Adored (49 page)
Yes. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. That was what it was. A publicity stunt.
Having steadied his nerves enough to restart the car, he drove the remaining twelve miles to Batcombe with the image of a smiling Siena waving her ring at reporters embedded in his brain like a cancer.
Freddie was running across the yard to meet him before he’d even switched off the engine. It was a bright, moonlit night and Max could make out her features almost as clearly as if it were daylight.
Her low, smooth brow was furrowed in concern, and her auburn hair, usually so immaculate and sleek, looked oddly disheveled, as though she’d been running around in very high winds. The shadows under her eyes, the result of a broken night helping Muffy after Madeleine had wet the bed, heightened the overall impression of an undernourished refugee, as did the baggy pair of overalls and hole-ridden bottle-green sweater of Muffy’s that she’d been wearing to help with milking in what was left of the working farm.
It would be fair to say that she wasn’t looking her best.
“Darling.” She pulled open the driver’s door and smothered Max with kisses in a Gallic display of affection that, for once, he could have done without. “I ’eard the news on the radio,” she said. “When you deedn’t come ’ome, I was so worried. I thought you must ’ave ’eard about it and maybe done something stupid. Why didn’t you turn your phone on? You ’ave ’eard, ’aven’t you? Are you okay?”
The volume and the speed of her questions were both too much for Max, who wanted nothing more than a moment’s peace to get inside and have a glass of whiskey. Preferably a big one.
“I’m fine, Freddie, really,” he said, trying not to show his irritation. She was only showing concern for him, after all. He mustn’t snap at her. “If you mean the story about Siena’s engagement, yes, I have heard, and quite frankly, I don’t believe a word of it.”
He shut the car door firmly behind him and strode into the house, leaving an agitated Freddie trotting along behind like a worried terrier. Marching into the drawing room, he was annoyed to discover that she wasn’t the only one who’d waited up. Henry was sitting at the card table with Caroline and Christopher Wellesley, who all rose to greet him the moment he walked in.
“Hello, old man,” said Henry. “How were rehearsals?”
Thank God his brother at least had the wisdom to stick to neutral subjects.
“Fine,” Max said a little tensely, extending his hand to their guests. “Christopher. Caroline. Nice to see you.”
“Hello again, Max,” said Caroline. She was looking at him, if not quite pityingly, then certainly questioningly.
Max felt his hackles rising. Caroline was probably the very last person he wanted to see right now. She knew Siena, had known her all her life, and he couldn’t stand the thought that this might make her feel involved, connected in some way to his pain. It was hard to explain, but in his mind, at least, he wanted to keep Siena all to himself. It was the only way he could deal with the horror of her being engaged to Randall, the only way he could begin to control his emotions. Caroline’s presence was an intrusion.
“Look,” he said, pointedly moving away from her and addressing them all as a group, “I know you’re all concerned for me about tonight’s news, and I appreciate it, really. But as I was just telling Freddie, I’m sure there’s no truth in the story. And even if there were, it’s nothing to do with me anymore.”
He tried to sound upbeat and confident, but it wasn’t a huge success. Christopher and Henry exchanged worried glances. It didn’t seem to have sunk in yet.
“But Max,” said Henry reasonably, pouring two small whiskeys from the decanter on the side table and handing one of them to his brother, “they showed her on the ten o’clock news,
wearing
the ring.”
“It all looked quite official,” added Freddie, coming up behind him and slipping a comforting arm around his waist.
“So?” Max challenged her. She could sense a formerly unknown belligerence creeping into his voice and instinctively removed her arm, shrinking back a little. “A ring means nothing at all,” he insisted, once again addressing everyone. “Believe me, I know Siena. This will be some tacky publicity stunt designed to boost interest in their new film. By any account, that movie needs all the help it can get.” He snorted mirthlessly and drained his glass, then walked over to pour himself another one.
“I don’t theenk that’s the answer, do you?” said Freddie, glancing at the whiskey decanter. “It’s late,
chéri
. Why don’t you come to bed?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Henry chimed in. “Get some rest, Maxie. We can talk about it all in the morning.”
