As I walked forward, a champagne glass appeared in my hand, and I took a lengthy draught for a modicum of Dutch (or, more accurately, French) courage. A DJ turned round, but it was much taller and more powerfully built than Arabella. And it had a coarsish face and a moustache.
‘Ah, this must be your friend, my dear, come in from the storm.’
He had an American accent too, from somewhere south of Washington DC, I guessed. He came up to me and grasped my hand. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Ben Maxwell.’
‘Peter Marklin,’ I smiled, and could feel another raindrop starting on its journey.
‘My, you’ve got a mite wet, Peter. Would you like to use the bathroom?’
‘No, no,’ I replied. ‘I’m not that bad. Just my hair, really. The fire should...’
‘Well, that’s just great, Peter.’ He propelled me forward into the group he had left in order to greet me. Now, for the first time, I could see the centre of attraction, and knew instantly why she could never fail to be so. It was not just that Lana-Lee Claudell more than lived up to her screen image, it was something far deeper, and it was centred mainly in her bluest of blue eyes. They somehow spoke of scenarios that I felt no camera could ever film, no writer ever adequately convey. They were kind of streetwise, yet childlike, warm, yet with a flicker of fear, confident, yet sad. They fascinated me, and by the end of the evening, I had decided her eyes had to be her devastating equivalent of the Mona Lisa’s smile.
But there was no enigma about the rest of her. I just could not believe she was only a year younger than myself. (I’m thirty-nine. Honest. But I won’t be so honest next year.) Her figure was straight out of Vogue, as indeed, was her dress — pure white, clinging closely to every delicious curve. It seemed to have been spun in some kind of silk, slightly more matt than usual, and was cut to leave one bare shoulder, then sweep in an elongated s-shape to an undulating hem, split at one side to reveal an elegant glimpse of leg. Coloured and plain diamanté were sewn on to the bodice and down the front to form the shape of a fabulous leaping panther, its out-stretched legs and paws seeming to embrace her body. It made the dresses in Dynasty look like yesterday’s cast offs.
‘Honey, this is Peter Marklin. My wife, Lana-Lee.’ Maxwell introduced her with a slight note of hardness in what I now placed as a Texan drawl. In my impetuous way I took an instant dislike to him, safe in the knowledge that, according to Gus, I was probably not alone.
‘I’m pleased you could come,’ she said warmly, in that voice that had sent cinema audiences into a quiver for nigh on twenty years. Her eyes moved off me, and I followed them. That’s how I found Arabella. ‘You know, Arabella here has told me quite a bit about you.’
‘It’s all untrue,’ I said, smirking. But before Lana-Lee could react, Arabella was by my side.
‘No, I only told Lana-Lee the good things,’ she laughed, then stage whispered in my ear, ‘I didn’t tell her you liked going swimming at Osmington Mills before parties at manor houses.’
Lana-Lee laughed and ran her elegant fingers through her long, blonde hair — sort of Lauren Bacallish.
‘But I’ve heard about your antique toy collecting, Peter. Sounds fascinating.’
I was just about to pick up her very welcome cue, when re-enter husband stage left, with a big fat grin on his over-large face.
‘Let me introduce Peter to the others. Arabella has already met them.’
I looked at Arabella. Her expressive face gave me the split-second equivalent of a thumbs down. Whoever I was going to meet had not been awarded the Arabella Donna Trench seal of approval. I inwardly sighed, and glanced across at the figure to whom I was being introduced. It was female rather than feminine; willowy rather than full-bodied. And the face not, I suppose, without attraction, although I don’t really go for the slightly sinister femme fatale type of look, outside Yvonne de Carlo in the countless returns of The Munsters.
‘This is Lavinia Saunders. Peter Marklin. I’ll leave you two together for a moment.’ I saw Maxwell give her a knowing glance, then turn to a rather blue-faced man, who was now endeavouring to engage Arabella in conversation over near the fire.
‘Peter. That’s a gentle name,’ she said, huskily. ‘I have never known a violent Peter.’
I didn’t quite know how to respond to that comment, so I didn’t try.
