Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [37]
He could have tried to win Jenny Haven. He had more than enough to offer. Women found him attractive, they enjoyed his lovemaking and his hard body, they liked his reputation as the rough backlands guy who had made good, and of course they enjoyed the power of his money. But then Jenny had been in the middle of an affair with the Hollywood producer, the timing hadn’t been right, and anyway he had still been afraid of destroying the illusion.
Sadly, he pressed the button that closed the curtains, shutting out New York’s glittering starry night.
Tomorrow or the next day they would bury Jenny, and he, Fitz McBain, who had always been in love with her, would see that it was done properly. He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone again.
“At least that’s over,” said India, curled up on the big black sofa in the summerhouse.
“And at least they didn’t say it was suicide.” Venetia’s voice sounded relieved.
“And now there’s the funeral.” Paris couldn’t bear the silence that followed her words, and she walked across to the hi-fi, putting on an album at random. It was Ciccolini playing Erik Satie, and the cool, isolated notes of the piano floated across the room. She lay back against the cushions, staring at the silvery motes of dust caught in a beam of sunlight from the window. October was warm in Hollywood, thank God—Jenny would have hated to be buried in the cold and the rain.
“None of us has suitable clothes,” said India at last. “We can’t possibly go to a funeral like this—and how can we go shopping? Imagine what the press would say about that.”
Despite the private guards, cameramen still cruised the road outside the house, poking their long lenses through the gates, snapping anyone or anything that left. So far none had penetrated the grounds and their privacy, deterred no doubt by the two German shepherd dogs patrolling the wall. But what kept the press out, kept them in, trapped by Jenny’s fame and the public’s curiosity.
Paris picked up the phone. “I’ll ask Ronson what to do. He seems to know everything.”
He answered at once. “Oh, Mr. Ronson. It will be necessary for my sisters and I to have some suitable clothes for the … funeral. Obviously, we cannot go out, and I wonder if it would be possible to have a store send round some things on approval? Oh. Oh, I see. But what about the sizes? Really? Yes. Yes, that’s very kind. Thank you, Mr. Ronson.”
Paris sank back into the cushions. “Apparently we don’t have to worry about it,” she said in an awed voice. “Mr. McBain called an hour ago with instructions about everything. He’s been in touch with Jenny’s agent, Bill Kaufmann, and her lawyer, Stanley Reubin, about the funeral arrangements. He even discussed the pallbearers with Bill and has called each one personally to ask if they would accept that honor.” Just in case, she thought cynically, they might have wanted to refuse. Mr. McBain was a man who left nothing to chance. “The funeral is to be at St. Columba’s in Beverly Hills and he’s taken care of the seating arrangements and the ushers. He’s even selected a plaque to be erected at Forest Lawn—with our approval, of course, but Ronson says it’s perfectly plain—just her name and the dates. McBain has thought of it all. Even our clothes. I. Magnin are sending round a selection of suitable things for us