Emboldened by her unusual apathy, Philip had her model several other creations from the designer collection he'd been lucky enough to nab. It would save him the trouble of paying another model for the sexier outfits-and Anne Mallory was "hot" just now. His earlier irritation subsided as he got some really dramatic shots-stark black and white, these; interiors, against rough stone walls, with a fireplace keeping things warm enough for the skimpy harem-type clothes she had to pose in. When the shooting was almost done, he really began to notice her, for almost the first time.
She'd always shielded herself with a cool, aloof, touch-me-not air; very definite about what she would or wouldn't model. And as a matter of fact it was only because the designer himself had insisted on Anne Mallory that he'd called her up. Now, maybe she wasn't as coolly detached as she'd always seemed to be. Nice breasts-definitely nice breasts! Small, but well defined. Not just nipples and two fried eggs-the kind that never hesitated to pose for topless shots. And nice everywhere else. Long, streamlined legs, which seemed to be the trademark of most American girls he had met. Must be something to do with the diet, and playing tennis-didn't they all?
Philip Cavendish had made most of the models he photographed, but he'd given up on this one, until now. She had the look of a woman sated by love-Harris Phelps?
He'd like to take some real pictures of her, to add to his private collection. What the hell-she'd been to a couple of Venetia Tressider's parties, hadn't she?
Violet was just waking up when Anne came storming back into the flat. She grimaced, clutching at her head dramatically. "Darling-did you have to slam the door?
Ooh, I've never had a headache like this; and I'll never mix my drinks again! It's the one thing Daddy was right about; I remember when he told me ... what on earth is the matter, Anne? You look like a thundercloud! Did you have a fight with Harris?"
"Philip Cavendish! And I don't care if he never photographs me again! That-Stop giggling, Violet! Think of your head ... Anyway, it doesn't matter. I-I slapped his face.
Really hard; I think he's going to carry the marks for ages, because I forgot I was wearing those heavy rings he made me put on."
"But what on earth did he do?Try to do?"
"There's nothing-well-more ridiculous than a man with his pants unzipped, expecting me to be bowled over by the size -he walked in on me while I was changing, that's what he did. Closed the door behind him, and suggested that I-that I should-oh damn, Violet, don't you dare start laughing; it wasn't funny! I couldn't move at first-I hadn't a stitch on, and he-when I just stood there, stunned, he kind of waved it at me, you know, and he was all over me. Pawing, making a dive for my-Dh all right! If it hadn't been so horrendous at the moment it was happening it would have been funny, I guess! Only I didn't feel like laughing."
Violet's voice was choked. "So you slapped him. Slapped him? That's all?"
"No-I pushed him away first, and then I-he was kind of shoving it at me, so I brushed it away-and-you should have seen his face! He was furious, he made a grab for me and then I sl-slapped him ..."
Anne dissolved into helpless, hysterical laughter herself, feeling the tight knot in her stomach melt away, to be replaced by an honest ache. Seen in retrospect, it had been funny. And poor Philip-he'd probably never forgive her, but it might have taught him a lesson, too. Thank God for Violet, who had a way of putting things in perspective! And so much for Anne pretending to be Gloryl
Anne soaked in a tub perfumed with Joy, then sprayed some more behind her ears and between her breasts before she dressed for the evening, wondering why she took the trouble. Yves Pleydel would take one look at her and ...
But as it turned out, Harris was right and she was wrong.
Pleydel was medium tall, thin, intense, vital. A lock of dark hair dropped over his brow, to be impatiently brushed back every now and then. The pictures Anne had seen of him didn't really do the man justice-he was better looking in the flesh, and had a charming smile, a quick and sincere way of talking. He spoke in French, thankfully, after he discovered that Anne knew the language and spoke it fluently herself.
"Such a relief! My English is not very good, not able to express how I feel. You know we have already had a French edition of Greed for Glory? It has done very well, too.
Everybody is mad about Jason and Glory. And I will be honest- I had been thinking about my first wife as Glory-she's the type, yes? The long blonde hair, the pouting mouth-the little-girl sexy look. But now I have seen you-ah, mademoiselle! I may call you Anne? My old friend Harris-he has not exaggerated. You are just right, you know? The look of innocence, yes, combined with something else, something hidden inside, that is yet to be brought out-and once I have seen you I know immediately that Marie-Christine is not right for the part. She lacks something-the untouched look, perhaps?"
