Breaking the Rules

“I have one. Shall we set a date?”

  “A date?” She gave him a puzzled look, but she knew what he meant.

  “When shall we get married?”

  Deciding to humor him, she said, “November or December? Which do you prefer?”

  “I know what we’ll do. We’ll have a Christmas wedding. Here in New York. Just the two of us. Don’t let’s tell a soul. . . . It’ll be like eloping, in a sense.”

  “What a fantastic idea! I’ll get married in a white wool suit, a white fur, and carry white flowers, and it’s bound to snow, and then it will really and truly be a white wedding,” she teased.

  Filled with laughter, Larry sat down on the sofa and took her in his arms. Against her hair he said, “You’re the most adorable girl I’ve ever met.”

  And that was how it began, their grand romance.

  Sixteen

  Caresse walked around the largest studio within the rabbit warren of the complex called Frank Farantino Photographic Studios. She was endeavoring to see it with cold deliberation, rather than with aching heartbreak. She must not think of her big love Frankie, her fiancé, envision him leaping around like an acrobat in his favorite place, shouting instructions to the models, focusing his camera, shooting his unique shots, and being his impossible but lovable self.

  No, that was the wrong thing to do. She must think in terms of money. Not for her but for Frankie’s kid, Alex. In a certain sense, he was her responsibility now, because Frankie’s older sister, Theresa, a diabetic, had become sicker than ever since his fatal car crash. So it was up to Caresse to do right by “the kid.” Alex would soon be eighteen. But that’s the way Frankie had always referred to Alex. She must get as much money as she could for the complex. Not only was it an entire building, a vast former warehouse, but Frankie had designed the various studios himself. Aside from the soaring rooms the photographers used for shoots, there were hair and makeup rooms, bathrooms, and an eat-in kitchen fully equipped with the latest appliances. And then there were dozens of klieg lights, various cleverly designed and beautifully rendered backdrops, which rolled around on wheels, plus an extraordinary collection of cameras and other equipment. Yes, money, money, money for the kid. That was her theme song at the moment. No bidders yet, but she could hope. She suddenly asked herself if she had given it to the wrong agency. Bentley’s was not such a big agent; perhaps she should seek out a more important real estate company.

  Walking back to the reception area, Caresse sat down behind the desk and looked at the bookings. Five photographers would be working here today, three doing fashion shoots for magazines and two working on shoots for fashion catalogs. She nodded, grateful and relieved that Frankie’s pals were still using his studios, touched that they were being loyal to him. She was proud of that, the friendship Frankie had inspired in others.

  Caresse glanced down at her sapphire engagement ring. She still wore it because she couldn’t bear to take it off. She was engaged to Frankie Farantino, and that was that. Her eyes filled. He had always been good to her, considerate and very, very loving. It would be hard to find another man like him . . . she couldn’t even bother trying.

  The jangling phone brought her up with a start, and she answered it with a simple “Farantino Studios, Caresse speaking.”

  “Hey, Caresse, how’re you doing, honey?” Luke Hendricks asked. “Holding up, I hope, sweetie pie.”

  “Doing my best, Luke. Where are you? What’s happening?”

  “I’m stuck in Paris, finishing the shoot for Vogue, but I hope to get back to New York next week. But hey, listen up, honey, where’s M? What’s she doing these days?”

  “Oddly enough, she was in here yesterday to see me. She often drops by. She’s great, cool. She’s still working at that cheesecake place, still doing the rounds of the modeling agencies. Poor kid, she doesn’t seem able to get that first break. Why are you asking about her?”

  “Because I have that first break for her! A special fashion shoot next week. So try and find her, please, and book Frank’s big studio for me, his favorite. Listen, I gotta run. I’m heading out to Versailles to shoot the Coldplay guys . . . sitting in the middle of a gaggle of blond models. Yeah, Chris Martin and his compadres.”

  “For Vogue?” she asked, incredulous.

  “No, honey, for Vanity Fair. I’ll give you a buzz later today. Or tomorrow. Just find her. So long.”

