Sins

by Gould, Judith

  In his best boardroom voice, the president of a Fortune 500 corporation droned on and on about Bavier's merits and achievements. Hélène listened raptly, but not a single word penetrated her shroud of pain. All she could think about was the morning Bavier left to go to work for the last time. She had never seen him healthier or happier.

  When the service concluded, she walked slowly out of the chapel, every step a special effort. She probably would never have made it past the third aisle if it hadn't been for Edmond and Petite Hélène. Holding her arms tightly, they somehow managed to propel her forward. Then suddenly her step faltered as she found herself unexpectedly face to face with Nigel Somerset. He had stepped quickly out from one of the aisles and was standing in front of her. She stopped walking and returned his stare. Her knees went weak and she could feel them shaking. Somehow she managed to keep her face composed. She didn't want to see Nigel. Not at a time like this. Or at any other, for that matter. What had once been between them was over, and she had no desire to start any relationship anew. But she couldn't turn her back on him, either. He had flown all the way from England for the funeral, and propriety, if nothing else, demanded she exchange a few words.

  She turned to Edmond and Petite Hélène. 'I'll see you outside,' she said awkwardly.

  'Will you be all right?' Edmond asked.

  She nodded wordlessly and watched them leave. Then she turned back to Nigel. She was unaware of the businessmen filing out into the sunshine. All she could do was stare into Nigel's gold-flecked eyes. She felt the way she had at Auteuil when she had unexpectedly run into him. As had happened then, words seemed to fail her now.

  'I'm terribly sorry about your husband,' Nigel said.

  'Thank you, Nigel,' she said in a stiff, husky voice. 'I'm so glad you came.'

  But she wished he hadn't. Just seeing him only seemed to reopen all the old wounds. Was it possible that they had never healed completely?

  She looked down, and her face contorted in a pained expression, but when she looked back up at him, it was once again serene. Only she knew what an emotional toll that stoic mask cost her.

  'I too am sorry, Nigel,' she said politely. 'I read about your mother's death last month. I'm afraid I didn't send any flowers. . .'

  He looked at her gently. 'I can't say that I blame you. On her deathbed she told me how she chased you from Fallsworth. You must believe me. . .I never knew.'

  'I believe you.'

  'I know you'll find little comfort in it, but in the end Mother realized she had done the wrong thing by forcing me to marry Pamela. She admitted it. She didn't often admit to her mistakes.'

  Hélène nodded numbly. Pamela. She remembered the pictures she had seen of Lady Pamela Grey, the woman who, instead of her, had become the sixteenth Duchess of Farquharshire. So she had been right. Nigel's mother had arranged it all. But that came as no surprise. In her heart, she had known it all along. Now the Duchess was dead, but the deed lived on after her.

  'I should never have married Pamela,' Nigel was saying softly. 'I never loved her. Nor she me. Her parents forced her into it. And now. . .' His voice trailed off.

  Hélène looked at him pityingly.

  Nigel turned away. 'Neither of us loves the other,' he murmured. 'The marriage is a sham.' He took a deep breath and she could feel the pain that emanated from within him. 'Unfortunately, a divorce is out of the question.' He smiled grimly. 'Social situation and all, you know.'

  Hélène reached out and touched the side of his face with her fingertips. 'I'm sorry, Nigel. It must be very hard on you.'

  He sighed and placed his hand atop hers, pressing it firmly to his cheek. 'Darling, I know this isn't the time or the place.' He quickly looked around, lowered his voice to a discreet whisper, and stared into her eyes. 'But I'd like to see you—'

  Hélène took a step back. She had to look away so she wouldn't be drawn to his eyes. 'I. . .I don't know, Nigel,' she stammered, unsure of herself. 'I'm sorry. It's just too soon. I need time to think about it. . .' Her voice cracked. And without another word, she turned on her heel and fled Nigel and the chapel and the stifling smell of chrysanthemums.

  Two days later, unknown to Hélène, Jacques sold his HJII shares to Z. Z. Bavier and Marcello d'Itri.

  12

  The saying is true: time heals all wounds. And in time, although it seemed to her a very long time, Hélène's life returned to normal. Unquestionably she felt the unfairness of fate, the unfairness which gave her so much but relentlessly took from her its purest joys. However, she knew that with the help of Edmond and Petite Hélène, her family, she would be able to continue on, nourishing her dream. And now her dream had brought her to Venice,

  It was after eleven o'clock at night by the time the last workman picked up his toolbox and left. Hélène saw him to the door and watched him getting into the waiting motorboat. As it surged away down the moonlit Grand Canal, she pushed on the massive carved double doors of the palazzo. Slowly they clanged shut with an echo of finality. Then everything was quiet save for the water lapping against the doorstep outside.