Their concern was like a red rag to Max’s bull. All the repressed tension of the past hour burst out of him, and poor Freddie took the full brunt of it.
“Who the hell do you think you are, my mother?” he snarled at her. “I’ll have a drink if I damn well want to. And as for its being the answer”—he waved his glass at her aggressively, sloshing a good finger of amber liquid onto Henry’s carpet—“as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t even a fucking question, all right? There’s been some stupid story about Siena, it’s been denied, and that’s it. It’s bullshit. Crap. She would never marry that disgusting old bastard. Never! Can’t you get that through your thick head and stop fussing around me like some melodramatic nursemaid?”
“I say,” said Christopher. “Steady on, old boy. It isn’t Frederique’s fault.”
Freddie, to her credit, had kept her cool admirably in the face of Max’s onslaught and, politely saying good night to Henry and Caroline and smiling gratefully at Christopher, turned on her heel to go. She’d been waiting up all night for Max. She didn’t need this shit.
Max made no move to stop her, but she paused at the door anyway and looked at him pityingly. When she spoke, she sounded calm and collected. There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice.
“I don’t know ’oo you’re trying to convince, darling,” she said. Max looked at her blankly. “Me or yourself.”
As soon as she’d gone, he turned around to find Henry, Christopher, and Caroline all staring at him, mutely appalled.
He felt bad enough as it was, and certainly didn’t need a guilt trip from them. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he slurred. Those earlier pints with Rhys, now topped up with whiskey, were starting to catch up with him. “Just leave me alone.”
He stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. Henry got up to follow him, but Caroline put a hand on his arm.
“Leave it,” she said. “I’ll go.” Henry looked doubtful.
“Women are better at these things,” she explained.
Christopher and Henry caught each other’s eye. They couldn’t argue with that.
Max was sitting in the threadbare armchair beside the stove known as the dogs’ chair, because it was Titus and Boris’s favorite spot in the entire house. He stood up defensively when Caroline walked in.
“Look, Caroline, I’m sorry, but I’m really not in the mood, all right?” he snapped. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you’d please just take the hint and bugger off. Okay?”
Caroline sat down at the table and began nibbling at a chocolate biscuit from the open tin. “You can be as rude as you like, Max,” she said. “I don’t care. And if it makes you feel any better, I am just about to bugger off. Biscuit?” Still glowering at her, he took the cookie and sat back down. He hoped she meant it and was going to hurry up and say her piece. “I only came in here to tell you that you need to let that girl go.”
Great. Another lecture, this time from Miss Morality herself. Honestly, where did this woman get off?
“Siena?” He gave a clipped, joyless laugh and chomped into his cookie, demolishing three quarters of it in one bite. “I have let her go, Caroline,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s well and truly gone.” He dropped the last morsel of biscuit into his open mouth and swallowed, as if illustrating the finality of his loss.
The next thing he knew, Caroline had walked over to him and, leaning down, kissed him on the top of his head, like a child. It was such a gentle, compassionate gesture, he didn’t know how to respond.
She put her hand under his chin and slowly lifted his face so that his eyes met hers.
“I wasn’t talking about Siena,” she said.
The next morning, the story was all over the papers. Even the broadsheets were running pictures of the happy couple.
Max came down to breakfast with a pounding head and a guilty conscience—he had slept fitfully and alone in his own room, unable to face apologizing to Freddie—and noticed that the
Telegraph
and the
Mail
had already been tactfully cleared away. He didn’t need to look at them; he could imagine the coverage all too well, but sat down and silently poured himself a black coffee from the caffetiere.
The children had already finished eating and were upstairs brushing their teeth and dressing under Freddie’s supervision. Henry and Muffy were still halfway through their eggs and bacon, and they looked at each other rather anxiously upon Max’s arrival.
“Are you hungry?” asked Muffy brightly. “There’s still some bacon and mushrooms in the pan. I could do you an egg if you want one?”
