“I think he’s still feeling a leetle bit embarrassed about becoming a grandpa,” Lucy simpered in a stage whisper to the hapless, cornered Christopher.
“Fuckin’ ’ell!” boomed Gary, from the other end of the table, staring unashamedly at his hostess’s breasts. “What does that make you, Caroline, a great-aunt? I wish I’d ’ad a great-aunt wot looked like that!” He cackled lasciviously before adding, to Lucy’s frank astonishment, “If your ’enrietta ’as any trouble with the old breast-feedin’, I’m sure Great-Aunt Caroline wouldn’t mind ’elpin’ aht! Eh, love?”
Catching each other’s eye, Caroline and Christopher dissolved into giggles, not so much at Ellis’s crude humor but at both her brothers’ outraged pomposity and furious red-faced mutterings of “Well, I never.”
“’Ow’s business?” Ellis had turned to Henry, apparently oblivious to the furor his earlier remark had caused. “I drove past your place the other day. Lovely bit o’ property.”
“Thank you,” said Henry, rather stiffly. From anyone else, the compliment to his beloved estate would have pleased him. But having seen some of Gary Ellis’s monstrosities firsthand, hearing him admire Manor Farm was rather like hearing a rapist compliment your wife’s legs. It made him very uneasy. “Business is booming, actually. We’ve just begun diversifying out of dairy for the first time and we’re quite excited about it.” He smiled across the table at his wife, who smiled back.
Muffy Arkell was very pretty in a ruddy-cheeked, no-makeup, tomboyish sort of way. Henry liked to boast that she looked just the same now as she did when he’d met her at sixteen. Looking at her kind, innocent face gazing back at her husband across the table, Caroline could well believe it. The pair of them were obviously still deeply in love.
Caroline knew she wasn’t the only one who had noticed how ravishing Muff was looking this evening, even underdressed as she was in a pair of gray cords that accentuated her long, slim legs and an arctic-green cashmere sweater that swamped her figure but brought out the intoxicating green of her eyes.
Christopher had long been an ardently chaste admirer of Mrs. Arkell’s charms, and had cast the odd longing glance in her direction throughout dinner, much to Caroline’s amusement. But Gary, who had none of her husband’s gentlemanly scruples, had been positively drooling over the poor girl all evening, pressing his leg against hers under the table when he’d thought no one was looking and taking every opportunity to paw her with his clammy hands when passing food or wine to his fellow guests. Henry seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t noticed.
It was quite clear from her embarrassed, flushed face that Muffy in no way welcomed his attentions, although she was far too polite to make a scene. Caroline began to wish that she’d listened to Christopher and not seated the two of them together.
Perhaps Gary Ellis wasn’t as harmless and amusing as she’d first thought? He’d been boorish, rude, and drunk for most of the evening. Not even the amusement factor of her brothers’ spluttering outrage had been enough to make up for the burden of his company.
Driving home a few hours later, Muffy was finally free to vent her frustration onto a now happily drunk Henry.
“Honestly, that man is really too much,” she said, grinding their ancient Land Rover into first as they chugged up the steep hill toward the village. “He made my flesh creep.” She shuddered at the memory of Ellis’s hot, eager hand lecherously squeezing her knee throughout dessert.
“I know,” said Henry, grimacing. “Just hearing him talk about Manor Farm—‘lovely bit o’ property’—made me want to wring his neck. Have you seen that leisure center he built in that gorgeous valley over in Lechlade? Too vile for words.”
“Bugger the farm,” said Muffy indignantly. “He was trying to feel me up for most of the night, the disgusting old goat.”
“He what?” spluttered Henry, flabbergasted. “I never saw anything. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Henreee! Honestly. How could you not have noticed? He was pestering me for hours. I think Caroline was mortified.”
“So she bloody should be,” he mumbled grumpily, angry at himself for having missed his chance to play the gallant hero. “Damn cheek of the man.”
