Authors: Danielle Steel
She had had the bad judgment to arrive on one of the cleaning woman's days off. But the bags could wait
"And what about my dinner invitation? The Orniers are having a dinner, and if you're not too tired, Xavier suggested we all go to Raffles afterwards." The Orniers had an endless suite in the tower at the Hotel Pierre, which they kept for their annual trips to New York. Even for a few weeks it was "worth it":
"You know how ghastly it is to be in a different room each time, a strange place." They paid a high price for familiarity, but that was not new to Kezia. And their dinner party was just the sort of thing she ought to cover for the column. She had to get back into the swing of things, and lunch at La Grenouille with Edward would be a good start, but . . . damn. She wanted to go downtown instead. There were delights downtown that Whit would never dream she knew. She smiled to herself and suddenly remembered Whit in the silence.
"Sorry, darling. I'd love to, but I'm so awfully tired. Jet lag, and probably all that wild life at Hilary's this weekend. Can you possibly tell the Orniers I died, and I'll try to catch a glimpse of them before they leave. For you, I will resurrect tomorrow. But today, I'm simply gone." She yawned slightly, and then giggled. "Good Lord, I didn't mean to yawn in your ear. Sorry."
"Quite all right And I think you're right about tonight. They probably won't serve dinner till nine. You know how they are, and it'll be two before you get home after Raffles. . . ." Dancing in that over-decorated basement, Kezia thought, just what I don't need. . . .
"I'm glad you understand, love. Actually, I think I'D put my phone on the service, and just trot off to bed at seven or eight. And tomorrow I'll be blazing."
"Good. Dinner tomorrow then?" Obviously, darling. Obviously.
"Yes. I have a thing on my desk for some sort of gala at the St. Regis. Want to try that? I think the Marshes are taking over the Maisonette for their ninety-eighth wedding anniversary or something."
"Nasty sarcastic girl. It's only then- twenty-fifth. Ffl take a table at La Cdte Basque, and we can go next door late."
"Perfect, darling. Till tomorrow, then."
"Pick you up at seven?"
"Make it eight" Make it never.
"Fine, darling. See you then."
She sat swinging one leg over the other after she hung up. She really was going to have to be nicer to Whit. What was the point in being disagreeable to him? Everyone thought of them as a couple, and he was nice to her, and useful in a way. Her constant escort Darling Whitney . . . poor Whit So predictable and so perfect, so beautiful and so impeccably tailored. It was unbearable really. Precisely six feet and one inch, ice-blue eyes, short thick blond hair, thirty-five yean old, Gucci shoes, Dior ties, Givenchy cologne, Piaget watch, apartment on Park and Sixty-third, fine reputation as a lawyer, and loved by all bis friends. The obvious mate for Kezia, and that in itself was enough to make her hate him, not that she really hated him. She only resented him, and her need of him, Despite the lover on Sutton Place that he didn't know she knew about.
The Whit and Kezia game was a farce, but a discreet one. And a useful one. He was the ideal and eternal escort, and so totally safe. It was appalling to remember that a year or two before she had even considered marrying him. There didn't seem any reason not to. They would go on doing the same things they were doing, and Kezia would tell him about the column. They would go to the same parties, see the same people, and lead their own lives. He'd bring her roses instead of send them.
They would have separate bedrooms, and when Kezia gave someone a tour of the house Whit's would be shown as "the guest room." And she would go downtown, and he to Sutton Place, and no one would have to be the wiser. They would never mention it to each other, of course; she would "play bridge" and he would "see a client" and they would meet at breakfast the next day, pacified, mollified, appeased, and loved, each by their respective lovers. What an insane fantasy. She laughed thinking back on it now. She still had more hope than that. She regarded Whit now as an old friend. She was fond of him in an odd way. And she was used to him, which in some ways was worse.
