Judith Krantz (38 page)

“Mrs. M.,” Crumpet’s worried voice said, “are you all right?”

“No, Crumpet. Would you be?”

“We’re in an unenviable position, aren’t we, Mrs. M.?”

“Please, Crumpet, I’m thinking,” Valerie said absently, while she watched Mrs. Rosemont in animated conference with three assistants in the next room. It was a
fait accompli
that her man’s playroom was going to be the hit of the show, both from the point of view of the public and the publicity. The media were fascinated by Lady Georgina. It was a new idea for a show house, and with unlimited funds and assistance there was no way she could go wrong. But, to look on the bright side, if Mrs. Rosemont could somehow be persuaded to give up the electric trains, the contrast of a grown man’s fantasy and the twin girls’ ballet fantasy might, just possibly, complement each other, since they both had a childlike element, and yet were so different.

Valerie got up and walked rapidly into the next room.

“Lady Georgina, I’m Valerie Malvern.” Valerie extended her hand, smiling.

“Well, Mrs. Malvern, how very nice. I understand we’re to be neighbors.”

“Yes, we are. And, like all neighbors, we’re facing a tiny problem. I do hope we can solve it.”

“I hope so too.” Valerie studied Georgina Rosemont, her heart falling. This was a really secure woman. All the top New York wives were tall, and added the highest of heels to make them look even taller, even though they towered over their husbands in their bare feet. All the top New York wives were as thin as women could get without perishing of hunger.
All the top New York wives wore expensive, magnificently tailored designer suits in the daytime, and had a hairdresser who came to the house every morning to ensure that they were always perfectly coiffed in case a photographer happened by.

Georgina Rosemont was petite and wore sensible, low-heeled, highly polished walking shoes. She was gently and delicately rounded, from her rosy, smiling face to her shapely calves, and looked happily well nourished. She wore a well-cut tweed skirt, neither too long nor too short, a gray cashmere sweater, and no jewelry but pearls at her ears. Her auburn hair was parted on the side and fell simply to her shoulders in a way that betrayed nothing but a good brushing. If you ignored her astonishing beauty, so great that she used almost no makeup, she looked just like a sensible citizeness of … Philadelphia. Damn the Brits! When they did it right, they were superlative.

“Lady Georgina—”

“Oh, please, just Georgina. And I’ll call you Valerie, shall I? So much simpler.”

“Georgina, the electric trains—”

“You’ve heard already? I must admit, I am totally enthralled by it. The idea came to me in the middle of the night, my very own brainstorm. When I thought of the trains, I knew immediately that it was perfection. Jimmy, my husband, used to have a passion for electric trains when he was a poor boy and his parents couldn’t afford them, but somehow I hadn’t thought that a grown man would adore to have the trains he wasn’t given as a child.”

“It’s a marvelous idea, I do agree,” Valerie said hastily, “but I’m afraid that you’ll, well, to put it bluntly, wipe out my room with the sight and sound of your trains.”

“Oh, Valerie, surely not! As I understand it, we’re all supposed to do whatever fits into our spaces and just let the public be entertained by it. I’m sure that whatever you have in mind will stand up beautifully to the background of my sweet trains.”

“I’m planning a room for ten-year-old twin girls,
with a ballet theme,” Valerie said, smiling with as much conviction as the earl’s daughter.

“You see, I knew it! Your twins would love to be ballerinas, and my man would love to have been an engineer. It goes awfully well. Our two rooms will bring out the buried child in men and women. Why, Valerie, it’s not a problem at all.”

“But the noise—”

“Think of it as background music. In fact, why don’t you have something from
Swan Lake
playing in your room so that no one will notice the sounds of the trains? Oh, but you’re so clever, why should I be giving you suggestions? I know you’ll find the perfect solution. I have to be on my way, but I’ll be back tomorrow at about this time. Will I see you then? Yes? Splendid. Till tomorrow, then.”

Valerie Malvern watched the retreating form of Lady Georgina Rosemont. There’ll always be an England, she thought sourly. But for every one of her ancestors who had refused to sign the Declaration of Independence, there had been at least two who’d fought in the Revolution. That battle wasn’t over yet. It had not even been joined.