  “No, wait, don’t hang up, Luke. What if she can’t do it?”

  “Are you kidding? She’ll do it no matter what she’s doing. She’ll cancel out the Queen of England to do this fashion shoot. It’s her first break, for God’s sake. See ya, cookie.”

  Caresse stared at the receiver in her hand, listening to the dial tone. He had hung up on her. Well, that was Luke, always on the run. Banging the receiver into the cradle, Clarisse sat back in the chair frowning, and then a sudden bright smile flashed across her tired face. “Gotta find M, gotta find M,” she muttered, cheering up. Life had a purpose again. For the moment.

  Dimly, far in the distance, Larry heard a phone ringing. He let it ring, having no desire to talk to anyone. But when the machine did not pick up and it went on ringing, he finally reached for the receiver.

  “Hello,” he mumbled, still half asleep and half doped up with the pills he had taken the evening before.

  “Larry! It’s me! Your mother. Are you all right?”

  Pushing himself up on the pillows, he blinked in the murky light. “Oh, hi, Mother. I think I’m all right. I guess I am. I’ve got the flu.”

  “You sound drugged to me! Larry, darling, you haven’t fallen off the wagon, so to speak, have you? I do hope not, you promised me . . . no more pills, you said, yes, that’s what you promised. Oh, darling—”

  “No! No!” he exclaimed, forcing himself to sit up, endeavoring to be coherent. “Just hold on a minute, I need to get a glass of water . . .” He let his sentence slide away.

  “Take your time,” Pandora Gallen said in a crisper tone.

  Placing the receiver on the bedside table, he turned on the lamp, drank from the glass of water already there, and went back to the phone and his mother. “Okay, that’s better. I’m a bit dehydrated, what with all the cold pills and cough mixture I’ve taken. That stuff does you in, even if it also kills the germs.”

  “I know.” There was a silence, and then his mother continued, “You are sure you have the flu, aren’t you? You’d tell me the truth, wouldn’t you?”

  “Mum! Come on. You know I’ve never lied to you. Ever. I’ve had a really bad dose of it, and I’m still under the weather.”

  She sighed and said, “Perhaps I ought to call you back later.”

  “No, not later. Let’s talk now. I’m fine.” He glanced at the clock, saw that it was eleven, and therefore four in the afternoon in London. “Anyway, how are you, Ma? And how’s Dad?”

  “That’s the main reason I wanted to speak with you,” Pandora answered. “About your father.”

  He caught a hint of concern in her voice. “Is something wrong? You sound funny, Ma. What is it? Is Dad ill?”

  “No. Well, not that I know of, but he’s out there in Canada all by himself, with the most grueling time ahead of him, and I think somebody ought to be with him. You see, I detect this need in him when we speak, and the problem is I can’t go to Toronto because I start a film tomorrow. But I must admit, I’m genuinely worried about him, my darling.”

  Larry cursed himself under his breath. He had totally forgotten that his father was about to start rehearsals for a play in Toronto . . . because he had fallen head over heels in love with M. “Send Portia, Mother. You know she loves to travel, and Dad adores her, also—”

  “Not possible,” Pandora interrupted. “Portia can’t leave little Desi. The child has measles. She’s been rather sick, actually. I thought that you could go, stay with your father for a week or two, give him some moral support. Cyrano de Bergerac is a tough play, Larry. You’re not working, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.
At least not this week. I’m sick, remember? Anyway, you know very well I don’t have a job. But honestly, I don’t think I can travel yet, Ma. I’m still a bit wobbly. Besides which, I wouldn’t go near anybody, most especially Dad, or any other actor about to go into a play, until I’m absolutely positive I’m completely better. Totally germ free. Doctor Doom I don’t want to be.”

  “I understand that, and you’re quite right. But surely by the end of this week you’ll be much better. You’ve always managed to throw off illness very quickly, my darling. You take after me in that. We have great stamina, you and I, the best in the family, actually. Also, you do happen to be the nearest to Toronto.”

  “What about Edward? He’s in Los Angeles. Why can’t he go, Ma?”

