Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [89]
Olympe had meant to call Paris, she really had, but as it turned out there had been so little time. When she got home the flowers were waiting, masses of early jasmine and spring blossoms from the south. And the note from Bendor. He had taken a villa in Barbados and planned to fly out a group of friends that night on a chartered jet. Without her it would be meaningless. Would she come?
It was a good feeling knowing she had so much power over him, thought Olympe, throwing resort wear into her battered Vuitton bag. All she’d done was suggest Julie’s—and he’d taken the bait. He’d recognized that the two of them alone was a “no go” area and had arranged this discreet house party as a bribe. And it was fair enough, she thought, zipping up the bag on the few clothes it contained—they were all she’d need, because she could always buy anything else she wanted there. This was her chance to find out if Bendor’s intentions toward her were strictly honorable—or not. She hoped they were.
13
Myra Kaufmann was giving one of her Sunday-morning brunches and she was annoyed because the day had turned cloudy with a chill wind blowing. She hoped the men would be able to get in their tennis game before it rained.
The big round table in the dining room was arranged with platters of roast beef, salami, Jarlsberg cheese and cream cheese, lox, smoked sturgeon, bagels, bialys, and rye bread. Bill was fixing the champagne and orange juice—mimosas he called them—and the urn was perking with good strong coffee. On the sideboard keeping hot were scrambled eggs with lox, and buttermilk pancakes with a giant jug of maple syrup.
Enough cholesterol to kill the lot, she thought, assessing the average age and fitness of her guests. Imagine her, Myra Kaufmann, singlehandedly wiping out half the industry with her Sunday brunch—producers, heads of studios, lawyers, fellow agents; no writers or directors, though: Bill couldn’t stand “creative” people on Sunday mornings, said he had enough of them all week!
Jessie Reubin came in with Stan—the front door was open to indicate “open house” and the wind was whipping through the hall; she’d have to close it, maybe just leave it open a crack, so people didn’t have to ring.
“Hi, Jess, how are you?”
They pecked each other on the cheek. Jessie was a thin woman, very “into” smart clothes. She probably starved poor Stan at home and that’s why he always ate so much here. They all did, including Bill. It was probably the one time their wives let them forget the diet and their own forebodings about being left alone and widowed and destined, like horses to pasture, for Palm Springs or Palm Beach.
“I’m great, Myra. Stan’s taking me over to Paris next month. We usually go about this time of the year. He likes to eat and I like to shop, it’s a mutually satisfying vacation. The others never are. You know, Myra, I like to sit by a pool somewhere in the sun—not my own pool, of course—but Stan hates that. He gets all restless and twitchy, says he can’t even get a good card game in those resort hotels.”
“I know just what you mean,” agreed Myra, handing her a mimosa. “I like the Mauna Kea or the Kahala myself. Hawaii’s always nice.”
Jessie sighed. “Maybe you and I should go and leave those two to fend for themselves for a while. Don’t you think it would do them good?”
Myra laughed, imagining Bill trying to cope on his own.
“No chance,” she said. “I’d be gone ten days and he’d have gained ten pounds. If I don’t watch him like a hawk he’ll be sitting in front of the TV set, drinking beer, eating peanuts and popcorn, and smoking two packs. You should watch Stan, too, Jessie, he’s gaining. Have you tried the Stillman?”
Stan piled his plate with salami and cheese, adding a little potato salad and a spoonful of hot mustard for good measure, listening to what Bill was saying.
“So I figure that all in all it’s best to keep the kid happy—we both know what happens when stars get irritated,