Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  She watched Francesca flit from one conversation to another, looking outrageously beautiful in a turquoise silk jumpsuit. She tossed her cloud of shining chestnut hair as if the world were her personal pearl-filled oyster when everyone in London knew she was down to her last farthing. What a surprise it must have been for her to discover how deeply in debt Chloe had been.

  Over the polite noise of the party, Miranda heard Francesca's generous laughter and listened as she greeted several men in that breathless, wait-until-you-hear-this voice, carelessly emphasizing the most unimportant words in a manner that drove Miranda wild. But one by one the stupid bastards all melted into warm little puddles at her feet. Unfortunately, one of those stupid bastards was her own beloved brother Nicky.

  Miranda frowned and picked up a macadamia nut from an opalescent Lalique bowl printed with dragonflies. Nicholas was the most important person in the world to her, a wonderfully sensitive man with an enlightened soul. Nicky had encouraged her to write Woman as Warrior. He had helped her refine her thoughts, brought her coffee late at night, and most important, he had shielded her from their mother's criticism over why her daughter, with a yearly income of one hundred thousand pounds, had to meddle with such nonsense. Miranda couldn't bear the idea of standing idly by while Francesca Day broke his heart. For months she had watched Francesca flit from one man to another, running back to Nicky whenever she found herself between admirers. Each time he welcomed her return—a little more battle-scarred, perhaps, a little less eagerly—but he welcomed her just the same.

  “When we're together,” he had explained to Miranda, “she makes me feel as if I'm the wittiest, brightest, most perceptive man in the world.” And then he added dryly, “Unless she's in a bad mood, of course, in which case she makes me feel like a complete shit.”

  How did she do it? Miranda wondered. How did someone so intellectually and spiritually barren command so much attention? Most of it, Miranda felt certain, was her extraordinary beauty. But part of it was her vitality, the way the very air around her seemed to crackle with life. A cheap parlor trick, Miranda thought with disgust, since Francesca Day certainly didn't have an original thought in her head. Just look at her! She was both penniless and unemployed, yet she acted as if she hadn't a care in the world. And maybe she didn't have a care, Miranda thought uneasily—not with Nicky Gwynwyck and all his millions waiting patiently in the wings.

  Although Miranda didn't know it, she wasn't the only person brooding at her party that evening. Despite her outward show of gaiety, Francesca was miserable. Just the day before, she had gone to see Steward Bessett, the head of London's most prestigious modeling agency, and asked him for a job. Although she had no desire for a career, modeling was an acceptable way to earn money in her social circle, and she had decided that it would provide at least a temporary answer to her bewildering financial problems.

  But to her dismay, Steward had told her she was too short. “No matter how beautiful a model is, she simply has to be five feet eight inches if she's to do fashion,” he had said. “You're barely five feet two. Of course, I might be able to get you some beauty work—close-ups, you know, but you'll need some test shots done first.”

  That was when she had lost her temper, shouting at him that she had been photographed for some of the most important magazines in the world and that she hardly needed to do test shots like some rank amateur. Now she realized that it had been foolish of her to become so upset, but at the time she simply hadn't been able to help herself.

  Although it had been a year since Chloe's death, Francesca still found it difficult to accept the loss of her mother. Sometimes her grief seemed to be alive, a tangible object that had twisted itself around her. At first her friends had been sympathetic, but after a few months, they seemed to believe that she should set her sadness aside like last year's hem length. She was afraid they would stop issuing invitations if she didn't become a more cheerful companion, and she hated being alone, so she had finally learned to tuck her grief away. When she was in public, she laughed and flirted as if nothing were wrong.

  Surprisingly, the laughter had begun to help, and in the last few months she had felt that she was finally healing. Sometimes she even experienced vague stirrings of anger against Chloe. How could her mother have deserted her like this, with an army of creditors waiting like a plague of locusts to snatch up everything they owned? But the anger never lasted for long. Now that it was too late, Francesca understood why Chloe had seemed so tired and distracted in those months before she had been hit by the taxi.

