SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Lunch was announced by three strikes of a magnificent brass gong and served in the dining room. We all sat around the long table with Alice at the head, flanked by Desmond Norman and Maggie McBride. Oscar and I took up position down at the far end, where I found myself with Jack Sloane, the casting director, on my right and two empty seats to my left. Sloane dropped his considerable bulk into his seat with a grunt, and I distinctly heard the fine antique mahogany chair groan in protest. He retrieved yet another voluminous handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his forehead.
‘Finally, some air-con. God, it’s hot out there.’ He appeared to be addressing the empty seats opposite him, but I replied all the same.
‘I’m afraid Venice has a reputation for being hot in summer and freezing cold in winter.’
He glanced sideways at me. ‘Then why the hell didn’t Alice have her party in winter?’ He transferred his gaze to Oscar, who was sitting to attention alongside me, adopting his ‘faithful but starving’ look. His nose had already told him that there werebreadsticks on the table. ‘This your dog? You blind or something?’
As a conversation starter, it wouldn’t have won any prizes for tact, but I’d met enough rude characters in my time. ‘He’s a sniffer dog. I hope you haven’t got any drugs in your pocket.’
He shook his head irritably. ‘Drugs? Why the hell would I want drugs? I never felt the need.’ He wiped another wave of sweat off his forehead. ‘But that’s all they think of these days.’ He lowered his voice – a fraction – and shot a glance up the table towards where Lucy O’Connell was sitting, hopefully out of earshot. ‘I’ve seen enough of what drugs do to folk. Check out Lucy. When I first met her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but just look at her now. Drugs! What’s wrong with people?’
I was saved from having to reply to this deep philosophical conundrum by the arrival of the last two guests. It was easy to work out that these had to be Wilfred Baker and his girlfriend, Antoinette.
Alice greeted them with a wave.
‘Hi, Freddie, we were getting worried!’ She didn’t look particularly worried, and I noted that she didn’t include his partner in her greeting. ‘Come here and give me a kiss.’
I took a closer look at the famous film director as he headed for our host. I remembered reading that he was forty-three but if I hadn’t known, I don’t think I would have guessed. He wasn’t a tall man and he was wearing the clumpiest pair of trainers I’d ever seen in my life. Presumably, these golden monstrosities with unbelievably thick soles were the latest thing in the world of fashion, with the added advantage of giving him an extra couple of inches of height. Above these were skinny white jeans that finished mid-calf, and a blue and white striped shirt that gave him a vaguely nautical look. From the neck downwards, he couldhave been in his twenties. From the neck upwards, he could have been in his sixties. He had a straggly little Fu Manchu beard that was turning grey, and the rest of his face and the whole of his head had been shaved clean.
His girlfriend stayed down at my end of the table while he went up to greet Alice. I found myself wondering whether her decision not to go with him had been her own choice or whether she, like Maggie McBride’s toyboy, Rocco, knew her place and automatically occupied a secondary role. She caught my eye and I gave her a smile, but the hint of a smile she gave me in return was one of resignation. Somehow, I got the impression that being the guest of a world-famous film star on a gorgeous island in the historic Venetian lagoon didn’t appeal to her as much as I might have expected. Either that, or she wasn’t enjoying the company of her gold-shoe-clad boyfriend.
When it came to choosing the guests for her party, Alice appeared to have got things drastically wrong – or had she? Could it be that she had deliberately invited people who didn’t like her and, if so, why? Presumably, if they didn’t like her, she didn’t like them, so why should she have chosen to invite people she didn’t like? I glanced down at Oscar, who was still sitting to attention, trying to look as if he were in the latter stages of starvation, and reflected once again that, apart from him, hardly anybody around the table looked happy to be here. This really didn’t seem like the recipe for a happy weekend get-together.
Freddie leant towards Alice and the two of them air-kissed theatrically, missing each other by miles. I wasn’t close enough to be able to analyse their facial expressions, but there was something about the body language of both of them that told me that this apparently friendly reunion was anything but. When he and his girlfriend took their seats close to where I was, I gave him a welcoming smile but got nothing in return. He remained stony-faced and didn’t say a word – not even to his companion. Clearly, this was somebody else for whom this weekend didn’t look like being a bundle of laughs.
Lunch was excellent. Valentina and Gabriella moved around the table serving a selection of antipasti ranging from at least six different types of salami, homemade Russian salad and sliced tomatoes with basil and mozzarella, to mussels au gratin and fried soft-shell crabs. Diego followed on his wife’s heels offering a choice of an excellent Chardonnay from the north of the Veneto region, or a fifteen-year-old Barolo from Piedmont. I opted for a glass of the Chardonnay and made it last. I had no intention of getting plastered at lunchtime. Jack Sloane to my right, on the other hand, clearly thought differently and surprised Diego by asking for a glass of whiteanda glass of red so he could ‘try them’. By the time Diego had gone around the table once, Sloane had made up his mind – after emptying both glasses. He gave Diego a peremptory wave and delivered his verdict.
