Adored (47 page)
They arrived at the fund-raiser at the Beverly Hills Hotel in unusually good spirits. The last vestiges of a spectacular L.A. sunset, a psychedelic melting pot of red, orange, purple, blue, and pink, were sinking into the horizon, throwing the famously kitsch pink walls of the hotel and its straight rows of palm trees into dark silhouettes. It looked so breathtaking, even Randall was momentarily entranced; not that he was allowed the luxury of time to admire the view. Both he and Siena were mobbed by photographers the moment they set foot out of the car.
“Siena, any comment on the problems you and Jason have been having on
1941
?” called out one opportunist from the front of the press pack as she made her way up the pink stone steps.
“What problems?” she called back, giving the reporter a mischievous wink that sent the paparazzi wild.
The whole evening, in fact, was turning into something of a triumph for Siena. Every director in the room seemed to want to talk to her, all drawn to her beauty and confidence. She’d lost weight, no doubt due to the combined stresses of dealing with Randall at home and Jason on-set, and her hair had been cut shorter and aggressively sculpted and curled for her role as forties siren Peggy Maples. She was still far too curvy ever to look androgynous, but the shorter hair and pantsuit nevertheless gave her a disturbing, pseudo-boyish appeal that wasn’t lost on any of the red-blooded males in the room.
Randall was also enjoying himself immensely, contentedly basking in her reflected glory and being unusually affectionate and relaxed. When he won an antique gold-and-diamond ladies’ watch in the raffle, he dragged Siena up onto the podium with him and made a great show of kissing her hand gallantly while it was clasped around her wrist.
It was the end of the evening, and Siena was happily chatting with a well-known Dutch director, showing off her new watch and wondering whether she had time for one last Kir Royale, when Randall came up to her looking flushed and happy.
“Come on,” he said, taking her arm and pulling her unceremoniously away from the Dutchman. “We’re getting out of here. Johnny Lo Cicero’s hired out the Sky Bar for a private party, and I said we’d stop by.”
Siena felt a shiver run through her and a dark cloud descending to smother her happiness. “No,” she said stiffly. “I’m not going to the Sky Bar.”
“What?” Randall was still smiling, looking past her and waving to David Geffen as he made his way out. “Why? What’s the problem?”
“That place just gives me bad vibes, that’s all.”
An image of Max lying by the pool, kissing and touching that dreadful girl, rushed unbidden into her mind. She would never set foot in the Sky Bar again as long as she lived. Never. And Randall couldn’t make her.
“What vibes?” said Randall, but then it came to him. “Oh, come on.” He looked at her pityingly. “Please tell me you’re not still hung up about Loser Boy and the waitress?”
Siena blushed uncomfortably.
“Sweetheart, he’s nothing.” Randall was fond of making this observation about Max, and couldn’t understand why it didn’t seem to comfort her. He pushed her hair back from her face and stroked her neck with unaccustomed tenderness. “You’re playing with the big boys now, baby,” he said. “That shit doesn’t matter anymore. You’re with me, and I want you to come. It’s gonna be a great party.”
Siena hesitated. She desperately wanted to please him. Tonight had gone so well, she really couldn’t bear to spoil it. But it was no good, she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t go in there.
“Darling, of course I’m with you, I owe everything to you,” she said, trying to placate him. “But please understand, I can’t face the Sky Bar. I know it seems stupid and superstitious to you, and I know it all happened ages ago. But I really can’t go in there. I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” he said coldly, snatching his hand away as though Siena’s neck had burned him. “Do what you want. But I’m taking the car. You’ll have to get Al to call Marcel if you want him to come and pick you up.”
Before Siena could say or do anything, the infamous blond starlet Miriam Stanley had sidled up to them. She was wearing a tiny piece of silver thread that barely skimmed her crotch and thigh-high patent-leather boots.
Miriam might be a slut, but she was also gorgeous, thought Siena bitterly.