Kezia wandered slowly back to her bedroom and smiled to herself. It was good to be home. Nice to be back in the comfort of her own apartment in the huge white bed with the silver fox bedspread that had been such an appalling extravagance, but still pleased her so much. The small, delicate furniture had been her mother's. The painting she had bought in Lisbon the year before hung over the bed, a watermelon sun over a rich countryside and a man working the fields. There was something warm and friendly about her bedroom that she found nowhere else in the world. Not in Hilary's palazzo in Marbella, or in the lovely home in Kensington where she had her own room—Hilary had so many rooms in the London house that she could afford to give them away to absent friends and family like so many lace handkerchiefs. But nowhere did Kezia feel like this, except at home. There was a fireplace in the bedroom too, and she had found the brass bed in London years before; there was one soft brown velvet chair near the fireplace, and a white fur rug that made you want to dance barefoot across the floor. Plants stood in corners and hung near the windows, and candles on the mantel gave the room a soft glow late at night. It was very good to be home.
She laughed softly to herself, a sound of pure pleasure as she put Mahler on the stereo and started her bath. And tonight . . . downtown. To Mark. First, her agent then lunch with Edward. And finally, Mark.
Saving the best till last ... as long as nothing had changed.
"Kezia," she spoke aloud to herself, looking in the bathroom mirror as she stood naked before it, humming to the music that echoed through the house, "You are a very naughty girl!" She wagged a finger at her reflection, and tossed back her head and laughed, her long black hair sweeping back to her waist.
She stood very still then and looked deep into her own eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm a rat. But what else can I do? A girl's got to live, and there are a lot of different ways to do it." She sank into the bathtub, wondering about it all. The dichotomies, the contrasts, the secrets . . . but at least no lies. She said nothing to anyone. But she did not lie. Almost never anyway. Lies were too hard to live with. Secrets were better.
As she sank into the warmth of the water, she thought about Mark. Delicious Marcus. The wild crazy hair, the incredible smile, the smell of his loft, the chess games, the laughter, the music, his body, his fire.
Mark Wooly. She closed her eyes and drew an imaginary line down his back with the tip of one finger and then traced it gently across his lips. Something small squirmed low in the pit of her stomach, and she turned slowly in the tub, sending ripples gently away from her.
Twenty minutes later she stepped out of the bath, brushed her hair into a sleek knot, and slipped a plain white wool Dior dress over the new champagne lace underwear she had bought in Florence.
"Do you suppose I'm a schizophrenic?" she asked the mirror as she carefully fitted a hat into place and tilted it slowly over one eye. But she didn't look like a schizophrenic. She looked like "the" Kezia Saint Martin, on her way to lunch at La Grenouille in New York, or Fouquet's in Paris.
'Taxi!" Kezia held up an arm and dashed past the doorman as a cab stopped a few feet away at the curb. She smiled at the doorman and slid into the cab. Her New York season had just begun. And what did this one have in store? A book? A man? Mark Wooly? A dozen juicy articles for major magazines?
A host of tiny cherished moments? Solitude and secrecy and splendor. She had it all. And another
"season" in the palm of her hand.
In his office, Edward was strutting in front of the view. He looked at his watch for the eleventh time in an hour. In just a few minutes he would watch her walk in, she would see him and laugh, and then reach up and touch his face with her hand . . . "Oh Edward, it's so good to see you!" She would hug him and giggle, and settle in at his side—while "Martin Hallam" took mental notes about who was at what table with whom, and K. S. Miller mulled over the possibility of a book.
Kezia fought her way past the tight knot of men hovering between the cloak room and the bar of La Grenouille. The luncheon crowd was thick, the bar was jammed, the tables were full, the waiters were bustling, and the decor was unchanged. Red leather seats, pink tablecloths, bright oil paintings on the walls, and flowers on every table. The room was full of red anemones and smiling faces, with silver buckets of white wine chilling at almost every table while champagne corks popped demurely here and there.
The women were beautiful, or had worked hard at appearing so. Carrier's wares were displayed in wild profusion. And the murmur of conversation throughout the room was distinctly French. The men wore dark suits and white shirts, and had gray at their temples, and shared their wealth of Romanoff cigars from Cuba via Switzerland in unmarked brown packages.
La Grenouille was the watering hole of the very rich and the very chic. Merely having an ample expense account to pay the tab was not adequate entree. You had to belong. It had to be part of you, a style you exuded from the pores of your Pucci.
"Kezia?" A hand touched her elbow, and she looked into the tanned face of Amory Strongwell.