As if Harris hadn't been present, Pleydel leaned forward, his fingers cupping Anne's face for an instant until she instinctively pulled back. Unperturbed, he gave a soft, sly chuckle. "So you are really like that? Such a challenge-what man can resist it? And I am looking at you both as a man and as a director. Believe me, I have an instinct for these things. If you had been wrong for the part I would have said so, no matter what inducement my friend here offered me. So-open your eyes at me, quickly. Very wide, very innocent ..." Confused, puzzled by his quick, staccato speech, Anne did as he had suddenly ordered-almost without volition. This she was used to. "Look thoughtful, Anne. Okay-smile now. You're happy, the sun is shining, you're running to meet a lover. Watch your feet, darling, it wouldn't do if you slipped on that wet grass ..."
Yves Pleydel grinned, bringing out lines in his young-old face. "So you can follow direction, too. Very good. Now you are the innocent young woman, confused by the change in her circumstances and trying not to show it. Questioning and curious, especially when you meet the man who is to change your whole life. And after you have met him-you are not a virgin, I hope?" Anne didn't know if she had given a silent nod or not, but he went on excitedly, using his hands now to express what he was saying. "Good. The rest, the gradual changing, the maturing, and the learning will come to you. I will help you. The flowering of your sexuality-that too. You have a wonderful mouth-it speaks of passion, even while your hands cross themselves over your breasts as if you wish to hide them. That's good-that's natural. I will remember that instinctive movement of yours and have you use it ..."
Smoke from Harris's cigar drifted to her nostrils. He was leaning back in his chair, watching them both with a half-smile on his face. Harris Phelps the producer-not procurer, surely? Harris had seemed serious; Yves Pleydel, in spite of his bedroom eyes, appeared just as serious. Would he want to take her to bed? Would Harris let him? Too many after-dinner drinks, Anne! she thought. And too much Philip Cavendish!
She felt as if she was being bartered and bargained' for-and at the same time she wanted this chance they were both talking about. Why not? An extension of that short, now-nebulous time when she had almost been part of the make-believe world of acting. Carol's world. Webb's world. Why not? No crowd out there, watching and weighing every movement. All the mistakes, the wrong moves, the wrong nuances in her speech could be erased on film. Practiced over and over until everything came out just right, just perfect-and voila, she'd be a star. Just like the rest of them. Harris would see to that. Yves Pleydel would help her too. And Webb couldn't put her off.
Not this time!
Not that simple any longer, Webb. Wicked Webb-every woman's crotch-throb. Yves and Harris were talking together now, low-voiced, and Anne took another sip of her Drambuie and let her mind run free, fantasizing. No more Annie Oakley, Little Orphan Annie. Webb would have to see her as she was now, part of his world, just as Carol was. Oh, but she'd enjoy slapping his face in that one scene she remembered. With Philip Cavendish it had been instinctive, but with Webb-maybe she could do it sloppily enough so they'd have to do the scene over and over ... She enjoyed thinking about it!
"Anne-you've had a tiring day, haven't you, love? Listen, I'm going to put you to bed right here. I'll call your friend for you."
"I haven't learned to take my liquor yet," she whispered, feeling herself floating, but thank God, not sick! She didn't remember when Yves had left-only that he had rolled several cigarettes, passing them to her with a questioning look, and she had showed him she wasn't that straight-she'd smoked grass before!
"Come along, love ..." Harris. She'd already made up her mind that she was going to sleep with Harris, so why not now? Violet thought she already had, so did Dune. And probably everyone else who read the newspapers. Why the hell not? She wasn't a bloody virgin; she was a woman.
Half-asleep, half-awake, Anne felt Harris undress her. He was very gentle, very patient. The sheets on his big bed were very soft too. He pulled them up over her and then he left her for long enough so that she fell asleep; deeply enough not to have any disturbing dreams. If he did make love to her, she didn't remember it the next morning.
She half-awoke once, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his dressing gown, talking on the telephone. She didn't want to wake up, especially when he slid his hand under the covers, stroking her body lightly and possessively.
