Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [137]
Venetia’s flight was called first and Paris was left alone in a crowded Naples air terminal. She was going to miss India’s company and the gentle days at the palazzo, but work beckoned like a challenge. And Jenny would have expected her to accept the challenge—and win. Paris squared her shoulders. She walked toward the gate where her flight was boarding. Okay. She’d give it another try.
21
It had been a long day. The set of Chelsea’s Game had been crowded with visitors, and that always bothered him. It was tough enough to get through the day, remembering everything, looking good and doing your best, thought Rory irritably, without a bunch of visiting bankers or accountants, or whoever they were, getting the VIP treatment with him thrown in as the cabaret.
“You tired?” asked Bob, sitting with him in the back of the limo, driving back from the studio to Rory’s place.
“Beat.” Rory closed his eyes.
He looked it. Without the makeup his face looked puffy and slack. Bob had spent the day on the set with Rory and had been amazed by how much time was spent waiting around. There was always something that needed adjusting, or a new setup to be arranged, and then they just shot the disjointed bits and pieces of scenes, or did close-ups, repeating the lines they’d just said in the long shot … and yet each week they churned out another episode of Chelsea’s Game! It was not, decided Bob, a business that would suit him. And he was getting very restless playing at being Rory Grant’s “hanger-on”. He hoped Fitz McBain would understand what he was going through and be suitably rewarding afterward, and not just with money. He wanted a leg up to the next level in the corporation.
“Okay, Rory, we’re here.”
The driver leapt out to open the door. “G’night Mr. Grant. See you tomorrow.”
“G’night.”
Rory fiddled with his keys, found the right one, and let them in. The house was hot from the day’s scorching sun.
“Aw, shit!” he grumbled, switching on the air-conditioning.
“You should have a housekeeper,” said Bob, going to the refrigerator and getting out a bottle of Mondavi Chablis. “Here, have a glass of this.”
Rory looked at it in disgust. “I’d rather have a beer. … I know, I know, it’s a million calories and I shouldn’t. Fuck you, Jenny Haven,” he called to the empty house. “You got me on this calorie kick and I can’t goddamn stop.” He looked at Bob. “If I have a beer,” he complained, “I’ll gain two pounds and tomorrow those goddamn tight jeans won’t fit and my belly’ll hang over the top.”
“You’re exaggerating, Rory,” soothed Bob. “Have the beer—one won’t do you any harm.”
Rory pushed his hands into his pockets and slouched moodily to the window, staring at the glossy cruisers and speedboats bobbing at their moorings.
Bob watched him silently. He’d never seen him down like this before; he was nervous and tense as well as tired.
Rory turned from the window and headed for the stairs.
“What’s happening?” called Bob. “We gonna eat, or what?”
“Wait there,” called Rory. “I’ll be with you in a bit. I’ll just take a shower.”
Bob waited. He flipped through the pages of Esquire, and then Playboy. He poured himself another glass of the Chablis. He stared out over the darkening sea. What was going on? He’d been an hour.
“Hey, Rory, you all right?” he called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Sure.” Rory appeared on the landing. “Why shouldn’t I be?” His grin was wide and his step jaunty as he ran down the stairs. He was more “up” than Bob had ever seen him. “I see you’re admiring the Playmate of the Month. Tell you what, Bob, we’ll go around to the Mansion—there’s always something going on there. We can shoot some pool, dance a little—those pictures don’t lie, you know, they really look like that.”
“I thought you were wiped out.”
“I was. But I’m not anymore.” Rory laughed. “Just a little extra boost, man, no sweat. I’m okay. Come on, then, let’s go.”
“What about work? You have to be up at five-thirty.”
“I’ll be okay.