He gazed moodily out of the window at the dim shadows of Batcombe Village, its picture-postcard loveliness illuminated by the pale silver of an almost full moon and the occasional bedroom light still on in one or two of the cottages. Henry never ceased to be amazed by the beauty of the Cotswolds.
“Well,” he muttered darkly, “he’s got about as much chance of scoring with you as he has of ever getting his grubby little hands on my farm, I can tell you that for nothing.”
Muffy rolled her eyes indulgently. She adored her husband. But sometimes she wondered if Henry actually loved that farm more than he loved her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“For heaven’s sake, child, cheer up. You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.”
Marsha and Siena were sitting in a chic little bistro, tucked away in a cobbled street just behind the Champs-Elysées. The weather was still vile, so they opted for a table inside, by the window. It was blowing an absolute gale outside, and big green leaves from the horse chestnuts swept and tumbled along the winding street, prematurely ripped from the trees before they’d had a chance to turn brown.
Maybe it was the weather that was bringing the girl down? Marsha could not think of any other explanation for Siena’s gloomy mood. Yesterday’s show had been an unmitigated triumph. From the second she had stepped out onto the catwalk, it was as if some supernatural confidence had possessed her, and she’d come alive. “Electrifying!” was how the fashion editor of Le Figaro had described her in this morning’s paper. She had even made it to page three of the Daily Mail back home, which had run a magnificent picture of the finale of the show, showing Siena being cheered on by the front row in a pair of lime-green hot pants and a latex dominatrix slashed top, under the headline: “MCMANIA!” What more could she possibly want?
Siena jabbed morosely at her croque monsieur with a fork and looked up at her agent. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to have a chance to speak with him. He didn’t even leave a card, you know? Nothing.”
With her face bare of makeup, except for a slick of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream on her lips and eyelids, and her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, Siena was unrecognizable from the glamorous, wanton creature in the Daily Mail picture. This morning she had opted for comfort clothes: an ancient pair of faded Levi’s tucked into sheepskin boots, with a chunky navy-blue sweater from the Gap. She looked about twelve.
Marsha sighed heavily. “You’re not still talking about that Silfen guy, are you?” she asked. “Sweetie, if he didn’t notice you, believe me, he’s the only person in that room who didn’t. Who cares if he doesn’t call? I already had four messages from the agency when I woke up this morning—the phone’s been ringing off the hook for you, Siena. Trust me, darling. You are about to become very rich, and very famous, very fast.”
Siena couldn’t help but cheer up slightly at the sound of the words “rich” and “famous” so close to her own name. “You really think so?” She picked up Marsha’s copy of the Mail and looked again at her picture and the caption. “I don’t know,” she said gloomily. “Look at that: ‘McMania.’ I think people are only interested because of my name. Because of my fucking father.”
Marsha took another sip of her café au lait. She had seen these sorts of parent problems before—the resentment, the tantrums, the insecurity—but it usually happened with much younger girls, the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who were leaving Mummy and Daddy for the first time. Siena was basically an adult. Her obsession with her parents—her apparent hatred of them—was baffling.
“Look, sweetie, we’ve talked about this, remember?” she said patiently. “Of course people are interested because of your name, your history. Why wouldn’t they be? That name is an asset, just like that face and thos
e tits.”
Siena glared at her across the table.
“Oh, come on,” Marsha insisted. “You know it is. But it doesn’t mean those people were cheering you on yesterday just because you’re Pete McMahon’s daughter.”
“No?” said Siena sulkily.
“No. They loved you because you’ve got a great look, and because you’ve got talent.”
“If I’ve got so much fucking talent, how come Jamie Silfen just headed straight home?” asked Siena.
“Christ, I don’t know.” Marsha was starting to get exasperated. She’d taken a huge chance in signing Siena, and quite frankly a little gratitude for her phenomenal, almost instant success might not have gone amiss. “Maybe he was actually there to see the clothes?” she suggested.
