Destiny (105 page)

"I'll come and dance," she said. "But you know, you shouldn't have done that. It wasn't wise."

"I couldn't care less," Greg answered with a certain cockiness which she had never noticed in him before. "Why should I? There's nothing he can do to me." He paused. "Or you, I hope."

Helene frowned. Damn Thad, she thought; damn him, with his megalomania, and his possessiveness. She took Gregory Gertz's arm.

"Once, perhaps," she said firmly. "Not anymore."

It was one o'clock in the morning, but people showed no signs, yet, of leaving. So many dances, so many partners; as the evening wore on, she felt more and more distanced from it. "Thank you, Helene." Joe Stein, escorting her politely back to the side of the room, Joe Stein who, like most of her partners, had not danced with her simply because he wanted to, but because it was part of the business process. For years, he had wanted her to make a film for his company—ever since they first met in Cannes in 1962. Now, Stein had achieved his ambition. His company would produce and back Long Division; he glanced across at Simon Scher, who was talking to Stein's wife, Rebecca, and a slight swagger came into his walk, as if he were carrying spoils from the field of war, not escorting a woman from a dance floor. He, Joe Stein, had captured Helene Harte from the clutches of Sphere.

Simon Scher smiled back politely, and returned to his conversation with Rebecca Stein. He was a small, neat, pleasant man, and he always smiled pohtely, whenever Helene encountered him, which was not often. A businessman—but then, they were all that, men and women. And they were here to conduct an essential part of their trade—exchanging information, and gossip, watching who was talking to whom, power-trading. . . .

Helene evaded the next man who was pressing her to dance, and slipped away to the side of the room. There, in a lobby that led out to the bar, she was shielded from view by a pillar, and by palms. She stood there for a while, watching groups form and re-form, watching the dancers. Joe Stein now dancing with his wife, ignoring the rhythms of the music, and proceeding around the room in a stately fox-trot. Stephani Sandrelli, dancing with Randal] Holt, the young man they were calling the next Lloyd Baker.

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The original Lloyd Baker, dancing with everyone except his wife. Lewis, performing some Bostonian gyration of his own, face fixed, eyes glazed, with a girl called Betsy, about whom Helene knew nothing at all, except that someone had brought her, and she lived in San Francisco, and she was dressed rather as if she were a sultan's handmaiden or an Indian squaw. She had bare feet, which she stamped, and around her ankles she wore bracelets with tiny silver bells on them. She wore a long embroidered garment, like a caftan. Her flowing and beautiful auburn hair was threaded with feathers and ribbons. As Helene watched her, she lifted her arms above her head and waved them to the beat of the music. From wrist to elbow her arms were covered with tiny bracelets of turqouise and silver. She shook her arms, and the bracelets ghttered and jingled.

Gregory Gertz, now dancing with Rebecca Stein, to whom he appeared to be being assiduously pohte. Helene watched him a httle anxiously: she saw him differently tonight, as perhaps less direct, less straightforward, than she had imagined. If she had not agreed to do his film, would Stein and his company have backed it? Very possibly not; was that why Gregory had been so eager that she do it—not because she was so right for the part, as he claimed, but simply because her participation, her "bankabihty" was useful to him? It was hardly surprising if that had been a motive—that was how things here worked. Yet he had seemed so honest, so truthful. . . .

She leaned back against the pillar. There were very few people here whom she hked, she realized, and even fewer whom she trusted.

Someone bumped into her. Someone backed into her. Her West Coast agent, Milton, tall, tanned, immaculately groomed. He was looking a httle haunted.

"Homer," he said. "I'm avoiding Homer. He's had too much to drink. He's on one of his jags."

He paused, looking around him for a waiter, and checking over the room methodically. Then, recovering himself a httle, he took both her hands in his, and pressed them.

"Genius," he said. "I didn't get a chance to say so before. Not a word I ever use. You never heard me use that word before. I'm using it now." He fixed her with his eyes. "Genius. By the end of that movie, Helene, I was weeping. Tears. I cried. Elizabeth cried. Paul cried—well, nearly cried. Even that little fucker from The New York Times cried. We have to talk, Helene, and we have to talk soon. Today, the phones never stopped ringing. Everyone wants you. Everyone. You shouldn't have agreed to do the Gertz picture. I warned you. It's not right for you. She's too hard, she's a bitch. People won't like that. They don't associate you with that. You should do the second part of Ellis, and then . . . Iread that today, by the way. I shouldn't have read it, but I did. A pirate copy . . ."He smiled.

