.

feet. He had drunk a good deal of brandy and champagne and he was a little unsteady, his words a bit slurred.

      ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘we’ve all drunk to the most beautiful girl in the world and we’ve given her lovely birthday presents, but I have a present for her that’s going to be a big surprise.’ Sorel looked down at Noelle and beamed, then turned to the crowd. ‘Noelle and I are going to be married.’

      There was an approving cheer and the guests raced up to clap Sorel on the back and wish luck to the bride-to-be. Noelle sat there smiling up at the guests, murmuring her thank-yous. One of the guests had not risen. He was seated at a table at the far end of the room, smoking a cigarette in a long holder and viewing the scene sardonically. Noelle was aware that he had been watching her during dinner. He was a tall, very thin man, with an intense, brooding face. He seemed amused by everything that was happening around him, more an observer at the party than a guest.

      Noelle caught his eye and smiled.

      Armand Gautier was one of the top directors in France. He was in charge of the French Repertory Theatre, and his productions had been acclaimed all over the world. Having Gautier direct a play or a motion picture was an almost certain guarantee of its success. He had the reputation of being particularly good with actresses and had created half a dozen important stars.

      Sorel was at Noelle’s side, talking to her. ‘Were you surprised, my darling?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, Philippe,’ she said.

      ‘I want us to be married right away. We’ll have the wedding at my villa.’

      Over his shoulder Noelle could see Armand Gautier watching her, smiling that enigmatic smile. Some friends came and took Philippe away and when Noelle turned, Gautier was standing there.

      ‘Congratulations,’ he said. There was a mocking note in his voice. ‘You hooked a big fish.’

      ‘Did I?’

      ‘Philippe Sorel is a great catch.’

      ‘For someone perhaps,’ Noelle said indifferently.

      Gautier looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not interested?’

      ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything.’

      ‘Good luck.’ He turned to go.

      ‘Monsieur Gautier …’

      He stopped.

      ‘Could I see you tonight?’ Noelle asked quietly. ‘I would like to talk to you alone.’

      Armand Gautier looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘If you wish.’

      ‘I will come to your place. Will that be satisfactory?’

      ‘Yes, of course. The address is –’

      ‘I know the address. Twelve o’clock?’

      ‘Twelve o’clock.’

      

      Armand Gautier lived in a fashionable old apartment building on rue Marbeuf. A doorman escorted Noelle into the lobby and an elevator boy took her to the fourth floor and indicated Gautier’s apartment. Noelle rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by Gautier. He wore a flowered dressing gown.

      ‘Come in,’ he said.

      Noelle walked into the apartment. Her eye was untrained, but she sensed that it was done in beautiful taste and that the objets d’art were valuable.

      ‘Sorry I’m not dressed,’ Gautier apologized. ‘I’ve been on the telephone.’

      Noelle’s eyes locked onto his. ‘It will not be necessary for you to be dressed.’ She moved over to the couch and sat down.

      Gautier smiled. ‘That was the feeling I had, Miss Page. But I’m curious about something. Why me? You’re engaged to a man who is famous and wealthy. I am sure that if you are looking for some extracurricular activities, you could find men more attractive than I, and certainly richer and younger. What is it you want from me?’

      ‘I want you to teach me to act,’ Noelle said.

      Armand Gautier looked at her a moment, then sighed. ‘You disappoint me. I expected something more original.’

      ‘Your business is working with actors.’

      ‘With actors, not amateurs. Have you ever acted?’

      ‘No. But you will teach me.’ She took off her hat and her gloves. ‘Where is your bedroom?’ she asked.

      Gautier hesitated. His life was full of beautiful women wanting to be in the theatre, or wanting a bigger part, or the lead in a new play, or a larger dressing room. They were all a pain. He knew that he would be a fool to get involved with one more. And yet there was no need to get involved. Here was a beautiful girl throwing herself at him. It would be a simple matter to take her to bed and then send her away. ‘In there,’ he said, indicating a door.

      He watched Noelle as she walked towards the bedroom. He wondered what Philippe Sorel would think if he knew that his bride-to-be was spending the night here. Women. Whores, all of them. Gautier poured himself a brandy and made several phone calls. When he finally went into the bedrom, Noelle was in his bed, naked, waiting for him. Gautier had to admit that she was an exquisite work of nature. Her face was breath-taking, and her body was flawless. Her skin was the colour of honey, except for the triangle of soft golden hair between her legs. Gautier had learned from experience that beautiful girls were almost invariably narcissistic, so preoccupied with their own egocentricities that they were lousy lays. They felt their contribution to lovemaking was simply conferring their presence in a man’s bed, so that the man ended up making love to an unmoving lump of clay and was expected to be grateful for the experience. Ah, well, perhaps he could teach this one something.

      As Noelle watched him, Gautier undressed, leaving his clothes carelessly strewn on the floor, and moved towards the bed. ‘I’m not going to tell you you are beautiful,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard it too many times already.’

      ‘Beauty is wasted,’ Noelle shrugged, ‘unless it is used to give pleasure.’

      Gautier looked at her in quick surprise, then smiled. ‘I agree. Let’s use yours.’ He sat down beside her.

      Like most Frenchmen, Armand Gautier prided himself on being a skilled lover. He was amused by the stories he had heard of Germans and Americans whose idea of making love consisted of jumping on top of a girl, having an instant orgasm, and then putting on their hat and departing. The Americans even had a phrase for it. ‘Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’ When Armand Gautier was emotionally involved with a woman, he used many devices to heighten the enjoyment of lovemaking. There was always a perfect dinner, the right wines. He arranged the setting artistically so that it was pleasing to the senses, the room was delicately scented and soft music was playing. He aroused his women with tender sentiments of love and later the coarse language of the gutter. And Gautier was adept at the manual foreplay that preceded sex.

      In Noelle’s case he dispensed with all of these. For a one-night stand there was no need for perfume or music or empty endearments. She was here simply to get laid. She was indeed a silly fool if she thought that she could trade what every woman in the world carried between her legs for the great and unique genius that Armand Gautier possessed in his head.

      He started to climb on top of her. Noelle stopped him.

      ‘Wait,’ she whispered.

      As he watched, puzzled, she reached for two small tubes that she had placed on the bedside table. She squeezed the contents of one into her hand and began to rub it onto his penis.

      ‘What is this all about?’ he asked.

      She smiled. ‘You’ll see.’ She kissed him on the lips, her tongue darting into his mouth in quick bird-like movements. She pulled away and her tongue started moving towards his belly, her hair trailing across his body like light, silky fingers.