Princess Daisy (76 page)

Authors: Judith Krantz

BOOK: Princess Daisy

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The Parks Department had given Supracorp permission to gather the troikas, their drivers and horses together and erect a temporary platform from which they would pick up their passengers and depart. Joseph Papp’s chief set designer had been inspired by Supracorp’s money to develop a healthy capitalistic outlook. The result was a daisy-bowered, latticed pavilion which managed to suggest what the Kremlin might look like if anyone with taste could get hold of it. Huge flags, in Princess Daisy lapis lazuli blue, with the stylized single daisy embroidered on them, blew from every corner of the pavilion, which was bathed in the footlights and spotlights, cunningly concealed in trees. All thirty of the troika drivers had been outfitted by a theatrical costumer in authentic greatcoats and three-cornered hats, some in red, some in green and still others in blue.

That night, as dusk fell, Candice Bloom and Jenny first took their hired limousine to the Tavern on the Green, where they made a final inspection of the arrangements, lingering a minute to watch the ten ice sculptors who were just finishing their work. The press photographers were already gathered at the entrance to the restaurant. Candice decided that she had hired more gypsy violinists than anyone needed, so she delegated a group of them to trudge down ten blocks to the pavilion where they could fiddle for the specially honored guests who had been invited to assemble there and arrive by troika.

As dozens of waiters started to light the two thousand candles in their silver candelabra, Candice and Jenny climbed back into their long, black car and were delivered to the empty pavilion. A few minutes remained before Daisy and Shannon were supposed to arrive so that they could be driven to the restaurant before the first guests were due. Candice, quivering with nerves, bent over her immaculate, thoughtful, quite possibly perfect list, a creation
of the Art of Public Relations which, she now insisted, deserved its own graduate school.

Troika One: Princess Daisy and Patrick Shannon.

Troika Two: Mayor Koch, Governor Carey, Anne Ford and Bess Myerson.

Troika Three: Sinatra, Johnny Carson, Sulzberger and Grace Mirabella of
Vogue
.

Troika Four: John Fairchild, Woody Allen, Helen Gurley Brown, David Brown and Rona Barrett.

Troika Five: Streisand, Peters, Barbara Walters …

Something disturbed her in her devout contemplation, some movement that should not yet be there in that bright, waiting, flower-filled pavilion. No, Candice thought, no, that simply could not be Theseus. He was NOT ON HER LIST. Big, hairy and, for once, horribly frisky rather than sly, the terrifying beast bounded into the pavilion, hanging his head in a sinister manner and looking at her in a leering fashion that obviously preceded some sort of attack. Candice was frozen in bewitched abhorrence. The dreadful animal sidled up to Candice, nuzzling her crotch in a yearning way that, had she but known it, was a serious compliment. She shivered in outrage.

“He likes you,” Daisy said.

It was only then that Candice realized that Theseus was firmly attached to a leash of silver sequined ribbons into which a bunch of daisies had been threaded. She was saved from whimpering out loud. Still not daring to raise her eyes, she quavered pitifully, “Daisy, exactly what breed of
chien
is that, for God’s sake?”

“A noble lurcher,” Daisy answered, settling the question forever.

As Daisy advanced, all the lights in the room broke into millions of sticks of splintering brilliance as they were reflected by her dress. It was paved with silver sequins and, at the narrow waist, bands of gold and bronze sequins had been woven into trompe l’oeil ribbons. The same bands formed a great bow at the high neck and defined a wide hem. The dress was a concentration of matchless theatricality such as no one had dared to wear in the last fifty years—a once-in-a-lifetime gown, fit only to be given to a museum after tonight.

Daisy and Patrick Shannon, with Theseus between them, crossed the pavilion and stepped outside where a silver-lacquered, flower-filled troika waited for them. The muscular driver looked at the three of them kindly.

“Let me know when you’re ready and then sit back and brace yourselves,” he announced.

“Please,” said Daisy, “give me the reins. You can get down and drive the next troika.”

“But you can’t drive this thing, Miss,” the man replied, shocked.

“If I can’t,” she laughed, “then there’s no such thing as heredity.”

“It’s at your own risk,” he warned her.

“Perhaps … but that’s not going to stop me.”

Recognizing defeat, the driver jumped out, muttering to himself.

Princess Daisy Valensky rose, in one fluid, untroubled motion, and placing her weight equally and fi
rmly
on both feet, her arms extended, gathered in the six reins with a movement that made the night sing. At her touch the three white horses quieted,
gentled
down, waiting. Shannon and Theseus both sat easily, looking up at her. She was strong, pliant, serene, joyous, mistress and servant of the moment.

“Well?” she asked questioningly to Shannon, “how do you feel about Tallyho’?”

“I sort of prefer, ‘Lafayette, we are here,’ ” he answered.

“But why not
en avant?
” Daisy asked, prolonging the delight.

“Perhaps even a simple giddy-up would do,” he replied, feeling an instant’s worth of pity for all the men in the world who were not Patrick Shannon.

The silver bells of the horses jingled sweetly in the night and, with one effortless gesture of authority, so flawless, so decisive that she needed no words of command, Daisy started the three white horses at a gallop, racing the troika over the snow toward the lights she knew were beckoning in the distance.