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"Helena, it's so hot—I am telling you, it's so hot I read it and my fingers were burning. Now. Listen. Tomorrow, I want you to—"

"I'll call you tomorrow. But I won't change my mind. I've said I'll do the Gertz picture, Milton, and—"

"Said? Said? What's said? You haven't signed. There's nothing down in black and white. Now, Hsten, Helene . . ."

"Tomorrow, Milton," Helene said, and she slipped away. She moved through the lobby, past the bar, and into the conservatory. She sat down on a wicker chair, shielded by more palms, and by the cattleyas. She looked at them. She had never liked orchids, and she did not like these. Such a fluorescence of color; such fleshy petals; such predatory flowers.

From the bar behind her, voices drifted through above the music. "So, I thought, screw you, but I said—okay. You cut us in on the distribution deal, and—"

"Look, Homer. Cut this out, will you? The problem is, the only problem is, you will keep marrying them—"

"You want to know why, Milton? You really want to know? Because I'm a fucking romantic, that's why."

"You? A romantic?"

"That's right. That is so right. I had a terrible mother, a terrible childhood. . . ."

"I don't want to hear about your childhood. Homer. Or your mother."

"Why not?"

"Because it's old news. Homer. Old news."

"So. He wouldn't sign. No way. One million up front, and a percentage deal. I said to him, I said—"

"Thursday, Lloyd? You promise? It has to be then. The screen test's Friday, and you said ..."

"Okay. Okay. Thursday. I'll talk to them Friday morning."

"Lloyd, you're a honey. What you want me to wear for you, baby?"

"How about a diaphragm?"

"So, I said—listen—we are talking about art here. Like, A-R-T, art. And he says, you know what Short Cut grossed in its first six weeks? And I said—okay, so Short Cut was big. Well, this is going to be bigger. A helluva lot bigger. I . . ."

"Miss Harte?"

Helene looked up. The conservatory was dimly lit, and her mind was far away. For a moment she did not recognize the man in front of her. Then she saw that it was Simon Scher. He smiled. Politely.

"Could I get you something to drink? You must be exhausted. Such a marvelous party ..."

"No, thank you."

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"May I?" He looked at her, and then sat down on a nearby chair. He pinched the crease of his pants between thumb and forefinger, and crossed his legs. Helene wished he would go away. She wished, suddenly and passionately, that they would all go away.

". . . So I wanted to congratulate you." Scher, she realized, must have been complimenting her on Ellis.

"An interesting film, and a most remarkable performance. Oh, yes." He cleared his throat. "I have the script for the sequel, of course. A surprise. I had no idea there was a sequel."

"There are two," Helene said abruptly. ''Ellis is intended to be a trilogy."

"Oh." He looked taken aback at this. Helene looked at him mutinously. Let Thad play his stupid secretive games; she did not intend to play them any longer.

"Yes, well, of course, Mr. Angelini always like to play his cards close to the chest. A trilogy." He paused delicately. "And, are you—that is, I gather there is a httle problem ..."

"Yes, there is. Thad wants to make the sequel in the spring. I've told him I won't do that. I'll be working on another picture then."

"Oh. I see." He frowned. "Does that mean postponing production of the sequel then? Mr. Angelini didn't mention—"

"You had better ask him, perhaps." Helene answered him shortly. Then, regretting her rudeness slightly, and in the face of Scher's unshakable politeness, she added, more gently, "You see, I had no idea of what Thad was planning either. He sprang it on me a few weeks ago. And I haven't decided—I don't even know that I want to do the film."

"Yes. Of course. Of course. Well, no doubt, in due course . . . such an ambitious project. Fine, in principle, like all his work. But ambitious, and lengthy—" He paused. He looked at her directly. "Such a pity Mr. Ange-hni and your husband fell out, I've always thought. I always enjoyed working with Lewis. Marvelous enthusiasm. Oh, yes. Marvelous ..."

