And they were all civilized peo -husband ...
She's changed, Craig Hyatt thought. He had seen the pictures of her that had begun to appear in Harper's Bazaar. Vogue, Elle, and all the latest fashion journals, but he could hardly believe this was the same girl-woman who had been his wife. The photographs had not prepared him for the reality of seeing her again. Anne Mallory, top model. Wearing a deceptively simple linen jumpsuit, her face made more beautiful by her model's makeup. He remembered that she'd hated to wear any, and now here she was, with her eyes accentuated by smoky-gray eyeshadow that made them seem bigger, their blue darker. Faint sheen of blusher on her cheekbones, and the shiny moistness of her lips was obviously by courtesy of Lancome or Quant.
Her smile was a trifle reserved, questioning him. "Craig, how nice to see you!"
Formal. More than just a surface change. then. She had acquired poise, a sureness of herself. No longer defiant, the way he remembered her last.
Over their candlelit table at the Coq d'Or, Craig found himself watching her almost surreptitiously, while he wondered what accounted for the difference in her.
Duncan Frazier hadn't been too helpful. "I really don't know. and that's a fact. She keeps pretty much to herself, no girlish confidences, even to Violet. Violet's her roommate, a pretty little English dolly I was telling you about. All I know is that Anne doesn't sleep around, although not for lack of offers. I understand. She's intelligent and has a knack for getting people to open up, even while she doesn't say much herself. I had a hell of a time persuading her to stay on part time with us, by the way!"
Craig had given Frazier the approving nod he expected. Frazier was a reliable man.
He had grown into his oil-company-executive role, filling it out with his basic, efficient charm.
But nothing-not the magazine pictures nor Duncan's report could really have prepared him for the stranger his ex-wife had become. With an assurance he was unfamiliar with, Anne had picked the Coq d'Or for their diner a deux. The maitre d'
knew her, people recognized her, even if they were too well-bred to stare openly.
"So this is what it feels like to go out to dinner with a celebrity!" Craig tried to keep his voice light, but it didn't work, Well, damn it! How could he not help remembering? She had been his wife, and he had never understood her. Marrying her young and still naive, he had hoped to find her malleable and easy to teach; but she had begun in too a short a time to resist his patient attempts to mold her into the kind of wife he needed. And now she had suddenly been transformed into exactly the kind of woman he had wanted her to be, the ideal politician's wife, attractive, poised, and sophisticated, but still a lady.
She had even learned the art of making a polite disclaimer. "Oh, but I will never be a real celebrity ,Craig! I mean-I know I'm lucky enough to photograph well, but I'm not skinny enough for high fashion, and definitely not voluptuous enough for the other kind of modeling!" She gave him a slightly mischievous smile that shocked him.
"When people get tired of seeing my face and the kind of clothes I can model well . . .
I'll just disappear into obscurity again, that's all!"
Looking back at her candle-shadowed face across the small table, Craig could not help his reactions. "How can you accept that now? Anne-I think we've both changed during the last year-matured, if you will. Why look forward to disappearing into obscurity? I think you've learned to look at things practically and objectively now. You realize that the modeling thing won't last forever, of course-but obscurity? I don't think so. You're-you've come into your potential, Anne, and there could be more; much, much more! Ambition-have you felt that yet, Anne?" Unwisely, he had let himself be carried away. Her eyes were wide and a trifle questioning-the eyes of an attractive and strangely knowing woman; leading him on to say more, promising understanding.
She hadn't said anything yet, and Craig leaned forward urgently. "Think about what I've been saying, will you? I'm going back to the States next month, and I'd like you to come with me. I'd like us to try again, Anne-only this time on an equal footing. I'm planning to go into politics-I'll be running for Congress next fall, and I'd like to have you at my side as my wife again."
"IT ALL SOUNDS SO ROMANTIC. Dinner by candlelight at a divine restaurant, and your handsome ex-husband is bowled over by the new you. He'll probably end up president someday and you'll be his first lady-smashing! What did you tell him?"
Violet, curled up on the rug before the fire in her bathrobe, gazed up at Anne with frank curiosity. "Well?" she repeated impatiently with a shake of her still-damp curls.
"You didn't put him off completely, did you? I know Aries tends to be dominating, but now he's discovered the change in you .. ."
