Garden of Lies (53 page)

award her an A.

And when she received her paper back, marked C-, oh, how devastated she’d been! Professor

Hughes had scribbled across the bottom: “Your arguments, though carefully researched, would

stand little chance of convincing a jury.”

All that night, driven by fury, she’d attacked the floors of her apartment with mop and vacuum,

and cleaned out every closet, every cupboard and drawer. By morning the place shone, and she

was exhausted. But she had an idea, a way that might make Hughes reconsider her grade.

She’d gone to him the next day with her proposal: If she staged a mock trial here in class, and

could win over the “jury,” would he reevaluate her paper?

Hughes had stared at her so long, and so hard, his eyes the blue of case-hardened steel, that

Rose had felt her boldness shrivel.

Then he had smiled, a hairline fissure in the stony implacability [320] of his face. “You may be

very foolish, Miss Santini,” he said. “But you have nerve. I admire nerve. All right then, you have

a bargain.”

The day of the trial, she had been almost paralyzed with nervousness. But sheer force of will—

the will to prove herself, to Brian, to the world, that she was
somebody,
damn it—had forced her

in front of the auditorium, and all those people.

At first she had had trouble making herself heard by those in the back rows, then, like a storm

gathering strength, she grew less timid, forgetting her nervousness as she was caught up by the

gale force of her convictions. Western Securities, she argued, could not be held accountable for

an escrow account fraud scheme its president, now dead, had masterminded—and benefited from

—all on his own. There had been no “intentional misconduct”; therefore Rule 10-b of the

Securities and Exchange Act was invalid.

One by one, she saw the bored, cynical expressions of the jurors drop away, replaced first by

curiosity, and gradually, genuine interest.

When, at the end, the jury returned with a verdict in her favor, the entire auditorium had surged

to their feet and cheered her.

Afterward, glowing, she had gone to Hughes. Now he would give her an A, no question. But

on her paper, the C- had been changed only to a B-. “I still don’t agree with you, or the jury,” he

had written, “but I applaud your mettle.” At first she’d felt crushed, cheated, then she realized—

yes, she really had won. She had succeeded in bending the formidable Hughes, and the B had put

her over the top. She would graduate summa cum laude, top ten percent of her class. And more

importantly, she knew now that in life she could accomplish anything, however frightening or

risky, anything at all she set her mind to.

But didn’t she owe a good part of her success to Max, as well? Without him to bolster and

coach her, without his badgering, scolding, cheering, she probably could never have made it.

She turned to him now—
oh my dear, loyal friend
—and forced a bright smile, feeling the old

anger at Brian drain away.

“You look, as the British would say, very dashing,” she said. He was wearing a black dinner

jacket with a black satin collar and a maroon cummerbund in the peacock design he’d bought at

Liberty’s. She had never seen him look so handsome, elegant even, his rumpled brown hair neatly

combed, his eyes the blue of Wedgwood [321] china sparkling in a face ruddy with firelight.

“You remind me of Nick Charles.”

Max laughed, rising from the sofa. Three long strides and he was beside her, fastening the top

hook of her dress in back, fingers warm against her neck, causing her scalp to tingle, making her

feel deliciously taken care of. Darling Max. The most wonderful friend in the world.

A little slip-up, that was all—him kissing her in the taxi yesterday. Both of them, in their

excitement over the settlement, forgetting for an instant who they each were.

Yes
, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered,
but that’s not what you thought then, was

it? When he was kissing you, you felt ... well, you enjoyed it, didn’t you? And you were sure he

meant it. ...

And seeing him tonight, how distinguished he looked, and, yes—
admit it, why don’t you?
—

downright sexy, she felt that same flicker, and wondered,
How would he kiss me in bed?

Rose caught herself, feeling ashamed and disturbed. What an idiot she was! Max was probably

just as embarrassed by that kiss in the taxi as she had been. And what if he
had
wanted to make

love to her? He was married, so it would be just a fling. And afterwards they would feel

uncomfortable around each another, unsure where they stood. No, she treasured Max far too

much to let that happen.

“You’re too young to remember
The Thin Man
,” Rose heard Max’s voice against her ear, light

and bemused, blowing her confused thoughts away like so much dandelion fluff. “Besides,

where’s the mystery?”

“I have one for you. Maybe you can tell me why, if both of us put our shoes outside our doors

last night, only yours came back polished?”

“Elementary, my dear. The Brits may tolerate a woman on the throne, but to polish her shoes

would be going too far.”

“I have an answer to that.” Smiling, Rose bent down, wrenched off one of the high-heeled

pumps she’d polished herself, and angled it as hard as she could across the room at the heavy

brass-handled door.

It landed dead center with a satisfying thump, and she immediately felt better. Not only about

the party, but about everything.

She turned to Max with a triumphant look. “Shall we go then?”

[322] He offered her his arm, still smiling, blue eyes dancing. “Delighted, Cinderella.”

Leaning on Max, Rose hobbled over to retrieve her shoe, wondering how on earth Cinderella

had managed on the run going down stairs and wearing one glass slipper.

Because anything is possible in fairy tales ... even Happily Ever After. ...

At the door, Max helped her on with her new raincoat. As she flicked the lights out, she

glanced out the bay window that curved between heavy tapestry drapes. Old-fashioned street

lamps wreathed in fairy rings of mist. The faint yellow glimmers of barge lights drifting up the

Thames. She imagined she heard the clopping of hooves, the creak of carriage wheels. A magic

coach come to spirit her off into the night.

And suddenly Rose felt happy, happier than she’d felt in years. This
was
a fairy tale. London ...

a beautiful-people party ... this dress. Something out of another time. A place where it was safe to

dream.