  “Because he’s not in L.A. He’s here in London, and he can’t leave for another week. Horatio is on tour in Australia, in case you’ve forgotten, and Thomas has a broken ankle and is hobbling around, groaning and moaning like an old man.”

  “He is an old man,” Larry shot back, grinning to himself, knowing his mother would refrain from making a comment. To say Thomas was an old man was a sore point with her because it aged her. Larry now said, “What about Miranda?”

  “My God, Larry, are you insane? I wouldn’t wish her on your father, that in itself would make him ill. You know he can’t stand her.”

  Larry burst out laughing. He always enjoyed his mother’s forthrightness. She was honest about everyone, her children in particular. And she always said what she thought to a person’s face. Suddenly he began to cough and reached for the water. After gulping some down, he asked, “What exactly is it that’s alarming you about Dad so much, Mum?”

  “I can’t really pinpoint it, to be truthful, but there’s something in his voice that seriously disturbs me. I have a feeling he’s a bit trepidatious about this play. But then who wouldn’t be? And let us not forget that, even though he doesn’t look it, your father is seventy.”

  For a moment Larry remained silent, then said, “Rostand’s Cyrano is a big piece of theater, Ma, you know that as much as I do, and it can be bloody intimidating—” He stopped, sighing under his breath. “It’s a hell of a role to take on, even for a much younger man. Maybe he should just get out of the play—”

  “Get out of the play! Are you losing your wits? He signed a contract, Larry, he can’t just walk away explaining that he’s suddenly afraid of the part.”

  “That’s what it is, isn’t it, Mother? And you know it, and so you’re afraid. For him. If that is the case, he should just quit.”

  “He can’t, and he won’t, you’re aware of that. Look, it would help him if you were with him for a couple of weeks. I know it would.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. He doesn’t feel the same way about me anymore. Five years ago he called me the black sheep of the family and added that I was no son of his. Do you think I’ve ever forgotten his words?”

  “No, I’m sure you haven’t, but you’re not remembering his words exactly. Actually, what he said was this: ‘You’re no son of mine if you continue on this downward spiral.’ You’ve conveniently obliterated the last part of his sentence. That has been your problem for a long time.”

  “Well, he’s never retracted his statement that I’m the black sheep of the family. And he should have. He owes me that. I’m a reformed man.”

  “Larry, with your father, actions speak louder than words, volumes louder. He just gave you the apartment where you are sitting at this very moment. Have you forgotten that you paid relatively nothing for it, and he would have willingly given it to you without an exchange of money, except that your siblings might have objected. Your father loves you, Larry, and he’s proud of you. Not only as an actor but as a man. He knows you kicked that habit of yours, that awful dependence on prescription drugs . . .” Pandora cleared her throat, and lowered her voice. “You have, haven’t you?”

  “You know it, and I do have the flu right now, Ma. I took nonprescription drugs to get rid of it, and I’m not doped up. Okay?”

  “Yes, all right, don’t lose your temper. There’s another thing I want to explain. Your father gave you that apartment because he knows you prefer living in New York, and he wanted you to have a proper home, a place of your own. He does care about you, has your interests at heart.”

  Larry was startled by these words, and he didn’t answer for a second, a number of questions spinning around in his fertile brain. But finally he let the questions go, aware his mother was truthful, especially about his father. “I’ll make a deal with you, Mum,” he said at last.

  “What sort of deal?” Pandora asked, sounding suddenly wary.

  Catching the intonation in her voice, he said, “It won’t break the bank, Ma, so don’t sound so cautious and worried.”

  “I’m neither,” she protested. “Why would I not trust you? You’re my son, and very much like me.”

  “I know, I know! And more than the others, you’re going to say. So here’s the deal. Today’s Tuesday. I should be back on my feet by Thursday or Friday, and I can fly to Toronto on Saturday. I’ll stay with Dad for two weeks, but no longer. After that Edward has to take over.”

  His mother was silent, weighing his words. Larry could hear her thinking everything out at the other end of the transatlantic line.