"Oh damn-that's what he kept saying too!" With an uncharacteristic gesture, Anne hurled her jacket onto the couch. "I've just started to discover how much I enjoy being me, and doing just as I please, Violet." She kicked off her shoes, and came to sit cross-legged in front of the fire, shrugging when she encountered Violet's laughing, faintly mocking look. "What do you think I told him? He took me by surprise-it isn't like Craig to be so direct! I said I had to think about it-all the stupid, corny, evasive things I could think of."
"And?"
"And he was very understanding. Just as I remember. Being logical and reasonable for me." Anne grimaced slightly. "He said things like, 'Of course you don't want to give up your career just yet: and 'I suppose you need time; I shouldn't have come on so strong.' He wants to see me again, and he promises not to rush me. It sounds like something from an old movie! I don't really want to think about Craig any more tonight. What about you? What have you been up to?"
"Oh, well . . ." Violet stretched, and in the firelight her brown eyes suddenly flashed excited devilment. "I've been washing my hair-and plotting! Speaking of movies, and I don't mean the old ones, and the devil-do you know who's going to be in town to publicize his latest? Not that he needs to, of course, because he's already number one box-office draw in Europe. Guess?" Violet sat up suddenly, yanking newspapers off the coffee table. She held up the Daily Mirror's two page picture spread. "None other than Wicked Webb himself. Isn't he just gorgeous? And I'm going to meet him-trust little Vi to find a way!"
Caught unprepared, Anne could feel the muscles in her face freeze into stony immobility, but her eyes could not tear themselves away from the pictures. Webb-with Carol, their heads close together, smiling as if they shared some private joke.
Webb alone, wearing a heavy polo-necked sweater, grinning his lazy, mocking grin.
And Webb again, squinting into the camera-standing with his feet planted apart, thumbs hooked insolently and suggestively into the waistband of tight, faded levis, shirt open to the waist.
Violet was peering over Anne's shoulder, sighing exaggeratedly. "That one is blown up ten times larger than life, and in color yet ... wow! I drove past the cinema today just to see. What do you think? Want me to fix it up so you get to meet him too? With him I'd settle for a one-night stand-I'll bet he's just fabulous in bed!" Violet giggled.
"Maybe I'll give him one of my famous blow-jobs, just to show him what he's been missing. And then he'll have to reciprocate, won't he? I mean ..."
"Violet, stop it!" She'd spoken too sharply, Anne realized, catching Violet's puzzled look. Oh damn! She was used to Violet's way of going on and on about things, being deliberately outrageous. Why should she mind now? Webb Carnahan was part of the past she'd come to Europe to forget. Old affair. A learning experience.
No regrets-why should there be? It was just that seeing those pictures and listening to Violet's excited chatter had brought too many memories flooding back.
"Anne, whatever is the matter? I'm sorry, love; did meeting your ex upset you that much?" And then in spite of her real concern, Violet's face brightened again with anticipation. "Why don't you forget about him and help me plan how we're going to arrange an introduction to Webb? It says here he's going to fly here from Italy for the premiere of Bad Blood. Come on, cheer up, do! And rack your brains-you've met so many interesting people recently, like Venetia Tressider and her crowd. Venetia's bound to know someone who knows him; I mean, she seems to know everyone, doesn't she? Maybe ... but then, Venetia might not want to share. I mean, she's such a bloody bitch when it comes to the really gorgeous men, isn't she? If she gets her claws in him first, then .. ."
Anne stood up abruptly, feeling stifled by the fire's heat and her own scattered, confused thoughts. First Craig, and now Webb. Could there be a connection? Was that why Craig had suddenly turned up in London-to "rescue" her from Webb?
Again? Stupid ... what did it matter? She must cling to her own newfound independence. Think of herself first, for a change, her feelings. And damn Craig and damn Webb! She'd show them both exactly how much she'd changed in eighteen months.
She crossed the room to pour herself a drink. Scotch and soda, no ice. Why wouldn't Violet stop talking?
Oblivious to her roommate's silence, Violet was reading aloud from the newspaper. "
'Carol Cochran, whose name has been linked to Carnahan's in the past .. .' Just fancy, she'll be here too! And Harris Phelps, with all those lovely millions . . . I wouldn't mind meeting him, either-he's not half bad-looking, from the pictures I've seen. Wonder why he's never been married? It says here he'll be giving a big bash at the Dorchester the night the movie opens. Do you think Dune might have met him?
