looks really worked, perhaps because she was giving off such wanton promise, or because she longed to forget Dino and everything at home.
“What does F stand for?” asked a famous tennis player.
“Fuckable,” said Fen sweetly, “and it’s spelt out in emeralds and pearls.”
“You can say that again,” said the tennis player as everyone laughed.
Soon the journalists were hovering round her. They kept asking her about Billy and Dino, but she cracked back that she was married to her career and had no intention of getting a divorce. She had a good deal to drink and had some difficulty negotiating even the short walk into the dining room. She found herself sitting between a famous footballer with permed blond hair and a fake suntan, named Garry, and an Olympic shotputter whose arm muscles bulged through his dinner jacket, whose stomach folded over the table, and who lifted Fen above his head to loud cheers when she complained she couldn’t see the Princess.
The first course, because most people were in some sort of training, was Parma ham and melon, which Garry the footballer thought too outre for words.
“You got a boyfriend?” he asked Fen.
“Nope.”
“Fort as much. Riding an ’orse is a substitute for sex.”
“What an original thing to say,” said Fen politely, molding her uneaten roll into pellets and chucking them at Dudley.
“Stands to reason. Funny thing, most of them look like ’orses, but you don’t.”
“You’re talking garbage,” said the shotputter.
“Why don’t you come home with me?” said Garry the footballer. “Wife’s staying with her mother. I’d give you more fun than an ’orse.”
“You reckon?” said Fen.
Suddenly all the flashbulbs exploded as the photographers clustered round a late arrival, a tall, dark, very broad-shouldered man wearing a dirty bomber jacket, a dark blue shirt, no tie, jeans, and sneakers. He was extremely good-looking in a brutal, suntanned, heavy-eyelidded way, and appeared not remotely embarrassed to be the only man in the room not wearing a dinner jacket. The plane from Rome was late; he hadn’t had time to change.
At the sight of him the convoy of waitresses, rushing in like some musical comedy act, nearly dropped the massive oblong silver plates of beef they were bearing aloft. One comely brunette was so excited she gave the shotputter five slices of beef as she gazed entranced. Others dived for the kitchen and within seconds, six plates of Parma ham and melon were pressed on the new arrival from all sides, followed by several very large glasses of Bacardi and soda, which he lined up in a row in front of him, laughing all the while, showing beautiful big white teeth with several gold fillings. In the mat of black chest hair hung a gold St. Christopher medal.
“Who’s that?” said the shotputter.
“Enrico Mancini,” said Fen. “The fastest driver on earth.”
“Certainly be’aves like it,” said Garry disapprovingly. “I don’t like racing drivers. Fink they’re God’s gift. Not much skill in driving around and around the same track.”
He’s coarser looking than Rupert, thought Fen, watching Enrico Mancini joking with a couple of television commentators, but he behaves with the same certainty that he owns the earth. He was forking up Parma ham very fast now, his eyes raking the room for crumpet or cronies.
“Lovely beef,” said Fen. “I don’t know how they cook it on such a large scale.”
She took a big slug of red wine and, looking across at Enrico Mancini, found he was staring at her. Christ, he was taking the skin off her face. She looked hurriedly away, then glanced back five seconds later. He was still staring, gazing with peculiar intensity through a pot of yellow chrysanthemums. Her beef had lost all its appeal. She took another slug of wine. Putting her elbow on the table, it slid off as though it was greased. When she looked back again he’d moved the flowers and was smiling at her, lounging lazily in his chair. Then he blew her a kiss. Fen blushed, then found herself smiling.
“Eat up your beef, Fenella,” said the footballer. “You’ll never get to Los Angeles that way.”
“No, thanks, I’m full,” said Fen, putting her knife and fork together.
“Shame to waste it,” said the weightlifter, forking up the slices of beef. Dudley Diplock swayed over to have a chat, launching into a long story about Colonel Roxborough.
“How wonderful,” said Fen after five minutes, when it was obvious some response was expected.
“I said he’d had a stroke,” said Dudley.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I misheard you. Who did you say?”
“Colonel Roxborough. But he’s expected to pull through.”
Fen could see Enrico Mancini writing a note on the back of a place card.
“I reckon you’ve got a good chance of getting the woman’s award tonight,” said Dudley.
“How dreadful for the family,” said Fen, who thought they were still on Colonel Roxborough’s stroke.
“The award, Fen! If you do, we’ll have a chat straight to camera immediately afterwards. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Dudley,” said Fen. Her glass seemed to be full again and someone had brought her a large brandy and the pretty brunette waitress, with some disappointment, Fen thought, was handing her a card.
On the back of Enrico Mancini’s place card was written, “Will you come out with me afterwards?”
Fen looked up. Enrico was still staring at her with that knowing, speculative, supremely confident smile. He raised his eyebrows. Fen shook her head, mouthing: “I can’t.”
“Black or white,” said the waitress.
“White. No, sorry, I mean black.”
“Must go to the toilet,” said the footballer.
Fen had broken off some frosted grapes and was putting them in her bag, wrapped in a paper napkin, for Darklis and Isa, when she felt a warm hand traveling the length of her back, lasciviously fingering her spine.
“There is no such word as ‘can’t,’ ” said a husky Latin voice. Spinning around, she saw Enrico had taken the footballer’s seat.
He had eyes the color of black treacle and an incredibly sensual mouth shaped rather like a car tire. I wonder if he changes it after three laps when it gets worn out with kissing, thought Fen with a giggle.
“Why d’you laugh?” he said softly, “I don’t find you funny.”
“I don’t find you funny either,” stammered Fen. “I’m just nervous.”
“With good cause,” said Enrico. “You won’t escape. I have wanted you for a very long time.”
“About an hour,” said Fen, looking at her watch.
“No, no, I see you on television in May in Rome with Desdemona, when you beat my friend Piero Fratinelli. His father makes my car. Then later you fall off Macaulay and got on again with the concussion. I said I must meet this girl. She is not only beautiful but brave. I am more attracted by courage than beauty in a woman. You and I will be magnificent in bed.”
“You saw me in Rome?” said Fen, amazed.
“Of course. That ees the only reason I come here tonight. They told me you’d be here. Shall we go?”
“We can’t,” said Fen.
His eyebrows were so black and his hair so thick and his face so strong and commanding. Oh, heavens, thought Fen in panic, how can I not go to bed with him?
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s a bit rude, before the speeches and the awards.”
“I will give you my own personal award,” said Enrico, staring at her breasts. “Much better than some stupid prize.”
“Besides I’ve got to go straight back to Warwickshire at eleven o’clock. I’m leaving for Amsterdam at four- thirty.”
Enrico looked at his massive digital watch, pressing knobs. “How many miles?”
“More than a hundred and twenty.”
“At night, that takes me one hour and ten minutes, no more. We leave London at three. That gives us four hours if we leave now. Not long, but quite long enough for the first time, which should be brief, passionate, exquisite, and leave one hungry for the next.”
Fortunately there was a roll of drums and it was announced the awards would begin in two minutes. Fen