“Hi, Randall.” She beamed at him, then turned to Siena as an afterthought and flashed her the briefest of fake smiles. “Siena. Are you guys coming to Johnny’s party?”
“Actually, Miriam, we were just in the middle of something,” began Siena.
“Were we?” said Randall harshly. “I thought we’d just finished something.” He pointedly put his arm around a surprised and delighted Miriam. “Siena is tired, so she’s going home. But I’m going over there. If you want, I can give you a ride?”
“Well.” Miriam flicked back her hair and smiled smugly at a stricken-looking Siena. “That’s really kind of you, Randall. I’d like that.”
Without another word, the two of them headed for the door, leaving Siena standing miserably alone, like Cinderella at midnight. Biting down hard on her lower lip, close to tears, she fought her way through the last of the guests out into the lobby. She was looking around desperately for Al, but the big man saw her first and was by her side in seconds.
“Randall’s taken the car,” she said, trying to sound as if everything were under control. But her lower lip was going, the classic Siena giveaway.
“Yes,” said Al, giving her a meaningful look. “I saw Mr. Stein leaving. With his companion.” It was quite beyond him why Siena stayed with the bastard. All he ever seemed to do was treat her like dirt. “I’ve already called Marcel, he should be here in about ten minutes with the Jag.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him gratefully, but he could see the tears were about to flow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Al. I really don’t.”
He put his arms around her and hugged her tightly to his chest, so no one would see her crying. She’d looked like such a vixen earlier in her tight red suit, bursting at the seams with vampy sexual confidence. But all it took was one fight with Randall, and she was transformed back into a clingy, needy child.
Al shook his head.
He was bad for her, that man. He really was.
In his modest family house over in Burbank, private detective Bill Jennings was brushing his teeth, about to get into bed with his wife, Denelle, for some much needed sleep. It had been a grindingly long week.
“What’s this, baby?”
He turned to see Denelle sitting up in bed, looking at a couple of pictures he’d brought home. Damn, she looked hot in that baby-doll nightgown he’d bought her. He hoped the fact that she’d put it on was a good sign.
“Do I know this guy?”
He rinsed out his mouth and climbed into bed beside her. “Uh-huh,” he nodded, pointing at the naked back view of a man in flagrante with two stunning girls in a hotel room. “That’s Randall Stein. At the Standard, last week.”
“Ooooo,” said Denelle, raising her eyebrows and smiling at her handsome husband. She loved a good piece of gossip, although she had learned to be discreet and never discussed Bill’s clients’ business with other people. “And I guess none of those arms, legs, or breasts belong to Siena McMahon, right?”
“Right,” said Bill, taking the pictures from her and slipping them both back into the brown envelope on his bedside table.
“What an asshole,” said Denelle, who was always ready to stand up for the sisterhood when a woman was being wronged. Castrate the bastard first, ask questions later, that was her motto.
In this case though, Bill agreed with her. “Yeah, he is,” he said. “He really is.” Leaning over, he gave his wife a lingering kiss and slipped one hand under the sheer fabric of her nightdress. “It’s me you should be feeling sorry for, though,” he told her.
“Oh yeah?” She reached down and undid the pink strings confining her beautiful black breasts without taking her eyes from his. “Why’s that?”
Bill stared down at her cleavage. “Because tomorrow,” he whispered, lowering his head and slowly kissing each of her breasts in turn, “I have to give those pictures to Siena’s mother.”
Max was sitting beside Henry in the passenger seat of the ancient Land Rover, trying to keep his brother’s spirits up.
“Just think about that boeuf bourguignon we’ll be tucking into at Le Gavroche this evening,” he said, breaking off a few squares of Galaxy chocolate and passing them to Henry. “You’ll be a rich man by then. Well, a rich
er
man.”
“I bloody won’t,” said Henry, chewing on the chocolate gloomily. “I’ll be a completely broke man who may, just
may,
have bought himself a few measly months’ leeway to try and hold off his effing creditors.”
