Within weeks of Chloe's death, men in three-piece suits had begun to appear at the door with legal documents and greedy eyes. First Chloe's jewelry had disappeared, then the Aston Martin and the paintings. Finally the house itself had been sold. That had settled the last of the debts, but it had left Francesca with only a few hundred pounds, most of which was gone now, and temporarily lodged at the home of Cissy Kavendish, one of Chloe's oldest friends. Unfortunately, Francesca and Cissy had never gotten along all that well, and since the beginning of September, Cissy had made it clear that she wanted Francesca to move out. Francesca wasn't certain how much longer she could hold her off with vague promises.
She forced herself to laugh at Talmedge Butler's joke and tried to find comfort in the idea that being without money was a bore, but merely a temporary situation. She caught sight of Nicholas across the room in his navy Gieves and Hawkes blazer and knife-pleated gray trousers. If she married him, she could have all the money she would ever possibly need, but she had only seriously entertained the idea
for the absolute briefest of moments one afternoon a few weeks ago after she'd received a telephone call from a perfectly odious man who had threatened her with all sorts of unpleasant things if she didn't make a payment on her credit cards. No, Nicholas Gwynwyck wasn't a solution to her problems. She despised women who were so desperate, so unsure of themselves, that they married for money. She was only twenty-one. Her future was too special, too bright with promise, to ruin because of a temporary upset. Something would happen soon. All she had to do was wait.
"… 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 Delta Blood hardly sounded like a major American film. "It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm afraid I'm not an actress."
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."