The Sun Place

by Ray Connolly

  As it turned out, he didn’t get very far at all, and there was no need for caution. When Homer found him, Sacha was alone in the open-sided theater, dead, swinging slowly from one of the overhead crossbeams, a length of wire tied around his neck, under his long blond hair.

  Homer was tall, so tall that he almost brushed his head against Sacha’s feet as he looked around the theater, still decorated with the beautifully ornate swinging masks and paper figures Sacha had designed for the ball. And there was Sacha, even more beautiful than anything he had created, hanging with them, the best-looking man anyone had ever seen in Club Village, a world of beautiful people.

  The wind had dropped to nothing and the sea was now no more than a murmur. The storm was over.

  Hardin and Quatre Bras were present when they cut Sacha down.

  “My God … look at his face,” said Michel Girardot as the corpse was lowered to the ground.

  Hardin stared into the bulging, bloated face of the boy who had once been so beautiful. Painted all over his skin were flecks of green and black and yellow. Around his eyes were black slit marks, while his mouth was painted to stretch nearly back to his ears.

  “He had a thing about lizards,” Hardin said simply. “He hated them. He tried to make himself look like one.”

  Part VIII

  Fifty-One

  A cock crowed; an amplified stereophonic Sergeant Pepper cock. “Good morning, good morning, good morning,” sang John Lennon over the loudspeakers, and another day began in Elixir’s Club Village. Another day. The sun shone; the gardeners tied back bougainvillea bushes that had been battered by the storm; on the tennis courts the early risers, stripped to the waist, rallied backward and forward; along the beach the joggers pounded the sand; in the pool the spartans worked up an appetite; and down at the marina the scuba team checked and double-checked the oxygen equipment that would be used that day.

  In the restaurant, Cassandra helped herself to fruit juice and croissants, and made her way across to where Hardin was sitting alone, meditating into his coffee cup.

  It was Monday morning, twenty-four hours after her ordeal, and inevitably the village was back to normal, burying its memories of death and terror in the sunshine smiles of another day. Another day in Never-Never-Land.

  The police had arrived at Elixir shortly after lunch on Sunday, the two local policemen together with six detectives and two pathologists from Nassau. As expected, Ernst Ronay had had to give a complete account of his activities the previous night, as had all the Club Village staff. The police were polite, but when half a dozen reporters and three photographers flew into Elixir that afternoon, it was clear that the story was out. It was going to be every man for himself.

  At this point Cassandra had made her one request to Hardin. “Would you have any objections if I used the Telex machine?”

  “To file your story to New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I say no?”

  “I’ll take the plane to Nassau and file from there,” she had replied.

  “For somebody who nearly got herself killed just a few hours ago, you’re very determined. Go ahead. If Quatre Bras comes snooping around, tell him you’re writing to your mother.”

  “Not everything I’m going to say about Club Village is going to be flattering,” Cassandra had said, hesitating at what might seem a betrayal of his kindness and friendship.

  “It’s your job, Cassandra. If you did less than your job, you’d be letting yourself down.”

  And with that Hardin had led her into his office, pulled up his chair to the Telex machine and, with a parting “Don’t forget to spell my name correctly,” left her.

  It had taken Cassandra two hours to write and file her report. It was a very long news feature, the pictures being supplied by agency photographers who were at that moment roaming all over the village.

  Shortly after she had completed her final paragraph, a reply had come tapping out of the machine. The message was simple. “CONGRATS. COVER STORY. RETURN N.Y. SOONEST.” It was signed by the Night and Day editor-in-chief.

  “If I were you I’d go off to bed now and get a very long sleep,” Hardin had said when he returned.

  “Would you consider it pushy if I asked if I could stay in the bungalow tonight?” Cassandra had asked after a moment’s embarrassed hesitation. “I mean, I know you have an extra room there. I wouldn’t be a nuisance. You wouldn’t know I was there.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hardin smiled. Then, taking her by the hand, he had led her across the gardens to his bungalow, where she had quickly fallen asleep in the spare bedroom. Outside he had rocked thoughtfully on his veranda.