‘Lavinia,’ I countered instead, ‘I’ve never ever met a Lavinia before,’ I was longing to add, ‘Can Lavinias be violent?’ but thought I had better not.
‘My mother’s second name. But you’re right, it is unusual.’ She fluttered her eyelashes just enough to invite a compliment. I couldn’t think of one.
‘You here alone?’ was all I could muster.
She looked across at the blue-faced man with Maxwell. ‘No such luck,’ she grinned. ‘That’s my husband over there.’ She looked up at me through the mascara.
‘You’re not alone, are you?’ she asked. ‘I gathered that from the rather striking girl with the immaculate short hair and dinner jacket. She your wife?’
‘No. Not...er—’
‘Going to be?’ Lavinia was nothing if not direct.
‘Oh, we’ll see.’
She ran her scarlet-tipped finger slowly around the top of her champagne glass. I think, by her smile, she thought the gesture was mildly suggestive. I was rather miffed, and prayed the party was not going to prove to be one of those that ends with car keys thrown into a bowl.
‘If you’ll pardon my curiosity, Peter, I would hazard a guess, though, that you have been married? Am I right?’
I nodded.
‘Didn’t work out?’ Her finger was on its fourth lap of her glass.
I couldn’t resist saying, ‘No, it worked so well, we divorced so that we wouldn’t go on hogging the benefit of our magic all to ourselves. Share it around, you know.’
Her green eyes double-took. Then she laughed. ‘You’re right to send me up, Peter. I shouldn’t really have asked, should I?’ She struck a naughty little girl pose, and took a sexual sip of her champagne. ‘I like you, you know, Peter. I like a man with a sense of humour.’
I glanced at her husband, who was now talking with Maxwell in low tones at the other side of the room. His Nixon-blue face looked as full of laughs as an income tax inspector’s. As I looked back at her, she leaned forward to brush some minuscule something or other from the lower part of her black silk dress. I couldn’t avoid seeing her breasts for the dress was low cut and she wasn’t wearing a bra. I had a feeling her gesture was not so much intended to remove something as to attract something. Me. And I could not deny what I’d seen of her was a little disconcerting. I changed the subject.
‘Know everyone here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I know most people around here.’ I bet she did. ‘I’ll introduce you to the others if you’ll promise to come back to me later.’ She took my hand (her fingers felt icy) and led me over to a grey-haired man who was stubbing his cigar out in a chunky glass ashtray. When he looked up, I was startled to see he was much younger than I thought — mid thirties, I would guess — and really rather good-looking.
‘Peter, may I introduce Jean-Paul Gautier?’
He gave a slight bow and shook my hand. His English accent was so precise, he obeyed the My Fair Lady line about over perfection of accent being proof of foreign origin.
‘How d’you do, Peter? I saw you come in, looking a little damp from the English rain.’
‘That’s why so many English people are short,’ I joked. ‘We shrink in our climate.’
‘Oh, the weather in Paris’, he grinned, ‘is not much better. You English decry yourselves too much.’
‘Jean-Paul is a business colleague of my husband’s. He heads up the export division of Reinhardt Cosmetics in Paris. My husband, John, as you probably know, is marketing director of the UK side of the company,’ Lavinia offered, as huskily as ever. I was starting now to see what kind of party it was — mainly a business one. I wondered what Arabella and I were do
ing there. Leavening the bread?
‘The new Lana-Lee perfume, I guess you’re excited by its prospects.’ I couldn’t think of anything better to say. Still Jean-Paul warmed to it.
‘Yes, we are, Peter. Advance orders are being taken now — and first signs are extremely healthy. We’re lucky to have such a famous name associated with our new perfumery range. It’s all due to the persuasive powers of your husband, Lavinia.’
Lavinia’s eyes flickered for a second. ‘Oh, John can be persuasive when he wants to be.’ Jean-Paul took the hint and turned back to me.
‘And what do you do, Peter?’
I felt a trifle self-conscious in my reply, but, after all, it is what I actually do all day.
‘I’m in toys.’
‘Manufacture them?’ Jean-Paul asked.
