Lace II

  “Yes, she was. Or she had been. I saw her eyes.”

  “I simply haven’t got time to rerun this scene today. I promise you, there’s nothing personal between us.” Curtis rose from the damask-covered breakfast table, gave his wife a quick, impersonal kiss on the forehead and left, late for his meeting.

  Once her husband had left, Debra Halifax went up to her pink bedroom where, leaning over the hand basin painted with apple blossoms, she stuck two fingers down her throat and vomited up her breakfast. To disguise the telltale odor of her stomach juices on her breath, she swilled eau de cologne around her mouth, then spat it out; the repellent taste was a punishment for having eaten two pieces of toast at breakfast. No wonder Curtis no longer loved her, she thought as she pinched her thigh, I’m fat, I’m self-indulgent, I’ve got no self-control.

  Every time Debra looked up at her reflection in the mirror she really believed that she saw a lumpish, frowsy, fat woman, instead of a small skeletal figure. She panted through her morning session on the exercise bicycle, dragging her body through the Rocky Mountain program twice, then worked out with weights to punish what she believed were her too-plump thighs and well-cushioned stomach.

  Afterward, aimlessly, Debra wandered through the quiet house. A lot of her day was passed in an uncoordinated mental state, in which she was never fully aware of the time, of where she was, or what she was doing. She flicked through magazines, read a few sentences and left them. She picked up a piece of petit point which had lain on her worktable uncompleted for several months, sewed a few stitches and abandoned it. She watered a handsome Clivia plant, which the gardener watered each week in any case. Debra’s luxuriant house plants often died because of their owner’s erratic attentions.

  For the fourth time that morning, she picked up the telephone to call Jane, but the effort of talking was too much for her. Besides, Jane only liked being with her because Jane had no money. Perhaps Jane had her eye on Curtis. That would make sense from Jane’s point of view. But Jane was a Catholic and she was married with two children. Always running through Debra’s head, like the sound of a distant river, was the idea that Curtis was unfaithful to her with some woman. By midday, when the maid brought her lunch on a tray, Debra had formed the image of a faceless seductress who was stealing her husband away from her. By the middle of the afternoon, when the shadow of the magnolia tree was lengthening across the lawn outside, she hated this anonymous woman with murderous ferocity.

  It was too hot in the garden. Debra drifted into the library and sat in her husband’s chair behind the green leathertopped partner’s desk. She imagined Curtis on the telephone to his faceless mistress, while she, Debra, slept innocently upstairs. She imagined her husband whispering hot words of love and saw his features soften with affection and sensuality, as she remembered them during the first few weeks of their marriage. By the end of the afternoon, the vision of her husband’s infidelity was far more real to Debra than any real experience she had encountered that day.

  One by one, she opened the drawers of the desk and rifled through the papers she found in them. There must be love letters, but where were they? Sure enough, the small top drawer was locked. Debra scattered the pens from the pen tray, found the silver paperknife and forced the little lock.

  Inside the drawer were some black and white photographs of a small girl, a pile of press clippings, and a curl of dark hair tied with a white ribbon. Debra’s claw-thin hand pulled out a few recent clippings and turned them over. “Lili to star as Mistinguett,” she read. So Curtis was fooling around with an actress. Debra shivered with rage. You may be young, beautiful, and famous, Lili, but let’s see if money can hurt you.

  * * *

  The Spear flashed by, unmistakably black among the white, green, and orange bodywork of the other competitors at Brand’s Hatch. Inside the hot cockpit, Gregg sat in a pool of sweat; a driver could lose over five pounds in a long race. Ahead of Gregg, a white BMW went into Stirling’s Bend too fast, lost adhesion, ploughed straight on to hit the bend hard and, as Gregg passed it, burst into flames.

  Gregg suppressed the vision of his own body enveloped in flame, as the Spear streaked past the grandstand for the fifth time. He listened to the high-pitched whine of the engine as he dropped two gears to set the car up for Druid’s, the hairpin bend. Coming out of the bend, he saw the Dinetti-Mazda not far ahead. He’s in trouble, I’ll pass him on the Cooper Straight, Gregg thought.

