was a most revealing remark. Feeling self-conscious, he jumped up. ‘How about another glass of bubbly?’
‘Thank you.’ Francesca sat back, staring after him as he went over to the chest near the windows. He’s well acquainted with loneliness, she thought with a flash of perception, intuitively understanding that nothing was ever the way it seemed on the surface. No wonder he has such a need for Nick’s friendship, she added to herself, and her tender heart filled with sympathy. He was a strong, vigorous, handsome man in the prime of his life, world famous and rich, the idol of millions, and yet there was something so … so very vulnerable about him. This had never occurred to her before, and she was surprised at the thought and stiffened in the chair. She swung her head away as he turned around, not wanting him to see the adoration and longing written on her face.
Victor brought the ice bucket back to the coffee table, poured champagne and then loped over to the sofa in strides. He stretched himself over most of it, casually draped one arm on the back and crossed his long legs. ‘Tell me more about Doris,’ he encouraged with one of his elliptical smiles. ‘What’s this paragon really like?’
‘Oh she’s not a paragon!’ Francesca cried. ‘Far from it. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like her so much. She’s very human and full of the most lovely imperfections, which I think help to make her a marvellous woman. She’s also a great sense of humour and she’s lots of fun, not a bit stuffy. She’s enthusiastic about everything, but at the same time she’s rather down-to-earth and sensible.’ Francesca crinkled her eyes, thinking hard. ‘Let me see, what else can I tell you? Well, she’s tall and rather pretty, with short curly red hair and the brightest green eyes you’ve ever seen. Outgoing. Effervescent. Doris really and truly cares about Daddy, and that’s the most important thing to me.’
‘Mmmm. Quite a picture you’ve painted of her. Glowing. No wonder you want her for a stepmother,’ Victor said, amusement lingering on his face. ‘Have they been dating long?’
‘A couple of years.’ Francesca picked up her glass and took a sip, her eyes focused on him over the rim. ‘Oh and she’s an American. From Oklahoma.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said with a flicker of astonishment, immediately recalling the Earl’s inbred elegance, trying to visualize him with a hick from the Midwest. But if David Cunningham was enamoured of the lady, then she was hardly likely to be a hick. Victor’s brows drew together as another thought struck him. ‘Did you say her name was Asternan?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Doris is the widow of Edgar Asternan. He was a meat-packing tycoon. It’s Doris’s company now.’ Francesca paused to stare at him. ‘You’re looking even more surprised, Victor. Have you met Doris? Do you know her?’
‘No, I don’t. But I know of the Asternan company. It’s a household name in the States, and big, like Armour, and Swift, who’re also based in Chicago because of the stockyards.’ Victor whistled. ‘That’s quite a company she’s inherited, and a hell of a fortune.’
‘Seemingly so.’ Francesca was reflective and after a moment she found herself confiding, ‘Daddy is so strange at times, and I have an awful feeling her money is getting in the way –’ She faltered and glanced down at her hands.
Victor said, his voice gentle, ‘That’s understandable, Francesca. He has his pride.’ He looked at her carefully and added, ‘But don’t worry your pretty little head about them. They’ll work it out, if they’ve a mind to do so. And whatever happens will be for the best. Life has a way of taking care of itself.’ He got up. ‘Now, I think I’d better get back to the kitchen before everything is burned to a cinder.’
She half rose. ‘I’ll come and help you.’
‘No,’ he said from the doorway. ‘You can light the candle, but that’s all you can do. And I hope you’ve worked up an appetite, because you’re about to eat one of the greatest Italian meals that’s ever been cooked. Superb!’ He kissed his bunched fingertips and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘I’ve outdone myself tonight, believe me I have. This dinner’s the whole enchilada!’
Francesca laughed. ‘If the chef is satisfied, then I’m certain I will be too. Incidentally, I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, what does that expression mean?’
‘The whole enchilada? The whole works. It’s a very Californian saying, and I’ll explain the derivation later. In the meantime, my hot stove beckons.’ He winked and went out.
Francesca went to the mirror, taking a quick peek at herself. The warmth of the room and the champagne had brought a hint of shell pink to her high cheekbones and her eyes were unusually bright. From the champagne or Victor? Victor, without question. She hurried back to the table and slid onto the chair, not wishing to be caught primping a second time. Francesca hugged herself with joy, thinking about his compliments, and of the way the evening was progressing. It was a success thus far, and so much so she felt like pinching herself, just to make sure she was not dreaming. She had half expected him to be stiff and distant, and also, being conscious of him on all levels, had been nervous about conducting herself with aplomb. But he was relaxed and natural and, more importantly, he seemed to be accepting her for herself. In turn, this had made her feel at ease and comfortable with him.
‘First course coming up,’ Victor announced, and walked in carrying two plates of food, a basket filled with breadsticks and the butter dish wedged in between them, as well as a bottle of chilled Soave.
He had put on his powder-blue silk tie and his pale grey cashmere sports jacket, and as he came towards her Francesca was yet again struck by his elegance, the costliness of his beautiful clothes, the aura of success and glamour he emanated. He had seemed so homely in his shirtsleeves. Now he looked like the famous movie star again, and this unexpectedly unsettled her; she was acutely aware of her own lack of sophistication, her simple appearance, her inexpensive, homemade felt skirt. But at least the new sweater was nice, and anyway she had been brought up to understand that clothes did not make the man, nor the woman for that matter. Nonetheless, recognizing the intrinsic truth in this did not prevent her from wishing she was wearing a gorgeous dress, the kind Katharine owned.
She looked up at him and said brightly, ‘That’s the best balancing act I’ve ever seen.’
‘It sure is, but then I’ve had lotsa practice. I used to be a waiter. Don’t look so doubtful, it’s true.’ He grinned, tickled by her astonishment, and set down the Soave, then the bread basket, and finally the plates. He lifted the butter dish out of the basket, and explained, ‘When I first went to Hollywood I had to find a way to support my wife and the boys, in between my jobs as an extra at the studios. So I became a waiter. And a damned good one, even if I say so myself.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes widening, believing him. And then she thought: There’s so much I don’t know about him … his whole life really.
‘I hope you like prosciutto,’ Victor remarked casually, seating himself opposite her, pouring the wine, taking a breadstick and breaking it in half.
‘Actually, I’ve never had it before.’
‘It’s smoked Italian ham, sliced paper-thin, and it’s usually served with melon, but I often use other fruit for a change of pace.’
‘So I see. Where on earth did you find fresh figs at this time of year?’ She eyed the tender green fruit which he had split in half to expose the luscious pink pulpy centre.
‘Harte’s. Where else? I’m really hung up on their food department. I could spend hours just browsing.’
‘I know. It’s my favourite shop.’
‘Buono appetito.’
‘Bon appétit.’ Francesca tasted the ham, told him it was delicious and, between mouthfuls, went on, ‘The woman who owns Harte’s is a friend of ours, well, of my father’s and she’s quite incredible. The most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.’ As she ate, Francesca recited everything she could remember hearing about the legendary Emma Harte, whom she greatly