Max smiled. His sister-in-law and Hunter were probably the most wholly good people he had ever known. He wished he could be more like them.
“Not for me, thanks,” he said. “I might do myself a bit of Marmite toast in a minute. I’m feeling a bit ropey.”
“You look it!” said Henry jovially. The more awkward a situation, the more he would try to joke his way out of it.
“I’m sorry about last night,” said Max. “I was unforgivably rude.”
“Nonsense, forget about it,” said Henry. “Had a few too many after work, I expect, eh? Drowning the old sorrows? Ow!” He looked reproachfully at his wife who had just given him a sharp kick on the ankle. “What was that for?”
“I’m sure Max doesn’t want to talk about it,” said Muffy firmly, with what was meant to be a meaningful look at Henry and involved her opening her blue eyes very wide and raising one eyebrow. She looked like Samantha from
Bewitched
trying to do a Roger Moore impression.
“Honestly.” Max grinned at them both. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tread on eggshells. Siena is getting married. I’m just going to have to deal with it.”
“Oh good,” said Henry. “I’m glad you said that. The lovely Frederique seemed to be worried that you were ‘in denial,’ as she puts it. I told her you were just too smashed to take it all in. Have you been teaching her all this Californian psychobabble, Maxie? I do wish you wouldn’t, you know, the poor child’s here to learn English.”
Muffy’s eyebrow had taken on a frenzied life of its own.
“What?”
said Henry, unable to ignore her any longer. “Have you got some sort of tic?”
“Poor Freddie,” said Max, who wasn’t really focusing on the private battle between husband and wife. He had woken up this morning to the memory of Caroline’s words ringing in his ears: “You have to let that girl go.” “I’m afraid I was a bit of a shit to her last night. Where is she? I’d better go and build some bridges.”
He found her upstairs in the bathroom, vainly trying to insert a Little Mermaid toothbrush into Madeleine’s mouth while giving Bertie detailed instructions on shoelace tying.
“Uncle Max!” squealed Maddie when she saw him, spraying toothpaste foam all over Freddie’s sweater. She jumped up and launched herself into his arms.
“Hello, lovely.” He kissed her on the neck, making her giggle. “How clean are those teeth, then?” She withdrew the toothbrush from her mouth and grinned at him, proudly revealing a rather gappy row of milk teeth.
“Perfect. I’m finished,” she announced, wriggling free and running off down the corridor before Freddie had a chance to stop her.
“Bertie, mate, do you think you could do that in your own room?” Max asked his nephew. “I’d like to talk to Frederique on her own.”
“Sure,” said Bertie, beaming. He loved it when his uncle called him “mate.” It made him feel really grown up. Stamping down the backs of his shoes with his heels, he hobbled off after his sister.
Max perched on the edge of the bath next to Freddie and stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was being a jerk.”
“Yes, you were,” she agreed, to his surprise. But she allowed her hand to brush against his anyway, which Max took as a signal to put his arm around her.
“I didn’t mean what I said. I’d had too much to drink, I was upset, but that’s no excuse for taking it out on you. Do you forgive me?” He looked up at her and saw, with horror, that there were tears in her eyes. “Oh God, sweetheart, I’m really sorry,” he said, pulling her to him. “Please don’t cry.”
She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and looked at him, concentrating on his face in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. It was as if she could see right through him. For a twenty-year-old, thought Max, Freddie could be very old and wise sometimes.
When she finally broke the silence, he wished she hadn’t. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”
She didn’t drop her gaze. Max had no choice but to look right at her when he replied. “No. No I’m not,” he said. “This news, it just took me by surprise, that’s all. Knocked me for six.” He tried to sound reassuring.
“Do you love me, Max?”
Freddie wasn’t letting this one go. He knew how much it had cost her to ask the question, and he couldn’t bear to cause her any more pain. Putting his arms around her again so she couldn’t see his face when he spoke, he gave the only answer he could.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course I do.”
But they both knew he was lying.
As it turned out, Max’s suspicions about Siena and Randall’s whirlwind engagement had not been entirely groundless.