The cabdriver had a time locating Rupert Everest’s house. The townhouses on Cheyne Walk

stood well back from King’s Road, and in the dark, the leafy branches of huge old trees obscured

their grimy facades, making the numbers nearly impossible to read.

Rose peered at her watch, barely making out the faintly glowing numerals. Late. Nearly an

hour! Well, maybe it wouldn’t matter what she was wearing after all. By the time they got there

the party might be over.

Max, as usual, remained unruffled. Rose felt his hand on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be such a crush, Rupert won’t notice. He’s promoting some new author—an

American, I think—and he’s probably invited the whole BBC, every gossip columnist on Fleet

Street, and some rock stars for local color. He always does. When Jonathon was doing his

publicity stint, Rupert rented the Aldwych Theatre, and held the party right up there on stage.” He

winked. “Even invited Devon Clarke.”

The squeal of brakes, a sudden lurch throwing both of them almost out of their seats, and then

the cabbie was cranking to a stop at the curb by a pair of tall harp-shaped wrought-iron gates.

[323] “This ’ere oughta be it,” he announced grudgingly.

Rose, emerging from the cab, peered up into the mist-blurred darkness, and saw a pair of

winged cherubs, one perched atop each gatepost, so delicately wrought they appeared on the

verge of flight.

She stepped through a pair of high carved doors into a marble-floored vestibule the size of a

studio apartment, flanked by twin arched alcoves filled with roses, dozens and dozens of them

bursting from enormous urns, their effect dazzling, all crimson on one wall, pure white on the

other. She felt moist, a bit suffocated by the heavy, perfumed air. Through the double glass doors

that opened onto the hallway, she saw a wide staircase curving upward, and heard the hum of

mingled voices drifting down from above.

Their coats dissolved into the arms of a maid straight out of a thirties movie, black uniform,

ruffled organza apron and cap. Then a small elegant man in a plum-colored smoking jacket

materialized from the top of the staircase, descending to greet them.

Max tightened his hand on her elbow, and whispered, “He’s a little eccentric. Charming,

though.”

“
Wonderful
to see you ... I’m thrilled you could make it,” their host gushed. Rose thought,

amused,
He doesn’t have the slightest idea who we are.
But the effusiveness of his greeting made

up for the lapse of memory. Now Rupert’s gaze swept over Rose’s dress, and he clasped his

hands—tiny and wrinkled like an infant’s—in front of his chest, as if in prayer. “You look

luscious, my dear. Wherever did you find that dress? No, don’t tell. I’m terrible at keeping

secrets, and every woman at this party will want to know. Let’s go upstairs, shall we? I want you

to meet our guest of honor.”

“A famous writer, didn’t you say?” Max managed to get in.

Rupert leaned close, so close Rose could see the faintest line of kohl around each of his jade-

green eyes. “His first novel actually, but I daresay he will become famous rather quickly. Quite a

coup for me, too. In fact, a little birdie whispered in my ear that someone at the
Times
will be

writing him up as the literary find of the decade. Sort of Hemingwayesque, you see, the man

actually was shooting at people in Vietnam. The title is some sort of military jargon, I believe,

Double Eagle.
Perhaps you’ve already read it?”

Rose felt her heart stop, as if a fist had closed around it, and a terrible coldness begin to spread

slowly down from her collarbone.

Brian’s
book, oh God, oh yes ...

[324] She remembered the shock of seeing it on display in the Doubleday bookstore on Fifth

Avenue. She had picked it up and stared at the glossy dust-jacket photograph of the man she had

loved so dearly, for so long, feeling as if she had been struck clean through her center.

Rose wanted to scream, to grab this little raspberry of a man by the shoulders, and shake that

silly grin off his face.
You don’t know him, you don’t know anything about me either, so how

dare you mix in our lives like this?

Then abruptly her anger was gone, and this house, everything around her, suddenly turned

gray, flat and gray and far away. She felt immensely tired, her head floating miles above a body

thick and useless as a stump.

Please, God,
Rose thought,
I can’t go through it again ... don’t let this be happening. ...

“Rose?” A sharp voice broke through the buzzing static in her ears. “Rose ... are you all right?”

Max,
she thought, clinging to that voice as if to a lifeline.
Thank God for Max.

The gray shifted, and Rose found herself looking at Max, seeing a man built like an ex-

prizefighter, going gray and a little soft around the edges, but oh, so wonderfully
there,
a man you

could count on, always.

“I’m fine,” she heard herself say, cool as ice water. “Just tired. Jet lag. I guess it caught up with

me all at once.”

“Why don’t you have a little lie-down, my dear?” Their host, too, was being kind and

solicitous. “There are plenty of bedrooms upstairs where you won’t be disturbed ... quite frankly,

you
do
look a bit Madame Tussaud.”

“I’m fine,” Rose repeated, more firmly. “Really.”

Then she caught sight of herself in the long ebony and chrome Art Deco mirror at the bottom

of the stairs, and sucked in her breath. God, she
did
look pale.

Then, as if in a dream, Rose was climbing the stairs, no, more like
floating,
because oddly her

feet didn’t seem attached to her body.

She found herself smiling and nodding graciously to the elegantly dressed people she passed.

Here I am, and isn’t it fanny, because I’m not really here, I’m just pretending to be.

[325] Then an enormous room at the top, a sweep of dazzling white ceiling and white walls,

startling shapes and colors springing out at her—crimson dragons writhing on a black lacquered

Chinese cabinet, a huge Mondrian canvas of yellow and red squares, mirrors that were reflection

upon reflection, whole galaxies of tuxedoed men and sequined ladies streaming off into infinity.

And suddenly there he was, standing by the vast window that stretched ceiling to floor, his

back to her, lean and slightly stooped, his face—the face that had haunted her sleep night after

night—shimmering ghostlike in the darkened glass, and nothing else, no one else existed.

Brian ...