Helene looked up. "You enjoyed working with Lewis?" she said slowly. "You mean, you would like to work with him again?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly. He was very hardworking, you know, very thorough. And I always felt that he . . . well, that he helped to control some of Mr. Angelini's excesses, shall we put it like that? He could be very firm with him. Surprisingly so. In the early days"— he cleared his throat again—"when we began our partnership—"

Helene stood up. She looked at Scher. Either he was lying, or Thad had been. She knew which of them she believed: this small polite efficient man, who was not really part of the film world at all, but a businessman transferred from his parent company, there to ensure that this oddity among

646 • SALLY BEAUMAN

Partex's more conventional products was, like the others, profitable. She held out her hand to him.

"I wish you would say that to Lewis," she said quietly. "I think it would please him very much. And I'm sure he could be persuaded to go back to producing. He misses it, you know. . . ." She took his hand. "I wonder— I ought to get back—would you excuse me?"

"Oh, but of course. Of course."

Scher turned back toward the ballroom. Helene stood in the conservatory a few minutes longer, and then she walked out into the gardens.

The night was cool, and they were deserted. From the ballroom came the strains of a tango; shadows moved across the lighted windows. She walked across the lawns, then through the trees, and there, where the level of the ground altered, and it was quiet, she stood for a long time, looking down at the swimming pool that lay below her.

She thought of Billy, and the trip back to Alabama that was coming, week by week, inevitably closer. She thought about the future, and the life she had lined up, and then, because its emptiness made her feel cold, and lonely, she thought about the past, and Edouard.

When some time had passed, she began to walk back to the house unwillingly. She walked across the lawns again, and down onto the drive. There was a breeze blowing up; clouds scudded across the sky. As she reached the drive, the moon came out, and lit the gardens with a thin pale radiance. She crossed the curve of the drive, watching the shadows of the clouds, as the moon was now hidden, and now clear. There, she paused, and looked back down the drive, in the direction of the gates, and saw the man who was standing outside them.

It was the first time she had ever seen him, and if Cassie had not been so positive, she might almost have thought that Lewis's sightings had been imaginary. But there he was. He was standing motionless, leaning against the gates, his hands and face pressed against their rails. They were at a distance from each other, and so Helene could not be certain if he even saw her, but she thought he did.

She stood for a moment, looking at him, separated from him by the length of moonlit gravel: a woman in a silk evening dress, and a man who was excluded.

The moon went behind a cloud, and when it sailed forth again, the man had gone. She stared down the drive in the direction of the gates. She felt no sense of fear, or threat.

From the house came a burst of laughter, louder music. She lifted her head; she associated the man with someone, she thought; it was a second or two before she realized that it was herself. Like him, she was an outsider; like him, she did not belong here. She had felt this before, but never

DESTINY • 647

as Strongly, and it filled her with an unhappy resignation. She turned back to the house, walking slowly; then she began to quicken her pace. Something in her rebelled.

She would not go back to the ballroom; she would not go back to that party, and those people. She would go to her room, she would telephone Paris; she would telephone St. Cloud. And—this time—she would not hang up after three rings, or thirty, or three hundred. She would wait until Edouard answered, and she would speak to him.

I Ih, Lewis. It's so beautiful. I knew it would be like this. I pictured Vyit so many times, and I knew it would be lovely. But not this lovely. Oh, Lewis, is this real silk?"

Stephani moved around Helene's room, touching things. The long pale cream draperies at the windows, and at the head of the four-poster. She touched the delicate columns of that bed.

"Oh, Lewis. Is this old? Like, really old? Is it an antique?"

"It's Hepplewhite." Lewis glanced edgily toward the door. He felt fairly safe, but not entirely safe. "Just let me look," Stephani had begged. "I always wanted to see her house, and her room. Please, Lewis. It won't take more than a minute. ..."

They had been in here five minutes already. Lewis was fairly sure that Helene was fully occupied downstairs, but what if—for some reason—she came up? His own nervousness annoyed him; he chafed against it. So what if she did? They were not doing anything wrong.