“Oh, please,” said Siena.
“Maybe he was tired. Maybe he had a bad day. Maybe you’re just not his type, who gives a shit?”
Siena pushed her untouched plate aside and lit up another cigarette. That was one good thing about France: There weren’t tobacco fascists lurking in every corner.
“Look,” said Marsha, already regretting losing her temper with the girl who was now, undoubtedly, one of her most bankable assets. “I know you don’t believe it now. But there is more to life than becoming an actress.”
“Not for me there isn’t,” said Siena matter-of-factly.
“Everybody loves to knock modeling,” continued Marsha. “They make out that all the girls are thick as shit. But the truth is, modeling can be a fantastic career. And for the girls who play their cards right—the really smart ones—it can even be a long career. Look at Cindy Crawford. If she’s not still making millions ten years from now”—she threw her arms open melodramatically—“then I’m Marilyn bloody Monroe.”
Siena laughed. “Actually, I think you’ll find that I’m the new Marilyn, darling!” she joked.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Marsha, waving at the waiter to bring them over the wine list. “Just do me a favor and try not to shag any presidents. Or their brothers.”
“Eeugh,” said Siena as an image of a naked Bill Clinton loomed into mental view. “No danger of that. I think I’ll stick to soccer players.”
“Ah!” Marsha’s beady little eyes lit up like Olympic torches. “The lovely Mario. So, go on, spill the beans. How was he?”
Siena stubbed out her cigarette and smiled wickedly. “Six out of ten,” she lied.
“No!” whispered Marsha like an overexcited schoolgirl. “Only six? Really? What was the problem?”
Siena picked up the enormous brown pepper grinder from the center of the table. “Let’s just say I could have had more fun with this.”
Marsha roared with laughter, a full-throated, raucous cackle. “You know what your problem is, sweetheart? You’re too damn spoiled.”
Siena grinned. “So I’ve been told. Maybe you and my father should get together sometime and compare notes.”
Back in her hotel room two hours later, Siena could hardly move for flowers and cards as she attempted to pack. A veritable busload of freebies had been arriving in a steady stream throughout the day: An Hermès scarf, more Chanel perfume than you could shake a stick at, even a sterling-silver pair of cuff links in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, now lay next to Siena’s own screwed-up clothes littered across the elegantly faded antique bedspread. If only Louis Vuitton had sent her a new suitcase to put it all in.
She was scrunching a gorgeous vintage Alaia skirt into a tight ball in a valiant effort to wedge it into her suitcase when she was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Yeah,” Siena grunted between shoves. “Come on in, it’s open.”
Another vast bouquet of lilies entered the room, followed by a sweating bellboy.
“Holy crap, not more?” said Siena, looking around frantically for somewhere he could put them. “Just lay them on the chair for now.” She pointed to an armchair already piled high with empty gift boxes and wet towels, and the bellboy gingerly set the flowers down and stood hovering for his tip.
“There’s a fifty-franc note on that shelf by the door,” said Siena, panting and tugging hopelessly at the zip on her suitcase. “You can take that if you like. I’m afraid I don’t have any more cash.”
Siena had always been a big tipper, a reaction to her father’s legendary meanness with money, and would have liked to have given the boy more.
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he said, apparently more than happy with the fifty. “I also ’ave two messages for you.” He held out two small white envelopes embossed with the hotel crest.
With a sigh, Siena abandoned her battle with the zipper and took the notes from him. “Thanks,” she said, catching her breath before strolling over to examine her flowers. “You can go now.”
The lilies smelled so divine, she wished she could take them with her back to London, but the arrangement was so huge it would need a whole seat to itself on the plane. “Thank you for the most wonderful night,” the card read. “Call me. Soon. Mario. P.S. By the way, we lost, so you owe me dinner next time. xx”
Siena smiled to herself. She shouldn’t have been so harsh about him to Marsha. He’d been a lot better than a six. Still, the last thing she needed right now was a serious boyfriend. She’d seen so many women put their lives and their dreams on hold over some guy, not least her own mother and grandmother, and she was not about to join their ranks. Mario would simply have to remain a happy memory.