  Within weeks of Chloe's death, men in three-piece suits had begun to appear at the door with legal documents and greedy eyes. First Chloe's jewelry had disappeared, then the Aston Martin and the paintings. Finally the house itself had been sold. That had settled the last of the debts, but it had left Francesca with only a few hundred pounds, most of which was gone now, and temporarily lodged at the home of Cissy Kavendish, one of Chloe's oldest friends. Unfortunately, Francesca and Cissy had never gotten along all that well, and since the beginning of September, Cissy had made it clear that she wanted Francesca to move out. Francesca wasn't certain how much longer she could hold her off with vague promises.

  She forced herself to laugh at Talmedge Butler's joke and tried to find comfort in the idea that being without money was a bore, but merely a temporary situation. She caught sight of Nicholas across the room in his navy Gieves and Hawkes blazer and knife-pleated gray trousers. If she married him, she could have all the money she would ever possibly need, but she had only seriously entertained the idea for the absolute briefest of moments one afternoon a few weeks ago after she'd received a telephone call from a perfectly odious man who had threatened her with all sorts of unpleasant things if she didn't make a payment on her credit cards. No, Nicholas Gwynwyck wasn't a solution to her problems. She despised women who were so desperate, so unsure of themselves, that they married for money. She was only twenty-one. Her future was too special, too bright with promise, to ruin because of a temporary upset. Something would happen soon. All she had to do was wait.

  “... is a piece of trash that I shall transform into art.” The snag of conversation spoken by an elegant Noel Cowardish man with a short cigarette holder and manicured hair caught Francesca's attention. He broke away from Miranda Gwynwyck to materialize at her side. “Hello, my dear,” he said. “You are incredibly lovely, and I've been waiting all evening to have you to myself. Miranda said I would enjoy you.”

  She smiled and placed her hand in his outstretched one. “Francesca Day,” she said. “I hope I'm worth the wait.”

  “Lloyd Byron, and you most definitely are. We met earlier, although you probably don't remember.”

  “On the contrary, I remember very well. You're a friend of Miranda's, a famous film director.”

  “A hack, I'm afraid, who has once again sold himself out for the Yankee dollar.” He tilted his head back dramatically and spoke to the ceiling, releasing a perfect smoke ring. “Miserable thing, money. It makes extraordinary people do all sorts of depraved things.”

  Francesca's eyes widened mischievously. “Exactly how many depraved things have you done, or is one permitted to inquire?”

  “Far, far too many.” He took a sip from a tumbler generously filled with what looked like straight scotch. “Everything connected with Hollywood is depraved. I, however, am determined to put my own stamp on even the most crassly commercial product.”

  “How absolutely courageous of you.” She smiled with what she hoped would pass for admiration, but was actually amusement at his almost perfect parody of the world-weary director forced to compromise his art.

  Lloyd Byron's eyes traced her cheekbones and then lingered on her mouth, his inspection admiring but dispassionate enough to tell her that he preferred male companionship to female. He pursed his lips and leaned forward as if he were sharing a great secret. “In two days, darling Francesca, I'm leaving for godforsaken Mississippi to begin filming something called Delta
Blood, a script that I have single-handedly transformed from a wretched piece of garbage into a strong spiritual statement.”

  “I simply adore spiritual statements,” she cooed, lifting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray while she covertly inspected Sarah Fargate-Smyth's barber-pole-striped taffeta dress, trying to decide whether it was Adolfo or Valentino.

  “I intend to make Delta Blood an allegory, a statement of reverence for both life and death.” He made a dramatic gesture with his glass without spilling a drop. “The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you understand?”

  “Enduring cycles are my particular specialty.”

  For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed his eyes shut dramatically. “I can feel your life force beating so strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head.” He pressed his hand to his cheek. “I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel my skin. It's positively clammy.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps the prawns are a bit off.”

  He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Love. I've fallen in love. I absolutely have to have you in my film. From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda.”

  Francesca lifted one eyebrow. “I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He frowned. “I never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film without you.”

  “Don't you think that's a little extreme?” she said with a smile. “You've known me less than five minutes.”

  “I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's what separates me from the others.” His lips formed a perfect oval and emitted a second smoke ring. “The role is small but memorable. I'm experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time travel—a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth-century prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested in a serious career.”

