Katharine about art for a few seconds longer, and then he excused himself and headed back to the fireplace.
When she saw him approaching, Francesca leapt up. ‘Please don’t think I’m being rude, but I do have to attend to the food. Excuse me for a few minutes.’
He did not miss the crisp tone. He seated himself in the chair she had vacated, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. Settling back, he smiled and with a vast and secret amusement, although he was not truly certain who amused him the most – himself or Francesca. She had just bolted like a frightened filly, obviously to avoid him. On the other hand, he had behaved like a dumbstruck schoolboy on first meeting her. And now that the initial impact had dissipated, he was damned if he knew why. Francesca was lovely in a fresh, girlish way, but not exactly his type. And in any event, beautiful women were the norm of his life, not the exception and, as his friend Nicky Latimer was always saying, were a dime a dozen for a man of his calibre and looks and unquestionable fame. And money. He sighed. Two new wives and countless other less legal liaisons in the past few years had left him immune to beauty, and these days he felt jaded and weary of the emotional turmoil women invariably created in his life, once they became entangled with him. He had sworn off ‘les girls’, as he laughingly called them, six months ago, and when he had come to England he had determined to concentrate on his career. He had no intention of breaking this rule. Not even for Francesca Cunningham. Victor was not given to self-delusion, and he was always brutally honest with himself, and so he readily admitted the attraction had been powerful, that he had momentarily been bowled over by her. But apparently she had not responded in the same way. He shrugged. He was not in the mood to pursue.
Another thought struck him and he nearly laughed out loud. He was thirty-nine years old, almost forty, and Francesca could not be more than eighteen. A baby. Was it possible he had suddenly become susceptible to young girls? Was he afflicted with the nymphet syndrome? Not long ago, dear old Nicky, the soothsayer, had told him he was suffering from a terminal Don Juan complex. This had made him roar with laughter, considering the lustful mouth from which this caustic little comment had issued forth, even though it was based in truth. After his first wife’s tragic death Victor had gone haywire with grief. And then, in the intervening years, he had become something of a womanizer, and he didn’t mind who knew it. Conversely, he did not relish the idea of being dubbed a dirty old man.
Katharine sat down on the sofa, struck an elegant pose and said, ‘What are you doing on Monday night?’
Victor threw her a questioning look. ‘Nothing. You should know that, considering you’ve completely taken charge of my social life. Do I ever make a move without you? But why do you ask?’
‘Because I’ve invited Francesca, Kim and their father to be my guests at the play. I’m sure you don’t want to see it again, but I thought it would be nice if you took us all to dinner afterwards, to reciprocate this evening.’
‘Sure, why not,’ he said amiably. He took out a packet of mentholated cigarettes and lit one, drawing on it deeply.
Kim, who had seated himself next to Katharine, looked at her askance. ‘Oh, I say, darling, that’s not necessary. Victor doesn’t have to reciprocate,’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t want to be saddled with our tribe –’
‘Sure I do,’ Victor interrupted. ‘I think it’s a terrific idea. I’d love to take you all to dinner. Now, where do you want to go, Katharine? Ziegi’s Club, the Caprice, Les Ambassadeurs, the Casanova or the River Club?’
‘Why, Victor, I wasn’t thinking of such ritzy places,’ cried Katharine, who had indeed had one of them in mind, considering it essential for her career to be seen in smart restaurants. She looked across at him, her eyes wide with innocence, and smiled winningly. ‘But since you did ask my preference, I think it would be super if you took us to Les A. I haven’t been there for ages, and it’s one of my favourite places. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Kim?’
Kim, who had never set foot in Les Ambassadeurs, but frequently read about it in the columns, nodded slowly. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you, Victor,’ he said. He lifted his glass, wondering what his father would think, whether he would approve of such goings-on with show-business folk in a fancy supper club. But then, why not? After all, the old man was squiring Doris around, and she was a leading light in international café society. It also struck him that Victor’s presence might make the evening less tense. This cheered him up and helped to dispel his mild irritation with Katharine for placing Victor in such an awkward position. Perhaps she, too, had considered this point.
Katharine said, ‘Should I get a ticket for you, Victor darling?’
‘No. Thanks anyway, honey. I’m afraid I have to do some work on Monday night. I have a number of calls to make to the Coast and New York, and because of the time differences I can’t really start until five or six o’clock. I’ll make a reservation for around eleven and meet you there.’
Francesca poked her head around the door. ‘Supper’s ready, if you’d like to come in,’ she said.
Katharine joined Francesca, and the two girls crossed the hall to the dining room. In a confiding voice she told Francesca about the newly-made plans. ‘I do hope your father is going to be free. I just know we’ll have lots of fun.’
Francesca drew in her breath sharply. After a short pause, she said, ‘I’m sure he will be.’ And then, hearing the echo of Victor’s voice behind her, she hoped her father had another engagement. She had been looking forward to seeing Katharine in the play, but unexpectedly the whole idea of the evening had now lost its appeal.
The dining room was impressive, both in its dimensions and its decoration. Tonight the room was dimly lit, but attractively so. Tall white candles flickered in the heavy, chased-silver candelabra placed at each end of the sideboard and in the centre of the dining table. In this warm and golden light the mahogany table gleamed with dark, ripe colour, and its highly polished surface had the glassy sheen of mirror. Reflected against it was the glitter of Georgian silver and hand-cut lead crystal wine goblets, the sparkle of white bone china plates, rimmed in gold and bearing the Langley family crest, also in gold.
The fir green walls, as cool and dark as a bosky forest, gave the room its restful tranquillity, made a superb muted backdrop for the incomparable oil paintings. Each one was mounted in an ornately carved and gilded-wood frame, and effectively illuminated by a small picture light attached to the top of the frame. The fluttering candles and the picture lights, the only illumination in the room, infused the ambience with a mellowness that was quite lovely, gave it an intimacy that was at once both charming and inviting.
Francesca showed Katharine and Victor to their places, and then went to the sideboard to serve the turtle soup, spooning it into green-and-gold Royal Worcester bowls from a large silver tureen. Victor observed her closely, struck by her elegance. His eyes roved around the room, and with interest. He admired its beauty and style. Background was the message it telegraphed to him, and that, he thought, is something no amount of money can buy. As he absorbed his surroundings his attention was caught by the painting on the end wall. It was a full-length, life-size portrait of a woman in an elaborate blue taffeta gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled high in an intricate pompadour surmounted by several plumes of blue feathers. Topaz earrings gleamed at her ears, and a topaz necklace fell down from her slender neck to fill out the décolletage. Of course, it was Francesca, and it was an exquisite portrait, beautifully executed and with explicit attention to every minute detail. Victor had the feeling that if he reached out and touched the dress his fingers