"No, darling. It's my ghost." He won a teasing smile.
"You look marvelous."
"And you look so pale. Poor Amory." She gazed in mock sympathy at the deep bronze he had acquired in Greece, as he squeezed her shoulder carefully and kissed her cheek.
"Where's Whit?"
Probably at Sutton Place, darling. "Working like mad, presumably. Will we see you at the Marsh party tomorrow night?" The question was rhetorical, and he nodded absently in answer. "I'm meeting Edward just now."
"Lucky bastard." She gave him a last smile and edged through the crowd to the front, where the headwaiter would be waiting to shepherd her to Edward. As it happened, she found Edward without assistance; he was at his favorite table, a bottle of champagne chilling nearby. Louis Roederer
1959,
as always.
He saw her too and stood up to meet her as she walked easily past the other tables and across the room. She felt eyes on her, acknowledged discreet greetings as she passed tables of people she knew, and the waiters smiled. She had grown into it all years ago. Recognition. At sixteen it had agonized her, at eighteen it was a custom, at twenty-two she had fought against it, and now at twenty-nine she enjoyed it.
It amused her. It was her private joke. The women would say "marvelous dress," the men would muse about Whit; the women would decide that with the same fortune they could get away with the same sort of hat, and the waiters would nudge each other and murmur in French, "Saint Martin." By the time she left, there might, or there might not, be a photographer from
Women's Wear
waiting to snap her photograph paparazzi-style as she came through the door. It amused her. She played the game well.
"Edward, you look wonderful!" She gave him a searching look, an enormous squeeze, and sank onto the banquette at his side.
"Lord, child, you look well." She kissed his cheek gently, and then smoothed her hand over it tenderly with a smile.
"So do you."
"And how was this morning with Simpson?"
"Pleasant and productive. We've been discussing some ideas I have for a book. He gives me good advice, but let's not ... here. . . ." They both knew that there was too much noise to allow anyone to piece much together. But they rarely spoke of her career in public. "Discretion is the better part of valor," as Edward often said.
"Right. Champagne?"
"Have I ever said no?" He signaled the waiter, and the ritual of the Louis Roederer was begun. "God, I love that stuff." She smiled at him again and gazed slowly around the room as he began to laugh.
"I know what you're doing, Kezia, and you're impossible." She was checking out the scene for her column. He raised his glass to her, and smiled. "To you, mademoiselle, welcome home." They clinked glasses and sipped slowly at the champagne. It was precisely the way they liked it, a good year and icy cold.
"How's Whit, by the way? Seeing him for dinner tonight?"
"Fine. And no, I'm going to bed to recover from the trip."
"I don't think I believe that, but I'll accept it if you say so."
"What a wise man you are, Edward. That's probably why I love you."
He looked at her for a moment then, and took her hand. "Kezia, be careful. Please."
"Yes, Edward. I know. I am."
The lunch was pleasant, as all then1lunches were. She inquired about all his most important clients, remembered all their names, and wanted to know what he had done about the couch in his apartment that so desperately needed re-upholstering. They said hello to everyone they knew, and were joined for brief moments by two of his partners in the firm. She told him a little about her trip, and she kept an eye on the comings and goings and pairings of the natives.
She left him outside at three. The "surprise" photographer from
Women's Wear
dutifully took their photograph, and Edward hailed her a cab before he walked back to his office. He always felt better when he knew she was back in town. He could be there if she needed him, and he felt closer to her life.
He never really knew, but he had an idea that there was more to her life than Raffles and parties given by the Marshes. And much more to her life than Whit. But she didn't tell Edward, and he didn't ask. He didn't really want to know as long as she was all right— "careful," as he put it. But there was too much of her father in her to be satisfied with a man like Whit. Edward knew that only too well. It had taken more than two years to settle her father's will discreetly, and execute the arrangements for the two women no one had known about.
The cab took Kezia home and deposited her at her door with a flourish of brakes and scattered curbside litter, and Kezia went upstairs and hung the white Dior dress neatly in the closet Half an hour later she was in jeans, her hair hanging free, the answering service instructed to pick up her calls. She was "resting" and didn't want to be disturbed until the following noon. A few moments later, she was gone.