Fernie had her uses, Valerie had conceded long ago, and helping with the show-house problem might be one of them. Fern’s daughter, Heidi, had gone through an acute attack of balletomania that had lasted almost four years before she grew out of it. Surely she would have some suggestions for the show house, or even an idea of something entirely different to do that would trump Georgina’s ace. Sometimes, oddly enough, scatterbrained Fern came up with an original idea that she, Valerie, might have overlooked. She telephoned her sister and asked her to meet her at the house the next day.

“You have to do something with
this
?” Fernanda said in dismay as she looked around the room, seeing the walls on which paper hung in tatters, and the ugly, chipped radiators under the windows.

“Don’t concentrate on the wrong thing, darling.
It’s always a mess until we get started. I’d visualized it perfectly—very Old Vienna, two dear little gilt four-posters draped in great poofs of the kind of tulle they use for tutus, masses and masses of tulle at the windows, sheet music scattered on a stenciled and lacquered floor around a marvelous old harpsichord—pianos are madly fashionable again, even if you don’t play, so a harpsichord would be even better—and wreaths of dried flowers in shadow-box frames on the walls—romantic and girlish and fairy tale-ish. But that Englishwoman, who should have stayed where she came from and wowed the competition in her own backyard, is going to ruin
everything
with her electric trains. A delicate room like mine will fade out entirely.”

“What if you had huge racks made and put them in front of those double doors and hung all the girls’ clothes on them as if they didn’t have closets?” Fernanda suggested. “You could create a sound barrier if you hung school clothes, dress-up clothes and all their ballet stuff, toe shoes, leg warmers, costumes, just massed in.”

“I thought of that. It’s a good idea, but not good enough.”

“Why not do the room you thought of for Casey Nelson, and add a mechanical bucking bronco like the one in that movie with Debra Winger and John Travolta—remember, it was about a bar in Texas?”

“It’s a possibility,” Valerie said. “But I’d need two mechanical broncos, one in front of each door, and that would be painfully obvious. Broncos don’t make sense without people on them. No, it’s loud and distracting, but it doesn’t work either.”

“Isn’t that Lady Georgina?” Fernanda asked, nodding in the direction of a woman who had just walked into the next room.

“Yes. I think that’s her husband with her.”

“The famous Mr. Rosemont?” Fernanda asked thoughtfully.

“Why famous? Just because of his corporate raiding
or greenmailing or whatever they call it now? Surely that’s nothing at all these days, if you keep out of jail. He just does it better than the others.”

“Val, you amaze me. That man is famous for his love affairs. Even you should know that. Apparently he’s the heir to the Aly Khan’s ability to keep it up for hours and hours … something to do with mind control. Eastern religion—mysticism—”

“Darling, do you think you could keep your mind on
my
problems for a minute?” Really, Valerie thought, in the midst of this catastrophe, could Fernanda find nothing better to do than to meditate on the eternal subject of her pelvic region?

“Fernie, where are you going?” she cried in alarm, as her sister started resolutely in the direction of the other room, her dark green lizard cowboy boots clicking on the bare floor, her blond hair tossed about defiantly, her body flamboyantly encased in a burgundy suede jacket and tight trousers, lavishly trimmed in silver. Fernanda didn’t stop to answer.

“Hi,” she said, walking up to the Rosemonts. “I’m Valerie Malvern’s little sister, Fernanda. Val, poor dear, is too shy and reserved for her own good, which is what comes of being from Philadelphia, so she didn’t want to say anything about your trains, but I just know that you’d simply never, ever do something that wasn’t sporting, would you? Even inadvertently.”

Fernanda turned from one to the other, her face alight with vivid, urchin conviction. She was a compelling mixture of girlishness, coquettishness, worldly wisdom and rascalry. “I do love your idea, Lady Georgina, it’s so much fun, but let’s face it, a whopping monster set of trains next to
any
room, not just my poor sister’s, wouldn’t be considered quite—well, quite playing the game. It’s going to sound as if a street carnival is going on in here, all that hooting and tooting and whistling and stopping and starting and general clanging around. It would be the
greatest
thing at a private party, Lady Georgina, but I’m afraid you
might find that there will be a lot of carping from the other decorators—the trains will have an impact on every room on this floor.”