Or maybe your husband-oops, sorry, darling. Ex-husband!" Violet's voice turned wheedling. "You could just ask him, couldn't you? Come on, Anne, do stop looking like a sleep-walker! Don't you have any ideas at all? I suppose Webb's hardly your type, but he is mine-the earthy, dominant male animal, with just a touch of cruelty ..."
Anne made herself turn around to face Violet, the glass in her hand already half-empty, and she heard herself saying in a cool, disembodied voice, "Do stop going on about it, Violet. Carol Cochran and I went to school together, for a year, and I've met Harris Phelps. If you'll remind me to call the Dorchester when they arrive in London, I'm sure we'll get invitations to Harris's party."
Later she was to think, It's funny, how everything seemed to happen by itself.
Scattered pieces falling conveniently into place, forming a strange and almost bizarre pattern which was to change everything-her whole secure, comfortable life-style. If she could have guessed, would she not have called Harris?
He came to London ahead of the others. There was a short piece in the papers, HARRIS PHELPS BACHELOR MULTIMILLIONAIRE ARRIVES TO PUBLICIZE
FIRST PRODUCTION VENTURE, and Violet wouldn't stop nagging until Anne had made her promised phone call.
Trapped, Anne made the call under Violet's watchful expectant eyes; she hoped Harris wouldn't be available, but he was.
"Anne? I can't believe it! How are you, love? And do you practice telepathy? I've seen all the marvelous pictures, of course, and I was just having my secretary hunt through the phone book, trying to find you."
"Well ... I'm not listed. And in any case, with all the pubIicity Bad Blood's been getting, how could I resist calling? It's nice to hear your voice again, Harris. How's Carol?"
Oh God, how stilted she sounded! Now that she had Harris on the line and was talking to him, Violet's idea seemed ridiculous. What could she tell him, without letting him think that it was really Webb she wanted to hear about? Just hearing Harris's voice took her back much further than she wanted to remember.
Harris made it easy for her, with his usual easy flow of chatter, sounding genuinely glad to hear from her.
"Carol's just great! You know she and Webb are both up for Academy Award nominations? And Carol's just signed a contract to do a movie based on the life of Lady Jane Digby-just her cup of tea, and she's all excited about it. She's looking forward to seeing you again, Anne, and so am I. Listen-what are you doing for dinner tonight? I know it's short notice, but if you're free I'd very much like to take you out and talk to you, so we can catch up with everything that's happened to us both since the last time we met." There was a slight, almost indiscernible pause, and then Harris said softly: "I've thought about you a lot, Anne. And I've felt guilty about letting you in for something ... well, that's all behind us now. I just want you to know I did try to get in touch afterwards, but they told me you'd left Deepwood, and wouldn't be available
..."
Anne bit her lip with exasperation. Mrs. Preakness, no doubt! And her father, arranging everything. Shutting her off from "undesirable associations." It was past, and far behind her, but the thought still rankled. Harris had called her, and she hadn't been told. Suppose Webb had tried to call too? Oh-not possible! Stop thinking along those lines! She'd had time enough and experience enough to realize exactly what she had meant to Webb Carnahan. A puzzle, for a short time. A convenient, easy lay to pass away the time; maybe a means to make Carol jealous. Don't think about it, Anne! Learn from experience . ..
She found herself agreeing to have dinner with Harris; giving him directions to her flat. Turning away from the phone, she met Violet's accusing, yet excitedly sparkling eyes.
"If you don't take the cake, Anne! You've 'met' Harris Phelps-and he invites you out to dinner right away, he's actually coming here to pick you up? Oh my Cod-look at the mess! Do I get to meet him? Do you think .. ."
"Turn your little-girl charm on him and I'm sure you'll get that invitation you've been angling for," Anne retorted. "And don't, please, try to make more out of a casual dinner invitation than meets the eye, Violet. Harris is-well, we've never been more than friends, honestly. I met him through Carol, and-and that's all there is to it!"
Violet, lighting a cigarette, winked broadly. "Of course, darling! And when your ex calls up, you can trust little Vi to make all the proper, plausible excuses. I'll even persuade him that it mightn't be such a bad idea to take me out to dinner instead-local color and all, and I could take him to some really wicked little places in Soho that would blow his mind ... you did say he was kind of straight, didn't you?