Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  “Lord Patrick would like to see you, ma’am,” the man said.

  “For God’s sake, I’m not even dressed yet,” she said. “Tell him I’ll see him downstairs.”

  The valet’s face was expressionless. “I think you’d better see him right now, ma’am.”

  Janette stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be right with you.” She went back into the room and put on her slacks again and opened the door. She started down the hall.

  “I think it would be better if we went the back way, ma’am,” the valet said quickly.

  Janette followed him through a door at her end of the hall, then through a long gray-painted corridor to the other wing of the building. He stopped in front of a door and opened it. “Lord Patrick’s room, ma’am,” he said.

  She entered a small dressing room between the bedroom and the bathroom. “To your left,” the valet said.

  She went through an archway into the bedroom. He was seated, wearing nothing but his briefs, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring into it. He looked up as she came into the room. “The wedding’s off,” he said. “You tell them.”

  “Have you gone mad?” she asked. “Why?”

  He took another drink from his glass. “I changed my mind.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then turned to the valet. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man replied and left the room.

  When she heard the door close behind him, she walked over to the chair and looked down at Patrick. “Now tell me why,” she said in a cold voice.

  Patrick looked up at her. “Because she wants to have a baby right away. She said that she would throw her pills away on the day we were married.”

  “That’s no reason at all,” she said.

  “It’s enough reason for me,” he said. “I don’t want any squalling brats around.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. She turned and went back to the dressing room.

  He got to his feet and followed her. “You can tell them that I got sick.”

  She spun back toward him. “I’m not going to tell them anything,” she said coldly, taking a cane from the umbrella stand and moving toward him.

  He dropped his drink, backing away, holding his hands in front of him to protect his face. “It won’t work. You can’t make me.”

  “No?” she asked, her voice cold as ice. The cane whistled down on his shoulders. He yelped in pain and tried to escape her but relentlessly she followed him, beating him across his back and shoulders, where red welts were springing up on his white skin.

  He threw himself on the bed, sobbing. “Please, stop.”

  She dug the tip of the cane into his shoulder, forcing him to roll over and look up at her. He was already masturbating violently. Angrily she hit his hand away from himself with the cane. “I didn’t give you permission to do that, slave.”

  “Yes,” he sobbed.

  “Now what are you going to do?” she asked.

  He stared up at her. “Whatever Mother wants. Only I don’t want her to go away from me just because I’m married.”

  “Mother won’t leave you,” she said. “She’ll always be here. Now be a good boy, go in and shower and get dressed.”

  “But I haven’t finished,” he whined.

  “If you’re a good boy, I’ll come back after the ceremony and give you permission to finish.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “Does Mother promise?”

  “Mother promises,” she said. “Now, get started.”

  He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. She stood there a moment and watched him turn the water on in the shower, then went out into the back corridor. The valet was waiting outside the door.

  “Lord Patrick is taking a shower,” she said. “You can go in now and help him dress.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the valet said. “Thank you, ma’am.” He hesitated a moment. “Is the wedding still on, ma’am?”

  “It is,” she said.

  An expression of relief came over his face. “Thank you, ma’am. It would have been turrible scandal what with Princess Margaret here and all.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Can you find your way back, ma’am?”

  “I’m sure I can,” she said. “You go inside and look after Lord Patrick.”

  It was an hour and a half later, as the ceremony ended, that Patrick looked at her. There was a strange smile on his lips as he lifted the veil from Lauren’s face and bent to kiss her. The guests surged forward with cries of congratulations and Janette dropped back from her position as maid of honor to allow them to pass.

  “You’ve surpassed yourself, Janette. It’s a most beautiful dress.” The woman’s voice speaking French came from behind her.

  Janette turned. It was Hebe Dorsey, the famous columnist of the International Herald Tribune. The attractive dark-eyed, perennially tanned woman with reddish-blond hair was one of the most important fashion reporters in the world, syndicated in many newspapers; she also contributed a monthly article to French Vogue. The Reardons hadn’t wanted any press, but because she was a close friend of Janette’s, an exception had been made in her case. “Thank you, Hebe,” Janette said.

  “Wherever did you get the idea?” Hebe asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The ruffles on the skirt seemed to ripple and flow as she walked.”

  Janette smiled. “That’s the effect I wanted to get. Actually I got the idea when I was in California several months ago and I watched Lauren surfing. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could capture the whitecaps of the waves as they sprayed around her.”

  “Do you have a photograph of the dress that I could use?” Hebe asked.

  “There’s probably one in your office right now,” Janette answered.

  “Good.” Hebe looked at the crowd surrounding the bride and groom, then turned back to Janette. “I’m an incredible romantic,” she said. “Is it really true that they first met at your collection last year and that it was love at first sight?”

  Janette laughed. “Yes.”

  Hebe sighed, then smiled. “I think I have the heading for my story.”

  “Tell me,” Janette said.

  Hebe looked at her. “A fairy tale… come true.”