After the disastrous AIDS benefit at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Siena had gone to bed and waited miserably for Randall to come home. By the time he did roll in, at almost five in the morning, smelling of liquor and women’s perfume and with his shirt buttoned up wrong, she was a nervous wreck.
“I suppose you’ve been with Miriam, have you?” she accused him tearfully. “I just hope for both our sakes she didn’t give you anything.”
Randall made no attempt to deny it. “I’d rather have been with you,” he said, stripping down to his boxer shorts and climbing into bed beside her. “But you made your feelings pretty clear at the hotel. You preferred to skulk back here and mope about your ex than come to the party with me.”
“That’s not true,” she protested, but she was too exhausted to go over it all again. “It’s you I’ve been thinking about all night, not Max. And I certainly didn’t ask you to go and fuck that cheap little slut. How could you, Randall?”
He turned to face her, propping himself up on his elbow.
Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, and her skin looked even paler than usual, washed out with exhaustion. Her new, shorter hair had relaxed from its earlier pinned and hair-sprayed solidity, and fell about her face in soft, tangled waves. She looked like a frightened six-year-old who’d just woken up from a nightmare. Except with very big boobs, which she was covering defensively now with both hands, presumably against him.
“Who said I fucked her?” he asked, still gazing at Siena’s beautiful naked body.
“You did.” She sounded confused, having been thrown a lifebelt of hope that perhaps, by some miracle, he
had
been faithful to her. “You said you’d rather have been with me. Which means that you must have been with her, doesn’t it?”
“Does it?” said Randall. He was being infuriatingly nonchalant about the whole thing.
“Oh, of course it does!” she cried, hitting him across the chest in frustration as she felt her glimmer of hope disappearing again.
“Well, would you actually care if I had?” he asked calmly, ignoring her near hysteria. “Fucked Miriam, I mean.”
“Would I care?” She stared at him incredulously. “Of course I’d care, Randall. Why do you think I’ve been lying awake all night, crying my goddamn eyes out? Of course I fucking care.”
At which point he had rolled on top of her and made love to her more tenderly than ever before.
For the next three hours, he had gently and expertly licked and teased and caressed her, bringing her to climax again and again and again, until they were both too tired to move. Afterward, as she was drifting off into a deeply contented, sexually replete sleep, he had asked her to marry him.
By the time Siena woke up, it was almost three in the afternoon, and Randall had gone. She leaped out of bed in a panic, terrified that last night’s events—the ones at the end, anyway—had been some sort of dream.
But there in the bathroom, propped up on her dresser, was a note from Randall. It said he had gone to the office and wouldn’t be back till late—but perhaps tomorrow, if he could get away in time, he would take her out for dinner to celebrate their engagement.
Siena read the note a few times, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, and sank down onto the toilet seat, weak with relief. He was really going to marry her. It was going to be okay.
Relief was definitely the overwhelming emotion, not joy. She knew she didn’t love Randall, or at least she wasn’t
in
love with him with the same blind, trusting passion she’d felt for Max. But she now saw that as a good thing.
As Randall’s wife, she would be guaranteed a life of wealth, fame, and privilege. She no longer had to keep looking over her shoulder, waiting for everything she had, all her security to be snatched away on somebody else’s whim. Marriage to Randall meant a safety net and the only kind of security you could count on—financial.
Her relief that he was finally, and against all the odds, about to make a commitment to her was profound and intense. For the first time since Max had betrayed her, she felt she could breathe easy.
Randall, by contrast, had had a somewhat stressful awakening when he remembered his rash promise of the night before. He’d been so drunk, and so horny, his libido having already been awakened by a truly expert blow job from Miriam at Johnny’s party, that he’d gotten carried away.
Siena’s extreme vulnerability always turned him on anyway. It made him feel strong. But the real killer last night had been when she’d told him that she actually cared for him. Not for the money, for him.
Since he’d made his fortune, no woman had ever said that to him and meant it, as he was sure Siena did. That made her different, special.
But marriage? What the hell was he thinking?