  Cassandra had slept fitfully but undisturbed and when she had awoken at eight on Monday morning she was surprised to realize that somehow normality had descended upon the village like a heavy suffocating blanket.

  “It’s as though nothing ever happened here,” she said to Hardin as she joined him at the breakfast table.

  He grimaced. “That’s the strength of Club Village. We’re all brainwashed by the system. Last night, after you went to bed, Quatre Bras told everyone that their whole vacation cost would be refunded, that all the CVs would get a month’s extra pay and supply of bar shells, and that the bar would be completely free until midnight. You should have seen the good times people were having. It was as though they were almost grateful to Sacha. It was frightening. It made me feel sick.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’ll look for a job.”

  “You’ve got a job.”

  “Not anymore I haven’t. Last night Quatre Bras complained about my letting you use the Telex machine. He thought he could have talked you into writing something flattering about the way we handled the crisis.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “I don’t. But he assumed you’d done a hatchet job on us and he got pretty irate, so … so I told him to stuff his job and Club Village.”

  “Oh, God, you lost your job because of me?”

  “No. I lost my job because of me. I don’t believe in Club Village anymore. I think it’s an okay place for people to come on vacation. They get value for money, and all that. But it does something to the people who work here. I left once before because I couldn’t stand being cut off from the outside world. This time I’m leaving for good. It’s dangerous to be on vacation all year round. I need some reality. I don’t know what I mean other than maybe I have a more useful contribution to make somewhere else in the world, doing something else. So far my life had always been tied up with trivia … playing tennis, running vacations for well-off middle-class people … screwing a lot of beautiful ladies … sorry, don’t blush … I didn’t mean to say that.…”

  “That’s okay,” said Cassandra. “Go on.”

  “Well, there’s not a great deal more to say, other than that I’m hitching a ride out of here with Scorcese this morning, and I’ll be looking for a job when I get to New York.”

  “You’re going with Scorcese?”

  “His Learjet is coming for him.”

  “Any chance of a spare seat on the Lear, do you think?”

  “I’m sure. I was going to suggest it to you, anyway. But I knew you’d ask.”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Of course. You make your own luck, I know.” Hardin paused and stirred his coffee. “Perhaps if you’re going to be in New York for a few days we could meet again, before you go home to London.”

  “Yes,” said Cassandra. “I’d like that very much.”

  Quatre Bras walked sternly along the beach. The Club Village massacre, as it was luridly coming to be called, was already the newspaper story of the week, even before he had managed to get his lawyers and publicists out from New York and Paris to handle the affair. Yet, somehow, it didn’t all seem like failure. He knew he had lost Scorcese, and that his own plans for building a new empire in the American zone were going to have to wait awhile, but he also kne
w that there would be other chances. It was, of course, a major setback. But that was the fun of business, riding the waves of success and of failure. He was down now, but he would climb back, and in the meantime he was going to have to concentrate all his energies on holding the position of Club Village in the vacation world. The main rival, Club Med, was expanding every day.

  There was, of course, one particularly nice consolation to all this. Late the previous evening after taking a grilling from the Nassau police over his involvement with Florinda and Chloe, Ernst Ronay had crept up to him and quietly announced his resignation. The bad publicity was sure to force him into seclusion. Magnanimous in victory, Quatre Bras had shaken his head sadly and pulled out a bottle of cognac. And for the first time since they had worked together, the two men had shared the conviviality of a quiet drink alone. Not that this sudden display of friendship would have any effect upon Ronay’s decision. Quatre Bras had already accepted his resignation on behalf of the board. Once again, Quatre Bras would be the complete master of Club Village.

  Contemplating this, Quatre Bras smiled to himself, standing erect, a general mulling over a small defeat, knowing that bigger victories lay just ahead. Men like Quatre Bras can and do survive everything.