‘I’ll drink the red. You can leave the bottle.’
On the other side of me was Freddie Baker’s girlfriend, Antoinette Latour, and I introduced myself to her. Although Baker completely ignored me, she at least was prepared to talk. She told me – in excellent English – that they had driven here from Milan, and Freddie had rented a speedboat to get to the island – even though the local speed limit had restricted them to near walking speed. She told me that she was originally from Nice, so we chatted a little about the Riviera coast. I knew it from the Italian side, and it was interesting to hear just how similar the geography, customs and even traditional dishes were on either side of the border. Freddie Baker continued to say nothing to anybody, and I noticed that he didn’t touch either the fish or the wine, making do with just some breadsticks, a few slices of tomato, and a glass of mineral water. Antoinette, on the otherhand, tried all the different antipasti and accompanied them with a glass of Chardonnay.
I was fascinated – and somewhat taken aback – to see Jack Sloane get through the whole bottle of red in the course of his antipasti alone. Diego proved to be not only good at driving the launch, but also an attentive wine waiter and he had been watching. He materialised barely a minute later to open another bottle, replenish Sloane’s glass, and set the bottle down in front of him. Understandably, Sloane had been too occupied eating and drinking to do much talking, and it was only after the antipasti plates had been cleared away that he shot a few words across the table towards Freddie Baker – but it wasn’t light table talk.
‘What you working on now?’ He produced his napkin and gave his face and forehead another wipe. ‘Hopefully, something a damn sight better than that awful musical. Whatever possessed you to turn your hand to a musical, for God’s sake?’
I looked across at Freddie with interest, wondering how he was going to respond, but, to my surprise, he just laughed – at first. ‘Dancing and Singinghas grossed half a billion dollars in less than a year. Maybe it wasn’t so awful after all.’ His expression became more hostile. ‘I’ve heard people saying that you’ve lost your edge, Jack; you’re getting too old. I didn’t want to believe them, but maybe they were right after all. You’ve lost it. You can’t tell a blockbuster from a lame duck.’
I saw another couple of faces turn towards Freddie, and there was a sudden silence at our end of the table. Sloane dropped his napkin back onto his lap and gave Freddie a belligerent glare. ‘Beginner’s luck can’t compete with half a century of picking winners, Freddie. Your luck will change before long, while I’ll still be riding high.’
His right hand reached out for his wine glass and, for a moment, I wondered if he was going to throw the contents acrossthe table at the younger man but, instead, he raised it to his mouth and drained it. ‘I’ve seen countless pretty boys like you come and go. You wait, before long, you’ll be going round knocking on doors, begging for work.’
I felt a movement at my feet and saw Oscar looking up at me with a quizzical expression on his face. I don’t want to give the impression that he understands everything he hears, but he certainly registers mood remarkably accurately. I reached down and scratched his ears as I did my best to defuse what was turning into a volatile situation at this end of the table by changing the subject – slightly. I addressed myself to Freddie Baker.
‘Have you ever worked with Alice Graceland, Mr Baker?’
He carried on glaring at Sloane for a few more seconds before turning towards me. ‘No, I’ve never had that pleasure.’ His reply was terse, and I felt that his choice of vocabulary was deliberately insincere.
Before I could reply, Sloane stepped in. ‘Alice would never work with you, Freddie, and even if she wanted to, Louie would never allow it.’
Still trying to turn this into a normal conversation, I queried the name. ‘I’m sorry, Louie? Who’s Louie?’
Freddie Baker answered without taking his eyes off Sloane for a second. ‘Jack’s referring to Alice’s agent, Louis Leder. He’s another old man like Jack, soon to be on the junk heap like Jack.’
There was a sinister growl from the big man, possibly presaging a volcanic eruption, and it came as a welcome distraction at that moment to see Valentina arrive at our shoulders with a huge steaming dish of risotto. Silence fell once more as she served the rice and we all started eating. I’ve never been a great fan of rice – unless it’s buried beneath a liberal helping of curry – but this was excellent. I could taste mushrooms and maybesmoked ham, with more than a hint of truffles, and it was predictably delicious. As I ate, I reflected on the tetchy exchange between the two men, and this confirmed the feeling I had already begun to get that at least some of the guests not only were not that keen on our host, but were also not that keen on each other.
After an afternoon spent finishing off some work that Lina had sent me, I finally closed my laptop at five and took Oscar out for a little walk around the garden. I heard splashing and wandered over to the pool in the centre to find two people in the water. They couldn’t have been more different. One was Freddie Baker’s French girlfriend, Antoinette, and the other, to my considerable surprise, was Desmond Norman.