‘Play with them?’ came languorously from you-know-who.
‘I buy and sell antique toys. But I’m sort of thinking of going into some very esoteric and small scale manufacturing shortly — strictly for collectors, you understand.’
I could see Lavinia’s interest in me waning fast, but Jean-Paul soldiered on as if he genuinely wanted to know a bit more.
‘Fascinating, Peter. May I ask how you first got into such a rare line of business?’
‘I’ve collected old toys for almost as long as I can remember — anything that took my fancy that was in good condition. Used to be able to pick them up for almost nothing. It’s different now.’
‘That’s perhaps because of people like you who make a living from them,’ Lavinia observed. I could have done without that remark, even if it is the truth.
‘But you haven’t traded in them all your life?’ Jean-Paul went on.
‘Oh no. I used to be in advertising. Enjoyed it at first, until I found myself not being able to see the truth about things quite as clearly as I used to. Somehow, the hype over the years began clouding issues — even in my personal life. And the pace of that profession left little time for reflection as to how to cure the problem — or even to see it clearly.’
‘So you threw it all up?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Retired into my old toys. They seemed more genuine, somehow.’ I smiled. ‘Not regretted it.’
‘I envy you.’ Jean-Paul began lighting another cigar from an expensive leather case. Lavinia, needless to say, insisted on holding his match.
‘Is that when your marriage broke up?’ she husked.
I nodded. ‘She likes advertising. She’s still in it.’
‘I take it your girlfriend is not in that business then,’ she continued.
‘No, she is not.’ And that wasn’t me speaking. I spun round in surprise. It was Arabella. I could have kissed her. (It’s a habit of mine.)
‘This is Arabella. Arabella Trench. Jean-Paul Gautier.’ I explained.
‘Beautiful name, Arabella.’ Jean-Paul kissed her hand. A gesture I would normally consider OTT, but from him it seemed rather charming. I think Arabella thought so too, by her expression.
‘Trench isn’t so good,’ she laughed. ‘And my middle name is worse.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Donna. God knows what my parents were thinking of.’
Lavinia looked nonplussed, but Jean-Paul got the point instantly.
‘I see. Ara-belladonna.’
‘Yes,’ Arabella grimaced. ‘Belladonna. That’s what I was sometimes called at school.’
‘Anyway, what do you actually do, Arabella? Are you a model?’ (Oooh! Paris must be the world’s centre for charm.)
‘You’re Reinhardt, France, aren’t you? John Saunders told me about you at the Lana-Lee perfume press party a little time ago. You see, I’m a reporter on the local paper, the Western Gazette. That’s how I came to get invited. But thanks for pretending to think I was a model.’
‘No pretence, I assure you, Arabella.’
It was at this point that Lavinia undulated away towards her husband. As I watched her, I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. I spun around, but it was only Lana-Lee’s scintillating dress. She had come up on my right and joined us. But it brought back with startling clarity the image I had seen in the dark on my drive from picking up the boxes. And I made a mental note to tell Arabella about it at the first opportunity.
*
An hour and three glasses of champagne later, I’d met everybody. And my hair was dry enough not to cause further comment. But I’d still had no chance of a private word with Arabella, for I had become stuck with dear Lavinia’s husband, well and truly stuck. Soon after Lana-Lee had introduced me to him, Maxwell had vamoosed to the other side of the room with Lavinia clinging like ivy to his arm. Saunders had obviously decided that I was a perfect audience for a tedious and lengthy lecture on the inadequacies of British marketing methods, and the lack of creativity in British advertising compared with the French. But, at least, it stopped him asking what I did for some sort of living. When I could, at last, get a word in edgewise, I innocently asked how the Lana-Lee perfume deal had come about.
‘Luck, Peter. Pure luck. Lana-Lee came over to England to get away from Hollywood, at just the time Reinhardt were considering the development of a new perfume range. And the idea suddenly occurred to me. I got in touch with Jean-Paul in Paris, and the deal was done very quickly. She’s a lovely lady to do business with. And so is her husband.’
I expressed surprise. ‘I didn’t know Ben Maxwell was involved at all.’