  James Hardin was not the only person to lose his job at Elixir that weekend. Hamlet Yablans was given six months’ pay and free passage out of Elixir on the first available plane. He was not surprised. He was used to being fired. Quatre Bras had not shared Dick Pagett’s bizarre sense of humor. Hamlet’s sin was that he was ugly. He left at ten o’clock that morning, sweating profusely and trying to disguise his bad breath with a stick of chewing gum. Nobody saw him off, although Alex the bartender grinned gleefully as the sad little clown stumbled over his heavy suitcases.

  The Monday game of mixed doubles was Ruth Arrowsmith’s idea. That was how she and John had met up with Joanna and Michael Roeg at the tournament in New Rochelle, and it seemed the perfect way of loosening up after the traumas of the weekend.

  “Michael and I will play against you two,” said Ruth as the two couples took the court after breakfast.

  Joanna and Arrowsmith nodded and retreated to the far end of the court.

  Roeg smiled at Ruth. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Ruth, but I sort of think you’re wonderful,” he said as she prepared to serve to her husband. “Maybe when we get back to New York you’d both like to come over some night and join Joanna and me in our hot tub.”

  Ruth hit the ball. It was an acc. “Fifteen-love,” she shouted. Then turning to Roeg she said quietly, “Who needs John and Joanna, Michael?”

  Roeg’s face fell into a half smile of astonishment. Ruth served again. This time Arrowsmith returned it into the net.

  “Thirty-love,” shouted Ruth. Then to Roeg she added, “I’m free Thursdays. Okay?”

  “Okay!” said Roeg.

  “Okay,” said Ruth, and winked. She wasn’t going to be the invisible, dutiful wife anymore. And God, how good it felt.

  Homer Wolford drove Hardin and Cassandra down to the airstrip in the red Citroën. A Club Village lifer, Homer was now acting as chief of the village.

  This was the second time in two weeks that Hardin had left a village, but this time he was saying good-bye to all the clubs. At the airstrip he shook hands with Scorcese and Beta Ullman, who were waiting for them.

  “We have some news for you,” said Scorcese as the two couples climbed aboard the plane. “Beta and I are going to be married. She’s looking for a millionaire to indulge her, and I’m looking for a beautiful woman to indulge. Sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. Congratulations, both of you,” Hardin said and, leaning forward, shook Scorcese’s hand and kissed Beta lightly on the cheek.

  Minutes later, as the Lear with its four passengers roared into the sky, Scorcese unbuckled his seat belt and, going to a refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Bollinger. With the skill of a man who has spent his life opening champagne bottles on jets, he poured four glasses without spilling a drop.

  “To your happiness,” said Hardin as Scorcese and Beta raised and clinked their glasses.

  “I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” said Cassandra, and meant it.

  “Thank you,” said Scorcese, and for the very first time he kissed the astonished Beta. He hadn’t bothered to tell her about the engagement. He knew she would say yes.

  As the plane banked and turned, Cassandra and Hardin settled back in their seats.

  “Do you think it will last?” whispered Cassandra into Hardin’s ear as she tried not to hiccup bubbles of champagne.

  Hardin shrugged, grinned, and then finally shook his head. “It’s just one of those vacation romances,” he said. “They never last. You know that, don’t you?”

  But for once in her life Cassandra was not sure.

  A Note on the Author

  Born in 1941, Connolly was brought up in Lancashire and attended the London School of Economics, where he read social anthropology, and where Mick Jagger was a fellow student. He then interviewed sixties pop stars for the London Evening Standard. He has written numerous newspaper articles for the Daily Mail, The Sunday Times, The Times, The Daily Telegraph and The Observer.

  Connolly has written several novels, television series, TV plays, films and documentaries, radio plays, short stories.

  Discoverbooks by Ray Connolly published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/Ray Connolly

  Forever Young

  Newsdeath

  Stardust

  Stardust Memories

  The Sun Place

  That’ll be the Day

  The Girl Who Came to Stay

  Trick or Treat

  For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been

  removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain

  references to missing images.

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

  London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain 1981 by Avon Books

  Copyright © 1981 Ray Connolly

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise

  make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means

  (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,

  printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the

  publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication

  may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  eISBN: 9781448210787

  Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books

  You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for

  newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.