‘I see. Is it true what they say about him?’
‘They say a lot of things … what in particular are you referring to?’
‘That Maximilian West cares about only four things. The Prime Minister. The United States. Making money. And screwing.’
Alan glanced up, started to laugh. Recovering himself after a brief moment, he said, ‘I know he holds Mrs Thatcher in the highest regard, is a great admirer of her policies, especially when it comes to business. And let’s face it, old chap, he’s flourishing under her regime. She’s just had him knighted. Most certainly he loves the United States, he’s been straddling the Atlantic for a decade or so. He spends as much time there as he does here, you know.’
A mischievous gleam entered Alan’s eyes. ‘And for as long as I can remember, Maxim’s been very intense about making money, and making love to the ladies. Oh yes, he’s a bit of a lady-killer, our Maxim is. As for the ladies, they, of course, find him quite devastating. Drop like ninepins at his feet.’
‘All those wives, all those mistresses,’ Vale murmured, a hint of awe echoing. ‘How on earth has he managed to juggle them, and apparently with such adroitness?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’
‘Good Lord, of course I haven’t! I’ve never had the nerve,’ Alan lied. He had no wish to discuss Maxim’s unorthodox personal life any further with John Vale. He had said enough as it was. Certain things must always remain private. There had been a great deal of gossip about Maxim over the years and he was hardly going to add to it. That would be the worst kind of betrayal.
I know far too much, Alan thought, dropping his eyes, locking the top drawer of his desk. All those confidences Maxim has shared over the years. And continues to share. But his secrets are safe with me. And he knows that, knows I will take them with me to the grave.
For the second time that evening Maximilian West found himself shaking off a feeling of heaviness as he traversed Berkeley Square, heading back in the direction he had walked earlier.
Directly opposite Alan Trenton’s office building, on the other side of the plane trees in the park in the middle of the square, was number forty-four. This was his destination. Here, in the basement of the beautiful old house, was one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Europe – the famous Annabel’s.
Founded in the summer of 1963 by Mark Birley, and named after his wife Lady Annabel, from whom he was now divorced, it was the chicest of watering holes for the rich and famous, where the international jet set rubbed shoulders with movie stars and magnates and members of the British royal family. For the past twenty-six years it had remained very much the in spot, yet it had now gone beyond being merely fashionable. It had become legendary. And it was Maxim’s favourite place to dine in London.
Within minutes of leaving Alan’s office, Maxim was nodding to the uniformed doorman who hovered outside, ducking under the green awning and hurrying down the flight of steps into the club.
A bevy of familiar, smiling faces greeted him as he entered, and after shedding his trenchcoat he went over to the reception desk where Ted was waiting to welcome guests, as he was most nights of the week.
Maxim accepted Ted’s quietly-spoken congratulations, exchanged pleasantries with him, signed the book, sauntered through into the bar-sitting room. Glancing quickly about, he saw that it was still relatively empty, and he took a small table in the corner, to one side of the brightly-burning log fire.
A waiter was instantly by his side, and he ordered vodka straight with ice and a chunk of lime, then settled into the squashy sofa, enjoying the comfort and warmth and the sense of ease that always came to him here.
He had been a member since the club had first opened its doors, and he liked the atmosphere, the intimacy that sprang from the blazing fire, the soft lights and deep sofas, the cheerful feeling created by the masses of fresh flowers in antique containers, the dark-red Oriental rugs and the pumpkin-coloured walls covered with a diversity of paintings. Wonderful dog portraits, cartoons by Landseer, Munnings and Bateman, oils of elegant women, some nude, some clothed, hung cheek by jowl, and at first glance seemed to have been put together with some sort of careless abandon. Yet there was nothing haphazard about their placement, if one looked a second time and a bit more carefully. They never ceased to delight his eye, to amuse him, and they were a source of constant pleasure, frequently brought a quick smile to his face.
To Maxim, Annabel’s was more like an extension of Mark Birley’s own house than a restaurant and nightclub, and perhaps this was the key to its enormous success. The bar area had the feeling of a country drawing room in a manor house, could never be mistaken for anything but an English drawing room at that, what with its mixtures of chintzes and paintings and flowers, its mellowness and charm. Quite aside from the inimitable and inviting ambience, there were the gracious staff to be thankful for, the excellent service they gave, and finally the type of unpretentious food Maxim preferred to eat. For the most part, English cooking at its best with a few continental dishes thrown in.
In his opinion there was nowhere in the world quite like Annabel’s, and it was one of the things he sorely missed about London when he was away. He had not been in town for some weeks and he was glad to be back in his special haunt. Invariably, the tensions of the day left him the instant he stepped through its portals. He felt insulated against the world when he was at the club, cocooned within the familiar, pleasant surroundings, attended to by the discreet and congenial staff. A home from home, he thought, then added sardonically to himself: Except that I prefer this place to home. But I don’t have a home any more, do I?
Reaching for the drink, he took a quick swallow, leaned against the cushions, forced himself to focus on the meeting he had just had in Stubby’s office.
He was curiously ambivalent about going after the Lister newspaper empire, and he wondered why. Before he had a chance to focus on this properly, ponder the reasons further, he saw Louis, the manager, coming through the bar-sitting room, heading in his direction. Louis’s face was wreathed in smiles. They were old friends, had known each other for over thirty years, ever since the days Louis had been the maitre d’ at the Mirabelle Restaurant in Curzon Street, just around the corner from the club. There was a camaraderie between them that sprang from the past, many shared experiences, the genuine affection they held for each other.
Maxim jumped up, beaming.
They greeted each other warmly, shook hands. Louis congratulated him on his knighthood, and they stood chatting, catching up with each other’s news. After a few minutes, Louis was summoned to take a phone call in the dining room, and he excused himself. Maxim sat down on the sofa and picked up his drink, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself rising once more as his personal assistant came floating into the bar-sitting room on a cloud of perfume.
Graeme Longdon was an American, thirty-seven years old, tall, bean-pole thin, with curly brown hair shot through with a hint of auburn and the brightest of green eyes. Not classically beautiful in the given sense of the word, she was, nonetheless, a lovely young woman, very arresting, with a broad brow, high cheekbones above rounded cheeks, and a full, wide mouth that was forever smiling. She was from Richmond, Virginia, was independent, feisty, and outspoken.
Maxim considered her to be one of the smartest people he had ever known, and she was his
