Read Online Indiscretions by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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leave her alone? She hesitated by the bathroom door. The phone shrilled persistently, endlessly. Goddamn it, what was wrong with them? Paris walked slowly toward the telephone. She wouldn’t hurry, and then maybe by the time she reached it whoever it was would have given up and stopped ringing. The sound was so shrill. Her hand hovered over the phone. “Yes?” Her voice was small in the sudden silence of the big attic.
“Mademoiselle Paris Haven?”
“
Qui, c’est
Mademoiselle Haven.
Qui est à l’appareil?
”
“
Ne quittez pas, mademoiselle
. Los Angeles
vous demande
.”
ROME
The villa on the Via Appia Antica was vast and decorated, of course, in Fabrizio’s faultless style. But despite its perfection India always felt that it lacked charm. It wasn’t Fabrizio’s fault; he’d provided the backdrop. What was lacking was the human element, the female touches of memorabilia, family snapshots of laughing children taken at the beach, a special satin pillow that had always pleased, a child’s nursery school drawing tacked to the kitchen wall, a bunch of flowers bought for their perfume or their riotous, joyful color, not just because they would tone with the decor. Sometimes, thought India guiltily, one could almost wish for a few sticky fingerprints along the pristine surfaces. It was a showroom. Only this time it was Marisa’s showroom, not Fabrizio’s. Every objet d’art, every painting, every casually placed book, was expensive, in good taste, and guaranteed to be coveted by her guests.
Only the children’s rooms were real, and Fabrizio was responsible for that. Marisa had wanted elaborate murals depicting scenes from fairy stories, knights on white chargers and babes in the woods, but Fabrizio had drawn the line. White walls that the children were not only permitted, but encouraged, to paint on, as often as and whenever they liked. Scarlet tubular bunk beds and matching red-and-white cabinets. Vast cupboards for toys and baskets to catch all the oddments that end up on a nursery floor at the end of the day. Climbing frames, a basketball hoop, roller skates. The children, he’d stated firmly, would be normal kids. None of Marisa’s “precious” fantasies of perfection here. And five-year-old Giorgio and six-year-old Fabiola loved it.
“India. You’re dreaming again.” Marisa’s voice was silken and soft. “Are you enjoying yourself? You look a little tired.”
India sighed. When Marisa said you looked tired it meant you looked a mess. The dinner had been long and India had been placed at the last of the round tables, the one nearest the door, with three men who discussed the car industry through all seven courses and two women who knew each other well, had many friends in common, and who, recognizing that India merely worked for Fabrizio, had contrived to ignore her for the entire evening. Aldo Montefiore’s pleadings had been of no avail; Marisa would not change her seating plan and he’d been forced to accept it. She’d watched Aldo chatting and smiling with a pretty girl sitting on his left, whom she knew was Marisa’s cousin, and a dazzling socialite on his right who, India had to admit, was stunning.
Marisa had followed her into the powder room off the flagged hallway because she wanted to know how well India knew Aldo Montefiore. Marisa wanted to drop a word of warning now just in case India got too interested. After all, she didn’t want any trouble with Fabrizio’s little protégée later, did she?
“How did you meet Aldo,
cara?
” she asked, taking a jeweled compact out of her tiny blue leather bag. Powdering her faultless nose gently she caught India’s eyes in the mirror.
India rummaged in her big leather satchel, feeling clumsy—as always—next to Marisa. The invitations had said informal, but there was informal and informal, and the scarlet sweater seemed wrong next to Marisa’s sapphire cashmere Krizia sheath. “We met at the reception,” she said flatly. “I
“Mademoiselle Paris Haven?”
“
Qui, c’est
Mademoiselle Haven.
Qui est à l’appareil?
”
“
Ne quittez pas, mademoiselle
. Los Angeles
vous demande
.”
ROME
The villa on the Via Appia Antica was vast and decorated, of course, in Fabrizio’s faultless style. But despite its perfection India always felt that it lacked charm. It wasn’t Fabrizio’s fault; he’d provided the backdrop. What was lacking was the human element, the female touches of memorabilia, family snapshots of laughing children taken at the beach, a special satin pillow that had always pleased, a child’s nursery school drawing tacked to the kitchen wall, a bunch of flowers bought for their perfume or their riotous, joyful color, not just because they would tone with the decor. Sometimes, thought India guiltily, one could almost wish for a few sticky fingerprints along the pristine surfaces. It was a showroom. Only this time it was Marisa’s showroom, not Fabrizio’s. Every objet d’art, every painting, every casually placed book, was expensive, in good taste, and guaranteed to be coveted by her guests.
Only the children’s rooms were real, and Fabrizio was responsible for that. Marisa had wanted elaborate murals depicting scenes from fairy stories, knights on white chargers and babes in the woods, but Fabrizio had drawn the line. White walls that the children were not only permitted, but encouraged, to paint on, as often as and whenever they liked. Scarlet tubular bunk beds and matching red-and-white cabinets. Vast cupboards for toys and baskets to catch all the oddments that end up on a nursery floor at the end of the day. Climbing frames, a basketball hoop, roller skates. The children, he’d stated firmly, would be normal kids. None of Marisa’s “precious” fantasies of perfection here. And five-year-old Giorgio and six-year-old Fabiola loved it.
“India. You’re dreaming again.” Marisa’s voice was silken and soft. “Are you enjoying yourself? You look a little tired.”
India sighed. When Marisa said you looked tired it meant you looked a mess. The dinner had been long and India had been placed at the last of the round tables, the one nearest the door, with three men who discussed the car industry through all seven courses and two women who knew each other well, had many friends in common, and who, recognizing that India merely worked for Fabrizio, had contrived to ignore her for the entire evening. Aldo Montefiore’s pleadings had been of no avail; Marisa would not change her seating plan and he’d been forced to accept it. She’d watched Aldo chatting and smiling with a pretty girl sitting on his left, whom she knew was Marisa’s cousin, and a dazzling socialite on his right who, India had to admit, was stunning.
Marisa had followed her into the powder room off the flagged hallway because she wanted to know how well India knew Aldo Montefiore. Marisa wanted to drop a word of warning now just in case India got too interested. After all, she didn’t want any trouble with Fabrizio’s little protégée later, did she?
“How did you meet Aldo,
cara?
” she asked, taking a jeweled compact out of her tiny blue leather bag. Powdering her faultless nose gently she caught India’s eyes in the mirror.
India rummaged in her big leather satchel, feeling clumsy—as always—next to Marisa. The invitations had said informal, but there was informal and informal, and the scarlet sweater seemed wrong next to Marisa’s sapphire cashmere Krizia sheath. “We met at the reception,” she said flatly. “I
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