“Oh dear,” Georgina Rosemont said, blushing. “I hadn’t really thought of that—but perhaps you’re right. I don’t know …”

“I think—it’s Fernanda Kilkullen, isn’t it?—is right, as a matter of fact,” Jimmy Rosemont said. “I thought you might be getting a little too ambitious, pet, but I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”

“Well, I’ll just do without the trains, then,” Georgina decided, looking plaintively at Fernanda. “Oh well, so much for brainstorms in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, you are a perfect darling!” Fernanda exclaimed. “I knew you’d understand, once I’d explained it to you.”

“Your father’s Mike Kilkullen, isn’t he?” Jimmy Rosemont asked.

“Yes, he is. How’d you know?”

“We sailed our yacht up the coast of California last summer, and when we passed your father’s property I asked what it was—you could see Portola Peak all the way out to sea for over a hundred miles. It was a most beautiful sight. I was amazed to learn it was part of one huge ranch that was still privately owned. Did you grow up there?”

“Yes indeed.”

“That must have been marvelous,” Georgina Rosemont said.

“Oh, it was …” Fernanda replied automatically, as she took a rapid inventory of Jimmy Rosemont. His reputation as a cocksman was obviously not going to be explained by his exterior, she thought. He must be at least forty-five, perhaps older, fairly short and a little too plump in spite of his well-tailored suit. Still, he was a most attractive man if you liked the devilish look. He had devilishly pointed eyebrows over devilishly lively black eyes and a devilishly lubricious mouth in a foxy, clever, alert face. If you were
any kind of a hound, you’d chase him on sight. If you were any kind of a woman, you’d lie down and spread your legs.

Valerie joined the group.

“Val, Lady Georgina isn’t going to have the trains after all,” Fernanda said. “And this is Mr. Rosemont. He’s seen the ranch from the ocean, and knows who Father is.”

“Should I apologize for my sister?” Valerie asked, hiding her relief. “I can’t imagine what she’s been saying to you.”

“Nothing that didn’t need saying,” Georgina Rosemont replied. “I do hope I didn’t worry you with my mad train idea.”

“Well … yes, a bit. But I’d never have said more than I did yesterday. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Of course not. Tell my husband what you’re planning—it’s a lovely idea, Jimmy.”

“Listen, why don’t we all go have lunch together?” Jimmy Rosemont proposed. “I’m starving, and I can only listen to decorating talk for so long before I get antsy. You two ladies can go at it to your heart’s content, and I’ll talk to Fernanda about life at the ranch.”

He shooed Valerie and his wife in front of him and stopped Fernanda from following them. “I understand your father has about sixty thousand acres,” he said, as Valerie and Lady Georgina walked toward the door.

“Uhmm, more or less.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Fascinating,” Fernanda agreed. Jimmy Rosemont had taken her by the arm in such a way that he had brushed her ass with the heel of his hand for the briefest of instants. There was no possibility that the contact could have been inadvertent, but also no way in which it could have seemed deliberate except to someone who wanted it to be. Fernanda leaned her body into his side just a trifle more than was necessary,
and looked him straight in his rakish eyes. A smile of impure temptation formed on her pouting lips at what she saw there.

“I thought you were starving,” Fernanda purred, and released his arm slowly. “Shall we join the ladies?” she suggested.

“May I call you for lunch someday? I’d love to hear more about growing up on the ranch.”

“What a good idea,” Fernanda agreed, and hurried after her sister, her boots clicking a tattoo of savage anticipation on the uncarpeted floors.

J
azz leaned back in her favorite chair at the ranch, a worn leather armchair that had somehow escaped being re-covered in seventy-five years, and surveyed the three people gathered around the great fireplace in the living room, where one of the first fires of the California winter blazed.

There was her father, looking fifteen years younger than he had at the Fiesta only a few months earlier. Maybe it was because his new tweed sport jacket of subtle shades of dark gray, in an inadvertent trick of contrast, caused his thick white hair, cut in an even shorter crewcut than usual, to look almost blond. Maybe it was because the winter rains had started heavily, with much more rain predicted, so that Mike could begin to relax about the eternal water problem; maybe it was the notoriously flattering firelight; maybe it was just that he was glad to see his darling daughter safely back from the Land of the Rising Sun; maybe—and there was always that possibility—maybe he was feeling the benefits of passing over certain daily responsibilities that he had hoped for when he made
Casey Nelson Cow Boss. Whatever it was, Jazz decided, it was real, not just something in the flickering orange light, and she found herself puzzled, for her father looked not just younger but, in some subtle way,
different
.