“More than a few months, surely?” said Max.
They were driving up to town to try to sell two of Henry’s most prized and valuable possessions, a pair of early Turner watercolors. They’d been a christening present from an extraordinarily wealthy godfather, so he had literally grown up with them and reckoned he must have looked at the pale gray seascapes almost every day of his life.
He wished he’d looked at them harder now, appreciated them more. But there was no point in getting sentimental about it. They had to go.
Freddie had also come along for the ride and was perched somewhat nervously in the backseat with the grave responsibility of keeping the paintings steady as the truck jolted and lurched down the M40. She had never been to London before, and also hadn’t had a day off since her somewhat unexpected arrival at Manor Farm, so the plan was that they would drop Henry at the art dealer’s on Pont Street to sew up the deal while Max took her off for lunch and some sightseeing.
Unfortunately, the traffic was abysmal, and by the time they’d safely delivered Henry and the paintings and agreed to meet back on Pont Street at six, it was already almost lunchtime.
“So,” said Max. “Any idea where you want to start?”
“Well, I would like to see the ’ouses of Parliament. Big Ben? And I definitely ’ave to go to Buckingham Palace. Do you think there will be time for both?”
Max couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. He remembered the first time he had visited Paris, on a school trip when he was about fourteen, feeling a similar sense of wonder. She was looking up at him, clutching her tatty little London tourist’s handbook and a cheap umbrella (just in case), her eyes wide with anticipation.
“Absolutely, buckets of time,” he said, relieving her of both the book and umbrella and, to her horror, dropping them in a nearby trash can. “You won’t need either of those,” he assured her brightly. “Just follow me.”
They went to Parliament Square first, and Freddie seemed delighted, particularly with the Abbey itself. She listened, enraptured, while Max gave her an impromptu history lesson, pointing out the hallowed resting places of kings, queens, and many centuries’ worth of the great and the good of England. It was a treat for him too. He loved history but, since Cambridge, had had little opportunity to indulge his passion.
“You are a wonderful teacher,” Freddie told him afterward, kissing him on both cheeks in the French style as they emerged into the sunlight of the street.
Max blushed. “I don’t know about that,” he mumbled. “But it’s terrific that you’re so interested. A lot of girls your age would rather be whizzing around in the London Eye than plodding through a boring old church, listening to me wittering on.”
“What do you mean ‘girls my age’?” she teased him, poking him in the ribs in mock indignation. “You aren’t so much older than me, you know.”
He noticed the way she threw her auburn hair back as if in challenge when she said this. Was she flirting with him?
“Well, no,” he said, embarrassed at himself for appearing so flustered. “No, I suppose I’m not. But you know what I mean.”
By this time they were starving, so Max made one minor change to their itinerary and took her off to Fortnum & Mason to buy supplies for a picnic in Green Park.
Freddie couldn’t believe the prices. “That’s almost fifteen euros for two slices of pâté!” she wailed. “No wonder your brozer ’as some problems with money if it costs this much just to eat.”
Max assured her that Henry didn’t make a habit of shopping at Fortnum’s, but her outrage over the prices soon disappeared anyway once they sat down to eat.
“
Mon dieu,
” she said through a meltingly delicious mouthful of duck’s-liver pâté on crusty brown bread. “Oh my God. That is incredible.
Incroyable.
Amazing. And I thought the English couldn’t cook.”
Max laughed. “Don’t let Muffy hear you say that.”
He was surprised by how much he was enjoying himself. Ever since Siena had left him, but even more so since he’d had to leave L.A. with his tail between his legs, he’d found it hard to fully relax and be happy. Henry and Muff had been fantastic, as always, and he adored being at Batcombe. But not even the warmth of Manor Farm, or his unexpected professional success at Stratford, had enabled him to shake a deeper feeling of worthlessness and rejection. Siena was still very much on his mind.