She looked at her watch. Five-fifteen. She was supposed to meet Marsha in the lobby at six and then go straight to the airport. It seemed incredible that she had only been in Paris for three days. She felt like a different person. Mario, the show, meeting Ines, all the attention and the press—she’d had her first small taste of fame, and after so many years of waiting, it had come, quite literally, overnight.
Being overlooked by Jamie Silfen had been the only fly in her ointment. Marsha was right, though. In the grand scheme of things, how much did that really matter?
After yesterday’s success, there would be other shows, perhaps even international campaigns. Soon, Siena confidently predicted, she would become a household name, one of the girls her school friends and their little sisters all dreamed of becoming. That had always been her plan anyway—to make a name for herself as a model and then have the casting agents come to her. And she had to admit, despite the fact she wouldn’t trust her as far as she could throw her, Marsha had done an incredible job at catapulting her career into the fast lane, from a standing start.
Silfen could wait. Siena would have him eating out of her palm someday.
But underlying today’s elation had been the nagging realization that sometime very soon, her parents would get wind of yesterday’s events. She tried to convince herself that once they saw her overwhelmingly positive press, they might, if not change their minds, then at least soften their position and let her delay her place at Oxford for a year. She struggled to picture Pete looking at the Daily Mail picture and smiling admiringly at her triumph, but even she had to admit the image wasn’t really working.
He’d be mad at her, of course he would. Nothing new there.
She’d just have to call him when she got back to London and face the music. Still, she felt cautiously optimistic that somehow, perhaps with her mother’s help, she would get him to come around eventually. One thing was for sure: Nothing on God’s earth would persuade her to give up her modeling now.
Standing up, she moved over to the window and gazed out at the dirty Parisian skyline. Today was her last day in Paris, that magical city that had inspired generations of artists and lovers and that seemed, even now, to be looking out for her, protecting her and helping her to realize her long-cherished hopes and dreams. Pete’s wrath, his spite, and his mean-spiritedness could not touch her in Paris—she wouldn’t allow it.
Bending down, she picked up the two white envelopes that the bellboy had given her, and examined each carefully. Opening the f
irst one, she felt a brief stab of what might have been guilt. Janey Cash had called. She and Patrick both wanted to say well done and they couldn’t wait to see her when she got home.
England hardly qualified as home, thought Siena, although she was no longer certain herself just where home might be.
Darling Janey. She loved her dearly, but part of her wished that her old friend would get angry about the way she’d treated her brother, rather than just carrying on as if nothing had happened. And why was Pat being so fucking big about it? She’d dumped him without any explanation—how could she put into words how frightened she was of allowing herself to love anybody, ever? All Patrick knew was that she’d stopped taking his calls one day. Period. If anyone had treated her like that, she wouldn’t rest until she’d got good and even. “You can get mad,” Duke always used to tell her. “Just make sure you get even as well.”
The memory of her grandfather made her smile.
She scrumpled up the note, threw it into the huge pile of trash beside the chair, and ripped open the second envelope.
It was from her mother. Could Siena phone home immediately.
Fuck, fuck, and double fuck on a stick. How did they know where she was staying? In fact, how did they even know she was in Paris at all? She’d told them last week that she’d agreed not to make the trip, hoping to buy herself a little time before breaking the news that her absence from Oxford was to be permanent. How on earth could they have found out so soon?
She jumped up and started pacing the room like a cornered cat. What time was it in L.A.? She did a quick calculation: eight in the morning. There was no way they could have seen the papers yet. Not that the show would have made the American press, but her father was a news fiend and often ordered the English newspapers as well—although not the Daily Mail. Pete considered it far too lowbrow.
So how did they know? It simply didn’t make sense. Unless . . .