‘Hope had it,’ said Romily. ‘It must have been in her pocket when she was run over.’
Evelyn swallowed. ‘Let’s go into the drawing room and I’ll pour us all a very large drink.’
ChapterForty-Four
La Vista, Palm Springs
November 1962
Red
‘Red, I’m not going to beat about the bush; you look like hell.’
‘Gee, thanks, little sis. Did you make a special trip to come and insult me?’
Patsy smiled. ‘Chuck and I were in Bel Air last night for a charity gala dinner and ran into Gabe and Melvyn.’
So that was why she was here. Red might have guessed. ‘I bet they were singing my praises,’ he said.
‘And some.’ Patsy gave him a meaningful glance, which he chose to disregard. Except his sister, apower-house of outspoken frankness, was hard to ignore. Her speciality was showing up when he least expected it to make a nuisance of herself.
One minute he’d been sitting out here in the shade of the verandah bashing away at his typewriter, and the next, a localised tornado hit town in the form of hisflame-haired sister. Twelve years his junior, she always managed to make him feel about a hundred and ten. From the age of eighteen Patsy had been a determined socialite. She had dated not one but two of the Kennedy brothers, and had been proposed to numerous times, including by an Italian count. She had turned them all down and on hertwenty-seventh birthday married Chuck Seymour III, a decorated war hero and Ambassador to the United Nations. He was now a senator with designs on the highest office in the land. Their marriage had always been something of a mystery to Red. On the face of it they were polar opposites, but they were two of the happiest people he knew.
‘Orange juice?’ he said.
‘Thank you. And neat, please.’
From the jug on the table, he poured a glass of the freshly squeezed orange juice his maid, Conchita, had prepared for him. ‘I presume byneat, you mean without ice,’ he said.
‘What else could I possibly mean?’ she replied archly, while taking the glass and peering at him over the top of her sunglasses.
‘What else indeed?’ he muttered, wishing he could splash a large measure of vodka into his own drink.
‘I had wondered if you might show your handsome mug at the gala dinner last night,’ she said.
‘Patsy, you know I have no interest in showing my handsome mug at events like that.’
‘But now,’ she said, as though he hadn’t spoken, ‘I can see why you didn’t go, you’d have been turned away as a hobo. Lost your razor, have you?’
‘My dearest little sister,’ he said, giving his stubbly chin a rub, ‘oh how I love your jesting ways.’
‘I know you do, which is why I’m here to cheer you up and put some pep back into your humdrum life.’
‘Who says I need cheering up? And what the devil do you mean by my “humdrum” life?’
She lowered her sunglasses and gave him the benefit of one of her most scrutinising stares. ‘When was the last time you went out and had fun?’
Her question brought him up short. It was too reminiscent of the charge he’d made against Romily.
‘I’ve been out every night this week,’ he lied.
‘I’m not talking about propping up a bar and bringing some young blonde piece back to your bed and then sleeping off a hangover. That’s not proper fun. That’s just shallow distraction.’
He forced a grin to his face and lied again. ‘It was fun to me.’
She gave him a pitying look. ‘Oh, Red, you’re so much better than that.’
‘No, I’m not. You’ve always overestimated my competence. That’s your trouble, Patsy, you want everyone to be as smart and as content as you.’