  By the end of the first hour of the thousand-kilometer race, Gregg was lying seventh, but the gaps were small and that meant nothing at this stage; a bit of bad luck could knock you right out of the race in a second.

  He rounded Stirling’s bend, and accelerated away down to Clearways. He projected his mind ahead to Clark Curve, which always looked deceptively gentle, but which demanded extra concentration for a car with the power of the Spear. Gregg was now close enough to take the Aston Martin Nimrod on the top straight. He blinked sweat from his eyes as, three cars ahead of him, the green-and-white Jaguar shed a rear wheel with no warning, swerved into the barrier, then shot backwards onto the track amid a shower of sparks.

  The Porsche behind it pulled out fast; the two cars touched but the Porsche managed to straighten up and hurtle on. The Nimrod driver miscalculated the Jaguar’s continuing path across the track, and crashed into the spinning Jaguar. The two cars twisted together with a sickening crunch of metal, then the force of the impact hurled them both off the track, two seconds before Gregg would have hit them.

  Now bathed in cold sweat, Gregg’s legs involuntarily shook, and it took a fierce effort to turn his mind to the road ahead and away from the burning destruction behind him—of which he had so nearly been a part. Suddenly Gregg felt a thread of pain shoot up his left leg and his foot jumped on to the clutch. Must be that ankle. Thank God he got off the throttle in time. He’d hand over at the next pit stop.

  * * *

  Four hours later, Gregg was lying close behind the leading Porsche, a position that, for the previous twenty-seven laps, he had grimly clung to, but had been unable to improve. Then the gap between the Spear and the car ahead began slowly to close, as Gregg, sandwiched between two Porsches, crept closer to the lead car, and they braked for Paddock Bend.

  Just ahead, Gregg calculated, a group of slower cars were bunched together. Gregg decided to make an immediate bid for the lead on the inside of Druid’s, beyond which they would catch two of the slower cars. On Hailwood Hill, he pulled out and left his braking to the last moment. The Spear shot past the Porsche as they entered the corner.

  Gregg held the tight inside line, but slid out wide on the exit. The Porsche stayed behind, this was no place to retake. Then Gregg was weaving between the back markers in front of the South Bank stands, aware of a crescendo of spectator cheering as he roared past with sixteen laps to go.

  His ankle ached but the pain was easily bearable. It was really just a bloody nuisance. Inside the noisy cockpit, Gregg could not hear the mounting excitement of the PA commentator. “…and with three laps to go, it looks as if Gregg Eagleton in the Eagle Spear is increasing the lead over the Porsche.…”

  As he hurtled into Dingle Dell Corner for the hundred and fiftieth time that day, Gregg struggled to keep his eyes on the track. The pain in his left leg was increasing. Suddenly, his sight became misty and he thought, dear God, stop me blacking out before the race is over.

  The turbo-charged engine belched flames as Gregg missed a gear before the grandstands. Suddenly, each movement of his injured foot produced an excruciating wrench of agony. He heard the voice from the Eagle pit over the radio link that was built into his helmet. “Stick with it, Gregg, you’re well in the lead now.”

  “How much lead have I got?” Gregg’s stomach was beginning to churn with pain.

  “Fourteen seconds.”

  No chance of pulling into the pit and handing over to his co-driver for the last few laps. Nothing for it, he was in this race to the end.

  The next time he l
eft Paddock Bend, Gregg again fumbled the gear change. His injured foot was now so swollen that he could barely move it.

  “Porsche is creeping up, Gregg,” the voice warned in his ear.

  The Spear flew on.

  As he pushed the Spear out of Hawthorn Bend, his left foot had only just enough pressure for the clutch pedal, and Gregg felt vomit in his mouth. For a moment, he lost his concentration.

  Passing the Aston Martin Nimrod, the Spear swerved frighteningly close to the other car, and got off line.

  The Porsche slipped through at Dingle Dell.

  Through a rising mist of pain, Gregg registered the delighted howl of the crowd, then the Eagle flag, to signify the last lap, was flourished at the side of the track.

  Another mouthful of bile and Gregg lost concentration for another fatal second. The radio voice registered no emotion. “Stephenson in the BMW is creeping up as well. Will the foot hold out?”