  ***

  Lauren was bewildered. The reality of the honeymoon was nothing like the promise. It began like a beautiful dream. After the wedding they had flown in Patrick’s plane to Mykonos. The helicopter was waiting there to take them to the Fantasist, lying at anchor off the island. The whole idea had seemed like a romantic movie. A month-long honeymoon cruising the Greek islands. But something seemed to go wrong the moment they boarded the small jet at Devon.

  The steward brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses as soon as they had taken off. He filled the glasses and went forward, disappearing behind the galley curtain.

  She turned from the window, gave him a glass and picked up her own. “To us.” She smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  He made no move to taste his champagne, just looked at her silently as she drank, then placed his glass back on the table between them and turned back to the window.

  “Hey,” she said. “You didn’t touch your champagne.”

  He seemed almost angry as he turned to face her. “I’ve drunk enough of that piss to last me a lifetime.” He pressed the call button. The steward appeared immediately. “Bring me a whiskey neat.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The steward returned in a moment, a glass of whiskey on the tray.

  Patrick glanced at it. “How many times do I have to tell you that when I order a whiskey to bring a full bottle?” he snapped.

  “Sorry, m’lord,” the steward apologized. “Right away, m’lord.” He went to the galley and returned with the bottle, which he placed on the table, then disappeared again.

  He swallowed his drink in one gulp and refilled his glass without speaking.

  He turned his face to the window without glancing at her as he l
ifted the glass again to his lips.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked in a puzzled voice. “Did I say or do anything wrong?”

  He swallowed the drink and refilled his glass again before he answered her. “No,” he answered shortly.

  “You don’t seem happy,” she said.

  He looked at her balefully. “What am I supposed to be doing? A tap dance on the ceiling?”

  “You could at least act as if we’re going on our honeymoon,” she said.

  “Middle-class shit,” he snapped.

  “You made the arrangements,” she said. “I didn’t ask for it.”

  He emptied his glass and began to refill it. She reached across the small table and placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t drink anymore, Patrick,” she said gently.

  He stared at her. “What else is there to do?” he asked truculently.

  “We could move to the couch in the back and fuck. I always wondered what it would be like to make it on a plane.”

  “I’ve done it,” he said. “It’s not that great.”

  “But I’ve never done it,” she said. “First, I can give you a little head, then you can give me a little head.” She grinned suddenly, taking his hand. “Feel my pussy. It’s soaking wet. I got all horny just thinking about it.”

  “Stop talking like a common whore,” he said coldly, pulling his hand away. “Remember who you are now.”

  “I know who I am,” she said, the hurt showing in her voice. “I’m Lauren. Who do you expect me to be?”

  He poured the whiskey into his glass and drank it before he answered. “Lady Reardon,” he said snidely. “Or is that too much to expect?”

  She stared at him, unable to answer, the choking in her throat forcing the tears into her eyes. Quickly she rose from her seat and went to the couch in the back of the plane.

  They completed the rest of the trip in silence and by the time they touched down in Mykonos, Patrick had drunk almost two bottles of whiskey and had to be helped from the plane to the helicopter. When they arrived on board the Fantasist all that could be done with him was to put him to bed and let him sleep it off.

  She undressed and crawled, naked, into the bed beside him. Tentatively she placed a hand on his shoulder. But he was out. He never moved. An hour later she still hadn’t been able to find sleep. She gave up the struggle, popped two Valium fives, smoked a stick of Harvey’s number four, dream grass, as he called it, and was asleep before she felt her eyes close.

  In the morning when she awoke, he was standing, his back to her, slipping into a pair of slacks. Her eyes widened. “My God, Patrick! What happened to your back?” she asked in a shocked voice.

  He glanced at her in the mirror. “I slipped on the stone steps in the rear of the Manor yesterday morning,” he answered without turning around.

  She sat up in bed. “And you never said a word about it. Not even during the wedding. You must have been in terrible pain. You should have said something.”

  He didn’t answer, still watching her reflection in the mirror.

  “Now I know why you were drinking the way you did yesterday.” She got out of bed and stood next to him. She looked up into his face. “You should have told me,” she said sympathetically. “Then I would have understood.”

  He looked down into her face for a long moment. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he said firmly.

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “We’d better find something to put on it.”

  He smiled his brave-Englishman smile. “It’s really nothing, darling. It doesn’t hurt that much now.”

  ***

  Two weeks later they were anchored off Corfu and she was lying nude on the sun deck, waiting for Patrick to finish his morning telephone calls. He spoke to his office twice a day, morning and evening. She picked up a spray can of Evian. The misty cool spray felt good against her warm skin. She squinted up at the sun. Patrick had better hurry. Another half hour and it would be impossible to stay in this sun.

  She sprayed extra water into her hand and dipped her fingers into the jar of Sun Earth that Harvey had given her. It was Janette who had given it the name, and already she was working on a package design for it, planning to enter the market early next year.