Today, though, for the first time in many months, he felt something that was very close to real happiness. Perhaps it was as simple as lying in the park in London on such a beautiful day? It was also nice to be with Freddie, to show her the sights and talk history with her. She was an attractive girl, and the way she listened to him, and was obviously interested in what he had to say, was pleasantly flattering. It made him feel confident, and Max was grateful to her for that.
Freddie lay back on the grass on her side, propped up on her elbow with her pixielike head resting on her hand. “As you English would say”—she patted her nonexistent belly and rolled her eyes—“I’m completely stuffed.”
Max laughed. This was one of Charlie’s favorite expressions and it sounded ridiculous coming from her.
“What do you mean you’re stuffed? You’ve had one slice of bread and pâté and a few cherries! We’ve hardly started here.” He waved at two more largish Fortnum’s bags still crammed with food at their feet.
Freddie shook her head. “I couldn’t eat another theeng,” she said. “Let’s just take it ’ome for the children.”
Max noticed the way her tight T-shirt clung to her tiny breasts as she lay down. Other than being short, he reflected, she might well be described as the polar opposite of Siena in terms of looks. But there
was
something sexy about her. Unthreatening, but definitely sexy. She had the toned, compact body of a gymnast, shown off to full advantage in the shorts she was wearing today, the white of the cotton a striking contrast to her tanned, slender legs. And she didn’t have any makeup on, something he had always gone for in girls. It showed confidence.
“I suppose we ought to make a move and walk up to the palace in a minute,” he said somewhat reluctantly. “It’s nearly four now, and we need to be back in Belgravia by six.”
“Okay,” said Freddie, all energy suddenly, leaping to her feet and standing over him, reaching down for his hands to pull him up.
“I didn’t mean
right
now,” Max grumbled.
But he found himself holding on to her hands anyway, unwilling to let her go. It would have been so simple for him to pull her down on top of him and kiss her. The confident, provocative sparkle in her eyes told him she probably wouldn’t protest if he did. But something made him hesitate.
For a moment, they remained frozen in this pose, holding eye contact for just long enough to confirm a flicker of mutual attraction. Then Max let go of her hands and stood up.
“Right then, you little slave driver,” he said, gathering up the remaining food bags with exaggerated briskness. “The palace it is.”
By the time they’d seen Buckingham Palace, battled their way through central London traffic, and finally found a meter in Belgravia, they were fifteen minutes late to meet Henry. He was standing outside the gallery, and from twenty feet away Max could tell that something was up from his brother’s slumped shoulders and hangdog expression.
“Sorry we’re late,” he said, shrugging apologetically. “I couldn’t find a meter for love nor money. How did it go?” He looked down questioningly at the two watercolors propped up against the wall at Henry’s feet.
Henry looked bleak. “About as badly as possible, I’m afraid. They’re fakes.”
There was a stunned silence.
“What?” said Max eventually. “They can’t be.”
“Well, they are.” Henry gave a brief “what can you do” smile. “Hamish didn’t seem to have any doubts.”
“Christ.” Max shook his head. He knew how crucial the sale of the paintings had been to Henry. Without that money and the extra months it would have bought him, he would be forced to sell up now.
“Per’aps you need a drink?” suggested Freddie. “We could find an English pub before we go to the restaurant, no?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Henry, glancing anxiously at his watch. “You two go and have dinner. Enjoy yourselves. I’ve got to try and catch Nick Frankl before he leaves the office, sort this business out once and for all.”
Max didn’t like his brother’s tone. It sounded worryingly final. “Are you sure?” he pressed him. “Wouldn’t you rather come with us and figure all this out in the morning?”
Henry shook his head. “Can’t, Maxie. There’s someone . . .” He hesitated, as if he were about to tell him something, but then thought better of it. “Something I have to try and do tonight, if I can. Really.” He smiled at them both. “You two go on. I wouldn’t be much company for you, anyway.”