  “Yes.” Gregg’s voice cracked with the effort of controlling the pain in his body. For the last time, and in a maze of pain, he took the car around the tree-lined circuit; he could feel an internal grating pain in his ankle at every movement. He barely noticed the BMW pass him.

  “Yes, the Spear is definitely in trouble. This is going to be a great disappointment to the Eagle team,” gabbled the commentator as they turned into the Brabham Straight. “And, as the flag drops, it’s first place to Werner Hentzen in the Porsche, announced the PA, “followed by Stephenson in the BMW and Eagleton just manages to scrape third place in the Spear from Dinetti with … and something is happening to the Spear!…”

  From the viewing area above the pits, Lili saw Gregg flash past in third place, then the Spear lost speed dangerously fast and began to weave toward the side of the track. The drivers crossing the line swerved to avoid the black Spear. One did not.

  Lili screamed in terror as the white and orange Lancia obliquely hit the back of the Spear. Both cars spun off the track and the Spear slammed into a barrier. Ignoring Jack’s shout of warning, Lili set off, running behind the pit area toward the twisted wreckage of the Spear, from which a column of smoke was now billowing upward.

  “Get back, get back, you stupid bitch—she could blow at any second.” A paramedic picked Lili up and half-threw her behind the barrier.

  The other paramedic yanked open the door of the Spear and pulled out Gregg’s inert body. Within minutes, the medical helicopter, with Gregg aboard, lifted toward Sidcup and St. Mary’s Hospital.

  The PA blared, “Eagleton is definitely injured…”

  * * *

  “A stress fracture in these bones, that’s the cause of the trouble.” The doctor waved his pen over the X-ray plate. “As your first accident was several weeks ago, and the injury wasn’t diagnosed at the time, I’m afraid it’s possible that the associated swelling and distortion may have affected the other joints.”

  “So how long before I can drive again?” Gregg’s face was bleached and strained.

  “Difficult to say. We’ll give you painkillers of course and a series of injections to reduce the swelling, but healing the fracture itself is something that we can’t do much about. Only time will put it right.”

  “But how much time? I’ve got to race in France again in three weeks.”

  “The best advice I can give you is to forget all about racing for at least two months.” The doctor slipped the X-ray back in the buff file. “Complete bed rest for a minimum of six weeks, and no hard exercise of any kind until you are one hundred percent fit. With this kind of injury, nature must take its course.”

  After the doctor had left, Gregg began to work through his letters with his secretary until Jack arrived with a detailed report on the Spear’s condition. “She’s looking good, Gregg—the fuel pump was as clean as a whistle this time. What about you? Shall we get Pete to stand by for Richard?”

  Lili waited patiently at the end of the line of visitors. Then, as she bent to kiss Gregg, a young blond nurse popped her head around the door to say, “Time’s up for today, everyone. Doctor’s orders. Mr. Eagleton has to rest!”

  As the others moved toward the door, Lili said sadly, “I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you, Gregg.”

  “Sorry, darling, but I’m trying to run my business from a hospital bed. I’ve got to see Jack, my secretary, the sponsors, and Dad as well as you, and I’m only allowed visitors for an hour a day. I know you haven’t seen much of me since you met me, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. You’ve met the team, Lili, and you know what my responsibilities are.”

  Lili looked down and sighed as Gregg said, “I’m not in business on my own, darling. Everyone in Eagle Motors depends on me and I depend on them. I have to meet a pretty large payroll every month, to feed families. There are men in the Eagle team working for me, for my father, and for the idea of a British privateer outfit in salon racing, who put in twenty-four-hour days on their vacations. I can’t let them down, Lili.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to his side. “I can’t do what I want, or go where I want when I please, or step into that car at less than my best. It would be unfair and irresponsible. You’ve got to understand that the business comes first in my life, and I can’t let anything divert me from it, not even you, darling.”

  Silently, Lili bent and kissed him. “I can wait.”