  She looked down at herself as she spread the thin layer. It really worked. Her body had never been so dark from the sun, and there never had been the slightest hint of a burn. By contrast, her hair had never been so white-blond, her eyebrows and lashes were practically invisible, even her pubic hair shone whiter than the skin beneath. She heard footsteps on the ladder and looked up. Patrick’s head appeared first. He paused for a moment halfway up the ladder.

  “I’ve ordered a drink,” he asked. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks,” she smiled. “But you’re just in time to do my back.”

  She rolled over on her stomach as he knelt beside her. She sprayed some water on his hand and then over her shoulders on her back. He dipped his fingers into the jar and began to apply the thin film of clay. She glanced sideways at his face. He was smiling. “You seem pleased with yourself this morning,” she said.

  “I am,” he said. “I’ve finally gotten those bastards on my board of directors to admit that I knew what I was doing.”

  “That’s great,” she said. She knew of the skepticism and resentment he had faced upon going into the company. Everything he wanted to do was subjected to microscopic scrutiny and had been fought at every turn. “What made them finally see the light?”

  “There were a couple of things but mainly it was the deal with Janette,” he said.

  “That makes me doubly happy,” she said, rolling over, sitting up and kissing his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

  He looked at her. “Do you know the biggest money-making item in our whole line is Janette Jeans? We’ve netted more than two million dollars in the States in its first year, and we’ve only been on the market eight months. According to projections we’ll do six million next year. And even our experts had to admit that her idea of weaving ten percent of stretch threads into the denim was brilliant and made the jeans fit even better. It even made fat asses look good. Then to top it all off, her collection at the beginning of this week showed Paris and the whole fashion world that last year’s was no fluke. It put everybody away.”

  “I feel stupid,” she said. “All I thought about was the wedding. I forgot completely that it was collection time. She must think that I’m a real shit.”

  “I’m sure she understands,” he said.

  “Did she do it at the Lido again?”

  “No. This time she had a circus theme. She took over a small circus and did it in a tent in Montmartre complete with ringmaster, clowns, acrobats, lions and elephants, the whole works. And this time it was all her own designs. It proved once and for all that she didn’t need a Philippe Fayard or anyone to help her, that she could take her place along with St. Laurent, Givenchy, Bohan and all the rest of them as one of the top couturiers. In just the first three days after the showing, she had over a million dollars’ worth of orders.”

  Lauren laughed happily. “I bet that son of a bitch Carroll is really kicking his ass.”

  Patrick laughed with her. “I’ll bet.”

  “Bwana.” The Negro’s voice came from the ladder. Lauren grabbed a towel to cover herself as he came up the ladder, the tall frosted glass of orange juice and vodka on a tray.

  Patrick took the drink. He glanced down at Lauren. “Sure you won’t change your mind, darling?”

  She held the towel close to her. “No, thanks,” she answered.

  “That will be all, Noah,” Patrick said.

  “Yes, Bwana.” The African turned and went down the ladder.

  Patrick sipped at the drink. “This is good,” he said, holding it out to her. “Have a taste.”

  She shook her head.

  He looked down at her. “Christ, you’re almost as black as he is.”

  She sat up, thro
wing the towel around her shoulders. “I wish you’d get rid of him,” she said. “He makes me uncomfortable.”

  “That’s just your American prejudices,” he laughed. “You don’t like niggers.”

  “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “He’s always staring at me. I can almost feel his eyes crawling all over me.”

  He laughed again. “What do you expect, walking around naked all the time? What do you think the rest of the crew does? The same thing. Only they’re better at concealing it than he is.”

  “He’s like an animal,” she said. “You ought to tell him to wear underwear or something. You can always see the shape of his cock in those tight pants he wears.”

  The smile disappeared from Patrick’s face. “You don’t have to look.”

  “I don’t look,” she said. “You don’t have to, it’s so obvious.”

  Patrick put down his drink and unexpectedly slipped his hand between her legs, then raised his fingers to his lips and tasted them. “You’re soaking wet,” he said, excitement coming into his voice. “Admit it, his big cock turned you on.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, annoyed. “I got turned on the minute you began rubbing my back.”

  “I want to eat you,” he said.

  “Then stop talking about it and do it,” she laughed, pulling his face down to her.

  ***

  She was lying in bed, watching him undress when she felt the vibration of the engines and the boat begin to move. She sat up and reached for the small traveling case in which she kept her stock of Harveys. Without looking up she asked, “Where are we going now?”

  “Hydra,” he answered.

  “Another island?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s about one hundred and fifty miles from here. We’ll be there in the morning.”

  “Greek?” she asked, picking up each cellophane bag, squinting at it, then putting it down.

  “Of course,” he said coming to the edge of the bed and looking down at her. “That’s all they have in the Greek islands.”

  “What’s so special about this one?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s supposed to be very beautiful.”

  “All Greek islands look alike to me,” she said, still picking and discarding cellophane bags. “I’ve got calluses on my feet from dancing the sirtos, and if I hear another chorus of ‘Never on Sunday’ I’ll be willing to go deaf.”