  For a long moment she closed her eyes and leaned wearily back against one of the doors. She was dressed in a man's plaid shirt which she hadn't bothered to tuck into her faded Levi's, her hair was pulled back from her face by a white silk bandanna, and on her feet were white tennis shoes.

  With the back of her wrist she wiped the perspiration off her forehead. She heaved a sigh of relief. Little by little, she could feel her body starting to relax as her adrenaline slowed down. At last, everything was finished. And not a moment too soon, either. The party was tomorrow.

  Had she anticipated at the outset what she was up against, she would gladly have left everything to the Czarina. But for once she'd insisted on organizing a party by herself. She had thought the occasion too important to trust to anyone. Even Luba. She laughed softly to herself. To date, except for holding intimate dinner parties, the biggest problem had always been what to wear to someone else's party, and then standing for hours in the stuffy ateliers while the couturiers and fitters tugged here, tucked there, pinned, stitched, hemmed, and rehemmed in order to get her gown just right. While she had been a model, she hadn't minded all that standing around: it had been part of the job. Now she found it tedious and nerve-racking. But that was nothing compared to the two months of planning and hard work she'd just been through.

  Once again she shook her head in disbelief. The biggest, most ambitious party she'd ever planned, and she'd expected to do it all herself! What a fool she had been. But who would have thought so much work was involved? Even trying to locate the help—florists, waiters, butlers, caterers, cleanup crews, orchestra, rock band, kitchen help. . .the list seemed endless—had been a mind-boggling job. Hiring those who seemed the most capable and then trying to explain to them just what was needed had been a nightmare. If one of her experienced friends hadn't come to the rescue, she would have had no choice but to cancel the affair. Well, she'd learned one lesson from this that she would never forget. In the future, she would spare herself these headaches and hire a professional coordinator. Even her fluent Italian, which she had been relying on so heavily, hadn't done her a bit of good. Venice was different from Milan, she'd discovered almost too late. Things were slower here. Less cosmopolitan, less efficient. Knowing the language just wasn't enough. You had to know the mentality of the locals you dealt with as well.

  The problems had begun with the location, hunting for the appropriate—and available—palace in which to hold the party. Party, hell, she corrected herself. The ball. The Golden Ball.

  From the beginning, she had envisioned it being held in Venice. As far as she was concerned, no place else could come close. Not for the splendor she had in mind.

  Fine.

  And at first it had all seemed so effortless. Even Peggy Guggenheim, when she'd heard that Hélène was in town searching for a palace, had generously stepped forward and offered her the loan of her own massive Palazzo Venier dei Le
oni. This extraordinary palace was on the prestigious Grand Canal. An additional wing had been built on one side of the garden to house Peggy's world-famous collection of modern art. The Palazzo Venier dei Leoni was indeed one of the cultural highlights of Venice, but Hélène had politely refused the kind offer. Somehow, just the idea of a modern-art collection reposing under the same roof where the Golden Ball was being held took away from the magic of the ancient Venice that she was trying to recapture. Not only that, but she didn't want to be responsible for a magnificent home filled with millions of dollars' worth of museum-quality treasures while three thousand guests milled around in it. Besides, the type of place she wanted for the ball was one of those huge crumbling old palazzos whose rooms looked like gilded bird cages. Inside and out, except for the plumbing, it had to be unchanged since the time of Canaletto. She had discovered, to her delight, that many of those were available. So far, so good. An old, dilapidated palazzo should pose no problems. They were white elephants as far as everyone was concerned; many of them were up for sale. But for rent?

  'Yes, for rent also,' the real-estate brokers had assured her smoothly.

  Then, when they had heard her out: 'But surely not for such a short time, signorina!' they wailed, throwing up their hands in despair. 'And certainly not for one party! Please, be reasonable!'

  Finally she found an agent who was willing to accede to her terms. He showed her one palazzo after another. After inspecting nine of them, she found one she was crazy about.