  * * *

  Debra Halifax leaned back against white broderie-anglaise pillows and aimlessly turned the newspaper pages until she reached Liz Smith’s column. Suddenly an item caught her attention and she read it aloud. “Lili to star in charity benefit.…” Debra looked up, instantly alive, and said softly, “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”

  11

  Early July 1979

  THE PINK-HYDRANGEA wallpaper matched the heavy, chintz curtains, which were swagged back by tasseled gold ropes. A maple-framed portrait of Lord Byron hung above Pagan’s desk. The back of the high satinwood desk was lined with tiny drawers and cupboards; silver-framed photographs, small bowls of potpourri, an antique silver calendar, jostled for space with a pile of letters that were weighed down by her long-dead grandfather’s lucky hare’s foot. It looked like a Royal desk, the sort of desk upon which there was no space to work.

  “Any other business?” Pagan looked around her drawing room at the eleven other members of the fund-raising committee that was planning Lili’s Gala for the Anglo-American Cancer Research Institute. They had discussed the rehearsal costs and the extra time demanded by the stagehands’ union for working on Sunday; they had approved the program design and the seating arrangements for the Royal Box. Pagan had joyfully announced that the theater was sold out, and now her chewed yellow pencil was poised above the last item on the agenda.

  “One final matter.” The organizing secretary passed her a letter on the blue writing paper of the Grosvenor House Hotel. “Someone has offered to give a pretheater party for us.”

  “How very thoughtful. Who is it?”

  “Another anonymous benefactor, Lady Swann.”

  Pagan skimmed the letter quickly, “A champagne reception for two thousand guests! That’s wonderful news.”

  “Someone must think a lot of the Foundation.”

  “Or of Christopher,” said Pagan, momentarily sad.

  “Or of Lili?” the wife of the chainstore millionaire suggested. “Perhaps it’s one of her admirers?”

  “He must have a bob or two, to lay on champagne for two thousand people,” said the gray-haired merchant banker, who was smoking a cigar.

  “We’ll send the invitation out with the tickets.” Pagan leafed through her file.

  “But is there time to print invitations?” The Scottish Duchess looked anxious.

  “Yes,” said the secretary. “I’ve already checked with the printers.”

  Pagan, notorious for the tight financial control with which she organized her fund raising events, flipped through her file. “Have we got the check?”

  “The Grosvenor House Hotel has been paid direct,
by banker’s draft.”

  “How very thoughtful,” Pagan said. She stood up and opened a window, because she hated a room to smell of cigar smoke and it took at least two weeks to get rid of the smell. She walked back and leaned against the rather ugly black marble fireplace, which was covered by a jumble of blue chinoiserie plates, a ginger jar, a Regency biscuit box, and a small blue-enamel clock with a diamanté-encircled face, that had been given to her grandmother by Queen Alexandra.

  Pagan smiled at her committee. “I’m sorry we’ve run a little over time, today, but this unexpectedly generous offer had to be discussed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash or I’ll miss my flight to Venice.”

  * * *

  The wind whipped at Pagan’s hair as the high-powered speedboat raced across the lagoon toward Venice. In the distance, she could see the gray domes of the Cathedral, the ornate bell tower in St. Mark’s Square, the candy-striped mooring poles sticking at crazy angles out of the water, and clouds of pigeons fluttering in the hazy blue sky.

  Abdullah’s private jet had flown them to Marco Polo airport, and they were now heading for the Cipriani Hotel. In the launch behind them traveled Abdullah’s four bodyguards and a great deal of luggage, most of which belonged to Abdullah.

  Pagan looked at the enticing city rising straight out of the water. She was excited. “Oh, Abdi, it’s so beautiful. It’s floating in the sea like a shimmering, gold mirage!”

  “Don’t expect too much romance,” Abdullah warned her. “A lot of people loathe Venice.”

  “Why, for Heaven’s sake?”

  “The smells, the crowds, the claustrophobia and that dreadful, vulgar glassware.”

  Pagan laughed. “In that case,” she said, “I won’t expect any golden gondolas!”

  “The golden gondolas only come out once a year, for the gondoliers’ festival races.”

  * * *

  The battered, green crocodile suitcase, that had once belonged to Pagan’s grandmother, was deposited on the pale-coral carpet of the suite. The walls looked hand painted with an airy green forest, which blended with the green sofas and the green and silver Fortuny curtains. Pagan rushed through glass doors that led onto a terrace lined with miniature cyprus trees; it overlooked the orange trees that surrounded the hotel swimming pool, and beyond that, the entire panorama of Venice.