interest, but curbed himself, and strode on determinedly, without stopping. He pushed up into Chesterfield Hill, then veered to the right and continued down Charles Street, aiming for Berkeley Square.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the square were the windows of Moyses Stevens, the renowned florist. They were awash with water, and he paused to look. Mechanical things had always intrigued him and he was constantly tinkering with the machinery at the ranch, although never with cars. As Nick said, costly cars were verboten to amateur mechanics like himself.
Water streamed down the glass like a fine, undulating curtain. It was probably being released from hidden ducts or some kind of similar system in the ceiling, then recycled back through intricate piping. He watched it for a moment, fascinated, before pressing closer to the glass, peering through this constantly-moving, liquid curtain, his eyes resting on banks of the most beautiful flowers he had seen for a long time. Colour flamed vividly in a profusion of variegated reds and oranges intermingled with magenta and purple, paled to soft fading yellows and crisp white; and interspersed amongst these brilliant hues and the more fragile tints were innumerable dark and light greens, leaves so luxuriant and shiny they looked as if they had been individually polished to a glossy sheen. A smile touched Victor’s lips and his spirits lifted. The array of flowers and plants were like a breath of spring, evoked images of sharp clear sunlight on green meadows, trees newly bursting with tender young leaves, and blue and radiant skies. Such a contrast to this dreary rain-sodden March day, he thought. And if the flowers made him feel light-hearted, then certainly they would bring a smile of pleasure to Francesca’s face.
This time there was no hesitation on Victor’s part. Decisively, he pushed open the door of the florist’s shop and went inside. Instantly his nostrils were assaulted by all manner of mingled scents and the fresh and pungent smell of damp earth and growing greenery. He selected a huge armful of mimosa, brilliant yellow and sweetly fragrant, flown in that morning from Nice, he was informed. He added three dozen scarlet-tipped white tulips from Holland, and several bunches of pale and fragile narcissi from the Scilly Isles. He also bought a china cachepot which had been planted with hyacinths, tall, waxy, and a light hazy-blue in colour, but chosen mainly because he could not resist their heady perfume. He knew he had gone overboard with the flowers, especially since Jerry was sending the basket of fruit. But what the hell, he muttered under his breath; everyone expects a movie star to make the grand and extravagant gesture.
The sales lady showed him the tray of cards, so that he could write a message, before she went off to wrap his purchases. Victor took a card and stared at it for several seconds, frowning, wondering what to say. He did not want Francesca to misunderstand the gift of flowers, to misinterpret their meaning, read something into them which did not exist. In the end, after several false starts and wasted cards he penned a bland line, wishing her well, and signed it simply, ‘From Nicky and Victor.’ He slipped the card in the envelope, sealed it and addressed it clearly. When the sales lady returned with his bill he handed her the card and the money, and asked when the flowers would be delivered. ‘Within the hour, Mr Mason,’ she said with a polite, rather shy smile. ‘You are Victor Mason, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled back, radiating charm.
Glowing, she gave him his change, and went on, in a confiding though deferential manner. ‘I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your films, Mr Mason. I go to see all of them. In fact, I’m quite a fan of yours.’
‘Why, thank you,’ he responded. ‘Thanks very much. It’s nice to hear.’
‘Do come in again, Mr Mason,’ she called as he went through the door. He swung his head, waved and told her he would.
That’s what I like about the English, he thought, stepping out into the street. They’re so courteous. And so absolutely bloody civilized, he added in mental mimicry of Kim’s upper-class English voice. He stepped out briskly, heading in the direction of Claridge’s, and several times he smiled to himself, although he was not sure why he did so. Nor did he understand the reason for his sudden sense of quiet happiness, a feeling of genuine tranquillity the nature of which he had not experienced for a number of years.
There was a pile of mail and a number of telephone messages waiting for Victor at the hotel. He asked the operator for Nick’s suite and sat down. There was no reply. Putting on his glasses, he began to peruse the mail.
Three letters from Beverly Hills gained his attention first. They were from his business manager, his agent and his lawyer. He opened the one from his lawyer with some trepidation, fully expecting it to contain distasteful and distressing news about Arlene and their impending divorce. To his surprise it did not, although it did concern his second wife, Lillianne. Apparently she wanted to sell the Dali, and had asked Ben Challis, his lawyer, to find out if he would be interested in purchasing it from her. He laughed out loud. The painting had been part of their divorce settlement. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s got nerve, he thought, his mouth twitching with amusement. She actually wants me to buy back something which was mine in the first place! I’ll be damned. He shook his head, still laughing as he put the letter down. But why not? He did not own much good art and he had been attached to the Dali. She must be in desperate need of cash to sell it. As usual. Vaguely he wondered what Lillianne did with money. He had been very generous with her when they had separated. According to Ben, she was constantly in strained financial circumstances, and he had come to her rescue more than once in the past few years.
His second marriage, like his third, had not been particularly happy, but Lillianne was not a bitch, which was more than he could say for the tempestuous and vituperative Arlene, who was currently on a rampage and hell bent on creating a scandal. He sighed, and asked himself why he had had no luck with women since Ellie’s death. He continually made dreadful mistakes in his private life, which was in constant upheaval, and yet, funnily enough, he never made the same mistake twice in his profession or in his business dealings. But now I’ve turned over a new leaf, he muttered, and brushed away these speculations about wives and women, which were not only a waste of time, but irritating. He glanced at the other two letters from Beverly Hills, which were of no great importance, and reached eagerly for the envelope from the travel agency in Bond Street. He opened it quickly and pulled out two first-class airline tickets for Zurich, and his face lit up.
Next week he and Nick were going to Klosters, via Zurich, on a five-day skiing trip, and they were both like excited schoolboys about to sally forth on their first adventurous spree. Victor, being an intensely physical man and accustomed to the most strenuous of outdoor activities, felt increasingly constrained in London, hemmed in and restless as his sedentary existence began to create mounting tension in him. Apart from this, he knew he was out of condition, and gruelling exercise and a thorough workout had become imperative. In a sense, he considered the trip to be a medical necessity, since it would be therapeutic in a number of ways. Jake had tried to dissuade him from going, being fearful he would break a leg or an arm and consequently throw the picture off schedule. But he had managed to convince the line producer that he was going solely for health reasons, and not riotous fun or distractions of a feminine nature. Finally, he had had to solemnly promise not to take any chances on the slopes, swearing he would stick to the gentler ski runs.
We’ll see about that, he thought, smiling with pleasure at the prospect of a few days in the Alps. He and Nick had discovered Klosters two years before, actually through Harry Kurnitz, a writer friend of Nick’s, who was an habitué of the place. It was also the favourite gathering ground for a small group of other Americans, all skiing aficionados, in particular the novelists Irwin Shaw and Peter Viertel, and the movie director Bob Parrish.
Victor contemplated the trip with longing. He could hardly wait to leave, remembering how marvellously fit he felt in the mountains, with the cold bracing air stinging his face and the wind at his back as he sped at breakneck speed down the glistening white mountain sides. Apart from wanting the physical exertion which so refreshed and rejuvenated him, and craving the exhilaration and sheer thrill of skiing, he also looked forward to the relaxed evenings of camaraderie. After a day of hard skiing the group gathered in the local tavern, feasted on a few delicious local dishes and then sat around the roaring fire, exchanging exaggerated stories about their prowess in all fields, and drinking cherry-flavoured