‘How are you getting there?’
‘I’ll make my own way. For God’s sake, leave me alone.’
51
Two hours later Sharon Kaputnik’s Medieval and Mystery party, held in one of the big rooms of the casino, was well under way. The clatter of roulette chips and the cries of the croupiers could be heard from the gambling tables next door. Rich red velvet curtains blotted out an angry grey sea. Huge chandeliers lit up knights, kings, Black Princes, Robin Hoods, crusaders, wizards, friars and abbesses. Shrieks of delight greeted each new costume. Dommie Carlisle, with his blond hair brushed down into a pudding basin and a card round his neck saying ‘We thrashed the fuckers at Agincourt’, had come as Henry V. Seb, daggers sticking out of him like a hedgehog, was supposed to be Thomas a Becket. Ben Napier was wildly miscast as a jester. David Waterlane, too unimaginative to invent a costume and too mean to hire one, clanked round in one of his own suits of armour flown over from Rutminster Park. Luke, stripped to the waist, his face and massive torso streaked with grey paint and splodges of green for lichen, his hair turned metallic grey by spray, had come as a gargoyle.
‘Rather sexy,’ drawled Chessie, ‘but you ought to be spouting water rather than wisdom.’ For once free of Bart’s chaperonage, she was looking sensational in clinging dampened see-through green as Queen Guinevere.
‘I hardly think Bart has the moral rectitude necessary for Arthur,’ giggled Seb, bouncing up and grabbing Chessie’s waist from behind, ‘but bags I be Lancelot. My brother is so thick with that nurse I’ve got no-one to hunt with any more.’
Sukey, who had good legs, broad shoulders and not much waist, was looking unusually good as Joan of Arc.
‘Can I come and burn my cakes at your stake?’ said Bas who was dressed as Alfred the Great.
Juan O’Brien, who had misunderstood the word Mystery, had turned up as Miss Marple in a pull-on felt hat, a beige coat and skirt and a spy glass with which he was examining Chessie’s nipples.
With shrieks of restrained excitement, wearing a long blue dress and a wimple like an upended ice-cream cornet, Sharon was opening her presents.
‘What’s she supposed to be: Self-made Marion?’ Chessie asked Sebbie.
‘A damsel in distress.’
‘Not much to be distressed about with all those presents,’ added Chessie enviously, as Sharon drew a diamond necklace glittering like the Pleiades out of a red leather box. ‘Victor’s already given her an Ingres.’
‘She’s distressed,’ said Seb, ‘because Perdita has pipped her to the post with Red.’
‘Shut up,’ said Dommie, filling up their glasses. ‘Luke’s coming. And I don’t like the way our patron’s fratting with the enemy.’
Victor, encased in a scarlet dragon’s costume which showed off his pot belly, was talking to Drew who, in black tights and a white tunic with a red cross painted on the front and back, had come as St George.
‘Perhaps St George will wrest Lady Sharon from Victor’s clutches,’ said Chessie.
Victor, very smug because his pharmaceutical empire had found a cure for scurf, was slagging off Bart.
‘Two more plants closed this week,’ he was saying gleefully, ‘and the families of the Pegasus crash victims are suing Alderton Airlines for reckless homicide. Bart’s in Frankfurt to effect a merger with Marcos, who must be the biggest aeroplane company in the world. Once they get a look at Bart’s balance sheets, they’ll pull out.’
‘He’ll recover,’ said Drew. It seemed ridiculous discussing high finance with a dragon, particularly as Victor’s breath from gazpacho at lunchtime was as fiery as any flames.
‘You can’t pour every penny into polo and stay on course,’ gloated Victor. ‘He’s ripe for take-over. Have you seen my new pony, Tiger Lily’s half-brother?’
‘Drew’s so fucking oily with patrons, I’m sure he’s going to pinch Victor,’ said Seb, grabbing an angel-on- horseback and hurling it at Drew. Drew, wishing Daisy were there, ducked to avoid it. That afternoon Victor had offered him serious money, three times what he was earning with David Waterlane, for a three-year contract to play in Palm Beach and England. He was very tempted. David was mean and capricious and wouldn’t commit himself beyond next year.
‘You’d enjoy Palm Beach, Drew,’ said Sharon, joining them. ‘You wouldn’t have to bring your waife and kiddies if you didn’t want to.’
Drew ignored the innuendo. He wished he could take Daisy. In a minute he’d make some excuse and go and ring her, but as he’d promised to keep an eye on Perdita, he’d better wait until she arrived. He didn’t trust Red an inch. The bastard had just rolled up looking very pleased with himself in a floppy white silk shirt, brown tights to emphasize his long legs, and brown suede thigh boots.
‘Who are you supposed to be, Doublet and Pantihose?’ Chessie, suddenly rigid with hostility, asked him.
‘Iago, I thought.’
Chessie shivered. ‘Inspired casting. Just keep away from me.’
‘Try and keep me near!’ Red drifted off towards the gambling tables. He had just bought $100,000 worth of chips and was planning to put the lot on
‘
Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, Luke was distracted by a spectacularly good-looking man, who’d just come in wearing a dark suit, and was talking to Cameron Cook, who was hovering with a film crew.
It had to be Rupert Campbell-Black. Luke, in his humility, was a passionate admirer of beauty, particularly in humans. Looking at Red had always given him intense pleasure, but there was something about the angles of Rupert’s face, the long, dark blue eyes, the casual elegance of the body, the exquisite shape of the sleek, blond head and wide, smooth forehead, that set him apart from everyone else. Unlike Red, he was also totally unselfconscious. Luke felt his eyes drawn like a magnet.
‘How’s it going?’ Rupert asked Cameron.
‘Hairy. Sending Red off yesterday, getting into a clinch with him this afternoon. Christ knows what she’ll do next. The material’s god-given, but the press are getting all of it. She is under contract. We need something exclusive. I’m supposed to be interviewing her at dawn tomorrow.’
‘I’ll speak to her,’ said Rupert. ‘We’re not standing any shit.’
‘Having said that,’ admitted Cameron, ‘she does look superb in the rushes, and so natural, particularly when she’s mad.’
‘What about Red? Is he going to ditch Auriel for Perdita? He’s such a little shit.’
Cameron laughed. ‘He rather reminds me of you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Rupert coldly.
‘I’d better go and see what’s happened to her,’ said Cameron, going towards the door.
Immediately her place was taken by Chessie, but as she kissed Rupert, his face was even colder and he almost flinched away.
‘It’s been so long,’ Chessie flushed slightly. ‘I never see any of Ricky’s old friends these days. Drew, Bas, you, Billy, Ronnie Ferguson. None of you ask us to dinner any more. You might have asked us to your wedding. I haven’t even met Taggie yet. No-one could be as divine as everyone says she is. Bart’s due tomorrow. Why don’t you and Taggie have dinner with us?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Rupert curtly. Then, lowering his voice: ‘Chessie darling, have you no idea of the animosity you aroused when you ran out on Ricky?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ hissed Chessie, ‘you ran out on enough people.’
‘Not wives I didn’t. Helen walked out on me.’
‘Aren’t you glad she did?’