  It was enormous, situated halfway between the Rialto Bridge and the mouth of the Grand Canal. It had everything she had hoped for, and more. There were several tall, skinny pillars at the entrance where gondolas and speedboats could tie up by the marble threshold. Once inside, there was a baronial hallway with a sweeping staircase and decaying but splendid sixteenth-century murals attributed to Tintoretto. And when the agent had pushed open a pair of heroically scaled doors, Hélène caught her breath.

  In front of her stretched the biggest ballroom she'd ever imagined. She entered slowly, hardly daring to trust her eyes. That one damp room alone was two stories high and took up almost the entire first floor. Between the marble pilasters, the walls were painted with peeling Byzantine-style murals. She leaned her head way back and stared up at the groin-vaulted ceiling. It was a heaven of rich, patinaed blue liberally sprinkled with gold-leaf stars. Her heart began to pound with the heady thrill of the discovery. This was it! This huge, forgotten room was the perfect setting for her Golden Ball. She could already visualize it. With the chandeliers lit, the gleaming gold stars would pick up the glow and actually look as if they were winking in the night above. With an orchestra in one corner and a discotheque set up in one of the other rooms, with buffet tables laden with feasts, with real gold dust captured in carved ice sculptures, with hundreds of magnums of Dom Perignon flowing freely, with three thousand guests resplendent in gold costumes, with all this, and more, the hollow emptiness of the palazzo would come to life as never before in its five-hundred-year history.

  The agent watched Hélène as she walked slowly around the dim room, studying, absorbing, calculating, inspecting, and planning, the little wheels in her mind turning swiftly and clicking with the speed of an automatic shutter. Finally she marched determinedly over to him. Her voice was businesslike and brusque. 'Whom do I see about signing a short-term lease?' she asked. 'You or the owners?'

  A week later, the gold-engraved invitations went out. Around the world their destinations were the international jet-setters, film stars, celebrities, and the socialites who set the trends for the times. The ball was scheduled to be held in six weeks. Hélène figured that would give everyone just enough time to rush to Paris, knocking each other down in their scramble to be the first one at the couturiers'. It was always that way whenever there was a theme party.

  Yes, Paris was going to be humming, Hélène thought with satisfaction. There would be a run on gold fabric, on gold lame, on gold lace, and on gold thread. Tempers were going to fray and Givenchy would rake in a fortune. Ilias Lalaounis, more than anyone, was going to do a brisk business selling jewelry, since they specialized in gold. Because for the Golden Ball, gold costumes were de rigueur. Without one, it wouldn't matter who you were: invitation in hand or not, entrance to the palazzo would be strictly forbidden.

  Hélène smiled to herself. Yves St. Laurent had finished Hélène's own gold costume over two months ago. She, the hostess, had the jump on everyone. Including the press coverage of her ball. At this very moment, Luba was carefully leaking news of the ball to selected reporters and paparazzi, but only a handful were actually being invited to cover the occasion from within.

  Now came the second step. Hélène realized that it was already high time to start decorating the ballroom, that what she had in mind would take weeks. The palazzo was bare. Furniture would have to be found and brought in. And above all, the ballroom would have to be turned into the most festive, gilded fairyland imaginable. She envisioned everything in gold. Gold festoons, gold buffet tables, gold chairs. What she needed now was someone who could interpret her ideas and make them into a happy reality. The Golden Ball had to be one of those elusive fantasies that never would, never could, ever be repeated. She needed someone who was more than just an interior decorator or a stage designer. She needed, in short, a magician.

  She sat down behind the ornate desk in her suite at the Hotel Danieli and scooted her chair forward. From the top drawer she took out a blank sheet of the hotel's stationery and put it down in front of her. Thoughtfully she picked up her pen and started to draw up a list of the best interior decorators she knew of in both Europe and America. Of course, whoever she picked would be exorbitantly expensive for one fleeting night only. But for this occasion, monumental extravagance was called for. Besides, what was more extravagant than the new product she was about to launch? A perfume worth its exact weight in gold. That was why she was throwing this ball in the first place. To draw attention to d'Or. The more lavish the ball, the more talked and written about d'Or would be. Word that a new, instant status symbol was available would swiftly spread down from the socialites and media to the uninvited masses. It was all perfectly timed with the massive, coordinated advertising blitz which was in readiness. The day after the ball, the ads would flood the market.

  D'Or.

  Hélène knew that whatever she spent now would be well spent. Would help seal d'Or's success. There were some things you couldn't scrimp on.

  When she finished making her list of decorators, she went over each name carefully.