Saunders looked a little uncertain for a second, but recovered instantly. There’s your trained executive for you.
‘He’s not, in the way Lana-Lee is. You see, I’ve known Ben for some years. We met through motor racing. As you know, he was one of the few American drivers to be successful in European Formula One. I came across him first at the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. We found we had the same kinds of interests so we kept in touch over the years. After his retirement from actual competition, three years or so back, he took up motor racing commentating for an American network, and was often in Europe. When that contract terminated, I lost touch with him for a short time, until I signed up Lana-Lee for the new perfume range. It was pure coincidence he was her husband, you know.’
‘Remarkable,’ I managed to chip in. ‘But they were separated for quite a time, weren’t they?’ I continued, keeping my voice down.
‘Yes. Amazing how they seem reconciled again.’
‘Amazing,’ I agreed. ‘Unbelievable’ was my thought. I just could not conceive that Lana-Lee would go for such a character in the first place, let alone in the second place. But lo and behold she had.
‘Do you think they got together again for their daughter’s sake?’
‘For Tara-Lee? Could be. Whatever the reason, I’m glad they did. I use Ben as a kind of sounding board for new ideas. I like him around.’
Even more unbelievable. Ben looked about as creative as the proverbial brick gentleman’s room, but, I reckoned, he might have hidden shallows, who knew?
I took another caviare canapé from a silver tray, but this one exploded in my hand as I raised it to my mouth. Puff pastry and I have never got on particularly well. The butler came to my aid, as if his only purpose in life was just such a moment. Perhaps it was.
As I looked up from picking a crumb out of my cummerbund, I caught a glimpse of Lavinia and Maxwell over by the huge mullioned windows. She was so close to him, they looked like one black-draped figure. But her eyes spoke of anger, and her rather large mouth was set in that thin horizontal hold that always suggests the transmission of venom. I wondered what Maxwell had said to trigger such a change of mood. I glanced at Saunders, but his eyes were desiringly fixed on Lana-Lee, who was now with Arabella by the fireplace.
‘Shall we join the ladies?’ I said quickly.
Saunders’ thin, blue face broke into a smile. ‘Why not?’
As we walked across to them, I felt a certain sympathy for the Reinhardt director, even though I couldn’t say I was mad keen on him. For living with Lavinia w
as obviously no bed of roses (bed, yes; roses no), and I guessed that it didn’t help that he was about ten years older than her seeming thirty or so summers.
‘Ah, Peter, you can now tell me all about your interest in toys,’ Lana-Lee smiled. ‘I’d really like to know.’
‘How many hours can you spare?’ Arabella asked. ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’
I put my arm around Arabella’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, my sweet, I’ll restrict myself to the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my obsession.’
Lana-Lee raised her glass to her generous mouth, as if in a toast.
‘Here’s to your story. I’m genuinely interested.’
But, as she finished speaking, her expression froze, as I heard the sound of a door being thrust open, followed by the cacophony of voices raised in anger. I looked around to see the butler obviously attempting to stop someone bursting into the room. But that someone was a giant of a man compared to the frailty of the retainer, and quickly disengaged himself and shambled forward with that awkward gait that shouted many over the eight.
‘Where’s that bloody Maxwell?’ the intruder yelled, his eyes scanning the assembled company as if through a haze. I guessed he must have come straight from some riotous party of his own, for he was dressed fairly formally, but his tie was loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He lumbered forward, then spotted his quarry. Lavinia moved away from Maxwell with the slinky speed of a rattler, and I didn’t blame her. The newcomer had the build and the belligerence of someone who plays rugby in preference to chess, and referee-ruffling rugby at that.
I looked round at Lana-Lee, but she had moved. Arabella clung tightly to my arm.
‘There you are, you bastard,’ the intruder bellowed, and I turned back in his direction. The white figure of Lana-Lee was moving rapidly towards him, but the Frenchman intervened.
‘No, it’s all right, Jean-Paul,’ the actress said quietly, in a surprisingly calm voice, and moved his arm aside. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery) Page 3