  For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect answer to all her financial difficulties, and the drama of performing had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson, who seemed to be having a perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly laughed aloud at her own naiveté. Legitimate directors hardly walked up to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.

  Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. “I have to leave London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon. This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the chance to appear in a major American film.”

  As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she restrained herself from commenting that Delta Blood hardly sounded like a major American film. “It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm afraid I'm not an actress.”

  He pressed both hands—one containing his drink and the other his cigarette holder—over his ears so that he looked something like a smoke-producing space creature. “No negative thoughts! You are what I say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!”

  With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear, “He's not the only one who has to have you.”

  “Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend,” Francesca said, turning to plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. “I just met the most amusing little man. Do you know him?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning.”

  Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.

  “Congratulations, Francesca,” Miranda said, “I heard the wonderful news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a cat...”

  Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to maintain more than a surface courtesy. “Speaking of cats,” she said pleasantly, “you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you talking about?”

  “Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with envy.”

  “You actually believed him?” Francesca quirked one eyebrow.

  “Shouldn't I have?”

  “Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate films.”

  Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming with uncharacteristic brightness. “Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed. I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you want people to believe.”

  Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew, could barely conceal her annoyance. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him—all his films are marvelous allegories—and everyone is certain his new production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best people.”

  Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics, Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer a bit more consideration.

  Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her to a private club that had just opened in Chelsea. They stayed until nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible row—the absolute final one as far as she was concerned—so she didn't get to sleep until very late. As a result, it was well past noon before she awoke the next day, and even then she only did so because Miranda called her to ask some nonsensical question about a dressmaker.

  Leaping out of bed, she cursed Cissy's maid for not having awakened her earlier and then flew across the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom, tugging open the sash on the front of her putty and salmon Natori nightgown as she moved. She bathed quickly, then threw herself into a pair of black wool trousers topped with a crimson and yellow Sonia Rykiel sweater. After applying the bare minimum of blusher, eye makeup, and lip gloss, then tugging on a pair of knee-high zippered boots, she dashed off to Byron's hotel where the clerk informed her the director had already checked out.

  “Did he leave a message?” she asked, tapping her fingernails impatiently on the counter.

  “I'll check.”

  The clerk returned a moment later with an envelope. Francesca ripped it open and quickly scanned the message.

  Hosannas, Francesca darling!

  If you're reading this, you've come to your senses, although it was absolutely inhumane of you not to have called before I left. I must have you in Louisiana by this Friday at the absolute latest. Fly into Gulfport, Mississippi, and hire a driver to take you to the Wentworth plantation according to enclosed directions. My assistant will handle work permit, contract, etc., when you arrive, and will reimburse you for travel expe
nses as well. Wire your acceptance immediately in care of the plantation address so I can once again draw an easy breath.

  Ciao, my beautiful new star!

  Francesca tucked the directions into her purse along with Byron's note. She remembered how exquisite Marisa Berenson had looked in both Cabaret and Barry Lyndon and how jealous she had been when she'd seen the films. What a perfectly wonderful way to make money.

  And then she frowned as she recalled Byron's comment about reimbursing her for her travel expenses. If only she'd gotten hold of him earlier so he could have arranged for her ticket. Now she'd have to pay for it herself, and she was almost certain she didn't have enough money left in her account to cover her air fare. This ridiculous nonsense about her credit cards had temporarily closed off that avenue, and after last night she absolutely refused to talk to Nicky. So where was she to get the money for a plane ticket? She glanced at the clock behind the desk and saw that she was late for her appointment with her hairdresser. With a sigh, she tucked her purse under her arm. She'd just have to find a way.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Beaudine.” The buxom Delta flight attendant stopped next to Dallie's seat. “Would you mind signing an autograph for my nephew? He plays on his high school golf team. His name's Matthew, and he's a big fan of yours.”

  Dallie flashed her breasts an appreciative smile and then raised his eyes to her face, which wasn't quite as good as the rest of her, but was still mighty fine. “Be happy to,” he said, taking the pad and pen she handed him. “Sure hope he plays better than I've been playing lately.”

  “The co-pilot told me you ran into a little trouble at Firestone a few weeks back.”

  “Honey, I invented trouble at Firestone.”