"Go on back to sleep, love." He had showered and shaved-his breath smelled of mint. "What ... ? Goddammit, that was the number I gave you. Will you please try it again? Grasie"
What am I doing here? Thank God Harris seemed pre-occupied. Her eyelids felt as if they were stuck together. And she had the faint beginnings of a headache that would probably grow worse if she came all the way back to the surface of reality. Better be a good girl and do as she was told. Go back to sleep, while Harris was still arguing with an Italian operator.
"I must say-when you get around to doing it, you do it in stylel I was beginning to wonder if I should start shopping around for a new roommate. How did it feel, to be sleeping at the Dorchester?"
"Oh Violet, for heaven's sake! Am I supposed to be impressed? Alright, it was great.
And I particularly enjoyed my breakfast in bed. Crepes Suzette."
"Honestly?" Violet looked impressed. "That's what I call style-good for you, darling.
Listen-Dune called, and I put him off. And Craig was worried, until I persuaded him not to be. So everything's nifty. Cool-that's the right word, isn't it? I just hope you haven't forgotten the party tomorrow night. And is it okay if I bring Craig? I know it sounds odd, but I didn't think you'd mind ... Anne?"
"No .. ." she said, bemused. "No, I don't mind at all, why should I? I'm sure Harris wouldn't." Funny that Harris had already suggested casually to her that she might extend an invitation to Craig as well. Particularly since he was escorting her friend around these days.
Well-so Harris was a civilized man too. No reason why they shouldn't all be friends, was there? But was Violet's off-hand suggestion that Craig be her escort really her idea or his? Violet had been so crazy-keen to meet Webb, to ...
As usual, Anne found her mind veering away from that particular thought. Think about it later. Webb would be flying in from Rome, just in time to put in an appearance at the party. Harris had mentioned that in passing this morning, sounding annoyed (was that what his call to Italy had been about?) at what he termed "Webb's usual careless attitude," ending up with, "I suppose it's got something to do with his latest girlfriend, Claudia del Antonini-she was Pleydel's last wife, did you know that?"
No, she hadn't known, didn't care. Sitting beside Harris in his Rolls, she had merely shrugged her shoulders with seeming indifference, and Harris had gone on to tell her that Carol would be arriving tonight and would call her. Nice to hear from Carol again-but what had happened to her much-publicized engagement to Webb? And were they still on-again-off-again lovers?
The telephone rang, and Violet rushed to get it. Shrugging her shoulders elaborately at Anne, she embarked on a long conversation-mostly giggles and whispers at her end. Anne tactfully left the room; then Violet's usually vivacious face seemed to change, subtly, becoming more serious, rounded contours hardening.
"It's okay. Didn't I tell you it would be? Listen-x-I don't know! Anne's very private, for all that we're such good chums. But she doesn't seem exactly bowled over, if you know what I mean ..." The man at the other end said something that made her frown, and then grimace into the receiver. Then: "Oh-all right! I'll try, anyhow. Just don't blame me if ... I said I'd try, didn't I?" Violet heard the door to Anne's room open and she said quickly, "Look, sweetie, I really have to run now! Got to wash my hair, and do a million other things. We'll be talking again later, hmm?" Hanging up, she brushed unruly curls off her forehead and turned to smile at Anne.
"You booked up for this evening, too, or shall I pop out and get us a couple of steaks? I think it's time I spent a really relaxing evening at home, just doing nothing!"
HARRIS SENT HIS CHAUFFEURED ROLLS to pick them up-Anne and Violet and Craig. Soft music played from two concealed speakers, and only Violet chattered compulsively and interminably. Craig, his hands in his pockets, face shadowed, stared ahead, and Anne too was silent, feeling every one of her nerves strung tight.
Ridiculous! How many parties had she been to before? Some larger than this-and she was bound to recognize quite a few of the people there. What was Craig thinking? Did he feel ill at ease because of the circumstances? Funny, in a way, to think of Craig as Violet's date-especially with Violet riding the crest of excitement, her eyes sparkling as brightly as her burnished curls.
Once we get there, I'll be all right, Anne told herself firmly, wishing her hands weren't so cold. A few more streets, a few more minutes-and Harris would be there, of course, to take charge. Harris made her feel safe and special, and he didn't make demands! In a way, Harris reminded her a little bit of Antoine-and maybe this whole train of thought had started because she was wearing the very special original created just for her by Antoine himself-his farewell present to her.