'… is a piece of trash that I shall transform into art.' The snag of conversation spoken by an elegant Noel Cowardish man with a short cigarette holder and manicured hair caught Francesca's attention. He broke away from Miranda Gwynwyck to materialize at her side. 'Hello, my dear,' he said. 'You are incredibly lovely, and I've been waiting all evening to have you to myself. Miranda said I would enjoy you.'
She smiled and placed her hand in his outstretched one. 'Francesca Day,' she said. 'I hope I'm worth
the wait.'
'Lloyd Byron, and you most definitely are. We met earlier, although you probably don't remember.'
'On the contrary, I remember very well. You're a friend of Miranda's, a famous film director.'
'A hack, I'm afraid, who has once again sold himself out for the Yankee dollar.' He tilted his head back dramatically and spoke to the ceiling, releasing a perfect smoke ring. 'Miserable thing, money. It makes extraordinary people do all sorts of depraved things.'
Francesca's eyes widened mischievously. 'Exactly how many depraved things have you done, or is one permitted to inquire?'
'Far, far too many.' He took a sip from a tumbler generously filled with what looked like straight scotch. 'Everything connected with Hollywood is depraved. I, however, am determined to put my own stamp
on even the most crassly commercial product.'
'How absolutely courageous of you.' She smiled with what she hoped would pass for admiration, but
was actually amusement at his almost perfect parody of the world-weary director forced to compromise his art.
Lloyd Byron's eyes traced her cheekbones and then lingered on her mouth, his inspection admiring but dispassionate enough to tell her that he preferred male companionship to female. He pursed his lips and leaned forward as if he were sharing a great secret. 'In two days, darling Francesca, I'm leaving for godforsaken Mississippi to begin filming something called Delta Blood, a script that I have single-handedly transformed from a wretched piece of garbage into a strong spiritual statement.'
'I simply adore spiritual statements,' she cooed, lifting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray while she covertly inspected Sarah Fargate-Smyth's barber-pole-striped taffeta dress, trying to decide whether it was Adolfo or Valentino.
'I intend to make Delta Blood an allegory, a statement of reverence for both life and death.' He made
a dramatic gesture with his glass without spilling a drop. 'The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you understand?'
'Enduring cycles are my particular specialty.'
For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed his eyes shut dramatically. 'I can feel your life force beating so strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head.' He pressed his hand to his cheek. 'I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel my skin. It's positively clammy.'
She laughed. 'Perhaps the prawns are a bit off.'
He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. 'Love. I've fallen in love. I absolutely have to have you
in my film. From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda.'
Francesca lifted one eyebrow. 'I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you that idea?'
He frowned. '1 never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film without you.'
'Don't you think that's a little extreme?' she said with a smile. 'You've known me less than five minutes.'
'I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's what separates me from the others.' His lips formed a perfect oval and emitted a second smoke ring. 'The role is small but memorable. I'm experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time travel-a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth- century prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested in a serious career.'
For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect answer to all her financial difficulties, and the drama of performing had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson, who seemed to be having a perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly laughed aloud at her own naivete. Legitimate directors hardly walked up to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.
Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. 'I have to leave London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon. This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the chance to appear in a major American film.'
As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she restrained herself from commenting that
He pressed both hands-one containing his drink and the other his cigarette holder-over his ears so that he looked something like a smoke-producing space creature. 'No negative thoughts! You are what I say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!'
With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear, 'He's not the only one who has to have you.'
'Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend,' Francesca said, turning to plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. 'I just met the most amusing little man. Do you know him?'
Nicholas shook his head. 'He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning.'
Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.
'Congratulations, Francesca,' Miranda said, 'I heard the wonderful news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a cat…'
Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to maintain more than a surface courtesy. 'Speaking of cats,' she said pleasantly, 'you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you talking about?'
'Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with envy.'
'You actually believed him?' Francesca quirked one eyebrow.
'Shouldn't I have?'
'Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate films.'
Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming with uncharacteristic brightness. 'Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed. I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you want people to believe.'
Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew, could barely conceal her annoyance. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him-all his films are marvelous allegories-and everyone is certain his new production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best people.'
Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics, Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer a bit more consideration.
Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her to a private club that had just
opened in Chelsea. They stayed until nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible
