Lady of Fortune Read online

  Lady of Fortune

  GRAHAM MASTERTON

  Contents

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Book Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  A Note on the Author

  Book One

  BREAD WITH TEARS

  ‘Who never ate his bread with tears,

  who never sat through the sorrowful

  night, weeping upon his bed, does

  not know you, O heavenly powers.’

  Goethe, Harfenspielerslied

  CHAPTER ONE

  Even at his wealthiest, George ‘Spats’ Sabatini was only one-twentieth as rich as she was. But he spent his money on her like an emperor, like an Indian nizam, like Caligula running Barnum & Baileys with costumes by Lanvin and jewellery by Tiffany and music by the Chicago Footwarmers.

  She would remember her days and nights with George long after she had forgotten what it was that the Duke of Windsor had said to her over cocktails at El Morocco; or why Tallulah Bankhead had stamped on Moss Hart’s foot at La Hiff’s Tavern.

  George had once sent her, for no reason that she could think of, a thousand white roses, a thousand, carried in through the doors of her Long Island mansion like heaps of fragrant snow by twelve small black piccaninnies in powdered wigs and golden frock coats and white stockings. On her birthday, he hired a silver bi-plane to fly over her garden and write YOU ARE RAVISHING in the sky in pink smoke. ‘Pink!’ exclaimed the gossip columnist George Ross, in the New York World-Telegram.

  The set-piece of their affair – the beginning, the crescendo, and the end – was on a hot heavy cloudy night in August, in 1927. On that night, George outdid himself, and Effie fell irrevocably in love with him, and Long Island dreamed a dream but woke up the next morning with nothing more than an uncomfortable feeling that something very grand and very peculiar had happened the night before, but the Lord only knew what.

  George had sent a letter round by hand, saying that tonight was Versailles night, eighteenth-century night, for them alone, and could she please wear the costume which would arrive by special messenger after lunch. He had added, ‘I adore you. I’m crazy for you. Yours, Cyrano de Bergerac.’

  The costume had arrived in a large box wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with a white silk ribbon, on the back seat of a sapphire-blue Hudson Great Eight tourer. The chauffeur had presented it to her ‘with Mr Sabatini’s admiration.’ When her maid Louise had opened it, upstairs in her bedroom, she had found that it contained a black silk crinoline dress with deep pink roses and orange butterflies embroidered on it, and a deeply-cut bodice trimmed with pearls. The box also contained a high, powdered Pompadour wig, with upswept curls.

  At dusk, when the fireflies began to whirl around the lanterns that lined the verandah, and a warm purplish mist settled across the lawns, the Hudson returned, this time with two cases of Dom Perignon champagne, ‘for bathing purposes’. And while she splashed and laughed waist-deep in foaming vintage wine, her laughter echoing around her Byzantine marble bathroom, a sixty-piece orchestra, all dressed in periwigs and knee-britches, quietly assembled on her croquet-lawn, and then suddenly struck up with Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks.

  The scene, when she came down at last to the back of the house, was like an extraordinary decadent fantasy. The orchestra was playing a jazzed-up version of Viennese chamber-music, in a tinkly, syncopated rhythm, while sparkling paper lanterns swung from every tree. There were jugglers and dancers in costumes that nodded with ostrich plumes, and glittered with sequins. Incense smoke, reeking of burned roses and sandalwood, smoked on either side of the verandah in tall brass torchères. Four or five naked boys, no younger than thirteen but no older than fifteen, their hair tied with gilded leaves, lolled on the grass, each one more graceful and pretty than his companions.

  And through this fantasy, like a fantasy herself, Effie walked in her tall white wig and her wide black crinoline dress, amazed and amused. She reached the rail of the verandah, and stopped.

  ‘Well,’ said a rich, accented voice. ‘Do you like it?’

  She could do nothing but slowly shake her head in disbelief. Out of the shadows stepped George Sabatini himself – a very tall, thin-faced man with immaculately polished hair and a handsome hooked nose. His eyes glistened like washed blackberries and his shirtfront was as white as a headache. ‘I saw it in a book,’ he said. ‘It was called “Versailles”. That’s all. I wasn’t even sure what it meant but I knew that I liked it. So here it is, just for us. “Versailles.”’

  ‘George,’ said Effie, ‘you’re crazy.’

  He put his arm around her bare shoulders. Together
, they watched a fire-eater sending up great roaring bursts of flame into the night sky. ‘In my letter I told you I was crazy.’

  ‘But this must have cost a fortune. And who are those naked boys?’

  ‘Search me. I just told them to get naked boys, and they got naked boys. How should I know who they are? Maybe they’re out-of-work tax-collectors.’

  Effie laughed, and took George’s hand. ‘You do such stupendous things for me, George. I don’t know why.’

  ‘You don’t know why? Don’t you understand what I feel about you? Didn’t you read what that skywriter wrote?’

  ‘George, it can’t be. You’re making life into a dream. This isn’t life, not even for me. This is like nothing I’ve ever come across before. And you’re always doing it. Whenever I’m with you, I have to pinch myself to convince myself that I haven’t fallen asleep, and that I’m just dreaming it.’

  ‘It’s real, Effie. Listen – reach out and touch it. It’s real. But what else can I do to impress you? You’re the richest woman in the world. How can a man impress the richest woman in the world?’

  Effie swished the hems of her crinoline and her petticoats over the grass. ‘I’m impressed, George. I have to admit it to you. But I’m not the richest woman in the world, not by a long way. And you don’t need to impress me. Not this way.’

  A black footman came over with a tray, on which there were two tulip-shaped glasses of champagne. George handed one to Effie, and said, ‘I hope you’re not sick of this stuff, after bathing in it.’

  Effie raised her glass to him. The champagne twinkled in the light from the paper lanterns. ‘You’re a marvellous man, George. One of life’s characters.’

  He took her by the arm and guided her down the curved steps which led down towards the lagoon. It was quieter here, and darker. The lagoon hung in the warm garden landscape like a magic entrance to another universe and another time.

  He said, ‘You think you’re dreaming, Effie. But I’m the one who’s dreaming. It’s a dream, just to be standing here with you. George Sabatini, from Monroe Street. That’s the dream. My father couldn’t buy me shoes until I was ten, and had to go to my first job. And now look.’

  Effie said, ‘George … it doesn’t matter what you were. It only matters what you are now.’

  George raised his head, and wiped his hand across his mouth as if he couldn’t find the words to tell her what he so desperately wanted to say. He said, ‘Hey …’ in smiling mockery at his own weakness.

  ‘George –’ Effie began, but he raised one finger to silence her.

  ‘Don’t interrupt me,’ he said. ‘What I have to say, it’s very important. I’ve been, what do you call it, rehearsing it all day. In front of the looking-glass, you know? Over and over. Well, I don’t want to forget a single thing I’ve been aiming on telling you.’

  There was a burst of laughter from behind them. The fire-eater had set alight to a wide wooden hoop, and the naked boys were excitedly taking it in turns to leap through it. The orchestra was playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and a girl juggler was tossing live turtles into the air. From the direction of the maple trees, a girl in a silver-sewn leotard came cartwheeling across the grass, cartwheel after cartwheel.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ said Effie, shaking her head. ‘Not exactly your ordinary average weekend thrash on Long Island, but it’ll do.’

  George frowned at her interruption, and thrust one hand into the pocket of his dress pants. With the other hand, he drew tight, frustrated circles in the air.

  ‘I wasn’t schooled, Effie, so this doesn’t come out easy. But I’m a successful man, and my heart’s exactly where it ought to be. I’ve made my way by working hard, and being good to the right people, and tough on the wrong people. Some people call me crazy. Well, sometimes you do, too. Maybe I am. But I’ve also got ambitions, you know? I want to do things that are more than just making money, and running an operation. I want to understand what it is that I’m making all this money for.’

  He looked down at his white-spatted ankles, and then said, ‘I used to think that money was for big houses and a Packard twelve-cylinder and booze and dames. That was the be-all and the end-all of it. But the more money I made, the more I began to rub shoulders with people who had more money than me, but didn’t seem to think that houses and Packards and dames were all that interesting. So what did they find so interesting? What do you find so interesting? You’ve got a secret there, Effie, and it’s something I don’t understand but I want to. It’s something you could share with me, Effie. You know, something you could teach me.’

  Effie reached out and gently tugged at his sleeve. ‘What are you trying to say to me, George?’

  ‘I’m trying to say this,’ George mumbled. ’I’m trying to say that I’ve fallen for you – you know, completely. I’m in love with you. And I’d like it very much – I’d what do you call it, deem it, deem it a great favour if you’d consider – well, marrying me.’

  He licked his lips, and then he added, ‘Being Mrs George Sabatini, if you get what I mean.’

  Effie took him that night up to her bedroom. The jugglers and the fire-eaters and the sixty-piece orchestra were given chicken legs and beer in the kitchens, and then sent home in their buggies and their runabouts and their noisy charabancs. Effie watched them leave from the bedroom window, their lights sweeping across the lawns and the trees and the urns of trailing lobelia.

  George was sitting on the edge of the bed in his shirtsleeves. He said, ‘I don’t want you to think wrong of me, Effie. I don’t want you to think that I’m taking advantage.’

  She let the drapes fall back into place. ‘I don’t,’ she smiled.

  She released the bows that held up her bodice, and uncupped her breasts from it as if they were cool white blancmanges she was releasing from their moulds. Her nipples were very wide, and vividly pink. Her waist was so slim that when she approached George, her skirts whispering on the Indian rug, he could almost close his two broad hands around her. He kissed her navel, with careful reverence.

  ‘I’m a woman of forty-three, George,’ she said, quietly. I know my own mind, and I know my own body. I’m still beautiful, although I’ll never be pretty again. I want you tonight just as much as you want me.’

  George looked her up and down, his hands still resting on her hips. ‘I never felt this way about any woman, Effie. You’re the ritz. You know that? You’ve got class coming out of your ears.’

  She bent forward and kissed his forehead. She could see herself on the other side of the room, in the mirror, an elegant woman in a high white fairy-tale wig, naked to the waist except for a single strand of diamonds around her neck, her slender body rising like the neck of a swan from her spreading crinoline.

  They lay naked on the curtained bed, on the soft flower-patterned comforter, illuminated only by a single globe light which was held up by a chromium art-deco nude. George was narrow-waisted, olive-skinned, and far more muscular than he had appeared in his formals. Dark curls peeped from under his arms, and grew thickly around his penis. On his left shoulder, there was a six-inch white scar, thick as a zipper. Effie touched it, but said nothing about it. She knew that George had fought his way to the top, and in New York that meant fighting relentlessly and viciously, and never turning your back on anybody, not even your friends.

  Effie herself had the body of a woman ten years younger. She was slim, and fair-haired, with wide-apart blue eyes; eyes as blue as Virginia day-flowers. There was the slightest splash of freckles across her nose and her shoulders, but her neck was smooth and white from years of careful massage and expensive night-creams, and her breasts were still firm. Every year she spent two weeks at the Sky Mountain private health resort, exercising and dieting away the stress of the other fifty weeks.

  George ran the flat of his hand across her bare stomach, until it rested on the fine gold fuzz on her mound of Venus. ‘You’re like something out of a story,’ he whispered, hoarsely. He was staring straight into her e
yes with an expression she couldn’t interpret. Admiration? Wonder? Or plain disbelief? And yet, still staring at her, he crooked his long middle finger, and gently opened her up. Her moist lips made the faintest sound, like a sleeping lover opening his mouth in the middle of an utterly silent night.

  He said nothing more. He was a silent lover. But his muscularity made it possible for him to express his passion for her in a kind of sexual ballet. To penetrate her, he lay back on the comforter, and lifted her right up over him, so that she sank slowly down on his hard upright penis with all the grace of the Swan Maiden in Swan Lake. She gripped his shoulders and winced and shook and sighed with pleasure, and with a little pain, too, because in that position he could enter her more deeply than almost any other.

  They made love at the same balletic pace for over half an hour. At the end of that time, they lay back with their bodies shining with perspiration, their arms intertwined. Neither of them had sought or achieved a climax. They had instead been exploring each other, discovering each other’s rhythms, learning the delights of each other’s bodies.

  Effie said, ‘You made me forget myself for a while, Mr Sabatini. You made me forget the whole world.’

  George kissed her, with extreme tenderness. ‘You are a queen,’ he murmured; and the words sent a strange shiver of recognition through Effie, as if by making love to her so deeply, George had also plumbed the inside of her dreams.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked him, sitting up in bed.

  He watched her, his head resting on his hand. ‘You won’t stop calling me George, will you?’

  ‘To have a lover called “Mr Sabatini” sounds far grander. Especially in this foie-gras faubourg.’

  ‘What the hell’s a fwuh –?’

  Effie leaned over and nuzzled up to his shoulder. ‘A ritzy suburb, I think you’d call it.’

  They stayed awake until dawn. They drank Silver Stallions in iced highball glasses, a mixture of chilled gin and vanilla ice cream. They played Night After Night on the gramophone, and watched the dawn rise over the misty width of Great Peconic Bay. Effie wore a white negligèe, trimmed all the way down to its spreading train with old Belgian lace. George wound himself in a towel. She kissed him and said he looked like Ali-Baba.