Randall had already decided long ago that he would never share his life or his fortune with anyone. He didn’t want children, and he’d seen too many wealthy guys go bankrupt that way.
His first thought on getting out of bed was that he would have to get out of it as soon as possible. Just tell her he was joking, he was drunk, anything. But as he started to shave and dress, he gradually began to perceive the upside in the situation.
An engagement would be fabulous publicity for the movie, which he desperately needed. It might also calm Siena down, make her ease up on the histrionics both at home and on-set. Recently, she’d been wearing her insecurity on her sleeve to a degree that even Randall found alarming.
Then there was the other-women factor. Not that he ever had many problems attracting beautiful girls, but there was no doubt that being seen as off the market seemed only to encourage the most rapacious and best-looking gold diggers. Yes, on second thought, a very public engagement would have its advantages. It wasn’t like he had to go through with the wedding.
As it turned out, his predictions proved completely correct.
Not only did the leaking of the news, and the carefully choreographed denials of an engagement, generate massive worldwide interest in both them as a couple and the film, but Siena also visibly relaxed from the moment she got the ring—an enormous ruby that had cost more than his entire collection of Bentleys—on her finger.
Her one continuing concern was the question of setting a date, but so far he had been able to wriggle out of that fairly easily by insisting that neither of them would have time to focus on a wedding until after
1941
had wrapped.
One evening in early November, he had come home to find Siena looking unusually morose.
She was curled up on the sofa in the small sitting room next to the kitchen, watching reruns of
I Dream of Jeannie
and smoking. An overflowing ashtray and a large pile of discarded candy wrappers lay on the table beside her, and there was a bottle of wine, as yet unopened, at her feet.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, picking up the remote and switching off the TV before removing the cigarette from her hand and stubbing it out. He hated her smoking.
“Hey.” She sounded annoyed. “I was watching that.”
She reached for another cigarette, like a naughty child willfully defying its parents, seeing how far they could be pushed. But Randall immediately snatched away the pack and began drawing back the closed curtains, allowing the early-evening sunlight to penetrate the smoky gloom.
“No smoking in this house, Siena.” He crushed the Marlboros in his fat hand and dropped the battered remnants in the trash. “You know that. What’s the matter with you tonight?” He sounded less than sympathetic. Randall found female mood swings supremely boring.
“If I tell you, do you promise you won’t get mad?”
“No,” he said, sitting himself down beside her. He hoped there hadn’t been yet another problem on-set.
“It’s Hunter,” said Siena, to his initial relief, although he noticed that her bottom lip was already starting to wobble ominously. “I called him.” Randall looked stony-faced. “I know you said I shouldn’t,” she went on nervously. “But it just seemed so weird that we haven’t spoken at all, you know, since it happened.”
“Since what happened?”
Siena frowned, surprised. “Since we got engaged, of course,” she said. “Honestly, darling. It’s a big thing, you know, agreeing to spend the rest of your life with someone. I wanted him to know.”
“Oh yeah. Right.” Randall got up and walked over to the bar. “Honey,” he said brusquely, sitting back down after making himself a large iced vodka. “You didn’t need to call him. He knows. The whole world knows, okay? Hunter may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he can read, right? The engagement’s been all over the press from here to Timbuktu.”
“Ha, ha,” said Siena sarcastically. “Yes, he can read, and yes, I’m sure he’s heard about it. But he hasn’t heard it from me. We haven’t spoken.”
“So?” said Randall. He was getting tired of listening to Siena moaning on about a family who evidently didn’t give a shit about her. “That’s his problem, not yours. He’s the one who stormed off like a spoiled kid at the Dodgers game. Forget about him, baby. Move on.”
Siena wondered, not for the first time, if this was what Randall really felt. Couldn’t he see that they were the ones who had behaved badly at the Dodgers game, by setting Hunter up? That she was the one who owed him an apology, not the other way around?
“What did he say, anyway?” Randall asked in a tone that made it clear he had very little interest in Hunter’s opinions one way or the other. “He didn’t approve?”