Max sat at the corner table in Le Gavroche with Freddie, sipping a small glass of vintage port that he couldn’t afford, and worrying about Henry.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he kept repeating through his drunken haze to an equally bleary-eyed Frederique. “How can he have had those paintings for all those years and never known they were dodgy?”
Freddie sipped at her own port and said nothing. She was watching the way his blond hair kept flopping forward over his eyes, and longing to reach across the table and push it back for him.
“Sorry,” he said, cutting himself another sliver of Stilton. “You must be bored silly with all this talk about Henry. So, what do you make of London, then? Was it what you were expecting?”
“I suppose so, in a way,” she said. She didn’t seem very interested in reminiscing about their sightseeing trip. “But I don’t find it boring, actually. When you tell me about your brother. It makes me ’appy that you trust me with your problems, you know?”
Max looked across at her with renewed interest. He hadn’t really thought of it like that, in terms of trusting her. But he supposed, in a way, he did.
“I ’ope you don’t think I’m being rude,” she continued tentatively, “but I ’ave noticed that you often seem to be sad. Is it . . .” She twirled her fingers in her hair nervously. “Is it to do with your girlfriend? With Siena?”
Max bridled for a second at hearing Freddie using her name. One of the worst things about splitting up with someone famous was that everyone you met felt like they knew the person intimately. Max found people’s pseudo-familiarity with Siena hard to take. But he knew Freddie’s heart was in the right place, and he tried to answer her honestly.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I still think about her a lot. Well, all the time really. But all that stuff people tell you about time healing the wounds—I’m starting to think there might be something in it. I actually had a really nice day today.”
Freddie took this as a compliment and visibly blushed with pleasure. “Me too,” she said. “Really nice.”
Emboldened by the wine, she reached across the table, took his hand, put it to her lips, and kissed it.
Max felt his heart pounding with nerves. This wasn’t a good idea.
“Look, Freddie,” he began awkwardly.
“What?” she interrupted him, keeping hold of his hand. “I could ’elp you. I could make you ’appy, Max, I know I could.” She spoke with such urgency, looking him directly in the eyes as if willing him to believe her. It took him aback. “I also ’ave somebody to forget, remember?”
“I’m just not sure,” he mumbled. “I don’t think I’m over her, not properly. And you’re very young. I don’t . . .” He found himself unsure of the right words. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” said Freddie. “I wouldn’t let you.”
And before either of them really knew what was happening, they found themselves leaning across the table and kissing each other full on the mouth.
It had been a long time since Max had kissed anyone, and he’d had a lot to drink. Feeling the soft skin of Freddie’s cheek against his, and the almost forgotten urgency of a woman’s desire in her probing tongue and quickened breathing, he found his physical response overwhelming. He wanted her to hold him, to come for him, to make him believe that everything was going to be all right. He wanted to take her to bed right now.
“I do hurt people,” he whispered, oblivious of the other diners’ stares as he grabbed her hair in his hands desperately, like a drowning man reaching for a buoy, and pressed his forehead against hers. “I do.”
“Shhh,” said Freddie, stroking his face softly. “You don’t have to worry anymore. It’s going to be okay.”
The three of them barely spoke on the long journey home. Henry drove with his eyes fixed on the road, consumed with his own worries. Whatever had happened at the accountant’s office, he clearly didn’t want to talk about it.
Max sat in the front, concerned for his brother but also agonizingly aware of Freddie’s presence behind him, counting the long minutes until he could get home and hopefully sneak her into his bed.
He was too drunk to analyze his feelings in any depth, although part of him knew that starting something with the kids’ au pair might not be the smartest move in the world. But a bigger part—the part that had felt so lonely and unloved for a year, the part that wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive and make love and be happy—could only with an effort be restrained from clambering into the backseat right now and ripping the girl’s clothes off.
When they finally did get home, Muffy was waiting up for them. “Hello, you three,” she said, taking the pictures back from Henry without a word and moving into the kitchen. He would explain it all to her when he was ready. “You must be exhausted. How was London? Did you have a good day, Frederique?”