the sensuous hum of the engine. “Don’t doze off, Padraig. If I don’t have this down by the time we reach the next switchback, I’m going to start walking.”

  “Not to fear. By then I won’t be able to tear your fingers off the wheel.”

  She started slowly, shifting carefully up to third, which gave her all the speed she could handle. She eased into the road and steered like she was trying to keep the car on rails. O’Connell’s eyes remained serenely closed. If he was anxious, he was a better actor than he let on. She dared a bit more throttle, and when the engine played back a sharp note, she forced the clutch and dropped the gear shift into fourth. Eighty kilometers. Hardly moving for the Ferrari, but breakneck for the road. And the next round of switchbacks was approaching fast.

  “Padraig?”

  He opened one eye.

  “I don’t think I can handle these turns.”

  He closed it. “God,” he mumbled, “but you’re exciting when you’re frightened.”

  She let the engine run down and tried a downshift. The gearbox growled but obeyed. She steered into the turn and added power to straighten out of it. And then she was gone, through the first gate and on to the next switchback.

  “Whee!” She laughed.

  “It only gets better,
” Padraig said. He sat up suddenly and looked straight at her. “Nothing is as satisfying as the face of a woman who feels the excitement building.”

  “It’s terror, Padraig,” she answered.

  “No, it’s not. Not for one moment. It’s excitement, and if you give in to it, then you’re headed for the ride of your life.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said as she headed into the next turn.

  “No one’s ever sure,” Padraig answered.

  She downshifted, tore into the curve, and felt the rear end beginning to drift. Her instinct was to brake, which might have been fatal, so she forced herself to add power. The rear tires chirped as the car fired out of the turn and raced on up the hill. Jennifer broke into a broad smile.

  “Okay,” Padraig said. “Pull off whenever you’re ready. I’ll take over.”

  “No way,” she answered. “There’s a dozen more turns ahead.”

  “I knew you’d never give it back.”

  “It’s your fault. You told me to do it.”

  He slumped back into the seat. “Women are always blaming me, when all I ever do is show them their potential.”

  “Hang on!” There was another turn coming up.

  She drove for nearly an hour, climbing higher and higher, until she reached the turn at the top of a mountain.

  “Oh my God!” She braked to a skidding stop, the nose of the car pointing out over the edge. “Will you look at that.”

  O’Connell was already looking at the Mediterranean coast spread out before them. Below was Monaco, a tiny smudge of activity with the royal palace visible on the edge of a cliff. To the left was the Italian Riviera, behind the industrial waterfront of Genoa. To the right, the red rooftops of Nice. Straight ahead, the cool blue of the Mediterranean, reaching all the way out to a pale blue sky.

  “First prize,” Jennifer said. “The most beautiful world I’ve ever seen.”

  He had turned away from the seacoast and was looking back at her. “First prize,” he told her. “You stir feelings of wonder that I wouldn’t share even with my psychiatrist.”