“Nothing,” Siena mumbled miserably. “He wouldn’t take my call. I spoke to that stupid bitch Tiffany, and she told me to go to hell.”
For some reason, this seemed to make Randall irate. He stood up and began pacing like a tiger preparing for the kill. “He wouldn’t take your call?
He,
that two-bit little soap queen, wouldn’t take
your
call?”
Siena couldn’t quite see why this should incense him so much. As upset as she was, she was hardly surprised that Hunter didn’t want to speak to her after the way she’d treated him this past year. She’d been so desperate to hold on to Randall and her career, she’d dropped Hunter like a hot brick, for no better reason than Randall had told her to. She didn’t deserve his blessing, on her engagement or anything else in her life.
“Well, it did hurt me,” she began.
But Randall was still ranting, less concerned about Siena’s feelings than with whipping himself into a fury of indignation. “How dare he? I mean, who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Look, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” said Siena, who was starting to get concerned by the violence of his reaction.
“Of course you should mention it.” In an instant, he turned his displeasure on her. Sitting right in front of him, she made a far more satisfying target than the absent and untouchable Hunter. She shrank back, bewildered, as he glowered at her angrily, a feeling like Jack’s after he’d climbed the beanstalk and disturbed the sleeping giant.
“If you ever start keeping secrets from me, Siena, that’s it,” Randall snarled viciously. “From that moment on, it’s over between us. I’ll destroy you.”
“Randall, please.” She tried to calm him down. “There’s no need to get so upset. I’m not keeping secrets. You asked me what was wrong and I told you.”
The fear in her voice was like fuel on his flames.
“Oh, you told me, did you?” He slammed his drink down on the table and bent his face threateningly low over hers. “And what about what I told you? I expressly told you never to abase yourself by crawling back to Hunter, or any of the rest of your useless, fucked-up family. And what do you do? The second my back’s turned, you’re on that phone like a tragic little groupie. And he won’t even talk to you!”
Siena shuddered. She could smell Randall’s sour breath, pouring out of him like bile. He hadn’t flown off the handle at her like this in months, and she had no idea why her call to Hunter should have triggered such a catastrophic relapse.
“You’ve embarrassed me, and you’ve embarrassed yourself,” he announced, looking at her like something unpleasant he might be forced to disinfect.
“I’m sorry,” said Siena, by now desperate to appease him. “I was just so happy about us being engaged, and I haven’t had anyone to share it with.”
“What do you mean you haven’t had anyone to share it with?” Randall sounded incredulous. “The whole world’s been talking about it. Look!”
He picked up a copy of last week’s
New York Times
Magazine
from the coffee table behind him, still opened to the picture of the two of them together at Cannes, and shoved it under Siena’s nose.
“I know,” she said, staring at the image. “But I meant . . .” She was walking on eggshells now, anxious to choose her words carefully and not provoke him any further. “I meant I had nobody to share the news with who I love, or who loves me. That’s all.”
“Everybody loves you, Siena,” said Randall, pointing to the picture again, more gently this time, and kissing the top of her head, the storm of his anger apparently subsided. Whether he had willfully misunderstood her or not, she couldn’t tell. She was just relieved the shouting had stopped.
“Now, why don’t you go upstairs and get changed.” His tone was suddenly brisk and businesslike again. “I’m taking you to Morton’s tonight, remember, with Luke and Sabrina.”
Shit, she’d forgotten. Dinner with her director and his tedious sculptor wife was the last thing she felt like, especially now. Fights with Randall were so terrifying, they always left her utterly emotionally exhausted.
“And don’t forget to brush your teeth again, will you?” he added, downing the last of his vodka. “You know I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes on your breath.”
Dinner was every bit as gruesome as Siena had feared.
Luke was a sweetheart—the two of them had been getting along much better now that things had improved on-set—but his wife was terribly pretentious, one of those artistic types who go on about how much better the Norton Simon is than the Getty, and isn’t it a tragedy that they can’t move back to New York, where the people are so much more
real
?