  At last she spoke. “It’s a deal, Larry. I will explain everything to Edward, and I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  Larry thought: You bet he’ll agree, the little bastard. He’ll salivate at the idea of jumping into my place so he can stick the knife in, bad-mouth me and the others, but especially me, to the old man. To his mother he explained he would check in with her on a daily basis once he was in Toronto, and then he gave voice to the one thought that was troubling him. “What shall I do if I think he’s genuinely afraid of doing the play, Mum? Your worries might well prove to be correct. That’s my dilemma.”

  “I don’t know. Let’s not travel down that particular country lane yet, my darling. I do trust your judgment. And I want you to know that I do have faith in you . . . about the other thing, Larry.”

  “I’ve been clean for five years, Mother of mine. I’d never break a promise to you. So let’s get down to details, make our plans.”

  Larry sat staring at the phone after saying good-bye to his mother, pondering their conversation. He loved his father and he wanted to be with him, to help him through his problems. If there were any. . . . There must be; his mother was instinctive about Nicholas Vaughan, knew him better than anyone in the world. It was important to Larry that he was back in his father’s good graces, and he wanted to stay there, to prove also that he was reliable.

  But now there was M in his life, thank God, and he didn’t want to be away from her. She had become essential to his well-being over the last few weeks. He must take her with him. Yes, that was the solution. But would she go if he asked her? He wasn’t sure. But he would invite her.

  And what about Edward, his bête noire? Larry had no wish to spend a prolonged length of time with him. He wouldn’t have to, would he? When Edward arrived in Toronto, Larry would simply leave. That was the deal, wasn’t it? Although there was a sort of truce between them these days, this did not mean that Edward had reformed. His brother was as two-faced now as he’d always been.

  Larry had long been convinced that it was actually Edward who had planted the idea that he was the black sheep of the family in their father’s head. Never mind. He would prove to his father once and for all that he was his old self, and to hell with Edward.

  Thousands of miles away in London, Pandora Gallen Vaughan sat at her desk in the small study of the family’s Mayfair house. Her elegant hand still rested on the phone, and her mind remained focused on her favorite son. No, favorite child. That was the truth; he was, and he always had been, although she had striven to hide this from her other children. Larry was the one who was the most like her in character; facially he resembled his father, and of all the children Laurence was the only one who had inherited
Nicholas’s astonishing blue eyes and classical profile. Where the dark hair and height had come from she wasn’t sure. Certainly not her blond, Nordic-like family from the north of England. Probably from Great-grandfather Cornelius Vaughan, the magnificent Edwardian actor with an Irish mother, who had been the favorite of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. Cornelius, in his heyday, had been described as tall, dark, and handsome.

  Their children were all good-looking, but it was Larry who was the most handsome, and who had the most talent. That was why some of the others were excessively jealous of him. Funny, though, Larry was the least impressed with himself, his looks and his abilities. He thought the others were much better than he. How wrong he was in that; he was the real thing, the genuine star amongst his siblings.

  Now Pandora’s thoughts focused on Edward. Suddenly she wasn’t sure that she wanted him in such close proximity to Larry. Somehow he always proved toxic for his younger brother. Perhaps it would be wiser not to broach the subject to Edward. Maybe Portia could be pressed into service in a few weeks. Surely little Desdemona would have recovered from the measles by then. Did Portia cosset her daughter too much?

  Edward might well create problems for Larry . . . Pandora’s agile mind raced, endeavoring to envision what mischief he might get up to. Edward was here in London to work out another mess with yet another woman. He’d had three wives and three “live-ins,” as he called them, and there were endless children on both sides of the Pond. Oh, God, how would he sort this mess out? Only with her help, naturally, and her money. And although she totally disapproved of his behavior in general, she would have to help him in order to protect the family from more scandal. She did love Edward, as she loved every one of her children, in different ways and varying degrees. However, this did not mean she turned a blind eye to some of Edward’s less commendable characteristics. It suddenly struck her, on reflection, that it was Edward who was more like the black sheep of the family than Larry. How she regretted that Nick had said that about him. Larry had not forgotten it. But he didn’t bear a grudge, did he?