Hide & Seek - James Patterson [23]
Will watched his brother leave. He refilled his snifter with brandy and drank it in a gulp. “But who is there to find?” he whispered. “Who could there possibly be to really love me?”
CHAPTER 22
FACE THE MUSIC, Maggie. It's time to get to Will, to really talk about Will, to get it out once and for all. This is what everybody came to hear.
People ask, especially reporters, how I could have fallen in love with Will? I always want to say—you would have too, in a millisecond. Don't kid yourself. That wasn't the way it happened though—not for me.
But Will could be extremely charming. You have no idea! And I was extremely needy. I wanted to be loved more than anything else. I'd always wanted that. Doesn't everybody? Don't you?
It happened like this, more or less anyway. This is the truth, and nothing but, so help me.
I began my first European tour in London. It was tense, wild, but quite wonderful. The best of times. Jennie and I stayed at Claridge's. We went to the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and saw The Mousetrap, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben. We were fantastic tourists together, and best friends. The two of us never shut up.
I was to give two concerts in London. And I was the honored guest at a costume ball in Mayfair, admission £1000, all receipts given to the fight against children's cancer.
The night of the charity party, I made a “grand entrance” into the living room of our hotel suite.
“Mom, no! You're not going out in public like that!” Jennie said, and made a face as though she'd just had a sip of warm stout.
I held a gold lamé vizard, a costume ball mask, up to my eyes. I peered into the mirror and then doubled over with laughter. Jennie was right on. I was straining the seams of my stiff antique ball gown, and my breasts were exposed farther than I'd imagined. Sheesh.
“Of course I'm going out like this. I think it's perfect. So would Barbara Cartland.”
“Who's Barbara Cartland? Your fancy dressmaker? The costume designer for Dracula?”
“You don't know who Barbara Cartland is? Well, that proves you don't know anything about masquerades. You don't get a vote on this.”
Jennie rolled her eyes. She buried both hands in her long hair. “But who are you supposed to be? Don't,leave me in such terrible suspense.”
“A queen in the court of Louis the Fourteenth. Who else?”
Jennie giggled. She dropped down to the thick carpet and rolled over a few times.
“You look more like a stripper. Sorry. Sorry. Just kidding, Mom.”
“You better be.”
Anyway, what difference did it make how I looked? It was all a dream, wasn't it? None of this could possibly be real. It was too good, and I was way too happy.
CHAPTER 23
THIS WAS SO not-me. That's why it was perfect. The grand ball was held in the home of Lord Trevelyan, a four-storied Georgian mansion lit for the evening by enormous searchlights placed on the roofs of the opposite buildings.
When my car arrived, so did the black cab of a boisterous group impersonating the Bloomsbury literary crowd. They were dressed in knickers, suffragette blouses, and long puffed skirts, carrying dusty books and baskets of cut flowers. Jennie would have approved.
I went inside with the Bloomsbury characters to find at least two hundred guests, all outfitted in an array of costumes from all centuries and walks of life, sipping champagne (a glass was quickly served me) and chatting the night away.
Soon a trumpet sounded and the guests grew silent. Down the steps leading to the main foyer in which most of us were gathered came—Queen Elizabeth I! Her crown of rubies and sapphires glistened in the light; her dress, festooned with a thousand pearls, was as regal as its wearer. This is a dream, right? A neat dream though.
The “Queen” was, of course, Lady Trevelyan, our hostess. “Supper is served,” a butler announced, and we entered a magnificent dining room. We feasted on salmon, salads, cheeses, fresh fruits, and petit fours. After an hour or so, Lady Trevelyan rose and nodded to two footmen. The doors were swung open to the grand