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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.”