  Impatiently she drummed her lacquered fingernails on the desk as her eyes scanned the list. Each had his or her own trademark, but none seemed to match d'Or. Could there really be so many designers? Would none of them do?

  She let out a sigh, placed her elbows on the desk, and wearily rested her chin on her balled-up hands. For a moment she just sat hunched there like that. Then suddenly the idea surged up inside her from out of the blue.

  Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it before? Her friend Yvette, with whom she'd worked the hat-check at the Folies de Babylon so many years ago, had become an enormously successful restaurateur and nightclub owner. Hélène had been as surprised by Yvette's success as Yvette had been by Hélène's.

  Yes! Yvette was the perfect person to organize the ball! Hands down, she was acknowledged to be the world's most gifted party-giver. She would know exactly who was capable of decorating the ballroom. Who was the best caterer. What needed organizing and what didn't. Just hearing the magic name 'Yvette' would be enough to set a fire under the locals. Especially if they thought there was a possibility that an Yvette's club might open in Venice. That would mean long and steady employment at good wages. Hélène wouldn't tell them that, of course. The name alone would be enough to get them jumping to conclusions. What they chose to believe wouldn't hurt her.

  There was only one foreseeable problem. Would Yvette be able to spare the time to help her? After all, she w
as an extremely busy woman with all those worldwide clubs to run. Hélène stared at the telephone. There was only one way to find out. She reached for the telephone and placed a call to Yvette's International in Paris. That particular luxurious club on the rue Princesse had been the first of the clubs and had since become the headquarters of the entire chain.

  An hour later, Hélène was chiding herself; she should have known better than to think it would be this simple. Yvette wasn't to be found at the Paris club. Nor in Monte Carlo, London, Rio de Janeiro, New York, Berlin, Sydney, Hong Kong, or Singapore. In fact, nobody had the least idea where she might be reached. At first Hélène was baffled by this discovery, but then she quickly saw the wisdom of it. By keeping everyone uninformed as to her schedule, Yvette could swoop down on any one of her clubs without advance warning, thereby forcing her employees to stay constantly on their toes. All Hélène was able to do was to leave a message for her at each of the clubs.

  Finally at eight o'clock Venice time it was Yvette who called Hélène from Singapore, where it was the middle of the night. Yvette did not waste her nights sleeping. It was during the days while her clubs were closed that she slept on airplanes while flying from one of them to the next. She was a true night owl, and wide-awake now.

  Her breathless, throaty voice bubbled in Hélène's ear. 'Oh cherie, of course I'd be only too happy to help you out! Together we will see to it that it's the party of the year. No, not the year. The decade. Oh, it'll be sublime. I can't wait to get started on it. . . Don't be foolish, I wouldn't dream of accepting a sou. I have enough money, and whatever are friends for, anyway? We'll get along splendidly, I just know it. We always did.' From the depths of her throat came the laughter of the memories they had shared. 'For as long as I live, I'll never be able to forget that time you blew the whistle on Jocelyne. You were the only person who ever had the guts to do anything about that bitch! Oh, by the way, did you know she's working the streets now as a twenty-franc hooker? I ran into her in the Pigalle last year and I almost didn't recognize her. All ugly and bloated like you wouldn't believe. Real down and out, let me tell you. It's really hilarious, though. She actually propositioned me. Took me for a dyke! Can you believe it? Me? A dyke?' More throaty laughter. 'Anyway. . .What? A Golden Ball? Ooooh, I can see it already. How delicious! And the waiters and bouncers—at an affair like that you've simply got to have a squad of bouncers, believe me. . .. Why? There are bound to be party crashers and paparazzi and horrible drunks, that's why. Well, as I was saying, the waiters and the bouncers can be half naked and wear nothing but gold paint and bull's masks. Isn't that marvelous? Oh, loincloths too, it goes without saying. We wouldn't want to get raided, would we? Listen, I repeat, you're not imposing. It's the most exciting thing I've heard about in ages! Why didn't I think of a Golden Ball? Never mind. . .. No, I haven't gotten my invitation yet. You sent it where? To Paris? Then that explains it. I've been traveling for nearly two solid weeks now and nobody in Paris knows where I am. . .. Oh, don't thank me. You're the one who saved my life. I can't wait to hop on the next flight out of here. It's so steamy, and the mosquitoes are deadly. I think they diet while I'm gone and lie in wait to feast on me when I return. . .. I'll call you the moment I get to Venice, I promise! A bientot!'